Dark Thoughts Read online

  DARK THOUGHTS

  Five tales of horror by Harry Shannon

  CONTENTS

  ARANEIDA

  ROAD KILL

  THE EASY WAY

  THE SECOND DEATH

  VIOLENT DELIGHTS

  "That which we do not love about ourselves shall regress and take its revenge."

  —Carl Jung

  ARANEIDA

  (Originally published in CEMETERY DANCE, Issue #47, January 2004)

  The windshield was splattered with bug guts, so Ray Ballon stopped at a gas station to take a breather. What a dump, he thought. I'd hate to get stuck here.

  Little Wendover was an anachronistic town located right at the state line. It featured a gigantic neon cowboy trying to thumb a ride, just in case any of the passing tourists missed having entered Nevada. Ray went into the funky little casino and played one-armed bandits until the Nissan was gassed up, hosed down and ready for the final run. He yanked on one machine after another, willing himself to win something. He felt desperate to make sense out a very confusing weekend.

  Ray also kept one sharp eye on Wanda, who was fast becoming a black widow, as she went from the ladies room to the funky coffee shop. His daughter was really strutting her stuff these days: Sporting heavy make-up, dressing in torn clothing that looked spray-painted on; just oozing hormones and attitude.

  Sadly, they hadn't spoken for more than an hour. Wanda was pissed off again. It was frustrating, because Ray had only been joking. He'd made some light (and okay, a bit smart-ass) remark about a boy band Wanda liked. When they came on the radio he'd said something about tight pants and high voices and she'd gone into another snit. Puberty was obviously a bitch. It had certainly created one.

  When he was out of quarters, Ray turned on the squeaky stool and looked through the coffee shop window. Wanda sat maybe twenty feet away. He watched the girl work the pimply kid serving her. She was really spinning a web for the poor bastard. Wanda sucked on the straw and batted her eyes and shifted her relatively new boobs on the counter. The boy looked like his tongue was going to become at cartoon and roll out at any second like a long, red carpet. Ray sighed. He'd lost his career, his wife and family, all in a few short years. He had hoped to keep a lifeline to his stepdaughter. But this whole idea was turning out to be one gigantic mistake.

  "A sea of alfalfa, my ass," Wanda had muttered.

  Ray had told Wanda what he remembered from being on his Grandpa's ranch as a kid: A huge ocean of alfalfa, waving gently in a welcome breeze; blistering heat, gold and gray mirages dancing up into clean, clear skies and the magnificent, high desert scenery. He had promised they'd share a picnic near the foothills, listening to hordes of insects dancing through the turquoise sage. He'd been downright poetic about it.

  "Yeah, but there's nothing to do, for Chrissakes!"

  Ray should have known right there it wasn't going to go well, but he'd persevered. Eventually, he had convinced his ex-wife to support the idea (hadn't taken much doing, since she still liked to party her ass off) and now the long weekend had arrived. But they just kept getting stuck in the same conversation. Everything led back to her disappointment with the divorce, to his being drunk all the time back then, to that one time she'd been getting out of the shower and he'd touched her on the…

  "Hey, Mister? Your car's ready."

  Startled, Ray dropped the empty plastic coin bucket and jumped to his feet. The stool clanged into the slot machine. "Oh, sure. How much?"

  The attendant wore overalls festooned with stains and a billed cap. His name tag said JAKE. He was greasy and stank of sweat, oil and gasoline. Jake grinned, revealing sparse, yellowing teeth. "Had to give her some more juices," he drawled. "Comes to thirty-two fifty."

  Ray counted out the money nervously. For some reason his hands were trembling. Jake, the attendant, spat something foul and onto the casino's linoleum floor. "Hey, you know the last thing goes through a bug's mind when it hits your windshield?"

  "No," Ray said. He handed over the cash. "No, I don't."

  A beat and then another grotesque smile. "His asshole! Har!" Jake folded the cash and stuck it into a pocket already stuffed with rags. "Where ya'll off too, anyhow, don't mind my askin'?"

  I do mind, Ray thought. Instead, he said: "I spent a lot of time in Nevada when I was a boy. My Grandfather had a cattle ranch near Dry Wells."

