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.
That Funky White Light by Fred Shrum, III
That Funky White Light
By Fred Shrum, III
Source: http://www.interestingamerica.com/
I expected to hear trumpets. I thought I would see horsemen. I predicted that the Mississippi would run red. But we can’t always get what we want. How does a man test his mettle when his hand is made of leather and his throne of wood? The pitch of my life was coming in fast. It turned out to be a sinker, like the pit of my stomach.
I raised my son to wear Cardinals red in hopes of a better life. Not that he was going to be a pro ballplayer. No, but the quest would be in him. The quest to do better and to be better. This was an example that I had failed to set for most of my life. I have treated him terribly, and now I need to make up for it. I’ve spent the last several years trying to forget that I was a father.
Fatherhood just wasn’t the style for Noel Darlington. I felt that I was too rugged, cool and smart to be a dad. With my dark hair, blue eyes and intelligence, it just limited my options. I already had some money tucked away, and I planned to make more once I moved to New York to become a stockbroker. I couldn’t see where strollers and dirty diapers fit in.
Don’t get me wrong, I did try it. It’s not like I got a girl pregnant and then bolted. I got a girl pregnant and then married her. Rose was the kind of girl that you would cross the river for. She was lithe, with smooth, radiant skin. Her hair was the burnt red-orange of a sunrise. We moved to the Frontenac neighborhood and started our private forever. Our son was born a year later. We named him Jonathan. He came home to his own room that was stocked with anything he could have ever wanted. Shouldn’t I get credit for that? I tried the “right” thing. It just wasn’t right for me at the time. That is how I justified my absence to myself.
I stayed with Jonathan until he was two. I made a big mistake at work and got fired. There went my salary, our dream home, our vacations, our cars. I came home drunk and in a fury. I picked a fight with Rose. Not mentioning my termination, I told her what a terrible wife and mother she was. Neither was true. I started throwing and smashing things. She went to bed in tears. I sat on the front porch and had serious doubts about my ability to cope in the real world.
I figured Rose and Jonathan would be better off without someone as lousy as me. She could remarry a more intelligent man. One who could provide a real future instead of a welfare check. I went into Jonathan’s room and watched him sleep for a long time. I placed my wedding band on the kitchen counter, scribbled a note, and walked out for good.
That night I slept in a cheap hotel. Taking pulls of malt liquor, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. I decided that I was. I moved into a studio apartment and began the next phase of my life. I was determined to make a clean break. I never sent a birthday card, let alone child support. If they were not dependent on me, they would be much more likely to reach for their dreams. It was another of my rationalizations.
The only contact we had was through lawyers. I took pains to become invisible. I changed my phone number and unlisted it. I took a job on the opposite side of town than where I lived. My mail went to a PO Box by my office. I rented an apartment so that I would not show up in the property owner records. Every once in a while I would think of Jon and Rose, but pushed them out of my mind. Everyone knew they were better off without a wretch like me. This charade went well. I was free.
Ten years later I had a nightmare. It was night in the dream and I was walking alone downtown. I could smell the fecund odor of the Mississippi river bottom. Rain pummeled the foggy streets. A Metrolink car whooshed behind me. From a distant alleyway I could hear the lonely whine of a violin pleading for someone to assuage its solitude. A crack of thunder forced me to look up.
With each subsequent lightning flash, I could see a figure hanging from the center of the St. Louis Arch. As the picture drew in, I could see a man swaying in the breeze by the noose around his neck. The man opened his lifeless eyes. I realized with shock that I was looking at myself. My view followed the rope on its long descent to the ground. A black-robed figure stood at the bottom of the arch, holding the end of the rope. He delighted in its every twist and swing. The figure pulled the cowl off of his head, revealing Jonathan’s face.
I awoke in a sweat and sat straight up. I hunched over the side of the bed and began to sob uncontrollably. I did not know what was happening to me. Was I having a heart attack? Was I going insane? There was an abject sense of fear and sorrow coursing through my entire body. I had never felt so alone. Then it occurred to me, was this but an inkling of how Jonathan felt? I poured three fingers of whiskey and tried to calm down. I knew what had to be done.
