Everyone likes free stuff, right?
How about one of the stories from my new collection,
The Misunderstood and Other Misfit Horrors?
This story has been published in numerous magazines and anthologies over the years. It also forms the basis for a novel that I'm writing now that will incidentally be Book 2 of The Halo Group Series (Book 1 is
The Tears of Nero)
So without further ado, here's Beware the Death Angel! Happy reading!
Beware
The Death Angel
Heaps of dead leaves lined the streets of Smith’s Junction.
Scarecrows, crudely fashioned out of broomsticks and old clothing,
stood watch over the neighborhood. Fake spider-webbing clung to the
eaves of each house like a fine layer of graveyard mist. White
garbage bags filled with confetti had been made 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. There was no
denying that this was October country.
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.
Weird.
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 in black bags. 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 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, remember?”
“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, he turned the Buick
around and headed to the market. Given that it was Halloween, he
hoped the store would be deserted so he could make his purchase and
run. But the parking lot was packed with people.
Disgusted after several minutes of circling the parking lot in search
of a spot, Wallace had to park on the other side of the street and
walk over to the store. He recognized a few of the faces inside, but
he didn’t know anybody’s name. They all stared at him with
curiosity then turned their attentions back to the meat counter where
the majority of the customers were gathered. Wallace snarled at the
hicks. He 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. Strangely enough,
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 suffice. 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 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 about 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
inbreds 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 road 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 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, 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.”
“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 Fairpointe 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.
Martha didn’t say much during their meal. The doorbell didn’t
ring either despite 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.
“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
chains.”
“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.”
“I wonder how many people won’t be around to see morning,”
Martha said. Wallace suddenly couldn’t help himself. She was being
foolish, and he was tired of it. One way or another, he was going to
knock this lunacy out of her head.
“I don’t want to hear another word about this,” he shouted,
holding Martha at arm’s length.
“Then go upstairs,” she told him firmly.
And that was it. Wallace had had enough. He grabbed her firmly by the
wrist. “Let’s go,” he growled. “We’re going to go outside
and prove to you that there isn’t anything to be afraid of.”
“No,” Martha screamed, frantic.
But Wallace was stronger. Because Martha’s houseshoes gave her very
little traction on the linoleum, she slid across the floor. Wallace
didn’t stop pulling.
“Let’s go and see the Death Angel,” he said. “This should
prove once and for all just how paranoid and backwoods this town is.”
Martha, however, had other ideas. She managed to grab one of the
fireplace implements as Wallace dragged her toward the door. Before
he could raise a hand to block her attack, Martha clubbed him in the
back of the head. Wallace went down hard, immediately releasing his
grip on his wife.
At that moment, she knew that she had to make a decision. And
quickly. The Death Angel would be making his way down the street,
taking the offerings from those who left one and taking the lives of
those who hadn’t. There was no meat to be found in their house. But
there was one alternative. It was her only chance at survival. Martha
wasn’t quite ready to die yet.
* * *
Wallace opened his eyes slowly and was unsure of where he was at
first. It was dark, and he seemed to be stuck in some sort of hole.
But that wasn’t entirely right either as he realized that he was
sitting in his oversized toolbox. Martha had knocked him out and
somehow managed to drag him out here.
He could feel the rage building in him and struggled frantically to
free himself from the work box. She had thrown him out with the
belief that the Death Angel would take him instead of her, and it
infuriated him. One, because she had bought in to the whole nonsense.
Two, because it showed how selfish she really was.
Wallace stopped struggling when he heard Mrs. Olson from two houses
down sobbing uncontrollably.
“Please don’t take Charlie,” she pleaded. “He’s all I’ve
got. I put out a pot roast for you. Honest, I did. Someone must have
stolen it.”
And then the lamentations started afresh.
Wallace strained to see who she was talking to, but all he could see
was a dark furtive shape like smoke, a hazy black mist hovering
around the empty toy wagon. Then the smoke began to clear. A pair of
strong, translucent wings materialized from the smog. They were
attached to a muscular frame made of black leather. Strong legs,
powerful torso, arms that ended not in hands but in talons. A demon’s
face with a masochist’s smile. White fangs tinted red. Yellow eyes.
Two small spiraling horns ending in sharp points. A fallen angel in
every sense of the word. It looked like something out of Gustave
Dore’s depictions of Hell.
The Death Angel smiled at Wallace and headed in his direction.
“No,” he muttered to himself as he tried to free himself. It was
only as he struggled that he realized Martha had bound his hands and
feet with duct tape.
