Songs Of The Dead E-Book

Andy Rausch

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Songs of the Dead is a collection of nineteen short stories with varying themes, ranging from creepy to the supernatural.

In "The Dinner Guests," a man finds himself experiencing an unusual hunger.

In "She Had a Good Heart," a young heart transplant survivor meets her donor's family for the first time. What could go wrong?

In "Dobie's Last Ride," a man finds himself at odds with a seemingly harmless black Lab, who turns out to be a bit less harmless as he first thought.

This book contains graphic sex and violence, and is not suitable for readers under the age of 18.

"Andy Rausch's tough, hard-hitting prose is married to thought-provoking concepts that make you question your own opinions, your own moral stance, and your own preconceptions of right and wrong." -John A. Russo, author of Night of the Living Dead

"The classic horror short story not only lives and breathes. In the imaginative brain of Andy Rausch, it's totally reanimated." - Herschell Gordon Lewis, director of Blood Feast

Leseprobe

SONGS OF THE DEAD

ANDY RAUSCH

CONTENTS

The Dead Man's Lullaby

The Dinner Guests

Rachel in the Moonlight

The Day Henry Came Back

The $10,000 John Wayne Magnum Opus

You're Doing Too Much

She Had a Good Heart

The Reckanado

Dobie's Last Ride

Matthew Todd's Ghostly Valentine

It'll Make You Feel Better

The Gila-Man Tries Online Dating

Shakespeare Said A Thing

Sandwich Bitch

My Beloved Rosie

The Sweetest Ass in the Ozarks

Granny Wilkins' Last Supper

The Man Who Wouldn't Die

The Spook Light

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2021 Andy Rausch

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Tyler Colins

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

This collection is dedicated to my hero,

Joe R. Lansdale

THE DEAD MAN'S LULLABY

The young man from the pharmacy delivered Betty's medications early in the afternoon. Betty liked him very much. He reminded her of her nephew, Darryl, whom she rarely saw these days. It was a warm May day, and Betty sat out on the front porch talking with the young man for several minutes. She didn't know how old he was, as age was something that had become extremely difficult for her to gauge in her later years. But she figured he was probably in his twenties, as he was old enough to drive and old enough to have respect for his elders. The two of them talked about the weather mostly, and then Betty gave him a quarter tip before he left.

After sitting on the porch, enjoying the warmth of the day for another few minutes, Betty finally went back into the drab, dreary old house. She took her medications into her bedroom, setting them and her pill counter out on the bed so she could divide them up for the coming week. As she did, she glanced at the old dusty radio sitting on the dresser. She hadn't played it in years, but now thought a little soft music might be nice as she prepared her meds. She switched on the radio, a loud buzz drowning out the tinny, distant sound of music. She turned the knob, searching for something soft that would come in a little clearer. There was mostly just static on the old radio, and she briefly wondered if it would work at all. As she was turning, she heard a frail voice emerge from within the static.

“Betty,” the voice said.

It took her a moment to register what she'd heard, and by the time she did, she'd already passed the station where she'd heard it. She knew it wasn't possible that the radio was speaking directly to her, but she turned the knob back slowly, finally settling on the channel once again.

It was faint, but it was there.

“Betty.”

The voice was familiar, but she couldn't immediately identify it.

“Betty,” the voice said again. “Betty, my dear, is that you?”

Now Betty recognized it.

It was her dead husband, Bill. It couldn't possibly be, but she knew it was.

“Betty, my dear …”

“Yes?” she managed.

“That is you, isn't it?” the voice said.

She gulped. “Yes, it's me.”

“It's Bill.”

“I know who you are,” said Betty. “We were married for sixty-one years.”

“I love you, Betty.”

She felt herself tearing up. “I love you, too, Bill.”

“How are you? How have you been, my dear?”

“Alone,” she said. “I've been alone.”

“I'm sorry, Betty,” he said, sadness filling his frail voice.

“I've missed you these last few years.”

“I've missed you, too.”

“Can I ask you a question?” asked Betty.

“Anything, my dear.”

“Where are you?”

