A month of Nightmares in the Area of Horror continues! Within 30 days (and nights!) we times a day published one short story horror. Read the little scary stories Maxim Kabir – and be sure to read his great novel, “Skeletons”, which is called one of the best horror books in recent years!
Maxim Kabir. Thirty-sixth
– This idea, said William Hartnell in celebration of its one hundred and second birthday came up, Thomas Armstrong, and if That was something possessed him and the devil wouldn’t be able to stop it. Was the thirty-sixth year, and I just got a job in the newspaper. And That worked half his life, and that his article made me choose the journalism path. Anyway, he told me about his adventure, and I immediately agreed. We went across the country to find living witnesses of those events.
You remember, of course, friends, that the Thirtieth amendment of the Constitution adopted in December, eight hundred and sixty-fifth to sixty years before my birth. For me the Civil war was the same gray history as the Boston tea party. I never thought about the fact that there are men alive, held in bondage to white masters.
In the thirty-sixth there were no tape recorders, and I recorded the eyewitness accounts in Notepad, and then Armstrong typed them on typewriters and sent to the editor, and then edited, they were sent to the Library of Congress.
We interviewed forty former slaves. The youngest was eighty – those who found slavery children. But there were not ancient old men. I sat as close as sitting with you, a man who took part in the uprising of the fifty-ninth year, when President Buchanan sent troops to pacify the rebellious John brown of harpers ferry. I interviewed the old man who cleaned the boots General Robert E. Lee, and another who was in Richmond and saw Lee hands over his sword to the winners. We talked to the poor fellow, whose back was covered in spider web of scars – an eternal reminder of the whips of the overseers. And with the man who cried, cradling his good hand, the stump – he, the child, cut off his brush because he prayed in the backyard. There were guys who fought for the Yankees and the guys who fought for Dixie. And there was one person whose interview we had counseled not issued.
Carl Chinnu was a hundred years old, and I thought he was unimaginably old, but now I’m older than him. He lived in Portland, in a cramped back room, smelling of sunflower oil and cat urine. His face resembled a wooden mask of some African God. Black as ash, in which his forefathers made corn tortillas. I could feel the cold emanating from the piercing eyes of Cinchona. As he spoke, his long fingers fumbling at the chair arms like crabs.
Thirty-five years he lived a slave in Alabama. A small plantation of a hundred acres was served by thirteen nigger – so he Hinn called their brethren. Master, master Bishop, was a surgeon-lover and rebel to the bone. While on a nearby plantation owners treated slaves quite loyal, even allowed to learn to read, to drink brandy at Christmas and to celebrate weddings, master Bishop flogged his Negroes, day and night, using the services of Tolstoy supervisor-Texan. Once he took the slave whip and whipped the young slave girl, ripped open her cheek so that the teeth could be seen in the hole. Instead order to lead the girl to the city on an ox cart, he patched the wound, and, said Mr. Hinn received from the process evident pleasure, trying to cause the slave maximum pain. After that, life on the plantation became unbearable. The owner of the mutilated Negroes, to be able to treat them. Women and children were adorned with ugly scars: Bishop mend clumsily, rudely, and often recorded the infection. Slaves received a blessed rest in the cemetery of blacks under age-old plane tree.
In order to replenish the thinning ranks, Bishop was acquired at auction a new party, and among the arrivals of blacks, was a very beautiful girl by the name of Nadis. Barefoot, in a dress of Lowell. Before it belonged to the Arizona farmer. One look, said Hinn, was enough to understand how she’s brash and headstrong. Not the best quality for niggers.
A week Nadis fought disobedience with the local customs, and Negros sighed, lamenting in advance the beauty, and the Texan grinned in a drooping mustache. Finally came the day of reckoning. Bishop, strangely polite and sweet, took Nadis in the barn equipped with a “hospital” and played doctor. She returned a month later depletes and forever lost its former beauty. Master Bishop (now require to be addressed “Dr. Bishop”) was operated on her chest.
In the summer of last Bastion of the unionists on the Mississippi river, and the Bishop was furious, flipping through the press. Not to go to war, he got a cane and a convincing limp.
Night Nadis woke Cinchona (the Negroes slept in the stables on the ground floor) and it was like a Ghost. She said that her grandmother was reputed to be a witch and taught her granddaughter a special spell. That it was time to get even with master doctor. On the field, Hinn gave her words to others.
