by Jade Kerrion
“How old were you, young lady, when the Waffen-Schutzstaffel came for your family?”
He grinned. Even though it was Halloween and nearly midnight, he had no belief in ghosts or demons or spirits. He had no belief in anything except that which made him money, that which pleasured him and that which his small group of neo-Nazis might yet achieve in the upcoming state elections.
Howard sighed and pulled his finger away from the warmth of the skinshade. Or, he tried to. It seemed his finger was stuck. The lamp leaned his way as if to topple into his lap.
“Shit!” he cursed. “Did that fucking spy have his own fun with you?”
Howard could envision the agent jacking off to the two pink aureoles, then coming hard at the thought of fucking a dead girl. He giggled.
“Hello, Howard,” said a voice that came from the skinshade.
His hand, still stuck to the lampshade, froze as much as his heart froze. He looked around the study, seeking the speaker, thinking his chauffeur had planned this whole thing as a silly Halloween joke. “Miguel? Miguel, where are you!”
“Miguel is asleep, Howard. Too much tequila,” said the skinshade’s little girl voice.
He stared at the shade. At something that spoke with no mouth, no eyes, no body beyond the skin strip.
“Who, uh . . . what are you?”
“I am Judith Wischnjatskaya, formerly of Byten, Poland, a place now ruled by Belarus,” said the lampshade. “And I am the ghost of the soul that was me.”
An oval face took shape above the lamp’s top, a pale white face with black hair. Black eyes peered intently at him.
“Let go of me.”
“No.” Judith the ghost smiled at him. “Untie me from this lamp. I feel a need to . . . stretch.”
Howard debated calling for help on his pocket cell. But then someone official would see the lampshade, ask questions, maybe even confiscate it. He reached out, pulled the lamp into his lap, and began untying the cord that secured the skinshade. The girl’s face floated in front of him now, at about arm’s distance. She smiled.
“Good. Keep on untying me.”
Howard did as directed. Eventually he held a Mercator map strip of human skin in both hands, his right fingers still suck to the surface. Above the skin hovered her face. Below the skin floated her hips, groin and legs.
“There. You are free. Let me go.”
“No.” Her eyes bored into his. “Bring me closer, Howard.”
“What the fuck!”
Her eyes smiled a bit. “Fucking would be a bit hard since this scrap of me lacks that part of me. But my scrap will suffice for this chore. Bring me closer. Close enough to see the dimple below my left breast.”
Howard pulled his arms in, bringing the skinshade within inches of his eyes. She did indeed have a dimple under her left aureole.
“Closer, Howard.”
How did she know his name? How could she speak English instead of her native Polish? How could . . .
“Closer! Smell me, Howard.”
What a weird little girl ghost. He brought the skinshade close enough to touch his nose. She smelled . . . gamey, like dead flesh exposed too long to sunlight. But tanned flesh should not . . .
The skinshade wrapped itself around his face and head, enveloping him, enclosing him.
“Hey! Stop—”
He couldn’t breathe. Shaking with fury he grabbed at the edges of the skinshade and pulled hard.
The skinshade melted through his fingers, enveloping him like a second skin. It blocked his nose and mouth and ears. She blocked his breathing. She had wanted to stretch, she had said.
As his thoughts spun in circles, Howard Wolfson heard her final words as an image of mountains of human corpses filled his mind’s eye.
“Never again,” the little girl from a lost village in ancient Poland said. “Never again.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: T. Jackson King/Tom writes hard science fiction, anthropological sci-fi, dark fantasy/horror and contemporary fantasy/magic realism. He’s worked as an archaeologist in the American Southwest and has traveled widely in Europe, Russia, Japan, Canada, Mexico and the United States. He began reading sci-fi in the fourth grade, but didn’t write his first novel until age 38, and it was rejected. His publications include Star Vigilante (2012), The Gaean Enchantment (2012), Little Brother’s World (2010), Judgment Day And Other Dreams (2009), Ancestor’s World (1996), and Retread Stop (1988). Tom lives in Los Alamos, NM with his wife Cathy.