Bill laughed happily. “I guess this is heaven. I don't know for sure. Nobody tells you. But it's beautiful here; bright, stunning colors like a Van Gogh painting. It's so relaxed. And best of all, there's no pain.”

“You're not in pain anymore?”

“Oh, no,” said Bill. “I feel wonderful.”

“But you're dead.”

“I am, aren't I?” He chuckled again.

“Can you see me?” Betty asked. “Do you watch over me?”

“No, dear, I can't see you.”

“How are we speaking now? How does this work?”

“I don't know,” said Bill. “They don't tell you anything here.”

“Are there others there?”

“Oh, yes, lots of others.”

“Are they happy, too?”

“Everyone is happy here.”

“Are there people there that you know—from before?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Like who? Who's there?”

“Michael's here, Betty.”

Betty’s mind turned to her dead son, drowned at the age of ten, and she started to cry.

“He … is?” she asked, her voice cracking.

“Yes, Betty. He's here and he's wonderful.”

“Is he still ten?”

“No,” Bill said. “Everyone here is an adult. You should see the man he's become.”

“Really?”

“My brother Sam is here, and…”

“My sister, Theresa?”

“She's here, too, Betty. We're all just waiting for you.”

“You are?”

She felt her heart soar just a bit.

“We think about you all the time.”

“You do?”

“Of course,” said Bill. “You're my baby girl.”

Betty was choked up and couldn't speak.

“You okay, Betty, my dear?”

“It's just a lot for me to take in,” she said.

Bill said, “I'm sure it is. Give it some time, old girl. Give it time.”

“It's so good to hear your voice.”

“It's terrific hearing your voice, too.”

“I miss you so much.”

“I miss you, too.”

There was a long silence, and Betty tried to regain her composure. She tried to look at this objectively. Was she losing her mind? She was talking to her long-dead husband through an AM radio. It just wasn't possible.

But it was.

“Betty?”

“Yes, Bill?”

“I've got to go.”

“But you just got here. I've waited so long to talk to you.”

“It's gonna be okay, Betty.”

“Will you be back?”

“Oh, yes,” Bill said. “Now that I've got you again, I'll never let you go.”

Betty said, “I love you, Bill.” Saying the words felt so familiar on her tongue.

“I love you, too.”

“Goodbye.”

“Until next time, my love.”

And Bill was gone, leaving only static behind.

Betty didn't know how to process all this. She felt she had to be losing her mind. Every minute that passed without her hearing Bill's voice, she became more and more certain she was having a nervous breakdown.

She knelt down next to her bed and she prayed to God for answers.

Finally, she arose and went to the phone. She dialed it, the radio static still crackling behind her.

“Hello?” answered Terry, her minister.

“Terry?”

“Yes?”

“Terry, this is Betty Buckley. I have a problem.”

“Okay, I'll help in any way I can, Sister Betty.”

“Thank you in advance.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

Betty said, “It's Bill.”

“Bill?” Terry asked, weighing the name. “Your husband, Bill?”

“One and the same.”

“What about him, Betty?”

“He's talking to me.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone and then Terry said, “Our loved ones speak to us in a variety of ways from beyond the gates of heaven. How exactly is Bill speaking to you, Betty?”

“I know how this is gonna sound,” Betty said. “But I'm hearing his voice.”

“His voice?”

“On my radio.”

“Uh,” said Terry. “How so?”

“He speaks to me.”

“What does he say?”

“He tells me he loves me,” said Betty. “And that he's in heaven with our son, Michael. And my sister. And his brother.”

Silence again. “I'll tell you what: how about I come over there and listen to the radio with you? Do you think he'll talk to me?”

“I don't see why not,” Betty said. “But he's not there all the time.”

“How many times have you heard him?”

“Only once so far.”

“How do you know he'll be back?”

Betty said, “Because he told me so..”

Betty waited thirty-five minutes for Terry to arrive at her house. She led him into her dreary old bedroom and asked him to sit on the bed. She walked over and switched on the radio, hunkering down over it.

All they heard was static.

Terry looked at her, trying to conceal the expression which said she was pathetic.

