Tales From The Mist: An Anthology of Horror and Paranormal Stories

by Scott Nicholsonan

  Scott Nicholson Rhonda Hopkins

  Marty Young Cate Dean

  Tamara Ward Meredith Bond

  Catie Rhodes Greg Carrico

  Mitzi Flyte Natalie G. Owens

  *lizzie starr Stacey Joy Netzel

  Copyright © 2012 Each story's copyright is held by its author.

  All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Wampus Cat by Scott Nicholson was first published in Legends of the Mountain State 3 (2009) and is reprinted with the permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Everything within it is fiction. Any resemblance to actual reality is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Christine Pope, indieauthorservices.com

  Cover art by Kathy Gold, at Dreamstime http://www.dreamstime.com/Centaurgirl_info

  Published by Anessa Books

  For more information on this group of writers, please visit us at our Beach Book Blast website

  Acknowledgments

  To D.D. Scott, Alicia Street and everyone at WG2E without whom we wouldn’t have had this fabulous opportunity to come together, form friendships and work together in this amazing way. Thank you!

  Table of Contents

  Foreward Aiden James

  Wampus Cat Scott Nicholson

  A camping trip into the Appalachian Mountains leads to the discovery of a spooky creature thought to be nothing more than a folk myth. Wampus Cat was originally published in Legends of the Mountain State 2.

  The Consuming Rhonda Hopkins

  Serena knows her late uncle wasn’t crazy. So when she inherits his sprawling Carolina mansion and leaves the big city to restore both his home and his name, she uncovers a mystery that could cost much more than her sanity. As the house slowly reveals its dark secrets, and the extent of her peril becomes evident, she’ll settle for escaping with her life—if it isn’t already too late.

  Addiction Marty Young

  If you were told you could become a God, would you? Imagine the power, and how it could be used. But then there’s that saying about power isn’t there? And how it corrupts...

  The Messenger Cate Dean

  Sarah escapes her tour group, hoping to find some much needed alone time in the local cemetery. What she finds instead casts her in the unwanted role of savior, and forces her to make a life or death choice.

  Jade O'Reilly & the Graveyard Shift Tamara Ward

  Private investigator Jade O'Reilly finds herself on security–guard duty at a supposedly haunted historic mansion on Halloween night. She doesn't believe in the rumors that say the house is cursed; she doesn't believe in ghosts. Will she by the end of her shift?

  In A Beginning Meredith Bond

  There is no way Lilith is going to accept Adam’s chauvinistic attitude. If he wants to rule the Garden of Eden, she’s outta there! But things get a lot more interesting— and scarier—after she leaves the Garden and falls in love with the demon, Samael.

  Haste Catie Rhodes

  A betrayed wife who murders her cheating husband and his lover in a fit of rage becomes the victim of her own impulsiveness.

  The King of Rats Gregory Carrico

  All that stands between him and a lifetime of food is a Queen, his sister, and a surface world overrun by vampires. Will the King of Alley Rats risk everything for his throne and his pack, or leave it all behind for a pretty mouse in distress?

  To E. A. Poe Mitzi Flyte

  In 1845 a grieving brother writes to the author, blaming Poe for his sister's death. Could one of Poe's short stories lead someone to do the unspeakable?

  An Inconvenient Debt Natalie G. Owens

  A mother makes a Faustian bargain for her son’s freedom. But can she truly meet the cost when his real prison demands payment of a different debt?

  Dead Lily Blooms *lizzie starr

  Someone wants vampyre Lily dead, and a bargain with Death has been struck. Death sends servant Agaar to bring Lily to him, but the task becomes more complicated than either Death or Agaar anticipated.

  Beneath Still Waters Stacey Joy Netzel

  An old legend tells of a beautiful witch unjustly persecuted who became a ghost bent on revenge. The danger lies in not believing.

