eFiction Magazine Issue No. 007 October by eFiction Press

ef iction October 2010 1

Issue No. 007 eFiction Magazine

- October 2010

Contents Author Spotlight

Page 4

NeilColquhoun

Door to Door Salesman

Page 6

NeilColquhoun

Family Business

Page 8

NeilColquhoun

The Lord of the Manor NeilColquhoun

Blood Binds: The Caste Of Blood Episode 7

Tonya R. Moore

Jersey Surf: Ghost Pet Episode 7

Glen Binger

Alhazredâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Walls Aaron M. Wilson

Whispers Bedside Zachary Ankeny

Terror Eyes Joeseph Mulak

Undead and Upholstered Stuart Sharp

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Page 14 Page 20 Page 26 Page 32 Page 37 Page 41 Page 46

- October 2010

Letter from the Editor Dear Reader,

Trick or treat, smell my feet, I give you something good to read. This is the Halloween issue of eFiction. The first of many themed issues to come. Inside this issue are scary stories filled with evil wizards, ghosts, zombies, and... gnomes? Yes gnomes (it might just be me but gnomes freak me out). So turn out the lights and get comfortable with your laptop, phone, kindle, iPad, printed copy, whatever. See if you can finish the magazine without turning the lights on. I bet you can’t. First in this issue is an interview with horror writer Neil Colquhoun. Ever wanted to know where scary stories come from? I asked Neil. His answer may surprise you.Three of his horror stories follow the interview. His gnome story gave me nightmares, gnomophobes beware. Tonya Moore is back again with Episode 7 of her fantasy epic, Blood Binds. Will Tallow and Kyle be able to patch up their relationship? You have to read this episode, the conclusion to the Caste of Blood, to find out. Jersey Surf is back by popular demand. Episode 7, Ghost Pet. A Halloween party at a New Jersey bar sounds like a good idea right? Things get shooken up when an unexpected visitor shows up to the bar. Following the serial stories is Aaron Wilson’s Alhazred’s walls. His literary style transforms to horror like Sarte becoming a zombie. Definitely a must read. Zachary Ankeny is back from his eFiction reprieve with a creepy bedtime story that you never want to tell your children, Whispers Bedside. Terror Eyes is the name of Joseph Mulak’s story about

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a mother who has to atoll for her neglected parental duties. Undead and Upholstered is a hilarious story by eFiction newcomer Stuart Sharp. A day in the life of a paranormal exterminator is never easy, especially when undead couches are involved. Whoever can read this issue without turning the lights on wins a prize. As always to submit your story to the editor of the magazine click here. To find back issues click here. This magazine is free, so please support it by clicking here to tweet about it (if you dont have twitter post a link to your facebook, please). Consider the tweet a purchase.

Now, go. Read the issue, if you dare...

Doug Lance - October 2010

Author Spotlight

thing happened in my life which was the catalyst for trying to get all those stories out of my head and onto the page.

neil colquhoun

NC: Well, in August 2006 I suffered a serious accident at my day job. I fell 60ft which resulted in multiple injuries, operations, a stay in hospital, intense physiotherapy and a long recuperation period. In fact, I still have aches and pains. Maybe it’s the metal implants in my body! Anyway, I always did subscribe to the theory that we only have one shot at life and the accident made me more determined. I began writing again, slowly accumulating ideas and stories. I sent some stories away, was rejected and subsequently became dejected. But you don’t get anywhere sitting on your hands, so I started pounding away at getting the stories finished. Some minor success last year spurred me on and I am bursting with ideas!

Neil Colquhoun comes from a small town on the West coast of Scotland in Ayrshire and, when the day job has finished, can be found writing tales which are magical, crazy, fantastical and sometimes brilliant. He has been writing on and off since age 16 but really hit it hard in the last 4 years. His work has appeared in several magazines: Sept 2009 issue of M-Brane SF magazine, online magazines including Micro100 and MicroHorror, ‘May Monstrosities’ issue of SNM Horror, twit-fic pieces in Thaumatrope magazine. He has upcoming stories to be published in The New Bedlam Project late 2010 & ShadowCast Audio. You can find more of Neil on his blog: www.neilcolquhoun.com I had a chance to talk with Neil and ask him about his writing.

DL: Hi Neil, thanks for taking the time to talk with me today. Let’s kick things off with an easy question, when did you start writing? NC: Hey there Doug, it’s a pleasure. When did I start writing? Well, I wrote on and off since about age 14 and started off by writing poems and lyrics for songs. I had aspirations to be involved in a band but that soon fell by the wayside! When I look back on that early material I cringe because it’s so bad! Then I dabbled in stories over the years but never started taking it serious until four years ago. Some-

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DL: What happened?

DL: 60 feet! That’s incredible. I’m glad you got through it and recovered. In the August issue of eFiction, I published your short horror piece, “Love Will Tear Us Apart”, and I know you write horror and hybridhorror stories. Has that incident affected your writing or have you always been into terrifying your readers? NC: I gravitated towards that genre over the years. I read a lot of Stephen King, Richard Laymon and Clive Barker one after the other, and nothing else, so I guess those type of books got under my skin! Regarding the accident: I don’t think it influenced my writing directly. Of course, there is a link, because I realized that nothing lasts forever and time is finite, so I got off my ass and picked up the pen again. I’m still finding my feet with writing, but think that the term you’ve coined is pretty apt - “hybrid-horror”. Is that how you see my material - as a combination of several other genres? Scaring people? WOW, that’s a nice thought! I hope that people are scared by what I write, or at a base level, are moved by my material. And I have plenty

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more where “Love Will Tear Us Apart” came from! DL: Your incident reminds me of when a drunk driver ran over Stephen King. It reignited his writing passion as well. There’s something about horror writers and close-to-death incidents... Can you tell our readers about your stories in this issue that will have them reading with the lights on? NC: Yeah, the accident that King had gave him a renewed sense of purpose and I know how it affects a person first-hand. I viewed life differently when the reality and horror of the accident sank in, and realized that I had been coasting through life for so long. So, I began to write again, the stories having a dark and twisted element to them. And I hope that the ones you have featured have the desired effect! Regarding the stories: The Door to Door Salesman - I wrote this story after thinking about the men who go door-to-door for a living. It’s a hard and long shift that these guys put in every day to make a living, selling all sorts of goods and services... but if you met one guy in the street, would you know what he carried in his bag? And in this story, the salesman is looking forward to retiring but events turn sour when he takes a wrong turn... on the last night of his job as he contemplates retirement, the salesman gets more than he bargains for. The Lord of the Manor - Garden gnomes look pretty with their brightly painted bodies, but for two little boys, they view them in a different light. I got the idea for this story as looked at the brightly painted gnomes in the hardware store. Right there and then, I knew it was all a ruse and, like clowns... the smiley faces are fake - underneath that exterior is something horrific... Family Business - I’m writing this story exclusively for eFiction. It’s about the thing in the basement or underneath the floor that we imagine to be there and, for unwanted visitors to an old crumbling mansion, they soon find out that the fear has substance...

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DL: Gnomes -- why does it have to be Gnomes? They freak me out. I don’t know why. Those grubby fingers and creepy little faces give me chills. Your stories are going to be scare the pants off our readers and I cannot wait to see how people respond. Thanks for taking the time to speak with me, Neil. I know you are busy. NC: Ha-ha. Yeah, the gnomes are creepy little things, aren’t they? I guess I thought about them after reading an article where a gnome from a woman’s garden vanished – she then received photographs on a regular basis of her gnome in various parts of the world. Someone took it from her garden, went on holiday or a trek around the world carrying it in their luggage, took photographs and posted them back to the owner.... or did they? The woman never got to the bottom of the matter, and I’m not really sure if the gnome ever returned! My question is this: did someone really ‘abduct’ a clay painted object and play an elaborate practical joke, or did the gnome decide enough was enough, and want to see the bigger world? I’ll let you make up your own mind, as it’s quite obvious what I think...! Another thing that freaks me out is clowns... but that’s another matter. Maybe, another time Doug! So, thanks for conducting this interview and running my stories in your magazine. I hope people like them and come on over to my website (http://www.neilcolquhoun.com) where they can read more, and get some free stories delivered to their inbox.

Please enjoy the three following stories written by Neil Colquhoun.

- October 2010

Door to door Salesman

He couldn’t keep on going. He had to stop before they found him out. This client would be his last. After that, he was out, gone. And life would still go on. He reached the alley and stopped. It was badly lit and he felt a tingle of fear. He normally avoided areas like this but he was running late. It was a chance he would have to take, otherwise his whole schedule would be disrupted. He made up his mind and darted into the alley. At least, for a short while, the buildings would shield him from the worst of the now torrential rain. He boldly walked along, his eyes beginning to adjust to the darkness. A scrape of a shoe off to his left stopped him short. His heart raced and he tensed. “Hey old man, what’ve you got there?” a youthful voice shouted from the deep pool of shadow. For a moment, the salesman thought about walking on and ignoring the kid. There was nothing to worry about, right? He could handle himself. After all, one cocky kid couldn’t do him much harm, could he?

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The salesman took a step but didn’t get much further. Standing directly in front of him were two more youths. Neither of them spoke but stared at him, confident with a grin that suggested they were out for fun. It was a look he had seen plenty of times before. “Where you headed?” the boy with the baseball cap pulled low on his head asked. Before the salesman could answer, there was a shuffling of feet behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw another two gang members. The odds against his survival were getting longer. He wondered if he could reach his tools before any of the gang pounced. Would they have been so bold if they knew who he really was? And did it matter because the ball was most definitely in their court? He’d been caught unawares, again. Distracted, again. Making a wrong move, again. It was another lapse in concentration which might cost him dear. “I said, where you headed old man?” the youth with the spiked hair asked. “And what’s in the bag?” his colleague said. The salesman didn’t answer right away. He took several deep breaths, weighing up his options. All he had to do was get to the briefcase and he stood a chance. Improvising wasn’t the way he liked to do things but he would have to adapt. Moving with the times and absorbing the changes was a demand of the job. He had been successful for so long because he was good at his work. To excel at anything a person had to be open to change but to remain static would ultimately lead to failure. He hadn’t failed up to now and, even though he had no intention to fail tonight, he had to admit it was a possibility. He sighed. It had to happen tonight. The very night he decided would be his last. Retirement and the money he had saved were not too far away. “If only you knew what’s in the bag,” he muttered under his breath and dropped to his knees. The gang took this gesture as their cue and closed in on him. Seeing him as helpless and admitting defeat they advanced. In fact,

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the salesman was fiddling with the lock, trying to open the briefcase. “Yeah, that’s right, show us what you’ve got,” said the youth with the spiked hair, now holding a switch-blade in his hand. The salesman smirked. Funny that he should notice the type of knife. Then again, he always had an affinity for knives. It was his job to convince others of their worth, after all. “Just give us what you’ve got,” sneered the youth. “I will. Don’t worry, I will,” the salesman said. Now’s the time to find out if you’ve still got it, he thought. But before he could withdraw the long serrated knife and the meat cleaver from the briefcase, the back of his head exploded in pain. He fell forward and smashed his face into the ground. Stars danced across his eyes and all he could see was a white intense light. Then the pain spread through his head. Even though he couldn’t focus properly, he sensed the gang had closed in. He felt his briefcase being snatched from his hand and then heard one of the gang give a low whistle. He tried to move, to roll over onto his back but was unable to move. Am I paralysed? He had once read that hearing is the last sense to shut down. Lying on the damp concrete path, he heard the exclamations and gasps as they looked inside his briefcase. He had money in his wallet but they didn’t seem concerned about stealing it. The briefcase held their attention. “Well boys, we’re going to have us a little fun with these knives now, aren’t we?” one of the gang said. The salesman groaned inwardly, the throbbing in his head intensified. Was this how he was going to die? Slain by his own tools? He then felt the pressure from the serrated knife point on his neck. He knew exactly what knife it was, for he had handled it often. People were scared when he wielded it, but now it was his turn to feel scared. “We’re going to see how good these knives really are. Let’s cut him up boys,” said the youth as he began to push the knife into the salesman’s neck. It was really over, the salesman thought. His last thoughts were that Mrs Parker would not have her

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date with destiny tonight. She would live and no-one would know that the elderly man, found mutilated in the dark alley, was the murderer the city had been hunting for the last twenty five years.

- October 2010

Family Business

The chimes of the doorbell sounded again in the hall. She looked up from the meat on the table and cursed under her breath. Yet another distraction and she was already behind schedule. Earlier, when the phone rang and she answered, the caller remained silent, no matter how many times she asked who was on the line. Then, when she happened to look out the upstairs window, a figure standing amongst the shrubs near the gate drew her attention. Curious, she observed the man, trying to determine what he was doing. Then, perhaps because he had seen her watching, the figure backed deeper into the thick greenery and simply vanished. She waited for a few minutes, a slight twinge of fear beginning to stab at her, but the man didn’t return. She turned from the window and went downstairs. When Alan had left the house, she had locked the front door but she intended to double-check anyway. As she approached the door, she saw a blurred shape through the glass.

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She stopped, her heart racing. The doorbell chimes sounded. On edge, and with her ears constantly tuned to her child’s cries, the noise in the hall startled her. Forgetting her concerns at the strange figure in the garden, her only thought being to silence the chimes, she quickly went to the front door, turned the key and opened the door. The postman stood on the doorstep. One arm was outstretched, a finger almost at the bell-push. His other hand held a small box and a few envelopes. “Oh, it’s only you,” she said. “Yes, ma’am. It’s only me,” the postman said and handed her a small box and a few envelopes. He nodded then turned away and stepped down off the porch. She walked out onto the porch and looked past the postman. She scanned the trees and the bushes for signs of the person she had seen earlier. But the thick greenery prevented her seeing very far. The postman stopped halfway down the path and faced the house. “Are you alright ma’am?” he asked. She didn’t hear him at first, her attention on the thick yellow-flowered bush near the old gnarled pine tree. Was that the outline of someone she could see in the shadows? She studied the bush for a moment and tried to discern if she were imagining things, looking for something that was not there, then realised that the postman had been talking to her. “Yes...yes. I’m fine,” she said, without taking her eyes from the bush. The postman followed her gaze and looked towards the bush also. All he saw was the thick greenery which ringed the property, an almost impenetrable wall of plants creating a sense of security. He shrugged, gave her a wave and walked to the gate. She called after him. “Hey... did you see anyone hanging around when you drove up?” The postman opened the gate, stepped onto the gravel single-track road and looked back towards the house. She had stepped off the porch and was standing on the path. “Not any more than usual. This is fishing and hunting season after all. There’s a few cars

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back down the track, near the small parking area. No-one around your place though.” He closed the gate, climbed into his van, and before he drove off, saw her disappear into the house, the door closing behind her. And now, standing in the kitchen, she heard the doorbell chimes sounding again. Maybe the postman had forgotten to give her some mail. A week between deliveries was a long time to wait. However, instead of rushing to the door this time, she stopped when she glanced down the hall. The unmistakeable shape of two people could be made through the frosted glass. The stabs of fear began again. She wondered if her child had woken up. Concentrating, she listened for the tell-tale sounds, the cries which signified he was hungry or wanted attention. Unsure, she took the few steps. She softly opened the door and cocked an ear towards the room at the bottom of the stairs. All quiet. She relaxed slightly and closed the door. The fear she felt was growing, the stabbing more frequent and insistent. She quickly returned to the kitchen and lifted the knife. Instinct and a growing dread that something was not right, made her think about protection. She peered around the kitchen door-frame. Her heart sank. Through the glass she saw only one person. Her mind raced. She quickly went to the rear door which led to the back garden and slid the two deadbolts home. She checked that the key was turned in the lock. The rear door had a small window set into the top half of the door. She didn’t want to press her face against it; she had a gut feeling that whoever had been at the front door would soon materialise in front of her. Instead, she stood back and tried to see as much as possible from her viewpoint. She thought about telephoning Alan. This was getting beyond something ordinary. There had always been people who had, on occasion, strayed into the garden, but they very quickly realised their mistake. Living