“Maybe if we wait for a few minutes he'll show up,” said Betty.

“That sounds like a good idea.”

“I wonder if it's the right station.”

“What do you mean?”

“He didn't say if he would always be on the same station. I mean, he was on that one then, but who knows about next time?”

Terry looked concerned. “So, they have a radio station in heaven?”

“I don't think so. I mean, I don't know.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I don't think he was at a radio station or anything. I think he was just talking to me from heaven, and it was coming out of my radio.”

“Could he hear you?” asked Terry. “Did you try to talk back?”

“Oh, yes, we had quite a conversation.”

“What did he say?”

“Just that he missed me. And he said that he loved me.”

“Of course.”

“And like I said, he told me Michael was there, too.”

“Right.”

“He said heaven was bright with pretty colors, like a Vincent Van Gogh painting.”

“Van Gogh, huh?”

“And he said there's no pain where he's at.”

“Why, that does sound nice,” he said, clearly humoring her.

“I promise you Bill was here, on this radio.”

“I believe you.”

She made a face. “You do?”

He said he did, but she saw through it.

“Do you still think he's gonna come and talk to me?” asked Terry.

“I don't know. I promise you, he was here.”

“I believe you.”

“He said he loved me.” She started to sob again.

Terry put his arm around her shoulder. “Why don't you and I pray about this?”

They prayed, the sound of radio static still filling the room. Terry's prayer sounded simultaneously concerned and condescending, but Betty thought maybe she was reading too much into it. When Terry was finished with the prayer, he looked at her, holding her frail hands in his own.

“What do you think happened here?” she asked.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“Do you honestly believe Bill was here, talking through my radio?”

“I don't know what exactly I believe,” said Terry. “But I do believe that you believe it, and that's enough for me. It sounds like it was a very sweet conversation. Real or imagined, do you know what most people would give to have one last conversation with their dearly departed?”

Betty frowned. She hoped it wouldn't be her last conversation with Bill.

Later that evening, as Betty was watching Wheel of Fortune, the phone rang. She answered it, and it was her daughter, Kelly.

“Mom?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I, uh, talked with your minister.”

Betty didn't like that one bit. She had trusted Terry, and he had betrayed that trust.

“He called you, did he?” asked Betty.

“He's worried about you.”

Betty said nothing.

“I'm worried about you, Mom.”

“There's no need for anyone to worry about me.”

“He said you're talking to Dad. On an AM radio.”

“This is none of your business, Kelly. If I had wanted to share this with you, I would have called you myself.”

“This isn't normal, Mom.”

Betty questioned her sanity again. Was she losing her mind? Was everyone else correct? She didn't know the answer, but she wasn't about to just give in and let them lock her away in some damned old folks home.

“I'm telling you, I'm fine,” Betty said.

“I don't know what to think about this.”

“What does Terry think?”

“He's worried.”

“He thinks I'm crazy, doesn't he?”

“He's just worried about you,” Kelly said. “We're all worried about you.”

“No need to worry about me. You need to worry about yourself.”

Kelly sighed. “What does that mean?”

“You and Ted split up every six months. That's what it means. Maybe you need to worry more about your own problems and less about mine.”

“That's not fair, Mom.”

“Then don't you call me, trying to figure out if I'm crazy,” said Betty. “I'm still the mother here, not you. You don't get to question me.”

“But, Mom.”

“What?”

“Dad's dead.”

“Don't you think I know that?” Betty asked. “I'm the one who has to live here day in and day out, alone, without him. I'm fully aware that your father is dead.”

“But Terry said you're talking to him.”

“And he talks to me,” said Betty. “So what? What business is it of yours?”

“Dead people don't talk, Mom. They don't. Dad can't talk to anyone.”

Betty became flustered. “You think I'm crazy, don't you?”

“I don't think you're crazy, but I am worried,” Kelly said. “It's just… It's not normal.”

“Let me ask you something. Do you realize what nerve you and Terry have for doubting this? Both of you believe in God, you believe in heaven, you believe that anything is possible. But this…”

“It's not possible.”

