Scary Rednecks & Other Inbred Horrors by Weston Ochse

Author:Weston Ochse
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Horror
Publisher: Crossroad Press & Macabre Ink Digital
Published: 2010-10-03T14:00:00+00:00

It’s a Sick World

by David Whitman

“This grave better not be the same as the last one,” Brooks said, gazing down at the coffin and brushing the dirt away from the lid. He pulled at his goatee as he stared at the casket.

The full moon shone down on us, granting more light than we wanted while doing such an illegal task. The night air was unnaturally cool, giving me the unsettling impression that I could feel the physical presence of the dead. Every time the wind would blow through the trees, sending shadows moving about in dream-like dances, I would jump.

City boys like me don’t function well in the south. Being a black man didn’t help matters any, either. I was more paranoid this far down south than I was in any big city area, but so far, everywhere I went stereotypes were being broken. I hadn’t heard the word “nigger” uttered one time, nor had I felt any racism. Being in a graveyard at night, though, dug up all my fears of cartoony redneck motherfuckers with red plaid shirts and memberships in the local Ku Klux Klan. It wasn’t too hard to imagine a brother hanging from one of the thick-limbed trees dotting the graveyard, a circle of white sheeted Klansman standing around with flickering torches.

I had a bad feeling about tonight. The whole atmosphere reminded me of a horror movie. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a brother survive a horror movie. That shit always pissed me off. Even when they were heroes, like in Night of the Living Dead, the brother got his ass killed.

We had spent the last few months trying to make a living at our various cons and scams and not doing a very good job of it. It was Brooks’ idea to get out of New Orleans and go out here in the Deep South to make some money. He figured the city folk were just too smart anymore, and that we would have a much easier time pulling a con on the country bumpkins. Shit didn’t work out that way, though. If anything, they were even wiser-more suspicious to anything we tried to pull. The pickings were damn scarce. It was Brooks’ idea to rob the dead, not mine. I figured that most people who had expensive jewelry willed it to their relatives.

“No, Rudy,” Brooks had said as I tried to shoot down his dumbass idea. “The dead are fucking rich. I had a buddy that used to do it and he made a shitload of money. Not only that, but this kind of jewelry could never be traced back to us. Who would think of tracing it back to the dead?”

The only problem was that things got a little strange when we dug up our first grave. We shrugged that off and moved on to the second, only to have the same damn problem. This was our fourth night in Greyson’s Cemetery and our fourth freshly dug grave. Shit just wasn’t working out.

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