Tales of the Sinister: Twelve Terrifying Stories Read online

  Read Eden’s Eye, Leonard’s full horror novel, here:

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MDQ2UIV

  Tales Of The Sinister

  By Leonard Petracci

  Contents:

  The Pet Shop

  The Candle Shop

  The Atlas Room

  Camp Valleyway

  The Soul Doctor

  I Learned It from You

  The Garden

  Shower Drain

  The Free Tattoo

  Crows

  The Gates of Hell

  No Swimming Allowed

  Bonus First Three Chapters of Eden’s Eye

  The Pet Shop

  I was always the black sheep of my family.

  My mother graduated Yale with highest honors. My father, Harvard. Both my older brother and sister picked up top university scholarships like discarded sidewalk change.

  I barely graduated from high school.

  I matched my siblings’ 4.0 GPAs with a total of six A's, and all of them in music. I spent after school in detention while they led sports teams to victory. I guess I’ve been jealous at times, but really I think it doesn’t take as much to make me happy. Maybe I’m more simple than they are, or maybe I don’t need society’s opinion to catalyze my endorphins. I’ve never been stupid, but I’ve never had their motivation either.

  I don’t think my parents cared much. They had already cashed in on their first two children, so anything that I brought to the table would be gravy on top of the main course. So when I opted to forsake college and pursue a life of music, their objections sounded halfhearted.

  For two years, I played guitar in a public park, strumming riffs that both stimulated the ears of passersby and emptied their pockets. I like to think I was one of the more successful street performers – my hat was always full of change, and my crowds larger than most. And I didn’t realize the extent of my success until the first year out of high school, as I played the ever famous chords of “She Talks to Angels,” and I felt the tug of a small hand against the side of my jeans.

  The girl looked to be six years old, her hair curling in golden spirals to her shoulders, and she wore a confused look that fit her much better than her overalls.

  “‘Scuse me, ‘scuse me, mister,” she said, punctuating the statement with a tug.

  “Hey there. What’s up?” I said while keeping the beat of the song. I don’t sing, so my performance did not suffer.

  “How did you get them to sing for you?” she asked.

  I frowned. If anyone was singing to my guitar, that meant they were taking advantage of my talent, and called for a gerrymandering of musical park boundaries.

  “Who is singing for me?”

  “Why, the birds, of course.”

  For a moment, I stopped to listen and realized the birds in the trees above me picked up fragments of the guitar where I left off. I think I knew they always were there, but that was my first conscious awareness of their presence.

  “My niece is right, you know,” said a woman who stepped forward to take the child’s hand. “I work with animals, and I’ve never seen birds so well trained.”

  While the little girl had not disturbed my song, the aunt had done the opposite.

  God, she was beautiful. I’d never seen eyes like hers – each a deep brown iris that seemed to mingle with her pupil into a single point. Freckles dotted her cheeks like accent marks, and her eyebrows raised in a way that seemed both inquisitive and flirtatious.

  I guess I owe that little girl for introducing me to my wife, Jessica.

  And Jessica was right – she did have a way with animals. I found that out after we bought our first dog and cat, and both slept on her side of the bed every night.

  I think I fell in love when I played my guitar for her after our third date, in her backyard, and she began to sing. While I could tempt the birds into notes, she could coax the frogs and crickets to join in harmony to the melody – predator and prey forgotten.

  Her voice was like nothing I had ever heard. There was a quality to it, an alien inflection, that made the very notes burn in the air with passion as she rolled between frequencies.

  “Where did you learn to sing like that?” I asked afterward, my hand cupping her shoulder and my arm curtained by her hair.

  She laughed. “If I told you, you’d never believe me.”

  “Go for it.”

  “When I was young,” she started, eyes on mine, “my mother was very religious. We went to church three times a week, and sometimes I went alone. And once, I fell asleep on the back pew, where no one could see me. When I woke up, I heard the most beautiful singing, and I sat there, just listening to it. After I while, I joined in, mimicking it, but the voice stopped, and a woman came to my pew.

  “I don’t remember much – I was very young, you know, and it was hard to see her because the church lights framed her in a way that brightened her face, except I thought those lights were off. And she was very sad, I remember that. ‘Dear child,’ she said, ‘I cannot take back from you what you’ve learned today, but remember this – you were not made for it.’ Then she handed me a toy doll, and I felt sleep come over me again. I could’ve sworn it was a dream, but I woke up with this.”

  Jessica pulled a small doll from her pocket, ragged after years of carrying, and placed it on the table. It was a boy, with matted wings attached to its back, and it flopped over in her hand.

  “An angel?” I asked, picking it up.

  “Not quite, and my mother laughed at me when I claimed the woman was one,” she said, turning the doll over, where there was an inscription. Fly not too high.

  “Icarus.”

  ***

  We never had a fancy wedding – court papers were enough. One year into our marriage, she quit her job as a nature journalist and we opened a pet shop.

  We didn’t make much money. We didn’t intend to. But we were happy. And we got by.