The letter arrived at Rose’s house the next day via International Parcel Service. It explained how sorry I was and that I knew that I could never earn their forgiveness. However, I wanted to try. I wanted to reconnect with them, if they would allow it. I gave them my home, cellular, and business phone numbers. I told them they could call me 24/7. To show my seriousness I enclosed a check for $10,000.
Rose’s initial reaction was as you would expect. She did not respond to the letter and shredded the check. After a couple weeks of unreturned messages she agreed to meet in a public place. Fittingly, we met at the Statue of the Naked Truth in Compton Hill Park. She proceeded to tell me exactly what she thought of me. I listened to it all without flinching. After she had completely vented, she paused and fixed her gaze on me. I flinched.
“Noel, you are a selfish, sorry, shell of a man,” she emoted.
“I agree,” I responded.
A surprised look curled at her lips.
“I know that nothing I can do will make up for the lost years. But, I want to make sure that the future years will be great.”
I was disheartened, but not surprised, by the presence of a new wedding ring on her finger.
“OK Noel.” She exhaled. “So you know, there is no chance of romance between us. I am totally happy with Max…my second husband.”
Anger flashed in her eyes again, but she managed to stifle another outburst. “I do think that a connection would be in Jonathan’s best interest. He is still angry with you. Yet, he is open for a trial visit. You owe him that much. After witnessing your sincerity, I will allow it.” The old Noel would have resented her attempt to control the situation. All I could do was grin and tear up.
“That’s great! Thank you, Rose.”
I thought I saw a tear in her eye, but she clopped away in her high heels.
We met at a restaurant in a historic part of town called The Landing on a Saturday afternoon. It was the kind of place where the décor was made of wood. We exchanged pleasantries and I shook Jonathan’s hand.
“Maybe one day, you will let me give you a hug,” I said.
“Maybe,” Jonathan replied, unsure of how to react.
I actually liked Rose’s new husband, Max Mabry. In an if-you-weren’t-taking-my-wife kind of way. He seemed to believe that my intentions were above board. His conservative brown haircut and gold glasses seemed to impart a gentle wisdom. Deep down, I was both saddened and grateful that Rose had found someone better than me.
Once the food was done it was time to pack up. As Rose pulled her purse to her shoulder, I interjected.
“Wait, hold on. I have one more thing to say.”
I pulled a piece of paper out of my wallet and handed it to Rose.
“Noel, this is a check for $15,000!”
She inspected it. Her face reddened, and she handed it back to Noel.
“I told you that we didn’t need your money then, and we don’t need it now.” My jaw fell a bit, but I recovered nicely.
“I know that, Rose, Max. However, this check is solely for Jonathan’s college fund.” Max leaned forward and interlaced his fingers on the table. “In that case Noel, we’ll take it as penance.”
We all laughed. When we left Jonathan did hug me. I could only describe his embrace as guarded optimism.
Months went by and conversations flew. Gradually the Mabrys relented to unsupervised visits with Jonathan, then weekend sleepovers. Eventually they came to accept my honesty, and granted joint custody. I do not think Jonathan will ever forgive me for what I did, but he is getting better at forgetting. That is fine by me. I cherish every moment we have together. I realize that those ten years with no contact were like a wasteland in my life. He would show me fear in a handful of dust.
This brings us back to Cards red. I bought Jonathan season tickets to the Cardinals baseball team for his thirteenth birthday. It would be just him and I sitting in the house that Busch built. Oh, how he jumped with delight!
“I figured it would be a great bonding experience for the two of us,” I commented.
To my surprise, I got a smile from Rose.
“Sure, he needs some bonding with his father. Nothing like the chalk lines in the outfield to do it,” she responded.
“Not to mention, it’s a great conversation-starter with his friends,” Max added.
I beamed. I didn’t deserve total support.
Opening day was a game against the dreaded Cubs. There is nothing like a good sports rivalry to bring the fun. As long as you both are on the same side of it. Perhaps it would get our minds off the fracas spiraling within our family. If only Harry Caray were here to moderate. Who would he favor?
