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Volume 1 Issue 1

David M. Wilson Editor

Steven Esterhuizen Graphic Design

Contents Flash Fiction

7 Lost Phone ................................... M. Brandon Robbins

13 A Promise Kept .......................................... Toni Stauffer

Short Stories 1 Working Stiff ...................................... Philip W. Kleaver 15 Dead Water .............................................. Ben Worsfold 22 Mailroom Drawl ......................................... Adrian Hall

Poetry 11 The Stench of Dead Places ................... Matthew Wilson

Riding Shotgun

10 Cover Artist Spotlight .............................................. 43S

25 Reviews ............................................. The Witch (2015)

Editorial

David M. Wilson

here is, in my mind, a critical need for the support of authors who are new to Horror Fiction. All

too often, you will find that the support that we editors give to aspiring writers comes by way of a rejection form letter with a personal note jotted down in the page margin somewhere. This I find to be a pleasant experience, though unhelpful to the new author—a carrot dangling from a stick before the writers nose, in other words.

Current theory supports the idea that repetition is a key component of the successful writer—

repetition, and the ability to look at ones work through an objective lens. Compare yourself to the greats and the not-so-greats, they say, and you’ll get there. After reams of writing, you’ll get there. You’ll get there. The truth is that there are many writers who don’t get there at all, ever.

In answering this dilemma, DeadLights Horror Fiction Magazine has drawn from my having

participated in high school track and field. In practice, I ran a mile in something like six minutes. I was always amazed, however, when it came time for a track meet, because a minute would disappear from time-keepers clock; how could I be ringing in at a flat five minutes? My coach, a wonderful lady—she still is wonderful, by the way—explained that this was due to a chemical reaction that takes place when one becomes nervous and excited, especially when entered into live competition. And when my eyes glazed over at this explanation, she made it simple: practice is for the maintenance of your skills, but competition is where you push your boundaries beyond what you find to be comfortable.

When a writer practices the craft of composition consistently and sends manuscripts off on

the regular, what they are doing is running a mile in six minutes. If an editor rejects their work, even while scribbling a note of thanks, it’s the same as saying: Not bad, but why don’t you stay home while the rest of the team goes off to the track meet? We’ll get ice cream after, and we’ll tell you all about it. For some, this only encourages them to hit the track harder during practice—does the phrase ‘hit delete and let’s repeat’ sound familiar to you?—but for most, this process is discouraging, if not demoralizing, overall. Some writers start skipping practice. Some never show their faces to the blank page again.

What I’m arguing for here, and what Shotgun Horror Clips is all about, is positive reinforcement.

It is the chance to compete, for the new writer to push past former boundaries. There is a big difference

between work that stays in your word document, going off to an editor and coming back, rejected, versus seeing it in a printed format and knowing that it is open to public viewing, knowing that everyone you know is likely to a least take a look. It’s thrilling, a little scary, and of course, for the new writer, it is an invitation to better oneself; to hear the crack of that gun, the one that sets runners off to the races. Shotgun Horror Clips is the hosting track team, you see, and how you perform is all up to you. So, now that you’ve heard the shot go off, now that the crowd’s on their feet, you know what to do: run.

—Dave, October 14, 2016

Working Stiff Philip W. Kleaver Philip W. Kleaver lives with his cat in Baltimore, Maryland, where he works as an educator. He is an avid collector of science fiction and horror paperbacks—preferably the musty, yellowing kind. “Working Stiff” is his first published work of fiction. He can be reached at pwkleaver@ outlook.com.

eRay had never wanted a job to end more than this one. His cousin, Joe, roped him in with the promise of an easy five hundred; the money would help make the rent, due next week, but he

had a bad feeling about the work. It hadn’t come from any of the usual sources in the neighborhood, but rather, a stranger. Joe described meeting their new boss, a shriveled, ancient white man (“probably the palest motherfucker I ever seen”), in their buddy Tyrone’s dive. That was peculiar enough. DeRay had never encountered a cracker within five blocks of the bar. It was too rough for the gentrifying hipster crowd trying to “slum it,” and the old-school, blue-collar Baltimore whites preferred to drink with their own kind after clocking out. DeRay didn’t understand that—he could spend the whole day on a job with a guy like Curtis, joking and shooting the shit, but as soon as five o’clock hit, they were barely acquaintances. No wonder the city was still de facto segregated.

Joe said that when he walked in the man was sitting ramrod-straight, sipping a gin and tonic with

graceful, spare movements. (“He looked like one of those pizza place robots, feel me? Like always lifting his glass the same way every time,” Joe said.) The man seemed oblivious to—or chose to ignore—the muttered comments from the clientele. Curious, Joe plopped down in the empty barstool next to the cracker. The guy gave Joe a once-over and, noting the paint-splattered jeans, dusty boots, and sweatyellow tee, asked if he was in construction. He had a soft accent (“French or some shit”) which gave his speech a lilting musicality. When Joe assented, a wide, toothy grin spread across the cracker’s face. He flashed a handful of bills, then made them disappear with a magician’s dexterity. He bought Joe a beer and laid down the details of the job. And so here they were, DeRay, Joe, and Curtis, standing outside a dilapidated Victorian in 1