  During slow days, I’d strum my guitar, Jessica would sing, and the entire store would listen. After the first verse, the birds would mesh with Jessica’s voice, adding trills to embellish her inflections. They’d be followed by the dogs, who would howl at the high-pitched parts and growl at the low. Then the chorus of other animals would join in, each with their own talents, keeping beat with me but following Jessica. On the rare occasion that we had a parrot in the shop, it would mimic her singing voice quality like musical rounds. But we never seemed able to keep our parrots alive – I don’t know if it was the region, the environment, or the food, but they always seemed to die after a few weeks in the shop.

  “The animals like you more than they like me,” I commented one day, and she gave me a coy smile. I knew, because on the days she left early to prepare dinner and I brought out my guitar, there was no such melody in the room. They would only follow my basic chords.

  “Sometimes, they need a woman’s touch,” she said, putting her smaller hand on top of mine. And for the next hour, I would have my own share of a woman’s touch.

  Those were happy days. Simple ones, before our finances began to plow themselves deep into the mud of debt. I didn’t anticipate that, as we always lived simply, but then again, medical bills are no simple matter.

  Neither is chemotherapy.

  Jessica’s hair started shedding faster than the dog’s during her treatment, and her tears hit the floor in time with her bangs as I cut it short with a buzzer.

  I’m not religious, but I started to frequent the nearby church as she slept longer each day, holding a picture of us and praying as my last resource. I cried those days, and the angels seemed to cry with me, their somber face
s staring down from paintings above. Once, I knocked a candle over, and it tumbled out onto the picture of us, completely covering Jessica’s image in a layer of wax.

  After her first appointment, the doctor pulled me into his office, his eyes a cold steel that matched the hospital temperature.

  “Mr. Anderson,” he started, his voice on the edge of anger, “I would have called the police by now, had it not been for your wife’s denial. But as you know, she has throat cancer. And it doesn’t look like the natural sort. She’s scarred and burned there, like acid caused it, and I won’t stand for domestic abuse.”

  I stood there, my mouth open, “God, I love her. I’d never do that. God, no.”

  “Then you had better be sure she’s not doing it herself,” he said, fixing his eyes on me. “Neglect is just as bad. If I have any more reason to believe something is going on, I will report you. “

  “I’m sure nothing is going on, doctor.”

  But I still kept close watch on Jessica in the coming months, watching as she wilted away before me. Our songs turned sad, until one day when she couldn’t even muster the strength to sing anymore.

  “Mike,” she said on her last day with me, her hand barely able to hold mine, cold and fragile, “do you know why Icarus fell to the sea?”

  “He flew too close to the sun,” I said, watching her shallow breaths.

  “No, no, plenty of things that were made for it fly too close to the sun. Everyone gets that part of the story wrong. It’s because his wings were made of wax.”

  Then she died, exhaling one last time, and even that sounded like a musical note. In the distance, church bells rang.

  Jessica had left me a box, instructing me not to open it until after her death. For a full week, the cardboard box sat underneath the pet store counter.

  I still played guitar, as best as I could with shaking hands. But the animals never joined in like they did when Jessica was there.

  Anger and curiosity cracked me after a week, and I opened the box.

  Inside, there was a note and a stoppered bottle.

  Mike, know that I love you with all my heart. With this, my song will always be with you.

  I picked up the bottle and viewed the Icarus doll inside. I’m not sure how she fit him in there, as the lip was narrow, but he was whole.

  With a sigh, I unstoppered the bottle and caught her scent escaping it. I breathed deeply, then settled down to play a song that I never had before, that had only come on the radio three days prior.

  And though I could not hear her voice, the animals sang alongside it. A parrot sang too, in echoes, and it was not until the song was finished that I realized it somehow knew the words. But like all other parrots we owned, it died two weeks later.

  Sometimes, when the wind whispers just right through the shop, when I’ve nodded off too far in daydreams, I swear I can hear her too.

  In the coming years, Jessica’s niece visited my shop often, and I noticed that her voice changed to sound just like Jessica’s as she matured. When she sang, it was as if Jessica was in the room with me.

  I guess I should have kept the doll on a higher shelf, one where her hands could not reach.

  The Candle Shop

  “Come in, dear, come in. Take a seat,” said Mrs. Furtum, the portly and elderly owner, opening the door to the candle shop. I held a flier in my hand, one that I had found stapled to a telephone pole three blocks from the shop, with a red HELP WANTED written on it by hand with large block letters and a burning candle flame underneath. It’d been four months since I’d been laid off from my position as a flight attendant, and the rapid decline of my bank account made me seek even the most desperate of positions.

  “Saw your flier,” I said, folding it and placing it into my pocket. “Are you hiring?”

  “I’m always in need of help, young man,” she said, offering a smile. “But first, I’d like to conduct a casual interview. I’d like to make sure you have the…well…proper experiences for the position. Tell me, what have you done?”

  “Flight attendant for ten years with—”

  “My dear, my dear – no, that’s not what I’m interested in. Tell me of your experiences. Your life. What you hold dear.”

  I paused, peering around the shop for inspiration, somewhat insulted that she was making me undergo an interview for a mere retail position. Hundreds of candles lined the walls, each one unique; a bottled rainbow surrounding me in every direction.

