Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  That's the way, boy! The voice was exuberant, yet already distant, fading.

  Kaletherex roared around Grant's hand in its throat and slammed its mouth shut. Through the pain and stench of burning, Grant vaguely registered his arm as it was severed below the elbow and disappeared into the huge, black beast.

  The demon screamed and staggered back. Grant stared wide-eyed at the stump of his left arm, not bleeding, already cauterized by the hell-creature's furnace bite. Kaletherex roared, clutching and clawing at its throat and stomach. Some people still ran and screamed, though there seemed to be hardly anyone left in the cavern but the dead and the gibbering mad.

  Pain lanced through every atom of his body, but Grant ignored it. He stumbled to his feet as Kaletherex fell to its knees. The demon swung blows left and right like a drunk swinging desperate punches as the strength left it and its hold on the mortal realm wavered. Its presence shifted and morphed, became gossamer and unreal. Grant grabbed the Bowie knife, yanked it free of the beast’s skull, and stabbed and slashed, again and again, until it felt as though he was swiping through nothing but air. With a soul-rending roar of agony and despair, Kaletherex folded in on itself and fell away from the world.

  Blackness swimming in from every part of his vision, Grant managed a weak, strangled laugh and let the darkness take him as he fell face-first to the floor.

  Chapter 23

  Grant vaguely registered sensations of movement, a change in temperature. He heard sounds of the forest and heard distant shouts. Pressure on his body as he was shaken roughly and realized he was being carried over someone's shoulder as they ran. He heard a voice calling his name and some distant part of him celebrated as it was almost certainly Cassie's words he heard. Blackness took him again.

  He woke lying on something soft. He registered movement and something brushed the hair from his brow. He opened his eyes and Cassie's face split in a grin of sheer joy.

  “You're alive!” she said. She was wrapped in a big, dirty coat.

  “Am I?” He saw movement behind her and realized he was looking out the back window of a car. He lay across the back seat, his head in her lap. He turned his head and saw the dark shape of the driver and recognized Elijah's short cropped hair. Tears streaked the young man's cheek as he drove. The passenger seat was empty.

  Cassie eyes were sad again. “Your arm...” she said quietly.

  Grant tried to grin at her. “Got another,” he slurred.

  He closed his eyes and let the oblivion of darkness take him again.

  The next time he woke, he found himself lying in a hospital bed. Cassie and Elijah sat beside him. Elijah stared into nowhere and Cassie smiled as he found her eyes.

  “You're going to be okay,” she told him. “But you're badly hurt, so you have to stay still.”

  He nodded, winced at the movement and stopped. “Yeah. Don't think I'm going anywhere any time soon.”

  “I can't believe you came for me,” Cassie said, looking away, unable to hold his gaze. “You came for me and you fought that thing.” She looked back, tears in her eyes. “You beat that thing!”

  “I had a lot of help.” Grant looked at Elijah. “I'm so sorry about Amos.”

  Elijah nodded. “I did that to him.”

  Grant had no idea what to say to that. It was true. But it was also because of Elijah that Amos had come to help and the old man's bravery and fighting spirit made all the difference. “Your dad was amazing. There's no way I could have done what I did without him. He saved all of us, even you.”

  Elijah nodded again, said nothing. Fresh tears rolled slowly down his cheeks.

  “Where are we?” Grant asked Cassie.

  “Kingsville. We just drove away from Wallen's Gap, away from all of that and straight here to the hospital. I don't ever plan to go back, either.”

  Grant’s eyes fell on a newspaper lying on Elijah’s lap. The headline read Cavern Collapse! He recognized a picture of Natural Bridge. “What’s that?”

  “The cover story. You been out cold for nearly two days.” Elijah tossed the paper onto the bed.