October 14, 2016

the outskirts of Baltimore, armed with sledgehammers and crowbars. The house was overrun with creeping vines and ivy. A turret, rising above the second floor, tilted at a sharp angle; it seemed ready to collapse. The exterior paint, lavender in color, was flaking. Despite the state of disrepair, DeRay noted that none of the windows were broken, no graffiti marred the walls, and not a single empty bottle or discarded joint littered the front porch. Spots like this were usually a magnet for bored, suburban teenagers. He wondered how this place had escaped notice. The old man had informed Joe that he intended to flip the property; he had a construction crew (“experts with this kind of restoration, the very best”) coming down from Montreal, but their work visas were delayed. Joe and crew could help by doing some preliminary demolition. That way, when the bureaucratic red tape had been cleared, renovations could begin immediately. The interior of the antique house was to be completely redone, so several walls needed to be taken down. Additionally, there was a wine cellar attached to the basement. Apparently, it had been bricked up during prohibition; the old man had reason to believe that there could still be some vintage bottles and casks back there, and he was willing to offer a bonus if Joe’s crew could bust down the wall while leaving the wine intact. DeRay had gotten goosebumps as soon as they walked through the front door of the decrepit mansion. The air was heavy with decay. This wasn’t unusual—he had worked in similar houses before, and was accustomed to the odor of rotting wood mixed with the occasional rat or squirrel carcass. But there was another scent here, almost hidden—something older. It conjured an image of deep, empty catacombs, branching into darkness under the earth. DeRay could swear he felt a presence, too. As a child, his grandmother had frightened him with stories of haints—all the old-timers in his grandmother’s neighborhood down in New Orleans painted the ceilings of their porches blue to scare off restless, wandering spirits. Now that he was grown, he found he couldn’t shake his superstitions. He had noticed that the porch ceiling on this house was bare wood. “This place is weird, man,” he said.

“So what? I’d do stranger shit for this kinda money,” Curtis chuckled. “Gettin’ two hundred

to smash up a place? Hell yeah.”

“Let’s just finish this up quick.” They decided to start on the second floor and work their way down. DeRay went first, moving

with some trepidation once he reached the top of the stairs. He listened carefully as the floorboards groaned underneath his feet. He cautiously tapped at the ground in front of him with the toe of his boot. It seemed stable enough. He waved the other two up, and the men walked down a musty 2

SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS

corridor and entered one of the bedrooms. DeRay gasped, startled. Directly across from the bedroom door was a grimy, full-length mirror. His reflection looked ghoulish in the warped glass. Joe and Curtis entered the room behind him and spread out, inspecting the space.

“Well, let’s tear this mother down.” Joe turned and swung his hammer at the wall separating

the bedroom and the corridor. The wall buckled. Flakes of plaster drifted down to the floor. Curtis whooped in delight and hefted his sledge up onto his shoulder.

“Number forty-five, Mark Trumbo, waits for the pitch …” Curtis hit the wall, the head of his

sledgehammer sinking into a sizeable hole. “It’s good!”

“I’ll get started on the other end,” said DeRay. He was still feeling jumpy and needed a moment

to clear his head. He wandered around the second floor, poking his head into the rooms branching off the main corridor. Eventually, he stumbled into the largest one, probably once the master bedroom. It must have been beautiful in its heyday—ornate carvings decorated the woodwork around the doors, and the windows, though filthy, had borders of stained glass in intricate geometric patterns. The room was punctuated with scattered piles of human debris—a cracked porcelain doll, a leather handbag, a pair of black riding boots. There seemed to be a lot of clothing, too, all from different eras. A crumpled felt trilby, the kind worn by men in Depression-Era photographs, lay adjacent to a scuffed-up pair of Chuck Taylors. DeRay began to wonder when exactly the house had been abandoned, and why some of the more valuable items—a gold pocketwatch, for instance—hadn’t been lifted.

His speculations were interrupted by a low, rustling sound, like leaves being blown along the

pavement in the autumn. DeRay craned his neck. The noise seemed to be coming from a heating vent in a corner of the room. He thought it could be mice, but their movements were usually random. The rustling he heard seemed to stop and start at regular intervals. He walked over to the corner, knelt down, and pressed his ear to the grate. The rustling intensified. DeRay swore he could make out words, like a voice whispering a chant over and over, especially for him …

“Yo, man! What are you doing?” DeRay gasped and jumped up, spinning around. Joe stood

in the doorway, grinning. “Didn’t mean to scare ya, man. You look like you been listenin’ to one of grandma’s stories.” “Sorry, man.” DeRay shook his head, and walked back into the corridor with Joe. The two of them moved from room to room, swinging hammers and throwing the leftover rubble out one of the windows, making a jumbled heap on the lawn below. DeRay tried to focus his mind on the work, but discomfort chewed at him. The sooner they got out of the house, the better. Joe and Curtis kept up a steady flow of insults and wisecracks, throwing shade at DeRay for 3

October 14, 2016

scaring easily. DeRay smiled halfheartedly. They finished up the second floor, and headed downstairs to continue the job. The sun was setting by the time they cleared out the first floor.

“Can we go, already?” asked DeRay. “It’s quittin’ time. Let’s head down to Tyrone’s for a beer.

Maybe you’ll even come along this time, Curtis. I’ll buy ya one.”

“Nah, man, not yet,” Joe grunted. “We gotta knock down that basement wall. Shouldn’t take

long, and that way we won’t have to come back in the morning. Plus, if our pasty-ass boss was right, we can take one or two of the bottles and skip Tyrone’s. Get drunk like a fancy motherfucker. What you think, Curtis?”

“Works for me, man.”

“DeRay?”

“Shit, alright.”

They walked down the moldy wooden stairs leading down into the basement. DeRay could

feel a cold sweat beading on his lower back. In the silence between each step, he could swear he heard the same rustling from upstairs. The air was heavy, stale, and DeRay almost choked on the pungent, dead smell that he had detected earlier. It was becoming almost unbearable. The three men stepped down onto a hard-packed dirt floor. The moist stone walls of the basement made the place feel clammy, unwelcoming, like he had opened the door to a shrine untouched by man for centuries. His mind flashed with images from late-night horror pictures: cracked bones jutting out of the earth, still covered in strips of rotten flesh. He could feel the blood pounding in his temple, a steady throbbing that would soon grow into a migraine. Joe clicked on his flashlight and aimed it around the room. Bathed in the light of the beam, the rough, uneven stones gave off oddly-shaped shadows. DeRay thought they looked like faces, mouths twisted into horrified screams. The flashlight moved over to a doorway at the end of the room. It was sealed with reddish, terracotta bricks.

“Alright, here we go.” Joe swung his sledge at the bricks covering the doorway. The sound of the collision echoed

around the basement, ringing in DeRay’s ears. DeRay tried to lift his hammer, but his hands, slick with perspiration, couldn’t find a grip. He let go, and the handle struck the ground with a clang. His fingers twitched maniacally.

