Dark Ride Read online

  Dark Ride

  By Michael Laimo

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  © 2012 / Michael Laimo

  Copy-edited by: Christopher Jones

  Cover Artwork By: Alan M. Grant

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  OTHER CROSSROAD PRESS BOOKS BY MICHAEL LAIMO AVAILABLE FOR YOUR KINDLE

  NOVELS:

  Atmosphere

  The Demonologist

  Deep in the Darkness

  Fires Rising

  Sleepwalker

  COLLECTIONS:

  Demons, Freaks, and Other Abnormalities

  Dregs of Society

  UNABRIDGED AUDIOBOOKS:

  Dark Ride

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  CONTENTS

  Summer Fling

  The Rash

  Something in the Air

  Scarred For Life

  End of the Line

  Comforts of Home

  Till Death Do They Part

  Snakes

  Soils of the Witch Garden

  Contents

  Last Resort

  And Yet, Still He Screams

  I Exude in Partials

  Dance: The Devil's Orgasm

  Aftermath

  Raingods Dancing

  Partners in Crime

  Pool

  The Exploitations of George Frederick Leighton

  Night of the Rage

  To Be

  Contact Lenses

  The Startling Supplements to Brione Heloise's Depictions

  Summer Fling

  At once, twenty eight year-old John Kessler questioned the accuracy of the spot he chose to pull over and pee.

  It lay twisted at the side of the road about a foot from the Camaro's front right tire, gummy blood oozing from its body in various places, staining the blacktop of the road and the weeds growing alongside. Once a coat of gold, the matted fur of the dead Golden Retriever now glistened sticky red, sad canine eyes dangling from the sockets, barely held in place by the muscles and veins that once provided movement and sight.

  John clutched his gut in mock effort to suppress the burger he stopped for on the drive up to the Catskills. He hurried back to the car, wishing he hadn't taken such a close look at the animal (of course, now after the fact, he wondered why he simply couldn't have waited until he got to the cabin to take a piss).

  He started the car and pulled away from the grisly scene. Endeavoring to clear the vision of the dog from his mind, he re-planned the events of the weekend in his mind's eye, dividing his activities between shooing pesky mosquitoes and furnishing his cat Spot with finger-scratches through the holes in the small travel cage on the seat next to him.

  The evening to this point had fallen short of his expectations. It started when Jill insisted they take separate cars, a discretionary caution, and that she would meet him upstate the following morning. Dean and Mike from the gym, who owned the cabin, had convinced John that a summer fling with the cute redhead might do his marriage some good. A strange piece, John. It'll give you back your confidence. John had soloed his way upstate, thinking about his wife who hadn't found the time of day to pay any attention to him for over a year now, then about the cute redhead from the gym named Jill who spent the better part of three months trying to get in his pants.

  Honey, I'm going away for the weekend with Dean and Mike from the gym, gonna play some golf.

  She seemed all too eager to get rid of him. What else was new?

  In ten minutes he reached Culver Road. This was the road, according to the directions Dean gave him, that led to the cabin. It curved around a small lake, lace-thin fog seeping out from the tranquil surface across the winding approach.

  He turned left into the driveway, mangled branches stretching their leave-filled hands out to form a canopy above the car. It shook along the dark bumpy lane, headlight beams dancing across the copses like rotating ceiling floods in a nightclub.

  Pulling up to the cabin, he could see yellow lamp-lights from inside reaching out through two quartered windows, gently illuminating Dean's white Chevy Blazer parked alongside the porch. "Be back in a minute, Spot." He gave the cat one last finger scratch, which it sniffed with a wet nose. He then shut the Camaro's engine, cracked the windows and got out, locking the door behind him.

  The small cabin looked rather dismal, a sole survivor on some deserted island seemingly anchored in isolation for someone to come rescue it. Lofty elms surrounded the lame wooden structure, tossing a dark dome over it like a great black parachute. A bib of dirt formed a natural welcome mat out front before launching into a stretch of dark, wooded acreage.

  Shoddy place. Not at all what he expected.

  John paced forward, tramping over scatterings of dried twigs. He peeked in through the back window of the blazer. Empty. Dean and Mike hadn't packed up yet. It seemed he would have a little company after all.

  Here are the directions to the cabin, John. Mike and I will be spending a few days there. Drive on up Friday night after work, we'll give you the keys and then we'll be on our way. Just one thing, though. You see, there's a catch. You can have the cabin all weekend. But we expect a blow-by-blow report. We want every juicy detail. We want to know if she's a real redhead!

  As his mind wandered, something soft and heavy snagged his foot and he staggered forward. He caught his balance then twisted around and saw a dead raccoon, or possum maybe, lying on the ground. Death had caused the animal to bloat beyond recognition. The amber glow from the porch lamp revealed a bulbous lump of innards swelling from its gut.

  He stepped back a foot, distancing himself from the burst carcass, the unadventurous move making him feel a bit more comfortable. That's two up close and personal roadkills in one day. Much more than any man can ask for.

  But…is this one really roadkill?

