The Last Horror Novel in the History of the World by Brian Allen Carr Read Free Book Online

be,” says Blue. “Ain’t we in my fucking tree house?”
    “I’ll look,” says Tyler. “Probably nothing,” he says.
    “After last night,” says Old Burt, “it’s doubtful.”
    Tyler goes to the window, parts the drapes, places his face to the glass.

  
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
      
     
       
     
     
     
     
     
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
      
     
       
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Hands. Thousands, millions, scurrying on fingers like spiders or crabs. Only hands. Black, coarse hair covering them. Fingernails sharp and long. They move flicker quick over parked cars, across rooftops. They break glass, smash mailboxes, toss broken bits of Scrape to and fro, willy nilly. Pouncing on the pads of their fingers, acrobatically, unfazed, seemingly, by gravity, they cross walls un-slowed, sweeping perpendicular to the ground the way roaches or squirrels may, the tapping sound of their progression like typing or Morse code, the clickety clack of their multitudes like a million tiny locomotives chugging along miniature tracks. A static kind of hiss from their legions, a sort of white noise birthed by their oddity, and Tyler contemplates them, unaware of what to call them, but the others in the tree house sense his fear raging, sense him growing disturbed.

 
      
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
      
     
       
     
     
     
     
     
     

    Some stories are so old, they split just like rivers. Headwaters birth channels that spit tributaries in all directions. The fuzzy hand, the Devil’s hand, the black hand, the hand of Horta.
    Some say this: it is the Spanish Inquisition and a Muslim man will not convert. Of course, this isn’t exact history. He could have been a Jew, a pagan, a witch. If it is a witch it is a woman. If it is a woman, it may have been a child. Whatever it was, it stood trial for its sins against the church, was found guilty and put to death, dumped in a mass grave, and there, the magic starts. How? It is unclear. For others, it is the New World. Perhaps in modern day America. Missions are erected to convert the natives, but some refuse. Those who do are similarly sentenced to death. They are buried in indigenous graveyards where the local magic does its trick. Later still, it could be a woman who feverishly masturbates to death, the hand so intent on masturbating, that it leaves its owner who can no longer maneuver it. Or, perhaps, there is a merchant so intent on counting his jewels and coins, that his hand carries on the counting even after the merchant has passed away. In all of these myths, the result is the same: An evil hand wanders the world freely. It steals, kills and torments. It maims, interferes, harasses. In some myths, the hand can grow many times the size of a man. It carries evil children away to Satan. It kills adulterers, rapes women, steals gold.
    In all of these myths, the thing is pure evil.

  
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
      
     
       
     
     
     
     
     
     

    “I got a feeling,” says Old Burt, “those things are testier than the children.”
    “They are,” says Manny. “At least, says the legend.”
    “This another Mexican thing?” asks Tyler.
    Manny nods, and Old Burt just stares at him. “I’m so fucking happy you fuckers lost the Alamo,” he says.

  
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
      
     
       
     
     
     
     
     
     

    Teddy rolls up the sleeping bag and Scarlett holds the pillows. She smiles at him. “You ready?” she asks.
    Teddy grabs the bag, takes one last look around. “Yep,” he says. He smiles back at her, “Time to hit the road.” Teddy walks to the front door; Scarlett lingers behind mildly, casting a nostalgic gaze at the place they’ve lived the past year. She remembers the times, the day they moved in. How they’d ordered pizza and drank cheap wine from plastic cups, sitting Indian style on the floor eating, talking about how they’d decorate the place once they’d built the