It was risky, said the hundred year old man, and we took a chance. He waited until the Texan fall asleep, the prisoners of the plantation stood around under the rafters of the shingled roof. Pine kindling has created a dance of shadows. The horse warily wove ears. Beyond the walls of the stables walked the wind, the stars twinkled, unusually large and others. In the darkness of the funeral were very vocal scoops and snarling Cougars. And something else was growling and bubbling, roving the features of human habitation.
Master Bishop is ill, ‘ said Nadis.
Master Bishop was ill – echoed, Hinn.
Master Bishop was ill – confirmed discordant chorus.
And then the Nadis screamed. Slaves, as has been stated, not break the ring, but fear flogged with whips to their naked backs. They began to dance, moving counter-clockwise, loudly stamping his feet, knowing that the escaped Texan and all of them – everyone – to cure. But they danced, Oh, white Lord, how we danced, and no one came, only darkness howled outside, echoing hoarse chest Creek Nadis, and whined the dogs. Sevenfold we walked around a stable, continued, Hinn, and fell back, exhausted on the hay. We felt that something happened that the spirits were of the fields and surrounding forests that night.
In the morning the servants and the paddy rollers found Texan. He climbed up on the grave cross, adapting to the branch of a sycamore tree the whip, wrapped the tip of a fat neck and hanged himself. A host is not found at all. The authorities decided that he secretly emigrated – then many planters went to Brazil, where slavery was not abolished until the eighty-eighth year.
– What happened next? I asked old Carl Hinn.
– A new life – he said, – without a single penny. Happy, unhappy, are different. I no longer beat, and rightly so.
Armstrong asked about the Nadis, but the way the former slaves left immediately after the liberation, and the girl disappeared in the dust of the southern roads.
– It is something that gave me finally, said Hinn. – Sometimes long nights, tormented with rheumatism, I get it on my lap and remember how things were in the beginning. It’s in the wardrobe. You can take a look.
How to describe what we saw? If I were one, long ago convinced himself that the vision had played me a bad joke that I’m tired of interviewing the elderly. But Armstrong saw it too. And we discussed it later. Not too often. Three times until Tom’s death in the forty-ninth.
There in the closet was a wooden box, like Bojnice, and in the glass case sat a creature the size of a baby. I thought about the doll. Carl Hinn said, breaking the silence that bought a box already here in Portland, and before the gift of Nadis was hiding in the crate of oranges.
The creature looked at us out of the Shrine. Tiny hands entwined node on the deformed breast, the legs were absent. Guznov was wrapped in dirty rags in the manner of modern diapers. His face is dotted with scars, thousands of scars that crept on each other and there was not a clean inch of skin, only these old cuts, torn bristling with stiff thread. Threads were sewn bonded forever. It seemed that the monster crumbled into myriad pieces and re-assembled somehow.
As a schoolboy, I saw a remarkable film about Frankenstein, and so, made-up Karloff was an angel compared to this. And Hinn said over my shoulder:
He loves possums, but now their meat is not to find almost, and I feed him Turkey pate, but sometimes I forget to feed it.
The dwarf in the box opened its terrible mouth a red hole in rubtsevania mess and mewed like a kitten.
– Master doctor hungry, ‘ smiled the old Negro.
Here’s the thing, friends, and don’t ask me about anything beyond that. We gave the Library an interview with Hinn, and I know not how to end up an ex-slave of a sadistic Bishop. I only know that Cornelius Bishop is a very real character, and he really went missing in the year of the siege of Vicksburg, and he really was an employee hanging himself in a cemetery. Sometimes I dream that creature, mewing in a box, and I wonder who feeds him now. Because I suspect that it still lives, suffering from hunger, forgotten somewhere in the basement of Portland, for to live he was told spirits came from the fields and forests at the call of the black Nadis.
It was the strangest thing I’ve seen in my life, but my God, friends, that told me the elderly in the distant thirty-sixth year, it wasn’t the worst.
Already on sale – SKELETONS Maxim Kabir!
About the book:
Maxim Kabir is a writer, poet, anarchist. Selfless fan of the genre of horror and mystery. People with stories which are familiar to ALL fans of horror. The novel, which is compared with the work of king, little, Lymon – and often not in favor of foreign masters.
A quiet mining town somewhere in the Russian hinterland. New year’s eve. Measured life of the Outback where everything goes on as usual routine. Periodically people disappear out here, and from door peephole empty apartment you are looking for something that is not supposed to exist. With an ominous creak open the doors of these cabinets, letting freedom of the Horde hidden skeletons. And together with the memory of incredible pain in the world is unspeakably Evil.
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