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on the periphery of the forest had its advantages, but they were not totally secluded. A lake ripe with fish and a hikers trail which skirted their property, would always mean that there was potential for trespassers from time to time. But as the seconds ticked by, she knew that the combination of events in the last hour were not random or chance; something was up and her initial reaction was for her protection, and more importantly, the preservation of her child’s privacy As if the thought had somehow been transmitted to the electronic device in her pocket, it chirped and vibrated. She fished the cellphone out of her pocket and saw the name displayed on the little screen. Despite the tension and the fear she felt, she managed a smile as she connected the call. “Alan,” she said. The voice on the other end said, “Mrs Connor, this is-” That was all she heard. Looking at the screen again in case she had made a mistake, she confirmed that it most definitely was her husband that was telephoning her. Or, at least, it was her husband’s phone. “Hello?” she asked. What the caller said next sent the world spinning before her eyes. She heard the words but they didn’t sink in. She fought back the tears that were beginning to well up in her eyes. Her voice, soft and full of emotion, threatened to break, but she managed to utter a few words. “What do you mean?” The detective said, “I’m sorry, but can you come to the hospital as quick as you can-” She didn’t hear any more, the words fading into the background, even though she pressed the phone firmly to her ear. A shadow moved past the kitchen window. She turned quickly and saw only the back of someone walking along the deck. Towards the rear door, the one she had only just locked. Seconds later, the thump of a fist banged on the door several times. She jumped and dropped the phone, the tinny voice squeak-

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ing from the microphone, imploring her to answer. The rear door rattled in its frame as the intensity of the banging increased. And now, a voice called out. “Open up, we know you’re in there.” And, as if to further ramp up her fear factor, the doorbell rang again. She was frozen, a mysterious nameless pair of would-be intruders book-ending the house, trapping her inside. Confused and suddenly aware of what could happen if they managed to gain entry, she reacted. Bending to pick up the cellphone from the floor, she whispered “There’s someone here. Trying to get into my house.” She didn’t wait to hear the answer. On her knees, she scrambled through to the utility room and pushed the interior door over. Her back against the wall, she sat and faced the door. The tinny voice squeaked again, louder and more insistent. She put the phone to her ear, could hear the detective talking but couldn’t concentrate. A few words of reassurance was all she heard before a crashing noise from the kitchen startled her. She knew what the noise signified. And, as if she needed further confirmation, the sound of footsteps on the tiled floor was further proof. Although she was shy and reserved, she knew enough to know what could happen to a woman alone in a home invasion. The relative isolation of the house meant that it always was a potential target, and her husband, perhaps aware of that or more for the protection of their child, had insisted she should be ready if something ever occurred. But in the utility room, she didn’t have access to the gun. She held her hand tight over the phone, hoping that it was enough to suppress the tiny voice, hoping that the intruder could not hear. In the kitchen, the man stood at the rear door and cocked an ear. He listened for a few seconds, then slowly walked towards the kitchen table. He looked at the side of meat and his eyes narrowed. A few cuts sat on a chopping board, piled on top of each other, the pink

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flesh glistening in the light which filtered through from the window. His eyes ran over the table from one end to the next. Then, he lifted his head and slowly turned in a circle. He looked all around the kitchen, at the worktops, the drawers and cupboards which were closed, the tiled floor. He snorted and left the kitchen, walking through the hall to the front door. Turning the key and slipping the deadbolts free, he tapped on the door a few times before pulling it open. The man standing on the porch quickly darted inside and closed the door behind him. “Where?” he said. “I don’t know. She’s in here somewhere.” Molly counted out the seconds. When she estimated he had walked into the hallway, she stood up and went to the interior door. Her heart thumped in her chest wildly, the fear gripping her tight. The she remembered the phone. She looked at her hand. White, from pressing hard against the speaker, she slowly relaxed her grip. Expecting to hear the tiny voice emanating from the cellphone, she was surprised when she realised it was silent. She turned her hand, palm upwards and opened her fingers. The screen was blank. Her husband’s name had disappeared. When she peered closer, she saw that it was completely devoid of any display. The little icons which indicated the phone’s status were gone. She then knew the battery had died. The two men conferred in the hallway then separated. One of the men began to inch his way up the wooden staircase, the other ducked into the living room. Both men held guns in their hands. She gently opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. The door to the back garden lay open, against the wall. For a moment, she contemplated running from the house, but the

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thought instantly disappeared when she thought of her child. I must get to the gun. She quickly crossed the kitchen to the door. The hallway was clear. A floorboard creaked from the living room. She knew what one it was and froze in place. Someone was moving through the living room towards the dining room. The man was getting closer, returning to the kitchen. CREAK. Another floorboard. This time, from the stairs. With a last look at the open door which offered an opportunity for escape, she walked into the hall. Opening the door to the child’s room, she stepped over the threshold and closed the door. She stood in the darkness, allowing her eyes time to adjust to the darkness, then she descended the stairs. With each step she took, the smells became a little stronger. Underneath the rose-scented air freshener was the unmistakeable sound of human waste. It clung in the air and she wrinkled her nose in slight disgust; if she hadn’t been distracted, then this would never have happened. She reached the basement floor and looked around. Her eyes hadn’t adjusted completely yet and she couldn’t see where the child was. She felt her way in the semi-darkness and found the cage. The smell was stronger and she looked towards the shadows, towards where her child usually rested. She cooed softly. Out of the dark recesses of the cage she heard the shuffling of feet. Out of the darkness and into the light her child came to her. Eyes that couldn’t see appeared in front of her; milky white and large, with a thick yellow crust at the corners. The man methodically worked his way through the upstairs rooms, checking the closets and underneath the beds. When he was satisfied that the top floor was empty he stood for a moment on the top landing. Downstairs, the other intruder moved through the living

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rooms and came into the kitchen. He scanned the expansive work area again, took a step then hesitated... as he noticed the utility room door ajar. “Shit,” he said and ran through the house. “What is it, Jaz?” asked the man upstairs, raising his gun and pointing it through the spindles of the staircase. All pretence at being quiet and covert forgotten, the man shouted up to his partner, “Geordie, she’s gone.” “Did you search everywhere?” “Of course I did. She was hiding and slipped out the back door.” “It’s clear up here. We better go.” He stormed down the stairs, his shoes echoing off the polished wooden treads as he descended. The thing, her child, placed its hands on the bars and tilted its head up to hers. It’s face was misshapen, the mouth slightly off-centre filled with rows of little pointed teeth. On that face was an expectant look, a hungry look. “Not now, little baby,” she said and placed a hand on her child’s scaly forehead. “Soon. You’ll eat soon” The reply came, not in words, but as a rapid smacking of the lips as the creature-child grew excited. It was hungry and wanted to eat; being blind, deformed and hideous didn’t diminish its capacity for food. Like any other child, it needed food in order to survive. And being unable to see didn’t incapacitate it’s ability to hear; rather, it had developed an extreme keenness that would not have developed had it been normal. Suddenly, it snapped it’s head towards the stairs and began to growl. The growling increased in intensity, a deep-throated sound, guttural and primal. Molly tried to calm the creature-child. She stroked it’s thin, greasy hair and whispered softly. “Hush, little baby. It’s nothing,” she said. But as she spoke, she realised it was futile, for it would take more than a few motherly words to stop the excitement. Besides, he smelt food.

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“What was that?” “I don’t hear anything.” “Be quiet. Listen.” Both men stood in the long hallway. There was silence, then a distant noise carried to them. At first it was faint, then grew louder; a noise like that which a wild animal would make when cornered, or excited. “What the hell was that?” Jaz asked. Geordie held up a finger and walked slowly, placing each foot down softly on the wooden floor. He drew closer to the door which led to the basement. Jaz followed behind, his gun raised, pointing at the door. “Did you check that cupboard?” he asked. Geordie shook his head. “I missed it.” The noise they could hear was a little louder, although muffled. As they listened, they heard it come in waves, rising and falling in pitch. They looked at each other. Jaz gave a slight shrug of the shoulders. “Cover me,” Geordie said and reached for the handle. Jaz stepped to the side, keeping his gun trained on the door. Geordie pulled on the handle and slowly eased the door open half an inch. Then... the noise ceased, leaving them in silence. Molly saw the thin wedge of light appear at the top of the basement stairs. She knew what it meant and froze. The creature-child stopped growling and turned its head, an ear towards the stairs. Releasing its grip on the bars, it smacked its lips a few times then scuttled backwards into the deep shadows at the rear of the cage. She saw her child move away from her and quickly looked around. Think fast. If they come downstairs, she would be like a rabbit caught in the headlights. The boiler. She moved as quickly and as silently as she could and slipped

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into the gap between the wall and the boiler. From her vantage point, she could see the door at the top of the stairs, the light slashing across the wall. And as she watched, the thin wedge became fatter as more light spilled into the basement. The slash on the wall became a slowly broadening rectangle as the door silently swung against the bare brick wall. She gulped and switched the knife to her other hand. The sweat on her palm she wiped on the leg of her trousers, then switched the knife back. She would be ready, she told herself. Like any mother, she would give her life for her child. The light which now illuminated part of the basement was suddenly broken by the shape which now filled the doorway. She saw the silhouette of a man. Unable to make out his features, she nevertheless knew it was one of the intruders. The man fumbled for the light switch, flicking it several times once he had located it. Where she had earlier cursed for not having the broken light bulb replaced, she now thanked her forgetfulness. But any joy she felt instantly vanished when she saw the man begin the descend the stairs. And her heart dropped even further when she saw the other man fill the doorway. Both men edged their way down the stairs. Each step was taken carefully as they dropped further into the room. Each step brought them deeper into the gloom, into the heart of the house. As they drew closer, she grew more frightened, for her and for her child. Her palms grew wet with sweat and her stomach began to flip. The fear gripped her tight, the icy talons refusing to let her go, as the danger level went up several notches. She wanted to scream but the cries never got further than a thought. She wanted to rush from her hiding place and... ...she felt movement. Perhaps it was a mother’s instinct, or a heightening of her senses, or even something she desperately wanted to happen, but it was a feeling nevertheless. And it came from the cage... She was not alone in experiencing something, for the men

- October 2010

stopped in their tracks. Jaz whispered, “Geordie, there’s something in here.” Geordie didn’t answer. He squinted and peered into the darkened area of the basement room. He took a few paces forward, reached out a hand and touched the bars of the cage. “What the-” he managed to say, before the creature-child crashed into the bars. The next few seconds seemed to stretch out for YY. She heard the crash, followed by a rapid noise she recognised as lip-smacking, which, in turn, was followed by a scream from Geordie. She moved out from beside the boiler, the knife in her right hand. Jaz saw the movement and swung round to face her, bringing the gun up, instinctively firing. The bullet missed her and buried itself in the bare brick. She stood, rooted to the spot as she saw Geordie crash backwards into Jaz. The two men slammed into the concrete floor. As the men lay in a heap on the floor, the creature-child clambered over the top of the cage. Growling loudly and with bared teeth, it landed with a heavy thump. Mixed emotions and feelings ran through her mind. She rapidly weighed up the situation, torn between stopping the childcreature and letting nature run its course. It only took a second but she elected to do nothing. After all, they broke into my house. The creature-child landed on Jaz and immediately sank its teeth into his neck. The man pushed against the thing’s naked body but, as small as it was, he couldn’t get it off him. Geordie lay on his side, breathing heavily from a few cracked ribs. When he saw the thing land on Jaz’s chest and bury its face in his neck, his eyes opened wide in disbelief. And, despite the pain, he tried to scrabble over to his gun, lying just out of reach. Molly saw Geordie move and kicked the gun away. She then thrust the sharp steak knife through the back of his hand, the tip of the blade breaking off as it bit into the concrete. Geordie screamed and she kicked him hard in the mouth. He groaned and went limp. Time sped up again and she looked at Jaz. The creaturechild, her child, was now sitting on the man’s chest, a great chunk of meat hanging from its mouth. Blood dripped from the flesh into the man’s mouth, frozen open in a silent scream. A lifeless body

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upon which her child was feeding. She swayed, suddenly dizzy and overwhelmed by the situation. She went to the stairs and sat on the bottom step, skirting the unconscious body of Geordie. Swallowing hard, she breathed deeply, trying to clear her head. All the fear had gone, only to be replaced with an anxiety and concern over what she should do. She tried to close her ears to the sound of her child’s lip smacking as it devoured the flesh, tried to block out the satisfying sounds of someone enjoying their food. Once she had managed to get herself under control, she began to think rationally and work out what she must do. She didn’t know how long it had been since the phone call with the police, so there was no way of telling when they would arrive, if ever. Steeling herself, she stood up. The decision made, to preserve her relative secluded lifestyle and for the protection of her child, she walked to the alive but bleeding intruder. Kneeling down beside him, she reached for the knife and withdrew it from his hand. He stirred. She then grabbed his hair and pulled the head back, exposing his throat. His eyes opened, then grew wide as he saw the knife. She smiles as she drew the knife across his throat, cutting deep, severing his vocal cords. A gurgling sound came from the man’s throat, the blood bubbling as he tried to breath. She waited, her eyes fixed on his as the life drained from him. Once she was sure he was dead, she went to the cage and opened the door. She cooed softly and talked to the creature-child, its naked chest smeared with blood. It moved off the dead man and she dragged the body into the cage. The creature-child followed and she closed the door. As she turned away, she heard the lip-smacking and she smiled. A crazy thought occurred to her: there was no rush now to prepare the meat upstairs. There was plenty for her child to eat for a while yet.

- October 2010

The Lord of the Manor “There,” said Ben. “Can you see them?” Jack looked at the bottom of the garden but still saw nothing. There was a mass of greenery though. Different shades with splashes of vivid colour from the flowers which were beginning to bloom. He tried to see what his friend pointed at but thought the whole idea was stupid; he couldn’t see the little men. What was up with Ben? Ben hauled at Jack’s arm, urging him to take another look. “Behind the sun-dial. He’s peeking out.” Then, with a little more excitement in his voice, he said, “Look, he’s waving.” Jack could see the sun-dial, half-hidden amongst the greenery and, incredibly, for a fraction of a second he caught a tiny movement in the shadows before it was gone. He looked away then quickly snapped his head back, hoping for a glimpse at... to see... whatever he had seen. “Did you see? Did you?” Ben asked, his voice rising in delight. Jack wanted to answer but held back. He had seen something but didn’t want to admit it because he couldn’t believe it.

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The gnomes are real. In a store on a shelf, they are inactive and appear to be nothing but brightly painted clay figures. Lined up in a row, faces frozen in a smile, they stand in a variety of poses. They evoke images of happy cheerful characters which provide a splash of colour and fun to a garden. Yet, there is a sinister side to them. At night they come alive. The magic spell which keeps them immobile is broken and a metamorphosis occurs. From nothing, they then become vicious killing machines, death-dealers who stalk gardens and streets in the dark delivering their own twisted brand of murder. And in those gardens the gnomes stand still and wait. They know when nightfall comes, then the chances of being discovered are minimal. Being careful has enabled them to live amongst the human race for hundreds of years. Most people have been oblivious to how real and menacing the gnomes actually are. Except some people.

