

"416"

By Adam Sifre

Copyright 2011 by Adam Sifre

Smashwords Edition

## TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1 – Introduction By Adam Sifre

Chapter 2 - The Moon By William Macmillan Jones

Chapter 3 - Eternity By Lilian Kendrick

Chapter 4 - Succubus Kiss By Sharon Van Orman

Chapter 5 - Window By Diane Dickson

Chapter 6 -Flies By Adam Sifre

Chapter 7- Stoned By Diane Dickson

Chapter 8- The Green-eyed Monster By Stephanie King

Chapter 9- Eternal By Rose Wall

Chapter 10 - Immortal Beloved By Sharon Van Orman

Chapter 11 - Howl At The Moon By Paul Freeman

Chapter 12 - Proverbs 4 Verse 16 By Quenntis Ashby

Chapter 13- Baby Monitor By Gretchen Steen

Chapter 14 – The Runaway Elevator By Eva Menteuse

Chapter 15 - Ripley's Headache By Raymond Terry

Chapter 16 - The Pursued By WiSpY

Chapter 17 - Death Always Collects By Jeremy Rodden

Chapter 18 - The Chair By TRM

Chapter 19 - The Dawn of A New Day For Ima Spatz By S.C. Thompson

Chapter 20 – 416 By EM Delaney

Chapter 21 - Diamonds By Sammy HK Smith

Chapter 22 - It Ended With A Bang By Michelle Basson

Chapter 23 - Zombies In New Orleans By David J. Muir

Chapter 24 - The Return By Kay Kauffman

Chapter 25 - Variation On A Theme, 11 By Will Macmillan Jones

Chapter 26 – Hellbait By Lisa Scullard

Chapter 27 – Aftermath By Gretchen Steen

Chapter 28 – Remembering By Richard Wentworth

Chapter 20 - It Started With A Kiss By Mark R Faulkner

Chapter 30 - Norse Zombie Vengeance By Paul Freeman

Chapter 31 - The Muffin Man By Rebecca Tester

Chapter 32 - The Picture By Will Macmillan Jones

Chapter 33 - A Snowball's Chance By K.A. Smith

Chapter 34 - Salt Of The Earth By Ryan Holmes

Chapter 35 - Flight 2341, Belize to Dallas, TX By S.C. Thompson

Chapter 36 - Why I Don't Like Dolls By WiSpy

Chapter 37 - The Grange By Lindsey J. Parsons

Chapter 38 – Revelations By Quenntis Ashby

Chapter 39 - It Started With A Kiss By Quenntis Ashby

Chapter 40 – Worms By William Holt

Chapter 41 - Witches, Demons and Magi, oh my By David J. Muir

Chapter 42 - Old Memories By Will Macmillan Jones

Chapter 43 - Feeding Time By Kira Morgana

Chapter 44 - Softly I Step By Adam Sifre

Chapter 45 - One Last Look By Diane Dickson

Chapter 46 - True Love By Mark R. Faulkner

Chapter 47 - Still Time By Quenntis Ashby

Chapter 48 – Pain By Lilian Kendrick

Chapter 49 - Billy And The Afternoon Visitor By WiSpY

Chapter 50 - Midnight Snack By Lilian Kendrick

Chapter 51 – Spiders By WiSpY

Chapter 52 - Handy Man By Living Challenged

Chapter 53 – INTERMISSION By Splinker

Chapter 54 - Last Man Standing By Richard Maitland

Chapter 55 - Lady Chatterley's Zombie By Lisa Scullard

Chapter 56 - It's In The Bag By Joe Kovacs

Chapter 57 – Unlucky By Gretchen Steen

Chapter 58 - The Crow Caws at Twilight By Cora Bennet

Chapter 59 – Memories By CMT Stibbe

Chapter 60 - Justice By EM Delaney

Chapter 61 - The Kiss of the Corvus By Cruse

Chapter 62 - Giz A Light ByTRM

Chapter 63 - An Oliver Twist By Mark Roman

Chapter 64 - A Glimpse Of Paradise By Almuth Wren

Chapter 65 – Dare By Alishia Duling

Chapter 66 - The Four Sixteen By LJ Rutledge

Chapter 67 - The Dare By Trista Herring & Natasha Morea

Chapter 68 - One Potato By Adam Sifre
CHAPTER 1

INTRODUCTION

By Adam Sifre

Four Hundred Sixteen. That's all it takes to tell a story. A scary story. At least here. Every tale of horror and suspense in this book is exactly 416 words long (you can spend your time counting or reading, that's up to you). Every story was written by a member of Authonomy.com.

Stephen King takes 1,200 pages to tell a story. We did it in just one page. Sometimes we did it better.

From Arachnoids to Zombies, "416" has it all. The first fifty stories were all submitted as part of my weekly Flash Fiction Friday contest. Always a treat for the readers, this particular FFF was an outstanding success. We got a lot of "new" writers as well as the old standbys. Many wrote outside their comfort zone and they did it well.

So, now we have a collection of horror worthy to be on the shelves of whatever bookstores are still in business (another horror story in itself). Unfortunately, timing is everything and my Ouija board tells me that there is not enough time to get "416" on the shelves. That shouldn't stop you from putting it on Kindle, however.

416 words is less than one page. But you won't believe what we can fit into that small space. I know I didn't, and I still believe in Obama.

When I first asked myself to edit this book, I thought "who wants to read a bunch of stories that aren't even written by me. But after reading the submissions, I can almost see the logic of it. Besides, there are three stories that are by me, so everyone wins.

Now, here we sit. You, me, and sixty-something tales, tailor made to be read on a cold October night. Short, intense and eerie. You can take them in small doses or plow through with one eye shut and one open. It's up to you.

Don't be shy with feedback and comments. After all, a zombie can live on brains but a writer needs attention if he or she wants to thrive and survive.

Finally, if you think it's easy, feel free to give it a try. Send me a 416 word horror story before October 30, 2011, and I'll add it to this lovely tome. Thank you to Authonomy and Rachel Authonomy for inspiring all of us to rise to this challenge. Mr. King and Koontz have set the bar. You tell us if we cleared it.

And yes, this introduction is exactly 416 words.

CHAPTER 2

**The Moon**

By Will Macmillan Jones

It started in a bar, as do so many things. A dim-lit cellar bar, where the smoky jazz played by the house band drifted like the haze rising from the myriad of cigarettes. He had been coming to the bar for a couple of weeks, but had not made acquaintances there, not yet. Twice now, he had seen her across the room, her flowing blonde hair shimmering whilst the beguiling music played and the deep-voiced girl with the microphone sang slowly of love and loss, heartache and regret, and - yes - occasionally of passion and joy.

Suddenly, as the music swirled sensually around, she was beside him at the bar. Their eyes met, and held in a long, long look before he turned away to order another drink. Disturbed, shaken by the casual intensity of her gaze, he trembled as she lightly placed her hand over his.

"You seem to be alone," she murmured in a velvet voice. He nodded. "So am I, tonight," she said softly, then kissed him and took his hand in hers. Looking into her eyes his drink lay forgotten on the bar, as she pulled, with such tempting pressure, on his arm. Responding, he moved closer to her, smelt the subtle perfumes, entranced. As they moved away from the bar the bartender swept away the drink with a wry smile.

"Where can we go?" he asked a quiver in his voice.

She answered with a smile that shivered his soul, and slowly licked her lips. Then turned, as he watched – but not for long – as she swayed out through a door marked 'PRIVATE'. Without hesitation, he followed. Through the door lay a set of steps, leading downwards. A warm, dim glow lit the stairs, and reflected from her golden hair.

His breathing became short now and he hurried forward, filled with anticipation and desire. Yet, he did not anticipate the figures that appeared behind him, and seizing him in their strong hands threw him across the cellar floor and onto the low altar that lay in the center of the cellar. Other, hooded ones took him, and bound him spread-eagled on the stone. Gently, they took his clothes, and left him naked on the stone. Wildly, he looked around as the hooded figures began to sway and move around the altar as they chanted in a strange tongue. His bowels loosened as she approached, crowned now with ivy, raising the sacrificial knife above her head, filled with anticipation and desire.
CHAPTER 3

**Eternity**

By Lilian Kendrick

"All alone?"  
"Yes." _I am always alone._  
"Dance?"  
"Why not?" _I have nothing to lose, why not have a little fun?_

We danced to the frenzied beat of rock music. The track ended and a ballad started. He pulled me towards him for the slow number. To have strong arms around me felt good. I rested my head on his shoulder. He whispered promises in my ear. We kissed and then... nothing. I remember nothing else.

My wrists are hurting so I've stopped struggling against the bonds. They aren't going to give way. It's dark. I mean, pitch black. I can't see anything at all and I don't know where I am or how I got here. I've wracked my brain and all I can come up with is the dancing and the kiss.

I'm naked and cold and it's damp in here. Maybe it's a basement, or something? The noises are the worst part. Not loud noises, but subtle ones. Scratching, squeaking – stuff like that. I thought there might be rats. God! Please don't let it be rats!  
I think I'm alone. I called out a few times, but it seemed to aggravate the squeakers and I didn't get an answer, anyway.

I must have fallen asleep again. It's quiet now. How long have I been here? I tried to stand up, but I haven't any strength in my legs. All I can do is roll sideways, and I don't want to move too far when I can't see where I'm going.  
I'm so thirsty. My throat feels all cracked-up and dry, and I need to pee like you wouldn't believe.

Surely someone has to come soon. But why should they? There's no-one to miss me; no-one to notice I've gone. I try to catch my tears on my tongue to relieve the thirst, but they're rolling in the wrong direction because I'm lying on my side. The sobbing hurts my throat more, but I can't stop it. I must regain control; think of something that made me happy.

So I think about the kiss that started it all. His lips were warm and gentle on mine. His tongue flicked across the roof of my mouth and I wanted to devour him. He promised me... I can't remember the promise, it didn't matter then. His hands slid down my back as we danced and I was lost in the sweetness of the new sensations.

He will come and release me soon.

He promised me eternity.

CHAPTER 4

**Succubus Kiss**

By Sharon Van Ormen

He lay upon the bed. His frail chest rising and falling rapidly. It seemed strange to me that a man who had been responsible for taking so many lives would soon lose his.

On his nightstand sat a book. Malleus Maleficarum. "The Hammer of the Witches."

The light of the moon shone in through the window placed high on the wall. I crossed my legs; the buckle on my shoe caught that cold light and gave it back.

That I loved him was never the question. That he loved me was also never cause for doubt. That he had me tried for witchcraft and summarily executed was equally factual. That I died. Well, therein lay the crux of our story.

I rose from the old rocker that had seen a constant presence for the past several months. It amused me to think what their reaction would be to find me sitting there. "They would likely use it for kindling. Throw it into the hungry flames just as I had been," I said aloud not caring who heard, if anyone should care to hear.

"Wake up, Heinrich," I whispered against his lips. It was my gift, this kiss. I knew it would rouse his mind just as it had his body when life had coursed vigorously through his veins.

His eyelids fluttered and I smiled. They opened. The grey film that had obscured his vision for so long cleared. I smiled again. It wasn't a genuine smile. More a demonstration that I had teeth. He flinched when he saw me. The real me. The me that lived in this body. The me that had lived in the body he had had killed. The me that mothered his children through that body. And the mother that mourned when he had those children killed.

"Meridiana," he croaked, his voice unused to speech.

I smiled again. "Yes, my love." I pushed the frail white hair back from his forehead watching it turn the fine chestnut color that his youth had known. "So much began with a kiss," I said as my lips caressed his again. This kiss was long and slow. I relished the feeling of the magic as it encircled him. His breath evened out. His heart remembering the rhythm of long ago settled into it like a well worn coat.

"What have you made of me?" he asked his voice now strong and confident.

"Incubus," I said, my laughter echoing in the small cell while he screamed.

Chapter 5

**Window**

By Diane Dickson

The view from that window was her greatest pleasure. The slope of the fields fell to a copse with just the merest glint of water in the distance.

On summer evenings the water would be kissed with gold and the grass in the field flowed and rippled before the wind. The winter showed an anthracite spot gleaming on the far horizon a pewter disc shuddering with slivers of white as the weather moved on the ocean.

Jane would stand often before the glass and gaze out, a cup of coffee cradled in her hand or perhaps a glass of wine. She left the window undressed, why would you cover this bliss with swathes of fabric gathering dust or plastic slats slicing across the vista. Some nights when the moon was full she would be drawn from her bed to stand shivering in her nightdress mesmerized by the swaying trees and the moon describing a pathway over the ocean to be lost out of sight behind the wood.

She had been restless all this night, unsettled and on edge. Making hot chocolate she had gone to bed early and struggled to lose herself in a book but sleep hadn't found her and so now in the early hours she was standing before the window searching for peace. The woods were deep in shadow and the tiny thumbnail of a moon was having little effect on the darkness.

Down in the farthest corner of the meadow a wraith began to rise calling her attention. A mist, a miasma was writhing in the tiny air movements. Peering through the gloom she wondered what lighted the vapour, not the moon and surely not the stars but an inner glow seemingly self generated.

It moved, slowly at first and then with gathering speed up the field towards the house. A developing nugget of fear clutched at her insides. With increasing haste the vapour covered the ground, nearer and nearer until it was close to the other side of the little wooden fence. She leaned to the casement and as she did so the haze crossed the fence and streaming onward now flew over the garden and the patio. Seeping and bleeding through the tiny gaps around the frame it entered the room. She stepped backed in fear, tears starting to her eyes. The mist enfolded her, it took her breath compressing her lungs forcing the oxygen from her body and turning her lips blue and stopping the beating of her heart.

CHAPTER 6

**Flies**

By Me! (Adam Sifre)

He looked calm. Contemplative, really. With his head turned slightly toward the back wall, everything looked more or less normal. Peaceful. If it weren't for a single fly lazily crawling over his eye-lid, Janet suspected that no one would have thought anything was amiss. Not that there was anyone else here. That might work against her, but it was too late to change the plan now. She closed the door and went to wash up.

There was surprisingly little blood on her hands. Other than a few dark scratches on her forearms, she looked no worse for wear. Still, just to be safe she took a quick shower, paying special attention to her fingernails.

The whole thing had excited her immensely and she took a few extra, delicious minutes to pleasure herself in the shower. Thinking back, there was that first kiss, the night before their wedding, when she had taken him in her mouth on the kitchen floor, and tonight. Three heated moments, sexual diamonds scattered on a desert of neglect.

When she was done, she toweled off, put on a robe, and popped her head inside the room. He had company. Or rather, more company. Janet glanced at the windows, but they were both closed. Several flies now buzzed above his face, landing on open eyes, lips, and nostrils for a brief respite before taking off again. Frowning, she closed the door and went downstairs. She had intended to make herself a sandwich, but she couldn't seem to find her appetite. The dead husband didn't offend her sensibilities. It was the flies, of course. Instead, she made her phone call.

"Hello, this is Mrs. Kane at 17 Winding Way," she sobbed. "There's been a terrible -- my husband!" In a choked, stage-shaky voice, she told the officer on the phone that she had been in the shower when she heard noises. Now her poor, sweet husband was dead, the front door was broken open and she was terrified someone else was still in the house. She was quite convincing. She hung up the phone and waited.

Everything was dead quiet, as it should be. God only knows why, but she felt compelled to pop her head in the room one last time and check on the body. As she opened the door she was greeted, and consumed, by the roar of buzzing.

When the police came, they found a broken door, and a dead silent house. No body. No victim.

Not even a fly.

CHAPTER 7

**Stoned**

By Diane Dickson

2024 You'd have thought by now they'd have a kinder way to do this thing. From what I've heard the rocks are thrown by guys specially trained to hurl hard and hurl fast. I did hear that it was considered some sort of mercy but I don't know that word has any place in this thing. They do say that once it starts it's not long before you're out of it, I hope that's true.

I can't complain I know that, I knew this could happen. I knew the rules, we all do.

I don't know when it's going to happen but not very long now. They've just brought me back from the court room. I'm not sure it's sunk in yet to be honest, I'm shaking a bit and feeling sick but that's all. My main concern was not to let myself down in front of everyone, not to wet myself, have hysterics or whatever. I didn't, I'm proud of the way I held myself together.

I almost lost it when I saw the children. I wouldn't have had them there but it's part of the whole deal. I think it's like watching the ...well you know the other thing, its' supposed to teach them what will happen. They're very small though and the baby was crying and holding out her arms. Yes I nearly lost it then.

Anyway I just feel kinda numb really, it doesn't feel real. With the overcrowding and everything they don't like to keep you around once you've been convicted so it won't be long. I don't know the difference between what's true and what they used to call "urban myth" back in the twentieth century. Anyway I guess all there is to do now is to wait and try to keep calm.

I think I hear them coming now and admit I'm pretty scared. With any choice I would never have done it but it was so long since I'd seen Mike and before the crack down we used to email all the time to the moon bases. I didn't prebook space on the web and the rules are unbreakable. I couldn't wait six months and that's the normal queuing time now.

They've stopped outside the door, I wish this was back in the nineteen hundreds when they had electric for executions, I hope it's true what they say and not just urban myth and that after that first hit you're out of it. The door is opening.

CHAPTER 8

**The Green-Eyed Monster**

By Stephanie King

He never lied to me, not once. I was less honest with him. I never told him he was ripping my heart out. I was afraid he'd end it if he knew how I felt and I couldn't let that happen. So we played at being 'lovers', without ever using THAT word.