The Death Angel came closer, morphing into black fog that crept and
eddied along the ground. It was like watching a brewing thunderhead
form and churn.
“Martha,” Wallace screamed, hoping his wife would come to her
senses and help him. But Martha made no move to come out of the
house.
Wallace craned his neck to search for her and saw her worried face
staring back at him from one of the upstairs windows. She quickly
pulled the curtains shut, unwilling to watch what was about to happen
to her husband.
Thankfully, the Death Angel was methodical and stopped one house
down. Wallace tried to stand up and hop toward the house. But Martha
had been thorough with the way she bound him. He managed to wriggle
out of the truckbox only to fall flat on his face. The grass was wet
and moist against his cheek.
“Martha,” he screamed. But the light in the upstairs room went
off. Like a frightened turtle, Martha wasn’t sticking her head out
until she was certain the coast was clear.
Wallace managed to turn himself over and watched in horror as the
dark creature stuck its slanted head into what might have been a
feeding trough and began to eat the raw meat. For a moment or two
there was only the ripping of animal flesh and the smacking of black
lips.
Then Wallace saw The Death Angel lift its head and look at him once
again. He could tell by the way it bared its teeth that it was
smiling. It had probably been quite a while since it had gotten a
live offering.
He opened his mouth to scream when he heard something behind him. It
was Martha with a pair of scissors.
“Hurry,” Wallace implored, watching the beast as it stalked him.
Martha held up the scissors as the dark fog wrapped them up like a
thick blanket.
“I should have listened to you,” Wallace said, trembling. “I’m
sorry. Now cut me loose.”
“Oh, I didn’t come out here to cut you loose,” Martha said,
keeping her eyes focused on the obsidian figure striding toward them.
“I came here to make sure that it takes you instead of me.”
“What do you mean?” Wallace asked, horrified. “Let me go.”
“The Death Angel passes over the houses that offer it blood. So far
as I can tell there’s no blood on you. Yet...”
Wallace screamed as Martha buried the scissors into his thigh.
Immediately, crimson streams jettisoned into the air.
The Death Angel moved faster.
Wallace, seizing his only chance, lunged out at Martha with his bound
feet. The kick hit her in the center of the chest, pushing her toward
the beast. The Death Angel caught her and buried its teeth into her
throat. The scream was short-lived, becoming little more than a
watery gurgle.
Wallace cried out as he watched his wife fall to the ground. Most of
her throat was gone, and her eyes had the faraway look of a morphine
addict. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. But a split second
of panic had changed everything.
And still the Death Angel moved forward. Wallace trembled as it stood
before him, its mouth painted with Martha’s blood. He closed his
eyes, waiting for the moment when it ripped his head away from his
shoulders to get at the hot blood within. But that never happened.
Instead, it moved quietly on to the next house. Martha had been
sacrifice enough to save Wallace’s life, and he felt sick at the
thought of what he had done. He had given his own partner over to the
Death Angel, and he lived as a result. Yes, she had tied him up with
the intent of offering him to the beast. But her mind had been
clouded by fear, by the certainty that she was going to die if she
didn’t do something quickly. The worst thing about it was that she
hadn’t resorted to that immediately. She had wanted to put some
meat out like everyone else had done. Wallace had been the one to
squash that idea. Now his life had changed forever, and his wife was
gone.
So much had gone wrong. Emotions had flared, and bad decisions had
been made. Now there was nothing left to do but cope. Suddenly,
Wallace thought he understood why the Jacksons hadn’t moved away
yet. Maybe they realized what had taken their daughter and were
simply unwilling to let her death go unavenged.
Despite their differences and the throbbing ache in his thigh where
Martha had buried the scissors, Wallace had loved his wife and knew
that her reactions had been the direct result of her fear. It
saddened him to think that he could have prevented it all with a
simple pork chop or a pound of raw hamburger. Or by simply taking her
to the movies in the next town as she’d suggested.
Before he had been ready to leave town as quick as possible. Now he
wasn’t sure he would ever leave. If need be, he would stay as many
Halloweens as it took until he found the creature’s weakness. Then,
he would kill it.
He raked his wrists along the rough edge of the toolbox until the
duct tape frayed and eventually tore enough that he could free
himself. Then, after pulling the scissors out of his thigh,
staggering back to the house, and bandaging himself up, Wallace
pulled up a lawn chair and sat out on his porch, listening to the
wailing of families up and down the street who hadn’t heeded the
warnings. He cried right along with them until the sun came up. Then
he cried some more.
*******
If you enjoyed the story, check other the other tales in the collection.
