by Unknown
Thrump! Thrump! Thrump!
Tharuump. Tharuump. Tharuump.
The night shivered, fraying apart, shadows tearing away to flock past him into the house.
He sat down at the circle and crossed his legs. He smiled when someone handed him a drum. He kept time mindlessly.
It is time.
Thrump, thrump, thrump.
Screams came from the house.
Thrump, thrump, thrump.
His wife wailed.
Thrump, thrump, thrump.
His little boy yelled.
His daughter’s cry split the cold air.
Thrump, thrump, thrump.
The flute continued tunelessly, weaving in and out of the beat, still burning, still burning . . .
Adam J. Mueller is a former United States Marine and the author of several pieces of short horror fiction. He lives in Wisconsin with his wife and children, where he tries to write out his nightmares.
BLOOD TIES
ROGER KILBOURNE
James’s family had been hunting these woods for generations. Yet somehow, he’d managed to lose his bearings.
Shadows pooled on the ground beneath the copse of pines ahead.
Did I go through these before? he wondered. From what he could tell, he was still headed toward the road.
The pine boughs shrouded him like black velvet drapes. He picked his way over pinecones and fungus-encrusted logs, avoiding dead limbs that poked at him like skeletal fingers.
Hopefully, he’d still be able to get back to the truck before nightfall. What was it his great-grandfather used to say about these woods? Trust me, you don’t want to be in there after dark, sonny boy.
He tightened his grip on the 12-gauge pump and walked faster.
When he stumbled into the clearing, he almost fell into an old cellar hole. A blackened stone chimney jutted up from one wall.
He’d never been here before, but the overgrown foundation unsettled him.
I should go. Now.
A sudden wind picked up, whispering to him through the trees. He stopped to listen.
He heard it then—a vaguely female voice. Harsh. Breathless.
While he listened, his will to flee melted away. He understood the meaning of the strange words.
They were commands.
Unable to stop himself, he watched through his own eyes as he hopped down into the old foundation and slumped into a mossy stone corner.
When James turned the shotgun around and put the end of the barrel into his mouth, the cool metal chinked against his teeth. His hand shook when he reached to click off the safety.
His mind raced out of control. He’d never considered suicide, definitely didn’t want to die now.
What the hell is happening?
In response to the thought, the voice showed him a vision.
A raging fire engulfed the little house, shooting flames high into the night sky to illuminate the clearing with bright orange light. A group of men on horseback watched the blaze, holding torches.
“Burn, witch,” he heard one say. The man who spoke looked a lot like a younger version of his great-grandfather.
Just then, a tortured scream from within the house pierced the night, spooking the horses. It was joined by another, higher-pitched. And then another.
The screams grew louder and louder until they filled his head, an inhuman chorus of agony that made his teeth itch, his eyes water.
The vision abruptly faded. James watched his arm stretch down to pull the trigger and realized he was the one screaming.
Roger Kilbourne was born and raised in the hills of western Pennsylvania. He now resides in Massachusetts with his wife and two children. His stories have appeared or will appear in Necrotic Tissue, The Best of Necrotic Tissue, Static Movement's Beyond the Grave and Monster Gallery anthologies. You can follow him at http://rogerkilbourne.wordpress.com.
CATHOLIC SCHOOL
S. WALKER
She’s taking notes rapidly, her eyes scampering while the teacher paces across the front of the classroom.
I can’t see her face because I sit behind her, but I can tell. I can hear that silver bracelet of hers scrape across the desk and see her nodding her head, eagerly, as if she understands. A convincing act, yet I’m sure that’s all it is.
Everything about this girl sparkles—her eyes like the color of electricity, her wrists, her smile, her laughter, hell, even her walk. That magnetic personality of hers sucks everyone in. To deny it would be akin to blasphemy. Her mere presence suffocates.
She’s killing me.
She doesn’t talk, she sings—each sentence a scathing melody. When she raises her hand, I cringe. I don’t mind it that she raises it, but I hate how she waves it and shakes it so that the bracelet on her wrist jingles.
She sits on her feet and leans over her desk, desperate for attention. She turns and smiles and asks me how many exams we’ve had this quarter. She knows exactly how many, I’m sure of it . . .
I look into those bright blue eyes of hers.
“Four,” I answer.
When she turns around again, I slip my hands above the collar of her blue Oxford shirt—eight fingers in the front of her neck, two in the back—and I squeeze. I squeeze so hard my arms shake.
Those blue eyes fade softly, like dimming a light. Her body slides from the desk and onto the floor. The bracelet, tarnished, hangs limply from her wrist, a little less animated.
I feel a lightness that is only accompanied by complete satisfaction. A slow grin escapes, for the first time all week.
S. Walker hails from Ann Arbor, MI but currently resides in Granada, Nicaragua. She is an aerospace engineer by vocation and a writer by compulsion. She is a life-long student who appreciates creative challenges and occasionally being frightened enough to sleep with the light on. Stay tuned.
EYE CANDY
DAVID BUCHAN
The voice issued from a hole in the middle of a boarded-up window. Oscar heard it as he walked by the derelict building. The voice appeared to be female.
