Grue Tales

GRUE TALES

By R.K. FINNELL

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First published by Death By Fiction in 2018

Copyright © R.K. Finnell, 2018

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written

permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

First Edition

FOREWARD

by Ivan S. Graves

As far back as I can remember, I was always fascinated by the darker things we encounter in this world. But not just of the monsters and demons, or ghosts and ghouls we find in much of horror fiction—at least not the kind that are described as that. A simple horror story could be nothing more than a man caught in an elevator after a devastating earthquake, or with a building caught on fire with no way of escape, contemplating his life, and his potential fate, and the things he may never see or experience.

There is something wholly frightening about the end, and the unknown which lies beyond. And most any reader can surely relate to the very basic fear of death.

In the fantastic story of Edgar Alan Poe’s, The Tell-Tale Heart the monster is a heavy guilt over a despicable act and the fear of being caught. And in the masterfully written Franz Kafka tale The Metamorphosis it is the horror of a man confronted with change, and how the world perceives him. In the story, he is transformed into a monster-like insect. But the fear could easily lie in the sense of a man who loses his identity, his consciousness, and his very existence beyond the physical body.

The best tales are written in such a way that the reader is at the controls, pulling the fear levers all on their own. The writer guides the reader. But the writer knows that having the reader tap into their own primal fears will have the greatest effect of giving the reader their jolts.

Nearly everyone has at least once in their life feared the monster under their bed. But only you know what that monster looks like. And only you know what things that monster might do if, in the final act, you are swept away into its lair.

Beyond novels, and even novellas from which some great frightful tales have come from, I have always had a preference for the short story. Indeed, they can be thought of as the best way to tell a story of this nature. Dread and foreboding are set from the first word, and to the end in a very rapid way, builds to a crescendo to deliver the final blow in the closing scene which leaves the reader gasping. It is a fine art, that only so many writers can do.

Grue Tales accomplishes the art of the short story and accomplishes the art of the dark and macabre, and I think you will find yourself truly affected by the tales by R.K. Finnell between these covers.

Sit back, dim the lights, and enjoy. This is going to be a fun ride. But do beware the monsters lurking in the places where no light goes.

Dedication

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This book is dedicated to those who encouraged me, helped me bring Grue Tales to reality, and gave the occasional kick in the ass when I needed it.

Table of Contents

A DEMON’S LOVE STORY – 1

THISTLE – 2

ANYTHING FOR MOM – 3

CILLIAN’S STORY – 4

LITTLE HAUNTS – 5

THE AB NEGATIVE CAFE – 6

FISH – 7

NOAH’S MOTHER – 8

THE MULBERRY PEOPLE – 9

FLESH CRAWLERS – 10

BITTER CHOCOLATE – 11

THE PICKLE JAR – 12

IT’S IN THE BASEMENT – 13

SHIFT – 14

KEEPING BOROIMHE – 15

PULCHRITUDE INC. – 16

THE GADARENE PLAGUE – 17

THE WICKED HOUSE – 18

CAMERA SHY – 19

THE LOST SON – 20

RINGER – 21

NO EXPIRATION DATE - 22

Thirteenth Child – 23

HAUNTED – 24

Houlihan’s Promise – 25

DYING DAY – 26

THE RESURRECTION – 27

BLEED – 28

MOM’S NIGHT JOB – 29

THE GOOD PARTS – 30

MIRACLE CREEK – 31

RAIN – 32

WILDER’S CHOICE – 33

RAFFERTY – 34

THE BODY KEEPER – 35

AEDUS – 36

EAMON EVER – 37

ZED’S BROTHER – 38

THE OLD ONES – 39

THE NOTE – 40

THE GARDEN CAT – 41

About R.K. Finnell

A DEMON’S LOVE STORY – 1

H

umanity! What a waste of perfectly good material. Skin, bone and the bits inside that would be better suited on the backs of the beasts that slither in the burning slime of the pit. Useless, nothing but useless. Nevertheless, here I am, stuck here among them with no escape.

What was my crime you ask? The same as any demon who finds himself out of the pit and into the world of the heart beater. It was love.

It isn’t something that happens often to the demons, but when it does, it is strong and irresistible. It is our one weakness and the reason why we smother their hearts with thoughts of foulness. The softness of lips touching and the warmth of the embrace we must destroy them, leaving a cold emptiness behind.

It should have been an easy task. He was dead, and she was alone in her grief. I had only to whisper despair in her ear, but instead, she whispered soft words into mine.

Her words were full of happy memories and hope for the future that even the death of her beloved could not change.

She touched something inside of me that made the shriveled-up heart inside of my chest begin to slowly beat, expanding with every thought of her I had.

