 
Haunted

The Sparkly Badgers' Anthology

Edited by  
Claire Buss and Brent A. Harris

Cover artwork by  
Jane Jago and Ian C. Bristow
Published by CB Visions in 2019

Copyright ©2019 by CB Visions

First Edition

The authors assert the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of this work.

All Right Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the authors, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Other Sparkly Badger Anthologies:

A Badger Christmas Carol, The Sparkly Badgers' Christmas Anthology

Haunted includes the following stories and poems:

_The Willow Man_ by Jane Jago ©2017 Jane Jago

_The Assignment_ by Yvette Bostic ©2019 Yvette Bostic

_Waiting for Wednesday_ by Cindy Tomamichel ©2015 Cindy Tomamichel

_Oh, she nears!_ by Sophie Kearing ©2019 Sophie Kearing

_Dress Like an Animal_ by Claire Buss ©2019 Claire Buss

_Boot Hill_ by Leo McBride ©2019 Leo McBride

_Stalker_ by Margena Holmes ©2019 Margena Holmes

_Haunted by Darkness_ by Ian C. Bristow ©2019 Ian C. Bristow

_The Bay Sirius Witch of Atchafalaya Basin_ by Holly Rae Garcia ©2019 Holly Rae Garcia

_Grave Dancer_ by a stump ©2019 a stump

_Lonesome Conscious World_ by S. Shane Thomas ©2019 S. Shane Thomas

_The Smile Behind the Door_ by Ricardo Victoria ©2019 Ricardo Victoria

_Address to a Pumpkin_ by E.M. Swift-Hook © 2019 E.M. Swift-Hook

_Shango_ by Medeia Sharif ©2019 Medeia Sharif

_The Intruder_ by Brent A. Harris ©2019 Brent A. Harris

_Effigy_ by Sophie Kearing ©2019 Sophie Kearing

_Tongue Biter_ by S. Shane Thomas ©2019 S. Shane Thomas

_Afterburn_ by a stump ©2019 a stump

_Afraid of the Dark_ ©2019 Claire Buss
Contents

Foreword

The Willow Man

The Assignment

Waiting for Wednesday

Oh, she nears!

Dress Like an Animal

Boot Hill

Stalker

Haunted by Darkness

The Bay Sirius Witch of Atchafalaya Basin

Grave Dancer

Lonesome Conscious World

The Smile Behind the Door

Address to a Pumpkin

Shango

The Intruder

Effigy

Tongue Biter

Afterburn

Afraid of the Dark

Further Works

Foreword

The Sparkly Badgers' are a writing group thriving on Facebook made up of an eclectic mixture of writers from all backgrounds, writing in different genres and with different styles. We all have a passion for writing and for sharing our work with others and so I am delighted to be able to bring you this spooky anthology of spine tingling, goosebumpling and hide behind the sofa stories and poems.

It has been a chilling task to edit this anthology and I hope you enjoy these creepy tales so much that you run, run as fast as you can to review the book and share it with others.

If you are a writer who needs more sparkle in their lives then please, come join us on Facebook at <https://www.facebook.com/groups/1720960814878512/>, we'd love to badger you.

Claire Buss, Chief Sparkler & Editor

The Willow Man

The willow man's breath fogs the window

He scratches the glass with twiggy fingers

You hide your head under the pillow

But the voice of the wildwood lingers

It follows you into the edges of sleep

And echoes in the spaces of your head

Under your straining eyelids it creeps

And flavours each indrawn breath with dread

The willow man's breath is as cold as cold

And his fingers are knotted and strong

No matter if you be in childhood or old

You will suffer the ice of his song

The willow man's breath chills coldly

His twiggy fingers scrape your throat

Will you face the willow man boldly

Do you have fear's antidote?

Meet Jane Jago

Jane Jago is an eccentric genre hopping pensioner, who writes for the sheer enjoyment of the craft and gets in terrible trouble because of her attitude. Find out more about her at:

www.facebook.com/Jane-Jagos-Books-676861115818501/

The Assignment

~Sunset in Cannes~

I leaned against the railing on my balcony, watching the sun cast nets of red, orange and pink across the evening sky. A lone sailboat gently drifted on the Riviera below, its passengers basking in the sun's fading light. I envied their calm solitude and carefree night spent sailing on such a glorious river. My own evening would not be so luxurious, regardless of the expensive hotel room I'd just paid for.

A slight breeze carried the smell of steamed shellfish and rich pasta from the restaurant below. My stomach stirred with the enticing aroma. I'd be sure to get a good meal before my evening activities, ensuring I was seen by a roomful of guests, enjoying a lovely dinner.

I dared one last glance at La Croisette, longing to join the evening crowd of ladies escorted by handsome gentlemen completely unaware of the killers lurking among them. Their fashionable silk dresses danced in the evening breeze. A dainty laugh drifted towards me and I noticed a young woman reaching for a rebellious hat caught in the wind. Its wide brim fold over itself as it made its way toward the river's edge. The lady continued to giggle, unconcerned about the loss of single hat. She laced her arm in her companion's and wandered down the busy promenade.

A soft footstep behind me brought me back to the night's task.

"Is it time already, Victor?" I asked, not turning look at the warm presence at my back. He was my partner, confidant and the only man I trusted.

"Yes," he replied, his deep voice barely a whisper. "I assume we will have dinner first?" He posed it as a question, but he already knew the night's schedule of events.

"Yes, of course," I responded with a sigh. I turned my back on the beautiful view, knowing it would be my last night in Cannes.

Victor stood in the doorway, watching me. His deep brown eyes bore into my own. I could almost hear the thoughts drifting through his mind. My last assignment was extremely difficult for me, as it left two young children without their parents. I wasn't told that the couple had twin girls who would be home, or I might not have taken the job. Victor tried to reassure me the children were better off without their murderous parents, but the twins weren't to blame for the evil of their parentage. Now they'd grow up hunting the assassin who ruined their lives.

I shook the thought from my mind and attempted to push past my partner. He gently grabbed my wrist and placed my hand on his chest. I could feel his heart beating through his freshly starched shirt and silk vest.

"We don't have to do this tonight," he said calmly. "We have enough money tucked away in several banks, we could walk away and never look back."

I leaned my forehead against his chest, pulling his hand down to my side. I took a deep breath inhaling his scent; so strong and masculine with a hint of his woodland heritage.

"I've considered making this my last," I said softly.

His rough fingers lifted my chin, forcing me to look into those brown eyes. The soft lighting highlighted the faint flecks of yellow all but hidden in their depths.

"I heard that," he said with his lopsided grin. "Even though you didn't intend it."

I glared at him even as the corners of my own mouth threatened a smile. We were so much alike, yet so very different. I knew his true form even though he never shared it with me. Every movement gave it away; his immense strength, uncanny agility, perfect eyesight and unbelievable hearing. Even if I ignored all those things, the smell of the deep woods permeated every bit of him. He couldn't hide it. Not from me.

"Let's make an appearance at dinner and get this over with," I huffed, then gently pulled my hand away and entered our hotel suite. Tonight's mission required focus. Everything else could wait.

~Dinner for Two~

Half an hour later, I entered the restaurant with Victor by my side. The host bowed and led us to a corner table. I felt several eyes watching us as we wound through the maze of white tablecloths surrounded by dark mahogany chairs. We were a stunning pair. Victor looked marvellous in his black suit, white shirt and red tie. I chose to wear a dark red dress that hugged the curves of my waist and chest. It flared dramatically at my hips and dusted the floor with its edges. The strapless shoulders left plenty of exposed skin to show off the diamond choker on my neck. I'd piled my long, blonde hair on the top of my head using several silver studded hair pins, enjoying my partner's expression when he saw them. It was my way of taunting his secrecy.

I barely tasted the steamed lobster and pasta alfredo with an Australian Chardonnay. The Chardonnay swirled in my glass as the waiter removed the last of the dishes from our table. I tried to focus on the details of tonight's mission, but my mind kept traveling back to the young girls huddled in their bedroom, clinging to each other in fear. I left them alone and helpless.

Victor's discreet cough brought me back to Cannes and my half empty glass of wine. I looked up to find his brow furrowed and lips pressed together in a tight line.

"I don't think I need to tell you that your mind needs to be here tonight," he said, barely concealing his concern and disapproval.

"No, you don't," I replied curtly. "Are you certain of their schedule and the movements of their security?" I continued, ignoring his single raised eyebrow.

"Yes," he replied. "I've been watching them for almost a week before you arrived, as you well know."

"Then we'll continue as planned."

His large hand reached across the table and settled on my thin fingers. "Tonight will be my last assignment," he barely whispered. "I cannot continue to watch you destroy yourself with the memories of the innocent."

I dropped my gaze to his hand as he rubbed the faint scar on my palm. "Let's get ready. We'll talk about it when this is over." I rose and left him sitting at the table, knowing his familiar scowl burned a hole into the back of my head. He despised not having the last word almost as much as he disliked leaving conversations unfinished.

~The Assignment~

Victor and I both changed into black pants and shirts, with soft leather boots. We stood in his half of the hotel suite facing one another. His hands deftly checked my vest to ensure all my weapons were secure, then spun me around to confirm my blades were firmly tucked into their intended sheaths. We couldn't risk being detected because of something as simple as the light reflecting off an unseated blade. I returned the favour with the same practiced hand. The routine was calming and put my mind where it needed to be – on tonight's mission. The simple killing of a merciless human.

"Are we ready?" I asked him in a cold, business-like tone.

"Almost," he replied as he reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair beneath my cap. "That beautiful blond will be as telling as a reflection from your daggers." He smiled and I couldn't help but smile back.

It quickly faded when he leaned forward and placed both hands on the sides of my face.

"We will talk about the future after this is done," he commanded, then brushed his lips against mine. He released me just as abruptly and moved past me to the common area of the suite.

I stumbled as he swept past. I'd finally got my head where it needed to be, and he had to do that. I growled under my breath and heard him chuckle in the other room.

"Let's go," I hissed, scowling at his lopsided grin and opened the door to the balcony.

We requested this particular room for a few reasons, one of which was the vine-filled lattice scaling each side of the balcony. Victor and I nimbly climbed down the lattice and fell into the shadows behind the numerous shops on La Croisette.

Our target lived in a small chateau on the outskirts of town. He was guilty of ordering the deaths of numerous people throughout Europe who dared to disagree with him. He wasn't an overly powerful man, but he had enough money to buy whatever he wanted, including the death of another.

I'd done my own research on the target, rather than relying on my employer's reports this time. He had no legitimate children that he claimed but entertained several mistresses over the years. He was currently without a romantic interest, and according to Victor's surveillance, was in a foul mood from the latest rejection.

I followed Victor as he snuck past several guards patrolling the low stone wall that circled the estate. My partner had mentioned their security was not capable of detecting our arrival, but now that I witnessed their lack of observational skills, I almost laughed out loud. The patrols walked in pairs, joking and gossiping about their employers latest failed attempt to keep his new mistress. Victor and I could have walked by them dressed as circus clowns and they wouldn't have noticed.

We scaled the low wall and darted towards the rows of flowering bushes skirting the west side of the quaint cottage. Tall palms cast long shadows from the waning crescent moon, making the whitewashed stucco and red tile roof appear muted and grey. The open windows allowed the cool breeze to catch the sheer fabric hiding the room beyond.

I nodded at Victor and quietly rolled into the room through the open window. The room was sparingly decorated with a canopy bed, writing desk and small, plain wardrobe. An old, worn rug softened my footfalls as I made my way to the closed door. I rested my ear against the thin wood for several seconds. Faint music drifted towards me from an old Victrola, but it wasn't loud enough for me to identify the soft melody.

I silently turned the handle and pulled the door open just enough to glimpse the hallway. It was dark with the exception of a dull light from the far end. I opened the door a little farther and drifted out into the empty hall, creeping towards the light I assumed came from the small foyer.

The foyer was also empty, and I noticed the key hanging inside the lock on the door. _Interesting,_ I thought. _Maybe he is more security minded than I originally believed._

A more intense light fell into the hallway from a room on the left. I extinguished the oil lamp in the foyer with a flick of my hand, hoping it would go unnoticed. Placing my back against the wall next to the opening of the lit room, I pulled a small mirror from one of my many pockets. Positioning the mirror perfectly, revealed a library decorated in total contrast to the drab bedroom I'd just left. An enormous stone fireplace covered the far wall and dark, wooden bookshelves rose to the ceiling on the walls adjacent. Leather bound books filled the shelves. I was momentarily awed by the amount of knowledge in the room. Heavy, velvet curtains completely covered what I assumed was a window.

Strategically placed in front of the fireplace were two large wing-backed chairs. Neither chair was occupied. An elegant crystal wine glass stood on a small table next to one of the chairs. I could see nothing else. I stowed my mirror and crept into the room.

"Don't be bashful, young lady," said a deep voice. "Sit next to me and let's discuss your plans for this evening."

My shocked expression would have been comical if anyone could have seen it, but I remained silent. Now in the room, I could see an arm draped languidly over the side of the chair on the left. _No reflection._

"Please, don't insult my intelligence," the voice said with derision. "I knew you were coming, so let's behave like adults and have an enlightened conversation."

I considered my options. If he knew I was coming, then he likely staged the incompetence of his security. My brow furrowed as I considered Victor's position as my back-up and realized my target would consider my partner disposable. My heart ached, but I pushed back the emotion and moved towards the empty chair. Mission first.

~Betrayal~

I reached the empty chair and grabbed hold of the velvet arm, swinging it around so it faced the door. I sat and looked at my target's profile. He was beyond handsome, with chestnut coloured hair and smooth, pale skin. His grey eyes took in every detail as they grazed over my body. I tried to keep a neutral expression, but his penetrating eyes made me feel violated. _Could he be? Every resource I had claimed he was human._

He chuckled softly. "I understand why Victor abandoned me for you. While my pay cannot be matched, some art has no price."

I narrowed my eyes at him but said nothing. He waved his drink in the air and laughed.

"How did you think I found out about your little assignment?"

"Victor would not betray me," I replied. "Please make the next lie more convincing."

"Ah, my dear," he said with a sigh. "You were his last assignment. Did you ever wonder why he never made any romantic advances?" He chuckled, but it was laced with hatred. "He never mixes business with pleasure." He swallowed the last of the dark liquid in his glass and frowned, setting the glass on the small round table next to him.

My scowl deepened, but I began to doubt my resolve. I thought Victor's professionalism was born from his upbringing. I assumed he respected me as an equal and would only pursue a romantic interlude if I initiated it. But this new information made me doubt.

"I see that you believe me," he said with a smirk. "But I have to admit Victor wields a double-edged sword."

The man stood and opened a cabinet on the nearest bookcase. He refilled his wine glass with a dark red liquid, then turned back to me. _Surely, he wouldn't drink blood in front of me?_

"Would you like a drink?" he asked, raising his own glass.

"No, thank you," I sneered. "I would prefer you get to the point. I assume you have one, or I would be dead already."

He shrugged and dropped back down into his chair.

"You would have been dead years ago, if Victor had followed orders," he maintained an air of indifference, but I could see the resentment boiling beneath the surface. "Maybe, he's done me a favour, though. Now I have the opportunity to recruit you myself. Your skills are impeccable and would be very beneficial for me. I would also pay you a great deal more than your making now."

"No," I replied without hesitation. I would never work for the undead, regardless of the price. I was almost certain now that my target was a vampire, not human.

"Victor said you would not agree," he responded, shaking his head with mock disappointment. "He tried to explain your bizarre morals, but I must admit I don't understand." He spread his hands apart, spilling several drops of blood from the glass on the plush carpet. "How does an assassin justify killing one man, but not another?"

"I will not waste my time trying to explain it to you," I replied. I would not work for this man. If he could be called a man. At least my current employer knew not to ask me to kill anyone, unless the target was equally guilty as myself. This man would not allow me to decline an assignment. The absence of his soul would never understand my conscience.

"Bring him in!" My target's voice echoed throughout the room, and loud footsteps pounded down the hall. I recognized the tell-tale sound of a body dragging across the floor, and my heart leapt into my throat. I struggled to swallow the lump as my partner's body was unceremoniously dropped on the carpet just inside the door.

"I see by your expression that you do have feelings for him."

I drew my eyes away from Victor and met the cold, grey stare of my target. "What do you want?" I growled.

"I want you in my employ, or dead," he replied. "The choice is yours."

"What will happen to my partner?" I asked through gritted teeth.

"That is very unbecoming for such a beautiful lady," he replied. "Relax for a moment."

"You didn't answer my question," I hissed and began analysing my surroundings. I was certain I'd have to fight my way out and Victor would be no help. His battered body would have to be carried from the room.

"Victor will not leave here alive," he replied. "I cannot trust him, even as your partner."

"And what makes you think you can trust me?" I asked removing the black cap from my head, letting the loose strands of hair fall around my face.

"I've done my homework, my dear," he said quietly, a look of hunger crossing his face. "You value money and nice things. I can ensure you continue to maintain your current lifestyle."

I smiled and leaned back against the chair, watching the two large men who had delivered my partner. They were both armed with large pistols, held at their sides, likely filled with silver bullets. They were not new to the game. They watched me with wary eyes.

"Do I have time to think about it, or do I have to make my decision tonight?" I asked stretching my hands above my head.

My target's eyes dropped to my chest and I almost smiled at his easy distraction.

"I need your decision tonight," he said, running his tongue over his lips, revealing sharp fangs.

"I will need another partner," I said, trying not to look at Victor. "Someone a little more intelligent than our present guests."

