SPOOK CITY

Sorry, but the show's over, folks. Some of you may be aware that, unfortunately, our blogsite has been plagued with technical problems for quite some time now. Could it be that perhaps the spooks that haunt our internet objected to being discussed? We were forced to shut down this site for major repairs back in August and after we were given the go ahead again, we started it back up for a few months only to find more difficulties lying in wait. With frustrations galore standing in our way, we've made the sad decision to close permanently. We're disappointed to be going, but sadder by far to wave farewell to our lovely authors who've been the highlight of our time editing the submissions. Since Dorothy Davies kicked off the blog back in November 2010 with her wonderful story, "Forever England," we feel it's a just and fitting finale for Spook City that we end with one of hers as well. Please sit back and enjoy, "The Tourist." Bye bye, everyone.

2012-01-23T01:14:00.000-08:00

"THE TOURIST" - Dorothy Davies

He was just like any other mark, you know? Scruffy sort of guy, tweed jacket, slacks with not much of a crease, bit of a stubble thing going on. Balding a bit but who isn’t? Big nose, I remember the big nose. Washed out sort of eyes, not much colour there. Looked like he hadn’t got two pound coins to rub together, if I were truthful with you.

He gets in the cab at Liverpool Street Station, wants a trip round London.

OK, I says, let’s go! Where do you wanna start, sir?

He says, that thing near the river, that tall thing you see from the sky.

I says, do you mean the Monument?

He says, I do that.

So we goes to the Monument. I sits in the cab while he climbs the 300 odd steps to the top, I sees him go round the viewing platform, I wait while he climbs back down the 300 odd steps and I think, rather him than me. I’d rather sit here in comfort, off me feet, watching the meter tick on. This is the good one; I remember thinking, the rare good one. The one we all talk about getting and few of us do. Go round London seeing all the sights. Usually from the windows, mind you, this one was different, getting out to see places, leaving the meter running.

Oh be sure I kept the meter running. I might have had Princess Diana in my cab and I would have kept the meter running. Fat chance of that, before or now. Oh but I loved that woman...

Enough! Just gotta say no one would have made me drive that fast and kill the one true beauty who walked our planet. Oh hell, here I go again...

Forget it. Let’s get back to the weird one.

I’ve been driving a cab in London all my working life, me. Love it, I do, all the people, the sights you see out the window along the streets, them’s as wanna talk to you about London and all it has to offer, them as hates it, only here on business or ‘cos they gotta be.

Not this mark, though, he was - different.

He wanted the Tower next, so we went to the Tower. And I sat outside and waited while he did the tour round, seeing those – what do you call them, the ones in the outfits? Can’t remember. Anyway, he went there.

He wanted the London Eye after that, wanted to see, what was that strange new building called? Can’t remember. Well, we went there.

He wanted Buckingham Palace, wanted to see the – damn it, where’s my memory gone! The men in red outfits and tall hats? Well, we went there.

And we went on like that. All day we went round and round London and all day ... I just realised ... my memory got worse and worse till I could hardly remember how to get from one place to the other. Like I was in a fog, you know?

And come to think on it, he got –

Smarter and smarter as the day went on, clothes got better, he got more hair, he got less beard. His eyes got more colour. And I got – older.

And I forgot things. It was like – he was some kind of vampire and he was draining me of all my knowledge.

Next thing I know he’s driving the cab and I’m in the back, watching the world go by, wondering where the hell I am.

We went back to the Monument and I got out and he drove off. I opened the door and climbed up the 300 odd steps to the top and when I got there, I thought, how odd, he said ‘the thing you can see from the sky.’ How did he see it from the sky, I asked myself. And I asked myself who he was to drain me like that.

And I found myself on the viewing platform of the Monument and everyone who came up walked right through me and I knew I wasn’t human any more.

Then I realised he wasn’t human either or he wouldn’t have been able to take over like that and put me in the back of my own cab and then drive off in it and I’m lost, lost, lost and only you’ve seen me in the last ten years.

I’m right bored with the view, but that ain’t the real problem.

It gets damn lonely up here, I can tell you.

BIO: Dorothy Davies is a writer, editor and medium, who lives on the Isle of Wight (Isle of Spirits) where she writes her strange stories and channels books directly from spirit authors.

(So long, so long and thanks for all the fish.
Col, Trev, Mark and Gaz.
- Spook City)

Where Am I?

2012-01-20T00:49:00.000-08:00

"WHERE AM I?" - Amy Barry

I wake up on this bed,

my hands, my body cold,

Why is it cold in here?

Why do you slice open my dress?

Stay calm.

You’re hurting me

How can I?

You‘re already dead,

pronounced dead eight hours ago,

your body, decomposing,

your brain cells, slowly dying,

your soul, still here.

You’re lying

This is your death certificate.

You’re frightening me.

Don’t be…

soon you’ll find

serenity,

mind clear and empty,

a look of peace,

last memory for your family-

a good memory.

How can you hear my voice?

I have a special gift,

talk to the dead,

prepare them

in transition,

ready for viewing.

A clear light arises...........

BIO: Amy Barry is a Public Relations consultant by profession. She writes poems and short stories. She hails from Malaysia and now resides in Athlone, Ireland.

The Mire

2012-01-20T00:26:00.000-08:00

"THE MIRE" - Katherine Wheeler

As the wolf prowls around the perimeter,
thick fogs seeps into my mind,
its tendrils twisting and choking
while its sluggish poison
seeps into the crevasses of my brain;
making clarity illusive.

The dark mire drags me down,
gasping,
fingertips reaching out
for unattainable thoughts,
as they flit away
like so many winged birds;
tantalisingly close,
yet impossibly out of reach.

BIO: Katharine is an Irish writer who now lives in Belgium. Katharine has wanted to write ever since she was a very young child but due to work commitments was never able to fulfill her dream. She was diagnosed with a chronic illness a few years ago and suddenly found herself unable to work and with time on her hands. She has had work published in two poetry anthologies, in local press and online.

First Day Of The Rest Of Her Life

2012-01-19T23:59:00.000-08:00

"FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF HER LIFE"
- Lily Fox

She stepped out onto the bustling street, and, for a moment, was overwhelmed with the sheer wall of sound: car horns, voices, buses heaving past. For one wild moment, she considered hopping right back on the first train out of London and going home, forgetting she had ever tried such a mad venture. She caught herself, and straightened her tired shoulders. No, this was her opportunity, her moment: this was the first day of the rest of her life.

She stepped, on the second attempt, into the apparently unbreakable flow of people. Not a single one paid her any attention, but she was still vain and naive enough to pause to admire her professional-looking reflection in a shop window. Her face looked pale, even in nothing but darkened glass, but that was to be expected. This was the most important interview of her life, her make-or-break moment. She tried to put it out of her mind. She could be calm and collected and when she walked into that office, everyone would know she was perfect for the role.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she gasped automatically as she nearly ploughed into the back of the man in front. He didn't reply, or even acknowledge her presence, and she frowned for a moment, before giving a mental shrug. People probably barged their way through every street here. She laughed to herself at the wide-eyed girl she still mentally categorised herself as. She wondered if anyone could spot any little tells she gave off, but the further she walked, the more she realised no-one really cared a jot about her circumstances; they didn't even look her way. Maybe she, too, would grow to be like this after a few years in the city.

Was this the right street? Would consulting a map look too...well, touristy? She had to get the part right, like the nervous actor on the first opening of theatre doors, she had to nail it. No slips. No giveaways. And really, she had the fundamentals, otherwise she wouldn't have made it this far. She had an excellent Cambridge degree and she was hard-working, determined and bright. She had a suit that had cost her far too much and heels that were neither too high nor too prudishly flat, and her hair had been tousled into an flattering elegant wave effect. Yes, image mattered, especially in this crowd.

It unnerved her just how little attention anyone paid to anyone else here...or, no, that wasn't quite right...how little attention everyone paid to her, specifically. Leaflets were thrust at the other passers-by; ticket touters hollered in their indifferent faces. She might have been of no more substance than a puff of wind. Nothing was thrust into her face. No-one met her eyes as they leaned on their sandwich board signs. Was she that obvious?
S
he quickened her pace. She was nearly there, anyway. The flow of people was lessening as she reached the banking district. She had worked for this and seen too many of her fellows fall by the wayside, distracted, missing opportunities. She would go for it. She had to.
Last road, oh yes, there was the street she needed. Excitement trembled in her stomach. This was finally, finally it. She inhaled, and stepped into the road.

It didn't hurt as much as she had thought; what really hurt was the driver just carrying on, as if she hadn't just been tossed like so much dead meat over the windscreen, thrown bonelessly to the road and smashed, smashed on impact. The white-hot agony she would have imagined blinding her was just a vague memory-sense. The car had sped on to catch the lights as she lay dying. She tried to force out a sound. Wouldn't someone help her? This was central London, she could see, out of misting eyes, legs and feet moving past. Her mind blurred.

Her blue eyes rolled back in their sockets to meet, at last, for the first time in this damnable city, a pair of eyes, faintly startled, staring at her broken body in the road. She implored the girl to do something, anything, just not to let the blackness take her...she was scared. Something was dragging her away from the flesh, upward, onward. Her lips moved, mouthed, 'help'.

The girl's hands, tucked into the pockets of her bright pink coat, extended, but she didn't have the strength to do more. She was...oh, so tired, so heavy. It was taking her, and there wasn't a thing she could do. The pink jacket, the brown eyes, faded into light and finally, into nothing at all.
"It's so cold," Hannah pushed her hands back into her pockets, eyes fixed on the road. She couldn't, for some reason, drag them away.
"Oh, that'll be the corpse," said Gary casually, pulling one of Hannah's hands free from her pink jacket to hold in his own.
She rolled her eyes towards him. "What?"
"You must have heard the story. It's haunted around here..." Gary pulled a face, waving his free hand in Hannah's face. "Whooo!"
She batted his hand away. "Don't be stupid. It's just a chill..."
"No, seriously," Gary enthused, his face lighting up. Hannah put an exaggeratedly indulgent expression on. "You must have read that story about how that girl got killed here last year - that prodigy mathematician kid from Cambridge, won a load of prizes and scholarships and stuff? Going to work for some big bank over there?" He pointed at a particularly imposing building further down the road.
"Probably," Hannah conceded, although she couldn't remember it.
"Well, she wasn't looking and just stepped out in front of a car here, and got mown down, of course...but get this, people say they can feel a chill here and sometimes, they can hear her walk past and stuff...'cause, you know, ghosts can't leave where they were killed..."
"Sure," Hannah scoffed. "I mean, it's a horrible story, but ghosts aren't real. Not people who've died recently, especially. No-one becomes a ghost any more, Gar'." She grinned. "It's not cool."
Gary laughed easily, pulling Hannah closer, and turning her away from the crossroad to walk on. "Don't see why not...it's not like there's any reason why not..."

Their voices settled into the mildly argumentative tones that meant a debate would ensue as they wandered aimlessly away.

She stepped out onto the bustling street, and, for a moment, was overwhelmed with the sheer wall of sound: car horns, voices, buses heaving past. For one wild moment, she considered hopping right back on the first train out of London and going home, forgetting she had ever tried such a mad venture. She caught herself, and straightened her tired shoulders. No, this was her opportunity, her moment: this was the first day of the rest of her life...

BIO: Lily Fox is an MA graduate living in London

.

Out There

2012-01-19T23:02:00.000-08:00

"OUT THERE" - Susanna Dunne

howliiiiiiiiing heard

full moon shining

warewolf emerging

BIO: London born Susanna moved to Ireland at the age of ten and is now married with four sons. She loves to write standard poetry, haiku, senyru and short stories.

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Christmas Message

2011-12-24T07:56:00.000-08:00

From the team at Spook City,

we send our valued authors

and readers the very best wishes of the season and we look forward to seeing you all back here in 2012.

Floating Image

2011-12-11T19:01:00.000-08:00

"FLOATING IMAGE" - Amy Barry

I wake up as sunlight forces
its way through the curtains,
I look out the window,
pollution clouds smother the town.

Alone, alone in this silent room,
cold sweat pearls my forehead,
his face comes into view,
I yearn to embrace him.

I can’t break away from staring at him,
I shake my head not knowing what to say,
shiver at his stony eyes,
our eyes lock for a moment.

His face looms in close,
his eyes flicker, my body tenses,
mind races, my ears burn from
the sound of my own scream.

A voice cuts into my thoughts

a sad, forlorn cry,
I suck in a deep breath and he is gone,
Am I awake or still in my dreams?

BIO: Amy Barry is a Public Relations consultant by profession. She writes poems and short stories. She hails from Malaysia and now resides in Athlone, Ireland.

Banshee

2011-12-05T05:12:00.000-08:00

BANSHEE" - Susanna Dunne

She cries through' the night
combing her long white hair

and it doesn't quite matter where, either
She'll not be too far away

to warn us that
Death is so very near.

Someone we love very dearly,
shall soon reach Heaven's Gates.
Her wailing and wailiiiiiiing
is ever so frightening!

it'll make our hearts beat
even faster.

Paler, we'll be.

Too scared to move a single muscle
Any hair upon our heads
will instantly stand to attention! Like soldiers.
Skins shall crawl sending shivering sensations

right through us
Feelings of terror! so, overwhelming.

Cats meowiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing so viciously

But she doesn't mind that does she?
they do keep her company after all.
It isn't a good idea to take a peek
out through our windows
if or when she may pay us an unwelcome visit
although it might only, be cats growling,
making quite a fuss outside our dwellings

But then this lady who wails
and cries like a child in the night
Yes, the Banshee.

Beware! Be very aware
try not be too tempted too take that peek

just to see if it is she, this creature

who roams in the dark.

Picking up that lonesome comb
With its missing teeth should be left well alone.
'Cause that indeed

wouldn't be a very wise thing to do

now would it?
or one may well regret it

Meooooooooooooooooooooow........

BIO: London born Susanna moved to Ireland at the age of ten and is now married with four sons. She loves to write standard poetry, haiku, senyru and short stories.

If only things were different

2011-11-29T05:28:00.000-08:00

"IF ONLY THINGS WERE DIFFERENT" - Eamon O Cleirigh

It was the eyes that woke him, sweat streaming down his face and the sheet stuck to his back. The eyes, piercing black in a sea of rancid yellow, like pus from the ulcer on his old mother’s leg before she gave up the ghost and died screaming in the back room.

The eyes, glowering at him, but only from the side, as if lurking from a dark corner, so when he’d turn to catch that glare, there’d be nothing but the darkness of shadow, of memory, guilt, the weight of which he felt on the back of his neck, pulling at those thoughts and deeds he’d worked so hard to banish.

He wiped sweat from his brow with the duvet cover, closed his eyes and ran the material along deep-etched lines borne of graft and worry, fear and guilt. And age. He was of an age where such things shouldn’t matter, where the peace of night – every night – shouldn’t be sliced open, disembowelled by accusing, knowing eyes, black in a festering sea of bile, a rank cancer filling his dream life, from dusk to dawn, every night, without fail.

Maybe things would change if he confessed. But that would mean admitting – accepting – that it was down to him. He stumbled to the basin and pissed, with pain, not caring if his aim was true. There wasn’t anything worth caring about, anyway. All was lost and gone, and life ran empty, like his bladder, shrivelled and wasted. Respite, hard-edged and alien, hid out of sight, akin to the dragon’s eyes, giving no rest, whether light or dark.

He could take himself away. Pack a bag and disappear. Who would know? There was nothing left to find – the years had passed and sound and smell no longer lingered, though he was certain, almost, that those leering eyes knew all that had been – remembered her cries from the back room – smelled the rotting leg left unattended – a witness to the horror of those final moments.

