Bone ChimesA Read online

  Bone Chimes

  Kristopher Rufty

  DEDICATION

  For Mrs. Moody and Ms. Brown. Thank you for your support.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There are a lot of folks to thank. Plenty of people have read my stories through the years, each offering their own bits of encouragement and opinions. But I’m going to narrow it down some for this collection and hope the rest will forgive me this time.

  I would like to start with my eighth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Moody. Other than my parents, you were the first person to tell me I could do great things with my writing. I still have the yearbook with your special note of encouragement inside. I will never forget it.

  Special thanks to Ms. Brown for showing me the bookcases you kept out of sight. And thank you for allowing me to borrow titles to help influence my own writing. I hate you never got to read any of my published work. You are incredibly missed.

  Countless thanks must go to my parents for allowing me to write such wild stories to begin with. Thank you, Mom, for taking them with you to work to read on your lunchbreaks. Thank you, Dad, for bringing home that old typewriter when you saw how desperately I needed to write. Another thank you for the word processor many years later. And I must also thank you for introducing me to the word “rump”. It was because of you that I started using it in my own writing.

  I also need to thank my aunt, Ann, who took one of my earliest writings with her and made copies of it so I could try to submit it. Your kind words have never left me.

  I want to thank my in-laws, Pam and Keith, for everything you’ve done for my family and me. You’ve helped us through so much, and I hope you never forget how special you are to not only me, but your daughter and your grandchildren.

  Next, I want to thank Evans Light, David Bernstein, Tod Clark, Tim Waggoner, Jeff Strand, Hunter Shea, Jonathan Janz, Don D’Auria, Tristan Thorne, Brian Keene, Bryan Smith, Trent Haaga, Wrath James White, Kim Myers, Erin Sweet-Al Mehairi, Paul Goblirsch, Paul Synuria II, Gary MacDonald, Deborah Grace, Aleka Nakis, Kathleen Pickering, Evan Pickering, Traci Hall, and Heather Graham. Every one of you have been a crucial part of it all. And a very special thanks to Ronald Malfi for helping me with titling this collection. I’m proud to call you my friends.

  Lastly, I can’t thank my wife, Angie, and our children enough for all the support you’ve given me during this ride that’s shown us some wonderful ups and plenty of frustrating downs. Your love and never-ending supplies of smiles keep me strong. I love you all so much.

  INTRODUCTION

  I remember when I first picked up a copy of Angel Board. The author was someone I hadn’t heard of, but his book was part of a new horror line. A few pages in and, despite Dorchester being extinct, I could’ve sworn I was reading another classic horror title. I thought maybe it was a reprint of something I had missed out on. I was wrong. It was new, and from a new talent. I gobbled that novel up and realized I’d found a new favorite author. I was blown away at how much I enjoyed Angel Board. From that point on, I made sure to read everything Kristopher Rufty released.

  I met Krist sometime in 2011, if I remember correctly. It had been online. He’d been published with Samhain and I had a novel in the pipeline with them. Krist and I hit it off immediately. He was uber helpful and supportive. We wound up chatting about writing and how we couldn’t believe we were published with authors we’d been reading for years, as well as how great it was to be working with Don D’Auria. But we also chatted about regular life and that’s where the friendship solidified. Krist is one of the nicest, most sincere and genuine people I’ve met. I’m honored to call him my friend.

  We kept in touch regularly and wound up co-writing a novella with Shane McKenzie and Adam Cesare. What a blast that was! We met in real life shortly after that at Scares that Care 2, and continue to talk and meet up at the convention every year.

  Well, enough about that. Let’s talk about Krist’s work.

  The man can write, and write with the best of them. I know it’s said about many writers, but when I say Krist pulls no punches and writes from his gut, he truly does. Sure, he gives us horror fiends plenty of delicious bloodshed and gore, but more than that, he stirs up emotions. He knows how to scare, knows how to wrench your heart out and make you feel sympathy for his characters. He touches upon real life with his fiction. But he doesn’t stop there. No. You think you know where one of his stories is going... You think you know who is safe... Just when you think the road is going to turn left, it whips right and slopes down at a 90-degree angle and drops you into a pit of blood-caked and bone ridden spikes. There is no relaxing when reading a Rufty tale. This is made clear in any of his titles, but the one that haunts me the most is A Dark Autumn—a novella that took me on a roller coaster and then turned that coaster upside down. My emotions were all over the place—and that’s what I want from the authors I read. His horror has heart and stays with the reader long after the pages are done being turned. He was born a writer and storyteller. If you’ve read him before, you already know this. And if this is your first go-round to Krist’s world, then I welcome you with chainsaws a’ wielding and knives a’ slicing.

  With Bone Chimes, Krist hits all the right buttons and shows off his chops yet again. This collection is a dark journey (with some laughs) through Krist’s incredibly imaginary mind and is an excellent potpourri of his work. He’s written novellas, novels, and directed films, so it was only natural we got a short story collection from him. Took him long enough, didn’t it? Well, it was worth the wait!

  Well, I’ve taken up enough of your reading time, so turn the page and enjoy Bone Chimes, a wonderfully, dark and creepy collection of horror tales.

