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    Stories to Bother the Hell out of You
    Stories to Bother the Hell out of You
    Stories to Bother the Hell out of You
    Ebook81 pages1 hour

    Stories to Bother the Hell out of You

    By Kat Daly

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    About this ebook

    These stories are not for the squeamish or easily offended. Chances are they will bother you long after you have read them.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherXlibris US
    Release dateOct 12, 2011
    ISBN9781465369451
    Stories to Bother the Hell out of You
    Author

    Kat Daly

    Kathleen Daly lives in Charlotte, NC. When she is not writing horror fiction she tends her small motorcycle friendly tavern. She loves animals and shooting pool. When she was five years old she charged the kids in the neighborhood twenty five cents each to look in the window at her drunk grandma passed out in the chair. She convinced the kids that the old lady was really dead . . . . that day she made $2.50.

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      Book preview

      Stories to Bother the Hell out of You - Kat Daly

      Copyright © 2011 by Kat Daly.

      ISBN:          Ebook                                      978-1-4653-6945-1

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

      This book was created in the United States of America.

      To order additional copies of this book, contact:

      Xlibris Corporation

      1-888-795-4274

      www.Xlibris.com

      Orders@Xlibris.com

      105110

      CONTENTS

      What Happened Over There

      Rolls Of Undeveloped Film

      Soup

      Just Lying Here

      Warlock

      The Woman At The Foot Of The Bed

      Rituals

      The Birthing Process

      Tracie

      THIS COLLECTION OF STORIES IS DEDICATED TO THE FEW PEOPLE IN MY LIFE WHO HAVE PROTECTED ME FROM THE DARKNESS. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.A VERY SPECIAL THANKS TO SAMANTHA MACK AND MAX WOGE FOR THEIR CONTRIBUTIONS AND FOR BELIEVING IN ME.

      THE STORIES YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ ARE NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH OR EASILY OFFENDED. CHANCES ARE THEY WILL BOTHER YOU A LITTLE LONG AFTER YOU HAVE FINISHED THEM… .

      WHAT HAPPENED OVER THERE

      It was the summer of 1957 and I was eight years old. I guess when my mom told me the garage was off limits she didn’t realize that was the least of her worries. As much as she worried about the power tools or dads chemicals, I was far more worried that the dark shadows would swallow me or the garage would grab my soul. It was a Saturday afternoon in my eighth summer when my dad decided to paint the inside of the garage. And that’s why he left the door open, to air it out. I never in my wildest dreams would imagine that the ball would go that far. It was late afternoon and I was practicing my pitch from the field across the road. The idea was for the ball to make it to the edge of our lawn, I watched in disbelief as it rolled underneath the garage door, and my mouth felt as dry as sawdust. Ma was at the market and dad was inside watching the game on TV. I couldn’t ask him… .

      My Ma’s catch phrase was Be careful but my old man was far more concerned with being manly then careful. I’m not sure how much man hood an eight year old boy is supposed to have, but my dad thought it was plenty. If I had asked him to get the ball his teasing and ridicule would have been even worse then my fear of the garage. So I took a step towards the garage door. Even on that hot dry afternoon, the darkness of that place sent chills up the backs of my legs. Looking back on it now I can still remember the one tear of anger mixing with the sweat on my boy hood face. The garage door was up almost two and half feet. I contemplated squeezing under grabbing my ball and hauling ass. I must have stood in the hazy sunshine planning it all for nearly ten minutes, before I slid my small frame under the door. My eyes were suddenly blinded by the darkness. (Why couldn’t he have left the light on?) Panic rushed over me as my eyes adjusted. I scanned the floor for the ball as I quickly glanced back at the sliver of sunlight pushing its way under the door.

      Suddenly I saw it under the tool bench in the back corner. My legs were weak and my throat started to hurt. I bolted for the table dropped to my knees and reached. The ball was about four inches out of my reach and my eyes stung with tears. My heart beat so hard I half expected it to make an exit. The garage seemed smaller, as if the walls were exhaling wanting to crush me. I guess it was my left arm that had pushed against the broom. When it hit the floor beside me it made a loud crack. I would have screamed like a girl, but when I opened my mouth all that came out was a little spit and fear. Without really thinking I clutched the handle of the broom and pushed on the ball causing it to roll out. I scrambled to catch it, sobbing a little when my hand got a hold of it. The first time I tried to stand my legs would not agree, and I fell skinning my left knee. The small amount of pain was enough to get me on my feet and I ran. Head first I clutched the metal of the door and kind of slid down the front. I held the ball as I positioned myself to slide out in to the day.

      That’s when the garage door slammed shut.

      I lay on the cement floor in the darkness, searching for air. Finally I screeched. It came out high and unnatural. I lay on that cement floor soaking wet. And although it was sweat and urine that covered me I imagined it was blood. The baseball long forgotten I busted out into tears. Now you have to realize that this all happened in a few minutes but it seemed like a lifetime. Suddenly like an explosion light ripped across the garage exposing it for what it was, an old gray room (freshly painted) with rags and tools and nothing more.

      John stood in front of the door laughing and pointing at me. I am sure it was something to see me laying there with a skinned knee, pissy pants, and broken pride. That was the funniest thing I ever saw. He kind of brayed when he laughed. Boy you should have heard yourself when I slammed that door. To John this was better then the county fair he looked down at me and smiled. I saw you crawl under the door some joke huh? Me shutting the door with you inside. All I could do was look at him. I was shocked, stunned, and spent. I started to speak but changed my mind. There was nothing to say. He was older and bigger then I so I couldn’t even take a swing. Suddenly he was pointing Hey you wet your pants. The glee he got from this discovery was obscene. He began to hop around and cackle.

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