Demure

November 20, 2024November 8, 2024 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 4 Comments

The only time I truly feared my wife was when she saved my life. In our courtship, I had always thought her demure. I had thought her propriety was what kept our rendezvous under the bright light of day, where none could whisper of clandestine meetings by candlelight.

Yet even then, in her modesty there was an air of mystery. Of possibility. Intriguing, alluring—a question waiting to be asked.

It seemed more strange, then, when her moonlit modesty extended into marriage. When we spent our wedding night apart, I worried that she may be a question without answer. She set those fears to rest as she woke me with the full heat of her daylight passion, and all thoughts of the cold night were pushed from my mind.

And so our not-quite-typical marriage passed in days together, nights apart, but I was too enamoured to wonder at it all. Why question perfect contentment?

Until that night of the broken glass. The fear woke me before I could identify the sound. Muffled by distance, but sharp and sure. I moved to the door without thinking, driven only by my deepest fear. Not for me—but for her.

At the end of the corridor, the glass glittered in the moonlight. But there amid the light was a darkness—a person. He looked at me. And lunged.

I hit the ground with such force that my breath left my body. As his hands wrapped around my throat, I was not sure that I would have the chance to draw breath again. He was bigger than me, stronger than me. But then a still-larger shadow fell across us.

I do not know which chilled me more: the scream or the growl. His weight was lifted from my body, and I gasped for breath. But as I watched him flail against the hold of teeth and claws, I felt a new breathlessness overtake me. His blood pooled dark in the moonlight. His flailing shuddered and stopped.

I could not move. Not as the great shadow tossed his body aside. Not as the creature turned towards me, its fur darkly gleaming, its eyes bright, its muzzle bloody. It moved slowly now. Sniffing at me gently, softly. Demurely.

I reached out slowly, and her massive head nuzzled against my hand. My fingers were lost in the warmth of her fur. Her eyes were changed, but she looked at me with a love that I knew well. And in that moment, all my questions were answered.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

Nature is Red

November 13, 2024November 8, 2024 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 4 Comments

The neighbor’s dog was staring at him through the fence. He quickly lifted the air rifle and fired. There was a distinct yelp as the pellet made contact. The dog disappeared. He smiled in satisfaction. First blood of the day; it hopefully wouldn’t be the last. There was a call from indoors.

“Jeremy dear, is everything okay?”

“Yes, mother, nothing to worry about.”

“That’s good, dear. Enjoy yourself!”

He reloaded his gun. His pockets were full of lead pellets and he was headed out into the countryside to see what he could kill. He suspected he would enjoy himself.

He walked down the lane towards the woods. It was Wednesday; he was meant to be at school, but he’d persuaded mother he was too ill to go. He’d also persuaded her to let him go to the woods with his air rifle. He told her it was for target shooting; he just hadn’t clarified the targets he had in mind were still alive.

It was spring, and the trees were green, giving plenty of cover for the wildlife. He entered the woods and sat on a log. He lifted the gun to his shoulder and peered through the scope. The woods were alive with noise and he watched the branches carefully. A bird landed on a nearby tree. He levelled his gun, aimed and fired. The bird fell in a pathetic heap on the ground. First kill. Keeping his eye against the scope, he surveyed the bushes. Pop! Another bird fell dead, then a third. Jeremy was both a sadist and a crack shot.

He moved from spot to spot, each time killing a couple of birds. He didn’t bother with the corpses; he wasn’t interested in anything but killing. Time passed quickly. Four o’clock found him sitting in a wooded glade, miles from anywhere. Through the scope, he noticed a pair of eyes staring at him from a bush. He recognized them as human, but he was still tempted to fire. He stood.

“You might as well come out.”

A kid of about ten emerged.

“You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.”

“Cool gun. Can I touch it?”

“No, you’re just a kid. This isn’t a toy.”

He stretched.

“What are you doing? Are you hunting?” asked the kid.

“I’m heading home. I’m getting bored, shooting birds is too easy.”

“We could go up to the stone circle. I saw some bigger birds up there the other day. Rabbits too.”

The notion of fresh blood was too tempting.

“There better be kid, or I’ll thump you.”

“I promise.”

“Let’s go then.”

Jeremy climbed the hill to the ancient stone circle, with the boy following. The stones sat on top of a low hill, overlooking the village. Jeremy had been up here numerous times, forced by mother to go on Sunday walks, or with his teacher, on field trips. His teacher had mentioned something about the history of the circle in class, but Jeremy hadn’t been paying attention. Something to do with Pagan rites.

He knelt and propped his weapon against a fallen stone. The boy knelt down beside him. Jeremy scanned the area but saw nothing.

“There’s nothing here, kid.”

The boy pointed.

“There! A fox!”

He was right, just at the edge of the circle stood a fox, sniffing the air. It hadn’t noticed them. Jeremy put his eye to the scope and pressed the trigger. The creature dropped.

“And that seals the deal,” said the boy beside him in an adult voice.

“Huh?”

The boy jumped up onto the stone. He started to spin, round and round.

“What the fuck are you doing kid? Stop it, before I thump you.”

The spinning became a blur; it wasn’t possible, but it was happening right before Jeremy’s eyes.

“Stop!”

The boy stopped, but he was no longer a boy. In front of Jeremy stood a vision from hell. The figure had the legs of some sort of animal and the top half of a human, except for the two horns that sprouted from his forehead.

“What the hell? Who are you?”

The creature wagged its finger playfully.

“Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy. I thought you’d recognize me. Your poor old mummy would be disappointed after paying so much for that expensive school.”

He hopped down from the stone.

“I’m Pan.”

“Huh?”

“The god. Nice to meet you.”

“Huh?”