The sun slipped below the horizon. Ben knows it won’t be long before they come alive again. It always happens when it gets dark but never in the daylight. He could walk right up to any of them during the day, peer into their lifeless eyes and not be afraid. He prodded them, even picked them up one by one, turned them over in his hands, but could not elicit a response. It seemed to him that they were nothing when the sun was up, nothing but the ornaments his mother thought they were. In the daylight they were harmless and his mother took great delight in having placed them around the garden. She thought they were ‘cute’ as they appeared to peek out from below shrubs and flowers. He had to

- October 2010

agree, to a certain extent. If he did not know their true nature then he would think they were cute also. But he thought differently because he knew they could kill. Well, ‘kill’ was the wrong word as he did not have proof exactly. He reckoned he was pretty intelligent and could put two and two together. Almost all of the time he came up with the correct answer, this time being no exception. One night he saw them stalk the cat in the garden, injuring it with their little weapons. They herded it into a corner but then his mother had gone into the garden, activating the floodlights. The area was immediately encased in brilliant, dazzling light and he was blinded for a few seconds. When his eyes adjusted, there was no trace of the cat or the gnomes. In the time it took him to rush down the stairs and reach the back door his mother had returned inside. Gasping for breath, he managed to ask her if she ad seen anything in the garden. When she told him she had only been shouting for the cat to come inside he squeezed past her and burst out of the house. The lights came back on and he blinked a few times, hardly believing his eyes. When he had observed the garden from his bedroom he saw the gnomes pushing the wounded cat towards the corner where the two walls met but now... the gnomes were in their positions around the garden. How were they able to do that? In an instant they had transformed from living, breathing, moving things into garden ornaments made of fired clay. Ben couldn’t believe his eyes. Had he been seeing things? Had it really happened? He squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds then opened them, half-expecting the gnomes to have moved but they were static, rooted in place. They didn’t look like they could move, let alone stalk a cat. And where was the cat anyway? He called for the cat several times but it never came. In itself, that was nothing much to worry about because it usually turned up, eventually. But this time, he wasn’t so sure. He would have to tell Jack.

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Sharp teeth biting into flesh, tearing at the soft pink skin, the screams filling the air. Tiny hands hold ripped flesh up to tiny mouths, teeth dripping with blood. A chanting that sent shivers down the spine can be heard over the night-time sounds. A creepy, unreal chanting that’s out of place in such a pleasant area. It’s a chanting which does not belong. The dark allows the gnomes to continue with their blood-letting, offering them a veil over which the carnage is hidden and unnoticed... until the morning. Daylight reveals the horror of the night, a crazed path of destruction and reckless abandon. Sharp teeth hidden from sight... until the next time.

Jack decided right there and then to look in his neighbours back garden. It would have to be done when everything was quiet, and in the dark too. Although, he didn’t relish the idea of snooping around at night. There was something about the place, something he couldn’t put a finger on. He just had a vibe. Old Man Anderson was supposed to keep some pretty cool stuff in the back, according to some of the other kids. A few of the bigger, bolder and more inquisitive kids had scaled the wall and taken a good look. They hadn’t gone into the garden that time but were planning to go in sometime soon. Well, he would get there first and show them. It was okay for the bigger kids. They could help each other and scramble up onto the top of the wall but he would struggle. He would probably need some ladders or steps, like the ones his father had in the garden shed. Jack wandered through the house and went outside. He walked the short distance to the workshop and saw his father’s legs

- October 2010

poking out from underneath a car which was raised up on one side. “Dad, have we got any ladders?” he asked. His father slid himself out, raised his head and looked at him quizzically. “What do you want ladders for?” he said. “You’ve never needed ladders before.” “My ball went over into another garden when me and Ben were playing.” His father sighed and raised his eyebrows. “Well, you just can’t go into somebody’s garden over the wall. Why don’t you just go and ask for the ball back?” Jack thought for a few seconds. His father was right ; he really couldn’t hop over the wall by using a ladder. It wasn’t the thing to do and, there was no ball so he couldn’t exactly go and ask for it to be returned. “I only want a quick look so I can tell Old M… I mean, Mr Anderson where it is exactly.” Good thinking. His father looked back at the car. “It’s alright. Just tell me where they are,” Jack said, hoping his father was too busy. The car needed a bit of work and had to be finished soon. “Okay,” he said, holding his hands up in resignation. “They’re in the shed out back.” He then slid back under the car. Jack smiled. Yes, a result. As he turned to go, his father called him back. “Don’t go climbing the wall. Just have a look and see if the ball is there,” he said. “Sure, Dad,” Jack said. “And if you have to go and see him, wait ‘til I’m finished. There’s something about the old man I don’t like.” Jack was puzzled. He knew the old man was a bit of a creep but he’s never known his father to be spooked, let alone by an old man. “Okay,” he said. Jack left and walked along a row of cars waiting for repair. There was plenty to keep his father busy for a while and, like most nights; he wouldn’t be home until later. That would leave Jack plenty of time to have a snoop around the old man’s garden before his father arrived home. When the darkness had fallen he checked on his mother and found her busy on the telephone with one of her friends. He knew she

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could talk. He wondered what adults found so interesting and exciting to talk about for so long. Would he ever understand women? He didn’t think he would. His father must be a very understanding guy. He quietly went to the back door and eased it open. Checking his pocket for his torch and pen-knife, he then looked at his wristwatch. Good. He had an hour and a bit before his father came home. Plenty of time. After closing the door he hurried to the garden shed and found the step-ladders just inside. He tried them for weight and was surprised at how light they were. He managed to tuck them under his arm and he made his way to the wall which bordered the two properties. Jack opened the ladders out and set them next to the wall. The moon was half-hidden by cloud but there was enough light to see that the top of the wall looked crumbly and loose. He would have to be careful up there. Taking a look around him to check he was alone, he then climbed the steps and placed his hands on the wall top. From his position he could see part of Mr Anderson’s house through the trees and shrubs. This was a big garden. It looked dark and sombre. For a fleeting moment, his mind imagined scuttling things in the dark, waiting to trap uninvited guests, but he quickly dismissed the thoughts. Even if there were things in the dark, looking for the young and unwary, then they couldn’t be watching. Could they? Nevertheless, he scanned the ground below. It was in shadow but if he pulled the steps up, then he could drop them down and use them to return back over the wall. He remembered his torch and felt in his pocket. He pulled it out, switched it on and swept the ground below. Satisfied, he smiled and realised how crazy he was. There were no panting and drooling creatures looking up at him or crazed axemen waiting to drag him off the wall and dismember him. He flicked the switch and stuck the torch back in his pocket. With one last look back at his own house he gripped the wall and pushed off the ladder step. As he hoisted a leg over the wall, straddling the top, his trailing leg caught the top rung and knocked the ladder over. Jack watched horrified as the step-ladder swung one way then the next and clattered onto the brick path. He was stranded

- October 2010

on the wall, caught between the two properties. “Shit,” he muttered. “Very good Jack, very good,” he berated himself. The plan of using the step-ladders was dead in the water now. He would have to drop down on his side and set the ladders back up and started to slide off the wall when a slight rustle from nearby made him stop. He lay flat on the wall, breathed softly and narrowed his eyes. His first thought was not of mad axemen or horrible creatures, or even Old Man Anderson, but of the older boys who might be creeping around in the old man’s garden. He tried to pinpoint the location of the noise but as hard as he listened, he couldn’t hear anything else. Jack had a choice: abandon or go on? Maybe the noise had carried in the quiet night, he thought. The was hardly any wind, the night air being warm and muggy, so the sound could have come from far off. He tried to convince himself that was what had happened. There was still a niggling thought in the back of his mind that it was something else though. A sudden movement made him snap his head round. He caught something as it darted behind a tree in Old Man Anderson’s garden. His eyes flicked from tree to tree as he hoped to pick out whatever had made the movement. Back and forth he checked but saw nothing. Then, just behind him, over his shoulder, he heard the scrunch of gravel as if a shoe had scraped across stone. He tried to turn his head and at the same time felt his body shift. As he began to slide he made a desperate attempt to keep a hold on the wall but his body continued to fall, the centre of gravity shifting. Jack twisted sideways as he fell from the wall, landing awkwardly, hard. As he lay on his side breathing heavily, he cursed himself for embarking on the crazy adventure. He should have called Ben. Why could he not have waited? He knew the answer to that question though: it was the desire to go one better. SCRUNCH. Jack lifted his head, wincing as pain shot though his body, seeking what had made the noise. SCRUNCH.

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Again. Closer this time. He raised himself up on his elbow, the pain having lessened slightly. SCRUNCH. SCRUNCH. SCRUNCH. More. Closer. Louder. Jack’s heart raced. His mind went into overdrive, the hideous monster from his dream coming closer. Stalking him, preying on him, picking the best moment to strike... or it could be the gnomes. Instead, Jack saw a pair of human-sized feet come into view. That’s worse, he thought. He’d been caught. And by Old Man Anderson. Looking up, he saw the old man coming towards him in a shuffling gait. He knew he was done for. Caught trespassing, the old man would call the police and then his father would give him so much grief. Jack was about to say something when the man spoke. “Well, what do we have here?” the Mr Anderson said. Jack didn’t say anything. He had never actually heard the old man speak before. The threat of him being a creep and a freak enough of an incentive to steer clear. If the truth be told he was a little shocked and surprised for the old man man sounded nothing like he had expected. The old man spoke softly without a hint of an accent, and Jack had to strain to hear him properly. “An intruder on my property?” the old man asked. Jack began to speak but the Mr Anderson cut him off, raising his hand to signal silence. “Over here, boys,” said the old man. From behind the trees and out of the mass of thick tangled bushes, a bunch of little men appeared and congregated around the old man’s legs. Jack could see that they held a variety of garden tools in their tiny little hands. Not all of them held the usual tool you may find in a garden; a few held crudely fashioned swords and knives. A low whisper ran through the group of little men, grins and wide smiles breaking out on their faces. Gnomes, Jack realised. And there was a hell of a lot of them. “You’re the little brat from next door, aren’t you?” Mr Anderson said, staring down at Jack. “Always snooping around, wondering what I’m doing.”

- October 2010

“I... I...” Jack stammered, the words catching in his throat. This can’t be happening, he thought. Did I crack my head? Am I dreaming all this crazy stuff? “I’ve seen you and your little friend skulking by my house, trying to get a look around the back.” “I’m sorry. I fell,” Jack managed to say while keeping a firm eye on the gnomes as they chatted excitedly, pointing and making faces at him. If this was a dream, then he might as well find out what was going on. “Oh, I know you fell. But what were you doing on my wall in the first place?” The gnomes spread out, taking up positions and surrounding Jack. He tried to stand up but one gnome burst from the line and lunged. The tiny pitchfork that he held in his hand pierced Jack in the thigh. He instinctively swatted at his thigh and knocked the gnome against the brick wall. When it collided with the wall, it broke apart with the force of the impact. Pieces of brightly coloured clay fell to the ground. A woollen red hat lay with a piece of clay that had formed part of the face. Jack could see one eye, lifeless and dark which, only moments earlier, had been alive and vibrant. Quickly turning back to the old man and the rest of the gnome army, he forgot about the pain in his thigh as he saw the gnomes begin to close in on him. “You shouldn’t have done that. That was really stupid,” Mr Anderson said. Jack stumbled to his feet looking for a way out. He quickly searched the area, hoping to get a clear run but the gnomes were almost at his feet. Mr Anderson had closed the gap also. Jack lashed out with a foot, steadying himself by using a hand on the boundary wall behind. He connected with a couple of gnomes knocking one into another. They both spun end over end and landed in the darkness with a crash. All Jack heard was little screams filling the silence. Then they were on him. Stabbing. Slashing. Biting. Old Man Anderson produced a small rope and grabbed Jack by the wrists. “Hey, get off,” Jack shouted. “Leave me alone.” Before he could say any more, Mr Anderson clamped a dry hand over Jack’s mouth.

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“Keep quiet,”Anderson hissed. Jack tried to shake the hand free but the old man was surprisingly strong. Then he felt himself being dragged down, the weight of numerous gnomes clinging to his trousers legs was too much for him to bear. The gnomes swarmed over him the second he landed on the ground. Mr Anderson released his hand from Jack’s mouth and knelt beside him. Using the coil of rope, he swiftly bound Jack’s wrists while the gnomes continued to clamber over his body. RIP. Jack heard something tear then realised what it was. A strip of tape was then roughly pressed against his mouth. No chance of screaming now, he thought. He gave in. The throbbing pain from the many stabs, slashes and bites overwhelmed him. He couldn’t move or say anything, the fear paralysing him. “Right boys, take him away,” Mr Anderson said. “Show him what we do to intruders.” Jack tried to struggle but the gnomes had tied him up good. He felt himself being manhandled then lifted free of the ground. Above him, Mr Anderson stood with a demonic grin on his face, a glint in his eye. Visions of the seven dwarves swam through his head as they carried him through the trees, a chanting too low for him to make out the words. The intention was clear, however. Beside the gnomes, keeping pace, strode Mr Anderson with his head upright and eyes fixed straight ahead. The size of the property and Jack’s close proximity to the ground meant that he soon lost all sense of direction. He could glimpse the moon through the overhanging branches but the angle changed as he was led through the tress, twisting and turning. Then they stopped. “Here we are,” Mr Anderson said. Jack heard a key turn in a lock and the creak of a door as it opened. “In we go,” said Mr Anderson. The gnomes moved on, carrying Jack into a building, into the dark. He opened his eyes wide trying to pick out something, anything that would give him a clue as to where he was. The overhead lights flickered and came into life and blinded

- October 2010

him for a few seconds. He felt his body lift into the air and drop on something hard. As his eyes adjusted, the stars slowly fading from his vision, he groaned inwardly. All he could see were gnomes. Lots and lots of gnomes. Alive. Not clay ornaments but living, breathing and evil-looking. A face came into view; the face of the leader, Mr Anderson. “Now we show you what we do to people who are nosy,” he said. Jack tried to scream but the gag held firm. He tried to move but was held down as the gnomes crawled over his body. One ambitious character stood on Jack’s chest and held a tiny spade. It raised the garden tool and drove it towards Jack’s chest. Jack felt the sharp pain and saw the gnome pull the spade out then drive it repeatedly in again and again. He didn’t have time to react as more gnomes began to carry out similar actions. The tools and implements they carried were aimed at various parts of his body and soon the pain became one big rolling wave. They stabbed, slashed and even bit him. And watching, with arms folded across his chest, stood Mr Anderson. Supervisor and Lord of the Manor. All sorts of things ran through Jack’s head, most noticeably his stupidity at going it alone. He should have called Ben and maybe they both would have had a chance. But, paradoxically, he was happy in some weird and strange way because he was able to confirm the existence of the gnomes. The pain grew in intensity and he no longer knew how many were attacking him. A darkness appeared at the edge of his vision, minimal at first then crept inwards narrowing what he could see. He didn’t know but he was losing consciousness, his body beginning to shut down. His fading vision gave him a respite however, the absurdity and horror of the clay-fired creatures slipping from his mind. He could still hear though, for he heard the excitement in the gnomes’ voices as they attacked him. The thrill of what they were doing spurred them on, drove them to commit acts which would surely result in his death. He was on the edge now, a few steps from dying. Then, just above the noise of the excited gnomes, he could discern a new voice, a familiar one. His mind struggled to comprehend the person’s presence in the building. He tried to turn his head but

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if felt heavy. The spreading black dots across his eyes made focusing difficult. The new voice spoke again and he could almost place it. His mind was scrambled. He tried one last attempt at working out the identity of the visitor. Almost. There, nearly. Then it was gone. As his mind faded, so did his life.

