Morbid Metamorphosis

by Lycan Valley Press

  MORBID METAMORPHOSIS

  Terrifying Tales of Transformation

  Edited by Robert Nelson

  Cover Design by Greg Chapman

  Copyright © 2017 by Lycan Valley Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, including in print, electronic form or by mechanical means, without written permission from the publisher, author or individual copyright holder except for in the case of a book reviewer, who may quote brief passages embedded in and as part of an article or review.

  Authors retain rights to individual stories under their name.

  Cover image and design © 2017 Greg Chapman

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2016

  Second Printing, 2017

  Lycan Valley Press

  1625 E. 72nd St. STE 700 PMB 132

  Tacoma, WA 98404

  LycanValleyPress@outlook.com

  This book is dedicated to you, dear reader.

  Table of Contents

  INTRODUCTION . . . . . Robert Nelson

  BECOME HIM . . . . . Greg Chapman

  JOEY’S GROVE . . . . . Roy C. Booth & R. Thomas Riley

  THE SKELLY EFFECT . . . . . Terri DelCampo

  KEEP THE CHANGE . . . . . Dave Gammon

  …AND THOU! . . . . . Nancy Kilpatrick

  CROWDED . . . . . Rod Marsden

  YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT . . . . . Jo-Anne Russell

  SPIRIT WALK ON SOUR GROUND . . . . . M.J. Preston

  THE LAKE . . . . . Stacey Turner

  THE DEATH VACCINATION . . . . . Tina Piney

  THE MOONLIGHT KILLER . . . . . Suzanne Robb

  PICKIN’ TO BEAT THE DEVIL . . . . . Franklin E. Wales

  THE CATAMOUNT . . . . . Donna Marie West

  VILE DEEDS . . . . . Suzie Lockhart

  THE CORKSCREW AND THE VOID . . . . . Cameron Trost

  PAPER TRAIL . . . . . Daniel I. Russell

  LITTLE SPARKS OF MADNESS . . . . . Simon Dewar

  UNDER THE WEIGHT OF SOULS . . . . . Amanda J. Spedding

  DANGER’S BALLS . . . . . Ken MacGregor

  EZZIE DOES IT . . . . . Erin Shaw

  FEBRILE . . . . . Gregory L. Norris

  HYDE AND SEEK . . . . . Nicholas Furr

  ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

  Introduction

  Dear Reader,

  Going through the stories from some of the most talented masters of the craft, gave me a warm feeling. There are some authors here I have the pleasure of being in anthologies and collections with. Others, I have the joy of having read and reviewed some of their books over the years. And I found some new favorite authors. A wonderful experience all around.

  One might think that an anthology involving gruesome life-altering, metamorphoses would run out of ideas and be totally bereft of an eclectic array of such offerings. But you will not be a prisoner of story after story of larvae becoming butterflies. Not by a long shot. One fascinating and unique tale after another will be paraded before you. Mixed in with rather bloody stories will be deep psychological tales that will make you think Is such a thing possible? It’s thinking persons' horror that will have you scratching your head.

  Read stories of legends of old with new twists. Become acquainted with Native American lore, the moon, lakes, a planet so crowded one is barely able to move without hindrance, accompanied by the expected starvation and adaptations needed to survive. But what form do they take? Medical advancements for greed instead of healing are never expected to work out well. Or are they?

  Words and thoughts attack minds in such a manner as to create physical and psychological manifestations taking everyone by surprise. Eating disorders jump out at you. Animals of many species morph before your very eyes. Madness and mayhem abound. Bushes and tree limbs part before you, concealing that which lurks within the shadows. Fever, souls, and dark haunts are all here, leading you by the hand. But do you allow yourself to be lead? Horrors of the haves and the have-nots whisper in your ears. Yes, atrocities are committed as big business rears its ugly head. All this and more can be found between the covers of this anthology.

  Discover, as I did, the joys of reading many different styles of writing taken from the deep recesses of the souls and minds of some of the best horror authors in the world. Gothic, modern day, and historical fiction await thee.

  Happy reading, my friends.

  Robert Nelson

  BECOME HIM

  Greg Chapman

  IT was the stink of Scott’s own blood that wrenched him from unconsciousness.

  Once Scott awoke, his nerves unleashed a searing agony unlike anything he’d ever experienced. The utter lack of light enhanced the pain a-hundred-fold. His entire body ached, but his wrists and skull were where the pain was concentrated the most. Something tight bound his wrists together and his head throbbed mercilessly. He struggled to remember his last movements. The scent of blood pushed the thoughts aside and tainted all his senses. Its coppery tang was in his nose and throat, crawling its way down into his gut, and it was all he could to stop himself from retching.

  The clang of something metal being struck drew Scott’s now acute hearing to the right. His head swam when he turned it and, if he hadn’t been sitting, he would have passed out. His erratic heart ramped up the pounding in his head. Scott opened his mouth to speak, but the words barely caught up.

  “Who’s there!?”

  A loud, hissing scrape of metal rang out in the dark and Scott cringed.

  “Who’s there god-damn it!?”