Those eyes, never there when he looked, yet always felt, would prove a constant reminder, a strangling weight, a rusting ball and chain, ensuring there could never be the safety of distance between deed and drowning guilt.

He shuffled back into bed and pulled the duvet up to his chin, exhausted but afraid to close his eyes. If only things were different.

BIO: Eamon lives in Sligo, Ireland, but hails from Dublin. From an acting background, he now prefers to spend his time writing poetry and long fiction. He's busy coming to terms with life as a realist.

Glendalough

2011-11-28T02:17:00.000-08:00

"GLENDALOUGH" - Máire Morrissey-Cummins

An austere life

of poverty and prayer,

weeps from wet,

moss grown granite.

Ritualistic chanting

echoes church ruins,

circling gravestones

of nameless souls.

Dark spirits

cloak the forests,

casting eerie shadows

on a quivering lake.

The evening mist

drifts the mountains,

sighs through the valleys,

as dusk descends

on a long forgotten past.

(Glendalough is a 6^th Centuary Monastery in County Wicklow, Ireland.)

BIO: Máire was born in Ireland but has lived throughout Europe and presently moves between her homes in Ireland and Germany with her husband of 30 years. Being very creative, she enjoys painting with watercolour and acrylic mediums, and is a published poet with the Irish Haiku Society and Haiku Ireland. Máire has also had a number of standard poems published in local and foreign poetry anthologies, journals, e-zines and online forums.

Mist

2011-11-26T13:22:00.000-08:00

"MIST" - Rachel Sutcliffe

ghostly skeletons

shrouded in mist

winter trees

BIO: Rachel's creative writing took a back seat when she spent two years teaching abroad but personal circumstances have led her to focus on her writing again. She's had the pleasure of seeing her poems and short stories published in various anthologies, e journals, magazines and newsletters such as Forward Press publications, HaikuJ, thefirstcut and Static Movement. Rachel recently set up her own blog which you can investigate further, here: http://projectwords11.wordpress.com

The Presence

2011-11-24T23:09:00.000-08:00

"THE PRESENCE" - Dean Farnell

Footsteps on your landing is a very scary sound,
Creaking on the staircase when you know no-one's around,
"I'm sure this house is haunted", my mother always said,
"We are definitely sharing with a presence that is dead."

She'd sometimes scream out loud, she'd sometimes even cry,
It's not easy sharing lodgings with someone that has died,
She said she couldn't take much more, she never seemd to rest,
It's hard to catch a wink of sleep, in a house you know's possessed.

I wonder what these walls have seen before we came to stay?
My father said he didn't care, as "We're staying anyway,"
"We are not alone," she said, "There's a presence in the hall,"
My dad was in denial 'til a vase smashed on the wall.

Dad was never scared too much, and always chose to doubt,
But it was one October night when something freaked him out,
It was on the stroke of 3am he heard some eerie screaming,
He then told Mum he'd had enough - "Collect our things, we're leaving!"

BIO: Dean writes quirky songs and poetry as a hobby and is delighted to list over 350 various radio stations and podcasts on which his works have been played. His poetry has been published in horror mags and Trembles & Scream Magazines. “The Monsters Ball" song became the opening theme tune to an internet TV Show series titled "Late Night at The Horror Hotel " which was produced by Horror Shop Films. Dean’s song "666" topped the UK Unsigned artist top 40. You can find more of Dean’s songs here: http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=DEAN+FARNELL&aq=f and read his poetry here: http://deanfarnell.typepad.com/blog/2011/06/the-horror-poems.html

Senyru #5

2011-11-24T22:59:00.000-08:00

"SENYRU #5" - Marion Clarke

Trick or Treat
a stranger uses my face
as a disguise

BIO: Marion Clarke from Warrenpoint, Northern Ireland, has had poetry, short stories and non-fiction articles published online and in print. Two of her stories are included in The Infection Anthology recently published by Pantoum Press and available from Amazon. Marion began studying and writing Japanese short form poetry two years ago and has become passionate about the form.

Echoes

2011-11-20T20:42:00.000-08:00

"ECHOES" - Peter Emmett Naughton

Some people swore that the house was haunted.

Others thought it was cursed, and still others thought the building was simply off in some intrinsic way that they couldn’t quite describe, but felt whenever they passed the place.

There were dozens of stories floating around about the former residents and every generation seemed to have a different idea about what went on there. My grandfather told me the house was inhabited by the ghost of the man who built it, having supposedly died of a heart attack the moment he completed its construction. My mother claimed that it was plagued by the restless spirits of teenage twins who had succumb to carbon monoxide poisoning in the basement, and my best friend’s uncle told him about the accidental drowning of a young boy in the upstairs bathtub. There was a girl in my homeroom that told a story about a beautiful newlywed bride who had been mysteriously electrocuted after plugging in a lamp in the living room. Even the quiet boy who sits in front of me in English class and never raises his hand claimed that an infant in the house had been crushed in its crib by a loose board falling from the floor above.

I’m not sure if I believed any of these accounts before me and Brian went to check the house out for ourselves that night, but I believe them now.

It was just after dusk when we approached the front porch. My mother’s meatloaf was sitting in my stomach like a brick that made me queasy every time I took a step and much of my excitement over investigating the house had started to ebb, but Brian was determined, so we made our way up the steps and went inside.

There didn’t seem to be anything particularly extraordinary about the place. I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting, something more extravagant and luxuriant I suppose, a gothic manor in miniature. Instead we found a modest house that looked a lot like our own homes with only slightly more ornate furnishings and appointments.

Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust, but the interior itself was surprisingly well preserved, marred by only the barest traces of age and neglect. We went from room to room looking for confirmation of what we had heard. There was a bathroom with an old claw-foot tub on the second floor, but that in and of itself proved nothing. We checked all the outlets in the living room, but none of them had even the slightest sign of scorch marks on the faceplates or the surrounding area. Likewise all the flooring appeared to be of the same age. There were no obvious indications that any of the boards had been resurfaced or replaced.

We were getting ready to leave, our adventure an apparent bust, when we heard it. A low hum rising up from beneath us that shifted the dust on the floorboards and sifted it down through the spaces between them.

I turned and looked at Brian, our faces stark mirrors reflecting the same mix of curiosity and apprehension.

After a long moment I pointed to the basement. Brian nodded and followed me down the stairs.

The room was black, our flashlights providing only a thin wedge of illumination. I paced carefully over the unfinished floor until I felt the dirt thrumming underneath my feet.

We both dropped to our knees and dug into the earth with our hands. After several minutes of scooping up loose soil, we found the source of the sound.

There, buried beneath the basement, was a small, metal box.

It vibrated in my hands like a hummingbird and I nearly dropped it in surprise. Brian and I gazed at the box for what felt like hours, neither of us saying anything.

I gestured wordlessly to the latches on either side that held the lid shut, and Brian and I each placed a hand on one of them.

We stared at each other for a moment more and then we opened the box.

Nothing was ever the same after that.

BIO: Peter fell into fiction by writing stories to amuse his grammar-school classmates, which helped him overcome his shyness, but led to very few completed homework assignments. He has an abiding love of cheese in all its gloriously stinky forms, horror movies with a sense of humor and trashy punk and garage-rock. He was raised, and currently resides in, Chicago with his wife and cats. Peter's writing has appeared in The Delinquent, Candlelight and Black Words On White Paper.

The Last Picture Show

2011-11-05T21:08:00.000-07:00

"THE LAST PICTURE SHOW" - Dorothy Davies

It mattered not that the curtains looked the worse for wear, the hem hanging down a little, the runners showing where the weight of the curtains had dragged holes over the years. The fact remained they were temporarily hiding the reason the building had an existence – the huge silver screen. Fly speckled, marked here and there, it mattered not. The anticipation from the audience in the auditorium was palpable, a hush of unspoken words, a withholding of the rustle of popcorn and other comestibles, that indescribable smell and atmosphere accumulated over many years: bodies' clothes, food, sighs, tears, cries, held breath, screams and laughter.

This was the last picture show. At the end of tonight’s performance the doors would close for the last time. In future, films would be shown in the new multi screen complex across town, bright, glittering place with chrome and fine flooring, with carpet and seats that tilted and did not move when you leaned back. Move as in their moorings had come adrift from the floor. It added something to the ambience of this old, much loved building.

I crept in quietly, almost on tiptoe, not wanting to disturb anyone’s breathless anticipation of the curtains gliding open and the screen being revealed in all its tarnished glory. I found empty seats, which I didn’t expect, and sat three in from the side aisle. It was not the best of positions but it would do. There was room for two others if they chose to come and share the rest of the row with me. On my other side someone grunted and shifted, but did not look round.

The music blared, the numbers began rolling, white on black and the pre-feature programme began. I allowed myself to submerge all thoughts in the magical moment, the losing of self in the actions on the screen. Someone crept in as quietly as I did and sat down next to me. We nodded to one another in the darkness, nothing said, eyes swiftly turning back to the screen. A sigh seemed to come from my new companion, one I echoed. Contentment. Filmgoers of the world unite!

All too soon the interval came and music blared out of ancient speakers. There was chatter and laughter, a sense of heightened emotion, anticipation, eagerness, a mixture of so much unclassified, indescribable. My companion, an elderly man I had seen many times before, nodded in time to the nonsensical piece of rhythm which ended and began again, same record. A few people laughed. It ended, it began again. This time whistles and shouts had erupted, there was stamping of feet and yells of laughter. By the time it began again, when it was obvious to all that the impending closure had left the cinema with just one record, the entire audience was in uproar, laughter shaking ancient dust from ancient carvings and light fittings. I smiled; the sense of the absurd was beyond belief and unbelievably funny. My companion was laughing so hard I feared for his heart.

It took a while for the audience to settle down after the nonsense with the record, but the main feature began and the theatre became silent. Clint Eastwood strutted his stuff across the screen many times larger than he actually is –or was – shooting all and sundry, fighting his way out of this battle and that. It was almost a shock when the film finally ended. The credits rolled and we were on our feet, some ready to slide out, others prepared to stand and show respect as the National Anthem was played.

It was then I smelled smoke.

It was then I realized three things, as I did at this point every Halloween. First, the theatre had caught fire, second, judging by the frantic screams and yells of trapped people, the fire doors would not open and third, recalling the local newspapers I had seen afterwards, not one of us survived.

Where we were is a block of flats, ugly, functional, utilitarian and dull. We died because some idiot, anticipating the closing of the cinema, locked the doors. This I knew, this I could accept, if only…

…We were not summoned back from our graves every Halloween.

I just wish that the dead could be allowed to sleep in peace.

Author's Note: The first part of this story actually happened, but not on the Isle of Wight where I now live. Here there was a very old cinema and someone who used to entertain the waiting audience with a glove puppet around the side of the curtain…

BIO: Dorothy Davies is a writer, medium and editor. She writes her strange stories, usually with the help of spirit authors. Dorothy is a full member of the Fictioneers, and editor and contributor to many Static Movement anthologies. She loves to write. You can read more from Dorothy here:www.oneinspecyal.com and here www.circle-of-light.co.uk

Christmas Morning

2011-11-05T20:40:00.000-07:00

"CHRISTMAS MORNING" - Rick McQuiston

Jeremy rolled over in bed and glanced at the clock on his nightstand. 5:55 stared back at him in red LED numbers. A tiny red dot was lit next to the a.m. designation.

Not even six o’clock yet, he thought sluggishly. Still too early to get up.

But the anticipation that he harbored for Christmas morning was severely tempered by the memory of what he had witnessed earlier that same night.

Or thought he had witnessed.

It was shortly after two-thirty a.m. when he woke up, as most children do, overwhelmed by the curiosity of what lay under the Christmas tree. With excitement that could only be fostered in a child on that most anticipated of nights, he gleefully crawled out of bed and tip-toed down the stairs to investigate whether or not jolly old Saint Nick had fulfilled his holiday duties.

The Christmas tree in red, green and blue illuminated the room. Jeremy’s father didn’t like leaving lights on at night, but made an exception on Christmas Eve. Making his way through the room Jeremy kept his eyes on his destination…the Christmas tree, or more accurately, the presents underneath it. He was fearful of breaking his parent’s rule about not looking at them before morning, but his curiosity got the better of him.

He paused briefly, taking in the beautiful sight of the room before locking his still groggy eyes on the Christmas tree which loomed directly in front of him in the far corner of the room. It stood there, silently guarding the brightly wrapped treasures beneath it, daring anyone to unwrap them before the morning. It was large, nearly eight feet tall, and was packed with such an assortment of ornaments and tinsel that nearly no green was visible on it at all.

Since Jeremy was an only child he knew that virtually all of the gifts were for him, a thought that increased his excitement ten-fold. It was one of the many perks of not having any brothers or sisters.

Jeremy’s heart raced in his chest as he approached the neatly stacked gifts under the tree. He immediately focused on two of the larger ones, wrapped in bright red and blue-stripped wrapping paper respectively, and slid closer to them for a better look as he reached for the larger one he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

Something on the tree shifted.

Jeremy looked up from his gifts and watched for any more movement. After a few tense minutes he was satisfied he had imagined it and he continued examining his future prizes.

But a small part of his mind wouldn’t let go of the movement. It tried to rationalize it but failed to attach any plausible explanation.

A mouse in the tree? A loose branch? A faulty light strand?

Possibly, but unlikely.

Jeremy looked at the tree again. It was beautiful, fully lit with shimmering ornaments and dazzling tinsel, but there was something else as well. Something he couldn’t explain, but felt nonetheless.

The angel fastened to the top of the tree gazed solemnly across the room. Her flowing garb of gold and blue obscured most of her body, trailing down to mingle with the other decorations. She was the crowning glory of the tree, standing guard year after year from her lofty holiday perch.

Jeremy looked up at her, momentarily forgetting about the presents. He recognized the look in her tiny glass eyes. Even though they weren’t real they still conveyed the Christmas spirit. But they also seemed different somehow, more detached from Christmas and less concerned with holiday cheer.

Jeremy’s gaze fell upon the presents again. He huddled up close to them, periodically inspecting each and every one as he glanced back at the stairway.

And then he noticed it again.

There was movement in the tree. Only this time it was more pronounced, and in a different area, closer to the top.

Now he was getting nervous. He still wasn’t sure if he were imagining it or not, but the uneasy feeling that was settling over the room was unmistakable. He

scooted away from the presents and stood up, all the while never taking his eyes off the tree. Slowly turning around his only thought was getting back to the safety of his

bedroom. In the morning with the added security of his parents and daylight he could truly enjoy the holiday and tear into his presents.

He resisted the urge to look back as he scurried toward the stairs. He was afraid that he might see something he would regret seeing, possibly for the rest of his life. Within 30 seconds he was tucked safely under his covers trying desperately to fall back asleep.

Jeremy glanced at the clock on his nightstand.

6:17 a.m. Still too early to get up. Not that he really wanted to get out of bed. But the thought that eventually his parents would come into his room and make him wake up frightened him. They would no doubt be curious as to why their little boy wasn’t awake yet on Christmas morning. He would then be obligated to go downstairs with them and open his presents…the ones under the Christmas tree.

Jeremy looked over at the clock again, somehow hoping that time had moved backward.

6:24 a.m. Still too early…

“Good morning big guy,” Jeremy’s dad bellowed as he flipped on the light switch. “”Don’t you want to see what Santa brought this year?” He was gesturing towards the hallway. His mother was standing behind him, beaming from ear to ear, a red and green coffee mug in her hands. Jeremy smiled as best he could and slowly crawled out of bed. Part of him was excited, but another part was scared to death.

“Come on big guy,” his dad continued to urge, no doubt reliving his own childhood through his son. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. Santa was generous this year.”

