Guns Don't Kill People...My Uncle Does (A Varied Collection of Short-stories Geared For A Man) Read online

  Jack held his daughter. "It's going to be okay, Victoria. Remember how I told you once that there is a logical explanation for everything? Even though we can't see it, there's one for this, too. We just have to pretend we’re detectives and uncover it. Won’t that be fun?

  Victoria didn’t think so, and began howling again.

  Jack spoke to her in hushed, gentle tones. “Can you be brave for Daddy?"

  With her head on his shoulder, she nodded, exhausted.

  "Here, take this," said Katherine, as she administered chamomile tea to Victoria.

  A few minutes later, Victoria was sound asleep and Katherine and Jack tip-toed out of the room, leaving Ruckus curled against her leg and the candle to burn.

  Katherine studied Jack's face as they walked. "Would you mind telling me what that explanation is?"

  Jack only stared.

  That was a long night for Katherine, who kept checking Victoria, much to Ruckus's chagrin. When she met Jack downstairs to prepare breakfast the next morning, she looked pale.

  Jack slid his arms around her. "I hope you grab a nap today."

  Katherine smiled. "I'll be fine. I'd rather find out what did this."

  "I've been thinking about that."

  "And?"

  "And, I think I know what to do. There's a pastor up the road a ways that can come and bless the house. We'll bless the rooms, and that ought to do it."

  Katherine looked relieved. "How soon can he come?"

  #

  That evening, Jack showed Reverend Roger Wilkinson into their sitting room next to the fire. Katherine offered him tea, and they sat down together. After Jack filled him in, the Reverend looked pensive.

  "What is it?" said Jack.

  "Well, it does sound like more than a coincidence that the dog and the attack occurred on the same day. Problem is, both can be reasonably explained, which kind of shoots the poltergeist theory in the head." He sipped his tea.

  Jack shifted nervously on the couch. "But what if we've missed something?"

  "I'm listening."

  "What if this spirit is intelligent? What if this spirit, knew enough about us to know how we'd react once it began upsetting things?"

  "Like what?"

  Katherine spoke up. "Yesterday afternoon when the dog chased the children, one of them said the word 'rabbit,' and I swear… um, sorry father, but I can attest that as soon as the word was uttered, the dog turned so I couldn't get a better look."

  Jack continued. "And last night, as soon as we stepped out of the room, Victoria got attacked."

  "Okay, let's assume you're correct. If it's true, there should be a way to test it."

  "Okay, now I'm listening," said Jack.

  Before the Reverend could speak, the front door opened and closed, and the temperature dropped ten degrees. No one moved. A hissing started near the fireplace, and grew louder. Only the Reverend moved closer. "I hear whispers," he said to Jack.

  "I hear them, too."

  The whispers floated through the room like a gentle breeze, growing louder with each pass. Finally they stopped behind Katherine on the couch, and as they stared in its direction, a mist materialised.

  It was the Reverend who spoke. "Who are you?"

  Silence.

  "Who are you and what do you want?"

  The whispers turned into a whine, and the voice grew audible.

  "My name is Kate."

  The Reverend looked at Jack. "Was there anyone named Kate who used to live in your family?"

  "No, but I know a Kate now. She's a neighbor they've suspected of witchcraft, and she hates me."

  The spirit let out a high-pitched laugh. "I am not at liberty or of the disposition to lie to a man of God who asks in the manner you do. I am nothing but Old Kate Batts' witch, determined to torment Old Jack Stone out of his life."

  "Please!" said Katherine. "Don't hurt my family. You already hurt my little girl!"

  "Yes, little Munsy."

  "Who?"

  "Munsy. My pet name. She really is sweet. She let me scratch her eyes out," and it laughed again.

  Katherine lunged for the mist, but Jack held her back.

  The Reverend tried again. "Tell me what it is you want?"

  "I told you, I want Jack dead. Why is that so hard to understand?"

  The Reverend pulled Jack aside. "I've got an idea. Have you talked to your brother today?"

