by Samie Sands
One Of Us
This cult will never let you go...
Compiled by Samie Sands
Copyright © 2020 All rights reserved.
Copyright: No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including scanning, photocopying, recording or other electronic mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the copyright holder.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
One Of Us
Death Metal: Midnight Maniac | Armand Rosamilia
Armand Rosamilia
Only the Lonely | Sheri Velarde
Sheri Velarde
Street Fail | Thomas M. Malafarina
Thomas M. Malafarina
The Play of Dionysus | Alexander Bailey
Alexander Bailey
Wingreen Uprising | C.L. WIlliams
C.L. Williams
Gushers: Zoe’s Secret Club | Chuck Buda
Chuck Buda
The Visit | Danny Campbell
Danny Campbell
Who Did It | Katie Jaarsveld
Katie Jaarsveld
The Sanctuary of Father Soone | Greg Bennett
Greg Bennett
The Cult of Kayako | Kevin S. Hall
Kevin S. Hall
‘The One’ | Samie Sands
Samie Sands
The Witches Bite | Linda Jenkinson
Linda Jenkinson
Day of the Clowns | Lila L. Pinord
Lila L. Pinord
Ghost | Jonny Graham
Jonny Graham
Maggot | Arnaldo Lopez Jr.
Arnaldo Lopez Jr.
Death Metal: Midnight Maniac by Armand Rosamilia
Only the Lonely by Sheri Velarde
Street Fail by Thomas M. Malafarina
The Play of Dionysus by Alexander Bailey
Wingreen Uprising by C.L. WIlliams
Gushers: Zoe’s Secret Club by Chuck Buda
The Visit by Danny Campbell
Who Did It by Katie Jaarsveld
The Teachings of Father Soone by Greg Bennett
The Cult of Kayako by Kevin S. Hall
‘The One’ by Samie Sands
The Witches Bite by Linda Jenkinson
Day of the Clowns by Lila L. Pinord
Ghost by Jonny Graham
Maggot by Arnaldo Lopez Jr.
Death Metal: Midnight Maniac
Armand Rosamilia
It coulda been you, Marq thought, standing over the cooling body. It shoulda been you.
Marq was perspiring despite the falling snow. Despite the bitter cold and wearing only a thin t-shirt and his jeans, now soaked with cold water and blood.
“You did good, son,” his father said with a nod, before turning away to wipe the tears.
Did I? It was survival. Either her or me, Marq thought. I did what I had to do... or did I? Did anyone have to die tonight? I’ve stepped over a line.
Later, there would be time to process what he’d done, what had been set into motion, but for right now he’d begun to shiver.
I’ll catch a damn cold and die of pneumonia, he thought. After all this... the weather will kill me. There’d be nothing our dark god could do about it, either.
“Natas will be proud,” one of those gathered said quietly. Marq didn’t think they sounded like they meant or believed it.
The dozen gathered around were in shock.
None more than Marq, who’d been forced to make a move or be on the ground.
Her body was still steaming. The snow melted on her exposed entrails.
They never mention on television the smell of death, Marq thought. The horrible mix of shit, piss and blood that shouldn’t ever be out of the body. It stunk. A uniquely bitter and coppery stench.
“We’ve done all we can do. Now we wait for the signs,” his father said. He’d stopped crying, his face a stern mask again. He no longer looked at the body. He’d made peace with it, which made Marq want to cry. Scream. Punch his father and the rest of the group.
“It’s after midnight. It’s done. She won’t hurt us any longer,” another person said behind Marq. he didn’t know who and it didn’t really matter. They were all the same. Dressed the same. Talked the same. Thought the same.
She’d never hurt anyone, Marq thought. She’d been selected randomly. Or had she?
His father had made it seem like their dark god had chosen her for this specific sacrifice, but Marq knew she’d begun to question his authority. His preachings. The things he said had been passed down from the main group and what Natas wanted from their small congregation.
No one moved despite the proclamation it was over.
Marq knew his father had selected her. This was firmly on his shoulders. He’d had no vision. He hadn’t consulted anyone above him and definitely not had a vision or a sign from their dark god.
He’d done it on his own because he didn’t like being questioned by anyone. Even her.
“We’ll reconvene in two nights. At midnight. In the next spot,” his father said. “Look for the encrypted email by dinner time tomorrow.”
This seemed to satisfy the group, who began to move slowly away, no one glancing at her body as it looked to be finally cooled.
“Be careful,” his father said. “This storm is going to be rough the next day or so.”
One of the women stopped. “What if we can’t reach the next meeting place because of the snow?”
His father looked angry. He waved his hand. “Natas has never hindered our meetings. Do you doubt he’d do it now?”
The threat was obvious. The woman glanced at the body, shivered, and walked away.
Marq needed a hot shower so he could wash the blood off of his hands. So he could cry and properly grieve for her loss and what he’d had to do.
“Let’s go before the authorities come and find you standing over your mother with her blood on you,” his father said. “Hungry?”
