Horror Library, Volume 4 Read online

  Edited by

  R.J. Cavender

  Boyd E. Harris

  +Horror Library+ Volume 4

  First Edition Ebook, December 2011

  All Rights Reserved

  Cutting Block Press, LLC.

  6911 Riverton Drive

  Austin, Texas 78729

  www.cuttingblock.net

  Copyright © 2010 Cutting Block Press LLC. Individual works are Copyright © 2010 by their respective authors.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher. All characters in this publication are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Editor in Chief: R.J. Cavender

  Line Editor: Boyd E. Harris

  Proofreaders: Michelle Garren Flye

  A.J. Brown

  Reading/Selection Team: R.J. Cavender

  Boyd E. Harris

  Michelle Garren Flye

  A.J. Brown

  Lee Thompson

  Erik Smetana

  John Rowlands

  Dameion E. Becknell

  Layout and Design: Steven W. Booth

  www.GeniusBookServices.com

  Cover Art: Ania Bibulowicz

  www.corporalphantom. deviantart.com

  Cover Design: Bailey Hunter

  This book is for those authors who have confided in us. You place your very best work into the care of our churning wheel — year after year. You are the magicians, the dreamers of dreams, the perpetuators of the nightmare. Without you, all would be lost.

  R.J. Cavender

  + Table of Contents +

  A Very Important Message for Those Planning to Travel to Costa Rica – R.J. Cavender & Boyd E. Harris

  Into The After – Kurt Dinan

  Ash Wednesday – Lorne Dixon

  Ghosts Under Glass – Tracie McBride

  The Dreamcatcher – Nate Kenyon

  Jammers – Bentley Little

  Sporting the Waters of the Bermuda Triangle – Greggard Penance

  To Judge the Quick – Hank Schwaeble

  Driving Deep into the Night – Harrison Howe

  In The Red – Charles Colyott

  Skin – Kim Despins

  Drain Bamage – Jeff Strand

  Guardians – Tom Brennan

  God's Work – Matthew Lee Bain

  Sleepless Eyes – Tim Waggoner

  Flicker – Lee Thomas

  The Fishing of Dahlia – Ennis Drake

  What Was Once Man – Michele Lee

  Mourning with the Bones of the Dead – Gerard Houarner

  Final Draft – Mark W. Worthen

  I Am Vision, I Am Death – Erik Williams

  Santa Maria – Jeff Cercone

  The Healing Hands of Reverend Wainwright – Geoffrey L. Mudge

  Continuity – Lorne Dixon

  Testaville, Ohio – M. Alan Ford

  Stone – Catherine MacLeod

  Campbell's Pond – Brian Knight

  All Dead – JG Faherty

  Exegesis of the Insecta Apocrypha – Colleen Anderson

  —A VERY IMPORTANT MESSAGE FOR THOSE PLANNING TO TRAVEL TO COSTA RICA

  by R.J. Cavender & Boyd E. Harris

  As the Daihatsu Terios rumbles and growls to climb the misshapen road toward Volcan Poas, the rich San Jose street exhaust gives way to the cleaner smell of damp mountain air, and you suck in deep breaths of satisfaction.

  The day is bright. While it is cool with patches of fog lingering in the last of Alajuela's side streets, you break into open country, which boasts endless kilometers of rolling hills filled with coffee plantations, one on top of another. The plush rows of trees hug the hills from the edge of the road expanding to both horizons. The sun is rising, and you feel some warmth through the windshield. While it is looking to be a promising day at Volcan Poas, you hope it will hold.

  There is no shoulder. You've run the tires over the edge of the narrow road several times to avoid transport trucks and passenger buses rumbling downhill, and there is little room to maneuver, but it doesn't slow you. The higher you climb, the more clouds roll into the plantations and spill into the roads, obstructing your view, and the midday rains begin. The visibility erodes and yet oncoming traffic keeps stampeding past you.

  Things are tricky, but that doesn't slow you.

  Most women wouldn't travel alone in a third world country. "Too many things can happen," your family would tell you. "Who's going to help you when your rental car breaks down?" they might add. Yours gave up that nonsense long ago. You've backpacked Europe, road-biked through Nova Scotia, hiked Machu Picchu. You usually rent a car in Costa Rica so you can see more of its vast beauty in the time you have. You usually go alone, and that by choice.

  You've never been to Poas. You've heard of the plush green landscapes and rainforests that cake the slopes leading to this ancient mid-earth pressure release valve. Unfortunately it won't happen today. About halfway up heavy rain forces you to search for a place to pull over. You see a restaurant or hotel through the sheets of rain pelting your windshield, and you turn off onto a gravel drive that leads to several empty parking spaces hugging the entrance. A man wearing a white jacket, a common uniform in Central America, rushes out with an umbrella and opens it over your car door.

  You step out and almost forget to lock the door but turn back and push the electric button near the inside handle. You recall the Tico Rentals representative at the San Jose airport trying to guide you away from this area, holding a map in front of you. You remember his exact words.

