Burial Day Books is a boutique publisher of supernatural horror short stories. Once a month we feature an established or emerging horror writer. These short supernatural horror stories deal with elements of superstition, folklore or myth. We look for writers that are innovative but can also give a nod to past – classic horror. We feature scary stories with limited gore and limited extreme violence because of the belief that fear, true fear, comes from the unknown.
The Call of the Ocean by Kev Harrison
The Call of the Ocean
by
Kev Harrison
I’ve always felt it, this affinity with the sea. In those places where the sky meets the water. Where, in the dim light of dawn or dusk, it’s hard to distinguish where one ends and the other begins.
I remember, as a boy, in Pevensey Bay and Brighton, I would sit, clinging to my ice-cream or scoffing fish and chips—I couldn’t take my eyes from it. The swell. The foam. The dragging of those perfectly rounded pebbles out from the beach, only to be thrown back on to the shore again.
I remember, too, the first time it spoke to me. I looked up to my great aunt, clinging tightly to my hand, and said to that kind-yet-ancient face, drawn over with the lines of almost a century of salty air, “Does the sea ever speak to you?”
She broke into a jovial smile that she wore so often in those seemingly endless summers and said, “It speaks to us all, Ash. That’s the power of it. How can anyone not feel something in the face of it?” She gestured towards the water with a sweeping motion of her arm.
“But it really speaks to me, auntie. It calls my name.” I nodded down towards the pebble beach and we were both quiet for a moment. The tide was coming in, creeping up slowly to swallow the stones, to hide them away.
“Ash,” it said as the waves broke onto the pebbles. Then the water retreated, the sound of the shifting stones a percussive paragraph of mumbling, the odd word escaping the thunderous noise to find my ear.
“What else does it say?” My aunt was, I realise now, humouring me. But I shared with her those words I could fish out from the noise.
Cold.
Dark.
Under.
She looked at me, the smile that was forever wrought upon her face in my mind’s eye somehow askew.
“You can hear that?” she said, her eyes suddenly intense.
“Can’t you?” I said, turning my head once again out to the waves.
***
My relationship with the sea changed after she died. It became fleeting, sporadic. Without that family connection, my parents saw less reason to visit the coast. We stayed in our London suburb, the only sea one of grey concrete, though that too was hard to distinguish from the sky. When I did manage to find stolen moments with the sea after that, I felt pangs.
Of sorrow.
Of regret.
Still, it spoke my name. I found a certain forgiveness in that, for my absence. I listened to its words. Tried to perceive its messages. But however much I trawled, I could only snatch at what it wanted to tell me. Always my name. Then forever those same words.
Dark.
Cold.
Under.
There was more there, but the white noise masked it. Choked the message so it was as impenetrable as dense sea fog. It became a mantra of sorts. The call of the sea. Private. Just for me.
***
Twenty-five years later and I sat, listening once more. Not to the sea this time, but the ocean. Lisbon had been my home for some three years and finally, like a dream brought belatedly to fruition, I could now marvel at the great blue of the Atlantic every day, on waking. I sat on that day with Mar, our first child, holding her in her nest of blankets as her wide eyes gazed out upon the deep for the first time. She cooed and squealed as I turned my body to look at her hazel eyes, the green-blue of the waves reflected in them. She paused then, her always-wriggling feet stopping still, her mouth wide as she looked out to where water and sky were a single, indistinguishable line.
“Mar, meet the ocean. Your namesake and my oldest friend,” I said softly into her ear.
And so it was that, in the morning, we would walk to the beachside while her mother was at work. Time unfolded rapidly, her pram soon replaced by a pushchair, replaced by us strolling hand in hand, but always, unfailingly to the ocean. She was nearly two-and-a-half when she first spoke – quite normal for bi-lingual children, I’m told – but she learned fast, reading hungrily and bombarding us with questions. Naturally, no topic fascinated her more than the ocean. The walls of her room were awash with mermaids, dolphins and sea monsters. Her mother naturally disapproved of the giant squid and company, but Mar protested loudly and at a painfully high pitch whenever she threatened to take them down.
***
It was a Sunday, in February. We had walked for miles. I remember because my feet were sore. I kept asking her if she wanted to turn back, but she kept shaking her head, her ringlets of almost-black hair flicking back and forth across her narrow face. “We have to keep walking, Daddy. We’re going to my favourite beach.”
I wracked my brain, trying to remember when we’d been so far along the coast together, every time drawing a blank. “Which beach is that, sweetheart?” I said, trying to mask the doubt in my voice.
“The stones beach. We came when I was very little.”
“Stoney,” I corrected and tried to cast my mind back. I decided she was probably using her imagination but, past forty now, I was in need of the exercise. We continued along the snaking path that cut in and out, always hugging the shoreline. We turned a tight corner, beneath an old mansion house that had seen better days, and then came out onto a stretch that stood above a sliver of sandless beach, odd rocks and pieces of slate from the ruin above dotting the seabed as the tide drew in.
“This one Daddy, this one,” she said and squirmed free of my hand, running toward the two-bar fence that obstructed the drop down to the beach.
“Careful,” I called. “Don’t go to the edge until I’m with you.” I sped up to a jog and came to her side just a metre or so from the fence. I grasped her hand tightly and looked down at her face. She beamed, her high cheekbones somehow elevated higher than usual. The infectiousness of it quickly brought a grin to my own face.
“Are you sure we’ve been here together, Mar? I can’t remember,” I said, turning my head to take in the scenery. I knew the area well from when I’d run here, a few years earlier, but couldn’t remember bringing Mar this far along the path.
“I told you, Daddy, I was very little.”
I shrugged my shoulders. She was happy, it was a beautiful day. What more did I want? I lead her over to a bench that overlooked the water and we sat.
“Do you want a snack?” I said, opening the zip on my rucksack. I reached in, pulling out a bag full of pastéis de bacalhãu—a kind of fish and potato cake—and handed one to her. She brought it straight to her mouth, biting into it with her fledgling teeth. She chewed, swallowed, and then paused, her eyes glazing over as she looked out over the water.
“Does it talk to you, Daddy?”
I finished my own mouthful, then looked down at her. “Does what ever talk to me, my love?”
“The ocean.” She paused. “Sometimes it calls my name.”
I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, insects crawling on my back, beneath my shirt. “It does, does it?”
“Mmhmm, and, when we come here, with the stones, it says other words too. I remembered them. When I was a baby. But now I can hear them.”
“Other words,” I said, a quiver in my voice.
“Shh!” she raised her finger over her pursed lips, then she whispered. “Listen, Daddy. Maybe it’s talking to you, too.”
It was. Of course it was. It always had. I wanted so much to know what the waves were saying to her as they crashed on to the beach, but I didn’t want to ask. Fear paralysed me. I stroked my fingers through her curly hair, brushing it away from her eyes.
“Dark,” she said. “Cold. Under. Hold,” She looked up at me again. “What does it mean, Daddy?”
“It’s probably nothing. Just the sound of the rocks,” I said, heat rising in my cheeks. I had heard it too, but to me it was the same as always. I couldn’t pick out the ‘Hold’ no matter how hard I strained my ear. I kissed her head. We finished our snack in silence.
***
It was another holiday. This one was sunnier, thin woollens traded in for t-shirts, jeans for cargo shorts. I jogged down on to the beach, trying to keep up with Mar, the straps of my rucksack jingling together musically. The sunshine of spring had well and truly arrived and the freshness that cut the winter air had been overhauled by balm and fruit and fragrant coffee from the reopened stalls dotting the coastal path.
We sat on a crinkled blue blanket and stared out at the water for a moment, each of us listening for the sound of our names. For messages. For broken words. Then it was time to play. I removed the bucket and spade from the bag, pointed out a good patch for sandcastles on our quiet area of beach. Mar looked up at me, shaking her head. She scampered over and began piling sand with her arms, smoothing it out into shapes.
“Do you want a hand?” I said, feeling the coarse texture of the grains between my fingers. She shook her head again, her grin threatening to consume her face.
“I’m making dolphins,” she said, proudly. I nodded in approval. “And mermaids, and sharks.” I ruffled her hair and pulled my Kindle out of my bag. I kissed the top of her head before stretching out.
“Love you, kiddo,” I said, squinting against the dazzling light.
“Love you back,” she said, blowing an exaggerated kiss with one of her sandy hands.
The hours flowed by, punctuated by breaks to visit the toilet, to apply extra sunblock, to put up the parasol when the sun found its highest spot in the sky. I read and watched Mar play. We devoured our picnic after the heat had eased off, then paused for a moment to watch the ocean again.
“Can I have some more water, Daddy?” Mar said, her eyes still locked on the waves rolling in. I reached into the bag, pulling out the bottle. Empty. I looked behind me to the kiosk. Still open.
“Stay here,” I said and lifted myself to my feet. I dashed to the kiosk, put a two-euro coin on the counter and asked for a litre bottle of water. I waited, smiling, as the young man bent down and opened the fridge, tugging out a bottle. He stood and handed it to me, went to give me my change. His face contorted as he looked over my shoulder. His hands began scrabbling at the flimsy catch on the kiosk door. I spun around, following his eyes.
“Mister, is that your kid?” he said, but I didn’t turn back. Couldn’t.
Time slowed to a crawl as I saw only the top of Mar’s hair above the surface of the water, perhaps twenty metres from the shoreline. The bottle plunged from my hand as every sinew in my body focussed on nothing but closing the space between us. The spray from my hurried pace surrounded me, foam flung up into the air with every thundering footstep. I raced to where she had been not fifteen seconds before and groped around beneath the surface.
I called her name, screamed it until my lungs ached and my throat burned. I dived down and swam, my eyes wide, salt stinging. The boy from the kiosk was with me in an instant, two fishermen from along the beach, too. We scoured relentlessly.
Hours passed.
She was gone.
***
I heard it said once that burying your child is the very worst life can throw at you. Something no-one should ever have to do. I never doubted it until I buried mine in an empty coffin. She was never found, my Mar.
I say the coffin was empty, but I should have known at the time that I was burying my marriage. I didn’t even blame her. Would I have been more forgiving if she’d been the one to lose our girl to the ocean? I supposed not.
I decided to stay. That same area, always in sight of the ocean. Always within earshot of the waves as they rolled in, my name a whisper on every breaking wave.
“Ash. Ash.”
But what was the message. The words it had tried to tell me. To tell Mar.
“Dark. Cold. Under. Hold.”
What did any of it mean? Eventually, I had to know.
***
It was a Wednesday. Cloudy, the sky hanging low and bulbous. Every now and then the sun would burst through, bringing light and warmth and stilling the wind. I had walked for hours. The coastal path was deserted.
I leaned against a two-bar fence and looked down at a tiny crescent of beach, rocks and slate fragments strewn around, dragged one way and the other by the water. I slid between the two bars and lowered myself carefully down, before sitting uncomfortably on a piece of driftwood. I watched the waves roll in, listening to the sound of my name on its breath.
I closed my eyes. Focussed on the words.
“Dark. Cold. Under. Hold.”
For the first time I heard it. My eyes sprung open, the dim light faded still further as the sun crept behind the horizon. I listened to the words over and over. Beneath the waves a shadow formed. I stood, stepped forward. It grew sharper, indistinct shapes metamorphosing into familiar features. Mar’s tiny form watched me from within the spray, kelp woven among the tresses of her dark hair. Her eyes pleaded with me and I stepped closer.
Her mouth moved, but the voice I heard was not hers. It was the voice of the ocean. The same as it had always been, only with new clarity.
“It’s so dark here. So cold, under the waves. Please, hold me.”
I lay down on my side on a rock, my eyes still locked on hers. Tears cascaded from my eyes and pooled under me, becoming one with the saline of the rising waves. I swallowed hard and looked at her, a smile blooming on my face in spite of the pain. The tide came closer with every passing minute. We would be together again, as the ocean called our names.
Soon.
==
Kev Harrison is a British writer of dark fiction, living in Lisbon, Portugal. His debut novella, The Balance, is out now from Lycan Valley Press. His novelette, Cinders of a Blind Man Who Could See is available now from Demain Publishing. His work has also appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines, including Lost Films from Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing, as well as The Other Stories from Hawk and Cleaver and Tales to Terrify podcasts.
You can find Kev at:
Website: www.kevharrisonfiction.com
Twitter: www.twitter.com/lisboetaingles
Facebook: www.facebook.com/kevharrisonfiction
Tracks by Brad Parkkonen
Tracks
by
Brad Parkkonen
Ryan felt a phantom buzzing in his pocket for the fourth time in the last hour. Filled with hope, he retrieved his phone. He unlocked it and peeked at the notification bar; there were none.
“Will you give this fucking thing a rest?” Jake shouted over the music in the bar. He reached out and snatched the phone from Ryan’s hand. “She’s not texting you back and you’re done with trying to text her. For the rest of the night. I’m confiscating this.” He said, pocketing the phone.
“Give that back, dude!” Ryan protested, reaching for the phone, nearly toppling his drink that sat virtually untouched on the bar.
“No! I’m doing this for you. We came out to have a good time and get your mind off this shit. Look, I don’t want you to feel like you have to be here, but I definitely don’t want you sitting alone in your apartment all night, crying between games of Halo or something.”
Ryan turned back to face the bar. He rolled the glass back and forth between his thumb and middle finger.
“Yeah. You’re right.” He said, sighing. He lifted the beer to his lips and drained the glass in one go. The lukewarm beer poured down his throat. When he put the glass down, only suds remained, sliding down the sides. He felt the liquid slosh, then settle in his gut.
“There’s my guy!” Jake shouted, pounding Ryan on the back. “Now let’s get some more. And some shots!” He held out his hand, signaling the bartender to come over.
***
Ryan looked into the mirror while washing his hands in the bathroom. He chuckled, remembering a meme he’d seen about not realizing how drunk you are until you’re staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror. He twisted his face and stuck out his tongue, laughing. The door behind him opened and he pulled his tongue back in, trying his best to look normal in front of the stranger that just entered. He thought about the question posed in the meme: how drunk am I? He looked into his eyes in the mirror and found the answer was “very.”
He made his way through the crowded bar, attempting to return to his spot next to Jake. He found his seat was taken and Jake was working his charm on two women he hadn’t noticed before leaving for the bathroom.
“Girls! There’s my guy Ryan, the one I was telling you about!” One of the girls beside Jake jumped when he shouted before they both looked Ryan up and down. “Ryan, this is Liz.” Jake said, motioning to the redhead on his right. “And this is…” he paused, motioning to the brunette on his left.
“It’s Jenny.” Jenny said, slightly peeved.
“Jenny!” Jake said quickly, trying to time his answer with hers. “Yeah, that’s what I was saying. Look, dude, they invited us to a party at their friend’s place tonight! Wanna go?”
***
The walk from the bar was a haze. Ryan couldn’t tell if it took twenty minutes or if it took three hours. The streets blurred together in a wash of orange streetlights. He heard the music from a window on what looked like the sixth floor as the group arrived to their destination. It was so loud that he was sure that by the end of the night someone in the huge apartment building would call the cops. Beneath the music he could hear the cries and whoops of the partiers inside.
“Should we grab a case?” Jake said, eyeing a liquor store across the street.
“No, they’ve got plenty.” Liz said, pulling Jake towards the front door. Jake and Liz had been walking arm in arm from the bar, whispering and giggling with one another along the way. Ryan guessed they’d be going home together tonight. He gave Jenny a little more space. She seemed distant, disinterested, and Ryan wasn’t one to push despite some clear hints.