MARQ HAD OFF FROM SCHOOL the next day and spent it in bed, coming out only when he knew his father had gone to work despite the weather.
He was about to call out to his mother when he realized what had happened last night. What he’d done.
The rest of the day he listened for the sounds of his father coming home early because of the storm, or the police banging on the door to arrest him.
It was his father who came home just after dark, knocking on Marq’s door. “Time for dinner.”
Marq tried to relax. Be confident. Be cheery if possible. His father wouldn’t stand for weakness or questions.
What was done was done now.
Marq went into the kitchen, where his father was seated at the table, arms crossed.
“What’s for dinner?” Marq asked.
His father frowned. “With her gone it falls to you to be the housewife.”
Marq thought he was kidding. I’m nearly a man. I killed my mother last night. I’m not going to be the house bitch, he thought. “I didn’t make anything... I just thought...”
“You didn’t think.” His father shook his head. “Make something edible. You got an hour before I come back from the shrine.”
His father went through the back door and into the garage, kicking up the snow as he went.
Marq knew he was supposed to have gone out to pray himself but he’d never gotten around to it. His father was going to be mad when he saw the shrine untouched. The D.T.C. albums still in their record sleeves and the record player turned off.
He’d screwed up. Forgotten to go through the motions and done the daily rituals to appease their dark god.
Natas would not be pleased with Marq.
Neither would his father.
With shaking hands he figured out how to
make mac and cheese from the box as well as microwaving a bag of broccoli.
“No rice?” His father asked when he’d finished outside. The lights had flickered a couple of times and the snow was even heavier, the back porch light wavering in the driving snow.
“I can make some,” Marq said. He’d opened a beer for his father and set it on the table.
“What’s this?” His father lifted the plate Marq had set in front of his mother’s spot. He’d done it unconsciously because he always set the table. “Put it away.”
Marq did as he was told.
“Get yourself a beer,” his father said.
“I’m not old enough.”
His father snorted. “You killed for the Order. For Natas. You’re a man now. Get a beer.”
Marq ate dinner in silence with his father, sipping on the beer, which was awful. He cleared the table and made sure to go out to the garage and play Eighth Way To Die from D.T.C. and let the lyrics sink in, becoming one with the music and the haunting voice.
The album washed over him and Marq knew what he had to do.
He hadn’t gotten inspiration from the music. He’d had time to think about everything and that was enough.
THE SNOW HAD SLOWED to an occasional flake but the cold was still brutal. They’d all met again, this time in an abandoned supermarket lot.
It always had to be outside in order for natas to hear their prayers and pleas.
Bundled against the chill, Marq had his hands in pockets and kept moving his legs to keep the warmth in them. He’d move around the group, trying to get behind the bigger ones to block the wind.
“I’ve had another vision,” his father said to the group. “We need another sacrifice. In two weeks we’ll go to the city and ask to join with the main group. It’s the only way we can survive.”
A few people gasped but no one said anything against the plan.
In the two years since Marq had been old enough to be part of the Order there’d only been two sacrifices. Having two in the same week was unheard of.
The woman who’d asked about the snow at the last meeting was singled out, which was no surprise to Marq. He knew now his father had no visions. Natas didn’t talk directly to him.
It was all about the power. All about selfishness and fear. Natas didn’t have time to communicate with someone as low as his father, who’d been able to control the small group by keeping them away from the main group.
Marq wanted to ask why the sudden change.
Instead he let his father ramble about changes and how he’d need a new wife since the last had been a traitor, questioning his authority and trying to run away.
“Natas is everywhere,” his father said. “Natas will use us as his instruments.” He turned and pointed at Marq. “This is our new instrument. He will cleanse those who oppose the Order.”
“I asked a question,” the woman said.
His father turned and smacked the woman across the mouth, dropping her to the snow. “You dare question me again and I’ll make sure you die slowly, bitch.”
Marq stepped forward, pushing past his father. “I’ll handle this.”
His father smiled. “Behold. Natas speaks through me and my son now.”
Marq nodded. “I know what to do and why. Natas has shown me the light.”
The knife was in his hand and he stood next to the woman, putting the cold blade to her neck.
She began to plead for her life but Marq put a finger to his lips.
His father began to chant and the others joined in, most looking away at what was about to happen.
Marq could smell the fear and he knew it was right.
“Will you make a good wife?” Marq asked the woman.
She looked confused.
“I will need a wife now that I’m your leader,” Marq said.
He turned and struck his father in his exposed neck, the words he was chanting gurgling forth before the blood began to spray.
Marq stabbed him ten more times in the face. “Remove his jacket so I can perform the proper ritual.”
The others stripped his father, who was still alive, weak fingers grasping his torn neck, his punctured eyes unseeing.
Marq smiled and turned to the woman, motioning her to rise. “You will be my wife. Move in with me. Show me how to be a man in the bedroom.” He stared at the others. “You will serve me from this moment. We shall not join with the others. They will join with us. Natas has spoken to me.”
The others smiled as Marq began stabbing his father’s dead body over and over.
This is for mother, Marq thought.