  Jack nodded.

  "What is he doing right now?"

  "He's in Kentucky on business, why?"

  "When is he due back here?"

  "It was supposed to be earlier tonight, but he didn't show."

  "Okay, I have an idea," said the Reverend. "Play along. Katherine? What happened to your brother-in-law? Didn't you say he was missing?"

  "Uh, yes, I did. I don't know where he is—he should've been here hours ago."

  The spirit spoke. "I'll go and see."

  The front door opened, closed, and fifteen seconds later, opened and closed again. "He's in Kentucky at his hotel. He got a late start and he'll be here in the morning."

  The group stood stunned.

  The Revered said, "Ain't no way it could've heard us."

  He spoke again. "Spirit? I will ask you once more, in the Holy name of Jesus Christ, tell me who you are and what you want?"

  This time the door opened and shut, but did not open again.

  "Hunh. I think we just hit a nerve," said the Reverend.

  That night, Victoria slept uninterrupted, and Katherine was relieved.

  #

  Two days later after the Reverend's visit, Katherine was churning butter on her front porch in the afternoon while the children played in the shade trees next to the house. Even the dog enjoyed the shade. Jack was out back working in the shed, so they were alone. Katherine whiled away her work by humming, and the churning went easily.

  Suddenly, she looked into the churn and a bloodied face appeared. A hand reached out to grab her. She screamed, grabbed a hot poker and shoved it into the hand. The face disappeared as quickly as it came.

  #

  Halfway across town, Kate Batts sat in her candle-lit kitchen near her cauldron, nursing her hand that sported a second degree burn.

  #

  After Jack returned from a supply trip to town, he met Katherine in the kitchen while she prepared dinner.

  "Maybe we'd better have the Reverend come out again for a blessin' prayer, just to be safe."

  Katherine nodded her approval.

  That night, the attacks resumed on Victoria, and this time were more brutal than the first. Each time Katherine got her calmed down and left the room, they started again—hair pulling, knocking her head around, scratching, and the hissing growing louder.

  The next afternoon the Reverend returned, armed with a Bible, anointing oil and cross. They prayed in each room, blessing it in the name of Christ, and quoted scriptures. Convinced there would be no more activity, he said his good-byes.

  Months stretched into years, and the attacks on "Munsey" only worsened. The spirit became brave, too, pestering people in the community. Many times Kate Batts was heard swearing at Jack publicly, but never once did she threaten his life.

  The ultimate act of hatred came one night as Jack Stone lie sick of an affliction that caused his mouth and tongue to swell. Having slipped into a coma the day before, the doctor administered a liquid from a vial periodically, and placed it in the cupboard.

  On the morning of December 20, 1820, Jack Stone breathed his last breath of 70 years. When the vial was inspected after his death, however, the liquid found proved to be a very different substance than what the doctor administered.

  "This smells funny," said the doctor while inspecting the vial. He leaned down to Jack's dead body, and noticed the same smell around his lips. "I've never seen or smelled such a liquid before, and I know not from where this came."

  One of Jack's eldest sons took the vial, and administered a few drops to the family cat. It was dead before it hit the
floor.

  Just as the doctor claimed the vial to take back for testing, the spirit Kate laughed, and jerked the vial from his hand, landing it directly into the fireplace. The vial exploded into a bright, blue flame, then a fireball shot up the chimney. The voice was last heard saying, "I'll return to visit you in the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and thirty-five. My work is done here for now." Then she disappeared.

  #

  In June, 1935, Robert and Marcia Farnsworth moved the last bit of furniture into their new farmhouse in the March community. Having migrated from North Carolina for new jobs, the couple was hopeful in their new beginning.

  "Yep," said Robert. "I have a feeling we're going to be happy here for a long, long time."

  As the couple settled in for the evening in front of the roaring fire, they heard a scratching at the door… .