  A light flickered on and it was like machine gun fire to Scott’s eyes. He cried out and squeezed his eyelids shut, but a voice had them open a second later.

  “You have to kill me.”

  Scott wailed at the sight of the man in the room and the corpse at his feet, his girlfriend Clea. She was face down, the back of her knee-length floral dress punctured with countless stab wounds. The man stood over her body, the knife in his hand. They’d been on their second date, in the car, headed to the lookout at Galway Ridge. High-beam headlights had run them off the road.

  No... the knife was his hand.

  “Clea!?” Scott said. Blood oozed slowly from her glossy lips onto the filthy concrete floor.

  The man stepped over her remains towards Scott and the teenager was granted a closer look at his deformity. The knife blade was twelve inches long and protruded from the flesh of the man’s palm – like an extra finger. Beneath Clea’s blood the steel gleamed. He wore a tattered trench-coat and some sort pale, white mask. Through the throbbing in his head, Scott’s brain couldn’t help but connect the mask with one he knew from a memory. It was like a theatrical mask, but the eyes were closed. Yet, Scott knew the stranger could see him.

  “You have to kill me!” the murderer said.

  Scott looked away from the masked madman and inadvertently glanced at his girlfriend’s lifeless eyes. He sobbed and tried to scan the room for a means of escape.

  “Please you have to let me go!” Scott said. “Please!”

  The murderer pulled open his trench-coat, revealing his nakedness, and drew the knife across his chest. New blood flowed from flesh covered in tattoos; strange symbols turning from blue to red. Scott recoiled as his captor reached out towards him with the same slick edge.

  “No!” Scott said, writhing where he sat. “Don’t!”

  But the killer was determined and ran the hand/knife across the inside of Scott’s right ar
m with a flick of his wrist. The cut was so fast, like a sting, and the subsequent burning sensation had Scott shrieking and rolling on the floor. Through the new wave of torment Scott heard the man begging for death.

  “Kill me! Kill me!”

  The murderer hoisted Scott up and waved the knife/hand in his face.

  “Kill me!”

  It was as if they were the only words the madman was capable of speaking. He spun Scott around and thrust him against the wall. The teenager waited for the cold kiss of the knife again, across his throat or into his back. Inside his head, which raged against the pain of the wound in his arm, he pleaded for it.

  “Kill! Me!” the stranger demanded.

  Scott felt the blade snip the bonds between his hands. He was free.

  Instinct turned on like a switch in Scott’s gut, and with a war cry, the teen turned and tackled the murderer to the floor. The psychopath didn’t resist as Scott rained down a volley of punches into the man’s masked face. The fire in his arm heightened the desire to kill and he raised it high, ready to bring it down onto the killer’s mask which, up close, resembled someone sleeping.

  When a spray of blood splashed upwards into Scott’s face, he jolted in shock. How hard had he punched? Blood spurted from a hole in the mask – directly above the killer’s eye. The man released a shriek of pain and then fell silent, limp - dead.

  Confusion swelled in Scott’s mind, even louder than the pain. He looked at his hands, horrified that he hadn’t known his own strength. But it was more than that. In the centre of his right palm he saw the truth. The tip of the knife was birthed like a conqueror worm from the wound. Scott gasped for breath at the sight of it, his hand now a vessel for some violent stigmata – a weapon. He screamed and toppled over, hand out-stretched from his body, but there was no escaping the blade. It was part of him. He flicked his arm in a bid to rid himself of the deformity, but all it did was force the blade back inside. It felt as if he were being slowly stabbed in the arm, a dull aching between the bones of his lower arm. Gingerly, he pressed the flesh of his right arm with his left hand and he felt the flat surface of the blade beneath. He cried out in disbelief.

  “What’s happening to me!?”

  Scrambling to his feet, he suddenly had the answer. It lay in a spreading pool of blood at his feet. The masked stranger had the same deadly hand. Carefully, Scott bent to spread open the dead man’s right hand. There was no knife, but the diamond-shaped-hole remained, yet was now closed, like an old scar. When Scott looked at his own right hand, the scar was fresh and pulsing.

  “No! No!”

  Scott frantically scanned the room and, in the corner, near the ceiling, he saw a grimy window. He ran to it, shoving aside packing boxes and crates. The window had no latch to open it and, in a cloud of panic, he searched the floor for a way to break the glass. Then it came to him; his right hand could set him free.

  He stared at the wound in his palm, willing it to release the foul blade that was now part of his anatomy. The steel exited his flesh like a seed sprout and, cringing, he slammed the knife into the window. The glass shattered and, in a fury of desperation, Scott thrashed his hand from side to side to remove all traces of the windowpane. Cold air streamed in from the outside, and, hungry for escape, Scott bent to pull himself through. There were no thoughts of the affliction in his hand, the killer – or Clea. There was only freedom.

  ***

  Scott ran through thick forest for almost an hour before he reached the highway and hailed down a car with a family inside. His appearance and story were more than enough to warrant a call to the authorities, but when they arrived Scott was uncertain of his safety.