“Why?” Betty said. “Terry said that with God all things are possible. So why can't he wrap his mind around this? He won't even entertain the possibility that I'm telling the truth. This is…”

“What?”

“Bullshit,” blurted Betty.

Betty never cursed, and the colorful language surprised them both.

“I taught high school for nearly forty years,” Betty said. “I was above reproach. No one ever questioned my mental state. I was teaching before you were born. I was teaching before that twit Terry was born.”

“He's just worried, Mom.”

“He's a hypocrite.”

“He didn't mean—”

Betty prepared her next words carefully. “He's a hypocrite, and so are you, my dear.” And she hung up the telephone and unplugged its cord from the wall.

That night, Betty lay in bed in the darkness, listening to the empty static on the radio. She thought about how Terry had betrayed her, had possibly even betrayed his own faith in God, and about how Kelly had the nerve to question her mental faculties.

And finally, late that night, Betty drifted off to sleep.

She was awakened just after three by the sound of Bill talking to her through the static.

“Betty,” he said.

She sat up, startled. Had she heard something? She tried to clear her mind, to figure out where she was.

“Betty,” said Bill again. “Are you there, my dear?”

“Yes,” she said, clearing her throat. “I'm here, Bill.”

“Are you in bed?”

“Yes, Bill.”

“Fine. I've got some time. Just lay back and we can talk in bed like we used to—back when I was still alive … before I got sick.”

Betty felt simultaneously overcome with joy and sorrow, and she started to cry again.

“Are you crying, Betty?”

She sniffled, but said nothing.

“You are, aren't you?” asked Bill. “Don't cry, old girl. I'm here now.”

“Are you?”

“What do you mean? Of course I'm here.”

“But are you really here?”

“Of course I'm really here, my dear.”

“But Terry … I … I told Terry …”

“The preacher man?”

“Yes, Terry the preacher.”

“You told him about talking to me?”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn't have done that, old girl.”

“Why?” asked Betty.

“Because he won't be able to hear me,” said Bill. “And he won't believe you.”

“It's a shame.”

“What?”

“A man of God who doesn't believe in miracles.”

“Betty, it isn't just that preacher. No one is gonna believe you, dear.”

“I guess you're right.”

“Did you tell anyone else?”

“Kelly knows.”

“Our Kelly?” asked Bill.

“Yeah.”

“And what does she say?”

“She thinks I'm a crazy old nut. She thinks I need to be locked away in a nursing home.”

“She said that?” asked Bill, irritation in his voice.

“No, she didn't come right out and say it, but I know her. That's what's coming next.”

Bill said, “No girl of mine is ever gonna be locked away in one of those places. Not if I have anything to do with it.”

Betty didn't understand. “What do you mean?”

“I can help you.”

“How?”

“Do as I say, old girl.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“Unplug the radio.”

“Unplug the radio?”

“Yes.”

“But how will I talk to you?” Betty asked.

“Don't worry about it. We'll still be able to talk.”

“How?”

“I don't know how it works, but we will. That's all I know.”

“Okay.”

Betty stood up, switched on the lamp next to the bed, and walked over to the radio. She unplugged it.

“You still there, Bill?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, now what?” asked Betty.

“Wrap the cord around the radio and carry it out into the garage.”

“Into the garage?”

“Just do it, my dear.”

Betty wrapped up the cord and carried the radio through the dark house, through the kitchen, and out into the hot garage.

“Now what, Bill?”

“Get into the car and sit the radio down in the passenger's seat.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure,” Bill said. “I'm here now, and everything's gonna be okay.”

Betty sobbed again. “You promise?”

“I promise, old girl.”

“Okay.”

Betty climbed into the old car and sat the radio in the passenger's seat.

She asked, “Now what?”

“Close the door.”

She pulled the car door closed.

“Now start the car and roll down the windows,” said Bill.

“Start the car?” Betty asked. “Bill, it's the middle of the night.”

“I know what time it is.”

Betty looked at the keys dangling from the ignition. “Start the car?”

“Right.”

Betty turned the key and started the car. The radio came on, country music spilling out, and she switched it off.

“Roll down the windows,” said Bill.

