But Shaw had been as innocent as every one of those passengers. He had the right to survive, too. A lot of people had made it away on the lifeboats in one piece. Can’t we all just be thankful for that, at least?
After building and lighting a fire, and topping up his brandy, Shaw felt promptly better. The unfortunate conversation he and King had shared at the pub was already fading in his memory, like a painting left in the sun for too long, although he knew he would never return to that place for fear of being confronted by the ire of a hundred drunken men.
No, he would surely have to find a new watering hole, one where his secret would remain just that.
“I shall take it to the grave with me.”
Just then, from the hallway, there came an odd noise, and Shaw verily started, for he was alone in the house. Was always alone in the house.
Perhaps, he thought, I have left the front door ajar. The wind had buffeted him along the street as he journeyed home, and it was certainly strong enough to cause such a noise, if one were to accidentally leave one’s door open.
But when he arrived in the hallway only to discover that the door was in fact shut – and not only that but locked and bolted in three places – he could only ascribe the noise to his burgeoning paranoia.
The fear that soon, perhaps the next day or the one after that, someone would come for him. Between now and then there would be a lot of mysterious sounds about the place. (That’s why they call it paranoia, boys and girls.)
Satisfied he was alone in the house, Shaw returned to the study for a top-up. The fire, which had been burning fine just a moment ago, had inexplicably gone out.
“I’ll be damned.” Shaw left his empty glass upon the counter and walked across to the still-smouldering fireplace, intent on relighting it on such a cold and inclement night. Yet as he crouched, he saw that the fire had not gone out of its own volition. The fireplace was soaked, as if someone had snuck past him in the hallway and hurled a bucket of water over the whole thing. Water dripped down from the mantelpiece, and each of Shaw’s various trophies and knick-knacks had also been saturated during the incident.
He stood and turned, suddenly aware that this was a work of desecration, and therefore he was not as alone in the house as he’d previously thought.
“Hello?” His voice cracked; he did not like the sound of it at all. It sounded weak, vulnerable. But was that not what he was?
He thought about calling out a second time, but instead decided to take up the loop poker from the stand upon which it had been hanging.
Someone had the gall to come into his house in the middle of the night and play games with him. Just thinking about it turned his blood to lava; whoever it was had made a colossal mistake, for William Shaw was now armed and half-drunk. It was this combination that lessened the intruder’s chances of making it out uninjured.
Into the hallway Shaw went, the poker held just in front of him, where he would be able to work up a decent swing should the housebreaker suddenly reveal himself. Though his heart was racing so very quickly, he didn’t feel the least bit threatened. It was adrenaline – the good stuff – which kept him moving along the hallway. That and the thought of catching the intruder in the act.
Something creaked upstairs; Shaw recognised the sound as belonging to his bedroom, for he stepped upon the very same floorboard at least three times a night.
Something exploded within him. Not only had his house been entered unlawfully, but the criminal was now upstairs, in the most sanctified room. The room in which he slept. The room in which he undressed and, though not for many years now, engaged in amatory acts with members of the opposite sex.
Creak.
Shaw could take it no longer. The thought of some assailant up there, amongst his things, was too much to bear. Hastening his step, he made his way toward the foot of the staircase, and that was when he noticed the wet footprints, for that was where the carpet of the hallway came to an end and gave way to bare wooden steps.
So many wet footprints were there that water dripped over the lip at the front of each step. And now that he could see the full length of the hallway, he became aware of the single set of wet footprints leading into and out of his study, right there upon the carpet.
Common sense urged him to telephone for the police, but the last thing he wanted was an army of bluebottles scouring the place for evidence, not whilst he was trying to keep a low profile.
He began to climb the staircase; water splashed slightly beneath his shoes, but he was determined to get the bottom of this, and he had come this far.
As he reached the landing he raised the poker once more, for a faint glow framed his doorframe, as if someone within had lit one of his bedside lamps. The door was slightly open, too, and thin puddles of water trailed all the way across the landing toward it.
Now, and for the first time since discovering the extinguished fire, William Shaw was apprehensive.
What if the person beyond the door had a gun? What if there were two intruders, or three, four? He was certain he would give them a run for their money for a second or two, but after that he would surely be subjugated. Was it not better to simply allow them to take what they had come for and make good their escape? Perhaps hide away in the cupboard under the stairs until it was all over?
Coward! Just like you were a coward when you saved yourself over your passengers, over much of your crew!
Shaw walked steadily toward his bedroom door. The sodden carpet beneath his feet squelched, and it reminded him of the sound the two children had made as he’d plucked them from the arms of their dead parents on the lower deck of the RMS Amphritrite, meaty and yet wet all at once.
