Brimstone Dreams: A Horror Anthology

by Merz, Jon F. ; McKinney, Joe; Wood, Simon; Kenyon, Nate; Alexander, Maria; Shipp, Jeremy C. ; Burke, Kealan Patrick; Nicholson, Scott; Morton, Lisa; Nassise, Joseph

  The woman took it, and Emmie was shocked at the strength in her fingers. "Lori."

  Her grip was also cold, and Emmie pulled her hand away before it froze. "I don't know what to do now," she confessed miserably.

  "This hasn't happened to you before?"

  "Nope," Emmie said, shaking her head. "Although I suppose I should've seen it coming."

  "Yeah, you fuckin' should've." Lori leaned in closer, and held Emmie's gaze with her own, which jittered slightly and left Emmie less comfortable. "There's only question to ask yourself at this point: Do you want to stay with this guy?"

  Emmie thought for a moment, and finally answered honestly, "I don't know."

  "Well, that you gotta fuckin' decide for yourself. But if you want to keep him…" here she lowered her voice and cocked an eyebrow at Emmie, "I can tell you how to get what you want."

  Emmie dried her eyes and listened, intrigued. "You can?"

  "Oh, hell yes, honey, it's easy: You gotta take control. You know - in bed."

  Emmie's jaw dropped a half-inch, then she looked away, her face hot. "Girls don't do that - "

  "Fuck they don't!" the woman exclaimed loudly, causing Emmie to look around nervously. No one else in the bar seemed to have noticed. "Your boyfriend - "

  "George," Emmie obliged.

  "Right, George," Lori continued, "he's got a dick, right? Then I guarantee you he wants you to lead him around with it. It's up to you, honey. Take the lead - or spend the rest of your life crying in bathroom stalls."

  Emmie shook her head, tilted it back for another swallow of beer - and when she looked again Lori was gone. She turned and scanned the bar, but there was no sign of her.

  And how the fuck did she know about the crying-in-bathroom-stalls thing?

  For a few days, Emmie wanted nothing to do with George.

  She avoided him around the house, and he acted as if nothing was wrong; apparently he and the nail-filer really hadn't heard the front door slam as Emmie had stalked out.

  But even while she was hating George and his smiling, happy deceit, Lori's words kept rolling around in her head.

  Take control…in bed…

  Emmie would look at him, working out in the mornings, with his muscled body lightly covered in musky-scented sweat, or the way his white teeth glistened as he played videogames, or the endearingly-silly way he bounced his head to that one Eminem song he listened to over and over, and she realized that she really didn't want to lose him. At least not right away.

  Take control…in bed…

  It was 12:30 the night George staggered into the bedroom, pleasantly drunk…and found Emmie waiting for him in bra and panties.

  She hoped he was drunk enough that he wouldn't notice how nervous she really was.

  He didn't notice. Instead, he actually stopped in the bedroom doorway and gaped, an expression which made Emmie both more anxious and happy. She tried writhing slightly against the sheets, tilting one hip up, and a slow smile started to spread across George's fine face.

  "Well, girl…what's this?"

  He looked good lounging there in the doorway, and Emmie began to think maybe she really could do this. She motioned him forward, crooking one finger. "Get into this bed now."

  He had his shirt and pants off in record time.

  He tried right away to lower himself onto her - like usual - but she put a hand against his chest and pushed him back. "Uh-uh," she purred, "not like that."

  He stared at her for a moment, and Emmie nearly let out a scream as she saw that he was plainly waiting - waiting to be told what to do.

  She suddenly realized she had no idea what to tell him. "Lick my feet," popped into her head.

  To her astonishment, he obliged all too happily. His tongue on her tender soles brought delicious tickles of pleasure that drew out slowly as he began to work his way up her body, pausing behind her knees, at her belly, and along her neck.

  Finally he was kissing her, just as his fingers found their way under her panties, and he groaned when he felt her wetness. "Oh, baby…whatever this is that got into you, I like it."

  "Shut up and eat me," she ordered. If it was good enough for Tessa, it was good enough for her.

