Banquet (standard:horror, 5021 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Nov 30 2010	Views/Reads: 3091/2158	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A vagrant recieves an invitation to a feast. Should he accept it?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

tried several times to rejoin, but was always refused. So his home was 
shop doorways, bus shelters, hostels, churches, anywhere. He had made 
friends out on the streets, some from the army in similar predicaments, 
but mostly he was alone. He had adapted because he had had to, and each 
day it became slightly more difficult to achieve his dreams, to become 
rich and join the royal air force. 

The local church most nights sent around a van with food and hot drinks
for the homeless, and having had his fill, Clement now lay asleep on 
the floor of a bus shelter, an empty Styrofoam coffee cup clutched in 
his right hand. He had been there before many times, sometimes having 
to share it, but mostly not. He liked to think of it as his, not the 
councils, who he was convinced would one day simply take it away and 
replace it with a post, as they had in other places. 

He awoke to the sound of rain against the Perspex faux glass, and lay
there awhile, looking at the cup still clutched in his hand, listening 
to the rain and traffic. Hardly anybody ever waited at the bus-stop. It 
was simply one of those built for one bus that never came often. 

After around ten minutes, he slowly got to his knees, and noticed that
there was something in his cup. It was a small card. He frowned and 
took it out: ‘Free food and drink tonight at the Rose and Anchor pub'. 
It will be a feast. Admits one'. 

For the two mile journey to his free breakfast at the local missionary
hostel, he was happy, and had a grin on his face, unseen behind his 
whiskers and because nobody looked at him anyway. That was except for 
‘Tessie', an overweight Irish woman, five years younger than Clement 
who had lost her way on the road to riches, to London, where it was the 
place to be, where it was all happening, where if you wanted to make a 
name for yourself and to earn money, it was the only place to go, so 
off she went, hoping her prototype for the automatic refilling of dog 
bowls with food and water would interest investors who could see the 
potential of it, especially for people going on holiday. Her machine, 
built in University for a project, was the size of the early 
microwaves, and a mechanical scoop would fill the food bowl whenever it 
had been timed for, and water would fill another bowl at set times. It 
was a cert, no-one had thought of that she had guessed. Her tutors 
encouraged her to take it to London where the banks would be fighting 
each other to invest, but she had since realised they were only saying 
that to be nice. They didn't actually mean it, or believe that she 
would actually take their advice. She fully believed it herself. No pet 
shop she had ever been to sold these. Also they could eventually be 
adapted to feed fish and rodents and all domestic pets. 

She had kept a female border terrier, ‘Tessie' from a pup until it was
three years old. She exercised it every day, until one afternoon it 
decided to jump up onto the wall on the balcony outside her seventh 
floor bedsit. It had been raining earlier that morning so was slippy. 
Tessie broke down in tears when she found her broken body on the 
pavement, dead instantly. 

If this is who I am, she had thought, living alone in a bland and dull
district. This is what I have become, then I will take your name, and 
from then, whenever asked who I am, I will say ‘Tessie', because that's 
my name. 

So her costs mounted, her rent in the pokey bedsit rised, and investors
wouldn't take her seriously. One even said: ‘You expect me to invest in 
this? I'd rather choke you with the money. I would at least see more of 
a return in the form of my own satisfaction. Close the door on your way 
out'. So she left, taking her heavy contraption with her. She dumped it 
in an alleyway, kicked it, and spent the rest of the day in tears. 

In the large dining hall for the residents of the hostel and the
down-and-outs, Tessie, with her lanky black hair, her straining belt on 
the last notch trying to contain her large bulk, sat next to Clement 
and knew instantly that Clement had something to say. “So come on,” she 
said, taking the plastic lid from her hot chocolate. “What are you 
hiding? You can't fool me Clem”. “Nothing,” he said. “I don't know what 
you mean”. She simply stared at him, and he knew there and then that he 
had to tell her. He wanted to tell somebody anyway. 

He looked around the hall rather suspiciously, half expecting everybody
there to be listening to what he had to say, but no-one was looking. He 
took out the card, but kept a firm grip on it. He knew if he lost it, 
then that was it, no free food and drink. 