I pointed towards the two guards but kept my eyes on my target. He leaned sideways to look at his guards, and I took that moment to remove two long, steel pins from my hair. With a flick of my wrists, they soared through the air and pierced the neck of each of the sentries.

I jumped from my seat, pulling a long wooden stake from its sheath beneath my right breast. The force of my impact with my target's chair caused it to fall backwards. I straddled my victim and plunged a stake into his heart, smiling as his body crumbled to a pile of dust beneath me.

"You should have killed me while you had the chance," I whispered.

I rose and approached the two dead men, removing my hairpins from their throats; careful to avoid the pools of blood soaking the carpet. Thankfully, they were human and not vampires or those tiny weapons would have just angered them. After cleaning my picks, I threaded them into my hair and replaced my cap.

Victor stirred and I knelt next to him. He opened one eye and looked at me, obviously in pain.

"You let two humans capture you?" I hissed.

"They darted me with silver," he muttered, then clamped his mouth closed.

"Of course they did."

He made it hard to believe him. As a shifter, he should know how to avoid those situations. The humans never should have gotten close enough unless he allowed them. If the vampire's words were true, they likely joked with one another about my stupidity for trusting him.

"Let's go," I said with cold detachment, as I helped him to his feet. "Can you walk?"

He nodded but didn't speak as we made a quiet retreat.

~Decisions~

I sat on the dash of the small pleasure boat as the captain prepared to leave. My red, leather traveling case rested on my lap, and my new parasol provided little shade from morning sun. I kicked off my sandals and let them fall into the wooden floorboards. I wore dark glasses to hide my red, puffy eyes, and bright red lipstick glossed my lips to draw attention away from my furrowed brow. The gentle breeze dried the hidden tears from my face.

Victor rested in the sleeping compartment below. He had several bruised ribs, a broken nose, and his left eye was swollen shut. He'd reset his broken nose last night and I helped him tend to his wounds. I enjoyed wrapping his torso just a little too tight, causing a stifled groan from my partner. I was furious and had no regrets about taking it out on him. His body would heal before the day ended, making any revenge short-lived.

We still needed to discuss his betrayal to me and our newly dead target. He insisted we talk about it as soon as we returned to our hotel suite, but I refused. I needed to sort out my own feelings, before I could discuss his past or our future.

Every assassin has secrets. We live in the world of evil and betrayal. I cursed myself for trusting him so completely. It was naïve and stupid and nearly cost me my life. I decided to wait until he was healed so I could beat him thoroughly. Then we would talk about our next assignment.

Meet Yvette Bostic

Yvette has been an avid reader for a few decades, enjoying many genres of books, but found herself always turning back to fantasy novels. She loved a great murder mystery, but nothing drew her away from the chaos of real life like a good story about elves, trolls and magic.

While her first series doesn't have any elves, trolls or fairies, the second series does.

_Light in the Darkness Series_ leads into _The Sentinel_ and _The Watcher Series_. It follows the life of Darian; a young man drawn out of the Napoleonic Wars and into an epic battle against demon overlords and their fanatical cultists.

_Call of the Elements_ is a current day urban fantasy about a young woman who spends her entire life rejected by everyone, until a vampire finds her. Her entire world is turned upside-down when she's forced to accept the supernatural world is real, and she's now part of it.

Yvette loves to hear from her readers and can be reached on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter or her website – www.YvetteBostic.com

Waiting for Wednesday

Others often envy me my talent. But me, I'd give anything to be rid of it. I stirred the cooling scum into my coffee and glanced out of the café window at Central Park. It looked lovely, well to most people, I guess. I don't know. It's been a long time since I looked at scenery just for its own sake. You know, admire lakes and trees and chirping birds and all that crap.

Scenery is never very pretty when you can see ghosts. Yep, ghosts. Not spooky green ones like you see in the movies, just sad dead people who killed themselves or got themselves killed. Emotions do it I reckon; hate, jealousy mostly, but sometimes for love. Mom left me shares in Apple when she went, and it gives me some freedom to help. Just listen mostly, maybe check their history and free them from being in the same emotional loop that holds them to their horrible pale imitation of life.

I gulp the last of my cold gritty coffee and head across the road. She is always there on Wednesdays, dialling on the phone that has long gone and listening as the lawyer tells her she will never get her child back. Maybe I can talk her over this time. Its only strong emotions that hold them here, most fade to just appearing every year or ten years, but she has come every week for forty years.

10am. Hell of a time to die. Nice old thing, all sort of plump Miss Marple, but I found out she had been a hooker, so she had seen things Miss Marple never had. More than anyone should have to see or do. Every Wednesday her lonely ghost hangs up the phantom phone and walks into an oncoming truck. Quick and brutal, but effective. No turning back from that decision. But before she took that first step, she would always look around the street, waiting, I figured, for someone that never came. I waited too, for forty years I had watched her, seen the phone booth disappear, the owners of the diner upgrade to a café, then a wine bar. Only the terrible coffee remained the same.

Today was different. I dodged traffic and got to the kerb and saw an old man was watching her walk down the road. He leaned on the phone box as though it were real. I had never been sure in the past, some recently dead are hard to tell, they seem solid still as though the body clings to memory.

She saw him, and it was as if a dark house opened the shutters. Ghosts are almost nothing but emotions held together by regrets. That's all they have.

"George, I waited for you," her voice was soft, faded with the years.

"Mary, I'm sorry. God would not let me come to you sooner." He smiled and stepped close to her.

I watched while they held hands, the noise of the street hardly registering as people dodged impatiently around me, watching something they could not see. I squinted as the light flared behind them. Youth had returned to them, and she was just like the photo I had at home.

She looked like I remembered, just as the cops took me away to juvenile detention. I never knew my Dad, but I reckon I do now.

Meet Cindy Tomamichel

Cindy Tomamichel is a multi-genre writer. Escape the everyday with the time travel action adventure series Druid's Portal, science fiction and fantasy stories or tranquil scenes for relaxation. Discover worlds where the heroines don't wait to be rescued, and the heroes earn that title the hard way.

Website: www.cindytomamichel.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/CindyTomamichelAuthor

Twitter: www.twitter.com/CindyTomamichel

Oh, she nears!

That Shakespearean line—

"By the pricking of my thumbs/

something wicked this way comes."

—I hum it to cover my terror,

abject and mortifying,

for I cower in my bed,

steeped in my own petrifying

thoughts—expectations—fears

of my own daughter.

She nears, she nears!

Up the hallway, toward my door...

...the rustle of her costume...

...the creak of the floor...

My breath escapes me in a shaky plume.

Don't you hear it?

She nears! She nears!

In a maniacal fit,

she nears, oh, she nears!

She does so not only with a purposeful creep,

but also with the cunning skills I'd imparted

on how to bleed a parent and avoid the weep.

We'd rendered her dad (not so dearly) departed.

Yes, I've created a monster, you see?

The babe of two squalid hearts, her blood runs ice black...

and now—oh, and now—she's coming for me.

She'll smile and she'll slice and she'll laugh and she'll hack,

for there's no nectar sweet as her ma'am's agony,

and no time to drink it like All Hallows' Eve.

Meet Sophie Kearing

Sophie Kearing is a Halloween fanatic. She loves going to pumpkin farms, watching scary movies, and using it all as inspiration for her creepy stories and poems. Her short fiction has been picked up by Mojave Heart Review, Paper Angel Press, Horror Tree, Left Hand Publishing, Ellipsis Zine, Jolly Horror Press, New Pop Lit, and other publications. Sophie is an avid member of the #WritingCommunity on Twitter and would love to connect with you at: www.twitter.com/SophieKearing

Dress Like an Animal

The invitation was sparse in detail. It had the time and date, 4pm on Saturday, and the place, Grenvale Forest. The only other instruction was _Dress like an animal_. But Marie had no idea why. Or who sent the invitation in the first place. There was no stamp on the envelope, so it had obviously been hand delivered to their letterbox. The invitation paper was thick and creamy, the ink an unusual greeny-brown colour which seemed to change shade as Marie moved the invite around in the light. She tucked it into her bag, unsure yet whether she was going to share the information at school or not. She'd learnt it was important to follow the crowd and not stand out. If someone else mentioned getting one, she'd speak up. Feeling pleased with her plan, Marie hurried to the end of her road to catch the bus to school.

Absolutely everyone in her year was talking about the invitations though not everyone had received one. Boys, girls, older and younger, different races and religions - there didn't seem to be any pattern. Most of the discussion in the playground seemed to be whether people were going to go or not. It was in the daytime so no-one thought it would be a problem to walk there. And there were about twenty children invited so everyone felt there would be safety in numbers. The other thing everyone agreed on was that there was no way they were dressing up as a lame animal.

The most popular girl, Charlotte, was going to wear her designer jeans whilst the most popular boy, Marco, had decided to wear his favourite football strip. Others had decided on various party dresses or scruffy jeans with t-shirt ensembles. The only person who was excited to dress like an animal was Freddie. But then Freddie was touched. Simple in the head the teachers called it. The headmaster let him attend lessons, but no-one expected him to ever learn anything. The small town of Grenvale only had one school and no alternative childcare options. Letting Freddie go to school where more than fifty pairs of eyes could look out for him was better than leaving him at home with his deaf and partially blind Grandma.

He was telling anyone who would listen that he was dressing up as a rabbit. He already had the ears and the pompom tail. It made Marie smile to listen to his enthusiasm. So much so that she decided she would dress up as well. She had two days to put together a costume and with a little help from her Great-Aunt Ethel's dusty loft boxes, she managed to fashion a luxurious foxy red tail from a magnificently fluffy, if not a little moth-eaten, red fur coat. For all she knew, the coat might well be real fox fur, but Marie tried not to think about that. She dipped her fur tail into white paint and let it dry whilst cutting out some cardboard ears for a headband and then painting them red.

By Saturday morning she was excited. By lunchtime, she was too nervous to eat and instead put her costume on with some red leggings and a red t-shirt. Some borrowed make-up from her older sister gave her a brown nose and whiskers. All that was left was to clock watch until 3.50pm when it was time to leave. There was excited chattering all the way down the main street to the beginning of Grenvale Forest. Someone had strung fairy lights through the trees, lighting the way so the children followed the lights and began to walk through the forest in their finery. Marie found herself at the back with Freddie who was hopping like a real rabbit. She felt sorry for him and decided to stay back with him. Consequently, they were a little late to the party clearing. They found tables with delicious treats laid out and music played from some hidden sound system. Balloons floated gently across the forest floor and there were two wrapped gifts on the stump of a large oak tree.

Marie walked cautiously forwards, trying to find a glimpse of some of the other children. But there was no-one there. Freddie ran forwards and yelled in excitement at the presents.

"It has an F. F is for Freddie. Is it for me?"

Marie came closer and read the label. It did indeed say Freddie, so she nodded and smiled as he ripped open the paper to reveal the gift within. It was a bright red football. He was so happy he hugged it tightly. Marie opened hers to reveal a large, blank notebook. On the first leaf, in the same ink as the invite, were the words - _For your stories_.

The two children waited for the others to appear, but they never did. They ate some cake and played with Freddie's football until the daylight became dusky and it was time to go home. The local police questioned the two children for hours, but their story never changed. And the other children never returned.

Meet Claire Buss

Claire Buss is a multi-genre author and poet based in the UK. She wanted to be Lois Lane when she grew up but work experience at her local paper was eye-opening. Instead, Claire went on to work in a variety of admin roles for over a decade but never felt quite at home. An avid reader, baker and Pinterest addict Claire won second place in the Barking and Dagenham Pen to Print writing competition in 2015 with her debut novel, The Gaia Effect, setting her writing career in motion. She continues to write passionately and is hopelessly addicted to cake.

Visit her website www.cbvisions.weebly.com

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www.facebook.com/busswriter

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www.twitter.com/grasshopper2407

Boot Hill

The tracker was five days out of Independence when the trail came to a bloody end.

He saw the smoke first, rising in a column beyond the ridge, and gripped his Remington Rolling Block rifle tighter as he edged to the top.

Removing his bowler hat, he raised his head just above the crest. Down below was the wagon whose trail he had been following, the smoke writhing up into the evening sky through the branches of a bristlecone pine tree beside it. The bodies littered the ground like the pinecones around the warped, twisted lines of the tree.

He counted four of them – none of them was the woman he was tracking. He sighed, part grateful, part frustrated. He slung his rifle, put his hat back on over his long black hair, and pulled a knife from his boot.

The first man had been almost ripped in two and the tracker stepped carefully around the pool of blood settling into the dust. The second had been impaled on the axle of the wagon, a look of surprise upon his middle-aged face. The third's head was twisted at an angle it was not supposed to be. The last was the oldest of the four, huddled in the dust clutching at his chest. Damned if it didn't look like his heart had just given up on him.

That's when the tracker found out he was wrong. He heard a gasp, an aching cry, from the far side of the tree.

With his knife at the ready, he moved close to the twisted branches and edged slowly around. He wasn't sure what he expected but it wasn't what he found.

A fifth man was lashed to the tree by strips of bark and root, his arms spread-eagled as if he were on a crucifix, his legs broken and twisted as the tree itself. A handkerchief round his neck was soaked with blood.

"Where is she?" asked the tracker but was only answered by a moan. He spat into the dirt, then climbed the tree and sliced the man free.

It was an hour later when the man stirred. The tracker had bandaged the cuts to the man's wrists and propped him up against the bristlecone pine, a fire in its shadow to keep them both warm. There was no cut behind the handkerchief – the tracker couldn't tell where so much blood had come from.

The man's breath continued to wheeze as he rested. _Sounded like something busted inside_ , thought the tracker. The man was older, like the others, his face even deeper lined by the pain he was obviously suffering.

The tracker didn't have anything to give him for the pain. He wasn't sure he'd give it to him even if he had. He needed him alive enough to talk, didn't much matter to him if the man was hurting. He just waited, flicking his lighter open and closed.

Finally, the old man's eyes flickered open and he said something the tracker didn't understand. Still, he took the water canteen and lifted it to the man's dry mouth to try to help him come around.

"What's your name, old man?" asked the tracker.

"Karl," gasped the man, "Was ist your name?"

"Was ist? You're German, hey?"

"Deutschamerikaner," said Karl. "Danke. For the help."

"I'm afraid I don't speak German. English, Paiute, Washoe. A bit of French, Spanish. But no German. So let's keep it to English if that's fine by you."

Karl nodded. "You didn't tell me your name," he said.

"No," said the tracker, "I didn't."

A silence hung between the two for a moment before the tracker spoke again.

"Where is she?"

"Ah," said Karl. "It's you. Heinrich said they would send you."

"Who's Heinrich?"

Karl raised a shaky arm and pointed to the man impaled on the axle. "That was him," he said with a cough. "He was the first."

"The first what?"

"The first to die."

The tracker spared the dead man a glance, but no more.

"Where is she?" he asked again. Karl seemed not to hear the question.

"Heinrich knows... knew Independence well. He said when they sent someone it would be Walker. And here you are. That is your name, isn't it?"

"That's what they call me," said the tracker. "Doesn't make it my name."

"Then das ist what I shall call you," said the old man, either a grimace or a tight smile playing on his face in the shadows of the flickering fire and the twisted tree.

"Call me what you want, old man. You won't be calling me it for long."

Walker pointed at a droplet of blood at the corner of the man's mouth from where he coughed. "Right now, it's you and me, but I think by the morning it'll just be me."

Karl nodded heavily. "Everything has an end."

He rested a hand on a twisted branch. "Even this old thing. Though this will be here after we're long gone."

Walker looked up around the tight twists and brittle points of the tree to the moon filtering through its branches.

"What happened?" asked Walker. "What attacked you?"

"You know," said Karl. "They say these trees are hundreds of years old. Maybe older still. Thousands of years. They were here before my ancestors came here, though not before your ancestors..."

"My family is none of your business," said Walker. "Especially when you're not telling me yours. What attacked you?"

"I was getting there," said Karl. "You'll have to indulge an old man as he dies. Perhaps you could give me another sip of that water too."

Walker obliged and Karl shifted position with a gasp after taking a sip.

"What I'm saying, Walker," he resumed. "Is that there are things far older than us in this world. This tree is one of them. And what attacked us is older still."

The hairs on Walker's neck bristled, and he looked round involuntarily. Nothing moved. Especially not the dead.

"What do you mean, Karl?" he asked.

"We took too long. One more day and we would have been there. One more day and we would have been safe. But it got impatient."

"It?"

"It killed Heinrich first. I begged it for mercy, but it turned and snapped Gerhard's neck. That was too much for Franz – I think his heart stopped at the sight. Then Dieter attacked it. Pointless, of course. You see what it did to him," he said, pointing at the ripped body Walker had first seen. "Me? Soaked a handkerchief in Dieter's blood and put it round my neck. Broke my legs and tied me to the tree as a lesson. Or perhaps a private joke."

"And what about the girl?" Walker persisted.

"The girl? It took her, of course."

"Took her? Where?"

"Where we were taking her in the first place. If the wagon hadn't been so slow."

Walker pulled out the knife again and leaned close to Karl, the tip not far from the old man's neck.

"Where?" he said.

"My dear fellow," said Karl. "You cannot threaten a man who is already dying. What are you going to do? Speed it along? Please do."

"So you're going to keep it a secret?"

"No," said Karl, with another pained smile. "I'm going to trade. A secret for a secret. Here, in the dark."

"What secret do you want from me?"

"Why the mayor chose you to come for his daughter, Walker. Tell me that and I'll tell you where she's been taken."

It was a little over 18 years since Walker sold his soul to Mayor Brewster. He wasn't a mayor then, of course, just another soldier in the war.

