Steven Jenkins - Havok Magazine Read online

  CONTENTS

  THE LITTLE ONES

  03 NICOLE TANQUARY

  EXECUTIVE STAFF

  LATE SUPPER

  04

  EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

  TERRY AGOLD

  Ben Wolf

  17 RICHCROSS STREET

  06

  EXECUTIVE EDITOR

  STEVEN JENKINS

  Andrew Winch

  A VERY BAD GIRL

  09

  CREATIVE DIRECTOR

  NATALIE MEPHAM

  Arpit Mehta

  PUMPKIN NIGHT

  10 DJ TYRER

  HAVOK STAFF

  HAPPY HOLIDAYS

  10

  EDITOR

  C L RAVEN

  Avily Jerome

  THE MONSTER IN ME

  11

  ASSOCIATE EDITOR

  LYNNE PLEAU L

  Kristen Stieffel

  NOT A CREATURE WAS STIRRING

  11

  PRODUCTION MANAGER

  MATTHEW KEELEY

  Lisa Godfrees

  BURNING MAN

  12

  PRODUCTION MANAGER

  AERYN RUDEL

  Ronnell Kay Gibson

  BATHOPHOBIA

  14

  GRAPHIC DESIGNER

  ANDREW WINCH

  Jane Hammer

  THE FINAL COUNT

  16 SUSAN FABIO

  VANESSA

  18

  Subscribe for free at

  P JAMES NORRIS

  splickety.com

  WON’T YOU HELP ME?

  19 ABIGAIL DILLON

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  The Havok Halloween issue has always been one of my favorites, and this year is no exception. Skeletons, Slashers, and Succubi does not disappoint in its return to classic horror stories, the stories that make the Halloween issue what it is. I could not have asked for a more exciting issue for my final issue with Havok, as I am resigning and moving on to the next chapter of my life.

  I will miss you all.

  Wreaking Havok,

  Avily Jerome

  Editor

  All content is copyrighted by its respective creators and is reproduced with permission.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced without permission from its copyright holders.

  Havok is an imprint of Splickety Publishing Group © 2018

  HAVOK OCTOBER, 2018

  3

  THE LITTLE ONES

  Nicole Tanquary | facebook.com/nicole.tanquary.1

  Today it was the left hand. I knew the moment I saw monster bug.” She smiled a hard, strained smile down it limp on our back doorstep, cold congealed blood

  at the thing and its one torn wing, delicately clear

  seeping from the skin and chewed-up ligaments. I

  and scaled like a dragonfly’s. “Must’ve come from the

  recognized her knuckles, her wrinkles, the familiar dull-woods, is all.”

  gold wedding ring still wedged on one wilted finger. It

  “Don’t worry about it,” she had continued, her

  was hers. Just like all the other pieces had been.

  voice frighteningly cheery. “I’ll clean it up.”

  I did notice one change in the ring, however: the

  And she had, grabbing a ream of paper towel,

  diamond had been pried from its nest of tiny golden

  pinching the scruff of the thing’s neck as she carried

  prongs. But that made a kind of sense. I don’t know

  it dangling to the woods, flicking her wrist to toss it much about the little ones, but I know they like to

  into the weeds.

  collect shiny things.

  I had watched and said nothing. But when the

  After a time, because there was nothing else to

  next night I listened to the angry chattering outside

  do, I knelt and picked up her hand and held it open

  our bedroom window… when later that day she had

  on my palm. They had chewed it off just beneath the

  disappeared while I was at work and she was in the

  delicate wristbones.

  garden, raking dead leaves out of the flower beds…

  The pinky fingertip was missing, but that had been

  oh, I had known why.

  one of last week’s gifts. It now sat in the kitchen freezer, I did all the right things, called the police and showed carefully wrapped in plastic bags, tape, and tissue paper.

  them the abandoned rake and the blood spattered on

  Clustered around it were her other pieces that had

  the worn wooden handle, but it was nothing to me,

  appeared on my back step over the past month: a nail,

  just empty motions.

  an ear, several toes, a right thumb, a forefinger. Locks All through that day, the only thing in my head had

  of hair, too, blonde-stained silver that felt like dry grass been my mother’s voice, whispering: The little ones live in when I rubbed them with my thumb.

  the forest. They’re tricky. They like to snitch things. Shiny

  “She didn’t mean to do it, you know,” I said aloud to

  things especially. But you be nice to them, understand?

  the night beyond the back doorstep. The dark, autumn-

  Be nice to them and they’ll always give back what

  red trees shifted in the wind, just beyond the lawn. The they took.

  leaves crackled together like a thousand tiny hands.

  I cradled the severed hand in my arms as I stared

  You know, the night it happened, I tried to warn

  out into the woods. Senile or not, she had been right.

  her, but I hadn’t insisted. That had been my mistake.