Tessie looked at it and gripped it, but before she could get a firm hold
on it, he pulled it away. “It's mine,” he said, frowning. “Lemesee, I 
wanna see it properly”. He shook his head. “I just showed you”. “I 
see,” she said, rather loudly. “So you're gonna be eating and drinking 
while your mates here go without. You're not even gonna share it. Not 
even going to invite me”. “Keep your voice down,” he whispered loudly. 
“What, you mean you don't want people to know you're gonna be stuffing 
your face. I bet you don't even save me any”. He stood up, his face 
reddening. A few faces looked in their direction, but it was only out 
of curiosity. He quickly head for the exit. “You know who your friends 
are” Tessie shouted. 

After a cold walk, hurrying through the streets, half expecting a few
people to follow him from the hostel, he was soon warming his hands on 
a small fire in an old oil drum at the side of a railway track. 

It was a small clearing, beyond broken wooden fencing near a bridge,
where at one point a start was made to widen the nearby roadway, but 
management changed and funds were diverted, so the large metal 
container, oil drum, and palettes, where all Derek Leonard needed to 
move in. This was his little haven, his abode. He slept at the back of 
the container. Most vagabonds knew and accepted that this was his 
place. It had been a few years before a jealous vagrant had tried to 
oust him, but in the fifties, Derek had been handy with his fists, an 
average boxer, who ended up on a downward spiral because of his 
mounting debts and increased alcoholism. He'd been there for sixteen 
years, and practically knew all the local down-and-outs. A lot of them 
came to visit him, of which Clement was one. 

Derek was fairly stocky, looked every inch his 56 years, although not
from a distance. He always wore a dark blue raincoat. His hair was 
thick black and fell down to the side of his right eye. He had two hoop 
earrings in his left ear, and he was dotted with many smudged tattoos, 
time and age having their effect on them. He was a chain smoker and an 
alcohol dependant, although not to the degree of other vagrants. He 
knew he was an alcoholic, but did not want to stop. He kept telling 
people who would listen that if he wanted, he could get a house and a 
job, because he could manipulate ‘the system' however he wanted, within 
reason. He already got three times as many benefits as most tramps, but 
most of them knew where it went. In his stomach and in his lungs. Once 
he got money, it would soon be spent, and he would stay in his little 
clearing on the trackside. “You look worried,” said Derek, “What's up?” 
“Oh nothing really, just, well...” “Come on, you know you can speak to 
me, how long have I known you, three years?”. He placed a cigarette in 
his mouth and lit it with the burning end of a piece of wood from the 
fire. 

Clement nodded, deciding he would tell him. He trusted him enough, and
took the card out, holding it up for Derek to read. Derek leaned 
forward, the flames from the small fire making the light on his face 
dance yellow. “Woke up this morning,” said Clement, “Found it in my 
cup”. Derek nodded. “I shows it to Tess, and she starts mouthing off. I 
think she wanted to steal it”. “Tess is no thief” said Derek. “She may 
be a lot of things, though” He took a drag of his cigarette. “My eyes 
are not as they used to be,” he continued. “Can I have another look at 
it?” he extended his hand to take it. 

Clement said nothing for a few moments, but simply looked at Derek's
face, which said it all. “I have to leave, there's someone I need to 
see” said Clement, turning and walking across to the pavement, 
disappearing from view behind the bridge. Derek nodded in 
understanding. “Fuck,” he said, taking a drag of his cigarette. 

Clement decided not to see anybody else, and instead walked to the area
where the pub was situated, and with around two hours until he was due 
to go, paced around the place, slightly nervous, but not knowing why. 

As he was sat on the bench of a local small park, with the sky
darkening, and ominous grey clouds threatening rain, he saw on his 
cheap childrens digital watch that it was time to leave. With a surge 
of excitement, he headed for the ‘Rose and Anchor'. 

On the way, he noticed other vagabonds heading in the same direction,
people he didn't recognise. 

After five minutes, he reached it. The pub was situated on a corner of
an ordinary road of terraced houses, the place around it seemingly 
devoid of much other human interference. It was boarded up, and looked 
in dire need of renovation. The entrance on the corner was open, the 
door leading into darkness. 