  Blood Alley

  by

  Carla René

  Early morning. I'm alone since Hurstlea moved locations, and the dust quickly builds up overnight. I saw it as I got ready. I could feel my blood pressure rise, but I had no time. My hunger required sating. My appearance was impeccable; balmed hair, shirt starched to white perfection, and cufflinks shimmering. I tied my Irish Setter and patted his head. He wagged at me, and my heart melted with compassion. I was ready. I walked down to my basement workshop, where I waited… . —Journal entry of John George Haigh, Jr.

  18 February, 1949

  Worthing Hospital

  Lyndhurst Road, Worthing (West Sussex)

  "Well, Olive, your test results show a gallstone about the size of a grape."

  "Oh, my," said Olive Durand-Deacon. "Is there anything you can do?"

  "I'm afraid not. It's situated in such a way that we can't remove it, and a stone this size won't dissolve, so we just have to wait for you to pass it. Might be pretty painful. We can give you something for the discomfort, but it could take a few weeks to expel it. Make an appointment with my nurse on the way out for a re-check."

  "At least I know why I've had such horrible pains in my side all these years. I'm 69-years old, and have never had such pain. I wrote it off as indigestion. Thank you, doctor."

  While waiting for her cab, she called her son. He would be giving her a ride home after her meeting.

  Mrs. Deacon was a benefactor of Worthing Hospital, and a respected philanthropist. She also used her money to fund her imaginative schemes, which had served lately to deplete most of her discretionary income. Today she would meet with a contractor and chemist, all rolled into one. John Haigh had promised he could manufacture the artificial fingernails she wanted to market. They'd never met, but she'd heard through close friends many things about his wonderful charm, and this intrigued her into calling Haigh. It was imperative that she meet with him soon—her finances depended on it.

  As she exited the taxi, a pain struck her, causing her to grab her side, and alarm the cabbie.

  "You awright mish?"

  "Yes. Just a little pain. Would you lend me your arm to steady myself?"

  The cab driver led her to the door where the pain subsided. She tipped him, he drove her to her designated location, and she knocked on the door. Her anxiety soared as she heard approaching footsteps.

  18 February, 1949

  Hurstlea Products Warehouse

  Leopold Road, Crawley (Sussex)

  John George Haigh heard the car door slam. His heart pounded in his throat like an irregular bass drum. He looked at his watch. "Right on time," he said. He had lured Mrs. Duran-Deacon to his warehouse under the guise of manufacturing the artificial fingernails, but in reality, he created a fantastic ruse to cheat her. He'd been just weeks away from ruin and was desperate for a fresh influx. He could feel his palms sweating through his gloves. "Get a grip. You've done this before. This'll be no different. Remember, you can't get caught," he said to himself.

  Always the gentleman, he opened the door and greeted the widow with a warm handshake.

  She studied him and responded at once. "I wasn't aware that men still wore gloves. I like that. I think it's the mark of a gentleman."

  This pleased him. "Thank you for noticing. Do come in." His manner was congenial—he was a good actor.

  "I hope I'm not late. I've just come from my doctor, and I'm afraid I'm a bit under the weather."

  She's weak. This'll be better than I'd hoped, he thought. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable? Do they know the ailment?"

  "Yes. It seems I have a gallstone. Of all things! Had it for many years, and today they found it."

  Gallstone? How laughable. Maybe she'll fall over dead. "How awful. I do hope they'll remove it soon. Those things can be troublesome." He moved with ease and his chit-chat relaxed her forthwith. He showed her to a chair, and as she sat down, he stared at the huge vein in her neck. His heart flipped.

  "Actually, no. It's apparently inoperable, and they don't dissolve with medications."

  He brought over a plate of sandwiches and tea, still appearing to listen. "I'm sorry to hear that. Let me know if you need anything."

  He saw she was impressed with his attentiveness, and his arrogance grew as his insides unclenched.

  "Thank you Mr. Haigh." She looked around. "I don't think I've ever seen a workshop so clean. Are you unnaturally attached to your mother?"