Of course, I don't know if he lied to her. Is not telling the whole truth the same as lying? Who knows? He didn't want to hurt her, that's for sure and he didn't know he was hurting me. I could live with that for a while until I saw them together.

I had no right to be angry; no right at all. He'd told me about her from the start but seeing them window shopping, arm-in-arm on their way to the restaurant, I started to hate her. I'd never had dinner with him sitting opposite and gazing into my eyes. He'd never smiled at me that way. Our nights together consisted of a pizza and a bottle of wine at my flat after work followed by almost frantic fucking. Then he'd leave and I would wait until he needed or wanted me again. But, he didn't ever pretend that it was anything serious, so he's not to blame for what I did.

He hadn't called for a week and I was lonely, so I took a walk into town. That's when I saw them and the craziness started. I watched through the window of the restaurant as he paid the bill and helped her into her jacket. I ducked into a doorway as they left and kept out of sight as I followed them. They stopped outside the door leading to the flat above the butcher's shop. It was her place, but he didn't go in. They kissed and laughed a little and she went in alone. He stood and watched until the light came on upstairs and she waved from the window, then he turned away. I stayed where I was until he had turned the corner.

It was easy to persuade her to let me in, another woman in distress. It wasn't difficult to strike her head with the bronze statuette and render her unconscious. Cutting her heart out was much harder, her kitchen knives weren't all that sharp and if I hadn't tied her up and stuffed a dishcloth in her mouth it would have been impossible. The bitch wanted to scream and struggle.

He'll get over it. I'll help.

CHAPTER 9

**Eternal**

By Rose Wall

Silence is the worst. Screaming shows that the adrenaline is still running, that your body is still prepared to fight, or flight, if it is capable.

Real horror is when the silence falls. When you know that there is nowhere to run, and there is no fight left in you. Adrenaline then fails you, and you are left helpless, facing the reality before you, unable to do anything but accept your fate.

I sat there, in complete silence, unable to do anything, watching the scene before me. My voice had deserted me during self preservation - screaming for help, screaming to stop, screaming that they be spared. None of it made any difference, they didn't listen. If I'd been able to see their faces through the masks, I bet they'd have been laughing.

I'd been the first victim, or so they thought. Tied up, bound so tightly that the blood quickly oozed down my wrists. Then the cutting had started. Not stabbing, that would have been simple, and quick. This was slow and deliberate. Just deep enough to nick the veins so that I slowly bled to death while watching the show in front of me. The pool surrounding me on the floor gradually grew bigger as my life ebbed away. Finally they came to finish me off, but not before the real torture began.

One by one they danced, in the shadow of the flames that surrounded what had been my home. They wanted to show me, to torture me, to make me suffer as they thought I had made them suffer. That was my job, to discipline them, teach them, and empower them to discover truths for themselves; to teach them how to behave properly, and not like a newborn. What I had done bore no resemblance to this.

They took my companions, the books that I had clung to, my photographs, my life, defiling everything before casting them onto the flames. I watched, helpless, as everything and everyone was destroyed before my eyes.

They thought that they tortured me with this. Thinking that, other than the pain of my injuries, this was how to hurt me most. After all, to them I had no soul, no family, no feelings. All I had was my work.

Once the silence settled, I accepted my fate gladly. The torture for me had been life. The three hundred years I had been forced to live, devouring blood, hating myself for the lives I took. Death was peace.

CHAPTER 10

**Immortal Beloved**

By Sharon Van Orman

He stood at the window watching the bustling of the city below. The clop of the carriage horses, the buzzing of the voices of hundreds of people playing a deep harmony to the muttering of the river beyond.

Or at least that is what he presumed it sounded like. What he remembered it to sound like. With an inarticulate growl he threw the glass against the wall. Watching in satisfaction as the fine crystal shattered into a thousand pieces. A crimson drop stained his white shirt when a shard laid open a small cut on his cheek.

He cursed, his fingers going to the cut. His words lost to the quiet void of his world. It had not always been so.

A slight movement caught his attention. The lifting of the curtains on the breeze. But then the window was not open. Inexplicably, there she stood. The only door to the room was behind him, she had not entered there.

Her gown flowed behind her as she walked sheerest white. A few shades paler than her hair that seemed to have been kissed by the moon. Her eyes were dark as midnight.

His conversation books, where were they? He cast about looking for them. There on the piano he found one. Hastily he flipped past the pages that lamented his hearing loss. The pages that suggested it would be easier not to go on, and past the pages that detailed all the various ways to accomplish such a deed.

She took the stylus and wrote one word. Aoide. Her name. She took a step forward and ran her fingers through is wild tangle of hair and kissed him. As her cool lips touched his, he heard music. Layers of octaves, crescendoing notes that spoke to him, and made his fingers twitch.

He gasped, though silent to him, it was true music to her, and she smiled. He laughed, and stopped, unable to remember when the last time that had occurred. Deep into the night he wrote. He wrote until the music in his head, if not quite vanquished, was content to be still for a bit.

As he recorded the last note, he looked up. She was gone, as he knew she would be. She was not of this world. He had accepted that moment after he saw her. The admission of her name labeled her Muse. But no matter what history had called her, or would call her, she would always be his....... Immortal Beloved.

CHAPTER 11

**Howl At The Moon**

By Paul Freeman

They say the wolves howled nonstop at the moon the night he was born. Certainly his mother's screams could be heard echoing around the mountain until the sun broke over those dark hills, it was a hard birth for her, her only one. As morning broke he was dragged screaming and bawling into the world, claiming his first life while he was at it. She held her new babe in her arms, gave him his first and last kiss and then she died.

His father buried her the next morning, with a tear in his eye and a curse in his heart. They were supposed to be a family, a unit, them against the world. He had dreamed of holding his newborn son in his arms with his woman by his side. But the mother was dead, killed giving birth to the son, the unexpected is always the hardest. The father was confused, should he love the babe or hate it, how could a husband not feel resentment towards the creature who had killed his wife?

Born into a world that took his mother as he entered it, left with a father who neither cared for nor loved him. Did he ever have a chance? Was there ever the remotest possibility he would be normal.

Who knows when it first happened, how it had happened even. Was it a bite from some demonic beast or a curse from a witch or warlock? What had triggered his lust for blood, his need to feed off the fear of his own kind. To absorb the spirit of his victim as he gorges on the flesh of man.

Only strangers and those touched by the sickness of the moon would be caught unawares and alone in the darkness of the night. To feel his hot breath upon your throat is to know terror and death. To hear his howl is to know how it would feel to have your bones turn to ice. Never look into his glowing yellow eyes or gaze upon his bloody maw. If you hear him come it is already too late.

The mountain folk know him well, they lock their doors and bar their windows on nights when the moon is a round silver disc in the sky. They can hear the wolves howling still, now he is with them. Leading the pack, hunting, waiting to catch the unwary. His prey is man, all men. No one is safe while the unholy beast roams.

CHAPTER 12

## Proverbs 4 Verse 16 – "Wicked people cannot sleep unless they have done something wrong."

## By Quenntis Ashby

The numbers kept adding up to eleven. There they were. "2-2-1-2-2-2". Five twos and a one. Avakka smiled nervously at his boss, Doctor Aliater. Avakka's teeth were missing and something was wrong with his vision. He lisped when he spoke, sounding like the mop he kept pushing ahead of him after wetting it in the bucket he dragged behind him – four wobbly wheels squeaked in Micenese, "Silly-silly-weak-silly-silly-silly." He counted the syllables like his poetry teacher taught him to. Always one too many. It was driving him insane.

"Ay Doc'," his gums slapped in quiet greeting again. Only a grunt from behind the dimly-lit white of Doctor Aliater's coat. He held up a marker and drew some lines on the soles of a baby's wriggling feet.

"Must be ticklish as all hell. Poor baby!" thought Avakka to himself. He heard the baby gurgle and giggle before another blinding headache forced him to drop onto his sore knees again. He counted to eleven as he held onto the mop with both hands before pulling himself up again. "1-2, 1-2, 1, 1-2, 1-2 , 1-2". He never gave up – something his dad taught him after he got back from serving in Afghanistan...

"Son, ya' enemee keeps wantin' ta keep puttin' ya' down. You gots ta keep gettin' up, no matter wha'! You stay down, you gonna keep on dyin'! Up, soldier! Up."

Avakka looked down the double row of hospital beds stretched out on both sides. His job was to keep mopping up the floor while the doctor worked on the patients. Everyone was asleep because the lights were on dim – twilight grays lit his every step. He listened to the baby girl giggle some more before she started crying in earnest. Doctor Aliater was cutting deep and carefully along the lines he'd previously drawn with a marker. Blood was spurting out of her mutilated feet as he peeled the flaps of skin off both tiny leg bones. Half a liter of blood quickly made a puddle. It wasn't much, but it was everything.

"Whadda fukya' doin' Doc'?" he mumbled as another headache hit. This time he blacked out.

The dead bodies on the gurneys lay still, covered in blue lines and recently missing large sections of flesh peeled right down to the bone. Doctor Aliater chewed thoughtfully on another fresh morsel. Avakka had two narrow steel tubes conveniently protruding upwards from his skull. Aliater took another small sip before pushing the tubes in slightly deeper.

"Thank you, brother."

CHAPTER 13

**Baby Monitor**

By Gretchen Steen

"I'm late, everybody doing OK tonight?" as the old building's heavy door slammed.

"Old" Harry, our security guard, sat chuckling maliciously behind his desk. "Crazy" Grace, clapping, whistling, and skipping up the hall, was grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Chicken" Joyce, bow-legged and limping, carefully climbed the basement stairs and yelled, "Wash is in..."

Desks were dusted, carpets vacuumed and bathrooms stocked, scrubbed and disinfected. All that was left...fresh bathroom towels for the "prissy" executives, they had their 'own'. What made them think they were too good for the employees' facilities and TOO GOOD for paper towels?

Lifting the wet towels from the washer, Joyce filled the oversized dryer. Stepping back, she peered into the dark rooms of the old basement. She heard something, sounded like breathing. Quickly throwing in softener sheets, she slammed the door, turned on the timer and pressed the start button. Her heart beat faster. She limped around the corner and looked back. The breathing was louder...closer...

Finished upstairs, Amy walked to the main staircase and down to the first floor open lobby. "Grace is in the kitchen..." Harry said, sitting cross-legged, tapping his nightstick against his shoe.

Passing the basement door, she could faintly hear the dryer running. Amy waited, and watched as Joyce scuffled to the stairs, nervously looked around again, grabbed the railing and, step by step, meticulously returned.

"How much longer..."

She was well behind the regular schedule. "Another hour...my legs are really bad tonight, sorry," she replied, with a phony smile. "Would you mind getting them when they're done?"

"You know the schedule...tonight's your night, sorry!" _You only clean the president's office and do the laundry ONCE a week...lazy ass!  
_  
An hour passed, limping out of the office, she made her way slowly to the basement.

Harry wasn't at his desk...apparently on his nightly rounds. Grace, coming up the hall from the kitchen, dragging a full garbage bag, called out, "Towels done yet?"

"She's doing them now."

Harry was on the steps outside the building and Grace stopped at the basement door. She gave him a wink and laughed uncontrollably.

As she folded, the breathing began again...heavy and forceful. "Joyce...JOYCE...GET OUT...I'm coming for YOU!!"

Grace flipped the basement lights off, back on and waited.

Joyce ran up the stairs, two at a time, white as a sheet, eyes saucer wide. "This place IS HAUNTED!" Pushing Grace aside, she bolted passed Harry and out the door.

Laughing wildly, we all came to the same conclusion...her legs were FINE!!
CHAPTER 14

**The Runaway Elevator**

By Eve Menteuse

"I have strange dreams about angels taking me to Heaven," said Sister Agnes. "Anyone else had a strange dream?"

There was a long silence. I don't like silence much, so I spoke.  
"I had a dream last night that scared me."

"Tell us about it, my dear." All eyes were upon me and I couldn't really back out.

"Well," I began. "In this dream, I got into a lift in a very tall building. I was all alone and very scared because I suffer from claustrophobia. Well, it's not really claustrophobia as such. I don't mind being confined in small spaces, as long as I'm not alone, but in the dream, I was alone and I had to go to the top floor."

"That must have been frightening!" Sister Rose was on the edge of her seat.

"Anyway, on the second floor, the doors opened and this man got in."

"Which man?"

"I didn't know him, Sister, but he was very nice. Anyway, now there were two of us. I wasn't scared anymore. At least, I wasn't scared until I realized the lift wasn't behaving as it should. The doors weren't opening even though it was stopping at every floor. When it reached the top floor, it went all the way to the bottom again without stopping, and still the doors wouldn't open. I started to cry."

Sister Agnes and Sister Rose were beside themselves at this point.  
"Oh, you poor thing, so what did you do?"

"As the lift started to ascend again, my hero put his arms around me and said I shouldn't be afraid, that he would look after me."

"Oh that's nice."

"So, I said thanks and as we stopped at the second floor and the doors didn't open, he gave me a kiss for courage."

"Did that work?"

"Well, it did something, Sister Agnes. So we decided that every time the lift stopped without the doors opening, we would encourage each other a little more."

"How long were you trapped?"

"Three hours. We kept starting at the bottom and going all the way up, then going down again, encouraging each other all the time."

A cough in the background alerted me to the fact that Mother Superior had entered the room.

"Young lady!" she barked. "I have heard enough of your stories. Going up and down, top to bottom in a lift alone with a man! That is surely sinful on so many levels, I can't begin to think about it."
CHAPTER 15

**Ripley's Headache**

By Raymond Terry

Mild mannered Ripley Bernard fidgeted in the actors' lounge, while waiting for the writer Frank Weller. Ripley wasn't nervous so much as undecided after reading through today's script. Of course an actor had little in the way of choices when it came to scripts, stand here, move there, say this, make a gesture. Ripley couldn't even fart unless it was on cue. No, Ripley Bernard was a puppet at the writer's whim, nothing more, and an actor could never even snatch a peek behind the curtain of what was coming next. Depressing, that was it, and so unlike his character Dalton Drake, the bold, wild, undiminished, don't take any shit hero. And then there were the headaches. Pounding headaches, like the one he was experiencing just thinking of what Dalton would do in this situation. A door opened.

"Come in Ripley. Was there something?"

Ripley, still conflicted, said, "Yes, Frank, there was, is, actually."

"Spill it, man. I've a rewrite deadline, and you're due on set."

"Yes...Dalton is in scene two. Look, Frank...word on the set is you're killing off Katherine."

"Word huh? Well, Ripley that's closely held, but since we're shooting today, there's no harm in telling you. Katherine is history. She'll simply disappear down that deep well on the back lot like a drowned rat."

"But Frank...Dalton is invested in Katherine...emotionally. I mean...."

"Don't worry about Dalton, Ripley. He's a survivor and besides, this is all under control. I'll write him some other bitch interest for next season. He'll cope. He always does. I'll write that too."

"Cope? It's not that simple. Dalton loves Katherine. This will destroy him."

"What's with you Ripley. Katherine is a problem. It's that simple and the producer has ruled. She's out, or at least Meagan Crowder is, the demanding bitch. Now get back to the set. The director will be shouting. Go."

"You can't do this, Frank..."

"Can't? I already have. That's the rewrite I'm working on, Ripley. All I need now is to determine the suffering I want her to endure before drowning."

The headache swelled. This was monstrous. Sweet delicate Katherine shouldn't suffer. She couldn't. The headache said so as Ripley turned to leave but it was Dalton Drake who closed the door.

It was Dalton Drake who plunged a knife into Frank Weller and it was Dalton Drake who burned the damning rewrite before returning to the set where his lovely Katherine waited. Ripley Bernard was a pussy. Dalton Drake didn't need him any more
CHAPTER 16

**The Pursued**

By WiSpY

Trip stared at the woods as though they ought to explain themselves for the last sound they had emitted.

He silently cursed himself for not bringing a flashlight, but he knew this damn track as well as he knew to an inch the exact place to set the gunstock to his shoulder when he hunted game; something he'd done time without number growing up in this northern Michigan bush. He'd dearly like to have his Winchester with him right now. There was something deeply not right about that sound.

Trip felt like he might do himself an injury as he strained to catch the slightest murmur that would confirm his notions that something unusual was nearby. A chill went up his spine as he realized that it was what he didn't hear that was the problem. The towering forest was as deathly quiet as a charnel house. Nocturnal beasts usually filled the night with their hunting; that silence just wasn't proper.

The sudden sharp snapping of a branch to his left nearly froze his heart, as it tried to disgorge itself from his throat. He forced himself to take stock of his situation.

The full moon was bright enough for him to discern a long row of dark cedars that separated him from whatever moved in the deeper woods.

Without properly realizing it, Trip found himself running; a headlong dash along that dark hedge, his reason and woodcraft abandoned to the primal instinct that movement meant survival. Equally intuitive was his assurance that something large was easily keeping pace on the opposite side of the hedge.

His terrified gaze traveled down to the more sparsely limbed trunks of the cedars and he instantly wished he had kept his sights higher. In the gloom he could make out the twin legs of his pursuer. Silver haired and lupine they looked, the large feet were feral, the toes tipped with vicious claws. His terrified mind registered vaguely that they were running sideways as the thing kept stride with his unchecked sprint towards ... towards what?

He realized that he had no idea where he was going. Leaking adrenaline, his brain grappled with the understanding that safety lay not deeper into the wood. With Herculean effort he altered his flight from this cedar brake and veered from the tree line, the cacophony of rending timber joining the nightmare shape cast in vivid moon shadow on the ground in front of him as the last sensations he would ever know.