The other people whom it was obvious were all strangers, had seemingly
also received invitations, and they looked at each other on their way, 
their glances conveying trepidation and hope. 

Clement entered the pub, and it was surprised to find it renovated.
Everything seemed new. The bar and pumps had been polished, as had the 
tables, and the only lights that were on were behind the bar, giving 
the place a warm, muted hue. A convector heater was on in one corner, 
and in front of him, several tables had been pushed together, chairs 
placed around them. Some of the eight vagabonds had already sat down, 
and Clement did the same. 

The tables were full of food and drink, from home-made wines to fried
vegetables to pheasant and garlic, and everything in-between. Nobody 
touched anything though. They were apprehensive and unsure, and began 
talking. 

When a man appeared from behind the bar, they were laughing and joking,
some of them eating grapes. They quietened down. He wore a cheap 
looking suit, with cheap, unpolished brogue shoes. He seemed to be in 
his early sixties. His hair was dark brown and sleeked back. He seemed 
like he used to be a vagrant, but had made good in the acquisition of 
the pub, but his appearance still needed to be worked on. “Hello 
everybody,” he said, “My name is Richard Paige, and I have recently 
purchased this pub. As you can see, we only need to do a bit more work 
on the outside, then we can open. So in celebration of my new 
acquirement, I invite you to a free banquet in a kind of celebration, 
so I'm sure you're all hungry. Please tuck in”. They all did, the 
cutlery provided, the drinks in champagne glasses. Richard walked 
across to the main entrance and locked it. He ran a nervous hand over 
his gelled hair and walked across to another table and sat down. The 
vagrants all thanked him, and he smiled an anxious smile. The chatter 
began again, as did the feast. 

None of them saw three men come from behind the bar, all in white rubber
overalls. All of them seemingly in their early thirties, all wielding a 
machete. The guests turned around, and the chopping began. The men 
began hacking at the tramps who screamed and tried to get away, but the 
slicing blades cut off pieces of flesh, cut off limbs, slashed into 
stomachs, thighs and heads. Blood sprayed across the table, as bones 
were hacked and organs chopped into. The food was splattered with 
blood, and the floor became a carpet of crimson.  Some of the screams 
and yells were cut off as the sharp blades sliced into lungs. Necks 
were hacked at, some arteries and veins spouting out the red fluid. 
Limbs dotted the floor. Some people who were still alive tried in vain 
to somehow crawl away, but the backs of their necks were chopped at, 
easily slicing through the spinal column. Even though the men knew most 
of them were dead, they still made sure by hacking them into pieces. 
Their rubber suits were drenched red, but still they chopped off pieces 
of flesh, sliced into faces, spilled out innards across the floor, and 
split open skulls for the brains to ooze out on to the red carpet. 

Richard stared into the face of Clement, who lay on his back near the
entrance. He was still alive, but only had one leg and one arm with no 
hand. His stomach had been sliced open and innards spilled. One of the 
men noticed him and came over, raising the machete. Clement arched back 
his handless arm and splattered blood at Richard, catching him in the 
face. Some went on his lips. The man with the weapon chopped at 
Clement's neck, hacking away until his head was only attached by the 
spinal bones. 

When the men were satisfied they were all dead, they left their weapons
in flesh and came across to Richard's table and sat down, all out of 
breath, their faces glistening red. “There you go,” one of them said. 
“Job done. Now it's time for us to get paid”. Typical bone-headed 
gangsters, Richard thought. Thick as fuck. Only interested in money. 
“Surely you deserve a drink lads after that” he said. The men all 
looked at each other and nodded. “Ye, you don't realise how tiring it 
is” one of them said. “Good exercise though,” said another, squeezing 
his bicep. Richard stood up and walked carefully to the bar and poured 
them all a pint of lager. They all came over to collect their drinks 
and drank them as though they were extremely thirsty. One of them 
slammed down an empty glass, and said: “So you still haven't told us 
why you wanted this doing” “It's a job where you don't ask questions,” 
said another, who staggered back, his eyes wide. The others stumbled 
and fell, clutching their stomachs. Richard quickly came around the bar 
and picked up a machete. He approached one of them who was coughing, 
lying on his back. He pointed the weapon at him, and used him to 
represent the others. “Falling for the old poisoned beer barrel trick, 
eh? Thick cunts. This what you want?” He took from his pocket a wad of 
notes, and waved it. “Sorry lads, but who gives a fuck about gangsters, 
or tramps? No-ones going to shed a tear for anyone in this room”. He 
chopped at the men's necks, their blood spouting out to mix with the 
fluid on the floor. Richard pocketed the money and dropped the weapon. 
He sat back down in his seat, and watched as two of the gangsters 
twitched, their life draining away. 