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LITTLE GIRLS SQUEALING IN THE YARD
by Lalo La’Fleur
Little girls squeal in the yard… Playing with our spoons and cups in the white sand of Mamaw’s front yard; making sand cakes, stirring and mixing. The sun shines down on us, the sky blue and cloudless. Nothing could be heard except the wind through the trees. You could hear a car coming for miles before it got there. When they passed by, there was the obligatory wave. Everybody waved. I was always just a visitor at Mamaw’s house, as were my cousins. But we waved because everyone waved. It’s just what people did in the South.
We played in the front yard because we were not allowed in the back yard. Not without adult supervision. The well was back there. The boogeyman lived in the well.
So we played in the front yard. Digging in the sand, playing hide-and-seek behind the huge oak trees that grew there. It was a huge front yard with a large circle drive made of red clay. The area right in front of the house was white sand. It sure felt great to run barefoot in that white sand.
But one day while we were playing in the front yard, my cousin squealed. She was a squealer for sure. She pointed across the road to the woods. I looked. And I saw what she saw: the face of a wolf. It did not move. It was a distance from us, and it blended into the trees and surrounding brush. But there was no mistaking it. The wolf was watching us.
We had been cautioned against mad animals. Animals that had hydrophobia. Mamaw had one come up one day and get under the house. A mad wolf or fox. It stayed up under the house and the hound dogs fought with it all day long. I imagine her being there alone and having to listen to those animal sounds all day. The growling and snapping and biting. The pitiful whining of the dogs when one of them got bit by the mad animal. We never knew for sure what it was. But I think it was a wolf.
Since they were all up under the house, she could not shoot it. She was worried though, my uncle was coming home on the school bus. What would she do when he got home? They had to kill all their hounds after the run in with the mad fox or wolf or whatever it was. The grownups always talked about that in hushed whispers. They did not want us to hear.
So my cousin and I did what little girls do. We squealed our high-pitched squeals and turned and ran to the house as fast as we could, looking back to see if the wolf was chasing us. He didn’t. But I often looked out across the road while we were playing. And I swear he was there. Watching us. Always watching us.
Maybe that’s why I had the dream. Or maybe it was not a dream at all. Maybe the mad fox or mad wolf or whatever had gotten under the house had not been mad at all.
I woke up in one of the back bedrooms and slipped into the main living room. They did not see me; I was a stealthy child. They were all sitting there like normal. Except that they were wolves. They had wolf faces and big teeth. Long snouts. They walked and sat upright like people, but they were wolves. Wolf people. That is when I knew for sure what had been under the house that day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: I have been writing for many years, however, I am new to self-published fiction. I am so new that I don’t have a book out yet. I hope to publish the first book of my paranormal/fantasy romance series in December 2012.
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TENDER MOMENTS
by Massimo Marino
He liked those moments of infinite sweetness, when time seemed suspended. They meant life to him. Cleaning was the hard part, though. Amy loved a pristine house.
***
“MISSING FOR NINE DAYS.”
The words took the full width of the newspaper. He nodded to the boy.
“Oh, that’s for Johnny, sir. He went missing. No one has seen anything...this is a peaceful county.”
“Must be peaceful for Johnny now, too.”
The boy looked puzzled; he didn’t get the pun.
“Listen. Any motels around?”
“No, sir. We don’t want troubles with people coming and goin’. This is a...”
“Peaceful county. Got it.”
“That’s $32, sir.”
***
He hated driving in dreadful weather and that night the weather was crazy. He didn’t know the roads either which added to his frustration.
“Fuck!” Water wet his shoulder. He needed to change cars, not just his life.
He saw the rusty mailbox in a lucky blink. He hadn’t seen any sign of life for miles and he was tired, too. He stopped when he reached the house. The flat wooden cottage had a side barn and it was engulfed in darkness. The door opened and a tall silhouette filled the entire space of its frame.
“Howdy! I think I’m lost. And the weather isn’t helping...”
The tall man didn’t react. A long awkward moment, time dangling like that in a bad voting system. He stepped forward.
