 
## **Contents**

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Message to Reader

The Lunch Pail by W.B. Stickel

4 Promises by TeiJay

Bait by Patrick Hayes

Bricks In The Dark by Rick Allden

She Comes To Call by Marie Robinson

Group Therapy

Top 10 US

Top 10 UK

Do Not Fear The Voices by Hannah M. Richardson

The Sleeper Awakens by Mitchell Bryan

A Good Day To Die by Cristel Kaa Hedberg

Zombie Apocalypse Now! by Rachel Tsoumbakos // Part 1

A Moment with:

About the Author
Sanitarium Issue 1
Sanitarium (Horror and Dark Verse) Magazine Issue #1

By Richard Gladman, Barry Skelhorn, TeiJay, W.B Stickel, Patrick hayes, Rick Allden, Marie Robinson, Hannah M. Richardson, Mitchell Bryan, Cristel Kaa Hedberg & Rachel Tsoumbakos

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Richard Gladman, Barry Skelhorn, TeiJay, W.B Stickel, Patrick hayes, Rick Allden, Marie Robinson, Hannah M. Richardson, Mitchell Bryan, Cristel Kaa Hedberg & Rachel Tsoumbakos

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Thank you to all of our contributors, we couldn't of done it without you.
Issue One

Welcome and a big thank you for taking the time to pick up our first edition of Sanitarium Magazine. We have been hard at work reading countless submissions and selecting the best to make it into this premier issue. And we couldn't be happier with the ones that we have selected.

With the boom in self-publishing, now is the perfect time for authors from all four corners of the globe to come together and share stories. In our "Group Therapy" section we cover just that, with a look at Wattpad and what it means to its community of writers.

Of course Sanitarium would be nothing without its writers and I am happy to say the stories in this edition are second to none. I will not give anything away in this short letter but I hope you enjoy them as much as we did.

Remember we are open for submissions 365 days a year and the guidelines can be found on our website. If there are any comments or suggestions for us please feel free to drop me an email or post to our Facebook page – we are always listening.

So without further ado I declare the Sanitarium OPEN!

I hope you enjoy your stay .

Barry Skelhorn

Editor in Chief

Case File: #89547

The Lunch Pail by W.B. Stickel

The child burst out laughing, shattering the pleasant silence that had inched over the classroom.

Mr. Martin looked up from the paper he was grading and glanced querulously about the room, searching for the culprit. The din of hands slapping fiberboard drew his attention to Kevin Dunlap, one of the snottier kids he had this year.

"Kevin?" Mr. Martin said, putting his red grading pen down. "Mind telling me why you're disrupting our cherished study time?"

The black-haired boy stilled his hands. "Study time, muddy time!" he bellowed, slamming his feet down to punctuate the sentiment. "Who gives a shit?" Wearing a hyena grin, he jumped up out of his seat, plucked a textbook off of Suzie Stanton's desk and began tearing pages from it. He tossed each handful into the air and within seconds the classroom looked like a shaken snow globe.

"Mr. Martin!" Suzie squealed, her cheeks turning pink. "My book!"

A white hot anger flared within Mr. Martin, but he was quick to get it under control. He was a Hawkins man now, teacher of society's upper crust, and was required to carry himself with consummate professionalism. Failure to do so was grounds for dismissal. Given everything that was going on in his life—Doris taking the kids away and his liver barely hanging on—going off on the little shit as he wanted to was about the dumbest thing he could have done.

"Kevin," he said, getting up and moving towards the door, "put that book down and come with me into the hall."

The boy leered mischievously at Mr. Martin, then glanced back at Ethan Kellogg, who sat directly behind him. Ethan, the newest Hawkins enrollee, sat sphinx-like in his desk, his gaze trained straight ahead, his hands resting upon the old metallic lunch pail he always had with him. Kevin reached back and touched the pail, and he and Ethan exchanged a furtive look.

"Now, Kevin!" Mr. Martin said.

Kevin turned to Mr. Martin. "Sure thing, teach," he said and promptly tossed the book over his shoulder. It narrowly missed Suzie's head and skittered across the eco-friendly linoleum.

In the hall, Mr. Martin pointed to a spot along the wall where he wanted Kevin to stand. Kevin chose instead to position himself beneath one of the hallway's tall atrium-style windows and stare up at the late morning sun. He giggled and shook his head.

Mr. Martin took a deep breath. "Don't make me repeat myself."

The boy stared at the sun a trice longer, then shrugged and slowly meandered over to where Mr. Martin indicated. Along the way, he stripped off his blue student's blazer and threw it onto the ground—an act tantamount to flag-burning at Hawkins.

"Kevin!" Mr. Martin said, taken aback. "What in God's name has gotten into you today?"

Kevin shrugged. "It's coming to an end, Mr. M.," he said, stomping on the blazer as if trying to make polyester wine. He repeated the statement twice more, and all at once began punching himself in the face.

Mr. Martin went to stop the boy, but then abruptly drew his hands back, a voice in his head reminding him that school policy clearly forbid him from doing son. The exact text said "no touching of students in any aggressive manner", which left miles of room for unfavorable interpretation. "Stop that, Kevin! Stop it!" he said instead, as it was all he could do. "Please, you're going to break something! Come on now! Stop it!"

Much to Mr. Martin's relief, the boy's fists ceased their assault and dropped limply by his sides and Kevin sort of just slumped there like a deactivated robot.

The door to the classroom across the hall creaked open behind Mr. Martin. "Bill, everything okay?" a deep, sinuous voice queried.

Mr. Martin turned to find Mr. Sanford's hulking form poised in the room's doorway, his caramel brown eyes bouncing between Mr. Martin and Kevin Dunlop.

"Mike," Mr. Martin replied, glad to see the large, dark-skinned man, who he always thought looked just like Michael Duncan Clark in the film version of The Green Mile. "Yeah, not really." He went on to explain what had happened and asked his massive colleague if he wouldn't mind checking in on his class while he escorted Kevin down to Administration. "I might be a while," he added. "At least until the end of the period."

Mr. Sanford peered at the Dunlop boy, who'd taken to staring up the sun again. "Sure, Bill, sure," he said. "Take your time. I imagine he'll need to see Mrs. Skelly too." Mrs. Skelly was the school's counselor.

"I'd say so," Mr. Martin said, patting Mr. Sanford's brawny shoulder. Of all the people he worked with at Hawkins, Mr. Sanford was easily his favorite. Smart, generous, and unassuming, the man was everything a teacher could ask for in a hallmate. "Thanks a lot, Mike. I appreciate it. Just let me just tell my students what to expect for the rest of the hour and I'll take him down."

"You bet."

***

After Mr. Martin led Kevin away, Mr. Sanford returned to his own room and got his students started on a creative writing project. When he was sure they were aptly engaged, he crossed the hallway and went to conduct his initial check on Mr. Martin's class.

Before going in, he paused and looked at the intercom panel mounted next the room's door. Each classroom at the academy was fitted with a panel just like it; it allowed staff members to listen in on a class without disrupting it. During his nine-year tenure at Hawkins, Mr. Sanford had never the occasion to employ a panel's use. Supposing now was as good a time as any, he reached up and engaged the intercom. It came on with a soft click and he leaned in close to listen.

At first he heard nothing. Then Suzie Stanton's timid voice rose up out of the silence. "What is it?" she asked.

A boy's monotone reply came. "A gift from my father. He was kind of famous. Tom Kellogg?"

Murmurs rippled through the room but no one said they were familiar with the name. Mr. Sanford was, and he realized it was Ethan Kellogg who had just spoken.

"Doesn't matter," Ethan said. "All that matters is this." There was a creaking sound and the boy continued. "He left it in my room the night he went away. Come look."

Mr. Sanford disengaged the intercom. His face softened. He knew the Kellogg boy's story. Was it possible, he wondered, that the kid had chosen this lull in activity to share his profound tragedy with his classmates? After only a couple of days at Hawkins? If so, it was a pretty big deal.

Figuring he ought to give the boy a little privacy to say his piece, the big man trekked up and down the hall a couple of times, then returned to the door, rattled the handle noisily and went inside.

***

Principal Hume considered everything Mr. Martin had just told her. Then she sat back in her leather chair and peered up at the ornate ceiling above. The rest of her office was equally ornate, bedecked in dark oak furnishings, expensive artwork and shelves of old books. "And you have no inkling what prompted the outburst?" she asked.

"No ma'am," Mr. Martin replied honestly. "Not a clue. I mean."

The woman, who resembled a middle-aged Margaret Thatcher, turned to her computer's flat panel monitor and clicked through a program she had open. "As you can imagine, Mr. Dunlop's behavior warrants immediate expulsion, investigation to follow. I'll have to call his parents and have them come pick him up. Ah, yes, here we are. Karl and Elise Dunlop." She went to reach for her desk phone, but withdrew her hand and touched a finger to her lips. "Out of curiosity, Bill . . . you currently have Ethan Kellogg in your classroom, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Had he any interaction with Kevin at any time before Kevin's hysterics began?"

Mr. Martin ran through the last two days in his head. Ethan had been mouse-quiet the entire time, never raising his hand and only giving the tersest of replies when called upon. Mostly he just sat there gazing ahead or staring down at the old metal lunch pail he carried with him everywhere. The one with NASA embossed on the lid. "Not that I can remember. Why?"

"Not sure," said Principle Hume. "I got a funny feeling from the boy when his aunt enrolled him on Tuesday. She seemed a bit off, too, come to think of it."

"Understandable, given the history," Mr. Martin said.

Ethan, as they both well knew, had recently suffered a horrific family tragedy. Three months earlier his father, the celebrated astronaut "Major" Tom Kellogg, had murdered Ethan's mother while Ethan was asleep, then put a shotgun in his own mouth and pulled the trigger. According to the news, the man had done the last part in Ethan's bedroom.

"Yes," the principal agreed. "But I've seen my share of traumatized kids, and what I saw in his eyes, well it raised a flag, you know? The principal at Briar Hills mentioned something similar when I phoned him about Ethan. An impression he'd gotten. After the disturbance with the other students, he said he wished he had acted on it."

Mr. Martin arched an eyebrow. He'd heard a little about the incident at the other school, but details were murky. "What exactly did you see?"

"I don't know. I'd guess you'd say it was sort of a calculating—"

Her explanation was cut short by a scream that rang out from the office next to hers. "Oh no! Kevin! Somebody help!" It was the counselor, Mrs. Skelly.

Mr. Martin and Principal Hume jumped out of their chairs and scrambled into Mrs. Skelly's office. They found the young counselor stooped over Kevin Dunlop, her rail-thin hands held out towards the boy but not actually making contact with him. Spots of red stained her tawny skirt. Mr. Martin went to where she stood to get a better look at Kevin, something he regretted the instant he saw the pencils.

Tears rolled down the counselor's pale cheeks. "They were on the desk. I was just trying to get him to talk to me, when he grabbed them and did that."

Mr. Martin knelt over the boy and examined the injuries. The Number 2 pencils were a quarter-buried in kid's eyeballs, their eraser ends sticking out like arrow fletchings. There was blood, but less of it than Mr. Martin expected. Mr. Martin put his hand on Kevin's chest. The boy had a heartbeat and was still breathing.

Principal Hume pounced on Mrs. Skelly's phone and dialed 911. After explaining what had happened, she set the receiver down and peered at Kevin Dunlop.

The boy, coming back to consciousness, whooped and clapped his hands, reminding Mr. Martin of the Special Ed kids he'd worked with in the public schools. "Thought I could make it go away," he said. "But it's there and it's coming. You'll see." He clapped his hands again. Drool oozed from his mouth and piss spread down his pant legs.

***

Climbing the stairs to the second floor, Mr. Martin pondered what he might say to Kevin's classmates about what had just transpired. It wouldn't be easy. Despite his own distaste for the kid, Kevin was well-liked by most of his peers.

Whatever he told them, it'd have to be brief. The police were on their way, as were Kevin's parents, and Principal Hume wanted him back before they all arrived.

As he reached the top of the stairwell, he found himself contemplating how nice it would be to stop by Haverty's later on and unwind by knocking back a few shooters.

He would do no such thing, of course. He'd been on the wagon five weeks running and he wasn't about to hop off now. No, after work he'd drive straight home like a good boy and fall asleep in front of the TV. Anything else and he'd likely ruin what little chance he had of getting his family back.

Reaffirming the sageness of this to himself, he reached the top of the stairwell and entered the hallway. "All right," he said, drawing upon his classroom. "Be honest with them. Be gentle. And don't dawdle."

He took a breath, released it, and pushed open the door.

Two things struck him with the force of a baseball bat the instant he stepped inside. The first was the room's state. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought a small tornado had just whipped through there, leaving the place in shambles. Desks were scattered everywhere, some upside down, others on their sides, and the floor was covered in a layer of folders, books, and bits of crumpled paper.

The second thing was the behavior of his students.

Of the fifteen he'd left in Mr. Sanford's care, eight were presently loping about the room like feral monkeys, cooing and cawing and attacking anything that struck their fancy, including each other. Suzie Stanton and Celia Williams, meanwhile, stood in separate corners at the back of the room, ramming their faces into the nooks where the walls met. Both were bleeding heavily from their heads and fragments of teeth lay at their feet. Three others—Nick Ashton, Mike Goldman and Lily Loprario—had taken to painting the class's earth-tone walls with red-tipped fingers. Each babbled incessantly as they drew strange symbols, their tongues spewing gibberish.