“This is going to be great,” Jonathan exclaimed as we pulled off Clark Street into the stadium parking lot. He pulled the red ball cap lower on his head and brushed some of the sandy-colored, scruffy hair out of his eyes. “Do you think we are early enough to watch B.P.?”
I smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “You know it, Jon.” I was a bit excited myself. I felt like a kid again.
We had a grand time. Batting practice lead to autographs. When the game started, we sat behind home plate in the upper level. The score went back and forth, enough to ratchet up the excitement. Jonathan and I ate hot dogs, crunched Cracker Jacks and drank soda together. We chatted about his life between innings. He was getting straight A’s in all his classes. He was thinking about trying out for the baseball team at school. After a 3-2 count, Pujols hit a home run. I saw the light in Jonathan’s eye as he jumped up and down and hollered with joy. My eyes started to tear up. Maybe, just maybe. One day, he might start to forgive me.
It happened during the seventh inning stretch. By now darkness had fallen and the stadium lights were at full wattage. I looked up and saw a different light. It seemed far away at first. I thought it might have been a plane. The light originated between The Arch and one of the skyscrapers. I yawned. Then it got bigger.
The light was somehow both pale and luminescent. It shone high in the sky. As it came closer I realized that the light was in the shape of a perfect rectangle. It emitted squiggly rays around the outside. It appeared to be miles wide. I stared directly into the center of it, while fearing it would burn my eyes. It was moving at a slow but even pace. Definitely closer now, it seemed to be coming down and in towards me.
I turned to Jonathan, expecting him to ask about the light. He was too engrossed in the game, counting balls and strikes. I turned to the family beside me, but they did not seem to notice the light either. I started scanning the stadium. It seemed like I was the sole person in a crowd of 42,000 who could see the light. Good-‘ol, bad old, Noel.
Something unusual occurred at that moment. The entire ballpark went silent. I knew I was not deaf because I could hear my heart beating, my sweat hitting the floor, and even the digestion in my stomach. It was as if the awareness of my body functions went into overdrive. The sound of the blood flowing through my veins made my ears pound like a bass drum.
Quietness endured around me. People’s mouths moved as if talking or laughing. The beer man in the next aisle dropped a handful of bottles. The bat connected solidly with a fastball. None of these made a sound. It was as if someone had draped a veil of hush over the rim of the arena.
A noise emanated from my head that I could only interpret as neurons firing. My mouth went dry. A slight breeze kicked up and tousled my hair. I felt an unexpected wave of dread wash over me. I heard a voice that had to be my own exclaim a single word: “Why?”
A cursory glance up found that the light was now on top of me. It enveloped the whole stadium now. I felt that it might have covered the entire county. The only person to notice was one Mr. Darlington. The organ player piped on in silence. I squinted from the brightness.
I felt myself falling. Mouth agape, I gasped as the ground rose up to meet me. My bones seemed to crunch as I hit the pavement. Pain worked its way into nausea. I had no idea what was happening.
All I could think about was Jonathan. I turned my head and saw his shoes. An intense feeling of longing struck me. What was his shoe size? What was his favorite type of shoe? Who bought these shoes for him? Did his friends like his shoes? Who were his friends?
A good father would know these things. Sadly, I did not. But I was trying! Mending the relationship takes longer than mending a fence. It is my top priority. If only Rose and Jonathan could see that. I just need some time. Don’t we all need just a little more time?
I tried to stand up but found that I could not move my legs. I reached towards Jonathan but my arms would not cooperate. I turned my head with no success. Was I paralyzed? How did this happen? My field of vision got progressively whiter until it was all I could see.
I had a vision as I grew accustomed to my private tunnel. I lay upon a vast desert, blanketed with the windblasts of eons. I flipped onto the sands of an island where the trade winds ruffled the fronds of a thousand palms. I wanted the waters to be blue, but they were black. I was transported into the walls of an ancient catacomb. Buried deep, I felt that I was the only person alive on the continent, and I could not get out.
I flashed back to the hard concrete floor of the stadium. My vision cleared so that I could see my surroundings. That funky white light had dissipated like morality among thieves. Jonathan was beside me now with a look of alarm on his face. I heard his voice, but it was distant in a way I cannot describe.
“Daddy, daddy, where are you going,” he cried.