  Jake squinted and hawked something from deep in his sinus passages. "That so?"

  Grossed out, Ray began to edge away. "Yeah, and I always remember this one spot I loved. I made it kind of a picnic area. Maybe two hours down, then East towards Starr Valley, near a dry creek bed."

  Jake spat again. For the first time, Ray noticed dozens of little brown tobacco stains on the floor; spots than ran up and down the passageway like small animal droppings. I guess he owns the fucking place.

  "That your daughter, don't mind my askin'?"

  "My stepdaughter, actually."

  "So you're takin' her on a picnic down to Dry Wells, then?"

  "That's right. And we'd best get going."

  Jake shook his head. "I recommend you don't."

  "Say what?"

  "Bad time of year," Jake said. "Shitload of bugs."

  "I know that."

  "Lots of other things to see and do further south. Lots. You come to the middle of nowhere, it's for no good reason my friend."

  You're not my friend, so back off. "Thanks for the gas…Jake."

  The mechanic nodded. He leered at Wanda through the plate glass. "She's sure a looker," he said. "You watch out for that little girl, now…You hear?"

  And then Ray had to practically drag Wanda out of the coffee shop. She and the kid with the lousy skin had been deep in a meaningful discussion about the merits of tongue piercing. The boy looked sad enough to commit suicide.

  Halfway out to the car Wanda turned around to stalk back into the restaurant, and Ray had to grab her by the shoulders. His hands slipped slightly, knocking the sleeve off one side of her black halter, and they both stood there stupidly for a few seconds. Then Wanda covered up her exposed breast and sneered. She hopped into the passenger seat, slammed the door and locked it.

  Another ninety minutes without conversation.

  Oh, Ray tried to apologize; he offered whatever sorrowful expression he could muster and talked about never wanting to hurt her. But Wanda was a veteran. She had heard all that before. She just wasn't willing to believe it had been an accident. So Ray let her pick the radio station. This time he kept his mouth shut about the music, figuring discretion was the better part of valor.

  After a time, Ray began to recognize the landmarks. When they passed the railroad tracks, he knew they were entering the little town. Dry Wells had been losing ground for years. What he saw made him feel depressed. As they cruised down the deserted main street, Ray noted even more boarded-up windows and empty storefronts than before. The town was on life support. His Grandfathers cattle ranch had been the last business to fold, and the area had gone steadily downhill ever since.

  Wanda crossed her arms over her opulent breasts and sneered. "Oh yeah, it looks like we're gonna have a freaking' blast around here."

  Ray sighed. "Just give it a chance," he said. "The spot I told you about is a few miles the other side of town."

  Damn. It was sad, really. Nothing moved. Ray saw cobwebs everywhere; even what looked like hornet's nests packed like gray pimples above the wooden doorways; dark, splintered passageways that led to dead or dying businesses. The drug store and grocery were closed and boarded up. So was city hall. There was a small population remaining: A few pale, ancient people sat on their porches; perched motionless in their rocking chairs as if waiting for the grim reaper to collect them.

  Ray sighed. He wasn't he
re for the town anyway. He'd come here for a picnic. He checked the gas gauge, floored it and sped out of town. One last glance in the rear-view mirror revealed nothing but dust devils and deserted streets.

  Wanda, bopping to the music, was applying even more make-up. Now she looked like a Goth whore. She belched. "This had better be worth it, Pops."

  "Don't burp out loud," Ray urged. "It's not ladylike. It's not attractive."

  "Like I care," she said, and turned up the radio. But this time Ray didn't notice and didn't mind. He was soaking up the memories, returning to an old and comforting reverie.

  As they turned off the main highway and entered the low foothills, closer to a water supply, cactus plants sprouted and the sage showed yellow flowerings. Then they saw trees from more than a mile away. At first they seemed like a mirage, but as the shimmered and blurred from silver to green, Ray knew he'd once again found the spot; the place where cherry trees leaned down over the fresh, clear stream and alfalfa fields murmured poetry in the morning breeze. His heart leaped in his chest, and he started to feel real excitement for the first time. This was the place, that special picnic spot. The beautiful location he'd dreamed about and talked about and returned to for more than thirty years.

