The Misunderstood and Other Misfit Horrors Read online

  THE MISUNDERSTOOD

  AND OTHER MISFIT HORRORS

  JASON BRANNON

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2011 by Jason Brannon

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Visit my website at www.jbrannon.net

  Other Books by Jason Brannon

  The Cage

  Winds of Change

  www.jbrannon.net

  Table of Contents

  Beware The Death Angel

  The Machinery of Infinity

  Follow the Leader

  Running Toward Eden

  The Fourth Key

  The Oracles

  The Juggler

  Mother Mary

  The Misunderstood

  About the Author

  Beware The Death Angel

  Heaps of dead leaves lined the streets of Smith’s Junction. Scarecrows had been crudely fashioned out of broomsticks and old clothing. Fake spider-webbing clung to the eaves of each house. White garbage bags filled with confetti had been made up to look like ghosts floating above each roof. Stray strands of toilet paper dangled from a tree here and there-the remnants of teenage mischief.

  Wallace piloted his Buick through dark streets like the ferryman’s skiff through black waters. He kept waiting for his headlights to outline the small moving shape of a superhero or ballerina or a zombie with a meat cleaver buried in its head. But there didn’t seem to be any kids out yet. He checked his watch. Nearly 7:30.

  He turned off on the boulevard, hoping to dodge as much Halloween traffic as possible. Above all else, he didn’t want to get trapped in a convoy of mini-vans. That didn’t seem to be a problem. The street was deserted. But it was far from empty.

  Although they had lived in this town for a month now, Wallace still hadn’t gotten used to the way people in the South piled their trash at the edge of the street. Normally they just put out the customary bags of garbage. Tonight, however, the people of Smith’s Junction had put out everything but the kitchen sink…and upon closer inspection there were even one or two of those as well.

  Old freezers, rusty wagons, wheelbarrows, galvanized metal buckets, trash cans, and a few discolored Igloo ice chests flanked either side of the blacktop. Wallace hadn’t lived here long enough to know if tomorrow was pick-up day or not. Still, it seemed like an awful lot of junk for one truck to haul. And this was a small town. One truck was all they had.

  He was just thinking about how much he disliked this junky, prideless community when his cell phone rang. The unexpectedness of the call made him jump. He didn’t have to look at the I.D. to know it was Martha. She was the only one here who knew his number. For that matter, she was probably the only one in this hick town who even knew how to operate a cell phone.

  “Hey babe,” he said gruffly into the telephone.

  “I need you to do me a favor,” Martha said, getting right to the point.

  Wallace sighed. “I’m tired, sweetheart. I had a mess to deal with at work. Can’t I just come home to you for a while?”

  “We don’t have any candy,” Martha said, unsympathetic to her husband’s problems. “I need you to go to the store and pick some up. This is our first Halloween in town.”

  “I’m tired,” Wallace repeated. “I don’t really want to see any kids. Most of ‘em probably don’t have teeth anyway. This is the South.”

  “I’m from the South,” Martha said firmly. “You didn’t seem to have any problems with me when we first met. I wasn’t barefoot, clad in overalls, and snaggle-toothed.”

  “No,” Wallace sighed, remembering the sight of her on the day they met. “You weren’t. But that’s beside the point. Do I really have to go to the store before coming home?”

  “I’ll give you a kiss for each piece of candy you bring home. And if you‘re good maybe you‘ll get a bigger treat at the end of the night instead of a trick.”

  Wallace smiled. He hated the way she could manipulate him sometimes.

  Knowing it was useless to put off the inevitable, Wallace dutifully turned the Buick around and headed to the market. Like the streets, he hoped it was deserted too so he could make his purchase and run. But the parking lot was packed with people.

  Disgusted, Wallace had to park on the other side of the street and walk over to the store. There were a few faces inside that he recognized. But he didn’t know anybody’s name. They all stared at him with curiosity then turned their attentions back to the meat counter. Wallace snarled at the hicks. He definitely hated this town.

  The shelves of Halloween candy were surprisingly full. Nobody seemed to give a rip about treating the children to a mouthful of cavities. They were more interested in what the butcher had to offer. The townspeople all looked like they were getting ready for a cookout, buying ribs and cutlets and sirloins and roasts. Only the shelves with charcoal and lighter fluid were full too.

  Wallace supposed there might be some sort of tradition in the town that he hadn’t heard about, a Halloween festival or something. But the stern, worried expressions on each face made him think otherwise. These people didn’t look like they were preparing for a good time. Instead, they wore the masks of mourners picking out graveside flowers in a florist’s shop.

  “OK, folks,” the ruddy faced butcher behind the counter said. “I’m down to a ribeye and three pounds of hamburger.”

  A gangly man wearing a grease-stained work shirt stepped up to the counter. “I’ll take it all.”

  The groans of disapproval from the crowd were immediate.

  “You don’t need that much, Luke,” an old woman wearing a pillbox hat spoke up. “One pound of hamburger will do. What will the rest of us do come nightfall?”

  “I don’t care,” Luke replied, slamming his money down on the counter as the butcher hesitantly wrapped all the meat in white paper. “Better to be safe than sorry.”

