The Graveyard Waits

January 7, 2014January 5, 2014 ~ blazemcrob ~ 25 Comments

Springtime. Fresh air carries the aroma of recently shoveled dirt, moistened by the rain, throughout the graveyard. Shovels, left behind in a hurry when the downpour started, lie on the ground next to the grave of the newest inhabitant.

Normality? Yes, but a sinister presence surveys the scene, not the least bit happy. Chunks of wet soil cling to his hair-covered naked body. His nails are long and unkempt, and yet, what difference does it make? They are more effective for him to use when digging than any shovel fashioned by the hands of man. He lives beneath the surface, under the graves, in small cave like areas formed from his own efforts, surrounded by the clothing removed from the local residents.

They won’t say anything. Ha, ha! Dead people can’t snitch on him.

The taste of rotting flesh rolls around on his tongue, reminding him of his hunger, his insatiable desire to feed. Heavy rain comes down, slapping a tune on the gravestones more effectively than any drum-stick. He delights in the awareness of the cleansing on his hair and skin.

Momentary pleasure: he is still angry… angry that God remaindered him and his kind to suffer the indignities of their existence. Undead, yes. Immortal, yes. However, these things come at the high price of humiliation. Forced to feed on the dead like a common vulture is not to his liking.

Yet, this is the way it’s always been. How can it change now? He is not stronger than God; he is merely a creature formed by His hand: to do His bidding.

The new carcass beckons to him, speaking to him, insisting that he feed. His hunger forces him to go and dig up the coffin. He tears the lid open and gazes at the body of a young woman struck down in her prime. She can not possibly be any more than in her early twenties. Her clothing and hair style tell him this. He may not live amongst the rabble known as humans , but he has devoured enough of them to understand the latest fads and fashions. On a more primal level, his highly enhanced sense of smell enables him to decipher the age of a person by unfolding different layers of skin and reading them much like a botanist counts the rings of a tree.

This one smells peculiar to him: no odor of decay or embalming fluids. Recent death. A mortician trying to save a little money. Who knows? As long as she was remaindered to the soil in a timely manner, all will be well.

But… no; this is more, much more. Fool that he is, his hunger plays games with his mind. His desire to feed overcomes his usual stealth. Vigilance thrown to the wind!

She is alive! In some sort of comatose state, but the girl is very much alive.

What now? He can’t devour her. It is not allowed. Does he close the casket and re-bury her?

Yes! That is what he must do. If she wakes and sees him, she will spread word of his presence. This place has been his home for many years, he has no intention of giving it up. Everyone believes her to be dead. Who would know? This time she will die for sure.

He will come back to devour her when she is genuinely dead. Hopefully, her struggles when she comes out of her coma won’t spoil the taste of her sweet, succulent flesh. No, that would be a pity. The fresh deaths are always the tastiest. And the young ones? They are the best!

Before he can places the casket lid back in place, her eyes open. Upon seeing him, a look of horror stares him in the face. A gurgling sound works up from deep within her. In mere seconds she will holler out and alert whoever may be close by to her predicament.

“No! You can’t!” shouts the Ghoul. “No one must know I’m here!”

His mouth leaps to her neck and blackened yellow teeth rip into her throat, removing her vocal cords. Air from the outside rushes in through the gaping hole and tries to exhale from within her body, but she will not be making a sound now.

Her blood on his tongue excites him and he laps up as much as he can, squeezing her neck to force more out. The coppery taste is like nectar to him. The demon wants all he can get and savors the thought of her flesh rolling around his tongue, sliding down his throat, churning in his stomach to quell his hunger.

This can’t be! God will destroy him! Control! He needs to stop now. But if he does, she’ll surely alert others. They’ll come here, searching for him.

He is unable to put the taste of her out of his mind. A live feast! In his arms at this very moment, still trembling, her heart beating a staccato of pain. Another bite, not so deep as to kill her: no that would not be good. She would be like all the others if she was to die too fast. Patience. He has to have patience.

Bite after delicious bite, mingling with the delicious red nectar, heightens his senses. The heavy rain is unable to wash the young lady’s blood from his long, matted hair. A sense of madness invades the Ghoul, and he starts chuckling as he eats, enjoying the look on his meal’s face. Such terror for one so sweet and undeserving of her fate.

He rips off her clothing in order to better gorge upon his feast, and a swelling develops within his long body hair as he gazes down at what she has to offer him. It has been so long. Too long, and it was with one of his kind. However, she left, leaving him alone. Another desire he should not give in to, but what more could happen to him? He can only be killed once.

Still munching on her upper body, he slams himself deep inside her and feels her shake in pain. No finesse on the part of the Ghoul. Pleasures denied him for so many years must now be sated. On and on he goes until he violently unleashes many years of pent up semen deep within her.

Totally out of control after having reached his climax, he takes bigger and bigger bites from his victim. Her efforts to resist him lessen with each delicious morsel he partakes of as she draws nearer to death. Having been buried once and survived, she will not be so fortunate the second time.

Shuddering uncontrollably, her movements cease as the end comes. Before long, the Ghoul devours every bit of her flesh and starts feasting on her organs, intestines whipping around in a frenzy, slapping the huge raindrops to the side.

Only bones remain now.

He turns, expecting God, an Angel, something to smite him down. Only God is able to take his life, but others can cause harm to him. Nothing; no one is there. How can this be? He has gone against the rules. Perhaps God is just playing with him, teasing him before delivering the blow that will end his life. That would certainly not reflect well on the merciful Almighty One, would it?

Nothing happens as he slips the lid back on the coffin and reburies it. He makes sure everything looks the way it did before he ravaged the girl. Usually, he digs his way upwards from the ground below and tears out the bottom of a coffin to feast. Nothing to cover up that way. Who would know what happened unless the coffin was dug up and moved. Even then they would think it to be the work of some animal. An animal, yes, they would consider him to be an animal if they saw him. Human cretins. They know nothing. He is their superior!

The rain comes down harder, this time washing him clean, shoving the blood and gore into the soil. He sits on a tombstone pondering what just happened. Would he have been able to eat fresh meat before now? Did he waste all these years subsisting on the most foul of mankind? He sensed God’s presence here before but not now. And the Fallen Angel, the Creator’s mortal enemy? The Ghoul does not feel his presence either.

Conflict and anger register in his mind. A battle is being waged. Is this the Armageddon he’s heard tales of? Has the battle begun? Is that why no one has come? But the war is not being fought here. Whatever is going on has moved on to another place.

He watches the rain until it ends and is entranced by the fog crawling midway up on his body once the deluge is over. A gentle breeze flicks the hairs on his body around, turning them into sensors picking up vibes of all that is happening in the area.

“Yes,” he says to himself, “the rules are changed. My destiny is not what it was.”

Off in the distance people are shuffling along, approaching his home. He smiles and stretches his talons.

“Come, you fools: the graveyard waits.”

~ Blaze McRob

Damned Words 5

December 31, 2013March 7, 2018 ~ TheDamned ~ 19 Comments

His Release
Zack Kullis

The plume of his breath in the January air lied to him, but he knew the truth.

His heart pushed the searing heat through his body. He was burning from the inside. “Release the heat,” his fever screamed.

He could see the fiery blue of the offending veins. They were the traitorous vehicles for the blood which burned him.

Steel, blessedly cold, cut easily. He peeled away the skin on his arm with a pleasurable frenzy.

Vein-like branches quickly gave up their sanguine heat. Blue soon gave way to grey.

Frozen veins, branching across his opened flesh, burned him nevermore.

Hunted
Dan Dillard

It hunted me.

And for the better part of the chase, I was enthralled. Adrenaline pumped through my veins, keeping them hot. My muscles seared as I darted this way and that, ducking, leaping and rolling into the next place where I would wait. Wait for a breath, the crack of twigs underfoot, the flutter of a flock of birds frightened by my suitor, or a scent detected from upwind. They gave it away.

For a time it was quiet and no direction looked safe. I hesitated.

I felt its moist, warm breath on my neck and my veins froze.

Genocide
Nina D’Arcangela

Icy tendrils; you’d think they’d chill me, but no – they warm my very soul. The children of my children’s children, the progeny that will carry forth my breath cocooned in an impenetrable translucent sleeve. When this world thaws, my branches will spring free. They will bloom, spreading their lethal spore among others of my kind, killing their offspring, weakening each host. As they fail to mend, the frost will come again, and I will wait for the next thaw. When that day comes, I will stand alone, proud, the only of my kind – as it was always meant to be.

