Sliced and Diced Read online

  Sliced and Diced

  A collection of dark and twisted short stories

  By

  Joan De La Haye

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  SLICED AND DICED

  First edition. June 22, 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 Joan De La Haye.

  Written by Joan De La Haye.

  Also by Joan De La Haye

  Fury

  Requiem in E Sharp

  Shadows

  Burning

  Oasis

  The Race

  Sliced and Diced

  Watch for more at Joan De La Haye’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Joan De La Haye

  Dedication

  Black Shuck

  Death Express

  Death of a Parrot

  Fat Werewolf in the City

  Firelight

  Impundulu

  Jack's Lament

  My Life as a Peeping Tom

  Slice

  The Bride

  The English Soldier

  The Forest

  The Head of Anubis

  The Reunion

  The Trial

  The Violin

  Trapped

  Further Reading: The Race

  Also By Joan De La Haye

  About the Author

  Monique Snyman for being my second opinion, for always taking time out of your busy schedule to read my stories and ripping them to shreds. But most of all, thanks for making me a better writer.

  Johan, my big brother, thank you for all the great advice for my books on the best ways to kill people.

  Eileen, my big sister, thanks for teaching me to read and giving me a love of the written word.

  Thanks Mom – for everything!

  Black Shuck

  'And a dreadful thing from the cliff did spring,

  And its wild bark thrilled around,

  His eyes had the glow of the fires below,

  Twas the form of the Spectre Hound.'

  - An old Norfolk saying

  That howl has haunted us for three nights in a row, and each time it fills us with dread and painful memories. It’s a death knell for some unfortunate creature, even if it isn’t always an immediate end, but it is always a bloody one. Last night was the end of Mr Brown’s existence. To be honest, he won’t be mourned. He was a notorious drunk and nobody liked him. He reeked of whisky and never paid his bar tab. He was always trying to beg a drink off others in the pub, unsuccessfully I might add. Mr Brown’s throat was ripped out. He’d come across Black Shuck a year ago, while stumbling around on the Moor, he survived that encounter, but last night was his last call. The black bitch collected her dues. None of us can understand why he stumbled out onto the moor last night when he knew that she was out there, waiting for him. He knew that he’d had his year, that he’d had more time than others after seeing Black Shuck. Yet he still went out into the mist in a drunken stupor.

  We live in a strange little village on the Norfolk coast. Our family has been here since, well...since the eleven hundreds, or at least that’s what Grandpa always claimed. That damn demon dog has probably been here even longer, probably since the Vikings invaded and every year the hell-hound claims another victim or two. Somewhere along the line some smart-arse decided to name the bitch Black Shuck. The name stuck. I say bitch, because, well, I’ve just always thought of it as being of the female persuasion. Others, including dear old dad, refer to it as a him, because males are just so much more fearsome. I say phish to all that. The female of the species is more dangerous than the rest. Plus, I just like calling it a bitch.

  Anyway, some of the men folk, after getting drunk in the pub, have decided to get all brave, grab their torches and pitchforks, and hunt the bitch down. They’ve forgotten their history. Our ancestors, over the centuries, have all tried to put an end to her stalking anyone dumb enough to wonder out onto the moor after dark, when the mist comes up at this time of year, and all of those attempts have ended in tragic failure and not to mention many a death. Some of those deaths have been at Black Shucks paws and fangs, while others have just been due to drunken stupidity and getting caught in a mire.

  As I watch my husband, Thomas, my brother, Richard, and my father, drink their whisky, pat each other on their backs, and get each other hyped-up to go hunting for a phantom dog, I want to slap them senseless. One of the other women in the village waves her husband a teary goodbye, like so many other women of the village have done over the centuries. But instead of giving my husband the tearful farewell he wants, I tell him he’s an idiot. He downs the last bit of his whisky, gives me a wet kiss on the cheek, and follows the rest of the men out the pub and into the mist.

  A hush descends over the pub as wives and mothers wait. I stand sentinel at the window, waiting for the first of the screams that will puncture the silence, like it did the night my mother was killed by Black Shuck twenty years ago. My parents had argued that night and my mother stormed out and ran into the night and the mist. My brother and I sat by the window waiting for her to come home, but all we heard were her screams.

  And tonight is the anniversary of her death.

  Ever since that night I’ve hated waiting. Some would say that in many ways I’m still waiting for her to come home. I’ve never been a particularly patient person, probably due to my abandonment issues. Thomas likes to tell me that I have those in spades. He’s an armchair psychologist who likes to analyse me. I’m just more of a doer. If I sit still for too long I start to think things I really don’t want to be thinking about. Going out there is tantamount to committing suicide, but waiting for the screams is driving me crazy. I can’t simply wait here and do nothing. I grab my coat and flashlight and run out into the mist like a crazy woman, because that’s exactly what I am. I know I’m being just as stupid as my mother was all those years ago, but I can’t help myself. Before she died, my mother said we had more guts than brains and that would put us both in an early grave. But it was her own actions that put her in the ground, not mine.