Jeremy pulled his slippers on and rubbed his eyes. Maybe he just imagined it all; it was the middle of the night, and he hadn’t actually seen anything. Excitement began to overtake his thoughts as he stood up and yawned. His parents then ushered him out of his bedroom.

And downstairs, standing in the far corner of the living room, was the Christmas tree. The red, green and blue lights on it, supplemented by a hint of daylight streaming through the windows, filled the room with holiday cheer.

The tree outside a nearby window laid on its side, mostly covered by freshly fallen snow, its pine needles lying on the frozen ground beneath it. It had been discarded carelessly, tossed aside like yesterday’s trash.

The Christmas tree shuddered with anxious excitement when it heard the approaching footsteps in the hallway upstairs. It adjusted the angel at its top slightly, one of its many hunting tactics, and waited.

Jeremy looked over at the clock again, somehow hoping that time had moved backward.

6:24 a.m. Still too early…

“Good morning big guy,” Jeremy’s dad bellowed as he flipped on the light switch. “”Don’t you want to see what Santa brought this year?” He was gesturing towards the hallway. His mother was standing behind him, beaming from ear to ear, a red and green coffee mug in her hands. Jeremy smiled as best he could and slowly crawled out of bed. Part of him was excited, but another part was scared to death.

“Come on big guy,” his dad continued to urge, no doubt reliving his own childhood through his son. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. Santa was generous this year.”

Jeremy pulled his slippers on and rubbed his eyes. Maybe he just imagined it all; it was the middle of the night, and he hadn’t actually seen anything. Excitement began to overtake his thoughts as he stood up and yawned. His parents then ushered him out of his bedroom.

And downstairs, standing in the far corner of the living room, was the Christmas tree. The red, green and blue lights on it, supplemented by a hint of daylight streaming through the windows, filled the room with holiday cheer.

The tree outside a nearby window laid on its side, mostly covered by freshly fallen snow, its pine needles lying on the frozen ground beneath it. It had been discarded carelessly, tossed aside like yesterday’s trash.

The Christmas tree shuddered with anxious excitement when it heard the approaching footsteps in the hallway upstairs. It adjusted the angel at its top slightly, one of its many hunting tactics, and waited.

BIO: Rick is a forty-three year old father of two who loves anything horror-related. He's had over 250 publications so far. Rick has written two novels, five anthology books, one book of novellas, and edited an anthology of Michigan authors - they are all available on Lulu and Amazon. Rick is also a guest author each year at Memphis Junior High School, read at various libraries, doing many book/ art shows, and is currently working on his third novel.

There are states worse than death

2011-08-09T03:05:00.000-07:00

"THERE ARE STATES WORSE THAN DEATH" - George Wilhite

There are states worse than death
Hear me before you smugly reject

My assertion

Walking through a neglected cemetery

My fate was woven

Shadows converged

Creating the solicitor

Of my immortality

No Faustian bargains

When the shadows come for you

Life ends swiftly

And the torture begins

You wander the earth

Yourself only a shade

An echo, a husk

Of “once was”

BIO: George Wilhite is the author of the short fiction collection On the Verge of Madness. His work has also appeared in numerous print publications and online at Yesteryear Fiction, MicroHorror, Eschatology Journal and The Fringe.

Beauty Sleeps

2011-08-03T07:00:00.000-07:00

"BEAUTY SLEEPS" - Dorothy Davies

It is the strangest thing that someone can be the love of your life, the one you cherish beyond all others, the one who holds your very soul in their fine delicate fingers that are like chains, so tight do they hold your priceless gift of love, and yet you look at others.

It is so because I can do nothing else but go with what nature made me – male.

Talk to me not of those who stay devoted to one person their entire married lives, talk to me not of those who fall in love, lose that loved one and never ever look at another person as long as they live.

I disbelieve them.

We are all born with the driving need to perpetuate the species. It is true, this I acknowledge, that men and women have used that excuse for eternity to justify their dalliances outside their relationships which were supposed to be everlasting. It is an excuse. It is also valid.

There are some of us who are driven by darker needs. Those of us who rise and fall with the waxing and waning of the moon phases, those of us who respond to the call of nature in different ways, those whose bodies change and whose physiometry is not entirely under their control. Ah, do you think, even now in this enlightened age, that such mythical creatures as werewolves, vampires, shape-shifters and the like are no more than that, myths? Do you not understand and accept that every myth, no matter how strange, has its basis in fact somewhere in the distant past, even if that past is as distant as the Stone Age and beyond?

Think on it now. Know that dragons once existed as dinosaurs did. Likewise unicorns and werewolves and all the other mythical creatures, mer-people, centaurs, need I go on?

You are asking about the other realms, fairies and the like. They have been with us since the world began; they are timeless, immortal and real. Ask no more. It is fact.

The facts are these. For the first time in my existence I fell in love.
She was amazing, so beautiful the sun hid its face when she walked the earth.

So intelligent that philosophers stopped their philosophising and listened to her instead. So joyful that the very birds stopped singing to let her celebrate life.

How trite are these descriptions, how cliché ridden! How truly awful! And yet there is no other way to describe the effect she had on the world – and on me. I was lost. Completely. For the first time I thought I had found someone who would truly hold my love and life for eternity.

In some ways I was right.

In other ways I was not.

We courted, we married, we lived. Within a year I was bored. Beauty at that level is boring as it has no imperfections. Perfection is hard to live with as you constantly measure yourself against it and find yourself lacking. I stared hard at the mirror some mornings and knew, handsome as I know I am, that I could not match her perfection. When we had dinner parties or entertained in other ways, everyone looked at her and not at me.

The male ego is very easily damaged.

Her knowledge outshone mine. I could not hold an intelligent conversation with her; she would pin down my obvious faults and pour scorn on them.

I looked for others, less beautiful, less intelligent, less knowledgeable. I began to recover my equilibrium.

She suspected, of course.

I denied it, of course.

We continued in a state of truce for a further year when, to my horror, she announced the one thing I had not thought of – she was to have my child.

I should explain that I am not the kind of man who seeks perpetuity through a bloodline. I am not the kind of man who relishes the thought of his home being wrecked with baby items and his sleep wrecked through baby wailing and adoring fluttering people gushing over its every smile, burp and frown.

I took care of that. Knowledge she might have, sense when it comes to the male ego she does not. I took care that she did not discover what had been fed to her and mourned with her at the loss of the child.

But possibly not good enough, for soon after I realised her eyes had turned to another. For a while I encouraged it, the pressure being taken from me, which suited me well but then it galled me that she would look elsewhere.

It was time to take the next step.

The person who supplied the material to induce the miscarriage supplied further material for me.

It worked.

I had her buried, so we had a grave to mourn over and cherish, those of us who professed to love her. I had her buried because I liked the idea of beauty asleep in a grave.

I imagined her rotting, slowly, everything eating her away, slowly.

I played the field, after a due period of mourning had passed, I had fun, something I had forgotten about and could do.

But something was troubling me. Something I felt I had overlooked. Something I should have known – but didn’t.

A friend commented that I knew, of course, she was not dead, but sleeping. This is a religious comment and I ignored it. At first. He persisted, telling me over and over that she was not dead but sleeping. The word ‘vampire’ was mentioned.

I laughed.

Then I recalled the time I cut myself and she fastened onto the cut and sucked it until I thought she would take the finger clean off my hand.

I wondered why I had been foolish enough not to recognise my own kind.

I had to do something. My mind would not rest.

One dark overcast storm tossed night I took shovel and courage and went to her grave. I dug and dug until I uncovered the coffin, untouched, unscarred by its internment.

When I prised off the coffin lid and looked down at her perfect face, she looked up at me and smiled.

BIO: Dorothy Davies is a writer, medium and editor who lives on the delightful Isle of Wight, a small island off the south coast of England. There she writes her strange stories, usually with the help of spirit authors. This one, she says, was written with the help of Bela Lugosi who was not only a talented horror actor but also a very good writer with an infinite supply of strange and chilling tales. Dorothy is a full member of the Fictioneers and editor and contributor to many Static Movement anthologies. She loves to write. You can read more from Dorothy here:
www.oneinspecyal.com and here www.circle-of-light.co.uk

Creaky Floors

2011-08-02T07:06:00.000-07:00

"CREAKY FLOORS" - Vincent Daemon

I’m a ghost in chains

An invisible frame

And no one saw me die

Yet with those stares

I’m in the attic upstairs

Haunting all night long

An outsider fiend

A soul unredeemed

Humming a death-dirge song

Something sad happened here

The soul just won’t depart

Banging the boards

Of a crawlspace floor

Above which I fell apart

BIO: Vincent Daemon has appeared in the anthologies "Through The Eyes Of The Undead" and "Heavy Metal Horror." Other credits include the magazines Hazard Cat, Substance, Screams Of Terror, as well as being a regular contributor to the Freezine Of Fantasy And Science Fiction, that also released his apocalyptic horror punk novella "Waiting For The End." Vincent also performs in the musical deconstruction project, Youth Of 1945, as well as his own musical recordings. He can be reached at vdaemon13@gmail.com

signposts

2011-07-26T08:55:00.000-07:00

"SIGNPOSTS" - Kaarin Vanderway

whorls and ties

bound me to you. the release. gritty, a rebellious life to crave
words and lies
brought me death. deceased. a pity, for all the love I gave
worms and flies
will bring them to me. the police. out of the city, here to my shallow grave
but whisps in skies
of ghosts and spirits. pleased. will signpost you, my pretty. and enslave

BIO: Kaarin has shelves crammed full of notebooks containing poems she's been scribbling since her early teens and plans on one day collating them into some sort of order and hopefully doing something with any that aren't total rubbish.

More than a feeling

2011-07-26T07:04:00.000-07:00

"MORE THAN A FEELING" - Anna Harris

Have you ever seen a movement out the corner of your eye?

Or heard a whisper somewhere near but couldn’t work out why?

Have you felt the sweep of fingertips, brush across your hair?

But when you’ve spun about you’ve found there’s really nothing there?

Have you sometimes walked into a room, and felt a sudden chill?

You check the windows for a draft but the air is calm and still,

And yet you feel a presence there, a sense you're not alone,

and you try to shake the feeling you're not completely on your own.

Perhaps you’ve paused atop the stairs, once or twice - or more

Before you’ve turned the key that lead you through the cellar door?

Do you lie in bed at night; stare at shadows on the wall,

But convince yourself you’re seeing things, that there’s nothing there at all?

So often after midnight, do you wake up with a start?

Then strain your ears for any noise, with your hand across your heart?

Or peer into the hallway, holding tight to every breath,

Just in case there’s something out there that will scare you half to death?

Yes you do, I know you do, I’ve seen you late at night,

Trembling under blankets and clutching pillows tight,

You think your house is haunted by, a spirit you can’t see,

And yes you’re right, I know you’re right, because that ghost is me

Don't expect the rocking chair to cease moving by itself
Or books of yours to rest quietly, undisturbed upon the shelf
Floors will creak and mirrors fog, of this you needn't doubt
Because I'm here to stay no matter what; you'll never ever chase me out

BIO: Anna Harris lives in Australia and has prose and poetry of varying genres published in her home country as well as in the USA and the United Kingdom.

Chilling in the Morgue

2011-07-23T03:07:00.000-07:00

“CHILLING IN THE MORGUE” - Dean Farnell

I'm relaxing down the mortuary

I have a few old friends with me

My worries, now I haven’t any

I’m just chilling in the morgue

Lost a duel with a massive truck

I guess I just ran out of luck

Now my life’s no more, it sucks

So I’ll just chill out in the morgue

I came in just two days ago

Or maybe three, I don’t know

I’ve a tag upon my biggest toe

Now I’m chilling in the morgue

It’s not so bad, as life was hell

I wasn’t feeling very well

My body had this rotten smell

So I have to chill out in the morgue

With problems gone for now, at least

I can now just rest in peace

Things are cool when you’re deceased

When you’re chilling in the morgue

Forever

2011-07-21T07:24:00.000-07:00

"FOREVER" - George Wilhite

Awash in despair, Fred stared at Gina for a long time.

This just was not fair. They were supposed to

be together forever, just like in the movies. Star-crossed lovers, yes, but they worked through all that. Their families tolerated one another when necessary. But they would never start one of their own for they waited too long and now she was gone from his life.

This sucked.

Dreams are meant to be broken, he supposed. What purpose was left in life now that they were apart?

Gina didn’t know he was looking at her. That made him feel a little guilty but then he just got angry instead. She had closure, he did not. His denial remained steadfast.

She still looked beautiful as he observed her from above. Dressed in her favorite outfit, just as he remembered her on their last night spent together, her auburn hair brushed back from her lovely pear shaped face. Her eyes were closed for the moment but no worry there. His mind filled in the detail of her dark brown orbs. He had memorized very part of her body.

They'd met in a park not far from here - six Octobers ago, leaves falling from the trees, a chilling breeze. She wore no coat and he'd offered his. At first she laughed in disbelief such chivalry existed then eventually took him up on the offer. The first day in many more together, the start of something special, until it all spiraled downhill last March.

“Why, Gina?” Fred whispered to the air. Perhaps somehow his voice could descend the chasm from here to there and she could hear him. “I loved you. Why wasn’t that enough?”

His eyes moist, through the obscurity caused by his tears he saw the scars. Her slashed wrists radiated in the night, bitter reminders of her selfish act that ruined everything.

Looking around, assured he was alone for as long as the deed required, Fred took control of the situation again. One way or another, he would be with his wife forever.

He pulled her gently from her unearthed grave and made haste to his car.

Senryu #4

2011-07-12T06:36:00.000-07:00

"SENRYU #4" - Marion Clarke

creaking floorboard —

creature straight from

my imagination

BIO: Marion Clarke from Warrenpoint, Northern Ireland, has had poetry, short stories and non-fiction articles published online and in print. She has two stories included in The Infection Anthology, which has just been published as an ebook, later to become available in print. The creatures from the anthology provided the inspiration for Senryu #4. Marion began studying and writing senyru and haiku two years ago and has become passionate about the form.

Spirit of the Château

2011-07-06T00:03:00.000-07:00

"SPIRIT OF THE CHȂTEAU" - Patsy Collins

The boy is dressed all in black. His loose trousers and shapeless top are black. Even his footwear is black. I suppose he is a boy, at my age anyone under thirty seems young. His hair is long and dark. It moves, gently blown by a breeze I cannot feel. His face is pale, too pale for summer, for health. He looks sad, lost. I follow as he wanders around the Château. I cannot hear his footsteps echoing through the empty rooms. His feet don’t seem to touch the same floorboards that I walk upon. He has a hazy indistinct appearance, as if not quite of my world. I shake my head, I’m being fanciful, the sad reason for this visit is clouding my imagination.

I think I’ve seen him before; I may have done. There was a boy born here, a cousin of mine. No, that was too long ago, perhaps this is his son? I’ve visited so often, seen so many people, that it’s difficult to remember. People and events are confused in my memory. Time passes quickly now, a whole summer passes and seems no more than a few warm days. People I remember as laughing children, picnicking in the gardens or rowing on the lake are now grey, or gone.

My early years are clearer, my happy childhood spent in this Château, the ponies I rode in the grounds. I remember friends and the games we played. I remember the handsome young woman I became, my love affairs and heartbreaks. Grand parties were held here, in this very ballroom. The gilding is peeling from the walls now. The once glittering chandelier was removed years ago. I hope it sparkles from another ceiling.