  A soft breeze jostled the heavy leaves above, sending dancing specks of moonlight across John's path as he paced toward the cabin. Three creaky wooden steps led to the rail-encased porch. John ascended them, leaning aside to avoid the mosquitoes pouring over the porch light. He scratched at his arms, swelling in places from a few small bites, then squinted as he walked into the insect-filled aura, opened the screen door and entered the cabin.

  "Hello?" John called. Waited. "Hello?" he repeated, louder. "Anyone here?" The place had been left in shambles. Garbage strewn about, plates and other household utensils scattered aimlessly. A small coffee table broken in two, a lamp knocked over. It smelled awful, like a dumpster bottom. Some party these two had he thought, helplessly wishing this to be the likelihood but knowing deep inside that no party had caused such disorder. He stepped over the lamp and made his way towards the kitchen.

  When he entered the kitchen he couldn't help but remain stunned. It too had been left in full neglect. The refrigerator door open, its contents spilled on the floor, water dripping from the freezer. Drawers pulled out, utensils strewn, the telephone handset dangling from its cord and tap-tapping eerily against the wall. And then the stink. Thick, gritty. Unendurable.

  John's eyes caught a glimpse of something on
the dinette table in the corner of the room. He turned. Faced it. Nearly puked, bile reaching into his throat.

  About three dozen uncooked burgers and hotdogs were on the tabletop, left out in the heat for what must've been days. They were festooned with mold, clots of maggots peppering the meaty formation, squirming wildly in its decaying mass. Mosquitoes and flies buzzed about the putrid heap in droves, as if dispatching reports of discovered treasure.

  Shuddering, John turned away from the awful sight. A number of mosquitoes had apparently decided that he was much fresher goods than the decayed picnic food, and buzzed crazily around his head. He swatted at them, scratching at the exposed skin on his arms. He stretched his arms out in front of him. Numerous welts had risen, mottling his once unblemished skin, some torn and now bleeding from constant scratching. He took a deep breath. No chance of spending the night here. The house is in chaos, stinks to high heaven, and now I'm taking a beating from the mosquitoes. What a waste.

  So what did Dean and Mike do here anyway? Beyond the casual relationship at the health club, John didn't know very much about them. They claimed to have owned the cabin, said they ran a small business here. So at the very least you'd think they would take care of it—especially since they both knew John was coming here with Jill.

  We want every juicy detail. We want to know if she's a real redhead!

  Good thing she didn't make the drive up here yet.

  As eager as he had been to get here, he was now that more anxious to leave. He turned, a quick exit in mind. His first footstep splashed in the small puddle of water leaking from the refrigerator. He slipped on the linoleum floor, his weight pulling both feet out from under him. He clutched his racing heart in a panic just as the rear of his skull rammed hard against the edge of the kitchen sink.

  Pain. Blackness. Vertigo. John made every effort to pull back from the brink. He felt himself breathing, felt the sweat dampening his face, but could only remain still, eyes to the ceiling, mosquitoes and flies whining about his head.

  They landed on him, the mosquitoes biting him, the flies tasting him. His face and arms had become a playground for the insects. He could feel them poking his skin, could feel the blood flowing from his veins into their swelling bodies. Slowly, his breathing returned. He thought of Jill, of that fine little piece taking a shower and soaping up that red hair of hers, tossing and turning in bed, ever so anxious about meeting him in the morning.

  You just sit tight John, and get a good night's sleep. I'll be there in the morning, all clean and pretty. Then I'll show you the time of your life. I'll make you feel things you've never ever felt before.

  Guess what sweetheart? I'm feeling them now!

  In a few seconds the haze cleared and a bit of his strength returned. Ever so slowly he raised himself up on his elbows. He ran a hand along the nape of his neck, massaging the lump rising there. Tears of pain welled in his eyes (that lump hurt real bad, as though someone was hammering a nail into his head), and through the wet blur he saw an aerosol can—flying insect repellent—-creviced between the floor and the storage cabinet under the sink.

  He leaned sideways and reached for it. His skin screamed, felt as if the bites on his arms had somehow grown tiny mouths from which they could voice their utter displeasure. He took the aerosol container into his possession, looking at it (drug-store brand crap) and cradled it like a teddy-bear. He peered up at the cloud of mosquitoes and flies and moths and beetles whirling about the ceiling light. He felt a sudden madness at the moment, an illogical need for revenge. He staggered to his feet. Slapped his arm. His neck. His cheek.

  With his right arm outstretched, John took aim and sprayed.

  The insects scattered to all corners of the room, buzzing and bouncing off the walls like bursting popcorn kernels. They came at John by the dozens, big fuckers, the mosquitoes attaching their probosci to his arms, his face, his neck. White moths the size of monarch butterflies bit through the fabric in his clothing. Japanese beetles settling into his hair, weaving their way down to his scalp. The flies, tons of them, tasted his skin.

  He panicked, let the can fall and swatted the assailing insects with both hands. They fell by the dozens. More came. He screamed, his voice echoing through the cabin. Like a man on fire he threw himself to the floor and rolled around. Still the insects swarmed, poking his skin, sucking his blood, the pain like a million doctor's needles. He thrashed, kicked, flailed with his hands, screamed, yelled, swatted at himself, continuing this maniacal defense until all attacking bugs were either squashed dead or retreating.