  Foreward

  I’ve always been fascinated with authors who possess the skill to present frightening ideas quickly, and in a format that often leaves the longest lasting impression: The short story. It is a skill that requires the patience and focus of a gifted surgeon, since enough loose ends must be tied together for the story to deliver an effective jolt by the end of the tale. Yet, it can’t linger too long, and is more like a kiss to the reader, with a promise of deeper mysteries on a future horizon.

  Writing such clever, short narratives is a skill that I greatly envy, being that I am a habitual novelist.

  The dozen tales that you are about to peruse come from an array of authors who are highly skilled in delivering such taut and compelling stories. These are masterpieces in short form. But even better is this caveat. The stories all deal with the supernatural, and as such, they stretch our perception of the world around us. One might very well look at the same set of circumstances differently after being exposed to the contents of this collection.

  And what a collection it is!

  The great Scott Nicholson brings us a unique twist on a shape–shifter in Wampus Cat, where a young woman soon has grave misgivings about a camping trip with her new boyfriend. The journey in terror continues with Rhonda Hopkins’ The Consuming, which deals with a pragmatic architect doubting her own sanity after inheriting her uncle’s sprawling Carolina mansion.

  Then, what would it be like if one of us endured the personal horror of becoming the Almighty with our limited human perception, as depicted in Marty Young’s Addiction?

  We won’t have long to worry about that outcome, as Cate Dean brings us The Messenger next, where a tour guide seeking solace in a cemetery is instead forced to make a life or death choice. But the horror is just beginning. Just ask Jade O’Reilly, the heroine in Tamara Ward’s Jade O’Reilly and the Graveyard Shift, if she’d ever like to spend another shift as an overnight security guard working in a haunted house?

  The heart–pounding pace continues when Lilith escapes from the Garden of Eden, only to encounter something far more terrifying than Adam in Meredith Bond’s In A Beginning. We might well run to the next tale, Haste, by Catie Rhodes—only to discover the terror that haunts a betrayed wife who has just killed her cheating husband and his mistress. And, the adrenaline rush continues with Gregory Carrico’s compelling narrative, King of Rats, where a feisty rodent is determined to save its lair from humans and monsters alike.

  What horror collection would be complete without paying homage to the immortal Edgar Allan Poe? Mitzi Flyte delivers a terrifying story about a brother who writes to the infamous author, blaming Poe for his sister’s death in To E. A Poe. Soon after, Natalie G. Owens stokes the fire further with the humanly horrific An Inconvenient Debt, detailing the misguided scheme of a mother in seeking to save her wayward son. Next comes *lizzie starr’s chilling account concerning a shrewd vampire unwilling to accept Death’s call in Dead Lily Blooms. Last, but not least, Stacey Joy Netzel brings us Beneath Still Waters, where failure to believe in the existence of a beautiful witch’s ghost can lead to dire consequences.

  So, there you have it. Twelve
short chronicles of paranormal spookiness that not only will keep you reading deep into the night, but assuredly will also leave lasting images to replay in your mind for many nights to come.

  My parting advice is to leave a light on …

  You’ll need it.

  Aiden James

  An author fascinated by Gothic history and the supernatural, Aiden James presently has written eleven novels with many more to follow--including two novels and a novella slated for release by the end of 2012. He resides in Tennessee with his lovely wife, Fiona, and their two sons, Christopher and Tyler. An avid researcher of all things paranormal, Aiden spends much of his time investigating haunted locales throughout the Deep South.

  To learn more about Aiden James and his latest books, please visit his website: www.aidenjamesfiction.com

  WAMPUS CAT

  By Scott Nicholson

  Susan should have known better than to head south with a man, especially to the place her grandmother called “the land of legends.”

  This was the dark heart of the Alleghenies; dusk was pumpkin–colored and the mountains stood like giant petrified beasts against the mist. Trees mingled, black sticks intersecting. The fallen leaves were as sodden as a fraternity carpet. October's rot filled the air.