CHAPTER 17

**Death Always Collects**

By Jeremy Rodden

Death Always Collects

It is my turn to die next. I don't want to die, but when one makes a deal with Death, He always comes to collect. Death doesn't care if the deal was with a couple of scared housecats trying desperately to save their owner's life; He has a quota to maintain. The Church will tell you that animals don't have souls. Death disagrees.

# # #

It began when my owner became depressed and decided a few bottles of pills would solve all his problems. That night, Death came for him. We saw Death standing over our master's body, preparing to retrieve his essence for his collection. Popular culture says that animals can sense evil, such as dogs barking at ghosts.

We cats can sense ghosts as well, but we aren't as noisy are our canine cousins. Death is no ghost, however. Nor is he particularly evil. We found Death to be unwaveringly neutral. He was there to collect a spirit–nothing more, nothing less. Death waits for no man or beast, so we had to think quickly.

"Take us, instead," I offered.

Skye shot me a sideways glance. She was never particularly fond of our male owner like I was. At the same time, she sensed my desperation. We were middle aged. Our owner was barely more than an adult. He had one kitten–I mean, kid–to look after and his mate was expecting another.

"Yes," Skye assented. "Two instead of one, Death."

Death turned his cloaked head and saw us: two small Siamese cats. We stared right back into his beady red eyes. He nodded and responded, "Agreed. Soon." His voice was a raspy whisper. My tail twitched and puffed at the sound of it. Death left our owner barely breathing but alive. It worked. We'd saved him from death.

We spent the next year on edge, not knowing when Death would return for us. He returned on the one-year anniversary of our owner's suicide attempt. Skye and I braced for his icy touch but, inexplicably, he only took Skye. The owners cried as they buried her in the backyard, seemingly unaware of how close our male human had been to being in Skye's place.

# # #

It is fast approaching the second anniversary of our inverse Faustian deal. I know that Death will be here for me very soon. I await him like any other cat would: calm and stoic. I hope my owner makes our sacrifice for his life worthwhile. It is my turn to die next.
CHAPTER 18

**The Chair**

By TRM

Look! There he goes.

Down the aisles bursting with bric-a-brac, towards the so-called antiques huddling in embarrassment in the shadows at the back of the shop.

Look at him! A proper dandy, this one. Dressed to the nines, a touch of bling ... and that fake tan. Sorry mate, that's an epic fail. Who ever told you you'd look good with that on?

Uh – oh, he's seen it. Yes! He's spotted our crowning glory tucked away in the dustiest corner. Bargain hunter, eh? Think yourself a specialist? Well, you've scooped the jackpot here, my friend.

Sure, you can sit on it. Go on! No-one's looking, except us of course. So inviting, isn't it?

Proper antique Gainsborough, that armchair. The deep buttoned leather's a little cracked here and there. A little threadbare on the underside, maybe. Well, we'll see about all that won't we, now? But it's an original, that one.

Well!

Almost.

Yes, it's comfortable isn't it? There! A moment's shut-eye, like all the others before. Why not?

Watch carefully, now. You've never seen the like, I'm sure.

He's trying to get up. But he can't. He's stuck to the leather. His arms and legs have become leaden, strangely drained of all their strength. He strains and struggles now, but can barely raise a squeak. His eyes are sealed shut, and his lips seem glued together too.

He'll feel sucked into the chair by now, heaved in like a strand of linguini into a glutton's fleshy lips. And stretched and stretched. Already his face distends and widens, the features vanishing. His skin is heaved over a growing portion of the backrest with a cracking of bone and sinew.

You won't see this from here, but the springs have punctured his back and the undersides of his thighs, worming their way in, splitting and hooking into flesh to stretch and stretch even more, heaving all his vital organs inwards, within their bouncy structure. The suit is ripped off his contorted body, sucked away with a machine's voracity to add to the stuffing, revealing how his chest and belly have been pulled out, stretched and stretched to the very sides of the chair.

Now the buttons burst through the front of the distended skin and then heave back in with appalling strength.

There you go! Freshly upholstered with a nice new sheen, a nice burnish to the leather. All smooth and blemish-free, if a little orange for my taste. How about that?

Can't wait for the next one!
CHAPTER 19

**The Dawn Of A New Day For Ima Spatz**

By S.C. Thompson

As the sun rose over the valley below, Ima Spatz felt GOOD. Better than she ever had as far back as her pitiful batch of memories would go. Truth was, Ima had never, ever felt . . . good. About anything. All she had ever felt was shame, and fear, and . . . hate. As far back as her pitiful batch of memories would go.

But now . . . now she felt SO GOOD. So RIGHTEOUS. Sometimes good does come from bad things.

And sometimes . . . BAD THINGS must follow from good, Ima thought.

Yes, one shouldn't shy away from business that needs to be done. Needs to be done like bad teeth need to be pulled. And sometimes, there just aren't any pain-killers to be found. Doesn't mean the tooth shouldn't be pulled, though. Oh, no. Gotta pull that sucker regardless of the pain. Pull it right out. And if the roots don't come with it, then you gotta dig for those, too.

Newfound power flooded through her like some alchemical elixir.

Looking forward to the dawning day with an ecstatic glee almost impossible to control, Ima felt like she had butterflies in her stomach, but she knew it was the beetles she had been swallowing whole – so as not to kill them - all through the long night.

Relaxing her throat, she let a few crawl up into her mouth, just to be sure she would be able to regurgitate them when needed. Giggling at the staccato stampede of their many tiny feet racing up her windpipe, she sipped a bit of water, swallowing hard.

"Not yet, little darlings, not yet."

Short, fat, and displeasing to the eyes, Ima Spatz was unwanted at birth, unloved in childhood, kicked and tripped and had food hurled at her in middle school, ignored and ridiculed all her adult life. A life she hated as she hated the beautiful people.  
But now, after hitting her head in that fall down the stairs, things were different.  
Yes, she would have her revenge. She was going to pull quite a few rotten teeth.

As the sun rose over the town below her, she raised her arms as she opened her mouth, letting the beetles escape. The huge flock of blackbirds she had called descended upon her, snapping up the treats she produced, then lifted her off the ground, and flew with her grasped gently in their talons toward the town that would never forget her name.
CHAPTER 20

**416**

By EM Delaney

It's 4:16 P.M. I've but four minutes to live. At 4:20 the state of Georgia is going to execute me by lethal injection and I don't know why. I'm not guilty of the heinous crimes by which they accuse me.

"It's time, Emmett." I recognize the voice as it has echoed through my holding cell many times over the last twenty-four hours. If I hear it again I'm going to go simply mad. I cannot think of a more cruel end to a life than waiting to be killed in a supposedly humane fashion.

I'm told the cocktail burns from the inside out. For months now it seems I've been taunted by the hollering of the other death row inmates on 'C' Block about it. Their voices are echoing in my head even now as I look at the clock in the corridor that reads 4:17. As I wriggle to free myself from the two bulky guards that are pulling me toward the death chamber I lose myself in the irony of thinking, 'Where the hell would I go if I were to break free?'

I continue to struggle as they drag me in a door and there it is...the gurney! Another clock on the wall. 4:18 is what it reads. Why must there be so many clocks? My throat is so dry I can't breathe but in two minutes I'll be dead. 'Oh God...why wait!" I scream as I'm thrust around the make-shift bed where I'll sleep for the last time.

The doctor is a lady. She turns as I am being strapped onto the gurney. I see her eyes...they are cold and have no life in them. Her hair is silver, I guess her age at fifty or so.

"Please don't kill me," I beg. "Please...I don't even know what I did."

She ignores my pleas, pointing the end of a large needle up in the air and studying it as if it makes some difference.

One of the guards knocks me back as I try to rise up, then I notice the people outside of the window; my family, my son and his wife. There are others but I don't recognize them.

A voice comes over the intercom in the small room. "It's four-twenty, Doctor."

I'm about to die. What will that feel like? Will I simply cease to exist...how bad will it hurt..."ouch!" She has stuck me with the needle.

"Honey..."

I bolt from bed.
CHAPTER 21

**Diamonds**

By Sammy HK Smith

Sparkling, coveted, beautiful and always, always a girl's best friend. She sighed longingly and placed her forehead against the glass of the display as the pendant glinted back at her.

"It's beautiful isn't it?" the amused voice behind her remarked. She snapped her head around and a merry grin on the face of the manager greeted her. Hesitantly, she nodded.  
"There's a way you can wear it you know."

She furrowed her brow in confusion and then raised her eyebrow questioningly.

"I'm asking the prettiest of girls to model my pieces upstairs for the new catalogue," her face must have betrayed her concern, for he added. "It really is exquisite, it will only take a few moments."

Glancing around the shop she could see several assistants frosting women in diamonds and jewels. They fawned and cooed over the potential customers, exclaiming in delight at the cut, the quality and clarity of the jewels. That unwanted emotion wormed into her core. Envy.

Against her better judgment she nodded and followed him up the narrow staircase to the office. Dust and dirt assaulted her nose and she sneezed several times hearing the manager chuckle as she did. The large room was cluttered and filthy – but a tray of jewels drew her attention away from the dirt. She sighed and ignored the mutterings and banging from behind her, drawn to the twinkling she stepped forward and touched the stones.

Cold and hard but so very beautiful.

Mesmorised she didn't see the thin needle in his hand, but she felt it, a sharp stinging followed by a rush of warmth and then, nothing but darkness.

Pain lanced through her body as the rope that bound her dug into her wrists and ankles. Twisting furiously she tried to free herself but with each movement the rope bit her flesh angrily. She tried to cry out, but the grimy rag in her mouth prevented any noise from escaping. Sobbing and wailing she cried, tears streaming down her face and soaking her gag.

"You are awake, excellent." The merry manager replied, his rapacious face looming above her. "This will be exquisite."

He moved a hand from behind his back, the blade visible. She screamed again, ignoring the pain of her binding and furiously thrashing on the wooden floor. Her incoherent begging all that could be heard.

He raked the blade across her body, scraping at the skin.

"Diamonds are never a girl's best friend." He breathed lustily as he licked away her tears.
CHAPTER 22

**It Ended With A Bang**

By Michelle Basson

I wake up.  
There's a man's arm on top of me.  
My clothes are scattered around the room and on the bedpost, my panties.

My 21st birthday bash yesterday must have been epic. I can't remember much. There were drinks and loud, hypnotic music. I remember Liddy giving me something in the bathroom. I looked good too. Wearing Liddy's skimpy clothes and new underwear, boys who normally wouldn't pay me any attention were dancing with me; our bodies swaying to the pounding beat.

I move his arm from my chest.

'Hey, baby.'

Fuck. No. Please, no.

I grab my clothes and run to the bathroom, locking myself in. I turn on the water and climb in; no time for waiting for it to turn warmer. I hear his voice again, not from the bedroom, but from inside my head.

'I'm so proud of you, baby,' he'd said at my graduation earlier this year. 'Your mom would've been so happy.' His hand slid down my back, too low, but that was my dad did.  
My dad. My father. My own flesh and blood. Touching my ass at my graduation.

I see a shower brush, the kind for exfoliating your back but instead I start scrubbing my chest. I scrub and scrub until my skin's close to bleeding. My thighs are next, I want to rid myself of any trace of him.

I cry, but the tears are trapped.

Trapped by a monster who stole my soul when I was only fourteen. Mom never knew, but it carried on. All those years.

I was his plaything.

Not anymore.

I turn the water off.

I walk towards him, dripping with water. Naked.

'You were great, baby. Like always,' the monster said.

'I'm not your baby, anymore. You made sure of that.'

'You looked stunning last night.'

'NOTHING happened last night.'

There in the top drawer of his dresser, between the socks and his underpants, a glint of silver – his revolver. I run for it and grab it before he could figure out was I was doing.

'Give it to Daddy, and no-one has to get hurt.'

'I want you to hurt like you've hurt me.'

He walked towards me, taking the revolver and my hands in his.

'No!' I try wrangling it out of the monster's hands.

But it is was my finger that found the trigger first and it was seeing the fear in his eyes that made me squeeze it.

BANG!

The monster had finally been slain.
CHAPTER 23

**Zombies In New Orleans**

By David J. Muir

"Uh, Gabriel." The Wizard Susie elbowed her partner of a year in the side as she spoke in a Mancunian accent, pointing for him to see. "Is it me or are they Zombies?"

"Oh, they're Zombies alright," the Scots Magi replied, while still trying to open the locked door. "Just don't let them touch you, it'll be fine."

"Easy for you to bloody well say." She growled, looking back at the zombies moving towards them. "Since we are in an anti-magic field what the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Use the hand cannon Treigar gave you." He replied as if it was obvious, the pick he was using broke in the lock. "The magic might not work but the bullets will."

"Oh," she said a little embarrassed, and pulled the weapon that looked like a Desert Eagle, but made with magical alloy, inscribed with magical runes. She trained it on the first of the zombies and the kick back almost broke her arm. It made a satisfying splat as it severed the zombie's spine. "That hurts like a bastard."

"That's because you're holding it wrong, both hands gauntleted." He said, growing more frustrated by the lock, he pulled his own and said. "Ah, tae fuck wae it." He held the weapon to the locking mechanism and blasted the lock. "Time to go I think maybe."

"I concur," she replied as they bombed into and down the corridor towards the exit. "Trust us to find the one real bloody Necromancer in the whole of New Orleans. Where the hell did this castle come from?"

"Magic." Gabriel speculated.

"Well that's a bit on the fucking obvious side," she replied bluntly, sometimes he could be stupid just for the fun of it. "So, do you know exactly where the hell we are going?"

"Towards the exit." The Magi answered, as if it was totally obvious. The Necromancer appeared right in front of them, meaning they were out of the anti-magic bubble.

"I am the mighty Zoltanris and you will never leave my castle alive." He screeched at them with a cackling laugh. Gabriel cracked him on the jaw with a massive right hook wreathed in flame, smashing the bones into his brain and setting the body on fire.

"Oh, yes we fuckin will." He replied, forgetting that it was the Necromancer's magic keeping the Castle in place. They were dumped into the bayou of Louisiana. He turned to the disgusted Susie. "Well that was fucking fun wasn't it?"

CHAPTER 24

**The Return**

By Kay Kauffman

I shivered as I sank to the ground. The granite headstone felt like ice as I pressed my cheek against it and let my fingers trace the grooves carved in the stone. "Jack, are you here?"

Silence. Birds hushed their singing, trees ceased their whispering – even the drone of insects was missing. Clouds gathered in the west; a storm was brewing, but I refused to let a little rain scare me off. I would wait for Jack till the end of time if that's what it took.

Fortunately, I didn't have to wait that long. I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise and turned around to see Jack. A smile spread slowly across my face. "Oh, Jack, I knew you'd come! I knew you wouldn't disappoint me!" I stood up and moved to hug him, but he held up one hand to stop me. "Jack? What's wrong?" I searched his eyes, but found nothing. "you're in your uniform. Why are you in uniform? Jack, the war's over! Don't you see? We can be together now! No one can stop us now. We'll be together forever!"

Jack shook his head sadly. He looked tired and I thought I had never seen someone look so broken. Only then did I notice the mud caked on his boots, the dirt on his blanket roll, and the scent of gunpowder that hung in the air around him. "Jack?" I murmured, frightened now. "Jack, say something. Talk to me!"

But he just stood there, stiff as a board, looking beyond me. I turned around; we were no longer in a cemetery, but a tent near a battlefield. Men were screaming all around me; the scent of blood mingled with sweat and vomit, filling the air. A body lay before me, covered by a sheet. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack sink suddenly to the floor. Confused, I lifted the sheet and found myself, my face half gone.

I screamed and dropped the sheet. We were back in the cemetery now. "Amy, I told you not to go," he murmured. "I told you not to be a hero. You never listened and look where it got you!" He wiped a tear from his eye as he rose and drew his sword. "You lead this time, Amy, and I'll follow. Once more unto the breach..."

Jack arrived at my side as the storm hit town. "Well, my dear," he said with a smile, "what's next?"
CHAPTER 25

**Variation On A Theme, 11**

By Will Macmillan Jones

It started in a bar, as do so many things. A dim-lit cellar bar, where the smoky jazz from the house band drifted like the haze rising from the myriad of cigarettes. He had been coming to the bar for a couple of weeks, but had not made many acquaintances there, not yet. Twice now, he had seen her across the room, her flowing blonde hair shimmering whilst the beguiling music played and the deep-voiced girl sang slowly of love and loss, heartache and regret, and - yes - occasionally of passion and joy consummated.

Suddenly, as the music swirled sensually around, she was beside him at the bar. Their eyes met, and held in a long, long look before he turned away to order another drink. Disturbed, shaken by the casual intensity of her gaze, he trembled as she lightly placed her hand over his.

"You seem to be alone," she murmured in a velvet voice. He nodded. "So am I, tonight," she said softly, then kissed him and took his hand in hers. They left, together.

Later.

Lightly, she let the fingers of her left hand drift across his chest. Her nails were long, and the frisson they caused roused him from his almost sleep. Back and forth went her hand, and the fingernails; and then slowly, inexorably, they changed direction and slid further down his muscled body.

"I thought you'd had enough."

"One last time," she murmured, and her hand slid further down, closer to her destination. Arriving, first her smooth fingertips, then the deliciously sharp fingernails encircled him. Her wrist shifted slightly, and started to move against his stomach.