  And it was good. Very good. His tongue and fingers worked the places between her legs, until she was bucking like a jackhammer and making Tessa sound quiet by comparison. The first orgasm shook like none had in years. The second came when she finally allowed him inside her, and even though he was on top of her it wasn't like it had always been in the past; it was sweaty and hard and had them both screaming. The third came later that night, when she'd demanded he stay awake and hard long enough to fuck her again, slower and quieter this time.

  Sometime towards dawn, as they finally exhausted themselves and were drifting towards sleep, Emmie thought she owed her friend Lori a beer. Hell, maybe a whole keg.

  *** ***

  "C'mon, honey, don't be a fool. They all fuck around, all the time," she says, her strange twitching eyes jumping from Emmie's to the house and back again. "The only question is what you're gonna do about it."

  *** ***

  The sex with George was equally great for the next three nights. They tried things Emmie had imagined, when she was horny and by herself, but that she'd never thought she'd actually have the nerve to attempt for real. She rode atop George. They nearly tore the house apart with a sixty-nine. He even let her tie him up one night, and he finally had to tell her to stop because he couldn't come again.

  On the fourth night George was out of town helping a buddy who was a stock-car racer, and Emmie went back to the The Last Resort, looking for her new friend Lori. She sat at the same table, in the same chair, ordered the same beer…and waited.

  She waited for an hour. For two. She finally realized Lori wasn't coming, and it'd probably been stupid of her to assume she'd be there. But Lori had looked so at home in this bar, as if she'd always been there.

  Emmie finally asked the bartender if he remembered seeing her and the woman from last week. She mentioned she'd been crying. The bartender, a huge ex-biker named Big Joe with tattooed arms the size of Emmie's waist, scratched at his grizzled beard and said he recalled seeing her, but said he'd have sworn she'd been alone all night.

  She finally left, slightly disappointed, and got into her beat-up old Honda. She was just starting up the engine when she heard, "Hey, girl."

  She jumped and jerked to the right, where she saw Lori sitting in the passenger seat. "Where did you - ?!"

  Lori cut her off. "You tried that thing, didn't you?"

  Emmie sank back, tingling at the memory of George's mouth and fingers and cock. "Yeah. That's why I came here tonight - to say thank you."

  "Uh-uh," Lori corrected, "that's not why you came here. You came to ask me what you should do next."

  "No, I…I know what to do now," Emmie replied, confused.

  "That's what you think. Start the car."

  "Why?"

  "Because we're going for a little drive."

  Emmie nearly told the woman to get out of her car right then and there, but she remembered the strength in Lori's fingers (and the cold) and realized the other woman could easily overpower her. Emmie's stomach churned as she turned the keys. "Okay. Where to?"

  "Easy: Home. Your home."

  Oh God. Is she going to do something to me right in my own home? Even if she doesn't, she'll know where I live -

  Lori interrupted her thoughts with: "Georgie-boy's fucking a waitress in your bed right now."

  Emmie put the car in gear without a second thought.

  Ten minutes later she found out Lori was right. They stood outside Emmie's bedroom window, and this time they could hear both George and a woman whose voice Emmie didn't know.

  Emmie felt her throat fill with bile. "He told me he was going out of town! He lied to me! Motherfucker!"

  "Nah, Emmie," Lori corrected, "right now he's a waitressfucker."

  "I can't fucking believe it - !" Emmie hissed, her ha
nds balling into fists.

  "Believe it, honey, because it's happening. And it's going to keep happening, because that's just how Georgie is."

  "But…" Emmie said, and was ashamed at the hot tears spreading over her cheeks, "…I thought we were back on track. We were doin' great - "

  "C'mon, honey, don't be a fool. They all fuck around, all the time," Lori said, her strange twitching eyes jumping from Emmie's to the house and back again. "The only question is what you're gonna do about it."

  "I don't know," Emmie said, pacing a few steps, feeling her nails chip as she ground them against her own palms. She suddenly turned back on Lori furiously. "You were the one who told me to take control - "

  "Yeah, but you couldn't keep it. There's only way to do that, Emmie: Kill that fuckin' bastard."

  Emmie felt both a chill of revulsion and great, obscene glee sweep through her. "What?!"