  As soon as I started being nice to the little ones…

  I had run into the room when I first heard the

  leaving windows open, putting food out on the sills,

  screech and the sharp, resounding clap. Her face had

  bread crumbs, sugar cubes—oh, and milk, they loved

  been red, the breath puffing in and out of her mouth.

  the whole milk, they’d come and lap off the skin of fat And then I had looked down and found the little one

  that floats to the top—as soon as I started doing all

  lying on the floor in a crumpled heap of limb and wing.

  that, they started to give Kathy back.

  We had both stared down at it as one of its arms

  Just not all at once.

  gave a pained twitch and then went still. There were

  A chuckle surged up my throat and I swallowed it

  black, wet eyes, open and dead; a strange iridescent

  back, hard, my mouth burning with bile. I had thrown

  skin; a liquid seeping from a cut in its stomach where, I up the first time I found a Kathy-bit (an ear, minus its later figured, the sharp edge of her wedding ring had

  earring, the cartilage full of awful tiny gnaws), but by ripped it open when the back-handed blow had landed.

  now I was getting used to it.

  Soon I’ll have enough to put her back together

  again, a thought rang inside me, off-key, hysterical, as I lurched backward into the house and shut the door

  Today it was the left hand.

  behind me.

  The pieces were getting bigger. Soon it would be

  the other hand, the feet. Maybe an arm. The edges were

  “It came flying at my face,” she had said. “I didn’t

  rough from where the little ones chewed through, but

  mean to hit it. It just came at me
.” Then she said, “I

  if I used thread and glue I thought I could maybe stitch know what you’re thinking. About those things your

  the pieces back together. Make a whole Kathy again.

  mother was always talking about. But stop it, dammit.

  Tottering into the kitchen, opening the freezer and

  She was senile, and this… this is just a bug.”

  savoring the wash of cool air as it flowed out, I wondered I looked up at her. By now the red had drained

  to myself how long it would take to get her head back.

  from her cheeks and left behind a pale dead yellow.

  Maybe never. She always had such pretty, shiny

  “Kathy, it has hands. Look at its face!”

  eyes, after all.

  But she hadn’t listened, only saying, “It’s a bug. A

  4

  HAVOK OCTOBER, 2018

  LATE SUPPER

  Terry Agold

  Mama got home late. “Lucy, honey, go outside “Are you bad?”

  and play while I make something quick for

  A moment passed. Lucy heard a rustle, like leather

  supper.”

  sliding over itself. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  Lucy smiled and bolted for the back door. “Okay,

  “Mama says I should always face my fears. If I’m not

  Mama.” She bounded down the porch steps. The screen

  afraid of you, you can’t hurt me.” She looked pleadingly door banged shut behind her as Mama clanked pots in

  at the back door.

  the kitchen.

  Another rustle. “It doesn’t work that way. There

  The stars were already out. A smear of deep blue

  are rules.”

  hung on the horizon as she ran for the swing. She spun

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m going to turn

  as she grabbed the chains and leaped into the seat, her momentum carrying her back.

  She pushed higher and higher until she was nearly

  She had faced her fear and

  level with the top bar of the swing. The rusty chains

  conquered it…

  creaked with each pass. She locked her gaze straight

  ahead and imagined rushing through the ocean of stars

  as she swung.

  around now. My eyes are closed.”

  Lucy stopped pulling and kicking. She closed her

  She turned slowly toward her unseen monster, her

  eyes and let herself coast. The still, night air cooled her whole body shaking. Her heart raced.

  while she was in motion. As she slowed to a stop, the

  “Y-you’re not going to eat me,” she stammered.

  induced breeze tapered to nothing.

  “You’re going to be nice from now on, and stop scaring

  She slipped out of the swing and stepped across the

  people,” she scolded.

  yard, her bare feet digging into the lush grass, already

  “I … But you can’t …”

  dampened by the muggy air.

  “I’m going to open my eyes now.”

  “Please don’t! I don’t want to …”

  She forced her eyes open and saw the creature,

  but only for an instant. It seemed almost sad before it

  Behind her, the rusty chains

  vanished in a flash of light.

  began to creak. Something heavy

  Still shaking, she smiled, her face wet with tears.

  She stood up straighter. She had faced her fear and

  was in the swing.

  conquered it. She turned back to the house. Mama

  would be so proud.

  Lucy felt ten feet tall as she flung open the screen

  She stooped to run her hands through the cool

  door. Mama busied herself stirring the macaroni and

  grass. In the distance, a dog barked. Behind her, the

  cheese. “Supper’s almost ready, honey.”

  rusty chains began to creak. Something heavy was in

  the swing.

  She froze.

  Mama would be so proud.

  The creaking stopped.

  She stood slowly, shaking. Cold air hit the back of

  her neck.

