Terror in the Shadows Vol 5 Read online

  Terror in the Shadows

  Volume 5

  Written by Ron Ripley, Sara Clancy, David Longhorn, Sharon M. White, Julia Grace, Arwa Hezzah, Anna Sinjin and A. I. Nasser

  Copyright © 2019 by ScareStreet.com

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  See you in the shadows,

  Team Scare Street

  Table of Contents

  Beneath the Old Oak Tree By Ron Ripley

  Tag; You’re It By Sara Clancy

  Just One Glimpse By Julia Grace

  The Sound of Bone By David Longhorn

  Sherrell’s Triumph By Sharon M. White

  Night Crawler By Arwa Hezzah

  What Goes Around, Comes Around By A. I. Nasser

  Fairy Tales By Anna Sinjin

  On the Other Side By Julia Grace

  Siren Call By Arwa Hezzah

  The King Arrives By Ron Ripley

  She Brought the Monsters By Julia Grace

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  Beneath the Old Oak Tree

  By Ron Ripley

  When Doris, Annie’s mother, finally succumbed to cancer, Annie had raced home to see that the woman was buried, and that her estate was settled.

  Just as Dan thought she would.

  He sat outside on the bench beside the back door, smoking a cigarette and looking at his bruised and bloody knuckles. Annie lay on the ground in front of him, her face unrecognizable and most of her teeth inside on the kitchen floor.

  All except one of her canines.

  Dan had dug one of those out of his left hand. That tooth was in his pocket.

  Have to get rid of that later, he told himself. Hate to have that damned thing hang me.

  “You always were a busy-body,” he said to Annie’s prostrate form. He tapped the head off his cigarette, the soft, northerly wind carrying it a few feet away. One of the chickens in the yard squawked.

  “Shut up,” he told the bird, replacing the cigarette’s butt between his lips.

  The chickens continued to scratch for their dinner, picking bugs and seeds out of the grass. The birds would be going back into the henhouse soon enough. Over the horizon, the sun was finishing its descent, and soon, Dan would be alone.

  “Gonna be a long night because of you,” he told Annie. “All you had to do was plant your mother, get your check, and take off. Nobody wanted you here. I sure as hell didn’t. Always stepped in when you shouldn’t have. Your mother knew she needed correcting. Never put a hand on you, girl. Never. Probably should have. You wouldn’t be dead right now. Well, I take that on myself, so I do.”

  Dan finished the cigarette, stubbed it out on the arm of the bench, and dropped the butt into the coffee can by his foot.

  Better dig that grave before I get comfortable, he thought.

  Standing up, Dan stretched, took hold of the shovel with one hand and a fistful of Annie’s long, blonde hair with the other.

  “Damn, girl,” he muttered, dragging her along the ground, face down. “You went and got heavy. What you weighing now, one-fifty? One-sixty?”

  Dan considered taking an ax to her first, then shook his head.

  Too much work, he thought. Plus, she said she was on vacation for two weeks. Ain’t nobody gonna miss her for a while. By then, I’ll have figured something out. But she sure as hell can’t just hang around outside. My luck, the coyotes will get to her and drag bits and pieces of her seven ways to Sunday.

  By the time he reached the graveyard, Dan was sweating despite the cooler evening air.

  The graveyard was nothing more than a collection of stones marking the various pets Doris had made Dan bury for her over the years.

  Four damned dogs and who knows how many damn cats, he thought. But, it’s as good as a place as any for now.

  Dan paused and caught his breath, staring up at the tall, wide oak tree whose limbs spread out over the dead animals. Annie had played in the tree, and at one point, before being a teenager had sapped all innocence and beauty out of the girl, Dan had pushed her on the tire swing he had put up for her.

  “Guess this will do just fine, won’t it?” he said, smiling down at the young woman’s corpse. The smile faded, though, as he remembered his task. “But damn it, girl, I hate diggin’ graves. Back breakin’ work that don’t do nothin’ for nobody.”

  With that said, Dan took the shovel with both hands and set to digging.

  When he was finished, he counted his blessings that it was a full moon. The light had been more than enough for him to get the grave dug.

  He stuck the shovel’s head into the dirt, shook out a fresh cigarette, and lit it, glancing at Annie’s body.

  “Stupid,” he said, gesturing with the cigarette. “Just stupid. And what the hell did you want her damned mirror for? I told you, you couldn’t have it. I bought the damned thing for her. Not you. Stupid, girl. I swear, just downright stupid.”

  Dan walked to the body, and using his foot, flipped her over onto her back. A small cough escaped her lips and caused him to jump back in surprise.

  “You alive?” he asked, more out of shock than annoyance.

  When she didn’t answer, Dan leaned closer and stared at the blood on her swollen lips.

  Small bubbles formed and popped.

  Dan straightened up and considered what to do.

  Should finish her off, he thought mildly. But damn it, it ain’t the heat of the moment anymore. Got no stomach for it right now.

  He lifted his tee shirt, scratched his stomach, then nodded to himself.

