The Wrong Thing to Say

by Jonathan Pinnock

Father Skerritt was enjoying his first solo exorcism. The young girl was writhing about on the bed with considerable energy, and it took both her parents to hold her down. She was blaspheming away like a Clydeside stevedore and producing some spectacular projectile vomit. And it might have been a trick of the light, but he was convinced that her head had rotated a full 360° at one point. This was the full Monty.

And yet, in the middle of it all, he was calm. He felt serene. He had a hotline to the Boss, and he was ready to make the connection.

“In the name of the God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost, release this poor girl from her travails—”

“Fuck you bastard!” said the ten-year-old girl.

“—go now and leave her in peace—”

“Fuck you!”

“—depart from this world into the shadows—”

And then it happened. The girl gave one final contortion and began to hemorrhage. As she shrieked in agony, her belly was torn open and a revolting reptile poked its head out. With a malevolent squawk, the beast forced the rest of its body through and hurtled out of the room.

When reflecting on it later, it struck Father Skerritt that “Whoa, mash-up!” was probably an inappropriate thing to say at this point. But he still couldn’t help thinking that it was massively cool.

__________

Jonathan Pinnock was born in Bedfordshire, England, and - despite having so far visited over forty other countries - has failed to relocate any further away than the next-door county of Hertfordshire. He is married with two children, several cats and a 1961 Ami Continental jukebox. His work has won several prizes, and he has been published in such diverse publications as Litro, Every Day Fiction and Necrotic Tissue. His unimaginatively-titled yet moderately interesting website is at http://www.jonathanpinnock.com/, and you can follow him on Twitter as @jonpinnock.

The Greatest Disciple

by Jonathan Pinnock

The crypt was cold and damp, and the stairs leading down to it were slippery. Father Pietro led the way with a burning torch.

“Don’t you have any fucking lights down here?” said the journalist.

“No,” said Father Pietro, “We feel that electricity would destroy the atmosphere that our pilgrims find so special about this place.”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned, it’s got about as much atmosphere as a dead dog’s armpit. Can we just see the relics and piss off back into the real world?”

“Patience, Mr Armitage, patience. You will have your story all in good time.” He held the torch in front of his face and smiled. “Excuse me for asking, but I can’t help feeling that you are a little–how do you say–cynical?”

“Listen, mate, I didn’t pick this story. Just my editor back in London told me his readers wanted to know more. As if a fucking miracle could happen in this day and age.”

“Ah, you sadden me. How can you be so sure?”

“Look, can we just get to the fucking relics?”

“We are there already. They are in this cabinet. See here: one of the largest fragments of the True Cross in the whole of Christendom!”

“Yeah, right. If I got together all the fragments of the True Cross that I’d seen in my time, you’d be able to build a fucking housing estate out of them.”

“Then perhaps you will be more impressed in the holy bones that cured that child?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Just let me take a pic, and I’ll be off.”

Father Pietro lifted out part of a skeleton. “But perhaps you would first like to touch the bones of the greatest of all the disciples?” He held it out. “Go on!” he said, “Go on!”

Armitage reached out and touched the bones. Immediately a look of agony shot through his face, and he ran off screaming into the darkness, scrabbling around and trying to find the way out.

Good old Judas, thought Father Pietro. You could always rely on him to put the wind up an unbeliever.

__________

Jonathan Pinnock was born in Bedfordshire, England, and--despite having so far visited over forty other countries--has failed to relocate any further away than the next-door county of Hertfordshire. He is married with two children, several cats and a 1961 Ami Continental jukebox. His work has won several prizes, shortlistings and longlistings, and he has been published in such diverse publications as Smokebox, Every Day Fiction and Necrotic Tissue. His unimaginatively-titled yet moderately interesting website may be found at http://www.jonathanpinnock.com/.

What Today’s Well-Dressed Mind Parasite is Wearing

by Jonathan Pinnock

“So, Mr Sampson,” I say, “I believe you had a question for me?”

“Well, yes.” The man pauses, looking at me in an odd way. “How do you do it? Yesterday, when we first met, I could have sworn you were short and fat. And yet today, you are tall and thin. You also seem to have grown a beard.”

“Oh dear,” I say, “And I thought we were going to have an interesting conversation.”

“I’m sorry?”

“What I mean,” I say, “Is that surely the question of how I do what I do is much less interesting than the question of what I could do with it? Or indeed why I would want to do it.”

He takes a while to parse this. Jesus, he really isn’t that bright at all. Could be cat food, this one.