Liz tapped the button on the intercom and the door buzzed, letting her in. Inside, the hallway was long, the floors were dark hardwood covered in a green runner that has seen years of service. The walls were panelled with dark wood on the bottom and off-white drywall above. The sconces on the walls gave off a dim, slightly orange light. Before long, they turned right down another hall. They kept moving and Ryan thought that they’d been walking for so long that they should be outside the building; the hallway seemed too long to exist in this building.
They reached the elevator – it was an old thing, surprisingly. The shaft was covered by a swinging door that opened to a retractable gate. Liz pulled it open and the three of them walked in.
Jake cozied up to Liz in the corner of the elevator while Ryan and Jenny stood awkwardly nearby.
“This is a crazy elevator. It’s gotta be like eighty years old or something.” Ryan said, eyeing the crank used to control the elevator. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of these outside of movies.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty old.” Jenny said, pulling the crank up. The elevator slowly rumbled up and Ryan watched as the needle at the top of the car moved along its arc, indicating they were heading up from the first floor. Behind them, Jake and Liz were tongue deep in one anothers’ mouths.
Ryan glanced over his shoulder at the scene before quickly turning back to stare out the diamond shaped spaces in the metal gate. He watched the cement walls and swinging doors pass by. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Jenny staring at him. She was standing in the corner, one hand holding up the crank that controls the elevator. Ryan offered her a smile, but it wasn’t reciprocated. She pushed down the hefty lever with ease, causing the elevator to chug before coming to a halt, perfectly lined up with a gated door. He looked up and saw the needle was pointing to the seventh floor.
“We’re here.” She said, pulling the gate open and stepping into the hall. Ryan followed after her. Liz led Jake out by the hand.
The hallway looked identical to the one on the first floor, the only difference being all the doors lining the hall, each placed next to a dim wall sconce. Again, Ryan got the feeling that something about this layout was impossible. All the doors were very close together – how small were these units?
The group passed by a handful of doors, it must have been twenty or more, before finally stopping at one marked 728. Jenny knocked on the door with the brass knocker. There was silence from the other side.
“Are we at the right place?” Ryan asked, looking around. He couldn’t hear the music anywhere. Jenny looked over her shoulder at Ryan, and almost on queue music started up inside. The door swung open and inside a man stood shoved between people talking in the doorway. The place looked like it was packed shoulder to shoulder.
“Jenny! Liz! And… friends!” The man said, taking Jenny into his arms. “How are you, girls?” Jenny hugged him back as Liz broke from Jake to join in on the hug. The embrace seemed to last a little longer than comfortable. Ryan and Jake exchanged a glance.
The three let go of one another and the man exited the doorway. “Nice to meet you guys, I’m Jeremy.” He offered his hand out to Ryan.
“Ryan.” He said, shaking Jeremy’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” They let go and Jake followed suit, introducing himself and shaking the host’s hand.
“Come on in, guys. We got beer, liquor, music, whatever else you want. I’d offer girls, but it looks like you have a couple already.” Jeremy winked at them as the girls entered the party.
***
The party reminded Ryan more of a movie than of any party he’s been to. People were doing keg stands in the tiny kitchen, there were empty red plastic cups strewn all over the place, bowls and joints were being passed around, and on the coffee table there were lines of cocaine and rolled up dollar bills.
The group made their way to an entirely empty couch in the middle of the party. Liz sat down on one end, pulling Jake down with her. Jenny sat on the opposite end and Ryan squeezed into the empty space between her and Jake. Jeremy made his way to the couch, carrying four cans of PBR. He handed them out to each of his new guests.
“Oh, thanks. You didn’t have to do that.” Ryan said, taking his drink from his host.
“Of course, glad you guys could make it.” Jeremy said, picking up a can of PBR from the coffee table. “Cheers.” He said, holding his table beer out to the four of them. The group tapped their cans together before taking a sip.
The beer went down smoothly, and Ryan found himself chugging the whole can in this one go.
“Whoa, thirsty guy. Let me grab you another drink.” Jeremy said. Before Ryan could protest, he was already making his way through the thick crowd of people.
Beside him, Jake and Liz were going to town on one another again. Their lips and tongues moving over one another, ravenously kissing as if it would be their last.
“I think I’m gonna try to find the bathroom, actually.” Ryan said. “Jake, can I have my phone back?”
Jake pulled away from Liz, annoyed. He shoved his hand into his pocket. “Yeah, sure, just don’t text your fuckin ex, Ryan.” Jake slammed the phone into Ryan’s open hand before turning his attention back to Liz, resuming their make out session.
Ryan clicked the power button, giving the screen life. There was one missed call from Janelle, his ex girlfriend. Beneath that there was a notification telling him there was a voicemail from her. No transcript was available, however.
“Shit.” He put the phone back in his pocket and reached for the back of the couch, pushing himself up.
Before he could stand up, he felt a hand on his right cheek. It was pulling his face. He looked over and saw it was Jenny, pulling his face towards hers. She leaned in and planted her lips on his. For a split second, he thought about Janelle, and wanted to get up and listen to her voicemail. He relaxed, letting his lips part a little bit, allowing her tongue to play with his. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the kiss.
***
The line for the only bathroom in the apartment was about twenty people long and Ryan felt a swelling in his groin. He had to pee. Badly. He looked around at the door to the hallway and decided he should try to go outside.
He pushed his way through the party guests before reaching the door. He twisted the knob, but the door wouldn’t budge. He pulled and pushed, but still nothing came of it.
“Where’re you going, Ryan?” He jumped. Looking around, he saw Jeremy standing by the door next to him.
“Oh. You scared me. I need to pee and the line for the bathroom is super long. I’m gonna go outside and go in the alley or something.”
“Oh shit, sorry about that.” Jeremy said, reaching for the door. His hand went near the top of the door and Ryan saw he was reaching for some latches he hadn’t noticed. Jeremy must have loosened at least five latches before he pulled the door open, letting Ryan out into the hall. “Be careful out there, pal. Lots of weirdos in this part of town.” He winked again before shutting the door on Ryan. The hallway outside seemed darker than he’d remembered.
He made his way down the hall and pressed the call button for the elevator. He heard the machinery behind the door chugging and humming as the car raised up in the shaft. He looked through the square window of the swinging door, down into the elevator shaft. He could see the cables were slightly swaying as the car climbed, but couldn’t quite see the car in the dark shaft. He squinted and saw a square light approaching him.
The square light was the fire escape on the top of the car. He hadn’t noticed it when riding, but he wasn’t trying to look around, he was trying to avoid staring at his friend making out with Liz. As the square of light approached, he felt a strange pulling in his chest. It looked like there was a person standing in the car, staring straight up at him, but before he had time to really examine the scene the angle changed and the car was at his floor.
When he opened the door, he saw the car was empty. The pulling sensation in his chest intensified and he felt a little uneasy about getting in the car. He hesitated, looking back at the party and noticed again that he couldn’t hear any music from the raging party he had just been in. He got in the car, shut the gate behind him, and pushed the lever down, causing the car to move down.
***
He found the alley around the right side of the building. It was the most claustrophobic alley he’d ever been in – it was so tight that he guessed only the smallest of cars could fit through. Overhead was covered by an elevated train track. He couldn’t tell which line it was, but the trains have gone by three times since he left the party, screaming through the alleyway. He shivered each time the train went overhead while he was peeing beside the dumpster.
When he finished, he retrieved his phone, wanting to listen to the voicemail Janelle left. He unlocked it and tapped on the notification. He hit play on the voicemail and held the phone up to his ear to listen.
“Ryan. It’s Janelle. I’m not sure what to tell you anymore. It’s been a week and I told you I didn’t think I was going to change my mind. I wanted to. But it’s just been too hard. I can’t-” A train went by overhead, screaming in his ear over the voicemail. Frustrated, he pulled the phone down, dragged the track back a few seconds, and hit play after the train passed.
“…it’s just been too hard. I can’t keep letting you come back to me when you fuck up. I loved you. I gave you so much of me and now I think I need to keep some of me to myself. I’m sorry. Shit. I’m sick of saying sorry for not letting you hurt me anymore. I have to-” The message cut out.
Ryan frantically pulled his phone away from his ear and tapped the screen, but it was black. He pressed the power button repeatedly, but it wouldn’t turn back on. It was dead.
“Fuck.” He whispered. He felt sober now. “FUCK!” He shouted. He was hopeful when he saw the voicemail, but now that hopefulness turned to ferocity. He was pissed. He wanted to be dead, he wanted to stop feeling the way he did. His stomach was on fire and he felt a rage burning inside him. He kicked at the dumpster once, then again and again, ignoring the pain it caused in his foot. When he finished he left a dent in the side of the metal container.
“Fuck” he said groggily, before keeling over and spewing his stomach contents onto the ground. He put one hand on the dumpster to support himself while letting it out.
When he finished emptying his stomach, he spat a couple times, trying to get any remaining chunks out of his mouth. Another train screamed by above him and he offered it an emphatic middle finger.
“Hello?” He heard someone say. It was a woman’s voice. He turned and started back the way he had come down the alley.
“Ryan?” The voice asked. He stopped and turned back into the alley.
“Jenny?” He asked, moving deeper into the alley. “What are you doing out here?”
“I came out looking for you and fell over. Fuck, I’m hurt. Can you help me?” Jenny said. Her voice sounded pained. Ryan walked deeper into the alley, looking for her, but couldn’t make her out. He came up to a dark gangway between two buildings. He could make out the street illuminated by the orange streetlight on the other end.
“Hi.” She said from the gangway. He could vaguely see her shape on the ground in the dark path.
“Jenny, what happened?” He asked, stepping towards her.
“I fell.” She said, sternly. He saw her dark shape quickly stand up in the shadows. She started moving toward him and something caused him to step back.
As he did, she seemed to grow. Her shadow grew to an enormous size, blocking out the light from the other side of the gangway. He stepped back again and again and saw her shadow grow all the way up the sides of the building, a deeper darkness in the dark night. This shadow blocked out all light, seemed to absorb it, made the alley and the gangway darker than they were previously.
“Help.” she said again as the shadow approached Ryan. He panicked, stepped back again, faster and faster, unable to take his eyes off this thing. He didn’t see the bottle behind him and his foot landed directly on it. It slid out from under him and he lost his footing.
He watched the shadow spread out from the gangway, onto the walls of the buildings behind him. It seemed to be reaching out, gripping at the walls for leverage, pulling itself out from a tight space. It came closer, spread to the rails above him, and he saw the shadow reaching down to him from above. It was more than a shadow, it seemed to be a physical object, able to grip. The shadow opened up and fanned out, like fingers, as it came down on top of him. He screamed out in horror as a train screamed by overhead, drowning him out.
***
Ryan became vaguely aware of a sound. He awoke in an alleyway and saw a shape rushing by above him. His vision was blurry and unfocused and it took a long time for it to finally focus. Above him was a train and the noise he was hearing was the screeching of the metal wheels on the metal track.
He was laying on the ground as he looked around, he realized it was still dark. He felt a pain in his head as he turned it and as he tried to get up there was an ache in his back and arms. His arms failed him as he tried pushing himself up. He gave up for a few seconds and decided to lay on the ground for a bit longer, hoping to regain his strength.
He remembered the party and coming out to the alleyway, but couldn’t piece together what had happened. He remembered having to pee. It took him a few seconds of hard concentration before he remembered the phone call. He forced himself to dig into his pocket, exerting more energy than he thought he had left in him. He felt for his phone, but it wasn’t in his pocket. He couldn’t remember dropping it, but that’s what must have happened. He laid back down, closing his eyes to rest a little bit before trying to get fully upright.
There was a shifting and a crash as a bottle fell somewhere down the alley. He felt his stomach lurch as fear spread through him. The events from earlier came back to him. He shot up instantly, ignoring all the pain in his arms, ignoring the pain he just discovered in his legs. He saw the gangway the shadow came out of and backed away from it, carefully placing his steps, not wanting to fall again, not wanting to be overtaken again.
He stared into the gangway, but all was still in the narrow path between the buildings. He turned and stumbled back toward the dumpster. His vomit was still on the ground. He looked, but couldn’t find his phone. He felt a need to get out of this alley and decided to abandon his phone for now. He turned and ran out to the street.
Around the corner, back to the front door of the building, he heard the familiar sounds of the party coming from overhead. He needed to find Jake and get him to call a ride out of here. He realized he had no idea where they were; they’d walked so far from the bar in their drunken stupor.
He had no idea which unit the party was in, so he dragged his hands across every button on the intercom. Eventually the door was buzzing, ready for him to push it open.
He entered the building, and limped down the long, dark hall. He held out his hand to brace himself against the wall and noticed for the first time that his arm was caked in blood. There were deep scratches and abrasions all over his forearm. And under the blood there was, what? Burns? Yes, he was covered in burns.
He kept walking down the hall, turned, and eventually made his way to the elevator. He hit the call button, but found the car was already there, waiting for him. He pulled open the swinging door, pushed open the gate and entered. He struggled to pull the lever up, but managed to get the car moving.
When he passed the sixth floor, he pushed the lever back into its neutral position and the car stopped at the seventh floor. He exited the elevator and was back on the dark, silent hallway. He made his way down, passing identical doors, counting up. Finally he got to unit 728 and knocked with the brass knocker. The light in the sconce next to the door frame was out.
After a few seconds of silence, he heard shuffling inside and the door pulled open. Inside, the unit was completely dark. The dim light of the hallway couldn’t pierce the dark veil that seemed to hang in the doorway. Ryan had to strain his eyes to find anything within.
“Hello?” He asked. “Jeremy?”
“Hello.” A voice said. It sounded like Jeremy, but distant, strange.
“Jeremy? Is the party still going on? Is Jake here?”
“There’s no party here.” Jeremy’s distant voice responded. “There’s no Jake here. He left.”
“Come on, man. Do you know where he went? What the fuck, dude. I need help.”
“Help?” Jeremy asked.
Ryan could vaguely see a shifting in the dark. His stomach lurched and flashes of the scene from the alley jumped through his head. He backed up a bit and heard a screaming sound from the distance. A train was passing in the alleyway.
The sconce at the side of the door rattled and flickered to life as the train passed. The light from it was brighter than it had been before and it illuminated the scene inside the doorway. The apartment looked decrepit, torn up, used. It was a far cry from the average, old apartment he had entered earlier in the night. Worse than that, he saw the person he was talking to, and all the people near him. It was indeed Jeremy, but what seemed like an approximation. He was less defined, his hair and skin were pale, it was as if he was remembering Jeremy. The Jeremy in front of him was completely naked and featureless. He was standing in a crowd of people, packed shoulder to shoulder, all nude and pale. Their eyes were dull blackholes, sucking in the light nearby.
Ryan backed up against the wall behind him. The sconce burned out once more and the apartment beyond the door was plunged back into darkness. Before he could even think about it, he turned and ran down the hallway, limping. He made his way to the elevator and pressed the call button, but there was no reaction. No light went on, no machinery whirred inside the shaft. He turned to look back and saw the party had poured out into the hall. The gaunt, pale, naked figures were standing in the hall, staring at him, unmoving. He saw Jeremy, Jenny, Liz, and Jake in the crowd. He saw the doors lining the hall swinging open and when he blinked, more pale figures appeared in the hall. He looked down another hallway and saw an old sign reading STAIRS above a door at the end. When he looked back, Jeremy broke into a full sprint toward him.
