Video Nasties: A Horror Collection by Duncan Ralston

Author:Duncan Ralston [Ralston, Duncan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror, Anthology
Amazon: B074BF63PG
Publisher: Shadow Work Publishing
Published: 2017-08-07T00:00:00+00:00

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MONDAY CAME AND the trap was set. He'd spent the entire weekend mulling over the finer points, but the gist of it was simple. He'd leave a peanut butter sandwich under the seat, half-eaten (this proved to be the hardest part of the job, since Mr. McAllister thought peanut butter tasted like salted shit), and the epinephrine injector the School Board had made mandatory on all buses—after serious lobbying from the PTA—would have disappeared. "Couldn't say," Mr. McAllister practiced saying in front of the mirror, watching for the tell-tale facial tics of a liar, "I s'pose it musta fell and got trampled off the bus when the kids rushed off to school. You know how kids are with trash, always wanna kick it 'stead of puttin it where it belongs."

When he was satisfied with his confused yet tormented expression, he raided the cabinets at the old house on Greenbury Street. He'd had to put his father in the convalescent home recently, after the old man had fallen down the stairs and couldn't stop shitting himself. His visits to casa del McAllister, the old homestead, were far less frequent these days, mainly to make sure the roof hadn't caved in and the lawn wasn't going to pot. Having power of attorney, he could have sold it if he'd wanted. He just couldn't bear to get rid of the house he'd grown up in, not with all the photographs of his mother on the walls, who'd passed on when he was still quite young.

The peanut butter was in the cabinet. He opened the jar, sniffed it, and gagged. It was oily and smelled worse than normal—chemically. He'd bought a loaf of white at the Hometown Proud, aware there was a crusted jar of blueberry jam in the fridgerator he could use. He'd only have to take a few bites.

So he poured himself a tall, cold glass of milk, and he slathered the bread with salted shit and jam. Looking down at the sandwich, cut in half on a diagonal and laid out nice on a plate beside the milk, brought back memories of his mother. His dad had never been the same after she passed. Never cracked a smile or joked with him anymore. Never taught him how to ride a bike. Never spent a night without a six-pack in front of the boob tube. The shell of a man Mr. McAllister visited twice weekly, who pissed and shat in his semi-electric bed at the Castle, was just showing on the outside how he'd felt on the inside since Florence McAllister passed through the Pearly Gates in the summer of 1969.

He bit into the sickly sweet, gooey sandwich and chewed until it was doughy and gritty and swallowed it down before he could puke it with a big gulp of milk. Then he did it again, just so it would look authentic. He didn't even have to swallow, but it felt like eating a few bites of shit sandwich would be a minor penance for the crime he was about to commit.

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