“You failed today’s test, you know. You killed too many animals.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh well, what’s done is done. Let’s not dwell on your stupidity, let’s move to the main act.”

“What’s that?”

“Nature, red in tooth and claw. Isn’t that what you humans say?”

“I think so.”

The creature stared at him.

“Gosh, you are dumb, aren’t you?”

“You’re rude. I’m going home now.”

Jeremy turned to leave the stone circle, but realized he was surrounded by all sorts of creatures. There were deer, foxes, badgers, rats, mice, dogs, rabbits and cats.

“I’m afraid you can’t leave. My friends have come to meet you, to see the monster that decimated their ranks. You killed for pleasure, for no reason at all. I wouldn’t have minded if you hunted for food, but just for sport? No. Horrible, only humans are cruel enough to do that. And so, I have a little lesson in mind for you.”

“A lesson? What do you mean?”

“Well, at the risk of spoiling the surprise, we are here to show you, convincingly I might add, that nature is indeed red in tooth and claw. Very red.”

The animals around him moved closer. Jeremy didn’t even have the chance to scream.

∼ RJ Meldrum

Just Do It

October 16, 2024October 7, 2024 ~ Ian Sputnik ~ 3 Comments

Charles got out of the bath and gave himself a quick towel down. He then stood at the sink, combed his hair, and brushed his teeth. His thoughts were foggy. Even after a tepid bath he still felt like death warmed up. He briefly mused that nobody said ‘like life cooled down’ which was surely the same, if not similar. He shook his head to clear his thoughts from the ridiculous comparison.

He wandered through to the bedroom and started dressing. As he put his socks on, he instinctively rubbed his lower legs. He looked down at the scars that ran from his ankles to just below his knees. Some were large and deep, others were thin and long, like elongated hairs but with a pale red hue.

His thoughts slowly meandered back to that day, over twenty years ago now. The ‘event’ that would mold his mind and body to what it was now. He was scarred both inside and out. But Charles was resilient and headstrong. And with that strength, he had made a good life. He had a beautiful wife, a lovely home, a blossoming business, and two wonderful children.

***

“Come on Charlie,” shouted Pete. Pete was the troublemaker of the class. He was always in detention or getting the cane, but all the other boys looked up to him with a mixture of admiration and fear.

Charles quickly followed Pete and three of their classmates, Chick, Steve, and Mickey. Pete had come up with a brilliant idea, and, if Pete suggested anything, then it went without saying that others would follow along without question.

During lunch, Pete shared with the others the plan. His brother had been at the boarding school but had since left to attend university. He had informed Pete of a secret way into the tuck shop. A way they could eat candy like kings for free.

They entered the main hall and made their way to the large stage area at the front. The headmaster would orate his morning assembly speeches from it, but it was also used for theatrical productions.

Pete dropped to his knees and pulled a small wooden facia board away from the stage.

“Charlie, come here,” he ordered.

Charles did as he was told.

“Look in between the wooden support beams, right at the end there’s a grille. It’s just pushed into place. It’s really easy to pull out, no screws or anything. The next room is the tuck shop. We all know it’s shut and locked ten minutes before the end of lunch break. Grab as much as you can get. In you go.”

Charles froze. “Why me?”

“You’re the only one small enough”.

“Go on, Charlie, do it,” Pete commanded.

Charlie hesitated. It looked dirty under the stage, and the cobwebs were thick.

“Do it, do it, do it,” the other boys chanted.

Not one to disobey Pete, Charles dropped to his knees and moved slowly under the stage area. He could only just squeeze between the wooden beams on either side of him and he had to do that on all fours with the boards scraping his school blazer.

“You there yet?” Mickey called.

Charles couldn’t turn to see who had asked as there was no room to maneuver. He just carried on into the wooden tunnel. “Nearly, I think,” he answered. He reached the end and fumbled for the grille. He couldn’t see it through the dust-filled air and dim light. That light, no matter how dim suddenly vanished and Charles was plunged into pitch-black darkness. Behind him, he could hear the board being pushed back into place. Then giggles, and the sound of running feet retreating from the scene. Charles also thought he heard the word ‘loser’ being yelled out. It was too muffled to clearly hear who had shouted it, but Charles could easily guess.

He tried to shuffle backward but found it extremely impossible. Going forward was hard enough. His blazer kept catching on splinters and nails. He was stuck. All he could do was kneel there and sob.

He couldn’t tell how long he’d been trapped beneath the stage before he heard the first squeak. It seemed like hours but could have been far less. The squeak was followed by scampering sounds. He felt something crawling up his calf closely followed by a sharp agonizing pain. Charles screamed into the darkness. He twisted his body in sheer panic as another bite was followed by another and yet another. He managed to free himself and spun himself onto his back. He kicked his legs wildly and could feel the rats as he tried to pound them with his legs into the wooden boards above and below him. They began to scratch and bite into his shins as they made their way up his legs. Suddenly, with a creak bright light assaulted his eyes as the board above him was pulled free. Through the blinding light, Charles could vaguely make out a human form.

“Ok, Charlie, I’ve got you,” came the unmistakable reassuring voice of the headmaster.

As he was pulled from his tomb of torment, he also saw the caretaker, who beat off the rats with a broom, and the school’s matron who shrieked “Oh my god, look at his legs”.

It should have been a blessing to be released from the nightmare that he had endured, but it was only the beginning. Each night he’d dream of being stuck beneath the floorboards again. He’d scream and kick at the rats as they scratched and gnawed at his shins whilst they slowly worked their way up his legs. He’d shake himself from his nightmare, a floorboard would be lifted and the daylight would flood in. But now the sight of the headmaster was replaced with that of his mother. “Charles, it’s just a dream,” she’d say in the reassuring tone that only mothers can give.