“I-I need to head outside, get some air,” he gasped weakly. He hurried up the stairs, almost at a

run, ignoring the mocking laughter of Joe and Curtis. He reached the foyer slammed open the front door, rushing out into the cool twilight. 4

SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS

In the yard, he started to feel better. The sound of cicadas, chirping rhythmically, soothed him.

He paced back and forth, trying to slow his wild breathing. His eyes flitted back to the house. In the darkness, it took on a sinister countenance. Its windows leered like the eyes of the dead. DeRay figured he could wait out here until Joe and Curtis returned. They’d poke fun at him for the rest of the night, maybe the week, but he didn’t care. As long as he was outside of the house. He sighed deeply, finally feeling as if he were back to normal.

Screams cut through the night; the cicadas went silent. DeRay’s heartbeat quickened again,

pounding frantically until he thought it would burst. Another scream. His first instinct was to open the door of Joe’s pickup, start it up, and drive back to the city as fast as he could go. He tried to think clearly, to override his fear with logic. The place wasn’t haunted, merely crumbling and outdated. The only dangers were rotten supports and cracks in the foundation; furthermore, his cousin and Curtis were inside. They were hurt and potentially trapped underneath a collapsed beam or section of wall. DeRay hastened through the front door and down the basement steps.

The mausoleum stench was even greater now, and undercut with the metallic tang of blood.

DeRay shined his flashlight at the back wall. Bricks were scattered in piles on the floor; beyond the uncovered stone doorway was an inky blackness, darker than the space between the stars in the night sky. DeRay walked forward slowly.

“Joe? Curtis?”

No response. Then, suddenly, a low whimpering. DeRay swallowed, painfully. He felt a chill

spread through his body and realized that he was shaking again. Another step, and he was through the doorway. His nostrils clogged with the odor of wet, rotting earth. The wine cellar went back further than he had imagined. He took another step forward, shining his flashlight along the floor. It illuminated one of Joe’s boots. The leather was torn and soaked in blood. DeRay moved his flashlight beam further along the floor. It lit up Joe’s legs. His right ankle protruded out of his jeans and ended abruptly in a stump, a cracked bone sticking out. Dark ichor leaked out into a puddle on the floor. Somehow, Joe’s foot had been completely torn off. His body was sprawled out on the floor, covered in deep scratches, his face cemented in an expression of shock and pain. He was dead. DeRay took another step forward. Now he could see Curtis’ body, slumped against a large oak trunk in the center of the room. Blood seeped from a long gash across his neck. DeRay panted heavily. Nausea squeezed its fist around his guts, and he began to babble incoherently. “Oh god. Curtis. Joe. Oh god. Oh god.” 5

October 14, 2016

The trunk creaked open, slowly.

A pale hand appeared, pushing the lid. Long, bony fingers ended in talons, caked in blood.

A shape rose out of the trunk: a man, completely hairless, white as the moon. His eyes were black, surrounded by a ring of crimson flesh. The man smiled, revealing a mouth full of shark’s teeth. They were crammed in, overlapping each other and jutting out at strange angles.

“Ah, how kind to bring me a little after-dinner digestif …” the man hissed, in the same whisper

heard through the vents.

DeRay turned to run, but the man moved out of the trunk like a shadow, like nothing of

substance, rushing in front of DeRay to block his path. He never had a chance. The last thing he heard was a sick, bestial slurping, and his own shrieks, reverberating throughout the house.

Lost Phone M. Brandon Robbins M. Brandon Robbins lives in Goldsboro, North Carolina with his wife, turtles, and, as a new addition to the family, his formidable bearded dragon. He holds a B.A. in English and a Master’s Degree in Library Science. He currently pens the ‘Games, Gamers and Gaming’ column for the Library Journal. And he knows where his phone is, we hope ...

he woman who answered the door wore lipstick that stood out like a road flare against her pale skin. “Can I help you?” she asked, her voice heavy and dull.

Todd smiled with an awkwardness usually reserved for when he asked his parents for money.

“I think I left my phone here?” he said.

She stepped aside and ushered him inside.

The room beyond the door was dark, the lack of lighting being assisted by gray walls and black

furniture. “It’s funny, I don’t seem to remember being here last night. I remember going to Chuck’s— you know, the sports bar on Ninth Street—with my buddies, and then we went to this club and met up with these really cool people, then I guess we ended up here because my tracking program says that I left my phone here.”

The sea had more interest in a drop of rain than the woman had interest for Todd’s story. She

rummaged through the drawers of a desk in the corner, eventually finding Todd’s lost smartphone. She didn’t bother to give it to him. She merely set it on the desk and huffed, “Here.” Todd suddenly realized that she was cute and decided that getting her name was more important than getting his phone back. “So, I guess you work here?”

She didn’t answer, her attention consumed by whatever was on the monitor in front of her.

“I really, really don’t remember being here last night,” Todd said, trying to laugh. “So, is this

like a club or a bar or something?”

She looked up at him and smiled. “Follow me.”

Todd congratulated himself.

The woman led him down the hall, and for the first time he noticed that there were doorways,

October 14, 2016

but no doors, along the hallway. The first few rooms they passed by were empty, but he glanced into one to find three men rolling up long plastic sheets. “What went on in there last night?”

She shrugged. “A party.”

“Must have been one hell of a party,” he said, “if they had to break out the tarps.”

“It was.”

In another room, Todd saw chains hanging down from the ceiling, some of them with hooks

at their ends, and metal pipes bolted to the floor, disappearing into the ceiling. “The industrial look,” he said. “I like it.”

At the end of the hallway was the only shut door that Todd had seen yet. She stepped aside

and put her hand on the door knob. “You still want to know what kind of place this is?”

Todd chuckled. “I get it. You have crazy freaky parties here. Some S&M stuff or something

like that, right?”

“You really don’t remember being here last night, do you?”

“No. Completely blanked out.”

She smiled again. There was a gleam in her eye full of wickedness and delight. “Then you

weren’t meant to remember, for your own protection.” Her smile disappeared. “Yet, here you are, asking questions.”