"Doesn't last long!" Lily Loprario suddenly cried as she scampered over to Max Hoffman's body, which lay prostrate beneath the classroom's whiteboard. When she got to the dead boy, she went down on her haunches and jammed her hand deep into the pulsing gash that had been Max's throat, retipping her fingers.

The remaining student was Ethan Kellogg. Unlike the rest his classmates, he was still at his desk, with his hands resting upon his lunch pail.

Agog with disbelief, Mr. Martin swiveled his head left and noticed something else then. A large half-naked man crouching over a much smaller figure.

" . . . Mike?" Mr. Martin said weakly.

Mr. Sanford gave a slight tick of the head but did not look up in acknowledgement. He instead kept his gaze fixed on the woman trapped beneath him. Mr. Martin couldn't see the woman's face, buried as it was in a pool of crimson. But he could see that she had frizzy gray hair and liver spotted hands, which made him think of Mrs. Stansbury, the crotchety old bat from down the hall. Why the big man would be crouching over her like that, shirtless and predatory, was a complete mystery.

"Jesus, Mike," he said. 'What the hell are you doing?"

Mr. Sanford replied by grabbing a handful of gray hair and jerking upward, revealing a skinless red mass of muscle and bone where a face should have been.

"Christ!" Mr. Martin exclaimed, stumbling backwards and crashing hard into the classroom door.

Mr. Sanford's eyes at last drifted up from his quarry and settled on Mr. Martin. A devious grin cut a half moon across his face. "Wanted to see what she really looked like," he said. "I always knew she was ugly." On the floor in front of the dead woman sat a pair of yellow handled scissor—the exact same kind Mr. Martin kept in his desk drawer. Mr. Sanford leaned over, snatched the scissors, and buried them into the side of Mrs. Stansbury's head. "Wrong this whole time, Bill," he said as if talking about global warming or the Dodger's chances of having decent season. He stood erect, released the woman's corpse and started toward Mr. Martin.

Mind reeling, Mr. Martin tore the door open and fled into the hall. Not a second later, his shirtless colleague exploded from the room and came barreling after him. Mr. Martin made a scared, bleating sound and bolted as fast as he could for the stairwell.

A far superior athlete, Mr. Sanford closed the gap between them fast. By the time Mr. Martin thought to cry out again. Mr. Sanford's strong arms were closing around him in a fierce hug. Mr. Martin gasped. The big man squeezed hard and carried them laughing into the large picture window at the end of the hall. The window shattered on impact and gravity pulled the two men head first into the unforgiving pavement below.

***

Ethan Kellogg closed up his lunch pail and ambled across the hall to Mr. Sanford's classroom. The door was open and the majority of Mr. Sanford's students were huddled within it, drawn by the teachers' shouts and the sound of glass breaking. Ethan maneuvered through the group and made his way to Mr. Sanford's desk.

"What's going on out there?" a tall blonde boy asked fretfully. "What was that noise?"

Ethan set the pail down on Mr. Sanford's desk, opened the lid and pointed at the artifact inside. "Want to see something neat?" he said.

The blonde boy frowned. " . . .What?"

Ethan cast his gaze at the rest of the children. After a short, hesitant spell, they all trickled over to see what was in the pail.

"Anyone heard of the T-168 asteroid?" Ethan asked.

A short red-haired girl with tons of freckles said yes. "Didn't a space shuttle fly up to it in the summer?" She went quiet and squinted at Ethan. Vague recognition glinted in her eyes. "You're the new boy, aren't you? Your father—he was on the shuttle, right?"

Ethan nodded. "The science officer." He went on to explain how, during the mission, his father had discovered the artifact embedded in the enormous asteroid's surface. And how, after extracting it and understanding it, he brought it on board and showed it to the rest of the crew, three of whom immediately vacated the shuttle and lifted their face shields. The other three, Ethan said, had stayed aboard and helped his father fly the shuttle home. After nearing Earth's orbit, though, they removed their suits and jettisoned themselves into the vacuum of space.

Ethan picked the artifact up, then skipped ahead to when NASA finally let his father go home. "He came into my room the first night back. Told me about the asteroid. Said it really wasn't an asteroid at all. Said it came from the nothing-space just beyond the edge of everything." Ethan raised the artifact. It looked like a hunk of metal and rock with a hole at its center. "He told me this called to him. Made him find it. But said his job was over and needed me to show everyone."

"What . . . is it?" the red-haired girl asked.

Ethan set the artifact back into the pail. He waved his hand at it like a magician. "Look," he urged.

Each of the students gazed long and hard at the object, concentrating on the hole, which showed them the white of the nothing-space and the truth of what waited there. One by one, they all then wandered away. Some stayed within the room, frothing and keening and caving in on themselves. Others went out into the hallway, laughing and drooling, eager to spread the inglorious word. The experiment was finally over. The creator was coming to wipe the slate clean and start anew.

Ethan closed the pail's lid and exited the room. As he stepped past a pair of students locked in a contest to see who could pull the other's tongue out first, he heard sirens wailing in the distance. Pleased, for it meant crowds would be gathering soon, he started down the hall towards Mrs. Stansbury's room.

The End.

Case File: #95448

4 Promises by TeiJay

Today I made a promise.

Many of you won't believe that it is a big deal but in fact promises are very important in my life, for I can not break a promise or I will be put to death.

I have made 4 promises in my life, these 16 are to various people.

No one knows about the agreement of my death, and I promised I would never tell a soul what I did to fulfil them.

The first promise I ever made was many years ago.

I was a curious adolescent who was very interested in the girl living in the house across from me. She was so beautiful. Her hair, the colour of soft mud was long and always pulled back. Her face gleamed pale and her Cognac coloured eyes would stare intrigued at me every time she saw me looking at her and then her soft pink lips would reveal a smile that only lasted a few seconds but is still to this day in my dreams.

She befriended me and we were very close, we had gotten to the stage that I had felt her skin upon mine during the depths of night and our hearts moved in sync with our bodies.

One night she came to me, her face deadened and asked me,

"Never forget me."

I had given her my word and she left me with a single kiss.

I can still remember the feeling of her lips, of that last kiss before her parents found her strung up by her beautiful gullet to the tree in their back garden.

***

I have loved other women in my lifetime but to this day I have never forgotten her, my first love.

***

The second promise I made was only a year later.

I had left my parents home, trying to leave my life behind and leave the people I loved as to never lose another. Unfortunately my ability to love was reaching for another woman to latch onto. I met her when in my travels around Brittain.

She was not a beauty, she was not kind, but she had my heart.

Her face was menacing and hard, her skin was not soft and warm like my past love but cold and her bones stuck through her thin skin.

I do not remember much about this woman but the night we made love she whispered into my ear the second thing I would promise someone in my lifetime,

"Promise me that you will find another girl to love and you will do everything to have one night with her."

When asked why she didn't answer.

In the morning, her unsightly body was found shrivelled in the bathtub, her face under the brim and her straw flaxen hair floating like smoke in the water.

I knew she was gone.

That 2nd promise dwelled in my mind for two years before I put it into place.

I had met a very average, clean cut and somehow oddly lovely woman who had moved in my neighbourhood.

She had not fallen in love with me but she had trusted enough to let me drive her to my favourite picnic spot.

That night I had deflowered her and had taken her life myself.

I had made a promise to love and to give love and that is what I did.

All of the women I had loved had died.

All of their pink cheeks were drained, their bodies now decaying in graves and why were they all dead?

My hideous second love asked me to find another girl, she was going to leave me.

My Third love didn't want me so I had to make sure no one else could have her.

My beautiful First love was the only girl pure and lovely enough for myself.

I broke one promise, to never tell anyone my agreement.

The one I made to myself on the day my first love died.

I would never break a promise or the penalty would be death.

So here I am writing my last words as the gun under my chin is cocked and perfect.

My death will be painless and soon I shall join my love.

I killed those women to keep my promise to the girl who I had loved 6 years ago.

To never forget her I must never have anyone else to take her place and therefore my life was doomed as soon as I said the words,

"I promise."

The End.

Case File: #23365

Bait by Patrick Hayes

A Gnarled arthritic hand grasped the handle to the crusty unwashed pan, the old man placed it on a small gas burner. Grumbling, he took up the bean grinder and began to twist the handle, satisfied with the crunching sound of the cheap coffee beans being crushed. He opened the grinder and dumped the coffee directly into the water filled pan.

Stepping away from the small gas stove he began to search through the pile of unwashed dishes in the sink. Extracting a fork from its semi-permanent resting place he tapped it on the edge of the counter knocking lose god only knows what kind of food remnant.

Gumming the forks handle he took up the large can of capers, turning the small key. The tin lid began to roll back with ease. Snorting in the heavy fish scent, he grunted approval. Stabbing the fork into one of the small fish he lifted it to his near toothless mouth.

The one room shack was barely lit by the lone light bulb that hung down over the kitchen sink. At four thirty a.m. daylight had not begun to creep in through the cracks in the clapboard siding but the cold New England wind whistled through with no problem. The shack was filthy with discarded dishes and food refuse. The old man only owned one pair of clothes which he wore at all times; hole-riddled wool socks and woolen trousers. He wore a cotton shirt under an old, mangled and stained knit sweater.

The coffee began to boil; he took the pan off the burner and poured the coffee along with the grounds into a stained and dented metal thermos. He dropped the pan back onto the small stove top. He had long ago stopped being concerned with what was where or whether it was clean.

He finished the capers and wiped away the fish grease from his yellow stained mustache and beard. The old man did not need a clock to tell him the time of day; he had been rising before the sun in Jonesport for more than seventy years. Working the trollers, at first a simple linesmen, then deckman and finally, for the last twenty years of his fishing days, the Captain of the "Boy Ben" troller out of Jonesport.

"Oh Boy Ben I miss ya." The old man mumbled to himself, as he sat in the split and cracked wooden chair next to the cluttered table in the room. Reaching down he slid his work boots on up to his knees. His back creaked and cracked with the effort.

Standing and walking across the room, he put on a large worn seal-skin coat and buttoned it up the front. He reached out and plopped a weathered seal-skin bucket hat onto his bald head.

"No fish gon'to be catching himself."

The old man grabbed the thermos of coffee, twisting the lid to seal it. He walked to the front door and lifted the simple piece of wood on a nail swivel he used to lock the shack from the inside. Opening the door, he stepped out into the cold darkness of near morning.

A light patter of rain met him on the gravel path his shack lay on, up the hill from the old seaside harbor. He looked out over the bay, lifted his lip and snarled at the new glistening trollers tied to their mooring in the new safe-side harbor.

"These men call themselves fishermen . . . blarrggh!" he muttered. "Still asleep in their soft beds, fat women curled up next to'em. Afraid of a little rain and wind."

The old man turned and shut the door to his shack, latching it shut with a rope. How many times in the last few years had the lazy good-fer-nothin's been up to try and have "Old Ned Keeley" moved out of his place and down to a home for the aged and dying. Looking down the rain slicked gravel path, 'To hell with the lot of them' the old man thought.

"I aint going no place but to my boat and to my shack, and the first man tries to stop me gets a gaff hook upside his fat head."

A small yellow dog stepped around the corner of the shack and looked up at the old fishermen. The dog was soaked to the skin and hoping for a scrap of food.

The old man kicked his foot out trying to connect with the little mutt. "Bahh! Get on you mangy tramp. No food comes to free-boatin mongrel flea ridden scamps like you." The little dog nimbly jumped to the side to avoid the kick. It had learned to dodge the old man's feeble attacks each morning as it made its rounds scrounging for food.

Starting down the gravel path, the dog followed the old man at a safe distance. "You're just like the rest of this lot. You want something the easy way. These new boat captains wouldn't know a hard day's work on the lines if it rose from the depths and bit them on their cherry soft asses."

"They tell me I'm too old to captain a boat, too old to work a deck, too old to man a line." Turning, he spat at the yellow dog. "To hell with them and all their fat faced women and fat faced children."

The gravel path let out onto the walkway along the old rotted seaside pier. No boats berthed here any longer. Only a few old derelicts and his little dory, not much more than a flat bottomed row boat. The small one man fishing boat was all that was left of his beloved "Boy Ben" troller. They left it to him when they took the old boat away to salvage for his debts.

The old man pulled the seal-skin tarpaulin off the top of the boat and stepped down into it. He looked back over his shoulder at the steel hulled trollers berthed in lines under bright lights in the safety of the harbor. The little dog stood on the walkway staring at him. Grimacing, he shook his fist at it.

"Piss off you tramp." He turned and looked at the row of houses along the hillside. "And piss on you soft bastards to. Lie in your beds and leave the fishin to Ned Keeley . . . LAST of the true Jonesport Captains!"

Slipping the dory from its mooring, the little boat bobbed in the rough slapping waves. The old man placed the long oars in their rings and sat down, he began to pull against the surface of the water and slowly the dory set out away from the dock. He pulled with calm relaxed strokes, as he had done for the last five years since he lost "Boy-Ben". Rowing, he watched as Jonesport came into full view as he rounded the headlands. The town was washed in a heavy mist as the rain fell from still dark skies. The first pinks of dawn were creeping up into the grey black sky above him in the east.

The old man pulled at the oars until Jonesport was off his starboard side and he was well past the breakers. He knew he would never find the big fish this close but he dare not take the dory much further out for fear of catching a swift current and ending up in Shorey Cove or Englishman Bay before he could get back to coastland.