"He freed me," he told Karl. "I was a prisoner at his fort, but he needed a guide. He told me if I came with him, I wouldn't need to go on the march. We made a deal. I helped him if he made sure my family were freed too. He agreed. If I'd known what he wanted, maybe I would have stayed with my family, taken our chances. Then again, knowing how the march went, maybe I would have agreed anyway. There's no real choice when you have to choose between two evils: every choice is evil.

"We took a boat up river; four of us. Him, his wife, Martha, and a man in black robes. And me. We headed north. When the river would take us no further, we walked. Brewster told me to take him to one of the tribe's holy places. We called it a place of fertility. In the middle of the sand and the rock, it was full of life and growth. Deep down in the cracks in the rock, there was the most extraordinary abundance of flowers and plants and at the heart of it was a circle of bare rock within a green wonderland. That's where we stopped.

"All along there was something strange about the man in the robes. He muttered to himself the whole journey in a language I couldn't understand, and the closer we got to our destination the more agitated he became. By the time we arrived, he was yelling at the skies and, worse, the skies seemed to be answering back. Clouds boiled in the sky and as we stood in the rock circle, Brewster and Martha at the centre, he seemed to pull lightning down around us.

"First one bolt, then another and another struck the ground, and as they did, they sparked fire in the bushes. It became an inferno, all around us as we huddled on the rock, that strange man yelling at the skies and Brewster and Martha huddled in the centre. The air became thick with smoke, and I passed out. When I came to, all around us was wasteland, that wonderland turned to ash. Brewster pulled me to my feet and insisted I lead them back. I did. I never saw the robed man again after we got back. But nine months later, Martha had a daughter. Angelica. She died giving birth to her.

"Brewster kept his end of the bargain. Mostly. He freed my family. But not quite me. He told me he might need me again. To stay close. To stay silent."

Walker took a breath, met Karl's eyes.

"You're the first I've told about that day. That's my secret. Now tell me yours. Where is she?"

"That's quite a tale," said Karl. "Reckon you told that to anyone else they might think you had a bird in your head. But who am I to argue?"

"I asked you for your secret, old man. Where is she?"

He shrugged with obvious pain and said, "Boot Hill."

Walker's knife was at Karl's throat in an instant, pushing him harder against the bristlecone pine's warped wood.

"You think that's funny, old man? I tell you that and all this time you've known she was dead? Why string me along when you knew she was in a graveyard all this time? Did you kill her? Where is her body? WHERE?"

Karl's weak hands pushed at Walker's chest, trying to hold him back. A coughing fit took him, and more blood spattered his lip.

"Nein, nein," he gasped. "No! No, wait!"

Walker pulled back for one moment, his knife poised in front of Karl's face.

"Give me one reason to wait," he said. "Right now."

"It's... it's like I told you earlier," said Karl. "The thing you call Boot Hill, you call it a graveyard, because..."

"Because that's where you bury those who die with their boots on, what about it?" said Walker.

"No, I told you, some things are older. Older than you. Older than me. Older than this tree. This thing came with my ancestors when they came here. And Boot Hill used to have another name, an older name, back when people knew its true meaning. When they knew it wasn't just about death. It was about life."

Walker leaned back a little, letting the old man breathe a little more. It might not have been a kindness as it sparked another cough. Karl wiped the blood away with the back of his hand.

"There's a spirit, a guardian. It watches over our crops. A community without food is nothing. A community that cannot feed itself is dead. That's why this country has so many ghost towns, failed seeds that couldn't find purchase in this bitter ground. My ancestors brought our guardian with them, to watch over our seeds, to nurture them. We call it the Bootzamon. It stands on the hill to watch over the plants as they grew, to chase away the creatures that try to take the food. It protects us. It keeps us alive."

Walker jerked his knife towards the bodies on the ground. "Doesn't seem to have protected you today, does it?"

Karl glanced at the bodies too. "You don't understand. Of course you don't. How could you? The Bootzamon doesn't protect one, or two. It protects the community. If one or two endanger the community, the Bootzamon acts to protect all. It's like plants, some you prune to let the rest thrive. We were too slow, we needed to get the girl faster. The Bootzamon came for her and exacted a price for our failure. I don't need to tell you it's real – our corpses tell you the truth of that. So that is where the Bootzamon has taken her. To the Bootzamon's Hill. And if you try to stop it, well, it will do to you what it did to us."

"How can I stop it?" asked Walker.

Karl croaked out a bitter laugh, which dissolved into painful, racking coughs, slumping over against the tree as he tried to control them.

"Have you heard nothing, Walker? I don't want you to stop it. It is protecting my family's future. My community. This is about fertility, and not just the land's. We came to get the girl for it," he hissed, his finger stabbing off in the direction the wagon had been headed. "I told you earlier, everything has an end. This is mine. And if you persist in going after Angelica? Then the Bootzamon will make an end of you too."

"How will I know it when I see it?" demanded Walker. The old man didn't have long, he was sure.

Again, that half laugh, half cough.

"The way you found me is the way you'll find it. Its arms wide, surveying its lands. Are you sure you want to see it? It may be the last thing you see."

Walker wasn't sure, but he'd promised the mayor he would find Angelica. Even if he hadn't, he felt bound to the girl after all that had happened for her to be born.

"Why does the... Bootzamon... why does it want her?"

Karl's voice was hoarse now, a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth.

"Because," he whispered. "Every Bootzamon needs a Frau. Fertility is a cycle. Such is the way of the Bootzamon."

"So why have I never heard of this Bootzamon?" Walker demanded.

"Oh," said Karl's fading voice, as he gasped out his last words. "You have. You call it... the bogeyman."

Walker set off the next morning, heading in the direction the old man had pointed. Behind him, he left a wagon piled high with five bodies. He'd flicked his lighter open and set fire to it before he left. A column of smoke had brought him to the wagon, now a column of smoke rose in his wake.

He'd walked maybe six miles when he started to notice the change. The dry, dusty earth gave way to a richer loam. The scrubland gave way to grass, to fields that stood ready to burst with life.

Along the way, he saw workers in the fields. All stopped their work when they saw him and watched as he walked by. None hailed him. They just watched.

The lines between the fields became more regulated, and before he knew it, he was walking on a track, headed steadily up a slope past barns towards a gathering of buildings farther ahead. A sign marked the edge of town.

Opferung

Wilkommen

Walker strode on past it, on into the town.

The town of Opferung was laid out like a wheel – five roads radiated like spokes running outward. The further from the centre the buildings were, the more rundown they seemed.

It was the central building that caught his eye. The three-storey wooden building seemed to cast a long shadow. He would have called it a town hall but there was something unusual about it. Parts of the upper storeys jutted out at odd angles, and strange wooden shapes protruded from the exposed beams. Maybe more like one of those churches he'd heard about in the big cities. A cathedral, that's what they called them. But no, this didn't look like any of those Christian buildings he'd seen.

As he walked, people came silently out onto the boardwalk running along the edge of the buildings. Old men. Old women. All of them watched.

In his wake, they spilled out onto the street, blocking his way out. It didn't matter. He walked on toward the central building. The roads leading to it formed a circle around the building, and Walker came to a stop outside its double doors.

Behind him, the sound of shuffling feet came to a stop. Walker glanced over his shoulder at the crowd that had gathered, spreading off to either side of him in an arc. Perhaps 200 people or so, he thought, and not one saying a word to him. He felt the weight of his Remington on his shoulder, almost useless against so many. If they wanted him dead, he'd be dead. A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead, and it wasn't just because of the heat of the day.

A silence fell over the town, save for the creaking of a sign swinging in the soft breeze. Walker gripped the strap on his rifle more tightly and ran a thumb nervously over the embossed surface of the lighter in his pocket. Brewster. He felt the letters against his skin on the lighter the mayor had given him years ago. It was his safeguard, the mayor said. "If ever anyone stops you, show them that," Brewster had said. "They'll know not to trouble you."

Walker doubted Brewster's guarantee would help him here. Still, he'd come here for a reason, and waiting wouldn't help him. He turned to the crowd, swallowed, as best he could, his mouth feeling dry from more than just the road, then began to speak.

"Where is...-"

He never finished the question. A sound rang out around the centre of the town. A heavy clank, then a creak as the double doors opened.

Walker span back around and peered at the dark space beyond the doorway. In the afternoon light, he could barely make out the shape within. Then it took a shuffling step forward. Then another. Then another. And Walker caught his breath.

It was him. The strange man in the black robes who Walker hadn't seen for more than 18 years.

He was older now. Slower. His right foot dragging behind him. But it was the same man. His skin was wrinkled but Walker couldn't help but think it wasn't just that he looked older. He looked used. Dried up. Like everything healthy had just poured out of him.

Still, he wore robes, black as the night that would be upon the town soon, wrinkled and twisted as the bristlecone pine Walker had found the dead men beside earlier.

The man stopped a couple of yards short of Walker and eyed him up and down.

"It had to be you," he said, his voice thickly accented. "Of course it did."

Walker reached up and gently tipped the rim of his bowler hat.

"You couldn't speak English last time I saw you," he said. "You've learned."

"Not couldn't," replied the man. "Wouldn't. I see you have learned nothing at all."

"Maybe. Maybe not," said Walker. He glanced around him at the people gathered watching in silence.

"I've come for the girl," he said.

"Brewster sent you," said the robed man. It wasn't a question. "Of course he would send his servant."

"Brewster asked me," answered Walker. "I'm no one's servant."

"Are you sure? Has he not marked you, claimed you as his?"

Walker felt the word _Brewster_ again on the lighter in his pocket. _Not a mark_ , he thought, _a shield_. He shook his head.

"And yet you come when he demands it."

"I didn't come for him," said Walker. "You're not listening. I came for her."

The robed man made a tsk noise in his mouth, shook his head. Then he pointed up the northern road out of town, up towards the hill beyond.

"Then come," he said.

They made a strange procession out of town. The robed man in front, Walker a step or two behind, then the rest of the town of Opferung, trailing along behind.

Walker kept one hand on the sling of his rifle as they marched, not wanting to let it slip off lest someone take it as aggression. The other hand he kept free, ready to reach for his knife if he had to. _If everything did go wrong_ , he thought, _then he might do the world a favour and take the robed man with him_.

There were 20 or so buildings before they reached the edge of town and the fields beyond. These fields were different from the ones he'd seen earlier, though, already rich with crops.

_It's the wrong season_ , he thought, but still he marvelled at the wheat around them as they walked.

The sun was low above the hill now. That's when Walker saw it.

A rudimentary cross was positioned at the crest of the hill, and upon it was a large figure, its arms stretched out across the cross pole.

It wore tattered old clothes, and its body looked lumpy, as if the clothes were stuffed with something. On its head was a beaten-down old hat, sagging on either side, and around its neck and lower head was a handkerchief, as bright and red as the one that had hung around Karl's neck.

"A scarecrow?" asked Walker.

"The Bootzamon," answered the robed man.

"And the girl?"

"His frau," corrected the robed man. "She is with him."

"So what do we do now?"

The robed man smiled. "It is simple. You are too late. All that is left is for you to go to Boot Hill. Perhaps you'll die."

Walker looked at the smile, like a crack across the old man's face. It looked unnatural on him. Manic. Like a gleeful predator staring at helpless prey. Walker looked forward to taking that smile off his face. He smiled back.

"Then let's go," he said. "Day's a-wasting."

The smile on the robed man's face stalled, froze as if a moment of triumph had been snatched away. But then he looked Walker up and down, looked this solitary man over, and then beamed again. With a swoosh of his robe, he indicated the path ahead.

"After you," he croaked.

Walker led the procession up the hill. It was steep enough to leave even Walker a little out of breath, while those behind him wheezed and strained their way upwards.

Walker was about 30 feet away when he could see above the wheat enough to see Angelica lying at the foot of the cross upon which the Bootzamon rested.

The cross stood in the middle of a small circle of open ground, the only open ground in sight all around on the hill.

Walker stopped at the edge of the circle. With a creak that resonated all around the hill, the Bootzamon's head slowly turned to face him.

He couldn't quite make out what it's face was made of. It looked like straw, perhaps, but hard and wiry and burnished like ancient wood. Two deep boreholes sat where a person's eyes might be and seemed to seethe with darkness. The light around the eyes seemed to be pushed away by the dark – or sucked in by its force, Walker couldn't tell which.

Now he was up close, he could see it was about eight feet tall, elevated another three or four feet into the air by the cross upon which it hung.

Its eyes lowered to Angelica, where she lay on the floor beneath him, then lifted back to Walker. He met its gaze, that dark whirlpool of a gaze, and held his ground.

He took a step forward. The Bootzamon's right arm lifted off the cross pole, and it leaned closer. Walker stopped.

What was he here for? What was he supposed to do here? Die? For what? Why had they brought Angelica here? Was this what the Bootzamon wanted? Or what the people, crowding round the circle now, was it what they wanted?

He remembered Karl, dying Karl, telling Walker that he wanted him to fail _. "It is protecting my family's future,"_

Karl had whispered, as death scratched at his heels.

Walker heard the croak of the robed man behind him.

"Well," he said. "Do what you came for. Take her."

Walker looked back at Angelica. He had been there when she was born. He had heard the howls and screams of her mother as she died. She had seen her on the streets of Independence, first a toddler exploring the world, then a young girl turned tomboy, picking a fight with every boy in town. Now here she was, sprawled on the ground, not quite unconscious but seemingly caught in some kind of fever dream. And yet a strange smile played across her face, this young woman whose life he knew and yet who he had never really known. Angelica Brewster, whose life began in fire.

Walker turned away from this child turned woman and met the robed man's gaze. He said two words, and the smile on the robed man's face caught again.

"The children," he said.

The robed man frowned now. "What did you say?"

"The children," said Walker. "Where are the children?"

The man stepped forward, pushed Walker gently on the chest.

"Go on," he said. "Take her now. Go on."

Walker let himself be pushed, closer to Angelica, closer to the Bootzamon.

"Look at you," he said. "You're all old, but where are the children?"

" _This is about fertility, and not just the land's,"_ Karl had said.

"Stop it, stop it, stop talking, just take the girl," the robed man hissed. Around him, the people of the town pressed closer, a murmur of discontent rising among them.

" _Fertility is a cycle,"_ he could hear Karl hissing.

"Why do you have no children?" demanded Walker. "If the Bootzamon brings fertility?"

The robed man roared. "Silence! You do not know what you are talking about!"

"I think I do," said Walker. "The Bootzamon needs a frau, Karl told me. He needs a wife. Is that it? For your people to be fertile, does his wife need to be fertile?"

The robed man swung at Walker now, but he fended off the weak blow.

"Just take her," he screamed, his words taken up by the crowd around them now, shouting "take her, take her" at Walker.

"She has his seed!" he cried as he flailed at Walker. "When she gives birth, so can we again! She was made for this, so that we might grow again! Just as her mother went home to give birth to her, so must she now. Take her home, so the cycle may begin anew!"

Walker stumbled under the swinging arms of the old man but suddenly a new sound brought the others to a halt. A mighty creaking sound. Walker gazed up at the cross, and saw the Bootzamon as it deliberately, carefully stepped down to the ground. And Walker knew now what he must do. He knew what they wanted of him. He knew they saw him as a servant. A means to an end. Nothing more than a tracker who would do as he was told and take Angelica home and say nothing. Do nothing. Fight for nothing. Be nothing. Just like he had done the day Angelica was conceived. He pushed himself off the ground, his fists balled up, and turned to the robed man. He felt the presence of the Bootzamon looming over him. He braced himself for what was coming, and he told the robed man: "No."

The robed man looked dumbstruck, and Walker put his fist right into that expression. He swung twice, three times, knocking the man to the ground, as all around him the townsfolk began to wail, shout and scream at him. He heard the robed man began to chant in that strange language Walker had heard so long ago, and he raised his fist a fourth time to stop the words in the man's throat. He never got to throw that punch. The Bootzamon grabbed his arm with a gruesome crack and lifted him off the ground, Walker's gun clattering to the floor behind him.

It spun him around, so his face gazed straight into those boreholes, and Walker felt dizzy, not just from the pain in his broken arm but from the force of whatever it was he was staring into. Behind him he could hear the shouts of the robed man, of the townsfolk. It didn't seem to matter to Walker now, it all seemed so distant next to this entity before him, whose legs planted into the earth like mighty tree trunks, and whose eyes drew him into forever.

The Bootzamon's other arm wrapped around Walker, who wriggled his right arm free just in time, but then the Bootzamon started to squeeze. He could feel his ribs begin to ache from the strain. He felt one pop and he roared his pain to the sky.

The Bootzamon pulled him closer, closer to those strange eyes. He felt like he was losing himself into them. Closer. Closer.

He gasped for breath, found words as he felt the pressure tighten still more on his torso. As he looked the Bootzamon point blank in the eyes, he gasped those words.

"I... said... no."

And with his free hand, he sparked the lighter clutched in it and put the flame to the Bootzamon's face.

He didn't know if it was straw. He didn't know if it was wood. He did know that it burned. The flame flared up the side of the Bootzamon's face, and caught on its hat, on its bright red handkerchief. From there, it spread fast, across the clothes containing its stuffed, warped body. Its arms sprung open, and Walker fell to the ground, next to Angelica. With his one good arm, he grabbed her and started to pull her away from the burning figure of the Bootzamon – but that only took them towards the robed man, whose strange screams rose in intensity.

Above them, the sky darkened, and a bolt of lightning scorched the ground at Walker's feet. The next struck his shoulder and span him to the floor. Another jolted the earth beside him, another hit his leg. He crawled away from Angelica, to get away from her, save her if not himself. His good hand fell on metal, and Walker grinned. He rolled over, lifting the Remington with his good arm, and put a bullet in the robed man's head.