  Like The Pied Piper, Luke left the store with at least a dozen people following along behind him. It was apparent in the way they muttered and shuffled along that they weren’t happy.

  “I’ll give you $50 for that ribeye,” one man said as the mob surrounded Luke.

  “Seventy-five,” another spoke up.

  The little old woman with the pillbox hat quickly rifled through her purse. At last she pulled out a wad of fives and tens and counted it with the skill and ease of a bank teller. “A hundred and five is all I’ve got,” she said. “Sell it to me.”

  Luke, seeing an opportunity to make a little profit, sold the ribeye and began systematically auctioning off the other two pounds of hamburger he’d just bought. He kept only one pound of hamburger for himself.

  “What is the big deal?” Wallace asked the butcher. “You sell out like this every day?”

  The butcher wiped his greasy hands on his messy, blood-stained apron and leaned over the counter. “Not everyday. Just on Halloween. Today’s special. Always has been.”

  “And why is that?” Wallace asked. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was to pick up Martha’s bag of candy and get home to his recliner.

  “The Death Angel’s coming tonight,” the butcher said cryptically. “You’d do well to beware.”

  “Fine, Moses. If you don’t want to let the new guy in on the secret, that’s o.k. with me. You don’t have to patronize.”

  “I’m serious,” the butcher said, leaning over the counter to whisper his caveat. “Beware The Death Angel.” Something abou
t the way he looked at Wallace made him realize the man truly believed what he was saying.

  “All I came in here for is some Halloween candy for the kids,” Wallace said, picking up a bag of bite-sized Snickers. “I’ll just pay for this and leave you alone. You’ve obviously had a stressful day.”

  “You’ll need more than candy,” the butcher said. “The Death Angel needs flesh and blood. He’ll get it one way or the other. If you don’t leave something for him, he’ll take what he wants. You may not be happy with that outcome.”

  Outside a fight had erupted over the last pound of hamburger meat. Two mechanics were slugging it out like prize-fighters. Apparently they believed in the Death Angel just as much as the butcher. Wallace wasn’t buying it. It was probably some hillbilly trick these inbreeds were playing on him because he was from the city.

  “You’d better leave something for The Death Angel,” the butcher said as Wallace headed to his car. “Otherwise, this may be the first and last time we meet.”

  “Only if I’m lucky,” Wallace muttered as he got in his Buick. Chunks of raw hamburger clung to his windshield like slugs, sliding slowly down the glass and leaving a slick spot in their wake. The remnants of that last pound of hamburger meat lay on the sidewalk. Obviously, both men had been so determined to get the meat for themselves that they had torn the package. Still, it looked like a lot of the meat had been scooped up and carried away. Ants had started to claim what was left.

  Cursing, Wallace turned on his wipers and shot some washer fluid onto the glass. It just made a bigger mess. But after several minutes the windshield was clear enough to see through. Wallace threw the Buick in reverse and headed home.

  Unlike before, there were people on the streets, but they weren’t trick-or-treating. They were carrying the meat they’d bought at Johnson’s Market out to the edge of the street and dumping it into the wagons, ice chests, buckets, and old freezers that Wallace had mistakenly confused for junk.

  Although it was foolish, the scene reminded him of those days long ago when he would spend a week with his grandfather on the farm. They had done something very similar when filling the troughs with animal feed.

  “The Death Angel,” Wallace muttered to himself. “You can definitely tell we’re living in the Bible Belt. Wait until Martha hears about this.”

  But Martha was busy dragging Wallace’s massive toolbox out to the side of the road.

  “What are you doing?” Wallace asked angrily, slamming the car door. “That’s my toolbox you’re scraping against the ground.”

  “I know you’re going to think I’m crazy, but I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “The Death Angel?” he asked.

  “You heard it too, then?”

  “You’re not going to tell me you believe it, are you?”

  Martha looked at Wallace sternly. “It’s just a little raw meat, Wallace. It’s not like we’d be throwing our life’s savings out the window. The story might be true, and it might not be. But it’s a small price to pay for safety.”

  “We’re not doing it. Put my toolbox back where it was. I don’t want a bunch of maggots crawling around in it before I even get to use it once.”

  Martha stood up straight and glared at her husband. “I’m leaving it where it is. I’ll buy you a new one tomorrow.”

  “Absolutely not. This is ridiculous.”

  “Wallace, for once could you just go along with what I want to do? Even if it seems foolish.”

  Wallace sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “Do whatever you want. You usually do anyway. Here’s your candy.”

  Martha took the bag of Snickers and walked back toward the house.

  “Oh, there’s one more thing,” Wallace said with obvious satisfaction. “I ate the last steak yesterday while you were out job hunting. And I can’t go and buy any more because the market is sold out. So I guess you won’t be able to do what you want after all.”

  “So what are we going to do?” Martha asked, suddenly fearful.

  “We’re going to live our lives like we always do and prove to these honky-tonk bumpkins that they’re wasting their time.”