She looked at the radio, unsure.

“You trust me, don't you?”

“Of course I trust you,” said Betty.

She rolled down the electric windows.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Recline your seat.”

“What for?”

“We're just gonna sit here and talk while the car runs.”

Betty thought about it for a moment. “Are you saying what I think you're saying, Bill?”

“I miss you, my dear,” he said. “We all miss you.”

Betty reclined the seat and laid back, her eyelids feeling heavy.

“What do you want to talk about?” she asked.

“You just close your eyes, pretty girl,” Bill said. “I'll sing you to sleep, like I did when we first married.”

She looked at the radio with momentary unease. She thought about what Bill was asking, and finally gave in. She laid her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

Bill started to sing her a lullaby.

She clenched her eyes shut and listened.

And she went to sleep to the sound of her husband's soothing voice.

THE DINNER GUESTS

It was just after two in the morning when the idea first came to Troy. To his knowledge, he had never had a craving for something he'd never actually tasted before, but now he did. He was curled up on the leather sectional, inhaling plumes of smoke through his bong—the fancy red one he'd gotten during Spring Break that one year when he had hooked up with that Puerto Rican girl who liked it in the ass—and watching Plan 9 from Outer Space. This is when the craving struck.“What would human flesh taste like?” Maybe it was the weed, maybe it was just the relaxed state of mind he was in, but the thought didn't seem the least bit gross to him.

He wondered if human flesh would taste salty. He figured it probably would, basing this on his once or twice licking his own arm as a dumbass kid. He remembered that tasting salty.

Troy supposed these thoughts were coming to him as a result of a recent conversation he'd had with his best friend Chunk. In that discussion, Chunk had talked about all the different kinds of meat that taste like chicken: frog legs, snake, alligator, bear. “They all taste like chicken.”

To this Troy had asked, “Then why not just eat chicken?”

Chunk didn't have a good response for this, but Troy supposed it was the thrill of eating something exotic. Well, he thought, human flesh was pretty fucking exotic. Almost no one ate that—at least not in Tulsa, where Troy lived. And if they did consume human flesh, no one was really going around bragging about it. After all, no one would understand such a thing and, on top of that, he was pretty sure it was illegal.

So yeah, he thought, what would human flesh taste like? Would it be salty? How would one go about eating it? Would you slice it thinly and eat it on Ritz crackers with little quarters of pepperjack cheese? Or would you put it on Wonder Bread and make a grilled flesh-and-cheese sandwich? All of this begged the question of what condiments might taste best with human flesh. He didn't know exactly why, but Troy had a suspicion that deli mustard might be the way to go.

But what if you put strands of human flesh in the trusty old Foreman Grill? That could be good, especially if you seasoned it right. Maybe a little bit of seasoning salt, a few drops of Louisiana hot sauce…

Troy licked his lips, finding he had a real desire for human flesh. It occurred to him that this was strange—not because he would be eating a person, but because he generally didn't like to try new foods. But flesh sounded really good to him.

Troy got up and grabbed his socks. Formerly white, they had turned pink when he'd thrown them in the wash with a red towel. He held the socks up to his nose and sniffed them to make sure they weren't too odorous to wear. After all, he'd been wearing them for a few days now. He figured he could get another day or so out of them, so he pulled them on his feet. He then put on his raggedy old sneakers.

It was time to go hunting so he could satisfy this crazy craving. When he stepped outside his front door, he was surprised to discover that it was still warm at this ungodly hour. Then he realized he hadn't left his house at all the previous day. Instead, he had passed the time playing video games, watching TV, and smoking pot. Well, there were worse ways to spend a day, he thought.

So, where would he find a person he could eat at this time of night? And if he did find someone, he then had to get them back to his house, so he couldn't really venture too far. He walked a few blocks in the darkness, but encountered no one. Finally, he opted to just return home. He was really in the mood to eat someone, but this was turning into a big pain in the ass. It was just too much effort. He would have to wait until the following day to capture someone and drag them home. It was at this moment that he wondered how Jeffrey Dahmer had managed this. Hmmm, he thought. He would have to do a Google search and see what he could find out.