  A cave-in at Natural Bridge Caverns claimed the lives of dozens of Wallen’s Gap residents in the worst tragedy to hit the community in decades. Members of the Wallen’s Gap Community Church were enjoying a picnic in one of the larger chambers when the roof suddenly gave way. A representative of the Virginia Department of Conservation and Recreation said that the chamber in question was in a remote area of the park and not a place frequented by tourists. Local authorities…

  He stopped reading. They had certainly moved fast. The Kaletherex cult was going to get away with it. To hell with them. If the survivors were willing to be a part of the cover-up, they deserved what they got. He looked at Cassie and grinned.

  “What do you say, when I get out of here, we head west until we hit the Pacific? I've had my fill of mountains. Let's see what it's like by the sea.”

  Cassie smiled, but her eyes reflected the deep injury she had endured, to body and soul. It would be a long time before either of them were even vaguely better. But she seemed to genuinely mean it when she said, “I'd really like that.”

  “What about you, Elijah?” Grant asked. “You want to come and see the ocean?”

  Elijah shook his head. “I got a sister moved to New York to go to college. Reckon I might go and see her, tell her what happened. Then maybe stay there a while if she'll have me.”

  Grant nodded. He keenly felt the burned patches of skin, the torn muscles and cracked bones throughout his body. He lifted his left arm, what remained of it, and stared at the dressing that rounded off just below his elbow. So much for his dreams of being a professional musician. Then again, the drummer from Def Leppard only had one arm. A shame Grant was a guitarist. Perhaps Suzanne had left him for all the wrong reasons, but it led him to Cassie. He thought she would support him whatever his dreams. And he would support her.

  He remembered Ma Withers' words. That finger you got gonna cost you, don't forget that. He hadn't known what she meant, but Grant knew well enough now.

  “Your arm,” Cassie said, eyes wet as she looked at his injury.

  Grant smiled. “I'm just glad to be alive.” And he meant it. “I honestly thought I was going to die back there in that cave. I was kind of at peace with that. So seeing as I've managed to get away with nothing but some injuries that'll heal and only ended up losing my hand, I guess I can live with that.”

  “That's quite an amazing attitude to have.”

  “Oh, it's going to take some getting used to, I don't doubt that. And I’ll be angry about it for a fair while. Just as well I'm right-handed. But any problems I run into, I guess I'm going to need your help.”

  Cassie leaned forward and kissed him softly. Her lips were warm against his. “I can do that,” she said.

  Chapter 24

  In Wallen's Gap the people moved through the streets like ghosts. A sense of something terrible hung in the air, something lost and broken. For any survivors of the cave that night, little was ever said about what had happened. It took several days to quietly bury the bodies of all the dead. The new sheriff, a swiftly promoted local deputy, spent many late nights organizing the paperwork to hide the events up in the hills beyond town.

  In a house up beside the church, Mary Ann Stallard sat stony-eyed across the table from a young girl with red hair and freckles across her nose. “I lost a husband and three sons that night,” Mary Ann was saying, “so I ain't about to let you outta my sight.”

  “You never have,” the young girl said, her face sullen.

  “Don't give me none of your sass. Your daddy's the one who give you to us for safe-keeping when you was just a babe. We've fed and clothed you and cared for you like you was our own.”

  “I don't remember any of your own being forced to live in the basement their whole lives.”

  “That's enough.” Mary Ann's voice cracked like a whip. “You know how precious you are.” Her face and voice grew dark. “And if
the good reverend had controlled his natural urges, we wouldn't have had to use your sister, and maybe my men would still be alive.”

  “And my daddy,” the girl added, though there was no feeling in her words.

  “You just look after yourself, and that one there.” Mary Ann nodded at the girl's stomach. “Now you make us a fresh pot, ya hear.”

  The young redhead nodded and rose from the table, one hand resting on her rotund belly.

  “Oh, and one other thing,” Mary Ann said.

  “Yes, ma'am?”

  “If that ain't a girl child the good reverend put in there, Sally Brunswick, we're gonna find you a baby daddy to keep on working at you until it is. I don't know if our lord is gone for good or not, but there will be another conjunction and I aim to live to see it.”