  And Barry was lost. Barry, with a forty–dollar compass and L.L. Bean hiking boots and a copy of Thoreau's “Walden” in his backpack, was so lost that Saturday morning looked like Tuesday night.

  Susan should have said something. Maybe Saturday afternoon, when Barry eased his hook into the Shawneehaw. Barry had read a book on fly fishing, and Ted Williams, the greatest hitter in baseball history, was also a fly fisherman. Barry talked about Ted Williams so much that Susan wished Williams had been a Yankee instead of a Red Sock.

  Because Barry was Yankee. Maine Yankee, the worst kind. She was Jersey Shore college, by way of Piedmont Carolina, and much of her blood was rock–deep Southern Appalachian, Scots–Irish and paranoid, a little free–spirited and flaky, but that was no excuse to fall for him. He had passed himself off as a real man and reality was subject to change.

  Not that all men should automatically be able to kill bears with a hatchet.

  But they could at least take a little time and get things right. Like where they were. And who they were with. To Barry, Susan might as well have been AnnaBeth–Mary, the previous temporary girlfriend to follow him on these Appalachian journeys. At least she had her own tent, so she could turn in early every night.

  Doubtless, others had preceded AnnaBeth–Mary and Susan. All of them falling in lock–step with Barry, because when the sun hit his hair just right, he glowed like a lion. Tall and tan and crisp, with muscles and a toothy smile.

  But after a while, Barry's little flaws started to show. His confusion. His forgetfulness. His obsession with fly fishing. His play–by–play of the year Ted Williams hit .406.

  By Sunday evening, Barry had completely thrown Susan over for the creek. Barry put on waist–high rubber trousers and headed for deep water. She watched from the boulders like a dismal cheerleader as currents skirled around his knees.

  And Monday was just as dull. Susan read the hard backed biography of Benjamin Franklin, a book thick enough to impress any man. But Barry stood by the fire with his fishing pole and a dumb grin and he turned in early so he could chase fish for breakfast.

  And now it was Tuesday evening, and they were lost.

  “It's Monday, isn't it?” Barry said.

  “It's Tuesday.”

  Barry nodded, fumbled through his backpack, and brought out his fancy bottled water. The campfire glinted off the plastic. Barry peered at the bottle. It was as vacant as his eyes.

  “Are we in West Virginia or plain Virginia?” Susan hated herself for not knowing. They’d passed through Harper’s Ferry and over the Shenandoah River, then up Loudon Heights where the trail maps showed a meandering thread back and forth across the border. They headed south out of survival instinct, toward warmer weather. Susan hadn't kept track of miles, all she knew was her feet were sore.

  She could out walk Barry any day, and she could pitch her tent faster than he did. Barry had no brain cells that weren't clouded by Ted Williams and trout and AnnaBeth–what’s–her–name.

  And now Susan was stuck with him.

  In the mountains.

  In the fog with dark coming on.

  And it was Tuesday evening.

  Late October.

  In the Southern Appalachian Mountains.

  Susan’s grandma, who everybody called “Mamaw,” said the mountains were way wilder than what the movies said. The mountains weren’t hillbilly dolls and moonshine stills. The mountains were old as time, and secrets slept under a mile of worn dirt. Mamaw said those who belonged to them always came back, because the trees and rocks and people and animals were all of the same blood, tapped into the same spirit. Mamaw told of the Wampus Cat, the creature that could change from a witch to a cat in order to seek its prey better, and how it had been caught in the middle of its transformation. Now, when the moon was full, it could be seen in human size, howling, dripping saliva from its fangs, its yellow eyes glowing in the fierce furry face.

  Susan shook herself awake.

  For the second time.

  Cold.

  Because Barry was curled and snoring in his little pup tent. And she had to use the bathroom—or in this case, the woods. Real bad.

  The Appalachian twilight was scary, because she was from Gastonia. Dead factory town, lazy with the letter a, and not too proud of it. The mountains were a myth that lay somewhere beyond the pollution belt, the land of legends. But in the dark, the legends seemed far too real. And Mamaw said legends didn’t lie. And dogs didn’t like Mamaw.