He stowed the oars and turned to the front locker, flipping the old wood cover, he took out the large sea rod and reel and put them together. His aged hands had trouble setting the reel and line. He checked the jointed artificial bait and stood up. Swinging the reel back then forward with a mighty heave, he cast the bait far to stern. The old man sat the rod down and pulled a worm eaten woolen blanket out of the lock box. Piling it up on the wooden bench in the middle of the dory, he sat down taking up the rod and reel.

"Come now you cold dead eyed bastards! Give yourself up for my purse is light and I need a good drink."

A cold wind was blowing out of the east, the Old Man kne there would be a heavy rain, but what was it to him. He had taken Ole Boy Ben out in the worst of it in sixty three and again in the great storm of sixty eight. He had weathered those storms, and he could weather a bit of this one as well. He'd show those limp wristed twits, no storm keeps Ned Keeley from the sea.

"Too old to work a boat." The old man harrumphed.

He settled into bobbing and casting his bait, as the light drizzle of rain continued to fall. The little dory rode the waves like a cork as the dark waters swelled and rolled around the boat. The line of black clouds was gliding over head as the great front neared the shore. Shadows passed over the old man and he looked up from under his glistening bushy brow. Beneath the waves a darker shadow slid.

"Hrmm." The old man muttered as he considered the strength of the coming storm. Perhaps this one might be a bit more than his little dory could take. He grimaced at thinking himself as weak willed as the younger fisherman safe at home now in their beds. He cast his line out again with a snarl.

The drizzle became steady rain, as the skies began to unleash. A peel of lightning lit across the sky as the front winds began to buffet the old man. He looked over his shoulder at the incoming storm far out at sea.

"All be to hell." He grumped and started to reel in the line intent on making the shore before the heavy soaking began.

The line went rigid. The old man's eyes widened as the thrill of the catch set on him. "What's this now." He muttered gently pulling back on the rod, testing the line. The rod bent over the edge of the dory in a long arc.

"Oh, now she's a heavy one. Maybe a yankee cod, or a big haddock." The old man mutterd. "Good money no doubt. Now let's give her a test."

The old man yanked hard on the rod and the line sang in the rain as it went tight. He strained and grunted at pulling the rod back and tried to reel a few times. He planted his rubber boots against the side walls of the dory and rocked back on the seat, pulling hard. It felt like he was hauling in the bottom of the ocean.

"Oh now this old whore is heavy. She's a heavy old bitch of fish!" He exclaimed.

Around the dory, the sea was churning dark, white crested waves began to slap against the small wooden boat. The currents churned and the small boat had drifted in circles, the old man now faced the black horizon and the coming storm. If he could just pull this fish up to the surface he knew he could gaff hook the bastard to death, tie it to the side of the dory and make like hell for the docks.

The old man strained back and pulled. He felt the line give a little; the bastard was coming up, inch by inch. He leaned forward and reeled as quick as he could, preparing for the next hard haul.

A wave broke over the side of the dory sending heavy salt spray into the old man's face. He sputtered and spat, shook his head and pulled.

"C'mon you fucking whore fish!" he screamed into the roaring wind. The small boat spun in a circle around the taught line. Lightning cracked over head as the dark clouds were illuminated. They rolled and churned above him, like billowing giants wrestling in the storm shrouded sky.

Another massive wave struck the side of the dory, pitching the small boat hard on its side. The old man dug his heels into the sides of the boat and stood, bracing himself. One of the oars leapt into the air, knocked loose by the wave and splashed into the sea next to the boat. The old man's eyes widened, looking between the oar quickly bobbing away and the rod in his hands.

"To hell with you bastard." He screamed at the oar as it floated away. "I can make it back with your one lonesome mate. NOW . . . Up, UP, UP you damn fish!" he screamed as he pulled with all his strength.

Lightning cracked around him as the dark clouds seemed to have descended to the sea's surface. The rain came in heavy sheets, pelting the old man and the dory. It ran in heavy streams down his face, off his coffee and tobacco stained whiskers.

The shore line was no longer visible, all was grey and wet. White capped waves smashed into one another from all directions. The sea churned around the little dory. In front of the old man, he could see his tight line going out into the water. The dark sea seemed to bubble and froth. Water rose in front of him as something began to emerge.

Slickened leathery skin erupted from the waters; its color a mottled grey and green, covered in slime and barnacles, growing things clung to its surface. As it continued to rise, a pair of cold black eyes appeared from the water, glaring at the old man from under a wicked and twisted brow.

The old man stumbled back over his bench and slammed down into the dory, one hand grasping the side of the boat, the other holding on to the rod. His mouth gaping open, he stammered at the site of those giant eyes rising from the sea.

The monstrosity from the waters now loomed over the small boat, its face a twisted mass of tentacles whipping and slamming into the surface of the water, its intelligent eyes peering down on the old man. As it rose further and the old man saw the head sat upon a neck and shoulders, covered in the same deep sea slime.

"Jaysus . . . God in Heaven!" He screamed as he threw the rod at the watery demon.

The tentacles parted and the beast opened a gaping mouth lined with spiked teeth. A blast of sound erupted like the long distance wail of a ships fog horn. The old man fell to his knees in the small boat and crossed his hands in prayer; he closed his eyes, shaking in the beating rain. He prayed out loud but his words were lost in the gale force winds and crashing waves.

The beast from the sea dove forward, its maw widening and it slammed into the small dory. The old man's body disappeared into the toothed lined mouth, crumpled and bloody. The dory flew into pieces, wood raining down into the dark waters that now churned in froth and blood. A massive dark shadow swirled beneath the surface and disappeared into the black beneath.

***

Small boards, an oar and other flotsam washed up along the rough rocky shoreline of Jonesport. The storm had slammed into the small seaside town with fury and wrath, but now it abated. The dark sky was giving way as a dull grey and steady rain blanketed the old port.

A small yellow dog picked its way through the rocks near the harbor; it stopped and hopped onto a large boulder that jutted out of the sea. A weathered seal-skin bucket hat had washed up upon the rock. The little dog sniffed the hat, turned sideways and lifted his leg. A steaming hot stream of piss splashed down. The dog stepped forward, lifted his chin and raked his rear paws on the rock then jumped down and traipsed on his way along the coast.

The End.

Case File: #81145

Bricks In The Dark by Rick Allden

I knocked again, desperation evident on my tearing knuckles. He hadn't been in the University for a month his secretary had said, but my papers were due and he'd promised to help. I counted the milk bottles once more. Eight. I tried the handle. The lock felt loose. Looking around I saw that I was alone in the street; the house was cut off a little anyhow, the overgrown front garden obscuring me from the street. I forced the door with my shoulder; the lock giving way before I'd had time to reconsider. If the Professor wasn't there then this would a criminal act. I took a breath to steady myself and nearly gagged at the taste of decay.

I put my unease to the back of my mind, and instead focussed upon finding him. I pushed the door, expecting it to open easily now the lock was broken, but something was blocking it from the inside. I tried again, something in the smell urging me on, but the object was immovable. I hurried around the house, looking for a rear entrance. I tried the back door, but it was sealed off in a similar manner. The corrugated glass was old and blackened but through it the bricks were noticeable; the windows too. More bricks were piled a little further up, by a mound of bulging bin liners. There was space to get inside there, the brickwork not yet completed, but no light was giving out. I sunk to my hands and knees and began to crawl over the bloated dead flies.

The line of light that followed me in refused to go further than a few feet. Occasional chinks of light would force their way between the bricks. I could make out small edges and surfaces, but the rest of the house was black as pitch. I was in now, but had no idea where to start. I'd never found a body before, and dreaded finding his. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the gloom; my skin dampening in the heat. Looking to my right, I could see an area that seemed the brightest and so resolved to start there; I tried to stand but struck more brickwork immediately, as if the house narrowed as it rose. Sinking back to my haunches, I proceeded to crawl like a baby. Though I could feel the mounds of flies stroking the insides of my fingers, it was safer down there. Along with the sickly, sweet aroma the flies were sign enough that my lecturer had surely passed away and had been left there untended. I crawled quickly, ignoring the horrors flattened by my hands.

I could see the shape of the chair. Something like foil rested on a table next to it and caught the light that pierced the slabs. The entire house seemed lined with brick, but the join ahead of the seat was undoubtedly deliberate. Light had been required here. I moved to the front of the chair ready to find my lecturer dead. In that second I knew that I could handle it. I was glad that someone who had seen him in his prime, waving ancient Egyptian artefacts around his lecture hall was to be the one to find him. The chair was empty; save for a large, old book. Books were piled next to the chair too, between that and the old table, glowing ashen with age. This was where the Professor, the Egyptology academic, would conduct his research. The pipe on the foil showed the state in which he liked to do it. I was overcome with sadness. He had died somewhere else in the darkness, in his bricked up tomb. His student wouldn't be the first to find him, strangers would do that. I tried to remember my route, and began to crawl out.

The flies didn't bother me as much now. Indeed, if my hands touched pre-flattened insects then I knew that I was on the right route. I started to welcome the mix of the hard, unbreakable, old flies and the soft, fleshy resistance of the newly dead. How long had he been in here? I increased my speed but soon came to a wall. This wasn't the right way. I began to edge backwards when my hand landed in something slippery, something thick. I felt it oozing down my arm, carrying with it the heat of the room. I recoiled, gagging, the smell of an ill-tended butchers, and struck a cabinet behind me. There was a movement in the air and something smashed. The new smell instant. Medicinal. Surgical. A scream came from above; instantly followed by frenzied movement. Something was coming for me. In that moment, I knew I had become prey.

The adrenaline jabbed as ice in my spine; I was only vaguely aware of the glass shards stabbing and slashing at my hands and knees as I moved. Thud. Thud. Thud. Faster. Determined. It was coming downstairs. It was moving faster than I could crawl. The scream came again; louder, inhuman. I rose to my feet, began to run and felt blinding, staggering pain as my head struck the bricks.

The nausea came first. I could still smell the awful contents of that glass; we'd used concentrated formaldehyde once in class and it settled onto the nasal lining, reluctant to vanish easily. I slowly opened my eyes. A candle flickered somewhere. I thought again of the smell of ethanol. I thought of an inferno, at once both lighting my escape and consuming me. I blotted out. I took stock. I lay on my back, and in this new half-light, I could see that the house rose to a point. It wasn't perfect, and I could see the workings and clippings where there had been crude changes and restructure, but I could see what he'd done. He'd built a pyramid. Panic started to creep in as I realised that my arms were strapped down to a mattress beneath. The mattress had been hardened, various stains demanded I think upon how no further. To all intents and purposes, it was a slab. Aslab tilted towards the floor, channels and grooves painstakingly chipped out; a passage for fluids. I looked to my bonds and knew all as I saw the embalming tools scattered about me, glinting in the light of the flame.

The shadow fell. What had been my professor stood above me. He coughed continuously, bloodied spittle projecting from his raw, shredded mouth. Flecks landed wetly upon my face. Sounds inhuman swirled above me as he talked himself through the procedure. I saw the canopic jars and guessed that his tongue lay within one; he must've removed it himself. As he reached across for one of the needles next to my head, the sounds instantly changed. They were of pain now, howls, the blood flowing freely from his abdomen. The shirt had bunched and had been stuffed inside the wound beneath, the kidney undoubtedly in another of the jars. Another howl came from behind him. Someone else was in here. The turned towards the noise. I saw that a section of his hair, skin and skull had been removed.

Another table lay distant, next to an open, burning fire. Across it lay a bloodied pulp, swathed in linen. It screamed as it tried to move within its bandages. The professor poured spirit into his hand as he walked and held it across the figure's face until the screaming subsided. Then a screech dredged from Hell; in the light of the blaze I saw the professor remove the heart of the thing and throw it to the fire. He slowly, painfully, turned back to face me. Each layer of my skin tightened in terror. I tried to lift my head, I saw other mummified figures around the room. Some large, some smaller. Animals? Children? I fought the heaviness of my skull and tried to lift still further. My stomach ripped apart.

My babbling prayers were for unconsciousness, death, whatever would take me away from the anguish, the acute, concentrated feeling of each fibre of the skin of my stomach pulling away from each other, doused with the acids from within. When it came, the Professor's cloth was a relief. I felt the ebb and flow of consciousness, unable to separate reality from dream or thought.

I saw as he put his hands towards my abdomen, the pain fast reducing to a dull ache. I saw things, organs, lifted free of my body and placed carefully into jars. As I was eviscerated, I felt myself slip into dreams but would awaken again, each time to the visible surprise of the Professor. Again without pain, I felt the pressure building in my legs, moving up to my stomach and chest. I was being wrapped. Each finger separately. Water first, then dried meticulously. Protected in bandages that nothing could penetrate. Then to my skull. The smell of death blasted my face and my eyes opened once more to see the Professor's face inches from mine. The last thing I saw was his drained, bloodless face registering shock, before the bandages covered me entirely.

Consciousness washed in and out, the void occasionally punctured by distant screams and deaths. Occasional strokes of light would stroke the linen that enveloped me. I would feel his hand, his touch. Then it ended, and, as a rat scurrying over prone flesh, the pain came. Slight at first. Brushed on with delicacy. Then the bite, then the terror, then the torment. A purity of agony punctuated by nothing but fresh bouts. Then, somewhere beyond the torture I could hear him. Someone new. Someone who had entered the house, bricks crumbling as they came. Slovenly, I rose to my feet. The steps were slow. Alien. But they worked. I would find the intruder and pass on my torment. There was nothing else.