What the Frost Brings
Tyr Kieran

I am the cold—not the winter’s chill, but the dark, seeping cold that settles within the bones of the living. As they shiver and doubt and fear, I grow stronger, burning their patience away to ash. When hardship gets harder, the flames go out and their food stores diminish, I take over, filling the void where hope once bloomed. I force their despair into violence until nothing stirs but my sweet mistress: Death. Oh, how divine her touch! I’ve laid waste to entire civilizations just to feel her embrace. So, heed the frost’s warning—Death is not far behind.

Silent Planet
Thomas Brown

I travelled the world in search of you. They said that you were gone but I knew there were still places where we might talk; where for a few minutes at midnight I might look into your eyes, and smile.

Austria, Germany, the vast trackless forests of Norway. Five times I found you, hiding in the dark, bound to the old locales dotted around the world: cosmic pockets where the dead still dance.

It was a dream come true to watch you waltz under the stars. Then dawn broke, the dream ended and I died inside to be so alone.

Cold
Joseph A. Pinto

I have no magic left to revive you; you have gone cold at my feet. A time existed when I held you aloft, serenaded by the sun. We both know that day is no more. So into your wonderland, I follow one last time; your brittle boughs snap between my callous fingers. I find your pain an absent, infinite thing. Can you hear the ice crack; yes, I can hear your heart crack. Come spring, when the ground softens, I’ll dig you free again. For now, whisper to me your lost, blue-lipped solace. You have gone cold at my feet.

Deck The Lawn
Blaze McRob

They’re going to put the fucking lights and other shit on me again. I won’t allow it to happen. This ice is even too much weight for my branches to support.

It is dark when they come. Good for me, not for them. Before they have a chance to assault me, my icy branches take them down and apply a frosty guillotine to their necks. Their red blood gives the lawn a festive look, and the shock, still in their eyes, is better than any dangling orbs hanging on a tree.

Old fat Santa couldn’t have done a better job.

Cold Hearts
L. Moon

“Hard hearts in the making”
soft wintry voices say
innocence is for the taking
fiendish finger play
*
small bodies fearful, shiver
carrion blocks the light
black wings swoop and quiver
will spend life this night
*
“quickly now and hide your young ones”
dark howls fill night’s space
crystal snow a place to burrow
by dawn there’s little trace
*
scheming branches interlocking
cries both far and wide
the rumors say “death is walking”
beckoning from the other side
*
“Hard hearts foul in the making”
ice cold voices say
innocence is for the taking
while fiendish fingers play

View
Hunter Shea

Veins, veins. Ice in my veins.

Snowflakes flitting on my window, tapping, melting. So cold.

Ice in my veins.

My hands are numb. How fast will it travel, this ice flow, broken free from some frozen cellular hinterland?

Frozen fingers, numb nose, pressed against the glass. Waiting for my heart to glaciate. Warm heart, cold hands. Dead hands, deader heart.

“Stop looking out there. That is not you,” I mumble. The man next to me snorts, claws at his hair.

“That is outside. I am inside.”

Spider veins, glistening, luminescent. Blue veins, silver. Cadaverous flesh.

“Make me warm!”

Needle prick.

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Not a Creature Was Stirring

December 24, 2013December 23, 2013 ~ demonauthor ~ 19 Comments

Tiny footsteps and giggles filled the hallways of the small suburban house. Dad was snoring somewhere in a back bedroom.

“Shh,” one voice said. The other snickered and more footsteps were heard as the pair moved into the kitchen and through the wooden door that led to the basement.

“Where are they?” Emily asked.

Her blond pigtails hung in long, thick ringlets against the bright pink footie-pajamas.

“I don’t know. Look over there, dork,” said David. “I think they’re in daddy’s toolbox.”

She stuck out her tongue and carefully opened the lid to the Craftsman case. She saw screwdrivers and wrenches and various other things inside the tool chest. Then, her eyes grew round and her lips parted, spreading into a wide grin.

“Found ‘em,” she said to her brother, holding up her prize.

“Good. Now help me find the big one.”

She pulled out her list and checked it twice.

“The big one?” she asked as if to say, are you sure?

“Yep.”

David, eight years old, pushed a lock of chestnut brown hair out of his eyes and grabbed a coil of rope from a hook on the pegboard wall while Ironman looked on from the front of his t-shirt. The coil of rope slipped over his shoulder as the pair hunted the big one.

She spotted it first.

“There it is, David.”

David looked where she pointed and leaning against the wall next to the water heater, was a bundle of long handled tools. He grabbed the ten pound sledge hammer and hiked it up onto his shoulder before starting back up the stairs. Emily was looking at a pair of large garden shears, almost as tall as she was.

“Emmy, come on. We don’t need those.”

“You sure? They look sharp and pointy.”

“I’m sure. Everything’s set up already.”

She shrugged, tucked the nails she’d grabbed from the toolbox under her arm and bounded up the steps behind her brother.

“Daddy’s going to be so surprised!” she said in an excited whisper.

“Shh,” David said.

They snuck into the living room and placed the items in the middle of the floor with some earlier gatherings. David grabbed a chair from the dining room and carried it into the living room. He placed it under the exposed beam that ran the length of the ceiling. Emily turned on the Christmas tree lights and hummed Jingle Bells.

David removed a cluster of mistletoe from the beam revealing a metal bracket and with some struggle, connected the handle of the sledge to it with a single bolt. Giving it a nudge, he was happy to see the hammer swing freely side to side. He slid the chair a couple feet to his left and climbed back up, pulling the sledge by its head and connecting it to a loop of twine that was already prepared. The other end of the slipknot dangled over the back of their father’s recliner.

“Like this?” Emily asked.

David turned and looked. Emily had propped up a two-foot-square piece of plywood that was full of holes he had drilled that afternoon and she was busy pushing nails through them. He nodded.

“Just like that.”

When she was finished, it made a triangular pattern much like a Christmas tree. She put duct tape on the back, holding the spikes in place until she could lay it on the plastic sheeting they had placed the floor. There were a few more holes in the board that David had drilled so he could screw it into the subflooring through the thin carpeting. He picked up a battery powered screwdriver.

“Go check on Dad,” he said.

She padded down the hallway and peeked into her father’s room. He snored peacefully and she pulled the door shut behind her with a minimal snick of the latch. Back in the living room, she gave her brother a quick smile and a thumbs up.

“Still asleep. Visions of sugar plums,” she said.

“Cool.”

He quickly screwed down the bed of nails and put the screw-gun away. Emily helped him stretch out the coil of rope and David secured one end of it to the fireplace with a double knot. Once that was finished, they stood back and looked at their work. Emily jumped up.

“Almost forgot,” she said and rushed into the kitchen.

She returned with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk they had staged in the refrigerator and placed them on the end table next to the recliner.

“I think that does it,” Emily said.

David nodded in agreement.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Now we get in position and don’t move until it’s time.”

They fist bumped and then she ducked behind her dad’s recliner and grabbed the length of twine that hung down from the ceiling. David gripped the end of the rope and sat in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. The Christmas tree lights gave off an eerie glow and not a creature stirred otherwise. Their father’s snoring broke the silence every few seconds.

Those seconds turned into minutes and the children exercised expert patience, but when the clock on the fireplace mantle struck midnight, their wait was rewarded. In a twinkling, they heard on the roof, the prancing and pawing of many a hoof. Emily smiled as she peeked around the chair. David gave her a nod and ducked back behind the wall, holding his rope in both hands.

There were more scuffling sounds, then a snore from daddy’s bedroom, then more scuffling, and then with a bound, St. Nicholas came down the chimney. The jolly old elf stepped, leaning over, out from the fireplace and dusted the soot from his furry red suit, then he cranked his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other. He glanced at the tree, then at the cookies and when he laughed, his little round belly shook like a bowl full of jelly. Over his shoulder was a sack, and as he stepped further into the room, he swung it around and set it on the floor. David peeked around the corner. It was time.
“Now!” he shouted.

Before Saint Nick could place a finger aside of his nose, Emily jerked the twine with all of her might. The slipknot came undone and the sledge fell from its perch, smashing Santa in the side of the head. David pulled his rope tight and as Santa pirouetted in place, dizzy from the blow, he tripped over the rope and fell face-first onto the bed of nails, embedding his rosy cheeks, cherry nose and droll little mouth onto each three-inch spike.

“We got the bastard,” Emily said as she stood up.

“We sure did,” David agreed.