  The place where he'd lost his virginity.

  "We're here."

  Ray parked the car and waited for the cloud of dust to dissipate. When he looked at Wanda, she was chewing gum madly and hugging herself as though she were scared of something. She started to rock back and forth a bit and began to hum, which struck him as odd. He patted her leg and gave her a wink.

  "I'll set up our picnic," he said.

  His stepdaughter didn't answer. A cheerful Ray pocketed the keys, hopped out of the car and went around to the back. He took the checkered blanket and the picnic basket and went off into the cherry grove. He batted a cloud of insects away, shielded his face and stopped to listen. At first he heard only his own, stimulated breathing into cupped palms. But after a moment he could make out the faint hiss of a nearby stream.

  Ray jogged lightly up the ridge and found the perfect spot. As usual, he wasn't sure if it was exactly the same place where his grandfather had first fondled his penis, but if not it was certainly close enough. This will do. He spread the checkered blanket out in a cool patch of shade and put the cooler down. He knelt to straighten the edge of the blanket. He blinked.

  Down at the edge of the stream, perhaps forty yards away, sat a fisherman. Ray scowled. He wanted no witnesses, no disturbances. Frustrated, he slammed his fist into the dirt, but that just hurt his fingers.

  The fisherman looked old, very old; like most of the remaining inhabitants of Dry Wells. He also hadn't moved. Perhaps he was asleep. Or nearly deaf?

  "Mister!"

  No response. Ray stepped out of the shadows and whistled as loudly as he could, but the fisherman still didn't look up. Satisfied, Ray backed into the shadows and returned to his task. He examined the area, and moved the blanket slightly, allowing for where the sun would be in another couple of hours. He wanted to relax and take his time. He wanted this to be good for the both of them.

  When he returned to the car, his heart kicked in his chest. Wanda was gone. Ray spun in circles, disoriented and very upset.

  "Wanda? Wanda, where are you sweetheart?"

  The bitch! She had run off and that would ruin everything. Ray felt enraged. He opened his trunk and started looking for his long, saw-toothed hunting knife.

  "I'm over here, Pops."

  He stood up so abruptly he banged his head on the trunk lid. Wanda had gone to pee, or something. She was walking back from a nearby rock formation, zipping up her impossibly snug shorts. Ray laughed with relief. "You scared me," he said. He dropped the knife back into the trunk without her noticing.

  "So let's get this over with," Wanda said. Her voice broke slightly on the word 'this,' and for some reason Ray found that sound exciting.

  He gave her a tote bag with bug spray, suntan lotion and other paraphernalia. She took it wordlessly, without looking up, not willing to meet his eyes. One side of her halter had slipped down again, revealing the soft swell of a white breast. Ray felt himself thicken and twitch.

  He grabbed the cheap Styrofoam picnic cooler from the back seat and opened it; then breathlessly removed a perfectly chilled, sensually perspiring bottle of 100 Proof Vodka. He searched the melting ice and located a small glass. Ray carefully poured one shot of the precious liquor, sprinkled a bit of pepper in it. He handed it to Wanda, who seemed genuinely surprised.

  "You're underage, but this is a special occasion," he said. And he kissed her on the cheek. Wanda trembled visibly and downed the shot. She shook and gasped, but seemed to enjoy it. Impressed, Ray poured another and peppered it. She took the glass, but sipped this time.

  "Where are we going," she asked. Her voice was timid, vulnerable and more childlike than he had heard it sound in years. Ray liked that.

  "This way," he said. "Follow me."

  And he led her into the trees and along the path, the Vodka bottle and cold cans of beer all bumping and thumping in the ice cubes and rattling around in the cooler. The sandwiches were safely sealed in plastic bags within plastic, to keep the meat from spoiling. Meat should always be fresh, Ray thought, and then he giggled.

  "What's so funny, Pops?"

  "Nothing," Ray said, cheerfully. "Nothing at all."

  They found the spot. "Hey," Wanda said, trying to put the best spin on things. "This is kind of cool."

  "Cool? It's beautiful!"