He ran for it and shoved the door open. It gave no resistance and his momentum carried him through it and over the top step. He fell down the first half flight of stairs. He was in a heap at the half flight, and managed to get himself up. He looked up at the door and it was already open, full of the pale people, staring at him with their blackhole eyes.
He got up and ran down the stairs, in a full sprint, flying down stairs, two or three at a time.
He made his way all the way down to the bottom set of stairs and flew out the door at the bottom. He recognized he was at the first floor, relieved he didn’t run past it into a basement. He was at the end of the hall directly across from the front door and saw through the windows that it was light out. Broad daylight.
He heard the door behind him open again and saw the pale Jeremy chasing after him. He put all of his remaining energy into his legs and raced for the front door. He reached out, preparing to grab the doorknob. When he reached it, all he had to do was pivot and throw the door open. He pushed through the door and continued down the walkway. Looking behind, he saw the Jeremy figure standing in the window, watching him as the door closed. Before he could turn back around he was greeted by something huge and hard. He was thrown a few feet away.
***
“Son, are you alright?” He opened his eyes and saw a police officer standing above him.
“Hnn?” Ryan asked. He wanted to tell the officer everything, to ask about his friend, to ask him to get him away, but hnn was the only sound his lips would make.
“You been doing some drugs today, sir?” The officer asked, pulling open Ryan’s eyelids.
“Drugs.” Ryan repeated. His brain was scrambled.
“Yeah, thought so. Looks like you put yourself through the ringer here. Hell of a way to start a Wednesday.”
Wednesday? Ryan thought. “Friday,” he said, “it’s Friday.”
“Alright, get up.” The officer said, pulling Ryan up. You don’t happen to have some identification on you, do you?” The officer pushed Ryan against the hood of his car, where Ryan saw a bloody dent. He felt the officer patting him down.
“Don’t seem to have much a’ anything on you. Shit, I was just headin’ home. Alright, you know the drill, hands behind your back.” He said, as he pulled Ryan’s arms behind him. Ryan felt the cold metal cuffs lock onto to his wrists. Before he knew what was happening, the officer was shoving him into the backseat of his squad car.
The officer got into the driver’s seat and Ryan was in and out of consciousness. He saw the man was using his radio, undoubtedly calling into the station about his passenger, but Ryan couldn’t quite make out the words. His head was still struggling with the idea that it was Wednesday. How long was he lying in that alley? How long was he in that apartment building?
The officer started the car and it pulled away, approaching the alley Ryan had been attacked in.
“Boy, you are one sorry sight. What the hell happened to you anyway? Crazy weekend? Mind if I call ya Friday? Say, Friday,” The officer was cut off by a high pitched scream from the alley. A woman’s voice cried out for help.
“No.” Ryan whispered.
“What the fuck now?” The officer asked, turning on his flashing lights. He cranked the wheel and sped into the track covered alley. Despite it being bright out, the alley was still dark.
“No! No! Leave! We have to go, please!” Ryan pleaded from the back seat. The officer ignored him, using his spotlight to shine a light on the spaces between buildings and dumpsters.
Ryan watched in horror, hoping they wouldn’t find anything. His fingers were twitching with anxiety behind him. He closed his eyes and whispered to himself.
“Please, please, please.” He said.
“What the fuck?” The officer said from the front seat. Ryan opened his eyes and found the place the spotlight was focused on. There was a pale, naked woman. Her eyes were dark holes behind the dark hair hanging in her face. It was Jenny. A shadow was spreading on the walls beside her, ignoring the light from the spotlight. Ryan screamed in the backseat. The shadow jumped from the walls to the car, snubbing out the red and blue lights. It gripped the top, crushing the metal with ease, shattering the glass windows. The roof was ripped from the car and debris fell on top of Ryan and the police officer.
A train screamed by overhead.
###
Brad Parkkonen is a software engineer living on the south side of Chicago. When he’s not writing code or playing Fallout, Brad is writing stories about monsters, magic, and a heavy dose of the unknown. His writing is fueled by light coffee, dark beer, and a desire to scare the hell out of his reader.
In The Back Row by Jim Towns
In The Back Row
by Jim Towns
Three Rivers, Michigan – July 9th, 1984
The afternoon had been hot, even for July.
The sun had set around eight, but Rudolf had already risen. These short summer nights always made him impatient. So much of the day spent cooped up…so little time to go out.
He’d been meaning to see Ghostbusters for the last week, but he’d wanted to wait for the crowds to die down a bit. Being surrounded by humans inside a darkened theater was almost too much for him. Their hot exhalations – flavored by the sweet and salty foods they’d inevitably be consuming – aroused his appetite; their constant guzzling of sweet drinks incited his own thirst, but within the confined space of an auditorium he didn’t dare indulge his urges. There were too many people, and too few escape routes should he be caught feeding. A similar thing had happened to him at a ballet in Sarajevo in 1911, and he’d barely escaped the mob.
There was an energy on Main Street tonight, despite it being a Monday. Rudolf deftly navigated a path between teenage couples, slow-moving senior citizens, and families with wandering children as he made his way down the sidewalk to the Riviera Theatre. He’d been smitten by this small town the moment he’d arrived on the Greyhound two months before; with its old dam and mom-and-pop shops, its summer camps for kids and its highway bars filled with tough men. Before Three Rivers he’d been in Ozark, Arkansas—and before that Coos Bay, Oregon. Rudolf liked small towns. He’d have to be moving on soon, of course. That was the pity. His appetite was not great, but over a period of months even these rural municipalities would start wondering about the growing number of missing persons, and that was when he knew it was time to move on.
After all, he didn’t want a repeat of Kyoto in 1872.
The Riviera was old and Rudolf appreciated old things: rusted nails, ancient washboards, tarnished children’s toys, and especially run-down theatres. He enjoyed the patina age gave to ordinary objects. The Japanese called it Wabi-Sabi: the embrace of transience and imperfection. As he passed beneath the blinking rows of incandescent lights that framed the marquee, Rudolf listened to the clacking sound his cowboy boots made on the old porcelain tiles. Nobody used porcelain for floors anymore. Everything new was plastic and concrete and shiny and lifeless. Of course he knew why he was so drawn to things that showed age—it was because he himself never would.
The young girl who sold him his ticket had a round face but a slender torso. He thought she was beautiful in her man’s tuxedo vest and tie. He made his way inside where a tall freckled boy tore his ticket, and gestured him towards the auditorium. He skipped the snack bar. He’d eat later.
There were very few people in the theater proper. Rudolf found a seat in the rear, as was his custom. He liked watching movies, of course; but he also enjoyed watching people watch movies, and the back of the auditorium offered the best perspective. He was early, and contented himself with studying the dozen-or-so people who entered after him as they chose their seats with utmost care. Rudolf had been an unabashed film buff since first seeing La Sortie de l’Usine Lumière à Lyon at the Grand Café in 1895, and that moment and this one seemed to him connected in every way, and none.
The lights dimmed, and the coming attractions trailers began. Rudolf always enjoyed the anticipation of seeing what was to come. It was like sorcery. He’d seen people burned alive for daring to foretell future events. He’d seen them stoned for public displays of affection that were commonplace here in Three Rivers. He’d seen them imprisoned for wearing clothing that would now be considered prudish. Each human was a modern miracle driven by primal impulses they would likely never fully understand. They all feared the same things, but gave those things different names. They loved and they hated, but never understood how similar those two feelings were.
All of them, however, wanted to laugh.
The lights went down, and Ghostbusters began playing.
Rudolf exited the theater two hours later convinced he’d seen a once-in-a-generation masterpiece. The film had a unique concept, brilliant direction, inspired performances by all the actors, and a perfect balance of high-and-lowbrow comedy. He’d seen Duck Soup at the Roxy in 1933 and he’d seen Blazing Saddles at Grauman’s Chinese in 1974- and what he’d just watched measured up to those experiences in every way. He’d laughed and howled along with everyone else in the theater at Bill Murray’s bone-dry delivery, Dan Aykroyd’s bumbling slapstick, and Harold Ramis’ sardonic wit…but for some reason it was the little fellow- Rick Moranis – who had absolutely killed him. He’d only been vaguely aware of this ‘nerd’ phenomenon that seemed to be obsessing popular American culture of late, but the flawless comedy of Moranis’ clown character – and the movie as a whole – had done what Rudolf had thought impossible: for a little while, he had forgotten he was a creature apart. He’d shared the evening with a roomful of strangers and for the first time in centuries – since that fateful day in the caves north of Bistrița, he’d been one of them.
It was quieter now as he wandered back down Main Street towards the St. Joseph River. He considered how the people in the theater had screamed when they saw the film’s first ghost in the library basement, and later on laughed at the little obese green one. He mused how humans had invented so many ways of dealing with the things they would never comprehend, yet knew lurked around them at all times. The shadow in the basement. The whisperer in the forest. The bloodsucker in the back of the theater.
There were still several hours before dawn. Rudolf decided he’d go sit by the dam and watch the slow-moving river flow by for a while. He was in no hurry. He had all the time in the world.
###
Jim Towns is a writer, director and artist. His films include the silent expressionist feature Prometheus Triumphant: a Fugue in the Key of Flesh, the necromantic dark comedy STIFF, the award-winning haunted heist film House of Bad, and the post-apocalyptic drama State of Desolation. He’s currently in production for the upcoming streaming series Immortal Hands.
His published short fiction includes “Warlock’s Eye” (FunDead Publications), “Fools at the Feet of a Hanged Man” (Dodging the Rain literary magazine), “Castrato” (Things in the Well), “The Grave” (Hellbound Books) and “Bad Coffee and the Bomb” (Switchblade Magazine). 2020 saw the publication of his debut nonfiction book, American Cryptic.
His paintings and mixed media artwork have been exhibited in galleries in Pittsburgh, New York and Los Angeles.
He currently lives in San Pedro, CA with his wife and two mysterious cats.
You can follow him here on Facebook: www.facebook.com/jimtownsfilms
or
You can follow him here on Twitter: www.twitter.com/jim_towns
Mama by Victoria Nations
Mama
by Victoria Nations
“Mama, I dug behind the coop today, but I didn’t find anything.”
Mama sat stiff, her hands gripped on the chair arms. Her gnarled fingers were gray where they curled around the ends. She glared at the shovel, at my hands, to make sure they were dirty enough.
“I went at least four feet down. Any deeper and it would’ve been like digging a grave, Mama. I wouldn’t have been able to climb out.”
Mama sat in stony silence, mean as a snake and better at staring me down. Her face didn’t even change expression.
She couldn’t see the hole I’d dug. She wouldn’t see it; she never left her back porch chair anymore. But her stare bored through me, through the coop and to the back of the yard, as if she could see it, and appraise my work. It would fall short.
One of these days, I swore I’d stab the shovel into the ground right in front of her, and I’d walk off without being dismissed. I’d poke the snake and make her strike.
One of these days, the surveyors would get closer to the house and find out Mama was still here, coiled up and waiting. That Hell was likely coming, faster than the one where I managed the gumption to walk away from her before she was done with me.
Mama’s voice grated through my head, quashing any hint of defiance, and I couldn’t look at her anymore. I stared at the shovel instead. I’d left clods stuck to the blade just so she’d hush about it, but the dirt was never enough. Mama had me turn out my pockets and clean up the porch before I could go.
“I’ll clean up the shovel, too,” I said, careful to keep dirt from dropping as I carried it down the steps. Mama’s warning was sharp.
“No, Mama. I’m not sassing you.”
#
“Mama, that man talked to me again about the house today, when I was up at the store. I didn’t answer him, just like you said. I practically ran away.”
I balanced the grocery bags in my arms. Mama’s face was inscrutable. The shovel was propped on her chair, waiting for me.
“He followed me for a few steps, but he didn’t come after me. Just shouted.” Still no reaction, damn her. I shifted the bags to the other hip. “I was scared, Mama. He started talking about the house, and he knew about the silver. He said it’s all made up. He said…”
Her gravel voice stopped me. Mama gave no truck to nonsense, and everything I said was nonsense to her.
“No, I didn’t linger around listening to him.” The old woman had me cowed again. I could barely look at her when she was like this, could barely speak. Mama stared as I dropped the groceries inside the kitchen and came back out. It was obvious she expected me to get back to work.
“Mr. Johnson found me outside the store and brought me the bags I’d dropped.” I said, careful to keep my voice light. “He’s really nice, Mama. He asked after you. He said you were the prettiest thing. Said he hoped you’d come see him at the store.”
Her growl was almost too low to hear. Poor Mr. Johnson was never going to get anything from Mama.
“Yes, Mama. He was fresh.” I took the shovel from her. “I didn’t talk back to him, promise.”
#
“Mama, I don’t think your hair is going to hold the curlers anymore.”
Tufts of hair lay in my hand, and I wasn’t sure what to do with them. I couldn’t drop them onto the porch floor or Mama would have a conniption. Her neck was rigid in front of me, but she’d spin around and catch me, sure as sunrise. I tried sliding the comb through her hair again, slower this time. Mama didn’t flinch. That woman wouldn’t show the least sign of weakness, even if she was being snatched baldheaded.
Which she was. Strands snarled in the comb teeth and pulled free of her scalp.
“It’s going to come out in clumps if you keep curling it in your condition,” I scolded. I patted the loose hair down, willing it to reattach. If Mama believed in hairspray, I could just mold it into a mass and stick in place. But she still wore her curls loose. The town ladies used to use that word to describe her, too.
Mama muttered.
“I’m trying not to pull so hard.” I grabbed a curler and wrapped a few intact hairs around it, pushing the handful of others into my overalls pocket. I propped the curler up with three pins, careful not to scrape against her skin. Mama gave no sign if she noticed. She’d gone silent again.
“I’ll get as many in as I can.”
Mama thought she could sweet talk those men away from taking the house, and maybe she was right. Even in curlers, she was still beautiful. Curls down, she’d be as pretty as the pear trees that used to bloom in the yard. It’ll stop them in their tracks for a minute, enough time to figure out what to do next, I guess.
Mama won’t run. Her days of running are over. She’ll want me to stand with her.
I don’t know what she’ll have me do with the shovel then.
#
“Mama, remember when the okra came in that year?”
I sat on the porch step, snapping beans at Mama’s feet. I’d washed my hands in the hose water before grabbing the bowl from the kitchen, but I’d need to scrub at the sink to get the dirt from around my nails.
Mama stared into the distance. There wasn’t anything to see out there, just overgrown field and the empty coop. You couldn’t even see the fence from the porch, which was a good thing.
Chattering seemed the best strategy to keep her from asking about the beans. If she did, I’d have to tell her Mr. Johnson brought them to the fence, saying he had too much in his own garden. He was checking on us, I knew. The town knew we were supposed to be gone. They knew why we were still here, too.
I’d stowed the shovel against a tree before talking to Mr. Johnson, but he’d spotted it anyway. Mr. Johnson didn’t say anything, though, except to ask after Mama.
Every time we talked, he asked. He’d be friendly, talking about the weather and such. He’d ask how I was doing, even on the days I was too shy to answer back. Then he’d come over weird and ask if Mama might come to town sometime. His eyes would change when he asked, become stricken and red like he was on some drug.
Today when he asked after her, he pretended not to stare at the shovel and said looking for lost things was a good way to lose yourself. Then he walked away, leaving me the whole bag of beans. The town knew, and I guess I knew, too, why Mr. Johnson never got married. There was something buried in him.
