Past The Patch Read online

  “Just like your face.” John teased as he tossed a candy corn at his sister’s tri-corner hat.

  “Cut it out!” she yelled as she swatted at him with her sword. “How much longer are we staying out?”

  Looking at his watch then taking a quick scan of the people on the streets, “Dunno, a little bit longer. I promised dad that we would be in before the streets got really empty.”

  John thought for a moment and detailed his plans to his sister.

  It seems all kids have an Eisenhower like tactical skill deep inside them for planning out their Halloween assaults.

  “Let’s head up to the corner and then do the streets this side of the school. We can hit the other side of Maple Street and be back home in no time.”

  “Don’t forget that dog on the left side about half way.” Maggie reminded him.

  “Right . . . we will cross sides at the Johnson’s house so it doesn’t start barking.”

  John’s plan proved profitable as they passed house after house guarded by flickering pumpkins, their candy bags getting heavier with treats.

  It wasn’t until they passed two ghosts and a werewolf, ushered by their moms, that they heard mention of the Holy Grail of Halloween, that most mythic, unattainable treat—

  “I can’t believe we got full size candy bars,” one of the ghosts said through his bed sheet shroud.

  Specifically full sized Snicker bars. Someone was giving away the Holy Grail of candy. Skipping the bite-sized nonsense and single Reeses Peanut butter cups and giving out full size candy was a sign that someone meant business.

  After a quick conversation with ghost #2 the location of the house was revealed to John. He and Maggie made a bee line before the candy ran out and the hour grew late.

  The house in question belonged to Barbra Rogan. Mrs. Rogan was an old lady who had been living alone for as long as kids in the neighborhood could remember.

  She kept to herself most times, the exception being when she helped with bake sales for local charities.

  The siblings stood on the sidewalk outside the gate to Mrs. Rogan’s yard, hesitating before venturing in.

  Every neighborhood has that one house that the kids pass a little quicker than others. Overactive childish energy and the need to tease one another often leads to the creation of local myths and stories. An old woman in an old house makes for a great place to dare or scare younger kids, even though there was never any reason to think anything bad about Mrs. Rogan.

  These thoughts that made the kids pause before unlatching the gate.

  Fueled by the promise of free candy as they climbed the steps and rang Mrs.

  Rogan’s door bell, any fear they may have had vanished as quickly as it came.

  “Maybe she’s asleep, old people go to bed early don’t they?” Maggie asked as her brother pushed the button a second time. Before he could answer her, the door knob turned and light from inside spilled out onto the porch.

  Trick or Treat!” the two said in unison to the figure in the doorway.

  “Well hello children, aren’t you out late?” Mrs. Rogan asked as she looked around. “And all alone too, I see.”

  She was quite old, but not feeble. Her slight Eastern European accent sounded strange to the kids even though her voice was kind and very grandmotherly. The siblings had no grandmother of their own and immediately took a liking to her comforting tone. Her fine hair was a silver grey, done up in a bun and held in place with bobby pins. Small wire frame glasses were perched on her nose.

  “I had expected all the children to be in for the night, I had put the treats away. Now you two stay right there.”

  Standing on the porch, they could see inside the woman’s home. The walls were wallpapered and the foyer was lit from a small hanging chandelier. The shelves were filled with collections of random old books and knick knacks, ceramic cats and cows, vases with plastic flowers.

  “Old people’s houses smell.” Whispered John.

  “Shut up” chastised Maggie, although she did agree with her brother.

  The house had an odd aroma like popcorn and fresh ground pepper.

  A loud crash and a yell interrupted their discussion.

  “Mrs. Rogan? Are you ok?”

  Maggie’s concern was answered by a low groan from the other room.

  Opening the door, she crossed the foyer with her brother right behind her.

  Entering the living room they found Mrs. Rogan struggling to pull herself into the chair. Candy bars and a bowl lay on the floor near her. They helped her settle into chair as she explained what happened.