***

From the day of that terrifying ordeal, Charles was never quite been the same. Outwardly he turned into a strong and determined young man. Inwardly he was something completely different. The nightmares that interrupted his sleep on a regular basis gave him a serious outlook on life, one that made him old before his time. He had become untrusting in nature and this in turn had made him a formidable businessman and a very shrewd figure in the financial scene. But, with all his success and wealth, he’d gladly give it up for the bliss of being able to obtain a steady run of uninterrupted nights of sleep with peaceful dreams. He would be happy working in a factory or grocery store, if he had his loving wife, whom he met at a seminar six years earlier, and his children beside him.

Charles now controlled the nightmares as much as he could with the use of medication. He still had bad nights when he struggled to break free of his recurring nightmare. The longer they lasted, the further the rats would manage to crawl up his body.

Driving back from his office one night, he found it difficult to concentrate. The previous night he’d experienced one of his ‘episodes’. He thought about requesting a stronger dose of medication from his doctor. He worried that his wife would begin to realize that he suffered so badly with regular nightmares. It was a pride thing. He was determined to be a strong husband and father in her eyes. She obviously knew about his nightmares, but even after their years of marriage, he had never revealed the nature or cause of them. This was his burden to bear, and his alone. Every marriage has its secrets, he rationalized, and this was his.

He cracked the window open a little so the fresh breeze would gently brush against his face as he drove. He hoped this would refresh him enough so that he could put his thoughts in order. He had a big meeting planned for the next day and needed to bring his ‘A’ game along with him. There was a big merger in the planning. If successful it would ensure the future of his business.

He turned on his car radio, hoping some music might ease the tension that had already started cramping the back of his neck. He tuned into the local station just as a song was finishing. An advert for a DIY store began. “Don’t keep putting those jobs off in your home,” the narrator said. “It’s time to get your house into shape. JUST-DO-IT,” they commanded, accompanied by combined backing voices who chanted “Do it, do it, do it.”

Charles was suddenly transported back to his wooden prison beneath the stage. He could hear the voices of Pete, Chick, Steve, and Mickey. “Do it, do it, do it,” they urged. Dazzling headlights blinded him. There was then a sudden jolt that made his body lurch forward. The sound of breaking glass and crumpling metal was the last thing that he could hear before the world turned black.

Charles was trapped beneath the stage. The rats chewed chunks from his legs and advanced up his body. They scratched at his knees and began biting and chewing into the soft flesh of his thighs. He screamed and kicked but still the nightmare continued. He shook his head from side to side in order to escape this realm of torture, but he couldn’t break free from the vision. The rodents made their way to his stomach and they tore at his shirt and then into his chest. He heard the creaking of floorboards and light filled the void. As one of them was removed, he could see the haloed vision of a person. As it came into focus, he saw the smiling face of his wife. She was gently calling his name. Gwen then began to slowly lower the board again. She forced it back into place until the dimming light of the outside world was eventually gone once more. Charles screamed and beat upon the wood with bloodied fists but to no avail. How could she do this to him? His thoughts were a haze of panic and confusion.

Gwen’s eyes darted from Charles to the doctor.

“What’s happening?” she cried through teary eyes.

The doctor injected the last of the fluid from the syringe into Charles’s intravenous drip.

“Your husband has sustained severe internal injuries and major head trauma. It’s better that he doesn’t come around yet. That will give his body a better chance to heal.” He explained.

She gently squeezed his hand and briefly left the private hospital room to see to her children who patiently waited in the corridor.

The rats had now made it up to Charles’s face where they tore chunks of flesh from his cheeks. He then felt their warm breath on his eyelids as they began their onslaught, first ripping the lids away and then gorging on his eyes. Charles writhed in agony. No matter how hard he shook his head or kicked his feet he just couldn’t stop the horror.

On seeing their father briefly regain consciousness only to close his eyes again the children began to cry.

“Is Daddy going OK?” his daughter asked. “Is he dead?” she blurted out in a sobbing voice, her tearful eyes letting out a constant stream that ran down her cheeks.

Gwen took a tissue from her pocket and gently began to wipe her daughter’s face.

“It’s going to be ok,” she assured her. “The doctor’s just given Daddy something to make him sleep while he gets better,” she explained. She then hugged both of her children, whilst holding back her own tears for their sake.

Meanwhile, Charles screamed and kicked. Why couldn’t he wake? Why? He tried his hardest to break from his bad dream. His thoughts were of his children and his adoring wife. He prayed that he could return to them again.

Three weeks later Charles finally opened his eyes.

The doctor checked the monitor and gave Gwen a reassuring nod.

She gently spoke Charles’s name. There was no reaction. So, she repeated it again and again.

“What’s happening, doctor?”

“He just needs time,” he responded in a caring but professional manner.

Charles could vaguely see the hospital room’s ceiling. He looked down and could make out the bed through fuzzy vision. But he could not see his wife. The room was empty apart from the giant rat that sat on his chest and stared with black eyes at him.

After nearly thirty days of medically induced coma, Charles’s body had recovered and once again had returned to the land of the living. But his mind was gone forever.

∼ Ian Sputnik

Roadkill

October 9, 2024October 7, 2024 ~ Charles Gramlich ~ 6 Comments

No moon. A sky flecked like mica with stars. I had my Harley redlined, the V-Twin burning between my legs. It’s always dangerous riding fast at night. But since the change I had nothing to lose, no one to care if I lost it. Then I saw her, lying across the blacktop.

Dead, I thought.