She smiled at the animal noise he made for her, and the languid movement became more urgent. He started to caress her, but she stilled his arm with the weight of her body as her head moved towards her hand. He shivered as her long, soft hair brushed across his stomach, and enfolded him.

Her tongue caressed as her fingernails pressed, so slightly into his flesh: then she bent her head with purpose, and after a moment, drank.

Her fangs slid out, and she bit hard. To another wild, animal sound she drank more urgently and with greater pleasure; holding the shuddering body down with her weight and unexpected strength.

Later, as she pinned her latest - keepsake? momento? onto the board she kept beside her bed for such things, she wondered why sex always ended the same way since she became vampyre.

CHAPTER 26

**Hellbait**

By Lisa Scullard (Excerpt from the novel, "Hellbait")

The girl could definitely move.

Sully watched the twitching and swaying of her hips, and rhythmic bopping of her head with his one good eye, knowing that aesthetic appreciation wasn't a great substitute for the other sort. But it was the most he had left, since.

She was whip-thin, although muscles moved under her cocoa-dusted skin like mating eels as she danced, her sultry brown eyes burning with yellow sparks whenever they met a man's gaze. Her hair a mixture of braids and dreads, tied back, showcasing that Cleopatra face and mesmerizing expression. Half-hypnotic, half-narcotic. She wore faded cargo shorts, a spaghetti-strap vest, and a PLO scarf - nothing else. Not even shoes on those dancing feet. Some odd-shaped beads on knotted leather thongs passed as bracelets.

That was all.

She didn't so much occupy as prowl the dance floor. Other girls posed or jiggled on the spot around their purses, while the naked pros wrapped themselves around the pole and other fixtures, like strangler fig vines.

The thinking part of Sully's conscious brain was wondering how you approached a girl like that and made her join you for a drink. The remainder of his brain was wondering why he was so interested in a girl who wasn't dead yet.

Jess caught the big soldier looking, but it didn't distract her. Men often looked, whether they had one eye or two. Sometimes they even used their hands, as if they still weren't sure that she was real.

He was fit, definitely. Would be good to wrestle - she called it 'wrassle' - even that one non-functioning, pearl-white eye just added to his charisma. The other was green like true jade, not marred by the scarring on the damaged side of his face, and he still had his military jar-head cropped haircut. Still wore his Army sweater and combat fatigues, taut in all the right places. Looked like he was the sort who enjoyed a long run every day at dawn, through the woods, or along a deserted beach. Made her feel all warm just thinking about it.

She did another circuit of the dance floor, all the better to view him from another angle. As she twirled idly, pretending not to note, he got to his feet slowly, and limped to the bar.

Oooh, Jess thought, and moved to follow. Time for walkies...

"Same again?" the bartender asked, mixing up a Brain Hemorrhage at Sully's silent nod. "And for you, Jess? Another Hair of the Dog?"

CHAPTER 27

**Aftermath**

By Gretchen Steen

The glittering violet sky had been a beautiful blue earlier that day. The clear, fresh air was now filled with the stench of sulfur and burnt flesh.

The once bustling, snow covered city, lay in ruin beneath a blanket of destruction. In desperation, people cried out as the burning buildings collapsed around them.

The hiss and static of the flames blended with their repeated screams. The silence came and long hours went by.

The smoke began to clear and Jason carefully rose to his feet and looked around. Climbing out of the rubble and over the debris, he made his way into the street.

"Faith, can you hear me?" he called out frantically, listening for a response. "Please answer me! I must find you!"

He heard a faint voice in the distance, "God help me, please!"

Faith struggled for breath.

Relieved to hear her voice, he pressed forward, his lungs burning as they filled with the poisoned air.

"Faith, talk to me, your voice will lead me to you," he replied urgently.

The frail voice tried desperately to continue. "I can't. No more," her soft voice trailing off as Jason came upon his fatally injured wife. Pinned, she could not move; the debris, too heave to lift. The blood poured from her mouth and ears. Her breath was labored and her eyes were distant and tearful. Jason knelt down and cradled her in his arms.

"Faith, can you smile for me?" he asked, holding back his own tears, realizing there was no hope of saving her. He held her close and whispered, "I love you".

She managed a faint smile and tried to speak. Flooded with her own blood, her voice cracked, "They've finally done it, please, save our child," she whispered, staring into his eyes; her body went rigid then limp.

"Yes," as he felt her last breath escape its tomb.

Gently he closed her eyes, and brushed the ash from her face. Hesitantly he touched her abdomen; the child was still moving. Jason quickly stood up and looked across the devastated city for someone ... anyone! He saw no one, he was alone and helpless. The hours sped on and Faith's body grew cold. The movements ceased as he watched his child succumb to the madness.

The warnings were unheeded; now his wife and unborn child lay dead in the rubble. Their horror was over in an instant. Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, he would find survivors and tend to the grisly business of aftermath.
CHAPTER 28

**Remembering**

By Richard A. Wentworth

Jeff breathes deeply; regaining his composure and he reaches out—touching the wall.  
At first, the cool granite feels normal; cold, polished stone. His fingers explore each letter, molding to the texture of each carved word, a gentle trace of letters.

The outlines of each name flows through his body. His memory is flooded, and he pulled his hand away—an electrical current of memory flowing from his fingers to his brain.  
He pulls his hand away suddenly, and begins to cry.

Shelly steps up and places her hands on Jeff's shoulders. He shutters, and Shelly encircles him in a hug. China steps to her dad, and she too, gives both a hug. Steve step up, and joins the hug.  
Seconds pass; the group dissolves into tears, and finally, they break the hug.

The girls and Steve back off; Jeff regains his composure and reaches for the wall.

This time, when he reaches out, he runs his fingers over the names, an electric current passes from the wall to him. He reacts by pressing his fingers into the wall, and he lets the current flow through him.

Jeff's face registers surprise, then, a smile of remembrance floods through him. His tears are constant. "I never thought my drinking would ever end, but now..." he trails off, and turns to Shelly, looks her in the eye, "thanks for this, my memory is alive. I can see them!" Memories of faces appear before Jeff—voices float from the wall.

"Glad to see you again! How have you been? It is about time you got your lazy, jarheaded self over to see us."

Jeff presses his hand harder into the black granite. His other hand wipes away tears. He shakes from the current and Shelly places her hands on Jeff's shoulders. She too feels the current and gasps. The wall becomes alive with voices: and...We have been following you around! Did you not think it strange when you had the strength to carry on? Yes! You hesitated but given the circumstance—no one can blame you. Follow your heart and love; continue your work, we will always be by your side, from now on. See you later, Oh...by the way—be careful on the dock: your next marathon will be fine.

Jeff and Shelly hug each other, until Jeff break contact with the wall. Steve steps forward, China too and another hug is held.

"Did you feel the energy? It is...wonderful." Shelly said...

"YES...I did, better and better now."
CHAPTER 29

**It Started With A Kiss**

By Mark R. Faulkner

The halls and rooms of the monastery were filled with the sound of chanting. I lay on the cold, stone bunk with my eyes closed, letting the music fill my senses. It was a melodious and uplifting praise to god and I couldn't wait until the day I could be part of it.

I'd only arrived there a few days before and the monks were giving me time to settle in. Full of optimism I dreamed of the life that lay ahead of me. I was one of the lucky ones. An orphan, I'd been chosen to enter the house of God rather than the workhouse. I truly was blessed.

A feeling of being watched came over me and I tensed, clenching my fists before snapping open my eyes. During my early years I'd come to rely upon quick reactions and a readiness to fight as a way to survive. It was going to take some time for the knowledge to sink in that I was now safe from all that violence.

"Do not be alarmed my boy." Father Andrews stood in the doorway looking down at me. I smiled back up at him.

He asked how I was settling in, before joining me on the bunk. Seeing my nervousness, he reached out a hand to touch my arm. There it lingered.

I looked up expectantly, waiting for him to speak but to my surprise he bent to me and kissed me on the mouth. His breath tasted of brandy. Instinctively I recoiled.

"Did you like that?" he asked, his eyes taking on a feral appearance.

I was afraid, but feared the workhouse more. Unsure of how to respond I nodded, although I was trying to push myself back into the bunk, wanting the stone to swallow me whole.

"Good," he slurred before moving his hand from my arm and down my body to tug the hem of the coarse habit I wore.

Then he lay with me.

I bit my lip until tasting blood in a vain attempt to blot out the pain and stop myself from screaming.

That all happened a long time ago. Over the many years since I've become a monster, inflicting upon others the ordeal and torment I myself had to endure. The guilt devours me whole and yet I am unable to resist the temptations of the flesh.

And now as I come close to breathing my last, God will be my judge. May he have mercy on my soul.

CHAPTER 30

**Norse Zombie Vengeance**

By Paul Freeman

Bjarni Olafson kissed the blade of his bearded battle axe and stood with his back to the burning building, wind and snow lashed his face as the blizzard grew in strength. He watched the expression on the man's face in front of him as it changed from shock to horror then petrifying fear. Dark smoke from the flaming thatch filled the air with thick choking fumes.

The other man's eyes darted about the scene, taking in the three youths lying face down in the thick carpet of snow. Two boys and one girl, their throats slit, then to the woman, lying with her skirts hitched up over her hips, exposing white legs and fleshy buttocks. His eyes widened when he saw the tiny form of a babe lying at the foot of a tree, a bloody trail of pulp and bone leading from the trunk.

"You died. I killed you myself, I saw your body."

Olafson grinned and lifted his chin exposing the bloody wound across his neck. It had been a mortal blow.

"What are you?" the man asked as he fumbled for the hammer amulet around his neck, seeking the protection of the God of Thunder.

Although his bowels were turning to water he hauled his sword from its leather sheath and charged. Like a great shaggy bear with red hair flying he launched himself at Bjarni. His fear was running high blinding him to caution. Bjarni, swept up his axe in a wide arc, and with a spray of blood and hair flying the other man's head flew through the air. Bjarni stepped over the decapitated husk.

Ten years previously Lars Henrikson had led a band of hard men into Bjarni's village. Under cover of darkness they crept into the settlement and locked the doors of the feasting hall before setting it alight. Anybody who attempted to escape were shot at with arrows, slings or hacked with great Dane axes. Everybody inside had died including Bjarni. He had attempted to charge outside, to rush the attackers and break the siege, he was cut down and killed.

It had taken him years to hunt them down. Now the ghosts of the dead could rest in peace. All but Bjarni, he had made an evil pact with Hel, daughter of Loki in his lust for revenge. He was doomed to wander the frozen wastes seeking out the descendants of Lars Henrikson so that they might serve his family as slaves in the pits of Helheim.
CHAPTER 31

**The Muffin Man**

By Rebecca Tester

Oh, do you know the muffin man,

The muffin man, the muffin man,

Oh, do you know the muffin man,

That lives on Drury Lane?

Oh, yes, I know the muffin man,

The muffin man, the muffin man,

Oh, yes, I know the muffin man,

That lives on Drury Lane.

Hunger. Belly growl.  
Stretch. Yawn.  
Mouth dry. Thirst.  
Down the hole.  
New territory. Familiar. Not marked. Scent of big meat.  
End of tunnel. Claw bricks. Urinate. Squeeze pile. Stink to warn intruders, attract mate.  
Follow scent of big meat.  
Scent of many big meats.  
Listen to big meats bark. Sound strange. Higher pitch.  
Small big meat?  
See light near big space.  
Many Big Meats! More big meats then ever before!  
Watch big meats form smaller herds with one big meat barking at smaller meats. All have light beams in hands.  
Stalk small herd of big meats.  
Watch small meats wave light.

Wait.

Small meat falls behind. Beam on tracks.

Wait.

Hard to wait. Want meat now. But Wait.

Big meat not turn.

Little meats not turn.

Behind meat stops, coughs and sneezes. Wipes nose on cloth.

Rush to small meat. Grab small meat by neck. Shake.

Meats make noise. Bad noise.

Drag small meat up.

Still noise.

Drag meat away from noise. Drag meat to place that smells of self.

Eat small meat. Small meat taste better than big meat. Not as tough. Not as stinky.

Small meat not last long enough to rot. Bones good for chewing.

***  
The hunt for what has been dubbed "The Muffin Man of Drury Street Station" has turned up no new leads—despite K9 units from around the world, many of which did not return or were found dead in the city's infrastructure. Tours of the historic subway station have been postponed due to the grisly death of nine-year-old Jeffery Thames. For the foreseeable future, the station is closed, and many doubt it will ever open to the public again.

Police have released a composite sketch of what can only be described as a monster. Witnesses swear the creature had a face very human despite its gruesome acts.

Mrs. Shelly Thames, the mother of Jeffery, has not given up hope of finding her son alive and has sold her home to fund rescue groups and provide a reward for anyone volunteering information that leads to discovering Jeffery's whereabouts. Donations to this fund must be made payable to:

The Jeffery Thames Fund  
P O Box 121  
New York, NY 10279
CHAPTER 32

**The Picture**

By Will Macmillan Jones

It hung in the window of an art gallery in the arcade. Every day, on my way to and from the office, I walked through the arcade with its myriad of tiny exotic shops on my way to and from the station. As the arcade was narrow, and roofed with curved glass for natural light, the reflections of the passers by merged with the reflections of the goods on sale in the various windows. Sometimes I had fun with the curved glass, making silly faces that bounced backwards and forwards across the street, from shop window to shop window. Other shoppers would snigger at me, but I sometimes caught them doing the same.

But whenever I reached the art gallery, I would stop, and peer at the portrait of a young girl. She was pictured in the first flush of her beauty, a sweet smile on her lips, her head lowered slightly so that she seemed almost to peer upwards through her auburn hair. Her dress swelled and flowed, and when the light twisted, to me, she seemed almost to move.

The label below the frame said, simply, 'Portrait of a girl', with no artist listed. I did go into the shop to enquire, but the price – well let's just say it would take me a long time to earn that much, let alone spend it on a painting by an unknown artist, however captivating. For it was captivating, at least to me. I found after a week or so that I couldn't walk back to the station without passing the gallery. If I tried, I felt uneasy, insecure, and when I got home I had no appetite and slept indifferently, and with disturbing dreams.

At last, I decided that I must break this spell, and stayed away from the arcade for a week. A whole week, it felt like a lifetime. Then, following a very long day in the office, I was hurrying to catch the last train home. A violent storm raged the heavens, rain and wind battered the glass of the arcade, as I followed the damp footsteps of the last hurrying commuter. Rounding the corner, I glimpsed a figure that moved against the glass of the arcade, and seemed to shimmer. Panting, I followed the foot prints that led towards the glass – and stopped. The footprints led through the glass, and I shook to see the girl gaze adoringly into the eyes of a lover. 'Portrait of a couple' read the label.
CHAPTER 33

**A Snowball's Chance**

By K.A. Smith

The flames were dwindling. A plane of unmarked ice stretched out in front of him, the pillars of fire and gouts of sulphur that had tormented him without so much as leaving a blemish would soon be behind him for good. At least until the next time they picked him for the team. Perhaps there would be some remission, some reward, for doing well.

The team.

He had made the team at school.

Obsession was what his mother had called it, he just called it better than having to get beaten up in the dinner queue on Tuesdays and Thursdays, when Monday Wednesday and Friday supplied enough lumps. It excused him from the physicality of football too, which was rarely lump-free. The pain was all his mother's fault, what sort of parent would condemn their child to a lifetime of taunting? Why did she have to name him Gabriel? A girl's name. She had made him a target, brought him inevitably to this place.

What had obsessed him was not being beaten up, not being called a girlie, not having to spend half his life hiding. Anything which spared him the pain was worth taking, well, pains over. He had studied hard to keep his place in the team, and after a while he studied even harder because he came to enjoy being good at something, even if there were only a handful of people in the school who appreciated it, and nobody at all in his old neighbourhood. Still, he knew he wasn't a wuss at the board, and though his battles were more abstract than the bloody confrontations of his peers, he had seldom lost when he played to the rules which he acknowledged.

If only he hadn't cheated, but he couldn't face public humiliation at the hands of a child half his age. Not that it was cheating really, he had pretended to be in so much trouble that he didn't know what to do, while the brat's clock had run down. The spotty oik should have known better.

A pain had transfixed his heart as the flag fell, the world went dark, and when he could see again he was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere he had never believed in, never expected to find himself in. This was the place his tormentors deserved. Yet here he was.

He strode from flaming agony into a chill so harsh it burned. He was a pawn on the eighth rank.

He could feel his manhood shrinking.
CHAPTER 34

**Salt Of The Earth**

By Ryan Holmes

"You've been working hard," Emma told her husband. "I wanted to surprise you!"  
A dozen candles, competing with a full moon, surrounded a picnic basket sitting on pavers under the covered walk of her family's lake cabin.

"I didn't think you had it in you," he said.

"I'm a Wiccan. If I can't conjure up some romance, I need another hobby," she said, smiling seductively. "Come on, before it rains."

"When'd you get so kinky?" he asked, imagination running rampant.

She held his hand as they walked down the drive, "I figure after four years dating and sixteen married, I can be a little naughty."

"What's with the salt?" Course crystals were poured around the basket.

"I learned a new trick from mom's book. It's part of the surprise."

"Let's eat," suggested Greg, "Then we can play with those candles." Moving for the basket, he said, "I'm starving."

Barring him with her arm, Emma said, "Stay out of the circle," then stepped in. Opening the basket, she withdrew a meowing animal.