The lightning burst around them, sending the wheat into flames where it struck. Above it all, the Bootzamon turned and twisted as fire consumed its body. The heat was overwhelming. Walker crawled back to Angelica and pulled her flat to the ground where the air was best. They huddled together as the fire swirled around the bare patch of ground on which they lay. Walker tried to protect her with his body, and he did that until he could breathe no more.

When he came to, Walker was alone. He looked up. The cross was gone. The crop was gone. The Bootzamon was just a smouldering pile of old clothes. And all around lay the bodies of the townsfolk, caught up in the flames.

Only one person was standing. Angelica. She stood in the middle of the smoking field. Walker pushed himself to his feet using his rifle as a crutch. Moving was agony, between his shattered arm and the ache of his ribs, but he made his way to Angelica.

He couldn't fathom the way she looked at him. There seemed to be nervousness in that gaze, but also boldness. That strange smile still played across her lips.

"Angelica?" he asked.

"Walker," she replied. "Take me home."

"Are you hurt?" he asked. "Did the fire-"

"Take me home."

He nodded, moved closer to her, looked her over.

"Independence is six days away," he said. "Maybe longer with me like this. Can you make it?"

Her smile broadened.

"Of course," she said. "I was made for this."

The two newest people in the town of Opferung were the last two people in the town. Slowly, carefully, they made their way down the hillside, and to the town's heart, that twisted, strange building where all the roads met.

They searched for a while, and when Walker found what he wanted, he poured it into the building's open doorway, then pulled his lighter from his pocket and set fire to the oil.

Then the pair turned and headed south. Leaving Opferung behind as smoke coiled into the sky.

Just another ghost town.
Meet Leo McBride

Leo McBride is an author and journalist from Northern Ireland, now living in The Bahamas. He is the editor-in-chief at Inklings Press, a small press publishing fantasy, science fiction, alternative history and more. You can find out more his website, www.alteredinstinct.com, or follow him on Twitter, @AlteredInstinct, or on his Facebook page, www.facebook.com/leomcbrideauthor

Stalker

The house is cold and dark

There is no one there

The day is dark and rainy

There is no one there

The house creaks and groans

I am not alone

The wind blows 'round the eaves

I am not alone

There are shadows in the corner

I am not afraid

There are footsteps in the hall

I am not afraid

There is someone in the house

Please don't bother me

Coming up behind me now

Please don't bother me

Daylight streaming in my room

I was not afraid

Cold as ice, my hand has turned

I was not alone

Meet Margena Holmes

Margena has been writing ever since she can remember, writing her first poem in 1st grade. At her day job, when she's not kicking young kids out of R-rated movies, she's sweeping up spilled popcorn from the hallways and aisles (she's not your mother, though, so please take your trash out). Her days off consist of writing space fantasy, short stories, and more movie theater shenanigans. Reading is a close second to writing, and she normally has her nose buried in a book.

FB: www.facebook.com/AuthorMargenaAdamsHolmes

Web: www.jedianegram.wixsite.com/margenaadamsholmes

Twitter: www.twitter.com/MargenaHolmes
Haunted by Darkness

At first, Julie Greenwood thought she was just being paranoid, seeing things, but it had been four days in a row now, and she could no longer pretend the masked face was just some trick of the light.

The face always appeared for no more than a second or two and always amidst dense crowds of other commuting Londoners, all of whom seemed determined not to notice it. Its black eyes, like a porcelain dolls, always held the same look of sorrow and evil that confused Julie as much as it terrified her. Almost as if the expression showed repentance for the wicked actions its owner would inevitably carry out.

More than once Julie had asked fellow commuters if they could see the unsettling mask, only to be ignored or stared at as if unhinged.

And tonight was no different.

She left River Thames Logistics, a West Ham firm where she'd worked as a logistics planner for the last two years and set out on foot for West Ham station. It was the same route she'd used since taking the job, though one she was starting to think seriously about changing, even if it made her journey longer. The overcast London sky darkened with twilight, and most of the clouds were heavy with rain. But her umbrella was in hand as always.

Her phone rang as she made her way onto the platform of the station, and her first instinct was to ignore the call and phone whoever back when she got home. But then she remembered her boyfriend, Tom, was cooking for her that night. He might have a question that needed answering while he was still at the store shopping for ingredients, so she decided to at least see who it was. Sure enough, Tom's smiling face was on the screen. She boarded the train with a group of others, then answered.

"Hey, Hun." It was hard not to sound put out, knowing what his call was likely to be about, but she tried.

"Hey. Sorry, but I totally forgot which veggie you said paired well with salmon? And am I getting white rice or brown?"

He was hopeless. Wonderful ... but hopeless. "It's asparagus, love. And brown rice."

"Right. I bloody knew it. I'm gonna kill Kyle."

"Kyle? Don't tell me you've been taking cooking advice from him agai—"

There it was—a flash of horror in the otherwise mundane surroundings, black eyes locked onto hers. Panic hit and her heart rate shot up. She quickly looked around at the other passengers, hoping to find one whose expression matched the way she was feeling. But no one appeared to be remotely disturbed. They carried on looking at their phones or staring blankly out the window. She tried to find the mask in the crowd again, but as always, it was gone.

"Julie...?"

Tom's voice reached her as if from somewhere in the distance.

"Julie, you still there?"

"Yeah ... I'm here."

"You okay? You sort of stopped mid-sentence."

"Yeah, just remembered something, sorry." She hadn't told him about the masked face to save him worrying to death, or even worse, getting hurt or into trouble doing something foolish that should be left to the police. But maybe tonight she would need to speak up about it. Not the cheeriest dinner table conversation, but this was starting to really frighten her, and he had the right to know something that was impacting her life in such a severe way.

"Alright," he said, though Julie could tell he was doubtful. "Well, I'll leave you to it so I can finish shopping. See you in a bit."

"See you soon."

The train stopped at Barking, and she got off with a few others. Normally she took the bus from there to her flat, but tonight she decided it was worth paying the extra and hailing a cab to make sure she wasn't followed straight to her home. The sound of rain beating the ground prompted her to get out her umbrella as she left the covered station behind and went around the corner for a black cab. Most of her friends used Uber, but Julie always felt more secure in a traditional taxi. Thankfully, one was sat waiting. She walked towards it and opened the door.

As she got in, folding her umbrella first, the cabbie was yelling at someone through his open window.

"Oi, mate. What yer think yer doin'?"

She shut the car door and looked through the rain-streaked window to see what was happening. There was a man at the driver's window, bundled up in raincoat with his collar lifted. It was too dark to see his face in any detail.

"Back off," the cabbie yelled when the man didn't move. "I'm already 'ired. You'll need ter find yerself another—"

The man thrust his arm in the window.

Something flashed in the light of an overhead streetlamp.

Blood spattered the windscreen and the cabbie slumped over the steering wheel.

Julie screamed and fumbled to open the door to jump out but was shoved back in by a gloved hand. Menacing black eyes held her gaze as a man crouched down to enter the car. She fumbled with the latch on the passenger side door, kicking at the man with her flats. He managed to grab one of her feet, and no matter how hard she tried to kick at him with the other, it didn't seem to do any good. He wagged a finger at her with his free hand.

"Now, Julie, that's not very nice." He reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a knife. "And I was so hoping we could be friends."

"Fuck you!" Julie spat, ramming the pointed top of her umbrella into the attacker's masked face.

The mask cracked, as if it were actually made of porcelain.

"Bitch!"

The man recoiled and reached for his head, letting go of Julie's foot. She jerked it back and pulled the door release at the same time, rolling out of the car onto the wet pavement. Struggling to her feet, she started running back towards the station.

"Police! Police! Help!" She didn't know if she would actually see a policeman but yelling for one made people look her way.

"Are you alright?"

Julia turned. A female police officer stood a short distance away looking worriedly at her.

"Oh, thank God!" Julie ran over, relief bringing tears to her eyes.

"You're safe now," the officer said. "Can you tell me what happened?"

She wanted to. She really did. But the horror of it grew more intense with every passing second and she couldn't seem to open her mouth to speak. Tears continued to roll down her face and she shook her head. She turned and pointed back at the cab with its blood-spattered windscreen.

"That's okay," the police officer was saying. "You take all the time you need. I'll get someone to take you to the police station for a hot cuppa."

. . .

Two hours later, Julie was sat in a small office at Fresh Whard Station and sipping tea from a paper cup when a man sporting a three piece strode into the room and took a seat behind his desk. He was a kind-looking man, though a look in his eyes spoke of the horrors he'd seen in his profession.

"Hello Miss Greenwood," he said, opening a file on his desk. "My name is Detective Huxley. I just have a few questions for you, if you're up to it?"

She nodded, hoping she was.

"It says here you were attacked by a masked man."

Flashes of her attacker's horrifying face jumped into her mind, like remembering a nightmare. She managed to nod again and took another sip of tea.

He gave an encouraging smile before carrying on. "Is there any way you can describe the mask? Anything to help us identify this guy?"

She wanted to help. Desperately. But it was as if her mind wouldn't let her mouth have any of the vivid details she couldn't shake from her thoughts.

"Anything at all?"

Finally, she managed to find her voice. "It ... it was mostly white ... but with these black eyes. The eyes were so scary..."

"You're doing great," Huxley said, making a note in the file. "Is there anything the mask reminded you of? Like something from a movie or a show?"

"No, I've never seen anything like it. Not until five days ago when I first saw it."

"Five days ago?"

"That's right."

"So this man has been following you?"

"I didn't want to think so, but yes, it seems obvious now."

Huxley nodded and made another note, and she got the distinct impression he was resisting the urge to tell her off for not reporting it sooner. And she had to admit, failing to do so seemed rather stupid with hindsight, but it was nice not being reprimanded for something she'd couldn't change.

"Alright, Julie, I just need to make a phone call. If you could read over your statement and my notes and let me know if I need to add anything. Otherwise, I just need you to sign to say that it is a true and accurate account."

She took the paper and pen he held out for her and started to read as he picked up his desk phone and punched in a number.

"DI Davis' office please."

Julie looked up from the paper for a moment, then continued to read.

"Oh, hello, Sergeant Maddix. No, I don't need Davis specifically. Yes, quite right... I have a crime scene you're going to want to get to asap. It's just outside Barking Station, so you'll need to get a move on if you want to see things with minimal tampering from the forensics team. I think this might be your man, and I think he's got a bit careless. This could be the break you've been waiting for... Oh, my pleasure. Go get that bastard." He hung up and sat back in his chair.

Julie looked up from her paper again. "So you think this guy has attacked others?"

"It's a possibility that needs to be explored." He got up and walked around to the front of his desk. "But that's not for you to worry about. We'll get him off the street, you can be sure of that."

She knew he meant well, but she didn't really like him making false promises. How could he say so definitively that they would 'get him off the street'? How many others had he attacked? Was she the first survivor?

Something clicked in her mind as those questions ran through her mind. She wasn't afraid anymore. She was angry. If she _was_ the only one who had seen this guy and lived, then she could end up being vital to catching the bastard.

She couldn't go home anyway. Her attacker had said her name. He hadn't just been following her. He knew who she was. And if he knew that, he almost certainly knew where she lived.

She could go to Tom's, but her would-be killer might know where that was as well. It felt like any place she'd been in the last few months was off limits. In fact, nowhere would feel safe until she knew her attacker was off the street, period.

The only way to avoid living in fear was to face it head on, and hiding had never been her style anyway. Clearly, her attacker wanted to use fear to toy with her before the assault, hence letting her see the mask for days beforehand. What did that say about him? He was obviously someone who found the idea of fear debilitating, which meant he was most likely afraid himself, preying on the fear he could instill in others to take the focus off his own shortcomings.

In short, he was a coward.

She had to find a way to help, but this wasn't even Huxley's case by the look of things, so an attempt to persuade him to let her be involved would be irrelevant. It sounded like the case belonged to a DI Davis and his sergeant, Maddix, so it was them she needed to see, and they were headed for the crime scene. But it didn't seem at all possible to get back there under the escort of the police, and to travel alone by foot from another location wasn't a safe option.

Huxley had been distracted by something on his computer screen that she couldn't see, but almost as if he had read her thoughts he looked up and smiled.

"I've received a message asking if you could go to New Scotland Yard and speak to my colleagues who are in charge of this case," Huxley said, "An officer will take you. You'll be safe there, and they have much more room to accommodate a more comfortable stay. Just sign the statement there and you'll be all set."

"Thank you, Detective."

He stood up and escorted her from his office to a chair in a room full of cubicles.

"Wait here and an officer will be along."

. . .

It had been about ten minutes when a man in uniform arrived next to her.

"Julie Greenwood? PC Collins."

She smiled and got to her feet. "Yes, that's me."

"Have you got everything?"

She looked down at her bag. "Yep, I'm all set."

The drive to New Scotland Yard was mostly filled by silence. Julie was far too absorbed in her own thoughts to make conversation, and PC Collins clearly wasn't the talkative type. Now and again something would come in over the car's radio, but Julie couldn't make much sense of the messages.

All she could think of was figuring out what she could do to help catch the bastard who tried to kill her. Maybe if she could recall one small detail of the attack, or perhaps something from the other times she'd seen the mask on the train, she could be of some real assistance.

She began playing back through the memory of the attack to try and remember some vital bit of information. It was so vivid she almost felt transported back into the cab.

She was kicking with one foot and trying to rip her other free, but his grip was firm.

He started to pull out the knife and a thumping pulse quaked in her chest.

The umbrella was in hand.

She smashed him in the face.

He let go of her foot.

She needed to move.

Now!

"Are you alright?" Collins' voice brought her back to the present. "You seemed miles away."

Her heart was pounding, but she was okay.

She faced Collins. "Fine, thanks. I'm just a bit exhausted."

"Understandable."

It wasn't long before he pulled off the main road and parked along a side street curb. He led her in the main entrance and up a few floors in the lift, then along a corridor and through an office door.

"Looks like Davis and Maddix aren't back from the crime scene. Best I wait with you 'till they arrive."

She thanked him and pulled out her phone to check the time. There were numerous missed calls and texts from Tom, and she realized she'd forgotten to turn the volume back up after allowing the phone to be looked over back at the police station. Rather than call him back, she opened the text messages.

Hey, dinner's almost done. Just wondering where you are.

I've tried to call a few times. Really starting to worry now.

Please text me and let me know you're okay. Starting to freak out.

The last message had come in less than ten minutes ago. She started to type a reply but stopped before she'd even managed a couple words. What did she say? If she told the truth he would completely lose it. Maybe for now the best thing would be to say there had been an incident and she was tied up at the police station for the time being but that she was fine and not to worry. Feeling it was the only viable option, she did that and added in a 'Sorry I missed dinner. Love you' with the hopes it might make him feel that small amount better.

"You must be Julie Greenwood."

Julie looked up as a square-jawed man in his early forties walked into the room, followed by a smartly dressed woman who appeared a few years younger.

"I'm Detective Inspector Davis, and this is Detective Sergeant Maddix." He gestured toward the woman, who flashed a short smile. "Would you mind joining us in a meeting room so we can get a formal statement on record?"

"Of course."

Davis thanked Collins and dismissed him, then flagged for Julie to follow. She got up from her chair and left the room just behind him, Maddix beside her.

Soon they reached a sort of interviewroom with a single table surrounded by four chairs. Davis and Maddix took seats on one side, so she pulled one up across from them as Davis set a recording device on the table.

"Allow me to apologize in advance," he said, "but we're going to be conducting a detailed interview and need you to do your best to remember as many details of the attack as possible in order—"

"There's no need to apologize," Julie cut in. "I want this piece of shit off the street before he can hurt anyone else. I'll do whatever it takes to make that happen."

Both Davis and Maddix nodded.

Maddix started the questioning.

"In the notes we read, it said you sighted the masked face for five days before the attack. Can you think of any consistency in the time of sighting? Was it before or after a specific stop on the tube?"

"I get on the District line at West Ham station and get off at Barking, so there's Plaistow, Upton Park and East Ham between them." She paused for thought. "I believe all the sightings came just before I got off at Barking, so that would have been after East Ham."

Maddix thanked her and made a note while Davis took up the questioning.

"I don't see a very definitive answer in our notes on whether or not you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt you. Someone from work? Maybe an ex?"

"It's like I told the others, I just can't think of anyone. I get on great with my co-workers, and I don't have a lot of ex's. The ones I do have are from several years ago, so I can't see why they'd just now decide to come after me."

"It says here you're dating one Tom Minster," Davis continued. "How long have you been in that relationship?"

"It'll be six months this December."

"And has he ever shown any violent tendencies?"

"Tom? Oh, heavens no. Let's just say it's me who has to kill spiders and other creepy-crawlies round the flat." Thinking of Tom reminded her he'd probably messaged back by now. And as if he had heard her thought, her phone beeped. She glanced down and saw there was an unread text.

"Do you mind if I check that? I won't be long."

"It's fine."

OMG! I'm so glad you're okay.

I headed home to feed the cat.

Text me when you're home safe.

She replied saying she would and looked back up at Davis and Maddix.

"Sorry about that."

"Totally understandable," Davis said. "If you're ready now, we'll continue."

"I'm ready."

They carried on questioning her for some time, but Julie found much of it was repeating herself from the first statement she'd given. She understood the process to some degree, but this was starting to feel a little too much like armchair detective work. Maybe her understanding of things was just skewed by the cop shows she enjoyed watching on TV, but it seemed to her like they should be out there tracking down the killer by now, not rehashing the same information they already had.