As the Claus twitched and shuddered, his magic blood seeping out onto the plastic in front of their tree, David and Emily retrieved his bag. It felt empty as they held it up, but when Emily reached inside, wishing, something appeared. A pink tablet computer with her name etched on the back. David pulled out one of his favorite video games, then another. Then they pulled out a wad of cash as thick as the Manhattan Yellow Pages.

“Merry freakin’ Christmas,” Emily said.

Her brother gave her a hug. “Daddy’s going to be so excited.”

“What do we do with that?”

They pair looked at Santa’s corpse and David laughed in spite of himself.

“I have an idea.”

They wrapped the plastic sheeting around Claus’s body and David lifted the old man’s shoulders while Emily pulled the bag over his head. They struggled to get it around the rest of his body, but the bag stretched as necessary and once inside, he disappeared. David unscrewed the board and tossed it and the screws into the magic sack and lucky for them, none of the blood had gotten onto the carpet. He then climbed back onto the chair and replaced the sledge hammer with the mistletoe. Once it was all cleaned up, they sat down and split the milk and cookies.

“What you want to wish for next?” Emily said.

“Dunno. You?”

She shrugged.

A massive thud on the roof startled them. Emily’s tiny hands went to her heart. Another thud followed, then another, and one by one, the reindeer slid off the snow covered roof into the back yard.

Down Dasher, then Dancer, then Prancer and Vixen, followed by Comet, then Cupid, then Donder and finally, Blitzen.

“I almost forgot about the poison carrots,” she said. “How are we gonna hide all that?”

David blushed.

“We’ll think of something,” he said. “We always do.”

~ Dan Dillard

Confessional

November 26, 2013November 24, 2013 ~ Hunter Shea ~ 26 Comments

“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It’s been…ah, about twenty years since my last confession.”

Father Antonio leaned forward, his face close to the screen that separated him from the man opposite him. In the darkness, he couldn’t make out the man’s features. It was better that way. There were some parishes where penitents had to face the priest head on, without the anonymity of the screen. He’d served in one for a year back when he was fresh from the seminary. He always felt that people guarded their sins more when they had to look a priest in the eye and spill their darkest secrets.

Dark secrets were made for dark places.

“We are very glad to have you back,” he said. “God’s home and heart is always open to you.”

“Thank you, father.”

A long silence followed. Father Antonio heard the whistle of the man’s breath through his nose.

He was well aware that sometimes, especially when there had been a long absence in the confessional, you had to give them space to collect their thoughts. It had been a while since he’d had a prodigal son walk through his confessional door. Most weeks, he heard the same confessions from the same blue hairs who attended mass seven days a week. He’d often been tempted to tell them to ‘go forth and seek fun’. Come back to him with some real sins to be forgiven. The thought made him suppress a chuckle.

After the silence went beyond the typical summoning of courage period, he said, “Do you have any sins you’d like to confess?”

The wood seat groaned as the man shifted his weight.

“I…I did something terrible when I was younger. I thought I could live with it. When I realized I couldn’t, I knew I had to confess but I was too afraid to speak it. I even changed religions. I was an Episcopalian for years. You see, with them, you confess your sins straight to God in your head. And I confessed, every Sunday, kneeling before the cross.”

Father Antonio said, “And did you find forgiveness?”

The man sniffled. It sounded as if he was crying. He ran a finger down the screen.

“No.” He said it with a breathless desperation.

“Have you forgiven yourself?”

Father knew the answer but sensed the man needed to give voice to his sins and perceived shortcomings in order to find the path to healing. He felt a burning tension in his own core, waiting to hear the man’s confession. What must it be like for him, to have a sin so great he’s spent years finding a way to unburden his soul?

“No. I need your help father.”

“You need to tell God your sin. You’ll be amazed how lighter you’ll feel. No sin is without forgiveness. All you need to do is ask for it.”

“Should…should I just say it, then?”

“That would be best. Look at it like jumping into a cool lake. The moment you hit the refreshing water, you’ll wonder why you hadn’t jumped in sooner.”

He listened as the man took several deep breaths, expelling them through his mouth.

“Will God forgive me for taking another life?”

Father Antonio’s heart kicked into a stuttering gallop. He’d spoken to other priests who had been on the receiving end of confessions of murder. What lay people didn’t know, and shouldn’t know, was the weight of those sins that simply shifted from sinner to confessor. Priests were still human. To know that there was potentially a murderer in his parish, to wonder who it could be, and to somehow let it go, to be the conduit of forgiveness, was far from easy.

The man continued. “I was a kid when it happened, still in college. I’d been at a party, had a little too much to drink, too much to smoke, and I’d taken a few pills. At some point, I wandered off, left the club to get some air, I think. After that, I blacked out for a while. Next thing I knew, I was ringing someone’s bell. A pretty woman answered. I asked her if I could use her phone so I could call someone to pick me up and take me to my dorm.

“I must have woken her up. She was wearing a robe and it kinda fell open at one point. I saw that she’d been sleeping nude. She was beautiful. I forgot about the phone. I couldn’t help myself. Before she could scream, I put my hand over her mouth and forced her onto a table. I…I can’t remember exactly what I did, but when it was over, she wasn’t breathing any more. I’d crushed her windpipe. Like a coward, I ran. For weeks I watched the story on the news from the safety of my dorm. The police never even thought to look into the students at my college. My prints weren’t on file. I was free.”

Father Antonio’s mouth went dry.

“But I wasn’t,” the man said. “Please, forgive me Father. I can’t go on like this.”

It was difficult for Father Antonio to speak. He didn’t hear his own words as he doled out the man’s penance. Something about saying the rosary and asking Mary for forgiveness.

The man thanked him profusely, praising him and Jesus for their kindness. As he left, Father Antonio cracked the door open just enough to see the man as he shuffled down the aisle.

It was Gene Fenton. He always sat in the center pews so he could bring up the gifts during mass.

Gene Fenton.

Father Antonio fumbled within his cassock for his cell phone. He thumbed his brother-in-law’s phone number.

“I know who killed our Laurie,” he whispered.

“How?”

“God brought him to me. His name is Gene Fenton. I’ll get you his address when I return to the rectory.”

“You know what this will mean, don’t you?”

It was impossible to see through his tears. “Please, don’t tell me.”

But he knew. His wife’s murder was why he became a priest, to put as much distance as possible from the man he’d been to who he was now. In both incarnations, he was wholly imperfect.

He disconnected the call.

Stumbling from the confessional, he opened an adjacent door. Father Murphy sat on the other side, unprepared for what was about to come.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned.”

~ Hunter Shea

The Manipulator

November 19, 2013November 19, 2013 ~ zkullis ~ 25 Comments

Nothingness, absolute and pure, was broken by a suggestion.

~Rise~

Slumber torn asunder. Twinges of tissue and cognition, and then he WAS.

~ ~

Tired. So tired… Confusion and disorientation numbed his mind like cotton wrapped hands. Thoughts felt like a jumble of dusty moths bumped plaintively against a dim light bulb. He couldn’t grasp where he was – what he was doing. His limbs felt stiff and unused.

The stony grip of anxiety seized his mind and burned in his lungs. A deep breath was impossible. Thin air pulled slowly through his nose, bringing with it the smell of fresh clothing and an acrid smell that reminded him of a dissected frog. His anxiety doubled when he realized his mouth wouldn’t open. A hand finally responded to his slow mind. It moved sluggishly, fumbled around haphazardly until it found his lips. Glue. Somebody had glued his lips shut while he slept. Anger and the inability to get a full breath drove his fingers to tear at his lips with a horrible frenzy.

Dry tissue tore without pain or blood. Thin air cascaded over his teeth and dry tongue. His lungs responded mechanically, filling, expelling. Fingers that slowly gained dexterity and feeling touched what should have been painful tears in his lips. He was grateful it didn’t hurt and started to relax slightly.

Another strange sensation penetrated the musky fog of his lethargic mind. His eyes felt like they had something in them. The total absence of light wouldn’t let him see what he was doing, so his hands touched their way past his torn lips, his cold nose, and found his eyes. Tufts of cotton had been stuffed between his eyelids and his eyes. ‘What the hell,’ he tried to scream, but it came out in a hoarse growl. “Wwuu du hehh!”

His hand shot out in an effort to throw away the cotton when it struck something solid. The loud ‘thunk’ reverberated around him as if he were in a closed space. The frantic movement of the severely claustrophobic possessed him as his legs kicked and struck out all around him. A cacophony of quick echoes filled the tight space. His fists pummeled the surface above him, to the side, underneath, and beyond his head. Wordless screams bounced off the smooth walls.