  She can’t live, that’s for sure, he acknowledged. She’ll be dead soon enough.

  Dan used his foot to flip her over again, rolling her steadily until she flopped the three feet into the grave. When she didn’t move or make a sound, he relaxed slightly.

  He hated the girl, but didn’t want to bury her alive if he could help it.

  Feeling better about the situation, Dan picked up the shovel and started the long, slow process of filling the grave.

  Shovelfuls of dirt slammed into Annie’s body, hiding her pale flesh and the black mourning dress she wore. Soon, there was nothing left of her to see, and before midnight arrived, the grave was filled in.

  Dan tapped the dirt down and sighed.

  He put the shovel on his shoulder and walked back to the house. In silence, he propped the shovel against the wall and climbed the stairs, pausing to kick the dirt out of the soles of his boots before he went into the kitchen. He flicked on the overhead light and shook his head.

  His anger came back for a moment as he looked at the mess before him.

  Frustrated with himself, Dan thought, That’s why I’ve got to clean the damned place up, to begin with. Can’t control my damned temper.

  Muttering to himself, he stepped around as much of the blood splatter and teeth as he could. He reached the refrigerator, took out a Coors Light, popped the can’s tab, and took a long, deep drink. Wip
ing his mouth with the back of his hand, Dan belched, finished the beer, and pulled a second can out.

  “Okay,” he said, opening the second can. “Let’s get ‘er done.”

  Cleaning the kitchen was an easier, happier process than digging the grave had been.

  At one thirty, Dan stopped and took a look around.

  The kitchen wouldn’t pass a forensic test, but it would pass a quick once over.

  I’ll clean it again tomorrow, he thought. Then I’ll make it dirty as hell over the next couple days. Ain’t nothin’ more suspicious than a single man with a clean kitchen. Especially a widower.

  From the cabinet over the refrigerator, Dan grabbed a bag of sour cream and onion chips, and from the refrigerator itself, he took a full six-pack of beer. He carried both items into the television room, kicked off his boots, and dropped heavily into his recliner. The old chair squealed and complained as he adjusted his weight before extending the leg rest.

  Dan tore open the bag and stuffed a handful of chips in his mouth, chewing noisily as he opened a fresh beer. He picked up the remote control a moment later and turned the television on.

  An old western was playing, and Dan grinned.

  He watched for almost an hour before his eyelids drooped and he yawned. In his hands, he held the empty bag of chips, and was halfway through the six-pack. He considered opening the fourth can, but he set that thought aside. There was always the chance he could spill the beer on himself, and he had done enough cleaning for the night.

  He dropped the bag to the floor and then placed the remnants of the six-pack beside it. He turned out the light by his chair, but left the television on. It was a ritual he had enjoyed for the past five years, ever since Doris had gotten sick.

  Dan yawned again, wider than the first time, and lowered his left hand to the floor. He felt around for his blanket, the worn fabric soft and malleable in his hand. Smiling, he pulled it up, snapped it out over himself, and closed his eyes. He half-listened to the television as another western started. Vaguely, Dan heard something about Tombstone and Doc Holiday, but nothing else after that.

  He was aware that the television was playing, but he was focused on falling asleep.

  The screaming of a chicken jerked him out of sleep, his heart thundering as he sat up.

  A commercial for erectile dysfunction was on, the announcer proudly proclaiming the miraculous abilities of some sort of organic supplement.

  The bird screamed again, and Dan got out of his chair.

  Muttering and swearing under his breath, he went to the fireplace and took the shotgun down from its spot above it. From the mantle, he grabbed a box of shells and stuffed them into his back pocket. Barefoot, he padded into the kitchen, his feet squeaking on the clean floor.

  Pulling open the backdoor, Dan stared out into the yard. Off to the right, he saw the hen house, but there was no sign of a commotion. No sounds greeted him.

  Damn it, he thought angrily. The lack of noise meant that whatever had gotten into the henhouse had gotten out. And with one of the birds more than likely.

  Dan shook his head, and as he did so, movement caught his attention.

  He jerked around.

  A soft wind rustled the branches of the oak tree and caused the leaves to whisper against one another.

  Beneath the boughs were the stones of the graveyard and the freshly turned and patted down earth of Annie’s grave.

  No, he thought, not all of it’s tapped down.

  Something had been at it.

  “Aw, hell,” Dan grumbled.

  He stepped out of the kitchen and onto the old granite steps, the stone cold beneath his bare feet. A moment later he was in the grass, and the individual blades were cool. Dan moved steadily toward Annie’s grave, his eyes scanning left and right, searching for a sign of the animal that might have ruined his work.

  When Dan reached the graveyard, he stopped beside his work and saw that, while her resting place had been disturbed, it was still intact, only a little bit of the earth was scratched away. Nothing more.

  Probably why it went after the hens, Dan thought. Guess I can’t be too mad.

  Sighing, Dan yawned, turned his back to the oak tree, and walked back the way he had come. By the time he reached the house, he was stumbling from lack of sleep. He stifled another yawn, climbed the stairs, and closed the door, locking it behind him.