  "Ms. Quincy, it's just that some places up there are not as good as others. We had some problems up there with the cars. We had some thieves breaking in and some cars stolen. May I recommend another volcano for you to visit?"

  You remember his expression, and that along with the misty breeze gives you a chill. There had been more than concern for his rental car on his face, but you had brushed him off, and here you are, almost forgetting to lock up.

  The waiter walks you in, directs you through the rustic restaurant and seats you at a front window table. You peer through the ancient, warped glass at the torrential downpour. The sloped streets are under siege with milky-red runoff water colored from the volcanic soil. Through the foggy window there is a sign in the road that reads, "Volcan Poas. . .13." You remember that you are now dealing with kilometers, and you comfort yourself in the thought that it is not much farther.

  After lunch, you decide to rent a cabin behind the restaurant. The nice waiter hands you a key and checks you in from your table.

  Later, you go into the bar and order a Cerveza Imperial. They serve it in a glass with a few rocks of ice, a traditional thing here. The bartender seems nice, like everyone else, but your Spanish is rusty, and you are too tired to try conversation.

  This is as alone as it gets. No one back home has any idea where you are, and to find you someone would have to know to visit Eduardo at the car rental office, which is one of about eight or nine agencies. And then they would need perfect timing to stop into this particular restaurant when they know you could have gone in five or six directions leading out from San Jose. Being this isolated from your life is very comforting.

  Last week you walked away from another relationship. You loved him, but it just wasn't right and both of you knew it. You'd never been the marrying type, and he wanted kids. You are happier sitting alone in this bar around strangers than you wil
l ever be at any point in marriage. It is unsettling, but such is life.

  After a while the bar takes on some new guests. A French couple, some Eastern European backpackers, an American banker and his wife that are a little too loud for this quiet place. A clean cut, friendly looking man comes over and sits, poised for conversation. He smiles and says, "Hello, friend. Do you like de beautiful weather we have here en August?"

  You chuckle and he grins, the ice broken. Then he introduces himself. "I'm Hector, from Nicaragua".

  You say, "Hola, Hector, I'm Joan. The weather is wonderful compared to Houston this time of year."

  He nods. "Ah, yes. Houston. Humid like this, but also hot. Are you here for fun? To fiesta. You know, to party?" He holds his palms out and while still sitting, does a little lower body shuffle, and to accent the cutesy Latino flirt, he winks.

  He has a charming way about him. He appears to be in his early forties, and he keeps good looks for his age. He's dressed in an ironed, fashionable button-down and sports a pleasant masculine scent.

  But there is something not quite right. Maybe it is his unbridled forwardness or lack of patience. But really you can put this one down as simple intuition.

  You answer in a more guarded tone, "No, just here for relaxation."

  He nods. "This is a good place for that as well." He looks around. "Where do you stay?"

  "Here, for the night. Then, who knows?"

  "Ah, you like to wander." He moves a little closer and asks, "Do you wanna know of a good place near to the volcano?"

  You keep a closed posture, partly facing the bar, preventing him from moving in too close. You say, "I'd like to ride by horseback to the mouth of Poas."

  His brows arch. "This is very best place for horseback riding. You should go to the Camino Verde Lodge. Ask for Fernando. He take you to see the Volcan."

  "Thank you, Hector. You've been most helpful."

  As you stand to leave for your room, he quickly says, "Joan, I know of another bar close to here. It's more relaxing. . ."

  You make deliberate eye contact. "No thank you Hector, but it has been nice to meet you."

  After forty-two single years, you've learned to be very choosy with men. You do have a weakness for good-looking, smooth talking Latinos, and you admire Hector's valiant effort, but he's just trying too hard.

  Walking away you hear him say, "It's the Camino Verde Lodge, all the way until you see the park to the volcan. And you should try their caldo soup. It's delicious."

  As you leave the room, you feel a need to look back at Hector-from-Nicaragua. You do, and there he is, watching and smiling. You briefly wonder if all Nicaraguans are that different from Costa Ricans. Though cute and friendly, there was something odd with this guy. Beyond the outgoing nature of men from this region. Something a little on the creepy side.

  ***

  The sun is working its way up over the endless rows of bushy coffee trees. An even blanket of light fog hovers around their bases only a foot or two deep, and as the sun breaks through, you watch it burn off.

  After ample servings of café con leche in the restaurant and a plate of fresh fruit, you resume your trek to the summit. You find the sign for the Camino Verde Lodge along a cutback in the steep road. Briefly you consider continuing on, but curiosity prevails, and you turn into the ungraded gravel drive. Over a steep hill you pass a Tico working on a small building. He waves and a concert of silver teeth beams from his friendly face.

  Topping the next hill the lodge becomes visible, and there is only one vehicle in front. It's a Toyota Rav-4 with a Budget Rental sticker on the bumper. Someone else on vacation. You get out and walk around the small rustic building, appreciating an abundance of different colored hydrangeas along the path. From the back patio there is a breathtaking view of a valley rolling off this side of this volcano. Puffy clouds work their way through these hills, and you pause before entering.