The boy moves toward the sweeping staircase and ducks under the coloured tape that warns the structure is now unsafe. He seems to care nothing for the potential danger. Perhaps he feels, as I do, that the Château can never harm those who love it. I see him in profile as he turns. I was right; he is one of the family. Men who were my ancestors had a nose like that, eyebrows just like his. I’ve seen their portraits. They were bigger, more substantial men than this boy. Their smiling faces watching me from the canvas seemed more alive than this slim, pale child. He is one of us though; those features will be carried through my family for generations to come.

I remember him now, how could I have forgotten the little boy who occasionally wandered this very hallway at midnight? He crept quietly, keeping to the shadows, looking for something he never found. His disappointed face saddened me whenever I caught a glimpse of it. He does love this place. I see that now as he slides his hand over the cracked wooden panelling. I know he is trying to see the fine detail gleaming with centuries of care and polish. That’s how I see it, the beauty, the magnificence is still there, just beneath the neglected surface.

I have to concentrate to keep the present and not the past before my eyes. I remember the luxurious furniture that once graced these empty rooms. I can almost feel the warmth from the open fires, although I know the grates hold nothing but fallen soot and accumulated litter. The echo of voices is faint now. To anyone but those who love this old decayed Château there is nothing here but crumbling plaster, rotten wood, and weakened bricks. To them it won't matter that men will come tomorrow to demolish my old home. Perhaps they’re right, it doesn’t really matter, wherever I am, I will still have my happy memories.

The boy is in the bedroom that was once mine. He looks up. Sun streams through the hole in the roof. He looks away from the light and into the shadows; looking for something. Surely, he knows everything of value was taken long ago. Since then the curious, the homeless, the lovers seeking privacy have walked through every room, searched every secret corner. There's nothing here but my memories, my love for this place and now, the boy. He walks to where the window once was. The glass slipped and fell so long ago, the frame shortly afterwards. I smile, recalling the mornings I’d leapt from bed and thrown open the heavy curtains to see what kind of day I would have. There were the Christmas mornings, when I longed for snow. There had been long summers with skies of unbroken blue. There had been rain and wind and sun, but always joy.

The boy turns to face me, his eyes widen and then he smiles. I know that t he sees what he sought. He sees me; the Spirit of the Château.

“I’m glad to know you’re real,” he whispers.

“Of course I’m real, why did you doubt that?”

“Because although I heard all the stories, I never saw you. Whenever I stayed here as a child I’d stay up late, hoping you’d appear, but you never did.”

“I was here.”

“Then why didn’t I see you?”

“The living often can’t see us.”

Together we take a last look around the château that had, in life, been our home, then we leave to join our ancestors.

BIO: Patsy Collins lives on the south coast of England, opposite the Isle of Wight. Her stories appear in magazines in the UK, Ireland and Australia. To learn more about her and her writing, please visit patsy-collins.blopgspot.com

Selkie

2011-07-03T21:30:00.000-07:00

"SELKIE" - George Wilhite

Skinned--

Beneath the pelt lies

Bewitching beauty

The witch from town

Nursed it/her to health

She pines for the ocean

Red sky at night

Fair weather coming

But turmoil broils

Below, within the hold

She croons for salt and foam

Ghost ship in harbor

Search of the deck

Yields only mystery

Crew vanished

Into thin air

One pelt missing

She lives once more in the sea

Dark Passages

2011-07-03T19:27:00.000-07:00

"DARK PASSAGES" - Ron Koppelberger

Genuine bond, restless souls and night-time seasons

Of damp moss, between the cracks of a stone path,

Leading to hedgerows and secret forests of swollen smiles

And pointy ears in black boodle and tender blush,

The lure of long gone beauties in dark passages

Of Eden.

BIO: Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 102 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels: Ron has published 550 poems, 405 short stories and 86 pieces of art in over 166 periodicals, books and anthologies, and has had work accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Japan and Thailand. He loves to write and offer an experience to the reader. He is a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. Ron's art is viewable on Facebook under will806095@bellsouth.net by clicking on profile and looking under photo albums. He hopes you enjoy his work.

In the Dark

2011-06-24T16:14:00.000-07:00

"IN THE DARK" - Alexis Grey

Somewhere in the dark

is a threat

with a talon

waiting for me to put a right step wrong

I hear its rattling breath
from the corner
where I cower
If I make a sound I know it won't be long
before it takes me over
rips my sinews
takes my soul
I must be very quiet, very strong
Soon it will be daybreak
through the window
of this hell hole
and I'll be safely back in light where I belong

BIO: Alexis Grey lives in an old farm house in the New Zealand countryside where her imagination is free to take flight. She has had her poetry published in numerous anthologies and is currently working on a book of poetry for children.

At that time of night

2011-05-28T02:42:00.000-07:00

"AT THAT TIME OF NIGHT" - George Wilhite

Outside
At that time of night
Darkness deepens
Shadows within shadows
Eerie sounds
Phantom breath brings gooseflesh
Spine tingles
Pace quickens
Instinct to look back
But you feel too foolish
Anxiety swells
Until key opens door
And light switch flipped
You are safe once more
At that time of night

Inside
At that time of night
Turn out the lights
The still silent house brings
Shadows within shadows
Eerie sounds
Phantom breath brings gooseflesh
Spine tingles
Pace quickens
Anxiety swells
You do all you can
To shelter your body
But your mind knows
Anything can happen
At that time of night

BIO: George Wilhite is the author of the short fiction collection 'On the Verge Of Madness'. His work has also appeared in numerous print publications and online at 'Yesteryear Fiction', 'MicroHorror', 'Eschatology Journal' and 'The Fringe'.

I Will Wait For You

2011-04-24T23:20:00.000-07:00

"I WILL WAIT FOR YOU" - Dorothy Davies

The City of London, ancient as the ground it stands on, modern as the towering strange buildings it has seemingly manufactured out of nothing, has more than its share of graveyards.

The worker and casual visitor to the Square Mile, where money changes hands at an alarming rate, where fortunes are made and lost, where the Bank of England sits like the old lady she has been likened to and holds on to the riches she has acquired over the countless years of being in the centre of the Square Mile of commerce, are not always aware of them.

Most cities never sleep, but this one does. This one closes down at night, leaving the rats and strays to haunt the narrow alleyways, the wide affluent streets, the banks of the great never sleeping river Thames. The vagrants shuffle into marked chosen doorways with their newspaper blankets and cardboard walls, which they zealously and jealously guard; newspapers, cardboard and doorways, that is, to settle down for the night; so much litter swept to one side, so much misery wrapped in paper and tied with string.

In Temple, haunt of barristers and clerks and worried litigants, the gas lamps sing their litany of warmth and light to nothing but empty courtyards and silent Chambers. The drinking place alongside the great City church lets its lamps invite in those who have money to buy their way to oblivion, if that be their wish, but who close early most nights for lack of custom.

Into that strange half-haunted world come the non-people.

The City, graveyards, buried rivers and deep sewers once worked in by men called toshers who searched the murky disgusting depths for money, rags, bones and any other treasures that could be found, is a natural place for the non-people to live. Their homes have long since been disturbed, their memorials left leaning against walls or built into the walls themselves, a token nod to their memory. They come seeking revenge and retribution and remembrance.

It is surprising how few know that the bodysnatchers plied their trade there, resurrecting corpses for the anatomists in the great City hospitals, especially Barts.

Few know that among those who called themselves non-people are those who live on blood. Non-people who take on the cloak of humans in order to get what they want and need. Humans that are mostly ignored or scorned.

Those who trespass into the City at night find this out at their cost – the ultimate cost, their lives.

***

The night was drawing in when Karl stumbled into the City from the West End, drunk, heartbroken and lost. He had one thing left in his pocket, the ring his bride-to-be had thrown in his face during a bitter argument in St. James’s Park. She had stormed off in one direction; he had stormed off in the other, and sought consolation for his sorrows in the nearest pub. He then ended up walking without realising or even caring where he went. The words they had thrown at one another over some stupid, infinitesimally small item were of such bitterness and ferocity it was clear they could never speak to one another again. Somewhere in his drunken stupor, Karl realised that it was not the item which had caused the row but long built up tensions which had finally exploded. Better before the wedding than after, he tried to console himself.

It didn’t work.

The City was quiet, only his heels disturbing the night as he stomped his way down Cheapside, heading for who knew where? Alone in a city of towering heartless buildings, shuttered and barred for the night, offices which held the secrets of millions of people in its archives and databases, vaults which held wealth beyond belief, especially those of the jewellers in Hatton Garden – ah, if he only had the skills to break in, to handle the beautiful gems and elegant pieces, if only, if only...

In a moment he was stone cold sober. The ring in his pocket seemed to be burning its way through the cloth, heating his skin. He pulled it out and went to throw it, but stopped. The diamond was worth something, the gold was worth something, why throw it away? Why not choose someone worthy of having it as a gift ... one of these vagrants, stinking and snoring in a doorway? Why not be truly magnanimous and give the gift of a lifetime to someone, change their future forever? Well, perhaps that was going a little too far but still...

He had no need of it. He could not bring himself to walk into a jeweller's and sell it, for they would know what had happened, and pride, that all enveloping sin, would not let him do that, not allow someone to smile sympathetically and wish him better luck next time. Best to give it away and start over again – if there was a next time.

But which one of the human flotsam could he give it to? Why was one more deserving than another?

Random luck, he told himself, like winning the lottery, sometimes they draw the lucky number, the rest of the time, for some, the rest of their lives, they don’t.

He stopped by a particularly savage looking drunk, long grey hair tied back with string, huge shaggy beard, incredibly lined face and gnarled twisted hands clutching the newspaper tightly to his body. The night was not cold, but habit dies hard.

‘Hey you!’ Karl nudged the sleeping man with his highly polished shoe, provoking a grunt that could have been ‘clearorff’ or something vulgar. He couldn’t quite make out the words. He tried again. ‘Look, I’ve got something for you.’

The eyes flicked open and for a moment Karl felt intense fear for they were black and soulless. Then the man blinked and the face changed.

‘What’d’r’yer want then? I was kipping.’

‘I want to give you something. I don’t want it any more, it’s worth a lot of money and I chose you to give it to.’

‘What is it?’

‘This.’

Karl held out the ring and the man took it, suspiciously turning it every way he could.

‘What’s the catch?’

‘No catch. I broke up with my fiancé and that’s it, end of relationship. I don’t want to sell the ring, I want to give it to someone else to sell.’

‘No one gives someone sommat for nuffink. What do you want me to do for it?’

‘Nothing.’ Karl was beginning to despair; the man was not grateful, just suspicious. ‘Look, it’s not stolen or anything, just take it and in the morning see if you can trade it for money to help you live.’

‘Now who’s gonna believe I got this legit?’

Karl was baffled. It was something he hadn’t thought of, not for a moment. Of course, how could someone looking and smelling like that walk into a jeweller’s and trade the ring for cash?

He made up his mind in that moment. ‘All right. I’ll remember you. I’ll be back in the morning. I’ll sell the ring myself and bring you the money.’

The teeth were stained and black but they still showed themselves in a grim smile. The vagrant grabbed Karl’s arm in a tight vicious grip. ‘I’ll wait for you.’

‘I will be back.’

‘Don’t you go ratting on me. You don’t promise me a lifeline and then rat on me. I’ll wait for you.’

Nodding, Karl stuffed the ring back in his pocket and walked swiftly away. He knew the doorway, he knew the man; he would return.

He thought.

Taxis disappear at night from the City, for there are no passengers to hail them and be taken to distant destinations. The taxi drivers can make a killing by driving by theatres and nightclubs instead. Karl knew he would have to get to the Underground to go home. Mansion House, perhaps? But his footsteps were not taking him to an Underground station. He didn’t quite know where he was going; it seemed drink and sorrow were combining to send him wandering aimlessly down narrow streets that held menace in every darkened window and doorway, taunting him with glimpses of civilisation, street lights and occasional cars, but he could not quite make his way to them.

He stumbled into what he thought was a small park, until he saw the gravestones around the walls. Oh what the hell, he thought, I’ll just...

The morning sun touched his red rimmed eyes and woke him. Dishevelled and hung over, he somehow staggered to his feet, trying to brush dirt and early morning dew from his once fine suit. His throat was raw and his stomach screamed for something, anything, to stop the sick feeling which was consuming him. Too late, it had to come out.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered to whoever the headstone commemorated. ‘You know how it is...’

He reached for a handkerchief and realised the pocket was empty. The ring had gone. Somewhere in the dark hours someone had robbed him; his wallet, his watch and the ring had gone.

‘NO!’ he roared into the silent morning, startling the birds into frantic squawking song in the trees. ‘NO!’ Fear gripped him, turning him to ice. He saw the soulless eyes of the vagrant, heard the menace in the voice, ‘I will wait for you.’ A voice that in that moment was not that of a vagrant drunk, but a cultured being, one with strength, one with purpose ... one who meant what he said.

I have to go and explain...

Was that not foolish? A sane voice in his head questioned the decision. The man knows not who you are. Go home. Walk if you must. Report the theft to the police at least, get them to take you home. Forget the vagrant.

‘I will wait for you.’

He couldn’t. Something was drawing him back to the doorway, to the man whose life he promised to change – and would dismally fail to do so.

Somehow he got himself moving; somehow he knew he had to find his way back. He had no idea where he was, but he thought if he let his subconscious work out the direction, he would be there in no time, not like the meandering aimless walk he had taken the night before. That was nothing but a jumbled memory anyway.

The sour taste of vomit in his mouth, hair awry and clothes wrecked, Karl staggered into the street and began to walk, letting his feet take him where they would.

And sure enough he was heading back to the building he remembered. And sure enough the vagrant was there, sitting up, alert, anticipating.

‘Too damn early for you to have sold the ring,’ he growled as Karl walked up to him. ‘And you look like sommat the dog brought in from the dump.’

‘I ... fell asleep in a graveyard last night and someone robbed me.’

‘Right. Good story. Some ghoul came out of his grave and took the ring, did he?’

‘Ring, wallet, watch, everything.’

The vagrant began to laugh. ‘Right, mister, like I believe that story. Going back on your promise, then, are you?’

‘I can’t – I need to go home. I can find money and bring it back to you. I promise!’

The man stood up, towering over Karl. He had not appreciated how tall the man was; curled up in the doorway he looked small, almost insignificant. Now he revealed himself as over six foot and broad with it. The fear Karl had experienced in the graveyard was nothing to what he felt in that moment.

‘You know what the old highwaymen used’ta say, dontcha? Your money or your life. You tell me you got no money, so – ’

Karl’s lifeless, bloodless body lay in the doorway for several hours before someone found him and reported the death to the police. The autopsy revealed not a drop of blood remained in his veins.

Asylums at Twilight

2011-04-21T22:03:00.000-07:00

"ASYLUMS AT TWILIGHT" - Ron Koppelberger

In saucepans of magic and teaspoons of mystery,

The cauldron colored gray by a cloudy horizon in
Mixed mirrors of both reflected shadow and silver shine,
The puff of a dragons breath on the warm airs of a midnight breeze
And shaking oaken boughs of ancient
Sentinel, the mists of fear forsaken by the
Courage of spells caste and tender secret
Asylums at twilight.

BIO: Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 100 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: He has been submitting his work for the past two years. He is thrilled by acceptance. He is always looking for an audience. He has published 450 poems, 270 short stories and 82 pieces of art in over 128 periodicals, books and anthologies. He has been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Thailand and India. You can see some of Ron's other work here: http://shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com/

Reflection

2011-04-21T21:44:00.000-07:00

"REFLECTION" - Pixie J. King

Darkness.

That’s all he could see when he opened his eyes; a layered blackness, with an orange neon tint that crept in through the door – the streetlight, which blended in with the silver glow of the moon. He lay still in his bed, clutched the sheets and listened to the swelling shadows. He swallowed the tight ball forming in his throat, but all he could hear was the pulsing in his ears, his heart thumping against his ribcage, fuelled by a torrent of adrenaline. That; and the silent ringing in his ears.