  “Thank you children, I had one of the lights off and banged my leg on the ottoman. It’s no worry little ones, just a fall.” Mrs. Rogan rubbed one ankle as if it was sore.

  “Let me get you some ice for that before it gets bad.” Maggie said.

  “The kitchen is this way?”

  “No that’s alright dear, don’t go in there . . .” The old woman protested, but Maggie was already down the hall. As she opened the kitchen door she let out a startled gasp, causing her brother to follow.

  As the children stood in the doorway they looked on a room in direct contrast to the rest of the decor. Contrary to the drab, aged interior they had seen so far, the kitchen was bright and modern.

  Stainless steel countertops lined the perimeter of the room, above white cabinets. The windowless walls were covered in white tile as was the floor and the ceiling. A long fluorescent light fixture hung over a center island, also covered with stainless steel. On the island was a variety of knives and cleavers on a cutting surface that drained into a sink. Large hooks hung from the ceiling. On the opposite wall was an oven big enough for a restaurant kitchen.

  The children silently stared at the kitchen, their eyes darting from knife to hook to stove to cleaver. Their young minds desperately tried to make sense of what they were seeing. They turned toward each other, but before either could utter a word each felt a firm grasp on their shoulders as Mrs. Rogan stood behind them.

  “Oh, how I wish you listened when I called you back. But come in my little morsels, you’ve only seen a little.” Her voice cracked, her maternal kindness fading with each word spoken. The old woman’s grip tightened as she shoved the two into the kitchen and released as she latched the door behind her.

  The children stared in horror at the sight of her. Her hair hung to her waist in loose strands, the silver gray filled with streaks of black. The old woman’s hands were claw-like now, pointed nails jutting from long fingers with bulbous joints. The once kind bespectacled eyes were dark holes devoid of compassion. Her warm smile had been replaced by jagged teeth.

  Fighting back tears Maggie asked, “Are you a witch?”

  “A witch? No. but I have been called that, and worse.” Mrs. Rogan smiled and leaned close, causing the little girl to whimper and pull back.

  “My kind has been around for as long as yours, children, living among you.

  We draw little attention to ourselves and we survive. Sometimes you cattle find us out, or think you do.”

  The children hugged close as the hag paced the floor, circling like a predatory animal.

  “All those poor women burned as witches in Salem, not a one of them was one of my kin. Superstitious fools. I was there, laughing inside as those stupid cunts roasted alive. Fire burns me just as them, but I never saw the flame in Massachusetts.”

  She let out a laugh that chilled the kids to their core.

  “I have been alive for a long, long time. Long before I moved here.

  And I stay alive by being smart. All you kiddies parading up to my door, each one more delicious than the last.”

  She touched John’s cheek and then licked it as if to taste him. “To be sure I wouldn’t be overcome with hunger and took the time to create a proper meal, I had a snack. A young man named Scotty. Was he a classmate of yours? If so, he’ll no longer be attending school . . . and neither will you. I didn’t need this attention I didn’t need you litt
le fuckers poking around in my house, and now I need to fix the situation.”

  She grabbed a meat cleaver and lurched towards them, causing Maggie to burst into tears.

  “Oh wait,” she said, “What am I thinking? I forgot to pre-heat.” Setting down the cleaver, the hag turned and limped toward the oven, and John assumed her injured ankle existed in this form as well.

  “Be ready to run ok.” John said trying to sound brave for his sister.

  “What? What are you going to do?”

  “Fire. Remember what she said? Fire can kill her. When she goes to the stove that’s our chance. Just run when I tell you.” John’s instructions were cut short by the sound of the oven door opening. He pushed his sister towards the door and charged the hag, knocking her headfirst into the oven. Shouting over her muffled screams, John told his sister to run.

  Maggie fumbled at the latch and swung the door open, and she and her brother raced to the front door. The door opened and they only got a single breath of cool night air before it slammed shut again.

  The smell of burnt skin and singed hair filled their noses and they felt cold claws around their necks. They were lifted easily, their feet dangling as they were turned to face the hag.