Todd felt a writhing just below his belt buckle and his mouth went dry. “It’s cool. I’ll just go

now, okay? I’ll get my phone and I’ll go.”

She opened the door. The floor beyond was covered in blood. The sour smell of it rushed over

Todd, causing him to gag. He turned around to leave, but she put a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place with a strength that defied her frame. “Inside,” she hissed.

With a lurch he found himself flying backwards and landing on blood-drenched plastic. He

gagged again, and tried to stand, but he kept slipping back down onto the floor.

She came into the room. Todd finally gave up struggling and instead started to beg, whimpering

and holding his hands in front of his face.

The woman stood astride his waist and lowered herself down to straddle him. She grabbed his

wrists and pinned his arms to the floor.

“What are you doing to me?” he shouted.

She smiled again, then parted her lips and ran the tip of her tongue across her fangs before

biting down into the soft flesh of his neck. 8

SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS

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OR deadlightsmagazine@gmail.com 9

Cover Artist

SPOTLIGHT 43s 43S is that unknown variable in your chemistry set, an enigma, that one element that causes the rest to destabilize and explode. 43S is a mystery, even to us. 43S. It now roams alone on the face of this earth, but not long after being born into some shape or form, it began life by wielding pen and paper. When, as a youngling, it realized what influence heavy metal elements might have on laboratory rats, 43S became forever entranced by the macabre. Growing from the abstract into a mode of realism, it drew from works of fiction by Bram Stoker, Mary Shelley, Edgar Allan Poe, Matthew Gregory Lewis, and Sheridan Le Fanu. And, just as it subscribes to a nature of lone direction, 43S finds inspiration in any film featuring the shark ...

It may be found only through Wi-Fi waves. 43sdrawsstuff@gmail.com http://43s.deviantart.com https://www.facebook.com/43Sdrawsstuff

Shotgun Horror Fiction Magazine would like to thank it for its unearthly contribution.

The Stench of Dead Places A Poem By Matthew Wilson Once a year we watch the water drain The lake where mad men throw corpses Sludge remains briefly on the old houses In that muddy pit where no life should be. Candle light flickers in those creaking houses Shadows slip in between the star light Ancestors that angered forgotten sorcerers Whose witches thought themselves greater. Twitching incomplete things wander on Trying to remember who and why they hate Spreading out to sate their sudden hunger These wrecks of humans once buried here. Once a year we collect beyond the trees Waiting fitfully for the safety of dawn When water will again cover that village Crushing the screams of its new prisoners.

Matthew Wilson, 33, has been published 150 times over, and can be found within the pages of Horror Zine, Alban Lake, Star*Line, and Zimball House, among others. He is currently editing his first novel and can be contacted on twitter: @matthew94544267. 11

October 14, 2016

Interested? Contact Us! http://www.deadlightsmagazine.com/advertise-with-us/

OR deadlightsmagazine@gmail.com 12

A Promise Kept Toni Stauffer Toni Stauffer has published Flash Fiction in the Small Bites Anthology, Cyberpulp’s Halloween Anthology 3.0, and Flash Shots: One Year, among others. She’s an incredibly busy person, in school full time, working two part-time jobs, and, yet, she finds the time to write just enough to tease us with her talent. For that, we are grateful.

stand at the edge of the water, watching the ocean take long licks at the sand. Above me, the sun burns in a cloudless, azure sky. A salty breeze brings old memories: the balmy, coconut scent of

suntan oil, the spicy thump of Latin music, tinging of glass from a toast, and the sound of your deep laughter—juxtaposed with jagged memories of the pain from your fists, the distant sound of my begging, my screams, and your broken promises to never hurt me again. I tried to do the right thing. I tried to leave, but you would never let me. I tried, but your death was the only key to my freedom, so I paid the key master and paid him well. I can live with that.

I’ve come to scatter your ashes across the water, to give you the only peace I can even though I

don’t think you deserve it. The thought of flinging dusty, brittle bits of you disturbs me. I take a deep breath, shove my right hand into the brass urn and thrust my fingers deep into your ashes. You are gritty silk between my fingers that tremble as they bend to scoop.

Stinging pain sets my hand on fire. I drop the urn and scream as ashes drift up my arm, leaving

a bloody, skinless trail. Your soot blackens my eyes and consumes them. My lips blister and bleed; your charcoal flavor coats my tongue and chokes my screams into silence.

Staggering, I feel you cling to my back—a heavy, squirming larva. You expand rapidly, fully,

and I shatter. I become motes of myself, shadow dust on an ocean breeze, inhaled with the moist, cool air of your first breath.

You always said we’d be together forever.

October 14, 2016

Dead Water Ben Worsfold Ben Worsfold is a full-time student, attending Exeter University in the United Kingdom. Inspired by the works of H.P. Lovecraft, he believes Horror is at its best when it is slow-burning, surreal and unclear, leaving questions rather than showing answers. He can be contacted via Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15452092. Ben_Worsfold?from_search=true. He hopes you enjoy reading his stories as much as he enjoys writing them.

t was at the advent of spring that the waters of Moreton Well ran sour. The village woke to an unseasonal heat, wreathed in a damp, spreading mist that carried a curious stench on its passage

through the streets. It was sickly, cloyingly sweet. Like a musk of aniseed and rotting sugar. Faint, at first, then more pungent. Into every room it crept. Through cracks in the windows, leeching below the lintels of the doors. Its source was baffling. That is, until a feverish vagrant burst into the council chamber and complained of the yellowish fumes that were emanating from the cobbles of the square.

A crowd had gathered, watching as the workmen cleaned the mechanism of the well. Their

manner was uneasy: an eerie silence had fallen, broken only by the screech of rust. A bucket was fetched and bound to a length of rope. Then there came the rhythmic clack of gears as the vessel was lowered into the pressing gloom below. It was not long before shadows swallowed it up, and it disappeared from view. On the gears ground. A pause. A moment of pregnant expectation. Then there was a wet slap, a scrape, as of a rasp across glue. And the line went taut.

