Barndance

Treats of a Halloween Story

“Iowa State won’t even blink, my lad. The barn loses 5% a year easy.”

Carver scratched the hollow at the top of his neck. “Sure,” he said. “But those are, like, diseases. Or old age.”

“You think they’ll care?” Charlie Harrison Kaiser clapped his palms, but missed the horsefly which hummed through their dorm. He looked back at Carver. “Four hundred black-and-white cows. They won’t notice one empty space.”

“They’ll see-”

“We won’t leave a carcass.” Charlie interrupted. “There’s a humongous manure tank. We’ll drag the body there when we’re done.”

Carver shook his head. “I don’t see the point.”

“Primalism, man. One night only, you go full hunter-gatherer.”

“He’s flaking,” said Ray Peterson. The other three in the friend group distinguished him with the epithet ‘UBFR’, or ‘Underage Butthole-Fucker Ray’ - not with any just cause, but because it seemed to bother him.

“I’m not flaking,” said Carver. “It’s Halloween though…”

Ray scoffed. “You going trick-or-treating?”

—

A New Moon’s gloom lay black against the soil, amidst the splintery stumps of cornstalks on either side of a paved trail. Carver threw his flashlight beam over the harvested rows; shadow fingers twisted around the stalks. “What’s that reek?” he asked.

Vincent Price, who the others always called Vincent Price, inhaled cold night. “Burning hair?” he suggested.

“From where?”

Vincent shrugged. “Maybe horns.”

“Horns?”

“Like when they’re cauterized. With an iron.”

“Stop making light shows,” Charlie warned.

Carver stopped. “You said the farm would be vacant.”

“No harm in sneaking.” Charlie gestured for silence. He squinted at the corrugated metal barn just ahead.

A lone Holstein’s plaintive voice hummed in the air.

“C’mon,” said Ray. Through the air before him he waved a hardware-store machete. “I’m in the zone. Listen. Those stupid cows can smell a hunting pack.”

—

Belial, Behemoth, Beelzebub…

Asmodeus, Satanas, Lucifer…

“This song sucks,” said Ray. He lunged at a cow in its stall. “What is it?”

“Mood music,” said Charlie. “It’s Ghost.”

Vincent Price said, “Actually it’s by Phil Collins originally.”

“Vincent, you Devil’s bitch, that’s a different song.”

Vincent chuckled. “Oh. Yeah.”

Carver pulled the collar of his undershirt over his nose. “That smell is worse here.”

“No shit,” said Ray.

“Why are they all following us with their eyes?”

Charlie said, “They’re rightly scared.”

Four hundred head of cattle turned slowly with the movement of the four boys down the central aisle. They huffed disjointed plumes of vapor in the October night. Their eyes were glassy, but not scared - not even a little.

Ray ground his heel in the gristle of the aisle. “Let's play some real killer music,” he said.

Charlie handed Ray his phone. Ray mashed the screen.

Priest!

You fucking come sit down.

“Fuck yeah!” Ray screamed.

Charlie’s hunting knife tinked against the stalls. Tink. Tink. Tink. The tall boy scanned the animals, searching for fear.

Carver meanwhile had locked gazes with one in particular. The wet eyes of the animal seemed to look through, rather than at him.

Vincent called, “Pick a small one.”

Carver muttered, “What am I doing here?”

From the southwest corner of the barn there came the long, agonized lowing of one unmilked cow.

—

The beast ambled into the wide space of the aisle. Suppliant. Vincent guided the cow by its lead to where Ray stood.

Pause.

Ray, slowly, slowly raised the machete over his head. The edge of the new blade gleamed. Ray held it steady in both hands; it reminded Carver of Conan. The rest of the herd watched.

The cow mooed. The sound was high. Too high.

Charlie’s face turned the color of cream…

With a vicious scream Ray swung his machete. The shining edge of the weapon bit into the cow’s meaty neck. Carver felt blood spatter his chest and his face.

The animal jerked its head. Its lips peeled back and gave vent to a hideous wail.

Ray ripped the weapon free and swung again. The cow screamed. Ray’s face twisted in fury. He struck again. He struck again. The cow’s legs buckled as the machete smacked wetly into its neck and thudded against its skullbone.

Vincent held the lead steady. Charlie stood with palms raised, pale and exultant.

The animal continued to scream. It rose to a humanlike wail. Carver threw his hands over his ears. He could still hear the dying, could still see it. He squeezed his eyes shut. He screamed himself.

Somehow Carver still heard the animal. The sound seemed to whoop and shriek inside of him. He felt each thump of the machete.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump!