Did you know that demons have a soul? Oh, not like the souls of the humans. There is no promise of a delightful eternity for us. We are immortal only by design and by purpose. Even in the end, we will still exist.

The first time I touched her skin I wondered at how smooth it was. She was almost flawless, and one would think she could be a demon herself because the power of sin is desire. Oh, how I desired her.

I whisper my name into her ear, and in her sleep, she calls me.

Kai.

My name escapes from her lips with a sigh, and I am bound to my fate.

Every inch of me wants her, and the desire is strong within. The way her skin feels against mine as I lay beside her. With each breath she takes, I am in awe of this creature, this human.

I should hate her and loathe what she is. My kind consider them the lowly creatures. So easy to be

swayed and made into what we want. Yet there is something about her that I cannot resist and even if I could I do not believe that I want to.

I want her, and I mean to make her mine no matter the consequences. It is forbidden this thing called love yet there is hope. I will have what I want, and I think I will take it now.

I see her slither gracefully through the burning slime of the pit on the back of the beast, her face frozen in terror in her last moment when she realized it was I who laid beside her.

THISTLE – 2

T

he old shack door opened, and the two women walked out into the sunlight. The heavier of the two scratched and scowled. She wore a long scarf that was wrapped around her head and rested on her shoulders. The other was slightly thinner. She had no scarf but instead wore a crushed bonnet with strands of gray hair poking from the holes.

Bertha sniffed the air, scratching her behind. Something new was in the forest, and she meant to have it. Irillda followed behind her sister, snickering each time Bertha scratched.

Have you the fleas, dear sister? She asked. Perhaps it is time you changed the straw in your tick.

I do not do lowly work, Bertha said, lifting her head in a haughty manner. That is why we must have a new servant to do our bidding.

Just don’t starve this one to death.

Isn’t my fault he could not survive. He should have known better than to die.

There wasn’t enough meat left on his bones to make a good soup, Irillda complained. We need to make sure this next one is plump.

Bertha stopped and sniffed the air again. She could smell something dead and rotting.

Oh look, Bertha! Irillda said, pointing. A fat juicy one in the thistle.

I told you I smelled one nearby, Bertha said. That will do nicely.

Certainly not for soup.

Must you always think of food?

We have not had a decent meal since the last one died. Irillda pouted.

Never mind that. Now help me. Bertha said. Let’s pull it out of the thistle to get a better look at it.

They each pulled a leg and drug the body out into the open.

Drat, no head, Irillda said.

Then go find it!

Irillda lifted her skirt and headed into the thistle. She looked about the ground, and when she found it, she grabbed a stick and jabbed it into the neck of the head.

Oh my, he was a young one. She laughed. And quite handsome too!

Just bring it and let’s get him back to the house, Bertha said.

Start the fire and put the pot on, Bertha demanded. Then bring my knife, so I can cut off the flesh to make the potion.

Do you think this will work? Irillda asked, throwing kindling into the hearth. Not all of granny’s spells do, you know.

She struck a match against the stone and carefully lit the kindling. She fanned the flames gently until they spread over the wood, then set the pot over it on a hook attached to the stone hearth.

It will work well enough, Bertha said. Better if he was fresher, but that can’t be helped. At least he comes off the bones faster this way.

What do you suppose happened to him? Irillda asked.

She was holding the head, the dead eyes staring at her. They had once been blue but were faded as the color drained from them. There was a look of surprise on the face as if the owner had only in that last moment realized his fate.

I only know one beast who kills them this way, Bertha answered. Then waits for the meat to sour before devouring it.

Oh, we haven’t had a good gorfrin stew in so long! Irillda said, licking her lips.

There you go again with the food!

I get hungry you know.

Your hunger is making me fat!

Not my fault granny’s spell didn’t work.

Bertha sighed. She could not argue with her sister’s words. The spell had been one that promised to restore youth and beauty, not that either of them had much in the way of beauty. Instead, the spell made everything that Irillda ate go as weight on Bertha. While Irillda ate and became thinner, Bertha gained weight.

I suppose not. She said. Now help me sort the bones.

They laid out the bones on the floor, putting them into their proper places. Irillda set the head on the top. Both of them stood back and admired their work. They lifted the pot from the fire and poured its contents over the head and bones.

What shall we call him? Bertha asked. You decide this time.

Thistle, Irillda answered. I think it is an appropriate name.

Thistle, Bertha repeated. I do believe you are right. The perfect name.

They stood back and admired their work. Bertha took off her scarf, and they spread it over the mass.

Let us go home sister and return in the morning. She said. He should be ready by then.