"Okay, Julie," Davis finally said, "I think we've got everything we need. Thank you."

"Now what?" Julie asked, her tone fringing bitterness. "I don't feel like we've got anywhere."

"Police work can be frustratingly slow," Maddix said. "But you've been brilliant, and we have far more to go on now than we ever have."

"So I'm not the first then. He _has_ attacked others. I thought so, but DI Huxley just gave me some vague non-answer when I asked."

Maddix looked over at Davis, who sighed.

"Look," Julie said, "I know it's not procedure to tell me what's actually going on with the case, but I really think you should let me in. I want to help." She could tell neither of them felt comfortable with the idea but was happy to see that Davis gave Maddix what appeared to be a 'go ahead' nod. They got up and walked to the door.

"Just give us a moment to speak in private."

They were back within a few minutes, and once they'd retaken their seats, it was Maddix who spoke. "We really could use your help Julie. It's something only you can do, and it would make a real difference. But I won't lie—it will be dangerous."

Julie had a feeling she knew what was coming next, and the thought made her stomach twist. But she fought back the sickening sensation. "Go on."

Maddix tapped a pen on her notepad, as if unsure she was willing to carry on. Davis placed a hand on her shoulder and she finally continued.

"Okay... Here's the basics. We wire you to a comm that will be linked to Davis and myself and then send you home. I'll be nearby, posing as a drunk heading to someone's flat, and Davis will be in his car on the street."

"So I'm bait." She knew it.

"For lack of a better word," Davis said, "yes."

"If you're not comfortable," Maddix hurried on.

"I don't know if I am." Julie interrupted. "I mean, I really want this guy, but what if something goes wrong with the comms? What if I'm killed before you guys are able to get to me? I'm scared."

"I understand, this is a lot to ask of you," Davis said.

"I mean, I really do want to help," Julie said, pinching the bridge of her nose. The conflict that had erupted within her made it hard to even think straight. It was one thing say she'd help but quite another to risk her life in the process.

"I want you to know that we will take every precaution to make sure you're safe," Maddix said. She reached out and took Julie's hand. "I know it's frightening, but this is the best chance we've had to catch this guy since he started killing women almost two years ago. You can help us save others."

Julie nodded. She knew it was the right thing to do, but that did nothing to ease the fear. She thought back to her assessment of the killer, of how she had labelled him a coward who instilled fear in others in order to run from his own. Was she going to let him win? Was she going to let fear stop her doing what only she could do?

She looked up at them. "I've already told you. I want this guy off the street. I want him as bad as you do. Worse. If you think this is what it takes, let's do it."

"I admire your courage," Davis said. "Let me call this in to Chief Superintendent Starkweather, and we can talk details on our way to Barking.

. . .

Maddix placed a small receiver in Julie's ear as they pulled into an alley a few blocks from her flat building. It was dark, but there was a full moon and the streetlights reflecting off the wet road made it easy to see.

Maddix got out of the car and adjusted the scanty evening dress she was wearing to fit the part she'd be playing. "Alright, I'm all set." She tapped her ear. "Say something to make sure I'm linked."

Julie heard Davis repeat the words 'checking comms' in her own earpiece and in person. "Mine is definitely working," she said.

Maddix leaned down. "Mine too." She pulled the passenger seat forward to make room for Julie to get out from the back seat of the car, then turned to Davis. "See you on the other side."

As they had planned, Maddix set out ahead of Julie, and Davis followed from behind, essentially sandwiching her to keep an eye out from both directions. But even with that knowledge of protection, the moment she was alone on the street, her anxiety surfaced. She could see that horrid mask everywhere she looked, manifesting in the patterns of light and shadow that a moment later resolved into the harmless everyday objects they were to anyone else.

Her flat was just ahead, and Maddix was no longer in view, having already turned off the pavement and onto the cobblestone path that led to the double door entrance. "Are you in the building yet?" Julie whispered.

No reply.

"Maddix?"

Davis' voice came through the earpiece. "Remember, if she replies it will seem like she's talking to herself to anyone that might be passing by. It could blow her cover."

"Right. Sorry."

"You okay? If you want to call this off, just say the word."

"No, I'm fine."

"Just know that Maddix does hear you, and if you need help, she'll be right there, okay?"

"...Okay."

Julie turned off the pavement at the iron fence post she always used to mark the cobbled path and carried on up to the flat's entrance.

Once inside, she headed up two flights of stairs and then a short distance down the hall to her flat, only passing a few people along the way. She unlocked the door and entered. Her sitting room lamp was only a few feet from the door, but it felt like it took an eternity to reach it in the heavily shadowed moonlit room.

She reached out to turn the light on, but nothing happened. Why wasn't it working? Something was wrong.

The hall light came on and Tom emerged from the flat's single bedroom.

"It's you!"

How could she have been so blind? Her attacker knew her name, knew where she would be and when. But then she realized something was wrong. She could see he looked terrified as he stumbled further into the light. Then she saw. There was a gag in his mouth, and his hands were behind his back.

A white shape moved out of the shadows behind Tom. Black eyes reflected the hall light, their terribly familiar unblinking gaze locked onto hers.

"Tom!"

"He's going to watch the show."

The masked figure threw Tom to the ground, where he lay bound at the hands and feet.

A scream formed in Julie's throat, but nothing came out. She wanted to run, but her feet felt rooted to the ground. She couldn't stop staring at Tom. Somewhere at the back of her mind, a part of her was screaming. Where was Maddix? Why hadn't she burst in to save her. That was meant to be the plan. Where was she?

The figure moved towards her, pulling a knife from the front pocket of his black hoodie. A jolt of terror unlocked Julie's throat and the words she wanted to scream escaped in a hoarse whisper.

"Maddix! Maddix, please!"

"Oh, isn't that cute? You're expecting someone to help." He tilted his head slightly. "No one will be coming; I can assure you."

All her fear and anger and hatred peaked in that moment and without even realizing what she was doing, her body lunged forward, punching and kicking. A moment later the man had her pinned to the wall by the wrists. He laughed briefly; a sound cold with malice.

"You keep fighting. But you can't stop me."

Pinioned, her body exposed to the knife, Julie's reality rushed back in with each desperate, sobbing breath.

"Why are you doing this? Please! Don't kill me!"

"Oh, I don't plan on killing you," he assured her, running the tip of the blade down over her breasts with his free hand. "Not just yet."

Bits of shattered porcelain mask scattered across the room, and Julie slumped against the wall as her wrists were freed. The man crumpled to the ground, where he lay motionless. Maddix was stood where he had been, a length of metal piping still clutched in both hands. The light from the window illuminated the fallen man's face and Julie stared at it, struggling to take in what she saw. She barely noticed when Davis burst in, only realizing he was there when he bent down to check on the two men on the floor, speaking into his phone and asking for an ambulance and his back up team.

"I—I know him," Julie said, unable to stop staring at the unconscious man's face. "That's Tom's friend. His name is Kyle."

"Kyle Herrington," Maddix said, looking down on the man with loathing. "He's been our top suspect for over a year, but we couldn't get any definitive evidence to prove it. What you did tonight has saved lives. Thank you."

. . .

Just over a month later, Julie was sat across the table from Maddix, two almost drained cups of coffee between them.

Maddix looked up from her cup after a long pause. "Have the nightmares stopped?"

Julie shook her head and took another drink. "Not really. But I'm learning to live with them. Finding ways to control the way they make me feel. I don't know if they'll ever go away, not entirely."

Maddix nodded and gave a small, understanding smile, which Julie returned before she continued.

"It's really hard to close my eyes because every time I do, that face is right there, and those eyes... They haunt me. But they say things in life lead us down the path we're meant to take, and I tend to agree. If it wasn't for everything that happened, I'd never have joined the force."

"Speaking of which," Maddix said, "how's the academy treating you?"

"It's demanding but brilliant."

Maddix nodded her understanding. "I still remember my time at the academy like it was yesterday. I remember going hot and cold about my decision to join the force. What about you? Any issues with cold feet?"

"Yeah, I have days where I wonder if it was a good idea to quit my job so I could try to become a police officer. But Tom is letting me stay with him and that keeps costs down. It's like they say, isn't it? There's no reward without risk."

"Too true." Maddix took a drink of her coffee and smiled. Her phone beeped, and she looked down at the screen. "Well, looks like I'll have to leave you. Davis needs me back at the office. Says it's urgent, and I've never known him to exaggerate."

Julie returned the smile. "Thank you for meeting with me. I really enjoy our chats."

"Ditto."

With that, Maddix got up and left, leaving Julie to her thoughts. She could hardly believe something as dark as what she'd been through could have led her to such light in her life.

It was that light that had prompted her to leave her position at River Thames Logistics and pursue a career in law enforcement. Admittedly, her first month at the Academy had tested her resolve, but with each test came a new level of commitment. Becoming a Police Constable was a first and necessary step in reaching her real goal of becoming a detective.

She knew now that her true calling was in helping others the way Davis and Maddix had helped her. How many others would Kyle have killed had it not been for their intervention? His method for finding victims had been horrifyingly effective: making casual but distant friendships with the boyfriends of the women he had already targeted, getting just close enough to gain valuable information without leaving an internet search trail on any IP addresses, yet distant enough that he could slip through the cracks when an inevitable investigation followed the murder.

Her phone rang and she looked down at the screen to find Tom's smiling face. She grinned and answered.

"Hey, love."

"Hey, alright day?"

"Yeah, it was good," she said. "Bit tiring, but that's to be expected."

"Indeed."

"So what's up?"

"I just wanted to see if you'd be willing to pick up some garlic bread on your way home. I'm making alfredo for dinner and fancy a few slices with it."

"I'd be happy to. Sounds delicious."

"Right, I'll see you soon."

She hung up and drained the last of her coffee.

The future was bright.

Meet Ian C. Bristow

Ian C. Bristow is a freelance artist and the author of Hunting Darkness and the Conner's Odyssey trilogy. He is currently working toward the release of the first title in a two-book series titled Instinct Theory. When he isn't writing or creating works of art, he enjoys playing music or spending time with his family and friends.

You can visit him on Facebook:

www.facebook.com/iancbristow

www.facebook.com/bristowdesign

or on Twitter:

www.twitter.com/Ian_Bristow

www.twitter.com/DesignBristow

The Bay Sirius Witch of Atchafalaya Basin

Nestled deep in the heart of the Atchafalaya Basin in Louisiana is the Bay Sirius Swamp. At the bottom most edge of Butte La Rose Parish, the swamp used to be home to Bayou Chene, a thriving logging community. After the flood of 1927, twelve feet of silt covered everything Chene ever was, or would be again. Before that, it was the Village of Bones and occupied by the Chitimacha Tribe. No one knows who was there before the Chitimacha, or when the Witch first came to the swamp.

For generations, Cajun grandmothers passed down legends of the Bay Sirius Witch. Told as a cautionary tale to not stray too deep into the swamps, the threat was always an effective one. Young boys and girls would stay close to their mothers when crawfishing, lest the Witch snatch them away. Older children would dip their toes at the edge of her swamp and dare each other to go find the Witch. It was always an idle threat, a silly game.

Until it wasn't.

It happened in the Summer of 1935, before the sun dipped below the horizon and the air was still thick with the day's heat. Two young girls set off to test their bravery. Agnes Marie and Odette, both twelve years old, pushed out on a homemade raft for the direction of the swamp. Odette's parents thought she was having a sleepover with Agnes Marie, and Agnes Marie's parents thought she was staying with Odette. With lanterns full of oil and hearts full of courage, they pushed off from the muddy banks behind Odette's home.

Agnes Marie was the bossy one of the two and, as such, insisted that Odette be the first to steer them. With a stick as big around as her forearm, Odette guided them through the waterways. She would push the stick deep into the mucky swamp bottom, lean on it to propel them forward, then pull it up with a "schlock" and start all over again. It was tedious work, and Odette was soon tired of it. She was thankful for the setting sun and its implied coolness from the scorching day. Deep in the swamps, the sun couldn't reach you much anyways. Day or night, it didn't matter. The same dense, wet air clung to your clothes and seeped into your bones.

Excitement soon dwindled to nervousness as they meandered through the swamp, steering their homemade raft around the towering tupelo trees. The crooked roots twisted from the brackish waters like outstretched arms, lit only by the twin beacons from the girls' lanterns. The flared, moss-covered trunks narrowed as the trees rose in the night sky; majestic giants who ruled the swamps. A nutria rat glared at the girls from within a tangle of roots at the base of a particularly large tree. It, too, seemed eager to see what would happen to them that night.

The girls kept on their path, steering clear of water moccasin snakes and gators as best as they could. Odette was growing more uncomfortable by the minute.

Small waves billowed out in circles around their raft and broke against the tree trunks. Cypress trees mixed in with the tupelo as they went deeper into the swamp. The red knobby roots reached out to the girls as if to say, "Stop. Beware." Dark lines on the trunks loomed high above the girls' heads, revealing the depth of the 1927 floodwaters.

Agnes Marie and Odette drifted by the trees, oblivious to their warnings while the swamp rose around them in a chorus. Crickets sang, bats flapped their wings, and crawfish and other creatures splashed in the water.

"Let's just head back," Agnes Marie whispered, her voice quivering.

Odette nodded her agreement, eager to get back to her home. She hadn't wanted to go into the swamp in the first place but couldn't let Agnes Marie think she was a scaredy-cat.

They turned around, rowing faster than when they had first come into the Bay Sirius Swamp. Holding their breaths, they didn't dare speak. Something was in the air. Something... different, heavy. Something they no longer wanted any part of.

Before they had gone two feet, a large splash echoed behind them and water flew over the girls, washing away any remnants of bravery. A thin scream pierced the night as an unseen force jerked Odette off the back of the raft and into the shadows beyond, rocking the small wooden vessel violently. Agnes Marie flew through the air and into the water, followed by both lanterns. Panicked, she swam as fast as she could towards home. Once there, she fell onto the muddy banks, gasping for breath. With every remaining bit of energy she had, she rose to her feet and ran inland as fast as she could. She did not look back.

Agnes Marie eventually returned to the banks and waited all night for Odette. That's where Agnes Marie's parents found her, right before lunch the next day. Shivering, even though she was dripping with sweat and baking in the late morning sun.

Odette never made it home.

Search parties combed the Swamp for a week before giving up. Every group that came back had bloodshot eyes, trembling hands, and wouldn't talk to anyone for hours. When they did, they spoke of hearing Odette's scream and the clunk of wood on wood, like a raft pushing through the trees. The noise would get closer until it felt like someone was breathing on the back of their necks. Then, a loud cackling would pierce their ears, causing them to bend over in pain. They would turn around, yelling, "Who dat!?", but there would be nothing behind them but the tupelo trees.

So it was, with the Bay Sirius Witch of Atchafalaya Basin. Sometimes, when the crickets take pause and the wind catches its breath, you can still hear Odette's screams, and the faint thud of wood on wood.

Meet Holly Rae Garcia

Holly Rae Garcia is a photographer for a chemical company. When she isn't shooting, she writes flash fiction and is working on her second novel. She lives on the Texas Coast with her husband, teenage son, and three large dogs. Her adult daughter recently moved out and Holly isn't prepared for how old that now makes her. Clearly, she had her when she was only ten. More info can be found at:

www.HollyRaeGarcia.com

www.twitter.com/HollyRaeGarcia

Grave Dancer

When others are mourning

Is when I appear.

To devour the sadness

And drink up the tears.

I dance on the graves

Under cover of moon.

I wait till you leave

To twirl and to swoon.

I've danced on the greats

And also unknowns.

As the corpses settle

They're all the same bones.

Though the end comes to all,

The prologue may change.

For the lives that they've left,

A different dance for the stage.

A grand march

For a milit'ry man.

A heavy-heeled step

And rammy-tan-tan!

A lusty tango

For lovers.

For private members

The sod covers.

A quiet ballet

For the infant cold.

A tiny bundle,

Ne'er again to hold.

Most men fear me,

But truth be told,

I'm a jolly, bright soul

Who never grows old!

I'm out there each time,

As they're lowered down.

Under veil, up a tree,

Behind stone, underground.

I watch closely

While the dirt is still wet.

Shovel by shovel,

Have you guessed me yet?

I'll be there again

When your time comes, too.

I'll dance on your grave

As it bathes in the dew!

Don't worry! Don't fear!

You won't be alone.

I'll take your flesh with me

To my dark, mouldy home!

Meet a stump

a stump has always loved all types of fiction, but his penchant is for tales of suspense and the macabre subtleties found in everyday life. His passion lies in telling stories of the mundane, infused by supernatural oddity. He holds degrees in Sociology, Anthropology, and Divinity and is currently Editor In Chief of the magazine _Sci-Fi Lampoon_. He lives near Erie, Pa and can be contacted at a.stump.fiction@gmail.com

Lonesome Conscious World

Conscious awareness came in its earliest moments of existence. Smaller celestial bodies still coalesced in the space around it. Rock and ice constantly smashed its molten surface in the first days. Perhaps one such asteroid brought the sense of self, and perhaps the unique commingling caused the phenomenon. The planet became aware first of its own formation, and contentment at the mere sensation of being, captivated its mind for thousands of years. Only when its surface cooled, and land masses rose above placid waters did the notion of other living things occur.

The thinking world stretched its awareness to the nearest object that exerted gravity upon it, but the lonely moon could not reciprocate greeting. Never having encountered life outside itself, notions of death and inanimate objects remained unknown. Awareness probed further out until it encountered a handful of its brothers. Life was confirmed under the swirling gas of some and the warm rock of others, life but no sense of oneself or others. The thinking world grew to understand the concept of its identity and named itself Illume. It revelled in the torrents of the mighty star, whose chaos and energy blazed beyond understanding, yet acknowledgement of Illume's presence never occurred.