  What the hell, I thought, frowning as I read the labels: How is Baby’s First Words a smell? Or Love’s Passionate Kiss.

  “Well, I’ve traveled frequently,” I said, meeting her eyes as she nodded. “Been to over a hundred countries and all of the states. Not just the airports – I make it a point to try to experience them first hand. It’s why I wanted to be a flight attendant in the first place.”

  “Ah yes,” she said, smiling. “I see. And are you a family man?”

  “Yes, three children.”

  “My goodness, three of them? And a wife, I presume? A happy marriage?”

  “Yes, never divorced. Under a little bit of financial strain, though, which is what brought me here.”

  “We’ll see what we can do about that,” she said. “Ah yes, you’ll do just fine. Better than fine. Now tell me, what was the airline paying you? I’ll match it.”

  I stopped peering around when she said that, studying her. There no chance she could afford my previous salary. And there was no chance I’d be able to actually earn it with menial labor.

  “I smell doubt on you, young man,” she cackled. “But I’ll manage just fine. This is a specialty shop. We have many special customers, customers over the globe, who pay dearly for the scents I produce.”

  I told her “yes.” And my first paycheck backed up her word.

  * * *

  Mrs. Furtum made each of her candles by hand, and after a few weeks of work, she allowed me to begin helping her with each preparation.

  “Mix it like this, young man. Give my weary bones a rest,” she said, holding a large spoon over a pot of wax. I’d seen her pouring ingredients to infuse the wax just minutes before, and the concoction bubbled up toward my nostrils as I mixed.

  “What was that you just mixed in?” I asked one day as she watched me stir.

  “Oh, just something special. Only the best of ingredients for my candles. I always inspect them thoroughly.”

  “And what type of candle will this be?”

  “Nuh uh uh,” she stuttered, “I never tell until they’re finished. Now go on, young man, tell me a story of your travels.”

  I obliged her, speaking as I mixed, and when I was finished, she pulled out a label and plastered it onto the side of an empty jar.

  Mist Rising off Lake Erie, it read, and she tucked it away onto a shelf, one she’d had me hang just the day before. Before she left that day, I took a whiff – I’d never been to Lake Erie, but it smelled just as I would imagine.

  Slowly, the candles built up on the shelf in proportion to my bank account. Each day, I’d stir the concoctions, telling her of the world beyond the walls of her shop. And each day, I’d return home to my wife and two kids, and tell them how much I loved them.

  Much to my wife’s delight, I’d lost weight since starting at the shop, an effect I attributed to the stress reduction.

  “Tell me about Egypt, about the pyramids,” said Mrs. Furtum, inhaling deeply.

  “They’re massive,” I began as I stirred. “So big you can see them from the air. And Cairo nudges right up against them, believe it or not.” I continued speaking as she nodded, her eyes wide, her long green nails twirling a strand of silver hair.

  “That’ll do for today,” she said when I had finished. “You’ll find a small bonus in your paycheck this week. I truly am getting my money out of you.”

  “Please, it’s no trouble.” I laughed and took the label she handed out to me.

  The Sands of the Pyramids

  Funny, I thought. This on
e smells just like I would imagine the pyramids. One day, I’ll have to go see them.

  Then, waving goodbye to Mrs. Furtum, I left the shop, and drove home to my wife and my kid.

  * * *

  Weeks passed, and I grew more and more thankful to Mrs. Furtum. I still couldn’t believe the salary she offered me, especially since I’d never had a job before.

  At home, things were going great with my girlfriend. I thought I’d struck gold with this one – in a few weeks, I would have enough to buy a ring. And I had the strangest feeling she’d say yes.

  Plus her cooking was excellent – every day, she cooked enormous dinners and forced me to have two helpings, since I was apparently too thin. I’d always been that thin, though, so I figured I could pack on a few extra pounds to see how I looked.

  “Young man,” said Mrs. Furtum, “it pains me to tell you this, but today is your last day. Trust me, I would have you longer, but I simply must downsize.”

  “But—” I said, and she cut me off.

  “Hush, hush. We’ll talk about it after. Now, I have a very special candle for you to make today. Let’s get you to mixing. Have I ever told you, young man, what the base is for my candles?”

  “Isn’t it wax?”

  “No, not wax. Only living things can hold ideas, young man, and I try to put a full idea into each of my candles. So my candles are based on diluted animal fat. Fat from a very special animal, indeed. I’ve thoroughly inspected it.”

  “Oh, that’s nice, Mrs. Furtum.” I was busy stirring now and hadn’t paid attention to her words. I checked the candle shelf where she kept all the candles I had made – there were hundreds now, each with a specific scent. And she had already sold a quarter of them to her clientele.

  “It is, it is. An old trick I learned long ago. Now, young man, I want you to tell me about yourself. Everything that you’re proud of.”

  I thought, but there wasn’t much left to say. But I gave her what I had.

  “Good, that’s good, young man. Now there’s a chair for you over there. Would you mind sitting in it for a moment while I tidy up?”