“You put okra in everything that year, Mama. You even sliced up the big pods and fried them with sage, and you told us they were sausage. Remember that? You made me tell Sissy they were sausage.”
No response from Mama behind me, but that was no surprise. She never wanted to talk about Sissy. Talk about lost things.
“I never liked lying for you, Mama,” I continued, snapping beans like I didn’t mind her reaction. “It made my heart hurt. I don’t like lying for you now.”
I chanced looking around, and Mama sat stoic. Her mouth was set in a grimace. The shovel lay across her lap, the message clear. I’d taken a file to the blade, and bright metal ran along both sides.
I kept snapping the beans, my heart feeling dead, deader than Sissy.
I hated her sometimes. I hated the things Mama made me do.
#
“Mama, there’s surveyors out back. I crouched down behind the coop like you told me. One’s pacing the back property, the other’s at the north corner post.”
I’d started talking before I got to the top of the porch steps, and I stood right in front of Mama so she’d have to look at me. I wiped my hands off on my pant legs while catching my breath, but they were just as dirty. I’d stopped filling the holes weeks ago, but I hadn’t thought about them being useful until today.
“I don’t think they saw the hole out by the back corner.” I swiped a hand across my cheek, and it came away muddy from sweat. Mama’s question was clear in her eyes.
“There’s nothing in the holes. I would’ve told you if I’d found anything.”
Her eyes narrowed with accusation, and I gave up.
“They said they’re coming to the house tomorrow, Mama.”
#
“Mama won’t answer you, Officer.”
One officer stood in front of Mama, hand on his hip, close to his gun, but not touching it. The one behind him would’ve been blocking the porch steps, if he was standing up straight. Instead, he was bent, hands on his knees, staring into Mama’s face.
I’d seen her stand up to worse. They stared at her, and she just looked past them, out into the yard where the surveyors tromped around. They stood up their tripods and held up instruments, but they were watching the porch more than taking measurements.
“She doesn’t like the government much,” I offered up. The bent over officer glanced over at where I stood in the kitchen doorway, then stood up and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. He didn’t look insulted by what I said. He probably ran into a lot of stubborn old ladies across the county. He probably had to run a few off their land each year. None of them were as fixed to her land as Mama, though. They’d have to carry her off.
“Ma’am,” the first officer asked, “has your Mama been like this long?”
“Obstinate, you mean?” I smiled down at Mama’s tight face. Her lips had pulled back so it looked like she baring her teeth. The look suited her. “Yes sir, my whole life.”
The office nodded, and the one behind him kept rubbing his neck. They weren’t the first men to be flummoxed by Mama. Already they were exchanging looks, and their shoulders were beginning to hunch, like they always did right before giving up. The first officer took the lead.
“Ma’am, we’re going to confer on this. You stay here with your Mama, OK?”
“Absolutely, officer.”
They turned their backs, and Mama handed me the shovel like usual. Sharpened up, it shined just like Mama’s silver.
###
Victoria Nations is a horror writer and biologist, and lover of spooky, spooky stories. She writes about creatures birthed in black muck and backwaters, and sometimes humans that emulate them.
Victoria’s stories have appeared online in the annual Author and Artist Spooky Showcase, hosted by JoleneHaley.com, and she is a co-author of the novel, “The Dark and Stormy Night.” She is also a contributor to the horror writer website, MidnightSocietyTales.com.
Victoria lives in Florida with her wife and son, who indulge her love of monsters.
Victoria can be found here:
Twitter: @Leaves_Cobwebs
The Collector by Meg Pelliccio
Source: Shutterstock by Paul Schlemmer
The Collector
by Meg Pelliccio
Like a perched bird, he clawed his twisted fingers into the brittle bark and waited. His flesh twitched with anticipation whereas the more phantom of his being was under a constant threat of dissipating. He was no longer living, just as he was not dead. More years than he cared to count had passed since his mortal body had finally broken from the toll of life. With a grim determination his blackened soul had clung on to the living world. He had not passed into the afterlife, nor did he remain as a wandering spirit. The apparition he had become no longer had any claim to his body and in the time he had spent trying to reattach his soul to his corpse, he had become a mess of greying fleshy parts with limbs held in place by his spectral figment; he had become a ghoul.
He needed something of the physical world to tie his revenant being to in order to be part of the corporeal mortal realm. Over the years he had found himself forced to crawl into fresh graves to replace the more rotten pieces of his original remains. What started off as a necessity became an obsession to pass the years. He chose each new body part with discretion; each new limb was a jewel to him, a new addition to his collection of ornaments that adorned him. The foul creature was especially pleased with the large, already yellowing eye with an emerald green iris he currently valued as his most prized possession; it had belonged to a beautiful young woman cut down in her own home by an intruder. It sat in his one good socket like a trophy. It took unearthly effort to manipulate his selected cadaver pieces into motion, forming his perverse mimic of an entity.
He ran his few shrivelled fingers through the remnants of his hair, passing through the softness into the sponginess of his brain in an attempt to provoke some useful thoughts. He had lost fragments of his memory as parts of his brain had decomposed and crumbled away. He could no longer remember the name of his mother, or how tall he had been when he was truly alive, however, he always clung onto the most prized of his memories, the memory that had kept him in some resemblance of life, the memory of her.
Just the thought of her sent bursts of lively electric tingles through his numbed flesh; he could remember every detail of exactly how she had looked all those years ago, as clearly as he could see her now through the large window just across the street from the tree that sheltered him. He had retained his dark vigil over the mortal world, time slipping away from him much like the shedding of his skin as he had sought her out. Finally, he had found her. She was older now, older than his usual type had been back in his prime, but this had become personal. She was unfinished business.
After enduring the long wait, he could hardly believe that all of his dark desires were about to unfold. He even took the time to pinch himself to ensure he was not in some delusion of a dream, but found that his skin came away between his fingers. As he dragged himself across the lawn, leaving behind the odd particle of flesh as he did so, the only taint in his otherwise perfect evening was the frustrating thought of her not recognising him. He had lived off his imaginings of this very night, of him striding in to see the look of realisation on her face of what was about to happen. He hobbled up the steps and began to clamber awkwardly up the drain pipe.
Regrettably, he would not be able to stride in as he had dreamed, and she most certainly would not recognise him in his current pitiful state. An undignified leap from the pipe to the balcony jogged his soggy brain, causing it to galvanise a new thought; although he had long since looked at his reflection, he was sure just the sight of him would horrify her. An almost toothless, warped grin spread across his features at the very idea of her frozen in place by terror. His purple tongue flicked out and licked the messy hole that formed his mouth in anticipation.
As he stood barely hidden, just steps away from her, he was sure that if his heart still beat, the excitement he was feeling would set it into such a pounding rhythm that it would have given him away. On further consideration, he wondered what had happened to his heart. He last recalled it had rotted away from whatever had held it in place in his chest and that it had fallen somewhere near his festering stomach. Perhaps he had digested it by mistake. He didn’t mourn his loss; once he had fulfilled his purpose he would have no need of any physical substance.
She unknowingly walked towards him as she crossed her room; he couldn’t contain himself, and before she could even stop to wonder where the sudden foul stench had come from, he had sprung upon her. He stretched himself out unnaturally, tearing flesh in the process and straining his very tendons beyond their normal limits to encompass her body, smothering her mouth and nose with his perished hand whilst constricting her with the rest of his withered, fetid body like a boa-constrictor. There was no need for such lengths, one side long glance at the gaunt face leering next to her own with its twisted, scattered features immobilised her completely, and bodies entwined, creature and girl fell to the floor.
He could feel her desperation and it fuelled his motives, the sucking, gasping movements she made as he suffocated her sent stimulated shivers through his body. He could feel his saliva dribbling from his torn mouth like a hungry mongrel.
“Did you miss me?” he sneered as he stared into the depths of her eyes, as if trying to see her soul in torment somewhere inside her. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you.”
He gently brushed stray hairs away from her face like a tender lover, “And you’re still so beautiful.” He crooned, “You know, I still remember when we first met; I knew right then I had to have you. I knew I had to have you in a way no other man could ever have you.”
Her eyes had begun to roll in their sockets uncontrollably as her body shuddered.
“But you, you just had to spoil everything,” he snarled, the anger flooding his veins as he gripped her tighter.
He recalled the night he had finally managed to outsmart her idiot of a boyfriend; killing him was nothing like killing the others. It had been necessary to kill him to fulfil his true goal, the girl. He had waited until the young lovers had left for the evening and then stalked them to the local woods, a quiet, secluded place for couples wanting their privacy. When the boyfriend had received the call of nature and left for some bushes, he had also decided to call upon him, stifling the boy’s cries as he repeatedly stabbed him, savouring each moment until the final slicing of the throat with his hunter’s knife. He remembered how the blood had fallen on the foliage; painting it a sickly black in the evening dark that glowed with the taint of red where the moonlight hit it. As he had held the blade aloft to watch the blood running down the blade, it had dripped onto his hand and he could feel the warmth of that precious life fluid.
Passionate lust had filled him, sending his senses soaring. The hot blood as it cooled on his skin, the soft dripping sound as the leaves shed their grisly water to the forest floor, the soft breeze lifting hair from his face; everything was intensified. His face had flushed as his adrenaline had burned through his body. A questioning call from her to the boyfriend had grounded him back in the moment, and with a monstrous expression of enjoyment plastered to his face he had left the hidden depths of the woods to meet her. Her expression had turned from wary concern to unsettled fear as she took in his appearance, the twisted smile on his face, his blood-stained clothes, and finally her eyes had dropped to the bloody knife in his hands. He recalled that they had widened by what seemed an impossible amount, and then like a rabbit bolting from the wolf, she ran.
Blood, desire and thirst pumped through him as he chased her; he could easily run her down and drag her to the muddy floor, but he had wanted to prolong the chase and savour every second of it, every moment of her delicious fear. Every glimpse of her running between the trees sent his mind reeling; the dark overgrown woodland in stark contrast to her scantily-clad body. A hidden root sent him crashing into the leaf-laden floor, as if the trees themselves seemed determined to hold him back and hamper his progress. Upon righting himself he realised she was no longer within his sight. Frantically, his eyes searched for her in the gloom.
He trudged onwards, picking up speed, then like a beacon, the moonlight hit her porcelain skin, illuminating her in a clearing that marked the edge of the wood. Seeing she had her back turned towards him, he crept quietly through the undergrowth, but a cracking twig beneath his foot signalled his arrival. He could see her body jump at the sound, but unexpectedly she did not look his way. Perhaps the fear was too much for her. With a swaggering gait, he prowled towards her, but as he was within reach, she turned to meet his steely gaze. The horror he expected on her face had turned into defiance as she glared him down. Before his confusion had even reached his face in the form of a frown, she had made her move. Sucker punching him with everything she had and sending him sprawling unceremoniously down the steep embankment. Unknown to him as he thudded and bounced down the muddied slope, his prey had taken off again to find her freedom without a second glance his way. He tried to reach his arms out to try and halt his rolling descent, without much luck. With the loud crack of his head against a protruding rock, his mortal life had ended.
Either the girl had never gone to the police, or they had never found his body. By the time he had gathered his sense of self enough to reclaim his body as a spirit; it had made its way into the sludge troth at the very bottom of the embankment. The rains had caused the water to fill and his bloated cadaver was floating amongst the scum and rot. It had taken some time to figure out the ways in which he could control his old limbs enough to crawl his way out of the stagnant water. With a stiffened lurch, he had made his way out of the darkness, cold and wet, as if he were being reborn all over again.
As his thoughts returned to the present, he was aware that the body he encompassed had long since stopped moving. No more would he be haunted by the one that got away, or feel the poisoning lack of fulfilment that had eaten away inside of him for years. The empty ache of hunger he had felt for so long was finally satiated. He could feel the pleasurable grin spreading across his face, so much so he felt it tear more at the edges. He slid back down the drain pipe and tumbled onto the lawn; it had begun to rain. His whole reason for hanging onto the mortal coil had finally been accomplished; his soul was at last ready to pass on. He wondered how long it would take for that familiar dragging pull to take hold of him – the call of the afterlife. Ducking into some nearby hedges for cover from the rain he lay in wait for the end of his life as a ghoul. He passed the time by reliving the evening over and over in his mind; he could feel his brain rotating like a carousel.
By the time he had snapped out of his lurid daydream, he had unknowingly lost a few days. The damp had seeped through to his skin from the foliage beneath him, and then in the heat from the following days he had dried out like a prune. His body felt like leathery paper; he was almost afraid to move should it rip in the process. From the lack of police tape around the house, he knew that the body had not yet been discovered; he considered going back inside to find some replacement parts, but decided against it. He decided that it was likely he had to prompt his departure from the living world in some way, thinking that perhaps his soul was still too attached to his physical embodiment, despite it being deteriorated.
He continued to wait for his demise, he neglected his incomprehensible ability to manoeuvre his body and did not attempt to reconstruct himself as his assimilated cadaver fell apart; he felt it would be an act of freeing his soul. His dehydrated skin started to wither to the point of fraying; his remaining limbs fell away from his body where they proceeded to begin rotting. His jaw, which had been set into a grim expression from perseverance, had dropped away and lay on the ground before him in a mock look of cartoon-like shock, while his almost thread-bare head had lost its surviving hair along with his scalp when it had slid off onto his back. The eye he had been so proud of had a new owner; a bold maggot had decided to encroach upon his last days of existence. Surprisingly he found comfort in the company. What remained of him was a motionless gargoyle. He had lost all control of his leftovers, and with his tongue left barely hanging by some gummy threads, he could no longer speak. His assorted limbs having not been in a healthy state to begin with were quick to finish decaying and it didn’t take many days for the rest of him to collapse in on itself; he became a pile of flesh which mixed with the fallen leaves to produce what would probably become fine compost.
Eventually, to his horror, it dawned on him that with the relinquishing of his tangible presence there was no escape, no freedom, and no journey forward. He was just a lost consciousness, incapable of movement or of rebuilding himself. He was stuck in this world, no longer enough of a substance to blemish it, but not vague enough to clear the mortal earth and venture into the cosmos.
###
Meg lives in beautiful Devon, where she is lucky to be close to both the stunning moorland and picturesque seaside. By day, Meg works as a Content Editor, writing and editing copy, and by night she enjoys reading, gaming and creative writing.
Meg can be found here:
Twitter: @megpelliccio
Website: www.remnantsoftheoldgods.co.uk
Website: www.remnantsoftheoldgods.co.uk
Putting the Trash Where It Belongs by Linda M. Crate
Putting the Trash Where It Belongs
by
Linda M. Crate
People watching was something he was good at. He was good at reading a situation, giving empathy to the right people, withholding it from others.
There were very pretty specimens in this bar, but each of them seemed to be getting their ruffles feathered by this one particular man. He just didn’t seem to get a clue.
Carl was grateful that he had never been so foolish.
He had been rejected before, of course, but he always took it graciously unlike this man who was making a fool of himself. It was so much of a train-wreck that Carl couldn’t help but watch with morbid curiosity.
Carl having watched this man the entire evening, knew that no one would miss him. He was screaming and patronizing people all evening especially women who clearly wanted nothing to do with him, and Carl decided he ought to do the world a favor and put him out of his misery. He rather disliked men who thought it was okay to harass women.