No, there it was again.

He shot up, stared into the shifting black murk of his room.

Small beads of perspiration formed on his brow and down his neck, the soft tiny hairs on his neck standing on end. He slowly peeled back the covers, stepped out of bed, still listening to the odd noises drifting in from the dark. He walked towards the bathroom, tentative.

It’s getting louder…

He entered the bathroom, switched on the light, saw his reflection in the bathroom mirror; a pale shadow that stared back at him.

Dark dreams, he thought, grabbing the flannel. He turned on the cold tap and soaked it, slapped the flannel over his face, felt it cool his clammy skin. He rubbed his eyes, forehead and then around his neck.

The water gradually drained and stopped flowing from the tap. He turned it, but no water came.

Icy tendrils, like thin, sinewy fingers, swept up his spine, made the hairs stand on end. He shuddered, felt the coldness flood his skin, seeping into his veins and numbing his senses. He felt faint, dropped the flannel and clutched onto the sink, momentarily struggling to stand upright.

The noise.

Shit, there it was again…only softer…almost like a whisper…

A stench.

He looked into the mirror, but his tired reflection had vanished; behind him, something moved.

His skin piqued; two topaz eyes stared back at him through the murk, and slowly a figure of a girl emerged, with long flaxen curls which fell from her scalp. Crimson streams dripped from deep lacerations in her neck, down her clothes and onto the lino floor.

He swallowed, hard. His mind flashed back to that night, quick and fast, and then gone. His eyes shuttered; he turned, his heart pumping hard, fear seeping from every fibre in his body. But the vision was gone. He peered around the bathroom, but the girl had disappeared. He sighed inwardly with relief.

Thank God…that bitch can’t hurt me…She’s dead…

He became rooted to the spot for a moment, slowly glanced down.

Blood on the floor.

What the...?

He grabbed some tissue paper and mopped up the blood, flushed the tissue down the toilet. He tried the taps, and water spilled out. Relieved, he swilled the blood from his hands, but when he turned around, the blood had re-emerged in front of him.

‘Shit…’

He heard the scratching noise again, the sound he’d heard all night, but it seemed to emanate from the living room. He noticed that more drops of blood had formed, almost like bloody footprints, gesturing him to follow.

He took a deep breath, edged closer towards the bathroom doorway and followed the footprints.

He stopped when he reached the living room, he saw the flaxen haired girl standing by the far wall. He seemed trapped in the spectre’s gaze, watched as it smeared his wall with blood. He glanced to his right; saw the other walls covered with the same bloodied message repeated over again.

My blood is on your hands; the devil will collect.

He could smell rotting flesh and stale blood.

He shuddered, tried to scream to wake his neighbours, but his larynx had tightened. He backed away, knew he had to find his phone, get out, get away...

The girl turned, her topaz eyes focussing on him. The irises swelled into two gleaming black pits; he was convinced he could see a raging fire in both eyes. His muscles trembled.

He felt as though the air was being sucked out of his lungs...could barely breathe...He glanced up at the girl, her rotten stench filling up his senses. He looked into her eyes as he drew his last breaths. ‘Please…’ he rasped. ‘I’m sorry for what I did…’

The girl just stared at him as he fell to his knees, then the floor. She edged forward, staring; the holes in her eyes grew wider, watched as he spluttered with blood.

She smiled as his neck tore open, blood gushing out onto the cream carpet. She wrote a sentence in his blood.

Your debt is paid. The devil will collect you now…

BIO: Pixie is an A level student who enjoys writing. She writes anything dark, from horror to fairies, and writes in any length. While completing college, she writes when she can, writing either short stories or lives in the world of her two protagonists as she completes two different novels. She dares you to enter her Realm at http://www.therealmofpixiejking.co.uk

Two Weirdos and a Briefcase

2011-04-21T19:58:00.000-07:00

"TWO WEIRDOS AND A BRIEFCASE" - Frank Greasestain
I searched through the pile of clean clothes for black socks. There were none.

I searched through the pile of dirty clothes for black socks. There was one black sock and there was one dark blue one. Nobody would be able to tell and whoever’s looking at my ankles underneath a desk is an asshole anyway.

Another work day, another meeting that I had no idea what the point of was. There was no time for a shower and no time for a shave. I didn’t look homeless, I just didn’t look presentable to royalty. Robert F. Johnson and Sons Accounting wasn’t a castle and wasn’t run by royalty. It would be okay.

I pulled up to the office building and looked up. It was a quiet and sunny spring day in San Antonio. I sighed when I pushed the pull door. First mistake of many, I was sure.

The office building was quiet. Nobody was bustling from room to room. Nobody was waiting at the elevator. I dug in my pockets for the sheet of paper I scrawled the office number on. Suite 510. Fifth floor.

I pushed the up arrow.

As soon as I walked in two weirdos walked in behind me.

“Get on the floor,” a cold, mechanical female voice instructed me. I looked at her. She was an albino with jet black hair and old person sunglasses on. She was wearing a skin tight track suit made of aluminum foil. The man she was with was bald, albino, also wearing old person sunglasses with the same get up. His body was beginning to burst out of his aluminum foil.

“What’s this all about?” I asked.

“Shut up,” the man said. “Don’t ask questions. We ask the questions and we don’t have any.”

“Yes, yes,” the woman nodded her head. She pulled a briefcase out from behind her back.

“On your knees,” she instructed. I obeyed. She placed the briefcase on my head and began rubbing it. I looked at my reflection on the stainless steel elevator doors. Country muzak was playing.

She continued to rub the briefcase on my head. It started to feel like a drill headed for the center of my brain.

“What’s going on?” I asked. I suddenly could only see in black and white and things were getting fuzzy.

“You will wake up in your bed and everything will be normal like nothing ever happened,” the man said.

They both laughed in syncopated ha ha has in unison.

“Yes,” the lady said, “When you wake up, everything will be normal like nothing ever happened but we will control your mind.”

“Huh?” was the last thing I remembered saying before the static took over and everything faded to black.

When I woke up, holy shit, everything was normal.

BIO: Frank Greasestain was born. Someday will die. For now, he lives. Blog: greasestain.tumblr.com

Cold

2011-04-11T05:11:00.000-07:00

"COLD" - Patsy Collins

It’s cold. Not the sharp biting cold of an east wind,
Nor the tingling exhilarating cold of winters first snow.
This is the slow steady cold of January clinging to your flesh,
Mixing with your blood. Soaking into your soul.

This cold cannot be escaped; it’s within you now.
It drifts through your mind when you sleep and when you wake.
Too late now for the fire, a warm drink, soft blanket.
This is the cold of disappointments of loneliness.

The cold wraps around you, caressing as once the sun did.
Lost friends, forgotten hopes chill your dreams now.
The warmth of happiness, confidence, strength - all gone.
No spring will come, for the cold you feel is death.

BIO: Patsy Collins writes short stories for magazines including,
Woman's Weekly, Fiction Feast, Ireland's Own, My Weekly and That's
Life. To read more about her and her writing, please visit patsy-collins.blogspot.com

Oh, The Living

2011-04-11T03:46:00.000-07:00

"OH, THE LIVING" - George Wilhite

They never leave well enough alone

The Living
This place has been ours for decades
Renovation, they say
Restoration—why?
There is nothing wrong with it
Now it is a place of commerce
Not a home
Security systems, annoying gadgets
And their ill-mannered offspring
Create disharmony
Time to strike back

This house is ours
We can play the poltergeist if pushed
Create some real discord
These Living won’t forget
We died far too young
And plan to be here a long time
This rude interruption
Of our chosen Eternity
Shall not be tolerated
Our friends and neighbors
Will gladly join in
Though such mischief
Gives us a bad reputation
It is a necessary evil
For the Living
Never learn

Evening Whispers

2011-04-11T02:51:00.000-07:00

"EVENING WHISPERS" - Ron Koppelberger

The heat in shallow flashes of twilight, a hairbreadth of

Orange akin to the ghosts of grieving suns and dawn’s

Battle, wrought unto the simmering tongue of a black eyed

Raven in curious foray between the place where

We were born to imagine and the place we were meant

To measure by the width of a bidden dream, of shadow and

Moon-glow reverie, a sound given the heartbeat

Of evening whispers, through the calm of a mystery

In fires of swamp morass and ancient

Sylvan egress, by the way of select

Silhouettes gone along the trail

Unto life and death.

BIO: Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 100 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels and has been submitting his work for the past two years. Ron is thrilled by acceptance and is always looking for an audience. He has published 450 poems, 270 short stories and 82 pieces of art in over 128 periodicals, books and anthologies. Ron has been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Thailand and India.

Senyru #3

2011-04-05T04:19:00.000-07:00

"SENYRU #3" - Marion Clarke

I enquired about

her favourite dish

'it's human soup' she said

BIO: Currently back living with her family in her native Northern Ireland after thirteen years studying and working in France and England, Marion has had poetry and fiction published online and in print and non-fiction published in the UK trade press. She began studying and writing senyru and haiku two years ago and has become passionate about the form.

Black Dress

2011-04-05T03:57:00.000-07:00

"BLACK DRESS" - Valerie Collins

I’d never had a little black dress. Nor even a big one. Shapeless grey, that was me. But this, this was something different. It seemed to beckon to me from the shop window as I walked down the High Street. I stopped, and stood for a while, my gaze lost in the black silk. The dress seemed to whisper to me, promising me everything I had ever desired.

The following week I heard the dress murmuring, calling me softly as I turned into the High Street. It was still in its place in the centre of the window. So beautiful it was, and yet it had not been sold.

No. I’m waiting for you.

I stepped inside the shop. I did not even get to try the dress on. The assistant looked at me sneeringly. Up and down. As if I was a blot on the landscape. A monstrous carbuncle. Which I was. How presumptious of me for having a large body. A body which men like to touch and squeeze.

I want you to do something for me.

“Please let me see it!” I implored. The assistant pursed her lips and brought it from the window. She held it out for a moment and I caressed the silk. Waves of warm energy flowed to me. Warm loving energy.

Would you like to have me? What will you do for me?

Anything, I said. Anything.

Anything?

It was a size 10. Yes, I sighed, anything. I love you. I want you.

I went to the supermarket and filled my bag with carrots and lettuces and low-fat yoghourts. I threw out all the foods that would prevent me from having my heart’s desire. Every week I went to the shop on the High Street to visit the dress. And every week it was still there, in the middle of the window.

I’m waiting for you.

There came the day when the assistant looked me up and down and measured me with her snooty eyes, and allowed me to take it to the cubicle and hold it, while she stood guard by the door, her arms folded. The dress shimmered and whispered close to me. It cleaved softly to my body, and soothed me.

Soon I’ll be yours. Very soon.

The hunger was difficult to bear, as I lay the night in my big black wooden bed, hearing the mice pattering and the cat scratching and the old house creaking, sensing the scowl of the big black spider in the corner. But whenever I thought I could bear it no longer, the dress stole into my mind and reminded me of my pledge.

Every week I went to the shop on the High Street and was allowed to hold the dress. It seemed the thinner I got, the smaller the dress got. It was a test of my devotion.

One day, after many weeks, as I held the dress hunger made me swoon, and for just an instant I hovered out of time in a swirl of silk.

And one day, as I reached out to touch the dress, my fingers shimmered, iridescent, merging with the silk.

And then came the day when I woke up in the morning, light as air. I knew today was the day. I called the cat, but she didn’t come. I floated out of the house. The bus conductor didn’t take my fare. I glided into the shop. This time the assistant didn’t stop me. Didn’t look me up and down. Didn’t sneer. She looked straight through me. I soared on a wave of light to the window and at long last I closed my arms around my dress. And a puff and a swish and we were one.

Now I see you coming along the High Street, your shopping bag filled with cakes and pastries. Would you like to have me? What will you do for me?

BIO: Valerie has published several prize-winning short stories and was the winner of the Jacqui Bennet Writers Bureau Competition in Autumn 1999 among others. She has written for magazines and guidebooks and is co-author of "In The Garlic: Your Informative, Fun Guide to Spain." Valerie lives in Barcelona where she gives creative writing workshops and is working on the final draft of a novel: a picaresque hero quest in a magical city, where, it is said, paths intertwine and dreams come true.
You can discover more about Valerie here www.inthegarlic.com and here www.valeriecollinswriter.com

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The Patience Factor

2011-04-05T02:22:00.000-07:00

"THE PATIENCE FACTOR" - Rick McQuiston

Everett Stones was a patient man. He wore the virtue like a coat, immersing himself in it, using it as a tool to deal with life’s unexpected and inevitable twists and turns. Whenever something would come his way, such as an illness or a car repair, he would simply deal with it in his own sweet time, allowing his patience to steer him through it.

Now he would be the first one to admit that his life was basically unscathed by any real tragedy. He’d never lost a loved one and his health for the most part remained stable despite a few maladies such as migraine headaches and minor backpain from time to time. But he always felt his patience was what would pull him through. His philosophy was to let time itself heal all wounds, whether they were physical or mental.

His successful book detailed many different forms of patience that he had developed over his life, each carefully tailored to specific situations that one might encounter.

Most psychiatrists and other professionals in the field dismissed him as a quack whose theories were only based on such practices as meditation or even religion. But the book sold well nonetheless. So well in fact that he could afford to retire early and live in relative comfort for the rest of his life.

If he actually believed in The Patience Factor, which was the title of his book, he himself sometimes doubted it. But such doubts would always be suppressed by referring to chapter nine:

Accessing diminishing beliefs in one’s beliefs.

His ego sometimes swelled beyond the boundaries of what most people would consider normal or even acceptable but he did not care. It deserved to roam as it wished, unhindered by other people’s perceptions. He, Everett Stones, had applied the patience factor to his life and ascended above all complications. He had conquered all of the difficulties that were slated to come his way and he had done it with his own methods. No amount of money or success could compare to finding a true path by one’s own means. The Patience Factor had worked for him and that was his true reward.

For the most part, he believed it had worked somewhat well for other people as well. He received numerous accolades regarding his work and he felt confident that he had helped many people. Perhaps not to the degree that he had himself but many people nonetheless.

So now here he was, Everett Stones, acclaimed author of The Patience Factor, sitting in his wheelchair covered with layers of wool blankets to keep Patience pneumonia at bay as the trees outside his library window swayed back and forth in the cold January air. They seemed to be beckoning him to his eternal rest. He knew fully that he didn’t have much time on Earth left. His one hundred and second birthday was only four days away and his body was slowly beginning to succumb to old age.

But it didn’t bother him, however. He was already a living example of his book. A shining advertisement for the effectiveness of his work. Very few people lived to be one-hundred and one and he had managed it due to his theories in the art of patience.

This fact had caused a surge in the popularity of his book. Fifty-seven years after it was first published it was still selling millions of copies and he had found himself to have become something of an icon.

The knowledge of this soothed his mind and relieved the aches and pains of age. He pulled the blankets up to his chin and gazed out at the grey scenery. His aged but still sharp mind jumped back to a young man he remembered from almost fifty years earlier. His name was Richard and he was a very emotional person prone to acting rashly. Everett recalled when he first met Richard; it was at a book signing. Richard had told him how he had lost the love of his life. How his beloved bride-to-be had cancelled the wedding a week before it was scheduled to take place. How he had utilized the methods in The Patience Factor and how his fiancé had committed suicide when she had not heard from him in weeks.

Tears welled in Everett’s eyes. Richard, stricken with unbearable grief, also had said that he had learned one thing from The Patience Factor… infinite patience, for better or for worse. Unfortunately in his case, it was for the worse.