A group of EMTs arrived, but it was all elementary now.
===
Fred Shrum, III was born near Washington, D.C. and grew up in Florida. He attended the University of South Florida and earned a B.A. in Communication with a minor in Business Administration. He enjoys the beach, music and all things horror.
Website: www.fredshrum.com
Twitter: @fshrum
Facebook: @fredshrum
Mailchimp: eepurl.com/gdr7Tf
The Ghost of Catherine Howard by V.Castro
We are thrilled to highlight the work of V.Castro this month for Women and Horror Month.
The Ghost of Catherine Howard by V.Castro
They say her screams still echo through the red walled corridor as the silent paintings of her executioner look on. I speak of Catherine Howard’s ghost that is said to haunt the Tudor Route of Hampton Court Palace.
As the fifth wife of an increasingly disgruntled, easily distracted, aging man of ill health, this romance was bound to be doomed.
It is through this corridor Catherine ran from her apartments to the chapel to beg for her life. Armed guards stopped her before she could reach her King. They dragged her thrashing and screaming back to her locked room where she waited to hear her fate on the charge of treason and adultery.
She was taken to the Tower of London, like past wives, and executed. She lost her head and reputation.
I wander the corridor alone hoping to hear some faint cry or feel low level vibrations of that other world. There is nothing, but silence and the faint scent of orange and clove as it is Christmas time. The space is cold with only those paintings to keep a watchful eye on you.
I can’t help to imagine the terror, the humiliation in having to plead for your life because of past indiscretions. It doesn’t stray far from my mind that these so-called indiscretions were while Catherine was as young as twelve or thirteen years old at the hands of man of thirty charged with her music lessons. For this, she was charged with treason. Not much later she began a full sexual relationship with another older man.
She had to condemn herself for being prey to a predator and for being a young woman satisfying those very human needs that men are given permission to explore freely. While Queen, Catherine exchanged court favours for silence of these past liaisons. When jealousy and rivalry grew, her very own ghosts caused her death in the end.
Both men were eventually executed as well for their involvement with Catherine. One drawn and quartered and the other beheaded. Both heads were placed on spikes for all to see at the Tower of London.
I stare at the imposing figure of Henry VIII and recall times I have allowed myself to be decapitated emotionally by a lover. I know that pain of begging for any scraps of salvation because I thought so little of myself, being young and inexperienced. The lover I speak of was also much older than I. He was thirty-eight and I twenty-two. I burn with the fires of hell when I think of the way I allowed myself to be treated. How I swallowed his patronizing admonishments because I thought he knew better.
So, I just stand alone in this corridor with all my ghosts as I stare back at executed Queens, Tyrant Kings and their progeny. It’s no wonder Elizabeth I never married. I don’t know if I believe in spectres that go bump in the night, but if I could haunt my younger self, I would tell myself to run, as if my life depended on it, from anything or anyone that made me shrink in my own skin.
What aggrieves me the most about this ghost story is Catherine most likely never had a choice in her lovers or marriage. How do you say no to the flirtations of those in positions of authority? How could she ignore love letters, flattery and gifts from a King? You don’t say no. You stay mute and sweet and enjoy court. Henry the VIII was fifty years old when he married the teen Catherine. His previous marriage was only annulled for three weeks when he then married Catherine.
I cannot imagine a greater horror than living the only path available to you then having your head chopped off because of it. After, you are labelled a traitor and adulteress and your body left at The Tower.
Who was Catherine Howard? Oh, just some wife of Henry VIII that was executed. Your life, legacy and love not your own, but of someone else’s greater story. She left no known journals or accounts of her experiences.
This is why I write, this is why I try despite the nagging thoughts of self-doubt and possible failure. The only failure, young woman, is dying without your own legacy or finding your voice.
Sometimes horror is real.
==
V.Castro is the author of Maria The Wanted and the Legacy of The Keepers – her debut vampire novel series and The Erotic Modern Life of Malinalli the Vampire- an erotic novella series. You can also find her horror film reviews on www.scifiandscary.com.
She is a Mexican American ex-pat living in the UK for the past 12 years. As a full-time mother, she dedicates her time to her family and writing.