The End.

Case File: #83445

She Comes To Call by Marie Robinson

It was a night on which the air was still, and the coal-colored sky was blanketed by a cover of cobwebby clouds. They hung in wispy strips, swirling on the face of the moon like the foggy realm of a gypsy's crystal ball.

Below, the land was swelled with great grassy hills, and nestled in the belly of this wide and rolling valley was a small farm. The farm—made up of a cottage, stables, and fields—lay cradled in the shadows of the mounds.

Crossing the field were two brothers, leading their horses to the stable to settle in for the night. The two brown stallions trudged sleepily behind them, their big silky eyelids beginning to droop when a strange sound caught their ears. They stopped, craning their necks high and twisting their heads to and fro as they searched the dark landscape.

Their eyes, black and shiny as a doll's, caught sight of a figure tearing down one of the slopes. It ran wildly, waving its arms and whipping its head 'round, stealing desperate glances over its shoulder.

The boys fixed their baffled eyes upon the creature as it charged towards them.

"Father?" Cried Davey, the younger brother, who had round, sad eyes upon his face and thick brown curls upon his head.

"What the devil are you running from?" Called Mickey, the elder brother, whose face was long and narrow and hair was slick and black.

An old man—their father—ran up with an ashen face, his eyes bulging. He collapsed into their arms, sucking in wheezing breaths, holding his hand to his heart as if to catch it if it burst through his chest.

"Davey, put the horses away," Mickey barked as he eased the old man onto the ground to lean back against a fence post.

Davey ignored him and bent down to look into his father's fearful eyes. He spoke to him, his tone concerned. "What's happened, Father?"

The old man sighed until he caught his breath, then he inhaled deeply and unwound the strange yarn. "I was out walking 'round the hills, feelin' the fresh moonlight on my withered, old skin. As I strode across the landscape, I heard a sweet sound in my ears. It was a song caught on the wind, the gentle voice of a woman bobbing on the breeze.

"As I followed the sound I saw a shining through the trees. It wasn't the moon, for I looked up and saw her buried snugly beneath the clouds. The light was streaming through the tree trunks, cloudy and white, and I began to walk towards it.

"The light was formed at the edge of a pond, tall and straight like a pillar. I drew closer, squinting my eyes from its brightness. When my old eyes finally focused I saw that it was a ghostly woman, and the glow was coming right out of her skin!

"She had long, white hair hanging down her back, draped in a long gown that went down to her ankles. Her thin, dainty feet were floating just above the ground, her toes brushed the grass as she hovered lightly in the air.

"She seemed so familiar, my heart began to swell as I looked upon her. Although her face was turned to the water, I was sure that it was the image of my dear late wife, your darlin' mother, and so, I called out to her.

"'Catherine...'

"She slowly turned, and as she did I saw that it was not the face of my Catherine, but the mean, twisted face of a hag! Her cheeks sagged off of the bones and appeared dry and ancient like a creature long dead, and her eyes were sharp and black like a crow's. Upon seeing me her singing stopped and became a high, shrill shrieking.

"I clapped my hands over my ears but I could not escape the awful sound that closed in around my skull like a vice.

"She reached out for me with her long, white fingers, jagged yellow nails protruding from each end. I turned and I fled and I dared not look back until I reached home."

He shuddered, his damp blue eyes growing wide.

"Is she still behind me?" He whispered.

"Of course not," snarled Mickey. He was peering down with a stony face, still holding the two horses by the reins.

Davey placed his hands on his father's shoulders and surveyed his fear-stricken face. "What was it, Father?" He asked. "A ghost?"

"No, boy," his father shook his head gravely. "She is crueler than any ghost. No... the thing I saw was a banshee!"

The old man crumpled and began to sob into the dirt.

"Father, please!" Mickey roared. "You're beginning to sound senile."

"I saw her with me own eyes, boy!" Father spat angrily. "And every man in Ireland knows, if you see the banshee, and you hear her deathly song, it means you're going to die!"

The old man wailed, slapping his wrinkled hands over his eyes.

"He's delirious," declared Mickey. "You've lost your mind wandering around in those hills, old man! Davey, get him in to bed. I'll bring in the horses."

***

Davey softly closed the door as he left his father's bedroom.

"He's not well," he said with worry on his young face, innocent as a curly-haired calf.

His brother Mickey sat before a crackling fire. His face was blank, his eyes glared deeply into the flames.

Davey sat down and turning to his brother, he spoke, "Do you think he really saw her, Mickey?"

Mickey swung his blazing gaze from the flames to Davey.

"No," he said coldly. "Of course not."

"I've never seen him so worked up before..."

Mickey stood up, the scarlet firelight dancing on his pale skin.

"Don't you go crazy too," he growled. "He's just a sick old man realizing he's on his death bed."

Davey's eyes watered like two round blue wells. He looked down, his face full of hurt.

The door to the bedroom burst open.

Their father stood in the doorway, his long gaunt face dripping with sweat and fear. He had a strange look on his face, much like one who has risen to walk in their sleep.

"I hear her, boys," he said gravely, stepping out of the darkness of the doorframe. "I hear her moanin'. It's echoing through the hills."

"Father, go back to sleep," cooed Davey, standing up from his chair.

"She's comin' to collect me!" He howled. "To snatch me up in her cold, blue arms and drag me to darkness!"

"Father!" cried Davey.

"Shut up, you old fool!" Mickey bellowed, his eyes bright with flame and anger. "You keep babbling this nonsense you'll be sleeping in the stable with the horses!"

Davey looked upon his brother with bewilderment, and took his father by the arm.

"Come, Father," said Davey softly. "Let's get you back in bed." He guided his father back into his bedroom.

Mickey glared them down until the door quietly closed.

The bedroom was small, containing only a bed, a chair, and a window with drawn curtains. Davey helped his old father ease into bed, pulling the blankets up around his neck.

"Father, you mustn't worry yourself like this." Davey pulled the wooden chair up to the side of the bed and sat down. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his father's forehead. "You're making yourself ill. Why do you think you're going to die?"

His father clutched at the blankets with gnarled fingers, his eyes wild.

"'Cause I saw her, boy!" He barked. "The hag of the mist! She is a messenger of death."

His father shook his head sadly and lay down with a thump.

Davey felt his eyes well up with tears as he looked down up on his elderly father. He only just realized how small and wrinkled he had become; he looked like a little raisin tucked into the sheets.

"Whoever says that death is faceless, they're wrong. It's not something that can't be seen—I saw it on the face of your mother the day she passed. Thankfully you were too young to remember that. It was an ugly thing. Your mother was beautiful, and then death came over her and it dried her up, it turned her silky hair to hay, her golden skin to ash.

"Ever since that day I've been frightened of death, so I thought of nothing but my work, and my two sweet boys."

Davey smiled and held his father's hand.

"But now," he continued, "I've seen death herself! I've looked into her cold, black eyes, and now, my dear boy, I'm terrified."

Father's pale blue eyes filled up with tears. He closed them, and the tears spilled out down his wrinkled cheeks.

"I can't sleep with that howling," Davey's father whimpered. "It creeps into my ears like a cold wind."

"Father, the howling has stopped." Davey spoke. "All is quiet now."

"I hear her, boy!" His father cried. "That hollow voice is ringing through the hills, ringing in my ears like mad!"

"I don't hear anything," Davey said uneasily.

His father peered up from the bed sheets with bloodshot eyes. He gathered the blanket and drew it up around his face. "That's 'cause only the one who's to die can hear her calls. Oh!" He shouted, twisting in his bed, bringing his hands to his ears. "She's knocking on the window! I hear her rapping her knuckles against the glass."

"Wait!" Whispered Davey. "I hear it, too."

As the father and son fell quiet, both clearly heard a series of small, sharp taps on the window, which was concealed by the curtains.

Davey slowly rose from the chair. His face had gone pale and damp.

"No!" His father cried. "Davey, don't!"

As Davey approached the window the taps became louder and sharper in his ears. A tension bubbled within his chest, his heart thumped so hard he feared it would beat itself to death.

"Davey, please, don't let her in!" His father begged, flattening himself against the bed, wrapping the sheets around himself like a cocoon. "I don't want to die!"

The thumping of his heart and the crude tapping on the glass were all that Davey could hear as he reached out and took the curtains in his hands, and yanked them open to reveal a countryside of dark hills illuminated by a bright white moon, broken free of the cover of clouds.

He looked out, searching for the source of the knockings, and only when he looked down did he realized that they came from nothing but a bare, slender vine that crept up the side of the house.

Davey's breath rushed from his lips, he felt the coldness melt away from his skin and the warmth return.

"Oh, father," said Davey joyfully, "it's just a branch!"

***

Davey wore a little smile as he gazed down at his father, who lay asleep in the bed; the old man looked peaceful at last.

He rose from the char and tiptoed across the room, stopping to draw in the curtains on the window.

When he quietly shut the door and reentered the den the fire was still crackling, and his brother Mickey was asleep in the same chair he had been resting in before.

Davey passed through the room and pulled the curtain back to peer out into the night. The moon was still beaming down upon the earth, and the sleepy hills lay hushed under its restful light.

He took a seat in the chair in front of the fire and leaned back. He set his gaze upon the hearth, watching the dying embers glitter like starlight until he fell soundly asleep.

***

Mickey awoke the next morning with a stiff neck from hanging his head over the back of the wooden chair all night.

He eased his head up slowly and stood. He trudged over to the window and yanked back the curtains, rubbing his aching neck as he gazed out. The dark, foreboding landscape had faded into a pale, white-skied day. He surveyed the hills, searching for ghostly figures but finding only tall, thin trees dotting the slopes.

Mickey left the window, crossed the den and stood in the door of his father's bedroom. Within he found Davey standing over the bed with tear-stained cheeks.

He looked up. "He's dead."

***

"It's time to bring the horses in," Mickey said in a hollow voice. His eyes were vacant, cast down upon the floorboards.

"We never let them out," replied Davey.

The two hadn't done a thing that day except take two spades to the hillside and bury their father deep within it. Mickey's hands laid motionless, resting on the arms of the chairs, still stained with the same cold earth.

They hadn't eaten, or let the horses out to graze—they simply sat and wept until their eyes dried up.

"Well, we should probably go give them a spot of food," said Mickey, rising from his chair.

The two brothers went out into the waning light. The sky held no sun, no moon, no clouds—it was just a smooth blanket of orange dusk.

They entered the stable and each long, solemn face and glassy eye turned towards them. The horses looked upon the brothers as though they were heroes, for their bellies had been growling for hours now, and they wanted nothing more than to feel the sweet blades of hay crunch between their teeth.

Mickey took a pitchfork from the wall and tossed a bit of hay into each of the stalls. Davey filled both troughs with cold, refreshing water and placed a soft pat on either nose.

The horses' tails twitched happily behind them, they even gave a few celebratory stops on the stable floor.

***

When all was done the stable was pitch black and the hills were bathed in muffled moonlight. There clouds had once more formed a film over the silvery surface, and though the light still penetrated it was ghostly and dim.

The boys decided to pay a visit to the fresh grave of their father, which they had marked with a stone, cracked in half so that it had a flat face like a tombstone.

Mickey let his knees fall down in the mud atop his father's resting bones, tears welling in his eyes. "You crazy old fool." He buckled forward, his head resting in his hands as his elbows hit the ground; he sobbed into the earth.

"Mickey, do you remember the day Mother died?" Davey asked quietly.

"Of course I do," he grumbled. "It was the worst day of my life. Until now, I suppose."

"Are you afraid of death?"

Mickey frowned. "Why would you ask a question like that?"

"I was just thinking... looking death in the face... may drive a man mad."

A silence passed between them, Mickey had stopped weeping and was simply staring down into the dirt. His eyes were wide and red.

"What's that?" Davey said.

Mickey looked up at his brother, who was straining his eyes to the top of the hill. Mickey followed his gaze carefully and found a white figure looming down at them.

Upon the hill stood a white horse with a veil of streaming spectral hair that floated around her throat.

"She's not one of ours..." Mickey said distantly, transfixed by the glow that seemed to spring from the mare's own pale flesh. He stood from the grave, the knees and elbows of his clothes dripping wet with muddy water.

The white mare pawed at the ground and snorted, then she began to charge down the hill toward the brothers. She was larger than any horse in their stable; the muscles that ran down her neck and over her breast were thick and pulsing. However, she ran with such grace and ease it almost seemed as though she was floating.

As her black hooves pounded closer and closer the boys fell to the dirt and threw their hands over their heads, but the horse made a clean leap over them.

She hit the ground on the other side of them and galloped for the stable, disappearing into the darkness of the doorframe.

When moments passed and she failed to reappear, the boys ran for the stable, stopping as they reached the entrance.

Peering out at them was a single pair of round black eyes.

Slowly they advanced to the second stall, which had its door swung wide open. Looking in they saw one of the brown stallions on the floor, mouth and eyes open, its body still with death.

***

When the brothers returned to the cabin Davey locked the door behind them.

"What was it?" He gasped, falling back against the door. He held a hand to his chest, hoping for it to still his heart.

"A horse, you fool," said Mickey darkly. He crouched before the fireplace and began to arrange the tinder.

"It was not a mere horse, Mickey. It gleamed like the moon itself, then it vanished like a wisp of smoke! What about the stallion?"

Mickey ignored him; his eyes and his mind were adrift as he fiddled with the sticks in the hearth.