  “Why don’t we just get in the car and go somewhere nice tonight,” Martha said. “Maybe go into Fairview and catch a horror flick for Halloween. Then we could rent a hotel room and enjoy ourselves. It would be so spontaneous. Not at all like the routine we normally lead.”

  Wallace could feel his face turning red. “We’re not doing that because there’s no reason to. We’re not leaving our home because the citizens of Mayberry think the bogeyman’s coming out tonight.”

  Livid, Martha stomped back inside. Wallace thought about moving his toolbox and then decided to wait until after he’d eaten supper. He was hungry. The toolbox could wait.

  As could be expected, Martha didn’t say much during their meal. The doorbell didn’t ring either despite their leaving the porch light on to hopefully attract a few sugar-hungry children. The unopened bag of Snickers sat in a kettle by the door. The way things were looking it was going to stay unopened.

  “It’s odd, isn’t it?” Wallace said, trying to break through Martha’s icy mood. “No children trick-or-treating on Halloween night.”

  “The town’s scared,” Martha said firmly. “No parent in their right mind would let their kids go out when something dangerous is skulking around the neighborhoods.”

  “OK, let’s cut through all this superstitious garbage. How did you find out about all of this in the first place?”

  “The Jacksons next door. I saw Tina dragging an old washtub out to the side of the road. I went to help her and asked what she was doing. That’s when she told me about the Death Angel.”

  “And everything that Tina Jackson says is absolutely 100% true?” Wallace said before filling his mouth with a spoonful of mashed potatoes. “You’ve only known this woman a couple of weeks. She could be a paranoid schizophrenic or something. You don’t know.”

  “I believe her,” Martha said grimly. “She said the Death Angel took one of her kids. She even showed me pictures of the little girl. Blonde hair. Green eyes. Pigtails. Missing since October 31st, three years ago. That was the year the Jacksons moved here.”

  “Why didn’t they pack up their stuff and leave after the Death Angel took their child?”

  “They thought she might have been kidnapped by one of the local rednecks and hoped they would get her back. Still do, I guess. Moving away would be a sign of giving up. Even now, I’m not sure they completely believe in the Death Angel. But it’s the explanation everyone else uses when rationalizing the girl’s disappearance.”

  “This town is strange,” Wallace said, shaking his head. “We’re moving away from here the first chance we get. Tomorrow, in fact. I can’t stand the thought of living here.”

  “Let’s be reasonable,” Martha pleaded. “We haven’t given this place a chance yet.”

  “Because it doesn’t deserve one,” Wallace fumed, backing away from the dinner table.

  They didn’t say anything to each other for the next couple of hours. Wallace watched an old John Wayne movie on TV. Martha busied herself with cleaning up the kitchen and washing a few loads of clothes. Neither of them mentioned the Death Angel although it was apparent that The Sands of Iwo Jima and dirty socks were the last things on their minds.

  When they went to bed, Wallace faced one wall and Martha faced the other. There was more distance than love between them that night.

  “11:40,” Wallace muttered, looking at the clock before shutting his eyes. “Seven o’clock is going to come early in the morning.” Martha didn’t reply.

  The icy silence between them was broken at eleven-fifty when the screaming started.

  At first Wallace wasn’t even sure he’d heard it. It was only as he sat up in bed and saw that Martha was awake too that he knew it was real.

  “It’s just somebody playing a Halloween prank or maybe one of those haunted house soundtracks with all the screaming and rattling chai
ns.”

  “You know it isn’t,” Martha said. Even in the dark, Wallace could see how pale her face had become. She was trembling.

  Wallace threw the comforter back and stumbled over to the window. Looking out, he couldn’t see anything. But the noises outside were louder. Trashcans and galvanized buckets were being knocked over. The noise was akin to the sound of a baseball bat smashing against a metal mailbox.

  “Dogs,” Wallace said. “Just a pack of strays out there trying to get at the meat everyone’s been putting out. Or raccoons maybe. It’s bound to happen. Let’s go back to bed.”

  “I can’t sleep with all that’s going on,” Martha said, slipping into her housecoat. “I’ve got to find something to put out and quick.”

  Before Wallace could protest, she was already bounding down the stairs, heading for the kitchen. When he finally caught up to her, she was throwing icy bags of peas and carrots out of the freezer.

  “What on earth are you doing?” he asked her.

  Martha whirled on him. “I don’t have time to argue with you. The Death Angel will be here soon. I think there may be a bag of frozen pork chops up here somewhere.”

  “Will you get hold of yourself?” Wallace growled, grabbing Martha by the arm and dragging her away from the refrigerator. She pulled away and began hurling ice trays across the kitchen in an attempt to unearth any stray scrap of meat that she might have missed.

  “Martha, stop!” Wallace shouted, more worried than angry now. He’d never seen his wife act like this, and it scared him.

  But Martha didn’t stop, and neither did the screaming from up the street. Only when the freezer was completely empty and the refrigerator’s shelves were bare did Martha allow herself to rest.

  Wallace wasn’t sure how to proceed, but he did the only thing he knew. He kissed Martha on top of her head and pulled her close to him.

  “Things will be fine,” he told her. “Just give it a little time. It will be morning before you know it.”