  The End

  If you enjoyed Dark Rite, try Blood Codex, A Jake Crowley Adventure by David Wood and Alan Baxter

  Alan Baxter is a Ditmar Award-nominated British- Australian author living on the south coast of NSW, Australia. He writes dark fantasy, sci-fi and horror, rides a motorcycle and loves his dog. He also teaches Kung Fu. He is the author of the contemporary dark fantasy thriller novels, RealmShift and MageSign, and over 40 short stories which have appeared in a variety of journals and anthologies in Australia, the US, the UK and France, including theYear’s Best Australian Fantasy & Horror. Alan is also a freelance writer, penning reviews, feature articles and opinion. He’s a contributing editor and co-founder at Thirteen O’Clock, Australian Dark Fiction News & Reviews, and co-hosts Thrillercast, a thriller and genre fiction podcast. Read extracts from his fiction at his website www.alanbaxteronline.com or find him on Twitter @AlanBaxter, and feel free to tell him what you think. About anything.

  David Wood is the author of the Dane Maddock Adventures series and several stand-alone works, as well as The Absent Gods fantasy series under his David Debord pen name. He loves history, archaeology, mythology, and cryptozoology, and tries to work all of these varied influences into the Dane Maddock books, in particular. He is a proud member of International Thriller Writers and hosts the Wood on Words podcast. He loves to discuss books and publishing, so feel free to connect with him at www.davidwoodweb.com or on Twitter or Facebook.

  THE FLAT BY RICK CHESLER AND JACK DOUGLAS

  When a troubled young American couple leases a flat in Portugal, they hope to rekindle lost feelings for one another in an exotic new setting far removed from reminders of their past. But as the first hours in their new surroundings unfold, it quickly becomes apparent that their stay in the flat will be anything but relaxing. Something haunts the unit, and now it’s haunting them, shutting them off from the outside world at the same time it turns the lovers against one another in the most brutal of ways.

  As they struggle to find a way out of a living hell, with its multitude of unforgiving horrors, the two finally come to realize they can't escape themselves. And that no one leaves THE FLAT.

  The city of Lisbon has a dark side, one that is marked by betrayal, jealousy, and gut-wrenching heartache. It is expressed in a musical style distinctive to Lisbon known as fado. Listen closely. You are hearing this country’s soul.

  –Anonymous (Scrawled in Craig Devlin’s Guidebook)

  From the Desk of Amaro Dias Silva

  Casey Morton-Blaine Literary Agency Empire State Building

  350 Fifth Avenue

  New York, New York 10118 United States

  Attn: Jenna Bagetta

  Dear Senhora Bagetta:

  I understand that you are the literary agent representing Craig Devlin, my most recent tenant here in Lisbon, Portugal. I am, therefore, taking the liberty of forwarding to you your client’s completed manuscript, as it was left behind when Sr. Devlin vacated my flat. As you may know, Sr. Devlin and his fiancée Amy Berdan left no forwarding address.

  It should be noted, given the circumstances, I have also forwarded copies of this manuscript to Portuguese and American authorities, as well as to the brother of Senhora Amy Berdan, who contacted me several times with regard to his sister’s whereabouts.

  With respect to Sr. Devlin’s manuscript, in my humble opinion, the story is quite good, though perhaps too disturbing for an American publisher. In any event, I leave it with you to do as you will. I am certain you will find the book a good home.

  Sincerely yours,

  Amaro Dias Silva

  P.S. If you are ever to consider Lisboa as a spot to spend your holiday, please feel free to contact me if you require somewhere to stay. I am certain I have the perfect place.

  Chapter 1

  It started about three and a half hours into the flight. It was a painless sensation, a heavy rhythmic thumping like a heartbeat through a stethoscope. A throbbing in his right ear. At first he ignored it, dismissed it as a trick of the altitude, a minor disturbance resulting from a change in air pressure. It started to dull then faded altogether. But minutes later it returned as loud and unremitting as ever. He pinched his nose and swallowed hard, stretched his jaw in a yawn but it had no effect. His ears seemed to pop, but the pulsating continued.

