Something Terrible Read online

  BLOOD BOUND BOOKS

  “Amber Alert,” first published in Is There a Demon in You? 2010 Camelot Books.

  All other stories are original to this volume and are copyright © 2015 to their respective authors.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Artwork by Andrej Bartulovic

  Interior Layout and e-conversion by Lori Michelle

  www.theauthorsalley.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  Visit us on the web at:

  www.bloodboundbooks.net

  ALSO FROM BLOOD BOUND BOOKS:

  400 Days of Oppression by Wrath James White

  Habeas Corpse by Nikki Hopeman

  Loveless by Dev Jarrett

  The Sinner by K. Trap Jones

  Mother’s Boys by Daniel I. Russell

  Knuckle Supper by Drew Stepek

  Sons of the Pope by Daniel O’Connor

  Dolls by KJ Moore

  At the End of All Things by Stony Graves

  The Return by David A Riley

  Fallow Ground by Michael James McFarland

  The Black Land by MJ Wesolowski

  To Dad.

  And special thanks to Paul Goblirsch for taking a chance on me. Thanks to my teachers Dr. Daves, Ms. Ro, Ms. Page, and Ms. Lazure. Thanks to my ex-girlfriend Emily who supported me throughout writing this. Thanks also to the men of Webster Hall 2012-2013. Thank you to my mother and father for continuing to inspire me.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  SOMETHING WONDROUS: FOREWORD

  by Brian Keene

  SOMETHING TERRIBLE

  Wrath James White

  SINS OF THE FATHER

  Wrath James White and Sultan Z. White

  SAMSARA

  Sultan Z. White

  FALLEN APPLE

  Sultan Z. White

  AMBER ALERT

  Wrath James White

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  SOMETHING WONDROUS

  by Brian Keene

  Probably the most common advice given to beginning writers is “write what you know.” It’s excellent advice, but too often it gets misinterpreted. Writing what you know doesn’t necessarily mean that if you’re a steelworker, your character should be a steelworker, too, nor does it mean that if you grew up on the streets of North Philly, all of your stories have to take place in that same location. It is okay to do these things, of course, but writing what you know goes deeper than that.

  Do you remember your first kiss? How about your first heartbreak? The first time you disappointed your parents? The first time you disappointed yourself? Writing what you know encompasses all of these things. Everyone remembers their first kiss, but your memory of the experience is different and unique from everyone else’s, and when you put that experience into words, it helps others remember their own. Writing what you know is just that—writing what you know about life. Everything that happens to you, both the good and the bad, the important and the mundane, is grist for the muse, and a writer’s job is to wade through that grist and pull things out and show them to others, thus evoking an emotional response from the reader.

  I write a lot about being a father, because that’s what I know the most.

  There are many things I suck at. I cannot, for example, fix a car, hammer a nail, install drywall, or recite stats about various sports teams or athletes. Fellow author Geoff Cooper, who used to make his living as a mechanic, once told me that my car’s timing belt ran the dashboard clock, and I believed him. My last attempt at building a bookshelf resulted in me smashing my thumb with a hammer after constructing something that looked vaguely triangular. Installing drywall? I’m not even sure what drywall is. And my knowledge of football, basketball, NASCAR, etc. can be summed up by the fact that, until my fortieth year on this planet, I was certain that a field goal was a baseball term.

  Some people say I’m good at writing (others think my writing skills are akin to my knowledge of professional sports). But one thing most everyone seems to agree on is that I’m a good father. I love my sons. That’s what I know. And thus, that’s what I write about a lot. Sometimes this is a conscious effort. Other times, I’m not even aware of the subtext until someone else points it out.

  My oldest son is twenty-four as I write this. He’s a social worker, and I’m proud of him. My youngest son is six, and depending on which day you ask, he intends to be either a lumberjack, a scientist, or a writer when he grows up.