Uncounted revolutions around the star passed. Illume delighted in the presence of plant and animal life on its surface and the depths of its oceans. The lonely world came to understand that life alone did not signify awareness of self and the capacity for abstract thought.

A tiny metal husk approached Illume, and the sensation it caused broke the world from its deep meditation. Tiny thoughts flitted about in frenzy. Not one but thousands. Thoughts, awareness, and ideas so rapid and so alien that Illume idled in stunned contemplation. Perhaps beings within the metal husk possessed awareness?

A sliver of the husk slid onto Illume's surface and a handful of the thinking beings scurried about. Illume reached out to them in a slow, clumsy attempt to greet its visitors. Before a thought could be shared each being had thousands of its own thoughts, and the entire group returned to their sliver and back inside the metal husk.

Illume delighted as the entire husk slid through its atmosphere and came to rest upon its surface. Years passed as the lonely planet contemplated how to commune with the tiny, rapid, and brilliant colonists from other stars.

******

A girl screamed in horror at the sight of her grandfather who seemed to rise from his grave. She dropped the flowers and bolted out of the cemetery and all the way to the nearest Colonial Security Force station.

Her late grandfather turned his head and watched her run. He had been enriched and revitalized by Illume's soil and his life essence restored by the lonely planet. When the human colony's first funeral deposited the man into soil, Illume restored his fading awareness and over a few weeks the late man and lonely world learned to speak with one another. No longer human, the grandfather, consisted mostly of soil, a mound from the waist down. Illume and the late grandfather twisted their head to look at two uniformed men who rushed toward them with guns in hand.

"I told you this would startle her," the grandfather said.

"I can be patient," Illume replied through the grandfather's mouth. "I've hoped for companions a long time."

Meet S Shane Thomas

S Shane Thomas has fond childhood memories of creeping out of bed to watch anime until the sun came up. He has fond adult memories of creeping out of bed to write the Anki Legacies Adventures and create the Science Fantasy Hub until the sun came up. He road trips, hikes, and hangs with his wife and sons after the sun comes up.

Mail List: www.eepurl.com/cQc861

Website: www.ScienceFantasyHub.com

FB Page: www.facebook.com/larc1scifi

The Smile Behind the Door

From the voice memos recorded and edited by Mr. Lulio, addressed to Mr. Albarran, found in a smartphone among the belongings of the recently deceased Mr. Galindo...

Putting in order these words into a coherent narrative has become harder and harder to do each passing day. But the work in doing in so has been my only solace in my final moments. Only the hope that by recording this story, by warning others, the wider world forgiving my blasphemies keeps me going. With any luck this recording will reach you on time, as I know I don't have much time left myself.

A couple of years ago, my wife Jessica and I came to an inheritance by my uncle Ramon, a reclusive man that lived in a lonely estate near the colonial city of Guanajuato. He had been a very famous chemist, one that had made enough money for a comfortable life. But as he got older, he seemed to have lost his mind and became a recluse, cutting ties with everyone. As sad as his passing was, secretly we were happy as heaven knows we could have used the windfall to deal with our economic anxieties that had already put a severe strain on our marriage.

The old manor was dilapidated and unattended, as most of the staff had left. The only exception had been the loyal gardener Mr. Galindo, who gruffly agreed to work for us until we managed to sell the place on condition of paying him what he was owed. A strange man, he gave me warning, out of the blue, regarding a 'foul creature' in the basement that we would be wise to avoid. At first, I thought it was a giant rat. Now, I wish it had been a rat.

Going through my uncle's belongings one afternoon, I found a journal of sorts, which described his own works on alchemy and listed his sources. It had a list of books by renowned researchers of the occult such as Llull, John Dee, Eliphas Levi, Alastair Crowell and someone named the Black Pharaoh. I knew some of the names, mostly due their infamous reputation, but the last one, that, I couldn't recognize. As well, said diary explained how our family brought the secret of alchemy from Spain to Mexico, how the ancient Aztec knowledge was incorporated into it and how my uncle used it to build his fortune. That last revelation left me speechless for quite some time.

For a while I considered showing it to Jessica, but she had never liked things related to the occult, having been raised as a devout catholic.

I read the journal in my spare time, when I had the place to myself while Jessica visited the city. Enthralled, I devoured every word. I won't bore you with the journal's full content. Let's just say that the last warning written in the book says it all: "Treat it well, follow the rules and it will work miracles for you. Break them and you will pay a high price. If you are not ready, close this book and burn everything, especially the basement. Let the secret die."

Curious, I went down to the basement that night, while my wife slept. It was guarded by a heavy wooden door of Moorish style. The bolt had no matching key with those that the attorney had given me before, so I had to force it. I decided to turn on the voice memo recording feature of my phone, as the camera had stopped working days ago. I thought that whatever might happen next would be worth keeping for posterity. Now is meant to be a warning.

As I entered, a voice that didn't sound quite human, greeted me.

Note: A high pitched, second voice, with a metallic quality, like the voice of children modified through software could he heard in the recordings from this point onwards.

"I take that you are the new owner of the house. Welcome to my humble abode."

Inside a fish tank with engraved sigils on its wall, there was a tiny male humanoid. It had no eyes; only a mouth with white teeth that he presented with a wide smile. The fish tank had miniature furniture and even an old smartphone connected to the local network. The creature waved to me, beckoning me to approach the tank. I admit I was confused at first, but the words about the hidden source of knowledge echoed in my mind. I had an idea of what the creature could be, as my uncle's alchemy book mentioned an artificial life form named homunculus. Despite my disbelief, I carefully approached the tank.

"Are you a homunculus? Where did you come from?"

"Not a homunculus. I'm THE homunculus. As for where I come from... how to explain it?"

There is a silence in the recording.

" _Millennia ago, two Egyptian powerful sorcerers were old and close to death. Fearful of the afterlife, for they had been consorting with demons, they decided a course of action that more pious people would have considered a blasphemy: to storm the gates of Heaven and steal the secrets for eternal life and unlimited knowledge. While they were rebuked at the threshold that held said secrets, they did manage to bring back to Earth something of value. It was made from the same primordial matter that God had discarded when he created the world and had tucked away_ on _the dark side of the Moon. That something taught them the rules for control over matter, allowing them to transmute it for anything they wished and so alchemy was born."_

"I suppose that you are that thing?"

"Yes, _I am. The original master of the alchemists, passed down in special boxes to contain my essence from generation to generation, from nation to nation until I landed in the hands of one of your ancestors and have remained in the_ retainer _of your family until now. Given that you inherited your uncle's possessions, I guess I'm your servant now."_

I was incredulous. I knew what my eyes were seeing, and yet I wasn't entirely sure it was real. Despite my initial scepticism, I knew deep inside me that this was what I had been looking for all my life. I suppose the creature saw my expression, for he said out of the blue:

"You don't know what to think do you? My mere presence seems impossible. I can offer proof of my words. See that lead soldier figurine over the counter? Bring it to me."

Confused, I threw caution to the wind and decided to listen to its words. He instructed me thus.

" _Bring the purple liquid in that rack, the one_ labeled _seven. Get that clear plexiglas box with the sigils engraved on the sides... perfect. Now put the figurine inside, then add the purple liquid, just a few drops, you really don't want to waste more than that. Now close the box and take a step back."_

The sigils in the box started to glow. The figurine was soon engulfed in a flash of light that momentarily blinded me. When my eyesight returned, I saw that the figurine's surface had now the colour and texture of gold. I grabbed it. It was hot to the touch but not enough to burn me.

"Maybe it is just covered in a gold-like coat. The original paint could have reacted that way to the purple liquid."

"No, it's' gold. Trust me."

"Why I should trust you?"

" _I only have one rule: I never lie. And I like to follow rules. Besides, what would I be winning by pulling your leg?_ I'm trapped _here anyways. So why don't you test it?"_

I left the room with the figurine. The next day, I took the figurine to a gold seller and it not only passed every test, it made me money as I sold it to the man.

Excited and confused, I returned a few days later to the secret lab and dropped the money I'd made in front of the homunculus.

"Are you convinced now?"

"Somewhat, homunculus."

"Please, don't call me that. I hate that word. Use any other thing."

I thought of any possible names, but all of them sounded silly in my head. The only thing I had ever constantly in my mind was his perpetual smile, the one he used to receive me when I opened the door. And there it was.

"Would 'smiling man' be a good option?"

"I like that."

I decided to question him further.

"Now tell me, these liquids, within this special box, can transmute elements by altering their atomic number? Seems impossible."

"And yet you have just seen it done. You humans really take a long time to learn that there are many rules in this universe that you still haven't comprehended, even less found out about. Reality hangs on the energies of the thought. The universe was created after an idea. And ideas gave birth to what your kind believe are the rules of the universe."

I was incensed, but also intrigued by those words. The implications, if true, were massive. World changing. And to think that my uncle had forfeited all to live as a hermit, keeping hidden this incredible creature.

"You make that sound as if we could reshape the world just by mere thought. As if we could become..."

"Gods?"

"Yes."

"Why not?"

I paused to consider this.

"It's not like the being you call 'god' was more special than you at first. You, mortal beings refrain yourselves from attaining higher truths because you are afraid of what? Being punished for your sins? The cold truth of the universe is that there is no sin, only ignorance. That's what the sorcerers discovered: to achieve salvation, you only need knowledge. And from there, you make the rules."

A part of me, the part that I should have listened to, felt offended at the implications behind those words. But my ego got the best of me. I was suddenly filled with contempt for my uncle, who had access to this resource and instead chose seclusion.

"If what you say is truth, I wish to learn those rules, to learn from your wisdom."

The creature remained there in silence as if it was observing me, even when it was clear it had no eyes. After a while, it smiled and replied.

"Fair enough. I will teach you all I know about the rules of this realm as I did with your family. But I need a payment."

"Of what kind?" I wondered what I could give to the creature that might be of interest. I had little to offer. But it seemed that he had something in mind already.

"Something more precious than gold if that's what you are wondering. I want blood. Human blood."

"Blood?" I was astounded but the creature went on.

"Yes, one of the cardinal rules of alchemy is that for something gained, something has to be paid. Knowledge such as this comes from sweating blood, so to speak. Don't look at me that way. I do listen to your media."

I looked at it feeling surprised and if I'm honest, a bit scared. He must have seen my face because he continued explaining.

"I'm not a vampire if that's what you are thinking and I'm not demanding blood sacrifices like the beings that posed as deities in these lands centuries ago. No, I really mean blood, but a tiny amount every other day, a few drops here and there, just to keep my form in this world."

"Will my blood work?"

" _Yes, but only to seal the deal._ Afterward _I would need tiny amounts from different people. I like variety and I suspect that you are a resourceful man, so I don't think it will cause you much trouble to get said blood. In time you could create potions to enchant the minds of others to help you get what you want willingly."_

I'll admit I considered the offer for a while. I wish I had rejected it. I still don't know if it was my ego or my greed that made me accept. Maybe I thought I could wrangle my way out of the deal at a later moment, once I had learned all I needed. After all, 'knowledge made the rules'. I grabbed a letter opener and I pierced the tip of my index finger, pressing the injury to force plenty of blood drops to fall upon the smiling man. He didn't open his mouth. His skin absorbed it. Then it changed colour to that resembling human flesh.

"Thank you. Now, shall we begin with your instruction? Grab those books please..."

To say that what followed wasn't amazing would be an understatement. Hours transformed into days, into weeks, into months during which I was taught by the creature the true origins of the material world. The way the mind could affect materials under the right circumstances and the alchemic knowledge that had been destroyed by the Inquisition. The ancient texts were right about the properties of what modern science calls 'dark matter', the very essence of what the creature was made of. As my uncle had noted, it was the catalyst for all of this to work. I learned to transmute lesser metals into precious one, not just gold, but platinum, silver, and even rare earth elements that with some cleverness, I could sell for a lot of money. Then it dawned on me: this is how my family had made its money generations ago. The more my knowledge grew exponentially, so my fortune would too.

While my work with the homunculus progressed, my marriage fell apart. Jessica tired of me being secluded every day in that basement, keeping secrets from her and barely listening to what she had to say. Finally, she had enough and left me. The day she went, she cried. It was clear she still had feelings for me. But if I'm honest, I didn't care. I just wanted to get rid of her, to be left alone to continue to obtain unlimited knowledge. I became too greedy for my own good.

Procuring the blood had been hard at first. I tried paying homeless people for it, but that proved a problem when they started to ask for more money. I used fetish clubs as a source, but sooner or later that raised too many questions as well. Once I made my first million and managed to develop the potions my mentor had mentioned, the problem faded away, with the rest of my worries. As I had expected, I became a rich man, able to generate money with just a snap of my fingers and with that, luxuries and opportunities came my way. I even redecorated the basement to make my new mentor's life a bit more comfortable. I was enjoying life at the maximum.

Everything seemed great, but it didn't last.

++++++

A year or so into this new life, I started to feel ill. I had constant migraines and I could barely keep down any food. I felt weak and my vision started to blur randomly. It affected my studies. A couple of weeks went by, until one day, while studying with the smiling man to develop a new formula to create perfect diamonds, I fainted. I woke up hours later, my right arm throbbing in pain.

"I see that you are awake. Are my lessons that boring that you prefer to sleep on the floor?"

"No, I apologize for that. I haven't felt well in days."

"What's happening?"

"I have been feeling dizzy and my head hurts constantly."

"Have you tried... what do you call it? An aspirin?"

"Very funny. I have tried several things, but nothing had worked.

"A physician should look into it. We don't want you to end like your uncle, do we?"

I didn't dignify to answer that, but I followed its advice. It was sensible in any case. After an arduous time searching for the best private clinic money could pay for, I found one that performed all kinds of tests, including MRA scanning. When I returned for the results of the test, the face of my physician told me everything I needed to know.

I had an untreatable malignant tumour in my brain. They were unable to operate, and it looked like the cancer had spread to my other organs. Apparently, it looked like radiation sickness. The cancer was similar to that people who worked near nuclear reactors or uranium mines developed. I lied. I had the suspicion that the transmutation of matter had the unfortunate effect of releasing gamma bursts. No wonder why the alchemist of yore died mysterious deaths. Back then no one knew about radiation.

The physician droned on and on about exploring my options for when the time came, what to do and how to proceed. But I wasn't paying attention. Like the sorcerers, I was planning how to escape from my fate.

The story of the sorcerers storming Heaven kept percolating inside my head. So, I went back to the books and poured over them in search of what else the sorcerers brought back. After all, their story never said if they truly died or found a way to cheat death. However, I couldn't find much, except the mention of a 'philosopher's stone'. Most notes in the books I consulted said that creating one was impossible and against the laws of nature and God. But I was so scared of dying that I didn't give a damn about any law. With the right knowledge, I was sure I could reshape them.

The lack of more information to solve the issue on my own left me with a single option: ask the damned homunculus to help me.

++++++

"Why do you want to live more? You had a good life,"

"No, I want more, I need more," I replied.

" _It sounds like you want more than to heal, you actually want eternal life and unlimited knowledge. Those 'forbidden books' are messing with your head."_ The homunculus teased.

"Is that possible?"

"It can be done, but the price is high,"

"How high?"

" _A life for a life. You know the rule. And it can't be a random homeless guy this time. It has to be one person that has meant something_ to _you,"_ he explained.

"Why?" I was aghast.

" _Again, the rule. You love your life; you have to give away something you value or valued as much as what you want to gain,"_ came the answer

I pondered the issue. But I was desperate and in my fear of death, I cast away any moral concern. And with one word, I sealed my fate.

"Agreed."

++++++

I located my ex-wife Jessica. Under the excuse of wanting to reconcile before my death, I begged her to come back, as she was the perfect offering.

At first, Jessica was reluctant, but after seeing my emaciated state, she tried her best to help me enjoy my final days. While she took care of me, I formulated my plan to cover her disappearance. Finally, one night I slipped a potion into her drink. It made her pliable to my commands. She was barely conscious when I led her to the basement.

"You have good taste, I give you that. She looks ravishing," the smiling man said. "One last time, are you sure you want to do this?"

I looked at Jessica wondering if I still loved her enough to spare her or if I loved myself more. I kissed her on the forehead. Her gaze was lost on a distant horizon.

"Yes."

"Then leave the room."

"Why?"

"You don't want to know."

I left her there at its mercy and closed the door behind me.

What happened to Jessica, I don't know, but her screams haunt me even now. I'm a bastard for what I did to her. I hate myself for that. When I returned to the room, there were no traces of her.

"Well my friend, a deal is a deal," the homunculus was satisfied. Let's start."

We worked all night long on the cure. In a surprising turn of events, the smiling man cut off one of its hands and told me to grab and drop it into the concoction.

"Don't worry, it will regrow in time,"

I did as instructed and the potion soon acquired a color of vibrant ruby red.

When the time came, I drank the liquid in one go. At first, it felt as if nothing was happening. But soon nausea invaded me. The world around me started to spin at ludicrous speed and could feel my heart pounding so hard that I thought I was going into cardiac arrest.

"You tricked me!" I yelled at the homunculus.

"No, this will happen as it should."

I fell to the ground, hitting my head on the table on the way down, and everything turned to black.

++++++

When I woke up, I couldn't feel my body and yet I had the sensation of being heavier than before. I looked around but couldn't see anything beyond white space.