  Torches flicker in the mist and I can hear voices as they head towards the moor. Thomas’ voice drifts on the cold breeze. The sound of his drunken laughter forms a cast-iron ball in my stomach. I want to shout at him and tell him that he’s a bloody fool, but the words freeze in my throat. I’m trying not to panic. Before my mother died, I was what some might have called a rational sceptic, but I gave up being rational about Black Shuck the moment the bitch took my mother, and now the rest of my family are dangling themselves at her gaping jaw, which is wide open and ready to snap shut around their necks, her fangs waiting to rip out their throats.

  The church bells clang through the mist, courtesy of Father Michael who rings them for the brave fools heading to their death. The church was built on a Leyline, on the edge of the moor, on top of the cliff overlooking the beach. Father Michael has been the priest here since before I was born. It’s not the first time he’s rung the bell on a night like this for the men of the village hunting for Black Shuck. He believes they’re doing God’s work and encourages them every year to go on the hunt, just another reason I won’t set foot in his church. He’s clearly insane and has no respect for human life or any common sense for that matter.

  I can feel the surface of the ground change beneath my feet. I’m no longer on the solid tar surface of the road and the ringing of the bells sounds closer. The smell of the ocean is stronger and the air seems to have a colder bite. I’m on the moor and in Black Shucks territory. Mist swirls around my ankles and up my boots. My hair, damp from the mist, clings to my face. As
I try to wipe the strands of hair off my cheeks I realise that they’re wet, not from my hair or the mist, but from the tears I’m shedding. I’m crying and didn’t even realise it. Bloody ridiculous!

  The shouts from the men seem nearer. I’m catching up to them. I hear Thomas talking to Richard. He’s telling some dirty joke and Richard laughs uncomfortably. He’s never been very comfortable with bawdy jokes, probably because he isn’t comfortable with his own sexuality. I just wish he’d come out of the closet and admit who he truly is. Life would be so much easier if he were just honest about it. Although Dad would probably not take it well. If our mother had been alive she would know how to handle the situation.

  A scream erupts out of the dark. It seems to echo and reverberate. I don’t think its Thomas or Richard, but I can feel that ball in my stomach grow and tighten. I run in the direction I believe it’s coming from, but the sound is muffled and I’m disorientated. I trip over a rock.

  Richard is shouting. Torches flicker through the mist, converging from different directions to where the scream came from. The metallic smell of blood hangs in the damp air. An involuntary shiver creeps up my arms and legs as I approach the huddled group of men. The look on Thomas’ face makes me want to escape, but I keep walking towards the huddled group of men with their sympathetic, pitying, looks.

  ‘Don’t look,’ Thomas says as he tries to shield me.

  I push past him. I know what I’ll see before I see it. That cast-iron ball shoots from my stomach up my throat and my jaw clenches. My face is hot and cold at the same time. Shock settles into my bones. My father has joined my mother. His throat has been ripped out. Blood seeps into the ground, turning it red. Richards’s arms are around me, squeezing me, strangling me. I wait for the tears to stream down my face again, but I have no more tears to cry. I’m numb.

  I watch from a distance as Thomas and Richard pick up his body. The men of the village have lost their will to hunt down the black bitch. With slumped shoulders they follow the corpse and its bloody trail back to the pub and their wives and mothers. They’ll probably sip their beers and huddle by the fire and tell tall stories about my father’s life, stories I’ve heard so many times before. It’s the same way the hunt has always ended, with blood, and tears, and stories of the fallen.

  I can’t seem to move my feet. I stand there, staring down at the puddle of my father’s blood. Richard and Thomas keep walking towards the village with my father’s corpse dangling between them and don’t notice that I’m not with them. Their voices and torches fade away. I’m alone with my grief.

  Or at least that’s what I think until I hear the sound of paws padding on the ground and a snarl. There’s a gathering darkness at the periphery of my vision. Red, blazing, eyes stare back at me as the amassing darkness takes the form of a very large dog. My legs shake and my lower lip quivers as my heart beats it’s staccato against my ribcage. Even though my legs feel like unset jelly I take a step away from the bitch, and then another one. She matches me step for step, slowly advancing as I retreat. We’re dancing a slow death waltz. My father’s blood drips from her snout. A scream freezes in my throat. I want to run, but if I do I’ll die that much sooner. I want to hold on to life for just a few moments more.

  ‘Sandy,’ Thomas shouts from somewhere towards the village. ‘Sandy, where are you?’ He calls again; his voice gets a higher pitch as he starts to worry about me. My voice catches in my throat and I can’t call back. I take a step towards the sound of his voice and perceived safety. Black Shuck matches my step with a counter move of her own. She gets between me and Thomas’ voice.

  ‘Fucking Bitch,’ I scream. All those years of pent-up anger, fear, and frustration have finally been vocalised in those two words, and with those words resounding in my brain, I run towards her. My anger has pushed all my fears aside. She growls. Her red eyes flash in the darkness, giving me a target. Blood pumps through my jelly legs. Her hackles rise as she prepares to take a flying leap at me. Her fangs, still dripping from my father’s blood, are bared. Her growl sends a primal fear up my spine, but my anger, once again, pushes that fear aside. We collide. Stones smash against my ribs. Her paws pin my shoulders to the ground. Rotten breath caresses my throat. Her tongue licks my neck as I struggle under her.