"Is that the neighbor's cat?"

"One of them." Lightning flashed glinting off something in her hand. She struck the cat.

"Emma!" yelled Greg.

It started raining.

"Spell needs a sacrifice," she explained, indifferently. "You won't spray our house again." She used the dripping blood to trace a pentagram, depositing the carcass in the center.

"I've lost my appetite."

"You'll be hungry for me in a minute," said Emma, grabbing his groin. "I guarantee it." Reciting a Latin incantation, a shadowy, snaking, creature rose up within the pentagram, feeding on the cat's carcass. Finished, it looked outward. Only a red glow indicated the creature possessed eyes and a mouth.

"Holy . . ."

"Shut-up, Greg!" snapped Emma. "If you want more, Shadow Soul, I will possess the beauty of Helen of Troy."

The creature sneered as Emma's body firmed, skin smoothed, and features softened. Greg ignored the creature overtaken by lustfulness, "Emma, you're the sexiest women I've ever seen," he said, groping her.

"Say that to my sister, you cheating bastard?" she asked, pointing. Legs protruded from the bushes. Shoving hard, she yelled, "Join her in hell!"

The beast set upon Greg as he fell into the circle, entering through his mouth, devouring him from the inside out. Emma watched, pleased. Something wet passed over her open toed heels. Looking down, she watched a stream of rain water wash away the salt line. She tried to scream but choked as the Shadow Soul filled her throat.

CHAPTER 35

**Flight 2341, Belize to Dallas, TX**

By S.C. Thompson

It will be said we saved the world. Sacrificial lambs.

They entombed the whole goddamn plane and the hanger they towed it to in 100,000 tons of concrete. They put a plaque on the outside of the hanger commemorating the lucky outcome. Lucky for the world, but not for the 257 souls who perished on the plane, including the crew of nine.

I was the last to die. I didn't die like the others. I suffocated. I died locked in the lavatory. I died crazy as a loon, pounding the walls of my three by five by six-foot coffin. You see, I had uncontrollable, raging claustrophobia. So what made me bolt for the lavatory and lock the door and not come out no matter what? Not to mention why I'd even get on a plane in the first place.

It was therapy my analyst said. So I took a trip to Belize. I did great on the flight there, and spent three glorious weeks in paradise, living like a new man. Went snorkeling, scuba diving, even saw the Mayan ruins in the jungle. Someone else who boarded the return flight to the States traipsed around the jungle, too.

I flew Economy class. Last row in the airplane, by the lavatory, my refuge and tomb.

It started in Row 13, Seat B, in which sat one Mr. Robert Derbon, infected during his six-day vision-quest into the jungles of Belize by what was later determined to be Ebola.3. Without warning he projectile-vomited most of his internal organs in one huge Technicolor yawn onto the occupants of the three rows of passengers directly ahead of him, the expectorant dripping off the overhead bins in hot, stringy, stinking gobs of gore. Those unfortunate enough to be covered in his soupy innards crawled over the seat backs in front of them, or spilled into the aisles, eyes wide with terror and revulsion. Other passengers shrank back into their seats, trying desperately to not be touched. From my seat at the back of the plane, I heard the shrieks and saw the bright red splattered on the overhead bins, but couldn't make sense of the commotion. But then the young woman across the aisle from me exploded inside out, and from there on, one after another, the passengers succumbed to the same fate, thanks to the recirculated air we'd been breathing for the last three hours. I bolted for the lavatory. Never did succumb to the Ebola. Just my luck, I guess.
CHAPTER 36

**Why I Don't Like Dolls**

By WiSpY

Dolls give me the creeps.

I guess it goes back to the time my step sister gave me that special gift from the Caribbean trip she took when we both were nine. It's weird having a sister who's your age and not your twin, but my step-mother didn't ask me when she brought Anna into my life; a package deal when she married Dad after mom died in the accident. Anna's dad was still alive, and he took Anna to the sunny south in the winter she brought me the doll.

I hated it on sight; shell eyes and a big creepy mouth full of big, creepy teeth, all framed by a mane of what looked like monkey fur and settled into skin that felt disgustingly like real, human skin when you touched it.

The first night it stayed in my room we had a big storm. I couldn't sleep, cause I hate lightning, so I sat and stared at the window.

Stared at the sill where the doll sat.

And I swear to God, that thing was moving. Sure, it could have been the lightning flashes playing shadows across its face, but the mouth seemed to move and in the thunder I could swear I heard its voice; a terrible gravely rumble mocking me in my fear.

I must have fallen asleep because I remember a loud crack of thunder woke me and a flash of lightning lit up the night sky and illuminated the bare window sill where the doll had been.

I didn't really register the difference in the window view until the next morning when the screams of my step mother and step sister woke me. I shot bolt upright in bed and the first thing my eyes set upon was that creepy ass little doll, sitting on the floor, its big creepy mouth and all of its big creepy teeth smeared in blood.

*****

The police had a lot of questions for my sister and me. That doll they wanted to keep.

I learned a lot of new words that day. Some were curse words my step-mother uttered, but the really interesting ones had to do with Anna's trip and her Daddy.

They'd been to a nasty sounding place called Hatey, which seemed like a miserable name to me.

Her Daddy's name was Bokor, I think he was a doctor or something...

Anyway, my own Daddy I never saw again, except at the funeral, and I never did see that doll again ...
CHAPTER 37

**The Grange**

By Lindsey J. Parsons

She should go straight home, the light was beginning to fail with the onset of evening. It was never a comfortable place to be in daylight, in the evening... A shiver ran up her spine.

Pulling up to the top of the drive and turning off the car lights, May grabbed the keys to The Grange.

"It's not dark yet, if I'm quick I can be round and out in ten minutes," She tried to reassure herself.

Hurrying across the little court yard to the back door, May kept her eyes down staring at the keys in her hand. The back of the old Victorian house was three stories high with plain blank windows. May always felt as if there were someone watching from inside, even though the house was empty.

This was the last place she wanted to be, but being the office junior there was no one to pass the job on too. It always fell to her to check the place over between tenants. It was an increasingly regular job as tenants never seemed to stay long. The crying that could be heard in the room above the kitchen, the footsteps in the hallway and one tenant said he'd seen the ghost of a girl stood over him as he lay in bed. These were some of the reasons cited for moving on.

Letting herself in, May first inspected the utility room. Clean and empty thankfully, nothing to make a note of there. The Grange was a Victorian building with high ceilings and leaded windows to the main rooms. The kitchen was big and airy with a range cooker and loads of cupboards. She hurried though checking them before moving on to the rest of the house.

As May entered the main hallway silence fell around her and the light faded into heavy gloom. The sound of footsteps on the flagstone floor echoed through the house causing her to gasp and break out in a sweat. Her heart stared beating faster as the cold air chilled the sweat on her skin.

A sudden loud ringing sound caused May to scream, then realising it was just the telephone she laughed at herself.

"Can I speak to Mr. Freeman?" a sharp voice asked.

"I'm sorry he doesn't live here anymore." May replaced the receiver and turning was engulfed in a silvery white mist.

After a three day search May Jeffrie's body was discovered hanging from the banister in the old house known as The Grange.

CHAPTER 38

**Revelations**

By Quenntis Ashby

You say, "Tin!" and then live another 830 years. You can't have children. Instead you have another vision and see an open door floating in front of you. A voice that sounds like a trumpet speaks, "Come up here! I will show you what must happen after this." At once something takes control of you. Once up there you see your empty throne. A face in the mirror gleams like jasper and carnelian and everywhere are emerald greens. In a circle round your seat are four-and-twenty more thrones, on which sit elderly but virile creatures of every beautiful and cruel design. They are naked but for strong binding chains of titanium gold around their temples, necks, waists, and genitalia. Flashes of lightning, grumblings, and peals of maniacal laughter thunder in your very bones. Seven lighted torches are burning fiercely, giving off more than light. A sea of rippling molten glass makes up the floor you walk on. Clear as crystal, it hums.

The vision fades from you. You awake feverish hot somewhere in a hut in Africa. Your seventh comfort wife is sleeping on your right. Two small male children snuggle between you. Surely not yours? It is time. You feel the changes taking place the longer you keep from feeding. You thirst for warm blood. You hunger for meat off the bone, the varied succulent tastes and textures of various organs steaming in their still-living-dying human owners. You sigh. You look at this latest attempt to masquerade as a family and feel love tainted with disgust for these creatures you have to feed off to survive. You curse your curse. Your nails are long and diamond sharp. Teeth multiply in your mouth and your tongue splits into two. You don't have much time.

She murmurs another man's name, "Shaka ka Senzangakhona," in her sleep and turns on her side with an arm curled around the two children. You stand in the doorway to salvation, lifting your uncircumcised weapon with both hands as you unsheathe it in the full moonlight. A long forked tail uncurls and snakes out of your ass. Your heels grow hooves. Your smooth skin reddens. You dare not howl at the moon, but you desperately want to. Your heart and soul are fighting a losing battle against your unnatural instincts – your body's immortal curse. You growl because you cannot speak now.

You turn and bend down to eat. She opens her eyes and smiles and says, "I love you." You say nothing.
CHAPTER 39

It Started With A Kiss

By Quenntis Ashby

"It's tar!"  
Ted, with Akis's lips wrapped around a car, a moving car.  
Ted, with Akis in the begging position, scolding her for disobedience.  
Ted, with the remains of the car in a shoebox, delivering it to grieving parents.  
Ted, with Akis now on a leash in the park, then at the zoo, and then illegally in the air.  
Ted, with a Police Witch on a broomstick waving a ticket and a wand at them both.  
Ted in handcuffs, with Akis in wing-irons and a muzzle.  
Ted, with a sapphire credit card out on bail.  
Akis, still in the massive holding cell, with wings tied back and mouth muzzled.  
Akis, pining for her owner, awaiting the lethal injection.  
Akis, surviving the injection, then the electrocution, then the hanging.  
Akis, with a temper growing out of control.

"It's a star!"  
Ted, with a new wet girlfriend in tow, bruised lips locked, teeth chipped, tongues tired.  
Ted, with one desperate eye on the sky and the other buried in scaly cleavage.  
Ted, going blue, unable to breathe underwater with a mermaid who can.  
Akis, now free again, diving to the rescue.  
Akis's flame put out by salty seawater and the mermaid's father's magical trident.  
Akis, accused of murder and sentenced to moon duty by a jury of peers.

"It started with Akis!"  
Ted, with video proof on his cellphone.  
Parents, with pictures of small children smiling between the gaps in their teeth.  
Police Witch, with air speed trap photo in hand.  
Prison Guards, bandaged and missing limbs in the failed executions of their duties.  
Akis, with a mouthful of broken teeth and clipped wings, singed and lisping.  
Ted, with another shovel full of excellent tar, fresh from the pits of hell itself.  
Akis, fully healed, burping furious tar bubbles from afar.  
World, on the brink of annihilation, and the extinction of every living thing on two legs on land, in the air, and in the sea.

Akis Armageddon, the dragon who dared to kiss and lived to swish a fiery tail to end the fairytales of a fantastical earth gone bad, for good.  
Ted Bloonder, the boy who dared to love a dragon, the last of the great monsters, who died because of his inability to control the beast without.  
Mermaid Lithe, the silliest little mermaid to ever get killed in the course of feeding on a human boy, a supposedly easy meal-in-sneakers.

It started with a kiss and ended with a hiss.

CHAPTER 40

**Worms**

By William Holt

Have you ever noticed how something you can't see, like the exhaust from an automobile, can still cast a shadow on the pavement in bright sunlight? When I see this phenomenon, I remember my high school friend's funeral.

Sixth period biology. The dissecting pans, one for every two students, held one large dead earthworm each. Mr. Burns said, "Today we're doing a basic dissection of _Lumbricus terrestris_. You have a scalpel, scissors, forceps, and pins. Please try hard to avoid cutting into the intestine, and be ready to make a drawing of your completed work. Each of you is responsible for his or her own drawing; you may divide the actual cutting and pinning any way you wish. Steady hands, now." And he sat down, leaving us to our task.

Jerry Grant, my partner, was more interested in girls than in biology, but he set to work with a delicate touch, and soon the worm was open from stem to stern, its digestive tract unmarred. Suddenly he turned, distracted, and said, "What's she doing here? She's gorgeous!"

I saw no one. But he continued to stare at an empty spot in the room. Then his head tilted back and he sighed with pleasure--just before collapsing to the floor in what appeared to be an epileptic seizure. We all cleared a space for him, and Mr. Burns called the school nurse, who evidently summoned an ambulance, since I heard a siren approaching fast just as Jerry's spasms started to lessen.

When he could speak, he muttered, "Something got inside me when she kissed me. It felt like a worm."

He grabbed for his groin. "It's in here," he muttered.

But then he writhed around and put a hand on his lower back. "It's moving up!" he said, sounding panicky, as paramedics arrived with a stretcher.

Then Jerry was clutching his head, his face gray and his breathing labored.

Once at the hospital, Jerry got steadily worse, the grayish pallor suffusing his whole body. The doctors in Intensive Care could do nothing for him, nor could they diagnose his condition, though one suggested a psychosomatic reaction.

His words were worse than his physical deterioration. Pointing with a quivering finger, he rasped, "She's right here. Don't you see her? She's here in the corner of the room! Help!"

My friend died at four the next morning. The funeral took place two days later. Throughout his graveside service, a girl shaped shadow moved on the grass. I watched, terrified.
CHAPTER 41

**Witches, Daemons and Magi, Oh My**

By David J. Muir

By David J. Muir

Gabriel of Alba, Magi War Master and his partner in the United Magical Investigations Agency, Susie Owens, Mancunian Wizard, looked over the wall at the Black Witch Kabal as they prepared to sacrifice the Magi child, for their ritual.

"So, how we going to play this?" She asked him, her Mancunian accent shining through.

"I thought we'd kill them before they killed the kid." He replied in a Glaswegian accent.

"Simple but affective," she nodded, "What about the daemon?"

"I thought a bit of banishment would do the trick." He replied taking a look at the six foot, five hundred pounds, heavily scaled Sapakna Daemon.

"A tad on the obvious side." She replied with a snort, six months of working together and it was like they had known each other their whole lives.

"You get the kid; I'll distract the bad guys." He said, jumping over the wall, he lobbed fire balls and ice blades at the Black witches, who lost their concentration. He could hear the baby Magi cry, as they were siphoning the power from her.

The rage filled him and he launched himself at the daemon, ice sword appearing in his hand, they battled left and right, spells from the Black witches pinging off his shield, though it wouldn't last long.

Susie, taking advantage of the distraction, picked the baby Magi from the altar, cooing at her to keep her quiet. The distraction didn't last too long. She had already shielded herself, and the baby in her arms was protected too, but like Gabriel it wasn't going to last.

"A little help." She shouted at him, as his Ice sword sliced through the shoulder of the Daemon, down through its torso diagonally, and then pulled the human heart that housed the soul that was used to summon it. Gabriel turned and began lobbing more fireballs and ice blades, blasting through and exploding the Dark Witches shields. "Come on, we need to get out of here."

"I think I can handle that." He said waiting until the girl wizard had got to the exit. He boosted his shield, then lowered his hands, threw them up and slammed down again, pulling the ceiling down on top of the Witch Kabal. Bits of masonry and wood impacted off his shield as he ran towards the exit.

He found Susie up on the surface, baby in her arms.

"So much for them," he said, and saw Susie's shocked and surprised face. "What's wrong?"

"The kid's only asleep."
CHAPTER42

**Old Memories**

By Will Macmillan Jones

Although the day was warm, the drive lay in tree-haunted shadow, and the gate was cold against my hand. The Estate Agent looked back, impatiently.

"I've another viewing in an hour," she said. Her heels clicked on the drive as she walked away. Still with a strange chill in my hand, I followed. This had been my grandparent's house: I'd come to view it – for sale yet again. Round the corner of the drive, and there it lay wrapped in silence. The windows glowered down the drive at the intruders..

"Come on," called the Estate Agent, and opened the oaken door, with the little black studs I recalled so well. "Been empty for a month, that's why it's cold," she added. But the chill drifting from the hall into the sunshine told other stories, and even the agent shivered. I wasn't too comfortable as the front door closed behind me, but she was already off down the hall into the front room, which served as both library and dining room. Books ran the length of the wall, floor to ceiling, as they had done when I last walked into this room. Had it ever changed, as the years fled past?

The chill lessened, as I followed her and looked around the well-remembered room. All those family Christmases spent here, my sister and I excited; not noticing the occasional odd look shared by the adults.

"Upstairs we have three bedrooms, and the bathroom," she read from her clipboard, and led the way up the stairs. I waited, and then just as I had all those years ago, ran up the stairs, and into the safety of the front bedroom.

"You've found the front bedroom," she said, and went off to the master bedroom. An ancient yet familiar feeling came over me, and I pushed the door very tightly shut. Was that an almost breath on the landing? Not quite a footfall? A heavy velvet curtain hung there, and I pulled it across the doorway. Her feet, heels clicking fast, started down onto the stairs; reached the half landing, and stopped abruptly. After counting to ten, I opened the door, and walked firmly down the echoing, empty stairway, across the hall and out through the open front door, not looking behind. The chill followed me out and the door of the empty house slid closed behind me. The windows glowered as I made my solitary way down the drive. I would never want to own my grandparents' house.

CHAPTER 43

**Feeding Time**

By Kira Morgana

"You are not getting away from me a second time." Kal tightened his hold on her and a rough edge entered his voice, a tone that was very familiar to Loriel.