A cry went up. Two men took hold of the crankâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;with a heave, the bucket pulled free. There

was an echoing clang. Metal against stone. The rope shook. From the shaft the stench spat. A syrupy foulness, as of curdled soap. Again the men heaved. A rattle- then the bucket began to rise. When it emerged the crowd recoiled with a gasp of shock. Those closest retched. For what was in that bucket was barely recognisable as water at all.

It was the colour of pond scum, off-white, discoloured, peppered with flecks of brown and beige.

Far too thick, sticky, like milk left out to rot. Under the noonday sun it was translucent. And its smell 15

October 14, 2016

was exactly like that which had come with the mist, some hours before. At that moment, the crowd was dispersed. The square was quarantined. Black and yellow tape was strung across the surrounding streets. A sample of the liquid was distilled into a glass phial—the rest the villagers burned. What remained they sent to the city, hoping to find answers by chemical analysis, academic inspection. And so it was that said liquid found its way to me.

I had occupied the post of toxicologist at the Ashton-Smith Institute for several years before the

courier deposited the Moreton sample at my door. I confess I knew little of the place. Of its geology, of potential chemical imbalance in the soil. I thought this task a routine job. That is, until I slit open the package and examined what lay within. To say it was fascinating seems too cheap, anecdotal. On the contrary, it was unlike anything I had seen. The opportunity for its study, well … let us say it was that which stirred the obsession in me.

My curiosity grew deeper as I began my experiments. I attempted to separate the contaminant

from the water- simple electrodialysis. To my shock—no change. Further tests proved futile. The fluid would not boil. Was absent from all sediments, all particulates. Titrations—no separation. It was uncanny. Eager, I took a chromatograph, waited impatiently for the readings to collect. The sun had set. From the window I could see the splay of city lights against the river, the moving glow of distant cars. And, in the distance, a glimpse of Moreton village, silhouetted against the cleft of the hills.

There was a bleep. In a whirl I turned. Behind me the chromatograph screen was alive with

dancing figures, and was tracing a graph in an acidic neon green. I leaned closer. Caught my breath in shock. Impossible—surely, it was impossible? Yet, the data remained. I stared, quite struck. I felt my chest tighten. My heart, pounding against my skin. Somehow, I suppose, it made sense. The ooze was not a mixture of toxin and water. No—it was much more than that. Whatever chemical fluid had been in the well had bonded to it. The atomic structure, fundamentally changed. I was staring at a substance that had never been seen before.

Such was my obsession that I remained ignorant of the tragedies that had since befallen the village

of Moreton. Perhaps if I had been aware, I would not have ventured down the well that night. But, earnest as I was, I feel it wouldn’t have mattered. It seems cold of me, I know. You must understand, I was in the grip of an academic fever—I could think of nothing else, not even as I slept. So for the news to pass me by is not surprising. For that, though, it is no less troubling—and is no less haunting when I think of what I found.

The first sign was the mist growing thicker. Where once it wound in spidery trails it now formed

great drifts of yellow-white vapour, so dense as to cloud the sight. The streets of Moreton were thus 16

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cast in an unnatural gloom. The humidity had also risen. There were reports of fever. Something carried on the oppressive mustiness of the air. Travellers had begun to avoid the village and its pale yellow shroud. The stench had also grown, so potent as to be felt on the air even in the neighbouring farms. In Moreton itself it was eye-watering, and incidents were observed of people vomiting in the streets. However, the most curious change was that occurring behind closed doors. That occurring to the people of Moreton themselves.

What I know is circumstantial at best. Most of it is a testimonial of a priest, one that I met

upon his return from the place. He seemed shaken, confused. His story was ragged, but I have pieced together what I could. His words concerned me, even at that time when I longed for further samples, my supply of the singular ooze almost completely spent. I remember a crawling feeling, like something against my neck, as he spoke. But, in my madness, I put it from my mind.

He had arrived at Moreton a day ago, intent on providing some council for those faithful that

still remained. He had anticipated encountering a ghost town—for what sane person would remain there, to live in such a stench? What he found was stranger still. The streets, far from being in disrepair, were quite lively. Villagers, dressed in heavy duffle coats, their faces masked, hoods drawn down to their cheeks, bustled in the market and bar. Entranced, he wandered. Even in the deeper patches of fog he found them, even in places that smelt so awful he could not bear to tread. They seemed unperturbed. It was as if the miasma had become second-nature to them.

He engaged a few in conversation where he could. They were pleasant enough, although he could

not hide his distaste for the muffled gurgle the masks gave their speech. They also moved curiously, with a strangely boneless motion. And never once did they let him see their skin. Baffled he had prepared to leave. That was when he had noticed the church. How its windows had been boarded up. How a heavy bar had been fitted across the door. How from inside he could hear faint whispers—and could see a flickering yellow light.

He had waited until nightfall. Under the sunless sky the village was all but stygian. The streetlights

remained dark. Slowly he made his way to the cemetery, taking care to peer like a man half-blind into the mouths of every road, lest he encounter a masked figure approaching through the fog. Eventually, among the gravestones, he arrived, and he waited. It was with some shock that, an hour later, he heard the heavy boom of the bolts sliding back on the vestry door. Two figures emerged. One was clad in heavy vestments—the other seemed less clothed. The mist was growing dense. Pinching his nose, he leaned forward, straining to see, to catch what conversation he could. Then, but for a moment, the mist parted, and he caught a glimpse of the second figure. Just for a moment—that, he said, was enough. 17

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Shoving his fist in his mouth, he stifled a scream. Then, fighting the urge to break into a run, he made his way from Moreton, vowing never to return.

I admit I was incredulous when I heard what he had seen. I couldn’t quite bring myself to

believe it—but, considering my discovery in the Moreton ooze, I did my best to try. The man was undoubtedly shaken. It was all he could do to force out the words, but at my coaxing he came round. It was with a choking sob he spoke. The second figure, he said, was like no human he had known. Its skin was too soft, like a slug’s. And, more disturbingly, it was a lurid shade of yellow.