“So you don’t know where he is?” Jack’s father said. Ben stood, half-hidden by the open door, his mother by his side. He shook his head and said, “He didn’t come here last night. Yesterday afternoon was the last time I seen him.” “That’s strange. He left a note saying he was coming here.” Ben’s mother looked at her son through bloodshot eyes then looked back at Jack’s father. “What’s going on Alex?” she asked. Shooting her a look of concern, he said, “I noticed his bed was empty. Hadn’t been slept in. Never thought to check on him last night, Fran.” “You working late again?” she asked. “Yeah, I had to finish a job. Lots of money in that one.” Alex and Fran looked at each other for a few seconds before Ben spoke. “The last thing I remember him saying was that he was going home.” Alex nodded. “That’s okay son. I’ll keep looking.” He turned to go then glanced back over his shoulder at Fran but she was in the process of ushering Ben inside. Once inside, Ben went to the window and watched his friend’s father get into his car and drive away. “Keep looking. You’ll never find him,” he said.

- October 2010

Blood Binds Tonya R. Moore

The sound penetrated Tallow’s bones, making her shiver involuntarily. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. The opposite, actually. Not quite the same for Kyle, she noted. His lips drew back into a half snarl. She could see his sharper teeth starting to show. “What the hell is this?” His breath quickened.

Episode 7

The Caste of Blood Conclusion

Kyle crouched before Tallow. She stopped working her next spell; confounded by the quietly intense way he continued to study her. Clearly, something was bothering him. He was all muddy hues of copper and crimson in her mind’s eye. Frenetic energies swirled around his lithe form. “What is it?” She demanded shakily. She’d never forcibly merged with anyone like that before. Her bones still felt unglued, like they weren’t even her own anymore. He seemed to change his mind about whatever it was he wanted to say. “Nothing.” His gaze slid away. Inwardly, Tallow bristled. Why was it that no matter how benign his expressions on mannerisms might be, it always felt like he was mocking her?

stone beads across the floor around them. The beads picked up speed instead of losing momentum. Faster and faster, they spun until they began to emit a humming noise. One after the other, each uncoiled, revealing doublet pairs of translucent wings. Their sound evolved into a fuller, choral screeching.

Tight lipped, she reached for the pouch tied to her belt. She untied the knot at the top and scattered its contents, a handful of

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“Cloud corals. These things--unlike you--I actually set out to make my familiars. When they harmonize, they’ll keep out anything unwanted; muddle even a nightwalker’s senses.” For a regrettably short time, the blood thirsty denizens of Belinda wouldn’t be able to tell Kyle, Tallow and the walls apart. Unconvinced Kyle watched them spin and rise up into the air. “Are you sure it’s working? ’Cuz I can see past it and all it’s doing is giving me a really bad headache.” “You need to feed,” she prompted offering up her wrist. “You’ll feel a lot better if you do.” Kyle’s fingers tightened around her wrist. He yanked her forward, buried his face in the crook of her neck. He went for the carotid. She flinched when he bit down. She hadn’t expected him to be so direct about it. Maybe her mind invasion had done more than jangle his nerves. No, she amended silently. More likely, it was just the hunger. He was feeding with far more fervor than usual, sapping her energy faster than she’d anticipated. Tallow’s eyes glazed over, the shock of pain sent their normal colors seeping back in. She went limp against him. Her vision

- October 2010

clouded but she could see them over his shoulder, furtive shadows moving poking at the boundaries of the barrier made by the cloud corals. Five of them. As Kyle’s mind blended with hers, she could hear discordant murmurs, foreign thoughts batting at her awareness. Is that what he heard all the time when he was near his own kind? The cloud corals’ movement was steadily slowing. Any moment now, the barrier would collapse. Near panic, she managed to summon enough strength to push at Kyle with both her voice and mind. Kyle drew away. He rocked back on his heels. Eyes squeezed tightly shut, he uttered a broken moan. Her throat was painfully raw she spoke. “The corals...” Kyle skipped a beat before his attention scattered again. His intoxicated gaze was trained on spot where his teeth had sunk in moments ago. “Kyle!” iars?”

“Huh?” He jolted. “Sorry. What was that about your famil-

“They’re losing momentum,” She bit out. “And we’re surrounded.” She eased forward. There wasn’t any time to warn him about what she was going to do. She had to do it while she still could. “And speaking of familiars...”

While Charls laid the groundwork for his spell, Hel maintained the barrier he’d set up. He glanced over at her every few

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minutes, checking for signs of strain. She seemed to be managing just fine. Every now and then her attention wandered long enough for her to frown over at him thoughtfully. Mildly amused by her wary silence, he endured it for a while. “Helioselene,” he murmured at length. “Glaring at me won’t get what you’re thinking said.” She blinked. “I’m not glaring.” When his only response was an unconvinced snort, she sighed. “I’m just surprised. That’s all.” “Hmmm?” His focus shifted back to the spell he was weaving. She watched the way his nimble fingers spun a delicate web of energy, sending each strand toward the city wall. It was amazing really, what those seemingly rough hands could do. “What then?” He asked after such a long while, she’d almost already forgotten what they’d been talking about. “Kyle and Tallow. I didn’t expect you to be so calm about their er... situation.” “Nothing to be done about it now, is there? Blood binds.” Charls’ brow furrowed. “Tallow knew that before she gave him hers. In any case, it is as you’ve said. They are not children.” He completed the spell. It was still a few minutes before he could relax enough to wipe away the beads of sweat that had popped up across his forehead. “It’s done,” he said. “You can lower the barrier now.” “What?” He regarded her owlishly. “Still worried?” “I’ve been thinking that Tallow might have already intended to do that. Time and place was just a matter of convenience, is what I suspect.” Hel admitted quietly. She waited for the wordspell to come undone before rising. “Why do you suppose that is?”

- October 2010

Charls only grinned at her mild dig. “We’re all dangerous. Don’t you think?”

“I wonder.” He mused. He wasn’t ready to voice his own concerns over Tallow’s behavior just yet. It was already apparent that she was hiding something crucial from them. It would be difficult, dangerous even, to learn anything of it if she became defensive. He tossed Hel a glance askance, when she subsided. They’d managed to pick right up where they’d left off, as far as their magical partnership went. Hel was skilled but her distrust of the magical arts limited her to the role of an aegis for Charls. He always could rely on her without worrying about their energies clashing. There had never been anyone else that he could trust as implicitly. He wasn’t foolish enough to think that their effortless compatibility extended beyond sorcery. To be honest, this wasn’t the first time he’d found himself thinking that their inability to get along as husband and wife was inversely proportional to their magical consonance. She used to be softer when she was younger. Now she seemed, sculpted. Fierce. She hadn’t lost that effortless grace. She’d just become sharper, like a beautiful blade. Was wanted he wanted even possible at all? He wanted to touch her again--to reclaim what had been lost but in this case, it wasn’t so easy picking up where they’d left off. Too much time had passed. Maybe the past was best left where it was. While starting over did have a certain appeal, he knew he still needed to tread carefully. Wayfarers were prickly by nature. Their turbulent history couldn’t be so easily dismissed as turning over a new leaf. “So, you no longer think Kyle is so dangerous.” Hel couldn’t resist, it seemed. “Or is it just that you realize he’s not as dangerous as my niece?”

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He wasn’t going to get into another debate about the latest bone of contention between them. In any case, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t see it. He simply didn’t care for Wayfarer flavored Multiverse Spiritualism. Nightwalker or not, doppelganger-of-Garrit or not--Kyle Watson was not the son they’d borne and buried. For Charls, that an immutable fact. He turned his attention back to the translucent web of energy now blanketing all of Belinda city’s spheres. “Will something this rudimentary be enough for what she wanted?” He mused. “It’ll have to be,” Hel murmured. “Anything more showy will attract the notice of your fellow Selestine Lords, won’t it? At least this way, even if the Principality lodges an official complaint, your magical signature won’t be so easily recog--” She drew in a sharp breath when she realized, by the way he was studying her in consternation, that he was actually astonished by the revelation that she was well aware of his status. “For heaven’s sake, Charls. Did you really think I wouldn’t have realized it by now?” Her finger jabbed at his chest. “Save for when you to shifted to Earth, you’ve been seriously restricting your power. Making Tallow jump coils without leverage when I know for a fact that you’re more than capable of the same--that could only mean one thing, couldn’t it?” “What does it mean?” He grabbed hold of her wayward hand. “Why don’t you enlighten me, Helioselene?” Irritated now, she tried to pull away but he refused to let go. “What kind of idiot do you take me for? Do you really have such low regard for Wayfarers? It’s our place to understand the mechanics of these things, you know?”

- October 2010

Charls released her hand abruptly. He was secretly relieved at how quickly her anger vanished when her head tilted curiously. “You won’t access your true place of power because you don’t want you brethren to track your movements. Why is that? Did you set out believing that the blood grudge originated from them?” He didn’t answer that question. It was problematic enough that she’d worked out as much of it on her own. This sort of thing was exactly the reason he thought wayfarers were so dreadful. They went poking their noses into secrets everywhere, with no regard for the peril in which just Knowing put them. Knowledge was as volatile a weapon as magic and as far as Powers as secretive as the Selestine Order were concerned, that made Wayfarers a threatening existence. His refusal to answers sparked Hel’s annoyance again. “Fine,” She grumbled beside him. “Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me anything at all. You stupid, stubborn oaf.”

This time, Kyle had been coaxed into adopting the visage of a massive, wolven beast. Eyes glittering with a wealth of intelligence, he studied one who’d forced this change on him. He barked once, a mild sort of reproof. The wolf surged forward. He nipped at Tallow’s nose. One sharp tooth scraped the skin there but didn’t sink in. She winced hissing, “Ow!” She wound up inhaling a wet huff of canid breath. She gagged, flailing at him uselessly. “That’s disgusting!” He sank back onto his haunches with a totally self-satisfied air. The wolf ’s large, pink tongue lolled out. Those eyes were dancing with mischief. He was laughing at her.

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She managed a weak frown. “You should be angry,” she muttered. “Why aren’t you angry?” The wolf’s vertebrae made cracking sounds as he eased forward on his forelegs and stretched, almost lazily. Kyle’s voice penetrated the rising fog in her mind. “For one thing, it was unintentional, right? For another-that’s only the case because you didn’t think of it first.” Tallow jolted. Hell. He had this way of catching her off guard so effortlessly. It was lowering. She’d never met anyone quite like this. This uncomfortable well of uncertainty settled inside her every time he came near. It wasn’t just because, strangely enough, he steadied her. He’d bled for her without a second thought and would have certainly burned. “This really does work both ways.” Kyle’s voice bounced around in her head again. “I wondered about that.” “Tallow,” his demeanor became solemn. “I think I’m starting to understand a thing or two about how your twisted little mind works. You’re right. I should be angry. Why am I not angry?” The wolf grinned, showing it’s frightfully sharp teeth. “This is so weird.” “Ah, there’s that word again.” Tallow grimaced, secretly mortified at how ridiculously relieved she was to hear it. There was a furtive movement behind Kyle somewhere. His body stiffened. His wicked-looking claws made a clicking noise on the stone floor as he turned. He was already diving through the cloud corals barrier before Tallow realized he’d moved at all. She heard a beastly howl, followed closely by a series of strangled screams.

- October 2010

Tallow willed her sluggish body to move. Even if Kyle managed to dispatch this lot, they’d only be cornered again if they stayed in the spot. Her insect familiars were already nearing the end of their life cycle. She was on her feet, leaning against the wall for support--watery at the knees--when their tiny husks started raining down to the ground. Kyle the Wolf came ambling back just then. He was breathing hard, smelling of sweat and torn flesh.

Spurred by the urgency he telegraphed, she acquiesced before even turning sideways to see what had gotten his attention.

She was amazed to find that he was about waist tall when she was standing. He brushed up against her but his fierce gaze was fixed on something she couldn’t see in the distant corridor. He growled low in his throat. She heard the sinister whispers echoing in her mind again. They grew steadily louder. Closer. Unease ripped through her. She still couldn’t see anything. Were her eyes simply failing her again?

The wolf charged. They both tumbled and rolled across the room but Kyle in wolf-form wasn’t as civilized as in human-form. His right fore paw came down heavily on Cardinal’s neck, crushing cartilage and bone. He was twisting backward and soaring toward Tallow before she even had time to be sickened by the bloody mess he’d made.

She curled her fist into fur at the back of the wolf’s neck. It was bristly and warm to the touch, oddly reassuring. “Kyle,” she murmured. “I’m going to shift again.” Tallow half giggled, half sobbed at Kyle’s bark of dismay when they wound up right back in Oma’s presence. Energy sapped, she slid to her knees, clinging to Kyle’s neck for support. The Dark One rose from her elegant seat. She spoke softly, eyes glittering with malice and amusement. “This is good. Yes. You finally understand your situation then, little witch?” Tallow shook her head. She fought to get the words out. “Call off your guards, Oma. Let us leave. I won’t ask nicely again.” The mistress’ guttural laugh set her teeth on edge. Before she could respond, Tallow felt Kyle’s body tense. “Let go, Tallow!”

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A malevolent ruble shook the air. Cardinal was crouched in a small corner, far bloodier and battered than Tallow had left him. Apparently, Oma had been taking her temper out on him again. The craven one launched himself at Tallow.

By the time Tallow realized the reason, Oma already had her by the throat. The nightwalker hefted her up so high her feet were dangling. The nails of her gnarly fingers dug into Tallow’s neck. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even find the strength to struggle. The wolf stopped in its tracks. If he came closer, it would mean the end for her. A crystalline screech filled the air. Tallow got the satisfaction of seeing the pure panic blossom in Oma’s eyes. Clearly, she understood what it meant. “You wouldn’t!” she hissed. The barrier protecting the city from the worst of the sun had come undone. Those panicked echoes in Tallow’s mind became agonized screams. Oma released her abruptly. Tallow crumpled to the ground where she fell. Kyle rushed to her side. She leaned against him wearily, buried her face in the fur at his throat. The mistress’ eyes became pleading. Frightened. Agonized. “The Selestine Lords will not--”

- October 2010

She needn’t have bothered. Tallow was already silently undoing Charls’ spell, according to prior instruction. She understood now, why he’d seemed so grim when she asked him to do it. She also realized why the wizard hadn’t refused. Kyle the Wolf was trembling uncontrollably beside her. He whimpered just a little. Of course, he could hear them. Could he see them too, Oma’s loyal children burning and dying all at once? She suffered a guilty, regretful pang. It was too much for him. He wouldn’t tell her to make it stop, would he? He would silently endure it because he genuinely believed that what he was—a terrible thing was meant to be exterminated. What the hell had she been thinking?

“I’m so sorry.” Tallow ran a shaky hand through the fur atop Kyle’s head. “You always seem to get the worst of it from me.” Kyle, still in wolven form, only made a small, worried sound in his throat. “How many times am I going to have to tell you that I’m sorry?” She whispered. “How much more damage could you possibly withstand?”

The terrible screaming stopped as suddenly as it had started. Sickened with herself, Tallow looked to Oma. “I said before, that I wasn’t your enemy. You should have listened. Now you understand your situation. I’m perfectly willing to continue though, at your insistence.” Oma drew back. Eyes bulging and bruised, she fixed Tallow a sour look. She walked over to where Cardinal’s ruined body lay. It wasn’t until she gathered him up and stood--effortlessly carrying him in her arms like a child, that Tallow realized that he wasn’t completely dead. Nightwalkers were frightful things, weren’t hey? “No one will bother you, as long as you remain in this room. Be gone by sunup.” Oma paused at the threshold, eyes sparking. “Don’t ever return to this world. Believe me; I will be ready for you.” trance.

