Kessler Forgotten Treasures

25 Short Fiction Tales
1. Auflage 2011
ISBN: 978-1-62095-933-6
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 200 Seiten

Forgotten Treasures is a Short Story anthology including 25 Fantasy, Horror and Seasonal Tales

Autoren/Hrsg.

Kessler, Lisa

Leseproben

    The Curse of Hamelin     They were coming. He couldn’t see them yet; he sensed them.  The scent of moist tilled earth teased his nostrils, and bile rose in response. How did this happen again so soon? Harold made a frantic dash to the dresser and yanked open the drawers.  He needed to get out fast.  Snatching up his pressed and folded clothes, he placed them on the tidy bedspread and reached under the ruffled bed skirt for his suitcase. Something grabbed his hand. Harold squealed, and tugged, trying to free his limb.  “No please!  Let me go!” Wet, guttural cackling answered him from under the bed.  His heart slammed in his chest, and a slick sheen of perspiration spread across his face.  “Who– Who’s there?  Please, just let me go.” A heavy bead of sweat ran down his forehead, along the curve of his nose, and finally dripped onto the front of his white dress shirt, distracting him from the impending doom lurking under the bed.  With his free hand, Harold fumbled at the sweat stain, frantic to get the spot out. The thing under the bad gripped his wrist tighter and yanked, slamming Harold’s head against the mattress.  Snapped out of his compulsive sweat-stain cleaning, he tugged back. “Let- me- go!”  Harold wrenched his hand free, stumbling backwards into the desk chair of his hotel suite. The thing under the bed hissed, filling the air with a stale putrid stench, and Harold gagged.  Forget the clothes.  He’d buy more.  Racing for the dresser, he grabbed his keys and cell phone and spun toward the door. “Oh my God!” He gasped.  The thing from under the bed now blocked his only exit.  Wisps of fine white hair poked out from beneath the black hooded robe, and gnarled gray hands protruded from the oversized sleeves.  One of the bony digits rose up to point at him. “You cannot escape your destiny, Harold Frommer.” The sound of its voice raised the hair on his arms.  “How do you know my name?” “I know who you really are.  Why are you still living a lie?  You are the chosen one.  They rise for you.” Harold shook his head.  “Don’t say that!  I never asked for this curse.” The thing from under the bed tossed his head back and let out a vile hacking laugh.  The hood slid back, revealing his weather-beaten, rotting face.  Its pallid, translucent skin exposed clogged veins and arteries which no longer transported blood.  Harold took a step backward; wincing when the thing’s thin lips drew back to reveal chipped remains of what might have at one time been teeth. “A curse?”  It took a step toward him.  “You are descended from a proud line of Pipers.  This is your gift.  We cannot resist your song.  Why do you run from us?” “I– I don’t sing,” he stammered.  “Just go away.  How do you keep finding me?” “I already told you, we cannot resist.  You call to us from beyond the grave.” “No, no I don’t.  Just leave me alone.” “We will always find you.”  The thing glared at him.  “You can't run from your destiny by moving from one place to another.” “Is that from Hemingway?” Harold nodded.  “I think it is Hemingway.  I never figured out why I needed to read Hemingway for a degree in accounting, but literature was an undergraduate requirement.” The thing tilted its head, and for a moment, Harold thought its skull might break free from the pencil neck that held it upright.  Either way, it distracted him from his obsessive ramblings long enough for him to notice the growing stains expanding from his armpits.  His hands twitched.  The shirt was filthy.  He couldn’t wear a dirty shirt.  But he didn’t have time to change. “What are you doing, Piper?” “Stop calling me that.”  Harold fiddled to free each button.  He wriggled out of his shirt and let out a sigh of relief.  “I can’t wear a stained shirt.” In the distance, he heard the muffled screams of hotel guests.  They were closer now.  The thing from under the bed turned toward the sound, and Harold quickly reached down to grab his suitcase.  When he straightened, the thing was right in front him.  Harold gasped and held the bag up between them. “Leave me alone.” “I cannot leave you, Piper.  None of us can.” “That’s not my fault.”  He backed up a step. “No, it is your gift.” It rubbed its gnarled hands together.  “Your heritage.” Harold looked over his shoulder.  From his third story window, he could see them coming.  Deformed, decaying bodies lurched forward toward the hotel.  It was happening again.  When he turned eighteen the dead started following him.  It wasn’t so bad at first.  While he attended college he only had one dead stalker following him.  But each year, the silent “song” they claimed to hear grew stronger.  He couldn’t stay in one city for more than two days before the dead ripped their decayed bodies free from their graves and came to find him. The smell alone was bad, but actually seeing their filthy rotting bodies sent his OCD into overdrive.  No amount of medication could convince him his hands or his clothes were clean enough after encountering one of the dead.  Now nearly a hundred skeletal bodies with dirt clots falling free from the remaining tufts of dried hair gathered in the street.  Skin hanging limply like peeling wallpaper, exposing the bones underneath.  They stumbled and lurched toward his hotel.  Harold’s hand started to tremble and his lower eyelid twitched. He turned away from the window when he heard more screams.  The dead were inside the building now.  His eyes flicked to the thing from under the bed. “Zombies are not my heritage.” His watery gray filmed eyes glittered.  “Each generation of Piper sings its own song.  You call to lost souls.  Dead souls.” “Necromancers don’t exist,” Harold screamed. It pointed a bony finger toward the window.  “They have returned to their bodies and follow your song, Piper.” Harold gazed out the window again.  Dead bodies filled the parking lot.  Cars honked, some actually plowed through the throngs of the dead, sending skeletal bodies bouncing across the pavement.  This was his fault. Years ago, when the dead first started surfacing, Harold researched his ancestry.  His family originated from Germany, but he was surprised when he found that they actually came from a small village called, Hamelin.  The oldest story from the town was the Tale of the Pied Piper of Hamelin who played a melody that the rats couldn’t resist.  He led them to the river where they drowned.  When the town refused to pay for his services, he led the children away. They were never found. Since then, every other generation of his family was a “Piper” of some sort.  His grandfather was forced to live in a cabin in Montana because wolves were constantly drawn to him.  His great-grandfather before him could call hawk.  The list went on and on, but nowhere in his family tree had the Hamelin curse called the dead. Not until Harold. After researching necromancers, the horror of his curse became clear.  Since then he traveled from place to place, living out of his suitcase, trading stocks online to earn a living until it was time to move on. How much longer could he run? He stared at the hideous thing again, and shoved it back with his suitcase.  “I need to go.” “You know what will happen if you leave.” “I can’t stay here.” “They will die.” “They’re already dead!” Harold screamed, wringing his hands.  He needed to scrub.  Hot water, boiling hot water and soap, lots of soap, he could almost smell the soap.  Almost.  But the scent of soil and decay overpowered it. With a burst of adrenaline, he chucked his suitcase at the withered thing from under the bed and raced for the door.  He yanked it open, wincing at the sound of the tongueless wails echoing through the hallway.  They were already on the third floor! Harold ran the other way, away from the main elevators.  He threw open the door and peered down the stairwell.  It looked clear.  He jogged down the stairs without touching the germ-infested, dirty handrail. Just because something looked clean didn’t mean it was. When he reached the bottom, he barely pulled the door open to peek outside.  Most of the bodies were heading for the main entrance.  If he hurried, he could get to his rental car before they realized he was outside.  He took a deep breath and burst through the door, scrambling to his rental car.  The cold air hit him hard, like the shock of jumping into a cold swimming pool, but he kept...