  He stepped to the sink, poured himself a glass of water, and drank it.

  Returning to his recliner, he set the shotgun on the floor beside the chair and covered himself again with the blanket. The television was still on, and an advertisement for lawsuits against faulty hernia mesh implants was playing.

  Stupid, Dan thought, yawning. Everybody’s stupid.

  He closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep.

  But as the commercial ended, he heard something outside.

  It was a scratching sound coming from the backdoor.

  Bet it’s a raccoon, Dan thought. Smells all the blood.

  He ignored the noise and tried to focus on the next commercial. Dan had identified a hair restoration product when the scratching interrupted his thoughts again.

  It was louder.

  Rougher.

  Dan frowned, opened his eyes and heard a low whine.

  The scratching came again.

  Dan’s hairs stood on end at the next whine.

  He recognized it.

  Bobby, Dan thought, and instantly rejected the name; the idea of it.

  Bobby was dead and had been for twenty-three years.

  He had been a border collie mix, and the first dog Dan had buried for Doris.

  Dan listened again, but all he heard was the television.

  He hesitated, then he picked up the remote and thumbed the television off.

  Silence filled the room and devoured the sense of reality Dan had sat down with.

  I’m tired. That’s all, Dan thought.

  But he didn’t believe it. Not really.

  Getting out of the chair, he picked up the shotgun and gripped it with sweat-damp hands. His heart thudded against his chest and blood pumped loudly in his ears. He walked quietly through the television room, into the kitchen, and placed his ear against the backdoor.

  Nothing.

  He held it there a moment longer, his heartbeat slowing.

  An animal whined, and Dan shouted, jumping back and almost pulling the trigger and blowing a hole in the wall.

  Furious at himself for being afraid, Dan tore the door open, leveling the shotgun at the stairs, prepared to kill whatever it was.

  Nothing was there.

  Nothing was anywhere.

  His breath rushed in and out of his mouth as he leaned outside, glancing in every direction, seeking any sign of a creature.

  The wind picked up, and the whining sound came forth again, this time from the oak tree.

  Dan snapped the weapon up, but there was nothing in or under the tree.

  “It’s only the wind,” he murmured, laughing at himself. “That’s it.”

  He lowered the shotgun, took hold of the doorknob to close the door, and stopped.

  The bottom panels of the door were scratched.

  Long, fresh scrapes in the dull green paint. Flecks of the same were on the threshold and the granite steps.

  Dan shook his head, slammed the door, and locked it.

  A long, low howl rose up from the back yard, and Dan shuddered.

  He knew the sound, recognized it. It was far more identifiable than the whine.

  Why wouldn’t it be? he thought numbly.

  That howl was Rex’s. The only one of Doris’ dogs that Dan had cared for.

  Instead of opening the door, Dan stepped to the kitchen window and looked out over the backyard to the tree.

  A curious, skeletal shape sat beneath it, close to Annie’s grave.

  The shape was that of a dog, and it bore the sleek, deadly beauty that had been Rex. Rex was a German shepherd, purebred, and with all t
he problems of the breed.

  But he had been a damned fine dog, and when he wasn’t with Dan…

  “He was with Annie,” Dan whispered.

  All three of the dogs had been. Dan had fed them and let them out to run around the property, but the dogs had loved the women.

  They loved Annie.

  Dan looked back out the window, but what had once been Rex was gone.

  “Too much beer,” Dan said. The statement was weak, though, and he knew it. Then he shook his head. “Dogs can’t be ghosts, can they?”

  He believed in ghosts, knew how to keep them at bay and pacify them if need be. But he had never known of an animal ghost.

  “What do I do if there are?” Dan said, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

  Something thudded against the front door and caused him to yell out in surprise.

  Gripping the shotgun, he ran for the front door.

  Again, and again it shook in its frame, the entire house seeming to rattle as he raced for the entrance. Without hesitating, Dan tore the door open, and without looking, fired a shot.

  The buckshot ripped through the air and embedded itself in the old farmer’s porch.

  Dan hadn’t struck anything.

  Scratches were on the door, and Dan smelled a faint odor of skunk.

  “Elsa,” he said.

  She was the last of the three dogs. A beagle mix who was, as he had been fond of telling Doris and Annie, dumber than a bag of rocks.

  Elsa died after being sprayed by a skunk. Trying to get away from the scent, she had run into the road and the tires of a logging truck. The dog had stunk of skunk even as Dan had dug her grave.

  What do I do? Dan thought, slamming the door closed. The women are dead. I can’t bring ‘em back. What the hell?

  He shook his head.

  Go into the city in the morning. Find one of the old Asian ladies down in Chinatown, he thought. They’ll know what to do. Always have before.

  Dan had gone to see them in the past, mostly about spells for farming and keeping the land fertile. Nothing as dark as getting rid of dead dogs.

  Just need to sleep, Dan thought. Wonder if they’ll let me do that, at least.