_Ah, now this is something I can deal with._ She closed her eyes and relaxed.

"Good girl." Kal kissed her again, harder and more urgently, pushing his body against hers.

As his hands wandered, Loriel felt a familiar heat stealing over her, clouding her vision. She kissed him back and he gasped as her growing fangs raked his lower lip. The blood pouring into her mouth strengthened her.

"What in Hel's name?" he stumbled back, blood trickle from his mouth, running over his hands as he tried to stanch the flow.

Loriel removed the bundle from her back.  
_"We don't have time for this!"_ this time the voice from the bundle was loud enough for Kal to hear.

He frowned. "What's going on?"

Loriel stepped back towards him and dropped her cloak. "Lady Hel will have nothing to do with me, Kal, dahling." She licked a dribble of blood from her lower lip.  
He stared at her. "Who are you?" His body reacted predictably to the skimpy, leather battle harness and mythril scale tunic that strained over her buxom figure to end above thigh high heeled boots.

"Tut, tut. So many questions." Loriel looked at him and crooked a finger. "Come here, Kal."

He struggled against the spell she wove, the blood magic reaching out to surround him in impenetrable force.

"You want to know who I am?" Loriel smiled, her fangs white against the vivid red of her tongue. "I am the Lych Mistress, ruler of The Black Forest." She wound in her spell, pulling the suddenly unwilling man toward her, his feet leaving furrows in the leaf mold.  
"What are you going to do?" Kal's voice rose into a terrified squeal.

"You started this with a kiss." She said, holding him still in front of her. "So allow me to finish it with one."

The nails on her left hand grew and she slid them up his body, slicing the wool tunic away to reveal a honed body. Her smile broadened and she stepped in, digging her nails into his chest and twisting her hand.

He screamed and she stopped it with a soft kiss. "Not much longer, Dahling Kal. You have something I need."

She threw the circle of bone and flesh to one side and plunged her hand into the chest cavity. Simultaneously, Loriel kissed him, ripping his heart from the hole and drawing his spirit through her fangs as it rose from him.
CHAPTER 44

**Softly I Step**

By Adam Sifre

_Something is wrong._

His snoring is loud and deep and she knows that he's dead to the world when he gets like this. Still, she's careful not to make any noise. Tonight is not a night for mistakes.

The house is pitch dark. He never allows any lights to remain on when they're ready for bed. Not even the outside porch light. Otherwise he can't sleep. As it is, he's up every morning with the first blush of dawn. Then down to the cellar. He's always down there by the time she wakes up, and he's always back up before the coffee's done brewing.

"It's just my man cave," he jokes. "I like to go on the computer, do a little writing. There's no real mystery to it." A peck on the cheek, a quick goodbye.

_But it's locked. Always. And when he leaves, he takes the key with him._

He thinks she doesn't know this, but she's seen him do it before. Then she's all alone – alone with her thoughts and a locked cellar.

Now tonight. His trousers over the chair, the shower running, and the soft sound of a key hitting the carpet. Hardly thinking, she scoops it up. She clutches it now, her hand a little moist. Even in the dark, she knows there's an imprint on her palm. For a second, she's afraid it will be there in the morning like a scarlet letter, and he'll see.

_Ridiculous._

Still, she forces her hand open. She waits, making certain the man she loves is not waking up.

_Something is wrong._

She turns on her Blackberry phone, the modern flashlight, careful to point it away from him, and quietly makes her way past the bed, past him, and out into the hall. Holding the phone and key in front of her, like two bizarre talismans, she makes her way down the stairs.

She thinks about the flyers. On the telephone poles, in the library.

_Now why would I think about that?_

Even now, downstairs in the kitchen, she doesn't turn on any lights.

Why take chances?

She pauses and listens. But if he's snoring, she can't hear it. Almost, she turns to head back to the bottom of the stairs to confirm that he's still sleeping.

Almost.

_But I won't come back. I'll lose my nerve and sneak back in bed and then everything will be back to the way it was._

The key slips in and the door opens on well oiled hinges.

CHAPTER 45

**One Last Look**

By Diane Dickson

The dark was viscous, she believed her eyes were open but blinked them to make sure. "This flashlight is a good one." Simon had told her. Huge and heavy and now in her hand about as much use as a chocolate teapot.

She tried to visualize the last thing she had seen. Okay, she had entered the cave and walked down the well worn slope. On her left had been the little scene that delighted the children every day. The Fairy Grotto, usually lit with blue and pink lights and with the hint of magic about it.

Next there was the first cavern with enormous stalactites and the reflecting pool. She had passed that about ten minutes since. Then there was the wishing well and – no wait before the wishing well there was the Witches' Fireplace with the deep bowl worn to mirror smoothness by the constantly dripping water. Then it was the reflecting pool. She had turned left at the Devil's Cauldron, left for sure. Had she? Was it left or right at the Devils Cauldron.

Concentrate, Witches Fireplace, Devil's Cauldron left, then down the slope to Hell's Deep. That was when the bulb in the torch had blown. So, right all she had to do was go up the Hell's Deep slope and then right at the Devil's Cauldron. Oh God, if only there was a hint of light somewhere just the merest gleam.

She turned round, had she turned all the way round, she turned back. Now she didn't know whether she had turned all the way back. Why, why had she come in on her own, why, why hadn't she told anyone she was coming.

Okay, now she was facing towards the Devil's Cauldron, or was that away from the Cauldron. Her heart started to thud and race. Her hands holding the flashlight were slimy now with sweat. Keep calm, she knew she had to keep calm. She had walked this route every day all the way through the season. All those tourists and she had told them over and over, "Don't stray from the main group. It's safe but stay close."

Okay, left at the Devil's Cauldron with that steep drop into the bottomless pool. She had warned the children, "Don't go near the edge that pool is ice cold and no-one knows exactly how deep it is.

Why had she done this? and on the last day of the season. One last look she had thought, just one last look.
CHAPTER 46

**True Love**

By Mark R. Faulkner

Unprepared for the smell, Nigel retched as he prised the lid from the box. Still, she was worth it. With a tear of joy he looked upon his one true love.

Staring back at him from a withered, purple face were two pools of black ooze, a far cry from the glimmering blue orbs which had once adorned those sockets. Her once full lips were almost vanished and teeth protruded from the ragged hole of her mouth. A yellow and black beetle lazily made its way from a tattered nostril, pausing for a moment as if startled before scuttling along her neck and disappearing in the space between tattered fabric and blackened bosom.

He contemplated how she'd used to look and shrugged. It didn't matter, she would always be beautiful in his eyes. After too many months separated, they were together again.

Reaching down, he tenderly brushed his fingers across her face before taking her hand in his. After a short while of crouching motionless, he looked up at the moon, now visible above the top of the hole. "Best get you home," he whispered.

He put his arm around her back to lift her but his hand disappeared into thick, stinking slime. Eventually, after feeling around for a while his fingers touched upon a rib and he grasped it hard. Pulling with all his might he heaved her from the coffin. She peeled from the wood with a squelch before Nigel raised the body above his head like a power-lifter and unceremoniously heaved it onto the grass.

Extracting himself from the hole proved to be more of a challenge. The steep, slippery sides of the grave twice caused Nigel to slip back into the coffin with a thud. A worm made its way through a crack in the wood.

Eventually though he was sitting next to her in the open air, catching his breath before hauling her to the car.

After buckling her into the passenger seat, he drove slowly from the cemetery but the speed-bump still caused Julie's head to flop to one side. An ear fell down the side of the handbrake.

Parked outside his front door Nigel hoisted the body over his shoulder in one movement and as he did, thick black ichor spilled from her mouth and anus, soaking through the thin fabric of his tee-shirt and onto his skin.

Back in the warmth of Nigel's living room, he gazed at her and reminisced about how they used to make love.
CHAPTER 47

**Still Time**

By Quenntis Ashby

Holy moly! Will you look at that!"  
What?  
"On your back! Jeeyasus Keerist, I've never seen so much fly-shit on a woman's back."  
They're called beauty spots, moron. Beauty. Spots. Make. Women. More. Beautiful.  
"They're everywhere! Hey, this one's moving..."  
Beauty spots can't move, idiot. That's just me flexing a back muscle.  
"You got mussel back here, too? I don't see..."  
Sigh.  
"Hey, this one's talking to his little hairy friend. And these two are growing fatter. I think they ate a small one."  
Grunt. Have you never seen moles before, dummy?  
"Sure, I've seen a few in my lifetime, honey. But you take the whole chocolate cake on this collection. How long you been collecting?"  
Excuse me?  
"Well, I heard moles're like pets. You can buy them at Beauty Salons or steal them if you're really desperate. Some plastic surgeons even surgically implant them under the skin until some sunlight activates them and they pop up when you least expect it."  
Oh shit. You're kidding me? Let's move into the shade.  
"Nope."  
I just had a liposuction treatment last week. I went to Korea. Much cheaper.  
"I think I this one is talking Japanese."  
KUM-SAH-HAM-NI-DAH!  
"Nope, sounds like Chinese."  
What?  
KAR-MA-KRAY-ZEE!  
"I think there's still time to get them removed. I know a guy who has a friend whose sister is a skin doctor."  
Help. My back feels really itchy now. Can you scratch it?  
"I'm not surprised. These little buggers are really going crazy. Some kind of mole war I think. Your beauty spots are looking decidedly ugly at the moment. It's gonna get bloody soon."  
Arrrrgh! It hurts!  
DOG-MAH-TRIX...  
Get them off me!  
"Wait, there's still time. I'll call the hospital once the show's over. I'm recording this to make a Halloween You Tube Video. This is so wicked. I wish you could see this, honey."  
Ugh. Uh. Uh. I can't breathe. My back's on fire. Get some ice! Quick!  
"Later, honey, we're gonna be so rich. The attack of the beauty spots! Whaddaya think?"  
HI-YAAAAH-HA-HO-HA-YEOW-ZAP!  
Fuck!  
"Honey! Holy shit! The big black ones won! They're eating up all the little ones. Hey, they gobbled a freckle, too. Honey? Stop bleeding and wake up, this is so cool!"  
KUM-SAH-HAM-NI-DAH-HAH-NEE?  
"Yes, that's my honey there, little black beauty spot. Here, you wanna climb up on my arm? Oh, you're so warm and fuzzy, like a newborn puppy."  
KAR-MA-KRAY-ZEE-HAH-NEE!  
"Ouch! No biting now! Stop that! There's still time to be friends... Arrrrgh!"  
STILL-TIE-MAH?  
"Holy Mother!"
CHAPTER 48

**Pain**

By Lilian Kendrick

Fear can make people do all sorts of things that are out of character. It's a much stronger emotion than love or hate. When I loved you, I would do almost anything to please you and you took advantage of that. You humiliated me and hurt me, emotionally and physically, if I didn't submit to your will. Part of me wanted to resist, but mostly I wanted to make you happy and bask in the warmth of your smile. Your demands became more and more unreasonable. The marks on my arms and back became harder to hide, and my heart started to grow colder.

"If you loved me, you wouldn't expect me to do this."  
"If you loved me, you wouldn't dream of refusing. You're a snivelling, selfish bitch."  
The beating was vicious; the pain almost intolerable and the damage to my love terminal. I hated you with as much passion as I had once adored you.

With time, the bruises healed; the broken spirit did not. I continued to submit; there was no other choice. I had nowhere to go and no-one to help me. My hatred grew stronger. I would no longer let you see my tears. I allowed you to inflict the pain, but you could draw no pleasure from it when there was no reaction to feed your need. I stopped trying reason with you or answer back. I stopped saying anything at all to you. I carried out your instructions and became a zombie, an automaton controlled by you, but incapable of emotion or response, and you lost interest and left me alone for a while.

For a few weeks, I came to know peace. I bathed again and began to feel human once more. The silence in the house was unnatural as we skirted around each other, without touching or speaking. You still locked me in the bedroom when you left the house, ensuring that I would still be there when you came back.

Today, you brought someone back with you. I heard the click of her heels on the path as she got out of the car, and the sound of laughter and the tinkling of ice cubes from the living room. I thought about shouting a warning, or begging her to help, but I know you so well. If I make a sound, you'll kill us both, but if I'm quiet, you might let this one live when you've had your way. I pray that I am right.
CHAPTER 49

**Billy And The Afternoon Visitor**

By WiSpY

The afternoon sunlight had found the chink in the blackout blinds on the window and cut into Billy Savoy's brain like a dentist's drill on raw pulp. Something, somewhere, had caused him to wake him up, when he was too hung over to live. There was a nearly imperceptible snick as his hotel room door opened.

With a speed and grace that belied his considerable girth, Billy was off the bed and in a shooter's crouch before his brain rightly had a chance to protest. Billy had a problem.

He wasn't armed.

A man entered the room, closing the door in a single oily movement like butter on a hot skillet. He turned to face Billy, his eyes taking in the vomit-stained sheets; Billy crouched like a commando on the other side of the bed, his empty hands held uselessly in front of him.

"I ain't got no gun." Billy said.

The man smiled.

"You with the service?"

The man said nothing, but moved towards Billy like he was walking on glass. Billy head was swimming and his stomach lurched as he tried to stagger to his feet. He fell back to his hands and knees.

"They sent you didn't they? Goddamn it!" He rocked back onto his haunches; his eyes now tightly screwed shut, his mouth working noiselessly. The man had stopped in front of him, and was rolling up his left sleeve.

Slowly, Billy opened his right eye. His blurred vision registered the man standing above him, his hands by his sides.

He opened his left eye. There was something he needed to see. It was there, just above his left elbow. The bastard had rolled up his sleeve so that he could see. So he could know.

"I see it, you fucking prick. I won't become one of you, if that's why you're here."

A grin twisted the corner of the man's mouth. It widened to show a set of yellowed dog-like teeth. "Why would we want you?"

The words came with a sweeping strike at Savoy's head by the man's right hand. Savoy toppled to his right, thudding to the carpeted floor; his head slashed nearly completely from his neck, sightless eyes stared at the spattered ceiling as his body emptied blood onto the cheap carpet.

The 'do not disturb' sign the man hung on the door as he left twenty seconds later would ensure that his work remained a secret until the bill would come due; long after he was gone.
CHAPTER 50

**Midnight Snack**

By Lilian Kendrick

Halfway across the room, the rodent sensed danger and stopped moving. He crouched, concentrating on the silence, ready to pounce or flee, but all was silent as his eyes darted about seeking the cause of his sudden unease. He waited and then resumed his journey towards the cot where the two-year-old lay sleeping. He could smell the milk, dripping from the discarded feeding bottle onto the linoleum. His nightly treat was almost within his reach. The child always left some milk. When she grew tired of the bottle, she would push it aside. Tonight the teat was poking between the bars of the cot. He started lapped at the puddle. He was grateful to the child. The sense of danger returned and he looked up from his supper to meet the little girl's curious gaze. She was peering down at him.

"Hello Mousey." She seemed to know that wasn't quite right. The rat resumed his drinking while she watched.

The child whimpered and picked up the bottle, sucking the last drops from it. Dismayed, the rat squealed and leapt after his food source. Squeezing between the bars of the cot, he found himself staring into the eyes of his tormentor.

I don't want to hurt you, I just want the milk. He knew she couldn't understand him, but the ache in his belly had to be appeased. The child stared back at him and continued to suck. At last, she cast the empty bottle aside. The rat sniffed around the teat, licking in vain. The little girl lay down and slept again.

Her chin is flecked with droplets. I could have those. No-one is here to stop me.

He crept towards the drowsy child and licked the milk from her chin. Her pudgy little fingers stroked between his ears until finally, warm and comforted he fell asleep locked in her embrace – a grotesque parody of a teddy bear.

When Maria came in to the nursery to investigate why her little one was sleeping late, she smiled indulgently as she removed the bloodstained quilt from the cot.

"Joe, I need some help cleaning up," she yelled. "It's in the cot. I can't see what she's done with the head this time, but she's got real case of 'morning breath'."

Joe looked at his stepdaughter who was now awake and smiling, reaching for him.  
"In a bit, sweetie." He said. "Mummy's gonna give you a bath and help you brush your teeth while Daddy sorts out this mess."
CHAPTER 51

**Spiders**

By WiSpY

Eight legs?

A hairy body and multi-faceted eyes?

Creepy multi-jointed limbs that move with a wave that conjures visions of swarms of their writhing forms enveloping you?

What exactly is it about spiders that scare most people shitless?

Harry Greitz loved spiders. He'd kept countless terrariums over the past twenty five years. A proper aracnophile he was, and proud of it. He took great pleasure back in the early years in showing off Caligula, his Theraposa Blondi with his eleven inch leg span to visitors to his house. That was back in day alright. Back in the day when they used to visit him willingly. So many visitors he used to have and it was like he was the curator of the world's best zoo ... see the deadly brown recluse, the Mexican Red Tarantula, the mighty Caligula, who feasted on live birds in the wild.

First it was just the neighbourhood kids who came, but soon he started getting adult visitors, fascinated to see his home, the walls piled high with the glass encased arachnids. He'd thought about creating a theme park but he city shut him down.

Then Larry had arrived.

Harry couldn't remember who had left Larry for him, but it had been a busy afternoon when the plain wooden box was discovered in the parlour ... in front of Caligula's terrarium, how fitting ...

Larry was unlike anything Harry had ever seen. He'd been bigger than Caligula, even back then and Larry knew he'd been just a baby then. He'd built him a bathtub sized terrarium and placed it in the bathroom. He'd put a chicken wire lid across the top. Then he'd invited the neighbours in.