Irillda locked the shack door, then Bertha checked it to make sure, and they walked away.

Inside the shack, beneath the old scarf, the mass bubbled and popped. It stretched, then tightened around the bones. Skin formed, and under it, muscles and organs. The skin on the face smoothed, the lips parted, and Thistle took his first breath.

Irillda walked fast to keep up with Bertha. For as large as she was, Bertha could move fast, and if Irillda tarried the least bit, she would have to run to catch up.

Did you bring them? Bertha asked. You better have. I will not be happy if we have to go back for them.

Right here, Irillda said, holding two eyeballs in her hand. Slept with them all night so I would not forget.

You are a disgusting hag! Bertha complained.

Hag, yourself! Irillda retorted.

They looked at each other angrily and then cackled with laughter.

Come, sister, Bertha said. Let’s go see our handsome young servant.

He could hear talking, and he groped in the dark to find a place to hide. There was nothing but a large hearth with a pot that had a strange smell to it. He crouched down close to it and waited. He heard the creak of the door as it opened. But it was still dark.

There’s our lovely boy! Bertha said. Isn’t it sweet, he thinks he is hiding!

Who is it? Who’s there?

And much smarter than the last one, Irillda replied. We are your mistresses, and you are called Thistle.

Now then, Thistle, Bertha said. What is your name?

My name is Thistle.

Good and you do whatever we wish of you. Is that understood?

I do what you say. Thistle said. Why is it so dark?

Oh, silly me! Irillda laughed. These might help.

She grabbed his head, shoved the eyes in his sockets and stood back to admire her work.

Oops, let me adjust those.

Thistles eyes were terribly blurry. He blinked over and over again until they were clear. When he saw his two mistresses, he rubbed his eyes, but they still looked the same.

There is something wrong with my eyes. He said. I rub them, and I still see two horrible spots in them.

Perhaps I need to clean them, Irillda said.

He is calling us that you idiot. Bertha fumed. Best you be nice to us or else we will put you back where we found you rotting in the dirt!

Thistle said no more but looked down on himself. His skin was the same color and texture of the scarf that had been laid over him. He was gray with mottled specks of different hues throughout.

Be good, and maybe one day you’ll be a real boy! Bertha laughed. Now fetch that pot and go clean it in the creek outside. It smells of your rotting corpse!

Thistle did as he was told. He washed the huge pot, then scrubbed it with the tiny pebbles in the creek until the inside gleamed. He left it in the sun to dry.

Oh, it’s so shiny! Irillda exclaimed, looking out the door.

Hurts my eyes, Bertha complained. Boy, clean this hearth. I want every bit of soot off of it. It is filthy.

Yes, it is quite horrible. Irillda agreed. Sister, how is he to clean without tools?

He got the pot clean with only water, and he can manage this.

Thistle filled a bucket with water from the creek and returned to the shack. The two sisters watched him for a while, but they became bored.

We will be back in the hour, Bertha said. We expect it to be spotless upon our return.

When they had gone, Thistle put his hands into the bucket and pebbles fell from his skin. He scrubbed and scrubbed on the hearth until no soot could be found. Then he carefully collected up every pebble. He emptied the bucket into the creek and rinsed it clean. He shook the remaining pebbles from his hands into the creek.

Bertha was not at all happy when they returned, and the hearth was not only clean but looked new. The pot hung from its hook ready to be used.

Hmpf. She said, scowling. I see the tasks we are giving you are much too easy.

Give him something harder to do, Irillda suggested.

I know, go ask the villagers to give you a plump child, Bertha said, smiling. Bring it back, dress it and roast it over the fire.

Oh, how scrumptious! Irillda said, clapping her hands.

Now hurry, or we will send the gorfrin after you.

After he had left, Irillda turned to Bertha. Perhaps we should have sent him to find a gorfrin. She said. I’ve never seen one alive before, have you?

Granny never let me see her prepare one, Bertha admitted. She said they were much too terrible for a child to see.

Thistle walked to the village and saw a small child. He smiled at the child and asked where its father could be found. The child led Thistle to its father.

I will pay you gold for a plump pink pig. Thistle said.

The man agreed, and Thistle paid him with gold dust that fell from his fingers. Thistle went on his way with the pig and soon came across a woman hanging the week’s laundry.

Give me some clothing, and I will give you gold. He said.

The woman held out her hands and Thistle poured gold into them. He took the clothes off the line and walked on.

When he was outside of the shack, he drowned the pig in the creek, then dressed it in the clothes. He carried it into the shack, holding its head under his arm.

He is a plump, pink one, Irillda said, pointing at the bit of back that was exposed. Oh, hurry and roast him. I am so hungry!