  "No," he whispered, stunned, out of breath, never more frightened in his life. He crawled to the sink like a man injured in a war. He sat up and leaned the back of his head against the storage cabinet underneath.

  Open mouthed, eyes closed, he gasped for air in a desperate struggle to come to his senses. This is my punishment. A good but bored man trying to follow through with unethical desires. A married man, surrendering to temptation, now paying the price for his sins. He wanted to scream for help.

  In great pain, he took in a slow deep breath.

  At that moment a mosquito—four inches long, the abdomen as thick as a pencil—zipped into his mouth. It latched its jointed legs around his tongue, piercing it with its needle-sharp proboscis. "Oommg!" he cried, clawing at his tongue, trying to spit the mosquito out. But the insect held tight, determined to gorge itself.

  Sickened, John found no alternative but to give it a taste of its own medicine.

  He bit down hard, incisors and bicuspids severing wings from thorax, dismembering abdomen from head. The mosquito's body exploded, John's own blood (and judging from the size of the bug, the blood of a few other victims) spraying into his mouth, along with other insect fluids and juices.

  Either in a last futile attempt to escape, or by involuntary motor functions, the mosquito fluttered its wings one last time and died.

  John choked and gagged violently, spitting the carnage out. It soiled his lips, dribbled down his chin. He cowered for a moment, heaving, then struggled to his feet and floundered from the kitchen into the trashed living room. Sick amazement caused a dizziness in his head that plagued his every footstep. He stopped at the front entrance, placed his right hand against the doorjamb and looked out through the seeping fog toward his black Camaro. It looked beautiful—his means for escape. Sucking in a few breaths of fresh mountain air, his overloaded mind cleared some—just enough to get behind the wheel of the car.

  Soon, he would be on his way home.

  With the sun now fully settled beyond the horizon, dusk gave way to night. Although the air grew cool, streaks of sweat trickled down John's welt-ridden back. The fog seemed to thicken by the minute, and he staggered through it across the front yard to his car.

  His trembling hand yanked on the handle. It pulled up, but did not open. Locked. He fumbled for the keys, still in his right front pocket, jingled them out and got a firm grip on the door key. He took notice of the blood oozing from the many bites on his arms.

  He slid the key into the lock.

  Gripped the handle.

  The lock popped. He opened the door.

  His mind had trouble accepting what his eyes saw just beyond the open door. He wanted to believe it to be a nightmared sight, but his common sense told him otherwise. That his bleeding bites were real, and so was the atrocity before him.

  Five, maybe six mosquitoes, all of them a foot or more long, were gathered on Spot's travel cage. He couldn't tell exactly how many of them there were, as they were pretzeled together, hairy legs and hot dog-sized bodies intertwined in a pulsating orgy of jubilation. Each of the mosquitoes displayed a proboscis thicker than a pencil, six to eight inches long and expertly fitted through the holes in the steel pet cage. The feeders were fused to the cat's body (one strategically puncturing the eye), the skin stretched to grotesque proportions at the point of entry, each mosquito pulling hard, making sure to get as much kitty insides as it could. The central area of Spot's b
ody that had not been penetrated quivered as blood and guts were sucked out. And the sounds! Where a normal sized mosquito would make a high-pitched whining hum, these monstrosities droned a deeper tone, like an electric razor.

  John started to hyperventilate, holding his hands to his ears in a feeble attempt to block the wet, slurping sounds and rapturous buzzing. He turned, legs buckling like soggy tea bags. He collapsed to the ground, groveling away on his hands and knees, dirt caking his wounds. He reached Dean's Blazer parked ten feet away, climbed up the driver's side of the vehicle, opened the door. Every muscle screamed, every bone ached as he clambered inside and shut the door behind him. He sat up, ran his right hand along the ignition. No keys. Panicked, he looked out into the dark woods. Dear God, what else is out there? Giant spiders? Squirrels from hell? Should've brought your camera John, the family would have loved to sit around the living room seeing how your summer fling really went.

  John dreamed of airplanes. Not of jets or commercial airliners, but of small prop twin-engines. He watched as a strange man attempted to start a grounded plane by turning the propeller with his hands. It would spin a few times, then sputter out and die...

  ch...ch...ch...ch...

  Again, the scene repeated itself. Soon the stranger was gone, but the sound continued...

  ch...ch...ch...ch...

  John became lucid in his dream, tried to escape, to run. The agonizing pain stopped him from going anywhere. Slowly, he awoke.

  ch...ch...ch...ch...

  He startled. For certain he was now awake. So where was the dream propeller coming from? He turned and looked in the back seat.

  Sitting atop of the headrest in the center of the back seat was a monstrous beetle, one similar in size to those mosquitoes joining Spot for dinner. The circular-shaped insect vibrated its chitinous wings, generating the puzzling propeller-like sound that had invaded John's dreamscape. John stared in utter disbelief, trembling with terror as the insect stretched out a set of pincers from its mouth like a pair of wicked party favors.