  “I don’t know about you children, but I find an electric oven bakes much more evenly. Tell me what you think.” Mrs. Rogan’s laughter echoed off the walls as she carried them back to the kitchen.

  CHALDON’S BONES

  Robert S. Wilson

  Robert S. Wilson was born in Bloomington, Indiana during the blizzard of '78. His first taste for horror came from watching episodes of The Twilight Zone and the stories his mother told him of a supposedly haunted house his family once lived in. He is the author of Shining in Crimson, book one of his dystopian vampire series: Empire of Blood. His novella, The Quiet, appeared in the anthology Not in the Brochure: Stories of a Disappointing Apocalypse. He is currently working on book two of the Empire of Blood series and is co-editing the anthology, Horror for Good: A Charitable Anthology. Robert lives in Middle Tennessee with his wife and two kids and spends most of his time wondering where all the time went.

  ***

  Halloween was my favorite night of the year until the fall of '96. I hadn't seen my buddy Jeremy in over a year when he called me that afternoon. He said he had a night of horror all planned out for us. He showed up that night around 9 in an old black boxy van with two guys I'd never seen before.

  One was short, heavy set with blond hair down to his chin and a blond beard, and kind of resembled Chris Farley. The other guy had long red hair pulled back into a pony tail, was dressed all in leather, and I found myself unable at first to look away from the black teeth behind his impish smile.

  Both of them looked like they hadn't showered in weeks.

  Jeremy slid open the side door of the van and jumped out straight for me. He gave me one of those hip backwards handshakes that look more like you're arm wrestling. "Hey, duder, come meet the guys. This is Rick..."

  "Hey," the Chris Farley look-a-like said.

  "...and this is Darrell."

  "What's up, man?" The impish smile grew and even more black teeth showed.

  "Hey guys, nice to meet you. What the hell's going on, Jer?"

  "Get your shit and get in the van and you'll find out, bro."

  Once I got my smokes and my wallet, I climbed into the side of the van and sat down behind the bucket seats on the floor next to Jeremy. Jeremy reached across, slid the door shut, and the van peeled out of my gravel driveway.

  As the van shook us around, Jeremy opened up a blue cooler sitting on his other side, pulled out 2 Budweisers, and handed me one. We clinked the necks of the bottles together and Jeremy said his toast.

  "To a horrible, frightening night with good friends."

  Rick Farley howled like a wolf as Captain Black Teeth beat his fists against the dash. Jeremy and I guzzled our beers. I couldn't see much out the windshield, but I could see enough trees to realize we weren't going into town. Instead, we ventured deeper and deeper into the wooded countryside.

  A few more beers and scary shows of excitement from Jeremy's other friends and we arrived at our first destination.

  I stepped from the van, my feet crunching in gravel, and noticed the house at once. It was huge and obviously abandoned. It seemed to hover over us, its second floor windows narrow and watching, waiting for us to come closer. Its once-white paint was now completely faded and flaking and the porch had sunken in some years ago. I've never had a stronger feeling of dread toward an inanimate object. Rick took the lead, waving us to follow.

  Darrell went next, and Jeremy and I followed.

  "They call this The House of Bones," Rick said.

  Darrell called ahead to Rick, "What the hell for?"

  "How the hell should I know? Hey, maybe there's some bodies in here,"

  he said stopping and looking back at us with an exaggerated sadistic expression. He laughed and turned back toward the house.

  Fenced-in fields of neatly rowed, dark yellow corn stalks surrounded both sides of the huge yard. The darkness between those rows of corn gave me chills as I kept imagining movement within them from the corner of my eyes. Even as dark as it was, brightly colored leaves of yellow, brown, and orange covered the ground demanding our attention as we walked toward the house.

  Rick stepped onto what was left of the porch. The movement of shadows on the wall of the house gripped and squeezed my heart. The tall outline of a man with long thin arms turned out only to be the shadow of a tree. I took a deep breath and let it out quietly so the guys wouldn't think I was a pussy.