  But the heat was actually oppressive and the insects were merciless. Ray dropped the cooler on the blanket and grabbed the bug spray from the tote bag. He sprayed the air, whistling tunelessly. He lit four smoke-producing incense burners purported to keep bugs away, set them at the edges of the blanket and then removed his pants. Now he wore only a sleeveless tee shirt and bikini underwear bulging like an exclamation point. He sprayed his own arms and legs. Wanda was sitting cross-legged on the blanket, nearly through with her second shot of strong vodka. Her eyes were vacant and she was feeling the powerful effects. He touched her arm and she jumped.

  "Don't want you getting bit," Ray said. "Turn around." His pulse was pounding and his voice felt thick with lust. Wanda turned her back and crossed her arms. Ray pushed her halter down and sprayed her back with bug repellent. She jumped.

  "That's cold."

  Her skin rippled with goose bumps and Ray felt his breath catch in his throat. He held her down by her shoulders. Suddenly his mind flashed on his Grandfather again, that dirty old man with his teeth out and his breath so foul crooning "let me touch it, please let me touch it," and for just a moment a part of his brain screamed: Don't do this to her, Ray! Don't do it!

  But then his wandering fingers found a nipple.

  Wanda shrieked and jumped to her feet. The halter fell down around her waist and her teenage breasts were free. She tugged her clothing up and the look of betrayal she gave him nearly broke his heart. She kicked him in the face and Ray fell backwards onto the checkered blanket, clutching his lower lip. It was bleeding, and began to swell immediately.

  "You son of a bitch!" Wanda screamed. "I knew you would do that! I told Mommy you would do that! You piece of shit!"

  "Wanda, listen…I'm sorry…I can't help it, baby…"

  Wanda moved, and Walt jerked back reflexively, protecting his shrinking erection with both hands. But she surprised him. She grabbed his pants, fished out the car keys and ran like a deer through the woods. Ray struggled to get back into his pants, but accidentally got both feet into one leg and promptly fell down. He kicked the pants away.

  Ray followed Wanda through the trees, wearing only tennis shoes with no socks, butt-floss underwear and the wife-beater tee shirt. He tried a short cut, but his head cracked into something that felt like plaster. It fragmented into powder. A nest! Furious wasps swarmed around his upper body, hostile little peckers out. He felt several sharp stings prick his chest, neck and face.


  Ray rolled through the brush, bobbing and weaving. He suddenly realized he still had the can of bug spray in his right hand. He created a dank cloud of mist around his head. The wasps flew away. He stopped, oriented himself and went after Wanda.

  When he heard the car start, he sobbed with frustration. He'd forgotten she knew how to drive; her mother had taught her earlier in the year, in preparation for her learners permit.

  Walt burst onto the trail, choked by a cloud of steadily rising dust. The car bounced through some holes, nearly ended up in a ditch, and for a brief moment he thought he'd be able to catch her and that they'd have their little picnic after all. But Wanda yanked the wheel, fishtailed around a bit and sped towards the distant highway.

  I am well and truly fucked, Ray thought. His mind raced, imagining her returning with the local law; having him arrested. He pictured jail time, and what felons generally do to men who molest children. She's not a child. You saw those tits! But the law wouldn't care. They wouldn't understand how seductive Wanda had been, even when she was just a little girl.

  And neither would the convicts.

  Ray sobbed again at the injustice of his situation. Stranded out here in the fucking middle of nowhere without anything to live on but a blanket, a couple of sandwiches, some beer and the clothes on his back. How the hell was he supposed to survive? This isn't fair, God Damn it!

  But then he wiped the tears from his eyes and a light bulb went off in his head.

  The fisherman.

  The old man had to have gotten out here somehow. He had transportation and might even have a gun with him. Maybe there was still time to catch up to Wanda. She'd be afraid to drive seventy, eighty miles an hour. She'd stay on the main highway doing thirty or so, playing it safe; for Chrissakes she was only a kid, right? He could still catch her, enjoy her and then kill her. That would be unfortunate, but perhaps it had become necessary. And that way nobody would have to know about their little picnic. Nobody. Not even the fisherman would be left behind to talk.