“Yes,” he says, “But I really would like to see how you do it. Are you some kind of shape shifter?”

“Nah,” I say, “I just pick a different body each morning to suit the mood I’m in.”

He laughs. It’s an uneasy laugh. “You’re kidding. You mean, you just pick one off the rack, like choosing a shirt to wear?”

“Yeah, sort of,” I say, maintaining a straight face. Oh well, nothing for it. I pick up the remote control, and propel him gently towards the closet. I press a button and the doors glide open. There they all are, a couple of dozen bodies hanging from meat hooks. I press another button, and they begin to revolve slowly around. Sampson is transfixed.

“Take a pick,” I say.

“My God,” he says. “But ...”

“They’re in a state of suspended animation, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“But don’t the hooks ... hurt?”

Thanks for the cue, dickhead. I press the pause button and reach into my pocket. I plunge the hook into his back, pick him up with it and attach him, screaming and wriggling, to the end of the rack.

“Well, you tell me,” I say, “Do they?”

__________

Jonathan Pinnock was born in Bedfordshire, England, and - despite having so far visited over forty other countries - has failed to relocate any further away than the next-door county of Hertfordshire. He is married with two children, several cats and a 1961 Ami Continental jukebox. His work has won several prizes, shortlistings and longlistings, and he has been published in such diverse publications as Smokebox, Every Day Fiction and Necrotic Tissue. His unimaginatively-titled yet moderately interesting website may be found at http://www.jonathanpinnock.com/.

Anniversary Feast

by Jonathan Pinnock
free horror fiction

Jake filled the glasses from the still and set them down on the console. Strictly speaking, this was breaking enough of the company’s rules to earn him instant dismissal. But there wasn’t anyone in a position to do that within several parsecs, so he reckoned he was probably safe.

And besides, this was a special occasion.

“Well, here’s to another ten years, eh?” he said, taking a slug from his glass. Whew. This was powerful stuff.

“And then two more to landfall,” said Gary, downing his in one go before handing his glass out for a refill. “Some trip. Y’know, sometimes I wish I was one of those bastards snoozing away in the hold.”

“You’re kidding?”

Gary laughed. “Yeah, I’m kidding. Wouldn’t want anyone pissing about with me when I was asleep.”

Jake smiled. It was true. You got bored on a trip like this. Let’s face it, being an Ark Pilot wasn’t exactly a demanding job. The only qualification you needed was to be so pathologically in debt that the only way to save your family was to take a one-way trip into deep space.

But, man, was it dull.

The face painting had got out of hand. When you’ve got a hold full of colonists in suspended animation, it’s just so tempting to take a magic marker and draw the odd moustache on a face or two. But if there are two of you, it gets competitive. And it wasn’t long before the entire hold got to look like a practice session for a Kabuki make-up class. That was going to take some cleaning up before they got to their destination.

And if the truth were told, they’d both fooled around with some of the women as well. Just a bit of a fondle, nothing more. Although Jake wondered about Gary. Sometimes, he had an odd look to him when he came back from the hold.

“So what’s for supper?” said Jake. It was Gary’s turn to be in charge of the catering.

Gary looked thoughtful. “I fancy something a bit different. Not the usual freeze-dried shit. I think we deserve something real tonight. Some proper meat.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Like where are we going to get hold of that, man? Pardon me for being a bit thick, but I don’t recall passing a flock of interstellar sheep lately.”

Gary smiled. Jake knew that smile. It meant that Gary had had one of his ideas.

“Remember that fire in bay 12?” said Gary.

“So?”

“Remember the smell? The burning flesh? Bit like pork?”

Jake stared at Gary.

“I like pork,” said Gary.

“Well, I’m not allowed to eat it,” said Jake.

“Bet your rabbi didn’t mention what I’m thinking of,” said Gary. “And are you going to fill up my glass or not?”

_____

“Well, what d’you think?” said Gary, picking his teeth.

“What do I think?” said Jake. “Well, I’m just wondering how many of those fuckers they’ll miss. I mean, how many people d’you really need to build a colony?”

_____


Jonathan Pinnock was born in Bedfordshire, England, and - despite having so far visited over forty other countries - has failed to relocate any further away than the next-door county of Hertfordshire. He is married with two children, several cats and a 1961 Ami Continental jukebox. His work has won several prizes, shortlistings and longlistings, and he has been published in such diverse publications as Smokebox, Every Day Fiction and Necrotic Tissue. His unimaginatively-titled yet moderately interesting website may be found at http://www.jonathanpinnock.com/.