  "Oh, wow. That's so fuckin' cool!" Rick said as he stepped into the partially open door. I stepped experimentally onto the porch and leaned a little to try and see what Rick thought was so great.

  Stepping from one board to another like stepping on stones in a creek, I made my way up to the front door.

  "Oh that is pretty killer, man," Jeremy said.

  Rick held a flashlight over his head and pointed downward. The beam illuminated a large rundown piano covered in several layers of dust. He ran his other hand down the keys and various out-of-key notes played. A bunch of the keys were cracked or busted.

  When I stepped into the house, I noticed a large Victorian stairway behind Rick. I pointed to it. "What's upstairs?"

  Rick laughed and said, "Let's go see, man."

  So, we followed Rick up the stairs. About half of the steps were caved in and the other half felt like a thick cardboard. All along the walls were drawings and writing I couldn't quite make out with the little bit of bouncing light coming back from Rick's flashlight.

  When we were all at the top of the stairs, we came to a huge bedroom just to the left. Inside, things were scattered everywhere. A bed lay at the end of the room, its mattress and box springs pulled from the base and sprawled out along side it. A dresser lay on its side in the middle of the room and clothes and blankets covered the entire floor.

  Rick shined the flashlight on the walls. "What's that?"

  Writing like I had just seen going up the stairs covered the entire wall.

  Each small section had different handwriting. Some of them were marked with dates and years.

  Jimmy was here and he fucked your mom in this room! February 12th 1962

  If you're reading this it's already too late... Trevor May 1976

  For a good time you won't forget, call Jannette 765-653-2997

  Whatever you do, don't go digging up Chaldon's bones! - Leonard January 1944

  We stood there reading writings on the wall for several minutes before we decided to move on. The rest of the upstairs didn't seem nearly as interesting to us. A collective uneasiness was coming over us by that time and it wasn't long before we were stepping right back through that front door. But Ricky wasn't ready to leave quite yet. When Jeremy and I stepped outside, the two other guys were nowhere to be seen.

  We circled around looking for where they might have gone. The
van looked lonely sitting in the long gravel driveway with the moon morphed into a halo of clouds hanging over it. Rick's voice called out from behind the house and echoed off a huge old barn across the street.

  "Hey, guys you're missing it. This is fucking awesome."

  Jeremy and I walked toward the side of the house, following Rick's ricocheting voice. As we came around the corner, a loud yell came from the shadows. We both jumped and I let out a near scream as Darrell jumped out at us.

  "You fuckin' prick, you scared the shit out of us," Jeremy yelled.

  Darrell laughed hysterically, his impish grin arching up the sides of his face.

  He pulled out a cigarette and lit it as he continued to chuckle. As Jeremy and I followed suit to do the same, a loud gargled scream came from behind the house. Darrell laughed harder and Jeremy looked at me and smiled.

  "You're gonna have to try a lot fucking harder than that, Ricky, you son of a bitch!"

  There was no reply.

  Jeremy only laughed. I kept hearing that scream repeat in my head, my brain analyzing it over and over for humor.

  "Well, I'm gonna go see what he's up to," I said.

  "Okay, have fun and don't shit your pants when he grabs hold of your ankle or some shit," Jeremy said.

  I laughed nervously and then started walking toward the back of the house as Jeremy and Darrell chattered back and forth.

  As I came closer and closer to the back corner of the house, a dim red glow crept through a thin veil of mist covering the back yard. I stopped and looked at the glow. My legs stiffened involuntarily. I was just about to turn back when a loud racket like the sound of things being thrown around in a small room started from behind the house. I managed to make my feet lift off the ground one after another until I came around the back corner of the house.

  A small, wood-rotted outhouse stood shaking at the center of about a dozen dead trees, the red glow coming out from between the cracks of the door and in between each heavily weathered board. If Rick was playing a joke on me, he sure as hell worked hard on it. I yelled back to the guys and then in a blinding flash of that same hue of red, the glow disappeared and the outhouse settled still.