But she moved when I swerved to avoid her. I got the bike stopped, u-turned, winced as I saw… Her back was broken. I hung the bike on its kickstand, the headlight painting her, refracting jewels from her liquid eyes. I rushed to her, knelt.

She opened her mouth but made no sound. How could she be alive? How could she breathe with a chest half crushed? What was she doing so far from town? What sick fate had sent a vehicle to rendezvous with her at this lonely spot? There were no signs of burnt rubber. Whoever hit her hadn’t even slowed down.

I tried to force, “It’s OK,” through my lips. The meaningless words wouldn’t come.

Then she looked past me toward highway’s edge. I turned, saw some shadowy movement. When I turned back she looked like she was sleeping but her chest no longer rose and fell. My feet followed where her gaze had led, and I saw why she’d been crossing the road. Saw what she was returning to. Or running from.

Her puppies had been born dead. But in this new world they hadn’t stayed that way. They smelled me, and squirmed toward me through their mother’s afterbirth, their baby teeth stark and white and gnashing.

I backed away, then screamed as a sudden flashing agony lanced through my legs. I fell, rolled instinctively away from the pain. The mother hound’s mouth was flecked with foam and blood. My blood. Her eyes had been reborn as scarlet hells.

I tried to get up, found she’d torn out my Achilles tendons. Still screaming, I scrabbled away along the highway. The hound growled and hitched herself toward me, her paws slapping at the asphalt. Intestines unraveled behind her. I laughed hysterically as I realized the mother’s broken spine would keep her from catching me.

Then I saw the puppies. On the road. They couldn’t walk either. But they were crawling faster than I was.

∼ Charles Gramlich

You Have Always Been Nothing

September 25, 2024September 12, 2024 ~ TheDamned ~ 2 Comments

When you’re dead, it’s forever. There’s nothing at all, and you won’t even know. You will know nada and be nada just like before you were born. Like every cockroach and worm and yes, human, that has ever lived. And there’s nothing you can do about it, except choose the time and place of your demise. I am here to facilitate that.

The forming of the Universe, the birth of the sun and the planets, the development of life on earth, were all unknown to you before your existence. For practically forever, for billions of years, you were nothing. The Buddhists say that to be in that state is Nirvana, the absence of thought and feeling and consciousness.

Now you’re aware of a tiny slice of that consciousness, and this experience isn’t even real. Consciousness is an evolutionary illusion, and according to scientific theory, formed to help you survive. Aliveness is purely a physical phenomenon. Even your awareness is a lie, to help your body avoid enemies. You may ask “but what about memory, isn’t that the story of the self?

Well, if you were only as old as what you could remember, you’d still be a child. These memories are not real either, because the time that they happened does not exist anymore. Your memories are all mind illusion, imagination. What I said three seconds ago has disappeared, except perhaps in your short-term recollections, which as I’ve said, are perpetually trying to grasp onto what no longer is.

I bring you these straight, true words to assist in the choices you must make today. I would advise making the right decision, because pain is all your mind is experiencing. You’re suffering from a terminal illness, causing you useless suffering, and a few more weeks of hurt is all you’ll know. I see you’re feeling the symptoms right now, even though you’re on an intravenous morphine drip. We have the liquids and the instruments right here, to offer you a way out, a way back to nothingness, where we all came from and where we’re all going. Even myself.

I fear too, the end of my life, but as it’s inevitable, my fear is useless. There’s no running away. I focus on other things, for instance the placing of morphine needles in ancient, diseased bodies, for which I am reasonably paid. My goal is to relieve suffering. I help others discover their true nature and the true meaning of existence.

Other people may briefly grieve your departure, but they’re living in illusion also. They’ll die too, and within a few years nobody will remember that you or they ever existed.

My words may seem stark, but they are merciful. Why not cut that suffering short?

Why not end it now? It’s the freest decision you’ll ever make.

Do I take pleasure in discussing this subject? Not at all, my smile is merely a reflection of my brain’s chemical processes. Everyone must capture some sense of the absurd, which we could call humour, in order that we not go completely mad. I want to stay sane. My chuckle is not personal.

What about God, you ask? Well, we all came from the womb, where all our needs were met. Food, touch, rest, we waited for birth, in the meantime we floated and grew. Memory feelings of that time and place underpin a longing to return, and we make up heaven and God as substitutes for our mother’s belly. Yes, we all want to go back to the heavenly womb. But that time will never occur again. The best times happened before we were even out of that place. No use in calling upon God because God was your Mom. She’s passed away, gone into the void. God is dead.

It’s time for me to leave, my shift ends in fifteen minutes. And it’s your time to go also. You’re not capable of helping anyone, or making the world better, all you can do is lie in bed. You need help rising to use the bathroom. It’s not your fault, but your life is useless.

There is no need to weep, but if you must, have a good cry. Tears are dripping with toxins, and it’s natural for our body to force those out. Even in our last moments, our bodies still want to keep going. They are hardworking machines, aren’t they? Indeed, I am smiling again. That statement tickled my funny bone.

Yes, I can make you a final appointment. Tomorrow morning. I commend you for making up your mind. So many people dither until they’re no longer capable.

At ten tomorrow, I’ll be here for the final time, and we’ll end all your worries and suffering forever. Your life will rise to enter Nirvana, the void where all your individual desires and sufferings disappear. That is as close to heaven as you will ever get. Into the emptiness of non-existence and disconnection, forever and forever and forever.

All things must pass, as now-deceased Beatle George Harrison wrote in his song of the same name. George is gone, too, as he predicted. And to quote another deceased Beatle, “there’s no hell below us, above us only sky.” Nothing to look forward to, literally he he.