  "Wait until the girl leaves, then take that old pistol of his in there and blow him away."

  Emmie stared at the woman in disbelief, and for the first time she realized:

  She's crazy.

  "I'm not going to do that - "

  "C'mon, he needs to fuckin' pay for this."

  Emmie backed away, scared. "Yeah, but…"

  Lori stepped closer to her, and Emmie suddenly realized she'd backed up against the house and there was nowhere else to go. Lori reached out and her arms went around Emmie…

  …and Emmie felt something like fire, and like ice, slide into her. It entered through the spine, and Emmie stiffened as it curled up through her guts, her head, and finally settled into her heart.

  The next thing she knew, she had George's gun in her hand, and it felt so good there, so right, and she burned as she walked down the hallway towards the bedroom, and George was alone (when did the waitress leave? She couldn't remember), and the gun went off (more than once), and for a moment Emmie was deafened.

  George was dead.

  He'd taken at least three bullets at close range, and his blood had spattered everything in the room, including Emmie. Emmie lowered the gun and stared, feeling something wild rising in her, something primal. She let it come…

  …and then she felt cold hands on her shoulders, and there was a voice in her ear, whispering:

  "It's good, isn't it?"

  She nodded, absorbing the smells of the gun and the blood, and then the chill fingers were around her and gripping her breasts, kneading them, and Emmie was almost instantly perched on the edge of orgasm. One hand slid down to her crotch, under the hem of her jeans and panties, and Emmie gasped as something icy slithered into her, pumping at her, and then Emmie screamed as the orgasm took her, but this one went beyond simple sex into something Emmie couldn't name, something so deeply at her root that it felt like she'd just fucked God

  And when the last wave of pleasure passed, the voice behind her murmured again: "So you listen to me now…"

  She did.

  It was hard work, cleaning up after the murder.

  Fortunately it was late, and none of the neighbors gave any sign that they'd heard the shots. Lori said getting rid of the body was first, so Emmie used the blood-soaked sheet to drag George's heavy body down the hallway and out to his truck. She drove the truck two miles to a heavy wooded area, then tried her best to settle him in the driver side. She used a towel to wipe the truck clean of her fingerprints.

  By the time she'd walked back home the first hints of dawn were in the sky, but she still had a few more hours of work in front of her, wiping down the walls and the floor, putting the rest of the bedding in a big black plastic trashbag that she'd dispose of later.

  She'd have to buy new sheets.

  And through it all, she felt only that needle of icefire that now inhabited her heart, and a grim satisfaction at knowing that George got what he deserved.

  *** ***

  "They'll get easier every time, from now on," Lori says, with a grin that reveals her stained and crooked teeth.

  *** ***

  They did get easier, and Emmie got good at it.

  The first one (after George, that is) was a truckdriver she met in the parking lot of The Last Resort. He cornered Emmie against his truck, and in the past a moment like this - with his arm over her, virtually pinning her into place - would have terrified her.

  But tonight George's pistol was in her purse.

  They crawled into the little space behind the truck cab, where the driver had a bed, complete with photos of spread beavers tacked to the walls. Emmie tore his shirt buttons off with her teeth, and he cackled with glee. The thought of what she was about to do already had her nearly dripping, and the driver couldn't believe his luck as she tore off first her jeans, then his. He was already hard, and although he was disappointingly small, she lowered himself onto him eagerly. His hands reached up and held onto her breasts as if they were handles while she rode him, groaning. They both came quickly, in minutes.

  Then Emmie reached back into her purse, got the gun, and shot him.

  Only one shot this time, through what she guessed was the heart, and there was blood but it was flowing around his convulsing body, and she quickly raised herself off him and grabbed her clothes.

  She was dressed and back in her own car two minutes later. No one else had been in the parking lot. She hadn't even gone into the bar.

  No problem.

  She did five more over the next two months.

  *** ***

  After the fifth one (a short-order cook who'd followed her out of the supermarket one night), Emmie realized she hadn't seen Lori in a while, so she headed over to The Last Resort.

  Lori was there, at the same table near the back - and deep in conversation with another woman.