  David Bernstein, 2017

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  As I was writing the first draft of Angel Board way back in 2009, I read Bentley Little’s The Collection for the first time. I’d read a lot of short story collections and anthologies before it, and plenty since, but I still believe that Little’s collection is the best of all. I learned so much from each story inside, and it also restored my love of writing short fiction. Since then, I’ve tried to write a couple short stories between each novel I complete. Something to keep me writing, but nothing too heavy that would require a ton of my time. Sometimes, I didn’t get the chance because as soon as I turned in a novel, I had to jump right into another one because of previously made commitments.

  Whenever I did get to work on some stories, whether they were good or bad, I kept them. Even if they weren’t finished, I held onto everything. I never throw out anything. No matter how much hell the story put me through, or how frustrated it made me.

  This short story collection was pitched to my old editor. He liked the idea, so I got to work, gathering up stories to send him that I thought he might like. But before we could get very far on it, he was released from the original publisher. Feeling discouraged, I tucked it away for over a year, with a lot of doubt I’d ever return to it. It kept nagging me, though, until I finally couldn’t ignore it any longer. Besides, I’d already talked about the collection in a few interviews. Eventually, people would start asking what happened to it.

  What the heck? I thought. Might as well finish putting it together.

  Decided to get back to work on it, I thought it might be a neat idea to include one story I wrote from each year after I read Little’s The Collection for the first time. Like I said earlier, I tried to write a couple stories between each novel, so there was a decent supply to sift through. To my surprise, not of all of them were extremely terrible. I wanted to include so many that I actually had to cut a few to keep the count low. I didn’t want to throw together a large boxset of stories all at once. Keeping it simple and small was what I decided on and I hope it was
the right choice.

  I should point out, though, that some of the previously released stories did come out in some form of publication during the same years, but they were written separately, and I felt they still fit the concept I was trying to follow.

  I hope you enjoy these little shattered glimpses of my imagination. It can be a fun place to play, though the woods that border the playground just might be filled with monsters.

  The Chomper

  A pleasant melody of chimes played through the house. But to me, the song was like fingernails on a chalkboard. It was just after noon, and I was sitting at my desk, polishing chapter fourteen of my new book.

  No doubt, Ms. Needlemire was at the door.

  The soft taps of footsteps resounded from the hallway. Monica appeared in the doorway, worry wrinkling her forehead. Her sunshine-colored hair was pulled back, hanging in a loose ponytail. Strands draggled in her face. She had on a gray tank top and athletic shorts that left her tawny legs looking very bare. In one hand, she held a squirt bottle of cleaning fluid. In the other hand was a soiled rag.

  “Don’t worry,” I said.

  My words did nothing to relax her strained face. She looked distressed. “Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  “I know. There’s a calendar on my desk.”

  “Don’t get snarky, Adam,” she said, stepping back so I could get by.

  My tone was deliberate. Monica had been on me for two weeks about Ms. Needlemire. Each day seemed a bit worse. Today my wife had been a wreck.

  Pausing partway up the hall, I turned back, feeling guilty. Monica watched me like a child not wanting her father to leave for work. It looked as if the doorway to my office had swallowed half of her, only showing the right side of her body.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Are you really going to answer the door?” Monica asked, ignoring my apology.

  “I figured I would.”

  Monica nibbled her lip. A quiet whine escaped her mouth.

  “We can’t avoid her,” I said. “She lives down the street, for Christ’s sake.”

  “She’s here to talk about the envelope.”

  “I’ll handle it,” I said, turning away from Monica. I glimpsed her squeezing the squirt bottle hard enough to spray the doorway paneling.

  Ms. Needlemire had come over every third Saturday of the three months we’d lived in Golden Gates Community. Each visit had been the same: a reminder that the envelope would arrive and tell us our tithe. This time would be different. She probably knew the cream-colored envelope had been left on our doorstep two weeks ago.

  I opened the door, squinting at the bright sunlight. As my eyes adjusted, I began to make out the minute shape of a flowery blue dress. A pallid wrinkled face, frowning underneath crusty red lipstick, came into focus. The eyes, tiny dull marbles, looked overly large behind the thick black glasses. Her ash-colored hair puffed out on both sides of her head underneath the flowery hat.

  The clumpy red lips spread into a smile. “Hello, Mr. Schaffer.”

  “Ms. Needlemire. How are you this morning?”

  “It’s past noon, Mr. Schaffer. Hardly could be considered morning.”

  “Right,” I said. “My fault. Good afternoon.”

  “It’s a hot one today, isn’t it?” she said. “Or have you been keeping yourself too busy writing another one of those violent crime novels to enjoy the day God gave us?”

  Like a champ, I smiled. I was used to people criticizing my stories. “My work is my joy, Ms. Needliemire, so I haven’t missed a thing.”

  Ms. Needlemire stared at me, eyes locked on mine. The sun glinted off the thick glass lenses like water. I could tell she was waiting on me to get it started. When she finally figured out I wasn’t going to, she sighed. “Have you begun the preparations for what we discussed?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Tomorrow’s the third Sunday, Mr. Schaffer. This will be your first blood offering. If you wish to placate the Chomper, then you have to make sure everything’s in order.”