"Look at me!" Davey pleaded.

Mickey looked up with dagger-sharp eyes. He found that all of the color had drained from his brother's face, giving it a greenish hue.

A great fear welled in Davey's eyes and dripped down his cheeks. Through his trembling lips he said, "Do you think it was the banshee?"

Mickey's brow furrowed, his cheeks reddened. "Of course not!"

His eyes darted to the window. The curtains were closed, the glass was concealed; it gave him great relief.

***

They sat before a crackling fire, their bleak faces lit by the flitting flames.

They hadn't spoken in hours, not a sound had passed through the cabin except for the cracks and spits of the fire.

Then, all at once Mickey came to life. He cocked his head, his whole body pricked like an alert stag.

Davey's head swiveled slowly towards his brother.

"What is it?" He asked.

Mickey held a finger to his lips, his eyes rolling around in his head, searching for some small sound.

He relaxed. "I thought I heard something."

"What did you hear?"

"Breathing," Mickey said softly.

"Why, brother, I'm breathing, you're breathing. Surely it was one of us."

"No, it was... snorting. It sounded like a horse snorting."

A chill ran over Davey's skin. "I don't hear anything."

Mickey shook his head. "It's gone now."

Davey reached out and put a hand on his brother's shoulder. He smiled into his wandering eyes. "You're just unsettled brother. I'll make us both a drink to put our minds at ease."

He rose to go to the kitchen when a noise caught his ear. He jumped and turned his head sharply to the window.

Mickey's eyes burned brightly. "What?" He asked.

Davey said nothing; he was listening intently, staring at the cloaked window.

"What is it, Davey?" Mickey demanded.

"Shhh," whispered Davey. "There's something out there."

Suddenly a piercing howl sliced through the air. The sound rang with sorrow and anguish; the tone was so sour the boys had to press their palms against their ears.

"Oh, God!" Davey moaned when it had finally stopped. His skin was cold and dank, he felt as if an icy draft had seeped into the room and settled into his very bones.

He crept toward the window and reached out to grasp the curtains.

"What are you doing?" Mickey roared. He darted over and snatched Davey's hand.

The haunting wail broke out again. It tore tears from their eyes, and froze their hearts. They only began to beat again when the clamor ceased once more.

"It's her, it's her!" Davey sobbed, folding to the floor. "What does she want?"

"Fool!" Mickey screamed, his eyes were ablaze from the firelight. "She comes to call on those to die. She's come to collect!"

"But which of us is it?" Davey whimpered. "Which one is she going to take?"

Mickey broke his crazed gaze to consider this. He paced over to the fire, leaning against the mantle and glowering into the flames.

The banshee's ghostly song had started again, ringing around the tiny cabin. Mickey began to growl, grabbing fistfuls of his black hair and fiercely pulling at it. Then, he hung his head and began to weep, his tears falling with a little sizzle into the hearth.

"I don't want to lay in the earth," he sobbed, "lonesome and cold. Being forced to float about these dark, empty hills, searching for father." His eyes stopped their watering and his face turned cold and hard, as if it had frozen over.

He lashed out an arm and pulled the iron poker out of its sheath beside the fireplace and whirled around, wielding it before him like a sword.

"What are you doing?" Davey asked as he slowly climbed to his feet from the floor.

"She's come to take one of us..." Mickey sneered. His eyes were wild and wide; behind them, Davey could see fear and madness burning like embers. "I think it's you, brother."

The shrieking was rolling round and round in their ears, a glint caught Mickey's eye. A bright, silvery light was filtering in under the front door—the wailing was just on the other side.

"She's here," Mickey whispered.

He howled and lunged for Davey, swinging the iron poker furiously, the jagged tip striking only air.

"She's calling, brother!" Mickey cackled.

Mickey paused in front of his brother, raising the poker high over his head.

"She's calling for you!"

He threw his head back, laughing horribly, the poker poised above him. Davey held out his palms and pressed them against his brother's chest with all of his strength, thrusting him backwards. The poker fell from Mickey's hands, he stumbled and fell back into the hearth, the flames licked greedily over his skin.

Mickey wailed and writhed in the crackling fire until finally, he fell silent.

It was then that Davey realized that all had gone quiet; the banshee's evil song had stopped. He looked to the door, to the crack that ran along the bottom—it was completely dark.

He walked slowly across the room to the window and pulled back the curtains. All he saw was the silvery landscape; the moon-licked hills rolling under an expanse of cloudless sky where the stars twinkled softly like a thousand winking eyes.

The End.

09.12

Group Therapy:

Macabre Fairy Tales, Evil Card Games and a Thriving Community.

Modern Grimmoire: Contemporary Fairytales, Fables & Folklore:

We are often told as we grow up, that monsters don't exist, that they are just made up to scare us from running away, or speaking to strangers. Over time these stories fade in the memory, the specifics are lost but if you ever see an open cellar door leading down to a cold black basement – the feeling of dread sweeps over you.

You know it is pointless to be scared, as there is nothing down there waiting to harm you, or pull you down into an unfamiliar world, never to feel the sun on your face ever again. So you close the door almost slamming it as your pulse rate quickens, you rush into the living room and drop into the sofa as if it was your mother's arms. Safe – always safe.

But it brings you full circle, in your mother's arms most likely is where these tales of horror began. From the savage killer wolf in "Red Riding Hood", the evil Stepmother in "The Three Ravens" to the evil baby snatching dwarf "Rumplestilskin". All of these stories are over 200 years old; before Disney and Dreamworks re-told them they all had a darker edge.

This is where Indigo Ink Press comes in. They have had a storming Kickstarter campaign that has just ended and have raised above initial target.

They are working on a new anthology titled "Modern Grimmoire: Contemporary Fairytales, Fables & Folklore"

It is set for release early 2013 and it will contain new tales but with an old world feel. Germanic tales of witchcraft, double-crossing for loves lost and who knows what else. The Kickstarter page covers all of their goals and stretch rewards. It is shaping up to be a great anthology and we are looking forward to reviewing it on its release.

As a parting note, they are looking for writers and artists to contribute to this work. So if you feel you have a flair for dark fairy-tales head over to their site and submit away.

We wish Indigo Ink Press all the best with this project.

http://www.indigoinkpress.org

Cards Against Humanity:

From the outset CAH are a company that do things a little differently. We're not talking innocent smoothy different, no. These guys are taking the card / board game business model by the scruff of the neck and taking out back 'old yella style.

Case in point, at a convention where they were demo'ing the game. After a short period they had sold out - period. Not a spare pack anywhere in sight. So instead of letting each customer know as they approached the booth, they simply printed off a sign, sat down and continued to play the game. The sign simply said "CAH sold out, Fuck off".

A few people interrupted the game to ask if they really had sold out - they were politely asked to read the sign and fuck off".

For some this might seem a little to harsh and not fitting with the sell, sell, sell model of modern publishing - but again this is not ordinary game or company - these guys are dicks (and I say that with the utmost respect.)

You see this game "Cards Against Humanity" is the MOST un-PC game I have ever come across. So much so that I had to share it with you fine readers. As you are readers of all things nasty and dark it should fit snugly within your boundaries of poor taste.

So the rules of the game are simple. Each round the Card Czar will draw a black card with a statement written on

it. The statement will sometimes have a blank section with in it like so:

"Next from J.K Rowling: Harry Potter and the chamber of ______________"

The other players (who have white cards which have funny, lewd or crude statements of there own.) Then pass one of them to the card Czar. After a shuffle, the Czar will read out the statement with each of the submitted white cards:

"Next from J.K Rowling: Harry Potter and the chamber of 'a windmill full of corpses' "

"Next from J.K Rowling: Harry Potter and the chamber of 'surprise sex' "

The Czar will then chose which is the best one - (normally through teary eyes - Ed) and then the player who played that white card gains a point of awesomeness. The first to 10 wins the game - easy as that.

As you can see from the above examples and believe me these are the slightly tame ones, this game really tests your core values as a human being - but in a good way.

There is however a negative to this game - it is sold out and trying to get a copy in the UK can be a real struggle. Amazon has a few copies going for over £80 (normal retail is $25). So again the guys at CAH have pulled it out of the bag again.

There is a print and play version that you can access for free - right now! It doesn't have all of the cards that the real version down, but it is near as dammit and with a first and now second expansion pack out - now is the time to strike. Get added to the email list, find a friend in the US and wait for the packs to arrive.

www.cardsagainsthumanity.com

Wattpad:

When I first started to search out other authors and writers in my chosen genre, to be honest I normally drew a blank. Long forgotten forums, dead links and even premium access sites were the norm. Fast forward only a short number of years and thrown in the self-publishing boom and boy has a lot changed.

Now you cannot move for news of young writers being snapped up for a multiple book deal. Of course these are rare but they are still happening a lot more than they used to.

This is where "Wattpad" comes in. Founded in 2009, it now boasts over 7 million monthly users, 1 comment a second and 1 billion minutes spent reading in January of this year alone.

You might be thinking 'where do I come in, surely its too late to get involved?' Well you couldn't be more wrong. The horror community on this site is through the roof. Short stories, serials and novels all make this digital hub worth visiting.

A simple hover and click on the discover "horror" section and you are greeted with a wealth of sub-genres to read from.

You can choose to stick with stories that have a high level of 'hotness' or you can opt for the undiscovered option - as a reader you will never be left without a story or two to read.

As an author on the site however, this is where the fun really begins. You can put part of a story on - one chapter at a time if you like and ask for feedback.

The more you share and comment on others writings the more they will share with you. It is a real community that is not afraid to say the character is a little wooden or that they loved this part but that part was lacking.

If you remain open to the process this site can really help you with fleshing out ideas and gaining inspiration from other writers is never a bad thing.

I say embrace the digital sharing revolution and work on your critique face - it's worth it.

www.wattpad.com

Bestselling US Horror

1. Pines - Blake Crouch

2. Devil Said Bang: Sandman Slim Series - Richard Kadrey

3. I, Zombie - Hugh Howey

4. Penpal - Dathan Auerbach

5. The Dex-Files (Experiment in Terror #5.7) - Karina Halle

6. Sea Sick: A Horror Novel - Iain Rob Wright

7. Club Death: Come for the dancing. - Ben Hopkin and Carolyn McCray

8. The Spirit Clearing - Mark Tufo

9. Apocalypsis: Book 3 (Exodus) - Elle Casey

10. Mutated (Dead World) - Joe McKinney

Compiled Aug 19th - Sept 9th 2012

Amazon .co.uk Kindle Chart
Bestselling UK Horror

1. Ash - James Herbert

2. Sea Sick: A Horror Novel - Iain Rob Wright

3. Club Death: Come for the dancing. - Ben Hopkin and Carolyn McCray

4. Vanguard of Man - G. A. Marshall

5. Dark Minds - Stuart Byng

6. Pines - Blake Crouch

7. Dark Season: The Complete Second Series - Amy Cross

8. Bloody Shadows (The Vampires of Mowrashaled) - Patrick Wendling-Markwell

9. Anno Zombus: Year 1; January - Dave Rowlands

10. Siren Lake - J. Dane Tyler and Vanessa Tyler

Compiled Aug 19th - Sept 9th 2012

Amazon .co.uk Kindle Chart
Case File: #15748

Do Not Fear The Voices by Hannah M. Richardson

The fire came from nowhere.

He could not have known about it. No one could have. James had fallen asleep after a long night of working. In that sleep he drifted into a world far from the one he lived in. A world of myths, darkness, and demons. As much as it disturbed his wife, James had always been fascinated with this world and its creatures. When his daughter dreamt of her own fantastical monsters, it was he who later studied them.

He wasn't sure what it was at first. He had smelled something foul, but didn't think much of it and drifted back into sleep. But the smell only got stronger. He could barely breathe. Then James opened his eyes and realized what was wrong.

Everything was a blur, a thick, terrifying, unreal haze. James struggled from his chair and found himself surrounded by flames. He tried calling out to his wife and daughter but the smoke choked him off. As the fire spread throughout the house, James ran from his study and up the stairs. When he reached the top, he was too late.

Both his wife and daughter's rooms were already in flames.

"Beatrice! Madeline! Can you hear me?!" He tried yelling again and again but the roar of the fire drowned out his desperation. He then tried crawling along the floor, but the closer he got to their rooms, the more he heat pushed him back. When their doors finally collapsed into ashes, James looked to see if his family was still alive.

"Daddy, help me!"

James wanted to run in, but his legs wouldn't move. His eyes widened at the horror before him, the sight of fire and blood. He needed to scream, but his throat had closed itself. He thought he heard his wife's voice.

"Get out James! Save yourself!"

A rush of heat blasted through the doorways. James turned and crawled back down the stairs. Tears poured down his face as he felt as though his skin was on fire. He could still hear the screams of agony and death. But he knew it was too late to save his beloved Beatrice and their daughter. He reached the front door and stumbled out to the lawn.

James felt the sting of glass shards hitting his body. Every inch of him screamed in pain as he watched his blood drip onto the wet grass. James looked back at his house. It was no longer his home, but instead a nightmarish inferno that would never go away.

He asked himself why he could not wake up.

***

James fought for sleep.

He tried closing his eyes and letting his thoughts carry him away. But whatever he did, his eyes remained open, staring at the dull ceiling above him. Ever since he had been committed into the asylum, his mind refused to let him sleep, much less dream. Because those dreams weren't what they used to be.