He struck the thought from his mind and, upon arriving at the door, reached for the knob. As his hand wrapped around it, a cold chill coursed through him, for the doorknob was just as wet as the carpet, staircase, and half-burned coals in the fireplace downstairs. In fact, now that he was just a few inches away, he saw that the entire door was leaking water. It dripped down from the frame above, down the sides and across the hinges. It even poured through the keyhole and pattered gently upon the tops of his shoes.
This can’t be! This simply cannot be!
And yet he knew that it was, for the building went no higher, which ruled out any possibility of the water coming from somewhere else.
And as he turned the doorknob and eased the door inward, a seven-foot-high wall of water greeted him. Defying all rules of physics, it just stood there, as if waiting for Shaw to make his move first. Within the murky water – was that sea-salt he could taste upon his lips? – bodies danced around, their broken bones and severed limbs entwined in some sort of Danse Macabre.
That was when he saw them, the parents whose children he had snatched away only to desert once again at the nearest opportunity. Their faces were contorted with grief, not for the loss of their own lives, but for the loss of the two beings – one twelve, the girl, and the boy perhaps eight – wrapped around their waists in one final wet embrace.
Shaw staggered back, the poker falling from his grasp, for all his strength had gone at the sight of such an impossible marine construct.
He did not reach the top of the stairs before the water gave chase, and within it the passengers whose lives had been forsaken in exchange for his own, five weeks prior aboard the Amphritrite.
When John King had asked him, not three hours ago, if he could live with what he had done – the cowardly abandonment of those passengers so that he might continue to exist, if only until death caught up with him – he should have told the man no.
He could not live with it.
The water swallowed him whole, but the real devouring didn’t begin until the rotting and bloated passengers of the Amphritrite were good and ready.
about the authors
Richard Chizmar is the founder/publisher of Cemetery Dance magazine and the Cemetery Dance Publications book imprint. He has edited more than 30 anthologies and his fiction has appeared in
dozens of publications, including Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and The Year’s 25 Finest Crime and Mystery Stories. He has won two World Fantasy awards, four International Horror Guild awards, and the HWA’s Board of Trustee’s award. Chizmar (in collaboration with Johnathon Schaech) has also written screenplays and teleplays for United Artists, Sony Screen Gems, Lions Gate, Showtime, NBC, and many other companies. He is the creator/writer of Stephen King Revisited, and his third short story collection, A Long December, is due in 2016 from Subterranean Press. Chizmar’s work has been translated into many languages throughout the world, and he has appeared at numerous conferences as a writing instructor, guest speaker, panelist, and guest of honor.
facebook.com/richardchizmar
twitter.com/richardchizmar
instagram.com/richard_chizmar
Fox Emm is a freelance writer living in the Southern US with two tiny dogs. She loves all things spooky and can be found at BloggingOnward.com, wattpad.com/user/foxemm and on most social media. Loves writing horrible death scenes, networking, and devouring new fiction.
Toneye Eyenot writes tales of horror and dark fantasy which have appeared in numerous anthologies over the past two years. He is the author of a clown/werewolf horror novella titled Blood Moon Big Top, released with JEA Press, plus the ongoing Sacred Blade of Profanity series with two books, The Scarlett Curse and Joshua’s Folly, also published through J. Ellington Ashton Press and a third currently in the works. He is the editor of the Full Moon Slaughter werewolf anthology, and the upcoming Full Moon Slaughter 2: Altered Beasts anthology, also with JEA. Toneye lurks in the Blue Mountains in NSW Australia, with the myriad voices who tear the horrors from his mind and splatter them onto the page.
facebook.com/Toneye-Eyenot-Dark-Author-Musician-1128293857187537
toneyeeyenot.weebly.com
twitter.com/toneyeeyenot
Suzanne Fox is a writer of both horror and erotic fiction which she manages to fit in around her day job as a nurse. She grew up in Staffordshire, England before moving, eleven years ago, to the beautiful county of Cornwall where she lives with her partner and three pussies: Cats, you dirty-minded folks! She loves the challenge of combining erotica and horror in her writing. Her work has been published in both print and online magazines with her short story “Hitting the Jackpot,” coming third in a writing competition run by Writer’s Forum. She has also had stories appear in several anthologies. Besides writing, she loves to dance, and drink wine with friends. She had great fun writing her story, ‘The Punishment Room,’ and she hopes that you have as much fun reading it.