How fanciful did I think this testimony when I heard it first! In time I entertained the notion,

but it wasn’t until I returned to Moreton that I learnt the truth of the matter. For the meantime I returned to my research, doing my best to put the priest’s story at the back of my mind. Yet, try as I might, I couldn’t shake it. The feeling that something ill had taken the village of Moreton. More and more I found my thoughts wandering. Until, at last, when my sample of the ooze was all but spent, I convened with my colleagues, consulted my findings and, intent firm in our minds, began to plan and prepare.

The three of us were to arrive at Moreton at dusk, on the 3rd of October. Aside from myself, I

had enlisted the assistance of Dr. King, an associate in medical biology, and the more primitive services of an Institute porter, a man named Donald Thrusk. I had stressed with them the need for secrecy— whether or not they believed my reasons, I do not know. Fortunately, my findings were enough. Still, foolish of me, to bring the others. One of my many regrets surrounding the whole sordid affair.

We approached from the west, cresting the ridge overlooking the dell in which Moreton lay. The

smell was already pungent—a gelatinous taste, like sugared tar, was collecting on my tongue. Below the village sprawled—or, at least, what little of it I could see. Black slate rooftops and chimneys emerged from a boiling yellow cloud. Faint outlines, as of cobbled roads, I could just make out like winding snakes. As we descended, Pre-Victorian gables and thatch came into view. In the distance, the church steeple loomed, a knife lancing its way into the blank and faceless sky.

Our party joined a rutted track that led from a copse to the village’s edge. The grass here was

diseased—the fronds were an ill shade, and they crackled like small bones at our tread. As we grew closer, I seemed to see a faint yellow haze surrounding the homes, almost like a glow. It was as if the place was stained, something that only grew more apt a saying when I noticed that the soil beneath my feet was of a more amber shade than brown. The stench in turn was rising. Eyes streaming, I knotted a wetted handkerchief across my mouth and nose, doing my best to ignore the sting of the mist on my exposed skin. There was a click—my boot heel, on stone. I tensed. We had arrived. 18

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The side-street we had chosen was empty. An ethereal silence permeated the air, save for the

shushing of the fog. We walked in a crouch, hunched and fearful, but no one seemed around. The houses were lightless; the doors were shut, and blinds drawn down over the windows. We passed through patches of thicker mist, so dense we could barely see a foot ahead. Fear rose in me. Blindly I flailed, grasping for the reassuring feel of plaster or wood. Then we’d be through, I’d take a breath, and we’d carry on. Deeper. Ever deeper. Towards the well.

In time we reached the main drag, a shoelace of cobbles that twisted past the church to the

east, and, to the north, the square. It was here we saw them. Thrusk caught a glimpse first, swept us back into the dark. His face knotted in horror. I peered past him. As far as I dared. There they were. A procession. Some thirteen or fourteen of them. All in hooded coats and masks. Walking with disturbing, flowing sinuousness towards the church’s door. We waited. Hardly daring to breath. As they passed I heard the wet thud of footsteps. Shuddering, I clasped my hand over my mouth. And then, after one seemingly endless moment—they were gone.

In a flurry of relief we hurried to the well. From my belt I uncoiled a length of rope and passed

it to King and Thrusk. Motioning at myself, unable to speak, I asked that I be lowered down the shaft. They nodded. Too unsettled to disagree. Hurriedly I bound the rope around my waist and leant over the edge. The drop seemed impossibly vast. The darkness, too much like a mouth. I swallowed. Thrusk and King took my weight. I took a step. Then another. Like some sort of tentative spider, I began my descent.

The shaft of the well was some sixty metres of damp stone. It was not long before I had lost

the light to the yellow fog. Around me, shadows coiled like ghosts. On I went. The scrape of my feet and back. The roughness of the rope, between my hands. And, faintly at first, I could hear the soft glop, glop, glop, of something deep below. Sweat poured from me and my skin went white. Knuckles tightened. My teeth, ground together. I looked down. A few more metres—maybe ten. The sloshing sound was louder now; the smell of sugar-water more acrid. I closed my eyes. Then there came a horrified scream.

Up above. King—Thrusk! I felt the rope start to fall slack, felt a mounting horror, my feet

slipping, falling. The scream again. Louder this time. I gasped. Scrabbled for purchase on the stone. There were shouts, not voices I’d heard. They were moist, as if spoken with flabby, infirm lips. All tongue—no teeth. Another scream. A jerk. Then the rope fell loose, I roared in shock- and I was falling, falling, falling, until— 19

Splash. I half-sunk into something soft, let out a gasp as my breath was forced from me. I felt

October 14, 2016

something sticky, gnawing at my clothes and hair. Struggling I pulled free. With an oozing hiss I stood, pulling strands of off-white gel from my skin. I choked, retched emptily. Clutched at my stomach, my head swimming. I fought the urge to be sick, and staggered to take my bearings. In astonishment I realised I was standing in a shallow pool. Or, so I thought. In fact, I was standing on a very deep channel. Filled to the brim with the foul thick liquid I had received in the Moreton sample some days before.

Horrified I lurched to the wall. Only to realise it wasn’t there. In its place had been dug a

cavernous gulf, steeply descending before curving to the east some thirteen metres away. I stared. The walls of this passage were ridged with unsettling marks; along its length there was a slick of slime some four inches thick. It was unlit, but glowed somehow with a faint bioluminescence. The whole scene was deathly quiet, save for the sucking sound of my footsteps as I entered the tunnel’s mouth.

On I crept. Shivering—for it had suddenly become very cold. The mist was here, sure enough.

Rising in trails from the ooze, matting my hair and lapping across my skin. The going was treacherous. The tunnel’s floor was unsteady, and its slippery coating made my passing no easier. More than once I fell. But, faced with the prospect of returning to that gelatinous pit, at the mercy of those at the mouth of the well, I kept on.