The next day, Richard was dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

Everett felt bad, even somewhat responsible, but he quickly got over it. Chapter four of The Patience Factor helped him immensely.

He felt a sharp pain in his chest that radiated into his left arm, increasing in severity rapidly. His head grew light and breathing became very difficult. It felt like his chest was locked in a vice with death’s bony hand turning the rod.

The realization that he was dying settled on him like a cold, wet blanket. He struggled to maintain his composure, to assure that he would be found in a dignified manner befitting an icon such as himself.

Then just as the remaining breaths left to him were dwindling to nothing, a vision manifested itself in the window. A weak smile formed on his face.

“An angel,” he croaked. “An angel has come for me.”

“Yes, I have come for you Everett,” it said softly. “Although I am no angel. Nor do I come from where angels do…suicides are damned.”

It was Richard! The young man who had lost his fiancé all those years ago.

The figure quickly grew in size, blotting out the January sky with its dark form.

“I have waited nearly fifty years for you,” it said in an eager tone. “I do not think I could have done it were it not for your book.”

BIO: Rick is a forty-three year old father of two who loves anything horror-related. He's had nearly 250 publications so far, including ones in numerous anthologies, and a few contest placings as well. He's written five anthology books, one book of novellas, and edited an anthology of Michigan authors (“Michigan Madman”). They are all available on Lulu and Amazon. Rick is also a guest author each year at Memphis Junior High School, and recently started work on his second novel (“Where Things Might Walk”).

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The Flower Girl

2011-04-01T04:02:00.000-07:00

"THE FLOWER GIRL" - Peter Emmett Naughton

Danielle hated her dress.

She hated the bows, hated the way the lace at the bottom hung down and got stuck on the buckles of her patent-leather shoes and hated the color, a pastel shade of yellow that made her feel like an Easter egg.

She didn’t understand why she had to get so fancied up for the wedding. The church was one thing, but after that she wanted to change into jeans and a t-shirt and didn’t think she should have to stay in the dress just to impress a bunch of people she didn’t even know.

“Are you almost ready in there sweetie?” Danielle’s mother bellowed from the other side of her bedroom door.

“Yeah Mom, just give me a sec.”

Danielle looked at herself in the mirror, scowling at her puffy sleeves and sighing as she grabbed the white gloves off her dresser and tucked them into the ribbon around her waist before heading out to join her mother in the living room.

All she had to do was wait for the music to change and then head down the aisle dropping flower petals in front of her sister Stacey. A trained monkey could do it, but to hear the wedding coordinator talk you’d think it required a PhD in physics. As the coordinator prattled on about pace and petal spacing, Danielle stared at the porcelain animals in her mother’s curio cabinet, envying the tiny hippos and giraffes who would never have to sit through a speech on the intricacies of putting one foot in front of the other.

She heard someone call her name and glanced over at her mother, expecting a scolding look and finding instead that her attention was firmly focused on the seating chart in her lap. The voice came again, louder this time, and Danielle got up and followed the sound around the corner and into her sister’s room.

“What do you think?” Stacey asked as she turned from the full-length mirror in front of her to face Danielle.

“It’s okay I guess.”

“Just okay?”

“No, it’s really pretty it’s just that….”

“What?”

“I don’t get why we have to dress up. I mean it’s just a party, right?”

“It’s a very special party, a celebration.”

“Like Christmas?”

“Kind of, except without Santa.”

“Christmas without Santa?”

“I just meant that it’s exciting like that.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll tell you what. You put up with the frilly clothes today and when Paul and I get back from our honeymoon we’ll take you to the zoo. Deal?”

“Can we see the new wolf enclosure?”

“Absolutely.”

“…alright….”

“Good. Now why don’t you go find Mom and see if she needs any help.”

******

The organist began to play the first strains of Pachelbel's “Canon in D” and Danielle looked over at her basket full of red and pink rose petals. She peered down the length of the long, white runner to where the groomsmen and bridesmaids stood on either side of the pulpit.

‘Just put one foot in front of the other,’ she thought, but when she went to move she found herself rooted to the spot.

The crowds of people filling the pews were beginning to stare now. She could see their faces in her peripheral vision and wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn’t. A cold, tingling sensation started in her big toe and worked its way up her body until it felt like every molecule inside her was humming. Suddenly a wave of dizziness washed over her and the last thing she felt were her knees buckling as the world went black.

At first there was nothing, but then slowly she began to hear a voice.

“…o…k….” the voice said.

“What?” Danielle replied, realizing that her own voice seemed to be coming from somewhere outside her body.

“…u…r…o…k…?”

“Oh. Yeah, I’m okay; at least I think I am.”

“Guuud.”

“Where am I?”

“Tha butweeeen place.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It tha spot tween ware u wir an ware u goin.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“It nawt up ta u.”

“You were the one who called me before, weren’t you?”

“That muh job.”

“Won’t you just tell me how to get home?”

“Kan’t.”

“Why?”

“It nawt up ta me eether.”

“What’s going to happen to me?”

“U watin ere for Big Cadu. It come an take u to da next place...tha after place.”

Danielle could sense the physical presence of something moving closer, though she still couldn’t see anything.

“Please...” she said, her voice quavering. “I just want to go back....”

“It guna b alrite, u…c….” the voice said. “It all b dun sooooon.”

Suddenly a shaft of light appeared at the edge of the inky abyss and Danielle felt herself being pulled upward. Her head pulsed and spun as the black began to fade around her.

“Danielle? Can you hear me honey?”

“Mom?” Danielle said weakly as her vision slowly returned to her. “What happened?”

“Everything’s alright sweetie; you just fainted.”

“...I have to...to spread the flower petals....” Danielle murmured.

“Don’t worry about that now honey. We’re gonna get you home.”

Danielle laid her head against her mother’s shoulder as she was lifted up and carried out to the car. On the ride home she drifted in and out of a kind of dizzy consciousness, but was aware enough to tell when she was being picked up and brought into the house.

There was something comforting about the creak of the wood steps as her mother brought her upstairs and tucked her into bed.

“You just rest now and I’ll be in to check on you in a little bit.”

Danielle nodded once in acknowledgement and watched as her mother exited, quietly shutting the door behind her. The room was still spinning and Danielle wanted to sleep so that it would stop, but every time she closed her eyes she heard the voice.

“Cadu waitin for u leetil wun....

U just come on over and evereethin guna be alrite…u…c....”

BIO: Peter fell into fiction by writing stories to amuse his grammar school classmates, which helped him overcome his shyness, but led to very few completed homework assignments. He has an abiding love of cheese in all its gloriously stinky forms, horror movies with a sense of humor and trashy punk and garage-rock. Peter was raised and currently resides in Chicago with his wife and cats. His writing has appeared in 'The Delinquent', 'Candlelight' and 'Black Words On White Paper'.

In a Glass Darkly

2011-03-26T03:23:00.000-07:00

"IN A GLASS DARKLY" - George Wilhite

I know you are there again.

Tormenting my every waking moment and hiding like the cowards you are, just out of reach.

Doctor Wilkins doesn’t believe me when I tell him how long I’ve known about you. Says it’s impossible I could remember that far back.

“Like, you hypnotized me dude,” I want to say. “Now, you reject the truth because you can’t handle the result?”

But I do remember the first time I saw you. The first of your kind. In the mirror.

I was only ten months old when Mom held me up to the mirror. To my horror, we were reflected there not once but twice. There was the clear duplication of our images but also the more spectral one, behind us and to our right. And our shadow selves cast their derisive smiles I have come to loathe.

You have grown as I have grown. Every mirror reveals twin images of me, one the “real”, the other you, the ghostly double, grinning in triumph over me.

Proving you exist has preoccupied my time. I was a lousy student and after dropping out of school an even more disastrous employee. No matter how often I tried to make a fresh start, inevitably your relentless presence would cause me to make the same mistake over again...telling others about you.

And landing me back here.

It would be one thing if I merely desired to prove myself sane. I gave up caring long ago if anyone believed me or what they thought about me. If I only saw my own twin in the mirror, and not that of my mother, this would remain strictly personal. But it is not that simple because I know everyone else has a twin as well.

Today I will take action. I swear it!

As I write this, you smile smugly from your prison in the mirror.

It will be over soon. You’ll see.

***

Wilkins shook his head, reading his patient’s final diary entry. The security at this place was abysmal. How did he get that box cutter into his room? This delusion was one of the most profound Wilkins had ever encountered.

Wilkins tossed the diary on his desk, rose and stretched. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood up as he felt the eerie sensation he was not alone in his office. For a split second, he swore someone bustled past him out of the corner of his eye. He turned and found only empty air in all directions. He shrugged and laughed it off, brushing aside any thoughts of the uncanny.

In the mirror, something stirred, aware of the extreme skepticism this human embraced.

“Maybe this time, we will be successful,” it whispered to its comrades, waiting patiently further back in the depths of the realm of glass.

BIO: George Wilhite is the author of the short fiction collection On the Verge of Madness. His work has also appeared in numerous print publications and online at Yesteryear Fiction, MicroHorror, Eschatology Journal and The Fringe.

.

Soul Cakes

2011-03-23T22:50:00.000-07:00

"SOUL CAKES" - Keely Done

Billy stood on his tiptoes, trying to peek out a rough opening in the rear of the tiny home, his sweet chubby-cheeked face barely clearing the ledge. It was a special day, so Mamma said, All Hallow's Eve, a time to remember those who'd come before. Billy wasn't quite sure what that meant, but the mouthwatering smells of nutmeg and cinnamon had his little stomach growling. Mamma was making cakes, Soul Cakes she called them, but he wasn't allowed a taste, not even a bit. He'd already been swatted for trying.

His stomach rumbled again and he glanced over at Mamma, trying to gauge whether she was almost done. She wasn't really his Mamma, but she'd been pretty good to him. She'd found him, all alone on the side of the road, and taken him in, even though he could never remember where he came from. That was almost a year ago.

Whistling, she turned and removed another batch of cakes from the oven. Arranging them in a basket, she turned and wiped her hands on her apron.

"It's time Billy, are you ready to go a soulin'?"

Billy crept closer and studied the sweets. "If I sing, then I get to eat them?" He whined.

She swept his dark hair back and patted his cheek. "Yes, dear, sing well for the souls of the dead and you get to eat them. After all, soulin' is the only way to free those wicked souls from purgatory."

The word “wicked” piqued his interest and his golden eyes flashed once in the dim light of the cabin. Mamma stumbled and almost dropped the cakes.

Billy ran over to help. "Careful Mamma, I don't want to have to eat them off the ground."

She laughed and patted her hair back in place. "I don't know what came over me, just felt weak all of a sudden. Must be the heat of the oven."

Billy shrugged and pulled on his ragged sweater, small protection against the brisk breeze outside the cabin door, but it was all he had.

The small town was alive in the deepening dusk. Several of the townsfolk had hung lanterns outside their cabins, the wicks burning brightly in the gathering darkness. The drying cornstalks rustled in the wind, the last remnants of this years harvest. Somebody had even started a bonfire in the town square–a pathetic patch of dead grass where folks usually hitched up their horses. Children were dancing while their mother's sang and some of the gents were warming up with their fiddles.

Billy jumped up and down in excitement as his Mamma ushered him towards a small group of bedraggled children. According to Mamma, the songs of the less fortunate were sweeter to the ears of God and he granted more of their prayers.

The Pastor lined them up and they started down the street, screeching at the top of their lungs, "A soul, a soul, a soul cake!"

Mrs. Jeffries was hanging out her door when they arrived, a plate full of cakes in her hands. As they chanted their rhyme, she handed them out and Billy eagerly awaited his. The soft gooey cake stuck to his fingers and he hurriedly shoved it in his mouth.

As he gulped it down, Mamma exclaimed, "Well now my Billy, you've freed your first soul."

Billy's eyes flashed in the light of the lanterns and he watched as Mamma clutched her chest and dropped the basket she was carrying. It seemed to fall in slow motion and the cakes burst out from the basket, sinking into the mud. Billy groaned in dismay and then ran towards his Mamma; worried that something was terribly wrong.

She couldn't speak; she stared at him in horror, clutching her chest. Her skin had paled and her lips were turning a deep purple color. Mrs. Jeffries screamed. "Get the doc."

Billy fell to his knees at his mother's side, just as her eyes closed. Gripping her face in his hands, he cried as he watched her slip away. "Don't go Mamma."

Doc Fischer ran towards them, looking down at the fallen woman. "I'm sorry son, but she's gone."

Billy stood up, the expression on his face conveying not shock, but hunger. As his Mamma's soul fed him, he remembered who and what he was. Imbued with power, his golden eyes blazed in the darkness, illuminating the scene. The air went still, as if waiting.

Doc Fischer stepped forward to comfort the poor grieving boy and tripped, his lantern flying. It shattered on impact, a fireball bursting from its center and quickly lighting the Jeffries' house ablaze.

The wind whipped up and the air crackled. Like a flame to a wick the bonfire burst free of it's confines and raged through the town. Billy, eyes gleaming, began to pace slowly as wailing and screaming filled the air. Those he passed fell to the earth, and with each soul he inhaled he felt stronger. It wasn't long before the entire town was nothing but a pile of smoldering ash.

Satiated, Billy ran down the trail, out towards another town, another smorgasbord for his immortal soul. He stopped, hearing the sound of an approaching rider in the distance. His countenance changed, the doe-eyed face of innocence returning. He was, once again, just a helpless little boy.

BIO: Keely must have been born under a witching moon as she's always been fascinated by the gothic and dark. Give her a cemetery at dusk over a bright sunny beach any day of the week. Though she's never met one, that she knows of, she firmly believes that vampires exist and hopes that werewolves do to. She wishes she had magic powers so that she could finish her "work" in a blink and focus all her time and effort on her writing. She lives with her lovely gamer husband and geektastically perfect daughter in not so sunny Dayton, Ohio. Check out more of her work and random ramblings on her blog: keelyanndone.livejournal.com , or follow her on Twitter @keelyanndone

As If

2011-03-12T00:16:00.000-08:00

"AS IF" - Maeve Heneghan

I like to visit at least twice a week. Usually I arrive around the same time, unless of course, I'm needed elsewhere. But this particular time seems to suit. Just to sit with him. I only started my regular visits a short time ago. But my time here is valuable.

As if like clockwork, when I arrive he makes a pot of tea, which has to be made, just so. He uses leaves only, never inferior teabags. Leaving his tea to draw for exactly 3 minutes, he takes out a mug. Straining the tea, he then adds a modicum of milk and 3 lumps of sugar. A sweet tooth has always been Cyril's problem. At his age that could lead to serious health problems but there's no talking to him. Cup of tea in hand, he makes his way for the chair at the head of the kitchen table. Of course his ritual would not be complete without a packet of Jammy Dodgers which he normally puts out onto the same china plate. The one with the delicate blue flowers and tiny yellow butterflies.

At about 11 O'clock, Mrs O'Reilly arrives. Today I notice she lets herself in with a key. This has never happened before. She is only the housekeeper after all. I look on as she helps herself to a cup of tea and polishes off two Jammy Dodgers. She shares a joke and a bit of a giggle with Cyril. But most shocking of all, when she's had her fill, she walks over to the cupboard and pulls out an apron. It says "kiss the cook", on the front. She ties it around her ample waist. Cyril doesn't even look up.

Why is this all so shocking, you might wonder? I'll tell you why. Cyril is drinking his tea out of my favourite mug. He is sitting in my favourite kitchen chair. The china plate is the one I only like to use on special occasions, like Christmas, when it is joined by all the others in the set. It was a wedding present from my parents. But the most upsetting, unpalatable picture of all, is seeing that corpulent housekeeper wearing my bloody apron! The one Cyril bought for me in Italy two years ago.

