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In Creeps the night
Collection copyright © 2015 BHC Press
All individual stories within this collection are copyright © 2014, 2015 by their respective authors. All authors retain the rights to their own work. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from each authors’ imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by BHC Press ISBN-13: 978-0692568804 ISBN-10: 0692568808 Visit the publisher at: www.bhcauthors.com
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table
of
contents
11
M ar ia
J.S. BAILEY
15
’
Nig htf a ll s Wr a i t h D.M. KILGORE
18
und e r the s ur f a c e ERIC BROWN
22
a r us tl e o f le av es E.G. SMITH
27
no w y o u s e e th em KAYLEIGH EDWARDS
30
M ur d e r H o us e CHRIS FITZNER
34
Ink
JONI LYNN
38
D e ad man laug h in g LESLIE FULTON
42
R o ute
301
ANDREW WESTON
46
D e l iv e r y ELLE K. WHITE
50
th e Fa c e o f Ev il KEVIN G. BUFFTON
53
the R a v e n ’ s B id LISA SHAMBROOK
56
G aze s A ls o NICK JOHNS
61
Cl o s e t Do o r RYAN T. NUHFER
65
Silenced
LAD ONNA COLE
70
th e H ung e r LAURA JAMEZ
G ho ul ’ s
74
Nig ht Ou t
J. WHITWORTH HAZZARD
79
Friendly Fire SORCHA O’ D OWD
84
shadow
LIONEL RAY GREEN
89
H e llaway B r id g e MORGAN GRIFFITH
93
the Dandelion Child A.R. MEYERING
97
G ho r mle y R o a d SARA DANIELL
102
Wr ite M e In
KEVIN HAMMOND
105
Find ing G ho s t s REBECKA VIGUS
109
une x p e c te d v is i t AILSA ABRAHAM
112
what c r e e p s in th e n i g h t RUTH LONG
117
L iv e Witne s s
MARY MACFARLANE
121
G o ld e n Ye a r s S.R. KARFELT
125
Littl e M o ns te r s K.R. SMITH
130
th e Lo o p A.D. TROSPER
135
Dea d ly Nur s e r y R h y m e THERESA MILLER
138
Fr o ze n in G la s s BRIAN R. LUEDTKE
143
Tr a ns itio ns D.L. SMITH-LEE
148
A M o the r ’ s L o v e NATALIE GIBSON
153
th e A ng e l o f D e at h MICHAEL WOMBAT
152
On th e Wa y H o me SPENCER STONER
162
the Dar k Sp o t MARISSA AMES
166
Immune
REBECCA FYFE
170
th e B l e s s ing DREA DAMARA
175
the f a il ur e o f g ua r d i a n s BETH AVERY
Mr.
178
M o r bid
CORY JOHN EADSON
182
P e nanc e
ERIC MARTELL
186
Subc o nc io us ANGIE TRAFFORD
189
Final Inv e s tig a t i o n KATIE JENNINGS
194
Ch ild Ch a nt SHAUN AVERY
197
the Scarecrow ANDREW PATCH
202
the Sh a d o w M a n M.A. WALKER
206
th e H o us e On the Hi ll S.L. WILSON
212
the Mother Thing MARK COULTER
216
La d y f ing e r s
THOMAS MOHAN
221
the author’ s Lair
Maria J.S. BAILEY
It wasn’t what people thought. The oil painting was done solely in shades of white and hung at the far end of the gallery. The plaque on the wall beneath it read “Maria.” No artist was given credit. “Why do they call it ‘Maria?’” asked a narrow-faced woman whose art aficionado husband had dragged her to the gallery against her better preferences that afternoon. “There’s no one in it.” Her husband, who had dressed for the outing in a normal-looking gray business suit and a not-so-normal-looking necktie consisting of a red and green houndstooth pattern, clasped his hands behind his back and leaned closer to the painting so he might examine it better. “Well,” he said at length, “I’d say the guy painted it for his lady friend.” The woman pursed her lips. “Who says the painter is a he?” A shrug. “Maybe Maria is the painter, then.” “Like someone’s going to name a painting after herself.” Husband and wife continued to stare at the painting in silence while the other visitors to the gallery babbled on obliviously behind them. It was sort of a pretty painting, the woman supposed. The artist—
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whoever he or she was—had captured in oils a scene that at first glance appeared to portray a raging blizzard but could have just been random swirls of white, for all she knew. Amorphous shapes were visible through the snowstorm, like towers or trees or people. “Maybe Maria is one of the people stuck in the snow,” the woman said, poking a finger at an off-white blur toward the center of the painting. “The poor girl.” She started to step onward to the next piece of art when she realized that her husband hadn’t budged. “You coming?” She glanced to her left and saw that a peculiar expression had written itself over her husband’s face. “What snow?” “What?” “You mentioned snow. What snow?” “Don’t play the obtuse art critic with me. I was talking about the snow in the painting. What other snow is there?” “Sally, the painting is black.” The woman cast another glance at the immortalized snowstorm and forced a laugh. “Black? Do you need your eyes checked, or are you just trying to make me doubt