When the nurse comes to check on you, give her your last breakfast order. I recommend decaffeinated coffee and maybe a slice of rye toast. Try and focus on the taste. Round ten, I’ll bring the needle and the death juice. Wipe away those tears, maybe try and count your heart beats, one way to pass the time.

Have a good night, my friend. Remember, we’re all living this illusion together, at least until tomorrow.

∼ Harrison Kim

Brain Box

September 11, 2024August 5, 2024 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 4 Comments

The tendrils, that’s what Jimmy called ‘em. They got hold of his mind and reached in real far. Slithering, he called it. He said they pulled out something from deep inside, something he never could’ve reached on his own.

Oh, he fought it. That I know. Pills, powder, it didn’t matter. As long as it ‘altered his natural state’ he said, it was fine by him. But it was never enough. Reality was too bent for him to see straight, so crooked was the only way to be. That was the only thing that made sense to him. He said when reality became thought, and thought, reality, he couldn’t tell which was which. And when Jimmy’s mind was in a jumble, so was everything around him. I saw things fly off the shelves when he got upset, furniture jumped around the room when he was mad. Never saw nothing like it before. He just couldn’t control it.

When the walls closed in on poor old Jimmy, they really closed in. I think he lived his whole life in fear. I know I would if I had to live with that kind of…condition. Yes, I seen it myself. That run-down old trailer-home of his, crumpled up like a soda can. Poor bastard worried himself to death.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

The Wolfshead

August 14, 2024July 31, 2024 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 3 Comments

I’m an author. I specialize in ghost stories, but the ones I write aren’t very scary. My tales tend to be more of the cozy variety. Ghost pets, friendly specters and the like. I enjoy what I do, but there’s one thing missing. I’ve never achieved my biggest ambition of writing a truly terrifying tale. I wanted to write a story that will give my readers nightmares. Better still, I wanted to spin a tale that will stop them from sleeping altogether.

I realized the key was atmosphere. I needed to find somewhere away from the suburban streets where I live. Somewhere windswept and interesting. Somewhere on the moors. It had to be Dartmoor, the spookiest part of England. My job gave me four weeks of vacation every year. My wife allowed me two weeks, no more.

“If you can’t write a terrifying tale in two weeks, then you never will, especially surrounded by all that atmosphere. Me and kids need a break, that’s what the other two weeks are for.”

“Just you wait. I’ll bring back a story that will make me famous!”

I chose the remotest corner of the moor. I chose February, when there are no tourists and the weather was guaranteed to be lousy. I deliberately didn’t go through any websites to find a hotel; I didn’t want to choose a location known by anyone else. I simply drove the back roads until I found somewhere I could stay. It took a few hours, but then I turned a corner and there it was. An isolated inn, standing on the edge of a barren, wind-blasted stretch of heath. It was rundown, with faded, peeling timber and a mossy roof. The only clue it was open to the public was a sign hanging from a gibbet at the entrance. The Wolfshead. I parked and entered.

It was one of those old-fashioned places, so beloved by the British. Low ceilings, exposed beams and an array of agricultural equipment on display. An open fire warmed the room. The room was empty, except for a man standing behind the bar. I presumed this was the landlord. He sipped from a glass of amber liquid.

“I’d like a room for a few days.”

“Not a problem, we’re not exactly busy.”

He was clearly intoxicated.

I was shown to my room. It was small, with a low ceiling and a single bed. It was scruffy, but clean. There was a stained desk and chair by the window, which had a view across the moor. This was the atmosphere I craved.

My evening was spent in the awkward company of the landlord. He managed to assemble some bread and cheese for me to eat. I ate this meager meal and sipped a warm beer.

It reached midnight. The landlord, who was very drunk by this time, made a feeble attempt to tidy up a few glasses, but quickly gave up after he dropped one, the glass shattering over the stone floor. He clicked off the lights and stumbled out the main bar. I heard him wobbling up the stairs. It was obvious he’d forgotten I was there. By firelight, I finished my pint and went to bed.

In my room, I glanced out the window. There was nothing but darkness, with only the occasional light in the distance to show the location of an isolated farm. It was quite the contrast to my home in the city. I slid into bed. It was very comfortable and I was tired, so I dropped off almost immediately.

I was woken a few hours later by the smell of smoke. I leapt from the bed and switched on the bedside light. Smoke was seeping under the door. I placed my hand against the wood. It was hot. There was fire on the other side. I dared not open it, I knew the room would be engulfed. My only option was the window. I grabbed my phone, wallet and car keys. I opened the window and looked down. It was a drop of perhaps ten feet to the ground. I eased myself out, hung onto the frame and lowered myself. I let go and dropped the few remaining feet onto soft grass.

I ran to the front of the building, but I could already see that it was engulfed in flames. There was nothing I could do. I tried my phone, but there was no reception. I decided to head over the moors to the nearest lights. Since I didn’t know the roads, I decided to head straight across the heath on foot. It wasn’t the best option, but it was my only choice.

It took me about thirty minutes to reach the nearest farm. I was exhausted, scratched and covered in mud. I stumbled into the farm’s kitchen. Despite the hour there was a man sitting by the fire, drinking from a mug. I was gasping from my exertions.

“The Wolfshead! It’s burning to the ground. I can’t find the landlord!”

He remained sitting by the fire, and rubbed the stubble on his chin; not quite the reaction I expected.

“The Wolfshead, you say? Can’t be. That place burnt down years back. Just a ruin now. Landlord got drunk every night. One night he was killed.”

“It’s in flames right now! Even if you don’t believe me, can I least use your phone?”

“Don’t have one.”

