DARK MOON BOOKS

an imprint of Stony Meadow Publishing

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Dark Eclipse: The Dark Moon Monthly e-magazine Best of Issue

Copyright © Dark Moon Books 2013

(Individual stories are copyright by their respective authors)

All Rights Reserved

The stories included in this publication are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Subscriptions to Dark Eclipse Are Also Available: Check our website for more info.

Dark Eclipse: The Dark Moon Monthly e-magazine’s Staff

Publisher/Senior Editor

Stan Swanson

Publisher/Managing Editor

Lori Michelle

Editors and Associates

Max Booth III

Brigid Brockway

Charles Capasso

Sean Davis

Kyle Dickerson

Ryan Falcone

Manny Frishberg

HR Green

Frances Augusta Hogg

Katie Immethun

Julie Jansen

George Lea

Suzie Lockhart

Araminta Matthews

Tracie McBride

Kurt Reichenbaugh

Betty Rinaudo

Adam Stehly

Jay Wilburn

Jennifer Word

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

In the electronic pages of the magazine you hold, you will find the best short stories, flash fiction, poetry and columns that have graced Dark Eclipse for the past year and a half. First off, I want to thank Stan Swanson for giving me a chance to prove myself, and then trusting me enough to run this magazine. I also want to personally thank all the editors of Dark Moon for their tremendous help reading, editing, and proofreading. A big warm hug goes out to all the columnists who month after month come up with different new content for you readers to enjoy. And a big special high five to the writers who have submitted their stories and poems. Without everyone, this magazine would not exist. A special thank you needs to be extended to Tracie McBride, Nicholas Paschall, Suzie Lockhart, and Bruce Lockhart for helping me narrow down all the fabulous stories and poems we have had throughout Dark Eclipse’s existence to the collection you have here before you.

I look forward to many years of success in the years ahead. Maybe I’ll see you in the pages of a future issue. And don’t forget to leave your nightlight on.

Lori Michelle

CONTENTS

How Many More Times

short story by Martin Keller

Bits of the Dead: Proto Zombie Fan

column by Jay Wilburn

The People Under the Bridge

flash fiction by Tim Jeffreys

The Watchman

short story by Frances Augusta Hogg

The Chimerical Dark: Cold and Silent

column by Sean M. Davis

Dark Delirium

poem by Hitcher

Homebody

flash fiction by Ramona Gardea

Monster

short story by Jackie Pierson

Weaponology: Flame Thrower

column by Jennifer Word

Eternal Plain

poem by John Hawkhead

Infected

short story by Jordan Drew

Open Book

flash fiction by Shaun Meeks

What Do You Do with a Captured Alien

column by Manny Frishberg

Operation Relay

short story by Jay Wilburn

Growing Up

flash fiction by Tim Waggoner

Methods of Doomsday

column by Nicholas Paschall

Death Gaze

poem by Max Booth III

Finders Keepers

short story by Rob Smales

Book Review: The Third Pulpster Clark Ashton Smith

reviewed by Kurt Reichenbaugh

The Heady Heights of Harietta Morgan

poem by Nathan J.D.L. Rowark

The Schoolhouse

short story by Daniel Flaherty

Cleaning the Basement

flash fiction by Gerry Griffiths

I Dare You

short story by Sean M. Davis

Even Zombies Cry

poem by David DuBose

Love

flash fiction by HC Hsu

Demons

short story by Kenneth Whitfield

Violated

poem by Jack Ivey

The Gun

flash fiction by Lori Michelle

The Cellar Door: Doppelgangers are Dicks

column by Max Booth III

The Executioner’s Son

short story by W.P. Johnson

COMING SOON

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HOW MANY MORE TIMES?

originally appeared in Issue 10

by Martin Keller

The first time I killed Helen was the most difficult but the most enjoyable. Taking the final step and stabbing her took a lot of guts. I guess I was scared. I didn’t know what to expect.

Blood for sure, but I don’t know, what would she say? What if she turned to me and said, “Harold, I’ve waited for this day. I knew you were a creep!” What if she liked it? What if it was more than I could handle?

Regardless, I had to do it. She knew why. From the first day I saw the picture on her desk and she saw me look at it, we both knew I was going to kill her. So, after I stabbed her the first time, she screamed. And after that I knew I had to keep going or she would wake up the whole neighborhood. Eventually, she stopped fighting, and then she stopped moving.

When I laid her on the hardwood floor, she didn’t look right, not like herself. She looked more like a disfigured mannequin covered in that fake looking corn syrup blood from a Brian De Palma movie.

It sure was messy, but I was prepared, towels, garbage bags, latex gloves, duct tape, a hacksaw, the pliers, the bolt cutters, plastic tarps, bleach, and an extra pair of shoes. I had just shaved my head that morning and taken a shower. I had done my research, looking at all the pictures and files again, letting the information seep in so that it would become part of my routine, like tying my shoes or shaving or filling out deposit slips at the bank.

While I was cleaning, I thought about stabbing her, about the times when the knife hit the floor. It jarred me, like picking up a can of soda you think is full but it isn’t.

She seemed so shocked every time I stabbed her as if it were a surprise party. She would gasp and scream and I would just keep on stabbing. The knife slipped out of my hands a few times and I almost cut myself, but luckily enough I was okay.

I cut her up, really working on the bones. Then, I bagged and bleached her, the towels, the tarps, and my clothes and brought them all to a place I had chosen during the recon phase. She would like it there. There was a nice view, very scenic with animals, flowers, little streams and dirt floating in the sunbeams. She had a picture on her desk of her in the woods with her boyfriend. It was cute because a squirrel scampered into the shot at the last second as if it was posing with them. She always laughed at that picture, and, every time she told the story, it was like the first time she told the story.

I thought about her and knew that I was happy. I would never see her again because sometimes you just can’t let something go. Sometimes you have to take action. When I was a kid, my mother had taken me to church. I remember the minister had told us that doing nothing was evil, that we must take action. So, when I had killed my mother, I had felt good about taking action.

I always feel good about taking action. I feel good when I have finished, that I have worked so hard preparing, and that I don’t skimp or get lazy afterwards. I do it one hundred percent, which is something I have a problem with in other areas of my life. Though, that good feeling from killing Helen only lasts a few weeks.

When I came back to the bank to pick up some more coin wrappers, she was behind her big wooden desk that kids have a hard time seeing over. She smiled at me and I thought of the picture and it was the same smile. She was back.

“Hi, Harold,” she said, still smiling.

“Hi.”

“Deposit today? Or do you need more wrappers?”

“Um, more wrappers.”

I could feel the sweat start to bead on my forehead, a cold, tingly feeling running over my scalp. My stomach bound up and I suddenly needed to go to the bathroom.

She opened a drawer and pulled out rubber-banded stacks of coin wrappers.

“Which do you need?” she asked.

“What’s that?”

“Which kinds of wrappers do you need, quarters, dimes, nickels?”

“Oh, all of them, I guess.”

“Ok.”

She slid wrappers across the counter top.

I grabbed them and shoved them in my pocket. My palms were sweaty and I felt flushed.

She had to see I was nervous, but she just smiled.

“Is that all?” she inquired.

“Um, yeah, thanks.”

“Have a nice day Harold.”

“You, uh, you, too.”

After the bank, I went home and didn’t go out for a while. Work called a bunch of times, but eventually they stopped. How could I talk to them anyway? I needed time to think, to figure out if I was crazy, if I had killed her or if I imagined it or if it was even her sitting in the bank. I considered going back to where I had buried her, just to make sure the bags and pieces were still there. But, if she was there or if she wasn’t, I would still have to go back to the bank and to make sure she was there and perhaps begin reconnaissance again. So, I went to the bank.

I watched the cracks on the sidewalk as I walked. There were squirrels, playing around and searching for food. Spring is like that, with the animals and all. It’s like they’ve been doing nothing but screwing all winter. Now, they’re out to take back what they missed since last spring.

At the glass doors of the bank, I paused and steeled myself against what I knew I would find inside. She would be there, smiling, asking, “How’s it been?” and “What can I do for you today?” I would be ready to wring her neck.

I opened the door and walked into the bank. It smelled of copy toner and coffee.

Behind the big wooden counter, Helen sat smiling at me.

“Hi, Harold. What’s new? Enjoying the good weather?” she asked, cheerful as ever.

“Yeah, it’s gorgeous out there.”

“Animals everywhere and flowers blooming. I was so sick of the snow and slush and how it would already be dark when I left work,” she added.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

I looked at her eyes and smile and hoped that she would give a tell or something. She had to know she was dead, but she just kept smiling and making small talk.

I just kept up the charade, knowing that I would have to do all that work all over again. Surely it would be easier the second time. I would know what to expect. Perhaps she would expect it this time. Maybe being dead once would put her on the defensive. Either way, I didn’t have a choice. I could only bide my time and wait for the right moment.

“So, what can I do for you today?” she asked, smiling at me.

I could see that goddamned squirrel picture on her desk. I just couldn’t wait to kill her again.

A few days later, I followed her home from work. Just as she was about to shut the door to her house, I burst in and shoved her to the floor. I slammed the door shut and tackled her, covering her mouth with one hand and sticking the knife in with the other.

Her eyes widened and her arms flailed, as I kept stabbing her.

I could feel her hot breath on my hand, as she screamed and cursed at me. She kneed me in the groin but I just kept going, focused on my task. There would be time to consider my pain later.

I stabbed over and over, until it felt like I was stabbing gelatin.

Her surprised eyes rolled back a little. Her breaths turned to whimpers and then to nothing. She seemed to stare at a clock on the wall that must have looked upside down to her.

She stopped flailing, so I took my hand off her mouth.

I stood up, feeling the throbbing pain in my balls and stomach. I limped over to an armchair and collapsed into it, catching my breath and collecting my thoughts. I prepared all the steps in my mind as I’d done them before. I brought the hacksaw, bags, tape and the gloves. I figured she would have bleach, towels, and blankets.

It was very much like the last time. It was a bit easier actually. I was more methodical this time. Having been down this road before, I knew what to expect, how much blood and guts, how heavy it would be and how to expect those thuds when I put her in the bags. I forgot to bring extra shoes, but if I cleaned them well enough and then tossed them later I shouldn’t have a problem. Things were moving along well and according to plan.

I waited until after dark to bring the bags outside. It took me a while to cut her up, anyway. I had parked a block away and wasn’t sure whether to bring the car to the house or the bags to the car. I decided to bring the car to the house because those bags were too heavy to carry for a block. I could just make one trip from the house to the car and lessen my chances of being seen.

So, I brought the car to the front of the house and in what actually took two trips, brought the bags to the car.

She felt heavier than last time and the throbbing pain in my stomach was still humming underneath it all. I put the bags in the trunk with the shovel and pickaxe. The rear of the car slumped down under the heavy load. After I got her in the car, I drove out to the place where I had left her before.

It looked different at night. The proportions were different and the flashlight didn’t give much sense of what was around me. I wasn’t sure where I had buried her the first time and I was worried that I might dig there again.

I chose a spot that looked undisturbed and started digging. There were a lot of rocks, so I would have to pick and shovel, which tired me out quickly. I dug a hole that was about four or five feet deep and decided that was good enough. I fell back on the big mound of dirt I had created, sweating and breathing hard, hoping that this would be the last time I would have to do this.

It wasn’t the killing part that bothered me. It was the cleaning and the burying that becomes a greater risk. I could forget something. I could break my back shoveling holes or maybe have a heart attack. I rolled off the mound and stood up. Sighing I walked to the car to get the first couple bags. I hoisted two of them out of the trunk and ragged them to the grave. I knew it was a bad idea, but my back was already shot. Little bolts of pain shot down through my legs. I had had enough of this bitch already. I hoped I never had to kill her again.

As I walked to and fro, I was afraid the bags would rip. As if fate were making it purposely difficult, it was on the third trip back to the grave that the bag got caught on a rock jutting out from the dirt and tore a massive hole. I felt the pull from behind me and turned to examine it. Kneeling, I pulled the flashlight from my pocket and shone it on the tear and I saw a bloody shoe. I pushed the shoe back in and picked up the bag, keeping the hole on top, and carried it to the grave.

I dropped the bag and turned and there she was behind me, leaning on the trunk of the car. I trained the flashlight on her.

She was looking in the trunk at the last couple bags.

“Is this what you needed those wrappers for?” she asked, smiling at me. “Why don’t you like me Harold? I’ve always been so nice to you, always friendly and smiling. We can’t keep doing this, meeting like this. It must be tiring.”

She kept smiling and talking, like we were old lovers, meeting again. She stepped away from the car and strolled towards me.

I knelt down and grabbed the pickaxe.

“Harold, don’t be stupid, we’ll just do it again and again. And when you die, whenever that is, I’ll still be around and it will all have been for nothing.”

She stopped talking and looked at me. It was like my mother used to look at me when she wanted me to be reasonable and know that she loved and, wanted the best for me.

Out of the bushes, a squirrel came running and stopped at her feet. She picked it up. It scaled her arm and perched itself on her shoulder, like a bird. I knew what it was. I had seen her familiars before: emaciated little creatures, twitching like dying bugs. I gripped the pickaxe tightly and brought it back behind me, gaining momentum.

I dropped the flashlight and I’m sure she was still smiling as I brought it across her face, impaling it through her cheek and knocking out some teeth.

She stumbled back.

I could only see her feet shuffling in the underbrush by the beam of the flashlight. I yanked the pick toward me and I felt only slight resistance from the remaining flesh in her cheeks.

She screamed. A small mist of blood floated through the beam of light.

I picked up the flashlight and lit her face. She had a bloody smile from ear to ear. Her tongue was hanging out the side of her mouth like a thirsty dog. I could see her bloody gums and the remains of pulverized teeth. She kept smiling and began to talk.

“Harold.”

It sounded as if she were trying to speak while underwater, the blood gurgling out of her grotesque mouth.

“Harold, don’t do this. It’s just gonna keep happening. This is a fight you can’t win. I have time. You don’t.”

She kept smiling at me and looking into my eyes. She was trying to make spit bubbles with her blood.

I pulled her over to the grave and threw her into it. Putting the flashlight on the edge of the grave, I grabbed the pickaxe and started swinging. I first drove it through her chest, expecting resistance from her ribs but metal tore through like butter.

She just stared at me heaving, smiling, and gurgling.

I pulled out the pick and drove it through her stomach, dragging out entrails as I drew it out. I brought the pick down one last time, this time through her head.

She stopped heaving and she had that surprised look on her face again with that bloody clown smile.

I pulled out the pick and there was a hole in her forehead the size of a whiffle ball. It was done again. I didn’t think I had the stomach for another go.

I filled the hole and, by the time I finished, the sun had risen. As I was driving home, I thought she might be right, that she had time and I didn’t. So, instead of going home, I drove to her house.

Now, sitting in her living room, I wait for her to walk through the door so we can do this again.

Martin writes part time and is inspired by the shadows on his bedroom wall. In the event of an apocalypse he can be rescued in New York with his girlfriend and their dog.

BITS OF THE DEAD

Proto Zombie Fan

originally appeared in Issue 13

by Jay Wilburn

A fan of zombie fiction prior to the 1960’s would be a very different person than the enthusiasts of today. This proto zombie fan would not have the same access, virtually endless choices, nor mainstream options that are available in modern horror. For this tour of the early decades of zombie entertainment, Joe Zomberton will be the character playing the fan.

Joe doesn’t call himself a zombie fan. He is not aware such a thing is an option. He would be a fan of monster movies. They might also be referred to as B movies. Joe is watching the monster movies at afternoon matinees which was the practice with early horror films before the movie rating system with which modern fans are familiar. B movies refer to movies secondary to the main feature or shown at off times which is where most of Joe’s monster movies fall.

Later, many of Joe’s favorite monster movies will fall into the hands of the earliest horror hosts on television. It is not the sort of thing the Zomberton family approves of, but Joe catches episodes of Vampira and others depending on which television markets his family may find themselves. Her show was canceled in the late 1950’s. Other horror hosts rose up in various markets during her run and after. There were too many to list without leaving out important examples. The range of talent on these shows was ahead of its time. Many modern horror fans would be surprised to see the sinister tone and dark humor in these earliest horror presentations on regular television.

Joe’s idea of a zombie would be more closely tied to the original Haitian voodoo traditions. He would read cryptic, historic reports from the region. The stories would be eye witness accounts of fantastic descriptions that were impossible to verify or trace. He would be fascinated by the evil magic of the priests that commanded slaves trapped somewhere between life and death. He would imagine the satanic power of the mysterious, zombie powder. He would wonder if he might be capable of resisting its influence over his own brain when put to the deadly test.

The name zombie would be applied to a number of monsters and ghouls in various movies, but almost all would retain the puppet like control of an evil mastermind commanding their actions. The name would appear in a number of movies ranging from comedy to science fiction crossovers. Very often human characters would find themselves discovering secluded islands. They usually found some evil scientist or priests. Before long, the female leads would end up in a dungeon. Other characters might be temporarily zombified adding to the difficulty in rescuing the hapless woman from her chains. Animals were sometimes zombified as well. Usually, the villain was overcome by a failing in his own spell or sometimes a lifting of the mechanism of the zombie curse. Early zombie films usually allowed their heroes to escape in some form of victory. This plot was further complicated, if aliens or monkeys were involved.

Joe would come across a number of monster movies starring his beloved zombies and their dark masters. The stylized silent film from the dawn of the 1920’s, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, would still creep out audiences in Joe’s era. Then the 1930’s and 1940’s would bring White Zombie, Revolt of the Zombies, King of the Zombies, and I Walked with a Zombie among other titles.

With all due respect to the work of Simon Pegg, Joe watched the first zomedy after it arrived in 1945 with Zombies on Broadway.

The zombie would continue to hold his own in the camp of monsters to cross the screen in the 1950’s. Zombies in the Stratosphere features a young Leonard Nimoy as one of the alien invaders. Zombies of Mora Tau takes the action underwater. Teenage Zombies has teenagers discovering an island, saving America from the mad doctor, and there’s a gorilla. Then, Plan 9 from Outer Space is in a category all its own.

In time, many of these movies and others will be released under other names. Sometimes footage was spliced into other films to create new movies under a different name multiple times.

Joe likes to read monster stories as well. He collects the old pulp magazines and the occasional trade books. He reads Poe and he enjoys Frankenstein as a classic prototype of what he thinks of as a zombie story. Mrs. Zomberton accepts these classics as real literature and encourages Joe to read things that are slightly less dark.

Joe is searching old bookstores for something more along his taste of monster stories and he finds his search very difficult. There are stories out there that follow the traditional strain of zombie stories he likes, but in the 1950’s and earlier these stories are usually short and difficult to locate.

One gem that Joe finds through his persistence and due to the acceptance of the author is “Black Canaan.” This story was written by Robert E. Howard, the author of the Conan the Barbarian tales. It uses the traditional Haitian voodoo traditions set in the American slavery era in the deep swamps. Howard died before World War II and his story reflects a view of race consistent with his time. The story centers around a conflict between the races in the plantations bordering the swamps. It is interesting in its darkness and bold action, but also in its reflection of the historic perspective of the time period and all its connotations.

Most interesting of all would be Joe Zomberton’s perspective on the modern zombie. He would certainly be surprised by the path the zombie took in being emancipated from its master. It is difficult to gage whether he would like the mindless monsters they became. He would be impressed and possibly jealous of the amount of material available so readily. He might not like the graphic nature or the level of gore in the modern zombie films and stories. Then again, Joe was probably a bit of an outsider in his own time and maybe he grew sicker in his tastes right along with the zombie. Modern zombie fans might benefit in exploring some of these early tales from the era of the proto zombie fan.

THE PEOPLE UNDER THE BRIDGE

originally appeared in Issue 8

by Tim Jeffreys

We are the people under the bridge. What we do here is wait. What we do here is

Listen.

It is a lonely, scenic place we inhabit. Lovers come here to stroll on quiet days, and children sometimes to run, paddle and play.

We live in the shadow of the bridge. All the time we

Watch.

All the time we

Listen.

The footsteps on the boards above tell us many things. What is this now but the combined tread of a couple hand in hand, and close behind them the soft skip of a child? The child stops to land a stone—ploop!—into the water. But as he draws back from the railing the smile fades from his face and a chill breeze makes him shiver. He glances after his parents, who have reached the end of the bridge and are beginning to make their way up the grassy slope. For the moment they have forgotten him. The quiet romance of our world has them gazing into each other’s eyes. In their minds they are young again, with no ties, burdens, or children to think of.

The boy has sensed something. But all is

Stillness.

We are

Stillness.

Only in the breeze can you hear our faint laughter. The boy steps back from the bridge railing, glancing anxiously about himself. What has disturbed you, dear child? What is it troubles you in this peaceful place?

The water gurgles. A low wind moves through the grass along the riverbank. And, as one, we begin to emerge from the shadow of the bridge.

It happens fast. The boy’s eyes are directed toward the far hills, as though he hears his grandmother calling him home to bed. Unseen by him, dark shapes detach themselves from a shadow world. The first he knows of this is when he feels a cold hand reach around his ankle. By then it is already too late.

He wants to cry out, poor child, but only a breath escapes him. Hands have appeared from either side of the bridge and are grasping at his legs and wrists. As he falls to the boards, sweet soft thing, he finds his voice, but a hand has closed over his mouth. Fingers clutch at his clothes and hair. Our clutching has a hunger in it, because we have waited so long, because we have waited all day. It overcomes us, greedy, greedy people under the bridge. The boy jumps and flips like a fish thrown from the water. He feels himself being pulled in every direction, until finally something wins out. He is heaved one way, torn through the railing supports, and then down, down into the water with us. He manages one last shout, for his mother, before the water and our arms engulf him and drag him down.

The mother turns her head as the ripples quieten on the surface of the river.

The father begins calling the boy’s name.

Shush. Never mind. It is already too late.

Tim Jeffreys is the author of three collections of short stories, The Garden Where Black Flowers Grow, The Scenery of Dreams, and The Haunted Grove, as well of the first two books of his Thief saga. His stories are best described as a mix of horror, fairytale, black comedy, and everyday life. Originally from Manchester, UK, Tim now lives in the south west of England. Visit him online at www.timjeffreyswriter.webs.com.

THE WATCHMAN

originally appeared in Issue 3

by Frances Augusta Hogg

My name is Pablo Estavez Maria. I am 57 years old, and have lived in Guanajuato, Mexico my whole life. I have two brothers. One is a priest and one is in the Prison Federale, in Queretero.