  Emmie froze, and felt the (now-familiar) rage rising.

  The other woman's back was to the door, and Lori could see her shoulders shaking slightly, her head bowed. She was crying. And Lori was smiling at her.

  Emmie stalked forward until she'd reached the table, where she glared down, first at Lori and then her companion. The other woman.

  "Who's this?" she demanded.

  Lori looked up at her and smiled casually - but her eyes still had that old tremor, the one that used to leave Emmie so unnerved. "This conversation doesn't involve you, so fuck off."

  Emmie didn't move, except to finger one of the empty beer bottles that littered the table. "I think it does involve me."

  The other woman was very young, maybe not even twenty yet, and Emmie felt a quick pang of sympathy as she saw several large bruises splayed out across her face. Then Lori was rising, slowly, and Emmie's pity changed to wariness. "You know, I can take back what I gave you, you stupid cunt."

  Emmie flinched, and felt the shard in her heart tremble. "What are you talking about? You didn't give me anything - "

  Lori suddenly stepped forward, and her hand was in Emmie's chest, and Emmie could feel something impossibly cold moving around in her…

  …and suddenly the icefire was gone from her heart, and she saw what she'd done, and the strength went out of her. She fell to her knees behind the other woman's chair, gasping, clutching at her empty heart.

  "Oh Jesus…oh fuckin' hell, what did I do…"

  The truckdriver…the soldier on leave…the fat guy with a picture of his wife on his visor…the bald one who liked to talk…the cook…and George, oh Christ, she'd loved George and she'd killed him…

  She was wailing, and the bartender, Big Joe, rushed out from behind the bar and knelt next to her. She grabbed on to his massive arms, clinging to them desperately. "Lori told me - she told me to, and I - "

  Big Joe tried to calm her down, stroking her fingers. "Hold on there, gal, who's Lori?"

  Emmie nodded at the woman standing three feet away, grinning madly. "Her! Lori! Right there!"

  Big Joe followed her gaze, then turned back to her, puzzled. "There ain't nobody there - "

  Emmie turned wide eyes on him. "Lori, right there, are you crazy?!"


  Then Emmie realized the other woman, the young one with the battered face, had turned and was eyeing her, perplexed. "Her name's not Lori. It's Susan."

  Suddenly Big Joe's jaw worked for a moment, and he stiffened. "What's this 'Lori' look like?"

  Emmie laughed once, harshly. "What do you mean, just look at her! She's got blonde hair, bad teeth - "

  Big Joe finished: " - skin's kinda red and leathery?"

  "Yes," Emmie said.

  Big Joe pried Emmie's grip off him and backed away. "I'm gonna call the cops."

  "What… " Emmie started, but didn't know what else to say.

  Big Joe turned back once before he stepped behind the bar to get the phone. "'Lori' and 'Susan' were both aliases she used…Jesus, I figured we'd finally seen the last of her when they executed her. For all those men she killed…"

  Emmie's eyes jerked back to the woman she knew as Lori, and the woman was laughing, great gales of insane howling laughter that Emmie knew only she and the young woman could hear.

  That other woman suddenly stood and turned, and Emmie saw she wasn't crying any more. Instead she smiled, and there was a strange jitter to her eyes. "I gotta go home and fuck my husband," she said.

  Later, Emmie was still screaming in the back of the police car as it drove away from The Last Resort.

  Lisa Morton

  Lisa Morton is the author of four books of non-fiction, two novellas, one novel, six feature films, lots of television you've never heard of, and nearly 50 works of short fiction. She is a four-time winner of the Bram Stoker Award, most recently for her first novel The Castle of Los Angeles, and is also a recipient of the Black Quill Award. Lisa is one of the world's leading experts on Halloween, and has been seen in documentaries on The History Channel and in the pages of The Wall Street Journal. She lives in North Hollywood, California, and can be found online at www.lisamorton.com

  Rock, Rock, Never Stop

  by Joe McKinney

  "But this changes everything," Isaac Glassman said. "You see that, right? I mean you gotta see that. We can't… I mean, Steve, you can't… I mean, shit, he's dead. Tommy Grind is dead! How can you say nothing's changed?"