  “It will be.”

  “I don’t believe you. And may I remind you that you signed the contract. The hazards of not obeying the Chomper’s creeds…”

  “That’s not necessary,” I said, stopping her.

  Ignoring me, she said, “The Chomper allowed us to build our homes on this land. In return, we tithe every third Sunday of every month. This is something we give in obedience to the Chomper for what it’s allowed. Since you’re new here, you were given a reprieve. Now it’s time for you to begin your tithe.”

  My tithe. Jesus.

  “Do you hear yourself?” I asked.

  “I hear myself just fine. Unlike my eyes, my ears are in pristine shape. You knew what this community had committed to before you bought the house, before you signed the contract.”

  “Guess I slept through the blood offering meeting.”

  Ms. Needlemire lowered her head, letting out a long breath that rattled her craggy cheeks. When she looked up, her eyes somehow looked darker. “Mr. Schaffer, I’m going to be frank with you. Many neighbors did not want you to come here. This is a community of families that love each other. You and your wife have no family, and from talking with Mrs. Schaffer, have no plans of starting one anytime soon.”

  That had been Monica’s decision, not mine. I’d wanted kids for a couple years now. Each time I brought it up, there was a different reason why we couldn’t. Our apartment was too small. We didn’t make enough money. When two of my books were turned into successful movies, my advances got bigger, as did my royalty checks, resolving the money issue. Then I moved us into this house tucked away in a small community surrounded by woods. An area without crime, the perfect place to raise children. Now Monica wanted us to get settled in for a while, get used to the house, our neighbors.

  Maybe next year.

  I didn’t share any of this with Ms. Needlemire. It wasn’t her business to know it.

  Frowning, Ms. Needlemire continued, “And your novels are so…grim. Every page chocked full of fornication and violence.”

  “They’re crime stories. That’s sort of the norm. And thank you for reading them.”

  “That’s not normal to most of us here at Golden Gates. But it was put to a vote, and by one vote, you were accepted. Bring in some youth, they’d said. It’d be good for the neighborhood, getting people to continue the tithe long after we’re gone. Stupid. Youth doesn’t believe in anything unless it can be explained from top to bottom in every way. There’s no faith, no credence.”

  “So we’re here to replace the ones about to die?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Don’t you think this shit is…crazy?”

  Ms. Needlemire frowned. “We knew what had to be done before my husband built our house with his bare hands. We’d made a pact with the Chomper, all of us in the community. There’s no other place any of us would rather live, no other place worth living. So you take the good with the bad, and learn to live with it. My husband, God rest his soul, would agree.”

  “I pay a mortgage, which should be enough.”

  “I know you received your envelope. What was inside is your tithe, every third Sunday.”

  “The hell it is. Do you have any idea what was in the envelope?”

  Ms. Needlemire threw up her hand. The skin of her fingers looked as if she’d been washing dishes for a long time. “That’s not for me to know. It’s your tithe. If you tell it to me, then the Chomper will be angry with us both. No matter what, never tell anyone what it is.”

  “And if I don’t give it the tithe it wants…”

  “You breach your contact and can move, or offer something in its place in hopes for forgiveness.”

  “Like a chicken or something?”

  “Something of yours, with blood.”

  I couldn’t believe this creepy nonsense. What scared me the most was how much Ms. Needlemire believed it. Probably everybody else in the neighborhood did too. I had no desire to play along
. Yes, we’d signed the contract. We’d been told about Chompers and tithes and blood, but it had meant nothing. Living here was what mattered. Monica said, no matter what, we had to have this house.

  And the community offered lawn care.

  Forget it. I’d cut my own damn grass.

  “Thanks for stopping by, Ms. Needlemire. I need to get back to work.”

  As I started to shut the door, Ms. Needlemire stomped her foot against it. “I really hope you learn to take this seriously. I’d hate to see you go. I was the final vote that got you in here.” Ms. Needlemire turned away from me, and shuffled down the three steps to the sidewalk.

  Standing in the doorway, I watched her sluggishly walk away. Hunched over, her left arm was out, as if holding an imaginary person’s hand.

  Or a ghost’s.

  That thought sent a sharp chill up my spine. I shut the door.

  In the kitchen, I opened the fridge and took out a bottle of beer. Twisting off the cap, there was a carbonated pop that speckled my hand with cold dots. I guzzled.

  “A little early, isn’t it?” Monica asked from behind me.

  Gulping, I shook my head.

  “Are you going to tithe now?” she asked.

  Lowering the bottle, I quietly belched. “Are you insane? No.”

  Rolling her eyes, Monica leaned against the doorway. She no longer had the cleaning products. “It’s expected of us.”

  “We’re going to disappoint a lot of people.”

  “What if they make us move? And I can’t go. I can’t.”

  “We own this house.”

  “But the contract…”

  “Screw the contract. They can’t make us move. We own the house, the land. Right?”

  Monica, closing her eyes, nodded. When she opened them, I noticed wetness making them shimmer. “Right.” There was no conviction in her voice, only a quality that hinted at how concerned she was.

  “What do you think we should do?” I asked.