Thump!

THUMP!

—

All about hung heavy silence. The herd held its breath.

“Jesus- Jesus Christ.” Carver’s hand shook as he wiped blood from his face.

Ray said, “Now that was ancestral.” The machete dripped at his side.

“God, that scream…”

“Are you gonna moan like a bitch for long?”

Charlie said, “Shut up UBFR.” Ray shut up. Vincent snickered. Charlie passed Carver a grey rag cut from an old t-shirt, already damp from Charlie having used it himself. “It wasn’t like that last time. We got caught up in the moment, man.”

Carver couldn’t take his eyes off the shiny, lively eyes of the dead cow, lying amidst a widening red pool. He shook his head. “You think?”

Charlie took the bloody rag and pushed it into a pocket of his coat. “It’s over now.”

Vincent said, “Let's drag it to the tank and go.” He grabbed the carcass by a hoof. Ray flicked a streak of blood from his machete, sheathed it, and stepped beside Vincent.

The barn lights flicked on.

“Shit!” Charlie swore. The harsh white light blinded the four.

“Anyone there?” Vincent called.

“Shut up,” Charlie hissed.

As their eyes adjusted, the boys saw no one. The cows stood motionless in their stalls. They had not so much as flinched.

“What’s going on with the lights?” asked Ray.

The four could see, all across the ceiling, the light of the barn shifting to a deep rust color.

“There’s that disgusting smell again,” said Carver. He nearly gagged as the overpowering scent of burning protein filled the air like a cloud. “Where on earth is it-”

“Belial…”

—

The four boys turned as one, and looked down at the dead cow.

“BeelzebubAsmodeusLucifer”

The cow’s tongue reeled into its mouth. It beamed a smile up at them.

“BelialBeelzebubAsmodeusLucifer”

“N-no way,” Ray stammered. Vincent screamed. Carver fell back from the corpse.

Boom. Boom. Boom. The other cows beat and rattled against their stalls, filling the barn with booming like echoes in a sea cavern. The four boys fell over themselves in terror as the slaughtered cow, still chanting through its white smiling teeth, rose from the ground.

“Run!” Charlie shouted. They ran. Around them the black-and-white Holsteins stamped in orgiastic frenzy.

Cold night waited a dozen yards away, beyond the door. The boys ran.

And ran.

And ran.

The door pulled farther and farther away. Serried ranks of dancing laughing mad cows stretched out on either side. “What-” was all Carver could manage to sputter. He spun around.

The slaughtered cow had risen to all four legs. Its head dangled upside down against its foreleg, hanging by its half-severed neck. The beast stared at them with shining eyes and shining teeth.

The cow took one step. Then another.

“This isn’t real,” said Vincent.

The animal limped another step closer. “Runnnn!” Charlie cried again. They spun around again.

The barn door had disappeared. Endless barn and stalls stretched into distance beyond sight.

Warmth trickled down Carver’s leg.

“Kill it again,” Ray snarled. He turned, raising his machete.

The dead cow stood directly before them. It rose to a stand on its hindlegs. Its hay-scented breath wafted over them, mingling with the burnt-hair smell. Its head dangled across its chest. Through the gleaming, flat teeth, the pink tongue darted down to lick an udder. The beast cackled.

“BelialBeelzebubAsmodeusLucifer”

Ray raised his machete, roaring.

In a blaze of smoke and fire two horns erupted through the skin of the animal’s dangling skull. Ray stepped back; too late. The carcass swung its head like a flail. The burning horns sank and sizzled into Ray’s chest. Ray stopped, stunned. He coughed. Bloody spittle flew from his lips. His own head burst suddenly into a blazing screaming skull.

Vincent and Charlie shrieked.

Laughing, the cow ripped its horns free, Ray’s flesh parting to the tune of Velcro.

Carver’s legs buckled. He shut his eyes. “It’s not real,” he said. “It’s not real. It’s not real.” He felt the ground shake, felt smoke fill his nose, felt heat on his face.

Carver screamed. He screamed, screamed Screamed, ScreamEDSCREAMEDSCRE-

—

Notice on tours: Due to recent events, we have decided to temporarily prohibit visitors to the ISU Dairy Farm. This decision was made in coordination with local law enforcement. Information will be released as it becomes available.

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Thank you for reading. This was a contest entry for the Macabre Monday Halloween Writing Contest. Thank you to

Jon T

,

Shaina Read

, and

John Coon

for hosting, and to the judges as well. See the contest page for more macabre stories.

For more short fiction, visit the index.