  Susan shook Barry’s tent. “I've got to go.”

  “Snurk?”

  She shook again. “I've got to go out in the woods. And it's getting dark.”

  Barry stuck his head out of the tent.

  “Sorry, AnnaBeth,” he said.

  “I'm Susan.”

  “Sorry.”

  Men were always sorry.

  Especially Barry.

  “I've got to go behind a tree. And I don't want to go out there alone.” Susan could walk the back streets in factory towns, roll miles on a city subway, and take a plane to Pensacola. But the West Virginia woods were a different story. Or were these the Virginia woods?

  Barry groaned and crawled out of the tent. He stumbled, groggy from sleep, and went to the fire. He busied himself throwing wood on the pile of embers while she sneaked behind the nearest oak.

  As she relieved herself, the chirping of the crickets rose in an uneven symphony. Mamaw said the animals knew songs older than the creek music that trickled between high boulders. And they sang louder in late October, when the magic inside the world seeped closer to the outer skin. Susan heard something in the brush and wiped and zipped before she was completely finished.

  Barry sat on a big rock by the fire. The firelight cast him in bronze and he looked attractive again. Then he belched and the wind changed and smoke drifted into Susan’s face. She sat on the ground across from him, as far away as she could manage without freezing to death.

  “Are we near Shepherdstown?” she asked. Because Shepherdstown was a real place, a dot on the map, and no doubt had some kind of fast–food franchise. If she ate another handful of honey–sweetened rolled oats, she was going to turn into a diabetic horse.

  Barry pulled his compass from his belt. His golden brow furrowed. On Saturday, such a simple gesture would have set her shivering with love. Now she wanted to pull his ears down over his head and cram his compass into his nose.

  Barry tapped the compass and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I think so.”

  Barry said “think” with the old Barryesque self–confidence. Even in doubt, he was never wrong.

  Susan counted the days backwards on her fingers. “We left on the twenty–seventh, right?”

  “Yeah. Parked the c
ar in Maryland. Greenbrier, wasn’t it?” He patted his pocket to make sure he still had the keys. She should have paid attention to little dissonant clues like the Green Party sticker on the bumper of his gas–hog SUV. Clues like AnnaBeth–Mary’s picture taped to the dashboard. But, on October twenty–seventh, Susan couldn't see beyond his blue eyes.

  “That makes tonight Halloween,” she said.

  “Halloween?” His expression switched from confusion to glee.

  She looked around at the trees. Had the crickets fallen silent? She shifted closer to the fire. “And we're lost.”

  “We're not lost.”

  “Where are we, then?”

  Barry waved his hands at the woods surrounding them. “Here. Near Shepherdstown.”

  Nowhere. With night sliding from the trees like sick shadows. Barry must have mistaken her look of concern for come–hither. He lowered his voice, the way he'd probably heard George Clooney do it in a movie. “And it's just the two of us, honey. Trick or treat.”

  Yes, just Barry and Susan. Or was it AnnaBeth–Mary, or maybe the half–dozen other girls Barry had mentioned on the drive down south? Mamaw said you were never alone in the mountains, because the woods watched you like a hungry beast. And legends never lied—

  Two golden specks flashed against the black face of the forest. Susan shifted closer to the fire. “Did you see that?”

  “Huh?”

  “Lights. Like animal eyes.”

  “Might be a deer. Or a raccoon. Coons like to prowl around campsites.”

  “These eyes were yellow.”

  “Probably just a reflection of the fire.”

  Except the fire was mostly orange and red. Not deep yellow like the eyes. And Mamaw said the mountains had eyes, they watched and they waited, and them that belonged always came back.

  Barry grinned with those perfect teeth and moved to Susan’s side, dragging the backpack. He rummaged in a zippered pouch and brought out a cigarette. He lit it and passed it to her, but she shook her head.