My brother Luis cut a man’s throat over a woman. It happened at the cantina called El Gato Negro. Luis said it was self defense, but nobody believed him. The man who died was named Julio de Valenciana. My mother said she was glad that Julio was dead, because if she ever saw him again she would rip his heart from his rib cage.

I was surprised to hear her say something like that because our mother was a peaceful woman. But she felt, if not for Julio de Valenciana, my brother would be a free man. If it were not for Julio de Valenciana, she would have grandchildren.

My mother died two months ago without grandchildren. Whose fault is that? My brother Reynaldo, the priest, did not give her children. Luis, in prison, could not give her any. And my excuse? I am shy. When women talk to me, I cannot speak. In fact, when anybody talks to me, I barely respond. When I was young they thought I was feeble-minded. But in any case, not having grandchildren is the reason why my mother went to her grave, raving.

The doctor said she had a stroke. She went to sleep at night and when she woke up she was in a rage. No one could console her. No one could soothe her. And her fury was directed toward Julio de Valenciana, who had robbed her. “I will kill him!” she cried. “I will kill him!” That’s how we knew she was not of her right mind—because Julio de Valenciana had been lying dead in a crypt for twelve years.

In Guanajuato, there is no earth to bury the dead. In Guanajuato, perched on a mountain top, there is only rock. So our dead are buried in a panteón. It is an enclosure with walls eighteen-feet high and twelve-feet thick. The walls contain crypts. In order to light a candle or water a pot of daisies in a crypt near the top levels, family members must climb up tall ladders. The wall is as tall as it can be. Seven tiers. Higher crypts cannot be built.

In 1870, the crypts were all filled, so the city imposed a grave tax. If the tax wasn’t paid, the graves could be opened and emptied. That is when they found an interesting thing about the Cementerio de Guanajuato. The bodies entombed in the sun-warmed limestone crypts do not decay. They become mummies.

The grave tax law was changed in 1958, and no bodies were removed after that, but when my father held the job of watchman of the cementerio, it was his task to empty the crypts of those families who failed to pay the tax.

When I was a child, the remains of the disinterred—still wearing their old-fashioned clothing and their dusty boots—were left leaning against the walls of tunnels that surround the panteón. I used to bring my friends there. Papa would let us in, and my friends would cry in fright, because the mummies appear to be screaming. Papa said this is because when their skin dried, it shrank and pulled away from their teeth.

My Guanajuato became famous for these screaming souls, made, as it seems, of paper and dust. The mummies became so popular that the city elders established a museo. For many years it remained a simple affair. The bodies of adults lay on shelves; little babies sat within bookcases. Even so, people came from all over to see them. People made movies about them. Famous people wrote stories about them. Now we have a proper, modern museum. It has glass cases, and signs in both Spanish and English, that explain how the dry climate and the minerals inside the crypts pulled moisture from the bodies, stopping decay.

After my father died, I took his place as the watchman of the Panteón de Guanajuato. The work comforts me; I don’t have to speak to anybody, and only nod at the infrequent visitors. I pull weeds that grow between the cracks. Most of the time, I am alone within my walled garden, and at eight o’clock every night, I close the tall doors that are decorated with skulls and crossbones, sealing the panteón from the outside world. I sit outside the door of my little cottage and light my lamp. I smoke my pipe. I pet my dog. I guard against grave robbers.

The only time when the cementerio is not quiet is on Las Dias de Los Muertos. On those holy days, families sit with their deceased loved ones and share a picnic. But for me, every night is a Day of the Dead. Every night I sit between the crypts of my mother and my father. My father was careful, early on, to claim two crypts when they became empty—one for himself, and one for my mother. The crypt where my mother lies was once occupied by a famous person. Her name was Ignacio Aguilar. My father actually knew her when she was alive. She had a disease. She would fall asleep and people would think she was dead, but she would always wake up after a little while. But one time, after she had been sick, she didn’t wake up. After several days they buried her in the Panteón. Years later, when her crypt was opened, they found her lying on her stomach. Flowers buried with her were in disarray. Her hands were outstretched, as if she had been scratching desperately at her coffin. Ignacio Aquilar became famous as the buried-alive woman.

My father always insisted that the mummies were not actually screaming, but in the case of Ignacio Aguilar, he was wrong.

Sometimes tour groups come through the Panteón. The tour guide explains to them, in English usually, about the grave tax and about the mummies. He points to my mother’s grave and tells them about Ignacio Aguilar. He introduces me as the night watchman, and he asks me, “Do you ever hear any scratching?” He is a student from the University in Cuidad Mexico. He doesn’t know my mother lies in Ignacio Aguilar’s crypt. I don’t tell him.

I don’t tell him that sometimes, I do hear scratching. It was on a misty night that

I first heard the scratch-scratch-scratch that caused icy fingers to run up my spine. I gasped for breath, until I realized it was only my dog, scratching fleas.

I told my brother, the priest, about that. He laughed and laughed.

It is not misty night tonight. Moonlight streams down, imparting a strange chalkiness to the atmosphere. I lean back in my chair, so that its tall back rests against the wall of crypts. I look up at the stars. So many. They are suspended across the sky like strings of diamonds. All around me, I hear the sounds of crickets chirping, and in the distance there is music from a faraway radio. Behind me, I hear scratching. Scratching from the tomb of Ignacio Aguilar.

I jump up. This time, I know the sound is not my dog. It is not my imagination. It is something inside my mother’s crypt trying to get out.

At first, I don’t know what to do! I am too shocked to move! But then I think of the buried-alive woman. I think of her terrified face and clawing hands. I think of my mother.

I run to fetch a shovel and use it to break the seal of the crypt! I grasp and slide the coffin out. Crying, I open it.

I guess I expected to feel foolish. I expected to find my mother as I had last seen her, two-months dead.

But I didn’t.

“Mama?”

She doesn’t seem to hear me. I help her sit up. She doesn’t look at me. She steps out of the coffin and lifts her heavy skirts. She starts to stumble toward the tall, locked doors of the Panteón. I grab the keys and my lantern. I’m crying as I follow her.

But she doesn’t go to the doors. She goes to the grave of Julio de Valenciana. With power her tiny body never had in life, she tears at the plaster seal of his crypt. Her fingers would be bloody from her digging, but they have no blood in them.

I am crying so hard that my nose is running. I can barely blubber out the words, “I’ll help you, Mama!”

I break the seal with my shovel. Though he has been dead many years, a putrid smell rises when I open Julio de Valenciana’s casket. I turn away, and vomit on the stone path.

I don’t know what I will tell them in the morning. I am sure I will lose my job. How can I possibly explain how two graves came to be disturbed while I was on watch? Two bodies injured—one with the fingers on both hands broken . . . the other with its rib cage torn apart, and its heart crumbled into dust.

A visit to the famous mummies of Guanajuato, Mexico, was the inspiration for this story by traveler, Frances Augusta Hogg. She currently resides in Cuenca, Ecuador, where she works as a storycoach and editor. Her stories, “Golden Amelia” and “Miss Webster's Little Arm” have appeared in the Dark Moon Digest.

THE CHIMERICAL DARK

Cold and Silent

originally appeared in Issue 8

by Sean M Davis

The first time I heard Mudvayne was on the radio, their first single from the second album. “Not Falling” is a great song, and I feel almost guilty that I found Mudvayne because of a radio single. It’s just too pedestrian a start for a group of musicians who I hold in such high esteem. But there it is. The next payday, I went out and got The End of All Things to Come.

After listening to that album for about three months almost nonstop, I circled back and bought their first album, L.D. 50, soon after. Of course, I was immediately intrigued by the album’s title, which I recognized from my psychopharmacology class. It refers to the lethal dosage of a drug across fifty percent of a sample population.

The eighth track is “Nothing to Gein.” It took a little while to dawn on me why the title is spelled that way, but the lyric is, “Nothing left for me to gain, they’re coming to take me far away.”

One of the things that I like most about Mudvayne is the level of thought that they give to their songs’ construction. Frequently mislabeled as “math metal,” the band does write lyrics based on number symbolism. In the case of “Nothing to Gein,” guitarist Greg Tribbett was playing a riff with alternating time signatures of four and five. Since nine is a number connected with the moon, Matt McDonough and Chad Gray decided to write the song about killer and nocturnal grave robber, Ed Gein.

This wasn’t the first time that Gein’s story had been used for artistic inspiration. The characters Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs, Leatherface from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and even the original psycho himself, Norman Bates from Psycho were all based on Gein.

Not bad for a man who only officially killed two people, not even enough to be labeled a ‘serial killer.’

Well, there was also that thing with his brother, but the accounts are sketchy at best. Henry Gein officially died of asphyixiation.

The police suspected Ed Gein when Bernice Worden disappeared in 1957. Worden’s son had seen Gein in his mother’s store the previous night, and the last sales slip signed by Worden the morning she disappeared was for anti-freeze purchased by Gein. Police found Worden’s headless body in Gein’s shed, hung upside down, dressed out like a deer. Gein was arrested and his house was searched. The police found:

Four noses;

Whole human bones and fragments;

Bowls made from human skulls;

Ten female heads with the tops sawn off;

Chair coverings made from human skin;

Mary Hogan’s (another local woman who had disappeared) head;

Bernice Worden’s head in a burlap sack;

Nine vulvae;

Female human nipples made into a belt;

Skulls on his bedposts;

A pair of lips on a drawstring for a window shade;

The skin of a human face made into a lamp shade;

The skins of human faces made into masks.

After the death of his mother in 1945, Gein was alone, having lost the one person he’d been raised to believe in and count on. Two years after her death, Gein began robbing graves.

This is the part of his life that the song, “Nothing to Gein” focuses on. Most of the lyrics are written in first-person, taking us right into Gein’s life as it spins out of control. The first verse, sung over almost-clean guitar, is Gein, after his mother has died, talking about being alone. There’s a line that suggests a motivation for his grave robbing and killings.

Shortly after his mother died, Gein decided that he wanted a sex change. The women that he killed and whose bodies he stole from the ground bore resemblances to his mother. I read the lyric as suggesting that Gein wanted to become a woman so that he could more accurately emulate his idol, his mother, and become a mother. Gein wore the faces of women and body suits made from their tanned skin, pretending that he was a woman.

The chorus detonates at the end of the first verse and is written in third person. It’s a little bit of Gein’s backstory, mirroring the structure of his life. Gein was unremarkable until he was discovered as Worden’s killer; the authorities shocked by his crimes and actions needed to go back and reconstruct his life, how he became the Butcher of Plainsfield. The lyrics of the chorus are the indoctrination that Gein received from his mother: everyone else is dirty, and so are you. The last line repeats, Gein’s acceptance of his worthlessness.

The second verse, musically different from the first, is sung over distorted guitar with wah. For anyone who doesn’t know what a wah pedal does, it’s a variable pitch shift. Think of your favorite rock god guitar solo, the guitarist is probably using a wah pedal. Very onomatopoeic technology. The constantly shifting pitch of the guitar is the instability of Gein’s mind as he contemplated, then engaged in grave robbing. About forty times over a five year period, Gein made his nocturnal journeys in a “daze-like” state. Sometimes, he came to his senses and went home. Other times, he dug up recently buried women who resembled his mother and took the remains home. Gein was a small man, and police didn’t believe he could dig up a grave in one night by himself, but exhumation of two of the graves he claimed to have robbed revealed them to be empty. The verse consists of multiple parts, the guitar shifting to another riff, deepening the sense of instability. There’s also a chorus-like part of the verse, challenging usual song arrangement.

As a side note, one of the things that I love most about this song is that it’s gruesome without being vulgar. Too much horror relies on shock value, when subtlety is far more disturbing. Pause for a moment, and savor the phonetic brutality of a word like ‘mutilate.’ Okay, English nerd moment over.

After repeating the chorus two more times, there’s a vocal break, and the guitar plays an odd time signature riff for a couple measures. This is the eye of the storm.

The next part is Gein wondering about the threshold of insanity, when he crossed the line, building in intensity. My favorite aspect of the music in this part is the finger popping in the bass line, punctuating the repeating question, “Am I sick?”

The next part builds to a crescendo of chaos, when it seems that all time signatures to the music and lyrics have imploded, underscoring the content of the lyrics, which is Gein, whether to himself or the authorities, acknowledging that his mother, in the way that she raised him, might be responsible for his sickness. The chaos results from this revelation; his whole world has been upset by his mother’s fall from sainthood in his mind.

The music then reverts back into the first part of the bridge, signaling a reversion in Gein’s mind to his old way of thinking. After another pair of full recitations of the chorus, the last few lines of the chorus are repeated, a final acceptance by Gein. His mother’s dead, a saint in heaven, and her son is a murderer and a grave robber, living up to the label of “soiled, dirty boy.” A happy ending of sorts. As far as Gein is concerned, all is right with the world.

It’s a great song by a great band about a horrific story. You know where iTunes is.

DARK DELIRIUM

originally appeared in Issue 17

by Hitcher

There's an angel draped in darkness
Who visits me each night.
She slips into my wanton dreams
Delivering dark delights . . .

Last night I died then was reborn
the moment she kissed me.
With lips like cherries, ripe and full,
plucked fresh from passion's tree.

I fell into her midnight blues,
swam naked in the sea.
I felt desire's tidal wave
come crashing down on me.

Her fevered fingers seared my flesh
as they stripped me of my clothes.
Wild whispered words of wickedness
caused doors to open and close.

She threw me back onto the bed,
then she danced before my eyes.
She peeled her clothes off, teasing me
before revealing the prize.

My body ached from angry lust,
as her claws tore flesh and mind.
She stroked my pride with skillful hands
then her mouth, my pride . . . Did find.

I drowned in dark delirium
from her tongue and lips, divine.
This twisting turning tornado
swallowed me, suspended time.

She released my raging hunger,
time to guide it deep inside.
Inch by inch she took me in,
my eyes now open wide.

Her body moved like Memphis,
our rhythm was deep and slow.
Building to a crescendo,
then like lightning, she let go.

My mind screamed out in agony
from the never ending bliss.
Fire and ice, wind and hail,
raging tempest, dark abyss.

I knew the end was nearing,
when my soul began to cry.
The atom split as my will quit,
over and over I'd die.

There's an angel draped in darkness

who visits me each night . . .

Hitcher is a father, husband and poet, he loves the allure of darkness and the seduction of Erotica, he is drawn to both like a moth to a flame. Provocative visuals and powerful emotions are what drives him to reach beyond the norm when writing.

HOMEBODY

originally appeared in Issue 5

By Ramona Gardea

Mama burned the meatloaf tonight. Papa ain’t gonna be happy.

I don’t think Mama did it on purpose. She got to crying sometimes and it ain’t easy for her to move around since Papa cut off her feet. I try to help her when I can, but I got my own chores. Plus Papa don’t like seeing me doing women’s work.

I was out in the yard when I smelled the meatloaf burning. By then it was too late.

Papa told Mama to clean up the mess, to clean it real good after the first time he chopped her. We were having fried chicken and biscuits that night. Mama said something to Papa about how she wanted to get a job in town, to help with money. Papa said no wife of his was gonna work, not when there was a home for her to keep.

Mama stood up and kept talking, so he stood up and slapped her. Real hard.

Then he punched her in the stomach, even harder—so hard she fell and balled-up on the floor like a pill bug.

Mama was still balled-up when Papa came back from the shed with the axe. He told me to light up the stove and grab some kindling.

I’ve heard Mama cry before, and plenty since, but I never heard her cry like she did that night. Papa told her he was only taking her left foot this time.

“Be grateful for what you got, woman,” he'd said. “You don’t need more than what I can give you.”

He swung that axe down and took her foot. Then he used the kindling to burn her stump so it won’t bleed no more. It didn’t smell too good mixed with the fried chicken smell.

Papa went to bed early that night. He was sore tired. He told Mama to clean up her mess.

I stayed up to help her. She wasn’t doing nothing much but crying real quiet to herself.

Mama kept her right foot for near another two months before Papa cut it off, too. He did it that time because she’d dropped our big dinner platter on accident and broke it. It was hard for Mama to balance sometimes on one foot.

Papa chopped Mama a second time. He told her she could crawl around and pull herself up when need be.

It ain’t right what Papa did.

I know he’s gonna do something tonight when he gets home and sees dinner’s ruined.

But I’m bigger now. Bigger than Papa.

When he turns his anger on Mama tonight, I’ll turn something on him.

And you best be believing me when I say I can swing an axe, too.

Ramona Gardea’s work has appeared in Kaleidotrope; Frightmares; and Dark Eclipse #5. In 2010 Escape Artists’ Flash II contest, she won second place in Podcastle’s fantasy section and was a double finalist in Pseudopod’s horror section. In 2012, she was a semifinalist in Escape Pod’s Flash III contest for science fiction.

MONSTER

originally appeared in Issue 15

by Jackie Pierson

The crunch of snow underfoot, normally comforting, is grating.

I remember crunching through the snow when I was smaller, amazed at my first glimpse of the swirling white flakes and how they slowly, quietly, landed on top of each other to blanket everything. I remember the muted sound of a world coated in white, broken only by the crunch of boots through virgin snow. I pretended that I was walking somewhere that no one had ever stepped before, and it was easy to imagine with only my single trail of footprints weaving through the otherwise unblemished surface behind me.

This time, my footprints are not alone, and I am larger, my body huge and awkward. The snow is a packed, mottled surface of trails. Bare feet and boots and other things have passed this way, but they remain far ahead of me. Every once in awhile I come across a softly coated mound lying alongside the perfect disarray of this horrible path. I know what it is. I know what’s under that mound. But the part of my mind that would be horrified by this knowledge is frozen and unusable right now. I have seen too much to let another body bother me.

They came at night. It’s night now, but not the same night. I’m not sure how many days have passed since they came, but it seems as though it’s been dark ever since.

I’ve long since abandoned hope, but even so I still yearn to rejoin the others before this poor, poor thing inside of me needs to come out.

***

We were sleeping. When I awakened to the noise I saw a perfect illumination of moonlight, wavy and soft, coming through the window and landing on his face. I cannot say or think his name, my feet must keep moving. He looked beautiful in the moonlight. Even when I realized what had awakened me, and my hands flew to my belly in some absurd pretense of maternal protection, I still admired his beauty.

Our bedroom was white and blue, peaceful and serene, and the red of blood that spread around his head irrevocably shattered that peace. I clutched my bathrobe around me as they hauled me from the bed. One of them used his wet, dirty boot to push the body of what had been my husband to the floor. He fell with a thud, taking all the covers with him. I almost laughed then, because he always used to accuse me of hogging all the covers at night. I was always cold. But I don’t feel cold anymore, even on this coldest of nights.

I don’t remember much about them, other than they were black. And grey. Grey on black in the shadows of the room. Their bodies were bulky, making them look less like men. The only thing I recognized was that I was going to die.

***

Up ahead I see another mound. It’s not covered yet by a layer of softly falling white-out. Red hat, red scarf, and a blue-white face—like the colors of our bedroom. I don’t look too hard. It could be someone I know, and I want to keep my mind frozen. The mound isn’t covered yet; I must be catching up.

I don’t know where we’re going, but it seems like they don’t care whether we all make it there. I know the ones that refused to move forward along this path are dead. I know why we’re all women though, and I touch my belly and think again about just lying down and becoming a mound in the snow, to save me, and save this thing I’ve been protecting for so long. But I guess it’s that perverse maternal instinct again that fights to keep us both alive, even if it’s not the best idea.

***

He used to come home from work and swing me around with a smile and a kiss, promising that all of his long hours and hard work was going to be worth it some day. The only dark spot in our marriage was that he never told me what he did. He couldn’t, he claimed, he’d signed a contract. He looked so sad. And he would say he was just protecting me. I guess he tried his best.

He shared his body with me, his money with me, and his seed to make a child with me, but he wouldn’t share his work. But there were clues. Something to do with children and the women that carried them. I know this because when I showed him the test, with its two innocent pink lines revealing that I was pregnant, there was a look in his eyes I’ll never forget. Only when I thought about it later did I understand that his reaction was panic. Panic that he brushed aside in a fleeting, worrisome moment before enveloping me in his arms, his voice full of contrived joy.

He worked for a lab, a private lab that had so much money it could hide most of its work from the government—he told me that much at least. Some of the money came our way, enough to buy a big house full of color and sunshine. He wasn’t a doctor, like most of those he worked with. They were dark doctors with big eyebrows and old skinny wives that never spoke. He was a scientist, so handsome in his stark white coat.

A few nights before they came, I saw papers I was not supposed to see. The child inside me was kicking and moving and resting on my bladder when I lay in bed, so I had to get up and walk around. I found the papers downstairs. The words I saw on that page didn’t make much sense to me. Words like chromosome and host and DNA and fetus and mutation and fatal and contagious.

Fear rippled under my skin, creeping underneath my fingernails and up my arms and down my legs in a cold trickle that found my heart and held on. I learned then how to shut it off, that part of my brain that would react hysterically. I forgot about those papers, and returned to the happiness of my blue and white bedroom and my sunshine life.

***

I’ve come across a food pile. They have laid them along this horrible trail at intervals that must have some pattern that I cannot discern. Somewhere behind this child that lives in me, this parasite that drains all my food and depletes my strength I can feel my stomach pinched together, empty empty empty. I reach down into the pile of silver wrapped things. Things full of nutrition and vitamins but with the texture of dry oatmeal glued together with sawdust. I eat some, along with snow I’ve scooped into my cupped hands to wash the dry, chalky bar down my sore, swollen throat.

Sobbing has always made my throat hurt. I sobbed on that night when I realized what was happening. My throat still hurts, so it couldn’t have been that long ago.

***

I’m starting to remember more—my brain must be unfreezing. A slow thaw, a single drop of water dripping from a warmed block of ice—pooling, collecting, and gaining strength.

They pulled me from the bedroom. His corpse had fallen on the far side of the bed, leaving behind a red smear trailing from his pillow. They didn’t speak, but I could hear the rustling of their clothes and feel the angry marks the grip of their fingers imprinted on my upper arm. When one yanked me back so hard my back collided with his body, I felt the padding of Kevlar vests under all that black. The butts of the rifles hit my walls. Dirty, wet feet squeaked and tramped on my hardwood floors. I tripped over the dragging belt of my bathrobe as the rough, smelly monsters dragged me out of my sunshine house and into the dark.