facebook.com/suzannefoxerotica
Rose Garnett’s first novel in the Dead Central series, Carnalis, is to be published by Permuted Press on March 27th 2018. For those of an infernal disposition, her short stories can be found in four other anthologies; Man Behind the Mask, Collected Christmas Horror Shorts, What Goes Around and Psychic Detectives Vol IV, with a fifth, in The Big Book of Bootleg Horror Volume 2, awaiting publication. She is currently working on the second book in the Dead Central series, entitled The Charnel House. Story fragments lifting the oubliette on Rose’s world can be found on her blog at rosegarnett.com
Crystal Jeans is a Cardiff-based writer and the author of two novels: The Vegetarian Tigers of Paradise and Light Switches Are My Kryptonite. She's not a known horror writer but her stories are usually gross.
Adam Millard is the author of twenty-six novels, twelve novellas, and more than two hundred short stories, which can be found in various collections, magazines, and anthologies. Probably best known for his post-apocalyptic and comedy-horror fiction, Adam also writes fantasy/horror for children, as well as bizarro fiction for several publishers. His work has recently been translated for the German market.
Skip Novak is a just turned middle aged, non-award winning, over grown man-child who is paid to play with toy trains. In his off time, he enjoys spending time with his wife and daughter, riding his Harley, affectionately named Bernadette and writing. He's been published in some pretty cool anthologies that were put together by deranged derelicts. If you want to contact him, against any better judgement, you can find him on Facebook, twitter or even his blog, aloysiousthoughts.blogspot.com.
Ty Schwamberger is an award-winning author & editor in the horror genre. He is the author of a novel, multiple novellas, collections and editor on several anthologies. In addition, he’s had many short stories published online and in print. Three stories, “Cake Batter” (released in 2010), “House Call” (released in June 2013) and DININ’ (optioned in July 2013), have been optioned for film adaptation. He is an Active Member of the International Thriller Writers.
tyschwamberger.com
Antonio Simon, Jr. is an award-winning author of six books and over thirty short stories published to date. His debut novel, The Gullwing Odyssey, is a fantasy-comedy that became an Amazon Kindle Top 5 Bestseller in 2014. He has won the prestigious International Book Award; the Royal Palm Literary Award; the Pacific Book Award; Indie Book of the Day; and the Reader’s Favorite Five-Star seal. Mr. Simon holds a law degree from Saint Thomas University School of Law and two undergraduate degrees (Political Science and History) from the University of Miami. He lives in Miami, Florida.
gullwingodyssey.com
Guy N. Smith had his first short story published at the age of 12 and subsequently went on write over 100 books. Genres include: horror, mystery fiction, westerns, children’s fiction and non-fiction titles. He has also penned many short stories for anthologies and the legendary London Mystery Selection. He began writing for the sporting press in 1963 and is still a contributor to ‘The Shooting Times’ and others. Guy and his family moved to the Shropshire/Welsh border hills in 1977 where he acquired 7.5 acres of steep pastureland adjoining his house. Passionate about the countryside and conservation he created an organic small holding along with a compact old-fashioned rough shoot which took many years to complete. In between writing he has had a varied career, he worked in banking, was a private detective and had his own shotgun cartridge loading business.
about the editors
David Owain Hughes is a horror freak! He grew up on ninja, pirate and horror movies from the age of five, which helped rapidly install in him a vivid imagination. When he grows up, he wishes to be a serial killer with a part-time job in women’s lingerie… He’s had several short stories published in various online magazines and anthologies, along with articles, reviews and interviews. He’s written for This Is Horror, Blood Magazine and Horror Geeks Magazine. He’s the author of the popular novels Walled In (2014) & Wind-Up Toy (2016), along with his short story collections White Walls and Straitjackets (2015) and Choice Cuts (2015).
david-owain-hughes.wix.com/horrorwriter
Jonathan Edward Ondrashek is an Operations supervisor by day and moonlights as a horror/dark fantasy writer. He’s the author of The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Dark Intentions, Patriarch, and A Kingdom’s Fall). His short stories have appeared in numerous horror anthologies, including the highly acclaimed VS: US vs UK Horror. He also co-edited What Goes Around and Man Behind the Mask, two anthologies featuring work from stellar established and new voices in the horror genre. If he isn’t working at his day job, reading, or writing, he’s probably drinking beer and making his wife regret marrying a lunatic. Feel free to stalk him on social media. He loves that shit.
jondrashek.com
facebook.com/jondrashekauthor
twitter.com/jondrashek
instagram.com/jondrashek
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Fuck the Rules Page 18