Soon, no-one moved, and the stench became strong and thick, but Richard
didn't really notice it. He simply sat there in the silence, looking at 
the carnage. 

After a few minutes, he saw movement behind the bar, and his wife,
Brenda Paige walked slowly in, her hands covering her face, her wide 
eyes staring at the glistening limbs and bodies. “Is it done?” she 
said. Richard nodded, stood up, and walked across to her. “Yes, no 
turning back now”. Brenda was 56, slightly plump, had long curly black 
hair, and wore spectacles. “Already I can feel it. I can feel their 
essence in the air”. “Well, you know we can't stay here for a while. 
When the police and forensics have been and gone, we can come back and 
open up as a normal pub”. Brenda turned and quickly left. “Too strong,” 
she said, walking up stairs, “Their spirits”. Richard picked up a clean 
apple from the table, took a bite, then followed his wife. 

He found her trembling in the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed. “I'm
not sure that I can stay here at all,” she said. “I mean, I know you're 
not a believer, but this place is definitely now going to become 
haunted”. “Exactly,” said Richard, “Which is why they're all dead 
downstairs. It was you who wanted this. You're the landlady of this 
place, and you wanted a haunted pub. It was you who wanted to place the 
ghosts inside to give the place a reputation. People will forever know 
this pub now as haunted, where the massacre took place, and it will 
attract custom. This is what you wanted, and what I gave to you, so I 
think you'd better stay. I haven't done this for nothing. I don't want 
you running away because you believe you're going to be haunted” “I 
can't stay for now though, not while the police will be hovering 
around”. “Yes, I know, they'll be here forever”. He took a bite of his 
apple. “When the spirits have settled,” she said, “Once they've 
accepted that their dead, because at the moment they're too erratic, 
then I think it should be alright for me to come back and be the 
landlady”. “Yes, well, my flight to Spain leaves in four hours. I need 
to check in, so it's time for me to go. You've got all your story 
worked out. The keys to the bungalow, everything to keep the police at 
bay until I get back, and even when I do get back I'm bound to be 
questioned, but our case is watertight”. He stepped across to Brenda 
who didn't look at him. “Isn't it?” Brenda nodded. “You'd better not 
screw this up. All we need to do is prove this had nothing to do with 
us. There we were, giving some local tramps free food and drink, and in 
come some gangster psychos who start chopping them up, and then in 
comes another nutcase who kills them. One of their enemies or something 
whose vanished”. He took another bite of his apple. “Remember this is 
all for us” he said, and walked into the bathroom. 

He threw the unfinished apple into a small bin and a surge of fear swept
through him as the net curtain blew slightly, even though the window 
was closed. There's no such things as ghosts, that was a draft from the 
door, he thought, but the notion of angry spirits momentarily overrode 
his sceptical mind, even though he was right, it was the draft, and it 
had been happening everytime he went into the bathroom, but only now he 
noticed it, his nerves on edge as paranoia encroached. He ran a hand 
over his hair, looked at his sweat sheened face in the mirror, then 
turned and left. “Do you want to call the police or shall I do it on 
the way to the airport?” he asked. “You do it,” she said, still staring 
at nothing. He nodded and walked to the top of the stairs, and stopped, 
as stretched across the left wall near the bottom there was a shadow in 
a humanoid form. He breathed in a frightened breath and missed his 
footing on the step. He careered down the stairs, crashing and falling 
awkwardly. Several of his bones broke, including his neck, and he lay 
staring up at the ceiling. The way that some of the glasses and pumps 
were situated meant that when the bar lights were turned on, certain 
shadows were created. Richard's paranoid mind had made an instant 
decision. 