Curious, he stopped and listened. The words were unintelligible, although he had the impression they were directed at him. He drew closer, pressed his face against the damp wooden board, and peered through the hole.
Candlelight revealed a small table, burdened with heavy glass jars. Each was filled with eyeballs, like some gruesome confectionary.
Oscar barely noticed the hand rushing toward him—or the metal spike it gripped.
David Buchan has had his work published in magazines such as AlienSkin, Ballista, Champagne Shivers, and Doorways. He works full time, and is currently studying for an honours degree in Humanities.
EVADING THE DARK PURSUER
RON KOPPELBERGER
He suggested, hinted at the lifeblood and ancestry of rival factions and hunters in eventide sun. He rode the stallion through desert beds of ancient gully; the water was scarce in the midst of the chase, nevertheless he had his canteen. He took a sip and stitched the bottle back onto his hip.
They were closer than three miles of dust, sand and dry desert wind. He moved on, patting the black-skinned horse on the neck; his hand came away slick with the animal’s perspiration. The vampires never rested, even in the highlight hours of the sun. They were a certain brand, a breed made for daylight hunts. Although sensitive to the sun’s heat and glowing rays, they wore heavy, dark robes and shadowy face masks. They were a persistent breed allowing only twilight avatars to press forward through their territory; all others were fair game.
He rode and the sky became red in great slashes of color; red like the essence of life, the blood they eagerly sought. He looked back and distant ripples of mist, dust and three pinpoints in black secured their place on the backward horizon. Rare stories said escape, farewells and long breaths of respite were in the reverie of a distant illusion. They’d persist, unless, he thought, they found prayer—found the god of their source. Squat boulders and an oasis of tumbleweed lay ahead, he’d rest there; p
erhaps he’d make his stand in hopes the vampires would fall to worship.
They derived their power from an ethereal enchantment and were in constant debt to the source of their bloodlust. They were prone to long breaths of unconscious worship when confronted with the source of their power. During worship they were vulnerable, even helpless in trances oblivious. It was a chance at salvation. He climbed off the stallion and surveyed the large stones, the sand and sage brush in the tiny clearing.
He didn’t have any choice; he pulled out the sharp blade he had fastened to his side. With a quick slash his palm began to bleed bright red droplets of blood. Moving to the front of the largest rock he drew a semicircle of crimson; a design sacred and worshipped by the vampire. It was his only hope.
The sun approached the horizon and spears of pointed light illuminated the boulder’s face. The vampire riders paused and got down from their horses. Their eyes shifted between each other and in unison they knelt down to pray.
The vampires had become the prey. They were oblivious as he severed their heads one by one. It had been a close call, he’d have to be on his guard now. There would be others and when they discovered the trio, they’d be relentless.
He mounted his horse and headed northwest toward the mountains and at a chance at freedom.
Ron Koppelberger has published hundreds of poems, short stories and pieces of art in nearly 200 periodicals, anthologies and books as well as in radio broadcasts. One of his primary goals involves touching the reader and giving them a gift, the gift of a long forgotten memory or perhaps a special insight that may not have been apparent.
A THOUGHTFUL GIFT
KEVIN DAVID ANDERSON
Snow had just begun to fall, and Allen could hear carolers outside as he joined his wife, standing by the tree in the living room. He cradled a gift behind his back, the most expensive and thoughtful one he’d ever acquired. It was the kind of gift he knew she’d never get for herself, and he struggled to contain his excitement. “Now that the kids are in bed,” he said, holding out the exquisitely decorated box, “I’d like to give you something special.”
Grace’s eyes went wide, and she snatched the present from her husband with the enthusiasm of a ten-year-old. Grinning, she tore the paper away, letting it fall like sheds of skin, and pulled open the lid. In the span of a few seconds her expression went from revulsion to curiosity, and then landed solidly on recognition. Her smile returned slowly, absorbing the facial features of the severed head resting in the blood-soaked box. It was Renny Bortolli, the man who had orchestrated the death of her parents, so many years ago.
“Oh, hon, you shouldn’t have.”
Allen wrapped an arm around Grace’s waist. “Do you approve?”
She nodded, but not as enthusiastically as he’d hoped. “Is there something wrong?”
“It’s just . . . ”
“Just what?”
“I would’ve liked to have watched.”
Allen smiled, reached into his pocket and pulled out a DVD remote. He pressed play. The TV screen changed from It’s a Wonderful Life to a handheld video camera shot of Bortolli. He was tied to a chair and surrounded by two enormous men wearing ski masks. After receiving a nonverbal signal from off camera, one of the men picked up a macabre implement of pain, an instrument with jagged edges glistening like melting icicles.
As the screaming began, the holiday carolers outside provided background music, making the scene as merry as possible. Grace wrapped her arms around Allen, squeezing him tight. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
Allen kissed her forehead. “Merry Christmas, Gracie.”
Kevin David Anderson’s short stories have appeared in Dark Animus, Dark Wisdom, Darkness Rising, and many other publications with the word dark in the title. Anderson’s novel Night of the Living Trekkies, from Quirk Books, was released in 2010. He’s an Active member of the HWA and SFWA.