my sanity?” She grinned, but the expression quickly faltered when she realized there wasn’t even the faintest hint of humor in her husband’s eyes. “Tell me exactly what you see,” he said, his tone cold. So she did—snowstorm, vague figures, and all. “What do you see?” she asked. By this time, her husband’s face had become ashen. “Like I said, it’s black. Lots of shadows, like it’s supposed to be in the back of a cave or something. There might be some kind of dark figure in the middle, but it seems different every time I look at it.” He cast her a worried glance. “I don’t see anything white at all.” “And I don’t see anything black.” They fell silent again. The other gallery visitors continued to ignore them, gliding from one painting to another without stopping to study the one that had so captivated the couple.
In Creeps The Night | 13
“I get it!” the woman finally said. “It’s one of those hologram things. It looks different depending on where you’re standing. Here, switch spots with me.” They switched spots so the husband stood on the right, the wife on the left. The painting was still white. “It’s still black,” her husband said. The woman ran a hand over her hair. “It must depend on how tall you are, then.” She stood on tiptoe to match her husband’s height, then crouched down low to the height of a child. The painting was still white. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I—I think we should just go.” Her husband made to walk away, but she grabbed his arm. “No,” she said. “We’re going to figure this out.” For the next ten or fifteen minutes the couple continued to examine the painting in the hope that he would see the white she saw, and she the black. Disinterested voices continued to babble on behind them until at last the woman turned and said, “I’ll ask someone else what they see.” “But Sally, I—”
After the gallery closed for the evening, Earl Cross pushed a giant broom across the floor, whistling a Coldplay tune he’d heard on the radio earlier that day. It never failed to amaze him how much dirt people could track into a place over the span of twelve hours. He’d have to bust out the mop once he’d swept all the dirt up. He should ask for a raise one of these days. With all he did around here, he deserved it. He made his way to the empty end of the gallery, and the tune he was whistling petered out on his lips. A hideous red and green houndstooth something lay coiled on the floor in front of the blank space where
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a famous Impressionist piece would be displayed when it was loaned out from a larger museum next month. Earl stooped and plucked up the thing with his left thumb and forefinger. It was a necktie. Earl let out a chuckle and looped the tie around his neck. “Looks like you’ll be spending some time in Lost and Found, buddy, but as ugly as you are, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone lost you on purpose.”
Two thousand miles away on a sunny beach, a local art festival was in full swing. A teenage couple meandered through the crowd along the boardwalk hand in hand, both of them dressed in black Converse shoes and covered in facial piercings that turned the heads of many adults. A temporary wall had been set up along the length of the boardwalk, and the works of amateur artists hung on it every so many feet. They stopped in front of a painting that had no artist credited. “Ooh, look at this one!” the girl exclaimed, tucking a strand of purple hair behind a gauged ear. “Jayden told me he was thinking about showing some of his stuff here. I’ll bet this is one of them.” Her boyfriend wrinkled his nose. “Why would Jayden paint that?” “Why wouldn’t he? He loves this kind of stuff.” She gazed lovingly at the depths of swirling blackness that seemed to suck her in the longer she looked at it. There might have been the vague shape of a person in the center of the painting, or it might have been an illusion. Pretty trippy. “It would be like him to paint a whole picture black.” “What do you mean, black?” “Um, hello? The painting is black. Like, totally black. I want to buy it.” Her boyfriend’s eyes narrowed with confusion. “But Mindy, the painting is white…”
nightfall’ s Wraith D.M. KILGORE
Alone in the woods, I sit upon my favorite rock which protrudes from the gentle stream just enough to keep me dry. Balancing my journal atop one knee, I take in the comforting sights and sounds of a stunning autumn twilight. Closing my eyes for just a moment, I take a deep breath. Then, in my most precious and private place, I write.