It was little Albert Rhineholt who first showed Harry why Larry was really different. Harry found Albert after everyone else had left for the day. He was dead on the bathroom floor and Larry was having a good old feed sitting right there on his chest, slurping up the gooey aftermath of his venom's work. Harry knew it wasn't Larry's fault, he was just doing what nature had intended. Luckily, Larry had totally ingested Albert by daybreak when the police first arrived.

He'd had to make a stronger cage and this time he put it in the basement.

Good thing, because Larry had gotten bigger; dog sized.  
And stronger.

And hungrier.

The hairs of Larry's feet had been protruding from under the door for a few hours now.

One of them had to go hunting.
CHAPTER 52

**Handy Man**

By Living Challenged

"I love you."

His hand, calloused and soiled, held her face, caressing her silken cheek with his thumb. She turned her face and kissed his palm. He roamed further, into her soft locks, entwining the masses around his swollen fingers.

"I wish you would tell me what you're thinking. Do you love me?"

Silence.

He released his grip on her raven hair and returned to her face, tracing the contours of her nose and lips until his hand rested on her tender young throat. The hollow of her neck was damp from the misty night air.

"Please. Tell me that you love me. I need to know."

Still he gave no reply. The only sounds in the dark were the shallow breaths she took between petitions, punctuated by an occasional sob.

Ignoring her pleas, his hand continued its investigation of her feminine form, finding its way to the top of her gown and sliding beneath the edge. He gripped the garment firmly and tugged.

"No!" She flung his hand from her bosom, and several bone buttons on her dress shot across the porch, spinning or rolling in circles until coming to rest on the oak planks. Her breasts heaved beneath her exposed undergarments.

A pen and scroll lay on the table next to her, and she slammed her hand on the parchment.

"If you can't tell me, write it. Say you love me or not. My heart and body is yours either way, but I must know."

When he didn't move she scooped his hand into hers and brought it to her lips, afraid she had angered him with her outburst. She placed his hand on the paper and pressed his palm against it. The vellum was soft against his rough skin, and he moved his hand over it, caressing it as he had done with her, but he didn't move to take the pen.

Frustrated, she dipped the pen in ink and placed it between his fingers, wrapping them around the writing tool as if he were a child.

"Please."  
"My dearest darling Seraphine," he wrote. "Were my heart mine to give, I would gladly place it in your loving care. But alas, it is taken by another. I can only offer my tender caresses and gentle touch, but know this. If yours were the eyes I had first looked into, I would not have lost my head over Jacquie."

Seraphine placed his hand in its wooden box and locked it tight, satisfied at last.

CHAPTER 53

**Intermission**

By Splinker

Here endeth the contest entries. It was a bright and sunny Saturday morning when I received the last entry. I had just finished putting down the last bag of lime down in the cellar when mother started bitching about all the time I waste on Authonomy.

"If you spent as much time looking for a girl as you do on that damned website, I'd be a grandmother by now. Jesus wept, you are a sorry excuse for a son sometimes Norman."

"My name's Splinker, mother. You know that. And I just haven't met the right woman yet." I was halfway up the stairs, on my way to check on the entries and announce that voting was to begin. But mother wouldn't let things lie of course. She always has to push.

"No of course not. The only women you keep time with these days don't have a lot to offer in the companion department, do they?"

Then that laugh. That laugh of hers that always makes me want hurt myself a little.

"Don't talk about them like that mother. They are all special to me, you know that."

"Like I'm special, Norman? Are they –"

"Please don't call me that mother. My name –"

"Don't you interrupt me, boy! You may be Mr. cat's meow with those other layabouts and whores, but down here you're just a thankless son who brings misery and shame to his poor mother. So don't you dare take that tone with me."

"I'm sorry mother. But I just have to log on and move the contest a long a little. Then I'll come back down and we can have a nice little chat. I promise."

"Oh, you'll be back. But it won't be to talk to me. We both know that Norman. We know why you come down here. We know why you stay. And it's not for your poor mother, God knows."

"Mother, please. My friends are waiting. They all worked very hard. Just let me get the voting started and then I'm all yours, I promise."

That laugh again. Nails on a chalkboard.

"Oh, Judas Priest, lucky me. My good for shiftless son is going to come play with mommy when he's done playing Mr. Bigshot with his computer friends. What's wrong with those people any way? Why would anyone want to spend time "talking" to someone like you?"

"Mother.."

"Go ahead then, Norman. Go 'play.' Not like you're good for much else. We'll be here waiting."

"Yes Mother."
CHAPTER 54

**Last Man Standing**

By Richard Maitland

The unburied dead lay rotting where they fell.

The purple fog had first been detected on the western margins of the Pacific, half a world away. Brief mention of it on the television news channels attracted no interest. Apart from meteorologists who puzzled over it and concluded it was further evidence of global warming, no one much cared.

Until it started to drift west.

When it reached the oil countries, America began to panic. Would this push up the price of gasoline? Opinions were traded in bars, round the water dispenser: "But, hey – ain't that where that motherfucker Bin Laden hangs out. Woo-hoo! Payback time!" But as the fog continued on its course, America – isolated from reality by the hugeness of its fortress – took refuge in denial. "It can't come here. This is America. We're special. It can't come here."

When it reached Africa, this changed to: "And even if it does, we'll be ready." Supermarkets were emptied, schools closed, the President went to his bunker, and America battened down the hatches. They could sit it out. Whatever it was.

Whatever it was, smothered Asia, smothered Europe, and everyone died. And the cloud continued west.

It rolled over the sea, and poisoned the bayous; polluted the Everglades. It swirled up the Hudson River. It licked the base of the Statue of Liberty. It did not discriminate. Blacks, Whites, Hispanics; Jews, Catholics, Protestants and atheists; the rich in their mansions, the poor in their huddled tenements – all, all were obliterated. It seeped in round window-frames, down chimneys, through elevator shafts, under doors. There was no escape.

The purple haze continued west, Death in the vanguard; deadening prairies, choking the redwoods, silencing every singing bird. It swept over the greatest country in the world and killed everyone in it.

Everyone, except for Justin Blakemore.

He sat, where he had sat for two days now, on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, rocking slightly. It would not be long before his food gave out. And when the faucets ran dry he would have, at best, a few days of painful pointlessness.

Justin got slowly to his feet. Better to do it while he still had wits and strength enough.

He opened a window. The stench of the dead on the sidewalk thirty floors below reached his nostrils. He climbed onto the windowsill.

Jumped.

And as he fell, arms outstretched, embracing death, he heard -- through an open window several floors below – the insistent ringing of a telephone.
CHAPTER 55

**Lady Chatterly's Zombie**

By Lisa Scullard

The woman! If she could be there with him, and there were nobody else in the world! The desire rose again, his loins began to stir like a live man's. At the same time an oppression, a dread of exposing himself and her to that outside Thing that sparkled viciously in the electric lights, weighed down his shoulders. She, poor young woman, was just a youthful, alive female creature to him; but a young female creature who he had gone into and whom he desired again.

Driven by desire and by dread of the malevolent Thing outside, he made his round in the wood, slowly, softly. He loved the darkness and folded himself into it. It fitted the turgidity of his desire which, in spite of all, was like riches; the stirring restlessness of undead flesh, the fire in his groin!

She had lain still, in a kind of sleep, always in a kind of sleep. The activity, the orgasm was his, all his; she could strive for her own no more. Even the tightness of his arms around her, even the intense movement of his body, the lock of his teeth against her throat, and the springing of his un-death into her, was all a kind of sleep from which she could not begin to rouse.

It had been a queer obedience with which she had stretched out on the blanket and offered herself to him. His soft, groping, helplessly desirous hand had touched her body, feeling for her face, a lock of her hair. He stroked her cheek, with infinite soothing and assurance, and at last, the soft touch of a kiss.

For her part, Constance had wondered as he lay in the aftermath against her breast, why? Why was this necessary? Why had it lifted a great cloud from her and given her peace? Was it real? Was it real?

Her tormented female brain still had no rest, even as it seeped out onto the pillow. Was it real? And she knew, if she gave herself to him, that it was; but if she kept herself to herself, it was not. She would be old; millions of years old, she felt. And she could bear the burden of herself no longer. She was to be had for the taking. To be had for the taking.

The man lay motionless. What was he feeling? What was he thinking? She did not know. She must only wait; she did not dare break his mysterious stillness.
CHAPTER 56

**It's In The Bag**

By Joe Kovacs

Okay, she's shallow and a bit weird, but she's amazingly well-stacked. I can forgive a woman anything if she's got great tits.

What does she see in me? Oh, I don't care. It's not every day your mister average Joe, bank manager, gets it on with a catwalk queen.

This is one hell of a blind date. First she snogs me, before we've even said 'hello', and then she tells the waiter she wants a private booth, so that we can 'get to know each other.'

I've never got to 'know' someone so quick in my life!

The conversation, what there was of it, was charged with nuance. 'I've got a cat, his name is Kevin,' I stuttered. 'I've got a pussy, do you want to stroke it?' she replied huskily.

There was only one answer to that.

So here we are, in her kinky little bedsit with its strobes and its pole, and I'm about to become her sex toy...

*

Oh good, he's in the shower.

Can't wait for him to come out.

I've got a little surprise.

Now, where is it? This bloody purse is like a rucksack. Too many pockets, can't find a thing.

Okay, that's better. Out with the whip and mask, and out with the pink fluffy handcuffs. Hmmm...pink?...that's so last year. Got to get me some black leather ones. Never goes out of style, does black. Now, what are these gloves doing here? Oh yes, I'll need those later on, to 'clean up'. Got to clean up, don't I. Mustn't be a dirty girl. Though I am a dirty girl, aren't I? He really liked it when I tickled his nuggets back in the bar. Bet he doesn't get a lot of that on a first date, ha! Told me I was smoking hot, and offered me a fag. Cigarettes...disgusting. I can still smell his fag breath on me, horny toad. Oh good, here's my mints...that'll be the first thing I pop in his mouth. The second will be me. But what's this? My phone? I thought I'd lost that. Hmmm...fifteen messages, and all of them from Ralph. Okay, dude, I'm on it, no need to panic. You'll get your money. Just as soon as I've had my fun...

Oh, here's Mister Bank Manager now, pink as a baby and just as shiny-clean.

And here's what I've been looking for all along. My extra-large sharpened screwdriver.

Mmmm...time for my favourite part of the date.
CHAPTER 57

Unlucky

By Gretchen Steen

"The dew on my skin, lying under the predawn sky, I waited for the warming sun. A beautiful day lies ahead, amongst my friends, the brisk air and sunshine. I do remember the brief saffron flower that shriveled and swiftly fell away. The open spaces have become cluttered and my family is growing ever faster."

"Oh, not the evil crows again, to peck and scratch and devour. There must be something out there, to relieve this weary soul. My shiny curves and broad middle will surely please someone, but here, they will not find me."

"Here he comes, machete in hand, I guess it's time to go. Brush my bottom, my vine like arms lay wasted. Off we go, I'm so very happy, to the big, wide world. Now I see I'm not alone, 'hello Fritz and George and Manuel'. Off we go, on a bumpy ride, to where I'm still not certain."

"One by one, we're carried away, and put in a disheveled heap. They come and probe and prod us, but we don't utter a peep. Then up I go, oh joy I'm saved, away from that rowdy bunch."

"A little boy, named Tommy, had taken me for his own. His sister Lil had cried and sobbed until Fritz was taken too. 'Hurry now, time is wasting' I heard a voice behind me."

"With that voice, a strange satisfaction did come. Quickly, and with precision, the scalpel did its work. In and out, its blade cut repeatedly into my lustrous skin. I felt no pain only pleasure. Then scraping and gouging, my insides were gone. How can I possibly go on?"

"One, two, three ... the easy stuff was done, but now for the ragged, jagged number four. Oh, stop, STOP!!! That tickled too much, you must be finished soon. You stepped back and grinned, and the children jump up and down, 'Light it, please, PLEASE!' I patiently sit, and watch and wait, to see what's in the offing. Soon I feel inner warmth and an unnatural pleasing glow."

"The spooks and hobgoblins did come, the witches and fairies unparalleled. They'd pass and never took notice. My inside is scorched, my eyes grow weary and my smile has dropped to a frown. My skin is dark and puckering, like that of 'ole man Brown'."

"Soon I shall be cast aside, as mere garbage; a stinking, rotten shell. But then, what did I truly expect...it always turns out the same...for us, the 'Happy 'Unlucky' Jack-O-Lanterns!!"
CHAPTER 58

**The Crow Caws At Twilight**

By Cora Bennet

There it was, staring at me from the rough wooden fencepost. It had beady little eyes, one of which was kept focused on me.

I hated crows. Here I was, sitting on the back porch just before twilight, drinking a glass of lemonade, minding my own business. Why couldn't it do the same?

Ever since Johnny Miller from down the street told me that his grandpa was eaten alive by a swarm of crows, I'd avoided them very carefully. It wasn't like I believed his story or anything. I was twelve, for goodness sake. Still, they creeped me out.

I chuckled quietly to myself. Why was I afraid of a stupid little bird? Johnny and I did far more dangerous stuff than scaring birds. Why, just the other day we'd gone diving into the reservoir from the cliff.

I took out my slingshot, which was already loaded. I hit it with the first shot. There was a little thumping noise and the bird was gone, replaced by a couple of stray feathers that floated slowly downward. I grinned triumphantly.

Minutes later, I heard cawing. Then it got louder.

Suddenly, there was silence. Curious, I stood up and squinted at the field. I wished I hadn't.

There in the field, were hundreds of ink-black crows. They all had their little eyes pointed at me.

I screamed.

***

Mary heard her son screaming and rolled her eyes. What was he up to now?

Another scream came, and it was cut off suddenly. Mary wasn't worried, but she decided to go check up on Pete just in case. He could very well be in trouble.

Pete's glass of lemonade was on the patio table, but he was nowhere to be seen.

"Pete?" Mary called out. She got no response. How odd, she thought. The scream had sounded close.

A crow suddenly cawed, startling Mary and sending her pulse racing. She had to squint to find the source.

There the crow was, staring at her from a fencepost nearby. It cawed again, and loudly.

"Stupid bird," Mary muttered. "Probably after the corn." She stepped further onto the porch, and then down the steps. When she got to the bottom, she stepped on something hard, and it snapped loudly. Assuming it was a branch, she looked down. Then she screamed.

There, at the bottom of the steps below her feet, was a small human skeleton. It was wearing Pete's clothes.

Loudly, the crow cawed again, then flew off into the night. 
CHAPTER 59

**Memories**

By CMT Stibble

"C'mon Jenkins, tell us where you buried her?" The detective rubbed his hands, exhaling a cloud of vapor.

I looked around the forest, tall trees reaching to the sky. Trouble was, I couldn't remember. But the detective was like a Rottweiler. Well, may be more like a standard poodle. I thought tight perms disappeared in the 70's.

"Bloody Nora, it could have been anywhere," I said, rubbing my wrists. "What about over there?"

It had been dark then when I dragged the body bag from the back of my car and all I could think of was the sound of the chain saw. I'd had cut her up nice and small in the morgue. Best place to work when you're in the business, if you know what I mean. And Dr Stephens had the day off. "What a bloody stroke of luck," I said aloud.

Tight perm stopped and made a face. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," I said. He's going to think I'm nuts if I keep this up. We reached the spot, only it wasn't the spot. I couldn't smell pee and I definitely remember peeing. I was as pissed as a fart that night. It was a wonder I could drive.

But Gloria wouldn't shut up so I stabbed her—first in the chest and then in the throat. The knife made a strange sucking noise as I pulled it out and those eyes . . . wide, bulging like two marbles. I just wanted her mouth to stop. I don't remember much of the stabbing but I do remember the chain saw. It's was a Craftsman. No anti-vibration handle so it was tiring after the second leg.

"Bugger," I murmured as a German Shepherd started sniffing around the trunk of a tree. "May be this is it," I said encouragingly, heart fluttering in my chest. "It's quite exciting, kind of like Christmas."

Tight perm barely managed a smile, more of a disgusted grimace. He patted his nice Puffa while I stood like dick in my shirt sleeves. Category 'A' prisons aren't that bad, especially good if you make the E-list. I was thinking of tinned peas when Tight Perm gagged and threw up.  Must have found Glo's head, I thought, remembering the blood. Gordon Bennet, Glo, there was so much of it. Spurting out it was, all over my nice new shirt.

But it wasn't. A swollen, jellified leg in the jaws of a happy police dog is never a pretty sight.
CHAPTER 60

**Justice**

By EM Delaney

"Look at that bastard," I grumble low in my gravelly smokers voice. "Sixteen years has done nothing to deter that monster from repeating what he did to my baby."

I remember centering the crosshairs on the back of his head as he sat conversing with the little girl. She couldn't have been more than nine, only a year or two younger than my Bethie.

I want to take him now. My finger twitches on the trigger and the rest of my body begins a semi-state of convulsive response as my motor skills become poor. How can I think of doing this to a human being? I can't do it now...the child...I can't do it while the child is sitting in front of him. My God, where is her mother?

I've waited sixteen years for this chance, convinced I would have no problem doing what I had promised her I would do. My word to her dying mother only last summer as she was passing that true justice would be done. I remember the look in her eyes as she died, completely in faith that I would right the wrong that had been done our little girl.