I felt like I was floating. Was it space? No. If I had to guess, I was out of my body and out of reality. Where? I had no clue. I found myself on a plateau, where time seemed to be a physical dimension stretching at the distance. How did I know? Because I could see myself in the past, since I was in the womb and in the future, where I lost sight of myself, multiplied, all joined to my body by misshaped limbs. I can tell you, if this is our true form seen from outside the universe, then we are living abominations. I could see inside my own body, I saw the growth of my tumor from the first day, the pulsating mass of blood and flesh that had invaded my body. I reached to grab it, to expel it, but it fought against me. I struggled but managed to rip it out of my body. It bared its teeth and tried to bite me, but I cast it away. As a result, the bodies of my future trembled.

I tried to walk away from there, but the white space surrounding the plateau grew. Dots of light, floating globules and the odd piece of rock floated away. If this is the entrance to Heaven, then it was far from the idyllic pearly gates that artists had painted. Nothing you have read in any religious text could make compare to this and I suspect with good reason, as it would be easy to go mad from witnessing it. I don't know how I kept my sanity.

A few steps later, I saw a threshold made of a black, oily substance in front of me. It was guarded by two stone pillars engraved with diagrams resembling the Sefirot of the ancient Judaic texts. Each had a name engraved on it: Yachin and Boaz. If my memory served, those were the names of the pillars from the Temple of Salomon, keeper of ancient secrets. It made sense if this was a door to a higher dimension. The smiling man, in his original form, came out from the oily substance. It had my same height and his smile was as wide as his head.

"What do you want? To be healed? Or do you want something more?"

I should have just said that I wanted only to be healed, but my greed got the better of me. Since I had expelled the cancer from its roots on my own, I felt invincible. In reality, I was being an idiot.

"I want more than that," I demanded. "I want it all: eternal life, knowledge, power. I know I have a higher purpose to achieve. I want it all!"

" _Then I shall give you said high purpose,"_ replied the homunculus.

The smiling man opened his mouth. It grew into a giant vortex that started to absorb everything and dragged me towards it. I couldn't run, I just stood there being swallowed whole. It engulfed me and then... then I saw its true form and its final objectives. Space and time are nothing but a mere representation of what that energy from our bodies created, what the theologians call the soul. Mind over matter and he wants to control all of it. No, he must fail I thought, or we will.

I felt my body being torn apart by its most basic elements, to primordial particles we haven't discovered yet. My soul, if you can call it that, screamed in anguish, extending its arms as it was being ripped apart from me...

And then everything ended.

++++++

I woke up days later, lying in my bed. I couldn't remember how I managed to get there from the lab. It took me hours to muster enough energy to get up, and even more to return to the secret lab. The place was trashed and the fish tank that had housed the smiling man had been destroyed. The shattered glass was scattered all over the floor, the shards covered in a viscous fluid that I surmised was its blood. I was concerned about what had happened to it. But I put it to the back of my mind.

Despite the dizziness and the weird sensation of being lighter than before, I felt healthier. The migraines had subsided as well as the nausea. I found I could hold food down for longer. I wondered if the elixir had worked, dismissing the vision as the side effects of a chemical reaction acting up over the tumour and cleaning my brain from cancer. Nothing more than a hallucination derived from the process. If only I'd known.

When I felt better, I decided to make an appointment with my physician. He tried to guide me to support groups for those hopeless victims whose sickness was about to defeat them. But I stood my ground. I demanded new studies to see for myself if the elixir had indeed worked. Against his better judgment, the physician agreed, if only because he had the hope that I would accept my terminal reality.

The MRA machine had trouble making the scan. The technician said that some of the readings were off, as if something was missing, but couldn't find a cause. After some adjustments, the scan finally proceeded and the results left both the technician and the physician speechless: the cancer hadn't just receded, it was totally gone. The hospital ran several more tests but couldn't find a single cell of cancer in my body. My body seemed to have perfect health, aside from missing twenty-one grams from the last weight measurement, but they considered it negligible. The words 'miracle', mystery' and 'mistake' were thrown around. For a second I considered telling them what happened, about the elixir, but I decided against it in case I found myself in the psychiatric ward. I managed to wrangle my way out of it, with the promise of returning later for more studies.

I walked the streets enjoying the warmth of the sun on my skin, trying to enjoy a new lease of life. Yes, I had lost the smiling man, the tiny source of my fortune, but I was sure I could find a way in those ancient texts to create a new one. Failing that, I could figure out new formulas to keep procuring riches as before. The world was full of possibilities.

And yet I felt empty. Not in an emotional sense, although I'm sure that was part of it. No, it was, for lack of a better term, an 'existential void' that combined with some sensory malfunction compounded the problem. I bought an ice cream but couldn't feel any flavour from it. At first, I thought it had been that particular ice cream, but the effect soon extended to all food. Everything was tasteless to me. As the hours went by, my skin lost the sensation of the temperature of the air, the noises around me sounded muffled and everything seemed to be grey in colour. I wondered if that too was a side effect of the elixir.

I decided to return home to look into it, but as I got closer to my house, a sensation of dread formed in the bottom of my stomach. People started to bump into me; barely noticing my existence, as if was becoming invisible. My mind raced through the possibilities, but any train of thought always ended with that vision of the damned door at the plateau. Maybe it hadn't been a hallucination, but something I had experienced for real. Maybe I did extract the tumour and all its tendrils from my body, but I did it in such a crude way that it had left some damage to my nervous system.

But that couldn't account for the fact that cats hissed at me, dogs became rabid at my sight and when I passed by the local seller of Santeria stuff, she made the sign of the cross.

I finally reached the house and went to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror but didn't notice anything out of the ordinary with my body, aside from my pale colour. However, opening the door of the bathroom had taken some effort. It was as if the knob was made of lead.

I started to feel as I was going to black out again, so I climbed the stairs, not without considerable effort. I felt weak and the voiding sensation in my stomach grew. A primal dread invaded me, and I could hear my own voice screaming in anguish.

Reaching the second floor left me spent and for some reason that I could not explain, I found myself in front of my uncle's office instead of the master bedroom. The door opened by itself.

There, I saw him sitting on my uncle's sofa, in full adult human size. There was the smiling man, the homunculus, shedding his old skin away and creating a new one, leaving open his original dark matter visible for a second. It was like staring into an abyss. And the abyss returned my gaze. A wave of pain hit my body. Like hundreds of tiny, invisible hands scratching... no, ripping apart my flesh. When his new skin finished forming, it dawned on me: it had stolen my form. A perfect copy of me, but with an impossibly white smile.

It was then I fully realised the extent of my folly. The formula didn't create a philosopher's stone or an eternal life elixir. It was the final piece the smiling man needed to achieve its goal: to escape the inexistence where it was put after the universe was created and to now walk among us freely! Free to sate its hunger for souls, our very life essence!!

Then, he spoke, with a voice that felt alien and human at the same time: my own voice.

"Thank you for this form. And your soul. It's really convenient to have such a healthy body with so much material resources at hand."

"But... but... it's not fair. This was not the agreement," I stammered in a faint voice that even I could barely hear it.

"You need to remember the cardinal rule of alchemy and the universe: corresponding exchange, for something gained, something of equal value has to be sacrificed." he pointed at his new body. "This is a fit payment for said agreement, I believe."

"I... I don't understand."

The homunculus looked down on me with disgust. "Of course you don't. You are, after all, human, limited by your own primitive mind. I agreed to teach you what I knew to provide you with riches, and you paid with the blood of others. When you were facing death, I offered the means to heal yourself and without doubt, you offered your wife's life for that. And yet you demanded more, a higher purpose, an all-compassing knowledge. But you didn't offer anything of the same corresponding value. So I just took it. Rules are rules. I thought you read the final warning in the journal. Tsk, tsk, you humans never cease to amuse me with your own short-sightedness. You are just like those sorcerers. Although they got it worse, trust me. Their torture was a piece of art."

He walked past me towards the door and patted me on the back.

"Don't worry, I'm not that mean. You will find your higher purpose, inside me. For you are truly on your way to transmute yourself into greater truth: Me."

He left me there and closed the door. I dropped to my knees, feeling weak and empty. And then I realized why I felt lighter, why the MRA machine couldn't work on me at first, why the animals reacted like that before my presence. I recalled the urban legend of the twenty-one grams, the weight of the soul. I tried to cry, but what was left of me couldn't even shed a tear, as my soul, my very own existence was gone, trapped inside the homunculus.

I don't know for how long I have been trapped inside this house, or how long I have until I finally fade away. But I had to warn someone before I do, thus I'm putting in order these recordings. I wanted it all, and in the exchange, I gave away all I am. I blasphemed against God, against nature, against... everything, destroying all I had. And by doing so, I unleashed upon the world a demon. Beware the smiling man wearing my face for he walks free to hunt us while I cease to exist!

Meet Ricardo Victoria

Born in the frozen landscape of Toluca, Mexico, Ricardo dreamed of being a writer. But needing a job that could pay the rent while writing, he studied Industrial Design and later obtained a PhD in Sustainable Design, while living in the United Kingdom and working in a comic bookstore to pay for his board game & toy addiction. He is back now in Toluca, living with his wife and his two dogs where he works as an academic at the local university. He has short stories featured in anthologies by Inklings Press, Rivenstone Press, and Aradia Publishing. He was nominated to a Sidewise Award 2016 for the short story "Twilight of the Mesozoic Moon", co-written with his arch-nemesis, Brent A. Harris. He also won a local contest for a fantasy short story during college. But hey! That one doesn't count, does it?

You can find his rants and other work—both fiction and opinion pieces—on his own website, www.ricardovictoriau.com/blog.

And follow him on www.twitter.com/Winged_Leo

Address to a Pumpkin

Hail the harrowed pumpkin!

Tormented, scraped and cut

Your entrails ripped out from within,

To bake pies with your guts.

Hail the hallowed pumpkin!

Thy glorious grinning face,

Carved from the orange of your skull,

Brings grim mirth to this place.

Hail the hollowed pumpkin!

Upon the doorstep set

Your eldritch light and feral look

Will guard the household yet.

Hail the hero pumpkin!

When brightly lit your grin

Doth scare and freet uncanny beasts

And keep us safe within.

Meet E.M. Swift-Hook

E.M. Swift-Hook is the author of the Fortune's Fools dark space opera series and co-author of the alternate history whodunits the Dai and Julia Mysteries.

In the words that Robert Heinlein put into the mouth of Lazarus Long: 'Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards.'

Having tried a number of different careers, before settling in the North-East of England with family, three dogs, cats and a small flock of rescued chickens, she now spends a lot of time in private and has very clean hands.

Shango

"Go to the shop and pick up that necklace."

"I will," promised Romero to his girlfriend on the phone.

He put a finger to his lips. The blonde, whose name he couldn't remember, got dressed and left, gently closing the door behind her.

"Did you have a good night?" Miranda asked.

Romero stretched. "I fell asleep early."

"Okay." She didn't sound happy.

Things had been rocky between the two of them. Recently she had caught him flirting with a co-worker. She had found lipstick on his collar, and he had sworn up and down that a woman tripped and fell onto him. She had found a woman's lighter in the living room and he had told her it belonged to his brother.

Miranda had driven from Miami to Tampa last night to visit her sick grandfather. And right after she left, he had hit the bars and found the blonde. Romero scratched his curly head. Miranda was so pure and clean compared to the women he hooked up with. They talked dirty and experimented in bed, whereas Miranda was vanilla.

"Go right away and pick up that necklace my aunt is holding for me before someone else snatches it up," she said. "See you Monday. Love you."

"Love you, too."

Romero didn't feel like going to Miranda's aunt's shop. Odalis—or Aunt Odie—was a rude and grumpy lady. Aunt Odie had acquired a necklace from Cuba that Miranda really wanted, but the aunt was forgetful and might sell it to someone else. He dressed and left for the store.

***

The store, Odie's Odds and Ends, was close to the accounting firm where he worked. Romero paused in front of the bric-a-brac shop. When he opened the door, a tuxedo cat hissed and a tabby cat who rested on a pile of scarves blinked at him sleepily. He wanted to be in and out fast since he was allergic to these creatures. The store smelled like incense and a dirty litterbox.

Aunt Odie's pudgy form rested on a stool behind the cash register. She narrowed her green eyes.

"Hi, Odie," he said.

"Here," she said. She placed a brown pouch on top of the counter. "Miranda wants you to try it on." Her Cuban accent was thick.

He turned the pouch upside down. The necklace had alternating stripes of red crystal and white opaque beads. It glinted in the sunlight.

"Shango beads," she said.

Shango was the Santería deity of thunder, fire, justice, and war. All over Miami, there were indicators of people practicing Santería. He had seen broken eggs on streets and dead chickens stuffed in bags at intersections. He wondered why Miranda wanted a Shango necklace so much. Was she worshipping the Orisha or did she just fancy the pretty red and white beads?

"She said to try it on," Aunt Odie insisted. "I can replace the elastic if it is not good."

"Okay." The long necklace fitted around his head just fine.

"¿Está bien?"

"Sí," he said. He sneezed. "I'm sorry, but you know I'm allergic to cats."

She waved him away with a twisted arthritic hand. Not even a goodbye. He turned and left.

Outside, the sun hit him hard, balanced by the rush of a breeze. He heard snatches of conversation. He saw beautiful women but didn't look.

_Sit down, sit someplace!_ In his lightheaded state, he found his blue sports car and his hand fumbled to grab the door handle. His neck was hot. The heat travelled up his head, down to his heart, and then to the rest of his body.

"Mirandaaaaaa," he whispered as he placed his head on the steering wheel. He wanted his girlfriend at his side. Miranda took care of him when he didn't feel well. She would cook something delicious and rub his back in her cozy apartment. "Mirandaaaa," he croaked. Then he passed out.

***

Romero's throat was dry, and he gulped a bottle of warm water. He had never had such an intense allergic reaction before. At a red light, he ran his hand along the passenger seat and the floor but couldn't find the jewellery pouch. He'd have to find a bag for the necklace later. He didn't want to lose it.

He parked a few feet from his apartment, which was on the ground floor. It was already getting dark. A lot of time had passed between going to the store and now. His neck tingled with warmth.

The first thing he did was close his blinds. His footfall was loud on the tile floor of his spacious apartment as he went room to room.

There was a spiky shadow in the corner of his bedroom. Whoever it was sat on a wicker chair next to his nightstand. The figure got up and moved towards him.

Streetlights shone through the blinds and revealed a crown, a flowing skirt, and beads hanging off a well-built chest... all these clothes and accessories were red and white. The stranger's skin was a deep walnut colour. Romero looked down at his red and white necklace, then up to the man in front of him. This was Shango! But how? The _Orishas_ weren't real... were they?

As the deity walked towards him, a low drumming sound reverberated from the living room. Romero's jaw dropped as the figure walked past him coolly. Shango did not look into his eyes or make any threatening moves against him.

"Come," the figure rumbled.

Romero followed. The drumming became louder. Dozens of candles had been lit.

There were six women dancing in his living room, where the furniture had been shoved into the corners. The women were curvaceous with lovely faces. Their red and white dresses revealed cleavage and shapely legs.

They surrounded him. He began to dance as well. He wondered if this was all real. He could still be passed out in his car. Whatever _this_ was, he'd enjoy it for however long it lasted.

Breasts pressed against his back. Arms wrapped all over him. The women's musky perfume dove into his nostrils. His neck tingled even more. This was all the necklace's doing; he was sure there must be magic in the object.

The women pulled away from him, their feet stomping and their arms swinging wildly. Romero beckoned the women with his hands. He wanted them to smother him again, but they danced solo.

A shadow fell against him. He turned around. There stood Shango, his face handsome and unsmiling. Romero was tall, but Shango was taller.

Shango held something large and shiny. Romero's entire body tensed. He remembered this from a childhood friend whose parents had paintings and statues representing Santería. Shango's weapon was a double-headed axe.

"This is for Miranda," Shango intoned.

The axe flew. Romero's stomach clenched, a gurgle erupted from his mouth, and his chest burned. The drumming became louder, but the beat changed, and the women swayed as they danced in slow motion.

Romero's adrenaline and warmth wore away seconds later and intense pain followed. He fell dying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. The drumming, and everything else, ended.

Meet Medeia Sharif

Medeia Sharif was born in New York City and presently calls Miami her home. She received her master's degree in psychology from Florida Atlantic University. After becoming a voracious reader in high school and a relentless writer dabbling in many genres in college, she found her niche writing short stories, articles, and novels for all age groups. She has a special place in her heart for the horror genre as she loves the diversity of characters, settings, and storylines that are found in spooky and creepy stories of various media. In addition to being a published author, she's a public school teacher.

She can be found on Twitter @medeiasharif and at www.medeiasharif.com.

The Intruder

_The knife. I need to get to the knife_. It was the same knife Beth and I used to cut our wedding cake not long ago. And it was there, on the counter of our home... just out of my reach. There was someone in our house. The intruder was dressed all in black, though his face was not covered. Beth was in her bathrobe. Alarm screamed across her face. She was near to tears. My attention was drawn to a bruise across her left check which contrasted sickly against her pale skin and blonde locks. _I had to get to that knife._

The man in black drew towards me I was caught stuck between the microwave and toaster, unable to get to that knife. I was frantic now, trapped as I was in the kitchen, my wife beyond my capacity to save. But I had to do something. I suppressed my fear and replaced it with a growing, boiling rage.

I burst forward, leaping through the air towards my assailant. I seemed to hover over him. I would have collapsed down on him, if it were not for a quick stab of white-hot pain. It crackled over my whole body. I felt shock and then went still for a moment before my anger burst forth again, overcoming the agony until the whole room started spinning out of control.