“I could spend the night...maybe in the barn?” He pointed to the car. “Roof’s leaking...”
He couldn’t see the man’s face. The silhouette advanced and he saw the man was smiling. Good, smiling is always good.
“Sure...that’s nothing,” the man said, waving to the pitch dark and rainy sky. “But it will get worse. Get the car in the barn.”
***
The living room was neat with lots of little details only a lovely wife could care for. “So...here for business?” The man asked while they shared a beer.
“Yeah. You married, sir?”
The man looked around and smiled. “Indeed. You can tell, huh? She’s visiting her sister in San Francisco.” Both men smiled.
“What kind of business?” the man asked.
“I...represent people. I took a detour. I want to reach Boise tomorrow. There might be some business there.”
“Have a meeting?”
“No. Just exploring.”
“I see...” The man paused. “Well, you need to get up early then. You can’t drive fast on these roads.”
“Sure, though the scenery is fantastic.”
“Mountains always are. By Halloween, they are a joy of colors. Amy loves this season.”
“Your wife...” It wasn’t a question, and the man just nodded.
“Let me have you try a specialty of the house,” the man stood up and went to the kitchen. He came back with two glasses.
“Here, taste this. A pure mountain specialty.” It was very strong, but delicious.
***
The pain in his mouth was excruciating. And what was that smell? Someone was cooking. He couldn’t move. Tied up and hung like a pig, his entire body was spinning. Semi-conscious, he still felt the blade violating his neck. Right below his ear, then pulled out with force, cutting into one of his carotid arteries.
***
The county sheriff knocked on the door. It was pouring rain again.
“Hi, Doug.”
“Sheriff.”
“I know I’m wasting my time, but have you seen a tourist driving around here these days?”
“A tourist? You gotta be kidding.”
“Yeah...”
“Hey, before you go, I have tongue and kidney pudding. Killed a pig this week.”
“Nahh, thanks but I’ll pass. Gotta go. And...so sorry for the loss of your wife, Doug. Amy was a fine lady.”
“Sure. Anytime, Sheriff.”
***
He loved those moments of infinite sweetness when hearts slowly stop and lives fade, trembling under his hand like a candle’s flame in an evening breeze. Cleaning was the hard part, though. Amy loved a pristine house.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Massimo Marino has a scientist background. He spent years at CERN and at the Lawrence Berkeley Lab in California, then had leading positions with Apple Inc. and the World Economic Forum. His debut novel Daimones, volume 1 of the Daimones Trilogy, is among the first listed for sci-fi and post-apocalypse in Amazon.
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BLOOD RELATION
by Patrick Ottuso
“Phillip, come down now!”
Uh-oh, what did I do now, thought Phillip Rauther. He approached his father cautiously as he saw his angered red face staring at the kitchen floor. The crushed Cheerio was alone on the smooth, polished kitchen floor, awaiting recognition.
“Yours?” his father asked.
“I’m sure,” replied his unprotective mother, pointing her spindly finger at him. Phillip removed his shirt, revealing multiple purple raised linear scars along his entire back. He bent over, knowing what was to come. His father’s leather belt didn’t sting any more, the scars too thick to allow the nerves to feel the whipping. Only when the buckle bit into the deeper skin or hit the bone of his spine did he feel pain. His mother’s wooden spoon made even a lesser impact.
He ran upstairs after the beating, showered away the peeling scar tissue and blood and wrapped his back in a towel. Sleep was his only solitude. On the way to school the next day, the two-mile walk, though tiring, allowed Phillip to think. For the thousandth time, as he passed the community fountain with the statue of Michael the archangel, he wished for a brother. He needed someone.
The bright flash of lightning startled Phillip as he noted the blue sky. Did I just see a flash, he thought and soon forgot. Math class was boring... he hated fractions and decimals. The burning on the back of his neck stirred him from his daydream. A small lump was forming on the back of his neck just below his hairline. Must be a bite, thought Phillip.