Tallow silently watched her vanish into the corridor’s en-

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- October 2010

Jersey Surf Glen Binger Episode 7

Ghost Pet Pete glared down at the scattered pubes stuck to the edges of the urinal as he unzipped his khaki shorts. Where most people would consider it some sort of health code violation, Pete laughed. Why would anyone yank that hair out, he thought. Good thing I shave. A few moments later, he walked out of the men’s room and slugs Zach in the arm. “Hey, you know what today is?” “Club Surf ’s Halloween party?” “No shit, jackass.” Pete nods. “But it also marks the three week drought of me getting laid.” Zach adjusted his devil horns headband. “That sucks. Listen, dude. Don’t pull one of your lame-ass pranks on me this year.” “Ah, Zach, you take all the fun out of Halloween.” “Pete... you’re wearing pink fairy wings.”

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He chuckled, adjusting the straps over his shoulder blades. “It’s called spirit. You should get some.” “Oh, okay. Let me know when the dudes start hitting on you. I’ll pretend to be your boyfriend.” Zach turned back to his side of the bar, laughing to himself. After making sure no one needed anything, he turned back. “But, if you need some help pranking someone else, I’d be more than happy to help.” *** Kim opened the door to the rear storage room in the far back corner of Club Surf. As she searched for the light switch in her playboy costume, the faint odor of lifelessness teased her cute, little nose. So cliché on Halloween, she thought. Maybe if someone actually cleaned up these old cardboard boxes it wouldn’t reek in here. But as soon as she flicked the switch on the first thing she noticed was a dead mouse next to the stacks of warm Budweiser. It was unusually large; almost the size of a rat. But it wasn’t a rat because it was white - Albino white. It startled her; however, she didn’t yelp. Unlike most of the female gender, Kim wasn’t afraid of insects and rodents. They gave her the jitters, but she was never one to hop on a chair in the presence of one. It was just creepy; a little white ball of comatose fur in the corner. Born to die. It kind of reminded her of her Jiblets, her pet hamster from when she was six. He was white and died after she forgot to feed him before school one morning. “Nice, Pete,” she slapped a hand on his shoulder up by the bar. “Almost scared me that time.” He stared at her. “What are you talking about?” “The dead mouse in the beer room. Not so original, but I’ll accept it. I give it a B minus.” Kim studied his blank stare. She paused, waiting for a response that never came.“Hm. Then I guess there’s a dead mouse in the back room that someone should clean up.” She laughed.

- October 2010

Pete’s stare turned into a smile. “Why are you telling me this?” “Because you’re awesome.” “I know.” “Great. I need three Bud Lights and a Guinness, please.” Kim still concluded it was him; even if he didn’t want to admit it. “Hey by the way, have you seen Derek yet? He was supposed to come in tonight at eight.” “Nah, not yet.” He reached over to prepare the beers. “But it’s only eight thirty; I’m sure he’s upstairs or something.” “Okay cool. Thanks,” she said as he placed the beers on her tray. “By the way, I like your wings.” She winked and walked away, fading into the unusually thin, costumed crowd. Club Surf ’s annual party only granted access to those who came dressed up. In fact, it was even required that staff dressed up. They were sent home if not. Everyone thought it was lame but put up with it for the massive paychecks at the end of each pay period. *** Back at the house, Derek frantically searched for some sort of costume. Anything. He dug through Pete’s closet, under Zach’s bed, in the living room storage closet. When Kim called he didn’t bother to answer. He had to get back to work as soon as possible; Linda seemed pretty adamant when she said, “You’re job depends on it.” “Over a fucking costume,” he said to the stacks of graduate business books on his desk. “What a fucking bitch.”

Hogan or Dog the Bounty Hunter. Maybe even a hippie. Whatever, he couldn’t find anything else and it would have to do. He glanced over at the clock on his desk. The bright red LED numbers read 4:30. Laughing, Derek spoke to the books again; “Wow. Zach said your pranks were lame but god damn, Pete.” He left the house, sprinting back to his still-running car, shaking his head and contemplating rebuttal. *** “Bubba, why isn’t Derek answering my phone calls?” Kim asked a sweaty Bubba in the kitchen while she waited for a plate of cheese fries and four deluxe cheeseburgers. As he flipped each slab of meat, he wondered why everyone always came to him for advice. Bubba looked up at her pouty face and realized it was because of his inability to say no; his inability to not be nice. It’s a good quality, he told himself. He swiped his bulky, inked forearm across his hairline to remove some of the mugginess. “I’m not sure, Miss Kimmy. Maybe he’s busy.” Even his smile was massive. “You’re probably right.” She forced a smile back, hoping he wouldn’t notice it was counterfeit. “I wish I could stay as grounded as you always are, Bubbs.” Then she let a real one grow, immediately showing him the difference between the two different smiles. He turned back to the burgers and she needed to change the subject. “So what are you supposed to be?” Bubba looked down at the frayed, blue tie around his neck. Then at the orange sheet wrapped around him like a dress; black spots scattered like triangle-shaped polka dots. “Really?” He laughed, echoing off the tiled walls of the small kitchen. “You’ve never seen The Flinstones?” “No, what’s that?”

In his underwear drawer, he found an orange bandana. If he combined it with some aviators, maybe he could pull off Hulk

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“Damn, yous young, girl.” Even his smile seemed to echo off

- October 2010

the walls. He turned back to the burgers and flipped them one last time. “Fred Flinstone. Do some homework when you’re off next.” He shook his head, which Kim ignored.

sometimes.”

“Okay,” she giggled. “Listen, I’ll be right back for the food. I gotta talk to Natalie real quick.”

“Oh, by the way. If you see Pete, tell him to avoid Linda. I think he loosened the bolts in Chris’ desk chair in hopes to prank him, but inadvertently got her instead. She sat down and fell right over. ”

“Sounds good,” he said, relieved to have some alone time to finish preparing the order. Kim left the kitchen, looking for Natalie but made a pit stop in the staff bathroom first. Sneaking drinks meant peeing more. She opened the door, flicked on the switch, turned and locked the door. The room was chilly, goosebumps appeared on her arms. She spun around and there, on the top of the toilet, the upper part with all the mechanisms and gaskets was another dead mouse. White, large, and lifeless. It looked exactly like the other one, in the same fetal position, except on porcelain elevated off the ground. Cold porcelain. This time, after studying it from a distance for a moment and wondering how it got up there, she let out an EEP. As swiftly as possible she yanked open the door and darted out. “I’ll wait.” She took a deep breath. “Dammit, Pete.”

“Yeah.”

“Really?” Derek laughed. “Yeah. She knew it was him the second it happened. She’s pissed.” “That’s hilarious!” “I know.” Natalie smiled. “So tell him if you see him.” And just like that Derek’s plans finalized themselves. “Okay. So you’re saying I shouldn’t go in there to let her know I’m back?” “I wouldn’t.” Her white teeth shined in the dimly lit room. “I’ll tell her. I gotta go back in there with a copy of the schedule anyway.” “Cool. Thanks, Nat!” “No problem. Oh, also - Kim is looking for you.”

*** In the office upstairs, Derek accidentally bumped into Natalie. “I’m sorry, Natalie.” He spun off her. “Don’t worry about it.” She smiled. “Nice costume.” “Thanks. Linda made me go home to get it.” He ran his hand over the bandana. “I heard. She was just telling me, actually. Don’t worry about her.” Natalie leaned in closer and whispered, “She can get moody

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“Yeah.” He paused. “That’s a whole ‘nother story. You date a girl for a month and suddenly she needs to know your every whereabouts.” He laughed carefully, aware that Natalie and Kim were acquaintances. Natalie winked. “Yeah, good luck with that.” From the office, Linda yelled, “Natalie! Have you gotten the schedule yet?!”

- October 2010

“Yeah, just a minute,” Natalie responded. She turned to Derek. “Duty calls. I’ll let her know you’re back.” “Okay, thanks. See you later.” Derek turned and headed downstairs. He had to lower his sunglasses because it was difficult to see the stairs in the dimness and constant bass-heavy beats of Club Surf. Even the music seemed to affect vision. But he managed to drown it out by singing the 1980’s single “Sunglasses at Night” to himself; which was impossible to sing without laughing. He kept his revenge tucked away for now; first, he had to piss. Along the way to the bathroom, Derek made eye contact with several playboy bunnies (none of which were Kim), a few vampires, a Lil’ Wayne, a Super Mario, three zombies, a Jackie Moon of the film Semi-Pro, two bumble bees, a lobster, a banana, two Batmans and countless other less memorable costumes. The crowd was finally starting to solidify, so it took him a few minutes to get to the toilet. “I’ll show you how to prank,” Derek muttered to the pubes glued to the edge of the urinal. ***

“Yeah, I think she’s back in the VIP.” “Okay, cool. Thanks.” He turned, paused, then turned back to face Pete. “Oh, I almost forgot.” A smile grew, inevitable. He attempted to hide it but failed. “Linda wanted to see you up in the office when you get a chance.” Pete’s eyes were busy studying the girl in the caution tape. “Yeah, okay.” By the time he turned to Derek, the smile was minimal. “D-man, I need to get laid. Tell Kim to bring a friend over tonight to the party after work,” he laughed. “You got it, boss.” Derek squeezed into the crowd, in search of Kim. ***

“Here you go.” Zach handed four Coronas to a Captain Jack Sparrow. “Twenty, even.” The pirate handed Zach money and he spun around to put it into the register. Then Pete, once more, slugged him in the arm after coming back from taking a piss. “Dude, why do you always punch me in the arm after taking a piss?” Pete paused to think. “I don’t know. I guess I just like punching ugly people after I urinate.” He smiled and cocked both his hands in the shape of a gun. “That’s a terrible punch line.” “Boooooo,” Zach faded out, turning to help a woman wearing only heels and caution tape. An eerie chill struck Pete’s spine, melting his smile. It stapled itself right up through to the pink fairy wings; which he could’ve

mistaken for a body part. He shivered, shook it off, and tucked a clean hand towel into the waistband of his khakis. Derek shattered the aurora by slapping a hand on Pete’s shoulder. “Hey man,” he said, “have you seen Kim?”

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In the women’s staff bathroom, Kim finally had a chance to relieve herself. Someone had cleaned up the mouse so she could pee in peace. She thought about the time when she was ten and Jiblets ran his little hamster ball into the bathroom while she was showering. The loud smash into the glass shower door scared her then, but now, on the toilet at Club Surf, it made her giggle. Outside, Derek stood by the kiosk, waiting for Kim to come out. In the distance on the opposite side from VIP, above the costumed crowd, he watched Pete walk up the stairs into the office. He laughed, sweet revenge, and muttered “Now das how you prank” to himself. Suddenly, someone put their hands over his eyes from behind. “Guess who?” Kim’s voice asked.

- October 2010

“What?” Kim said, turning back to him.

He laughed. “Courtney? Is that you?” Kim pulled her hands off as he turned to face her. “Who is Courtney?” She asked, pouting her lips. “Oh, just my other girlfriend.” Slowly, he watched her lips turn sour. Then laughed, “Relax, I’m kidding.” “Not funny.” She paused and looked out in the direction of the office. “So what were you looking at?” He turned to look, again. “Oh, just watching Pete walk up to his doom.” “Huh?” He chuckled. “Pete tried to prank me and make me late for work. So when I came in and found out he accidentally pranked Linda, who got real pissed, I told him that she wanted to see him without telling him that she was pissed. He’s on his way to get yelled at now, and I was just watching.”

“Oh come on,” said Natalie. “You know she doesn’t mean it. You’ll come in tomorrow and she’ll forget it ever happened. Besides, what can you dish the shit but not take it?” Pete shook his head, palming the stubble of his chin, finally calming down and ignoring her question. “Yeah, I guess. Still. I didn’t need to get reamed at.” “Serves you right,” Kim chimed in. “Seriously, the mouse thing freaked me out. Twice.” He looked up. “What? What mouse thing? And you guys need to relax. I didn’t hurt anyone or anything. Just some harmless fun.” “The dead mouse you put in the storage and then again in the bathroom.” Kim stated. Natalie left to bring a tray of drinks to some customers. “It freaked me out.” “Kim, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Stop being

“You’re ridiculous,” she laughed.

crazy.”

“I know.” He looked into her eyes. “Ridiculously awesome.” *** “Where the fuck is Derek?!” Pete yelled to Natalie and Kim in the VIP. “I’m going to punch him in the teeth.” Kim turned to the kiosk to hide her smile and started punching in numbers. “I have no idea,” said Natalie. “He’s supposed to be your barback.” “He got me fucking fired.”

“Yeah. Linda just fired me for a lame-ass prank.”

“Th-the dead mouse. The big, white… dead mouse.” “I honestly have no clue what you’re talking about. My pranks are lame, not creepy. You know this.” Something stapled a line up her spine. It made her quiver, causing a blank stare. “Anyway,” Pete continued. “Wanna do me a favor and bring some slutty friends to the party at our place tonight?” She blinked, reality sopping into the dryness of her eyes. “Uh,

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- October 2010

yeah. Yeah I’ll text some,” she laughed. “Okay great,” Pete said. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to find your boyfriend and bitchslap him.” He smiled and turned back towards his and Zach’s bar. Kim turned back to the kiosk but couldn’t see anything but the mouse. She wasn’t afraid, really. Just curious. Curious as to who was playing the joke on her. Or, rather, curious as to what it meant. Nostalgia always seemed to set in at the most abnormal times. It made her miss Jiblets and that annoying purple hamster ball.

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- October 2010

Alhazred’s Walls Aaron M. Wilson

ome obsessions well up and manifest in such a way as to be completely and utterly inescapable. I have found that the carnal sins, the desires of the body and of the flesh, are not only the most troublesome but also the most difficult to keep private. The flesh’s peculiar nature requires the sensitive reflection of admiring eyes to caress each color soaked pore. Just as a peacock dances with feathers fanned, each feather full of a primeval need to attract and keep a mate’s keen interest while evolution’s grand design is perpetuated, urban youth bare ink in spring. In this lusty world of beast and bird, such markings prove to be doubly useful, having impact upon both the visually receptive mate and the skittish would be predators. It is only natural to wish to become increasingly visually appealing. The desire to be admired and touched, to be stroked tenderly, approvingly, to work bare-chested on a hot spring day in the yard. Both will sexes taking notice. Minneapolis in spring sees both man and woman shed thick layers of wool, an impulse as primal as any

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beast’s. This annual ritual undertaken by the Twin Cities’ urban residents exposes skin untouched the by sun’s cosmic embrace and the bright colors set into flesh by talented tattoo artists. Once such artist’s designs were coveted above all others. He was said to have had a genius to rival the great masters of oil and canvas. With each masterpiece came a money back guarantee that ensured a collector’s lifetime satisfaction. His shop’s reputation had grown daily. Customers from all over the world had requested him. His waiting list, already years long, had continued to fill. Too busy painting skin, he had hired me to watch over the shop’s daily needs, ensure health standards, hire lesser but superbly talented ink slingers, and handle whatever else arose out of the regular minutiae of his business. My job description was vague, but I got to work in his shop, brush elbows with Hollywood and European royalty. I like to think that I was hired on for my attention to detail, skill as an accountant, and my ability to blend into his particular subculture. My compensation included a decent salary and housing above the shop across the hall from his apartment. I was attentive to his every whim at whatever hour. Artists are such truly fragile creatures. Many a night, he would call upon me in the hours just before dawn, hours too early for men who work late into the night, asking me to comfort his mind with my doting praise for his work. He owned the entire building, a hideous aqua fishbowl of building just south of Downtown Minneapolis, at the intersection of three neighborhoods, Stevens Square, The Wedge, and Loring Park. After the economic revitalization of Uptown, the invasion of corporate chains, the influx of high-healed, short-skirt wearing man hunters, the locals had shifted away into these three communities. After purchasing the building, he kept the original name and allowed the sandwich and coffee joints that occupied the street level to remain. While in his apartment, he would show me the wonders that