For more about V.Castro please follow:
Website: www.vvcastro.com
Instagram @vlatinalondon
Twitter @vlatinalondon
The Satyrs
Elijah L. Armstrong is a student at Washington in St. Louis.
The Satyrs
Satyrs armed with iron staves
Parade beneath the sallow moon:
They strike the brittle branches down,
They wade thorough the brackish ponds.
Beaten hooves pound out tattoos,
Clotted fur coats legs and knees,
Nails like brown sharp callouses,
Naked sinews under hair,
Beard-wires stiff with come and blood,
Fat flapping flesh-red salty lips,
Drunk bloodshot eyes rolled back and forth,
Horns encrusted, tangled, blunted.
Peasants crouch in barred, dark hovels,
Woodsmen haste to quench their campfires;
In their terror-stricken ears
Ring chthonic chaunts, archaic songs ––
The voice of all the filthy earth.
Gehenna
What happens when you die? That is, when the memory of you fades from existence? What would you do in order to preserve the memory of you?
Kenny Gould is a writer and journalist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where he’s pursuing his MFA at Chatham University. In the past, he’s written for Thrillist, Time Out New York, Gear Patrol, and mental_floss, among others. He also enjoys teaching yoga and brewing beer. Follow him on Twitter at @thekennygould or online at www.kennygould.com.
March Post – Collected Poems
Benjamin Blake was born in July of 1985, and grew up in the small town of Eltham, New Zealand. He is the author of the poetry and prose collections, A Prayer for Late October, Southpaw Nights, and Reciting Shakespeare with the Dead. He currently lives in a cabin, somewhere in the New Zealand countryside. Find more of his writing (and photography) at www.benjaminblake.com
Pinhole Camera
Stolen smile
Through primitive light-capturing devices
More teeth than needed
Eyes cast to the ceiling
Cheekbones illuminated by morning
It pours like sullen rain
Dark Chamber
Collecting fingers and hearts
Say hello to the spiders
The reek of amateur alchemy
And freshly cut flowers
Stocking spun over French limbs
Black cats climb into carnal caves
Somewhere in Utah
A waitress is fatally stabbed
And left to bleed out on the checkered tiles
While the patrons
Just sit and stare
Which Reality Are We?
Melissa Franco has completed a variety of poetry. Her work has appeared in Dark Gothic Resurrected Magazine, Infernal Ink, Twisted Dreams Magazine, and lastly, Tales of the Undead: Suffer Eternal.
Which Reality Are We?
Melissa Franco
Dreams are just dreams
Reality is just reality
Dreams are reality
Reality are Dreams
A reflection of a reflection
A bloodline within a timeline
What is time but minutes, hours, and days
We work the cruel reality and chase our beloved dreams
We power dreams and soon forget these realities
Sanity is insanity within the reality of forgotten dreams
Travelers of reality run into corruption and greed
We walk into dreams only in time to eventually become lost
Soon we forget ourselves in a corrupt society of sin
Soon we forget the dreams we once powered within
So what is a dream, but something that does come from the hidden realities
A family bloodline cascading through the timelines of the forgotten dreams
When Mercy Calls
If your phone rings tonight with an unknown number you will have to pick it up, because it may be Mercy Ellis on the other line. You may not like what she tells you, but you have no choice.
Danyelle (aka D.M. Slate) resides in Colorado, where she’s lived for most of her life. She attended college at the University of Northern Colorado completing a business degree, and now works as a financial analyst. Danyelle is married to her high school sweet-heart and together they have a young daughter and son.
D.M. Slate’s first sci-fi horror novella was released in 2009 and was voted best Sci-Fi Horror story of the year by two independent review groups. Her first mystery-horror novel was released in 2010, followed by a second paranormal-horror novel in 2012. A steady stream of dark fiction short stories have been released since 2009.
In 2014 D.M. Slate won the Wicked Woman Writer’s Challenge hosted by HorrorAddicts.net with her audio story Photo Finish. Her film Don’t Play With Your Dinner was an Official Selection in the Colorado Creative Short Film Contest in 2014 at the Mile High Horror Film Festival. This short movie marks Slate’s debut into film directing and producing.