James rolled onto his side, tired of mindlessly staring at the ceiling. It had been three years since the fire. He wanted so much to erase it from his mind, but it kept crawling back. As though nothing would let him forget that night.

Not even himself.

James sat up and rubbed his sleep-deprived eyes. He gazed at the dreary wall opposite him, as if to look in a mirror. He didn't need one. He knew he was a mess. The bright brown eyes his wife had fallen in love with were now dull and lifeless, his skin paler than snow and his hair was getting darker and longer by the day.

The heavy door creaked open. James immediately fell back on his pillow and turned to face the window. The doctors always hated it when their patients would not sleep. He hoped that whoever was at the door didn't notice.

"You don't have to do that, I know you're awake." The moment he heard her voice, James slowly turned around and pulled himself to a sitting position. Audrey was the oldest nurse at the asylum, nearing her 60s. James was her favourite patient: mentally unstable with complex neuroses and survivor's guilt. This was how the director of the asylum had described James to Audrey. But she was the only one in the building who didn't treat him like he was just another insanity case.

"Still having trouble sleeping?"

"Yes," he answered in a quiet voice. Ever since a so-called 'friend' had checked him into the madhouse, James had lost the will to speak properly. There were times when he debated whether he should talk at all.

"Sorry to come so late," Audrey said as she poured the tonic into a small cup. James sneered at the sight of the dark liquid. The doctors had said it was supposed to cure him, but its only effect had been to make him vomit. He took a deep breath, threw back his head and swallowed it in one gulp.

"How was that?" Audrey asked in her usual gentle tone.

"It burns," James croaked.

"Are you feeling any better than last week?"

"Not really." Although James preferred to shut himself off from the world, there were times when he had no choice but to cry out in pain. There were times when it got so bad that the doctors would resort to tranquilizing him into a stupor. When his attacks were at their worst, James could feel the shocks go throughout his body.

"I'm just really tired," he said.

"Try and get some sleep," Audrey replied. "Remember, you have another session with Dr. Kraeme tomorrow."

James nodded, still keeping his gaze on the floor. The meetings with his doctor weren't intolerable, but they always seemed like wastes of time. He realized that Dr. Victor Kraeme was only trying to help him, but he also knew that no matter how hard he or anyone else tried, the guilt would only bore deeper into his mind.

"Before I go, I have something for you."

Audrey reached into the satchel around her waist and produced a handful of crumpled papers. "A friend of yours found these in your office. He though that it might make you feel better." James scoffed. It was both amusing and annoying that people on the outside considered his illness to be no worse than a common cold. He received letters saying 'get better soon'. He found it interesting that the same people who were so concerned about him were the same ones that wanted him to be committed.

"I'll... just leave them here then," Audrey stammered as she placed the papers on the small table beside his bed. Knowing she was no longer wanted, she moved toward the door. She looked back at James. He was lying on the bed, eyes open and completely still. She wanted to say something, but then slowly closed her mouth. She finally turned and left, shutting the door behind her.

James listened as Audrey's footsteps receded down the hall, then glanced over at the papers. At first he thought that they might be some of his old lecture notes from his days as a psychology teacher. He chuckled at the irony of how he used to teach others the inner workings of the mind, workings he had now almost lost in himself.

James looked more closely at the papers. They were actually drawings, some detailed and some just scribbles, of fantastical monsters and animals. He recognized in an instant who the artist had been.

They were his daughter's drawings.

James wanted to relive the memories of his sweet and innocent Madeline. To admire every drawing, examine every detail, and wonder at how talented she had been. Instead he lowered himself down on the stiff bed.

He knew there would be no sleep that night.

***

Dr. Kraeme's office wasn't much different from James' cell. It had the necessities: institutional desk, worn-out couch, and rusting file cabinet. The same cold dreariness. There were cracks in the walls, the floorboards creaked, and the room reeked of past patients. Kraeme even looked like one of them. With his sunken in eyes and crooked nose, he was less like a doctor and more like a character out of a cautionary tale for children.

"How are you feeling today, James?" Kraeme asked. Every week for three years he had asked James that question and every time, the same answer ran through James' head: how the hell do you think I'm feeling?

"Fine," he said. James looked at the man that was supposed to her him out of the madhouse. He had lost count of how many times Kraeme insisted that he was a friend, but James was never convinced. Every session, the doctor stayed behind the protection of his desk, never getting too close to the patient.

"Are you taking your medication?" The usual inane opening question.

"I have to," James answered.

"Good. I hear that you're having trouble sleeping."

"It's nothing serious."

Kraeme stopped writing and looked up at James through his small glasses. "James, you realize that getting enough sleep is important for your well-being, right?"

"It's not like I'm trying to stay awake," James snapped. He hated it when Kraeme didn't treat him like an adult.

"So what's the problem?"

"I just have trouble shutting my eyes, that's all." Despite James' attempts, there was no swaying Dr. Kraeme.

"Nightmares, perhaps?"

James remained silent. When he first arrived at Drake Asylum, his nights were plagued with terrors which lasted for months. They were the reason why he barely slept. He knew the dark images would be waiting for him every time he closed his eyes. All throughout that first year, James had begged them to leave him be. He would have done anything to be rid of them.

"James? Still with me?"

"Sorry, doctor. Can you repeat the question?"

"Are you still having nightmares?"

"... if you can call them nightmares," James muttered.

"Speak up, James. What was that?" Kraeme leaned over his desk. James stared back at the doctor's aging, beady eyes. He decided to indulge Kraeme. He didn't worry about whether the doctor would believe him or not. There was no point in hiding it anymore.

"I hear things."

"... things?" Kraeme asked, nervously adjusting his glasses. James could see that he was becoming uneasy.

"Voices."

"What do these voices say?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I'll hear a few words, but I can't make out what they mean," James lied. He knew exactly what the voices were telling him. He always understood.

"Have you ever tried to figure our what they're saying?"

"I find that there is no point in doing so."

"Why is that?"

"I'm afraid," James whispered, feeling his body grow tenser with each question.

Kraeme persisted. "Afraid of what?"

"Of what they might be saying."

"And what is that?"

James couldn't take it anymore. Gripping the edge of the desk, fighting his anxiety, he stared at Kraeme with a weary look. "Can we end this session now? You are not making me feel any better. I'd like to try and get some sleep."

Kraeme held his patient's gaze. It wasn't the first time James had tried to end a session early. He thought about trying to gently coax the man to stay but knew in his own head that he seemed to be getting weaker by the day. The session had become pointless, like all the others. All Kraeme could do now was to keep subscribing the tonics to clear James' mind.

"Very well," he said heavily. "Maggie?"

A younger nurse opened the door. "Yes, Dr. Kraeme?"

"Please take Mr. Weaver back to his room. We're done for now." Maggie nodded and slowly helped James off the couch and to the doorway. As they were almost out of the office, Kraeme called after them.

"Don't think for one second that that attitude will get you out of here any faster."

As insulting as it was, James knew it to be true. It was not like him to play the part of a bitter recluse but he needed to act that part if he was going to survive in the asylum.

"Don't worry doctor. I don't expect to be leaving any time soon." James placed a shaking hand on Maggie's shoulder as she led him from the room.

***

Nothing seemed real that day. With the sun shining and spring in bloom, everything looked like something out of a painting or even a dream. It suited the Weavers just fine. They needed some escape from reality, especially Madeline. She had begged and plead for days on end until her parents finally agreed to take the weekend off and visit the nearby park. James himself was perfectly content to give in. He needed a break from the strange, grotesque things he had studied all week.

He looked down at Beatrice, fast asleep on the blanket. Her golden hair, usually tied in a tight bun, fell around her face. James never had enough time to fully notice how beautiful she was. Now here, so peaceful, she was stunning, exactly as he had first seen her eight years ago. He leaned down and softly kissed one of her eyelids. He brushed his nose against her cheek, taking in the aroma of her perfume. He wished he could have stayed like that, with her, forever.

"Daddy!"

James looked up and smiled. He barely recognized his daughter. The bright yellow hair Madeline had inherited from her mother was shining in the sunlight and the blush around her cheeks made her look like a suddenly grown version of her seven-year-old self. After days of being cooped up in their dark house, watching Madeline in the light as she bounced towards him was a welcome change.

"How are you, sweetheart?"

"Look what I found!" Madeline jumped on the blanket and held out her hands. Nestled in her palms was a nearly grown white rabbit. It blinked its small pink eyes at James. He had never been comfortable around animals, but this one seemed tame enough and it had certainly won his daughter's heart.

"Isn't he adorable, Daddy?"

"He is pretty cute."

"He's exactly like the one Alice had!"

James grinned. Alice In Wonderland had always been Madeline's favourite book and he had always liked reading it to her, its magical themes and wondrously strange characters stirring his own imagination.

"Yes, just like Alice."

"Ow!" Madeline suddenly dropped the rabbit. James watched the animal scurry through the trees and turned back to Madeline, trying to hide the worried look on his face. "What happened?"

"It bit me." Madeline's lower lip was trembling.

"Here, let me see."

She held out her hand. James saw a small drop of blood at the tip of one finger. No bigger than a prick from a needle. "It's alright, Maddy. It's only a tiny..." James looked again at Madeline's hand. The dot of red was slowly spreading across her fingers. Within seconds her entire hand was dripping with blood.

James watched in horror as the blood covered her arms and stained her dress. He tried to pull away, but his hand was stuck in the flow of dark red. He looked from his hand to his daughter's face. He couldn't see her. All he could see was blood dripping out of her mouth, ears, and eyes.

"James...?" Beatrice stirred. James spun around, his fear and confusion deepening as he looked at what was once his wife. Her soft smooth skin had become a charred black mass, falling away from the bone and revealing the teeth beneath her cheek. Her blue eyes now a sickly dark red. It was as if she had been burned alive. Beatrice raised what was left of her hand and placed it softly on his shoulder.

"Is everything alright?"

***

James woke to the pain of his heart pounding in his chest. The heat around him so unbearable; he thought he was suffocating. He glanced back and forth like a wild animal, looking for his wife and daughter. He expected to see their blood, mangled faces staring back at him.

Gradually his heart rate slowed and his breathing returned to normal. All he could see were the walls of his cell. He rubbed his eyes as he felt the bed creak beneath him. The moon shone through the window and lit the dull grey walls.

It had all been a nightmare.

James wanted to cry. After watching Beatrice and Madeline transform from beautiful and alive to bloodied and mutilated, he needed to let the sorrow and guilt he had damned up inside of him for so long pour out. But no matter how much his heart ached, no matter how painful the visions, no tears flowed from his eyes. All he could do was bury his face in his shaking hands.

Why didn't I wake up? He was sure he had felt his hands dripping with his own blood, the ash covering his face and stinging his eyes. He had been so certain he was still in hell. Why, why, why, why?! His sadness turned into anger, then rage at whatever had caused the fire. At himself.

Then they appeared. As though they alone had somehow heard his silent cries.

With every nightmare, they would come to James to torment him more than any horrible, unreal vision.

They would tell him the truth.

"What do you want?" James sobbed into his hands. He knew they were there even before they spoke.

"Your fault..." One croaked in a raspy voice. The rest joined in a choir of indistinguishable whispers. James could only make out a few words and phrases.

"Your fault," another repeated.

"I know," James said.

"... dead... because of you..."

"I know."

"... murderer... you want to die..."

"I know..."

They were right. Every time they entered his head they were right. James knew his family was dead because of him. He knew he should have tried to save them. He shouldn't have left them to die.

Now he wanted death to take him as well. To end the pain, the suffering, and the madness. A clearer, softer voice whispered in his ear.

"This will never end..." That was when all of James' frustration, guilt, and insanity finally reached its breaking point.

"ALRIGHT! I HEAR YOU!" James grabbed at the sides of his head, scratching and clawing at his temples until a thin stream of blood began dripping from a small cut.

"Leave me alone!" He fell off the bed and backed into the corner, continuing to grab at his head. They were still there, though the sound of their words had quieted to slurred whispers. All James wanted was an end to everything. All he wanted to see Beatrice and Madeline again.

"Murderer..."

***

Dr. Kraeme did not sleep well that night. He kept thinking about one of his patients, Weaver. At first glance, the man seemed like any other patient with severe neuroses, and yet there was something different. Kraeme remembered Weaver's very first day at the asylum, how he fought in agony against his restraints, crying out about some unseen guilt. They're dead because of me! The first year had been the worst. It was the year when the shock therapy was finally put to good use.

Weaver managed to calm down over the years, but everyday his mind slipped further away. A few of Kraeme's colleagues suggested that three years of treatment had proved useless.

Kraeme blamed himself for Weaver's slow progression. He had never truly gotten into the depths of the man's tortured mind. He was constantly worried that he would take a step too far, one shock too many, and Weaver's mind would completely shatter.

He would never admit this to Weaver and certainly not to his superiors. At Drake the doctor was always right. The patients were too far out of touch with their own minds and therefore the doctors knew what was best. But after three long years, Kraeme began wondering if James Weaver actually knew more than he did.

Kraeme sighed as he closed Weaver's case file and slid it back into his desk. Tomorrow's session would be the same routine, the same doctor-patient dance. He would ask the usual questions, Weaver would be stubborn and withdrawn, then the dance would end just as it had started.

As Kraeme stood up and walked towards the door, he tried thinking up new questions he could ask Weaver the next time they saw each other.