Animalistic fury filled his mind and fueled his raging muscles. His hand shot out in front of him, and struck the surface above his face. The welcome sound of a loud crack met his ears. Lungs pulled at the failing air in massive gulps, like a doomed fish flopping on the shore. A primal scream erupted from his bloodless lips as he struck out violently against his prison.

“Unnghh!” he screamed between breaths. The sounds of his attack morphed from groans and creaks to the splintering of broken wood. A fist erupted through the fissure; his dry flesh scratched, torn and shredded against the sharp edges of his prison. Small pieces of something cold fell onto his face. His hand and fingers vaguely recognized the material as he started to pull his hand back inside and tear at the prison. Realization of what was falling on him came along with the avalanche of freshly dug dirt.

Adrenaline, or its mystical counterpart, burst through his system. ‘Damn this place’ he thought as he struggled against the wood and dirt. ‘Damn whoever put me here’ he thought as he finally got to his knees. The weight of loose dirt above him pressed down on his shoulders and head. Arms tried to push through the soil and pull him up. Hands searched frantically for leverage, for anything. Nothing.

There was no point. Dirt pressed against his eyes, stuck against the dry orbs, preventing him from the tender mercy of a blink. Not even a blink. Small bits of soil worked into his nose. The smell of loam and old decay filled him. Gagged him. He thrashed his head. How long since he took a breath? Fighting to keep his mouth closed was in vain. The muscles in his jaw worked against him. ‘Don’t open’ he screamed in his head.

His head thrashed wildly when his mouth opened. Dirt, a few rocks, and who knows what else poured in. His movements slowed against his will. Hands stopped grasping. Arms stopped reaching. He was dead – or would be. The cold hand of eternity gripped him tightly. He would pass, and be finished with his awful fate. Soon. Please.

There was nothing. His mind still worked, toiled against being stuck in this cold between. Then there was something. From above. A presence. It waited, knowingly. It beckoned. Then it spoke in his head.

“Rise…”

‘Can’t move,’ he thought in reply. ‘Can’t breathe.’

Dark laughter filled his head. It remained silent long enough that he decided he had gone mad. ‘Yes,’ he thought. ‘I’m mad.’ The voice filled his head again.

“Mad like the Arab with his Kitab al-Azif? No. Forget who you were, that which was is no more. Stop struggling for air. You no longer need it. Rise!”

It seemed too much, but he couldn’t deny the voice. It knew. The voice was more than suggestive. It carried with it an air of command that left no room for questions or derision. As a marionette moves at the behest of the manipulator, so too was he compelled to move. He pushed deeper into the earthen barrier, inched upwards, and endured the agony of his impossible climb. He fought against the spasms of his lungs craving oxygen they no longer needed as he heeded the call.

Fingers clawed through dirt and grasped at moist air. Forearms broke through soon after, quickly pulling his head past charnel soil. His eyes worked to blink away the earthen mess they had gathered. He hung his head forward, disgorging a voluminous pile of graveyard dirt that had filled his mouth and esophagus. Once the dirt was gone, he pulled in air. Not for a breath, no, he cried out with a nightmarish mix of relief and malice.

He lifted his head up to find the voice. The manipulator. His eyes absorbed the tenebrous night with preternatural ability. A huge moon hung far overhead, shedding its gossamer rays over a small clearing. Spanish moss clung tenaciously to an old Cypress tree.

“Here,” rasped a gravelly voice. The voice spoke in his head as it sounded in his dirt-filled ears. He turned his head and saw the Manipulator standing underneath the Cypress tree. It was too dark under the ancient tree to see the owner of the voice, but he could see a figure of absolute darkness and haunting shape beneath the heavy limbs.

“You are reborn, freed from death’s hold through this necrotic birth. I have not given you life, but something utterly different and blasphemous. You have breached this unhallowed soil which is your second womb. You enter this world bloodless, severed from humanity and unbound by all law but mine.”

The Manipulator raised an arm, cloaked in dominion and despair. A withered hand moved in lesser shades of dark and prompted the reborn man to finish rising. Enthralled by his master, he pressed his now powerful hands against the ground he had crawled from. He pushed, struggled, and cried out with the effort. At long last he dragged himself from the loose soil and ambled towards the Manipulator with manic obsession. The filthy clothes, clean when the man had been buried two days ago, dropped clumps of dirt and soil as he made his way to the Stygian shadow under the Cypress tree.

He stood under the tree and shook with necrotic joy. Eyes bright with malicious zeal looked excitedly at the being that had given him all. “Come,” said the Manipulator. “You and I have work to do.”

~ Zack Kullis

Beyond Trapped

November 12, 2013November 11, 2013 ~ Tyr Kieran ~ 27 Comments

Beyond Trapped

I blink my eyes, but nothing changes.

A complete, debilitating darkness veils my vision. For several moments, I wait, hoping that my eyes simply need to adjust, but no details emerge from the ink-black void.

I turn, looking for something, anything, and the hair on the back of my head crackles, like coarse sandpaper in motion. Then, my ear makes contact with a cold, hard surface and I realize I’m lying on my back.

Where am I? Is this a dream?

I experience nothing but total darkness in either direction.

Maybe I fell and cracked my skull. That might explain the memory loss and malfunctioning vision.

Though I can feel—feel my chest rise and fall, my eyelids moving, my tongue sticking to the roof of my pasty mouth—I sense no pain; in fact, my entire body tingles as if I’m floating atop ocean waves.

In the process of raising my arm to grope for head wounds, my hand smacks into resistance. I search that surface instead, finding it to be cold and smooth, just like the floor. The overhead barrier resides a mere four or five inches away. I can feel the faint rebound of my rapid breaths, tickling my pores and eyelashes—the exhalations smelling sweet, like fruit, but also a bit stale and skunked.

How long have I been here?

I slide my hands along the overhead plane and it doesn’t take long to reach corners—side walls. I’m enclosed. Trapped. Contained in a box.

Oh, fuck! Is it a coffin?

Maybe I’m dead and this is my purgatory—confined in a world of my own making, crafted by a life riddled with bad choices and ruled by lazy indecision.

I frantically feel for the game-over tattoo, the topographical Y carved into a cadaver’s chest during an autopsy. Yanking up my shirt, I pull through the levels of resistance as buttons pop off. The revealed skin is smooth, uncut.

I’m not dead, but the sigh of relief never comes as my thoughts quickly turn to the next possible explanation:

Oh God, I’m buried alive!

My lungs seize and I can’t breathe, the air suddenly locked away.

The momentary break in exhalation allows a different odor to permeate my senses. It overpowers my olfactory system with the rank properties of sour milk, raw hamburger, and fecal matter drizzled with corn syrup. It’s an unmistakable aroma; one that even an inexperienced person like me can instantly identify… death.

Hot bile surges up my throat and is only held at bay by my desperate need to breathe. In a convulsion, I cough out the old and choke down the new. Gasping, sweating, and on the verge of tears, my frantic hands stumble onto something other than the walls or myself.

The object isn’t exactly solid… or dry. My fingers explore the round surface sitting to my left: brittle fibers, sticky fluid, and a spongy covering that slid around under my inquiring touch.

This time the rising bile is unhindered and I vomit. The warm acidic chow flows over my shoulder—most likely splattering the rotting corpse next to me. The putrid odors swirling around my nose threaten to keep my stomach in a perpetual state of upheaval, a tailspin of sorts in which I’m the pilot watching helplessly as death grows nearer with every rotation. Thankfully, my stomach hits Empty after two retched sessions.

My thoughts begin to swirl again as I battle a few lingering dry heaves. Even the most moronic funeral homes in the country, the ones that mislabel mausoleums or bury coffins before their viewings, couldn’t mistakenly shove two bodies into one casket, especially when one has been dead for quite some time. No, someone put me here… intentional entombment, but, why?

Panic strikes. Casting aside all previous hindrances—the thick stench, a convulsing stomach, seized lungs in terror—my breaths pull hard and fast, surpassing the pace of my lurching heartbeat.

Why would someone do this to me?

“I’m a nobody,” I sob, moaning the words to myself in the dark. “I don’t know anything! Why am I here? WHY?!”

The plea echoed painfully around my head like a vehement swarm of wasps. When the ache subsided with the last reverberations, cold silence poured in, bringing attention to sounds I hadn’t noticed before. I held still, listening.

I could decipher a faint mechanical whirring, a droning that ebbed and flowed in quiet waves. And, there’s another sound, too. It’s intermittent… a faint, single bell like the victory chime of a distant carnival game.