It was when I came across the cave that I witnessed that final, crowning horror. Abruptly, my

passage spat wide, and I was suddenly faced with a vast opening, no smaller than twenty metres at its peak. What I saw in its bowels, churning amidst the baleful fog, elicited from me a scream of abject fear. For, in the bowels of that place, cocooned in slime, were the eggs. They were leathern things, each as large as a suitcase, all shades of pallid cream that waxed translucent in the half-light. In my shattered glimpses I fear I saw something moving within them, but could not be sure. My recollections of that place are hazy. I have done my best to forget.

As I edged round the chamber, making my way to a steeply inclining walkway set into the

wall beyond, I heard a sound. Oh, God—just to remember it causes my flesh to crawl! It was a wet, undulating rhythm, coming from the tunnel I had left. A squirming noise, accompanied by the rustle of dislodging earth. Wasting no time, I broke into a run. The sound grew louder. Closer. My steps seemed leaden; the chamber dilated. My head swam, and I felt sweat cascade from my bones in floods. As I approached the new passage, grateful to see the tell-tale shapes of flagstones beneath me, I turned. Snatching a sight. It was, and forever will be, the one choice I shall forever regret. For what I saw will never leave me—not until my last breath.

A monumental shape. Off-white, like a stained sheet. An oozing radula; eyes, bloodshot. Body, 20

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oozing, suppurating. The smell—oh, God, the smell! It was a reek of absolute putridity, and at its touch I could hold the vomit no more. Wailing, I ran, praying, praying that the passage would admit nothing of that thing that even now boiled into its subterranean lair. With some relief I noticed the slime had not followed—that the stench, the mist, was fading as I climbed. Still, in my terror, I did not slow. Ahead, a door. Faint lights beyond. In my desperation I did not think of what lay beyond. My faculties of logic were paralysed; all sense I had, gone. Inside, though, I guess I sort of knew. What I would see, when I flung open the door, stumbled into the church vestry, and then fled, laughing and wailing, out from Moreton and into the hills beyond.

They have burned the village down since that day, have they not? When the disappearances

began? The local farmers, who went missing- the travellers, who never returned? I seem to recall it was considered a multiple homicide, committed by an insane cult whose members have vanished. When the police investigated the well, they found only a sealed shaft—the pit of ooze, a clear pool. The church, too—the passage I emerged from was sealed up, and when the walls were knocked down only compacted earth was seen. So easy, to hide it. To deny the words of a madman. But I know differently. What happened in Moreton, when the waters of the well ran sour, was no normal crime.

Let me tell you something. What do you suppose the police found in the crypts under Moreton

church? Bones, sure enough. But whose? I saw in them none of the regional structures of farmers, or the sculpted face of the city folk. The coroners thought them the victims’, but is that really true? I’ll leave you to decide. Just know that the supposed townsfolk of Moreton village were never found after the yellow mist subsided, and the stench was cast to the winds. No one ever did find out what curdled the water, what it did to those that drank. Things are seldom as they appear. Still, what’s done is done. I can only hope that no one else will find what became of the cursed few that drank deep of the dead waters of Moreton.

Mailroom Drawl Adrian Hall Adrian Hall enjoys the darkside of life. He began reading and writing of it when he was young, and he now finds himself continually fascinated by the day and age in which we all live. He’s not one for social media, but he loves to keep up with all things Horror. This is his first publication.

can’t tell you how he knew that the mail that did not come the day before, nor the day before that, wouldn’t be on its way out to us ever again, but he knew, and I won’t pretend I haven’t learned

how to listen. On my way back up the dirt drive, no mail in hand—this would have been a week ago now—I saw Gramps sitting in his chair on the front porch. He rocked back a bit, spat out a line of tobacco, and said, “Ain’t gunna be there tomorrow, neither.”

Gramps was of the generation that did not divide work and play. It was all work all the time,

and if it wasn’t work, it wasn’t worth doing. When asked about his retirement, he’d mumble at you and curse and say something to do with the gubernment, but this did not mean that the old man didn’t still get the word around town. And word was, there wasn’t much of the mail room left.

He waited until I got closer, then: “Henry Akers,” he said, shaking his head. “Henry Akers

called out sick yesterday—he never was as good a man as his father. Old Akers woulda whipped’em for working on the gubernments dime, much less for calling out sick …”

“… uh-huh. But Betty Mason should be there.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, waving a hand. “Betty should be there, but she ain’t.”

The Postmaster missing work seemed less likely than anything you might know or suspect

about Akers, but it was possible. What was not possible, or I should say, what was improbable, was my believing an old man who left the house once a week—not for church, mind you, but for ladies night down at Hank’s Bar and Grill. Gramps had called down to the post-office and got no answer, that’s all. Sometimes, Betty didn’t pick up the phone; sometimes, Betty worked, and, sometimes, she knew better than to pick up when gramps called. What else was Caller I.D. for, if not that?

“Listen,” I said. “I got a text from Tommy saying his old man’s pissed he’s been missing mail.

They’re going down town to see what the hold-up is, and I’m going with them. I’ll get this whole thing 22

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straightened out.”

Gramps sat forward, eyed me up and down. His suspenders were loose over the white cotton

wife beater he wore all days of the week, save one. A dribble of spit went over the left side of his lip. “Welp,” he said. “Even if I were to tell you different, you’d do whatever you want anyhow—just like your mother did whatever she wanted before she ran out on you and your pop. I made a line of weak men, didn’t I?” He sat back, crossing his arms, looking out past our mailbox, off into the territory of god-knows-what. “Wasn’t a week after she ran off on him that his heart gave out or gave in or whatever the hell you want to call it, but what I call it is weak, plain weak, and your mother?” He glared back at me. “She shoulda taken you with her.”

“Fuck you.” I walked up the porch and tried to push past him.

“Hey, uh,” he said, grabbing my wrist as I went by—I still remember the little white ring he

left; he’d gripped me a lot harder than I supposed he could. “You wouldn’t mind bringing an old man his rifle, wouldya?”