- October 2010

haunted his sleep. These visions would force him from his bed to paint upon the walls of his studio. Picasso and Giger would have shuddered at such depictions of his dreamland. After each such occasion, which had seemed to be ever more frequent, I would, as instructed, document the designs with a digital camera, and then paint over them with the most delicate eggshell white. These pictures were the basis for his tattoos and, by my hand, collected and archived. One collection was kept in the shop. The other was hidden away in local bank, securely stored in a safe deposit box of which I had held the only key. He had wanted it this way. I followed each of his instructions expertly, except for one. I kept a third collection of his works, a complete collection, for he would edit and delete certain images before he gave the camera over to me, on a flash drive that I wore around my neck. It was in the shape of an ankh, a symbol not out of place on my person, to the guests, or to my employer. In my spare time, which if I had any complaints, is that I rarely had time to myself, I would organize his pictures and ponder them. It was my hope that these pictures would some day be my ticket to some modest notoriety. I had two conceptions for such a book. The first was obvious, but impractical to the volume of art, a complete works of Alhazred. I had possessed more than six thousand photographs. The other was a selected volume of the pictures that he had wished deleted. These, ironic in my estimation, were his best imaginings. The deleted photos contained marvels in which I could loose myself for hours. Rather than photographs of painting, they seemed more like the travel pictures that some tourist of a strange, alien landscape would take. They had an essence of exactness that eluded his other work and made those that he chose to keep seem lewd and cartoonish. It was if he had been to these places and wished to completely erase the experience. I couldn’t understand why he would so exactingly eradicate these scenes from his portfolio. Surely, if he

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wanted to escape the life of a tattooist, which he sometimes spoke of doing, these painting would elevate him out from subculture obscurity and into the high snobbery of the world’s art scene. The most amazing aspect of these discarded paintings was that they were starting to take on what seemed like a panoramic view of a strange vista. In those spare moments that I could steal, I used new software to puzzle them together. It took some time before I found a pattern. However, when I did discover a logic to them, it had seemed as if I had found the border pieces of a children’s jigsaw puzzle. There was a grotesque oily gray squiggle that ran thorough several of the paintings. Once I started focusing in on that detail, the pictures started to fall into place. I still have several hundred left, but I was closing in on what I felt would be a significant insight into his dreams. Perhaps enough would be revealed that I could help him find at least one unaided nights rest, and selfishly one for me. Recently, I had stared to relish the sleepless nights when he would run into my room and shake me awake. I would lie fully clothed in wait. Some nights, even though I had help closed the shop around 2:00 AM, I found it increasingly difficult to sleep. I would pace in my apartment or listen at the door for him to rush over seeking my help. Each time, I would capture new pieces of the puzzle. I wondered if he knew what he was doing by deleting these pictures. My frustration with his waste grew each time I helped him white wash his walls. The loss of the originals weighed upon my consciousness like a gypsy curse, a curse of a fate unfulfilled, or worse… I must finish the puzzle. I must know what it is that he dreams of in paint, from what unholy source was he taped into that brought forth such a kaleidoscope of horrors. My impatient agitation was becoming unbearable. There had appeared in the lower left hand corner the beginnings of what looked like a pair of Doc Martins poking out beneath blue jeans. The person, because what else would wear shoes, was standing upon a large

- October 2010

rock in the middle of turbulent seas. I could make out the beginnings of a shoreline just beyond the rock. The perspective was all wrong. The buildings upon the distant shore stood out at peculiar angles and their bases seemed smaller than what should have been the attic, they almost resembled tentacles protruding out of the sand, but that seemed too queer even amongst the chaos of everything else. There was nothing that I could do but wait and hope he’d succumb to one his visions. Then one night, after a few weeks of torturously peaceful ones, he roused me from my sleep, shaking me by the shoulders. He had never touched me before. He was shouting at the top of his lungs. “Howie. Howie. Come on, wake up.” I must have been comatose. I was not normally that difficult to wake, being a very light sleeper. Sometimes the slightest bit of settling by the building would have me beside the bed, skittishly looking for what was the matter. “Howie.” I finally came to enough to answer, “Wha…Al. Al, is that you?” “Yes. Yes. Get up. I need you. Hurry.” The look on his face was more sever than I was used to seeing. I’d seen him in a panic before, but nothing like this. His face was snarled and bestial, lips drawn tight. I clearly saw his fillings, in the lamp light. They sparkled like a nightmarish disco ball. His eyes said it all. They were wide and fully dilated, darting from me and to the shadows, searching, inspecting. “I’ll get the camera. It will only take…” “No. No camera. No time. Just come.” He let go of my arm, and I felt the blood rush back into my hand. I felt the tingling, prickling sensation of a sleeping appendage waking. I waved it, trying to quicken its revival. Without throwing on cloths, I rushed through my apartment and into the hall after him. Whatever the matter was, it was urgent. In the back of my mind, the part that controls flight or fight, was trying to tell me something, but

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I had to see the paintings. I had to know if he had filled in any of the cursed gaps in the unfolding panorama. Instead of waiting for me in his apartment, he was standing in the hall. He had with him a large bottle. I think it was Jack. He looked at me and shook his head. It seemed that some of the terror had gone out of him. I waited for him to give me leave to enter. Each moment was like an ice pick in my chest. What was he waiting for? Why was he just standing in the way? Let me enter damn it. Still, I waited. I walked over to him and placed my hand on his shoulder. His eyes were open and searching, but it was as if no one was guiding his pupils, his person on autopilot. I took him by the shoulders and shook him. “Howie.” “Yes.” I waited. “Howie. You are good friend to me.” “Yes. And you are good to me.” “Please, no pictures. Just wipe it all.” “Are you sure?” This must be what I was waiting for. It must be. I didn’t want to rush him now. He was going to throw away an entire night’s dream. “Yes. And when you are done, take some time off. Go somewhere. I’m closing the shop for awhile. I need to…” He tailed off. He turned and staggered down the stairs without looking back clutching the bottle as if it contained some grand remedy for his current state. I was so stunned at his words that I just stood there. I don’t know how long I stood there, but it was long enough to begin to notice my nakedness. Now that he knew that I was going to take care of whatever it was in his apartment that had spooked him, I was free to retrieve cloths, painting supplies, and the camera. Retrieving these items took painful minutes, but I knew that if he returned to find me in his apartment without the painting supplies, he would be suspi-

- October 2010

cious. Taking cautious steps though his doorway, paint and brush in hand, I could feel an aura of ghastly dread, thick and heavy like wet wool, caress my skin. I could swear that the rings that lines the lobes of my ears vibrated and sung a high-pitched tune that I could not hope to name. That desperate tune should have been warning enough to wait upon dawn and the help of others, but I was his servant in all things. I was the only one he trusted to perform this task. When I flipped on the lights, I must have accidentally dropped the paint bucket because it rolled tightly sealed into the next room after hitting the floor, but I paid it no mind. My attention was fixed upon the far wall, his usual dream canvas. The wall was covered in red ocher script that stretched far outside his typical frame to include all uncovered spaces upon each of the four walls in the living room. I spun in circles trying to take it all in. The writing was like nothing that I had ever encountered. I moved to one section of the wall and traced the bizarre lines with my index finger. It had the looping and scrawling elements of Arabic, but it was not Arabic. Several of the shops lesser clients admired a certain actress’ tattoo and sought reproductions cut into their skin in the vain hope that they too would become an object of male desire. Lettering had become a craze as of late, more and more walk-ins wanted letters instead of pictures. He would never lower himself to ink such flash. It was beneath his talent. Remembering where I was and what I should be about, I quickly started to document each wall. As I came to the door to the next room, I noticed that one of the words curved around the door jam. I passed through and flipped on the light. His bedroom walls were in the same state as the living room, except as I looked up at the ceiling the writing was replaced with a large elaborate depiction of what must have been a gothic-styled gate. The gate looked as if it were to have swung out, or do to its location on the ceiling, up. The painting had delicate looking hinges

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along the outsides located at the top, bottom, and at the midpoints. Each door was covered in gruesome faces that looked as if they were trying to stretch through the bars. In the center, holding the gate shut was a large lock engraved with what looked like a childishly simple drawing of a leafless branch. Then I saw it. It was there, I had almost missed it among everything else. There at the bottom of the gate was that same gray line that had enabled me to begin organizing the other photos. I could now see in my mind where this piece would fit. I took the picture and quickly transferred it to my flash drive. I wanted to sprint back across to my apartment and put this picture into place, to see if it unlocked any new revelations, but I couldn’t. I had work to do here. I had to document the rest of the house before he came to check on my progress. I quickly moved from room to room. I found a few other pictures just as gruesome located on the ceilings in the kitchen, bathroom, and living room. It was amazing that he had been able to cover every surface in his apartment in such a short time and in such exacting detail. It couldn’t have been more than two or three hours after we had closed the shop, when he had roused me from bed. The more I thought about it the more impossible it seemed. Taking the last photo in the bathroom, I snuck back across the hall and downloaded the pictures onto my hard drive. Then I backed them up on the flash dive around my neck. I wiped the camera’s memory and placed it back on my bookcase. I was overcome with a sense of curiosity that forced me to begin cropping and editing those pictures, trying to add them to the terrifying puzzle. Several of the odd pictures fit into the puzzle, completing a good majority, except for the legs atop the rock. My attention focused on the gate from his bedroom. After adding the other pieces, it was no longer obvious where the gate would fit. I tried resizing it and floating it over the rest of the puzzle, but it did not seem to want to

- October 2010

comply. Frustrated, I set that photo aside and started to inspect the strange writing that dominated his walls. I still could not make anything of those letters. The language and meaning fully escaped me. At least with the help of the latest graphic software, I was able to quickly order the pictures into some semblance of logical progression, which meant that their was a recognizable grammar within those loops and swirls. Decryption would have to wait, it was getting late and I had a long job ahead of me. While white washing his walls and ceilings, a thought had occurred to me while working on a small segment where the living room wall met the door jam to his bedroom. The thought was less idea and more word, a word that I knew I had never heard spoken aloud or seen written, but it seemed so logical. It was what I would eventually call the selection of paintings that I had been collecting. It was such a simple word, but held all the meaning and terror that I could ever hope for in a title. “I will call it, Necronomicon.” I must have said it aloud because as my mouth closed, I bit my tongue hard enough to cause it to bleed. I knew that he kept tissues on his nightstand next to his bed. As I stood there in the lamplight holding my bloody tongue, I heard a rusty creaking from somewhere nearby, somewhere overhead. Still holding my tongue, I looked up, and to my astonishment, the gate had swung open reveling a picture of a turbulent sea crashing upon a large rock. There, standing there on the rock was my perfect likeness. Out stretched in my arms, I held a giant ghastly tome as if I was reading from it. Seeing myself there, past the open gate, standing upon the rock, took from me any last scrap of sanity I possessed. I ran from the room and smashed my computer on the floor in my room. I then tossed the desktop out my bedroom window causing the building’s alarms to sound. Looking out of the destroyed

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window, the pavement seemed to move, and I lost my balance and tumbled headfirst out into the open air. Do to some stroke of luck, I landed on my legs, breaking both into hundreds of pieces the doctors tell me. The doctors also tell me that I will, with much physical therapy, be able to walk again with the aid of a cane. In my many nights of morphine-induced rest, I have had time to think upon the events of that night. I must have seen my image in error. It was impossible that I would have found my way into his dreams, doubly so, that a painting, fixed with the permanence of ink in skin, could alter so drastically. Yes, officer, as I said, there were two copies of all his photos, all his paintings. Well, yes, excluding those puzzle piece-like horrors I saved from deletion. Wait, I don’t remember destroying my flash drive. It must still be some where inside the shop. No, I don’t remember taking it off. I never took it off, except to bathe or shower. All those viable and grotesque shapes, those too real imaginings are still out in the world. Dear God, when I fell… I swear it was around my neck, but since I was not in a right frame of mind… Yes, its whereabouts are perfectly questionable.

Aaron M. Wilson lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, U.S.A. where he attempts to understand life, others (including his two cats – one good and one bad), himself, and especially his wife – in that order. He earned his M.F.A in Writing from Hamline University located in St.Paul, MN. He writes about books, stories, movies, and his experiences as an adjunct instructor of English, Literature, and Environmental Science on his blog: Soulless Machine. His fiction has appeared in eFiction Magazine: The Premier Internet Fiction Zine, Evolve, Pow Fast Flash Fiction, The Wry Writer, The Hive Mind, and he has forthcoming working in Twin Cities: Cifiscape Vol. I (Fall 2010), Girls With Guns Anthology (Winter 2010 - 11), and The Last Man Anthology (October 2010 – also featuring stories from Barry N. Malzberg, C.J Cherryh, and Ray Bradbury).

- October 2010

Whispers Bedside Zachary Ankeny

Caity was sent to her room, her father’s hand still red across her face. Even though the door had closed, and she was in the darkness of her room, she could still hear father screaming at mother from beyond the barricade of the door. Caity—never one to be afraid of the dark—was more afraid of the quarrelling voices seeping in from under the crack of the door than the black nothingness wrapping around her. Caity backed away from the door as a loud snap rang out, letting her know that mother now had father’s red hand across her face as well. Father was drunk—as usual. As mother always explained, he was going through one of his “bad weeks”, which as far as Caity could understand—being only 8 years old—meant that every other week, father got mad for some reason. He looked different on those weeks, smelled like gasoline and would yell a lot—seemingly, for no reason. The verbal abuse went back and forth outside the door. Caity jumped onto her day-bed, burying herself into the warmth of the blankets. Slipping her hand through the gap between the wooden backboard and the mattress of her bed, she leaned in close and

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whispered, “Are you there?” No answer. “Jentyl, are you there?” Still silence. “Mother and father are fighting again… Will you come out until I fall asleep?” Nothing. “Maybe you can tell me one of your stories? I sure could use one tonight…” A moment passed as Caity stared into the dark crack of her bed, praying that Jentyl would come. Finally, a scratching sound streamed along the underside of the mattress—the sound of unkempt fingernails catching on loose strands of string. Emerging from in between the mattress and box-spring, came a dark figure, its true shape unclear in the darkness of the room, but familiar to young Caity. It was Jentyl’s hand, reaching out for hers. Tonight, he took her tiny hand softly and petted in the same way he did the very first time he came to her. “There you are!” Caity whispered. She glanced back at the crack of light below the door to the hallway, keeping watchful for the shadowy steps of her father approaching the room. Jentyl’s hand slipped closer through the slit between the mattresses, revealing a dull colored and emaciated forearm. Caity made herself comfortable, wrapping the soft felt blanket around her and creating a fortress of pillows to box her in. She took Jentyl’s hand in her own, and closed her eyes. The hand was rough dimpled flesh with long, curling fingernails digging back into powder-blue skin. Jentyl’s grip was icy-cold to the touch, but Caity accepted it always, never fearful of what lay at the other end of those fingers. “Just stay with me until I fall asleep,” she said, settling her body into the cool sheets and her chin into the pillow. “I’m awful tired… just stay maybe half an hour.” Caity felt the need to plead her case to Jentyl—promise that she would soon be asleep—but even if it took days for sleep to come to Caity, Jentyl would still be there with her. Hand-in-hand… He was always there. Jentyl, his voice a light, barely-audible whisper, spoke to her… “Which story do you want to hear?”