White Stripes
Do you ever worry you’ve been driving too long? Those road stripes can become hypnotic. Maybe they’re a sign of something.
Mary Edigo lives in rural New Hampshire where the deer peek in bathroom windows. She works for a direct mail company to pay the bills and her part time gigs include writing stories and pet sitting. She has previously won 2 writing contests in the now defunct local paper, and had an article published for the local community paper. Her real love is horror, so she reads, writes and watches a lot of it. She is currently doing final edits on her first novel, hoping to get it published soon, and in the middle of writing her second.
March Post – Selected Poems – Joris Soeding
Selected Poems
By Joris Soeding
Joris Soeding’s third chapbook, In Between the Places Where Night Falls, is forthcoming from Lummox Press. His poems have recently appeared in publications such as Belle Rêve Literary Journal, Cruel Garters, The Horror Zine Magazine, San Pedro River Review, and Thirteen Myna Birds. He is a 5th/6th grade Writing teacher in Chicago, where he resides with his wife, son, and daughter.
Voodoo Island
he sits poolside with a drink and a married woman
stories from his novels at the resort with jacketed waiters
he hasn’t turned in a word to the publisher in three months
new work is a four to five-hour flight from Miami Beach
they land on the shore with emergency fuel
it’s beautiful, almost unreal
inspiration has become safe until the river
grey flesh dangling from the face and chest
eyes covered but not blinded
gunshots don’t make them flinch
a doctor has been trying to uncover a cure for cancer
collecting snake venom in beakers with his assistant
laboratory a secret while the symptoms are dead-like
elsewhere the drumming begins, salt sprinkled onto sand
he falls for the one playing the piano
makes her a Rob Roy, then divulges of the sickly man
there was something so unnatural about him
there are others, poised in sacrificing her, being the daughter of the doctor
lying next to candles in a daze and the glint of a machete
palm trees with little promise yet the sand is still white
Romans 12:19
…vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord…
“you go home and bury your boy,” he’s told
instead his old Ford pickup on the wooded dirt road
gray blanket flinching in each turn
the moon into what little is left
he sees her for the ones who ran him down
candles, tarantulas, an owl
his blood from fingers into a bowl
like Judas, coins and always a price
in ’57 he saw it on a hill, holding the neighbor
when grandmother’s hands, like paper, would wash his
supposedly it rests in the Pumpkin Patch Cemetery
by dark he has solicited the creature
The New Genus
she photographs the web at the barn’s peak
half missing San Francisco before stars and acres
a crow on the farm with blood from its beak
the entire town is yours, you’re the doctor, she says
he seems stricken with the memory of insects
slinking from a leg to face in his crib
one has made its way onto the lampshade
a baby from the black, bubbling nest
another beneath the football field bleachers
not content until collapse on the grass
where are all the other crickets? he asks the one that lands on highlighted paperwork
next to a book, ‘The World of Spiders’
they have quieted for three weeks
parts, like wings, are found in the second victim’s living room
tissue samples, toxicology, the whole nine yards
three bodies exhumed, each with bites
once home he notices it on the television
then from faucets, on doors, bathroom tiles, the rainbow drawing
he must overcome the past in his cellar with a shovel
otherwise a California swarm has been prompted
An Afternoon with Family
She’s having tea with her deceased siblings
“mommy says take care of us,” brother says
“she says you’ll stop the hurting. Cream?” sister asks
becoming more pale like her dress
she leans into the light from windows downstairs
Inheritance
she returns to Newt, Texas, population 2,306
2,307 if you count her cousin in the cellar
winding driveway, portraits by oil, polished banister
then the yellowed headlines of ones with fire to the family home
her friends without such secrets
she begins to question the burned half S on her heart
the new burden of being a Sawyer
The Warehouse in the Trees
There are corners where secrets linger and hide, warehouses are those types of places.
Sam JT Butterworth is a writer who likes to observe the everyday and interpret it in a less than wholesome way. Often it is less than wholesome to begin with. He lives in the country town of Holmfirth in northern England, where he’s labouring over his first novel. For more on Sam, please visit http://www.utter—tosh.