If I can hear these things, whatever they are, then maybe I’m not buried deep.

A surge of confidence urges me to action. I feel the surfaces of my confines again, but this time searching with greater care and determination. If there’s a way in, there’ll be a way out.

Eventually, I have a discovery. The sensitive pads of my fingertips detect a line. Directly above my face, there’s a tight seam in the otherwise smooth metal. I don’t know what type of coffin would feature a center seam running the length of the vessel, but I can’t think of one that would have a flat metal lid, either, and there’s no time to contemplate the limits of my knowledge base.

I finger the center line, trying to find a grip on the edge, but it’s too fine, too smooth. Fumbling and growing frantic, I keep at it. Sweat beads on my face, I can feel the prickling heat tickling my pores. At last, I gain purchase; a sliver of fingernail jammed into the seam. Surprised at the sudden change, I pause, forcing my heavy breathing down to an inadequate hiss like that of an officer disarming a bomb. Slowly, I wedge more fingernails into the tiny crack—eight in all. Then I start to pull.

At first, there was mounting pressure, but that quickly escalated into sharp pain. The resistance is too much. I stop to think, to rest.

Could I do this? Could I pull it open enough to get fingertips in there before…

Something stirred in the darkness.

Ice crystals bloom inside my skull and my eyes bulge, still seeing nothing. My ears twitch and tingle in wait of a sound. Then a sound came.

A muffled string of words calling from the void, too distorted to comprehend despite their utterance so close to my ear. My entire body jerks. Startled and instantly terrified, I start screaming. My shrieks, too loud in the confined space, shoot spikes through my eardrums, but that pain is overshadowed by the agony coming from my fingers as I pull at the seam. I feel my nails tear free as a paper-thin beam of light slices into my eyes.

The gap widens, bathing me in blinding light.

I feel myself shaking.

Something has my shoulders, gripping me.

A sharp slap across my cheek.

My eyes adjust and two elderly faces gaze back at me.

“Wha—”

“What the Hell’s a matter with you?” The gruff voice came from a burly old man.

“I, uh—”

“Yeah, look at his eyes,” the woman mumbled. “They’re dilated.”

“Hey,” the old man said, shaking me again. “You’ve been freaking out in the elevator. Poor Charlene, here, nearly had a heart attack when you started screaming in her face on the way up.”

I look around, blinking hard, and finally begin to comprehend the situation. Mr. Koplouski, my landlord, stood in the hall with 83 year-old Charlene Eldelman at his side. At the end of the hall, behind them, the Sunday morning sun blazed in through the window. Glancing down I see my favorite clubbing clothes, a blue patterned button-down shirt and black leather pants. I also see my undamaged hands, fingernails and all.

That’s the last time I partake in the free sugar-cube handouts.

“Sorry, Sir. It, uh, won’t happen again.”

“It better not, or I’ll rent your apartment to someone else! Now, go home and lay off the goddamn drugs, will ya.”

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Koplouski. Sorry.”

I shuffle past them and down the hall toward my apartment. The floor rippling beneath me with each step and every door started oozing blood from the blinking peep-holes.

Fuck, I gotta get to bed!

~ Tyr Kieran

Your Call

November 5, 2013November 17, 2014 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 38 Comments

Darkness surrounds me; my ever-present companion, both the bearer and child of my scorched and withered being.

Inky pools of lesser light that beckon me to breach them. A soft, subtle whisper of promised indulgence; the caress of a dank breath never to be drawn that tugs at my soul; the gentle rustlings of the unknown scuttling though my mind that speak of a dusky beauty – things that never were but should always have been.

Dare I step closer only to find myself enamored by the all consuming draw of your call? Do I finally release the pang that I have held so dear and tender to me these years gone by? Do I allow you to exist in the light or shall I surrender to the smothering depths of a mind already drowned in madness?

The pull of the shadows is such a thing of comfort as to blanket itself around me while it slowly suckles my very being into non-existence. But the exquisite embrace this lack of existence offers is such a supple and soothing one; to fade to obscurity, what a delight that would be, yet an injustice to all that you would have been. Year upon agonizing year I have listened to your call and let it go unanswered, keeping hidden the unbridled desire to glance upon the you that never was.

There may not be a path that leads back to the dimmer shadows once I allow myself this wanton freedom, though I do not believe I would seek one. My poor darling Angel who has lived in a trapped darkness for so long, will you no longer torture me if I allow this coupling its place, or will you still haunt every step I lay upon a ground you shall never touch, breathe the breadth you shall never have, feel and see the beauty that you shall never know?

~ Nina D’Arcangela

Let the Damning Begin!
Those cursed with our foul taint, heed this call, bear witness to this Damned offering. The prizes for burying yourself in our Coffin are as such:

Grand Prize:
Jaimie Engle shall swig her poison from a Pen of the Damned Flask!
(Pen of the Damned on CafePress)

Pen of the Damned eBook Anthology prizes:
Yessss, the Damned have been scribbling their demented ravings and collecting the torn shreds for your bemusement. May the eyes and ears of the Four Horsewomen of the Apocalypse bleed upon sight and sound of our collective madness!
Lori Joyce Parker, Mari Wells, Georgina Morales, and ShadowGirl

Coffin Hop Anthology:
One final slaughter to add to the Coffin, a Death by Drive-In – no finer way to depart this existence for the next! Juan Gutierrez will be granted an eBook copy of the Coffin Hop Anthology!

Until the next utterance from the Damned, beware what scuttles in the darkened corners of your own mind…

Samhain Madness

October 29, 2013October 28, 2013 ~ blazemcrob ~ 42 Comments

A fierce wind blows across the Bethel Cemetery grounds. This is a cleansing, Wyoming style. Tomorrow is Samhain, and all must be ready. Nothing must stand in the way of what is to happen here at the appointed time.

Leaves scatter everywhere, swirling around, telling the world their story. The multicolored delights just recently fallen from the trees will soon turn brown and add to the dead look of winter. By morning, none of the leaves will be left in the cemetery. It has been mandated.

One gravesite stands apart from the rest, mounds of dirt placed to the side, allowing room for those who will come and grieve. There is no need for a cleansing wind here. There is not a leaf to be found. The tombstone, its fresh marble surface shining in the moonlight, displays the name of tomorrow’s occupant.

Blaze McRob

Born: September 14, 1947
Died: October 30, 2013

“Feast at my burial. I’ll bring the beer.”

* * *

I toss my suitcase on the bed, tired from the long trip and the rotten travel conditions. Something weird is going on in the skies. The turbulence was freaky. Several times I thought the end was coming, the little prop job almost slammed to the surface before the pilot was able to pull the nose up at the last second.

Blaze asked me to meet him here at the Plains Hotel in downtown Cheyenne, he said there was something very important he had to tell me. But when he didn’t show up, I booked a room. This is an interesting place. The bell boy had rattled off tales of the people killed here, ghosts running around the joint, and other stories of the paranormal. His jabber-jawing earned him a good tip from me.

Heading back to the lobby, I stop at the front desk and ask if there’s a dining room at the hotel. I’m starved. Nothing like a roller-coaster plane ride to whet an appetite. Plus, I need a beer.

“Yes, Mr. Kullis, the dining room is down the hallway to your right. The food and beverage selection is quite excellent. Enjoy your dinner, sir,” the clerk smiled. “Oh, just a moment, I nearly forgot. I have a letter for you.”

‘Hi, Zack. It’s Blaze,’ I read. ‘I won’t be able to meet you at the Plains – I’m dead. Kind of sucks, but I’m being buried at the Cemetery tomorrow night at 8:00 P.M. and I’d like you to be there. Strange time, I realize, but you’ll understand why tomorrow. No need for fancy duds. It’ll be quite dark and no one will give a fuck what you’re wearing. See you tomorrow night, buddy.’

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Blaze is up to something. The man’s a real wise-ass. I just wonder when he’ll arrive on the scene and try to scare the living shit out of me.

I walk into the dining room. The waitress seats me at a table close to the window where I can see what’s happening outside. Perfect. I don’t like being hemmed in. Too many years in the FBI have taught me to always have an escape route planned. In this case, it’s a window, but it’ll do.

She takes my order and asks if I would like a drink while I wait for my meal. “Thank you,” I say. “I’ll have a Budweiser, please.”

It hits the spot, and I drink slowly as I wait for my meal. The wind is howling outside, sending debris ripping down the street at a frightening pace. It tears a sign apart across the road. I’m glad I’m on this side. But then again, what if the wind shifts? I’m right next to the fucking window. So much for an escape route – a safe one anyway.