It made women less susceptible to Carl’s charm, and since his life depended on that, he wasn’t going to let any obstacles stand in his way. Especially not this obnoxious man.
No meant no, not try harder or scream at the person you thought you were entitled to but were not. Carl didn’t know why that was such a hard concept for some people to figure out.
Carl noticed the man leaving the pub completely intoxicated, aggravated that the tender wouldn’t serve him anymore. He watched him a few moments longer before leaving so as not to appear suspicious.
But no one ever suspected Carl of the terrible things he did. He never got caught, for one. For two, he was very handsome and could easily feign an innocence he hadn’t possessed for many moons.
They said the only beauty that mattered was the beauty of a person’s heart and soul, but Carl thought that was something only an ugly person would believe. After all, his handsome face was good at getting him out of trouble and his heart and soul were both blacker than coal or a night’s sky without moon or star.
The man wasn’t hard to find. He was stumbling forward like a sleep deprived five-year-old looking for a juice box in the middle of the night. He was mumbling incoherently beneath his breath about the women who had rejected him earlier in the evening and how he was far superior to them.
Carl’s lips curved into a jagged grin when the man decided to fumble through the alleyway. This suited his dark purpose just fine.
He generally preferred a chase where the victim knew he was following, hearing the sweet music of their terrified hearts made him exquisitely happy. He was a predator, after all. It was better when the prey knew they were prey because they always thought they could outwit and surprise him, somehow. Some got pretty far in defending themselves from their incoming doom. Others were laughably horrible.
Others like the specimen before him didn’t get a choice in the matter because he had already made up his mind. Carl watched the man scream at a garbage can and raised his brows.
Pathetic, really!
Food was food, though. Regardless of what it wore or stunk of. Carl was a bit impressed that the man was actually standing, inebriated as he was.
It was then that the man finally had taken notice of him.
“Who the hell are you?”
“It doesn’t much matter. Anyone who knew me when I was human is already dead and gone,” Carl shrugged. “The names of the undead forever change and no one ever takes notice.”
“What the hell? You must’ve had more to drink than me,” the man snickered, shaking his head. “You stay away from me! I’ll punch you.”
“Will you?” Carl challenged, raising a brow. “Seems it’s taking an awful amount of concentration for you simply to stand.”
“You bastard! What do you want? I don’t have no money.”
“Not interested in money. I require something a little more valuable.”
“What’s that?” The man demanded, eyes all but bulging out of his head in his annoyance.
“Only a mere trifle, dear moron.” Carl edged closer to the drunk. “Your life.”
“I don’t have a wife!”
“I said life,” Carl snorted, shaking his head.
“I told you I have no wife. If I did, I wouldn’t be here talking to you of all people! You freaking weirdo.”
Carl smirked. “I’m the weirdo, eh? At least I can read the room. You kept spilling your drinks on people who had no interest in looking at you, let alone speak to you.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“The one that will put you out of your misery.”
“How’s that?”
“I find death is a very effective method in curing any ailment life may give.”
“You’re funny!” The drunk man slurred, waltzing in a line (far from straight) in Carl’s general direction. He jabbed a finger at Carl. “Got any other jokes, weirdo?”
“I do, but I think the biggest joke in this alleyway is you.”
The man’s eyes suddenly darkened as he tried to swing at Carl, only becoming angrier when Carl deftly stepped out of the way. “What’s the matter, can’t fight?” the man sneered. “Of course, you can’t, mama’s boy.”
Carl snorted. The assumptions mortals made were sometimes amusing. Mama’s boy? Well, he supposed he was what some humans would call a pretty boy, but Carl was about to show this man just how very ugly he could be.
“Come on, mama’s boy, you gonna defend yourself or what?”
Carl’s lips curled into a nefarious smirk, his fangs lowering over his eyeteeth. “I’m going to clean up this alleyway, so you don’t scare away all my potential victims.”
“Not human,” the man gasped.
“Took you long enough to grasp the concept,” Carl snickered. His dark eyes were now red in hue. “But unfortunately for you, it is also too late.”
“What are you the white knight defending ladies honor?”
“I could care less about that, but it’s men like you that make other mortals leery and less susceptible to my charm. A man’s got to eat, and I’m not going to lose any more opportunities because of bumbling nitwits like yourself,” Carl sneered, his handsome features transformed into something ugly. The more aggressive he became, the less handsome he appeared to mortals.
The man who had been aggressively jabbing him before had enough sense to back away from him now.
“I am the black night, the blackest. A night without moon or star, I will extinguish the light in your eyes, and I will relish doing so,” Carl stated, walking towards the man who was trying desperately to find a way to escape him.
Carl was amused. This fool wasn’t going to escape. They never could once Carl chose them.
The man eventually grew weary of trying to climb around and over trash bags, trash cans, and other debris found in the alleyway. But he kept going which was probably the only admirable quality Carl could find in him. Despite the fact that this man was a disgusting excuse of a human being, even he had the will to live.
But Carl supposed the same could be said of most insects. Perhaps, there was nothing admirable in this man, after all.
Carl creeped slowly up on the man, watching his every moment with eyes sharper than a hawk. Just when the man thought he was safe, Carl appeared behind him in a few short seconds to show him just how wrong he was.
The man’s heightened heartbeat was music to his undead ears.
He was saying something, but Carl couldn’t hear him. His ears usually picked up on sound quite easily, but his hunger was strong in this moment, and that was all the vampire could focus on. Lunging forward, his fangs bit deeply into the man’s throat, and Carl was pleasantly surprised that the man’s blood tasted so good. It was a bit disappointing when he stopped trashing beneath his grasp and the last ruby of blood had been extracted. It was just enough to slake his thirst, at the moment, but the vampire knew he needed another.
He looked at the body before him knowing he couldn’t just leave this man to be found. Using magic he transformed the man into a plastic bottle which he threw into the trash.
Trash belonged in trash cans, after all, the vampire thought with a malevolent smirk.
###
Linda M. Crate’s works have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of six poetry chapbooks, the latest of which is: More Than Bone Music (Clare Songbirds Publishing House, March 2019). She’s also the author of the novel Phoenix Tears (Czykmate Books, June 2018). Recently she has published two full-length poetry collections Vampire Daughter (Dark Gatekeeper Gaming, February 2020) and The Sweetest Blood (Cyberwit, February 2020).
She can be found at:
Linda M. Crate Facebook
@authorlindamcrate Instagram
@thysilverdoe Twitter
Tree of Life by Christopher E. Ikpoh
Source: wallpaperscraft.com
Tree of Life
by Christopher E. Ikpoh
Along the path, Thomas strolled. His steps were heavy against the stiff dirt beneath his feet; as heavy as the weight of his heart. The gray sky mirrored his soul. Thomas’ gloom was shared by the world, shared by the nature all around him, and the nature of his journey as he embarked on a solo endeavor. The singular waves of sound made from his feet were left with no perpendicular noise to accompany them. His only companions were internal: fatigue, hurt and loneliness. His mind was ravaged by the relay of pain firing from the nerves in his legs. Thomas had been walking for the duration of the sun’s display amidst the clouds, which was setting in the west directly ahead of him. The stars were already beginning to appear as blackness poisoned the blue umbrella, attempting to stifle its righteous serenity. Seeing this sight, Thomas knew it was time to give in, and upon finding a suitable place to rest, he did so.
About a meter ahead, Thomas saw a slight depression off to the side covered by many branches. It appeared the newly forming stream along the path ran directly alongside it as well. “A good place to wash up and drink,” Thomas contemplated to himself. “I will make camp nearby.”
The dwindling light peeking through the treetops sprinkled diamonds atop the bubbling waters. On the bank before the stream was a path of peculiar looking “styx” stretching as far as his eyes could see. Thomas slowly knelt, examining them as he grasped a handful. Immediately they turned to dust. His fingertips stared back at him, ashen like a pit of an old, extinguished fire. He was dumbfounded, for his feet just snapped the styx into wooden pieces beneath the soles of his boots moments earlier. It was then his nostrils detected the caressing scent of fire in the air, and Thomas became increasingly alarmed. “What sort of trickery is this?” he inquired inwardly, for no flames were in sight. However, before he deemed himself mad, he noticed a slight flicker between the trees in the distance. There was a fire after all, bringing a sense of relief to his weary and exhausted mind.
Thomas foraged through the brush before coming to a clearing. The open space was circular, encompassed by dense thicket and tall trees. The objects of attention were centered directly ahead of him: a cloaked man, the small campfire, and a very peculiar looking tree. “Excuse me, sir,” Thomas said calmly as to not startle the cloaked man. Yet, there was no reply. Thomas spoke again with a second attempt to gain the man’s attention. “Hello?”
Still, there was no response as the cloaked man continued to tend to the tree. Prompted by curiosity, Thomas crept forward into the circle, and as he did, he felt a tingling sensation in his fingertips. Thomas turned his palm upwards and noticed something very odd: the black ash was evaporating. Following the traces of soot through the night sky, he noticed there were other floating objects rising towards the full moon above them. They were leaves from the tree. Thomas traced the path of the leaves down, back to the cloaked man. “What in God’s name?” Thomas murmured to himself.
It was then the cloaked man spoke in a smooth, deep, baritone voice. “Death.” Thomas froze in his tracks. He already was experiencing trepidation with each step he took into the circular clearing. However, that word – it paralyzed Thomas’ movement.
“What about death?” Thomas inquired.
“You asked, ‘What in God’s name?’ The answer is death,” the cloaked man replied.
Puzzled, Thomas remained still. His rapidly beating heart and shaken nerves could not handle walking and deciphering the cloaked man’s statement at the same time, all the while contemplating how the cloaked man heard his whispers. Thus, Thomas decided to tackle the easiest of the three tasks at that moment; he tried to figure out what the cloaked man’s words meant. “Death in God’s name?” Thomas queried.
The cloaked man stopped picking leaves from the tree. Slowly he turned around to face Thomas. “Come,” the mysterious man’s voice commanded through the hood hiding his face. Thomas tentatively walked forward, more dragging his feet than picking them up. When he reached the cloaked man, he extended his hand in a gesture to introduce himself.
With his palm shaking, Thomas said, “My name…” a lump leapt into his throat before he could finish his sentence. Swallowing it was as burdensome as consuming a rock. Thomas squinted as he forced the anxiety and fear back down into his stomach. He continued, “… name is Thomas, sir.”
The cloaked man groaned lightly at the sight of Thomas’ quivering hand. Without saying a word, the mysterious figure turned back towards the tree. Seconds of cold silence passed, which seemed like an eternity to Thomas. His shoulders began wearing from holding out his hand, leaving his entire arm trembling. Thomas’ fear was deteriorating his body. Left with an open palm and outstretched limb, Thomas brought his hand back to his side while dropping his head in shame. However, before he could retreat as every fiber in his body screamed at him to, the cloaked man spoke again. “To touch me is to experience the answer you seek. I shall enlighten you to what is here before us instead,” the hooded keeper explained.
Thomas looked at his hand once more, this time in relief. “Though I do not fully understand the greater scope of your words, I believe I comprehend their meaning. Thank you,” he said to the cloaked man. “I have many questions I would…” The cloaked man raised his arm, interrupting Thomas. “Just listen. Watch and listen.”
Thomas fixed his eyes on the cloaked man’s hands as they approached the tree. Up close, Thomas noticed leaves completely covered the tree; no bark was visible. As the cloaked man’s hands neared them, he opened his palms. Instantly, leaves began shuffling quietly. They were rearranging their order. The ones in front slid away as leaves in back, up top, and underneath all migrated towards the cloaked man’s hands. When they reached the spot on the tree in front of the two men, they gently broke their bond and floated to the mystery figure’s hands. Once in his grasp, the cloaked man rubbed his thumb across his palm. It appeared unnatural to Thomas, so he peered his vision in closer. The cloaked man’s thumbs were abnormally long, able to brush his entire hand without bending, and as he did, the leaves each glowed with a golden light. Finally, they floated into the sky and rose towards the heavens as Thomas had witnessed before.
“Remarkable,” Thomas professed. “Simply remarkable.” The cloaked man continued working without pause. Thomas watched in amazement as the leaves shuffled and proceeded towards the hooded keeper like a moth to a flame. “How…” Thomas began asking before being interrupted again.
The cloaked man’s voice grumbled forth revealing more answers. “You ask the wrong questions.” Thomas’ puzzled silence triggered the mystery figure to continue. “Not how, but why.”
Thomas took a breath and quickly heeded the cloaked man’s words. “Why?”
“I shall explain,” the hooded keeper answered. His words paused the leaves upon the completion of his retort. Next, he rotated his hands counterclockwise, forcing them to retreat from the space on the trunk directly ahead. Underneath them, dark brown wood was revealed. However, the bark quickly began to crumble, exposing another layer to the tree as a clear liquid emerged. The cloaked man extended his index finger, also abnormally long. His lengthy nail broke the surface of the liquid, penetrating it about an inch deep. Then, the mysterious figure removed his fingernail from the small puddle causing ripples to vibrate all throughout the tree. As the ripples flowed, the tree became transparent, and before them developed a giant, reflective liquid mirror.
Thomas’ curiosity overcame his better sensibilities. He reached forward to imitate the cloaked man and attempted to feel the liquid upon his own fingertips. “No!” the cloaked man’s voice rumbled with authority.
Dejected and feeling quite foolish, Thomas apologized for his action. “Forgive me.”
The hooded keeper nodded in acceptance of Thomas’ apology. Then, immediately after, a loud crack of thunder shook the sky. As Thomas glanced upwards anticipating rainfall, he noticed no drops fell upon their heads. No water fell anywhere within the circle. Rain did pour down all around them, but not one speck of water breached the circular clearing’s boundary. The cloaked man then waved his arm around and around until a flash of lightning struck the liquid mirror. Thomas was jolted from his stance and fell on his backside. He looked forward in amazement as the mirror shone with an intense light. After it ceased blinding him, Thomas saw a figure appear in the mirror: a tiny shrub with one leaf. “Is that the same tree?” he inquired.
Again, the cloaked man nodded. He explained in his deep voice, “God created all from the Tree of Life. Each creation was to span the course of time. Whether the beasts and plants lived forever, or for only a day, was of no consequence.” Thomas sat up displaying attentiveness as the mystery figure continued. “When He created man, however, He knew their time within this world must be finite as the process of cultivating a soul requires an end in order to receive salvation. Thus, the Lord decided there was a need for a facilitator to oversee such an existence. Consequently, he created Mal’ak d’mot.”
Puzzled as to what the cloaked man referred to, Thomas inquired, “Mal’ak d’mot?”
The hooded keeper replied, “The Angel of Death.” It was then in the liquid mirror Thomas noticed something striking. The shrub began to grow, and as it grew, a black mist grew with it. Slowly, the mist formed into an imposing figure. In front of him was the vision of an angel unlike any he had ever seen before. It was indeed dark – a brooding, menacing creature. Yet, it developed an ominous glow of white light all around it. Thomas could feel the warmth of the beams through the liquid. Instantly, he knew it was the Light of God. The cloaked man continued, “Of all the angels that existed, none were fit to handle the task of controlling death. They were all created to praise God and glorify all His creations. To facilitate the death of God’s finest achievement was counterintuitive to the angels’ existence. Therefore, a new angel had to be created, and it was.”
“Could none of the archangels have done it?” Thomas asked.
The hood on the man’s cloak gently swayed side-to-side. He answered, “No. The archangels are great and magnificent, but their place in God’s kingdom could never be over life and death in this capacity. The Angel of Death had to be created.”
