C. LaSart - Ad Nauseam - 13 Tales of Extreme Horror

“Now, I should probably backtrack a bit and remind you just how hard life was for everyone who had to deal with Frankie. I’m not trying to justify what may or may not have been done to the man, but sometimes a person can understand what drives others to do crazy things. Frankie was a pain in the ass from day one and none of us had a moment’s peace from the time he came in except for when he was in the infirmary. Sometimes you can handle something until it stops, but after a reprieve, you can’t handle it anymore when it starts up again. That’s the way it was as soon as they took Frankie off the morphine and wheeled him back into his cell, and we all knew how bad it was going to get. Stress like that can make even a good man do bad things. A sane man can go crazy for just a minute. And let’s face it; most who were involved had been crazy for years.

“But there’s one more thing about Frankie you need to think about. It wasn’t just hatred we all felt due to his annoying nature. It was also fear. The kind of deep-rooted fear no one ever even realizes they are feeling until after the fact. You see, that sloppy, fat-assed killer represented something within us all that terrifies us. The loss of control of our own bodies, and a lack of self-control over our desires and needs. I think we all know that way down inside us all is a Frankie, should we lose grip on the ability to control ourselves.

“What I’m about to tell you may all be just ugly rumors. But I’ll tell you what most believe happened to Frankie Hanson during those two days, and you can do with it whatever you please.

“From the beginning, it was rumored the riot had to be a ruse, a set-up. One or more of the guards would’ve had to be involved for the inmates to all get free like that, with not even one escape attempt, but there wasn’t anything anyone could prove afterwards.

“They got out that morning and took over the facility in a surprisingly organized way (which also leads one to think the guards were involved). The truth of the matter is, the State was never notified until after the situation was taken care of, which probably had something to do with why they closed us down.

“But you have to remember everyone hated Frankie, and maybe the inmates just did what the rest of us wanted to do, but were too constricted by morals to actually attempt.

“The story goes that they gathered together in the shower room and hatched a hasty plan, a few of the inmates left behind to hold off the guards in whatever way they did so. I’m not going to tell you how because the ex-guard in me doesn’t want anyone to have that information. But after that, they went straight to Frankie’s cell and got to work.

“If the story is true, the crazies stole sharp knives from the kitchen and each took turns poking him and making him squeal like a pig. This could’ve gone on for hours, if it’s true, before he finally would have bled to death or died from the shock. That’s when the tale gets truly disturbing.

“Rumor has it that one of the inmates had the idea to cut him all up, dress him out kind of like a deer? And they did just that, hacking away and lugging all of the pieces back to the kitchen. It would’ve taken a long time to do, he was such an enormous man, but they eventually got him chopped up and delivered. Now the same people who think the guards were part of it (depending on who you talk to, it was either all the guards, or just a few) also believe maybe a few of the cooks took part as well.

“So as it’s told, those collaborators took what they were given and cooked up a mighty feast attended by the prisoners and staff alike. And they didn’t leave the table until Frankie Hanson had been completely consumed along with some baby potatoes and garden fresh carrots. Then the prisoners returned to their cells and someone, maybe a cook or perhaps a guard, disposed of the bones. The State was called and all they found was some blood in a cell. Frankie Hanson was gone.”

“Ewww Papa! That’s so gross.” The girl shuddered and grinned simultaneously.

“But I haven’t told you the spookiest part yet.” Papa leaned forward, his eyes wide with wicked glee. “Rumor has it some of those guards developed a taste for human flesh that day. You know there does seem to be an awful lot of people who go missing in the woods around town.”

“Dinner time!” Nana stepped into the room, a stained apron around her waist and long strands of gray hair escaping the tight bun she wore at the nape of her neck.

“Yep, dear. We’re on our way. Just have to get the kids to wash their hands.” Papa stood up, his knees popping loudly and making both his grandchildren giggle.

“You kids get washed up. I’ll be right in.” Papa headed down the hall to the bedroom at the end, where he and Nana slept.

Closing the door softly behind him, he looked at the ancient trunk against the wall. It took only a minute to find the small, straight key that unlocked the heavy padlock on the front, and he eased the heavy lid open. The object he sought was towards the back, buried under material samples from when Nana had made her own wedding dress. He found it without effort, and carefully unwrapped the tattered velvet encasing it. A smile played on his lips, but never quite touched his eyes as he traced the smooth lines and contours, spending extra time on the ridges above the empty eye sockets, remembering the deep-set eyes. The yellowed skull felt cool under his hand, boiled clean of the flesh so many years ago.

“Papa?”

Papa pulled his hand back quickly, dropping the lid and clasping the padlock in place before turning towards the door. He could rewrap it when the kids were asleep.

“What is it, Bud?” Papa asked casually as he met his grandson at the door and the boy backed up a step so they were both in the hall. He snuck in close to his grandpa as they walked towards the sink.

“What do you think we, I mean people , taste like?”

“Well,” said Papa with a wink, his voice low so as not to be overheard. “I suppose like Nana’s meatloaf.”

Jack sat at the worn kitchen table, his hands buried in the guts of an ancient radio, tinkering with the parts in a vain attempt to fix the antique. He told the owner, Mrs. Jones, that he feared the radio was beyond fixing, but she insisted with a clear statement that she held complete faith in his abilities . He mentioned how cheap it’d cost to replace nowadays, but she liked that one and would hear nothing of the new fangled junk they peddled at the ritzy stores in town. In the end, he let himself be brow beaten by an eighty-four year old woman who stood a foot and a half shorter than himself.

Though he mainly worked as a handy man around town, word of mouth brought him some additional side jobs when people started to realize his proficiency with small household electronics. It was difficult to find steady work, being an ex-con, so he happily accepted whatever odd jobs came his way. This one, however, proved more work than the twenty-five dollar fee was worth.

A scraping sound from the room above the kitchen drew his attention from his task.

She was moving around up there again.

He sighed and lit another cigarette, dragging deeply and rubbing his eyes as he exhaled a cloud of bluish smoke.

Too soon . He had nearly been caught the last time.

He turned his attention back to the project at hand, hoping that if he pretended not to hear her, she’d return to sleep, or whatever else she did up there. He no longer went upstairs.

He could smell her sickly sweet odor long before he heard the moist slap of her bare feet on the linoleum behind him. Jack sat up straight in his chair and stared directly ahead at the fading rose-patterned wallpaper, keeping his breaths shallow through his mouth to avoid the stench of decay. Only one thought went through his mind over and over again, like a dog chasing its tail.