“Here’s your dinner, sir,” my waitress says, placing it before me. “I see you were watching our unique natural phenomenon. It keeps the air clean, if nothing else.”

“I would imagine it does. Is it always like this?”

“Yes, except in the summer when we could use a breeze.”

“Amazing. I guess you get used to it after a while.”

“Not really. The state has a pretty high suicide rate, I’m sure the wind has a lot to do with it. Would you care for another beer?”

“Yes, please,” I say, surprised that suicide and beer should both roll off her tongue so easily.

“I’ll be right back with another Budweiser. Enjoy your dinner.”

My steak is sitting in a pool of warm blood, shaking wildly as though daring me to try cutting into it. Bones adorn the outer perimeters of the platter the steak sits on. When I attempt to butter my potato, they begin attacking my hands. Damn that fucking Blaze! What’s that joker up to? I know he’s behind this.

“Is everything all right, sir?” my waitress asks when she returns.

“I believe my steak is a bit too rare,” I intone with a hint of sarcasm. “Would you have the chef cook it a little longer, please?”

“No problem, sir.”

She removes the plate, and I sip my second beer. When she returns, I find that everything is cooked to perfection. There is no blood on the plate, and no more snapping bones. “Is everything okay this time, sir?” she asks as she watches me take my first bite.

“Absolutely delicious, thank you.”

I finish my meal and order one last beer.

“Would you prefer to sit here with your beer or go to the lounge, sir,” my waitress asks.

“Actually, I’m waiting for a friend of mine to pop up on the scene. He sent me a letter saying he was dead and to meet him tomorrow night at the cemetery. But Blaze is quite the trickster.”

“Blaze McRob?”

“Yes, do you know him?”

“Indeed I do. He cuts quite a figure in this town. But he did die, sir. This morning, in fact. He has been sick for a while, you know.”

“I heard he was, but I had no idea he was that sick.”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say. He had quite a following. The cemetery will be packed tomorrow night. I’ll be there for sure.”

Wow! Even in death, Blaze found a way to make the situation a merry one.

“Why is he being buried only one day after his death?”

“He arranged it this way. He didn’t want a mortician working on him. A simple pine box, closed lid, and a quick, natural burial were his wishes. But he arranged for a feast to be catered at the grave site. The man knew how to live, no doubting that, but he certainly knew how to die with style!”

My respect for Blaze growing, my curiosity as to who this man really was growing by leaps and bounds. I knew him, but apparently I didn’t really know him.

“Why will so many people be there? Don’t most already have plans for Halloween? Parties, tick-or-treating with the kids?”

She smiled, “Blaze was loved by everyone. He was a very generous man when it came to children and his friends, and helped everyone he knew as much as he could. Plus, his was always the best Halloween party in town. Something special will happen tomorrow, rest assured of that.”

“Well, I guess we’ll find out,” I say.

Linda, the waitress (I can tell by her name tag – hey, we FBI guys are sharp) is right about Blaze in many respects, but she’s not telling me the whole story. I can hear the hidden inflection in her speech, read her various body mannerisms, and I know there is more to it than she’s telling me, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll go tomorrow night and see for myself, pay my respects to my friend, and leave the following day. I owe it to Blaze. He’s helped me out a number of times in the past. It’s the least I can do.

“If you don’t mind, Linda,” I say, “I’ll just sit here and finish this beer before going back to my room.” She brings me my check, I pay and drop her a twenty as a tip. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Thank you very much, that’s very generous of you. Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

After nursing the last few sips of my beer, I head back to my room, every step of the way feeling as if I am being followed. I see nothing, but it doesn’t matter; I feel everything; I’m not alone. I’m on the cusp of a grand adventure.

Thanks, Blaze. You know how I thrive on the unknown. Tomorrow, buddy. Tomorrow.

* * *

I arrive at the grave site early, or so I thought. There are already easily a hundred people assembled. The catering is in full swing, tables of food set up for everyone, well in advance of the burial. Blaze’s casket sits off to the side of the party, watching; almost seeming to survey everything that’s going on in the cemetery.

Kegs of Killian’s Red, Blaze’s favorite beer are set up in huge ice baths, and a bartender is busy pouring away.

Walking to the tombstone, I see the inscription and have to laugh. Linda was right: Blaze knows how to die with style.

I grab some food. There’s a little bit of everything here. Enough entrees and desserts to blow your socks off. Over a thousand miles from the closest ocean, and yet there are fresh lobsters, steamed clams, succulent oysters, as well as prime-cut locally raised steaks and burgers.

Spotting Linda, I walk to her and say, “Hello again. I’m glad to see you here. You mentioned there would be a big turn out, but I never expected this.”

She laughs. “This is only the beginning.”

With everything else going on tonight, I imagine her words resonate with truth. As much as I don’t wish to see my buddy being interred in the ground, I can hardly wait to see what happens next. It’s as if I’m in a movie, one scene after another playing before my eyes, waiting for my part to begin.

Eight P.M. arrives and two men maneuver the casket over the open grave and lower it into the ground. All eyes are on what’s happening. When the pine box hits the bottom of the hole, the men begin tossing dirt on top of it, shovel by shovelful. In a matter of fifteen minutes, all that meets the eyes is a mound of soil not quite as flattened out as it should be. There are no words spoken, no eulogy given. Strange, but I guess that’s the way Blaze wanted it.

Standing off to the side, watching the people gathered here, I feel a growing sense of expectation in the pit of my stomach; something is yet to come. Then it happens. The earth shakes, enough to almost toss me to the ground. I look around to see the others behaving as if they expected this to happen. The huge mausoleum next to Blaze’s modest burial-place splits in two from the force of the quaking, and the immense crowd, now numbering at least three hundred, stands to either side of the opening, forming as a human channel to direct traffic… but for what?

I hear scratching and clawing, and smell a hideous, musty stench coming from inside the mausoleum. Winged beasts emerge from the breach first, looking like gigantic bats, but upon further inspection, appear to resemble enormous Gargoyles with long, split tails. They rise high into the air, their wings sending the putrefaction farther out into the cemetery. And then, they fly away faster than anything I have ever seen before.

Wispy ghosts appear next, their non-substantive forms flying wildly about in the wake of the monstrosities before them. They must be lost souls released from their bondage. But where do they go now?

“Believe. Open your eyes and believe,” Linda says, as she moves next to me. “This is the closest that the Gates to Otherworld have ever been to our world. Look at the name on the mausoleum: Katz; an aberration of cats. This is the Cave of the Cats.”

As much as I try to refute her statements, I can’t. I am a witness to all measure of demons and oddities from Hell. Beings of indescribable shapes and sizes parade their deformities before me.

But wait! None of them make any effort to attack those forming the corridor directing them away from their tomb. Where will they go? What will they do?

The last of them trickle from view, and we return to Blaze’s grave site.

The dirt begins to shift. A hand rises from the center of the mound, and then another. They push away more of the fill covering the burial, and the unmistakable sight of Blaze, dirt clinging to his long beard, catches the light of the moon. The crowd cheers as he surfaces, shakes and dusts himself off, then grabs a beer from the outstretched hand of the bartender.

“Thank you all for coming out tonight,” his booming voice echoes through the cemetery. “We know what we’re up against now. These things will go after their kind first, those who possess evil to match their own. When they run out of the scum of the Earth to feast upon, that’s when the good folk will have to worry.

“And worry they will. The Dark Ages have returned, worse than ever.”

He raises his beer into the air, and the crowd joins him.

“For now, let’s party. All work and no play, and all that shit, you know.”

I walk to Blaze and hold out my hand. “You need a fucking bath, buddy. You reek.”

“Soon enough, my friend. You know, your days with the FBI are done. This is not the only Cave of the Cats. There is one in Washington, D.C. These beings from Otherworld will be busy there for quite some time.”

I laugh. “I suppose, but how do I know that you didn’t change into one of the bastards of the Underworld when you were dead?”

“You don’t. But I certainly found the perfect night to rise up from the dead, didn’t I? The doctors couldn’t come up with a plan to keep my old carcass alive, but I found a way to avoid putting myself under their care.”

“Kind of an extreme way around the health care system, isn’t it?”

“Enough talk, Zack. Let’s party. Dead or alive, I can’t die again.”

For a dead guy, Blaze makes a lot of sense. We drink ‘til almost dawn, none of the crowd leaving. My friend is right. I will stay here. This will be a long battle.