Thomas continued to study the Angel of Death in the liquid vision as it matured along with the shrub. In no time, a massive tree was reflected before him along with a semi-familiar figure. The more leaves the tree dawned, the more familiar the figure became. The Angel of Death had transformed into the cloaked man within the reflection. “It – it’s you,” Thomas stuttered.
The cloaked man nodded in agreement. Grumbling, his voice sounded, “Indeed. It is I.”
“What happened to you?” Thomas asked.
“My glory, my magnificence, it faded when my damnation settled upon me,” the Angel replied.
Thomas was perplexed. “Your damnation?”
The Angel of Death turned towards Thomas. As he did, the liquid mirror dissipated, revealing the Tree of Life once more in its natural form. The Angel then began to speak as he slowly pinched the edge of his hood between his long, needle-point fingertips. The cloth was being dropped to make a great revelation. “Sympathy, Thomas,” the Angel declared, “my spirit grew with sympathy for the names on the Tree.”
The Angel of Death’s face had been revealed. It was pitch black; blacker than anything Thomas had ever seen. The Angel’s face lacked definition or true features besides that of a pair of eyes and a mouth. It was as if it was almost transparent. Unbeknownst to Thomas, this was the first time the Angel had ever revealed himself to any mortal. Yet, Thomas could sense the enormous gravity of the moment. Respectfully, he asked, “Sympathy did this to you? How can this be so?”
The Angel lifted his head and locked eyes with Thomas, sending a shiver down Thomas’ body strong enough to revive the unconscious. The Angel replied, “I was created to process death, to facilitate and control it. In the beginning, I diligently worked at my duty. I never minded the creation of the leaves nor their departure into the realm of judgment. I only did as I was created to do.”
“And then?” Thomas asked with great anticipation.
The Angel continued, “And then I was called home.”
“Home? You mean to heaven.”
“Yes. God sent an angel to me with a message. The time of Christ’s crucifixion was at hand. Upon His death, the vail between this world and the next — between the living and the dead — would be broken. Christ’s passing gave mankind the ability to obtain immortality.”
“That must have been wonderful news. You served the Lord in completion and were being called home.” The expression on the Angel’s face was contrary to these sentiments though, prompting Thomas to ask, “What happened?”
“I did not want to return home,” the Angel said in a somber tone.
Perplexed, Thomas scrunched his face and inquired, “Why not?”
The Angel of Death paused for a moment. Thomas could tell he was in deep contemplation. He was undoubtedly replaying the exact moment in his mind, and Thomas knew not to disturb him. Finally, the Angel spoke. “I became one with the Tree, with what it represented.”
“But it represents death. You were being called home to live a life of eternal bliss. How could you deny yourself that?”
“This Tree does not represent death. It represents life and its fragility. Life is the most precious gift. Yet, it is taken away so easily. All that is required is a simple stroke of my digit. The Tree is the nest of souls walking the realm of the living. The Tree represents God’s children.”
A look of understanding was noticeable upon Thomas’ face. It all was coming together. “I see. You became a sympathizer of mankind. You feel our innate desire to stay alive. You know our fear of death… of you.”
“Yes,” the Angel said while slowly nodding.
Thomas ruminated for a few more moments before continuing, “You decided to stay here, then? With the Tree and the souls of the departed?”
“And for my defiance of God’s will, I was damned, eventually developing this grim form and a perpetual state of mourning and sorrowful sympathy.” The Angel of Death placed his hood over his head before continuing. “I thought not of the consequences. I felt if I stayed with the Tree of Life — with the souls of mankind — that I would be able to offer some measure of peace above the immortality already promised to them. My sympathy birthed ignorance, for not only could I never improve on the righteous judgment handed down by the Lord, but I also did not see that by remaining with the Tree I was only continuing my own torment. Instead of returning home to welcome the souls upon their arrival, I fixed myself into a perpetual cycle of sadness created by my duty of separating humans from the lives they hold so dear into their unknown afterlife.”
Thomas felt overwhelmed with sorrow for the Angel of Death. The hooded keeper harbored the kindest intentions, and for this he was persecuted. Nevertheless, he realized something within the Angel’s story. “Your flaw,” Thomas said, “or your transgression should I say, was not sympathizing with mankind. It was not having faith in God’s will.” The Angel turned away from Thomas and began shuffling leaves through his palm again, releasing more souls to the afterlife. Thomas stepped forward to expand on his realization. “If you would have believed in God’s will, then your sympathy would not have damned you here forever. You would have left, reluctantly, but you would have returned home, nonetheless. Then, you would have what you always yearned for: to see human souls through to immortal life amongst the saints.” The Angel of Death groaned in hesitant agreement while shuffling leaves. Thomas pondered for a second and then continued. “Yes, that is it. I am sorry, my friend.”
“It is I who is sorry,” the Angel retorted.
Confused, Thomas replied, “For what?”
As he spoke, the hooded keeper placed his hand on his own shoulder while still facing away from Thomas. The edges of his long, pointy digits wrapped down his back, and as they did, a leaf was released from between them. It floated about the air as if it danced with morbid trepidation. Twisting and turning while progressing closer, the leaf elevated into the air slightly before free falling directly in front of Thomas. He opened his palm to catch it, and when the leaf softly landed in his hand, it seemed to with the weight of one thousand stones. Thomas’ eyes were seared at the sight, burning with a sensation of fire hotter than any he ever felt. Simultaneously, his core froze to a chill colder than the most savage winter night. “It-it can-can’t be,” he stuttered. The leaf grew heavier in his palm, yet he did not drop it. Thomas simply stood still, paralyzed by the sight of his name adorning the soft, vibrantly colored surface of the leaf.
The Angel of Death spoke in a commanding tone. “It is.”
“I am here,” Thomas tried reasoning to himself in a logical tone. “I am alive. I was just walking through the forest and making camp. Yeah… tha-that happened. I felt it all. I wa-was tired, and my muscles grew weak. That could not have happened if I was dead.”
Amidst Thomas’ frantic statements, the Angel interjected, “You crossed over in your sleep, Thomas. Therefore, you do not have a recollection of the moment you died.”
Thomas was flabbergasted by the words of the Angel, and he still refused to believe what he was being told. “This is not real. This is a dream, o-or a vision of some kind. I am sleeping,” Thomas said as he took a few steps towards where he entered the clearing while pointing away. “I must be laying down over there, dreaming this entire sequence. May-maybe I drank some of the river water and it made me ill, which is why I am having this bizarre vision,” he tried convincing himself.
“Come,” the Angel of Death commanded, freezing Thomas and ceasing his bumbling about. “I will show you.”
Thomas hesitantly took a step forward. His legs were reluctant to move for a reason beyond his comprehension. The hooded keeper motioned for him to come closer. This only produced one more step out of Thomas though. Patiently, the Angel waited while moving his hands, clearing away the leaves again. Lightning struck the tree, jolting Thomas from his stance. The blinding light subsided to reveal the liquid mirror once more. It was then Thomas saw the Angel’s words held no fallacy. His heart was destroyed by what played in front of him, and Thomas stumbled forward with tears trickling down his face as he watched his lifeless body lay in bed while striking immense grief into his family surrounding him. “My God,” Thomas’ soft, quivering voice eeked out. “There I am. I really am dead.”
The Angel grunted in agreement. It was not his normal, authoritative grumbling though. There was a hint of sorrow in it this time. As he watched Thomas weep from the sight of his loved ones mourning his passing, the Angel could not fight being overcome with somber emotion. He stared at Thomas through the black voids where his eyes once were, increasing the sorrow he felt through sympathizing with Thomas’ grasp of the death bestowed upon him. This prompted the Angel to begin raising his hand toward Thomas to offer comfort. However, the Angel quickly realized what he was doing and pulled his hand back towards his side.
Thomas noticed the Angel’s gesture and realized the hooded keeper wanted to console him but could not. He further realized the Angel’s story of sympathy in that moment, and he said in understanding, “Thank you.”
The Angel quickly replied, “Do not thank me.”
The hooded keeper was visibly struggling internally with waves of emotions. Thomas contemplated on what he could say to ease the Angel’s turmoil. “It is alright,” he told the Angel. “You only wish to offer me solace in my death. I appreciate your sympathy.” The hooded keeper remained distant and emotional though, and Thomas could not figure out why his counterpart was seemingly separating himself from his side. “What is it that troubles you?” Thomas inquired. Alas, there was no answer; only a more withdrawn Angel with a stauncher opposition to Thomas’ efforts of bonding. Perplexed, Thomas began pondering why the Angel was so persistent to stay removed. Then, he remembered the hooded keeper denying his attempt to shake hands earlier. “To touch you is to know death,” Thomas recited. “Yes, I remember.” The air between the two grew more tense and thick, though, as Thomas continued to cycle through his thoughts aloud in a pensive manner while staring towards the ground. “But I am already dead. Why would it matter if we were to come into contact…”?
Thomas’ inquiry was interrupted by a loud, blood-curdling groan. Startled, he looked up to find the Angel of Death charging towards him at a blinding speed. Thomas was instantly raptured into a force of energy, paralyzing him while he was suspended in mid-air. He struggled to move, but his attempts were to no avail. Thomas looked down upon the Angel in disbelief. Agitated, but visibly torn by his actions, the Angel of Death answered the question he interjected only moments ago. “If we were to touch, I would absorb your soul, releasing you to your final resting place, and I cannot have that happen. I need you here!”
Thomas was baffled by the Angel’s words. “You what?”
“Believe me when I say that this pains me immensely. You are a great man with a pure heart, but for the sake of my own existence, I cannot let you go,” the hooded keeper explained.
“What are you doing?” Thomas asked excitedly.
“Your walk in the forest was the transition into the afterlife I chose for you according to the lifetime of history transcribed on your soul. You loved the wilderness and frequently went for hikes. I knew that scenery would lure you to me.”
Speaking with fear, Thomas queried, “Lure?”
The Angel removed his hood and explained, “For all of time, I have been here facilitating the passing of souls. Since my refusal to return to heaven, my existence has caused me immeasurable pain. It has damned me; left me decrepit and hauntingly disfigured. I am rejected by God and terrify those I have sympathy for. Mankind fears me more than any other thing in their world or the afterlife. How do you think that makes me feel? To know that wherever my heart turns I am shunned, even by those I refused paradise for.”
Thomas was at a loss for words and still stricken by terror as he floated above the Angel. “I-I don’t…” Thomas tried to answer while stammering before asking again, “… why are you doing this to me?”
“When Christ was crucified, he was dead for three days before resurrecting. During that time, he was here with me, setting into motion the new spiritual covenant of immortality for all the living righteous souls. We bonded, as his infinite spirit blessed me with its grace and divinity. Never had I felt so warm, loved and accepted. Never had I understood or felt the power of everlasting life. When the three days passed and Christ was resurrected, I was called home one last time. I chose to remain with the Tree as you know, trying to instill those same feelings Christ gave me into the departed. However, I have failed to provide them that, and all I have been left with is my sympathy, the Tree of Life, and the realization that no matter what, I am eternally damned. I refuse to allow that to be my existence anymore.”
Thomas retorted, “What are you going to do with me?”
“You identify with my story, Thomas. You believe as I do in the importance of having sympathy while being the angel overseeing the Tree of Life. Even more, you empathize with my damnation. I have waited thousands of years for a soul like yours to come to me, and you have finally arrived. It is fate that you are here. I could not have prayed for a more perfect replacement.”
“Replacement?” Thomas exclaimed inquisitively and angrily.
The Angel answered, “Yes, replacement. You shall have all my powers bestowed upon you. Your body will be affirmed with angelic wings, and your spirit with all the divinity an angel possesses. You are the new Angel of Death!”
With his proclamation, the hooded keeper flew towards the energy force and placed his hands above Thomas’ heart. Thomas writhed in pain as spiritual mist flowed from the Angel of Death into his being. Thomas’ skin grew intensely hot as it expanded, increasing his size and height. Thomas’ back ripped apart, releasing light into the air as wings expanded into their fully extended positions. The same light poured from every orifice of Thomas, instilling in him all the abilities the Angel of Death possessed himself. Then, the hooded keeper backed away as Thomas began spinning rapidly inside the force surrounding him. Light flashed all around them as energy pulsed from Thomas in waves that bent the grass and swayed the trees surrounding the clearing. Lightning flashed across the sky and thunder shook the universe. Thomas’ metamorphosis grew to an extinction level event, consuming everything around them. His transformation felt endless, but just as Thomas thought he could take no more, the spinning and light waves ceased. The sky returned to normal and the nature surrounding them settled. Finally, Thomas was released from the energy force and dropped to the ground.
As he landed, Thomas’ body heavily indented the dirt beneath him. A loud thud rang through the air. He stood up awkwardly, adjusting to his massive height and wings. Surprisingly, the newness of his stature subsided, as did his disbelief in the events which just transpired. They began to wane because these feelings were quickly replaced by anger.
Thomas looked frantically for the Angel of Death, but the hooded keeper was nowhere to be found. “Angel!” Thomas shouted with ferocity. “Angel!” Yet, no answer was returned, and alas, Thomas’ voice permeated through the surrounding forest without purpose. He was alone.
In a panic and not knowing what to do, Thomas remembered the movements of the hooded keeper and recalled the powers he employed. Then, he traveled over to the Tree of Life. Circling his hands, Thomas shuffled all the leaves away. Next, a flash of lightning struck and recalled the liquid mirror. Thomas realized he was able to bring about any vision he desired, so Thomas spoke the wish which dominated his entire being. “Find the Angel of Death.” The liquid mirror rippled for a moment before revealing nothing but Thomas’ reflection. It was then his dreaded reality finally began sinking in. There was no escape for Thomas. He was forever to command the Tree of Life and facilitate the passing of human souls, and as he stared at his reflection in the liquid mirror, Thomas realized he too had been damned by his sympathy just as his predecessor before him.
==
Christopher E. Ikpoh is Co-Founder and President of The Creative Extreme, an entertainment company specializing in creating content for TV, film, animation, comic books, novels and short stories. Their cornerstone endeavor, “Project365,” saw them release one original comic book character for every day in 2016, creating a layered multiverse in one epic saga. Christopher is responsible for operating and managing every aspect of the company with his co-founder, including all strategic business planning, creative direction, story and character creation, editing of content, as well as serving as head writer.
Christopher is also the founder of The Christopher Isaac Society, which is a personal literary brand under which he writes novels, short stories, continual fictional series, poetry, narratives, and journalistic musings.
Christopher is a graduate of Oberlin College. He has a career in Finance as a Vice President for JP Morgan Chase, and he currently resides in his home city of Chicago, IL.
For more about Christopher please visit:
www.thecreativeextreme.com
www.
Social media:
IG – @thecreativeextreme, @thechristopherisaacsociety
FB – @thecreativeextreme, @thechristopherisaacsociety
Twitter – @creativeXtreme1
Gothic Blue Book VOL 6: A Krampus Carol – Submissions Now Open
Burial Day Books Call for Submission: Gothic Blue Book VOL 6: A Krampus Carol
Source: The Atlantic.com
Gothic Blue Books were short fictions popular in the 18th and 19th century. They were descendants of the chap book trade and are now a thing of the past. Burial Day Books is now open for submissions for Gothic Blue Book Vol. 6 to be available October 31st 2020.
What was a Gothic Blue Book?