  On the ride in the ambulance to the hospital, Scott was escorted by two police officers, who continuously asked him questions about what happened. He told his story over and over again, but excluded the part about the knife growing inside his hand. The explanation for the wound to the paramedics was that he sustained it in the struggle with the killer. Even when he assured them he could lead them back to the cabin where the ordeal took place, they continued to look at him with suspicious eyes. The suspicion only heightened when he reached the hospital and found a detective waiting to interview him. The detective was old enough to be Scott’s grandfather and his lack of sympathy only put the teenager more on edge.

  “I told you I don’t remember how I ended up there,” Scott said from his hospital bed. Detective Michaels took down notes and Scott wondered what he was writing about him. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  Detective Michaels glanced up from his writing, his brow furrowed with many lines. “You said this was the second date with Miss...” he flicked back several pages in his notepad. “Stephens.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were going to the lookout?”

  “Yes.” The wound in his palm ached beneath the dressing.

  “Did Miss Stephens reject your advances?”

  Scott felt a cold burn of anxiety rise in his throat. “What?”

  Michaels’ face was blank. “Did you go too far, try and reach third base a little too fast?”

  “What? No!”

  “Don’t say anything more, Scott.”

  Scott’s father and mother entered the room and Scott had never felt such relief. The tears struck his face as soon as he saw them. Detective Michaels slipped his notebook away in his coat pocket. Scott could feel the detective’s judgemental eyes on him as he embraced his parents.

  “You rest now,” his father said to him. “You don’t need to talk to the police right now.”

  “Well actually,” Michaels said, stepping forward, “your son does need to speak to us. We’re still trying to corroborate his story, and find Clea Stephens, who is still missing. Her parents need to know if she’s alright.”

  “I told you what happened – that guy killed her!” Scott said, inducing more tears. “He almost killed me!”

  “Son, stop.” Scott’s father said, holding him in bed. Then he turned to face the detective. “You want to interview my son, you go through my lawyer.”

  The detective left the room, his eyes watching Scott as he left. “We’ll be in touch.”

  ***

  Scott’s parents found Scott’s version of events odd as well, leaving the teenager feeling even more helpless. His description of the killer must have sounded ludicrous and, whenever he pushed the point, his mother and father simply changed the subject or doted on him. His mother’s babying, particularly towards the wound on his right hand annoyed him in particular. Eventually he feigned tiredness and asked them to leave, which thankfully, they did.

  He was indeed tired, but his mind refused to let him rest. Instead it played back the events in the cabin like a blood-soaked kaleidoscope. With each frame he saw, his knife/hand throbbed like a bass drum, the pulse running through his entire body. He knew he wasn’t going to fall asleep on his own so he reached for the nurse call button. After a minute, a woman, who clearly wasn’t a nurse, entered.

  “Hello, Mr. Bridgman, I’m Dr. Cale,” she said.

  Scott tried to pull himself up in bed, but his whole body thrummed with pain. “H-hi...” he said.

  “You’re still experiencing some pain?” Dr. Cale said.

  “It’s not too bad...” Scott said. Dr. Cale looked too young to be a doctor, possibly only a few years older than he was. Her features were plain, but she had high defined cheekbones and shoulder length black hair. “Are you my doctor?”

  “I’m one of the doctors from the psychiatric ward. The head of emergency thought it would be best to come and see you given what happened.”

  Scott swallowed; he didn’t like the idea of a psychiatrist digging around inside his head right now.

  “Oh... ok.”

  Cale sat on the edge of his bed. “So, how are you feeling?”

  “Uh, tired and sore mostly.”

  Cale nodded. “It’s your body trying to deal with the shock of the ordeal. You’ll find you’ll be running on
adrenalin for a day or so – until your mind feels safe again.”

  Cale’s looks and voice were comforting. “Ok,” Scott said.

  “Did they give you anything for the pain?”

  “Codeine I think.”

  “Well that will make you feel tired soon enough.” She smiled. “Did you want to talk to me at all about what happened?”

  “I- I’m not sure I should.”

  “You can rest assured that whatever you tell me will be kept in the strictest confidence Mr. Bridgman.”

  He hesitated; no one had believed his account, so what would a psychiatrist think of it? “I’m sorry, but I’m really tired. I don’t think I can talk about this right now.”

  Cale stood and smiled. “I understand. When you’re ready, you just ask one of the nurses to fetch me, okay?”

  Scott nodded and took a deep breath when she was gone. He stared out the window for several minutes, until exhaustion claimed him.

  ***

  In the fit of sleep, Scott’s dreams infected him.

  He saw himself standing in an open field, screaming into a rain-streaked sky. His right hand was red with blood, the knife mocking his flesh. The greatest pain resided inside his skull, as if it were about to burst. At the end of the field a figure observed him, a shroud of shadow in the shape of the man he’d killed. When Scott looked at the figure, he knew it understood his pain.

  Scott’s knees buckled as the pain in his face intensified. He clamped his left hand over his eyes, begging for it to stop, but nothing would release him. When he pulled his hand away he saw the field was filled with corpses, their naked forms riddled with stab wounds. Each victim wore the same white mask on their faces – masks made from their own faces – visages of death.

  When Scott awoke in his hospital bed screaming, his eyes cried tears of blood.