* * *

Heavy rains saturate the area, flowing into the old mausoleum. A deep well is forming, but without fortifications to support it, it collapses in upon itself, sealing the opening forever.

The Gargoyles circle in the sky, the first vestige of destruction having occurred. Like the flying reptiles of millions of years ago, they rule supreme in the air. Nothing can touch them. They do not have to return to their confinement in Hell.

Pesky planes fly into Cheyenne airport. They picked the wrong time…

~ Blaze McRob

Coffin Hop 2013

The lid cracks open; dust and a foul odor emanate from within. But there is something… something lurking at the bottom. Could it be the Damned prize? Sliding the lid further, dirt rains down upon your unsoiled shoes, you peer deeper into the dim recesses; Damned if you’ll leave here without the treasure, Damned still if you do! The gap opens wider, something from within scuttles across your hand. Is that the echo of menacing laughter you hear?

Comment below ‘tween October 24th and 31st, 2013, and you may be Damned to suffer what the Coffin yields!

…and don’t forget to follow the other Coffin Hoppers here!

Damned Words 4

October 22, 2013March 7, 2018 ~ TheDamned ~ 52 Comments

Fillmore Street Park
Dan Dillard

He walked to the old bench at the Fillmore Street Park for his evening think. He’d done it for years. He was loving her that night. He’d done that for years as well. With a groan—his old bones protesting, he sat and smiled, wrinkling an old face. Children played while he slumped, his heart seizing. She came soon after, just to check on him. She had stayed behind to clean the dishes. Same thing every night of their marriage. The poisoned glass was something new. She tossed it in the trash and smiled, knowing it was no longer needed.

Name Your Poison
Blaze McRob

Two measuring beakers wait on the left. The poisons, skull and cross-bones displayed on the bottles, are sitting on the right.

The labels tell a story. Mix them all together and it spells one thing. Doom.

Two parts salt from Sodom, three parts of oil pollution greed, and four parts pain from those persecuted. I mix well and put in a flask.

Pulling my hood down over my face, and grabbing my scythe, I head for the door. The night is Dark; the futures of those I intend to visit is Darker yet.

It is Harvest season. Time to reap…

Marvelous Mel
Tyr Kieran

As the carnival migrated from town to town, so did Marvelous Mel. Riding on their road-dust coattails, he leeched off their attraction—the lights, thrills, and spectacles of Big Top Entertainment. He pedaled his medicinal wares of potions, powders, and poultices in a boisterous bally that fed on the crowd’s fears and doubts. The carnies of Porticelli’s Circus loathed the snake oil salesman and the tarnish his cons inflicted upon their fame. They could not strike a deal to part ways, so, with a simple switch of labels, they turned the barker’s next performance into one their patrons’ll never forget.

Brew
Nina D’Arcangela

The sizzle surrendering to silence, the flare diminishing to nothing more than a ghost upon his eyes, Darius wondered at the concoction brewing this Witch’s eve. An elixir he was charged with dispensing to all sons of Barecrest Village. The cloaked man before him would reveal nothing of its effects, only that he must see it consumed. The apprentice, far too dutiful to question, corked the final vial of odiferous liquor and set about his duty. Task complete, he returned both ashen and quivering to find his Master holding two goblets in hand. “Wizard or Warlock, which shall it be?”

Bane
Joseph A. Pinto

We savored our only connection—these sins corked without repentance before us. I remember when you stole stars from my sky, but you laughed: “you’re so over the moon!” The turpentine an easy liquid to digest then; it kept pretenses stripped clean.

One September, you whispered—”how much lovelier we would be if dead.” So I orchestrated a hymn for our funeral; you fashioned wind chimes for our grave.

Now we dance slowly, the carillons a gentle ringing in our ears. This was the way it should have been for us; that amber reflection in your eye never more beautiful.

Half-Measure
Thomas Brown

Drink deep, and with the mellow taste lingering in your mouth open your eyes and see the world for the first time. Regard the narrow alleys down which lovers satisfy themselves inside each other, the offices where machines sing country songs while men and women queue up to step on their whirring blades, the traffic blowing black fumes in the bright sky: our city where we live, love, scream of life and death even as we walk smiling into those mellifluous meat-grinders and know peace. All this revealed in a half-measure from an old bottle, shining darkly on the shelf.

Pain in the Ass
Hunter Shea

“Shit, did it bite you?” Marlene panted as she fastened the leather straps.

Alice looked down at her hand with frantic eyes.

“No,” she said sighing with relief.

The creature thrashed on the table – a writhing amalgam of fur and teal-tinged flesh, jagged teeth and drying blood, savage lust and certain death.

Alice saw the first drip of blood from her parents’ bodies fall from the basement ceiling.

“Pass me the glasses,” Marlene commanded.

“Which ones?”

“The amber ones, over there. Oh, and the funnel,too.”

Death by poisonous enema was better than it deserved, but it would have to do.

The Classic Signature
Leslie Moon

The bartender knew his craft well.

“This will be my classic Mojito, Miss.”

Her eyes twinkled, “You promised gold flecked ice.

“I understand there is an additional cost that I am more than willing to pay.”

“Yes, the gold flecks will match those in your eyes.

“Also for you an old recipe, my signature concoction infused with mint.”

****

“Specially made in celebration. Here’s to us darling.”

She raised her wine glass.

He smiled as he eyed the gold flecks, savoring the end of his drink.

She eyed him with concern.

Weakly he says, “Love, it seems a bit salty…”

Coffin Hop 2013

Comment below ‘tween October 24th and 31st, 2013, and you may be Damned to suffer what the Coffin yields!

…and don’t forget to follow the other Coffin Hoppers here!

Feathers

September 10, 2013May 25, 2016 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 18 Comments

I sit here sipping from my glass, a fine glass at that; delicate in nature, with spinning hues of barest midnight blue drawn through its perfect surface, creating an undulating wave of confused beauty. Beauty; I look at the cavern around me, the carved seat I rest upon, my enclave, my domain; my perfect world. Things of beauty surround me, but only at my beck and call. True, some have come crawling, but I find I’ve no use for such sniveling. They are no longer amongst us. Is there not one worthy of my attentiveness? This isolation grows tiresome. Ordering one of the grovlings to fetch me a new pet, I wait with little patience.

Finally, she is brought before me. “Kneel.” There is no question she will do as I instruct, they all do. I toss a collar onto the floor, it attaches to a leash fastened to the arm of my perch. “Put it on,” I instruct as she attempts to speak.

“I do not recall telling you to open your lips. When I wish them to perform, I will demand it. Now, put it on, and do so with your mouth shut!” She scrambles to do as ordered, but the idiot grovling has yet to release her from the crude looped choker used to drag her here. I glance at the grovling and he realizes his folly. He apologizes profusely, trying to loosen the choker as she desperately tries to fasten the collar around her bleeding neck with hands that shake. I let him babble, his stupidity is quite amusing, then I bore of hearing it. Standing, I descend the two steps that separate myself from the others. She shivers uncontrollably as I pass by. He drops to a knee while still begging forgiveness for his lack of foresight. Foolish, that. The assumption that he’s been given the right to foreshadow my thoughts or wishes, a mistake I would not have made had I been in his position. Crouching in front of him, my wing tips curl against the stone floor. I order him to lift his chin. As he does so, he pisses himself. I glace down at the growing puddle beneath him and gently tap the edge of the glass against the floor. It fractures magnificently.

“Do you recall when this glass was made for me, grovling?” Desperately, he tries to hold my eye, but cannot. His own orbs flick quickly to the glass; I smile. He opens his mouth to respond and I hush him with a gentle garnet-tipped finger upon his lips. “My question did not require an answer, or did your foresight fail you yet again?” Trembling with indecision, he is unsure if a response is expected. I’m of the opinion it is not, but I’ll allow his inner torment to continue a bit longer. The jingling to my right finally stops; she has managed to fasten the collar around her neck. I hear the slightest tinkling – the sound of the metal chain leading from the collar back to my seat quivering; she is frightened, but doing admirably well. So far.

Waiting is the sweetest torture, one my many eons in this festering shithole has taught me well how to exploit. The grovling on the other hand, is finding the wait – arduous. I can sense his overwhelming desire to speak; I can see the thoughts flick through his feeble little mind. Dragging the now jagged edge of the glass through his own urine, I provoke him. “It must be so difficult kneeling before me, wanting to speak your mind, but knowing you probably should not.” The sound of glass scraping stone must be maddening. “I almost feel compassion for you, honestly, I almost do. Was being obedient and keeping your mouth shut so very hard that you simply found yourself incapable of the task?” His lips part; the bait is taken. If I were a sport fisherman, this is the point at which I would yank the line, one swift hard pull to set my hook. In what is a blink in his world, I ram the piss covered broken glass through his eye socket clean into his brain cavity. The ickor that oozes into the glass is proof enough that his brief squeal will be his final utterance.