When he got home, he found Chunk inside the house, eating the last of his Chocolate Brownie Fudge ice cream with a plastic fork and sitting there watching Plan 9.

“Dammit, Chunk,” he said. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Chunk looked at him dully. “I'm eating ice cream.” He thought for a moment and then added, “It's pretty good, too.”

Annoyed, Troy said, “I know it's good. I'm the one who bought it.”

Chunk nodded. “So, what's going on?”

Troy looked at him. “It annoys me when you just come into my house without knocking.”

“How do you know I didn't knock?” asked Chunk. “Maybe I did. You weren't here.”

Fucking Chunk. He was right, but still … fucking Chunk.

Troy plunked himself down in the old Lazy Boy and stared blankly at the TV as a thought came to him—what if he just ate Chunk? That could work. Doing this would accomplish two things simultaneously: he wouldn't have to put up with Chunk's stupid shenanigans anymore, and he'd have a person he could eat right here in his living room, making the whole process a lot easier. It seemed like a pretty logical solution.

But the question was, did he really want to eat Chunk? Chunk didn't bathe properly. Troy wasn't sure he would taste all that good. But hell, he thought, animals don't bathe either and we still eat them. Maybe Chunk would taste okay once he washed the meat under the faucet. And if the meat was gamey, he could just smother it in steak sauce and the problem would be solved.

And it would really cut down on the cost of groceries. Troy didn't eat much—mostly microwave burritos and PB&Js, but even that cost money. Troy could now see no real reason why he shouldn't kill Chunk and eat him as leftovers for the next week or so. Sure, Chunk was a big dude, but Troy had a deep freeze where he could store the meat. Right now it was filled with old, long-forgotten packages of deer meat he'd been given years before, which was now covered with a thick layer of ice. But that stuff could be disposed of easily enough.

So now came the million dollar question: how would he do it? He didn't like the word “murder”, so he preferred to think of it as “taking care of” Chunk. But how should he go about it? Troy had never killed a person before, so this was a foreign concept to him. He'd never intentionally killed an animal before. One time he accidentally ran over someone's Labrador Retriever, but that had been a mistake and he'd felt like shit. There had been no malice there.

Malice, he thought. Was there malice in his wanting to murder Chunk? He turned this over in his mind for a moment and then decided there was not. After all, it wasn't like he hated the guy or something—he just wanted to eat him. Who could fault a guy for that?

But he needed to figure out a way to do it without making a big mess. And then a method came to him.

He stood up, causing Chunk to look at him.

“Chunk, could you do me a favor and come with me to the kitchen for a moment?”

Chunk didn't hesitate. “Sure thing, boss.”

Troy made his way through the dirty-clothes-strewn living room and into the kitchen, switching on the light when he got there.

Chunk followed closely behind. “What do you need me to do?” he asked.

Troy motioned towards the sink. “I need you to put your head down over the sink.” Most people, having any sort of intelligence whatsoever, would ask why Troy needed them to do this at three in the morning. But not Chunk. He just did as he'd been instructed, never once stopping to consider the reasoning behind the request.

“Now what?” asked Chunk, his head down over the sink.

Troy was rifling through the drawers beside the sink, looking for his ball peen hammer. Coming across a steel meat hammer, he considered using it. But no, he wanted the ball peen hammer. That really would be best. So he continued looking.

“What you lookin' for?”

“I'm trying to find my hammer,” said Troy, still searching.

“What kind of hammer?”

“The ball peen hammer.”

“Oh,” said Chunk dully. He thought for a moment and said, “Hammer time,” laughing at his own joke.

“Yes,” Troy said noncommittally. When he came to the third drawer, he finally located the hammer. “Aha!” he said, pulling it out.

Chunk was grinning like an idiot, still feeling pleased about the unfunny joke he'd made. “What now?”

Troy turned to face him, the hammer down at his side. “Hammer time,” he said. He then mustered all the strength he had and brought the hammer swooping up and then down on Chunk's rotund head. When the hammer struck the skull, it made a sickening thunk sound. Chunk immediately stood upright and started thrashing around.