The man in black must have stabbed me, but I couldn't tell with what. The lone lightbulb which hung on a cord above him swung wildly, spotlighting the dim room's cheap particle-board furniture. I swung along with it. Then, the lightbulb exploded, showering the room in luminescent sparks while glass shards stabbed into the yellowing linoleum.

I felt myself suddenly drawn into the living room, static sparking around me from the shaggy brown carpet. I tried to catch my breath as my hand slammed against the glass of the tv set. Beth and the intruder jumped at the noise as the set switched on. The soft brilliance of the static danced across the living room as I looked outward onto the scene.

Beth stood in the middle of the cramped room. Somehow, she had managed to clutch ahold of her rosary beads. I saw a streak of red cut across her forearm. The wound looked vaguely familiar to me. Then, she moved her eyes toward the tv screen. They were wide with alarm. The man in black approached again, this time, holding some sort of weapon—I think—stretched out in his hands before him.

"Inside the tv!" I heard my wife cry out. The man in black snapped his eyes towards me. The tv clicked off. For a moment, I was lost. But I found my way and then discovered that I was finally beside my wife. I clicked on the light to the lamp, but to my surprise, she jumped with fear. She had no reason to be afraid of me. Still, she looked at the lamp long and hard for a moment... then she picked it up. It started to flicker wildly in her hands.

"He's here," she cried out again. "Inside the lamp!" The man in black began chanting, although I did not understand the words he said. I only wanted to get to Beth, but an unseen force prevented me from reaching her.

Beth took the lamp and raised it above her head. She threatened to throw it down. That was our lamp, our wedding gift, just six months ago. Up until a few days ago, we had a matching set. They were the nicest things in the house. Beth had broken one. I remember now, the cut on her arm came from her falling onto it as if pushed. She threatened to bring that second lamp crashing onto the floor. As she stood there, with the lamp overhead, the intruder opened a book that had been held tightly in his hands and began to chant again. I looked on in confusion.

A swirling vortex opened beneath me. I felt its pull. I used every ounce of my strength to remain free. The man in black continued his assault on me, his words growing louder, more focused and commanding. Sweat soaked into his starched-white collar. Every electrical device in the house flickered on and off, in rapid succession, triggering alarms and noise, and battering Beth and the man within a cacophony of light and sound. But that did not stop them.

Beth brought the lamp down in one smooth motion, sending it cascading into fragments across the carpet and that was it, the vortex had me. A whirlwind of rage swirled around, sucking me into the tempest below. But I couldn't let her go. _She is my Beth. She doesn't belong to anyone but me._ I know my anger sometimes got the better of me, but I loved her. I wouldn't harm her. Not ever again.

I hadn't meant to shove her. I didn't mean to explode into rage. "I saw you talking with that guy again." I had yelled. The lamp broke as she crashed into the floor, a piece of porcelain cutting through her arm. I didn't mean to do it, just as I know she didn't mean to race into the kitchen as I chased her. She didn't mean to grab that knife—I know she didn't—yet it slid into my heart just as it had sliced through our wedding cake. _It was all an accident. I can forgive you Beth, just don't make me leave you—_

"I love you...I love you," I wailed as I was sucked down into the bottomless pit. The last thing I saw was the look of relief on Beth's face as I disappeared into the depths below.

Meet Brent A. Harris

Brent has tried his hand at horror more than once and is currently carving out a novel in the same vein -- just as soon as he's let loose from the depths of the sanatorium. Until then, you can check out his website at www.BrentAHarris.com

Effigy

Early evening hours bring a crunching sound. That's because most of the adults in this town are coming home from work, slamming their car doors shut, and ambling up their leaf-strewn walkways. How I wish I could cry out and be heard by a compassionate Mama Bear type who would call the police, the FBI, a SWAT team... whoever's job it is to save abducted girls. Ah, but I tried shouting for help once. It didn't end well. Anyway, that was eons ago, back when my Homecoming dress was a little snug in the waist. I look down at the lavender taffeta, now loose and wrinkled and stained with sour perspiration. It sags over the nylon rope that's been tied around my waist to ensure that I don't stray far from my cot. If I ever get out of here, I'll never wear a belt again.

Despite my fear of getting caught, I try grunting, in hopes that a nearby Mama Bear with bionic ears will hear me. It's more of a reverberation in my chest than an actual sound, thanks to the duct tape adhered to my mouth. Oh, and there's also a blindfold over my eyes and a surveillance camera trained on my little corner of the house. Escaping this place is a pipe dream, and a cracked one at that.

Soon my captor's key grinds into the front door and an autumnal gust permeates the entire first floor. He doesn't acknowledge me in any way. He just goes about his freaky little rituals with deliberate slowness. I listen as he engages his interior locks and affixes his two door chains. The organic sound of a lid being lifted from a jack-o-lantern and the smell of gutted pumpkin precede the click of a grill lighter being used to ignite the votive candle inside it. My captor then goes to his fridge, extracts a serving plate, and lowers the heavy porcelain onto the counter. After one solitary snip—blades of kitchen scissors brushing each other metallically—the plate is returned to the fridge. Then there's the clipping of work shoes across the laminate floor as he returns to his jack-o-lantern.

A sizzle followed by an acrid smell.

Finally, my jailor removes my blindfold and frees me from my tether. His bony fingers dig into my arm as he guides me over to the table. He ties me to a chair so I can have my one meal of the day—dinner, always homemade. He proceeds to blather on about how much he hates his job as he prepares chicken breasts with greasy, paprika-dotted skin, biscuits stuffed with pats of butter, and peas that are likewise graced with Land O' Lakes. Although I'm mostly preoccupied with my impending meal, I'm definitely curious about what on earth he snips from the chilled serving plate every evening. Unfortunately, even when he opens the refrigerator, its contents aren't visible to me from where I'm seated.

When my abductor finally serves me, I go for my biscuit first. I'm never allowed silverware, and I know that the chicken will scald my fingertips. I chew quickly as he drones on about his jerk-off boss. I must consume as much food as possible because what I'm about to do might inspire him to take my dinner away and send me to bed early. He'll put me back on the tether and inject me. I usually don't mind the nightly drugs, as they're my only reprieve from the total misery that I've inhabited since being here... but today I simply must have some of my questions answered.

Three quarters of the way through my chicken, I blurt, "So, what is it that you snip at every day?"

"What?" he bleats, flabbergasted.

"You know: You come home, open the fridge, and use the scissors on something. Is it... herbs?"

His expression blooms into one of amusement. He tips his head back and releases the loudest, most unsettling laughter I've ever heard. Then he bows his head, shoulders convulsing, hand clasped to his belly.

" _HERBS_!"

_Yes, herbs. What a knee-slapper_.

"You wanna know what I 'snip' at every night, huh?"

"Yes," I breathe.

He rises, chair legs scraping against the floor, and retrieves the serving plate. On it lies a doll. Not a baby doll, but a miniature version of an adult male. God, it's realistic, with its collared shirt, laced shoes, and tiny eyelids fringed with dark lashes.

"A doll?" I say incredulously.

But wait. Now I see the tiny man's lips part. And I hear a thin wail.

"Oh my _god_!" I screech. "What... what _is_ that?"

"This is the detective that's looking for you. Not the man himself, of course; this is more of a... an effigy of him, you might say. Every night I take one of _these_ bad boys..." My abductor runs a fingernail over the effigy's brown tresses. "...and drop it into my special pumpkin."

I clamp my hand over my mouth, tears rolling over my fingers and onto my chin.

"Come on, darlin'." He rips a strand from the effigy's head, slams the plate back into the fridge, and grabs my upper arm. "Lemme satisfy your curiosity."

He drags me into the living room, where the jack-o-lantern sits on a serving plate of its own. Its triangular eyes, nose, and jagged mouth are all seeping with what appears to be blood. The pumpkin is marinating in a sickening crimson pool.

My jailor throttles me a bit. " _Well_? Lift the lid!"

I know much better than to protest. Once I complete my task, he drops the miniscule strand into the candle's flame.

Jesus Christ almighty. So _this_ is I've been smelling every night. Burning hair. I heave, an acidic lump of my dinner climbing up my throat. I swallow forcefully.

"Once our little effigy is bald, that detective is _done_." My abductor cackles, replacing the jack-o-lantern's top and pushing me toward my cot.

I welcome the prick of the needle and the oblivion that follows. I dream of Mama Bear holding me close, softly assuring me there are no such things as bloody pumpkins and dying effigies. My head sinks leadenly into her bosom. The beating of her warm, warm heart ushers me into a black, dreamless slumber.

Meet Sophie Kearing

Sophie Kearing is a Halloween fanatic. She loves going to pumpkin farms, watching scary movies, and using it all as inspiration for her creepy stories and poems. Her short fiction has been picked up by Mojave Heart Review, Paper Angel Press, Horror Tree, Left Hand Publishing, Ellipsis Zine, Jolly Horror Press, New Pop Lit, and other publications. Sophie is an avid member of the #WritingCommunity on Twitter and would love to connect with you at:

www.twitter.com/SophieKearing.

Tongue Biter

Holden Daniels paced the cell, manoeuvring so that his sour scowl continually faced the Colonial Security Force officer on duty. That rat Nielsen always got on his back, if he had just left the hovering and criticizing to management, Holden would not have jammed a screwdriver into the man's torso three times. The colonial starship had departed from Earth years ago, and Holden had no idea how he would make it in lockdown until he could put his feet on soil again. The room was bigger than he imagined jail on the starship would be. It looked more like a room in a medical facility. Luck had held back in Hartford when he pushed Cooper, his former co-worker in front of the commuter train after second shift. Holden's luck waivered only slightly when he smashed Turner's nose into pudding, which landed him in anger management training. Now Holden suspected his luck had run out completely.

Outside his cell, a CSF officer entered accompanied by a woman whom Daniels had been vaguely acquainted with. She was flanked by two more officers.

"I'm Doctor Erin Jeffries, Mr. Daniels. I'll be in charge of your rehabilitation today," she said. Dr Jeffries stood a few inches taller than Holden, her strawberry blond hair swept back to her shoulder blades. Holden guessed her age in the mid-forties, and she looked disarmingly attractive.

"More anger management then? Like it paid off last time," Holden said with a chuckle. "I thought I'd be spending my foreseeable future in this room," he made a grand gesture to capture his meagre surroundings.

"Please have a seat," Dr Jeffries said, and cocked an eyebrow at a rigid armchair in the back of the room. "I'll explain your treatment while you get comfortable."

Holden gave her a long, almost hungry stare, and then plopped into the seat. He quickly adjusted to hide his excitement and realized there were straps from top to bottom. He raised a hand to object, but the two CSF officers were already at his sides and began securing the bindings.

"Anger management is excellent for those who apply the techniques, Mr. Daniels. Imprisonment was practical for individuals with your aptitude back on Earth. Frankly, we have not got the space, or resources to provide you with a free ride. We are living in a closed artificial ecosystem on this starship, and we need every resource and every person to perform optimally. We will be covering for poor Mr. Nielsen while he recovers from your assault, but thanks to my little modified friend here, you will be back to work tomorrow."

Holden drew his eyes off the curve of her hips and saw that she held what looked like a yellowish tongue with beady black eyes at its tip, and pointy limbs tucked close to its underside.

" _Cymothoa Exigua_ , or the Tongue Biter, is a crustacean that eats a fish's tongue, latches onto the stub, and performs the missing organ's task."

Holden opened his mouth to protest, but the CSF officers to either side jammed a device between his teeth and cranked until his jaw popped. Holden began to hyperventilate.

"Relax Mister Daniels this may seem frightening, but it's actually a blessing in disguise. This little guy here has been a project in my lab for the last eighteen months. I've modified his body to allow for human speech, and he is as intelligent as you or I. I've designed him to have the very thing you've proven deficient in Mister Daniels, a conscience."

Dr Jeffries approached Holden, who thrashed against his restraints. His screams muffled the sickening sound of chewing as the _Cymothoa Exigua_ ate its way into a new home.

The following night passed in a blur of rage and pain for Holden, at some point the man thought he had snapped and begun hearing voices.

_You aren't crazy, Holden, there is someone else here with you, in your head_ , his Tongue Biter said. Only the voice was more of a thought.

"I will kill that doctor and the guards for this."

Let's not be hasty pal, I'm going to help you get along from now on.

Mollified, Holden felt a strange sense of comfort at the prospect.

Meet S Shane Thomas

S Shane Thomas has fond childhood memories of creeping out of bed to watch anime until the sun came up. He has fond adult memories of creeping out of bed to write the Anki Legacies Adventures and create the Science Fantasy Hub until the sun came up. He road trips, hikes, and hangs with his wife and sons after the sun comes up.

Mail List: www.eepurl.com/cQc861

Website: www.ScienceFantasyHub.com

FB Page: www.facebook.com/larc1scifi

Afterburn

The man hadn't thought about what he might see, but vague ideas jumbled in his brain involving ash and charcoal and rubble. As he pulled into the driveway he was immediately confronted by reality. He wasn't prepared for what lay before him. There was a structure there. A somewhat disintegrated structure—but a structure, nonetheless. The last time he saw it, all he remembered were those hellish flames, roaring, and the smoke billowing like some primeval dragon's furious belching.

As he pushed what was left of the door open and walked through the charred doorway, the acrid smell of smoke and things that weren't supposed to be burned assaulted his sinuses. But then, the surprising smell of water—lots of water—hit him. _How could it smell so fiery and still smell so wet?_

He crunched through what used to be the hallway and saw the crumbled remains of a table and a dish. He dropped his car keys in the dish out of half-stupefied habit. He hadn't expected it to be so familiar.

He saw the living room and remains of couches where he had sat watching movies with his kids. It seemed like just last night. He was already losing track of time. Family photos stared at him through sooty, cracked frames, drops of condensation inside the glass, awaiting rescue. Kids toys were lying, scorched, on the floor. Everything had been frozen in time, yet everything kept churning on inside him.

He walked deeper into the house—the dining room where they had eaten Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners and where he kissed his wife and kids at breakfast before heading to work. A bowl of wax fruit; melted to the warped and cracked Formica counter. He moved further down the hallway.

The stairs. He hadn't thought that there would be any stairs left. The green runner was still present—partially burned but dripping with water. He grabbed the soot-covered railing and looked at the first step. He stomped it, hoping it would collapse, but it held, squishing underfoot but holding. His throat tightened and he couldn't breathe. The burning in his eyes intensified. He was being choked to death but had to continue on. He plodded up the staircase, climbing, sobbing, gasping. He sucked air, trying to stop the flow of tears from his eyes, trying to regain himself.

When he got to the top, he could go no further. The flames had eaten a hole at the top of the stairs down through the ground floor into the basement where it all began—so hot, so intense. From his halted vantage point, he saw three doorways, each leading to a blackened vault. He saw his children's rooms, where they would sleep, undisturbed, for eternity. No more bedtime stories. No more nightmares that needed dad and a glass of water. No more anything, just char and memories.

He looked beyond, to the gaping master suite. Here, there was a large hole in the roof where the flames had licked out like a serpent's tongue and the water had poured in, but far too late to save the beautiful, sleeping flesh that lay inside.

_Why had he made it out? Why did God save him, but not the innocents?_ The weight of realization was smothering. Hyperventilation - or perhaps pure exhaustion - stole what little strength remained in his knees and he buckled forward. As he tumbled down the hole where the floor once was, he didn't see the foundation rising to meet him. He saw light, and then all was dark.

As the rescue workers dug through the smouldering rubble, they found a charred body in the basement, sprawled across the floor. They gazed up through the floor to the second story where the man must've fallen through searching for the others in the smoke. They could now tell his family, waiting in the dark outside, that his body had been found

Meet a stump

a stump has always loved all types of fiction, but his penchant is for tales of suspense and the macabre subtleties found in everyday life. His passion lies in telling stories of the mundane, infused by supernatural oddity. He holds degrees in Sociology, Anthropology, and Divinity and is currently Editor In Chief of the magazine _Sci-Fi Lampoon_. He lives near Erie, Pa and can be contacted at a.stump.fiction@gmail.com

Afraid of the Dark

I'm not afraid of anything

When the lights are on

When it's dark I'm scared of everything

I keep thinking what could go wrong

If I leave a foot sticking out

Then the monsters under the bed will get me

It doesn't matter how loud I shout

Nobody will be able to set me free

The darkness has eyes

It's getting ready to leap

So it will come as no surprise

That I can't get any sleep

The shadows gather in the corner of the room

And I quake silently under the duvet

Holding my breath, waiting for my doom

Wishing that the monsters would just go away

There are spiders that come out to crawl on your face

And snakes that will slither into your bed

Ghosts that move things so they're out of place

And hungry rats who've never been fed

A noxious gas could knock you out

A vampire drain you dry

Get burgled by a nasty lout

There's no reasoning to the why

It's just not safe to be on your own

I know I won't sleep well tonight

So you either talk to me on the phone

Or give me my very own light

Meet Claire Buss

Claire Buss is a multi-genre author and poet based in the UK. She wanted to be Lois Lane when she grew up but work experience at her local paper was eye-opening. Instead, Claire went on to work in a variety of admin roles for over a decade but never felt quite at home. An avid reader, baker and Pinterest addict Claire won second place in the Barking and Dagenham Pen to Print writing competition in 2015 with her debut novel, The Gaia Effect, setting her writing career in motion. She continues to write passionately and is hopelessly addicted to cake.

Visit her website www.cbvisions.weebly.com

Follow her on Facebook at

www.facebook.com/busswriter

Follow her on Twitter at

www.twitter.com/grasshopper2407

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