Brett McBean: Tales of Sin and Madness

“I wanted to make your dreams come true,” he said. “I wanted to take you away from everything; from all the pain. I wanted to show you beauty.”

“You have.”

He raised the gun and aimed it at Tully’s brain. It was the best way, he had learned.

He recalled what Tully said to him a few weeks before the rise of the New World — “I don’t want to die in the hospital. Not in such a cold, horrible place. Please, whatever you do, just promise me you’ll take me away and let me die somewhere beautiful, somewhere good. Promise me you’ll do that?”

He had a promise to keep. It’s what Tully wanted.

“I love you Tully,” he said as he wound his finger around the trigger.

Tully managed to open her eyes one last time and gaze at the divine surroundings, at life as it should be — simple, honest and beautiful. She smiled at him. “Thank you.”

Then the church echoed with the sound of everlasting peace.

This was my contribution to the Delirium chapbook The Rising: Necrophobia .

I received an email one day from Brian Keene asking if I’d be interested in writing a story based in his world of The Rising and City of the Dead . I immediately said yes — I would’ve been a right idiot if I had said no. I felt it was a great honour, and I was excited to be a part of the project. Until the reality of it set in, and then I started to panic. Writing a story set in another writer’s world? Based on one of the most popular and influential horror novels of the last decade? Ahhhh!!! I didn’t want to screw this up.

My first decision was to base the story in Australia — not only did it make sense, since I do live in Australia, but I thought it’d be interesting to set an hitherto American-set story in another country; to see how my country would be coping with a zombie outbreak and the wrath of Ob and his minions.

I decided to set the story in quite possibly the scariest place in Australia — the Australian outback. Vast, desolate, it’s a horror writer’s dream (and if you’ve seen Wolf Creek then you know what I’m talking about).

Eventually the panic died down, and I wrote the story. And I’m proud to say it’s probably my personal favourite of all my short stories.

The house smelled of death and decay. At least that’s what Julia thought as she stood beside Claire in the kitchen.

“Somebody should burn this place down,” Claire said. “It’s disgusting. Been empty for years and after what happened…Christ, I’m surprised nobody has already.”

“Did you remember to bring the tank of gas and matches?”

“Hardy fucking har.” Claire kicked a crumpled beer can. It skipped through the dense layer of dust, clanging to a stop at the graffiti coated fridge. “Damn college kids and their parties. They treat this place like it’s some cool hangout joint.”

Julia turned and looked at her sister. Even through the hazy darkness she could still make out her scowl. “It is some cool hangout joint — well at least to them.”

“They screw as well. Big tough jocks taking their prom dates here to make-out and impregnate them. Little princesses probably think it’s cool and romantic.”

“Hardly.”

Claire met Julia’s stare. “For a writer you’re not very perceptive. Look around. You can see the bum prints in the dust.”

Julia had taken a look around — well, so far only the kitchen and living room. She had yet to explore the rest of the downstairs rooms or any of the upstairs. So far she had learned that apart from the kids who frequented this house — evident by the truckloads of empty beer cans and spray-painted walls — the house was also used by vagrants. She had landed on a mattress on her way inside. Positioned just below the living room window (which was the easiest way into the abandoned house, because the boards that had been put there to keep trespassers out had been pulled off and re-nailed so many times that a light tug was all that was needed to gain entrance) the mattress had been damp and smelled of piss and vomit, and a tattered sleeping bag lay just beyond the rancid excuse for a bed. She had just been glad nobody was sleeping on the mattress when she fell onto it.

“Would you hurry up and do whatever it is you need to do,” Claire said, rubbing her arms.

“Cold?”

“Yeah, it’s like fucking Arctic in here.”

It was in fact eighty-eight degrees outside, and inside was stuffy and airless. Julia could feel drips of perspiration running down her back and sliding into the crack of her ass, making it itch. She used her pencil to ease the discomfort. “I haven’t got the atmosphere of the place yet. I need more time. I need to get inside this house and its dusty floorboards and cracked walls and…”

“Ghosts that inhabit the rooms.”

“There are no ghosts here. You know I don’t write that haunted house crap.”

“I didn’t mean the Casper type, Jules.”

Julia turned away from the hard stare of her sister and looked down at the blank notepad. It was begging her to write something down. “You can wait outside if you want. I’ll be okay.”

“Shit, I thought you’d never offer.”

“Just keep watch, okay? That is why I brought you along. Lord knows it wasn’t for your sunny disposition.”

“Thanks a bunch, Sis. Really.”

“I won’t be long. I promise. I just need to get down a few notes and then we can go.”

“The sooner the better. I don’t like this place, Jules. Really. It’s evil.”

“Just because something evil happened here, doesn’t mean it’s haunted. It’s just a house.”

“Then why are you here?”

Julia noticed the slight grin on Claire. “Yeah, okay, just go wait outside. I’ll be out soon.”

Julia waited for Claire to leave before stepping forward towards the dark hallway.

Now I can really concentrate. With no one to bother me I can really soak up the ambience of this place.

She knew what had happened in this house a few years ago, had read the newspaper articles and felt suitably sickened and sad. It was horrible, there was no denying that, and she did feel guilty about coming here. But she needed somewhere with a strong past, a place empty of people but not of violence and character. And this place, because of its horrid past, had all that and more.

As she walked down the corridor, the flashlight causing shadows to dance upon the walls, she began to get a tingly sensation in her belly — a mixture of nervous excitement and, yes, fear.

There was an energy in this place, Claire had been right. Only it wasn’t evil. No, it was something else, something palpable.

She stopped, shone the flashlight at her pad, and balancing the flashlight, pencil and notepad, began jotting down thoughts at a rapid pace — things such as the look of the house, the feel and smell of the house, what she was feeling, why she was feeling it, possible ideas for characters and story — anything and everything that popped into her head.

If only I can capture all this in my book. If I can manage to make the reader feel like I do now, I’d have a bestseller for sure…

She stopped writing. Her body momentarily froze.

She thought she had heard a young girl crying.

But it had been so fleeting, so faint, that it could’ve been her imagination.

“Hello?” she said, her voice stronger than she felt inside. “Anyone here?”

She waited for a response.

Nothing.

It was probably her mind playing games with her. But what if it wasn’t?

This is the sort of shit you write. You need to experience these feelings, need to experience fear in all forms .