  ‘Sandy,’ Thomas and Richard call out to me from the mist. They’re so close. She stops licking my throat and sniffs the air. With one last growl she jumps off me and is swallowed up by the night.

  Richard and Thomas find me cuddling my knees to my chest and rocking back and forth. I can’t tell them what has happened to me, that she’s marked me. She knows my scent now and will come for me, not tonight, but soon. Tonight I must mourn my father and be grateful for my reprieve and the time I still have left with my family.

  She howls somewhere in the dark as I walk back to the village pub. She’s reminding me that it’s not over, that it’ll never be over, that even once she’s claimed me she will still be roaming free, free to hunt others dumb enough to go looking for her and let’s face it, there’s an endless supply of those in this world. Black Shuck will never go hungry.

  Death Express

  The screams of delight mingled with exhilaration and echoed from the roller-coaster rides as we explored Gold Reef City, south of Johannesburg. It was one of the first times we’d been out in public together. I’d been having an affair with David for a few months and we were feeling reckless. His wife was away for the weekend, visiting her family at the coast, and we felt we deserved to have some fun in the sun as well. We were trying our relationship on for size and seeing if it still fitted outside of the bedroom.

  We rode the Anaconda about six times. David wasn’t a big fan, but he sat in the front of the ride with me because he knew I loved it, which made me love him even more. His wife was an absolute fool who didn’t appreciate him. She was also a jealous and possessive cow who gave him little freedom. Or that’s what I told that nagging, guilty voice scratching at the back of my mind.

  To take my mind off the guilt, I decided to up the ante for an even bigger rush. Only one ride could give that to me. David screamed like a girl on the Tower of Terror and couldn’t understand how I could laugh as we plummeted. He didn’t know the guilt I felt about having an affair with a married man had finally been silenced by the adrenaline rush. I’d be back to feeling like a home wrecker once it wore off, but for a few moments I could enjoy being in love with him.

  His legs shook as we got off and I couldn’t help kissing him. It was the first time we’d kissed in public. It took us both by surprise and felt so right. We held hands for the first time while we explored the rest of the gold mining theme park.

  We considered going straight back to my place after that kiss, but decided we’d try one more ride. Just one more ride and then we’d make love and never let each other go.

  “Promise me, after this ride it'll be just you and me forever?” I asked, as butterflies danced in my stomach.

  “I promise, after today, you’ll be mine forever.” His smile made my heart stop for a second. I knew I was acting like a silly school girl, but couldn’t help myself.

  With the promise made we started our search for that last ride.

  The Death Express was new and the queue wasn’t as long as those for the other rides. I wasn’t even sure what it was supposed to be, and the expressions on the faces of the men and women as they came out were interesting to say the least. They all looked haunted and completely freaked out. It gave me the creeps.

  “How about we forget about this one and just go home?” I suggested. “Start our new life together?”

  “Why? I thought you liked these kinds of things?” David said; his eyes opened wide and his eyebrows rose, giving him that rather comical surprised look.

  “I do, but I want to get you home and into bed more than I want to go on some stupid ride I haven’t even heard about.”

  “Let’s just try this one. It looks like it’ll be more my speed. I’ve gone on all the o
nes you chose. Can we try this one? Please.”

  “Okay.” I smiled and pretended my stomach wasn’t in my throat. I couldn’t understand why, but there was something about the looks on those faces that made me want to run in the opposite direction. I’d seen a similar expression on my sister just after her car crash. The doctors said she’d been clinically dead for a few seconds. Her eyes had lost their shine. She had the eyes of a corpse.

  “Do you know what this ride is like?” I asked a red-headed girl in front of me.

  “No. No one does and no one who’s been on it will tell me, so I have to see for myself.”

  “Oh,” I said. “No one will talk about it? That’s a bit weird.”

  “It must be one hell of a ride.” David’s eyes shone.

  The queue moved along faster than expected and before I could chicken out, we were at the entrance. I barely had time to read the small print on the sign board at the door. I had to squint to make out the words: Experience your death. Then I was inside before I could consider the ramifications of that line. People were herded one by one into dark cubicles. Someone screamed in the dark then I heard a cry. It was filled with pain and remorse. I wanted to get out but the door was locked and I was trapped in my own dark cubicle. This wasn’t like any ride I’d ever been on and I didn’t know where David was.

  The darkness closed in on me, surrounded me. I couldn’t breathe or think. The floor whirled under my feet, making me dizzy. The air was sucked from my lungs and my legs buckled beneath me. I knelt on the floor, but I was no longer in that small dark cubicle.

  I looked around, feeling dizzy and sick to my stomach. Something was very wrong. I was in the Gold Reef City parking lot. David stood over me, a knife in his hand. Where the hell had the knife come from? The thought had only just formed in my mind, when he thrust the knife into my chest. Sharp, excruciating pain sent my nerve endings into spasms. Blood gushed out of the wound. The look in his eyes as he killed me was cold and unemotional. Shouldn’t he be really angry to kill me? I looked into his glacial eyes as I took my last breath. My body tingled as my heart pumped the last bit of blood through my veins.