Clearly, there would be no help here. I decided to head back to the inn, hoping the emergency services had been notified. I expected to see ominous red glow of the fire to help guide me, but there was nothing but darkness. I stumbled my way across the moor, wondering what on earth was happening. I found the inn after getting lost twice. I stared in amazement at the ruin I found. It was the Wolfshead, the sign was still there, but the windows were all boarded-up and it was surrounded by metal fencing, with stark No Entry signs posted. A forlorn For Sale sign had been attached to the wall near the entrance. The farmer had been correct, this place had been a ruin for years. My car sat in the car park, a very welcome sight. I jumped in, thankful for the chance to go home, to escape that bleak, haunted place. I tried not to think about what had just happened to me.

My wife was pleased to see me back so early, but disguised her emotions with a display of annoyance, complaining that I’d disturbed her ‘me’ time. I was bitterly disappointed, not just because of my traumatic experience, but because I hadn’t written my story. But every cloud has a silver lining. It was my wife who gave me the idea.

“Not that I believe you about what happened, but if it’s true, it all sounds pretty terrifying. Why don’t you just write that?”

And so, I have!

∼ RJ Meldrum

Damned Words 58

July 24, 2024July 20, 2024 ~ TheDamned ~ 2 Comments

Under My Skin
Marge Simon

Out clubbing, I meet a dreamy guy, you know the kind. My mother warned about deceptive men, but there he was –muscular, with topaz skin, thick lashes, all that goes with. The band is playing silver slipper music. Only one dance, all I ask is make it slow.

It’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”, my favorite. But as he tongues my ear, he spits a devil-worm inside. It makes passage through my cochlea, down my auditory nerve, straight into my brain, then powers on to reach my retina and ends at the lens. The last thing I see is the universe exploding under my skin.

Vast
Lee Andrew Forman

With each particle of light, the ocular focus retains all—joy, pain, elation, agony. The mind recalls its past as it processes its present. But what the consciousness witnesses is beyond comprehension. It exists outside the realm of belief, on the outer reaches of the horizon of reality. Vessels burst, each from the strain of pure terror. Soft brain tissue shrivels at the sight of what cannot be unseen. Even as the last breath releases from this poor soul’s lungs and the heart ceases to function, in death, these memories are ingrained. Forever will its ghost see, in unendingly denied release, the vastness of eternal torment.

The Collector
A.F. Stewart

Is it watching me? What does it see floating in that jar?

I stroke the glass jar and smile at my imaginings. The eye sees nothing anymore. It is only a specimen now.

And such a wonderful specimen. So many beautiful memories attached to it. I stare for a moment, savouring its beauty. Blood still clings to the viscera and membranes, the veins snaking stark red across the white filmy pulp. The satisfaction I felt scooping it from its socket, wet and dripping, plopping it fresh into the preserving fluid.

It isn’t perfect though. I made mistakes.

The pretty hazel hue of the iris faded; no longer the sparkling bright colour I envied. A shame really, her eyes were the loveliest part of her. A pity my hand slipped when extracting the other one; I wanted a matched set. Her screams during the procedure were too distracting. I’ll remember to gag the next girl.

I slide a new specimen jar next to her eye. Such exquisitely tapered fingers and a pair this time. The axe made nice, clean cuts; no ragged edges. And cauterizing the wounds with the blowtorch kept her alive. I was so proud. She won’t last much longer, but I should be able to remove her lips before she dies. She has such a charming smile, and now it will be mine forever.

Once I’m done with her, then on to the next one. Perhaps that pretty brunette barista at the coffee shop or that teenager working shifts at the farmer’s market. They both have such gorgeous eyes…

Piecemeal
Elaine Pascale

Exercise and diet hadn’t worked. She felt she had run the equivalent of marathons, consumed calories approximating that of fumes, yet the scale did not budge. Pharmaceuticals did not work, either. She experimented with prescription capsules, over-the-counter tablets, and illegally obtained powders. Swallowing, snorting, and injecting left her tired, angry, and the same weight as before.

Stapling her stomach in half heralded a margin of success. Her physician prescribed a healthy lifestyle to accompany the radical surgery and assure lasting results. In her imagination, the directions that were printed on the side of the “lasting results” bottle warned that they must be taken along with patience, and she had run out of that years before. She wanted instant gratification. If half a stomach meant pounds lost, what would removing a few organs no longer in use produce?

She crafted symptoms that led to a full hysterectomy. She forged a family history that led to a double mastectomy. She paid out of pocket for lipo. She flew to a country whose name she could never pronounce correctly to have some unnecessary bones removed along with fingernails, toenails, and teeth. The scale was still not where she needed it to be.

The final solution: eye removal. Not only would that eliminate 56 grams, she would no longer be able to see the scale.

Closing Time
Charles Gramlich

She made eyes at him across the bar. He didn’t seem to notice. She smiled and flipped her hair when he finally glanced her way. His gaze passed over as if she were part of the pseudo-paneled and pseudo-velvet décor. Now, it was a challenge. She knew she was attractive enough. And surely that was why men came to such places, and why they stayed until closing time. He was mildly attractive himself, in a kind of college professor sort of way. She decided that he needed to make a pass at her, and then she’d turn him down cold for first ignoring her.

She slithered around the bar to be closer to him and ordered a fresh drink for last call. Tipping the good-looking bartender a little too heavily, she slurred her voice while she thanked him, leaning forward on the stool so the hem of her red dress slid well up her thigh. The mark had to be looking at her now; he had to be thinking about how he could take her home and do things to her. But when she glanced provocatively over her shoulder at him, he wasn’t even there. She turned on her stool to see where he’d gone. The bar was empty. She spun back toward the bartender. He wasn’t there either. Before she could gasp in surprise, a long-fingered hand covered her mouth from behind and a man’s voice crooned chillingly into her ear, “Now that you’ve caught my attention, I only have eyes for you.”