What I think about now is the un-dead tottering up our front lawn, stumbling through the

crab grass and the thorn thistle, arms out-stretched, moaning, drawn on toward the one live meal left on the front porch of our house. Gramps would have gotten off a number of shots, I’m sure. In fact, I don’t doubt that, for a while, he got optimistic—hell, even confident. It wouldn’t have lasted long, though. I didn’t bring him ammunition enough for more than a single re-load, maybe two, at most, and what for? I thought he was crazy. I thought he might try to kill himself or kill me when I came back, or, if he was full of it, and the mailman really did show up, maybe he’d pump a few rounds into that brown satchel they all carry around like a badage. No, he wouldn’t need a single re-load, no way.

I was positive.

As for myself, it was about fifteen seconds after I’d first arrived at the post office that I received

a new text from Tommy. He said they weren’t going to show. His old man got called in to work at the mill—too many were out sick, it seemed. They needed all the help they could get, and so I guess Tommy was out at the yard, too, stacking fresh-cut tree trunks, one on top of the other.

I was on my own.

I opened the front door to the post office. It was a small building, and the cheap blue and white

paint made the main office look smaller than it was. There were a number of old, gold lock boxes that were swung wide on their hinges, the keys still stuck into them. They were like little port holes, 23

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showing you a space with qualities opposite your own—you could see back into the area where the mailman shoved the days fare into its respective slot. And that’s where the noise was coming from, somewhere back there. It was hard to hear, I missed it at first, but it was there, covered only by my footsteps, echoing across the tiled floor.

My heart began to out-pace my eyes as my vision beat back and forth across the floor, then up

and over the front desk of the mailroom. There were boxes (I assume they were empty) stacked on top of one another to the left and right—they were short money, I guess, and so they never got around to putting up a real wall that separated what looked like a warehouse from the front of the office. The boxes were a make-shift wall, and they’d left a gap in the middle, so that employees could shuffle back and forth, if need be, and as I approached the front desk, it was through this gap that I got my first, live look at an infected corpse.

There was Betty, down on all fours. She was a thin, brittle woman who wore jeans that rode up

to her breasts just about, and those jeans did her good now; her knees were scraping back and forth against the concrete, as if she were trying to run headlong into Akers, who was laid out, face down, on the floor in front of her.

His left pant leg looked like a tire that’d been blown out along the side of the road, and where

cloth gave way to skin, there was Betty, kneading blood and meat and bone-bits with both hands. She’d put his Achilles tendon into her mouth, clamping down on it with all the might of her molars; she was pulling back on it like you’d pull back a bow by the string.

Sweet Christ.

How had he known?

How had that crazy old man known?

I didn’t scream. My hands started to shake, sure, and I could have sworn that my lungs were

about two sizes too small, but I didn’t scream. Instead, I backed off, slow and steady … she hadn’t heard me yet, hadn’t seen me, hadn’t smelled me, whatever … and I had no intention of announcing myself any time soon. I turned around with equal care, and there was Gramps, standing tall in the doorway, his overalls soaked in blood and sweat and tobacco spit—he had his rifle aimed level with my chest.

“One left,” he said. The hammer clicked back.

For a second, I wondered just who that last bullet might be for.

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REVIEWS

Shotgun Horror Clips reviews material in an objective manner, and rates works in a subjective, out-of-five system. Works rated one-out-of-five Shotgun Shells are considered not-so-hot, while a five-out-of-five is fantastic! A combination of our ratings and reviews is reccomended before giving our suggestions a shot!

Movies

The Witch (2015)

The Witch, written and directed by Robert Eggers in his directorial debut, premiered in January 2015, and was then released and distributed in February 2016. It stars Anya Taylor-Joy as Thomasin, Ralph Ineson as the father, William, and Kate Dickie as the mother, Katherine. It has scored favorably on IMBD at 6.7/10, as well as on Rotten Tomatoes, with a 91% approval rating. We give it 4 Shotgun Shells out of 5. Here’s why: ake note now: this is not your average jump-out-and-getcha, theatre-bait blockbuster. There are

various movies, really wonderful pieces of work, that fall into that category. The Witch has its

scares, but this movie has a goal, and that is to raise horror beyond a few cinematic tricks. With that in mind, it does a fine job.

When you watch a period piece of fiction, especially one as authentic and as creative as The Witch,

it’s easy to find yourself transported back into that time and place, adopting the same superstitions as the folks that lived way back when. At the same time, you’re conflicted, because what they believe is not what you believe—at least, it isn’t in the same form as you believe it now.

It is this dichotomy—both this odd acceptance and denial—that makes The Witch tense right

from the start. Set in Puritan New England in the 1600’s, The Witch follows a man and his family as they abandon (or rather, as they are kicked out of ) their plantation due to disagreements with the 25

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local parish. Are they the righteous sort, this man and his family? Or is it pride that has led them away from what their fellow puritans believe with fervor?

They settle on a small plot of land—what turns out to be at least a day’s ride back to the plantation

by horse, if not more. They build their house and their farm on the edge of a deep wood. They tell their children there is a witch of the wood, so that they do not stray into it alone. The trouble is that, once their newborn, Jacob, disappears out of the hands of their daughter Thomasin, we, the audience, know that the parents were right. There really is a witch of the wood. And she’s a very hungry gal, this witch.

This family is plagued by signs and signals and sins stemming from the opposite side of the

Cross, and, because of its setting and the accuracy of the times it portrays, you immediately sympathize with them. You can’t help but feel, well, helpless, right along with the family. When more members of the family begin to die, or begin to exhibit strange behavior, there is a sense of distress that sets in, because you begin to believe it isn’t as simple as some hungry old witch in the woods. There is something special going on here, something that has the family hooked into whatever is in the woods in a particular way, so that we know that none of them will be leaving without paying the ultimate price.

If you’re looking for a movie that has imagery that will stick with you far past the date of its

viewing, and if you’re looking for a movie that works less with CGI and more so with the content of its setting, this is the right movie to watch. At times, it will repulse you, sure, and it will horrify you, too, but best of all, it succeeds in terrifying you in a way that many modern horror films can’t seem to touch nor to grasp at. The Witch enjoys a 4 out of 5 Shotgun Shell rating from us.

Check it out.

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Note: This First Edition of Shotgun Horror Clips is dedicated to Stella and Kira, who both are, and continue to be, the catâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s meow.