Just as he was about to leave, Kraeme was stopped by the appearance of Nurse Audrey in the doorway. Her graying hair, usually so neatly tucked under her hat, was in tangles. Beads of sweat streaked her forehead as she gasped for breath. Kraeme greeted her with an awkward smile.

"Everything alright, Audrey? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"Doctor, you have to come quick!"

"What's wrong?"

"It's James."

Kraeme's smile disappeared.

"Something's happened, doctor."

Kraeme ran down the crowded hallway toward Weaver's room, Audrey close behind. The closer they got, the louder Weaver's cries became, echoing down the hall, creating a tormenting sound that brought Kraeme back to the first days he had started treating him. He hoped now that the man just needed someone to calm him down.

But when he saw a group of orderlies hovering outside his patient's room, Kraeme knew that there was something seriously wrong.

"What's happening here?"

"Dr. Kraeme, please stand back. We have this under control." The orderlies stood stoic and calm as the wails continued but Kraeme was having none of it. He tried to muscle his way into the cell.

"What happened to Mr. Weaver?!"

"Doctor, please. It's best that you keep back."

The screaming suddenly stopped as two orderlies pulled Weaver out of the room. His face had lost all colour; his hair was a tangled mess that covered his gaunt face, and he trembled in uncontrollable spasms. He tried fighting against the orderlies but could only flail weakly as they dragged him through the crowd. Kraeme paid no attention to his patient's incoherent whispers, or that the man looked to be at death's door.

It was all the blood covering Weaver's wrists and mouth.

Kraeme was stunned. It wasn't the first time Weaver had tried something like this, but it was the first time there had been so much blood.

Without warning, James reached out and grabbed Kraeme by his collar. They looked each other in the eye; the sensible doctor against the madman. James whispered something that Kraeme thought he would never hear him say.

"Please... don't let them take me. Please, doctor... make them stop." Kraeme had heard Weaver's ramblings for years. This plea was something entirely different. Was he asking to be saved from the orderlies, or the things he had talked about during their last session?

James clawed desperately at Kraeme's arm as the orderlies pulled him away. Kraeme was as powerless now as he had ever been. He could do nothing to help a man whom he had promised to help.

"Where are you taking him?" Kraeme shouted.

"We all thought you had this under control, Dr. Kraeme. That this kind of behavior had finally passed." It was Dr. Cromely, a man who was more of an associate than a friend to Kraeme. He usually said nothing about such incidents. They were a common sight at Drake.

"That doesn't answer my question," Kraeme snapped. "Where are they taking him?"

Cromely said nothing as he stared back at Kraeme. His grim expression was answer enough.

"For God's sake Cromely. Not again. They can't. Not again."

"They can and they will," Cromely replied, his voice cold and distant. "It is what's best."

Cromely watched as the doctor raced down the hallway. Kraeme didn't care if the procedure was supposed to help his patient. It was cruel and harmful. It had been used too many times; it had never worked. He hoped that he could reach Weaver in time to stop the treatment. Maybe they would release the poor man. But Kraeme didn't hold that hope very high.

They were strapping James to the metal slab when he ran up to the room. The nurses had managed to bandage Weaver's wrists but even his blood was wiping off on everything he touched.

Kraeme hated the room. More than any other place at Drake Asylum, the Crisis Stabilization Room could rob any man of both his sound mind and strong stomach. It was supposed to be a room to lessen madness, to stop pain, and to help cure. Instead, it was one step short of a torture chamber.

The intricate medical instruments were placed in neat lines for all to see, waiting for the next patient to be laid down on the slab. Half of the walls were white marble while the tiles on the other half were cracked and broken, revealing dark and grimy surfaces underneath. Kraeme always found the clean walls to be far more unsettling. But the most disturbing aspect was the large black oven hidden at the back of the room. This was for the incurables.

Kraeme fought for breath as he watched a nurse force a metal headset over Weaver's temples. She tried to stick a wad of cloth in his mouth but valued her fingers too much. The rest of the asylum would have to deal with the coming screams.

Do something! Say something, you idiot!

"Wait!" Kraeme shouted. Everyone in the room stopped and turned towards the door. The only sound came from the shock machine and its quiet, electric hum. Even Weaver had fallen silent.

"Something wrong, Doctor?" someone asked.

Kraeme wanted them to stop everything and hand over his patient. The man needed proper medical treatment, not sadism. Weaver deserved someone to calm him down and talk to him like a friend. Kraeme knew this. The other doctors should have known this.

Everyone waited for an answer but Kraeme could give them no such thing.

What is wrong with me? Why can't I speak? Kraeme wished he was more assertive with no hesitations to speak his mind. Alone with a patient, he was calm and self-assured. In a group, under stress, Kraeme became a nervous schoolboy.

"What in God's name do you think you're doing?"

Cromely's raspy voice startled Kraeme, the doctor's glassy eyes popping out of his head as he stared at his colleague.

"This is wrong, Cromely and you know it," Kraeme said.

"Do you want to see Mr. Weaver overcome this or not?"

"Not like this! He doesn't need more pain, he doesn't need more suffering. He needs to go back to his room and-"

"And what, Kraeme?! So you can drown him in more tonics? Your methods are fallacious and unsuitable. Let these people do their work."

Kraeme couldn't respond. He knew Cromely was right, his methods had been failures. After three grueling years, no amount of tonic consumption would bring Weaver any closer to recovery. Kraeme dreaded the thought of giving up, but it had always been there in the back of his mind. It was time he accepted it. He knew it, Cromely knew it, everyone at Drake knew it. Even Weaver probably knew it.

"Is there a problem here, sirs?" The doctor leading the treatment asked. Cromely knew the answer; he just needed Kraeme to know it too. He turned to his colleague. Kraeme's shoulders sagged as he bowed his head.

"No, there's no problem here. Carry on."

Cromely sneered at Kraeme, turned on his heel and left before he could hear the shocks go through Weaver's head. Kraeme turned away from the room and laid his back against the wall.

He shut his eyes and tried to block out his patient's unbearable screams. The orderlies and nurses in the hall passed by the treatment room, not caring to give a second glance.

The End.

Case File: #25476

The Sleeper Awakens by Mitchell Bryan

"Get back on deck, now," screamed the captain over the ship's intercom. I had overstayed my visit in the ship's kitchen by nearly twenty minutes and had left the deck undermanned. I pulled on my coat and my way onto the deck where a fierce storm made the footing unstable.

The other deckhands were only able to spare a few seconds to acknowledge my presence. The high waves of the storm made the deck a hazard. Seven-hundred pound crab traps swung through the air as they were lifted out of the water and lowered to be dumped onto the sorting table. Being hit by a crab trap would almost certainly knock you off of the boat, and if the impact didn't kill you the freezing water would.

I made my way over to Jose, who was operating the winch that pulled up the crab traps, and put my hand on his shoulder. "About time." he yelled over the fury of the storm. "We only have eight hours to pull up all the traps and make our way back into port." he said. The crab fishing season was only three weeks long and if we weren't back in the harbour in time we wouldn't make any money.

I manned the crab sorting table, separating the keepable crabs from those that were either too small or already dead. When I first started I put-off by the large crabs, whose leg span was longer than most men are tall. Now, I spent more time staring at the crabs than I did any person.

A siren broke my focus and startled me enough to cause me to lose my balance. I recognized the siren as the warning that waters were too rough to continue. As I started to get up I saw Jose stumbling towards me shouting "Come on! We gotta get inside!"

As Jose and I made our way towards the door that lead inside the ship a crab trap swung overhead. Jose and I were able to duck in time to dodge the swinging metal horror. A young deckhand wasn't so lucky and was knocked into the water. In my years of fishing I learnt that in waters as rough as these that trying to rescue him would be an act of sheer folly.

Once inside the remaining deckhands and I made our way into the ships kitchen, removing our heavy raingear as we did so. The captain burst into the kitchen and looked at us, his face pale and in a state that was somewhere between fear and shock. He said to us "What are doing? Put your coats back on. We're going under!" Before the captain could get out another word everyone sprang into action. While everyone else pulled on their recently removed gear I ripped open the chest that contained the inflatable life raft and flares. Everyone rushed to put on a survival suit, which would protect us from the almost freezing water. Jose helped me pull the raft out as another deckhand grabbed the flares and the flare gun.

When we got back on deck the captain wasted no time and pulled the cord on the life raft and, with the aid of Jose, threw it into the water. It was only now that I realized that the captain was still only wearing his shirt and shorts, an outfit that would most likely be the death of him in the water. After the few seconds it took for the raft to fully inflate everyone on deck jumped overboard. I landed only a few feet from the raft and the second I hit the water I began swimming towards the raft and pulled myself in.

The waves around us were twenty feet high and the recently evacuated ship next to us was still riding the waves. The bow of the ship slamming into the water with enough force that if it hit we would be sent quite swiftly to our demise.

Inside the raft I tried my best help the other deckhands and the captain into raft. The wind of the storm caused the rain to almost be moving sideways. The raft was pushed away from the ship as the waves continued to gain in size. The ship was now rocking at an angle that if we were still inside the ship escaping would be impossible.

I looked at the people around me in the raft and realized that only five of the original twelve people were here, and considering the fact that the captain spent over a minute in water that was only a degree or two above freezing we were soon going to only be four. I looked back at the ship, which was now partially underwater, and was taken aback by something strange. The water around the ship was almost still, while the waves around us were nearing thirty feet.

As I stared at the calm water around the ship I saw something in the distance. It looked like a tall grey column, ten or twenty feet thick. I looked up to try and see the top but it seemed to extend into the storm clouds. Staring at the column I realized that it was moving into the water. After a couple of seconds the end of the grey pillar entered the water, on the end was a large wide piece that looked like the end of a paddle that was a hundred feet wide. The splash of whatever it was caused the calm water around the boat to once again become hellish.

Looking into the water below us I saw a yellow glow that was moving towards the ship. Before I could ask anyone around me if they the glow something arose from the water around the ship. My curiosity turned into horror as I realized that what was rising out of the water was a giant mouth. The great maw closed over the ship taking in the entirety of the two hundred foot vessel whole. The screams of the men around me confirmed that what I was seeing was real.

I turned to look at the men in the life boat with me. The captain was unconscious, I'm sure if it was from the shock of seeing whatever that beast was or if the cold finally consumed him. Jose was looking towards were the boat once was and he wasn't moving. I reached over and grabbed his arm. He looked at me, reached into his coat and grabbed hold of the crucifix around his neck and jumped out of the boat.

I screamed into the water where I last saw Jose "No! What are you doing?" I was considering jumping into the water to save my friend when I heard it. A loud deep sound that emanated from where the boat sank. I looked up from the water and saw the great leviathan. It was facing us and was approaching with great speed. It's face was covered with a thousand golden eyes that shone like full moons.

As the leviathan approached us it opened it began pulling in the water that was in front of it, and consequently the life raft we were in. I pulled the flare gun out the hands of one of the my shipmates and fired it into the mouth of the beast. The flare illuminated the inside of the mouth, which seemed to be endless. The inside of the beast was a mixture of white and pink.

Once we entered the mouth of the beast it closed its giant jaws. The flare that I had fired was still ignited at this point. At the roof of the mouth I could see what I could only describe as ribs. Beneath us I could see the giant tongue beast. The tongue's movements started to push us deeper into the mouth.

I came to my senses long enough to fire another flare at the beast. The flare flew upwards striking the roof of the mouth and imbedding into the flesh. After a few seconds of being burnt by the three thousand degree heat of the burning phosphorus in the flare the beast let out a great moan. The tongue of beast the began to move up, bringing us with it. The mouth around us began to contract. Staring up I could the fast approaching ceiling of flesh. I realized then that I would be crushed to death. I closed my eyes in an attempt the shut out the horror around me.

When I opened my eyes I was in my cot, back in the ship. I was covered in a cold sweat that caused me to shiver. Only a dream, I thought. I sat up, which caused my head to go spinning. I put a hand to my forehead and I felt that I was burning up. As a child fevers always gave me nightmares.

I pushed myself to put on my gear, I wasn't getting paid to be sick. I made my way to kitchen and took some pills in an attempt to kill my headache. I sat in the kitchen contemplating my nightmare as I prepared myself mentally for my shift on deck.

I heard the static the signaled that someone was about to speak over the intercom. The captains voice came on and said "Your shift started twenty minutes ago. What are you doing? Get back on deck, now!"

I made my way to the door and went out onto the deck. I stumbled across the rocking deck to the crab sorting station. I was beginning to sort the crabs when I began to feel as if I was being watched. I looked up and out into the water, where I saw a thousand golden eyes, all staring back at me.

The End.

Case File: #65715

A Good Day To Die by Cristel Kaa Hedberg

Lucas sat calmly leaning back with his legs up on one of the bunks. On the door outside he had his name and title in bold letters.

"Lucas Oliver, embalmer" it said with black capital letters like a tribute. It was a title he had fought for, a title that gave him respect. He was in charge of the corpses that came in, an assignment that few envied him. Death is something that almost all people fear, no one likes to be reminded of their own mortality. But for Lucas death always had a rare magnetism to it. He enjoyed giving back its natural beauty to the body, give the lifeless eyes their shine back and the cheeks their rosiness so that the family could recognize their loved one and say a proper goodbye.