- October 2010

The sound of mother calling, woke Caity from her sleep. “Time to wake up for school,” mother said, her voice still shaky, worried about father’s late night of bending and beating. It wasn’t so much mother’s voice that pulled Caity from the dream she was having, but the feel of Jentyl’s hand sliding from her sweaty palm and slipping back in between the mattresses—as if to hide himself from the approaching voice in the hall. Caity sat up quickly and peered down in between the wall and her bed. “I’ve gotta go to school,” she whispered. “I’ll be back tonight.” Creeping downstairs, Caity noticed that the door to father and mother’s room was still closed. Not surprising. Father usually stayed in bed for at least a day after he went on a good drinking run; maybe it was just the sickness that overtook him after he sobered, maybe he felt ashamed – if he was ashamed, he certainly never showed it. Now that his rage and liquid-induced psychosis had subsided, father would surely spend a day or two in bed, a few days of shared silence between him and mother, a week on the wagon before next week, when the cycle would likely repeat itself. The details of Caity’s dream were becoming scattered and forgotten, but she remembered that she was in a tower. The tower stood high above a lush green forest filled with little winged people. The dream was inspired by the story Jentyl had whispered to her softly as she drifted off to sleep. Jentyl—in his soft, sweet whisper— would often tell her tales. Stories inspiring pleasant dreams in her mind to cover over the nightmares that once invaded her sleep, and to mask the very real nightmare of sleeping just down the hall from true terror—her father. In the tower—where the dream had brought her—she was the queen of the land and the flying sprites would swoop up from the forest and bring her gifts from the kingdom. Jewels, exotic fruits and fluorescent flowers that fluttered and changed colors at the touch of a hand were all brought to her. Each gift renewed her happiness; but the best gift of all, was the love that she felt. The sprites and the fourwinged birds, the horses with manes like a lion’s, and even the flowers that sung to her as they glowed—their love for the tower’s princess had been the greatest of gifts.

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Every night, a new fantastical tale spun by Jentyl’s comforting whisper, brought on a new world inside of Caity’s dreaming mind. She loved the stories—they brought her a peace and happiness that she couldn’t realize in her waking life. Caity endeavored to keep the remembrance of her kingdom and its creatures and the wonderful gifts alive in her mind as she sat down at the kitchen table. Mother was toasting frozen waffles and trying to keep a wisp of hair across her face, covering the swelling bruise that lay across her cheek. Caity sat quietly at the table, daydreaming that she was back in her dream-kingdom, sitting amongst her plethora of extraordinary presents. The waffles jumped from their slots in the toaster and mother grabbed them with her long, painted fingernails, plopping them onto a paper plate. She set Caity’s modest breakfast on the table in front of her. Caity snapped to attention, seeing that mother’s face was much worse than she could hide. “Is daddy going to sleep for a while?” Caity asked. Taken aback by her daughter’s worried questioning, mother again brushed her graying blonde hair over her blackened cheek. “Father isn’t feeling well… he will probably sleep until late tonight.” “Is he going to drink again tonight?” Saddened by this, mother disregarded her question. “Finish your breakfast,” she said, “the school bus will be here in a half hour.” Caity picked at the waffles drenched in syrup. She wasn’t hungry at all—she was afraid that father would be up early today and drinking again. Lately—since Jentyl had arrived—even the horrors of school seemed to slip by quickly. Caity was an outcast at school, shunned away by the other kids and labeled as “The Weirdo-Girl”. There was nothing relatively abnormal about Caity, she was a regular 8 year old, just like her peers. What gave her the degrading label was that she was quiet, shy and had the tendency to wander off in her daydreams, giving only a blank stare and a smile. When Jentyl first came to her, peering out with his green eyes from the smiling gap between her mattresses, he had told her that he was her prince—her friend. He whispered to her that he came from the worlds of her daydreams and that he was there to be her guardian and her savior. Since then, Caity’s dream worlds had become more vivid and fantastical than ever

- October 2010

before. Now, more than ever, she had trouble concentrating on reality and slipped more easily into her seemingly-blank stares, especially during class time. Caity’s teacher, noticed the recent changes and had called her mother to suggest that she be looked at by a psychiatrist or be moved to a special class. This call—intercepted by father during the depths of his binge—was what had sent his flailing hand across her face the previous night. Not that it was the first time he had hit her or her mother, father’s backhand made a regular appearance anytime his drinking got bad. Mother received the worst of the red-hands. Father, Caity figured, took it a little easier on her and saved the real good wallops for mother. Caity kept herself in her tower all throughout the school day, only snapping herself back to reality to utter, “I don’t know”, to one of teacher’s questions, attracting a hiss of jeers from her classmates. Before she knew it, school was over and she was headed back home. She wanted to hear another story from Jentyl, she couldn’t wait; but she knew she would have to wait for nightfall. Jentyl didn’t dare come out of his crevice in the bed until after dark. When she got home, she was terrified to see that father’s green station-wagon was parked at an extreme angle in the front drive—not in the garage, where it could usually be found. He had broken his cycle early today and was undoubtedly eager to bring himself back into a continuing drunken haze. The sight of the car unnerved poor, hapless Caity. Mother wasn’t home either, which was strange; mother rarely left the house, especially when wearing a fresh set of bruises on her face. “Momma?” she called, passing through the front rooms of the house. In the kitchen, she called out again. “Momma?” she didn’t dare call for father in case of the slight chance he might actually answer. Caity hobbled cautiously up the stairs, hoping to steal away into her room, lock the door, and return to her fictional kingdom until the story would be continued at bedtime. She didn’t make it to her bedroom. The door to mother and father’s room was wide open, and the lamp that sat at their bedside had been strewn out into the hallway. “Momma?” she cried out again, a tremor in her tiny voice. Caity didn’t want to look inside the room,

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but felt an odd urge to anyway. Maybe mother was hurt. Maybe she needed help. Caity’s love for her poor, broken mother outweighed her fear for father and lulled her toward the room—against all of her instincts. “Momma?” she asked quietly, nearly a whisper. No one answered—not mother, nor father. She crept into the bedroom placing her first foot inside and waiting for a furious belt from her father, who could easily have been waiting in the darkness of the room—stalking for his chance to pounce. The room was in shambles. The dresser was pulled askew from its normal flush-position against the wall; the paintings that hung on the wall had been rotated to hang upside-down. A tangle of twisted bed sheets snaked toward the doorway from underneath the bed, and the porcelain trinkets that sat on mother’s night-side table had been smashed to pieces. Even father’s liquor bottles had been shattered—not thrown or tossed, but simply exploded where they sat—their jagged pieces littering the room in a swirling pattern around the bed. “Momma?” Caity screamed, tears cresting in her eyelids. She no longer cared if father might hear her—something was wrong. All of the globe-vanity lights above mother’s make-up desk had burst and left chalky shards prickling out from the creams and blushes that always covered over her bruises. Caity stepped toward the bed. The mattress had been pushed into a crooked angle atop the box-spring and torn cloth and goosedown feathers belched out from in between. A sagging feeling tugged at Caity’s heart. The bed… Something’s in the bed. “Jentyl?” she called. “Is that you?” Only silence coupled with a light sawing sound scratching out from within the bed. “Jentyl, are you in mother and father’s bed? You know you shouldn’t be in this room.” Her shaky, pure voice tried to take on the tone of reprimand—the tone that her mother often used that said, You mind me, child. A low, grumbling growl ripped across the bed and the strewn feathers scattered. Caity backed away; it didn’t sound like Jentyl, but something was in the bed. Caity continued to back away as the thing between the mattresses regained its raspy, deep snore. Once in

- October 2010

the hall, Caity slammed the door to her parent’s room and ran into her own room, tears streaming. She closed and locked her door and curled up, sobbing in the corner of her room—in the corner farthest away from her bed. “Why?” she cried. “What did you to them? Where did they go?” She wiped a trail of tears from her cheek. “Caity…” the voice came from the slit between her bed and wall. It was Jentyl—his calm, sleepy voice unmistakable. She watched as the curled, dull-blue fingers emanated from under her blankets. Caity was afraid. She had never been afraid of Jentyl before, nor had she ever seen or heard from him during the daylight hours; but now, he was there—and she was afraid. “Caity,” he called again. “I have one last story for you.” She stayed where she was for a moment, apprehensive about going to him; but his soft, breathy voice lured her back in, and she walked to the bed. Caity lay down in her bed, pulled the covers over herself and held Jentyl’s hand. “That wasn’t me in you parent’s room,” Jentyl began. “It was The Nightmare…We all have a place where we sleep—we all have dreams when we sleep. As we dream, our thoughts, hopes and prayers seep from our minds and drip below us, collecting unseen right under our sleeping heads. Some people have wonderful dreams… dreams of princesses and towers and marvelous gifts. Others dream only of nightmarish fears and worries that eventually grow strong enough to take us away. I, Caitlyn, am The Dream—your greatest dream, sent here to help you and watch out for you. Your dreams are inherently good, and therefore created something equally as good to pull you peacefully off to sleep. Some people in this world—like your parents— only dream of the bad: the heartache, the wrong they’ve done, everything that frightens them. Those types of dreams lead only to the manifestation of a monster. Beasts that—in the end—we can’t escape from. Caity’s eyelids started to become heavy, fluttering to the rhythm of Jentyl’s words as she struggled to stay awake. “Your parent’s are gone, sweet princess—taken by the powerful beast that arose from their own fearful imaginings. Soon, you too,

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will be gone. But—unlike your parents—you will be brought to a land where your greatest of dreams are the only truth… You will be a princess, in your tower… All of the wonderful gifts surrounding you. The fantastical creatures of your imagination will bow down to you in servitude. Even the flowers and the trees gaze their adoration upon you, awaiting the melodies of your voice… Her eyes began to flicker as Caity drifted off toward her final sleep. Jentyl’s pale, soft hands stroked hers as his gentle, soft voice eased her into sleep. “…High above the forest floor, the sprites bring you everything your heart desires—flying from all over the land, coming to rest in the crown of the tower. You, sweet Caity, are truly happy… and you live out your days with all you’ve ever wanted, bestowed unto you by those who truly love you… the creatures of your creation. Those whose very existence had been brought forth by the power of your thoughts and dreams… Go to sleep sweet princess, we await your rule.” Caity was fully asleep, not yet dreaming, but not quite awake. Jentyl’s hand gave one last loving stroke across the cup of her small palm and dragged back into the tight wedge of nothing just below her blankets. At the first flicker of her dreaming eyelids, Caity began to sink into the cloth and springs of her mattress, her blankets deflating in her absence as she went. The house lay silent and empty, the former tenants gone— gone to where their sleep had always beckoned them to go… Gone to where their dreams, or their nightmares, finally beckoned them— good or evil, for better or for worse.

Zachary Ankeny is a writer of both fiction and non-fiction works. He is a resident of Phoenix, Arizona, but was born in Dubuque, Iowa. His fiction has both appeared, and been featured, in a myriad of magazines, and his non-fiction historical research has been a staple in the Arizona Historical Society and the Jerome (Arizona) Historical Society.

- October 2010

Terror Eyes Joseph Mulak

At the top of the stairs Ted paused to catch his breath, huffing and wheezing thanks to fifteen years of smoking, and listened for another scream. He walked to the first door on the left where he could hear a quiet sob coming from the other side, which surprised him since Serena almost never woke in the middle of the night. Not since she was a baby. He slowly turned the knob, and pushed the door as quietly as he could, but it still made a slight creak. The only light came from the hallway, and he could barely define the outline of his daughter sitting up in her bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. He stepped into the room and immediately felt a chill run through his entire body. He crossed the room to the window and silently cursed his wife for leaving it ajar after tucking Serena in for the night. There had been a time when Serena’s bedtime was a family affair. Father, mother, and daughter would sit on the bed and read Serena a bedtime story, and sing a few songs.

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Then, at Amy’s insistence, they would lead Serena in a prayer before kissing Serena goodnight. Once that was taken care of, Ted and Amy would go back downstairs for their alone time together. Slowly, as their relationship grew steadily worse and they drifted apart emotionally, this ritual dissolved. Mostly because, as time went on, it got to the point where they could barely stand the sight of one another. Now, they took turns with Serena’s bedtime ritual, alternating nights. Amy still insisted on saying a prayer every night. Ted, who was not the least bit religious, like his wife claimed to be, only read the story and sang a few songs with her. When he had reached the window, Ted found that it was already closed. He put his hand up to it and felt around the sides trying to find where the draft was coming in, but there was nothing. Then, remembering his daughter, who still sobbed on the bed, he forgot about the window and walked over to her. He placed his hand on her shoulder, noticing she was incredibly warm. “What’s the matter, princess?” She said something through her tears, but Ted couldn’t manage to decipher it. “Okay,” he said. “Stop crying, Sweetie. Then tell me what’s wrong.” Serena tried to force herself to hold back the tears and try to speak clearly. Finally, when the tears had been choked back, she said, “I don’t like the man in my room.” “But, I’m the man in your room. You don’t like me?” She managed a smile at him. “No. The other man.” Ted looked around the room. “Honey, there’s no one here but you and me.” “Uh-huh. There’s a man in the closet.” “In the closet?” She nodded. “What does he look like?” “He’s tall and has a big hat and a big black coat.” Then, as an afterthought, “And he was on fire.”

- October 2010

Ted had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. He hoped Serena didn’t notice. “On fire?” She nodded. “Was he screaming?” “Uh-uh.” “You’d think he’d scream if he was on fire.” “No, he just talked to me.” “What did he say?” “He asked where Mommy was.” “And what did you tell him?” “I told him I didn’t know.” Ted waited while she sat there, as if thinking about something for a second then asked, “Where is mommy?” The question made Ted bitter for a moment. It took him a moment to find a way to answer the question. His first thought was she was out screwing some other guy. He realized that was probably not the best response to give her, joking or not, he responded, “Mommy went out for awhile.” “I think you had a bad dream, Sweetie,” he told her. “Uh-uh. I was awake.” “And why were you awake? You’re supposed to be sleeping.” “The man woke me up.” “And he’s in the closet right now?” “Yes.” Ted stood up and approached the closet. He grabbed the handle, and looked over at his daughter who now had the blanket pulled over her head. He yanked open the door and looked inside. “Oh my god!” Ted screamed, and Serena poked her head out a little. “This closet is a mess. If there was someone in here, I wouldn’t be able to find him.” Serena chuckled. Ted moved a few things around. “I don’t think there’s anybody in here.” “Where did he go?”

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“Back into your imagination.” “He was really there,” she insisted. “No one can get into your room, honey.” “How come?” “Because if they tried, I’d tickle them.” Then to prove his point, Ted jumped on the bed and tickled Serena’s sides. “Okay, time to go back to bed,” he told her when she was done laughing. “Goodnight.” “Read me a story.” “No. It’s time for you to go to sleep.” “Story!” “Serena, go to sleep.” She was about to protest once more, but obviously thought better of it. Instead, she pouted and quickly rolled over to go to sleep.

Once back downstairs, Ted lay on the couch and resumed watching his movie. Whenever Amy was out, he took advantage of the situation by watching a horror movie since she normally wouldn’t allow him to watch them in the house. Amy once told him it allowed evil spirits to enter their home. Even though Ted knew it was a crock, he had stopped watch horror films when she was around, just because he got sick of the nagging. He checked his watch. It was one thirty in the morning. Amy had left at nine o’clock, saying she was going to the movies with some friends. But Ted knew exactly where she was. His bitter thoughts distracted his attention from the movie. Thinking about his wife led to thoughts about quick rep of about her in bed with Brian. He got a visual image in his mind of her on top of her lover, and him with his hands going up and down her body as they made love. With every second, his hatred for them grew. Then, he threw himself into the image. Standing over them with a knife in his hand. He walked up behind Amy and grabbed her by the hair while she was still riding her lover. He

- October 2010

saw the horrified look on Brian’s face as he placed the knife to her throat and began to cut. Brian didn’t budge, not even to pull out of Amy. It was as if he were too afraid to move. He laid there underneath her, frozen by fear, letting the blood from her throat pour down her body onto his. Finally, still holding her by the hair, Ted threw her lifeless corpse to the floor and began advancing toward Brian, the knife still in his right hand, held up to make sure Brian saw it and knew what he was going to do with it. Just as he lowered the knife toward Brian’s naked and vulnerable flesh, Amy walked in the front door, interrupting his fantasy. She was being quiet, obviously thinking Ted was still asleep. Then she walked into the living room. “You’re still awake?” she said casually. “Yeah.” He took a quick glance at his watch. It was now quarter after two. “How was the movie?” “Not bad.” She left it at that and went to the kitchen. He could hear her pouring herself a glass of something from the fridge. “How’s Brian?” he called out while she was still in the kitchen. She emerged a moment later. “What?” “Nothing.” He was tempted to go on, hoping to get her to confess her indiscretion, but decided he didn’t feel like an argument. “What was the name of the movie?” “Can’t remember the title.” Amy gulped down the rest of her juice. “How was Serena?” “Alright. She woke from a nightmare a little while ago. But she’s okay now.” “A nightmare?” “Yeah, she though there was a man hiding in her closet.” Amy nodded. “I’ll make sure she’s okay.” “Good idea,” Ted said bitterly. “Because we all know I’m completely inept as a father. Totally incapable of handling something as simple as our child having a nightmare.”