Something plopped into her drink. The golden-brown iris suggested it had once belonged to the bartender.

Hatchling
Nina D’Arcangela

Pressure from within stretches the gelatenous casing, the soft shell begins to rupture. A tiny heart—so fragile, so young, quickens as the inner-spawn sees light for the first time. The taut opening widens. Its lasting wait in darkness has come to an end. With it, a cry of pain; the release of violent nature, of agonizing entry into existence. It sees its new domain with fresh eyes; it’s teeming with life. A grumble rises from its empty paunch as it tears free of its sack. Dripping in yolk, its unending feast begins.

Infected
RJ Meldrum

I thought I’d been smart. I’m a prepper; my basement is full of freeze-dried food, bottled water and guns. I wasn’t getting ready for anything specific. I just wanted to be ready. When the end came, it wasn’t what I expected. I wasn’t ready. I was in the damn supermarket when it happened. There had been reports of a strange new infection, but nothing local. Just in the city, so I gave it little thought.

I wasn’t aware of how it happened, all I know was a crowd of the infected burst in the front door and started to bite and tear at customers and staff alike. I dropped everything and ran, like everyone else. I passed real close to a victim being torn apart by two of…well, whatever they’d become. Just as I passed, they must have hit an artery and I had to run through a spray of blood. I felt it on my face and had to wipe my eyes to clear my vision.

I got back to my basement safely and locked down. It wasn’t until the second day I realized something was wrong. My left eyeball had a huge inflamed lump on it. It didn’t take long to work out I was infected. I can feel it work its way through my body.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul. I suspect very soon I won’t have one.

The Eye Collector
Kathleen McCluskey

Martha woke with a broken blood vessel in her eye. That night she vanished. Townspeople began to wake with bloodshot eyes. Each of them disappeared within twenty-four hours. Detective Sam Harris had seen strange cases. But this one was different. The connection was the bloodshot eyes. As Sam was pouring over the case files, Eliza knocked on his door. She spoke of a legend that had been whispered. The Eye Collector was a demon that fed on the eyeballs of its victims. It could only collect them if the victims offered them willingly. It manipulated their thoughts, driving them mad until they plucked out their eyes. Eliza had a book filled with descriptions for the rituals needed.

That night, Sam felt a presence in his room. A whisper in his ear. “Your eyes, give them to me.” He jolted upright. He ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. The burst blood vessel appeared in his eye. He sought out Eliza and told her of the demon’s whisper. They decided to confront the Eye Collector at his lair, a dilapidated house on the edge of town.

As they approached the house, the front door creaked open. The atmosphere was thick with stench. The walls were lined with jars each containing a single, bloodshot eye. The whispers surrounded Sam and grew louder. Eliza began the ritual, chanting the words while Sam tried to keep his sanity. The demon appeared. It was a shadowy figure with eyes that burned like embers. Sam’s hand lifted to his eyes as Eliza’s chanting had reached a crescendo. The jars shook violently. They toppled off the shelves, shattering. Silence. Two jars remained intact. In one of the eyes, the demon’s eyes flickered.

Penetrating the Ball
Harrison Kim

C. and I open our tentacles to touch down and fasten on the red spot of the Black Ball, which resides in the alternative non-liquid Universe. We’re the front-line explorers for our teeming Swarm and will report back via pulse communication about what we find. We left our orbit shells in the swirling waters up front, then slipped under the edge of the Ball’s artificial protective covering, which forms a barrier between our liquid world and the air based world of the Ball. Our mission: to explore the region behind the black centre itself, with a view to its nutritive value. C’s hypothesis is that the ball is attached to the dark mass behind it, which is part of a gigantic alien superstructure. Some type of electrical phenomenon within the dark mass is causing that ball to twitch. That means the alien brain could be located somewhere nearby. We crawl across the red ridged surface of the Ball. Along the way, we hang onto the prominent folded lines of the red spot with our tentacle suckers to avoid being tossed off. Then, we let go, drop down towards the Ball’s centre. Our multiple arms are working hard, but we finally reach our destination. To our surprise, there appears to be a gaping hole. A delicious aroma wafts out. It’s obvious to myself and C. from our previous experiences with the alternative universe that this hole leads to the most nutritious and tasty meal, the living alien brain. We send pulse signals back to the thousands from the Swarm: “Begin the mass attack! First penetrate through the edges of the barrier, then tentacle down into the hole itself. Come and eat your fill for the glorious sustenance and survival of our kind!”

The Silence Below

June 19, 2024May 16, 2024 ~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

Jerry had always been drawn to the mysterious and the unknown. So when he found himself lost in the dense forest, he couldn’t help but feel the thrill of excitement. Amidst the serene embrace of nature, Jerry found tranquility in the solace of the forest. As he trudged through the underbrush, his senses heightened for hidden dangers, he came across a concealed path. It led deeper into the woods. With a casual shrug, Jerry stepped onto the path. His sense of adventure rose louder, smothering the doubts screaming in his mind.

Jerry followed the path and emerged into a small clearing. His laid eyes upon a village unlike any he had ever seen. The buildings were quaint yet eerie, their windows dark and devoid of life. What struck him the most was the absence of sound. No birds, no bugs, not even the rustling of leaves. It was an oppressive silence that hung like a wet blanket in the air.

Intrigued, Jerry cautiously made his way into the village. His footsteps echoed loudly on the cobblestone street. The few villagers he encountered glanced at him with wary eyes before averting their gaze. Their faces displayed a silent concern for the outsider that had stumbled into their silent domain. Jerry observed with curiosity as the villagers communicated through intricate gestures. Their hands weaving a silent tapestry of meaning in the air. A shared language born of necessity. They exchanged knowing glances as they looked at hastily scrawled notes passed between them. They refused to speak a single word.