A FISHY TALE
CONNIE BERRIDGE
Harry and Donna, co-workers, were good friends before they became lovers. After two years of dating they finally planned their wedding.
They were also fishing enthusiasts, going out at least once every week or two in Harry’s small boat. Living on the coastline of Florida offered many advantages to the outdoor types. The weather prediction for that fateful Saturday was for calm seas and a chance of light rain later on.
Harry checked the boat’s fuel and radio; Donna packed the cooler with lunch, beer, ice and two gallon containers of water.
“Let’s go a little farther out today,” Harry said. “The fish may be biting better over by the small islands.”
“Sounds good, honey.”
A great day for fishing, but Donna and Harry had no luck.
It began to get cloudy and Harry suggested they go back. He started the boat, but was ambushed by the smell of burning rubber. The motor stalled, stranding them. He tried the radio but all he heard was static. Alarmed, Harry told Donna to try her cell phone, and found there was no signal.
Suddenly, a squall developed with torrential rain. The boat was filling up with water and they became frightened. With the food gone, Donna knew the drinking water would soon vanish as well.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Harry said, trying not to show his apprehension. “Some boat will be by or the weather will lighten up. We have life jackets . . . maybe I can fix the radio.”
After a week and frantic friends and family were slowly giving up hope. Co-workers and bosses were also concerned. The Coast Guard searched every area they thought the two might be, and found the empty boat, adrift. They also searched a nearby island. No luck.
Three months passed without progress. Families and friends were beyond distraught. Then, a miracle: a fishing boat in the same area saw signs of someone on another island. They immediately went ashore. Sure enough, there was Harry.
He was delirious. He kept shouting, “I hate her! I hate her!” That was all they could get out of him. A further search showed no sign of Donna.
Harry was taken to the hospital. When questioned about Donna he would burst into tears and shout, “I hate her! I hate her!” The hospital treated him for overexposure and malnutrition.
The hospital psychiatrist was called into Harry’s room. He stayed over an hour, only to exit shaking his head and muttering, “Such a terrible incident.”
He called the family into his office and told them Harry had experienced a severe nervous breakdown over the whole ordeal.
“But what about Donna?” her family inquired.
“He didn’t tell you anything?”
“He just kept saying ‘I hate her!’ I don’t understand,” Donna’s mother said. “They were so devoted.”
“Ma’am,” the psychiatrist said. “He is saying ‘I ATE HER!’”
Connie Berridge, formerly a New Yorker, now a retired Florida Resident, was always interested in creating stories. Writing, a pleasurable pastime at first, soon became a profitable second career after retirement. Four Novels, several stories and poems published add to her pleasurable second profession. A recent Ebook for authors titled Netiquette for Writers is her latest work.
TWITCH AND TWITTER
STEVE VOELKER
Voelker58
Just woke up. No power. Musta gone out last night. Glad I don’t have work today! Slept like a baby. #offtoagoodstart
8 hours ago
Voelker58
No power = No coffee :( Think I’ll go for a run and get some on the way back. #goodidea
4 hours ago
Voelker58
OMG! He bit me! Smelly homeless guy in hallway actually BIT ME!!!
4 hours ago
Voelker58
Still out there. Banging on my door and muttering nonsense. Called 911. Said they might be a while?! #WTF?
4 hours ago
Voelker58
Arm is itching like crazy where he bit me. Hope he didn’t give me something. Can you get Hep C like that? #dirtybastard.
3 hours ago
Voelker58
Hallway is quiet now. Can’t see anyone thru peephole. Not going out to check. Hope cops get here soon!
3 hours ago
Voelker58
Tried to call Trish. Can hear her phone ringing across the hall. No one answers. Going to check on her.
2 hours ago
Voelker58
Crap! Her door is wide open. Not going in there unarmed. Found old LAX stick. Best I could do.
2 hours ago
Voelker58
Holy Christ! Trish is DEAD! Homeless guy was in there. He was trying to eat her! Hit him in head with LAX stick until he stopped moving.
1 hour ago
Voelker58
Tried to call 911 again. Keep getting “all circuits are busy” message. What the hell am I supposed to do?
1 hour ago
Voelker58
Whole arm itching. Fells like it is on fire. What did that guy give me!? #dirtybasterd.
1 hour ago
Voelker58
LAX stick brokn. Replaced with umbrella. Moved sofa in font of door.
58 minutes ago
Voelker58
Can’t feeel arm at all now. Starting to frek out a little.
38 minutes ago
Voelker58
Sum1 at door! Not cops :( Trish. Not ded #thankgod! Moving soofa to let her in.
27 minutes ago
Voelker58
No good. Tried to eat me face. Had to stab hir in the throt wit bumrella. #badidea
19 minutes ago
Voelker58
Numness spredding. Think am gunna die.
12 minutes ago
Voelker58
Cops finly got heer. Thay wur delishus. #mmmmmm
43 seconds ago
Steve Voelker is a writer from Pennsylvania. His work has been featured in Daily Bites of Flesh 2011 and Daily Frights 2012. You can follow his adventures on Twitter @Voelker58, where he will keep you informed in the extremely likely event of a zombie apocalypse.