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Amy just shrugged. “Okay, I’m off to bed.” “Okay,” he said, turning his attention back to the TV. “Goodnight.” “Bye.”

She finished taking off her makeup and putting on her nightgown and went into Serena’s room. She had started sleeping with her daughter so that Ted could have the bed. He would normally fall asleep on the couch, but would inevitably wake up in the middle of the night and stumble upstairs. Since she no longer felt comfortable sleeping next to him, she slept in Serena’s room. She also saw it as a good way to bond with her daughter. As soon as she stepped into the room she felt chilly, but couldn’t understand why. The window was closed and the thermostat hadn’t been changed. When she touched her daughter, the little girl was warm. Almost hot. She decided to talk to Ted about it in the morning then crawled into bed, pulling the blanket over herself and curling up trying to warm herself. She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes, yet sleep refused to come. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Brian. She visualized him kissing her all over her body. She remembered how it felt only a little while ago as they made love. Then the thought came to her. What if she had gotten pregnant? She and Brian hadn’t used protection. How would she explain that to her husband? Despite their marital problems, she always tried to keep up the appearance of a happy marriage around others, mostly for Serena’s sake. She stayed in the marriage for the sake of their only child. She’d met Brian a year before and realized marrying ted had been a mistake. Brian was romantic and obviously cared about her. He treated her like a queen, the way Ted did when they first met back in high school But once they got married,

- October 2010

everything changed. Ted slowly became more and more distant. They never talked at night after Serena was in bed anymore. Instead, Ted watched TV all night. He even stopped eating at the dinner table. He chose to eat his supper on the couch while watching TV. Brian listened to her. When they were done making love, she would pour out her marital woes out to him, and he listened intently and always said the right thing to comfort her. When she was done, he would always tell her she should leave Ted and she and Serena could live with him. Deep in her heart, Amy knew he was right. She should take Serena and Leave Ted. But something always held her back. Perhaps she didn’t want to admit she had failed at her marriage. Her memories of her night with Brian were interrupted by a creaking sound. At first, she thought it was Ted peeking into the bedroom to check on Serena. But a quick glance at the door proved it was still closed. The sound had come from somewhere else in the room. The next sound she heard was the rattling of chains. She turned to her gaze to the corner of the room just in time to see a man emerge from the closet. She could see his outline, lit up in the darkness by a blue flame that surrounded him.. He was tall. He wore a wide brimmed hat and trench coat, with chains wrapped around his body that rattled as he walked toward her. The flames lit up the man’s monstrous face. He had sharp teeth, his skin was brown and rotted, and his nose was missing. He also had two huge eye sockets, both hollow. Wanting only to grab her daughter and run, Amy found that she couldn’t move, as if this creature had put some sort of spell on her, paralyzing her. Her next thought was to scream for Ted, but fear and the realization that he probably wouldn’t bother coming anyway choked it back. She stared at the creature before her, eyes wide with surprise and her heart rate rising in panic. Finally, she was able to choke out a few words.

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“Wh-Who are you?” “I am Rogziel. The Wrath of God.” “Are you a demon?” The man shook his head. “I am an angel of the Lord.” “An angel? You don’t look like an angel.” “What were you expecting? White robe? Halo? Harp?” Amy nodded. “Sorry. That’s only in pictures. This is what angel’s really look like.” “So why are you here?” “For you.” Amy gulped. “Me?” “Yes. Your time has come.” Amy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You mean I’m going to die?” “Yes.” “And then I’m going to heaven?” Rogziel shook his head. “But, I’m a Christian. I accepted Jesus in my heart.” Again, the angel shook his head. “Sorry. It doesn’t work that way. All that stuff in the New Testament is crap. The Old Testament is what you’re supposed to follow. You know, eye for an eye, sacrifices and stuff.” “But what about Jesus dying for our sins?” “Oh, Jesus died all right. But he wasn’t the Son of God. He was just some lunatic that got himself crucified.” “So why am I going to hell? I’m a good person.” “Are you? Do you really believe that?” Amy nodded. “Where were you tonight? Who are you with almost every night when you should be with your husband and child? That’s a breach of your marital vows. Big no-no with the big guy upstairs.” Amy didn’t respond. She couldn’t believe everything she had been taught by her parents and in church was a lie. “Okay,” Rogziel said. “It’s time to go.” “Go where?”

- October 2010

But the angel didn’t reply. answer her. Instead he took a step toward her. When he spoke again, his voice had changed. It had become deeper, booming. Almost, malevolent. “Look into my eyes and see your fate.” She tried to resist but found that she couldn’t. Something compelled her to stare into the angel’s hollow sockets. Everything around her disappeared. The bed, the dresser, all of Serena’s toys were gone. She was engulfed in darkness. There were beings flying through the void. Evil looking creatures that looked like skeletons with wings. Then a river came into view. It was red, as if filled with blood, and burned a bright red fire. Then, she thought she saw people in the flames, their heads bobbing up and down in the river, flailing their arms about and screaming. Some of them screamed for God to help them. Over and over they cried out to the Lord to save them. But their screams were only met a deep, booming laughter. A laughter so evil, it sent a chill through Amy’s spine. And then a voice. It was Rogziel’s. “Welcome to your eternity,” he said. Amy felt every muscle in her body tighten as she gazed upon her fate. She held her face in her shaking hands, sobbing loudly and begging God to forgive her. “God can’t hear you anymore,” Rogziel told her. “It’s time.” When she finally realized that he was right, God couldn’t hear her pleas, she snapped. Once again she had found the ability to move and she took advantage of it. In one quick movement, she jumped out of bed and bolted for the door. Rogziel merely pointed at it and it closed. Her mind could not register this new development quickly enough, however, and she ran right into it, landing flat on her back. Rogziel looked down at her. “Are you done?” She nodded submissively. “Good.” The angel disappeared and Amy was by herself, still in Serena’s room. She looked around and saw no one except her

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daughter, quietly sleeping beside her. She felt something wrench in her chest and collapsed.

That morning, a Saturday, Ted woke to sound of a morning talk show on the TV. He checked the time. It was after eleven. The weird thing was Amy and Serena were usually awake by now. But the house was silent. He turned off the TV and climbed the steps to his daughter’s bedroom. When he opened the door Serena was playing on the floor with her dolls. Amy was lying on her back. He walked over to the bed and gently shook her. When she didn’t wake up, he shook her a little harder. Still nothing. It was then he noticed her eyes were open and lifeless. Ted stumbled backward, tripping over a roller skate Serena had left on the floor. Surprised, he cried out. “Dad,” Serena said looking up at him. “You have to be quiet. Mommy’s still sleeping.” Ted screamed.

Joseph Mulak has been writing horror for almsot twenty years and has published a few short stories, most recently in “Masters of Horror: The Anthology.” He currently has several more stories in the works as well as a YA novella and a novel. He lives in North Bay, Ontario with his four children and their dog Tito. Visit him at josephmulak.wordpress.com

- October 2010

Undead and Upholstered Stuart Sharp

Emma knew that she had found the right house when she saw the two burly men leaning against the door, each fighting not to show any sign of panic and failing spectacularly. She walked up as casually as she could. It wasn’t that easy, given the sheer weight of the holdall she was currently lugging around. “Did one of you call for an exterminator?” They gave her the Look. The one that said “you’re the exterminator” so loudly, Emma was surprised people hadn’t heard it across the street. One of them, slightly larger than the other in the same way that Everest is a bit bigger than Kilimanjaro, started to open his mouth. She had the Glock out and pointed at his head quicker. “Before you say anything, I should probably point out that I spent most of last night stalking a were-accountant, and prior to that I had a nest of vampires to torch. I have had very little sleep and even less coffee, so I am not in the mood for anything witty. Or at least,

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for anything you probably think is witty.” That got the expected flash of fear, followed by a puzzled look. “Um… what’s a were-accountant?” “You don’t want to know.” Emma shuddered as she said it. There had been a couple of close calls there. One little bite, and she might have spent her full moons spouting on about offshore tax options. Compared to that, a silver bullet to the head looked like the merciful option. “Look, could you just tell me what sort of monster you’ve got, and where it is, so I can kill it and we can all get on with our days?” The marginally less burly of the two nodded to the door. “’s in there, innit?” “And what is it?” Emma asked, and then sighed. “Oh, why bother? It’s probably not like the two of you could tell a Wendigo from a Ghast anyway. Just open the door and let me have a look.” That got more fearful looks. The bigger of the two gave the door a nervous glance. “Um… are you sure?” “Well, I’m sure that I don’t want to stand out here all day relying on you two for intellectual stimulation.” Emma paused, and realised after a second or so that she should probably have pitched that one a bit lower. “I mean that you should open the bloody door.” They did it, and Emma slipped inside, darting from cover to cover in her best Cagney and Lacey impersonation. Not that there was much. The house seemed bare. In fact, the only stick of furniture Emma could find was a battered old sofa, heavily upholstered and sitting in the middle of what was probably supposed to be the living room. There wasn’t any sign of anything hiding behind it. A low creaking sound came to her, and Emma looked up at the ceiling, because she knew how these things worked. There wasn’t anything there, either. At a faint bump against her shins, she jumped back, bringing the gun to bear, then cursed herself for her jumpiness. She had only stepped into the sofa.

- October 2010

Irritated now, Emma stalked back out to the waiting men. “Did you see it?” the bigger of the two asked. “See what?” Emma demanded. “There’s nothing there. Unless you’re talking about something invisible, a poltergeist or something.” “The sofa,” the other man said. “Archie means the sofa.” The alleged Archie nodded. “’s right.” Emma took a deep, calming breath. It didn’t really work, for much the same reason that using a sponge to mop up a lake doesn’t. “You called me out here because of a sofa? You said this was an emergency.” “It is!” the smaller man insisted. “We can’t go back in there while it’s still there. We can’t. We just-” “Shut up, Fred,” Archie said, before returning his attention to Emma. “It… takes things. I bumped into it, and next thing I know, my wallet’s gone.” “It had my car keys,” the putative Fred said. “Um… it didn’t take anything from you, did it, miss?” Emma was about to say that no, of course it hadn’t, when she noticed a rather chilly feeling around her ankles. When she checked, Emma found that her socks were gone. “Why?” She wondered aloud. “We were thinking that maybe it ate the sorts of things sofas normally eat,” Archie said, “keys, money, odd socks. I mean, they have to go somewhere, don’t they? Trouble is, that’s not all it’s eating.” “It isn’t?” Emma was only half listening, because the rest of her brain was trying to work out exactly what she was doing. It was corporeal, so not a ghost. No sign of liking blood, and it wasn’t exactly wrapped up, so vampires and mummies were out. Could you get such a thing as a were-sofa? “No,” Fred said. “There was a small set of nesting tables in there, along with quite a nice rocking chair. They weren’t there last time Archie pushed me in to check. Why is it me who gets pushed

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in, Archie?” “’Cause I’m in charge. Also, I’m bigger than you.” Emma made up her mind. There was an easy way to find out what was going on, of course. She checked her gun, screwed on a silencer, and then loaded in the special clip. The one with alternating cold iron, silver, and blessed rounds. “I’m going back in.” The men didn’t argue. They just opened the door again for her. Emma dived in, executed a largely unnecessary forward roll, and came up into a perfect shooting stance. The sofa was over in one corner now. It had, insomuch as sofas had expressions, a rather disinterested look. It didn’t stay that way when Emma opened fire. Three rounds, right in the cushions. Unfortunately, they didn’t seem to have much effect, because the sofa rolled towards her at the quickest rate she’d seen soft furnishings move since her flatmate Andy had dropped an armchair down the stairs trying to carry it to the forth floor. Emma emptied the rest of the clip into the thing on general principles, and then ran for the door, reasoning that she could probably make it before the thing caught up. She had reckoned without it being on castors though. It slammed into Emma in the hallway and she landed on the seat before she could react. She rolled, throwing herself of the thing and scrambling through the door as Archie and Fred opened it. There was a distinct thud from the other side as they slammed the door in its face. “Right,” she said, brushing herself off. “That’s silver, iron, and generic holiness out of the way. Unless Father Peters has gotten himself excommunicated again while I wasn’t watching, I think we can safely say that it isn’t demonically possessed, one of the fey in disguise, any kind of were creature, or the evil spirit of a deranged interior designer.” “So what is it?” Fred asked. “I think, gentlemen, that we have ourselves a zombie.” “A zombie?” Archie looked uncertain. “A zombie sofa?”

- October 2010

“Why not? You’ve got the cannibalistic tendencies with the other furniture, the shuffling around, even the groaning. Though that might just be the frame. Either way, there’s basically two ways we can deal with it. The nice way is that we call this voodoo priestess I know in Colchester, and we see what she has to say. Of course, that means waiting a couple of days for her, and paying out a great deal of money.” “What’s the other way?” Archie asked. Emma cracked her knuckles. “I was hoping you would say that.” Half an hour later, flames leapt up from a disused patch of wasteland. A dog-collared figure looked at Emma over the blooming tongues of fire. “Emma,” Father Peters said. “I had a little chat with the two removal chaps when you showed up.” “Did you?” Emma looked down at the burning fabric of a sofa arm, the machete still in her hand. You couldn’t be too careful. “I did, and do you know what they said?” “Haven’t a clue.” Lying to a priest was probably bad for your soul, Emma reflected, but hopefully she was in a certain amount of credit by this point. “They said that you’d given them some nonsense about Sylvia being expensive and slow to come out. You know she works for free these days.” “Do I?” Father Peter pressed on. “Yes, you do. So I have to ask myself what irritated you so much that you wanted to do things the… violent way.” That was the irritating thing about him, of course. He saw too much. “Let’s just say that it ate something it shouldn’t have,” Emma said. “Something that might have fallen down the back of a sofa under normal circumstances.”

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“Not under normal circumstances, no. Under circumstances where Andy and I got very drunk one night, yes. It took me three days to find those knickers. This bloody thing had them when I landed on it. After that, I think it deserved it.” “Ah,” the priest said. Emma stared at the fire a little more. Certain now that the fire was burning nicely, she walked away, setting off in search of her payment, a strong drink or two, and, most urgent of all, some spare underwear. As such, she probably didn’t see the single castor that rolled forlornly away from the blaze.

Stuart Sharp is a writer and historian living in East Yorkshire. His two serious urban fantasy novels Searching and Witch Hunt are published by Double Dragon Publishing, while his shorter comic fantasy has touched on everything from recruiting spare horsepeople of the apocalypse to making universes in bars. Technically, he is a doctor, but the most he can do for your current ailments is translate them into medieval latin, so don’t ask.

- October 2010

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- October 2010