Once again I look into the scope of the Winchester 270. I knew he would come here! Three days is all it took for that child molesting vermin to come back and attempt to repeat his deeds. The system doesn't give a shit. To turn this vile excuse of sin loose after only sixteen years...but then, what amount of time would have been fair for dissecting my child into a hundred pieces?

Look at him...smiling. He acts as if nothing bothers him. How can he and I have been born to the same mother?  
I can't stop shaking.

This has to be done.

I am the only one who can pass this judgment and make the matter right. Bethie was my child, my brother killed her. He must die.

I focus once more the crosshairs of the scope on his head but I can't stop the response my body feels. Why can I not be still for just a few seconds so as to follow through on what I know is right.

No...he's walking away with her. No! The shaking is worse, stop it dammit! Focus!

The target moves in and out of center of my aim. Suddenly, he stops walking and bends over to hand the little girl something.  
Upright again he stands clean in the crosshairs.

No shaking.

Justice.
CHAPTER 61

**The Kiss Of The Corvus**

By Russel Cruse

A feather, shining blue-black. She picked it up, though she had no need since it was no different from others she'd seen. Large, though; not from a skittish juvenile but from an older bird, well used to the sounds of the wood and unlikely to leave her nest for anything less than a gunshot.

A gunshot would always send the rooks a-leaping from their nests, even before their wings were poised to bear them. Then, they would thrust out those great black-cloaked arms, hammer the air and rise, by no means effortlessly into the sky. And the frantic flexing of the topmost branches and the downdraught of wings would send a shower of leaves, twigs, dry bracken... and feathers cascading downwards through the canopy to the soft, spongy ground upon which she now stood.

It could not have been there above a day or two and, as she pressed the delicate filaments gently between the tips of her fingers and savoured the silky, almost audibly brittle sensation the action afforded, she made the link. Had his final selfish act delivered this beautiful thing to her?

They had thought to clean him up before taking her in to identify him. Someone had laid a small kerchief across his brow, its pristine and merciful whiteness betraying nothing of what lay beneath it. Another spotless bolt of bleached linen had been placed over his body so that his face, framed between, appeared pink and alive and for a moment, she had wondered if she might have heard wrongly. A moment; no more. As she'd approached, she'd faltered and a hand had sought to steady her and voice to reassure. Neither steady nor reassured, she had gazed at his face, and had nodded.

Only once the black rubber doors had folded behind her had she thought to ask about the marks on his cheeks. A dozen (perhaps more), small, cuneiform punctures. What had caused them? The policeman had said, quietly, that they weren't sure. Then she had cried, as now she cried over that final kiss.

When first they met, he'd asked if he might kiss her. Of course, she'd said no.

'Go on,' he'd said, 'Just a little peck on the cheek; that's all.'

Smiling, she had presented her face to him and he had kissed her, softly. Then he had turned and placed his index finger against his own cheek and had said to her,

'Your turn.'

'All right,' she'd said. 'But just a little peck, mind.'
CHAPTER 62

**Giz A Light**

By TRM

"Giz a light", the tramp drawled.

He held a crumpled roll-up in his swollen, shaking fingers. They were a nasty claret shade, pockmarked with puncture scars almost everywhere. Yellow fingernails were chewed almost all the way to scabby cuticles.

Collapsed in a corner of the bus shelter, he was wrapped in a broadsheet-padded collection of threadbare suits, all torn up, button-burst and unmentionably stained. He seemed harmless enough.

The lad in the hoodie shuffled closer and stretched out his arm, offering his fresh Marlboro as if fearing ignition of the stench billowing from his happenstance late-night companion.

The tramp looked up with a wobbly smile. That swollen, lumpy face had taken far too many beatings. His boxer's nose was crusted with scars, as were the bags beneath rheumy eyes and his silver-stubbled, pus-erupting chin. The loose, flappy skin of his purple neck was festooned with suppurating craters in a cynical necklace. The flickering streetlight opposite gave him a morbidly yellow hue.

"Ta, mate," he croaked. He lifted the Marlboro from the lad's fingers with a gesture so bizarrely graceful despite the stiffness of his ruptured joints that hoodie-boy had to stare in wonder. The glowing tip of the cigarette met the scraggly end of the roll-up without any sign of the trembling that had first beckoned for attention.

The tip bloomed as the tramp drew in a rattling breath. One long draught consumed the entire cigarette. Its ashen memory bowed and then dropped away in a slow, dainty shower of grey.

The lad stared at his vanished fag, his face contorted half-way between outrage and shock. No sound escaped his lips, for he had become as pale and as flaky as the wreckage from a tab-end. Then, slowly and with the same floating grace, he crumbled inwards and folded upon himself to the ground, grey dust billowing out of puppet-like sleeves and from the ends of many-jointed trouser legs. The face was the last to dissipate before the skull rolled from the shapeless hoodie, cracking and crumbling as it lurched towards the tramp's feet, until it was no more than a trail of sand already smeared across the pavement by a chill night breeze.

The tramp jumped to his feet, young once more. Fit, lithe and unspolit, he shucked off his stinking layers of clothing and quickly pulled on the lad's designer togs, shaking a leg to cast out the last of the ash, before running off into the night with a peal of wild laughter.
CHAPTER 63

**An Oliver Twist**

By Mark Roman

Gasps rippled around the restaurant as the diners caught sight of the famous face.

"That's him! That's Jamie Oliver! He's here!" the awed whisper swept through the room. Heads turned and faces lit up as the celebrity chef grinned and waved. He paused to sign a few autographs before heading towards the kitchen.

"'ow's tricks, chef?" he beamed, approaching a large, sweaty man in a stripy apron and giving him a matey slap on the back.

The head chef's eyes filled with panic. "Er, Issa good, Haimie, issa verra good," he replied with forced cheerfulness, mopping his brow and loosening his collar.

"Lovely jubbly," said the celebrity, stopping to sniff the air. "Phew! What's that smell? Someone have an accident with a chemistry set?"

"Ha, ha, ha. You so funny, Haimie." The head chef glanced nervously at the other chefs. Then he stiffened on seeing Jamie about to dip a spoon into a nearby saucepan.

"Er, issa not quite-a ready, Haimie," the chef stuttered, hurriedly disarming Jamie of the spoon and putting a lid on the pan. "Why you here, Haimie? Iffa you don' mind me askin'."

"Just passing," said Jamie absently, his eye catching sight of some recipes. "This tonight's special?"

The chef's mouth dropped open. "Er ... NO!" He snatched the recipes from Jamie's hand and hid them behind his back. "Jussa some ideas. Experiments. Nothing, really."

"Oh, come on, Genaro! Don't be modest. Give us a butcher's, mate. You've created a pukka tukka extravaganza, right?"

"No, issa really nothing. Serious, Haimie." The chef looked more and more flustered, his eyes flicking left and right.

"Come on, Gen. Hand 'em over."

"No, Haimie."

"Pretty please."

Reluctantly, the head chef handed the sheets to his boss. He closed his eyes and waited.

In a far corner of the kitchen a sous chef called "Service!" and a wiry waiter hurried in to whip two plates out into the dining room

.

As Jamie read through the recipes, his laddish cheeriness drained from his face. "What's all this?" His eyes widened in dismay. "Hemlock? Henbane?? Zinc phosphide?? But ... ?"

Genaro gave a crazed smile.

Jamie read another recipe. "Arsenic!" he cried in horror. He looked up urgently. "Stop that waiter!"

He wheeled to the head chef, his face incredulous. "Genaro! Whatcha playin' at, buddy? You trying to ruin me? These ingredients! They're deadly. You can't serve this special. Its main course would desiccate a horse. Its dessert would shrivel an adult. And ... ITS STARTER'D WITHER KIDS!!"
CHAPTER 64

**A Glimpse of Paradise**

By Almuth Wren

Towards the end of term Emma finally secured a contract for some perfect student accommodation, after a string of tiny flats had left her squashed. A romantic-looking Rectory with masses of ivy crawling over crumbling brick-walls proved ideal, and the deserted garden looked thoroughly luscious and relaxing . . and proved dirt cheap! "No competitors at all, and the vicar has long moved out," the agent smiled.

There seemed to be one snare though, which she discovered when the washing machine delivered a stinky load out onto patio, instead of down the drain. Ringing some local 'Hot-rod' number she wondered if she'd got caught.

Paradise lost, so quickly?

~

"This, my dear, is actually a Roman sacrificial site, with this chapel built later-on for the storage of corpses, as a mortuary," a dog-walker hastened to inform Emma as he saw her coming out of the house. "And I hope you know your place is haunted?" Emma stared at him. "No, really? Isn't that a bit over the top? Not every Rectory harbours ghosts."

"A woman was killed," he added ominously. "It was all in the papers years ago. The husband stuck a knife in her twenty times. The police searched the neighbourhood and skimmed the river, but the body was never found. It's a mystery." "Well, I'm not superstitious, but thanks for the information." Emma stuttered in defiance.

On Friday the plumber arrived and started on his smelly job, pushing giant rods through the pipe-work around the house without much success. "It must be further down," he concluded and continued his efforts in the woods, lifting gutter covers, cursing and sweating in muscled defiance. Uneasily she watched from the safe confines of her veranda. 'What if he can't get rid of the blockage? I'll have to endure this smell for a year,' she pondered with little enthusiasm, and abandoned her post.

After an hour there was a knock on the back-door. A grinning, sludge-covered pair of dungarees refused to enter the hallway. "Don't come close," he said, "I'm covered, but we've identified the bastard. Some fat plastic-bag was completely clogging the pipes. Glad you called me. I've managed to push it through the sewer into the main system. That won't give you any more grief, Darling. People force anything down their toilets these days. Dirty buggers! Anyway, it's gone now. The agent will pay the bill. Have a nice evening."

"Get me a stiff drink, and we can ravel in the pun." Emma mumbled. "Paradise

regained."

CHAPTER65

**Dare**

By Alishia Duling

"All you have to do is wave from the window." Pete "repeat" repeated.

"If it's so simple, then you go do it." I told him.

"I can't, it's your dare." He reminded me.

I looked back down to the group of kids standing along the edge of the property, who stood awaiting my decision. Some of their faces seemed encouraging, but most reflected doubt. _Coward_ ; I could almost hear the words coming from their thoughts. I could not be a coward, no matter how much they were. Not one single, big talking, triple daring, yellow bellied punk down there had ever gone inside that house. Never! _So why are you?_ I asked myself; because _I am not a coward._

My size twos climbed the cracked concrete steps up towards the dilapidated old porch of the abandoned "haunted" house and followed through past its threshold. Not a single ounce of noise traveled up the steps behind me as my onlookers watched in awe and amazement. Stevie Buckket, I knew was the only one still holding on to "unimpressed." The insides of this ramshackle emanated its pungent odor instantly. The mixture smelled of rotted wood, decay and perhaps death....

I did not dare look back at them; instead I steeled my mind and fears and entered the domain. I quickly scanned the room and found the stairs ahead to the left of me. I quickly, yet cautiously stepped over splintered flooring and the "Idon'tknowwhatthat is!" over to it and climbed. I climbed, focusing on the top above me. Every next step seemed endless and the top seemed to never grow near. Finally... finally! I reached the top and looked around myself. Which room is the right room? I tried to keep my calm and think. I wanted to get to my mark as quickly and straightly as I possibly could, so I could then quickly get out of here! _They are behind you, so go to your right and find the closest room on your right._ I told myself. So...I went right and opened the first door on my right. A tiny fraction of light peeked through the single window of the room; it had grown dark quickly. I rushed over to it and looked down. Pete "repeat" spotted me first and waved. The others looked up and almost every mouth dropped thereafter. My chest puffed up in victory as the rest of them waved frantically up at me. The door slammed behind me and I turned around.
CHAPTER 66

**The Four Sixteen**

By LJ Rutledge

Brad and Gwen Witherspoon had bundled themselves together on a rickety old bench outside the train depot. He was propped against their large suitcase and she was propped against his chest. They tried to nap while waiting in this town, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, for their train to pick them up at six the next morning. Until then, they dozed outside in the cool night air in a town with no motel.

Gwen was awakened by the sound of a whistle in the distance. She sat upright and looked at her cell phone to check the time. It was a few minutes past four in the morning.

"Brad, I hear a train whistle." She shook her husband as she spoke.

"What?" He sat up and stretched his arms into the air, yawning loudly.

"A train is coming." Gwen sounded insistent.

"I wouldn't get on that train iffen I was you." A scratchy voice sounded from the dark corner of the doorway.

Startled, Brad and Gwen both wrenched their heads to the left to spy an old man in disheveled clothing leaning against the wall. He looked as scruffy as his voice sounded.

Brad's arm went around Gwen's shoulder in a protective gesture. The vagrant laughed, coughing and sputtering as if infested with some terrible lung ailment.

"It ain't me you ought be afeared of, young man. Don't get tricked into gettin on that train. It ain't time for your train, now is it?"

"Maybe the train is early. The guy at the window said ours would be the next train coming into the station." Brad sounded defensive.

"Nope, the guy at the window don't know nothin' about the 4:16." The old man went back to coughing, gagging as if he would hack up a lung.

The whistle sounded again, much closer this time. The young couple gathered their belongings and prepared to be picked up, happy to get away from this strange old codger who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

The train pulled to a stop in front of the station. It looked antiquated to the pair, but they stood ready to board as soon as the doors opened. With a defiant glance over his shoulder, Brad placed his hand on the small of Gwen's back, guiding her up the steps. As soon as they were inside the doors slammed shut. Making their way into the car, they were greeted with a carload of decayed corpses, all sitting upright like regular passengers.
CHAPTER 67

**The Dare**

By: Trista Herring Baughman and Natasha Morea

The night was crisp; a wave of goose bumps rose on Ian's chilled skin. A low fog had settled in. Cloaked in darkness, he slowly made his way to the cemetery. He hesitated at the wrought iron gate barring his way. It stood at the center of a high stone wall, battered with age. He briefly wondered if the wall had been made to keep people out—or to keep something in. He shivered at the thought. He reached a hand toward the gate. _Locked_. Placing his leg on the iron structure, he hoisted himself up, scaling it quickly.

Once inside, he took in his surroundings. The darkness seemed heavier, the fog more dense on this side of the wall. Squinting into the mist, he could barely make out the neat rows of gray headstones. Breath billowing before him, he started toward the plots.

Ian pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and scanned the graves as he moved, searching for the name. He turned his head at the snap of a twig. His pace quickened. _Where is it?_ He moved hurriedly, eyes searching. Moonlight filtered through the fog, as he bent low over the graves and shined the light toward the stone. _Yes!_ _This is it._ He moved the beam of light around, searching for the small row of gargoyle statues. _Bingo._ Now, to prove the legend was wrong. All he had to do was grab one of the statues and make it back over the gate alive. _No problem_.

As he swiped the statue, he caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye and spun around, heart pounding. Nothing but fog and the night. For the first time he noticed the eerie silence—dead silence. _You're lettin' this curse stuff get to you, man. Curses aren't real._ "Curses aren't real," he whispered aloud to himself, for reassurance. Then he began swiftly zigzagging his way back through the graves towards his victory.

As he neared the last few graves he heard a strange muffled sound. He stopped and looked around nervously. He went to move and felt a tug on his leg. A bony hand reached out of the grave, its fingers curled around Ian's ankle. Ian screamed and kicked free of the hand. All around him, hands and arms reached for the sky; reached for _him_. _This can't be happening!_ He raced for the gate. As he approached it, figures began to take shape before him. Fingers pointed; voices echoed. "Guilty!"

CHAPTER 68

**One Potato**

By Adam Sifre

As long as you were dying and quiet, the guards didn't care what you did. This was that some of the inmates referred to as "the silver lining of Auschwitz."

They were just two stick shadows in the dusk, standing in the small space between two barracks, sharing a rare moment of isolation in a place where the dead were stacked and burned like cordwood – and endless forest.

Samuel shook the hand holding the potato at Michael. Like all the others he was a skeleton, held together with dust and shit. "The only way you get this is if I shove it up your bony ass!" He regretted the outburst even as he shouted the words. This was not the place to raise one's voice. Shouting always invited a bullet, so here the living were almost as silent as the dead. Here everyone practiced for the German ovens. Michael, Samuel's twin in all but blood, recoiled slightly.

"Shut up," he hissed. "You want to bring the whole camp in this?"

Samuel was too tired to back down now. "I'd rather be shot than see your filthy Polish hands on this." But the words were whispered, and Samuel cringed and held the potato close to his chest, his nervous eyes searching the shadows.

Michael took a small step forward. Still too far away to make a grab at the potato, it was more a gesture of intent. He was not backing down. They eyed each other, both breathing heavily, as if they'd already fought. On some level, both knew neither had the strength for even the smallest scrape. All the fight stayed in their eyes.

"Don't be stupid."

"Where did you get it?"

"It doesn't matter. There are no more to be had." And after the briefest pause, "I'm sorry."

Samuel kept clutching the potato to his chest, looking as if he intended to push it straight into his stomach. They could not stay out here alone. In a minute it would all be over, one way or the other. All he had to do was wait.

Then Michael started weeping, soft papery sobs robbed long ago of tears. Like everything else in the brave new world, it was muted by the strange physics of Auschwitz.

"Please."

"Fuck off."

"I have two children here."

One stick figure fell to its knees, and somehow diminished itself even further. Its head slowly sank to the ground, surrendering. Everything.

After a moment, the other stick figure walked away. Surrendering everything.