***

I hear things up ahead. I feel things in my womb, where something is moving, angry, ripping at my insides. I cry out, but my voice is swallowed up by the muffled whiteness blanketing everything. The shock of warm liquid trickling down my frozen legs makes me gasp and sink to my knees. Hope is just a lie after all.

A creak, a crunch in the snow and suddenly someone is there, pulling at my arm, reawakening the angry marks imprinted on me that night. The hem of my bathrobe is freezing to the liquid coating my legs and my mind is refreezing. I don’t know what is happening.

I am pulled to my feet, and dragged forward. The agony in my belly wants to anchor me to the ground but insistent hands prevent this from happening. I wonder at the trail I’m leaving in the snow now. Not footprints anymore, but instead two long streaks in the snow, like runners on a sled, like a Zen rake dragging through smooth sand.

***

When I awaken there are faces staring at me. Above me shines a flickering, insubstantial light that looks like it should be warm but isn’t. I see two faces at first, and as my eyes refocus, these two faces become more, an army of scared, bloated women. The expressions on their faces look the same. Big worried angry eyes surrounded by unkempt, wet, melting hair. I wonder whether it is the flickering light that makes them look so exhausted, or whether it’s the death march through the snow and the cold and the desperation.

I am calm for a moment, and then I feel the fire, the pulsating clawing at my core. My back arches involuntarily; I don’t control my muscles anymore. There is a screaming cat, the yowl of a feral beast, and I realize that this inhuman sound is tearing its way from my own throat. Suddenly, amazingly, the moment passes and I feel lucid again, released from the red haze of pain.

“Where are we?” I groan the words, raw and rusty.

One woman, who I now see is older by far, smoothes damp hair from my forehead. Her hand is deathly cold. “We have arrived where they’ve sent us.” My voice may be raw, but hers flows like soothing honey, and makes me turn my face to her like I would to an open fireplace.

I want to ask what is happening, but I suspect that I already know—that I’ve known all along. Something very bad was happening at the place where he worked. Something bad happened to me. He did something bad to me. Another contraction comes, and these thoughts recede behind a black veil of pain until it passes.

I look around the room again. The other women are gone. I am in a room with other beds like the one I’m in. There are candles around, creating the flickering glow that should be warm, but the room is cold. Everyone in the room is just like me. Their bellies are swollen. They are cold, they are tired, they are hungry, and they are almost dead. But it doesn’t matter, because we are just the hosts.

***

Some part of me must have remembered what I tried so hard to forget. I worked the words into conversations. Not on purpose, they wormed their way up through my subconscious and out of my mouth. I asked absurd what-if questions.

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes, and his mouth would tighten, and the darkness peering from behind his storm-colored eyes would get a little blacker. He had changed as I changed. Guilt made him ugly in those last months, and I would stare at him in the moonlight in our bed because at night the guilt would slip away and he would be peaceful and beautiful again.

***

I thought I was the first, but I’m not. I hear the screaming as though from under water. It starts far away and comes closer and closer like a wave that gets bigger and bigger as it approaches the shore. She is torn apart. I hear the sobbing, but it comes from all the other women as they watch what escapes from her torn and tattered womb. Although I cannot see what happened to her, I can imagine. And I guess I’m next. Everyone else must be thinking the same because the air itself is terrified.

Scrabbling sounds, like a dog that cannot get traction on a kitchen floor. The sound skitters across the floor, out into the hallway, and then I cannot hear it anymore.

A crack, a boom, like the very air has been cleaved in two, ricochets through the room of sobbing, gravid women. A rifle. The black-clothed monsters have followed us here. Or herded us here. And they are putting an end to what we birth.

Pain, again. It is not coming from where I think it should, but from the very center of my being. Between my belly button and my spine there is nothing but the shredding clawing scratching tearing. Suddenly I feel a burst of warmth flood my limbs in a melting pool of heat, and then I am nothing.

***

I did not expect to awaken. Pain searing like flame throughout my abdomen assures me I am very much alive, but I’ve yet to determine whether that’s good or bad. Now, there are still no faces above me and the flickering light has faded. The room is very dark. I hear whimpers and moans and breathing, so I am not the only one that’s here. I raise my arm to my face, brushing away sticky hair that is stiff and crusted with dried sweat. My hand starts shaking as I trace my fingers down my throat, over the dirty, pilled surface of my bathrobe down to my stomach. It is flatter, though still distended from being pregnant. From ribcage to knees I am a mess of dried blood and fluids. I trace the lines of fire beneath my belly button and tense with panic as I feel the snaking lines of stitches across my flesh. Pieced together like a violent, gory mockery of a nursery rhyme; I have been put back together again, but by whom?

***

We never had to worry about paying medical expenses. There were always doctors we could see, doctors that worked for the lab. To one of them we went after I had joyously discovered I was pregnant after so many years of trying and several long months of fertility treatments.

They’d poked and prodded with cold knobby fingers speaking in hushed tones to my husband and other doctors. They uttered monotone congratulations in my general direction. Then they did extra tests.

***

I want to get up and flee. Absurdly, I crave a cup of coffee. But just then, a door creaks open, and a wedge of light forces its way into the room. Something is silhouetted in the doorway, but I cannot make out details. There are other lumps of hard-used bodies in beds like mine. They are lined up in perfect rows, reminding me of summer camp. A second backlit figure follows the first into the room. They move to one of the beds and pick up a pile of blankets and the body twisted within them like it doesn’t weigh anything. A hand tumbles loose and spills from folds that are saturated with blood that drips from the burden and onto the floor. Not everyone, it would seem, was put back together again.

They remove the pile from the room, disappearing beyond the door. Another shape enters, moving to each bed in turn in the dark. I am one of the furthest from the door, and I watch with trepidation as the shadow approaches me. A man. No white coat, but I can sense its presence, even though it is not there. A doctor? He peers down at me, beady black eyes underneath a heavy brow.

I hesitate before speaking, fearful that opening my mouth will somehow make this nightmare true. Before I can decide, he speaks.

“Ah, another lives.”

I fight the urge to ask about my baby, remembering clearly the blood and the unnatural scrambling sound of the creatures that tore themselves from our wombs before escaping across the wooden floor. Instead I ask why they’ve let us live.

He smiles, almost kindly I think, until his chuckle tells me otherwise. If they’ve shot the abominations they planted in our wombs, the fate they have in mind for us can only be worse.

***

All the extra tests were just to ensure that we were healthy, mother and child—that’s what he told me. That they were just being cautious after all the trouble we had getting pregnant, even after they siphoned so much blood that I felt weak and ill after every visit. I remember getting my first glimpse of the ultrasound screen, the tiny beating pulsing life in the grainy black and grey. They never showed me the screen after my third month, just assured me that everything was fine. I should have known better.

***

I am left alone. Hours or days, I can’t tell anymore. The chills, sweating, angry inflamed flesh where I’ve been stitched together, and the pus that leaks from the swollen wounds tells me that I won’t last long. The screaming and begging of the other women has intertwined with my own such that I’m not even sure that the others exist anymore. At some point an IV was put in my arm. No pain relief, just fluids to keep me teetering on the precipice between life and death. What more can they take from us?

My answer comes before long, when he approaches again. A shadow, exiting from the light and coming toward my bed with slow, thudding steps. Straight to my bed, unconcerned with the other women. Suddenly I’m aware. Silence. There are no other women.

He pauses above me, strokes his fingers down my face so gently. No lover has touched my face like that.

***

He never touched me again after we found out we were going to have a child. Not like that, not like he used to. I would lay next to him at night and run my fingers down his side, down his spine. It used to be the way to make him turn to me, wrap me in his arms, and explore all the ways we loved each other. Toward the end, it would make the hairs rise on his neck, the disgust rise in his face. I could not make him turn toward me no matter what I did.

***

I emulate my husband’s shiver of disgust as the black-eyed doctor draws his fingers down my body. I can feel the pus release as he puts pressure on the swollen wounds near my stomach. I cry out, which brings a smile to his face.

“You are the last,” he says, his touch once again gentle on my cheek.

My unused throat does not respond, and it takes two tries to ask. “The last what?”

“The last to turn.” His laugh is low and grating, like metal dragged across concrete. “Surely you didn’t think those demonic atrocities that crawled from your infested wombs were our true goal?”

I hadn’t asked any questions since awakening with my flesh sewn back together. What would be the need?

“We planted those vile masses of DNA in your wombs,” he continues. “As you loved and nurtured them, they leaked their poisonous mutations into your bloodstream.” His hand hovers over my abdomen, pushes down again and my body clenches, curled about his hand. “Your bodies have divested themselves of the instruments, but the damage is done. We have created what we intended.”

As he speaks, I can feel it. There is a humming in my blood, burning warmth like a swallow of brandy. “Your husband thought that we did God’s work, manipulating genetic material for the benefit of mankind. He thought only of the good things that could come of such knowledge and power. Foolish notion. Once we unleash you there is no good you can do.”

Now my fingers are clawing at the mattress as I struggle to break free. Spasms twist my spine and saliva leaks from my clenched jaw.

Finally I muster the power to speak, the power to react. “You are wrong—we’re just women!” I spit at his face and see the glob that slides down his cheek is tinged with red. “But you . . . you are monsters.”

Another tremor wracks my spine, and my body contorts while he watches with a smirk. “No,” he replies, leaning down to whisper in my ear. This time when he runs his hand down my face, I hear the scratching of his nails on my changing, hardening skin. “I am not the monster. You are.”

Jackie Pierson is a scientist by training, a desk jockey by day, and a dreamer by night. She lives in Minnesota with her family, including two Newfoundlands. This is her first published story.

WEAPONOLOGY

Weapons of Choice for Monster Hunters—“Flame Thrower”

originally appeared in Issue 10

by Jennifer Word

“A flamethrower is a mechanical device designed to project a long controllable stream of fire.” (Wikipedia.com)

Some flame throwers project a stream of ignited flammable liquid; some project a long gas flame. Most flame throwers are military issue and use liquids, but commercial flame throwers tend to use high-pressure propane and natural gas, which is considered safer.

Flame throwers are used by the military and by people needing controlled burning capacity, such as in agriculture or other types of land management tasks. Firefighters also occasionally use flame throwers in controlled back burns to combat wild fires. They can be designed to either be carried by the operator or mounted on a vehicle.

Modern flame throwers were first used during the trench warfare conditions of World War I; their use greatly increased in World War II. They can be vehicle mounted, as on a tank, or man-portable. Flame throwers were used heavily in WWII, primarily by Germany, Italy and Japan, as well as by the allies of Britain and the Commonwealth, the United States and the Soviet Union. However, today in the United States, private ownership of a flame thrower is not restricted by federal law, but is restricted in some states, such as California, by state laws (darnit).

The man-portable flame thrower consists of two elements: a backpack and the gun. If you want to get a good visual picture of this main type of portable flame thrower, just think of MacReady, played by actor Kurt Russell in The Thing, circa 1982. If you want to get technical: Specifications; M1A1 Flamethrower- Weight: 70 lbs; Range: 45-50 yards; Duration: 10 seconds of fire. The M1 Flamethrower can be seen in the following films used by the following actors: U.S. Army Rangers including Glenn Wrage as Doyle in Saving Private Ryan; Missing In Action 2: The Beginning; the National Guardsman in King Kong (1976); James Whitmore as Trooper Sgt. Ben Peterson in Them!; Keith David as Childs in The Thing, 1982; The Comedian in Watchmen.

The specific flame thrower used by MacReady in The Thing, was the M2 flamethrower. It can be seen in the following films and video games used by the following actors: Kurt Russell as MacReady in The Thing, 1982; The Mummy Returns by Cultists, 2001; 28 Weeks Later by a U.S. Army soldier, 2007. Specifications: Weight: 43 lbs. when empty, 68 lbs. when filled; Crew: 1; Rate of fire: Approx. half a gallon a second; Effective range: 65½ feet; Maximum range: 132 feet; Feed system: 2 (2 gal) Gasoline tanks (fuel); 1 Nitrogen tank (propellant); Sights: None.

In Video Games: (among others): Call of Duty: World at War, 2008; Call of Duty: World at War: Final Fronts, 2008; Batman: Arkham Asylum, 2009.

It’s easy to see why a flame thrower would be a top weapon of choice in both horror movies and monster-fighting video games. A flame thrower both looks badass, and makes the user feel like a badass mofo. Let’s face it; flame throwers just look darn cool, plain and simple. BUT, are they a good weapon for fighting off monsters? My answer is, HELL NO.

Flame throwers pose many risks to the operator. The first disadvantage is the weapon's weight, which impairs the monster hunter’s mobility. The weapon is very visible as well, and monster hunters could become prominent targets for snipers. What, you don’t think Dracula might carry a gun in today’s age? Please. One bullet, and that fuel pack on your back becomes your own fiery death.

Also, the flame thrower's effective range is short in comparison with that of other weapons of similar size. To be effective, flamethrower users must approach their target, risking exposure to enemy fire, namely in this case, the monster. Vehicular flamethrowers also have this problem; they may have considerably greater range than a man-portable flamethrower, but their range is still short compared with that of other infantry weapons. And what kind of monster hunter goes around with a portable flame thrower on the back of their truck? Psycho monster hunters, that’s what kind. And, yes, I’m sure you are out there, but this is a practical guide to monster hunting. So, let’s now talk about how difficult it might be to even get your hands on an actual working flame thrower.

A decent flame thrower purchased on the internet will probably end up running you in the $200-$400 dollar range, including parts, fuel and replacement mechanics, etc. However, finding a genuine flamethrower in working condition is tricky at best. The flame thrower hasn’t been widely used since WWII. In fact, the models used by the actors in The Thing in 1982 were replicas of the WWII M1A1 and M2 WWII flamethrowers issued by the military. Today, those weapons would probably be more easily found in a film museum than on the internet for purchase. You’ll also need the original manual, in order to figure out how to work your flame thrower. Acquiring an operational flame thrower is a task for only the most intensely obsessed weapons collector. I know you are out there. Psychos.

Visit http://www.flamethrowerexpert.com/- to learn more about purchasing a flamethrower! Or peruse items at: http://www.hobbylinc.com, if you are really serious (psycho-much?!??) about buying an actual flamethrower. (weirdo). [EDITOR’S NOTE: Dark Moon and Dark Eclipse do not endorse actually owning a flamethrower, although if you do we advise you wear goggles and do not set any living objects on fire. And yes, that includes cats.]

Unless you are a classic or antique weapons dealer or enthusiast, I’d say buying a flamethrower and actually using it correctly is a long shot, without blowing yourself up, giving yourself third degree burns, or burning your own house down, and destroying your backyard and your wife’s garden. Douchebags.

So, let’s talk about the early history of this weapon, shall we? The concept of throwing fire as a weapon has existed since ancient times. Early flame weapons date from the Byzantine era, whose inhabitants used rudimentary hand-pumped flamethrowers on board their naval ships in the early 1st century AD. The idea of ‘liquid fire’ (i.e., gasoline set alight by a flame) is known as Greek fire, and was supposedly extensively used by the Byzantine Empire. It is said to have been invented by Kallinikos (Callinicus) of Heliopolis, probably about 673.

The English word 'flamethrower' is a loan-translation of the German word Flammenwerfer, since the modern flamethrower was first invented in Germany. The first flamethrower, in the modern sense, is usually credited to Richard Fiedler. He submitted evaluation models of his Flammenwerfer to the German army in 1901. By 1918, in WWI, the modern versions of flame throwers had been born.

But as I’ve said before, you can’t just go and buy a flamethrower at your local Home Depot or Do-It Center. Sure, you can buy a blow torch, but that’s NOT the same thing, now is it? A blowtorch (US), or blowlamp (UK) is a tool for applying lower-intensity and more diffuse flame and heat for various applications. Present-day pressurized gas containers in a huge variety of forms are used for all kinds of tasks, including art, such as glass blowing, and in welding and soldering. Believe it or not, there are even flame throwing guns!

A Dragon's Breath usually refers to a zirconium-based pyrotechnic shotgun round. When the round is fired, sparks and occasionally flames shoot out to about 15 meters, or roughly 48 feet. While that does tend to look cool, and probably would scare off a human foe, The Dragon’s Breath will still not deter a monster, especially a zombie. Also, Dragon's Breath rounds are banned in many locations, due to their inherent fire hazard.

So, let’s get back to my reasoning for why the flame thrower is NOT a good weapon of choice for the serious monster hunter. (and by the way, if you live in California, again, unlicensed possession of a flame-throwing device—statutorily defined as "any non-stationary and transportable device designed or intended to emit or propel a burning stream of combustible or flammable liquid a distance of at least 10 feet”—is a misdemeanor punishable with a county jail term not exceeding one year OR with a fine not exceeding $10,000). Depending on where you live, you should look into your own state’s laws on possession of said weaponry.

According to the article Instant Badass, on www.filmschoolrejects.com, “If you need to threaten an enemy from a middle range distance, clear a ton of jungle in a hurry or caramelize the top of a crème brûlée, there’s nothing better for the job than a flamethrower.” However, for monster hunting, a flame thrower just isn’t going to cut it.

First of all, you always want to have a weapon with you that allows you speed and flexibility. You can’t very well run with a 70-pound pack of fuel on your back, now can you? Nor can you navigate tricky terrain or fit through small spaces. And for zombies, a flame thrower isn’t going to do much, unless you directly melt their head off. That takes time, aim, and the need for only one or two zombies chasing after you. Any more than that, and you’d better have a different weapon on hand.

Werewolves. Need I quote Rudy from The Monster Squad in every article?! I guess so. Rudy says, “There’s only one way to kill a werewolf”, and guess what, folks?—It isn’t fire! You’ll need silver to kill your werewolf foe, and unless you can find or design a flame thrower that expels molten silver, I’d say to leave this weapon at home in the garage.

Also, what are you going to do when you run low on fuel? You won’t have time to stop at the gas station (and many flamethrowers require special fuels, such as nitrogen, and literally, petrol, or jellied gasoline, similar to napalm), which is hard to come by on just any street corner Gas ‘n Sip. When you run out of fuel, if you don’t have a backup weapon, you’re screwed.

Frankenstein. Well, we’ve established that Frankenstein’s monster is pretty mortal, actually. He can be killed in a plethora of ways, including stabbing, beheading, burning, drowning, or just about anything that would kill a regular man. So, sure, you could blow torch Frankenstein to death, but, why bother with the lugsome pack, when you can just feed him some strychnine-laced caramels or something?

Vampires. Sure, you could burn a vampire the death, but wouldn’t it be more cool (and dramatic) to tie your captured vamp to a tree at pre-dawn and watch them burst into flames at the first rays of the morning sun? A flame thrower seems kind of boring and under-kill for this type of monster. Besides, if you are hunting your vamp at night (or even daytime), a wooden stake and a hatchet (for beheading) would seem to suffice, and these weapons are much lighter and more easily portable than a flame thrower pack.

A flame thrower is basically a gun that throws fire. Let’s face it; that’s just plain awesome. But, while you are wrapping your head around the awesome concept of how cool a flame thrower is, consider this instrument of destruction’s place in film, and note that that is where its awesomeness should remain. In reality, the flame thrower just doesn’t cut it.

So, I’ll leave you with the conjured image of, perhaps, the most famous use of the flamethrower in horror cinema history: Alien and Aliens. It’s not just an auxiliary tool in those films, it’s the standard issue for the crew of the Nostromo. It goes without saying that when they encounter any kind of danger, Ripley busts out the futuristic flame thrower designed for those films. And, NO, you psycho weapons collectors, you CANNOT get this anywhere on e-Bay. But back to Ripley and the coolest horror movie, perhaps, ever: Alien.

In the sequel to Alien, Aliens, Ripley tapes the flamethrower together with an M41A Pulse Rifle for extra awesomeness. And, since it’s the future, these bad boys don’t require a heavy tank to lug around.

The only movie from around the same time that could even think to compete with the Alien/Aliens monster visuals is the humble tale of men in the Antarctic: 1982’s The Thing. And, honestly, it was a viewing of this classic horror movie recently (for Halloween), that inspired me to write a Weaponology column in the very flame thrower. Nothing beats the scenes where MacReady torches the Huskies, or goes into the med lab and wastes what is left of the doctor/dog/thing on the examination table, does it? Or how ‘bout the scene where MacReady ties everyone up, and slowly tests each of their blood in a petri dish, only to discover who the ‘Thing’ actually is, and then blow torches their ass? Awesome. When someone says the word blow torch or flame thrower to me; I immediately see scenes from the movie The Thing, plain and simple.

Between Alien, Aliens, and The Thing, horror cinema taught us that the only way to take down an extra-terrestrial menace is to kill it with fire. So, for an actual alien, I’d tell a monster hunter to go for it, and use the flame thrower, but with any earthly bound or supernatural foe, I’d say, use another weapon. And choose wisely, depending on what type of monster you are planning on facing.

Again, remember to use your head, before removing someone else’s. Just because somebody looks like Rocky Dennis, does not mean the person is an actual alien. Hey, maybe it IS Rocky Dennis? If your next door neighbor gets offended when you sprinkle Holy Water around their home’s foundation, they may not necessarily be a vampire, perhaps they are an agnostic? If you see someone actually eating someone else’s kidney with some fava beans, they might just be a cannibal, not a zombie. Or they might actually BE Hannibal Lecter, you never know. Always be certain of your monster before you attack.

And lastly, always be prepared! This includes knowing the best weapon for any particular type of monster. I’d say the flame thrower, while badass and totally awesome on film (and in video games), is not a good choice for the majority of monsters you might encounter.

ETERNAL PLAIN

originally appeared in Issue 5

by John Hawkhead

To die or not to die: that ancient question:

whether there’s value in continuation,

to stay suffering continuous pain

or step out onto that endless plain.

To rot alive or decay underground,

sleep under sheets or grassy mound;

shadows above or darkness below

with such choices, can one know?

A challenge floats in thickened air

to decide this rashly or with care—

of when to sink in time’s quicksand

and there the question darkly hangs

John Hawkhead is a writer and illustrator who lives in the South West of England. His poetry, haiku, short stories and illustrations have appeared in many small press publications and websites around the world. Video of his one-minute plays for Gi60 is on You Tube as is a representation of one of his poems by schoolchildren in Turkey. His book of poetry, Witness, is available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and as an iTunes download.

INFECTED

originally appeared in Issue 7

by Jordan Drew

A single candle illuminated the entire apartment, and she looked around at what had been her home for the last five years.