Oh Cyril, you fool. My body is not yet cold in its dank dark grave and you are already acting as if I were never here. It won't be long until Mrs O'Reilly is sharing your bed too. Mind you, she'll take up two thirds of it. What way is that for a 75 year old man to behave.You always had a roving eye. I was your wife for 30 years and this is how you honour my memory. Oh shame on you Cyril!

I've been quiet up to now, but I think it's time I made my presence felt.

BIO: Maeve Heneghan started her career as a Drama teacher. Then the wonderful opportunity to live and work in China presented itself. After living and working in China for a number of years, she returned to Ireland and is now living in the Midlands with her husband and daughter. Maeve has been writing poetry and short stories for two years now and has had poetry and flash fiction pieces published online and in print.

A Halloween Prayer

2011-03-11T23:54:00.000-08:00

"A HALLOWEEN PRAYER" - Mark Tomlinson

Please protect me Jack ‘O’ Lantern
From the things that walk this night.
May your candle burn unhindered
And your jagged smile be bright.
Let your orange light surround me
with a wall of magic light.
Please protect me Jack ‘O’Lantern
From the things that walk this night.
Please defend me Jack ‘O’Lantern
From the things that mean me harm.
From the fangs and claws of monsters;
From the witches deadly charm.
Send them fleeing from my doorstep
Lost in panic and alarm.
Please defend me Jack ‘O’Lantern
From the things that mean me harm.

BIO: Mark is a father of four from the North West who doesn't write as much as he'd like to. He's had work published on EDF, Fantastic Horror, EDP, Bewildering Stories and Millionstories.

Raven's Wings

2011-03-11T23:29:00.000-08:00

"RAVEN'S WINGS" - Ron Koppelberger

Cousins shuttered by the full bloom of

Moon blossoms and night shade smiles,

The radiating shadow realm of dabbling dusk

And the eclipsed illusion of glaring confusion,

Disengaged delirium for the clarity of an evening

Sun and an inky umbra of rare wonder, by the shine

On a Raven's wings and the embers

Of eternity.

BIO: Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 100 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: He has been submitting his work for the past two years. He is thrilled by acceptance and is always looking for an audience. He has published 450 poems, 270 short stories and 82 pieces of art in over 128 periodicals, books and anthologies. He has been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Thailand and India.

http://wolffray.blogspot.com

The Hearse

2011-03-11T23:07:00.000-08:00

"THE HEARSE" - Clifton Bush Jnr.

It was an ugly car, she thought. Long, black, and with death written all over it. Geri looked at it, and thought that it would be the perfect first car for her sister Lori. She was all of sixteen and into the Goth scene, and this would be the icing on the cake. She couldn't wait to see the look on her face when she handed her the keys to her new 'ride.'

She went and signed the papers for the car in the dealer's office, and walked out to her own car. The man told her that she had three days in which to pick up the car, otherwise he would rip up the contract and slap a for-sale sign back on the windshield. She told him not to worry, that she would be back later on that evening to pick it up with a friend.

She went home, showered, got changed, and went to pick up her friend Brianna. Together they would drive the car back to Brianna's house to 'hide' it until her sister's birthday tomorrow. She was getting excited; she couldn't wait to give it to her. She would just freak when she saw what she would be driving.

Once they arrived at the dealer's lot, she told Brianna to follow her, and she would give the car its first ride. It had been on the lot now for a couple of years; no one wanted the ugly thing, but she thought it would be perfect for Lori, with her tats and piercings and ultra-black spiked hair. This would be the present of a lifetime.

While they didn't get along all the time, they were more like friends than sisters. They would borrow each others' makeup, clothes, and sometimes would even trade boyfriends. But that was pretty rare, considering as how Lori was only sixteen. Their mother frowned on her dating at such a young age, but girls were girls, and they did pretty much what they wanted to. At least up to a point. When she told her mother that she was buying Lori a hearse for her birthday, she had a fit. It was bad enough, she argued, that when a person died, it would be the last ride they received. How ironic that she would buy her sister a hearse to drive around town in. She finally assented to it, but she still didn't like it.

There were rumors around that hearses had a curse on them, that if anyone drove one it would be to their own funeral. Geri just laughed at the rumormongers. She didn't care. She was going to buy that car for her sister no matter what people said. She didn't much listen to anyone that tried to give her advice.

At last the time came for the key presentation. They blindfolded Lori, and took her to Brianna's house. Once there, they stood her outside, and told her to open her hand. While she held her right hand out, Geri dropped the keys into it and told her to take off the blindfold. Lori did, and a squeal that could be heard for miles came out of her when she saw the long, black death machine. She screeched and howled and gave Geri hugs and kisses, and even gave Brianna a few too.

“Go try it out,” said Geri, giving her sister a hug. She watched Lori get in the car, almost being dwarfed by the massive door on the beast. She inserted the key and turned it over. The big motor turned over once, twice, and rumbled into life, its eight cylinders purring as if it had just come out of the shop.

Geri and Brianna hopped in the passenger side, and they all went for a ride. The car rode smooth, thanks to its heavy duty suspension.

“You know how many beers we can haul in this thing?” Brianna pointed out, noting the roomy interior. “Holy crap, guys, this is our new party vehicle!”

Lori just looked at her with disdain. “Uh-uh, Brianna, this is not your party vehicle, this is my new car, and I'm going to show it off to everyone!”

They headed out of town, and Geri told Lori to open it up some. There were no cops around, so she pressed harder on the gas. Soon they were cruising along at 90 miles an hour. Geri told her to back it off a bit before they got stopped. Lori let her foot off the gas, and the car just kept going, faster and faster. They were soon doing 100, then 110, 120, 130. She slammed on the brakes, but to no avail.

The hearse just kept speeding along, and soon they were coming up on some pretty sharp curves. The girls started screaming, but it was no use. The car kept going faster and faster, and soon one of the corners was just too much for the screeching rubber, and the big car leaped out at the trees, snapping off a telephone pole in the process. By the time the car stopped, it was nothing but a scrap heap. The girls had been tossed about like rag dolls, and had taken their one and only ride in a hearse.

Alive, that is...

Clifton lives in Michigan and has wanted to write stories all of his life. He is happily engaged to a wonderful woman and raising his 10 year old son. He enjoys writing, astronomy, NASCAR, football and the outdoors in general.

Being a Vampire's Wife

2011-03-11T22:33:00.000-08:00

"BEING A VAMPIRE'S WIFE" - Shirley Elmokadem

Last week at school I met a guy
whose name was Edward Cullen,
I fell in love with him at once,
although he was pale and sullen.

He had the most gorgeous eyes
they set my heart a flutter,
he asked me to go out with him.
I prayed he wasn’t a nutter.

He took me to a restaurant
that stood beside a lake.
I ordered the fresh salmon,
he went for a rare steak.

He didn’t want to eat dessert,
so we went back to his flat.
He didn’t try it on at all,
I was a bit put out at that.

He asked me to stay with him
and showed me to his bed.
He said he was born in 1901
I said, ‘Stop pulling my leg!’

I loved lying in his arms,
it felt so safe and right,
but then he said, ‘Sorry, Love
I like to go out at night.’

When he returned at dawn,
he was covered in blood and gore,
an icy chill shot down my spine
and I legged it out the door.

‘Wait!’ he said, ‘don’t leave me
I'm not going to give you a bite
I’m madly in love with you,
besides you’re not my blood type.’

Dear reader I'm marrying him!
I do like a challenge in life,
and I think that I, Bella, will make
a 'fangtastic' vampire's wife.

BIO: Shirley lives in Sussex. She writes books for children and poems for all ages. She has won various poetry and writing competitions and has had poems published in anthologies and magazines. Read more about her work here http://www.shirley-elmokadem.co.uk

Shopping Lists

2011-03-07T23:15:00.000-08:00

"SHOPPING LISTS" - Sheila Crosby

January: Flowers, chocolates, wine.

April: Diamond ring, champagne.

August: Insurance, duct tape, trash bags, chain saw, spade.

BIO: Sheila Crosby lives on a small rock in the Atlantic. She's a mother, writer, photographer, tour guide, translator, gardener, belly dancer, English teacher and software engineer. Consequently she rarely gets time for her hobbies, which are cooking, laundry, ironing and cleaning the house. Her website is located here http://sheilacrosby.com and there's more about the small rock at http://lapalmaisland.sheilacrosby.com

Saligia

2011-03-07T22:57:00.000-08:00

"SALIGIA" - Mark Tomlinson

Frances placed the mail and the messages on Sir Andrew Maples’ smoked glass desk.

“What’s new?” he asked.

“You’ve received a call from Mr Ash at Saligia, Sir Andrew” she replied.

“Who the bloody hell are Saligia? Sounds like a sexually transmitted disease.”

“I…I assumed you knew them Sir Andrew. The call came through on your private line.”

Maples slammed his hand down on the desk top. This he didn’t need, he already had a headache that seemed set for the day. “What have I told you about assuming Frances? What’s the bleedin’ point of a private line if any Tom Dick or ‘Arry can call me? Tell me that.”

“There’s no point, Sir Andrew,” Frances said in a small voice.

“Dead right. Go on, get out.” Frances hurried to the door but just before she reached it Maples said, “Did this Ash geezer leave his number?”

“Yes Sir Andrew, it’s on the memo.”

Maples found the sheet and dismissed his PA with a wave of his hand. He picked up the phone and punched in the number. “I’ll give you a bloody call, Mister Ash, and when I find out who gave you my number I’ll have his bollocks for breakfast,” he said.

The call was connected after two rings. A deep, smoky, female voice answered. “Saligia,” it said.

Despite his anger Maples found himself reacting to the voice. Something about the timbre or the tone just oozed sex. He cleared his throat. “I want to speak to Mister Ash,” he said.

“Certainly Sir Andrew.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Oh come, Sir Andrew, everybody knows you.”

The woman’s voice was doing things to Maples that he usually had to pay for. If nothing else he was going to headhunt this girl for his own company. Or something.

“Well put me through then.”

“Certainly,” she breathed into the mouthpiece. “Putting you through,” she whispered.

There was a soft click. Maples swallowed and loosened his tie. His headache had eased but he was hot.

“Ash here. Good morning Sir Andrew, I’m so pleased you called.” The voice was cultured, public school and Oxbridge. The voice of an immaculately dressed arsehole that’d never had to do a hands turn in his life. It was not the voice of a man who had bawled in the street selling his wares from a barrow. A man like Sir Andrew-self made Maples.

“Are you now? Well how the hell did you get my private number?”

Ash chuckled and the sound made Maples fume. “Oh, we know everything about you, Sir Andrew. It’s our business to know all about our most important clients.”

“Listen to me, Sunshine, I’m not your bleedin’ client and I never will be; now who gave you my number or do I have to ring my legal team?”

Ash laughed. “There’s no need to bother, Sir Peter,” he said.

“I’ll do what I bleedin’ like!”

“Perhaps it’d be better if we had a face to face Sir Andrew.” If Ash was scared he didn’t sound it.

“You can piss off!” Maples hung up. He glared at the phone. There would have to be an investigation, firstly into the leak and then into Saligia after which he would use all his power to crush them like beetles. He licked his lips at the prospect. He flicked the intercom.

“Frances get me some coffee and danishes,” he said. Business always made him hungry.

The office door opened. Maples, engrossed in reading his mail said, “Put it on the desk Frances.”

“Sorry, I’m afraid it’s just me.”

Maples looked up. A young man in a beautifully tailored suit stood beaming at him. “Ash?” Maples said.

“Yes, Sir Andrew. So pleased to meet you at last.”

“How the bloody hell did you get in here?” Maples rose and dashed to the door throwing it open. The reception area and Frances’ desk were empty. When he turned around Ash was sitting on the corner of his desk looking as if he belonged there. “I’m calling security!”

Ash shrugged.

Maples grabbed the phone and dialled. The line was dead. He felt a cold tickling in the pit of his stomach.

Ash stood up and as he moved away from the desk Maples saw what was on the other side. His mouth dropped open. His own body was slumped on the glass top.

Ash was suddenly at his side. “Heart,” he said. “At least it proved you had one, eh?”

Maples couldn’t tear his gaze from the sight of his bald patch. A fly was walking across it. “Who are you?”

“Saligia - Superbia, Avarita, Luxuria, Invidia, Gula, Ira, Acedia.”

“What the hell’s that mean?” Maples asked, backing away from the man who seemed to have grown in stature.

“You never had the benefit of a formal education did you. Those are the Latin names of the Seven Deadly Sins, Sir Andrew, and I represent their sponsors - Saligia.”

“I don’t understand.”

Ash shook his head. “Don’t you? Just think for a moment, search that shrivelled husk you use for a soul. Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy and Pride - you’ve got the full set, Sir Andrew. You should be pleased. You’d be amazed how few people manage that but you’ve exceeded our wildest expectations.”

Maples backed against the wall. “What do you want?”

“I’ve come to collect you, Sir Andrew. There’s a great deal for you to do.” The floor between them fell away and yellow flames burst through. The smell of sulphur and burning meat filled the room. Ash advanced through the fire. His suit had burned away now and he was clothed in flame. His smile was still broad and very, very white.

Sir Andrew Maples slid down the wall, bereft of speech and movement. He could only stare in terror as Ash pointed a talon tipped index finger at him.

“You’re hired,” he said.

BIO: Mark is a father of four from the North West who doesn't write as much as he'd like to. He's had work published on EDF, Fantastic Horror, EDP, Bewildering Stories and Millionstories.

Senyru #2

2011-03-07T21:36:00.000-08:00

"SENYRU #2" - Marion Clarke

crematorium
curtain falls
final performance

Ice Cold

2011-03-01T22:04:00.000-08:00

"ICE COLD" - Patsy Collins

The children ran off excitedly yelling for ice creams; they ran back terrified yelling for their mums.

Weird Walter the ice cream man lay dead on the floor of his van. His cooling blood oozed from the neat hole in the left side of his head, mingling with strawberry sauce, chopped nuts and chocolate flakes.

Police say he topped himself.

BIO: Patsy Collins writes short stories for magazines including, Woman's Weekly, Fiction Feast, Candis, Ireland's Own, My Weekly and That's Life. To read more about her and her writing, please visit patsy-collins.blogspot.com

The Mummy

2011-03-01T21:46:00.000-08:00

"THE MUMMY" - Clifton Bush Jnr.

The corridor was dark and dusty, with the flame of the

torch threatening to blow out at any minute. The air was hot and stuffy, and a slight breeze followed me down the tunnel. Soon I entered a slightly bigger room, looked around, and found another opening off to my right. I held my torch in front of me and headed in the direction of the new opening.

The torchlight flickered against the ancient walls, casting shadows and giving me pause to continue on my adventure. I kept looking down into the sand to make sure that I didn’t walk onto a cobra or other snake. So far so good, I thought. The corridor narrowed a little and I had to bend down to reach the exit.

I exited the corridor and came into a wondrous, huge room. The roof above was arched slightly and there were colorful hieroglyphics painted on the stones. From what I could gather by just glancing at them, I had entered the tomb of one of the Pharaoh’s advisors. Directly in front of me lay the sarcophagus of the advisor, long undisturbed by time or grave robbers.

I rubbed my hand on top of the sarcophagus and felt the years of accumulated dust and grit upon my hand. I wiped it off on my shirt and proceeded to try and find a way to open the coffin.

I had taken a small crowbar with me but wasn’t sure if it would be enough to pry open the coffin. Finding a small notch in between the cracks, I inserted the flat end of the bar and pulled down. To my amazement the cover moved slightly. A hiss of escaping air and dampish smell assailed my nostrils. After a few more minutes of prying and tugging the cover was open enough to where I could see inside the sarcophagus.