  A baritone whisper rasped in her left ear. “Don’t

  She could smell the ham frying. She was so hungry.

  turn around.”

  She watched her mother for a moment, basking in her

  Her eyes widened as she drew in a sharp breath.

  achievement.

  The disembodied voice whispered in her right ear. “If

  “Mama?”

  you look at me, I have to eat you.”

  Her mother shut off the stove, scooping fried ham

  “Mama?” Her voice croaked, too softly for her

  onto a pair of plates. “Yes, sweetheart?”

  mother to hear. Tears rolled down her face. “Why?”

  “Don’t turn around.”

  “Because it’s a rule. You can’t see my face.”

  ETE INS There’s a storm outside. The third this month. I used to love the sound of the rain as K

  it pounded against the window. It felt cosy. Safe. All tucked up in bed with homework being my only worry.

  Those days are long gone.

  When the lightning strikes, bringing my dark bedroom to life, I swear I can still see TR EN the bloodstains on the wall. Mum says I’m being paranoid because there’s a thick layer of paint covering them—but it’ll take a lot more than that to erase what happened here.

  J

  We should have never bought this horrid place. It’s cursed! I felt it the moment we first walked through the front door. Mum didn’t want us to live here either; she wanted the house over in Bridgeview. But after Dad lost his job at the steelworks, 17 Richcross Street was all we could afford.

  VEN

  I felt it the moment we first walked through

  SS S

  the front door.

  O STE I haven’t left the corner of the room all night. I try to will my body to move, but I’m too scared. What if that murdering bastard comes back? They always do that in the movies, don’t they? Viewing the devastation like a trophy on a shelf?

  R

  Please God let them catch him soon...

  But what if they can’t? I think it’s nearly impossible to catch a killer when there’s no motive. I mean, why would someone do such an evil, heartless thing? He must have a C

  screw loose. Something dark and twisted living in that brain of his. Was he born that way?

  Abused as a child? Whatever the reason was, that maniac woke up on September 21st, put on his clothes, and then went on to hack a defenceless family to death with a machete.

  And in their beds, for Christ’s sake!

  H

  The thunder roars again, so I cover my ears and watch the walls and ceiling creep towards me. At least the bad weather keeps the locals away. On some nights, they act like a mob of football hooligans, gathering outside, staring up at the windows with pure disgust.

  And who the hell can blame them? This house is a bloody stain on a once peaceful street.

  IC

  The thunder roars again, so I cover my ears and watch

  the walls and ceiling creep towards me.

  I’ve only faced the outside world a few times in the past few weeks. It isn’t exactly fun being ignored by everyone in the neighbourhood. They tried for months to have the so-called Murder House torn down, but Mum said they can’t because it’s a listed building, 17 R

  which basically means that it’s historic. I can’t see it myself though. Just looks like any other

  two bedroom house. Small garden. One parking space.

  finally buy this wretched place. Let them paint over the Double-glazed windows. Although, after what happened

  darkness with something better. Something normal. br />
  here, I doubt this place will be forgotten in a hurry.

  But who in their right minds would buy a murder

  house? A slaughter house?

  No one, that’s who!

  But who in their right minds

  So let the locals soak these walls with petrol. Let

  them burn this museum of pain to ashes. Maybe then

  would buy a murder house?

  this will all be over. Maybe then I can sleep again, and forget about the night he came for us. The night he

  The storm illuminates the room again, and I see the

  stood in my bedroom doorway, glaring at Lucy and me

  spot. That spot no amount of scrubbing could remove. It’s with glazed-over eyes, the stench of whiskey reaching

  where his first victim was found. Blood oozing from her our bunk beds. The machete trembling in his grip.

  split skull, seeping through the thin gaps in the wooden Maybe then I’ll get to smile again.

  floor. I close my eyes because the memory is too vivid.

  But for now, my family and I are trapped here, stuck

  I call out to Mum, but she doesn’t hear. I start to cry, with these horrific memories. In this claustrophobic but no tears leave my eyes. I’m desperate to run, but

  prison. In this suffocating limbo. Praying for a great big there’s nowhere to go. I want to hide under my bed,

  light to shine down on 17 Richcross Street, and beam

  but my room is bare. No furniture. Just an empty shell

  us up to Heaven.

  where a happy home once stood.

  Well, all except Dad, of course.

  Frustration, loneliness, terror—they burn through me That bastard can burn in Hell!

  like boiling water. Let this nightmare end. Let someone Born in South Wales, Steven Jenkins began writing stories at the age of eight. His inspiration came from a love for ‘80s horror movies, and novels by the late Richard Matheson. After becoming a husband and father, Steven spent his free time writing short stories, which gained publication in Dark Moon Digest: an American horror magazine. Finally, in 2013, Steven got his debut ghost novel, Fourteen Days, published by Barking Rain Press.