  Inside it is dark and quiet. You skirt around a couple of heavy handmade wood tables and lean against the kitchen counter. You see no one, though you smell something cooking.

  "Hola!" you call into the darkness.

  Someone shuffles through a pantry, pots clanking against one another in hollow percussion. A female mumbles something that you don't understand. A large woman with hard features steps into view. A Tica, but maybe part German or Eastern European. She smiles.

  You say, "Quiere un caballo para viaje a la volcan. Es Fernando aqui?" It's badly broken Spanish at best, but she seems to understand.

  She nods and goes outside. She waves at the man you passed on the way to the lodge. He appears to be gathering supplies from a small shed. He stands, waves back and puts away a few things before walking down to the lodge. The Tica comes in and brews you a cup of coffee. You engage in conversation, keeping your Spanish deliberately slow, and you learn her name is Estrela.

  Soon, the man with the silvery smile enters the lodge. His English is poor, but he chooses to practice it on you. He says, "Hallo, I'm Fernando." Then he asks, "You have practice weeth caballos?"

  "Yes," you answer. "I would like to ride to the volcano, but by trails." He squints and so you attempt to translate. "Quiero traje el caballos con no usar el sendero."

  He smiles, giving you a close-up of the numerous teeth crowned in semiprecious metal. He seems glad that you wish to take the adventurous route. He says, "Los caballos, dey like that." He pinches his right forefinger to his thumb and says, "Un momento." He steps around the building and a moment later he's carrying a saddle.

  Something about Fernando is reassuring. He's sweet and soft-spoken, and maybe a little simple, but something just feels like today's ride will be an adventurous one.

  On cue with this thought, Hector-from-Nicaragua walks in. He stops at the kitchen counter, and Estrela acknowledges him in mumbled Spanish. She comes out of the pantry and hands him a tightly wrapped black bag.

  He glances at you and smiles, then hands it back to her. He tells her something and then she disappears with the bag into the kitchen.

  He comes over and sits at a table next to yours. You are happy that he has not come closer. Grinning, he says, "You took my advice. I'm very pleased."

  Estrela brings each of you coffee, followed by a bowl of hot soup. It's a cool morning and steam carries off, twisting in the breezeway.

  She sits it in front of you and says, "Caldo res", and you recognize it as a brothy soup with meat and vegetables.

  You sip and find it to be quite succulent; spicy, heavy in cumin. Under the oily broth, you spoon out chunks of vegetables, slices of corn cob, wedges of cabbage and tomato. At the bottom, you find big, soft chunks of meat. You wonder if they would share the recipe.

  Hector says, "You like." His smile and gaze is a reminder of what bothered you about him last night. You hope he won't join you on the ride today.

  Fernando returns and points to the two horses saddled up on the side. You finish your soup and coffee and slip your arms through your backpack.

  Outside you prepare to mount your horse, when you notice a machete stuck in the ground between Fernando and the horses, and your back tenses up. You hate any kind of blade. Large knives are to you what spiders and snakes are to other women.

  You turn to your horse, run your fingers over the side of his head, brushing them across the top of his nose. His name is Pinto. A beautiful brown horse with black features and a black tail. He takes to you, cocks his head back in appreciation. You mount Pinto and pat him on the side, then tighten your backpack.

  Fernando adjusts a dusty baseball cap on his head. He leans way over the edge of his saddle, grabs the machete and holsters it in his saddle. He looks at you and recognizes your concern. "To clear de trail," he says, patting it.

  You nod.

  "Do you have friends with you in Costa Rica?" he asks.

  "I'm up here alone," you answer.

  His corrected teeth gleam proud. He pats himself lightly on the chest and says, "Now you have a friend here."

&nbs
p; He leads you farther up the road you drove in on, then turns onto a volcanic rock path. The trail degrades with distance. At times, the mud and uneven slopes make it difficult on the horses' hooves. After several hundred meters he turns off the path into what seems like no trail at all and begins a climb through the jungle. It is brutally steep. Because of soft soil, the horses must carefully plant every step. Fernando pulls out his machete and chops at the vines and brush. The growth falls clean, which demonstrates the razor sharpness of his blade. Your trail leads you up several switchbacks, repeatedly crossing over a trickling brook.

  Eventually you emerge from the rainforest onto an open meadow. The lodge and the entire valley are visible below. You see that the clouds rolling through the hills are becoming larger and darker, but trust that Fernando is aware of the approaching weather.

  Fernando turns and points to a tiny but gushing waterfall, a spring burbling from the side of a massive rock. It is the source of the brook that you've been passing over in the switchbacks.

  You continue up the hill and enter more forest, but soon after that another clearing appears. You dismount the horses and climb to the crest by foot.

  You reach the top and look down into it. The setting is surreal. The crater is a half mile wide, with sulfuric steam crawling up the banks, leaving egg yolk yellow and green-gray deposits. No vegetation anywhere in this chasm.