With the same finger that earlier sent him into a quaking fit of terror, I push his useless body to the ground. There are other grovlings lurking in the shadows, there always are – putrescent little beasts. With a dismissive nod of my head, several rush forward to dispose of the lifeless meat littering the chamber floor.

I turn to the captive beside me, realizing that the grovling’s piss has spread beneath her knees. She still trembles, but only mildly. Admirable that. Kneeling in a dead thing’s piss and still she does not flinch. I stare at her for a moment, perhaps two, then rise and retrieve the handle of her new life. A grovling attempts to capture my eye, he clearly wishes to tell me that the deceased has been removed. Presuming me too stupid to recognize this fact on my own would be another mistake for his kind this day. Best that he should simply go about his business, leaving me to mine. Somehow, he senses this and begins to back away.

Standing atop the dais from which I have retrieved the leash, I issue an order to all who are lurking. “Leave us.”

Is that a small intake of breath I hear from my new treasure? Oh, and she has been doing so well up to this point. Descending the steps a second time, I bend forward, placing one hand on my knees, the other gouging a fingernail into the flesh below her chin. I force her gaze to meet mine. “Did I frighten you?” I ask with mock patience, patience I have not felt in a decade or more.

She stares back true and steady for several heartbeats, licks her lips – a gesture of fear, or simply to moisten them? Her eyes say the latter. In a whispered voice that carries more strength than I would have imagined, she replies, “No, not frightened. Startled.”

“I don’t frighten you? I find that hard to believe. Please don’t tell me you are some ignorant field peasant the grovlings dragged in here because your curves will suit me.” Exasperation and a growing anger fill me as my fingernail draws blood from the soft hollow where it resides.

This is not the distraction I hoped for; yet another useless mongrel, I look away. Just as I am ready to release her from the burden of breathing, her hand gently wraps around mine, forcing my nail in deeper. I turn back, ready to dispatch the second disrespectful whelp of the day. “No, I was not dragged here by those hideous little creatures. I came of my own accord.” Staring directly into my eyes, she continues, “I have seen you, in the glade. Warming yourself in the sunlight. I have seen you soar above the cliffs that house this cave. I have seen you caress your lover to death near the water’s edge. I have watched you for some time now, and I wish to be like you. To…”

“To be like me?” I snort. “How exactly do you propose to be like me? I am unlike anything your minute mind can comprehend. You say you have watched me soar, shall we take you to the top of the cliff, toss you off, see if you soar as well? I suppose if by some chance of fate you do manage to soar a few feet, you might be like me… until you hit the ground.”

Hesitation; confusion creeps into her gaze. Her grip weakens. Now we shall see what gumption you truly posses, my little dove. Locked in our repose, she still stares unwaveringly, perhaps not quite as sure, but devout nonetheless. An admirable trait, and quite the beauty at that.

Long wavy chestnut hair, soft supple cinnamon lips, eyes blazing the deepest amber, glittering with crystal specks. Her form does not disappoint either, my eyes lick over her more than adequate body.

“May I speak again?” she inquires.

“I believe you already have. Continue.”

“If I cannot be like you, then allow me to be for you. I have no wish to be tossed off the cliff, but if that is what you will do with me, then so be it.”

She truly has the audacity to mean what she proffers. The scent of the single drop of perspiration mixed with blood beading at the base of her throat is intoxicating. My lip quirks upward; I do intend to enjoy this one immensely.

Rising, I gently coax her to her feet. Her legs run with the dead grovling’s piss, her bare feet and body filthy. Removing the leash from the D-ring attached to her collar, I guide her to the hot spring welling in the far corner of the cavern. “Come, let’s clean you, then we shall figure out what purpose you might serve.”

As we move towards the pool of water, I hear, “Am I still free to speak?”

A ripple of annoyance slams through me. “Clearly, as you are still speaking, and still breathing.” Removing the doeskin sack the grovlings clad her in, my mind flashes with thoughts of the creature whose skin she wears. I mutter under my breath, “No, it is not fair. That much is true.”

As I drop the garment to the floor, she inquires, “Pardon me?”

“Pardon you for what? I gave you permission to speak, I offered no pardon. What is it you are prattling about?” A look of shock and pain crosses her beautiful features. Well, isn’t she in for a surprise? I adjust my tone and address her again. “What is it you would like to say?” She stares at me blankly. Perhaps she is more feeble than I initially thought.

With a sigh, I remove my own garments as well, laying them by the side of the water. Stepping onto the generous ledge three feet below the surface, I see fright in her eyes. I glance downward. She finally speaks what is on her mind. “It is much larger than it seems from the other side of the cavern. Are those eyes I see at the bottom?”

“Yes, they are. The spring is deceptive. Come,” I reach my hand out for her to join me. “The water appears shallow, but step one leg off this ledge and it is an eighty-five foot plummet to the bottom where the creature belonging to those eyes waits. This water offers no buoyancy; the creature bears you no good will. You’ll be safe with me. Come, I won’t tell you again.”

Hesitantly she reaches forward taking my hand and slips into the steaming water. A swarm of Garra rufa immediately begin cleaning her. Terrified, she tries to flee, but breaking my grip is not so easy. “What are they?”

“They will clean you. If you’re to be my pet, I’ll not have you filthy. Lean back, let them wash over your face and comb through your hair.” Doing as she is told, the Garra rufa clean every morsel of foulness from her. She looks magnificent splayed in the water. I imagine the fish will not be the only thing roaming her body this day.

She lifts herself to a seated position, and laughs – a deep-throated chuckle. “They feel oddly wonderful. It tingles all over.” Glancing up from the thinning swarm in the water, she wonders, “Why do they not feast on you as well?”

Looking to the water and waving a hand to send them back to the crevasses they reside in, I consider the truth of my answer. “My taste would poison them. Like most natural creatures, they instinctively know to avoid one such as me. Why is it that you don’t have the same inherent fear?”

Her smile falters for a moment, then, “May I touch them?” She reaches forward, I grasp her wrist, perhaps harder than I meant to, perhaps not. “I only want to touch your wings. They gleam iridescent in this water. May I touch one, please?”

“No. You may not touch one, and do not be too eager for one to touch you either. For the day they do without my consent, you will draw your last breath.” I consider the defiant stare in her eyes. This answer will not satisfy her. I see the contemplation dancing through their caramel tint as she weighs her odds. From bellow, I hear a chuckle. In my mind, words resonate from the bottom of the spring, ‘I suppose this one will be failing the second trial as well… Gooooood, I’m hungry! And I’ve feed on nothing but those foul little balls of flesh for too long.’

She withdraws her hand; I allow it. She leans backward; one leg slips to dangle over the ledge. I move forward and swiftly pull her leg back onto the submerged rock. Wrapping a hand around her throat, I growl, “What did I tell you about straying over the edge? Are you fool enough to throw your life away so easily?”

Gaining confidence, or unmasking what she had hidden so well, her head snaps up, her hand darts out – she now holds one black feather. Our eyes lock, I think to myself yet another one. The transformation begins. The creature in the spring calls to me.

My pet smiles in triumph and glee, “It’s so soft, so delicate. Holding just this single feather feels as though I am holding a world in my hands!” Her bliss apparent on her face, no doubt the effect of the treasure she has snatched. I allow her the briefest moment to run the feather across her magnificently formed breasts, her closed eyes, her plump lips. Her eyes flick open, still filled with the gleam of childlike ecstasy.

“Yes, it does,” I respond with no mirth. “Imagine hundreds of them carried upon your back.” My smile now cold, though she mistakes it for engaging.

She smiles back, “I wouldn’t know how to begin imagining such a thing.”

Amid her laughter, my talon slashes up from the water and rends her neck useless to her body. “No, you wouldn’t.”

I watch as her form slips over the ledge and is drawn through the barely verdant water into its depths. The creature that resides below feasts on tender flesh that was meant for me. It is not grateful. I haven’t a care to be bothered.

Summoning the grovlings back to the cavern, I wriggle a finger at one and draw it near. “You will wash me, but do not make the mistake of touching my wings. Is that clear?” From the shaking of its hands, I’m fairly certain the spring will be receiving a second course.