  I’m not the only author to thematically feature fathers and sons (it’s a predominate theme in the works of Tom Piccirilli, for example), nor am I the only horror author whose child has expressed an interest in following in their father’s footsteps (Richard Christian Matheson, Joe Hill, Leah Moore, Christopher Rice, Trent Zelazny, Kasey Lansdale, and dozens of others come to mind). I’m also probably not the only writer to be paralyzed with fear at the thought of my child choosing this vocation.

  Writing is a hard fucking job. I’ve had hard jobs. I’ve worked in foundries and on loading docks. I’ve driven long-haul trucks and worked as a roofer (the latter came to a quick end when my lack of prowess with a hammer was revealed). I even worked as a telemarketer, which is a thankless, psychologically demoralizing profession. I know hard work, and I’m here to tell you, writing for a living is fucking hard. There’s no 401K or retirement. We never get a tax refund and always owe more. Regular, timely paychecks are nonexistent. It wreaks havoc on our relationships (would you want to live with somebody who spends most of his waking hours inside his own head?). And at the end of the day, after you’ve written for eight hours straight and given yourself carpal tunnel syndrome, a bad back, and hemorrhoids—all in an effort to entertain the folks who buy your books and thus enrich their lives a little bit more—there’s some jackass talking shit about you online.

  With all that in mind, I think you can understand why I might be pensive about my youngest son’s potential interest in following my footsteps.

  But I also know how proud I would be if he did.

  There are all kinds of collaborative moments to be shared between a father and son. But to share the writing experience, to jointly delve into the process and uncover truths together and communicate them to the world? That is something wondrous.

  And so is this collection you are about to read.

  I first met Sultan White when he was just a kid, and it unnerves me to realize that kid—a kid who loved zombies and especially loved his Uncle Brian’s zombie novels—is now a man. It unnerves me even more that he is following in his father’s footsteps, because if his efforts here are any indication, within a few years he may very well put both his father and his Uncle Brian out of business. And if that happens, I doubt I can get a job hammering nails or fixing cars . . .

  To paraphrase Rush—children grow up and old friends grow older. That’s simultaneously wonderful and terrifying. Just like the stories you are about to read.

  Brian Keene

  Somewhere in the backwoods of Pennsylvania

  April 2014

  SOMETHING TERRIBLE

  Wrath James White

  1.

  Eddie opened the door and stood there . . . smiling.

  Gil wondered what Eddie intended to say, planned to do, but that smile changed everything. A rage surged within him like a tidal wave, the kind that destroys entire coastal towns. It erupted violently, and his fists were suddenly hurtling toward Eddie’s smiling face. Knuckles met flesh and bone wit
h a wet smack and thud, like a meat tenderizer pounding a thick cut of steak.

  Eddie crumpled to the floor like a marionette that had its strings cut.

  Gil followed him to the floor, still punching. Each blow increased his anger rather than assuaging it. Gil was dimly aware that he was yelling, roaring, as he beat Eddie senseless, trying to destroy the man who had once been his best friend.

  “Dad! Dad! You’re going to kill him!”

  Gil heard his son’s voice. He knew what the words meant. What they meant for him, his future, his family. He would be a murderer on death row, or endure life imprisonment. A man’s death would be on his conscience. Gil knew all the implications of his actions, all the repercussions, but he didn’t care.

  Killing Eddie right then and there, in his own entryway, was exactly what Gil wanted. He switched from punching Eddie’s face to strangling him with both hands. He sat on Eddie’s chest and squeezed with all his might until his friend’s eyes rolled up in his head and he stopped breathing.

  Then Gil rolled off him and collapsed. He stared at the wall, feeling numb, empty.

  “You okay, Dad? Is he dead? Is Eddie dead?”

  “Dada?”

  Gil looked up and saw Eddie’s baby boy toddling out of the kitchen, his face smeared with crushed carrots and creamed corn.