By the time Phillip got home from school, the lump had grown bigger and more tender. Not telling mom about this, he swore! He stayed in his room for the rest of the day; Tuesday was an “off day” for dinner. They couldn’t afford nightly meals. Before bed, Phillip placed a hot hand cloth on the lump, hoping that it would drain. The throbbing was getting worse. He fell asleep, praying that the pain on his neck would fade. In the early morning hours, Phillip felt a pop; the pain in his neck had gone. He fell asleep knowing he was better. He didn’t see the small sphere drop from the bed and roll near the bedroom door.
Phillip woke and thought he was looking in the mirror! No, it was an image of himself sitting on the bedroom floor. “Hello Phillip, how do you feel?”
“Whoooo a-a-aarrre y-youuu?” stuttered Phillip in fear.
“I’m Steven, your brother. You don’t have to worry about your folks anymore,” Steven said with a wry smile.
Phillip followed his newfound (newly formed) brother down the hall, his parent’s room slightly ajar. Steven nodded his head, urging Phillip to enter. The room was splattered bright red (Wasn’t their room painted yellow? thought Phillip), revealing the slaughter. His father, shirtless, hung from the ceiling fixture. The leather belt buckle was neatly placed under his chin. Deep red whip lines all along his back dripped clotting blood on the parquet floor.
His mother appeared to be watching the swinging corpse as she sat in a corner of the room. The staring eyes though, did not blink. Her mouth was agape, the wooden spoon jutting from the back of her throat.
Phillip turned to Steven and smiled. “Let’s go out and play,” he said to his sibling.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Patrick Ottuso is a dermatologist in Vero Beach Florida. Prior to moving from the Bronx, New York to Florida, Dr. Ottuso completed residencies in Internal Medicine and Dermatology. Kills 99.9% The Next Pandemic? is Dr. Ottuso’s first novel.
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GRANDMA TO THE RESCUE
by Sharon L Reddy
Clara pulled over and stopped when she saw the call on her cell phone was from h
er son. He sounded too relieved when she answered.
“What's wrong?”
“I'm stuck here and Gail is stuck in traffic. Carly picked up the girls and is getting them ready, but she can't stay past six and it doesn't look like either of us is going to get there in time to take them to their party.”
“Tell her 6:03. Too many kids not to be ultra-watchful.”
“Make sure Tina's mask doesn't hinder her vision, Mom.”
“If it did, it'll have a paperclip on it somewhere that fixed it. I'll watch for clip flip and take extras.”
“I wonder if she's ever used one on paper. Takes lots of pictures, Mom.”
“And some for you, too.”
Clara pulled into the drive at the home of the girl having the party, did a bit of “Grandma magic” to the paper clip on Tina's werewolf mask and then walked the girls to the door. A quite young and somewhat harried-looking man answered the door. He had a bat decoration in his hand.
“Hi, it's running a little late.”
“Traffic.”
“Julie, my sister, went in the last minute and got stuck.”
“Which do you want, prep or trick-or-treat escort duty?”
“I'm official escort and last time I heated caramel for apples, it was rock candy.”
“Girls, Grandma's headed for the kitchen. You help Mandy and her uncle get the decorations done.”
More kids began to arrive before Clara got to the kitchen. She watched the young man, Dave, herd the children out a few minutes later and took many pictures.
Julie got home before the kids got back, but Clara stayed and helped. When the party was over at 8:30, she took the girls home and waved her camera to her son as they ran up the walk. When she got home, she downloaded the pictures and sent them.
“Werewolves and vampires, fairies and goblins, such fantasy and imagination. I love Halloween.”
She called her cat and stepped across her broom. She had a party to attend, too.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Avant garde author Sharon L Reddy has won five literary awards, only two in experimental categories. An e-publishing veteran, Ms. Reddy's highly developed style, strong characterizations and socially relevant complex plots have won praise from Paul Zimmer, Gordon R. Dickson, Dr. Jack Cohen and the founder of Fandomonium, Marji Holt. She currently has thirty published titles, seven of which are bundled works, including the acclaimed ten-novel series, Paradox Equation.