and jerked the board out of place with a screech of nails and lumber.
Leonard picked up speed and the chain rattled over the edge of the bridge, into the water and out of sight, pulling its connection after it like a pull toy. The last sight of Leonard was the soles of his bare feet, white as the bellies of fish.
“It’s deep there,” Vinnie said. “I caught an old channel cat there once, remember? Big sucker. I bet it’s over fifty-feet deep down there.”
They got in the truck and Vinnie cranked it.
“I think we did them boys a favor,” Pork said. “Them running around with niggers and what they did to that dog and all. They weren’t worth a thing.”
“I know it,” Vinnie said. “We should have filmed this, Pork, it would have been good. Where the car and that nigger lover went off in the water was choice.”
“Nah, there wasn’t any women.”
“Point,” Vinnie said, and he backed around and drove onto the trail that wound its way out of the bottoms.
Diary
RONALD KELLY
“Diary” was first published in
Ronald Kelly is the author of such Southern horror novels as
He lives in Brush Creek, Tennessee with his wife and three young’uns.
August 21
They want to know why I killed those people in Tennessee. They want to know why a no-account bum like Jerry Weller crossed paths with the All-American family and systematically tortured, raped, and slaughtered them, one by one. They seem very insistent for answers. But I give them none. I only counter their questions with questions of my own. Why did Satan drive me to commit such atrocities? Why did God allow such atrocities to take place?
They think they have me pegged. They brand me a violent psychopath and spout their psychiatric crap, but they’re still missing the point. If they weren’t so damned stupid, they would be able to look into my eyes and see the squirming, maggot-infested soul that lies decaying within.
You see, perversity is my forte.
It is normality that drives me insane.
August 29
My parents didn’t tell me for a very long time that I once had a twin brother. When they did, they only said that he had died shortly after birth. I knew they were concealing all the gory details. Eventually, they told me the whole story … and, boy, was it a doozy!
It seems that there were once twin brothers named Jerry and Jamie. Shortly after their arrival home from the hospital, Mom and Dad went out for a night on the town, leaving the little ones in the care of teenaged babysitter Caroline. An hour later, Caroline’s beatnik boyfriend, Rodney, showed up with a big bag of goodies. There was much drinking and pot smoking and airplane glue sniffing. Soon, Caroline and Rodney had gotten wildly high and thought it would be incredibly funny to put little Jamie in the kitchen oven. They chug-a-lugged vodka and reds as they turned the flame to the max and cooked the squawling infant like a meatloaf.
Supposedly, I witnessed the whole thing, but I don’t remember. Hell, I was only three months old at the time.
Those freaking junkheads had the right idea, but they made one mistake.
They baked the wrong gingerbread boy.
September 5
How about a nice bedtime story?
Once upon a time there was a clean-cut, All-American family. They never fought with one another, they attended church regularly, and lived by the Golden Rule. They lived in a cozy, suburban home, drove a Volvo, and sent their children to public school … just like those perfect television families of the fifties and sixties — the Nelsons, the Cleavers, the Brady Bunch.
One summer, this family decided to take a trip to Smoky Mountain National Park. They took snapshots of the sights, watched the Cherokee Indians do their rain dance, and found a secluded campsite so they could commune with nature and enjoy the great outdoors. They sang songs, roasted marshmallows over the campfire, and swapped ghost stories. They had a wonderful time.
Then the man showed up out of nowhere, wearing a friendly smile and a stolen park ranger’s uniform.
September 12
When I was six years old, I would visit my grandmother. She had this sweet, little canary named Penny. Penny would fly right out of its cage in the corner of Grandmother’s sewing room and land in the palm of your hand. It would sit perfectly still and sing you the most beautiful song.
One day, while Grandmother was out working in her flower garden, I slipped into the sewing room and opened Penny’s door. It flew out of its cage and lit lightly in my hand.
“Sing me a song, Penny,” I said, but it remained silent.
I took a straight pin from Grandmother’s sewing basket and shoved it into Penny’s little, black eye. It pierced the bird’s tiny brain and emerged out the other side.
Penny sang me a song then, a very loud and frantic song … but not for very long.
September 23
Bedtime story. Part Two.
The park ranger said hello, sat down beside the fire, and drank a cup of coffee offered to him. As pleasant conversation was exchanged, he studied the All-American family. Father, mother, gray-haired grandmother, and two children, a boy and a girl. He enjoyed their company for a while, as long as he could possibly stand it. And then that damned urge crept into his demented mind …
October 7
They sent me to reform school when I was seventeen for cutting off my girlfriend’s breasts with a pocket knife. After all these years, I still haven’t figured out what my true motive had been. Maybe someday I’ll call her up at the state asylum and ask her if she remembers why I did such a horrible thing.