Gothic Blue Books were abridgements of full-length Gothic novels. The subjects of these books fell into one of two categories; the first being set in a monastery or convent and the second being set in a castle.
In terms of the physicality of the book, they were three and a half to four inches in width and six to seven inches in height, with a page count of thirty-six to seventy-two pages.
These little pieces of terror were popular at the time because they were affordable, a sixpence or a shilling each. Their cost affordability led them to be nicknamed Shilling Shockers or Sixpenny Shockers.
What are we looking for?
Original Gothic Blue Books typically took place in either a monastery, convent or castle. In years past we have asked for short stories that take place in one of these locations, or a modern day location such as a morgue, haunted house or cemetery. This year, we have added a new theme – Krampus, Christmas, and ghosts / lore from the globe revolving around a major celebration. Christmas ghost tales have a history stretching back that includes Charles Dickens’ A CHRISTMAS CAROL and more.
Please submit a short story or poem no longer than 3,500 words that follows one of the following:
A single mention or setting in one of the original Gothic Blue Book settings:
a) Monastery
b) Convent
c) Castle
OR –
A single mention or setting that includes one of 2020’s Gothic Blue Book theme:
a) Krampus
b) Christmas
c) And more – see below ‘2020 Addition’
2020 Addition:
a) A story or poem about Krampus, Christmas, Winter, Winter Solstice, Christmas ghosts or Christmas demons, New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day, Epiphany, Three Kings Day, or any folklore, legend or myth surrounding winter, etc. For inspiration think of Charles Dickens’ A CHRISTMAS CAROL and give us cold, darkness, maybe even a demonic Ebenezer Scrooge, a tortured ghost of Christmas Past, Present, or Future, etc. We are also excited to read haunted tales about any other major celebrations from various backgrounds and belief systems; Djinn, Ghosts of Diwali, Chinese Winter Festival and so on. We hope that A Krampus Carol can take the old tradition of Christmas ghost tales, mixed with the spirit of Blue Books, and give readers something terrifying and new.
In addition to the above, the story or poem must instill fear using a supernatural element – ghosts, ghouls, monsters, myth, folklore or legend.
Extreme violence, sexual violence, derogatory language, hateful and harmful language of groups, people, or belief systems will not be considered.
For inspiration look to Ann Radcliffe, Edgar Allan Poe, Mary Shelley, Helen Oyeyemi, Jorge Luis Borges, Shirley Jackson, Emily Brontë, Daphne Du Maurier, Victor LaValle, Angela Carter, Neil Gaiman, Tananarive Due, Charles Dickens and more.
The collection will be published October 31st 2020 in eBook and traditional book format.
DEADLINE: JULY 5th 2020
LEGAL DETAILS
If accepted you are giving Burial Day Books:
A. The exclusive first right to publish your story.
B. The right to republish the story in or in connection with Burial Day, including electronic or hard copy form, including in promotional material or compilations – provided that authorial credit is given in every instance of reproduction.
After your story appears on Burial Day and in the Gothic Blue Book you are free to republish your piece elsewhere as long as you communicate to potential buyers that they are buying your story as a non-exclusive piece.
Payment details:
$50.00 (USD)
One (1) Contributor copy of the anthology
You can submit here at submittable.
The full link is also as follows: https://burialdaybooks.submittable.com/submit/6171/burial-day-gothic-blue-book-6-a-krampus-carol
Artemis Bound by Paul Lubaczewski
Source: Wikipedia
Artemis Bound
By Paul Lubaczewski
The moon had to have been amazingly bright at that moment. The forest was ancient, the canopy perched high up above the loam and rock, and yet still shapes were visible in the light provided from the world beyond the interlocking leaves and branches. On most nights the darkness at ground level can be almost total, but not this one. The hunter noted this, he was a good hunter and knew that he must remain absolutely motionless if he had any hope of catching his prey unaware on a night like tonight. If his prey was alerted, and if the hunter’s aim was not true, it would be all too easy to imagine their roles being reversed under a moon that luminous.
He was a hunter, to him it was more than a word, hunter was something that defined him now, it was what he was and what he was good at. While another man’s body might twitch involuntarily, another man might remove his finger from the trigger of his heavy gun, to scratch or probe his ear or nose to relieve his boredom, he was not another man. He was a hunter; he was one of the best at bringing down this type of prey. Of course, with this sort of quarry, only the best survived long enough to do it more than once.
The hunter had tracked and trailed the beast, weaving a web that only the hunter knew about. Slowly he had become surer of the beast’s movements and was able to cut down the amount of space the web needed to cover. Its lair must be somewhere nearby, the hunter had his suspicions as to where, but only a fool tracks a beast like this to its den. This animal was deadly in the open air, cornered in its very home, who knew what it would do when trapped? Better this way, to know the thing’s paths and to lie in wait for it.
There! In the distance, a soft rustle of fallen leaves on the forest floor. Nothing visibly moved in the dead air of the night at first, yet something had to have disturbed them! The hunter’s eyes, accustomed to the gloom, squinted out into the depths of the somber forest searching for the cause. He allowed himself the briefest of smiles, he could see the gray shape weaving throughout the ancient trees, loping on its appointed rounds. Taking a path that would bring the beast right to where death lay waiting for it.
The hunter raised his gun and aimed, not at the spot the beast was now, but where he was sure to pass. He had one shot, if he missed, one of two things would happen, neither of them good. The best-case scenario would be that the beast would bolt, and the hunter would be forced to begin his hunt all over again. The worst? The thing could move like lightning when aroused to do so, it could be on him before he would be able to chamber another round. The hunter would be lucky to fire off a rushed and panicked second shot. He had no intention of putting his life in the hands of luck tonight.
The hunter’s breath was shallow, his hand was steady as the beast resolved itself from a gray ghost into the monster that it was. His finger began to tense on the trigger…
The hunter felt the presence behind him, hearing nothing at all as it had approached! He began to turn when a flash of white exploded across a black background behind his eyes!
The creature, startled by the sound, barely even took time to register the one man thing standing over the collapsed other before it veered and bounded off into the night looking for safer hunting.
Pain. Pain and darkness. Eyelids flutter open, a blur of dim light, then shapes and blobs, finally they resolved themselves into rocks and trees in full daylight. Pain at the temple from some kind of blow, pain from the wrists and shoulder…. realization, pain caused by arms strung up cruelly to a tree limb above him. Him, him being a hunter who did not realize that he had been the prey all along.
Across from him in the clearing where he hung sat a man atop a boulder, who appeared to be waiting for him to regain consciousness. To judge from the cut of his clothes, he was a man of high breeding and wealth, an older man to judge from his hands and what hair was visible. His face gave no indication of his age for one simple reason, the mask portraying the laughing visage of Thalia, the muse of comedy, that stared out at the hunter instead.
“Good, I see you’re awake,” the man said using a well-made walking stick to rise up from the rock.
“Who are you? Why did you do this, what you interrupted was for the good of all!” the hunter snarled.
“Never mind that, you sir, are called Didier Pelletier, you are a huntsman by trade, a very noble profession, at least at one time it was. But at the time I apprehended you, you were engaged, simply put, in poaching. As such, of course, you shall need to be punished,” the man replied calmly and urbanely.
“I was trying to kill a monster that was a threat to all in the area!” Didier barked, coming fully awake, fueled by his anger at the ill-treatment, not to mention the beast getting allowed to roam free. He tried to move but he found that not only were his hands tied tightly to a rope looped over the limb above him, his feet were tied to metal stakes driven into the ground. He could barely move at all; he could hardly even relieve some of the pressure on his shoulders and wrists by standing up a little straighter.
“I assure you; it was not. It is a source of experimentation, sir! But it was still poaching on private land regardless. For your trespass, my associate will now deliver your punishment. He is younger and will surely be more effective in administering it than I would,” the mask seemed to smile even more widely at the thought.
Didier heard footsteps coming up behind him. He turned his head as much as he was able to view this new variable to the situation. As the other man suggested, this figure was indeed broader and more youthful than the first man, with a wide powerful chest clad in a flowing shirt, and a mane of unruly auburn hair. His face, was replaced by Buskin, the weeping mask practically managing to leer at him. Almost no sign of the man at all was visible, but his eyes glowing feverishly behind the visage of tragedy. Didier’s didn’t linger on the mask, his real focus was the whip the man held, along with Didier’s own hunting blade!
Didier tried to struggle away from the man in a panic, the voice of the first man only came to him through a fog of animal instinct towards flight, “Oh don’t be such a baby about it, you might get hurt much worse if you wriggle around too much. A stray blow might even take out an eye!”
Didier could feel the man behind him grab his sweat-soaked shirt and pull back on it. A moment later he felt the razor-sharp knife cut through it smoothly. He felt the air cool on his back as the homespun was torn away from him. Didier could easily suspect what this was all a prelude towards, but with the knife hovering so close to his own skin he dare not move too much!
After the last of it was torn away, he heard the embodiment of tragedy’s footsteps receding away from him. Illogically his fear poisoned brain began to hope for a moment that this was all that would happen. His heart so wanted to believe that now a miracle might occur and the pain would not come! That hope was dashed as the lash cracked across his exposed skin!
Comedy spoke again after the first painful blow had left a bleeding welt across Didier’s back, “I believe the punishment for poaching, according to the Whipping Act of 1530 was…. well the name says it all, doesn’t it? Shall we say fifteen lashes?” The man waved his hand languidly, “Proceed please.”
The next crack came to his back almost instantly! The combination of stinging and cutting made Didier gasp out loud! He tensed waiting for the blow that would be following, but his tormentor knew his business too well. He paused for a long moment to let the first pain begin to fade or dull just a little before there was another cracking of the air and another ripping pain across Didier’s exposed flesh!
So it continued, each strike timed with exquisite perfection to inflict its own unique brutality upon its victim, each one perfectly placed to create new and individual bleeding marks upon his back. Each of the blows measured fully to make Didier scream and grunt in agony! Long before the end of his torture, Didier could feel the blood and sweat mixing, running down his abused form, pooling at the top of his trousers. He could feel the blood begin to congeal almost in a small puddle where the pants pulled slightly away, growing tacky as it dried there.
Didier hung limply, held upright solely by his bonds by the time it ended. Comedy approached closer and raised his victim’s face up, “Well you survived that, good for you. Soon we will be leaving you, and you will have lived, and is that not the greatest triumph for the hunter? To still be alive at the hunt’s conclusion? There is but one more act to this farce before we humble players leave you.”
The man let go of the hunter’s face and stood back, Didier was able to keep his head upright on his own, but barely. It might have been an illusion caused by the lighting and the shadows, but it seemed to the hunter that Comedy laughed at him, not only with his mask, but also beneath it, “We will, of course, be leaving you here. It will become apparent why, but rest assured I have no fears about you being able to extricate yourself eventually. When you do, you should know that we are some miles from your crimes. In fact, we are on the edge of the properties of a financier who fancies himself a noble. I personally don’t care for the man myself.” Comedy pointed behind him and to the left, “His home is over there,” pointing to the right he added, “the village that serves the manor house is over there. I’m sure you can fill your needs at one of them.”
Tragedy suddenly came around into Didier’s field of vision between where he hung, and where Comedy stood. In one hand he held the hunting knife, it gleamed in the sun as he twisted it one way then the other, forcing it to become the focus of Didier’s entire attention. The man in the weeping mask took a step forward, and allowed the blade to caress along Didier’s jawline, forcing a shiver out of the hunter as he heard the steel scrape and rasp across the bristles!
Didier audibly gasped when the man stepped away again, taking the blade with him. The man proceeded without saying a word to hold up his other hand so Didier could clearly see it. Slowly, without making a single utterance of any kind, the man became the cause of the mask’s weeping as he dug the blade into and across his palm! Instantly blood welled forth from the wound and began to drip down into the grass and loam bellow him.
Having shown Didier his self-mutilation, the man stepped back to his original position behind the hunter. Didier tried to find the strength to get his feet under him, so he could turn and view what the lunatic might be about. Before he had even been able to relieve the pressure on his bonds, he felt the man’s hand on his wounded painful back! A cry escaped Didier’s lips as the man put pressure directly on to one of the 15 wounds that streaked his skin! He winced and moaned and cried each time as the man proceeded to do the same to each of the slices crisscrossing Didier’s abused back!
Didier was left whimpering, head sunk low on his sweat covered chest by the time this new torture was finished. Comedy stepped forward to laugh at him again, Didier could see his feet in front of him, but no longer had the strength to lift his head to view the mocking visage he knew was there.
“And now you have been baptized in blood! You know what you were hunting,” the man said. “As I said honestly to you, it is a source of some experimentation on my part. I have curbed the beast’s appetites, I have to some degree, domesticated it. Occasionally a poacher such as yourself may lose his life in the process, but is that my fault I ask you? If a trespasser falls into a cave on my property am I to blame for that one’s folly? But you Didier, I knew what you hunted and knew you for who you are, you, I had different plans for.”
Didier managed to find his strength to growl, “What? To whip me? To sadistically torment me? This bizarre blood ritual? Fine! You’ve had your warped pleasures, now cut me down!”
“You learn things through experimentation hunter,” the man replied, turning his back, “which is why I know you’ll have no problem escaping on your own tonight. We live in the scientific age of the locomotive and the automobile Didier, and I have used the sciences to learn much! You see, while the beast is indeed magical, its affliction is also transmitted like a disease, not unlike rabies. The blood or the saliva of the infected passes it on to the uninfected!”
The man began to walk away from Didier towards the other edge of the clearing, he paused and the mask looked back at him, “There is a full moon tonight hunter. I’ve pointed out the manor house and the village, I’m sure you’ll remember when the time is right.”
The man continued to walk away, and the huntsman heard him call out one last time over his shoulder, “But should you ever wish to become more domesticated hunter, you need only ask!”
==
Paul has done a lot of different things in his life to draw experiences from, caver, photographer, Scadian, brewmaster, musician with the late 80’s early 90’s punk band The Repressed, music critic for Spark-Plug Magazine, DJ, as long as it’s interesting. Originally from Philadelphia Pennsylvania, he’s lived all over the United States, finally settling in the mountains of Appalachia for the peace, and adventure they provide. He loves his wife Leslie and his three children, two adult children living in his native Pennsylvania, and a teenage boy living at home, and with the boy about it’s a wonder, he gets any writing done at all. His last name is pronounced “Loo vah shev ski”, no seriously, that’s it.
Mainly known for short stories, his debut novel “I Never Eat….Cheesesteak” was on the Amazon best seller list for vampire horror, and more novels are coming in the near future.
You can find Paul at:
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Paul-Lubaczewski/e/B01DQAEB1Y/ref=dp_byline_cont_book_1
Twitter: @PaulLubaczewski
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/lubaczewskiearlsonrevpaul/
and
Search Party by Marc Dickerson
Source: Wallpaperflare.com
Search Party
By Marc Dickerson
Bruce threw another log on the fire.
Abe watched the smoke rise into the night sky, for an instant hiding the sea of trees surrounding them. Then his eyes went back to inspecting the charred marshmallow on the end of his stick. “I never really enjoyed the outdoors much as a kid. I liked my television.”
From across the flames Ronnie laughed, almost spilling his can of beer.
“It’s true. I never understood why you guys got your macho kicks from being outside with all the squirrels and bugs and shit.”
Bruce beamed down at Abe as he downed the last of his beer. “That’s why you got so fat while the two of us have remained in tip-top shape.”