I reached down alongside the coffin to retrieve my torch, bent back up and shone the fire to light up the interior of the sarcophagus. Inside was a typical mummy, wrapped from hand to foot in bandages and covered in a thin layer of dust. The slight odor of mold assaulted my nose and I turned back quickly, catching my breath. My stomach heaved slightly and I walked back against the wall, a cold chill running up my spine.

I took a few deep breaths, and walked back to the sarcophagus. I had come this far, there was no turning back now. I shone the light back into the darkness and stared at the form lying below that used to be a living, breathing human being. In that moment I wondered just what I was doing here. I had always loved archaeology, especially the ancient Egyptian motif, but once I was here I began to have second thoughts. So I decided this night that I would break from the group and enter the tomb myself, to make sure that this is what I truly wanted to do. Seeing the 3000-plus year old mummy fortified my courage and I decided right then and there that this was my calling.

I walked around the sarcophagus towards the back wall, looking at the brightly painted pictures and marveling at the artwork. There were also several bas-relief carvings cut into the stone, giving the images a three dimensional look.

Boom, boom boom! I heard several loud noises above me, and instinctively looked up. It almost sounded like loud footsteps, but no one else knew that I was here. Then a cool breeze wafted down the corridor, enveloping me in a chilling grip. The flame on my torch almost went out, and I turned around and looked back at the sarcophagus.

It was the same as before, except there was a greenish mist rising out of the stone. My heart was pounding in my chest, and the air seemed to grow thick and heavy. As I watched, the mist grew into a thin tendril that disappeared into the back wall, leaving me speechless.

I figured that now was a good time to leave. I turned back towards the entrance corridor and started walking back the way I had come. A foul smell soon assailed my nostrils, and I stopped to gag, turning around to see if anything was following me. To my horror I spotted two red, blazing eyes in the darkness. My heart skipped a beat, and I continued on my way. The smell grew overpowering, and I had to stop to vomit. I looked behind me, and saw nothing. Wiping my mouth off, I spit once more in the sand and turned to continue my exit.

There in front of me stood a mummy, about five feet tall and with glowing red eyes. The smell of the creature was putrid, and my heart just leaped into my throat. I tried to scream when the creature grabbed my neck but soon all I saw was blackness…

BIO: Clifton lives in Michigan and has wanted to write stories all of his life. He is happily engaged to a wonderful woman and raising his 10 year old son. He enjoys writing, astronomy, NASCAR, football and the outdoors in general.

Will You Walk With Me A Way?

2011-02-18T02:05:00.000-08:00

"WILL YOU WALK WITH ME A WAY?" - Dorothy Davies

Will you walk with me a way?

Not far, just to the end of this road.

I am...empty inside and need a few moments of interaction with someone. Oh my, that sounds so formal, doesn’t it? In truth, though, to ask you for a few moments of idle chatter, or gossip would be nonsensical. Especially with what I have in mind.

You look wet, is it raining? Oh I see, it’s that fine drizzle that no umbrella can ward off, so you didn’t bother. Me? No, I don’t get wet. Call it a shield if you like, rain tends to avoid me.

Tell me, how are things at the nursing home these days? Does the garden bloom as fine in spring and summer as it used to? I recall the days of sitting out there, listening to the birds that would be singing as if their lives depended on it, the insects buzzing and flitting hither and thither as if their lives depended on it … come to think of it, they did. But us, the static ones, we stayed where we were, in our wheelchairs or sun loungers or wherever the staff had put us, there to bake in the heat until they took us back into the coolness of the home once more. Not a word of complaint from any of us, you know that, but oh the longing at times for shadow, cool water and rest from unremitting sunshine was overwhelming. But it was life and despite its many, many drawbacks, we clung to it tenaciously. Why? I wonder now why I did not just give up and drift away.

The big problem really, for all of us, is memories.

They hurt.

‘Sometimes memories walk a little hard.’ The wisest words I ever heard, from the most wonderful person I ever knew, my maternal grandmother. Oh she was right! How hard do the memories walk when your means of perambulation is either wheels or a walker? You recall the times when three strides would take you to the door, the cupboard, the TV, whatever/wherever. You recall the way you could walk freely down the road, wander round the shops, visit restaurants and museums, libraries and stately homes. Can you even begin to imagine not walking?

Of course not.

It doesn’t come to all of us but enough … oh yes, enough.

But look at me now. Do I not walk well? Proud, tall and easy? Not so much as an ache in the hip joints or knees, the ankles flex and move as they should. Ah, the joy of it.

You? You are too young still, in terms of experience, to fully understand the joy I feel at being free to walk again.

I have to ask … do you not remember me? The old cantankerous lady who sat in her wheelchair in the garden and demanded cool drinks and ice cream and got neither? Do you not recall how I asked for shade and had none offered to me? Do you not know the suffering you put me through, you who were paid to care and didn’t?

Well, I got you to walk with me a way. And look, here we are, right by the cemetery which is now my home. Oh, you will not escape me this time! Now I see the horror on your face as I cast off the mask of humanity and show you what I am. A skeleton.

Bony hands can grip harder than flesh covered ones, can’t they?

Will you walk with me a way? Let me show you where I lie, here in the cold earth, with not so much as a snowdrop to lighten the darkness of the earth. No one cared, did they … and you, you were one of the worst. Did I not see you laughing behind closed doors at those who pleaded for respite from sun and thirst and were ignored?

Oh, you did not know, did you, that after I left your side of life I returned, over and over again, to watch, to record, to – all right, stalk you if you like.

Here we are. This is my narrow bed.

Will you share it with me for a while?

Like, eternity?

BIO: Dorothy Davies is a writer, medium and editor who lives on the Isle of Wight. Her horror output has increased tenfold since a horror writer decided to come and work with her from the other side of life.

Floater

2011-02-18T01:10:00.000-08:00

"FLOATER" - David S. Pointer

The lowering
device straps
left behind
post funeral
allowed the
vaporite to
climb into
the night

wind faster
than prep
room plastic,
to rewrite
his memorial
service prayer
cards, to don
an autopsy
face mask
waiting for
a reason
to claw or
bubble calm

BIO: David S. Pointer has recent acceptances at "House of Horror, "Sound of the Night," "Theory Train," and elsewhere. He currently lives in Murfreesboro, TN.

Control of the Bomb

2011-02-18T00:30:00.000-08:00

"CONTROL OF THE BOMB" - Willie Smith

Watch this middleaged beerbelly in his kitchen watching on tv a lady in her living room watching on tv the Rams play the Packers. Deep into the pocket the quarterback fades. Uncorks the bomb. The telephoto closeups on the spiraling pigskin.

Like a bad splice jumping a film gate, the ball pops outside the lady’s tv. She catches it in selfdefense. This has never happened. All the tiny men on her tv are scrambling to find the ball.

She stares down at the inflated ovoid in her lap. Runs chipped-polish fingers over the rawhide stitching. You are not privy to her thoughts. She gets up off the sofa. Kneels in front of the tv. Pats her palm over the entire surface of the perfectly unbroken glass screen.

Filtered through the various electronics, you detect the announcer howl above the roar of the astonished crowd. He speculates on the historic precedent: the first ball in the annals of the game utterly to disappear.

The guy in his kitchen cracks a beer. Has the feeling he has seen this one before. A phone rings. You squelch the temptation to look around. The guy looks around – where’s the phone?

She shuffles in Mickey Mouse mules over to an end table. Picks up the phone. Presumably says hello? In the confusion, and with the remoteness, you can’t quite tell. Her eyes roll.

Receiver cupped to jowl, she peers through what the camera earlier showed to be her picture window. Her eyes saucer. She drops the phone. Grabs the ball from the shag carpet. Heaves it at the camera’s eye.

Soundlessly, without so much as a tinkle, the man in the kitchen now holds the ball. This is too weird. Heart racing, scared of he doesn’t know what, he kills the tv.

Puts the regulation Wilson on the drainboard. Finishes in one pull the Budweiser. Crumples and tosses the can under the sink into the trash. Trying to keep eyes off the ball, he notices nonetheless, out of the corner of his eye, a jagged fleck of pink nail polish stuck to a stitch.

The phone rings. He doesn’t look around.

He considers opening the fridge. Fishing out another Bud. The phone keeps ringing. He wonders if it isn’t time to reach into the cabinet above the stove; get down the Jim Beam. The phone doesn’t stop ringing.

For one crazy instant you verge on looking around.

As if he read your mind, he lunges over to the wall. Snares the phone. Shouts into the mouthpiece, “Yeah – what?”

On the other end… heavy breathing. Behind the breathing the same announcer continues to amaze over the football not yet turned up. Coaches and referees are gathered mid-field hotly debating how to rule on the pass that vanished.

You sense he wants to hang up. But that’s the last thing you want. You want to hear the game’s outcome. The twist is unique. In a trance of indecision, the Bud drinker lowers the receiver. Leaves it scratching, squawking – lying on its side on top of the table.

He gazes out the window above the sink. Every perspective in the room is visible to you. From ceiling, floor, walls, he is monitored. But only he can look outside. Something about incidence and reflection. Your ear strains toward the breathing phone that continues dimly to convey the invisible action.

Only every third or fourth word reaches. The Rams want to run the play again. The Packers want the down to count. The announcer isn’t sure himself, but he seems to be saying that he thinks the referees are arguing for the novelty of a free first down with a ten yard penalty attached. Something also about members of the crowd surging onto the field. Police crops up. The voice of a ref over a mike unintelligibles.

Possibly because a cloud swipes the sun, the kitchen darkens.

The shouting announcer can no longer be distinguished over the crowd frenzy. A siren keens. Another. More. A stampede of sirens.

Without looking away from the window, he cradles the ball. His teeth clench. The jaw quivers. You feel him strive to shield his intent from telepathic leaks. He ignores what he lusts to protect. Acts – like the history of all aggression (which is fundamentally all history) – spasmodically.

The window doesn’t break. Not that you hear. What football? you realize he thinks.

The ball bulges under your Dartmouth windbreaker. Giving you a beerbelly look that isn’t quite right. The cops have just discovered this on their monitor. Any minute they expect to see themselves mirrored in your sunglasses. The pager on your belt beeps.

Where are you? How can you ever hope to hide?

BIO: WS is deeply ashamed of being human. His work celebrates this horror. To see him further embarrass himself, please visit: www.youtube.com/wsmith49

Unanswered Echoes

2011-02-17T02:02:00.000-08:00

"UNANSWERED ECHOES" - Anthony Cowin

A lifetime crashed past him as he opened the door, each memory an enraged commuter in rush hour traffic. Escape was on his mind but his luck was out. The door closed behind him.

Once inside he was surprised to feel so at home. The old place seemed larger to him now. Then he realised she’d knocked through the dividing wall. New wallpaper cleverly concealed any wounds that the demolition must have exposed.

His boyhood nursery was gone. She’d probably mentioned it in one of the unopened letters piled up in his locked study drawer that collected dust and animosity over the years. They were unanswered echoes.

He stepped tentatively toward the bed. Even in this furnace of a room he felt cold and clammy. The sharp outline of her face and her striking features had melted into a Picasso in his mind over the two decades since he had last seen her. He was worried that he may not recognise his own mother.

Charles had two teenage sons of his own and a wonderful wife. Yet here in the presence of this frail woman who was rapidly spiriting away he felt abandoned.

“Hey dad, okay for me and Mike to grab a bite?” His youngest son called through the door. Craig was essentially a good kid, nearly thirteen and already taking a ride on the hormonal-coaster that is teenage life. Earlier that day he'd come downstairs wearing a tee shirt that read “CHOOSE DEATH” which he thought ironic, but his dad found tasteless under the circumstances. Now he wore one with the slogan “My Other T-shirt’s A Strait Jacket.” emblazoned across the chest.

“I’ll take your silence as a no.” Charles turned to the door ready to apologise to his son but the fading footsteps told him it was futile.

He recalled the last time he’d walked away down that beech-floored hallway outside his mother’s bedroom. His footsteps had faded into the decades, echoed across the years. Family disputes can fester for a generation like an open wound and amputation of pride is sometimes the only answer. Now he found himself standing at the foot of her bed about to do just that.

Then he noticed something in the corner of his eye. Somebody sat in the shadows in the far reaches of the room. He tried to place him. Doctor Alexander wasn’t due to arrive until eleven so it couldn’t be him. Besides this was a small person, a young boy perhaps.

“Excuse me,” he spoke softly. The room was silent save for the beeps and hums of the surgical machinery. There were so many wires and tubes stuck into his mother that she resembled an archaic cow, her life slowly milked away. “Who are you?”

The boy’s head bowed toward the floor. Charles began to walk across the room toward the corner hoping to gain a better sight of the lad. He remained seated and stoic, a youthful sentry half hidden in the shadows guarding the dying woman.

One of the machines discharged a sharp warning. Charles stopped. His mother opened her eyes. A tiny explosion detonated inside his chest. His heart pounded so hard he was sure it must audible in the room and loud enough to shake dust from the coving that ran around three quarters of the ceiling.

He dare not look into those eyes. The job that lay ahead filled him with too much terror to allow that. This thing of duty, from a loving son to his dying mother, was hypocrisy, yet he had to execute that obligation. Until then he wished to remain invisible to her.

The machine clicked and the sound abated. His mother closed her cloudy grey eyes and slept again. Charles let out a sigh weighted equally with relief and shame. Then he remembered the boy in the chair. He was gone. Well almost, he seemed to be more of the shadows than of child now. Outside a car door slammed.

He looked at his watch, five off eleven. Dr. Alexander had arrived and the clock ticked ever closer. Suddenly he felt exhausted. His legs threatened to give way beneath him. He sat on the edge of the bed as he had done so often as a child, long before the trouble. He found his mother’s hand in his. There were no apologies. This was not a time of forgiveness, just a time to forget. It all seemed so pointless now, half remembered disagreements that grew like weeds in the cracks and flowered into hatred over the years.

The machines clicked and hummed.

“Charles, good to see you here again,” the doctor had appeared like an apparition “So, are we in agreement?”

Charles gazed up at him, almost lost. This elderly doctor he had known all his life, had brought him into the world, seemed so alien to him now. He stood from the bed and nodded. Nothing more needed, a son’s duty done.

He witnessed a smile pass across his mother’s face; faint but there nonetheless. Then she was gone. The room fell silent, the machines shut down. The doctor stepped from the room lending a comforting hand upon his shoulder as he passed.He placed the daily newspapers on the silk spread. They would remain as unread as her letters. He noticed white lilies on the side cabinet, her favourite. He was shocked to discover his mother had so many cards from well-wishers too.

A tear formed but never fell. He took his mother’s hand for the final time and kissed it. A screech from the shadows broke the silence as the chair legs scraped along the floorboards and fell with a crash. The boy walked toward the space where the wall had once been and where the coving ended. He stopped, still halfway in the darkness but no longer disguised, and turned toward the dead woman. His face seemed so familiar to Charles, a face from the past. He turned an invisible handle and stepped into the long gone nursery, fading as he did so.

Charles froze. He realised that he knew that boy, had known him all his life. He went downstairs and held his two sons tightly to him, still the tears hung in his eyes. As drove away he looked in the rear-view and knew he'd said goodbye to much more than just his mother in that room upstairs, in the house he had once called home.

BIO: Anthony Cowin writes horror, dark tales and eclectic poetry. He's had work published in print anthologies, magazines and several ezines. He's currently working on his début novel with the working title, 'The Futurist. Follow his progress, find unique content and keep updated here at: http://anthonycowin.blogspot.com/