Brenda screamed at the top of the stairs, came bounding down and knelt
beside him. 

Richard was paralysed but still aware. Tears ran down Brenda's face.
“This is vengeance” she said, “I can feel their hatred”. She put her 
hands to the sides of her head, unaware that it was her own 
subconscious making her believe it was genuinely paranormal. Her own 
beliefs reinforced this. 

After she and Richard had come to the decision to murder people who
would hardly be missed, she had cast a spell on herself in the 
understanding that it would protect her from hauntings. She believed 
that no ghost or spirit could harm her, could haunt her, meaning she 
could serve in the pub without fear of reprisal. Her fear though, was 
more intense than Richard's. What if the spell never worked? What if 
the collective spirits were strong enough to break it? She knew she 
would have to try it, would have to have enough faith to return and 
live here, to open up the place and be the landlady of the notorious 
pub where the massacre took place. 

She turned and picked up the cordless telephone on the wall at the
bottom of the stairs. She called the police, and breathing heavily, 
simply said: “Rose and anchor pub, hurry, there's been a massacre”. She 
looked down as she heard gurgling. Richard stared up at her. She put 
the telephone on the counter and picked up a cloth in the sink, then 
went to locate a machete and returned to Richard. Under the glare of 
the bar lights, his wide eyes stared at her with fear. He could only 
move his head. He understood Brenda. She raised the weapon. “I'm 
sorry,” she said, “I have to make you part of the same excuse”. He 
tried to nod. “For...you” he muttered, and the weapon slammed into his 
throat, severing the carotid artery and jugular vein, exposing the 
adam's apple. Blood spilled out to wash around her feet. His tongue 
lolled out and a wheezing escaped his mouth. She hacked at him again, 
and again, chopping at the side of his neck to hit the spinal bone. 

If ghosts did exist, then Richard would have joined the angry spirits,
surrounded by them, by their hate, rather like a suicide bomber who 
kills many around them, their soul will have to be surrounded by the 
other souls that have been taken, and with nowhere to hide, damned and 
hated forever by their victims their spirit would probably be ripped 
apart should it all be real. 

After she was convinced he was dead, she hurled the weapon away into the
main bar, and in a fluky shot which would have been hard to recreate, 
it thudded into the wood at the side of a window, blood oozing down the 
wall. 

She knew she would have to wait for the police, and made to go upstairs,
but the sheer weight of her subconscious and her beliefs crowded in on 
her mind making her think she was hearing voices. ‘Evil fucker', ‘Nasty 
filth', ‘Fucking cunt'. “No,” she said, putting her hands to the side 
of her head. “Leave me alone. Leave me alone”. Her belief made her 
think the spell had failed, the hatred of the spirits too much. She had 
believed she could cope, was mentally strong enough, but her own 
subconscious fuelled by her beliefs made her think the ghosts were 
tormenting her, and created the voices. ‘Dirty cunt', ‘Wicked fuck'. 
“Stop it” she shouted, and knew there and then that they would never 
leave her alone, no matter where she went, she believed they would 
constantly torment her. 

She fell her knees, opened the nearby fridge, took out a beer bottle,
then smashed it against the floor. The liquid mingled with Richard's 
blood, and she did not hesitate to stab her own neck several times with 
the jagged glass. The skin ripped away. Veins were torn apart, and 
blood pumped out and splashed down her front and onto the floor to join 
the beer and Richard's red fluid. 

Outside, a police car strolled slowly passed, a moustachioed young
recruit in his early twenties was frowning at the pub, seeing the 
boarded up windows and unkempt appearance. “Dammit,” he muttered, “I 
had to leave the drive-thru for a goddamned hoax”. He then u-turned, 
and drove away. 

Brenda's blood still spilled from her neck, reflecting the bar lights.
She collapsed backwards, and a carpet of scarlet soon filled the area 
behind the bar. She twitched for a few seconds before dying, killed by 
her own mind, such was the power of belief. 


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