A chill disrupts the peaceful moment, and I glance up in uneasy awareness. I am not alone. My poetry forgotten, I watch in horror as a sinister shadow drifts between the mountain and the sunset. The sweet light-blue hour of vacating sunlight scatters across the heavens unaware of the foreboding in my heart. The dense forest feels alive as together we watch the specter make its sinuous approach. It plunges down the peaks of the mountain, writhing over the valley, drawing ever closer. I leave the safety of my rock, frantically climbing over smaller stones and fallen trees to reach the bank. I crouch, clinging to my journal and the damp soil. The naked trees around me seem to recoil. An ineffective army they vanish into the ravenous mist, leaving me exposed in a moist breeze that whispers promise of
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impending rain. Indifferent to my fears, heavy dusk falls, and drifting vapors swirl into flight. I shiver. Restless winds twist around me like a serpent ready to constrict any lingering remnants of hope from my soul. The zephyr hints at my fate as it whips up a decaying brew of earth’s essence. It carries the odor of wet decomposing leaves, reminding me that the river obstructs my escape. Rain begins to fall. I curl tighter into myself as the apparition descends, creeping across the rocks at the river’s edge. The murky water’s surface trembles in unison with my heart as collected raindrops flee from the undressed branches above to fall upon my quivering shoulders. I whimper as the inky sapphire shadow turns to gnaw on the eroded dreams of a silver birch tree that once swayed in sun-kissed skies. Violated, she lies inconsolable in the mire, uprooted, her desires caress the clouds no more. I feel as one with the beloved tree so cruelly ripped from its home. Like my spirit, the incomplete landscape cries out in an anguished crescendo of undeserved injury and profound despair. The enveloping shroud of the phantom fog silences the torment. I am terrified. I am envious. The wraith, sensing the shifting desires of my soul, slithers away from the fallen tree. Fragile smoke rings linger at the birch’s side reflected in opaque pools of fused russet and jade. I tear my eyes away from the specter, distracted by the puddles. They gaze back at me, like unseeing hazel eyes. They hide what lies beneath, refusing to offer me any portion of relief. I turn my attention back to the approaching phantom as it drifts over the familiar cold comfort of my favored stone. Was it only moments ago that I sat upon it basking in the beauty of nature? Now it lies buried under a watery grave. Sleeping in murky confinement, the rock sinks as the sinister depths slap against its once-welcoming surface. It descends in the rising waters until I can no longer make out its form. The gentle river is now treacherous with rapids. I turn my eyes away. The stone
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will not offer me safe passage. The phantom is destroying my chances of survival. The fractured birch beckons with cautious hope, her ghostly trunk aching with knotty contusions. I consider the invitation. Would it be an insult to her former majesty for a coward such as I to cross over the narrow river upon her fallen trunk? Inching forward, I see that she is alive with concealed nightmares. Swarming termites tiptoe through her body in masticated chaos. I shrink back. The birch will not ensure safe crossing. I will perish in the whitewater below if I try to flee over her corpse. Infuriated by nature’s concerns, the jealous veil closes in on all sides. An indigo curtain, pregnant with moisture, presses against me like dank denim. It is heavy with obscure warnings. A shivering urgency seeps into my flesh and bones. Unsatisfied with all it has consumed, the spectral mist is impatient. The wraith is voracious and eager to devour the small part of my spirit that longs to survive. The specter unleashes its fury in a squall that twists my body and fills my lungs with a thick, choking slurry. Night arrives clad in a frightening shroud. It is a dark enemy that nourishes the sadistic mist with my stolen breath. The bitter flavor of certain demise floods my mouth. My eyes search blindly in the impenetrable fog. Ears without purpose listen for liberation. Roosting feathers rustle against saturated bark. The sorrowful cry of a coyote acknowledges my distress. Distant thunder rumbles, slicing open invisible stars. The phantom continues its assault, delighting as nature protests the death of its writer. Beyond the veil, a redemption from darkness rises. Colored orbs streak in every direction as beams of light ride the mist like lovers. It is a passionate reverie meant to light my way home. I drop my tattered journal and resist no more. Nightfall’s wraith consumes me.