  He leaned to his right and slipped his fingers into Amy’s icy hands, but she didn’t stir. It didn’t matter whether she was in a king-sized bed draped in Egyptian cotton or cramped in a middle seat in coach at thirty thousand feet; when Amy slept, she slept like the dead. Craig frowned. Shifted and loosened his seat belt. Eyed the clouds beneath the airliner’s wing and briefly imagined dropping through, hurtling toward the earth in a frenzied free fall without a chute. Another four hours and they would touch down in Lisbon, claim their luggage, hop a taxi and travel through the city to their flat.

  One year in Portugal, which would serve as the setting for his next book, a novel tentatively titled Letters from Lisbon. A love story, a love tragedy he hoped would set the literary world afire. He had failed in three previous attempts at book-length fiction; three attempts in two grueling, near-suicide years in which Amy had packed her bags and left him twice.

  Finally a nonfiction manuscript earned him some success. A memoir titled Libations & Infatuations, which chronicled his twenties, a decade of debauchery, of endless drinking, drugs and sex. It was a story he had never intended to tell, a writing that began as a suicide note, ran for four hundred pages and later landed on his literary agent’s cluttered Manhattan desk. It earned him a second shot and a modest advance, enough to carry him and Amy—his on-again, off-again fiancée—away from hellish Gotham for a while, for twelve long months of peace, recuperation and relative solitude.

  The turbulence hit without warning; the air became angry and violent. The cabin lights flickered and the in-flight movie blinked off. Jarred, Craig reached into his right pants pocket and plucked from it a bottle of Xanax. As the plane rocked, he dry-swallowed a pill, unfastened the seat belt and tugged at his collar.

  It felt as though they were losing altitude.

  Craig launched himself from his seat, but just as he did, the seat belt sign jingled, thwarting his attempt for the aisle. He sat, re-fastened his belt and took deep breaths, willing the Xanax to kick in. He gripped the armrests as hard as he could, pictured himself in a wide open field. But with each second that passed, the seat felt that much smaller, the belt tightening against his waist, the passenger in front of him reclining, pressing like a hot iron against his knees.

  In a near-panic, his eyes darted to Amy. Her eyes were closed, her mouth ajar. The slightest bit of drool was sliding down her chin. Wake up, he thought, but she didn’t. She never did at times like this. In the pitch dark, in the dead of night, as he lay in bed, gripped by paralyzing anxiety, she’d breathe in and out, in and out, mocking him with every unconscious breath for his chronic inability to sleep.

  Craig twisted the control above his head and took in the small bit of air it offered. As suddenly as the fear came, it went. The anxiety dissipated, the chair widened, the belt loosened, the passenger in front of him moved up in his seat. The airliner steadied and Amy woke,
opening her eyes and wiping the spittle from her chin.

  She didn’t say anything, of course. She seldom did. She spoke when she was spoken to, but rarely started a conversation. Her faded green eyes fell on him for just a second, then advanced to the aisle, as she folded her arms against the chill.

  He leaned in and kissed her shoulder. He would prove to her over the next several months that remaining with him wasn’t a mistake. That a year in Europe was just what they needed. That this last leg of their long engagement would be the happiest, most intimate period of their lives— the perfect prelude to their long-awaited marriage.

  “Halfway there,” he said a few minutes later.

  Amy’s face was now buried in a battered paperback, her eyes glued to a yellowed page. She lowered the book after several measured seconds, swept her hair behind her ear and said, “I have to call my mother as soon as we land.”

  Her mother. It was always about her mother and no one else. If she wanted to kill a conversation—and Craig often thought she did—she need only mention her mother. Her mother, who had arrived all too eagerly each time Amy packed her bags. Her mother, who’d poisoned Amy against him from the start. Her mother, who’d barked about Craig getting a “real job” when he spent ninety hours a week hunched over a laptop computer.

  “Are you excited?” he asked.

  “Sure.” The same answer she’d supplied repeatedly over the previous ninety days, ever since they’d booked their flight and secured their flat. Sure, with the faintest hint of sarcasm and now the unequivocal tone of regret.