As night fell, Jerry’s unease only deepened. The silence seemed to intensify, pressing down on him like a weight. As his nerves began to frazzle, he sought refuge in a small inn. A grizzled innkeeper offered him a room for the night. As he led him to his room, their eyes met in a moment of silent understanding. The unspoken tension hung heavy in the air. The absence of words between them spoke volumes, the oppressive silence wrapped around them like a spider’s web.

Alone in his room, Jerry couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong with the village. He tossed and turned in his bed. Unable to sleep, he began to pace the floor. He paused. He thought he heard a faint scratching sound coming from beneath the floorboards.

His curiosity piqued, he tore up the loose floorboards revealing an open, hidden trap door leading down into the darkness. Jerry leaned on the hanging door, its ancient hinges gave a grumbled whine. The stairs descending into the blackened void were weathered and worn. Jerry retrieved the flashlight from the night table. He illuminated the shadowy corridor, and he stepped down. The ancient stone steps creaked softly with each cautious footfall. His flashlight caused the shadows to dance across the dusty walls creating eerie phantoms that beckoned him to venture deeper. As he dared to go further into the underground tunnels, Jerry discovered ancient runes etched into the walls, their meanings lost to time. He gently caressed the outlines. He began to sweat as adrenaline coursed through his body. He was unnerved by the sudden rush of anxiety. However, it was more the sense of dread hanging in the air that chilled him to the bone.

Jerry explored the tunnels. Deep within, the air grew stale as a warm silent breeze wafted over him. He stumbled upon a chamber unlike any he had seen. A vast cavern with a gaping chasm in the center. In the dim light of his flashlight, Jerry beheld a grotesque sight. It was a writhing mass of tentacles coiling and undulating in the blackness. The slimy appendages reached out hungrily towards him. Glowing eyes peered out from amidst the squirming mass, their malevolent gaze fixated on Jerry. The creature seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy. Its form shifting and contorting in a nightmarish dance as if to defy reality itself.

As Jerry stood on the precipice of the chasm, a chilling realization washed over him like a wave of icy dread. In that moment, he realized that the absence of sound was not just an eerie aspect of the village but a haunting reminder of the looming threat lurking beneath. He realized that it wasn’t merely a choice but a necessity born from the need to keep the creature at bay. As he faced the creature, its own silence seemed to scream louder than any sound he had ever heard. It was a deafening void that echoed with the weight of centuries, old fear and desperation.The villagers were bound by an ancient pact to keep the creature below at constant rest. For even the slightest sound would awaken it from its slumber.

But it was too late, Jerry’s presence had disturbed the being, and now it hungered for sound. As it surged towards him, he scrambled for freedom. He realized that sound was both his enemy and his salvation.

Jerry’s heart pounded in his chest as he stumbled backward. His mind raced with primal panic. Before he could react, the creature’s slimy tentacles shot out at lightning speed, wrapping around his limbs and pulling him closer with an inexorable force. Despite his terror, Jerry’s throat constricted in fear. It rendered him speechless as he struggled against the creature’s grasp. His scream was trapped inside of him like a caged beast yearning to be free.

With the creature’s tentacles tightening around him like a vice, Jerry’s fear reached its breaking point. In a burst of desperation, he unleashed a deafening scream that echoed through the cavernous chamber.

As Jerry’s scream tore through the silence, the creature recoiled, lifting Jerry higher into the air. It howled as its form contorted and twisted as if assaulted by an unseen force. With a guttural roar, it released its grip on Jerry who was tossed onto the floor. He watched, gasping for breath. As if in response to the creature’s rising, the very ground beneath them began to rumble. The walls of the cavern began to groan and crack under the strain.

The ground under the village started to split apart, fissures snaked their way through the cobblestone streets. With an explosion of dirt and rubble, the creature burst forth from the ground with an ear splitting roar. Its massive form towering over the village like a wrathful titan. Homes crumbled in its wake, reduced to splinters and dust as the villagers ran for cover. Their silent world was shattered by the unleashed fury of the being below. Its massive tentacles lashed out indiscriminately, reducing buildings to rubble. With each step, the ground trembled beneath its monstrous form.

Even as the village lay in ruins and the creature’s hunger sated, there was no sign of it returning to its peaceful slumber. Instead it continued its relentless march. Its glowing eyes fixed on the horizon with an insatiable thirst for destruction. As it disappeared into the depths of the forest, a sense of dread fell over Jerry and the villagers. They knew that the true horror had only just begun.

∼ Kathleen McCluskey

Room 57

June 12, 2024May 27, 2024 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 3 Comments

Adorned with only a simple handle and the number 57, the door stood closed. I stared at it for some time, eyes darting between the numerals and brass knob. It was one among many in this seemingly endless hall, but it garnered my interest more than any other. I couldn’t say why. The reason was just as much a mystery as what was behind that door.

Sweat dripped down my brow as I contemplated opening it. I feared I might be caught, only more reason for them to keep me here… But my curiosity outweighed my worries. I reached for the handle and turned it.

I was surprised it wasn’t locked. Maybe there was nothing there to behold other than an empty room. The darkness seemed to ebb from the small sliver between the door and frame. I pushed it all the way, only to see more darkness. The light from the hallway couldn’t travel beyond that threshold. It was as if the room itself pushed it away.

I had to know what was in there, so I stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind me, leaving me sightless. “Hello?” I called out.

Heavy breathing was the only reply.

Then the sound of dripping.

A rancid stench assaulted my nose as I felt warm breath on my face. Then agony as unseen teeth tore away at my flesh.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman