The Strays

November 3, 2015November 2, 2015 ~ Joseph Pinto ~ 22 Comments

He didn’t much like his new job. He liked working with the old man even less.

Not because the old man’s pores leaked bourbon and unfulfilled aspirations each morning; he could tolerate that. No, it was because he was the low man on the totem pole, and the old man was a downright hard-ass about it.

The old man blurted, “Got another one,” then resumed whistling the tune he’d started a mile back down the road.

He didn’t know how the old man did it, how he could spot the strays so quickly. He tried and tried but just couldn’t. All he could see was the pitted road that bumped them along, an endless stretch exiled from the interstate; lonely fields, crusty with frost. Grey clouds smothered both of them, greedy in their need to devour the sky. The kid wrung his hands. In spite of himself, he asked, “How do you know?”

“Know? I don’t, kid. I feel.”

The kid glanced at Orleans. The yard called him that, Orleans; the old man loved himself his blues. “Feel what?”

From Orleans’ mouth popped a half-strangled burp. It stunk of last night’s bottle. “Once you get to doin’ what I been doin’ for so long, you just feel it.” Eyes pulled from the road, he stared hard at the kid. Just stared, his gospel fiery in his eyes.

The kid nodded, squinting through the dust-streaked windshield, searching again for what only Orleans seemed to feel; he rubbed the skin atop his hands raw. Over divots and forgotten stone, Orleans guided the pickup. He eased off the gas.

“There.”

The kid bit down on his tongue, the question where on the tip of it. But as Orleans steered through the curve, he finally saw what the other man felt and wished he hadn’t.

The kid only viewed one of them. The rest of the strays, they were somewhere, somewhere off in the village that was part of the township, but not. The township no longer recognized the village; the township no longer claimed the village as its own.

The township only dealt with the strays along the road.

Orleans pulled to a stop. They sat, the blues oozing from Orleans’ skin. Expectation thickened the air between them. “Well?”

The kid turned. “Well what?”

“Well are you goin’ to get the fuck out and take care of it?”

“Me? Why does it need to be me?”

“Just does.”

The kid chewed his bottom lip. “Look, Orleans -”

“Look my ass, you’re takin’ care of this. It’s the way it goes, kid. I drive, you do the dirty work. My days of scapin’ roadkill are long, long over.”

A sigh, then: “I know that, Orleans, it’s just that I’m not as good as you.”

“Sweet Jesus, Mary and motherfuckin’ Moses! Bein’ good has nothin’ to do with it, kid. You do it. And the more you do it, the better you get. Practice, kid. It’s called practice.”

Practice…but no one in the yard ever mentioned anything about practice. When his pop got him the job at the department of public works, he thought his days would consist of honest work, barrels of trash and recyclables heaved into the hopper of a garbage truck. Picking litter up from curbside, maybe; filling potholes under a blazing summer sun. But the strays? No, he never thought for a moment he’d be out handling the strays duty with Orleans. Truth was, he’d never exactly known who disposed of the strays.

Once hired, he knew.

“Still don’t understand why the troopers don’t take care of this. Why they -”

“Cause they don’t, kid. Once the troopers acknowledge the strays, then they acknowledge a problem. We don’t want that. You see what I’m sayin’?”

“So it’s us.”

Orleans pursed his lips. “It’s us, kid.”

Another sigh, this one dredging the bottom of his lungs. The kid leaned, retrieving the work gloves lying by his boots. He pulled them on, face wrinkled with unbearable worry. A chimney smoke laced breeze whistled in as he opened the door. Orleans grabbed his arm before he left.

“Practice, kid. That’s all it is. I was no different from you once. Wide eyed, a little scared. But I got used to it. No different from wipin’ your ass. Strays ain’t goin’ nowhere, kid, get used to that. Meantime, we got to figure out who can do my job. I can’t do it forever.”

“Why not leave them to rot along the road? No one comes out here. Just the northerners if they make a wrong turn.”

“It’s the order of things, kid. It’s the way it’s done. We’re civil folk.” Orleans jerked a thumb towards the tree line. “But they’re animals. They don’t think like we do. Just fuck and multiply, that’s it. Now there’s too many, and if a few get hit crossin’ the road, well, we need to play our part. Now get out there, kid. Get out and scrape up that mess. You ask too many questions, anyhow.”

The kid did as he was told; he took the shovel from the pickup bed. Through his gloves, the cold of the shovel seeped into his hands. He crossed the front of the pickup, eyes jumping in his head. From behind the wheel, Orleans nodded, prodding him forward.

The sky collapsed upon him, laden with snow, at most a few hours off. It bit into his bones. He drew the collar of his flannel coat to his neck. He imagined his bed, the warmth of his thick quilt. But those thoughts were of little use now. So the kid walked, gravel crunching under the soles of his boots.

After paces, many paces, the kid saw it – shadowed, immobile – the stray, no more a pall heap along the road. He wanted to stop, to run back, but he could feel Orleans boring holes into the back of his head. Slowly, he pressed on.

When he was much younger, his mom and pop warned him about the strays, warned him about their ways, their village of twine and straw. Now here he was.

And the stray, it lay mere feet away.

The kid approached, pushed his shovel under it, the harsh grate of metal on rock making his asshole clench. But he was unable to scoop it. He tried again; the prone body just flopped to its side. “Shit.” The kid fought back tears. He glanced back at Orleans; the old man grew agitated, waved his hands. The kid took a breath. “Practice. That’s all I have to do.”

He got his back into it this time, but the weight of the stray within the shovel’s pan startled him; it was deceivingly heavy. The body tumbled.

With the back of his glove, the kid wiped his mouth. Practice, dammit. He looked to Orleans again, seeking approval for his determination. The old man remained a flurry of hands. Strange. The kid didn’t understand. Then he turned.

They emerged from the tree line, skin slick with the frost that coated the grass. Even from the distance, the kid could see their limbs shivering, the shudder of muscle beneath their vitiligo-spotted flesh. Set low upon their haunches, they fanned out in groups of three; groups of three here, groups of three there.

Hunting parties.

“Orleans…”

It came out as a hoarse whisper. The kid could barely talk. He watched while, indifferent to the grey canopy of morning, the strays advanced without trepidation, a trait so wrong from anything he’d ever been told.

“Orleansss…”

A melody now, trancelike in its progression. The kid opened his mouth, still unable to articulate words. Movement distracting his attention from the strays; the body at his feet was not so prone anymore. It pushed itself to its side, rearing its head back, an oblong aberration set upon a thick stalk. It peered through tearing, membrane sheeted eyes. A needled tongue lolled as it sang. “Orleansss…you tell Missstaaa Orleansss…he take oursss from oursss all the time…yeah he take oursss from oursss all the time…now we take yoursss from yoursss oh yeah… take yoursss from yoursss we gonna dine…”

The kid should’ve slammed the shovel atop the stray’s head. Should’ve…but lack of experience left him ill prepared. Instead, he dropped it and turned on his heel. But Orleans had already thrown the pickup into reverse, a gravel infused cloud erupting from the rear tires like a bomb blast. The kid understood.

He understood why the old man’s love of the blues preceded him. Understood why Orleans couldn’t do the dirty work forever.

“Yoursss from yoursss, we gonna dine and dine…”

Orleans was a speck down the road. The kid’s boots still hammered the broken pavement, though. His feet ached under the morning half-light, but the strays squeezed the road from both sides, their needy gait worse than their appearance. The kid thought he heard some blues whistled from another tongue mutated a longtime before. The kid laughed, wondering who Orleans might choose next to do his job.

The kid laughed and laughed; he laughed until he cried.

~ Joseph A. Pinto

Damned Words 14

October 13, 2015March 7, 2018 ~ TheDamned ~ 11 Comments

Empty Stone
Jon Olson

He is weak, the large gash in his stomach slowly killing him, yet he crawls onward. Gripping dirt, the dying man pulls himself closer. His eyes rest upon the stone carvings; upon the angel. There he hopes to feel his lord’s embrace; to feel salvation. Fingertips reach out, touching it, feeling nothing. A groan escapes his lips, morphing into a scream. Pain engulfs his body, growing cold, announcing the arrival of the beast. Any hope of salvation fades as the foul one laughs. It’s just empty stone. Another false idol. Grinning, the foul one tears out the dying man’s throat.

Of god and guise
Joseph A. Pinto

What fear say you?

To which I reply possess no fear, nor cowardice, for that matter. I am of an esoteric order, keeper of the indulger of dust and decay. To my god I owe nothing but respect. I, its dutiful tasker of divine immolation.

Ssh. Agonize not. To your knees. In newfound supplication, your chin now lift. See my god. Know my god. Relish its kiss as to stone I press your cheek.

Let my god eat through grit until grit turns to bone. To flesh. And through your flesh, baptized newly my god once more.

Welcome, my master…

Medusa’s Child
Magenta Nero

With a final shriek it was expelled, I tried to kicked it away. The nurse scooped it up, oblivious to my panic. Tears streamed as I squeezed my eyes shut but I heard it’s first gurgled cry and my resolve melted. Sobbing I turned to face the babe. It was held aloft in gloved hands; a strange, blue wrinkled thing. We both fell silent as our gaze met. Then it began and I watched helplessly as it spread. Fine hairline fractures became deep cracks, it’s wriggling limbs froze. The nurse screamed as my baby crumbled and shattered in her hands.

Rules
by Tyr Kieran

They teach rules with which to govern yourself—defining factors handed down from our creator looking to reward those that act accordingly. Then there’s societal laws, rules made by man and enforced by the same. They pound them into your head from birth. But, they neglect to tell you, it’s a flawed system! Following these rules only leaves you or your loved ones vulnerable to those living of their own accord. One such “rogue” killed my son. Now, I say fuck the system! I’m making my own rules from here on out. Revenge won’t be sweet enough, but it’s mandatory!

Hallowed Be Thy Name
Thomas Brown

The past haunts us like ragged ghosts, like the remembered scent of an old flame. I prayed to Him. For three years I knelt, palm to palm, seeking forgiveness.

“Father, can you hear me?”

It was the thirteenth when He answered. Three years, of tears, upset, not knowing where I fit in. I woke, crusty-eyed, cold. 3am. Moon fat in the sky.

“Hello?”

For the longest time, silence. I was used to this. I began to drift off. Then bedsprings, sudden weight, a whisper in my ear. The Lord smelled a lot to me like wet dog.

“I hear you.”

Innocence Lost
Blaze McRob

The eyes stare out, seeing what they don’t see. He’s been here long enough to see the forest grow up around this place . . . a place meant to elicit oohs and aahs. Apparent youth beams a message of happiness and innocence. Yet not is all as it appears.

Strength lies within the arm of the child, the ruddy bas-relief almost giving it a hairy appearance. The arm of the beast. That’s what the legends say. Stay away at all costs.

Not everyone heeds the words of the wise ones. Self-sacrifice. Unwilling. Final.

The smile spreads wider. The child has been nourished.

Silent Wrath
Craig McGray

Stone statues and distant memories are all that remain of children. Gone are the days of playgrounds filled with joy and laughter, replaced instead by the tears and sorrow of those who cannot let go the thought of holding a child, their bodies unable to produce what they long for. We allowed the world around us to decay into a cesspool of man’s worst traits, ignorant to the consequences of our actions and even more damning was our inaction. Some waited for a violent apocalypse to descend from above. Instead, we received this silent wrath. Soon we’ll all be gone.

Every Other Weekend
Christopher A. Liccardi

“Why do the eyes follow us, Mommy?” The boy asked, rubbing snot from his nose with his sleeve.

“Because someone needs to watch over you. Mommy can’t always keep an eye out. “She knew their time together was short; no longer than a walk to the other end of the cemetery.

“Is this where Daddy lives now?” he asked.

“Yes, it is sweetheart.”

They reached the entrance to the lonely grey slab building. It smelled of new decay and dried flowers.

“Mommy?” he questioned in a nasely voice.

“In ya go, kiddo. Daddy’s waiting.”

She closed the door behind him.

The Forgotten
Zack Kullis

Rough, with hints of moisture from the morning dew – each sensation punctuated by the never-ending cold. Careful to touch only the surface where the memory was etched, and not the deeper rock that offers no sentiment, he outlines the gravestone with ghostly fingers.

The dead feel more than the living ever could. Cumbersome flesh is like a thick glove, hiding most sensory input. His spirit’s fine matter misses nothing. The sole visitor stopped only to admire the exquisite art, oblivious of the weeping apparition.

“If they will not visit me, then I will bring the bitterness of the afterlife to them.”

Rings of Death
Nina D’Arcangela

She comes always – even on the coldest of days. She comes and weeps fained devastation. My father watches silently; a man broken by his pain. The carriage stands vigil; the horses fuss, hair shimmering in the sunlight. The stable hands often complained of the muck after our adventures; but their silence already bought. The animals pristine by the time father broke from his study; our supposed jaunts to the park never fell suspect. Mother and I traveled to wooden houses, each bore a mark upon the door; a mark the same hue as the flowers now spilling from my pockets.

Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author
and may not be reproduced without prior consent. © Copyright 2015
Image © Copyright Dark Angel Photography. All Rights Reserved.

Forever

October 6, 2015October 5, 2015 ~ Christopher A Liccardi ~ 27 Comments

As Mathew entered the storefront, he hung its key from the tooth of a snarling dog. The statue of the hound had been on that table since his childhood and time had seen fit to leave it. His hate for the place flared in each muscle the second he entered the building, but it was a strangely enticing feeling. The old room looked deliberately ramshackle, intended to add to the mystique, no doubt. ‘Shabby chic’ people called it; rundown he called it, but it was his business now.

He knew his father had been into some really terrible things, but he never stuck around long enough to take part in the ‘family business’. He’d left home at eighteen and never looked back. He’d tried to forget all of it and had managed to succeed until a letter arrived by courier last month; it was addressed to the proprietor of The Old West Wax Works. The woman who delivered it was attractive and left not only her number, but the lingering scent of her perfume on the delivery receipt along with his father’s will. They’d begun seeing each other almost every night since. She’d asked about The Old West Wax Works a few weeks into the new romance, but he never explained and she never pushed.

When he told her he needed to take care of family business down south, she hadn’t asked to be included which was a good thing; maybe she was ‘the one’ and his impending bad mood would seem unattractive. They talked about weekend plans and she mentioned heading down the shore to surprise him for a visit, but he barely listened; he’d been preoccupied with his father’s will. The tasks he needed to complete weren’t complicated, but they were going to be messy and time consuming.

Mathew spent that first day cleaning counters and getting rid of the old dust cloths and boxes, and something shifted.

He shifted.

The place didn’t need to be spotless, but it did need to be presentable when his first guest arrived. He felt the cold fingers of anxiety grab hold of him and fought them off. This place was in his blood and always had been. He saw that now and felt – proud.

He thought about the delivery woman, Claire, as he toiled about the place, and wondered if she would like it here. He genuinely liked her and hoped she would. He looked forward to seeing her again as soon as he could.

The bell over the door jangled its discordant tune.

“C’mon in, we’re open for business.” Mathew said.

Mathew caught the scent of a woman’s perfume; it was familiar to him by now. He hesitated, fought the urge to be like them, to turn into the monsters his predecessors had been. He smiled when he saw her, all doubt faded, then he stepped on the button that opened the trap door. The fight was over.

The sound of the heavy door slamming shut cut off the screams from below. He knew she had broken both legs and cracked several ribs when she fell, but that was all fixable. His father’s tools were already sharpened, ready for use after so many years of neglect in the storage boxes.

He liked the delivery woman, Claire. He hoped she liked it here, too.

~ Christopher A. Liccardi

Loose The Gods of War

September 29, 2015September 29, 2015 ~ Tyr Kieran ~ 27 Comments

Private Wilhelm Hausser stood trembling, and for the first time it wasn’t because of the perpetual screams from behind the door of his post or the gruesome state of the bodies he was tasked to drag out and dispose of each day. This time, his body shook under a flood of adrenaline invoked by a different type of scream.

In an echoing torrent, Hausser’s commanding officer scolded him between gasps of air. Lieutenant Altstacht’s frame jerked and twitched with each exclamation, engorged veins pulsing in his neck, but his right hand held firm—the hand holding the loaded 9mm Luger inches from Wilhelm’s face.

“…unacceptable. You will face severe repercussions!”

Both men dripped sweat and struggled to keep their breath as the situation escalated. The other solider, on post opposite Wilhelm, pressed himself against the wall, doing his best to become invisible.

None of them noticed the clopping footsteps approach until they stopped. Private Hausser’s eyes drifted to the waiting group of men. Their identity was unmistakable—black uniforms emblazoned with dual lightning bolt letters and a silver skull glimmering atop their helmets. Wilhelm, in sync with the other Private, jolted into a rigged stance, their complexions more pallid, their right arms raised.

“…either astounding ignorance or an utter lack of—” Alstacht’s existence froze. Then, he lowered the pistol and snapped into a salute.

One man broke from the group and faced the officer with a clack of his heels. “At ease, Lieutenant. What is the disturbance here?”

“M-my Führer, I am honored by your presence. My sincerest apologies for the disruption,” Alstacht said with the lowered gaze of a scolded child.

“Nonsense, I am a man of the people and I wish to help. Please, enlighten me.”

“The… uh, Private here, was being reprimanded for failure to follow orders and repeated offenses of unauthorized attire in disrespect of the uniform.”

“Hmm, yes, this is not good. What is the exact offense?”

The Lieutenant’s posture straightened and his voice now held much of the strength it had prior to the group’s arrival. “Repeated exposure of a necklace promoting unauthorized symbols—the Christian cross and some other nonsensical medallion. The solider had been warned previously of such an offense.”

The Führer walked over to Hausser and lifted the charms in the palm of his hand for a closer inspection. With a swipe of his thumb, he brushed the cross aside to view the medallion—a pewter cast of three interlocking horns. The Führer glanced at the Private before returning to Alstacht’s side.

“And, what was the decided punishment?”

“The official punishment for insubordination is death, my Führer,” the Lieutenant answered and retrained his pistol on Hausser.

“I see,” Hitler said, pursing his lips. “It is a shameful loss, but rules are rules.”

Then, gesturing to Alstacht with an open hand, he inquired, “May I?”

“Of course, my Führer.”

Hitler raised the pistol and locked eyes with Private Hausser. In a calm, swift motion, he turned to the Lieutenant and pulled the trigger.

Alstacht’s body crumpled to the floor.

“Now, let me be clear,” the Führer announced, “ignorance is unforgivable. No situation can be defined by the black and white of a rule book.” Hitler then gripped Hausser’s shoulder. “Forgive the misunderstanding. Please, come with me and tell me why you wear Odin’s symbol.”

The two men walked down the long corridor with the SS marching behind them. Hausser had similar features to those in the SS and stood at least eight inches taller than their leader.

“My grandmother raised me on both the pre and post-Christian Norse religion. I wear them to honor her and to honor the Gods.”

“Do not those symbols clash?”

“No, my Führer, I believe that there is a closer connection than currently known. I believe they are both based on an older mythos.”

“Ha,” Hitler laughed aloud, which caused more than a few widened eyes behind them. “Private, you were quite underutilized.”

After a few turns through the complex, they approached a heavily guarded door. The soldiers on post saluted as they crossed the threshold.

The room was massive. Broken into several areas, it looked to contain functions of a library, a science laboratory, a museum, and an odd variation of a church sanctuary. Nazi regalia lined the walls and men were hard at work in all sections.

Hitler led them across the main hall and into the Library’s archive examination room, waiving off salutes as they went. A small team of scholars hovered around a book laid open at the table’s center as they took notes and referenced other texts. They dropped everything and gave salute. One of them, after receiving the return salute, approached the Führer. His complexion reddened and beads of sweat formed across his brow as he waited for Hitler to speak.

“Dr. Bunzel, I have not received Himmler’s report on the new item.”

“My Führer, please forgive the delay. We have translated portions of the manuscripts and are only now able to run some tests on its accuracy and potential.” The doctor gestured to the sanctuary at the far end of the great hall where men looked to be preparing for a ceremony with lighted candles and incense.

“Pnakotic,” Hausser spoke softly, an unintentional word falling from his lips as he peeked over Bunzel’s shoulder to the book in the examination room.

Both men stopped and looked at him.

“Is that the Pnakotic Manuscripts?”

The doctor’s mouth dropped open, his gaze shifting from the young soldier to the Führer and back.

“Dr. Bunzel,” Hitler said with a smirk, “meet Private Wilhelm Hausser.”

“You know of the manuscripts?” the doctor asked.

“I-I never knew if they were real or myth, but, yes. It was said by Norse mystics that the manuscripts held the true origin of the Gods… all the Gods that we now see as different religions. They are all incarnations—representations diluted by the framework of human sanity—of the true supreme beings that rule over our existence.”

“How do you know this?”

“Are the manuscripts penned in Old Norse or the elder language?”

“It’s, uh, Duriac, or, as you say, the elder language,” Dr. Bunzel answered, still slow in finding his words as he stared with a pinched expression. “What else do you know about the manuscripts?”

“I’ve heard there is a Norse version, lost chapters of the Sagas, emblazoned with the tangled image of Jormungandr. But, this creature is not the spawn of Loki as the mythology is told. That serpent of the sea is but an appendage of the true being—a much older, horrific creature of inconceivable context and power—one of the Elder Gods. The manuscripts offer historical reference, but also passages of worship and incantation. Norse mystics included words of warning as well, safeguards so to speak, that were not in the originals texts. I urge you to not—”

Excited voices from across the hall grew loud enough to demand their attention. One of the scholars, clad in a heavy robe, shouted at the altar with his arms outstretched. A breeze swirled through the room, ruffling the large Nazi banners and threatening to extinguish the candle flames. The man slowed, hesitating in his incantation. He searched through the translated documents with a frantic flipping of pages.

A deep rumbling sound emerged as the floor shuddered.

“This can’t be good,” Hausser said and cursed under his breath as he leapt forward, snatched the Pnakotic Manuscripts, and sprinted toward the sanctuary.

“Hey!” the doctor objected.

The group rushed to follow the young Private. When they arrived at the edge of the church, Hausser was there, already paging through the manuscripts.

“You can read them?” Dr. Bunzel asked.

“Not entirely, but I may know enough,” Hausser said without looking up.

The makeshift priest shouted a sequence of ancient words and the tremors stopped; a moment of calm hung heavy in the room with a wide eyed look of confusion on all the faces. Then, booming from all directions, a voice of grinding stone and thunder replied to the incantation.

“Hasyrath r’ylek n’gklul.”

The scholars rifled through their notes arguing in harsh whispers.

With no direct reply, the monstrous voice spoke again.

“R’ylek n’gklul.”

“It’s saying something about, uh, a true gift,” Hausser said, drawing the attention of those around him. He stood squeezing his eyes shut, scouring his memory for a better understanding of the language. “No wait, it’s asking for a worthy offering.”

“Ph’nglui kadishtu ehye fhtagn r’lyehoth, gnaiih mnahn fhtagn.”

“No blood sacrifice was given,” Hausser translated, “so blood he shall take.”

They all stared at the Private, waiting, hoping he’d correct his translation.

Just as Hitler moved to voice an inquiry, the makeshift priest screamed and dropped to his knees. He held his face in his hands as blood oozed out between his fingers. After a moment, his shrieks dwindled until he knelt in near silence, his heaving breaths the only sound in the entire hall.

A lone scientist approached the priest with great caution, each of his footsteps placed with visible hesitance. He knelt down next to the man and, with a craned neck and a gentle hand upon his shoulder as if consoling a lost child, he offered to help.

The priest removed his hands from his face and reached out to the scientist. A gasp flowed through the crowd of onlookers as his empty eye sockets were revealed. The two men rose to their feet and the scientist waved to the soldiers for assistance. The priest, instead of reaching for support on the other man’s shoulders, clutched the scientist’s head and cackled wildly as he squeezed. In a matter of seconds his hands, now covered in blood and grey matter, found each other.

Screams erupted throughout the hall.

The soldiers skidded to a halt a few feet away and immediately readied their rifles. With gore dripping from his outstretched fingers, the priest turned to face them and they opened fire. A series of bullets riddled his chest, their impact jostled his body, but he kept shambling toward them. Then, in a voice like screams amid a buzzing storm of insects, he spoke to them, “R’lyehoth mnahn fhtagn.”

The soldiers crept back again, trying to keep a safe distance, but the priest, with only a sweeping gesture, sent them and all to the floor, clutching their helmets and writhing in agony.

Full panic hit the room. Scientist and scholars ran for cover and shoved past each other to reach the exits. The SS core formed a barrier around the Führer and fired at the possessed priest.

“Found it!” Hausser shouted. Ignoring the gunshots and the urgent questions from Dr. Bunzel, the Private stepped out of the crowd and approached the altar. He grabbed a silver saucer, brushed off the incense ash, and rushed over to the scientist’s corpse. As he fought down the rising bile in his throat, he scooped up brains and blood with his bare hands to load up the offering plate. On the floor at the base of the alter he drew symbols in blood that looked like variations of three interlocked triangles and modified pentagrams with a central eye.

By that time the SS had inflicted enough damage to the priest’s skull, spine, and torso to render him little more than an abstract pile of hot meat. As they sighed their relief and reloaded their weapons, the five victims of the priest, rose to carry out the will of their possessor.

Renewed gunfire thrummed in Hausser’s peripheral attention, but he remained focused. He stood between the blood-drawn symbols, with the offering plate held high, and called to the Ancient Ones.

“Vulgtlagln naep vulgtm shtunggli zhro ee naR’lyeh”

The complex shook violently and the thundering voice replied, “Nilgh’ri sll’ha vulgtm ilyaa li’hee. Ehye fhtagn.”

Hausser’s shoulders slumped. He turned to look at the human chaos behind him. More death bloomed through the hall as people trampled each other and soldiers succumbed to the possessed corpses, while all those screams from the experiment ward echoed through his mind. Should he end this, or was it deserved punishment? No one in the entire complex could be considered innocent, he thought, but this curse, their wrath, would quickly spread beyond these walls if he didn’t abide.

Moral agony twisted his face as he decided his fate and theirs.

Tears slid down his cheeks. With a clenched jaw, he set down the saucer and sought out the closest scholar. A woman, trying to flee the possessed soldiers, ran along the sanctuary’s edge toward the main entrance. Hausser grabbed her lab coat and pulled her over to the altar. Breathing heavy through gritted teeth, he snatch a dagger from the altar, held it against her neck, and shouted, “Vulgtm ehye fhtagn li’hee.”

Then, in one swift movement, he yanked her hair back and slit her throat.

Her blood sprayed him as much as it did the offering plates.

The tremors stopped.

The possessed soldiers, collapsed, returning to their state of death.

An odd calm fell over the hall.

Hitler, with the remaining SS in tow, approached Hausser and shook his hand with vigor, “I knew you were special. Excellent work, young Hausser! You shall be commended and given proper reward.”

“My Führer, I—”

“Never mind that. With the right incantations, might we control the… Gods?”

“My Führer,” Hausser replied with a creased expression of fret, “we are extremely lucky to have contained them for the time being. Control will never be an option.”

“Special Lieutenant Hausser, your responsibility going forward is to contain the powers behind today’s events, and to report directly to me with any variance,” Hitler said, then turned to Dr. Bunzel. “Doctor, you and your team will continue to seek a method of control and experiment toward such. This power, if harnessed, would deliver to us all nations and allow a proper ethnic cleansing for the dawn of the Aryan race! This is of the highest priority. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, my Führer. Sieg Heil!”

Wilhelm Hausser watched the survivors march away with smiles on their faces as if a treasure was uncovered. All he could think about, with the day’s violence joining the nightmare menagerie of his memories, was the question: who was the true terror, the malignant Gods, or mankind itself?

~ Tyr Kieran

Crime Doesn’t Pay

September 15, 2015March 7, 2018 ~ blazemcrob ~ 18 Comments

“C’mon, Greg! We gotta stash this loot!”

“Why here, for Christ’s sake, Len? This place gives me the fucking creeps!”

“In case you can’t hear too well, dip-wad, the police sirens are blaring all over the place. If we’re caught with the cash, it’s our asses!”

“But this is the cemetery. It ain’t right!”

“What wouldn’t be right is us sitting in a cell with Bubba wanting to pound our butts. I ain’t into that Hershey stuff.”

“And I suppose I am, huh?”

“I’m not saying you are. We hide the stash and vamoose. When the coast is clear, we come back and get it.”

“But . . .”

“No buts. This place is filled with dead people. They won’t care. It’s not like we’re going to desecrate their graves or anything.”

“Okay, but I don’t like it.”

The two men look around, searching for the perfect place: a spot easy enough to conceal the money and their guns, but one that will not present hardships to retrieve it later.

Tonight the cemetery is well lit from the light of a huge full moon and no clouds to speak of. Caution. Yes, care must be taken so they are not seen. No one frequents the place now, but who knows? The cops are scouring everywhere. What’s to stop them from coming here?

Less than an hour ago, they had held-up the convenience store, pistol-whipping the clerk and emptying the cash drawer. Len had gone into the office and busted the safe open. Nothing like having some experience with such things. Greg had been upset over the condition of the clerk, but the idiot refused to hand over the loot and Len had lost it, rushing into a vicious attack on his skull, the sounds of breaking bone ripping through the store. When the money had been stashed away in Len’s backpack, the two thieves checked on the cashier. Too late for him. The bloody pulp that had formerly been the pleasant, cheerful face of Tony Sturbridge, was unrecognizable now.

The stench of feces filled the store, combined with that of piss. Tony had unloaded his bowels and bladder when death came a-knocking. The blood, still pouring from his head, completed the grisly picture. Greg stayed far away from the body, tasting the Death in the room, the sensation of their evil deed running rampant around them.

Somehow, the cops were on their way in a hurry, not even allowing the two of them time to get back to their car that was parked a few blocks away in front of an apartment complex. No one could pin the duo to the crime by association with the vehicle.

“Okay, Len, just where do we stash this shit? C’mon, answer man.”

“Just shut the fuck up! We’ll find a place. I’ll look. You keep your eyes open for the cops.”

Tiptoeing around the markers and stones, Len finds what appears to be a floating section of grass about three feet square around the base of a huge oak. He works his fingers around the edges and gaining a finger-hold, he pulls it up.

“Look at this, Greg! This grass chunk is like a trap door or something. I wonder where it goes?”

He feels around and finds a wooden structure. With the help of Greg, he lifts it up and is overwhelmed from the stench coming out of the opening beneath them. “Holy shit! What’s that odor, Greg?! It’s putrid!”

Greg is in no shape to answer him, not with his insides trying to come up through his esophagus. Struggling to hold back the onslaught of puke doesn’t work and soon he and Len both are covered in his bile-rich vomit.

“Damn it, Greg! That’s fucking disgusting . . .”

His words are cut short as two huge hands reach up from below, grabbing him, and cutting into his arms with long, sharp nails. In one swift move, he is pulled beneath the ground, the sudden attack putting him into a state of shock. His adversary laughs and seemingly finds every little rock and root to drag him across.

Trying to focus through his vomit encased vision, Greg sees but doesn’t see what happened to Len. Spitting out some of the crap in his throat and mouth, he shouts, “Where are you, Len?! What’s going on?”

He doesn’t have to wait long for an answer as something from behind places its huge foot on his ass and kicks him into the hole. Greg tries to stop his rapid descent but has no luck. He’s in some sort of a shaft. It’s steep, and when he hits bottom, he lands hard.

Algol jumps in after him, taking the slab of wood along. He pulls down on the grass concealment, firmly putting it back in place and forces the plank of wood into the ground, effectively concealing the entry. No one will find the opening.

Len and Greg are dragged to the chamber that until recently was his lonely home. Now he shares it with Lillith and things are so much better. Not only do they share their unique tastes in cuisine, but the amorous adventures foreign to them for so long are engaged in day after day, night after night. Neither of them tires of their pursuits of sexual pleasure.

However, other pleasures are now awaiting the Ghoulish couple: fresh meat before them, a terrified duo just now realizing where they are, and while not fully recognizing the horror of the situation, knowing that nothing good is about to happen.

The sweat of the damned pours from Len as Lillith hovers over him, her long, scraggly hair and yellowish-black teeth staring him in his face. She smiles, not at all upset by his panic. In fact, she recognizes it for what it is and basks in the joy of her dinner’s agony. Spittle from the sides of her mouth fall into his eyes, causing him to scream out in pain as her acidic saliva burns deep into him.

“Does that hurt, you little bastard? Maybe there should be a lot more pain given to you,” she says. “After all, you could have cared less about the pain you subjected Tony to.”

What the fuck?! The ugliness of this creature, illuminated by a flashlight that fell out of Len’s pocket, terrifies him: naked, covered with hair, drooling. She approaches closer and closer, her breasts drooping down, almost to his mouth, the very thought of them that close disgusting him.

“Oh, you don’t like the way I look! Well, my friend, you’re not going to look too good yourself in a few minutes. Maybe if you say you’re sorry I’ll take pity on you and not kill you too fast. Yeah, maybe.”

A rat scoots across Len’s forehead, sending more shivers down his frame. He jerks upward as hard as he can, trying to shove Lillith off him. She plays along for a few seconds, allowing him to move her up, but uses the time to tear his clothes off him. Len goes berserk with fear as she starts nibbling on his neck, taking tiny little bites, the acid attacking the wounds burning like nothing he has ever felt before.

“So you don’t like my little pet,” Lillith says. “He likes you. Watch.”

She picks the rodent up and places it on Len’s neck. It sniffs around, whiskers creating a picture on his neck, the blood acting as paint. The pet drives the killer to spasmodic jerking. He wants it off him; he hates rats.

“Mama says it’s okay to feed, my precious. I will share my dinner with you.”

Understanding Lillith, the rat buries its teeth into the wounds, sucking up blood and nibbling away as Len screams in pain. Once it has eaten his fill, it hops off contentedly and scurries through the piles of clothing stacked everywhere in this Ghoulish love nest.

Lillith rubs her body all over Len as she goes back to feeding on him, the pain driving him to the edge of insanity. Smiling before she puts her lips on his, she forces the taste of her on his lips and tongue, adding to his agony as he forces the wretched affliction from his mouth, spitting it back at her. Lillith reacts violently by biting his lips off, chewing on them before his horrified eyes.

Greg, stricken with panic watching his friend being eaten alive, tries to escape, but Algol tears off his right arm and slaps him in the face with it. As he screams in pain, knowing now their fates are sealed, Algol says, “Welcome to the party, Greg. No way could we leave you out of this fun.”

Lillith and Algol slowly eat away at the two men, enjoying their struggles and the taste of fresh meat – so much better than decayed flesh. Watching each other tease and taste the two vermin drives the Ghouls to a feeding frenzy and they pass the two back and forth between them. When Len is almost dead they both eat away at him from different ends of his body, meeting in the middle and disemboweling him in unison.

Len’s life force is gone.

Greg, forced to watch this attack on his friend, is unable to move. He is resigned to his fate; he does not have long to wait. Lillith reaches in with her hideous claws and tears his heart out. One last shudder and it’s all over for him.

Their little pet returns to partake of more as Lillith finishes eating Greg’s heart.

Algol looks at his mate, other feelings stirring once more in his loins. She returns his look and smiles.

“You know, Lillith,” he says, “this human rabble doesn’t understand that crime doesn’t pay.”

~ Blaze McRob

In the Clearing

September 8, 2015August 27, 2015 ~ jonolsonauthor ~ 14 Comments

George Sutherland followed Francine McKenna farther into the forest. His interest in Sasquatch had led him to join the Nova Scotia Bigfoot Hunters Society. When he met the group’s leader Francine, however, his priority instantly became to get into her pants. When she asked him to go with her on a short overnight expedition, he saw it as good a chance as any.

Only one tent for the two of them.

“Come on,” Francine said, looking over her shoulder. “Pick up the pace back there.”

Her red hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and although her cheeks were red from the excursion through the woods, George could still see her freckles. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Easy for you to say,” George said adjusting his backpack straps. “I’m the one carrying all of the heavy shit.”

“I can give you the lighter one if that one is too heavy for you. I bet the rest of the group would love to hear about that.”

George made a face but increased his speed, trying to catch up to her.

Clouds were slowly overtaking the blue sky that had been present earlier in the morning when they parked on the side of the logging road and ventured into the woods. Some blue jays chirping in the trees suddenly darted out, catching George’s attention. He didn’t see his boot catch the exposed root and fell forward with the weight of the backpack forcing him to the ground.

Francine laughed. “Are you okay?”

“Fuck sakes,” George said, pushing himself off the ground. “Where is the rest of the team anyways?”

“Matt and Ryder had to work and Beverly’s out of town visiting family. They’re going to regret not coming out on this one.”

“So exactly why are we out here? Why this particular area?”

Francine looked at him. “You mean besides living up to the NSBHS’s name?” She took out her cellphone, opened some files and handed it to George. “An old friend of mine, Bryan who works as a harvester for Triple L Lumber, sent me these photographs.”

The first few photos George flipped through consisted of large footprints in the ground and at the end were shots of reddish-brown fur snagged on tree branches.

“Those pictures were taken by different employees all within this eighty hectare plot,” Francine said. “They all reported experiencing a strong, foul odor like a combination of a skunk and wet dog as well as hearing loud grunts and sticks banging against trees. All classic evidence of Bigfoot.”

George frowned. “I know that I’m still relatively new to the group but we get dozens of emails from people with pictures like this, claiming to have seen Bigfoot. What makes these more special or significant?”

“There’s also been some other strange things going on up here. If you scroll to the end of the photos, you’ll see one that’s not related to Sasquatch at all.”

George found the photo she was referring to and looked at it.

There were four impressions in all, with two distinct prints. The first set was the smaller of the two with what looked like three knuckles side by side. The larger ones also had three knuckles and were further out to the sides. They also had small indentations that resembled bear claws.

“It kind of looks like whatever made these was running,” George said. He handed the phone back to Francine. “The way they are laid out reminds me of the way a gorilla runs.”

“Show me.”

George undid his backpack straps and slid them off his shoulders.

“Like this.”

He squatted down and then pushed off with his knuckles, landing on his feet and repeated for a few feet so Francine could see what he meant. She looked at the pictures, then at the slight impressions George had made in the ground and back to her phone.

“I can see it,” she said. “If we can find more evidence of this we may have something new for the cryptozoology books.”

***

It was sore from the struggle its previous prey had put up.

Unable to see, it relied on its sharp sense of smell that was still filled with the skunk-like smell of its previous meal. It was about to move on when it picked up on something else.

The smell was faint but recognizable.

Humans.

***

They trudged on, venturing deeper into the forest. The air was cool, yet humid, as summer was refusing to hand its reigns over to autumn.

“I’ve always enjoyed the smells of the woods,” Francine said. “It smells alive.”

“The bugs have always kept me away from walking amongst the trees,” George said. “Fucking things.”

“They don’t seem to be too bad now.”

George realized that he hadn’t heard the high-pitched buzzing in his ear for a while. He also noticed that the birds didn’t seem to be chirping either.

“Why is it so quiet?” George asked.

Francine looked at him, listened and shrugged with little concern for the silence.

They walked on and in the pit of his stomach, George thought it felt wrong. He opened his mouth to mention it but didn’t want to ruin his chances.

The trees started to thin out, which George was thankful for as it made walking easier. Eventually, they entered a clearing and were immediately hit by a strong stink.

“Holy shit, what the hell is that…?” George said covering his nose with his hand.

Francine gagged.

“It kind of smells like a skunk,” George said.

He looked at Francine and even though the smell was bothering her, she seemed to get excited.

“Sasquatch is reported to have a skunk-like smell,” she said.

“Or it could just be a skunk.”

“No, this is different. It’s really thick and… it does seem to have a wet dog scent to it.”

Although he smelled it too, George shook his head. “To me it still smells like a skunk, possibly a dead one, but a skunk nonetheless.”

“Let’s go find the source,” Francine said.

The clearing was roughly the size of a football field. An assortment of bushes had sprung up sporadically with a few small spruce trees here and there amongst the tall grass.

George started after her and immediately felt his body break out in goose bumps. He stopped and looked around. Something about the clearing made him feel very uneasy.

“Maybe we should…”

He was cut off by Francine yelling with excitement in her voice.

“Oh my God! George, get your ass over here! Hurry!”

She was standing near the far tree line, waving her arms frantically.

“Did you find the skunk?” George asked as he got closer.

Near the edge of the clearing was a body lying on its back, its arms jutting straight out to the side. It was covered in reddish-brown fur that fluttered in a gentle breeze except for the face, which was clean shaven. The eyelids were open slightly but the eyes had rolled back into its head with a wide, flat nose sitting just below them. Its mouth was slightly agape, showing yellowed teeth.

The body of a Sasquatch.

***

It could tell it was getting closer; the human scent was everywhere. Very faintly, it could hear their voices.

Its pace quickened.

***

“I don’t fucking believe it,” George said.

“Do you know what this means?” Francine asked. “Get the camera out.”

“I still don’t believe what I’m seeing.”

“You can don’t believe all you want later.” Francine slipped the backpack off her shoulders. “Get the camera out and start shooting!”

George’s eyes, and brain, were still trying to comprehend exactly what they had stumbled across. He removed his backpack and let it fall to the ground hard.

“Hey, come on. Pay attention to what you’re doing.” She took her cellphone out of her backpack and began dialing.

“I’m going to give the rest of the team a call.”

George squatted down and began unzipping his backpack, but didn’t take his eyes off of the body. It was well over nine feet and the beast’s frame looked powerful.

His hands found the camera and he pulled it out. He turned it on, shifted his eyes from the body to the LCD screen and began taking pictures.

“Damn it,” Francine said. “I can’t get a signal out here.”

As he walked closer to the body, George zoomed in on the Sasquatch’s arms and noticed a puncture wound on each one. The fur and skin seemed to have been pushed to the sides. A hole, roughly the diameter of a pencil, penetrated through the tissue underneath.

“I really can’t believe that this is lying right in front of us,” Francine said. She knelt down beside the Sasquatch and held her hand out, hesitating to touch it. “This is incredible.”

As he took a few more pictures, George noticed the ground around the body was beaten down. A lot of the tall grass had been broken, as if it buckled underneath something heavy. Scattered around the ground were clumps of the Sasquatch’s fur.

To him, it looked like a fight had taken place.

George lowered the camera and looked at her. “It doesn’t look like it died from natural causes.”

Francine met his gaze for a moment then looked around at the surroundings. “I think you might be right.”

“So what killed it?”

***

It could tell it was near the clearing due to the trees’ smells fading into nothing more than background scents. The other odor was still there.

There were two human scents, a male and female, both of them nearby.

Despite its previous meal not too long ago, it was ravenous.

It entered the clearing.

***

George frowned.

“Does Bigfoot have any natural predators?”

“I’m not really sure,” Francine replied. “But, if I had to give an answer, I would say no.”

“So, I’ll ask again. What killed it?”

They both thought back to the strange tracks in the picture on Francine’s phone.

“Do you think those tracks are part of it?” Francine asked.

George opened his mouth to answer but saw Francine’s eyes open wide in fear.

Something slammed into him and tackled him to the ground, landing on his stomach. George struggled to turn over but he felt a sting in his back; within seconds a toxin entered his bloodstream, paralyzing him. Although he could not move, George’s head remained facing Francine’s direction.

The thing that tackled him was already making its way towards her. It was hairless and running just as he had acted out earlier: running on its knuckles with its fingers curled underneath, like a gorilla.

Francine screamed and ran. The creature, however, was too fast and tackled her to the ground. Two stingers shot out of its palms into her back, just beneath her shoulder blades.

When she stopped moving, it turned its head to George.

There were no eyes; only nostrils constantly flaring and a mouth running vertically up its face. A large plate-like feature jutted out along its back, protecting most of the torso.

The creature began dragging her back to where George was lying. It released her and using the claws on its hands, cut into her forearm. George watched as it dug its hook-like teeth into her flesh and then the mouth opened, tearing tissue away from the bone. A penetrating sheath shot out of its mouth into the bone and it began to ingest Francine’s marrow.

George could only watch and wait, knowing that once it finished with her it would come for him.

~ Jon Olson

Salamander

September 1, 2015September 1, 2015 ~ Veronica M.Nero ~ 19 Comments

“Fulfill your divine potential. Connect with your higher self and spirit guides. Manifest the life you want,” read the brochure.

It sounded like a good idea at the time, but sitting there, in a circle of misfits, Jess regretted going along and wondered how she could politely excuse herself.

A woman with long white hair rang a little bell to announce the meditation was about to begin. People hushed their soft chatter. They nestled on their cushions, getting comfortable.

“Okay. Let’s begin. My name is Isadora. I will be leading the guided meditation with you tonight.”

Isadora glanced around the room, smiling warmly. She wore long flowing clothes in shades of pink and white. Her neck and fingers were adorned with gemstones. Jess hated her immediately.

“Let’s close our eyes. Begin by taking a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. And another deep breath in…and out. Allow all the thoughts and worries of the day to slip away. Become fully aware of your body. We’re going to count backwards from ten and you will gradually feel more and more relaxed. Ten…”

Reluctantly Jess closed her eyes. She would just have to sit through this and leave as soon as she could. She peeped through squinted eyes at the others in the room. They were a random group from all walks of life: a well groomed business man fresh out of the office, a twenty something Goth girl, a middle aged woman in gym gear, a plump woman in a brightly printed kaftan and matching head scarf.

Without dropping her smile Isadora gave Jess a stern look. Jess quickly squeezed her eyes shut.

“You are standing in a beautiful forest; a lush, green, beautiful forest. It is a warm sunny day. You are walking through the forest and soon you reach a clearing. Standing in the middle of the clearing is someone waiting for you. It is your spirit guide. Feel the rays of love coming from your guide, they are so happy to meet you.”

Jess was standing in a beautiful forest. A lush, green, beautiful forest. A short way ahead there was a clearing. She walked towards the clearing as she was instructed. There was something there. It was so bright that her eyes began to sting; she couldn’t look at it directly. Jess didn’t feel joy, she felt a heavy sinking dread – an immobilizing terror. The being was menacing. It appeared to be made of flames, flickering and lashing. Jess looked around, frightened. The lush, green, beautiful forest had become dense and dark, stretching upwards, closing in on her. She couldn’t escape this imagined landscape; there was no way back.

“When you feel ready you may approach your guide. You may hug them if you wish, do what feels right for you. Ask them if they have a name.”

Isadora’s calm steady voice continued to drone on in her head, but Jess could no longer focus on the words.

The temperature was rising quickly, the atmosphere had become a blistering haze. Jess was sweating; she felt faint. The strange being approached her. It came close, dancing and twirling in front of her. The waves of heat were scalding; she could smell her hair smouldering. Tiny shooting sparks flicked at her, each one inflicting a painful burn. Jess opened her mouth to scream and the being leapt in. It slid down her throat and zapped around furiously in her belly. Her stomach began to sizzle. The sensation of being burned from the inside out was excruciating. She dropped to the ground screaming. She rolled around clutching her stomach, but the fire was within her and she couldn’t extinguish it. The looming dark forest exploded in flames.

“…And when you are ready, open your eyes. You are now fully back in your body and safely grounded.”

Isadora’s voice cut through her vision and Jess found herself sitting on the cushion again.

Around her, the others had begun to stretch and move. A few people were shedding quiet tears of happiness and awe. The kaftan wearing woman was chanting ‘Om’. Isadora rang her tiny bell again to bring attention back to the circle.

“Okay. I hope you all enjoyed that visualization. Would anyone like to share their experience?”

“My guide was a Native American warrior,” blurted the businessman. “He gave me a large white feather.”

“A white feather!” said Isadora, impressed. “Wonderful. Very powerful.”

A lively discussion began as people exchanged details of their spirit guide experiences, comparing mysterious details and imagery.

Jess sat quietly, feeling very shaken. Her experience had seemed so real, so awful. She remembered the smell of her hair burning and the sensation of burning up inside. She hoped no one would ask her about it. She looked around the room, growing more anxious. It was starting to get so hot and stuffy. Thick smoke streamed from an incense burner, forming a mist in the room. The sweet scent was nauseating. Candles burned around the circle. Jessica watched the flames rise and flash brightly. She wriggled uncomfortably as panic began to set in. She must be imagining things, she thought, she had to get out.

“Are you okay, dear? Do you want to share your experience? Sometimes our guides challenge us because they know we are ready to grow.”

Isadora was speaking to her. She was still smiling that infuriating smile, that feigned wisdom and compassion.

The others in the circle turned to stare at Jess. Jess felt a strange force stir within her and she struggled to speak.

“My guide…my guide is…my guide is fire!”

The smile on Isadora’s face didn’t falter, she stared at Jess, not understanding.

Jess began to shake, a blind rage rose within her, building momentum. A deafening screech erupted from her as she lunged at Isadora, bowling her over. Her hands gripped her neck and squeezed. Jess watched in shock and delight as flesh melted and oozed in her hands. Muscle dripped away from jawbone, revealing rows of long teeth; the tongue was sizzling sludge. Isadora’s eyeballs blistered then popped. Foul grey smoke streamed out of ears and nostrils as her brain boiled. Soon, all that remained of Isadora’s head was a charred skull with a mocking smile.

The room had erupted into screams. Jess stood and faced the others, her eyes glowed like burning coals. Candles flashed, alighting curtains and furnishings as people tried to escape. The sacred circle was now a ring of flame.

~ Magenta Nero

Eternal

August 25, 2015August 11, 2015 ~ Craig McGray ~ 18 Comments

Nat Tyler sobbed over the grave of Elena Hainsley as he had every night for the nine months since her passing. Though he was 30 years her elder, his devotion to her was undying. From the moment he’d seen her across the hospital hallway, he dedicated every waking breath to trying to ease her pain and suffering, often stealing from the dispensary in order to give her the treatment her family was too poor to afford.

Nat had been employed as a nursing assistant at the institution for only a short time before Elena was admitted there for a rare form of cancer. Though he had no formal medical training, he was highly intelligent, and often snickered at the med students when they tried to make a diagnosis only to fail miserably. He watched how the treatments were given and was soon diverting medication from one patient to another, delivering his own concoction of meds as he fudged the charts so no one would suspect any wrongdoing.

Once Elena had been admitted, all of his focus and attention was on her. He knew the times her family members would visit, and he knew her complete treatment schedule. Though there was only small-talk between Nat and Elena for now, he was certain they would be together once she got better. And she would get better, he knew she would because he would see to it.

Elena began to make progress and the doctors seemed baffled because nothing they’d tried previously had slowed the cancer that was ravaging her body. Nat wasn’t surprised though, he had adjusted her chemotherapy and knew he was the reason for her ‘miraculous’ progress. With Elena’s new prognosis, he knew they would soon be together, so he began to converse more and more with her and her family.

After a couple weeks of improvement though, things took a turn for the worse. Elena inexplicably slipped into a coma; the doctors had no answers. Nat was at a loss, he stayed up night after night researching, scouring medical journals for a cause and cure to Elena’s sudden change in condition.

On October 25^th, at 11:43 p.m., Elena succumbed to her battle and passed while Nat was away from the hospital. He’d gone into work late that evening with what he thought would be the answer only to find her room empty. Her family was with the case worker. Nat stood outside in the hallway and eavesdropped, sobbing silently along with the others. As he heard her family readying to leave, he turned and walked away.

That afternoon, he went into his supervisor’s office and quit. He knew he would be unable to return to the place where Elena had died. Though he remained at a distance, he followed Elena’s parents and brother around town as they made the funeral arrangements.

When the day of the funeral came, Nat could hardly bring himself to get out of bed, but he did. Though Elena hardly knew him, he knew she would want him there; they were soulmates whether she’d realized it or not.

The turnout for the funeral was small, maybe fifteen people huddled under umbrellas around the freshly dug grave. Nat remained several yards away from the family. Though they had met at the hospital, they wouldn’t understand the connection he had to Elena or his presence at the solemn occasion.

Once the service was over and the small gathering had left, Nat remained behind until a cemetery worker told him that he’d need to leave, but could come back in the morning. He acted like he was leaving and drove around the block, soon to return a short time later. He jumped the back wall and returned to Elena’s grave. A full moon rose in the sky as Nat lay on the moist ground, naked and sobbing. Exhausted, he fell asleep only to wake to a strange, yet alluring sound. He glanced at his watch as chills ran down his spine – 11:43 p.m. – the exact time Elena had died. A voice unlike any he’d ever heard was singing the most beautiful song. He’d never heard the song or the voice before, but he knew it was Elena. For the first time since her death, Nat felt at peace. The song eventually subsided and Nat left feeling more peaceful than he had in days. He returned every night after to greet the voice that also returned at precisely 11:43 p.m., for the next nine months.

One particularly warm night the following July, there was no voice. Nat glanced at his watch, 12:17 p.m., yet there was no serenade from Elena. He rested his ear to the earth atop her grave but still nothing; he became agitated.

“Elena! Please, my dear. Sing to me.”

Silence.

He beat on the ground with his fists until they bled but the sweet sound of her voice never came. Sorrow turned to confusion as unfamiliar words floated through the humid night air.

“Take me home, my dear. Please free me from this grave.”

Nat cried uncontrollably as the voice repeated the words over and over. Nat gathered himself and left in a rush only to return an hour later.

Jumping over the wall this time proved to be slightly more difficult than normal. First, he lifted the wagon and dropped it onto the other side before tossing the shovel and tarps over, then joined his collected items. Once in the cemetery again, Nat placed the shovel and tarps into the wagon and made his way toward Elena’s grave.

***

Nat gently rested Elena’s body in the wagon and placed a kiss on her lips before he wrapped the rest of the tarp over her decaying form. After he returned the grave site to nearly the exact condition in which he’d found it, Nat carted Elena’s withered remains through the still night air; all the while the wheels of the wagon squished into the moist earth.

With modern medicine failing to save Elena’s life, Nat took it upon himself to ensure that she would remain with him forever. He brought Elena to his home and carried her over the threshold as he’d imagined so many times.

“Mr. and Mrs. Nat Tyler,” he announced as he carried her into the living room of his modest beach cottage.

He brought Elena to his workshop at the rear of the house and rested her on a bed in the center of the room. He then spent every day working to preserve his beautiful Elena. Her body had decayed to a point where her bones no longer held together at the joints, so he created a framework with coat hangers and wire to keep them in place. Her eyes were gone, those he replaced with large marbles that resembled her natural eye color. Her skin had sloughed away, to replenish her precious flesh, he used silk cloth and a patchwork of plaster where necessary. What remained of her liquefied organs he removed and replaced with rags and large bundles of fabric to give her body the shapely form she once had. During her stay in the hospital, he’d secretly collected large samples of her hair, now he used it to construct a wig that he placed atop her skull. He adorned her with jewelry, and changed her clothes daily.

The pungent scent of decay was a constant reminder of long ago death, but Nat camouflaged it with bottles of expensive perfume. He even used formaldehyde to slow the process as much as he could. Each night, Nat lay next to his beautiful Elena, and whispered promises he intended to keep.

The relationship lasted for years until one night, while lying naked in bed next to his bride, he woke unable to breathe. He bolted upright and grabbed for his throat, trying to relieve the pressure but an invisible hand gripped tighter, further constricting his windpipe. Nat flailed and fell to the floor, his eyes wild and confused, he searched the room for any hint as to what was happening but to no avail. Bright white spots burst into his vision as the room began to close in around him and an unfamiliar noxious stench filled the air.

An ominous silhouette appeared and stood over Nat as he struggled to remain conscious. He squinted trying to identify the towering form in front of him, the lack of oxygen made it impossible to think and he surrendered to the darkness, but not before the towering figure spoke in a booming, malevolent tone.

“You stole what was not yours to take. She is tainted now; she will remain yours forever as you so greedily desired.”

***

Police responded to reports of a foul smell coming from the residence of Nat Tyler. When they arrived, they found Nat, naked and decayed, his body entwined on the floor with the macabre corpse of Elena Hainsley. Though the scene was gruesome, authorities were intrigued and stunned to find Elena’s corpse in such a well-preserved state. Her body was examined by authorities before being returned to an unmarked grave where she was finally allowed to rest in peace.

~ Craig McGray

Damned Words 13

July 28, 2015March 7, 2018 ~ TheDamned ~ 15 Comments

Silently, Deliberately
Jon Olson

Every day, like a moth to a flame, I revisit this spot, eager to see it again. Leaning back against the tree, I gaze out onto the horizon. My eyes scan left to right, right to left. It was here, on this small protrusion of land, I saw it hovering silently, deliberately above the Atlantic water. Mechanical, organic, frightening and alluring all rolled into one. For hours I watched with morbid fascination until it finally disappeared into the sky. Since then, my dreams, every waking moment, have been obsessing over it. So here I sit, waiting, hoping, for its return.

Burn To Your Core
Joseph A. Pinto

And still I survive here; and I am charred; and I am lifeless without ever having died. You surround me with portrait skies my limbs can never touch; only the water to nourish me, delivered by beak of bird and sob of storm. Yes, you planted me in barren ground, but I chose to take root. Strove to blossom. More than ever, I realize I cannot. How deathly I must appear against the backdrop you manufactured, an obstruction to all you’d thought perfected. An eyesore so startling I am beauty in my own right; it must burn to your core.

Rest In Peace
Thomas Brown

Last night I ate with my family for the last time. My brothers and sisters drank, danced, laughing as they have laughed for centuries while gorging themselves to sate the endless void. Let them. I can’t remember ever feeling so full, so monstrously sick of it all. Dawn approaches. Over and over the sea heaves itself against the grey shingles. I was born here; it seems right that I should end here too. Standing on the shore, I watch the waves and the ash floating over them. Birds scream. The sea sighs. I am here, now, and it is beautiful.

Black
Craig McGray

It’s been years since anything has blossomed. Sure, an overly ambitious weed may sprout from time to time, or a sporadic leaf may unfold from the tip of a naked branch, but the inky blackness from the soil strangles any attempt to splash color onto its infected landscape. Mankind and nature alike have been smothered by the rot that has stolen the color from the ground and seas. The sky remains the only hint of color in our decimated world and even that will soon be gone. Each day grows shorter, every night becomes longer. We did this to ourselves.

Duel at Dawn
Blaze McRob

A gentle breeze carries the stench of rot to this seemingly idyllic park. Voices, agitated, from both sides, toss curses at each other, bellowing out that the other will get what is coming to him. They back up to each other, take the ten obligatory paces, turn, and aim.

Lightning strikes the little piece of land jutting out into the river as it has for hundreds of years, ripping through the soil. Both men drop to the ground without a shot being fired.

There will be a duel at dawn once more. Until there is a victor, neither can rest . . .

Rise
Magenta Nero

Finally, a precious moment alone. Staring into the vast emptiness of sky her troubled thoughts churn. The afternoon sun glares in the distance. She frowns as she watches it, an uneasy feeling creeping over her. It is not the sun. It is moving, hurtling towards her quickly. It comes to a sudden halt above her, a huge and gleaming object. She clutches her ears as a deep grating hum fills her head. She thinks to run, to scream, but she can’t move. Her body begins to rise, sucked by a stream of blinding light into the belly of the craft.

Promises, Promises
Hunter Shea

She was hanging from the lone tree by the sea, the very place we first made love, our sweat crystallizing with salt, the ammonia scent of our urgency sticky between us. Her limp body presented a dark silhouette against the setting sun. I saw her clothes in a wrinkled pile beneath her feet, toes pointed to where we once lay, a jumble of limbs and satisfied orifices. The surf crashed, imperceptible flecks of foam plinking into the pores of my face.

Her body jerked.

No!

One cut. She gasped.

Into the sea, my love. I promised you a beautiful death.

Watching Clouds
Tyr Kieran

That was the day our greatest fear came true. A slow build war neither cold nor vigorous. The talking heads had spewed their hype for months, only exacerbating the arrogant, heavy-handed mistakes of the politicians. Cultures clashed causing egos to surge up and trample all over rationale. It wasn’t surprising that international spite and jealously is what pushed the button in the end. When the alert hit the airwaves and our government admitted their diplomatic errors, it was far too late–death was on the way. No sense in running. I just sat down and watched the mushroom cloud form.

Anointed
By Nina D’Arcangela

Raised are the seas that stood calm before me; quelled are those that traveled by wing to mock me; desiccated is all that once grew to surround me – I stand alone. Arms raised toward the heavens, I pulled upon God’s wrath to sear man’s attempt to staunch my avarice, my deserved ferocity. Tarred may be my flesh, but my spirit stands rooted in this land; untouchable. I thrive not for my glory, but for the one I have served eternally. Each leaf bloomed; yet another tear of poison shed. Each leaf fallen; yet another drop of the demon’s blood spread.

Son of Fenrir

July 21, 2015July 13, 2015 ~ jonolsonauthor ~ 10 Comments

His left arm hung from its socket, the blood running from deep gashes down its length, dripping off his fingers in a steady stream and collecting in a pool on the ground next to his foot. Hunched over, tired, with labored breathing, he still held his axe tightly in his right hand. Blonde hair, caked in dirt, sweat and blood, hung in front of his hardened face covering blue eyes that had yet to concede defeat.

With a Viking’s defiance, Anders Randalson looked into the eyes of his opponent.

Wolf like and taller than the average man, the creature was made in the very image of Fenrir.

The beast was not without its own battle scars. A deep cut ran from its right ear down the face, narrowly missing its right eye and ending at the snout; its torso decorated with lacerations and contusions.

“You have fought bravely, Norseman,” the beast hissed, foam dripping from its parched and thirsty lips. “It is over, though. Accept your fate and I will make it quick.” It swallowed hard before continuing. “The Valkyries are here to take you to Valhalla.”

Anders let his eyes depart from the beast to take in his surroundings. Bodies littered the coastal plains, with the earth itself a crimson brown thanks to the liters of spilled blood. The trees that sporadically grew from the ground were bare and void of any vegetation, almost serving as markers of the fallen.

A caw caught Anders’ attention and he looked up to see two ravens land on top of one of the dead trees.

Odin’s ravens.

“They aren’t here,” Anders said, returning his gaze to the Son of Fenrir. “Not yet.” He grinned as he readied his axe, preparing for another clash.

The beast hesitated briefly, sighed, and quickly regained its composure. It smiled, baring dozens of razor sharp teeth. A guttural sound rumbled from deep inside its throat, erupting into an ear-splitting howl of rage as the two combatants charged towards one another with death on the line.

Anders raised his axe and swung it towards the beast’s head but his opponent was quicker. It dodged the axe’s blade and raked its claws along the side of Anders’ chain mail, slicing his skin underneath. The beast snapped at Anders’ face with its enormous mouth, its breath hot and foul on Anders’ skin, just missing him by inches.

Seizing an opportunity, Anders head butted the beast between its eyes and managed to strike it in the jaw with the blunt edge of his axe.

The Son of Fenrir roared in pain and anger, jumping out of the way at the last second as Anders tried to split its skull.

Wincing as the fresh cuts on his side burned, Anders could feel his strength draining with each labored breath.

“Look around you, Norseman,” the Son of Fenrir taunted, slowly circling him. “I can bring the end about quick and painless. You have earned your spot in the Great Hall.”

The ravens flapped their wings and cawed again.

“Almost,” Anders replied.

In a sudden burst of power and quickness that caught Anders off guard, the beast charged, throwing its shoulder into Anders’ chest. The blow sent the wounded Viking sprawling onto his back. Before he could push himself up, the beast was upon him. It tore through his chainmail, driving its claws deep into his gut. Anders screamed as the beast maneuvered its hand around until it was able to grip the bottom of his ribcage.

“I gave you two chances for a quick death,” the Son of Fenrir snarled. In a motion that sent agony rippling through Anders’ body, the beast lifted the Viking into the air. “Now I will make you beg for death in such a manner that the All Father himself will be ashamed of you.” It lifted him higher and Anders rolled his head back as he screamed.

In one final surge of strength, Anders swung the axe with all he had, surprising the beast. It tried to dodge it but was too slow as the blade cut into the skull, lodging itself inside the beast’s head.

Howling, it ripped its hand, along with shreds of entrails, out from Anders’ stomach, dropping the Viking onto the ground.

The Son of Fenrir tried to grab the axe’s handle and pull it out, but the blade had been buried too deep. It staggered a few steps to the left then limped to the right. The beast’s breathing became shallow as it dropped to its knees. It turned its head and looked into Anders’ eyes one last time, then fell forward.

It did not move again.

Anders turned his attention to the grey sky and saw the ravens flying overhead. With a final caw, they acknowledged the fallen warrior as the Valkyries flew down to carry Anders home to Valhalla.

~ Jon Olson