Past The Patch

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 Her warm smile had been replaced by jagged teeth.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 little 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,'