  Gil looked back at Eddie and saw his friend take a huge breath and start coughing. He wasn’t dead—yet—but he would be. Gil was certain of that because killing him had felt good. Thinking that bastard was dead had felt better than anything Gil had felt since coming home tonight. It almost felt like he’d righted a wrong, fixed what was broken. Deep down he knew it wasn’t that simple. It would take a lot more than this to fix everything, to put it all back to normal. It would take years of counseling and group therapy. But it was a start.

  Killing the bastard who had raped his daughter was the least Gil could do.

  2.

  Gil and his wife had a rule. Men were not allowed to babysit their daughter. Not alone. It didn’t matter if it was a friend, neighbor, family member; not even Natalie’s father or Gil’s brother were allowed to be alone with little Selma. There were no exceptions. It often made for some uncomfortable moments. Trying to explain to his boss that his son wasn’t allowed to be alone with Selma on the slim chance the kid might secretively be a pederast had been . . . difficult. When Gil tried to explain it to his stepfather, the man had been so offended he’d stormed out of the house. His mother had given Gil that accusatory look, believing he had deliberately hurt her husband’s feelings.

  “You know your stepfather would never do anything to hurt Selma. He loves that little girl! Why would you say something so hurtful?”

  “I’m not saying he would, Mom. I’m just saying you never know. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  That hadn’t helped. Gil’s relationship with his stepfather had been chilly ever since. In his parents’ minds, Gil had accused him of having pedophiliac tendencies. And wasn’t that what they were really saying with the rule? Any man, no matter how well they knew him, no matter how nice, how kind, how normal he appeared, might be a pederast. Many people had been offended by the suggestion over the years, and Gil couldn’t blame them, but what else could he do? If anything ever happened to his baby girl, Gil would never forgive himself. Even worse, Natalie would never forgive him.

  Natalie had been molested by a cousin when she was young. His name was Tony. He was five years older than Natalie, and he’d always been first to volunteer to babysit her and the other children. Everyone in Natalie’s family used to remark about how good Tony was with kids. That’s why no one believed her when she told them how he’d tried to force himself inside her and then made her watch while he masturbated on her belly. She had only been five years old and hadn’t had the vocabulary to describe the things he’d done to her. Tony had been allowed to continue babysitting her, and the abuse continued and progressed. He had also continued babysitting all her other cousins, her sister, and even her niece before he was finally caught in the act by her stepbrother, Wayne. Wayne went to jail for almost a year for putting a bullet in her cousin’s head after he’d caught him sodomizing his daughter in a coat closet during a Christmas party. After years of being ignored, Natalie’s family had finally believed her, but by then it was too late. The number of loved ones who’d been abused by Tony had reached nearly a dozen, but Natalie had been the first. She’d never trusted another man after that until she’d met Gil. Even after they’d had a child together, their son, Kai, it had taken Natalie months before she was comfortable leaving Gil alone with him. And then, when she’d gotten pregnant again five years ago and given birth to their daughter, she’d wept for days, afraid she wouldn’t be able to protect her. Afraid her daughter might one day suffer the same abuse she’d suffered. That’s when they came up with the rule.

  ***

  Gil parked the Ford truck in the driveway and hopped out to unstrap Selma from her car seat.

  “We going to Eddie’s house?” Selma asked. An Elmo doll was tucked in a stranglehold under her arm, and the doll giggled and shook when she squeezed it.

  “Yup, sweetie. Eddie and Amy are going to watch you for a while, while Mommy and I go out.”

  “I want to go with you and Mommy!”

  “Sorry, sweetie. Mommy and I need some alone time.”

  “Why can’t Kai watch me?”

  “Your brother is out with his friends. Kai’s a teenager now. He wants to play with other teenagers. You’ll have fun with Amy. You can play with their dog, Coco. And maybe, if you’re a good girl, Eddie will make ice cream.”

  “Chocolate?” she asked, her hazel eyes sparkling with an almost religious rapture at the mere mention of her favorite desert.