There wasn’t much, just some books, a mattress on the floor, a tiny lamp, and some unlit candles placed everywhere the lamplight wouldn’t reach. The kitchen held a set of cheap dishes, a chair, a fridge, and a coffee pot. Nothing worth bothering with. The only thing she would really miss was the table where she sat. Whoever had lived here before her had been a poet. He or she had carved many small poems into the grain of the wood. And since she loved both poetry and knives, she loved her table. Too bad it was built into the wall.

Besides the coffee pot, the only other thing worth taking with her was her vacuum cleaner. That was the one domestic chore she enjoyed. She knew her carpet was clean when she could see the lines in the carpet the vacuum made. It was a silly gesture considering she was a bounty hunter. Paid to hunt and decimate her own kind, messy was kind of her business, but if she wanted to vacuum until lines showed up in her carpet, that was her prerogative.

She shook the pointless thoughts from her head and lifted her coffee mug to her lips. She didn’t realize how long she’d been sitting there until it was too late. The cold, bitter liquid filled her mouth, and she grimaced as she forced it down her throat as punishment for her daydreaming.

Daydreaming. That’s the kind of crap that’ll get you killed!

She looked at the note, waxing nostalgia and sighed. She’d found it in her pocket as she was heading home that evening. It all seemed innocent enough. She was standing on the sidewalk watching the local news through a television repair shop across the street from her apartment. She didn’t have a TV, so this was something she did quite often. A bicycle courier was crossing the street and almost hit by a car. He lost his balance and collided into her. The boy apologized profusely as she helped him up. She laughed, said something about her not paying attention, and the two parted ways with smiles on their faces. Fifteen minutes later she shoved her hands in her pockets, turning to head home, and that was when she found the note, neatly folded in her pocket. She looked around the empty street for a sign someone was watching her before running to her apartment, knowing it was time to go. It wasn’t so much what the note said as much as what it didn’t say. She’d been found. He knew exactly where she was, and if she didn’t get out of town, one of them was going to die.

She poured more hot coffee, took a sip, and nearly spilled it when she jumped at a soft knock on her door. She held her breath. Hours seemed to pass in mere minutes as she sat motionless in the darkness, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. She cut her eyes in the direction of the door, sensing that someone waited on the other side.

She wondered if she could reach her knife before the door was opened. Still she waited, but still nothing happened.

Finally—

“Laney. Open the door.”

Damn it.

She looked at the note again, reading carefully line-by-line for any mention of that name. She hadn’t been called Laney for fifteen years. Laney had graduated summa cum-laude from one of the most prestigious universities in the country. Laney had been the captain of the cheerleading squad and head of the drama club. Laney was the girl everyone wanted to be friends with. She’d also been the one nobody ever took the time to get to know . . . nobody except him. Laney was weak, and Laney had seen something she wasn’t supposed to see.

The knob on her door jiggled, ground around, and jiggled some more. She heard something metallic grating against the internal mechanism of the lock, and the knob jiggled again. She snuffed out the candle flame between her thumb and forefinger, and grabbed her steaming coffeepot, edging her way behind the bar that separated her kitchen from the rest of the apartment. She heard a click and a soft swishing sound from the direction of her door.

“Laney?” he whispered.

She crouched, coffee pot in hand. He was close. If only she’d been able to reach her knife, she might have been able to get him from her hiding place. She might have been able to avoid this confrontation. She saw the shadow of his tall frame, barely outlined from the light in the hallway as he shuffled inside and closed the door behind him.

The sound of the light switch made her smile. All the light bulbs had burned out within months of her moving in. She never bothered to replace them because the light hurt her eyes.

Serendipitous.

“I know you’re in here, Laney. I just want to talk.”

She knew he couldn’t see her. His eyes would take time adjusting to the darkness after being in the bright hallway. She knew she could make her way to the mattress where she had hidden her knife without detection, but she stayed still, clutching her coffee pot in the darkness.

“Okay, fine,” he said. “If you don’t want to talk, that’s cool. I just need you to listen. I didn’t know you would be there that night. Had I known, I would have done everything within my power to protect you.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, reminding herself that it hadn’t been personal. He probably had cared about her . . . back when I was Laney.

“I won’t hurt you. We can go for coffee, have a chat, just like we used to. It doesn’t have to be this way . . . I’ve . . . I’ve found a cure.”

A cure? A cure for what? A cure for seeing what I saw? I cure for all the people who died in that room that night? A cure for me? You killed Laney, Cameron. She is dead because of you! A thousand more thoughts flooded her mind, screaming at the man in the darkness, yet she said nothing.

“Laney. I swear you can trust me. That night was a fluke. You weren’t supposed to be there. We were all infected, we all suffered as you have, but that’s all over now. All you have to do is come out and we can go back to the way things used to be. I love you. My life has been empty without you. Fifteen years we worked on this cure. Everyone had their own reasons, but I did it for you . . . so that we might live a normal life. So that we could be—together,” he said, taking another step toward her hiding spot.

This was it. Fight or flight . . . or in her case, fight or die . . . again.

When he came near she broke her coffee pot against his knee. He screamed out as the glass cut him and scalding liquid ran down his leg. She stifled a satisfied grin at his pain. Now isn’t the time. Using the broken shards remaining attached to the handle in her death grip, she sliced through the tendon in his ankle. He fell to the floor, gasping, begging her to stop. She jumped from her position behind the bar, kicking him in the head as she ran toward her mattress . . . toward her knife.

“Laney,” he whispered, his voice strained with a satiating combination of fear and pain.

In a single, flawless move she grabbed her knife from underneath her mattress and was kneeling beside him. She’d been exact in calculating her own movements toward him, but hadn’t given thought that he might have a move of his own. She hadn’t been careful. Making mistakes seemed to be her new theme.

At first, she wasn’t sure what had happened. She thought she felt a tiny prick in the back of her hand, but it was nothing she would have even taken notice of had it not been for the sound that followed it—of something small falling on the carpet at her knee. She put the thought out of her mind as she punched him, relishing in the crunching sound her fist made when it contacted his nose. Then she reached across him to turn on the lamp.

There it was. The syringe lay in the floor next to his limp body. Immediately, she panicked. She cut the back of her hand with her knife and began a desperate attempt to suck out whatever poison he’d injected her with, but an odd warmth began radiating from the injection site and riding up her arm, and she realized it was too late. A raspy chuckle from the man lying on the floor drew her attention.

“What did you do to me?” she demanded.

“I gave you your life back,” he said. “The life I took from you . . . I gave it back, nothing more,” he whispered.

She glared at him. Without a second thought she lifted the knife and slid it into his neck. “I didn’t want it back,” she muttered, watching him choke on his own blood, his eyes wide with confusion.

She pulled her knife from his neck, wiping it on his shirt. She stood up and took a few steps into her kitchen. A wave of dizziness rushed over her, and she grabbed the refrigerator door for support. She shook off the feeling and opened the freezer. She rummaged through her icebox, fighting the cold, digging towards the bottom. When she found the glass vial and its frozen contents, she quickly closed the freezer door, and rubbed the precious object across her jacket hoping the friction would quicken the warming process. Finding another like her was easy. Finding one willing to share their blood was damn near impossible.

This was one of the vials she’d found when she was poking around that night . . . the night she wasn’t supposed to be in the science lab.

She stepped back toward the man in the floor, who was still gurgling as the blood backed up in his throat. “I like being what I am,” she told him. “I don’t want to be like you. You’re weak and defenseless. Why in God’s name would you even think I’d want to be anything like . . . you again?”

She looked again at the vial in her hand. She needed some supplies to make its contents active. She needed a lab, and she needed one fast.

Luckily, this is a college town. Colleges meant unsecured labs available to any person who looked like they belonged. Grinning, she picked up the syringe from the floor, and surveyed the room. The last thing she did before turning her back on the past five years was to pull the neatly folded note from her jacket pocket. After reading it one last time, she crumpled it up and threw it at the dying man’s face. She left the apartment, pulling the door closed behind her, careful to lock both the knob and the deadbolt. Nobody knew he was there. Nobody would know until a smell was reported and by that time, she’d have her virus back, and be long gone . . . and anything but human.

Jordan Drew is a storyteller/writer/coffee drinker extraordinaire who resides in Georgia with her husband NerdBoy, their three kiddos, and their Yorkie named Jabberwock. You can read more of Jordan’s random rantings at her website, www.jordandrew.com

OPEN BOOK

originally appeared in Issue 7

by Shaun Meeks

Is it the wind that whispers the name, or is it some ghost that has risen from its slumber when I opened the book and read words I was told not to. Jafar had also read the book; it was at his house that I procured it. I went to visit him two weeks ago and found him lying on his floor, shriveled like a raisin, curled up in the fetal position where the book sat only three feet from him. He had bragged about finding it, the mythical Anna, and I knew that one day it would be mine. As a rare book collector, we all hear tales of lost books, but it is the rumors and stories of books that can drive you mad or even kill you that push us forward. I have heard talk of the Necronomicon, that if read front to back, it will drive you mad, or of culling song that could kill the reader or others it is read to. The Anna though was a different beast all on its own. Some say that if read it can open doors, turn the reader into a portal or simply suck their soul from their body leaving them an empty husk.

When I found Jafar’s body, his skin gray and sucked inward the way it was, I thought that maybe the tales were true. Maybe I should have used caution, but the bibliophile inside demanded that the book be taken, and it was.

Every time I lay in bed and close my eyes, I hear whispers of passages from the book, like the wind is reading it to me again and again. When I open my eyes I find the room is darker than it should be, yet from the corners of my eyes there is movement. Whatever is there, disappears when I turn my head towards it, but I know there is something in the room with me now that my stupid eyes will never see. I wonder if Jafar had the same problem or if the reader gets a personalized Hell after turning the last page. Perhaps I opened a door, that is why I smell the musty smell of basements and the coppery scent of blood wherever I go and I cannot close my eyes without hearing the ghost whispers of things that lie beneath the surface.

Sometimes I feel cold prickles moving across my skin, as though something bug like is walking across it, but when I look, there is nothing there but the fear inside me. Maybe I am going insane, or perhaps the myths are true and I have opened something I can never close. I will read the book again and hope that something changes. Maybe I will end up like Jafar, or maybe I will open the door a little more so that I can fully hear the whispered voices.

Shaun Meeks lives in Toronto. His most recent work has appeared in Dark Eclipse, Zombies Gone Wild, The Horror Zine, 50 Shades of Decay, Zippered Flesh 2 & At the Gates of Madness. His new collection, Brother’s Ilk and novel, Shutdown, are due out this year. Visit him at www.shaunmeeks.com.

WHAT DO YOU DO WITH A CAPTURED ALIEN?

originally appeared in Issue 15

by Manny Frishberg

The question of what we should do with any aliens we should happen upon has been around at least since the advent of the modern horror movie. In the early days the answer was easy—shoot to kill. That was the order of the day, whether the creatures in question were invaders from Mars or Venus (later from the unnamed galactic core, or a Fantasy Land unlike any devised by the Disneyland imagineers), or monsters of our own making—giant ants in the Mojave or long-slumbering creatures, awakened by nuclear testing and set on destroying Tokyo.

All that changed with the 1960s—DC Comics, which slyly skirted the issue of whether Superman was really an illegal alien, was joined by John Jones, the more-or-less human alter ago of the Martian Manhunter and TV welcomed or “favorite” Martian, a thoroughly charming Ray Walston with retractable antennae and a psychokinetic finger. Suddenly aliens were less fearsome invaders than benign (or even heroic) humanoids who needed to be kept under wraps for their own safety.

Of course, there were still the invasive species (as in The Invaders on TV, comic books and a set of bubble-gum cards, or Mars Attacks, exclusively in trading card format). They were, however, mostly incompetent overlords, readily defeated by American military might and the bravery of the common man (excuse the chauvinism, but it was the early ‘60s).

In the ‘70s everything changed again, thanks in large part to Steven Spielberg. In Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Spielberg declared the whole question moot—sure the army was there, prepared to shoot first and ask questions not at all. But solitary everyday folks who had been possessed to sculpt replicas of Devil’s Tower in mashed potatoes, and the like, managed to hold the hot-headed militarists at bay long enough to enter into diplomatic conversation. Next, of course, he brought out E.T., the cute, if somewhat reptilian alien with a fondness for Reese’s Pieces. We finally had the definitive answer for the ‘80s: hide them in a closet and dress them in Vaudevillian drag.

That couldn’t last. And it didn’t have to. After all, aliens became predatory hunters, combining advanced technological mastery of FTL travels with instinctive bloodthirstiness and wasp-like tendencies to implant their eggs in the bodies of hapless humans they met along the way. So, again, capture took a back seat to wiping them out.

Today, thanks to the advent of the Internet, and especially the Wiki—an amalgam of crowd-sourced information, ranging from encyclopedic knowledge to state secrets to, especially relevant to this discussion, the SCP Foundation, a website dedicated to answering the this peculiar line of inquiry. SCP stands for "Special Containment Procedures” as well as their motto: “Secure, Contain and Protect.” At this writing it contains about 2,000 entries devised by the participating writers and accepted by the moderators/administrators.

The Foundation describes itself as “the last bastion of security in a world where natural laws rapidly break down . . . here to protect humanity from the things that go bump in the night, from people who wield power beyond mortal understanding.” As for why, their FAQ explains it this way: “Most of the objects and people the Foundation houses are being kept for study, which is not at all the same as sitting on death row. Why obliterate something when you have enough resources to try to discover how it works?”

A couple of examples are enough to demonstrate what they are up to:

- SCP-008

describes a highly infectious prion (a recently discovered type of pathogenic protein—see Mad Cow Disease for a real-world example) that is a science fiction-credible agent for the spread of the Zombie Plague.

Symptoms of infection are seen in about three hours following exposure via mucous membranes, and include Flu-like symptoms leading to severe dementia in later stages, followed by the onset of what can be considered death. . . . Metabolism eventually decreases to extremely low levels, allowing subject to survive for over 10 years without nutrition. “ . . . Conditioned behavior, motor controls, and instinctive behavioral mechanisms are damaged, and cognitive abilities are severely retarded and erratic.”

“Special Containment Procedures: SCP-008 samples are extreme biological hazards and all related protocols apply. Incineration and irradiation measures will be deployed in the event of political or military action which may result in the facility being dismantled; a power failure; or zero communications from operatives or outside channels during any given eight (8)-hour period . . . ”

- SCP-1013

“appears to be a small reptile with a distinctly avian head . . . The body appears similar to most common reptiles, with the exception of the head and abnormally long tail . . . The head of SCP-1013 is distinctive, appearing to be that of a male chicken on first viewing. However, SCP-1013 does not possess any standard avian markers, besides the superficial resemblance. The beak is serrated, and appears to possess very basic, needle-like teeth. These are used only in feeding, and are not used in any way to hunt prey. The head also lacks any feathers, and has an enlarged wattle.” The containment includes a requirement that anyone entering the containment facility wear an armored haz-mat suit and that “[s]taff becoming paralyzed during cleaning/feeding/testing cycles are to be immediately removed and remanded to medical custody until five hours after recovery.”

The project itself is a collaborative creative writing site, devoted towards horror. As such, it may just be the long-awaited realization of a truly Internet-native form of literature—created by a cadre of members and commented upon by a (hopefully) growing legion of readers. It is wide open, as far as the kinds of aliens that populate it, but quite specific in formal requirements for an SCP. Less restrictive and more literary-minded stories are also included on the site, under the heading of Foundation Tales, the fiction section of the SCP Site. The only basic requirements are that they involve some sort of SCP (including ones not on the main list), the Foundation, or one of the other organizations and, if a writer chooses to write in someone else’s universe, they get permission first.

Check it out at http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/main. Maybe we’ll see each other there.

OPERATION RELAY

originally appeared in Issue 11

by Jay Wilburn

Waking up always felt like dying in reverse, he thought.

His eyes refused to focus, but he could see his arms stretched in front of him. He tried to relax and drop them. They just hovered in his hazy vision with his right hand extended a little farther than his left.

He felt like he was standing but realized he was strapped down on his back with his arms floating dead above him.

There was no gravity in a ship full of coffins.

He tried to swallow in a throat that had been dry for years, possibly several lifetimes' worth of years. Then, he tried to choke. Failing that, he tried to vomit from a stomach pumped clear of food before they'd laid him to rest.

Only a speck of blue preservative fluid issued from his mouth. It contrasted starkly to the flesh tone of the scarred, painted metal of the ceiling and walls of the chamber and gave his eyes something on which to focus.

The translucent glob followed the pattern of a polymer in the recycled air. It caught the rising and sinking glow of the emergency lights and collected bits of soot and charred insulation while it drifted on a current of air. The current led the speck to the left above the open door of his stasis unit.

None of this was right. The light was wrong. The particles in the air were wrong. Waking up alone was wrong. His fingers were wrong.

He pulled his arms toward his body. They passed the first tolerance test. The muscles cramped and protested from the weakness of atrophy. His joints popped and the tendons strained.

His fingers were wet. He opened and closed his palms. They squeaked.

That wasn’t right, he thought. The colony ship should be arid. The only way anything should be moist would be if he took a swim inside the tanks housed in the walls of the cargo bays. Of course, he'd have to shrink to the size of his vomit globule to get in there.

He fumbled at the buckle over his chest. It felt cold and wet.

The ship had to be in trouble.

The door to the crypt opened out with a shuck. His ears ached from the pressure change. The grit floating above him took a sudden detour past his feet toward a shadow peering in from the hall.

He clawed at the buckle again. Adrenaline finally stabbed his brain through the blue sludge in his bloodstream.

The shadowed figure slithered through the opening and then pushed off the doorframe with practiced grace. The intruder swam through the fouled air like a predatory bird. It swooped into the lid of the coffin and caught the edges with both hands.

He looked up into the lined face above him, but his caked brain failed to produce a name.

The levitating visitor spoke. The metal walls smothered its voice rather than echoing.

The visitor said, “Kemp, I’m going to need you to resurrect a little faster than normal. There is a problem. You are a tech and a secondary engineer, yes?”

My name's Kemp. The ship's in distress. That’s why the man’s face pulsed in the lights.

Kemp’s brain managed to pass the second stress test. He tried to speak, but his tongue and throat were the only dry things in the room.

The visitor released the coffin with one hand causing him to list to Kemp’s right. He pulled an infuser stuffed down in a pocket in the side of the stasis pod, then lifted it and pressed it into Kemp’s chest.

That wasn’t right either.

Kemp felt like he'd been pushed through a sheet of glass by a burst from an exhaust vent. He belted out a wail that sounded like a widow’s grief. A mist of red globs projected into the stranger’s face from Kemp’s abused throat. The man blinked once and stared down at his patient again.

The man unbuckled the straps holding Kemp in place and said, “Come around now, son. Quickly, Kemp. Do you know how to repair Gadsen’s life support?”

They both drifted into the air above the padding of the Kemp’s coffin. The man held onto the buckle and straps. Kemp continued to rise slowly toward the blood-speckled face.

“Who is Gadsen? Who the hell are you?” Kemp’s voice issued in small hisses, almost inaudible by the end of his last question. “What’s going on?”

The man locked one hand on to the front of Kemp’s jersey and arrested his approach a few inches shy of the man’s face.

The man said, “Christ on a cracker, son. The Gadsen is the name of the bloody ship dying around us. My name is Chaplain Kahn. Are you a tech and grease monkey or not? God help us, I’ve got no time to resurrect anyone else.”

“I am.” Kemp coughed. “I am. What the hell is happening? Why is the ship dying?”

“I’ll have to explain as we go.”

The chaplain twisted in the air and kicked off the lid of the stasis pod. He pulled Kemp’s unresponsive body into the air. Droplets of water spiraled off the lid while they floated toward the door.

“I don’t have muscle control yet, Chaplain.” Kemp flailed his limps weakly. He nearly collided skull first with the chamber door.

“You’ll have to recover on the way,” Chaplain Kahn said.

They entered the hallway. Kemp was struck by how dark it was, though not just from the lack of light. A fire had scorched the walls of the corridor black.

Kahn pushed his way along the hall by kicking off the burnt walls.

Pieces of the ship, some of them sharp, twirled in the cycling air. Kemp tried to shield his face from one, but his arm was numb and refused to do anything besides drag through the air. The piece barely missed his eye. It went by close enough for him to see it was curved and hollow.

Kahn asked, “Are you familiar with the Relay Protocol?”

“Was there an explosion?”

They passed an open doorway. Translucent, red globules pulsed in the light. Through the door, all the coffins inside were open and empty—except for two.

Kahn said, “Focus, son. I’m taking us to the hub the computer indicated. If the problem is on a lower deck like your brother feared, we may be dead in space.”

“My brother is out?” Kemp asked, “Vly? Where is he? Why isn’t he fixing it? He’s the engineer? What happened?”

“There was an explosion. About four hundred years ago.”

“What?”

Kahn pulled Kemp up the left corridor of an intersection into near pitch blackness. He felt flecks of filth peppering his face, but was still powerless to do anything about it other than squeeze his mouth and eyes closed.

The chaplain asked again, “Are you familiar with the Relay Protocol?”

Kemp neglected to answer for fear that he would swallow whatever contaminated the air.

Kahn took his silence for an answer. “There was an explosion in the engine room 47 years into our flight. The computer revived the captain. He vacuumed the area. Got the ship running again. He revived two other crewmen to help repair and restore what they could. This is what your brother told me. He heard it from the guy that revived him. The main computer is down, so who knows what’s legend and what’s not. The first officer was the last one from the first shift and he revived another officer before he died and initiated the Relay Protocol. This lasted four hundred years or so until your brother revived me a few weeks ago. He had the longest and toughest shift.”

“Where is Vly?”

For the first time Kemp started to smell again. The ship didn’t smell like burnt wire or carbon as he expected. It had a more pungent, raw smell like open garbage.

Kahn said, “Vly drowned trying to get to the lower decks to make a permanent fix.”

“Drowned? We’re in space. How the hell did my brother drown?”

“There is a lot I need to tell you about your brother, but we have to repair life support because you and I can’t go back in stasis and we can’t breathe later.”

“How did he drown?”

Kahn let Kemp drift down the hall while he worked the mechanism on the only latched door they’d passed in this entire journey. Kahn got it to open and caught Kemp’s ankle just before he floated out of reach.

“Why can’t I move yet?” Kemp demanded.

“The middle deck is flooded with water and sealed off. It happened in some shift before your brother and before the guy who resurrected Vly. The seals went bad in the tanks due to some modifications made to save the air a couple centuries ago. They drained the water into the middle deck and sealed the air locks like a breech into space to save the water. Without it, the colony will be dead on arrival.”

Kahn pulled Kemp into the room beyond the door. It was dark until he flashed on a glaring, work light.

Kemp floated toward the ceiling. “How far are we from the planet?”

“We’re still closer to Earth than the ‘Promised Land.’ We’ve woken up about six hundred and fifty years too early.”

“Where are my wife and my kids?”

“Focus on the problem now,” Kahn said. “The computer says the problem is in this hub. The main system is down, so I can’t tell you much. I need you to talk me through this.”

Kemp repeated, “Where is my wife? Are my children okay?”

“They’re great. They don’t need air, yet. We do. I need to bypass the secondary distribution to the tertiary filtration. The computer says the problem is in this hub.”

“Where is my family?”

A strong metallic taste filled Kemp’s mouth below the skin of his tongue. Waves of nauseous hunger struck him too.

There was supposed to be a medical team tending the resurrections. Maybe there would be one in about six and a half centuries.

Chaplain Kahn said, “Your brother said the rest of your family was on the lower decks. He had no way of knowing their condition. There is no inventory of which sections of the Gadsen are compromised at this point. Even if their chamber is open to space, if their pods are sealed, they will survive long after you and I are dead. Your brother is gone. You and I are on watch now. It’s our shift. It is up to us to be custodians of the colony now. If we don’t fix life support and hold this can together, your family will sleep in floating coffins for millennia as we overshoot our destination and your brother, Vly, will have died for nothing. Now how do I bypass—”

“Turn me so I can see the damn system,” Kemp ordered, “and don’t let me run into any of the shit floating around in here.”

Kahn complied and Kemp started giving instructions. Kahn read off readings and explained configurations awkwardly. He had to float up to move the work light a couple times, so they could see.

Kemp felt like he was learning a foreign language trying decipher the changes that had been made to system. Nothing was responding how he expected. He’d trained on it, but he was never supposed to be repairing the system beyond firing it as they shuttled to the surface of their new home—a home which he was never destined to see, it seemed.

Kahn said, “I only see the green one.”

Kemp said, “I guess they have been replaced.”

“What then?”

“You have to feed it through the conduit until it locks.”

“How do I know it is locked, if I can’t see it?”

“You’ll feel it lock into place.”

After a pause, Kahn said, “I believe that’s it. Yeah, I felt it lock. What’s next?”

“Pull on it slightly to see if it comes back up. We have to be sure it is really locked or we’ll just cease the whole system in the next two steps.”

“Okay . . . no, I think I just yanked it loose.”

“It wasn’t locked then—”

Kahn grabbed Kemp’s shoulder. “This isn’t working.”

He took another infuser from his pocket and pressed it to Kemp’s bicep. Almost immediately Kemp felt a rush of feeling flood through his sluggish blood stream. His breathing increased. He coughed on the grit in the air.

Kahn said, “As soon as you are able, you need to do this yourself.”

Kemp blinked a few times. He flexed his finger for the first time since he left the stasis chamber. Wetness filled the crotch of his sleep suit.

Kemp asked, “Why didn’t you do that to start with?”

“I’m not a doctor. If you can feel it, I believe your heart may be about to explode. It seemed like a bad idea to risk blowing the pump out of the last guy that could fix this. Unfortunately, I’m not an engineer, so we’ll have to get you moving in time to take care of this.”

“Why did my brother revive you and not me?” Kemp asked. “Why didn’t he just fix this himself instead of reviving anyone?”

“Can you move yet?”

“You’ll know I can move when I start moving. Why did my brother not fix this himself?”

“It wasn’t broken then.”

“How did he drown?”

“Now is not the time, son.”

“I need some answers. If I’m the only engineer left on deck, you’ll need to do what I say or I’ll let us both choke on soot and carbon dioxide.”

“Fine.” Kahn rubbed his eyes and groaned. “He explained to me what he needed to fix on the lower deck. I couldn’t begin to understand enough to repeat it to you now. He almost flooded us trying to get in the airlock to the middle deck. He was going to call with instructions once he was below. That was a week ago. I assume he isn’t still holding his breath.”

“Why didn’t he use a suit?”

“He said that suits on the Gadsen were designed for vacuum and couldn’t be used to submerge. The ones on the shuttles could, but they are in the cargo bays below deck.”

“No. I mean around the outside of the ship.”

“He said he tried. Everything had been welded to repair leaks some time in the past few centuries.”

“Why did he revive you and not me to help?” Kemp asked.

“He wanted to confess,” Kahn answered.

“Confess what?”

“Confessions are privileged.”

“My brother is dead. We’re hundreds of years from any atmosphere we can breathe—”

“So fix the life support so we can go on breathing.”

“Who takes over after us, if I’m the last one that can fix anything?”

“I don’t care. The ship’s full of future custodians. We’ll pick one out together after we spend a lifetime looking into the dead of space like your crazy brother. Can you move yet?”

Kemp pushed forward and grabbed the chaplain by the throat. “What did you do to my brother?”

Kahn slammed into the casing of the secondary distribution hub. He kicked Kemp loose and sent him spinning into the hatchway, then launched forward at Kemp with his hands splayed like talons.

Kemp pulled himself into the corridor. His limbs still felt heavy and thick. He slammed the hatch closed and pulled the lock wheel in place just as Kahn tried to shove from the inside.

“See?” Kemp shouted, “That’s what locked feels like!”

“I’ll pull the guts out of this room just like your brother and kill us both,” Kahn called from inside.

“I can flush the air out of that room and fix it after you’re dead.”

Kahn answered after a pause. “You’re talking crazy, son. This has gotten out of hand. You’re just frazzled from being slammed out of sleep so quickly. You’re on an endorphin rush. Your heart is beating out of your chest. Don’t give into paranoia. Everyone is counting on us. You’re brother is counting on us. Your family—”

“Shut up!” Kemp screamed. “What did you do to my brother?”

Kahn spoke barely loud enough for Kemp to hear him through the door. “He drowned trying to get to the lower decks. He was old. He’d been on shift for a lifetime. He didn’t have the stamina to make it, but he tried anyway. He wanted to make up . . . for his mistakes.”

“You lie, you son of a bitch. You said you were going to pull the guts out of the life support like you did to my brother. I’m going to the bridge to suffocate you, you murdering psychopath.”

“You misunderstood me—“

“I’m going to watch your eyes burst.”

“Your brother ripped their guts out!” Kahn said.

Kemp stopped, but didn’t say anything. He waved bits of gristle out from in front of his face like a swarm of gnats he’d never live long enough to see again.

“Kemp, are you there?” Kahn continued. “It was Vly. He’d been in the ship alone for almost sixty years. Food ran short. He started taking chunks out of the bodies. The preservative allowed him to go bit by bit—meal by meal—but even they started running low. He went below to get more. That’s what he confessed.”

“You lie.”

Kemp left the corridor without hearing the chaplain’s rebuttal.

It took him a while to locate the bridge. He’d only been in the ship briefly before going under. Lights were out in most sections. Doors stood sealed with warnings painted over them in rough letters faded by time.

Stasis chambers lay open throughout the deck. Bodies were hollowed out in a couple of them, but remained preserved as droplets of blue and red undulated above them.

Kemp reached the bridge. He swatted away a broken shard of what he now believed to be a rib bone rather than a piece of the ship.

Most of the instruments were powered down. He wiped condensation off the consoles and blank monitors.

Kemp now saw that Kahn had mistakenly taken him to a dead hub. The emergency sensors were malfunctioning because the life support had been routed away from that room to another system in the lower deck.

Maybe Vly had made it after all.

Kemp shut down the emergency pulses to save power, but he couldn’t flush the air out of Chaplain Kahn’s cell, so he was left with the choice of either leaving him in there to starve or to let the angry clergyman out.

He started looking for ways to access intership communications with the lower decks. Everything mid-deck was shorted out for obvious reasons. He thought he might be able to go ship-to-ship com with the shuttles, but they were powered down and the main com had been scavenged for parts at some point.

Most of what he understood lay open and exposed to the humid air. The ship had been gutted a hundred different ways by dead men who were trapped here before him.

He didn’t want to believe the chaplain. The man had kept him paralyzed for a reason. Kemp was sure that once he had fixed the life support the man intended to hollow him out while he bobbed in his own airborne blood. He could’ve been afraid Kemp was as dangerous as he claimed Vly had become.

Could it be true? Was sixty years enough time to do that to his own brother? To all the colonists from all those coffins?

If his brother was still alive on the lower deck with them, he hoped Vly wasn’t as hungry as he felt from his revitalized digestive system.

Air wasn’t a problem. Water in the machinery was. Holding a ship full of coffins together for six hundred more years was, as well.

Who was going to take the next watch in Operation Relay? What would be left to any survivors in six centuries?

Food was a real problem. The chaplain, too.

His brother might be.

Kemp looked around the hovering debris in the bridge for something sharp.

It was time to take care of at least a couple of his problems.

Jay Wilburn lives in beautiful Conway, South Carolina with his wife and two sons. His novel Loose Ends: A Zombie Novel is available now. His next novel, Time Eaters, will be released in November of 2013. Follow his many dark thoughts @AmongTheZombies on Twitter.

GROWING UP

originally appeared in Issue 10

by Tim Waggoner

When you were a child you were afraid of the dark.

Afraid of the coiling shadows gathered around your bed, reaching for you with cold tendrils, taunting you with sibilant whispers. You stayed awake all night, trembling, heart pounding, skin slick with sweat, knowing that if you closed your eyes, the shadows would take you.

Eventually you grew tired of being afraid and decided to learn the ways of your enemy.

You read strange books written in strange languages, studied with teachers of sinister mind and tainted spirit. You allowed things to be done to your mind, body, and soul.

You changed.

You learned to breathe the night, to laugh misery, eat agony, bleed sorrow. And in the end you became something far worse than the shadows ever were. The price you paid was high, but it was worth it because now . . .

The dark is afraid of you.

Tim Waggoner has published close to thirty novels and two short story collections. He teaches creative writing at Sinclair Community College and in Seton Hill University’s Master of Fine Arts in Writing Popular Fiction program. Visit him on the web at www.timwaggoner.com.

METHODS OF DOOMSDAY

originally appeared in Issue 18

by Nicholas Paschall

We are all well aware that the end is nigh, thanks to the distantly departed Mayans and their amazingly accurate calendar. But what exactly will be the cause of our demise? Plague? Famine? World War Three? After spending a few sleepless nights researching the various horrors that dwell within our world, I think I’ve come up with a few delightfully dreadful theories on what will end us all in, well, the end.

The Norse believed the end of the world, to them a time called Ragnorok, would be a natural event preceded by wars and devastation across the world. The waters would rise up and swallow the earth whole, drowning out the chaos and quenching the flames of war, as well as the fires of man, only to later recede leaving the earth once again fertile and pure, with only a handful of survivors to repopulate. I think this could be the beginning of the end only because of the heightened awareness we’ve been bombarded with the last few years concerning the melting glaciers and global warming. While certainly not a pleasant way to go, it would leave much for those that lived to tell the tale.

A personal favorite of mine is the Zombie apocalypse, that is to say an apocalypse fueled by a super plague. With roughly seven billion people on the planet, and international trade at an all-time high, should an outbreak of Ebola or weaponized smallpox occur in any urban area, the effects would make the infamous spread of the Black Death look like a bad flu season, tearing through billions in a matter of weeks. The only cure for such an apocalypse is for the pandemic to lose momentum, taken literally to mean that our surviving population would be spread so thin that the plague could no longer spread. Rough estimates place the death toll in Europe anywhere from sixty to ninety percent from the most devastating outbreaks of the Black Death, can you imagine those numbers placed against our total population in this day and age?

And don’t discount the Zombie virus as a myth. We have plenty of people in the world working on ways to reanimate the dead. Why, in 2005 a group of researchers were able to create the first “undead” creature in the history of mankind by fusing a piece of nanotechnology to bacteria. Said bacteria were able to do a number of things with its graft, but eventually died as all bacteria do. The scientists were happy to report the nanotechnology they had implemented upon the tiny life form was active for more than a month after the host’s death. The goal, of course, is to create swarms of these helpful little affronts to God to help rebuild damaged brain tissue. This of course leads to the beginning of terror.

The eventual Nanobots (which they said they would have within a decade, so were a few years away) would be able to rewire your neural pathways even after death, allowing them to keep you animate and moving so long as they had material to work with. They would of course be designed to replicate and repair (otherwise what’s the point in having something like this?) so they could keep a body moving even while it rots. The only problem would be eventually finding a new host, once their host is “spent”.

Enter the biting.

How likely is this? At the present time, not terribly likely. But it is something that is looming on the horizon as we continue to make strides in Nanotechnology. Too many people suffer from brain damage and clogged arteries, risky health hazards that operations can possibly make worse. A simple injection of Nanobots, designed to repair and replicate would be the perfect solution.

The final doomsday item on our list of possibilities is an all-time classic that involves it all: Zombies, worldwide destruction, demons . . . the crème de la crème of End Times theories. The Biblical end of days.

Now we’ve had this once called a bit too often (the year one thousand, the year two thousand, within fifty years after Jesus’s death, etc.) to begin planning for the rapture just yet, but this dreadful prophecy involves a seven headed beast, the armies of Hell battling against the armies of Heaven in a seven year long war, the world left with nothing but sinners as the good and just are taken away to Heaven, the dead walking the earth as Hell is full . . . I mean, what else could you ask for an apocalypse?

As previously stated, this wolf has been cried a few times too many, so I doubt this will be the one to bring us down. The Mayans end of days was pretty much just an overall prediction of the world starting anew, being reborn from the ashes of the old. So, as disheartening as that sounds, we at least make it through somewhat intact. Armies of demons and zombies kind of make that seem like a bleak proposition to me.

Whatever happens, dear readers, happens. My money is on the pandemic as it just seems like an inevitable event to me. So make sure to take your vitamins and wash your hands, lest you become a headline on the newspaper and the inspiration for a new story for me collection. Either way, have a happy holiday. Perhaps we’ll get to see each other again, perhaps not.

Sweet Dreams . . .

DEATH GAZE

originally appeared in Issue 3

by Max Booth III

Insects welcoming themselves
in and around her eyes,
rushing the universal act
known as decomposition,
but they will just have to wait,
for she is not yet ready
to experience the encore
of cruelty.

A veil to secure
her condemned health;
tho’ there is no use
when she sees
little strings of blood
in her vomit.

Maggots drilling deep
into her wretched gut,
a pool of forsaken oil
pouring out between
ghost white fingers,
and staining feet
with its cancer.

Outcasted by those
still blessed by ignorance,
she continues to stumble
under these street lights,
forming puddles
in her death gaze.

Max Booth III is the Editor-in-Chief of Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing and the Assistant Editor of Dark Moon Digest. He is the author of the books, True Stories Told By a Liar, They Might Be Demons, and Black Cadillacs. Visit him at www.talesfromthebooth.com.

FINDERS KEEPERS

originally appeared in Issue 12

by Rob Smales

“Quit picking at that! You’ll mess up the shape!”

Jonah started, pulling guilty fingers away from the tape crisscrossing the lens of the headlamp. He looked up at Elijah, but saw nothing but the “E” shape of his older brother’s own lamp, shining out of the dark.

“I ain’t gonna wreck it none!”

The ‘E’ shape slid from side to side as Elijah slowly shook his head.

“Don’t mess with your pattern. You wanna be a Finder, that ain’t the kinda thing Finders do.”

Jonah put the helmet on and looked down the tunnel, his eyes following the metal rails through the pools of dim yellow light cast by the emergency lamps. The padding Pa had added kept it from floating too loosely, but the chin-strap was necessary. He flipped on the lamp and faced the wall. His identification pattern, the one Pa had helped him create by covering parts of the lens with thick black tape, splashed against the stone.

A smiley face.

“I can be a Finder. Pa said so.”

“Pa was being nice to you ‘cuz your birthday was coming. Just ‘cuz Pa’s a great Finder don’t mean you are.”

Elijah moved to where Jonah could see him better, never shining his light in Jonah’s eyes. You didn’t blind one another down here in Blacksville #2. Even at seven, Jonah habitually avoided the eyes of others with his light. His gaze left the wall, wandering down the tunnel again.

“You hear something?”

Elijah snorted.

“You can’t hear the jenny from here. The hoist neither. You’re awful jumpy for someone who’s gonna be such a great Finder.”

“But Pa said . . .”

“I don’t care what Pa said. You’re a scaredy,” Elijah said with all the derision of a sibling three years older.

“I ain’t.”

“You are. You’re down here safe and jumping’ at shadows. Whatcha gonna do up under the Big Sky, with all the Deaders?”

Jonah stared at the tunnel bend 40 yards away, listening.

“You see a Deader, you’ll crap your pants.”

“Will not!”

He could not see Elijah’s face in the darkness beneath the ‘E’, but the smile was clear in his brother’s voice.

“Deaders won’t even have to catch you out. You’ll crap yourself to death, an’ then they’ll eat ya.”

Jonah tried not to let Elijah see his shudder. Truth be told, the Deaders terrified him. He’d seen pictures, they’d all seen pictures. A Finder, not Pa, but a man named McMillan, found a camera a few months ago. One of those with film . . . a Kodak. He took pictures of Deaders in Wadestown, and made sure all the kids got a good look. Jonah hadn’t wanted to look, not really. Especially after hearing some grown-ups going on about “their eyes,” But the eyes in the grainy pictures had not bothered him.

“You’re just mad ‘cuz you ain’t never found nothing.”

“Well, you ain’t neither!”

“Found this,” Jonah pointed to the lamp on his forehead.

“You didn’t Find that! T’werent Finding, you just saw something folks had overlooked.”

“Was too Finding!”

“Finding,” said Elijah, coming to stand directly in front of Jonah, “ain’t just opening a drawer. Finding is going where most daren’t go, like up with the Deaders. It’s facing danger in order to get what we need to survive. It ain’t,” he was shaking his head again, “just opening a desk drawer.”

Jonah’s face felt hot at the lecture; his dry mouth could barely answer.

“‘Tis when it’s in a Pulled area.”

Elijah’s expression was invisible beneath his lamp, but it took him a few seconds to respond. When he did he was leaning back, not forward as he had been, his voice as raspy as Jonah’s.

“You went in a Pulled area? For real?”

Jonah nodded.

“No wonder Pa let you keep that pattern.”

Only Finders and the like were allowed to use creative designs for their patterns. Others, like Elijah, used the initial of their first name. Pa, though his name was Abner, was identified by a blazing sun design, shining from his brow like noonday. He said it was to remind his sons of what was above ground; the good things, not just the Deaders and the leftovers. Jonah unconsciously reached up and straightened the helmet on his head.

“So. Is it Finding?”

“Yeah . . . I guess it is.”

Jonah shuffled his feet. No reason for Elijah to know he hadn’t meant to go in the Pulled area. He had been wandering, not paying attention, and had seen the office in a dark corner. He’d found the helmet in the desk and was carrying it back when he saw the timbers. When the old miners had put up wooden supports and pulled the pillars out, taking that coal as well, they had started a slow motion collapse that no timbers could halt. No one was allowed in the Pulled areas; if a Pulled area hadn’t collapsed yet, then it was going to. It could be caused by anything, even a sound. You just never knew when.

“Pa knows?”

Jonah nodded. “‘Course.”

“Huh. That’s why the puppy?”

Jonah nodded again. “I guess.”

Reminded of their purpose in waiting near the hoist up to Wana, closer to the surface than they usually ventured, Jonah looked down the tunnel once more.

“Think he’ll make it?”

“He always does. Pa always keeps his word.”

“He said he’d be back by my birthday, and that’s today. He ain’t back.”

“Today ain’t over.” Elijah sounded more like his old self. “He’ll make it. Maybe it’s just harder carrying a puppy.”

“I hope so. He ain’t never been gone a whole week before.”

Jonah couldn’t help it. Though he tried not to think about those pictures, he couldn’t help it. The eyes had not bothered him. It was the Deaders’ sense of purpose. Of determination. In every picture, all the Deaders were coming toward the camera. Every one. They all had the same snarling, hateful expression on their faces. He knew the Deaders had been trying to get at McMillan, but it had felt like they were trying to get at Jonah. He hadn’t reacted to the pictures, not in front of everyone, but it had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. Especially that last one. He could not stop thinking about that last one.

“Why a puppy anyway?”

Jonah glanced at Elijah so quickly his helmet did not keep up, and he had to straighten it again.

“Huh?”

Elijah was sitting on one of the rails, looking up at him. His lamp cast a huge ‘E’ on the ceiling that danced as he spoke.

“What made you decide to ask for a puppy? You know it’ll be work; Pa ain’t going to keep after it, and I sure ain’t. And there ain’t a lot of food down here as it is . . . so why a dog?”

Jonah shrugged.

“Couple reasons. Someone to play with, maybe help me be a Finder. Dogs can sniff things out, bark at strangers, stuff like that.”

It was the barking, when he thought about it. In stories sometimes there was a guard dog or two, barking at intruders, protecting their masters. That was the thing, protecting their masters. Those pictures . . .

“Okay, that might just be some good thinking,” Elijah said in a tone of grudging respect. “’Specially with them up there always trying to get down here.”

Jonah spun away from his brother, looking down the tunnel again. With only one emergency bulb every ten yards or so, there were four pools of light before the turning, and most of the tunnel was shrouded in darkness.

“You sure you didn’t hear nothing?”

He didn’t want to think about the Deaders trying to get in. He was trying not to think about the picture of the lady. That one had bothered him.

“Relax,” Elijah said. “Pa will be here. Quit your worrying.”

But Pa was up there with the lady. She was a Deader. She would always be up there. In the picture the woman was in a blue dress. Dark hair matted, eyes glazed, face twisted into a snarl, she had been lunging, hands out-thrust like claws. Her side had been burst open, like an apple stored too long. When the skin split, letting the overripe fruit leak out. The lady had . . . stuff . . . hanging out of the split in her side. A thick rope of something gray and pink had hooked on the doorknob as she passed. She had not stopped, or even glanced down, but was still coming. So determined.

“Think Pa will have some meat?”

Jonah groaned inside. He had meant to change the subject.

“I dunno. Why? You hankering for some venison? You want some rabbit for your birthday?”

Jonah’s stomach churned at the thought. Sometimes there was no time to dress the meat up topside, not if the Deaders were after you. Pa had showed them what happened to rabbit, opossum and one time a deer. Evisceration, he called it. Cleaning out the cavity. Jonah had never had a problem with it. I was something they had to do to survive.