ARMAND’S NOTE: this story loosely ties into my upcoming Death Metal supernatural horror re-release from Stitched Smile Publications. Death Metal was the very first book I ever sold and the rewrite of it is both challenging and inspiring for me as an author. I hope you enjoy this small little glimpse into the world.
Armand Rosamilia
Armand Rosamilia is a New Jersey boy currently living in sunny Florida, where he writes when he's not sleeping. He's happily married to a woman who helps his career and is supportive, which is all he ever wanted in life...
He's written over 150 stories that are currently available, including horror, zombies, contemporary fiction, thrillers and more. His goal is to write a good story and not worry about genre labels.
He not only runs two successful podcasts...
Arm Cast: Dead Sexy Horror Podcast - interviewing fellow authors as well as filmmakers, musicians, etc.
The Mando Method Podcast with co-host Chuck Buda - talking about writing and publishing
But he owns the network they're on, too! Project Entertainment Network
He also loves to talk in third person...because he's really that cool.
You can find him at http://armandrosamilia.com for not only his latest releases but interviews and guest posts with other authors he likes!
and e-mail him to talk about zombies, baseball and Metal: [email protected].
Only the Lonely
Sheri Velarde
Looking back Mike could remember the exact moment that led to this...
He had been shopping for groceries just like he did every Wednesday morning, getting the senior discount. Out of the blue the woman in front of him in line struck up a conversation. “Isn’t sad that at our age this is usually the highlight of our week?”
Mike just laughed, “How did you guess?”
“Oh I know the look. Let me guess, the kids are all grown up and you hardly ever see them. Sure they call once in a while, but they just don’t seem to have time for you anymore?” The woman continued.
“Yeah pretty much. My son and his girlfriend have me over for Sunday dinners though still. So that’s actually the highlight of my week.” Mike said.
“And your wife? Or husband? No judgement here.” The woman asked.
“She passed away a long time ago. What about you? Kids grown and gone? Your husband or wife?” Mike continued the conversation, liking to have someone who understood his empty and lonely life.
“Yes, both of my girls have families of their own. The youngest lives in Texas, but the oldest still lives here. I’m lucky if I see her and the grandkids once every two weeks, they are just too busy for this old lady. I’m Mary by the way.” She stuck out her hand.
“Mike. It’s nice to meet you.” He shook her offered hand. “It’s nice to meet a kindred spirit.”
“Well if you are interested in meeting more lonely hearts like us, you should join me tomorrow night at a little group that I belong to. Since I started going I feel alive once more.” Mary said, digging in her purse and pulling out a brochure of some sort. “We meet at that hotel downtown shaped like a pyramid, the coordinator of the group thinks it’s a fitting symbol of how we are rebuilding our lives. I hope to see you there tomorrow.” Mary smiled one more time before checking out.
Mike took the brochure and shoved it into his pocket, too busy putting his groceries on the belt for ch
eckout. By the time he had paid, Mary had already left and he went about his day as normal. Later that night when he changed for bed he found the brochure in his back pocket.
The Prophet of Change invites you to create the life that you want for yourself. If you feel out of step with the rest of society, if you are looking to change your life and start living, then you have found the right group. We meet weekly to share fellowship, encourage each other to live our best lives, and learn skills to change ourselves and the world.
Underneath that was a list of classes that the group seemed to offer, a short biography of the leader, and the address of the hotel Mary had mentioned earlier. “Sounds like a bunch of mumbo jumbo, but what have I got to lose?”
The next evening, Mike showed up at the appointed time, looking around for Mary. “Welcome brother, are you a new believer?” A man asked as Mike entered the meeting room.
“Well this is my first time here, so I don’t know if I believe in anything.” Mike answered.
The man just smiled. “Welcome friend. You will believe soon enough.” He handed Mike a small book and ushered him into the room.
Mike caught sight of Mary and hurried towards her, “You talked me into coming.” He said as he sat down next to her.
“How wonderful! I’m so glad you came tonight. You are going to love this group.” Mary beamed at him.
“It sounds a little bit like a cult, are you sure these people are on the up and up?” Mike asked in a whisper.
Mary just laughed. “Oh don’t be so dramatic. We are a bit new age here, but we are hardly a cult. Just listen with an open mind. The Prophet has taught me so much. I used to be lonely and depressed, now I feel like I’m thriving. I’m happier now in my sixties than I have ever been in my life. You know the Prophet is a psychologist right? He really knows what he is talking about, he just teaches it in a rather unorthodox way. You’ll see, this will change everything for you.”
Still skeptical, but happy to be out of the house and potentially making a new friend, Mike kept it to himself. Soon all the seats were filled and the doors shut. Mike could have sworn that they locked the doors too, but that he must be imaging things. Then from behind a screen came the man he could only assume was “The Prophet”. The man seemed to be a little younger than Mike, he would guess about mid-fifties. Small, balding, and mousy looking didn’t give off the vibe of being a prophet. But once he began to speak Mike understood why the room was packed, talk about presence.