Uneasy Reading: 4 Horror Shorts by Jason Tucker Page A

the bricks. He held onto
Cooper for another few seconds, weighing the merits of doing so. He
finally released Cooper so the old man could retrieve the keys.
    2.
    It was near dark when Martin and Cassie
turned onto the long dirt driveway that led to the old homestead.
The once-white paint on the two-story house was peeling and
yellowing. The grey weathered steps that led up to the porch had
cracks in them from the beatings of fierce upstate winters. The
little work shed on the other side of the driveway looked ready to
fall apart. Long, thick grass covered the front yard: Martin
suspected that no one had cut it in years.
    Everything about the property looked beaten
and tired, as though it had endured the same abuse at its
inhabitants.
    "Looks bad, doesn't it?" Martin asked.
    "Was it ever good?"
    "I'm sorry about Mr. Cooper," he said. He
leaned against the side of the car and stared up at the house. He
didn't want to go inside; not yet. "He shouldn't have said what he
did. You were standing right there."
    "We've gone over this before," Cassie said.
"He can't see me. You're the only one who can."
    "He still shouldn't have said it."
    "You have to be able to control yourself if
we're going to do this," she said. "You have to listen to me."
    "I know. It's just… he was one of them."
    Wind whipped across the field, bending the
grasses almost flat. Neither Cassie's long blond hair nor her blue
dress moved in the breeze. She still didn't look a day over
sixteen. She smiled at him. "Don't worry, little brother. Tonight's
the night we start to make it all better."
    "I'm tired. It feels like I've been up for
days."
    "I can let you sleep for a little while,"
Cassie said. "But we have a lot to do."
    3.
    Martin dreamed of dark times.
    He was twelve again, cowering in his cramped
room beneath the attic. He lay in his bed under a quilt Cassie had
made, clutching his stuffed tiger and trying to shut out the sounds
that came from downstairs. His father's voice boomed and seemed to
shake the walls. He was demanding that Cassie come out of her
room.
    Two loud slaps. Martin's mother began to cry
and then she fell suddenly silent. Martin knew what that was like.
He knew what it was to feel pain and not be able to show that it
hurt. If he ever did, his father would just dish out more of
it.
    The sound of two men's laughter and talking
came from somewhere outside his open window. Martin knew their
voices. Why didn't they try to help his mother? He wanted to go and
tell his father to leave, but he was too small, too frightened.
    Then he heard Cassie's voice above the
commotion. She was yelling at Dad. She was always so much braver.
Maybe she would be able to make him stop.
    "Not again, you bastard!"
    "You do what I fucking tell you to do. You
are my child," he said.
    "That's right, you sick fuck. I am your
child," Cassie said.
    The voices of the men outside grew more
agitated. Maybe they would do something now. Martin hoped they
would.
    His sister screamed.
    The porch door opened and slammed shut.
Cassie was outside with Dad now.
    The men outside began to whoop, holler and
laugh, and beneath their sounds were the cries of his sister.
    4.
    Bertram Vick's oversized body seemed to ooze
flesh across his tattered leather recliner, which squeaked and
groaned at his slightest movement. He put his swollen feet up and
clicked on the television, turning it up so he could hear it over
the sound of the rain pinging on his tin roof.
    He began flipping through channels until he
came to a rerun of Gilligan's Island . He'd always liked that
show. Not the humor, of course. That was just appalling. He liked
Ginger. He liked Maryann, too. Hell, if he were stuck on that
island he figured he might as well diddle Mrs. Howell while he was
at it.
    They probably wouldn't like it, but that
didn't matter to him. He'd never much cared whether someone wanted
it or not. He was Bertram goddamn Vick. He got what he
wanted, like it or not.
    Bertram shoved a handful of greasy