She was eviscerating herself . . .

Jonah swallowed the lump in his throat. “No, not venison, I guess. I could go for an apple, though. Fresh one. I’m thinking that would be nice.”

“Yeah . . . Apple would be nice, but I been wanting a taste of banana for a long time.”

“Banana?”

“Yeah. You’re too young to remember bananas. They don’t grow hereabouts, so Finders ain’t gonna be Finding ‘em, not after all this time. But I used to love bananas, and Ma—”

He stopped abruptly. Jonah strained not to turn toward Elijah. Why had he gone and mentioned her? They never mentioned her anymore. They all thought he was too young to remember her. He wasn’t. But even if he was, there were pictures. Not McMillan’s pictures, but Pa’s pictures, from long-ago days, before the Deaders. Three old pictures Pa kept in their quarters. One of the family, with Jonah just a babe in her arms. One just she and Pa, his arms around her. One just of her, wearing what Jonah knew was her favorite blue dress; a simple, pretty dress, as yet un-split like an overripe fruit.

Elijah suddenly stepped up next to him facing down the tunnel toward the hoist, head thrust forward and turned slightly, offering up an ear.

“Okay, you might be getting to me, but did you hear something?”

Jonah reached up to dash the tears from his eyes. They couldn’t be seen in the darkness that dwelt in Blacksville #2, but it was a reflex. He thrust his head forward and cocked an ear, unconsciously imitating his older brother.

“‘Dunno. Before you thought I was jumping at—”

There was a metal-on-metal squeal that ended with a thump, and both boys jumped.

“Guess you heard something earlier after all. Good ears, little brother.”

Elijah was speaking quietly. He flipped off his lamp, gesturing for Jonah to do the same.

“But—”

Elijah’s extended finger came to rest sharply across his own lips. With the headlamp off Jonah could make out Elijah’s face, and it held a deadly serious expression.

“You know the rules,” he murmured behind the silencing finger. “This close to the hoist, someone entering the mine, we got to find out who it is first. Before they see us.” The finger left Elijah’s lips and flipped the switch on Jonah’s helmet, dousing his light.

“But it’s Pa,” Jonah whispered.

“I ain’t seen no ID light yet. Now heshup.”

Two boys stood in the dark, four eyes fixed on the turn ahead. The metallic squeal came again; the accordion gate at the bottom of the hoist. There was a shuffling. A thump. A tall figure shuffled to the edge of the light cast by a dim emergency bulb. One hand held something against its chest, while the other reached up, fumbling a helmet onto its head. As the helmet settled, a bright pattern of light splashed against the dark stone wall across from it.

A blazing sun.

“Pa!”

Next to him Elijah was quiet, not telling him to be quiet. The figure turned to face them, the sun seeming to leave the tunnel wall and come to rest on his forehead, blazing like the noonday. He squatted awkwardly, and something leapt from his arms and began to scramble toward them. Something small and four-legged, making happy little growling sounds as it raced along between the old cart rails.

“A puppy!”

Not bothering with his headlamp, Jonah ran out to meet his birthday present, also running between the rails where he knew the floor was clear. He raced through a pool of light while the puppy did the same further down the tunnel. Finder, I’ll name him Finder, he thought as he entered the darkness again. Behind him Elijah was shouting now, calling a greeting to their Pa. There was one pool of light remaining between him and the puppy, and being bigger, and faster, he reached it first. He knelt in the dim circle and spread his arms wide.

“C’mere boy! C’mere Finder!”

“Jonah, no!”

Elijah wasn’t shouting Pa’s name, but Jonah’s. He glanced back to see his brother running in the pool of light he himself had crossed just seconds ago. Elijah was running, screaming his name and pointing. Jonah turned back toward the far end of the hall in time to see the blazing sun fall off the figure’s head as he rose, the helmet landing upside down and spinning on its domed top. In that jouncing, spinning, flickering light he could see that the figure was not alone. There were others with it, figures shambling around the corner into the dim light. In the spinning light he could see them in flashes. There, among the others in the light, a blue dress.

“Ma?”

Jonah was distracted from the figures by the scrabbling, whimpering, grunting arrival of his puppy. Without stopping, it launched itself in one long leap toward his outstretched arms.

“Jonah no!”

As the squirming little body flew through the air, entering the pool of light he knelt in, Jonah caught a quick clear view of his present. The missing eye, the exposed bone, the gray, mostly hairless skin that sloughed off the face, exposing the long, sharp, extremely white teeth snapping shut.

Rob Smales spends his days delivering mail in a small New England town, and his nights writing Things Dark and Scary. And happy little Christmas stories. But mostly Things Dark and Scary. You can find out more about him at his website, www.RobSmales.Webs.Com, including weekly flash Horror fiction.

THE THIRD PULPSTER

A review of the works of Clark Ashton Smith

Originally appeared in Issue 14

by Kurt Reichenbaugh

About a decade ago, it would have been hard to find any collections of his stories in print unless you scored an old Arkham House publication, or a Weird Tales anthology. He was arguably as popular as any other writer in the Lovecraft circle, but along the way, it seems he’d fallen out of favor among the reprints that flooded the Science Fiction and Fantasy racks in the 1970’s. Robert E. Howard and H.P. Lovecraft had far outdistanced him in fame and popularity. Everyone knows Conan, and there are few horror fans, if any, who haven’t immersed themselves into the world of cosmic terror created by H.P. Lovecraft. Lovecraft has even garnered a scholarly admiration for his pulp stories in recent years. But back in the first half of the 1930’s he was right up there with the best of them, producing story after story, more than 50 of them, for Weird Tales under its editor at the time, Farnsworth Wright. These stories, much like those of his contemporaries Lovecraft and Howard, created whole worlds unique to his own dark and somewhat blasphemous vision. Their names are unpronounceable, at least to me. Zothique, and Averoigne are the two most readily noted. He also set stories from Atlantis and Hyperborea, to planets beyond Venus and Saturn and deep into the “Cimmerian gulfs” of space.

Smith primarily considered himself a poet rather than a pulpsmith. Self educated, he’d absorbed the classics as a young boy, earning the reputation as something of a prodigy in his teens for his poetry. He’d written of Oriental fantasies, termed contes cruels, in his youth. As an adult, he lived in rural California, away from the stress of the big cities, often in seclusion, reading, writing and caring for his aging parents. It was his parents’ failing health that turned his attention to writing for the pulps, and at the urging of his pen pal, H.P. Lovecraft. One can readily imagine, and the correspondence bears this out, that Smith must have felt it was slumming to churn out “action” stories for the likes of these shaggy pulps sold to adolescent boys for a quarter a piece. However, his style seemed a perfect fit for Weird Tales magazine. Dense slabs of prose, often no more than prose poetry, with little concern for action over mood. His sentences bowled over themselves with two-dollar words, lush (an understatement) descriptions of wizards, necromancers, ghouls, alien landscapes, dying worlds, gargoyles, sepulchers and tombs. His tales turned from ancient fantasy to horror to science fiction. And, unlike Lovecraft, Smith had a sly sense of humor that hinted at an almost immature sexual mischief, as seen for example in his story “The Monster of the Prophesy” with its Priests of Cunthamosi, the Cosmic Mother, “presided over by a swollen and pontifical-looking Alphad, the Grand Inquisitor.”

A rundown of some titles displays a pulp sensibility that seemingly belies the romantic, overwrought, poetic musings of their delivery. Irresistible titles such as “The City of the Singing Flame”, “The Immortals of Mercury”, “The God of the Asteroid” and “The Isle of the Torturers” to name a few. But these pulpy titles are far outnumbered with chokers like, “The Weird of Avoosl Wuthoqquan” or “The Colossus of Ylourgne” for example. Each story came saturated with thick blocks of adjectives, overly ornate descriptions of exotic settings. Green was never green, it was “verdant.” Dialogue was kept to a minimum and often every character spoke in the same manner, whether he was an astronaut, an explorer or a wizard. There are no laser-beam rescues, no semi-clad girlfriends to be pulled from the clutches of gibbering villains, and no wise-cracking lantern-jawed heroes mowing down bad guys with his fists. Pacing was often sacrificed for style, to the point that Farnsworth Wright often demanded lengthy cuts to the manuscripts in order to speed up the action, something that aggravated Smith to know end. Still, most of his stories have a compelling lure to them. For the reader who loves language for its own sake, there is much to enjoy in Smith’s stories. They demand attention without becoming boring.

Smith wasn’t afraid to push the readers’ sensibilities either. As detailed in the five volume set The Collected Fantasies edited by Scott Connors and Ron Hilger (published by Night Shade Books) in one letter to Lovecraft, Smith wrote, “I seem to have had quite an influx of ghastly and gruesome ideas lately. Some of them will be real terrors if they are developed properly.” One story “The Return of the Sorcerer” was rejected by the editor at Ghost Stories for being judged “too horrific” by its staff. The same story was also rejected by Farnsworth Wright at Weird Tales with the reason that “many of our readers would be sure to find it sickening.” Smith often felt at odds with various editors over style and mood in lieu of action the readers demanded. In time, Smith would give in to a somewhat cynical opinion of the whole pulp industry and its narrow demands. After 1935 his short story output pretty much ended. The deaths of Lovecraft and Howard, and of his parents, put a damper on his urge to write any more for the masses. He turned to sculpture and poetry, enjoying the occasional fame of seeing some of his most popular stories in reprints.

Smith’s work has its detractors. I ran across a passage by Isaac Asimov in his anthology, Before the Golden Age, addressing the writerly sins of Smith and some of his contemporaries for their use of “fatty adjectival froth” as a mask for good writing. Smith in particular got blasted by Asimov for his reliance on “long and unfamiliar words as another way of impressing the naive with the quality of his writing.”

Asimov has a point. It’s hard not to argue that the right word is the best, that sometimes “green” is just “green” or that “true” is just “true” instead of “veridical.” Too much of Clark Ashton Smith can get wearisome rather quickly. He’s a writer best appreciated in limited doses. But the same can be said for most of the pulp writers of his time. It’s something you have to know before going in. For me, reading Smith, as a somewhat “worldly-wise” adult, is a pleasant diversion from the pace and rushing around that most of our waking hours demand. I can take a four-dollar word now and again, appreciating the worlds depicted in Smith’s opulent prose. Given that his work is now available to anyone with an e-reader, I’d say go ahead and have a sip or two of his potions yourself. You might find them rather tasty.

THE HEADY HEIGHTS OF HARIETTA MORGAN

originally appeared in Issue 6

by Nathan J.D.L. Rowark

Harietta Morgan gazed within lit TV screen;

Sitting in her faded chair as throne to acting queen;

Dreaming of a bigger break from smaller stage and show;

Something that would not involve her dragging set’s in tow.

She got herself an agent, found him drunk against the bar.

He promised her the whole wide world was waiting not too far.

And then one day the phone did ring, her big break had arrived.

She called her friend’s in earnest, at least those she could confide.

“I can’t discuss the part” she gleaned “until I get the fee”

“But I promise now, one and all that fame will not change me”.

“The studio is rather small, the budget rather lean;

But I will stand dead centre stage upon that silver screen”.

Celebrating half the night with buck’s fizz glass in hand;

The next day her audition call was far from fun or grand.

Sitting on the acting couch, a figure slithered in;

Half artist, half devil with lips that smacked of sin.

The read through was a quick affair and when the reading stopped,

This director from a foreign land allowed with shoulders dropped,

His legs to march upon this girl, yet woman through and through.

“You’ve got the part; I love your art so filming can ensue”.

The carpet in her run down flat did gather dust in circle;

As spinning round the woven floor, the lines were learnt whilst fertile.

She noticed that in all the acts she played another part.

First one was a farmers maid, the next a village tart.

When the point was raised at lunch with agent and a beer,

He told her to relax and read, “More part’s mean money dear”.

Settling in with cast and crew was not an easy job.

They’d stare at her performances as human monologue.

Still she liked attention and the camera never left;

Unlike her useless mother who couldn’t wait to leave her set.

“Now glare into the camera” came the orders from the chair.

“Jump and run, slide and shout”, an endless noir nightmare.

The months soon passed as party loomed to celebrate its end,

An experimental movie with Miss Morgan’s skills to fend.

The bash was just a drunken mess; her throat felt rather sore.

Growling, deep and husky, then found what her drinks were for.

Her agent was indeed a sham and had been from the start;

Plying her with cocktails and a special pill for heart.

Her levels of testosterone had doubled overnight.

The shaving now was quite morose and gave her morning’s fright.

“The final scene is yet to come” crooned assistant with elixir.

“You had to undergo this change to finish studio picture”.

The final part involves you playing a role of different sex;

And once it’s all within our can we’ll break your male hex.

The pill’s that can reverse you’re state are ready to receive,

But you must play the game to fill, a part just named as Steve.

Terrified of failure and remaining stubble rash,

She agreed to next day’s final shoot so as not to end up trash.

But even in the limo home her hormone gripe was moral rage.

How could they take advantage of her fame fuelled trail ablaze?

It said so in her tight contract but she’d not cared to look.

She’d have to change quite medically to allow her off their hook.

When finally she went to play said Steve on centre mark,

She found that at the studio the lights were glaring dark.

The bailiffs had removed all the pictures from the walls.

The studio was bankrupt and the boss declined her calls.

Now Harry Etta Morgan spends his days within his home.

He runs an advice service for the one’s that glory moan.

The lesson that was learnt by Harry haunts his memory.

“I promise you, one and all that fame will not change me”.

Nathan J.D.L. Rowark is a poet and horror novelist from London, England. His works include over fifty poems and stories published in various e-zines, anthologies, and magazines since his return as a storyteller in 2010. He is the founder of Horrified Press (horrifiedpress.wordpress.com), and hopes to help publicize some of the great new stars working in modern horror today.

Anthologies: Tales of the Undead—Hell Whore & Tales of the Undead—Suffer Eternal will be available Feb 28th & March 16th respectively.

THE SCHOOLHOUSE

originally appeared in Issue 9

by Daniel Flaherty

In the churchyard, Isaac held Angela’s hand and they stood before a gaping hole dug up in the ground. A sheet of green AstroTurf hid a pile of dirt from view of those attending the funeral. The AstroTurf was tasteful; the size of the coffin waiting by the grave was not, but rather a mere five feet in length. It held the body of a six-year old girl named Veronica; Isaac and Angela’s daughter. Angela was weeping, and Isaac felt like crying himself, but he had to be strong. He held on tight to Angela’s hand as the priest gave the sermon.

Something caught Isaac’s eye and he looked past the priest to see what it was. The blood drained from his face and his grasp on his wife’s hand tightened. There was Sharon standing outside the gates of the churchyard, wearing a dark green dress, her hands folded respectively before her as she listened to the priest.

Isaac looked away, bowing his head. The priest’s words were just jumble now, an incoherent droning sound that competed with the blood rushing in his ears. What if somebody saw her and started wondering who she was? Isaac’s other hand came up and stroked Angela’s arm. He wanted to turn to her and tell her that he loved her, but he couldn’t lift his head. The words he wanted to say came out in a mumble and he doubted if Angela understood him, or even realized he was talking to her and not just reciting a prayer like everyone else.

I want to get out of here, was the thought that came to Isaac’s mind, and he felt ashamed for it. He ought to have been making the most of this—a time to pay his last respects for his deceased daughter, his only child. But he just couldn’t ignore Sharon’s presence. She has no right. What the hell is she doing here?

Sharon was a coworker of Isaac’s. They had been flirting with each other, but Isaac never took it seriously; just thought they were fooling around with each other. So, he never bothered to keep his guard up. But when he found himself telling Angela that something important had come up at work and that he’d be coming home late on certain nights, even he could no longer tell himself that it was merely harmless flirting. He figured that Angela suspected what was going on, and sometimes hoped that she would confront him about the affair and get it out in the open. But she was the type of person who would rather deny anything unpleasant than have to deal with it. And he felt most terrible about his daughter, Veronica. Here she was, hardly six years old, and Isaac was denying her the type of family life she deserved.

It had been two days since the local elementary school burnt down and killed one teacher and seventeen students, including Veronica. Two days since he lost his little girl. Two days.

Angela turned to Isaac and asked him: “Do you have to work late on your project tonight?”

The comment caused Isaac a terrible start.

“I’ve got two weeks off from work. And the project’s done. No more late nights.”

The funeral service ended, and everybody moved deliberately to their cars. Isaac felt relieve they were leaving, and it was that thought which brought the first flow of tears.

Isaac spent the next two days with Angela. On the third day, he was able to get out for a while, and used the time to drive over to Sharon’s apartment. Isaac pressed the call button and waited until her voice on the intercom asked who it was.

“Isaac,” he said, and was buzzed up.

He stepped inside the apartment and Sharon shut the door behind him.

“What can I do for you, Isaac?” she asked.

“I want to know what you were doing at Veronica’s funeral.”

“Paying my respects.”

“You didn’t know her. That was supposed to be a personal time between me and my family. We were mourning the death of my daughter. The daughter I shared with my wife. Seeing you there and being reminded that I was cheating on her—and cheating on my daughter too—wasn’t something I needed then.”

“I wanted to be there to share some of your grief.”

“By making me feel like dirt? Get something strait. You’re not a part of my family and had no business being there. You’re not even a close friend. You’re a distraction. With you I can feel two things: mischievous sexual excitement or guilt. Guess which one I felt at the funeral?”

Isaac saw the tears in her eyes.

“You know, you’re making me feel real shitty right now.”

“Good. Now you’re sharing some of my grief.”

“Maybe you should leave,” she said. But Isaac had already started out the door.

***

At the town hall office, there had been a large dollhouse that was a perfect miniature replica of the elementary school Veronica was attending. Angela had taken Veronica with her once as she went to get her tags on the car renewed, and when Veronica saw the dollhouse she fell instantly in love with it. But a price tag of four hundred dollars destroyed any hopes of Veronica getting the dollhouse. As consequence, Isaac and Angela were forced to listen to Veronica constant ramblings about it, about how great it would be to have, and how cool it would be to play with and how it would be even better than the Bratz Beauty Shop her friend Mandy had.

One day—after he had already deeply involved himself in the affair—Isaac stopped off at the town hall and purchased the dollhouse on a whim. He carried it into the house when Angela and Veronica were out and set it up in Veronica’s room. He didn’t say anything when they got back, just let Veronica go discover it on her own. Her wild enthusiasm had been powerful enough to quell any guilt Isaac had been feeling for a while.

Even when she had it as her own, Veronica’s obsession for the dollhouse didn’t diminish. She played with it whenever she could. Isaac and Angela would constantly hear her playing with it in her room when she should have been asleep and they’d have to threaten to take it away if she didn’t get back in bed.

“Well,” said Isaac one day, “at least it’s better than video games.”

***

“Is this your classroom . . . ? Where’s your desk? Over there? You like it by the window?”

Isaac stepped down the hall and carefully pushed open the door to Veronica’s room. Angela was kneeling before the dollhouse, moving a small doll around the rooms.

“Angela,” Isaac said.

Angela looked up and smiled.

“Look, Daddy’s come to play with us.”

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping Veronica company. She’s all alone in the school by herself.”

Isaac wondered on the best way to handle this situation. It had only been six days since Veronica’s funeral. Should he let Angela indulge in this fantasy for now? Maybe Angela needed a few days to deny what happened before she came to the acceptance stage.

“Angela, why don’t you leave Veronica alone for a while? Let’s go for a walk, or maybe we can go to the movies. We haven’t gone out in so long.”

“But Veronica will be lonely.”

“No she won’t. She has new friends to play with now.”

“No she doesn’t. She’s all alone.”

Isaac took her hand.

“Come on,” he said, and gently led her out of the room.

***

Isaac came out of the bathroom after a shower and paused outside Veronica’s room. He stepped inside and hesitantly approached the schoolhouse. Angela had been obsessing over that doll, claiming it was Veronica, and Isaac wanted a closer look at it. He saw it and took it out. When he turned the over, Isaac stumbled back, aghast. The thing held an uncanny resemblance to his late daughter, and seeing her stitched face turned his blood cold.

Had Angela made this? Did she sew it together while he was at work?

Isaac explored the doll’s texture with trembling fingers, and when he squeezed its stomach, he was greeted with the giggle of Veronica filling his head.

Isaac dropped the doll and shot to his feet. The doll grinned up at him from the floor.

***

Isaac sat in the break room and stirred his coffee.

“Is it okay if I join you?”

Isaac looked up and there was Sharon standing across from him. He smiled.

“Sure, go ahead.”

“Isaac, I wanted to apologize for sticking my nose in where it had no business being. You were right, I shouldn’t have gone there.”

“Well, I’m sorry for attacking you the way I did. It was cruel. I was just upset.”

“How’s your wife taking it?”

“She—” Isaac shook his head. “She’s obsessing over this dollhouse Veronica used to play with all the time. And she’s got this doll, I don’t know where the hell she got it, but it looks just like Veronica. She thinks it is Veronica, and her mind’s trapped in this fantasy world.”

“It sounds to me like she’s having trouble moving on. What about you, Isaac?”

She reached over and touched his hand.

***

Isaac dropped his briefcase on the kitchen table and began taking off his tie.

“Angela? I’m home!”

No answer.

“Angela! Hey, Angela!”

Isaac threw the tie on the back of a chair and began climbing the stairs. The door to Veronica’s room was partially closed and Isaac pushed it open.

“Hey . . . Oh, shit!”

Angela lay twisted before the school, a plastic bag tied over her head. Isaac ran over to her and tore the bag off.

“Angela! Angela!”

Isaac began alternating between blowing air into her mouth and pumping her chest with the palms of his hands. Finally, when his wrists ached and his lips were sore, he collapsed over his wife’s corpse and put his arms around her, hugging her tightly. Angela’s blue face looked up at the ceiling with glass eyes, a hint of a smile on her lips.

***

The voices started talking in Isaac’s head the night after Angela’s funeral.

Isaac . . . Isaac . . .

C’mon, daddy!

Daddy!

We’re in here!

Isaac climbed out of bed and walked in Veronica’s room, turning on the light. There was the schoolhouse, waiting in the corner. The Veronica doll stared out at him from one of the windows.

Daddy!

He caught a glimpse of another doll in one of the other windows, but looked away before he got a good look at it.

“This isn’t real. I’m . . . I’m just tired, is all,” Isaac said.

Oh, Isaac . . .

His reached his hand out and turned off the light.

“I think maybe we should all go back to work tomorrow. Can’t sit around brooding over the past.”