  Gil chuckled. “Maybe. If you’re a good girl.”

  The front door opened and Gil’s best friend, Eddie, bounded out the door full of vigor and enthusiasm.

  He smiled when he saw Gil, then rushed over and gave him a big hug. “What’s up, man? Good to see you. We need to hook up for another run soon. You still running?”

  “When I can.”

  The man was an endless source of energy and always seemed to be in a good mood. He was only eight years younger than Gil, but when it came to vitality, he seemed to have Gil beat by twenty years. Of course Eddie was nearly half Gil’s size. At only five foot, nine inches and a hundred and sixty pounds, Eddie was six inches shorter and almost a hundred pounds lighter than Gil. Eddie was half-Korean and half-Dutch. His wife was half-Cuban and half-Swedish. Neither looked Dutch or Swedish, though Eddie didn’t look particularly Korean either. He was a generic brown that, in Texas, usually got interpreted as Mexican. His amazingly curvaceous wife looked deliciously Cuban. Gil found it hard to look at the woman without blushing. Luckily, being African American, blushing was more figurative than literal.

  “Where’s my girl? Where’s that pretty little girl?” Eddie crooned as he raced around to the car door and snatched Selma out of her car seat. “There she is!”

  Selma exploded with giggles as Eddie hoisted her in the air and twirled her around.

  Gil always thought he might be just as animated as Eddie if he were carrying around a hundred pounds less. It didn’t matter if it was fat or muscle. Weight was weight. And he had to admit, these days it was more fat than muscle, though Gil wasn’t exactly in bad shape for a forty-five-year-old. He was in better shape than most guys he knew who were half his age. Just not the shape he wanted to be in. He always felt tired. No matter how much sleep he got, after nine or ten hours at work, an hour in the gym, then two or three hours with the family before bed time, he always felt like he was on the brink of exhaustion. When the weekends came, all he wanted to do was sleep. He didn’t want to go on a picnic or to the pool or the playground like he saw so many other parents do. He wanted to collapse in front of the TV until Monday arrived and he had to do it all over again. That, however, was a recipe for divorce and resentful kids. Yet, no matter
how much time he spent with his daughter, it was never enough. His wife practically accused him of being a bad father for not spending more time with the little girl. He wished he could be more like Eddie.

  Eddie had just had his first kid last year and spent every waking second with his young son. He was every bit the proud, doting papa. Gil had been the same way when his first child, his son, was born fifteen years ago. But age and a stressful job had leeched the life out of him. It had sapped his energy and his general enthusiasm. He loved his daughter every bit as much as he’d loved his son when Kai was the same age. But when Kai was born, every day had seemed like an adventure, wondering what the boy was going to do next. The reality was that Selma just seemed like work. He knew he needed to change that, alter his perspective, find strength in his love for his daughter to push through his fatigue and general malaise to be the kind of father she deserved before she wound up on a stripper pole or worse in fifteen years. Spending more time with his daughter had been his New Year’s resolution for the past five years, and here he was passing her off on a babysitter again. Goddamn father of the year.

  Gil smiled as Eddie swooped Selma off the ground and up onto his shoulders. Eddie was the only man Gil trusted around his daughter. They worked out at the same gym. Gil was just trying to stay in shape as middle-age loomed large over the horizon. Eddie was trying to put some muscle on his habitually lean but flabby body. He wasn’t the type of guy who was thin and ripped with wiry muscle. He was thin but still had a paunch, and were it not for the gym, he’d have no muscle tone at all. When Gil first met Eddie, the man’s arms had looked like tubes, with no discernible biceps or triceps. The shoulder blended right in with the biceps which blended into the forearms. He’d been fumbling around with some weights, on the verge of hurting himself, when Gil had taken pity on him and started showing him how to lift properly. As it was, he still didn’t work out hard enough to look athletic, but at least he didn’t look weak and sickly anymore.