  He chuckled. This would be too easy. "Your wit increases your beauty." He'd say anything to get the old bat to turn over her money. He noticed her looking at the industrial rubber apron hanging near the chair. "Oh, that," he said. "I do a lot of restructuring work. Nothing interesting."

  She nodded and took a sip of the tea.

  She finished her drink, and as she placed the china teacup back on the table, it slipped through her fingers while she attempted to place it back on the tray. She saw it in slow motion, the cup and saucer smashing into little pieces, which made the hackles on Haigh's neck stand straight.

  #

  It was raining. He didn't understand why his mother had gone into town and left him alone with his father. Sometimes, his father scared him.

  From the other room, his father heard the crash.

  Haigh's gut flew up into his chest.

  "What did you just do?" said John Haigh, Sr. from the other room.

  "I dropped my cup, daddy, but I was done with my water." He strained at the silence, hoping that was the end of it.

  No such luck. Mr. Haigh moved with swiftness to his son's side and grabbed his left ear, bending it backward until John screamed.

  "You know the rules." While holding onto the ear, he took his belt off with the other hand, doubled it, and proceeded to put blisters on the back of John's neck. "Now, what do we not do, son?"

  With blood dripping down his shirt, Haigh began the expected rhetoric. "We don't grieve the Lord daddy. It angers him and that's worse than dying a poor man."

  His father released his grip and smoothed Haigh's hair. "That's right, son. You've learned well. I'm proud of you."

  Haigh stared at his shoes, pretending to be invisible.

  "Here." His father handed him a dustpan. "Clean this up before your mother gets home."

  Haigh dropped to a knee, stifled a cry, and gently scooped the broken cup into the pan, placing it into the garbage.

  Haigh's father carried the trash bag to the outside can, returned, and sat down with his newspaper. "There. We don't have to tell your mother, do we?" He winked.

  Haigh could only nod. He went to the bathroom and cleaned the blood from his shirt. His mother had gotten used to hearing from both men that her son had fallen yet again. She never questioned it. Every time his father took another fit, as Haigh called them, he ended up bleeding. And it was always when his mother wasn't home… .

  #

  "Mr. Haigh? Are you unwell?"

  Haigh had broken out in a cold sweat. He snatched his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. "I'm fine, Mrs. Deacon," he assured her. "It's a little warm in here, wouldn't you agree? Now, are you read
y to look at my proposal?"

  I saw before me a forest of crucifixes which gradually turned into trees. At first there appeared to be dew, or rain, dripping from the branches. I approached the forest, I realized it was blood dripping from every branch when suddenly the whole forest began to writhe, and the trees, stark and erect, oozed blood. A man carrying a shining silver cup went to each tree catching the blood. When the cup was full he approached me.

  "Drink," he said.

  I was unable to move.

  I always awoke from this dream before ever drinking the blood. But not today. —Journal entry of John George Haigh, Jr.

  After laying out his plan to manufacture the fingernails, Mrs. Durand-Deacon questioned his safety figures.

  "I'm not sure I agree with this."

  "I've been in this business for over twenty years," he lied. "I'll leave finances to you, you leave production to me. Agreed?"

  "Please, don't misunderstand me, Mr. Haigh. I think this is brilliant, and your interest heartens me. I'm just not sure: is this figure correct? It seems high for an EPA factor."

  "With all due respect, why would I make this up?" He heard his heartbeat in his ears. Was this cow backing out? Did she know what awaited her?

  "Isn't it obvious? To secure my funding, then pull out!"

  "Is this about trust?"

  "Yes, I suppose it is," she said. "I always do research before investing. I refuse to back anything that's not safe.”

  How dare she doubt him! He began pacing the shop. Something was wrong. He acted quickly. "Look. I appreciate your interest in Hurstlea. However, we do have a lot of projects scheduled for the coming months. I'll refer you to a friend of mine that may be able to help." He moved to his desk, pretending to look for a number, and waited.