Isaac stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him.

***

The voices started again as soon as Issac got home from work.

Daddy’s home!

Isaac walked up to Veronica’s room and knelt before the schoolhouse. The Veronica and Angela dolls sat inside, not moving. But he could hear them, nonetheless.

There you are, Isaac! Oh, we miss you!

Isaac took the dolls out and looked at them in his hands.

Don’t you miss us, Isaac? Don’t you miss us?

Isaac broke down. His sobs were loud, almost a roar.

“Oh, God! I love you!”

He hugged the dolls to his face. His tears soaked their cloth bodies.

“I miss you! Oh, I miss you!”

***

Isaac sat before the school with the plastic bag in his hands. Veronica and Angela’s voices sang and danced in his mind, as their doll bodies watched.

Isaac lifted the bag and pulled it over his head. His hands tightened the bag and began tying two ends together. An outline of his face formed on the surface of the bag as it was sucked into his mouth and nose.

Then he tore the bag from his head, taking in gulps of oxygen.

“I can’t do it,” he gasped.

Isaac . . .

Daddy . . .

The voices called to him, growing further. Growing dimmer.

“No, wait! Don’t!”

Isaac snatched the dolls up. Their calling grew to a whisper until they were no more.

“Please, wait! Come back, come back!”

But the dolls said no more, and lay in his hands, pieces of smiling cloth.

***

In a dead field of dust and weeds, the schoolhouse stood soaked with kerosene. Holding a match, Isaac looked one last time at the school and the two dolls that lay inside. He struck the match and dropped it, and the schoolhouse went up.

He stepped back, hands in his pockets as flames ate the school. Finally, he turned and walked over to a waiting SUV. He opened the passenger door and got in.

“Are you okay?” Sharon asked.

“Yes. Let’ s go.”

Sharon smiled at him and he smiled back. She pressed on the accelerator, turned the SUV around and drove back in the direction they came from.

Isaac watched the schoolhouse burning in the rearview mirror, and then turned his gaze to the woman he loved.

Daniel Flaherty is a light rail train technician living in Portland, Oregon. In addition to writing his hobbies include collecting vintage paperbacks and accusing his XBOX console of cheating.

CLEANING THE BASEMENT

originally appeared in Issue 15

by Gerry Griffiths

“You can earn yourself five dollars if you do a good job.”

“Thank you, Aunt Carol—I sure will,” replied Simon. His aunt had always taught him the importance of working hard and earning money. Although the kids at middle school often made fun of him—calling him Simple Simon, since he was a little slow—Aunt Carol said that they were only being mean and that he should ignore them because he was a good boy who loved to clean and always made his bed.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness, she would always say.

“All that clutter . . . it’s enough to drive a person mad. Where your uncle got all that junk, I’ll never know. Spending all those hours down in the basement doing heaven knows what. It will be such a blessing to be rid of it all.” Shaking her head, she added: “I have to go to the funeral home to make arrangements. Promise me you’ll be careful down there while I’m gone.”

“I will, Aunt Carol.”

Simon went downstairs to the basement, turned on the hanging light bulb and began to work, organizing his uncle’s tools on the workbench, restacking boxes, bagging the useless stuff for the trash collector, dusting off the cobwebs and sweeping the floor. When he was finished, he stepped back to admire his hard work—and that is when he noticed the secret door that had been concealed behind some of the boxes he had moved away from the furnace.

Curious, he twisted the knob and opened the door.

He had never seen such a sight.

***

There were three tables with a large assortment of neatly arranged items.

On the first table were scalpels, chisels, center punches, ball-peen hammers, pliers, files, cutting shears, butcher knives, a set of drill bits and a high-speed drill.

Thirteen necklaces—each a smiling strand of human teeth—were on the second table displayed on a black velvet cloth.

On the third table were thirteen toothless human skulls, each one with a punctured hole in the cranium.

Simon kept thinking about another of Aunt Carol’s favorite sayings: One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.

He could hardly wait for her to return home. She would be so proud of her industrious nephew. Already the neighbors were gathering.

Simon smiled from his lawn chair as everyone gasped at the bizarre yard sale.

Gerry Griffiths lives in San Jose, California, with his family and is a supportive member of HWA. He has been a contributor in the anthology Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror as well as Dark Moon Digest and e-magazine Dark Eclipse. His horror collection of short stories Creatures is available on Amazon.

I DARE YOU

originally appeared in Issue 11

by Sean M Davis

The fuses burned closer and closer. Harry clutched his M-80 in a trembling hand; sweat beading his forehead.

Mick’s arm was dry. He knew what he was waiting for. “I dare you,” he said under his breath.

Mick’s sudden words broke Harry’s concentration and Harry panicked, chucking the M-80 toward Johnny Cons and Big E. Johnny yelped, jumping away, but E just scowled at Harry. Mick smirked, saw the telltale flash as the burning fuse reached the firecracker, and with a careless flick of his wrist, tossed it in the same direction Harry had thrown his. The double crashing explosion rang in Mick’s ears, the flash burning a purple afterimage in his eyes.

“Fuck yeah!” Johnny Cons said, slinging an arm around Mick’s shoulders. “You don’t never wanna fuck with my boy! He do anything, not afraid of nothin’! He fuck a broken bottle and laugh while he do it!”

Harry’s hands shook, then his arms, knees knocking, finally falling to the sizzling cement, crying. Johnny’s smile faded and he went to the younger, smaller boy.

“Dude, knock it off. You got no chance when you up against my boy. Why you even try?”

Mick ignored Harry’s snuffled explanation. He turned to Big E, who wiped sweat from his face with his arm, squinting up at the sun.

“Gonna be a bitch of a summer,” he said, wisdom cracking his pubescent voice. “I sweatin’ balls and it ain’t even May.”

Mick took another pair of M-80s out of his pocket. “Hey, Big E, wanna go?”

“Nah.”

“Come on. I dare you.”

Big E’s round face sharpened. “I said no. That shit’s for pussies and little kids,” he said, stabbing a glance at Harry, who’d risen to his feet with Johnny’s help.

“You got somethin’ better?” Mick asked.

E seemed to consider if Mick, Johnny, and Harry were badass enough, or still pussy little kids. Then, he bared his teeth in a shark grin.

“Dead body good enough for ya?”

Mick lowered the firecrackers, his breath whistling through his teeth. Harry whimpered, tears standing in his eyes. Johnny Cons let go of Harry, who stumbled with the sudden absence of support.

“Yo man,” Johnny said. “You really know where a dead body’s at?”

Big E shrugged, still looking only at Mick. “So you got it up or what, Mickey?”

Mick practically danced in place. “I dare you.”

Big E nodded, turning to lead the way. They walked north, toward Rouge Park. As they crossed Warren, a car peeled around the corner, spewing gravel up into their faces. They yelled and shot the finger to the driver, who reached out his window to return the favor. They walked along Outer Drive; the Park nothing but a couple of swing sets in an overgrown field between the road and a small wood. E led them along the road’s shoulder, not heading toward the woods like the other three expected.

“Yo man,” Johnny Cons spoke up, “where we goin’?”

“The house.”

The three boys stopped and looked at each other. There was only one house in Rouge Park. They could see it about a quarter mile away, and Mick rushed to catch up with E, who didn’t look back, assuming they were following and not caring if they weren’t. Johnny pulled Harry along, the younger boy whimpering softly.

The closer they got, the longer it took to get to the house. The graffiti loomed. Wesley loved Maria. Lots of guys loved lots of chicks. A couple chicks sucked cock; a couple guys did too. The door didn’t face the road, but was on the side closest to them. The afternoon sun in their eyes made it impossible to see into its pitch darkness.

Big E entered without hesitation. Johnny still wrestled with Harry. Mick helped Johnny shove Harry through the yawning doorway, then followed, his heart beating only a little harder than usual.

There she lay.

They were in what used to be the kitchen, the linoleum barely discernable from the grit and gravel of the roadside. She sat in the corner made by the doorway into the front room, propped up against the wall; stringy hair hiding the top half of her face. Somewhere an insect buzzed loudly.

“Yo man, how you know about her?”

“Just heard,” Big E replied smirking arrogantly. He turned to Mick. “Wanna poke her?”

“I’d rather poke your mom,” Mark said, stomach tightening in anticipation.

Big E, scowled, but said, his voice a falsetto, “Come on, I dare you.”

Mick nodded, rising to the bait, looking around for a stick or something. Under a boarded up window was the front of a drawer, half its handle missing. When he stooped to pick it up, something white flew passed his hand, sounding like a moped engine. He jerked back, looked around to see if anyone had seen the flying thing, but no one had, and he wondered if he even had. His heart thudding in his chest, he picked up the rotting piece of wood. It was boiling hot in the house.

She was waiting for him, her lips parted and curled up in a maybe smile; sores like volcanoes oozing blood and pus dotting her arms and legs. Mick stood before her, hesitant, but he couldn’t back down now, so he leaned forward, closer, closer, the smell making him breathe through his mouth, choke, then not breathe at all, his pulse pounding in his ears as he reached forward slowly, then jabbed her in the stomach.

Her mouth fell open.

Harry yelped, making Mick jump. Then, the three boys chuckled nervous laughter as Harry tried to laugh with them, but couldn’t shake the scared quavering of his voice, so he stopped. The buzzing was getting louder.

Johnny stopped laughing, and screamed, “Yo man, whathefuck!”

Harry screamed and Mick turned from looking at Big E, who’d gone dead white, to the body. Her face was empty, full of her gaping mouth. A huge, misshapen hornet squirmed in her mouth, trying to escape, its wings whirring angrily. Other hornets flew out from under her torn and filthy dress and Mick squeezed his eyes shut, still seeing the bloody, hollowed body that had become the insects’ hive.

Mick turned, dropping the wood slat and began to run. Johnny and Harry were swarmed: Johnny swatting at the monsters while Harry covered his head and stumbled around in a circle. Big E was already on the floor, six of the hornets crawling on him, more circling around him. Hornets filled the air, malevolently buzzing.

One landed on Mick’s arm and he froze. He raised his arm cautiously to look at it. Its feet were sharp, tiny pin pricks which made his nipples hard as it turned in a circle. Mick could see each white hair-like wires bristling on its legs and body. It dug its feet in, almost painful, and flexed its thorax.

It stung him.

Mick couldn’t hear himself screaming over the buzzing wings. The world disappeared, lights exploded in his eyes. His arm clenched, his shoulder, his chest. He couldn’t breathe. A hornet flew into his still screaming mouth, stinging his tongue. Another stung his neck, three on his legs, and his other arm sending out dots of freezing cold surrounded by volcanic heat. Losing consciousness, Mick fell, head thudding against the floor.

The hornet that had been on Mick’s arm fluttered away from his body as it settled. Landing again, it dug with its sharp feet, tearing at the rising sore. Peeling the skin away, the white monster pushed itself into the pustule. The skin wriggled as it forced itself deeper. More hornets landed and tunneled.

She sat, propped up against the wall, watching over the four boys surrounded by swarming hornets, covered in rising sores.

Sean M Davis makes his home in Detroit where he wields a DeWalt drill by day and writes scary stories by night. His debut novel, Clean Freak, will be released by Black Bed Sheet Books in summer 2013.Visit his blog, http://seanmdavis.wordpress.com/, for story excerpts, poetry, news, articles, and more. You can email him at chimericaldark@hotmail.com

EVEN ZOMBIES CRY

originally appeared in Issue 10

by David Du Bose

I take a deep breath from within the box

and inhale the pain as my body rots

There are worms and maggots embedded in my chest

turning my body into decomposed flesh

I raise the lid and expose the hole I’m in

I climb through 6 feet of darkness as the bugs fall from my skin

I depart with my grave to revisit my past

in search of a place that was my last

to bring truth to a murder which has never been told

I travel miles to a warehouse secluded in the cold

I bring myself inside to be face to face with death

with nothing visible but my frigid aching breath

I slowly bring my hand to the switch by the door

and cast a light across an Ocean of Blood and Gravel Shore

Blood drips from a rusty hook like red rain from a rooftop

it collects and creates a blood stain inches from where my body dropped

I stand here frozen with no one by my side

reliving this memory in the footsteps of my homicide

I turn around and retreat to my zone

back to the grave where I can be alone

Down into the hole and back into the box

where roots brush my skin and split my blood clots

I mask myself in darkness and wipe my face dry

because in the midst of sadness . . . Even Zombies Cry

Dave DuBose is a happily married man and father of 4 who resides with his family in Texas. He grew up really embracing horror and being inspired by the works of Edgar Allan Poe. He adores films related to Roger Corman and Vincent Price.

LOVE

originally appeared in Issue 13

by HC Hsu

The first thing he had to do was wash the dishes.

Thinking about this kept him up almost all night. He never left dishes in the sink. As a habit, he liked to wash the dishes, pots, pans, and utensils right after using them. He didn't like leaving dirty things lying around. Even when he was young, he was often praised by his parents for the meticulous room he kept. Only after everything was clean, and in its place, could he go to bed. The last thing he saw, before closing his eyes at the end of each day, was an orderly world. Then he could sleep.

But he was unusually tired last night. After dinner, he wanted to almost head straight to bed. He worked, just like everyone else, nine-to-five. It was hard enough maintaining the energy to whip up a home-made dinner, let alone cleaning up afterwards—blink, and the entire evening's gone. Eating out wasn't an option, beyond his budget. He simply had more time than money.

Just before going to bed, every night, he would put away the dried dishes, and give the dining table and chairs, the stove, the counters, and the floors one last wipe and mop.

But he was just so tired last night. After coming home, cooking, eating, he barely had the energy to put the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. He managed to get upstairs, brush his teeth, floss, brush again, rinse with mouthwash, massage his gums using his fingers. Then he washed his hands, hand-wiped the bathroom sink down, washed his hands again. And turned the faucet off.

Turning off the lights, he jumped into bed, drifting to sleep in the pitch darkness.

It was still dark when he woke, the silence broken only by a quiet, whooshing sound. It sounded like the wind, distant; as far away as the moon, blowing up dust, carrying tiny motes across stars and vast empty space, seeding them within the labyrinth of his ear. Perhaps they stirred something up in his mind. He suddenly remembered the dishes.

His thoughts began to race, picturing the ceramic plates and glasses, the aluminum pots and frying pans, the meat chopper, the forks, the knives, and the spoons, all sitting in the sink, crud and gunk caked on their surfaces, slowly, but surely, hardening, tiny, almost invisible hairline cracks forming, spreading across the brittle layer of grime—he could almost hear the crackling sounds as the filth solidified and bonded with the surfaces of the utensils, the thin film of fingerprints, lip smudges, skin cells, saliva, on the metal and glass, becoming permanently etched into the vessels themselves.

The first thing he had to do was wash the dishes.

Then dry them, put everything back where it was. In its place.

The kitchen, dining and living rooms were a mess as well. He would have to mop the floors, wipe down the dining table and chairs, the stove, the counters, the couch, the walls. He couldn't remember if he put the rest of her in the fridge as well.

Thank God tomorrow's a holiday, he thought.

And waited for dawn.

HC Hsu was born in Taipei. His writings and translations have appeared in PRISM International, Two Lines, Words Without Borders, Renditions, Cha, Far Enough East, Big Bridge, Pif Magazine, nthposition, Memoir, Liternational, Pittsburgh Gazette, 100 Word Story, Hello Horror, Angelaki: Journal of the Theoretical Humanities, the US Congressional-Executive Commission on China reports, and others. His short story collection Love Is Sweeter is forthcoming from Lethe Press in May 2013.

DEMONS

originally appeared in Issue 13

by Kenneth Whitfield

I've been watching him for weeks now; ever since I came to this bar after an AA meeting with the intent of getting drunk one last time . . . He's there when I arrive and there when I leave. From my regular seat, I watch him through the window. Rain or shine. He smiles at me without showing teeth as I raise my drink in salute.

In a funny way, I guess he saved my life.

An old man with long, yellowed nails on his thumbs. Tarnished, twisted little daggers. All his others are chewed down to the quick, cuticles rusty bloodspots caked with street grime. Filthy fingers wiggle from foul, fingerless gloves like pale grave worms.

I see him as no others do.

The Glock I keep in my waistband digs into my side. I keep it close; it brings me comfort. That first night, wallowing in self-pity, it was to be my key to a better life, opting out of this madness and starting over god only knows where. I took the pistol out unnoticed and placed its barrel in my mouth, tasting gun oil and metal. Soon, everyone in the place would notice me, marvel at my bravery.

It would be a satisfying end, and a pleasant beginning.

As I squeezed the trigger, I looked out the grimy window and saw him. He was staring at me, looking through me; lips pressed tightly together in a smile that showed no teeth. I was fascinated. Still unnoticed, I put the gun back in my pocket and stared back until he blinked and looked away. The gun was still key—just not in the way I originally thought.

Why should I kill myself when such as he are allowed to live?

His eyes sparkled; the only clean and clear thing about him. He clutched a battered tin can with both hands, thumbnails crossed like crude daggers, begging for change.

I never see him drinking; never see him smoking. He sits all day in the same spot between Larry's Liquor Lounge and Harold’s Health Food, looking expectant as he offers the cup to strangers. Never seems sad or angry or emotional. He seems . . . content, as if he’s found his lot in life and it is well with his soul. I’ve followed him, taken notes from a distance. At night, he slips into the alley between the two stores and counts his change by sterno firelight. I've seen him use that change to buy food he shares with others of his kind.

He disgusts me. He’s a tick living on the lifeblood of charity; a soul sucking parasite spreading disease. The very sight of him sickens me.

They told me in my old AA group that I should not be judgmental, to always remember: "There but for the grace of God go I."

Bullshit. It's the ones who've sunk the lowest that preach that gospel. One of the many reasons I left the group was I couldn't structure my life around empty platitudes like that. And all that nonsensical talk of "spiritual not religious." They believed in everything, meaning they ultimately believed in nothing.

In this world, there are angels and devils; we stand with one or the other.

And there’s nothing wrong with righteous judgment.

I think the bum can sense my feelings. Whenever I walk by, he withdraws the cup, folds into himself, trying to become small and invisible. He avoids eye contact, turning toward the wall, visibly shaking, refusing to accept the money I offer him. Ignoring and rebuking me.

Bastard. After the third time, I stop offering. Now I just tower over him, grinning my toothy smile as he shivers in my shadow. Enjoying his discomfort. Sometimes I let him see the handle of my Glock, watch him squirm. I think he actually pissed himself yesterday.

Today will be different though. I’m done. No more watching, no more stalking. I'm done with him. Something so foul, so repugnant should not be allowed among normal folks. I watch him gather his filthy lucre. I have the key. I will rid the world of him and his kind. No one will ever know; and that will be OK. I do it not for the fame and vain-glory of men, but for . . . for what?

For God?

Yes. Surely for God.

I watch and wait, finishing the bottle I purchased. I watch through the glass as he transfers money from his tin can to his pocket three times before calling it a day. As he stands, I drain the last of my drink, lay a few bills on the table and quietly leave the bar.

I follow him into the alley as the shadows draw long. Behind a dumpster, he divvies up the day’s collections into several piles, tying each into neat bundles using plastic shopping bags. As the darkness grows, he exits his hovel, bags of coins in his pockets. He goes to others in the alley, others who are on the verge of becoming as bad as he, and gives each one a money bag. Some thank him; some curse him, but all accept the silver.

When his work is done, he pauses for a long moment, eyes closed, head down. Seeming to meditate. To pray. He straightens, the cracking of his vertebra audible, slowly turns and looks at me, those weird gray eyes shining in the dim light of the alley.

He smiles, this time an incredible smile; angelic. His teeth are perfect. White and uniform. He glows with a halo of flickering streetlight as he walks towards me, never averting his eyes. Those he serves step forward, watching. His ragged coat rustles; the front of it opening. A hot wind blows the coattails upward, lending them the look of flapping wings.

He pauses less than an arm's length away, the illusion complete, ready to pass judgment upon me.

I pull the Glock 9mm from my waistband, hold it by my side. The dark angel glances at it, then pins me with that beatific gaze again. He stretches out his arms; hands palm upwards, black wings spreading behind him as the hot wind rises. He indicates his followers who have risen all around, watching intently.

"We are Legion."

In one quick movement, he plunges dagger tipped thumbnails into each eye. He withdraws his thumbs, trailing thick mucus. From his eye sockets boil maggots, hundreds rolling and squirming down his cheeks. Tears of decay. They splatter to the ground, squirming away to infect others.

"And I am Legend."

I put a round into each maggot-infested hole. He drops like a stone, his leathery wings folding into a tattered old coat, his eyes two bloody holes, leaking viscera. His followers retreat back into the shadows. I back out slowly, watching, knowing I'll be back. There is still much work to do.

But first I need another drink.

Kenneth Whitfield’s credits include scripts in Death Rattle, Trailer Park of Terror and When Drive-Ins Attack comic anthologies. Prose stories in DemonMinds, Undead Dixie and Steamy Scream horror print anthologies. He’s also been seen online in Horror Garage and Dark Eclipse ezines.

VIOLATED

originally appeared in Issue 14

by Jack Ivey

True to the sense of alarming displeasure

Charcoal a’ dust on the treacherous skies

Bound head to toe in a mountain of panic

Whimpers now cast O’ in spite of my cries

Foliage bears not a striking resemblance

Tear stained distractions in puddles now play

Tossed to the side like a left over meatloaf

Here neath the branches of overhead sway

Pulsing erupts near the flamed violation

Pounding my head in the vise grip of life

Strange disillusions, bent shadows now preaching

Sewn in the tapestry, threaded by strife

Some say the sun it shall rise in the distance

On the horizon once burnt orange kissed

Swollen my eyes find that focus is fruitless

Images flashing the might of his fist

Penned in the script of this nightmare awaiting

Lower the curtains, this show never ends

Feast on the sight built of helpless position

Countless the thoughts that a mind must defend

Flesh bearing scars cut so deep in the darkness

Placed on this platter of catered delights

Shame now the portal to corners for hiding

Taken, my dreams on the edge of this night

An accomplished musician, Jack's creative writing began with songwriting, which eventually led to poetry. He soon added flash fiction and short stories to his repertoire. Originally from New Jersey, he now calls south Texas home. Besides Dark Eclipse, his writing can be found on Helium.com, Authorstand.com, Bookrix.com and Writerscafe.com.