Thistle roasted the pig and set it before Irillda, who began to eat it, stuffing pieces into her mouth as fast as she could.

Slow down! Bertha pleaded. I am so full I can hardly stand it!

Irillda stopped eating, swallowed the mouthful she had and sheepishly blushed.

I’m terribly sorry, sister, she said. That was the best plump child I have ever tasted.

The next morning when the door to the shack opened, only Bertha walked in. She had an empty burlap bag and a small bottle that she set on a small table.

Thistle, I want you to catch another plump child for my sister. She said. Put it in this sack and make it drink what is in this bottle. Roast it and serve it to my sister.

Thistle went out, bought another pig from the farmer, clothes from the woman and again roasted the pig as he had done before. He did not make the pig drink out of the bottle but drank it himself.

Bertha showed up the next day angry and growing larger. She put another bottle on the table but had no sack.

I want you to hunt a gorfrin, bring it back and let me see it. I will give it the poison and then you will roast it and give it to my sister.

Thistle went out, and Bertha watched from the door as he walked deep into the woods. Soon he returned by himself.

I told you to bring me a gorfrin! She yelled.

I did.

You have brought me nothing, you, foolish boy!

Have you ever seen a gorfrin? Thistle asked.

No, but my granny used to cook them, and they were delicious, Bertha answered.

So, neither you nor your sister have no idea what they look like?

I just told you that! Bertha yelled, angrily. Now do as you are told!

Yes, my mistress. Thistle said.

He reached out, grabbed Bertha and pried her mouth open, forcing her to drink what was in the bottle.

You have killed me! She screamed, clutching at her throat.

She fell to the floor, jerking and shaking, then she was still.

Irillda could smell the lovely stew as she was walking toward the shack. As she walked in Thistle was filling a large bowl with a meaty stew.

Oh, that looks delicious! Irillda exclaimed as he set the bowl in front of her. Where is Bertha? She would so enjoy this.

She said to let you eat as much as you wanted, and she will be happy just to watch you eat it, Thistle replied. Go ahead and eat, she will be here before you are finished.

Irillda began to eat, and it tasted so good that she licked the bowl clean. Thistle gave her more. She ate and ate. Then Thistle gave her the last bowlful.

I’m almost done with the entire pot and still no sister, Irillda said.

That is not true. Thistle said. She has been watching you eat this entire time.

Thistle pointed toward the hearth. Hanging on the hook was Bertha’s head. Irillda screamed and tried to run, but she could not move, being so full of her meal.

She asked me to hunt for a gorfrin and when I brought her one she would not believe me even though she has never seen one. He said. Perhaps you might know what one looks like?

Irillda shook her head. She felt dizzy and wanted to lie down.

Only what my granny told me. She said. Beware the gorfrin with the bright blue eyes. Behind his handsome face lives the lies. Oh, my!

The screams from inside the shack could be heard throughout the village. The people looked up momentarily, then turned back to their work.

As Thistle walked into the village, there were cheers and clapping from all the people.

Thank you for ridding us of the witches! They cried. The gorfrin has saved our children!

Thistle turned and bowed.

You must invite me to another feast if you find yourself with witches again. He said. I do so enjoy a nice fresh witch.

ANYTHING FOR MOM – 3

T

he smell of bacon wakes me, and I hear the sound of the pan as my mother takes it from the oven. Once the toast pops up there will be the scratching sound of her spreading butter on it and then she’ll call my name.

Cillian! She yells. "Time for breakfast.

She calls four pieces of bacon and a piece of toast breakfast. At least there’s coffee and plenty of it.

The generator is going to need fuel soon.

I’ll fill it up for you, I promise.

And go to the store for me. Mom orders. "I’ll make you a list.

All right, mom.

We live in the back of the store, so I’m not really going anywhere. Mom just likes to imagine she still lives in the fancy house with the wrought iron fence and that her lady friends are coming to tea.

It took some convincing to get her to move to the store. Having access to the food and some kind of electricity did the trick, although I’ve caught her trying to go home once. When she saw what was there, she never wanted to go back.

I take the list and see things I know are gone. The eggs went bad long ago, and there was no hamburger or cold cuts to be found.

The store is out of eggs, mom. I try to explain to her.

I wanted to make a cake for you. She says. It’s your birthday.

I’ll see what I can find.

I head into the store, grab the only cart that doesn’t have a rickety wheel and start throwing stuff in it. The cake mixes all take eggs, but I’m able to find some powdered eggs in the bakery. I grab a small box that says Birthday on it. It has various birthday figures for cakes. Anything to make mom happy.

Mom presents me