Abe frowned, still turning his marshmallow over the flames. “We can’t all be as freakishly tall and lanky as you, asshole.”
Ronnie smiled and reached into the cooler to pass another can up to Bruce. “You were a boy scout too, Abe. Same as us.”
“Yeah. But I never really went for all that shit. Was more into reading, I guess.”
“Ah, yes.” Bruce took a seat on the log next to Ronnie and leaned forward with his palms on his boney knees. “Call of the Wild. Jack London. If that doesn’t say it all, my boy, what will?”
“Stop talkin’ like your dad.”
Bruce’s eyes went wide. “Come now! Where’s your sense of adventure? Just look at where we are! Smell those prickly pines!”
“They do smell kinda nice…”
“Yeah.” Ronnie nodded. “But let’s not forget why we’re here.”
They had covered a lot of ground that day, had walked until the light began to fade. Ronnie decided it would be wisest to save their flashlight batteries and instead make camp for the night. There was still much to explore.
They knew these woods, at least they used to. Their boyhood days were full of adventures in the forest that lie in the shadow of the great mountain. That mountain was as much a part of their childhood as anything else, always visible on the horizon. It loomed over the neighborhood, as if beckoning them. They had answered the call many times, lying to their parents about where they were going, then pedaling their bikes to the edge of the forest to begin their expedition. They never made it to the mountain, but that didn’t matter. Exploring those woods, away from their suburban street and the watchful gaze of parents and neighbors, was enough.
That was a long time ago, though.
The boys were men now, most of them since married, some divorced, a couple of them now with young children of their own. They would never let their own kids venture off like they had, allow them to risk getting lost or hurt in such a dense, dangerous forest. Now that they were older, they found that they preferred the familiar, the safe. At this point in their separate lives, they had all but forgotten the forest even existed.
That was, until Leo went missing.
They had looked everywhere else, made the worried phone calls to friends, acquaintances, even the local police. After the third day, they decided to take matters into their own hands. They had known each other for almost thirty years now, were still close, though not as close as they had been as children. But Leo needed them. And they thought they had a pretty good idea of where he might have gone.
“My wife was the one who noticed his car,” Bruce remembered, “parked off the side of Buckingham Road, right by our old entrance. Keys were still in the ignition.”
“We know he’s here.” Ronnie stuck out his jaw and ran a hand through his thick hair as he often did when deep in thought. “We don’t know why. But that doesn’t matter. We need to find him.”
Abe stared vacantly into the flames. “He did have a rough divorce…only sees his daughter once a month now.”
Bruce nodded. “Last I talked to him, I tried to lend him money. Poor bastard’s still looking for a job…told me he can barely make rent.”
Ronnie shuffled a foot in the dirt. “Like I said, who knows why he came out here. Let’s just hope…”
“Don’t say it.”
“Let’s just hope he’s okay.”
The sound of crickets arose in the cool September air, mixing with the crackling of the campfire.
“Let’s get some rest.” Ronnie finished his beer before crushing the can in his hand. “Tomorrow at first light we head for the foothills at the base of the mountain. If we don’t find him, we take the southern quadrant back so we can cover more ground. Then we meet up with Steve and James. If we haven’t found him, hopefully they’ve had more luck on their route.”
Abe nodded. “Southern quadrant. Looks like Ron-O studied his map.”
“I’m glad someone did.” Bruce pulled the tab on his new can, spraying a boozy mist. “No cell phone service out here, boys.”
“It is kinda nice though. Not relying on them.”
“It is.”
Ronnie leaned back to gaze up at the stars. Bruce and Abe watched the fire as it burned and burned.
The three friends woke with the sun.
After a quick breakfast of granola bars and thermos coffee, they pulled on their knapsacks and headed for the mountain. They were already closer to it now than they had ever been, though all they saw were trees.
“When we were kids,” Bruce said, hurling a rock, “this place seemed infinite. Larger than anything I could imagine.”
“Still is.” Ronnie kept his eyes forward, leading the pack.
“And now here we are. The cavalry! Come to rescue our lost soldier.”
“He was the colonel, remember?”
“Ah, yes. Colonel Leo the Lion! You were the sergeant, if I remember correctly.”
“You guys always stuck me on lookout.” Abe chuckled, kicking at the ground as they began to move through tall reeds.
Bruce laughed as well. “The only lookout man too scared to climb a tree.”
“Ha-ha. I seem to recall Bruce the Goose being our most wounded soldier.”
“Ah, but also the most decorated one! I received the most medals.”
“Valor, honor. Or tripping over your own leg braces.”
Bruce became silent. There was only the rustling leaves and twigs snapping.
“Oh, come on, Brucey. I’m just kiddin’ ya.”
“Am I gonna have to separate you two?” Ronnie asked, trying to lighten the mood. “Thought I was getting a break from dealing with kids.”
“Hey,” said Bruce. “You think Leo’s living in a cave? Inside the mountain?”
Abe chortled at the thought. “Could he really do that? What would he eat?”
“Well, squirrels and other small quadrupeds, of course.”
Now it was Ronnie’s turn to laugh. “Sounds delicious. Hope he saved some for the cavalry.”
The three friends continued their trek, not speaking for some time.
Then Abe said, “I climbed a tree once. Fell into some bushes. Hurt like hell. Maybe I dreamed it, though.”
“Dreams can come true.” Bruce pointed. “There’s a fine tree right there.”
“There are lots of trees.”
“Ah, but this one, my dear Abe. This one is calling your name.”
Bruce made it halfway, Abe only to the first couple of branches. Ronnie stood below them, watching and laughing.
Abe crouched, clinging tightly to the trunk. “My cousin died falling out of a tree, ya know.”
“We’re on an adventure,” said Ronnie. “Thought we checked real-life shit at the perimeter.”
Bruce called down to Abe. “Hold on buddy, I’m comin’ back down!”
But before he could rejoin his friend, Abe had already hurled himself from the tree and fallen to the ground. He groaned loudly and rolled around in the leaves.
Ronnie was laughing again. Bruce cupped a hand around his mouth and yelled to Abe, “Your mother should be ashamed she ever had a child like you. You only fell six feet!”
Abe was still rolling around. “Lemme alone.”
Bruce dismounted, landing next to him. “You know, Hemingway would never let a tree defeat him. Why don’t you go up alone this time, and I’ll be here to catch you?”
Abe extended a hand. “Shut up and help me up so I can kill you.”
It was almost sundown by the time they reached the mountain.
They had not stopped to rest since their tree-climbing excursion, and the terrain had changed from soft grass to uneven rocks and dirt. Though once inside the shadow of the mountain from their childhood, each man felt a renewed sense of vigor and excitement. They began heading east, trying to spot any caves or hollows that Leo may have gone into.
“Now that would be a hell of a climb.” Bruce pointed to a jutting rock formation, halfway up the mountain. “Think he’s up there?”
Ronnie consulted his compass and folded his map before nodding ahead. “Five clicks to that boulder. We can make camp there for the night.”
Abe eyed the distance, chewing his lip. “Ah, I’d say four and a half.”
“You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that, Abe?”
“After all the juice boxes my mother gave you when we were growing up? How dare you, sir.”
“Don’t you mongrels have any decency for a man’s toilet?”
They all turned at once. There, in tattered clothes, hair unkempt and wily, stood Leo.
“I go to take a shit, and it looks like fate beat me to it.”
The three men yelled his name and ran toward their friend, hugging him and slapping him on the back.
Bruce leaned back, taking him in. “His beard’s a little longer, but I think it’s him, boys.”
“Well, that’s to be expected of a Neanderthal man of the woods.” Abe gave him a hard pat on the shoulder and eyed him up as well. “Still got his belly though.”
“And still pasty as a motherfucker.” Ronnie grinned.
“Jeez. Nice to see you guys, too.” Leo stepped back and rested his hands on his hips.
“I bet. We’ve been looking for you, you rat bastard. All five of us.”
Leo smirked. “Must’ve been looking a long time. There’s only three of you now.”
“Steve and James took Bravo Company.”
“Just like the old days…” Leo nodded and gazed off into the trees.
“What you been eating out here? We had a bet going. Squirrel or rabbit? Or, did you hunt yourself a big ol’ bear?”
Leo was still staring off. “You found me. You done your colonel proud, boys.”
Abe slapped a bug on his arm. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
His gaze returning to his friends, Leo smiled. “Out here? Wouldn’t you know it, Abe? Living.”
“Well,” said Ronnie, “it’s time to go home now.”
“Right. Back to society, civilization. I suppose I’ve lived enough. Gotten my fill. It was good while it lasted.”
Leo’s three friends eyed one another and let out uneasy laughs. Then Ronnie said, “We should make camp first. Will be dark soon.”
“Smart thinking, sergeant. The woods get dark, indeed. Good thing I am part of it now, one with the forest.” Bruce was looking around at the trees again.
“Yeah. Good thing.” Ronnie glanced again at the other two, who returned worried looks.
“You hear the birds call? The thing is, they do not respond.”
Abe looked down at his shoes and asked, “Is this really your toilet?”
It was pitch dark by the time they made camp, the only faint illumination from their newly made fire. Leo was staring into the flames intently, chewing on a strip of beef jerky. “I prefer the dark,” he said.
No one spoke for a bit, then Abe said, “It’s gettin’ cold.”
“The woods are better, without all the light. Nature gave us the stars. That’s partly what my book is all about.” Leo nodded toward Ronnie. “You got any more of that jerky?”
“Nope.” Ronnie shook his head. “That was the last of it. Like I told you before. You trying to clean out all our supplies before morning?”
Leo chuckled. “I’m a hungry boy. Hungry lion.”
“You wrote a book?” asked Abe.
“Sure. It’s all…” Leo tapped his head, “in here.”
“Well, once it makes it out of that demented brain of yours and into the real world, I’d like to read it.”
“You’ll have to wait. I want to show you all something first. First thing tomorrow.”
The next morning, they began their long trek back home.
On their way, they came upon a clearing with a softly trickling creek, where Leo wanted them to stop. He walked ahead and kneeled on the rocks along the edge of the water. The others watched as he quickly leaned forward, plunging his face into the icy stream. After a few moments he snapped his head back and whipped his hair around, screaming.
Then he sat calmly on the ground, taking a knife from his boot to pick his teeth. He looked back at his three friends. “The earth is vicious this morning.”
Bruce scrunched his face, staring at him. “Uh. When you gonna show us the thing?”
Leo motioned with his knife. “It’s at the bottom of this creek.”
“Huh?”
Abe thought for a moment before looking from Bruce to Ronnie. “This must be like a, uh…a ritual. One of them things.”
Ron shook his head. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Come, come.” Leo was smiling at them now. “You boys do want to live, don’t you?”
Bruce shrugged. “I’ll do it.”
Ronnie took a step back toward the trees they had emerged from. “I’m gonna go take a leak. That’s my morning ritual.”
Abe followed. “Yeah, nature’s calling me too. I think I’ll skip the face-plunging as well.”
“Don’t forget the buddy system, boys!” Bruce called as he jogged over to Leo.
Abe shook his head before moving off into the foliage, where he found Ronnie near some bushes.
“Hey, you mind holdin’ this for me?” Ronnie turned his head to grin over at him.
“Forgot my tweezers.”
“You’re a real ball-buster, you know that?”
Abe turned away and unzipped his pants. After letting out a long sigh, he shook his head and said, “He’s a madman.”
There was only the sound of their urine spilling into the grass. Then, Ronnie said, “Lack of nutrition.”
“Something like that. He was always a little weird. Now, though. Christ, I’ve never seen him like this.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean. I still love Leo and all but…”
“That’s not Leo.”
Ronnie zipped up and turned toward Abe. “Living out here like some goddamn folk hero. I liked Colonel Leo the Lion better when he was a kid.”
Abe finished too. “He’s still a kid.”
“He’s bat-shit crazy.”
Abe bit his lip, something he did when he didn’t want to say the words he was thinking.
“We never really found him, did we?”
They heard splashing coming from the stream. Ronnie looked off through the trees. “We found what was left, an empty shell.”
“The divorce. It broke him.”
Ronnie stuck his jaw out, watching. “His mind was never right.”
“Never thought we’d ever really find him.”
“Like you said. We didn’t.”
Abe turned toward Ronnie, who was still staring off through the trees.
“Ronnie…fuck, man. You don’t really think that, do you?”
“This was nice. Reminiscing. It’s been great.” Ronnie finally looked over at him. “It’s time to go home, Abe. Back to our families, our lives.”
Abe nodded. “Let’s get out of these woods.”
The four friends walked mostly in silence, stepping cautiously over a downslope in the land. Ronnie and Abe were up front, with Bruce and Leo bringing up the rear.
Abe leaned over to Ronnie and said in a soft voice, “Maybe he’ll come back. Once we get home. He’ll be like the old Leo.”
Leo’s voice rose from the back of the group. “May I trouble you strapping lads for some more of your fine beef jerky?”
“You ate it all,” said Ronnie. “I told you.”
“I shall eat some blades of grass, then. And pretend it is jerky.”
“Yeah. You do that.”
They were approaching another stream, this one much wider, the water more forceful as it raged downhill.
“Holy shit!” Bruce pointed off toward some bushes. “You guys see that?”
Abe looked around. “What was it?”
“I believe we have been graced with the presence of the rare and illustrious gopher frog!”
“You made that up.”
“I swear to you, it’s real and it’s right there in yonder bush!”
“Well, why don’t you go check out yonder bush?” Ronnie grinned. “It’d be a tale to tell the grandkids.”
“The great-grandkids!”
Bruce broke from the group, running off in excitement toward the bushes.
The other three slowed to a stop once they reached the water, the sound of it so loud now that they had to yell.
“Is this a stream or a river?” asked Abe.
Leo stepped to the edge, staring down at the rushing water. “No matter. I have crossed many a river on my journeys.”
“You don’t say?”
“Yes. You can read all about it in my book someday.”
Ronnie nodded toward a scattered path of large rocks jutting from the water. “We could probably cross over those, but I don’t know. They’re spread out pretty far. Looks slippery, too. It’d be safer to take the extra time and go around.”
Leo looked back at the two of them. “This is why I’m the colonel.” He nodded, turning to face the water again. “I’ll cross first, show my men there is nothing to fear.”
Abe shook his head. “Leo, I really don’t think—”
“Nature has given us a path. No need to question it. She’s a fickle one, Mother Nature, but fair. Let us continue on our journey.”
And with that, Leo pulled off what remained of his tattered shirt and stared out over the river.
Ronnie and Abe first looked to see if Bruce was coming back, but they could no longer see him. Then they turned to watch as Leo began his perilous journey across the raging water, over the smooth, slippery rocks. Then, they looked at each other.
“The colonel should always lead,” said Ronnie.
Abe nodded. “Accidents happen in the woods.”
Ronnie peered out toward Leo, squinting. “Nature is a fickle one.”
And when they met up with Steve and James, back where they had begun their journey, there was more reminiscing, more tales of adventure told. And when both groups of men asked what the other had found, the answer was the same: “Nothing. No sign of him.”
But they were friends, lifelong friends. They would never stop searching.
Marc Dickerson is a writer and filmmaker from Bucks County, PA. He has written short stories, graphic novels, screenplays, and has recently completed his first prose novel, ART FARM. He mostly enjoys creating dark
comedies as well as fiction that incorporates unique or surreal elements.
You can find his projects at www.marcdickerson.com or https://avidslothpress.