THE GUN

originally appeared in Issue 11

by Lori Michelle

She sat looking at the gun in her hand. The weight of the handle pressed down on her as she contemplated how she had gotten to this point. Did she loath herself that much? She caught her reflection in the mirror; the pale eyes, the lifeless hair; it wasn’t the woman that she knew.

Depression had been hitting her hard and she couldn’t explain the onslaught of sadness that seemed to rush over her constantly. What was the point of life anyway? Did anyone know—did anyone care?

Sitting there holding the gun, she thought about the person she had become, and hated herself for it. All she wanted was to find someone who loved her, but instead turned into a loveless monster. Maybe she wanted too much. Maybe what she wanted didn’t exist. Maybe she didn’t have enough love for anyone to return it.

One day, she told herself, I’ll be important enough for someone to notice. But that day seemed to never come. She thought she had found the one to love her. But she wasn’t important enough to him to leave his wife for. What kind of person was she? When had it become ok for her to be the other woman? The one that everyone abhorred.

He told her that his wife had become ill. She knew then, her feelings shouldn’t be important, wouldn’t be important. The look in his eyes showed the worry that he had for his wife and she knew. How could she still spend time with him, knowing that his wife needed him? She felt so selfish and hated who she had become. Because the selfish part of her didn’t want to let go.

She sighed and looked down at the .38 snub nose in her hand again. If she did, would anyone even notice that she was gone? But she knew that she couldn’t continue on the destructive path that she had taken. She didn’t even like herself anymore, how could she expect anyone else to? She looked at the pale wan reflection in the mirror once more and watched her hand put the gun up to her temple. The tears were flowing down her face and she closed her eyes as her finger pulled the trigger.

Lori Michelle is the managing editor of both Dark Moon Digest and Dark Eclipse, and was named the second best magazine editor in the 2012 Predators and Editors poll. She is also the CFO and in charge of layout and design for Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing. Her novel, Dual Harvest, came in third in the 2012 Predators and Editors poll for horror novel of the year. The single mother of two kids, she doesn't have time for many other hobbies. You can hang out with Lori on FaceBook or visit her infrequently updated blog at www.lorimichelleauthor.com.

THE CELLAR DOOR

Ditto! (Doppelgangers are Dicks)

originally appeared in Issue 3

by Max Booth III

Let’s say one day you and a friend decide to meet up for coffee. While there, your friend seems distant, and a little upset. Naturally, you inquire on her state, and she responds how she is pretty pissed at you for giving her the cold shoulder the day before. When you ask what in all of blue hell is she talking about, she gives you this whole elaborate story how yesterday she was off buying shoes or some other stereotypical feminine activity when she spotted you strolling by along the sidewalk. She rushed out to greet you, but alas, you did not so much as acknowledge her existence, but instead just continued to walk on by, completely unfazed by her persistent name calling. Now, you may ask, how could she be sure it was yourself, and not some other bloke who shares the same perfect body structure? Well, your friend might reply, no one else wears such a wicked beard of despair as yourself.

Rather than ask what the hell that means, you inform her that it is impossible for you to have been walking along that particular sidewalk yesterday, as you were out of town the entire day helping your gram gram move into her retirement home. So, how could you be in two places at once? Maybe you have some kind of clone, your friend suggests, like a doppelganger. Poppycock! you may retort, but then you sit back and start thinking about it. Could it be possible you have a doppelganger roaming this very same town as you, giving your image a bad name? An . . . another you?

Could this be the plot of a whacky comedy movie?

Or perhaps an OMEN OF DEATH?

Yeah, let’s go with omen of death.

Back in the day (like, way back in the day) people were pretty damn frightened of running into their doppelganger—a doppelganger being defined as a ghostly or physical counterpart of a living person—as such an encounter would indicate future bad luck, such as a terrible illness or even death. You didn’t even have to see it; a friend or family member could spot the other you and that would be enough evidence of shenanigans on the rise.

Running into your doppelganger back then was like the equivalent of a cop chasing you through the shittiest neighborhood in town, only to corner you in an alley, making you turn around and throw your hands up and go, “Okay, okay, you got me.” Only in this analogy, the shitty neighborhood is life, the law represents death, and that cop is YOU, as your identical other. Once you're caught, you're caught. There's no preventing it, you can just delay it long enough until you make that wrong turn into a dead end alley.

As soon as you are born, you are automatically thrown into a rat race of breathing that, in the long run, you will never win. It was fixed from the start, and seeing your doppelganger is basically the finish line telling you to pack it in, here’s a cup of water, now go collapse in the grass over there and curl up into a ball.

Of course, there aren’t many stories of these encounters in recent years, as such stories are totally bananas. However, scientists have developed one possible explanation for the appearances of such supernatural clones. While investigating a patient’s brain, German scientists accidentally discovered that by applying an electric stimulation to a specific section of a person’s brain, the left temporoparietal junction (the brain region necessary for reasoning about the beliefs of others), it is possible to induce the sensation of an illusory "shadow person" lurking behind them and mimicking their own movements.

This is different from a general out-of-body experience as in this scenario, you still possess your own body while a whole other alien form of yourself is copying you, whereas an out-of-body experience is more of your spirit levitating from your body and entering an astral plane.

In this particular brain stimulation, it is suspected that this aforementioned doppelganger hallucination is caused from the mind projecting its own movements onto a phantom figure conjured up by the brain—this being an effect witnessed in many schizophrenics and other nutjobs.

Now, with all that in mind, do you actually think it is possible that every legitimate report of a doppelganger sighting involved the person somehow receiving an electric zap to that very specific section of their brain? Don’t forget that in these cases, the patient only felt another version of them, and in the actual tales, they always see the doppelganger. Also, what about in those incidents where someone else sees your doppelganger? Surely not everyone is that big of a dick that they just straight up give their friends the cold shoulder and then pretend that wasn’t them later on, right? Okay, so maybe most are, but still. There has to be some kind of significant phenomenon at work here that, like many paranormal occurrences, science just cannot explain.

Speaking of, let’s talk a little bit about Emilie Sagée.

Emilie Sagée was a teacher for an exclusive girl’s school in modern day Latvia, back in 1845. Unlike most teachers, Emilie had a bit of a quirk to her: she sort of had this double that would just appear and disappear throughout the school at any given time. The thing was, Emilie herself never saw this doppelganger. It was the students and faculty members who were able to spot her.

Like, for instance, the day in class Emilie was writing on the blackboard and her double decided to pop up right beside her, and proceeded to mimic the teacher’s every movement despite not actually holding any chalk. The students watched in astonishment, yet the original Emilie had not a clue of it happening—but she did report feeling extremely fatigued after the event supposedly ensued, as if drained of all energy. And she would feel the same each time such an incident conspired.

However, the doppelganger did not always just mimic her; it also was reported multiple times of being sighted at a totally separate part of the school than where Emilie was. Like, for example, the time all forty-two children of the student body witnessed Emilie outside the school gathering flowers in the garden, only to have her doppelganger appear in a chair in front of the class. It sat there, just staring at the children, completely motionless, while Emilie gathered her flowers, feeling more tired by the second.

Enough nightmare fuel yet? Yeah, probably, but I didn’t mention what happened when one of the students approached the doppelganger sitting there in the chair, and tried to touch it, only to have her arm pass right through the entity while it remained totally unfazed. It then slowly vanished from sight, leaving the poor girl standing there to forever fear the touch of another human being again.

Now, while this particular story doesn’t exactly follow doppelganger lore concerning the omen of death aspect, it’s still a pretty damn eerie tale on its own right. However, despite not predicting a subsequent illness and/or death, it did result in Emilie losing her job for being too controversial a figure. Can you imagine how awkward it might have been if they accidentally fired the doppelganger instead of the real Emilie?

“Miss Sagée, hello? Miss Sagée! I said we’re going to have to let you go. Hello? Miss Sagée! This isn’t funny Miss . . . oh . . . oh dear God, no, no, not YOU . . . oh no, God help me, please, not the eyes, not the EYES . . . OH GOD I’M SO SORRY . . . PLEAAAASSSSEEEEE . . . NOT THE EYES!”

Explain that one, science.

THE EXECUTIONER’S SON

originally appeared in Issue 18

by W.P. Johnson

They lived on the outskirts of the city at the end of a road that had been paved with charred wood. Some say you could hear the last breath of his victims in the wind that traveled through the barren forest. Ghost stories or not, no one from the city ever traveled out to see him when he was needed. Phone lines were never built, nor was there running water or electricity. The Judge had trained crows as messengers.

He had been chopping wood with his son when word came of an execution. A gypsy had gotten drunk and stabbed a man over a game of cards. A small scroll was tied to the crow’s foot with the word murder written in neat script by the Judge’s hand.

“Dainty boy,” the headsman quipped. He showed his son Isaac the Judge’s handwriting.

“Yeah,” the boy added, “a real dandy.”

They laughed and fed the crow maggots from a scrap of deer carcass. The birds’ diets were always fickle upon return and the two often joked of the Judge having to keep rotten things lying about just to feed the birds he sent them. After marking the script with a response, he tied it back on the crow’s foot and shoved it off towards the city.

“We’ll finish this and have a bit of coffee before going,” the headsman said.

“We?” Isaac said, stacking another cord of wood.

“Yes.” He split a log in two and tensed up as a broken bottle of pain opened inside of his hands. A touch of arthritis had started to rear its head in his older years, forcing him to think of retirement. “You’re eighteen. I think it’s time you learned the trade.”

Isaac said nothing. When he turned around to stack another handful of wood, a nervous smile pinched his lips.

Another log was split, followed by another sharp pain in the headsman’s hands. He left the ax jutting out of the stump and they went inside for coffee. As they drank, Isaac puckered his lips to the bitter taste. The headsman gestured with his tin cup.

“No cream and sugar?”

“Men drink their coffee black.”

The headsman laughed. “You mustn’t do all as I do boy!” They both continued to drink and after several sips, Isaac dropped three lumps of sugar into his coffee, pouring enough cream to top it off.

“I suppose I’m not like you,” Isaac said, a flush of pink in his cheeks.

“You’re my son. Who else are you supposed to be like?”

“Mom perhaps.” A wet chortle left his throat as he cleared it.

The headsman turned away from the sound and stared at the fireplace. “You are too hard on yourself.”

The boy gurgled again, sucking on the back of his throat. He made an oink oink oink sound, like that of a pig. It reminded the headsman of his dead wife. When he shut his eyes, he could almost see her sitting across from him, drinking cups of coffee loaded with cream and sugar, hacking up gobs of mucus as she knit a tiny set of clothes. Like Isaac, she had often sucked on the back of her throat to scratch it.

Oink oink oink

She was a swollen tick when she was pregnant with Isaac and few words passed between them when she was nearly due. Such a silence had the headsman searching the sky for crows, finding it endless the longer he looked. When Isaac was finally born, months went by without any work and the headsman took to watching the sky at night, wanting any reason to leave. Without work, the moon started to bleed out and the stars became a bullet riddled sky, his thirst for death making him see things that weren’t really there.

Oink oink—

Somewhere in his memory was the sound of a baby crying for mother’s milk and his hands were wet as he stood over a riverbank. The blood drained from the night sky and painted the water, putting him at peace for a moment, his thirst finally quenched. Yet no crows had dotted the sky.

“Dad?”

“Hm?” The headsman fell out of the memory.

“Is it time?”

He nodded, grabbing his black mask and his ax.

Shunned by horsemen and drivers alike, they walked to the city. It was a fair amount of miles and took them two hours to cover. Several times Isaac had tried to talk, but the headsman gave nothing in return, eventually snapping at the boy.

“Death does not speak,” he hissed.

“Yes dad.” Isaac remained quiet the rest of the way and the gravel cleared its throat under their feet and animals crept about the woods. When the first cluster of apartment buildings came into view, they paused to put on their masks.

“Not a word,” he told the boy. “No matter what they say.”

Once in the city the sight of them turned others away. The ax hung from the headsman’s hand, occasionally scraping cobblestones when sharp pains loosened his grip. A crowd had already formed at City Hall, splitting down the middle as they approached the platform. A blood stained basket lay under the head of the condemned. They began chanting their arrival, no longer looking away.

Isaac could feel the excitement in the air as they shouted at him. He raised a hand to wave. The headsman ripped it back.

“Death does not show off,” he whispered. “Stand still.” Isaac shrank behind his father.

The hands of the condemned had been tied behind his back with the same twine that had bound a hundred men before him. His head rested on the stump of an oak tree that fire had eaten down to the nub, the cold palm of mother earth caressing his face, stinking of burnt wood.

The Judge sat on the left side of the platform, never greeting them. He was nimble with soft hands, well-educated and having grown up in the comfort of wealth. His father had been a Judge and someday his son would take up the position when the time was right. As he rose up from his seat, a hush swallowed up the air. His words found their ears with ease.

“Citizens . . . Saronavitch has been found guilty of manslaughter. The law of this city dictates that we do not condone such behavior without the appropriate restitution. As the Judge of violent crimes, it is my ruling that this man be executed.” He took a single breath. “Do any of you object?”

The crowd remained silent. The wife of the condemned stood twenty feet from her husband’s downturned face, eyeing the ax in the headsman’s hands. She muttered a mantra and held rosary beads of unpolished stone.

“There is no response.” The Judge looked to the condemned. “Saronavitch, do you have anything you wish to say before your sentence is carried out?”

The gypsy twisted his head, catching a glimpse of the ax. A lost scowl found his lips and cut words too quiet to be heard. The Judge leaned forward.

“I’m sorry?”

The gypsy’s wife screamed. Isaac gripped his father’s side. The headsman remained stone-like, awaiting the order.

The woman broke through the chain of officers and spit her foreign tongue. She fell to her knees before the blood stained basket.

“Please, someone contain her,” the Judge said.

She continued to speak in rushed tones as the guards lifted her off the ground. A single drop of blood fell from her clenched fist.

“Order, I say!” the Judge shouted.

“Dad,” Isaac said, the words rustling under his mask. “What is she saying?”

“Quiet,” he hissed.

“She says,” Saronavitch spoke, looking up at the boy, “that your children shall set fire to whatever will burn.”

The headsman shrugged Isaac’s hand off of him and looked at the gypsy. The boy took several steps back while his father remained by his ax.

“And they shall fuck anything that crosses its legs.”

“Enough,” the Judge said.

“And they shall strangle whatever breathes the air.”

“I said, enough!” He shot a look at the headsman. “Oh, do finish him already, would you?”

The headsman grabbed his ax as the gypsy’s wife continued to scream her foreign tongue, feeding the curse to her husband. The ax was raised into the air. As he brought it down, a sharp pain opened up in his hands.

“And they shall cut whatever—”

The ax missed its point, jutting half way out of the gypsy’s jaw. The last exhale of his lungs sputtered out through a ground up mash of teeth, blood bubbles popping around the buried blade. The sound of a flat tire spitting air in the mud sounded and the man shivered with the ax stuck in his face. The gypsy’s wife fainted and quietly died, drawing a hiss from the crowd.

“Damn it.” The headsman put his foot on the stump and yanked the ax out, taking a second swing. The pain shot through his hands again and the blade shifted, smacking the man’s shoulders instead. The crowd started shouting at him, some crying for mercy, others drunk off of the riot that was brewing. A group of officers held the line before the platform, readying their rifles. The Judge stood helplessly, horrified at the display.

The headsman took a deep breath and steadied the ax on his shoulder. Finally, it fell and Saronavitch’s head dropped into the basket, blood raining upon it from the gutter of his neck.

In that moment the headman’s heart stopped and the world held its breath. His soul left him and the cage of his chest felt a quiet emptiness where nothing haunted him on Executioner’s Road and the stars never bled out over the night sky. For several seconds he was at peace as his thirst for death was quenched at last.

When this peace left him, his heartbeat steadied its pace. He pulled the ax out of the stump and looked for Isaac, finding the boy with his arms hanging uselessly on his sides. He dragged the boy off the platform and a path opened up for them as they left. The crowd continued shouting at them, throwing rotten fruit. Reaching the end of the city, their numbers grew thin and the passerby resumed shunning the two.

An hour later they reached the start of Executioner’s Road. The headsman had them stop to remove their masks and rest. Vomit speckled Isaac’s face and his black mask was damp.

“I got sick,” he said sheepishly. Hunched over, all the color left his face. He dry heaved and scratched at the back of his throat with his tongue.

Oink oink oink.

The headsman cringed. “I hate that sound.”

“Sorry.”

“Death does not apologize. Never say you’re sorry, understand?”

Oink oink . . .

They walked in silence. Strange rumblings came from the woods, too quiet to discern yet sounding close enough to lick their ears. The headsman fought to ignore it when these noises sounded like voices to him, begging for mercy or cursing his name. At one point he made the two of them stop so that their footsteps would not mask the voice of these ghosts. Isaac looked on at the woods, confused at what he was supposed to be hearing.

“You don’t hear that?” the headman asked.

“Sorry,” the boy said. He returned to walking with his head down. “I don’t hear anything.”

A motor hummed in the distance. When it grew louder, they stopped and turned around, finding a black motor carriage rushing towards them. It slowed down next to them and parked. The Judge sat in the driver’s seat, looking at them with cold eyes.

“Would you look at this,” the headsman said. “All out of crows, are you?”

The window was rolled down. “Good evening Marcus.”

The name pinched Isaac’s face. “Marcus?”

“Death has no name son.” He stepped up to the carriage. “Suppose I tell everyone your name as well?”

“He’s your son,” the Judge said. “I’d assume your son at least knows who you really are.”

“He knows who I am.” The headsman folded his arms. “And what of your boy? Does he know the name of the man who will someday sentence him to death should he commit a violent crime?”

“Yes,” he said, opening the door. “He does.” He waved them both in.

After wrapping the bloody end of the ax, Isaac sat in the backseat with the weapon on his lap. The headsman sat next to the Judge. A darkness had whittled itself under the Judge’s eyes.

“You’ve been losing sleep. Perhaps you could join us for some coffee when we reach my house?”

“I’d rather speak my peace and drop you off whenever I finish if it’s all the same.”

The Judge looked out at the stretch of black road untouched by tires. The chunks of burnt wood shot out from under his carriage, shaking it. He glanced at Isaac in his rear view, finding wet disembodied eyes.

“Are you going to get sick boy?”

Isaac gripped his stomach. “I don’t think so . . . ”

The headsman gave a dismissive wave. “He’ll be fine. Just nerves is all.”

The Judge nodded. “Very well.” A patch of loose gravel yanked the carriage off center of the road and he slowed down, keeping a slower speed after. “I am sorry to say that my son was found in Old District with a dead prostitute. He had raped her and badly mutilated her.” His glanced at his rearview mirror, connecting with Isaac’s disembodied eyes. “There is evidence that he is responsible for a number of related cases. However, for the time being, we are only considering this one in regards to his sentence.”

“Which is?”

“Execution.”

The headsman grunted. The Judge reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch, placing it in the headman’s lap. Untying it, the mouth of the bag revealed a pile of silver coins.

“A gift,” the Judge explained.

“What for?” The bag was tied back up. “I don’t have much use for silver. The marketplace turns a blind eye to the likes of me.”

“Perhaps. But soon you’ll pass down your ax and your black mask.” Keeping his face to the road, he glanced at the headsman from the corner of his eye. “Consider it an early retirement gift.”

Isaac fidgeted. “I don’t know if I can do it.” Both men searched him out in a mirror. “It makes my heart ache to see them die.”

“The boy will take the ax in due time,” the headsman said. He handed back the pouch of silver. “Death does not accept gifts.”

“Your father did from time to time,” the Judge said, prompting a look of surprise from both the headsman and his son. They drove on in silence for a moment before the Judge resumed.

“A condemned man would occasionally pay him for promise of a clean death. I understand your pride.” He tossed the bag of silver back. “Regardless, I need you to use the silver to pay someone in the city to look at your hands. Monster though he is, I would not want my son to feel his death.” The carriage slowed down and pulled over near a river bank, the black dot of their home in the distance. The carriage was put in park and he leaned over, opening the door. “I would not want a repeat of what happened today.”

“It was unfortunate,” the headsman said, stepping out. “I’m sorry for it.”

The Judge gave a narrow glare. “Death does not apologize Marcus. Or are you no longer fit to carry out your services?”

“I will be fine. I promise it.”

“See that you are. There will be no apology accepted if you fail.”

Isaac joined his father, downcast to the disgust of the Judge. The headsman felt his size dwindling in the boy’s eyes and called out to the Judge.

“What of your boy Judge? Does he apologize for what he’s done?”

The Judge’s hand paused over the gear shift. He chewed the bitter air.

“When he was a boy he told me that the sky bled on occasion. I can’t imagine he’s capable of feeling sorry.” He looked out at them, finding Isaac lifting his head up. “You say your heart aches at the sight of death?” The gear grinded as he shifted in reverse. “That’s because it’s supposed to.”

They stood by the river bank, watching the carriage drive away until it became a black dot. Isaac sat the ax on the ground and looked out over the river bank, the trickle of water playing beneath the low trumpet squawk of mating bullfrogs. The headsman put a hand over his son’s shoulder. It was ripped away.

“I can’t,” Isaac said.

“It gets easier.”

“I’m not like you,” he said. “I can’t stop thinking about . . . ” There was a sputter of water as a turtle came up for air. The bullfrogs continued their mating calls.

Oink oink oink.

“You keep thinking about him, don’t you?” the headsman asked. “The way the gypsy died?”

Isaac nodded. “It makes me sick to my stomach.”

They stood silently. It was nearly dusk and the stars were starting to shine. Marcus lifted the handle of his ax. It felt dead in his hands and he knew that soon enough he would never feel the joy of using it again and his remaining years would be drained of all their life and meaning. The moon would bleed on sleepless nights as he searched the sky for a crow, thirsting for death. The ghosts of all those he had killed would whisper in his ear, giving him no peace.

Oink oink oink

“Do you ever think about the people you’ve killed when you walk Executioner’s Road?” Isaac asked, looking up at his father.

The headsman stood over the riverbank, remembering the way the water ran over his hands as he held her underwater, wanting to feel the few seconds of peace that death brought him after months of clear skies. He could still remember the look in her eyes and the sound the bubbles made as the last breath left her lungs.

“Yes,” he finally said.

Oink oink

“Perhaps the Judge is right,” the boy said, returning to view the riverbank. “The heart should ache to the sight of death.”

Oink

W. P. Johnson is an author of horror and weird fiction, as well as a contributor to Manarchy Magazine. He is a member of the Horror Writer's Association and currently lives and works in Philadelphia where he is researching his first novel, a horror story about stand up comedy.

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