Since it was a calm and small town they all lived in it was mostly old people he had to deal with. Lucas also enjoyed the power his job provided him with. He was considered an oddball in town, a misfit that had no place there, who did not fit in no matter how much he tried. But even the persons who couldn't stand him when they were alive allowed him to prepare them for their final rest and that felt good for a man that from his very first breath was forced into living the life of a loner. No one had ever wanted him close, not even his own mother. Even she had been afraid of him, even though the fright itself hadn't evolved until he had gotten a bit older though the discomfort had always been there like an unwelcome friend. She had unconsciously pulled away whenever he came close to her.

One of the main reasons why Lucas liked dead people was because they were unable to hurt him. But then separate from all this there was Cecilia, the angel who always smiled towards him, always had a friendly word to spare. She looked like an angel as well, the almost white, fair hair in corkscrews that hanged down to her waist, the blue eyes always had room for a constant smile and sometimes the red lips were in resonance with the essence of them. A smile even found its way up to Lucas' lips when his thoughts brushed against the sweet memories of her, the angel.

Jack, the man who transported the bodies from the morgue to the funeral home interrupted his thoughts with his loud voice and rattling from one of the characteristic metal stretchers that they used.

"Another customer, Dr. Frankenstein," he said in a bad parody of a German accent and rolled his eyes. Lucas ignored him and indifferently pulled the sheet away that covered the body that was lying under it. He was expecting a stiff, old and wrinkly body to be revealed before his eyes, but instead he looked down at the body before him with great shock and misery, the body belonging to a mangled Cecilia. Only the beautiful face was still intact; it had a grayish tone, but was without a single scratch. The body on the other hand was very badly cut and turned into something beyond all recognition. Her blue eyes were staring at the ceiling, the cheerful sparkle was gone and had been replaced with a frightening emptiness. Lucas inhaled excruciatingly as if the air suddenly had become too thin for him and lost all its oxygen. "What's the matter?" Jack asked, startled and stared at Lucas' face that had become whitish gray under the violently red blemishes in his long and narrow face. The hollow cheeks became-if possible-even more hollow and the eyes seemed to almost pop out of their sockets.

"Leave us!" he roared completely beside himself and turned his wild gaze towards Jack who backed away. Without waiting for him to obey his order Lucas then presided to shoved the exceedingly bigger man towards the door. With no clue what had just happened Jack was again on the other side of the wooden door. He stared foolishly at Lucas' name, unsure of what had happened to him, but found it best to let the upset man have his way. If this was a sore spot why poke at it? Therefore he went down the stairs and turned into the office on the right to get the manager's signature and then the problem was out of his hands. He felt relieved by the thought and wished that Merlin, the manager would hurry up. Behind the closed door on the other floor Lucas started with his efforts to put his poor friend back together. He mended Cecilia as patiently and carefully as a seamstress would mend a wedding dress in pure silk, with the same precision and tight stitches and with reverent tenderness. He worked without resting as if his efforts to put her back together would make a difference in the grand scheme of things.

2

The bright light of dawn played over the roof tops when Lucas finally was done with his work. It was a masterpiece in the true sense of the word. When Cecilia rested on the stretcher it only looked as she had accidentally fallen asleep in his presence and rested there. Her body looked soft, alive and inviting. Lucas let his hand caress her left breasts that had regained their softness and silky smooth skin. With great shame and despair an utterly familiar stiffness happened in the lower region of his body almost immediately. He was mortified and turned away from her unseeing eyes that appeared to have an accusing expression at the moment, even though that was quite impossible. He could have sworn that a disapproving wrinkle had appeared between the golden eyebrows, just for a second.

"I'm sorry Cecilia, I won't touch you without your permission again, I promise," he said with a husky and repentant tone of voice even though if felt stupid to talk to someone who no longer could answer or hear, but still felt the urge to ask of her forgiveness. To his great relief he could see when he turned back again that the accusing expression was gone from her sweet face. A cold and unexplainable chill went down his spine and the little hairs on his neck stood on end. He knew that she was dead, he was the one who had patched the broken body together and he knew very well that not even her organs were where they were supposed to be... but still?

He realized that his genius illusion affected even him this time. She was a true masterpiece, the jewel in his collection. Heck, if he looked long enough he could swear that her chest heaved up and down in calm breaths. "You're tired, Lucas," he mumbled to get himself to calm down somewhat and then rubbed his eyes. "Let it go!" he then urged harshly; this was neither the time nor the place to have a mental meltdown. Yet in his memory he could hear her laughter that looped over and over like a fractured record. Flashes of memories passed through his mind in the bat of an eye, her way of walking, her laughing, when she waved at him even though she was with friends or her parents that did not approve of her soft spot for the town oddball, her way of speaking, every single detail he knew about her went through in his head until it was too painful to continue. After sitting down in his chair he gently rested his head in his hand and tried to keep the thoughts out.

The sound that slammed against his eardrums made him sit straight up in his chair stiff as a board, not because he heard a sound-it was often enough that bodies long since dead made them self's heard, tendons that tensed, flatulence or other normal sounds for a body to make-but the reason he felt a chill in his soul was because the sound he heard was no doubt a twittering laughter. The nausea hit him like a mallet in the stomach and so he was forced to rush to the adjacent toilet. The laugh was ringing in his ears like warning bells, relentless, happy and clear as silver bells but refusing to stop. After a rather violent vomit attack he rose, shaking like a leaf and saw his pale, unsightly reflection in the mirror that was located over the sink. "You're imagining things, Lucas... You are going insane." But even he saw the doubt shine with betrayal in his own eyes, the pupil dominating over the iris. They were otherwise ocean blue, but were at the time pitch black, the blue only visible as a thin rim in the periphery of the iris. The fear of losing his mind was more appealing than the thought of having to go back to the room where she was lying; to enter there again scared him half to death. But it was not a good idea to let his delusions get the upper hand. He had always had an active imagination even as a child and his mother had made sure he knew what a bad thing this was, a dangerous thing. He therefore took a deep breath to pull himself together and returned to the room where he left her. When he unwillingly opened the door she sat up at the stretcher and smiled in a kind and inviting way towards him and he had to rub his eyes again. Maybe his mother was right about some things after all...?

"Hi, Lucas," she spoke softly and smiled with affection. The fair hair cascaded down her shoulders and breasts, as if it was the most natural thing. Lucas stared at her breathlessly with his mouth wide open.

"Cecilia...?" he finally managed to get out and blushed despite the fear that made him unable to move from where he was standing.

"Yes. Why so surprised, Lucas? I usually say hello to you, don't I?" she smiled once again. Since Lucas didn't know how he was supposed to answer that question he remained silent. "Do you like what you see, Lucas?" she said, changing the subject when there was no response from his side and let her gracious hands seductively play over her naked body. He had to swallow and hold his hands shut so hard that his knuckles whitened, he remembered the nausea as it came back as an unwanted guest that had brought a few friends. She laughed hoarsely, jumped down from the stretcher and started walking towards him. He wanted to back away, scream and jump aside, but his legs were numb under him and wouldn't obey. Cecilia started to come closer and closer to him and it was her angelic face he saw and her beautiful naked body that came towards him. Before he had the time to make up his mind about what to do before she had reached him she was already there, so close to him that he could feel her presence even if he closed his eyes. All that kept them from touching each other was a couple of inches of air. Her blue eyes glittered mischievous at him and the red mouth was inviting him with its young freshness. Lucas' heart pounded in his chest like it was about to burst. His mind stopped him from pulling away because it refused to realize that she wasn't real. Cecilia pressed herself against him, her arms rested around his neck. Her eyes looked pleading at him, but still her gaze was steady and wouldn't reveal what was actually going around in her mind. The fresh scent that had been her attribute stung in his nostrils, teased them and told him that she was indeed real and that she was alive now closer to him than she had ever been before.

Desperately he tried to find the stitches after the needle he had used before that evening, but there was nothing left of them. There was not even anything that could hint that they had ever been on the girl's skin. Cecilia chuckled as if she had known his secret, knew what he was so desperately looking for.

Slowly she pulled down his zipper, not letting him go with her eyes and then let her fingers move over his manhood. He hardened almost immediately, she noticed and moaned loudly as to tease him and soon he too started to moan but out of fear and indescribable arousal. She stood on her toes to rub her genital against his and the motion made her breast rub against his body as well methodically. She dragged him over to the stretcher where she sat down with her legs apart and guided him inside her. Much to his surprise he could feel how warm and wet she was in a welcoming way and couldn't keep himself from moaning again.

"Oh, God, Cecilia!" he shouted and let his fingers bury their way into the soft skin on her shoulders. Soon, much too soon he felt the explosion that he had only felt alone in a quiet room before draw near. She called out his name with such pleasure in her voice and that triggered it.

3

Lucas woke himself up by screaming and felt that he was warm and sticky at the front of his pajama pants. Sweaty and shocked over the dream and its intensity he lied there unable to move. As the dream had finally released its hold over him he was still taken, he was panting and his whole body was shaking, maybe because he could still see the veiled look in her eyes and hear her call his name. He laughed morosely like that could be anything other than a dream. Cecilia would never see him like that, no woman had ever given him a second glance and Cecilia was gorgeous. Not in the new Hollywood star kind of way, no, like the real star from the 50's. She was a Lana Turner with longer hair and he was the town's original and apart from that much older than she was. The only thing he could feel good about having it be a dream was that Cecilia now wasn't dead. He sighed deeply, sat up and lit a Marlboro Light. The smoke tore in his lungs, but still it felt quite satisfactory. He swung his legs over the edge, stood up laboriously and dragged himself across the floor towards the WC, driven by the very human urge to urinate. The handle felt cold under his fingers and he had to fiddle with it to get it to open. That had never happened before... It was like someone on the other side had tried to lock it but not quite succeeded. Slowly the door swung open and the sight that met him made him let the warm urine loose and it ran down the leg of his pajama pants. In the bathtub sat Cecilia and looked serious at him with her very dead eyes. Nausea rushed up again and he had to cling onto the sink as the panic attack went like waves over him. He realized what a mess he had put himself in. He had "borrowed" a corpse. Besides that it wasn't just any corpse, no, it was Cecilia, the girl every living soul in town knew he was in love with. What would people think? But he knew what people would think, they would assume that he was some kind of pervert that had thought to have her in death was at least better than not having her at all.

Calm yourself, he thought, no one knows that she was in yesterday except Jack. Maybe he could manage to smuggle her back later that week before the funeral, the paperwork could simply be misfile. Lucas swallowed and glanced at the naked body of the girl in his tub. Tired to the depth of his soul he sank down on the toilet. Sitting there he wondered how he was able to smuggle her out unnoticed the night before, and realized how hard it would be to smuggle her back in again without getting caught. Panic went through him again and he rose from his seat, wandered back to the hallway where he started to go back and forth. What was he supposed to do? Was the best thing to go to work today and pretend that nothing had happened?

He jerked violently when the telephone started to shout next to him and with an unsteady hand he took it to his ear.

"Hi, Dr. Frankenstein," Jack's happy voice came out of the phone.

"Jack?" Lucas felt confused he could not remember giving the other man his phone number and he sure wasn't listed.

"Yes it is I. I just wanted to spread the good news that even your dear boss has his faults."

"What? What are you talking about?" Again he started to feel ill and wished Jack would get to the point as soon as possible and leave him alone.

"He did the world's biggest blunder yesterday!" With a raw laugh Jack enjoyed their manager's cruel destiny and Lucas heard how he took a drag of the cigarette.

"He did what; please do get to the point." Lucas felt his irritation rise; why could the man not just tell him what he wanted to tell him and be done with it?

"You know that maimed corpse that I brought in yesterday?"

"Yes...!" Lucas managed to croak even though the nerves had tightened in his gut.

"He sent it to cremation, can you believe that? But the thing was that the family wanted an open casket! So now he sits there with a pile of ashes, no daughter and no answer!" Jack laughed again. "It was a shame with all the work you had put on her though." He just stared like some sort of idiot at the phone.

"How do you know I fixed her all right?" Jack did not answer but Lucas got an inner picture where he shrugged.

"You always do, man, but you sound strange. Are you all right, Lucas?"

"No!" he croaked once again.

"Then go to bed, champ, get some rest and I'll say that you want the rest of the week to recover."

"Thanks...!" When he had hanged up he started to shake uncontrollably. That kind of game was not anything he was fit for at all. He jumped like a frightened cat seeing a flock of dogs under its tree when he felt a hand on his shoulder and lost all control over his limbs and then fell flat before Cecilia's feet. She threw her head back and laughed heartily. The water from the bath still glistened like beads on her skin, looking like a layer of stars over her. Desperately Lucas tried to get up on his feet, crying his eyes out as he tried to regain control over his arms and legs. Cecilia crouched down when she understood that he wasn't getting up to her level anytime soon. Slowly she pressed her lips against his, touching his tongue with hers to tease him. Lucas also felt her hair brush against his face, so smooth, smelling newly washed flowers and soap. Tears pushed out of her eyes, ran down her cheek and when they fell onto his wetting his skin he felt like something broke in his poor brain. Her naked body was so close to his, so he pulled her closer and was hopelessly lost.

4

It was Mrs. Mattson who first noticed the peculiar stench that came from Lucas Oliver's house. At first the odor had just been a whisper of discomfort, but then during the week there had been more than Mrs. Mattson who reacted to it. Everyone had different descriptions of the smell, but everyone was in agreement it was unpleasant and that it could no longer be ignored. Something needed to be done about that oddball, you wouldn't know what people like him could be up to.

"It must have been too much for him, working at that place year after year without any rest or vacation," people said and shook their heads; this had been expected. Yes, indeed it had. That he would freak out and do something really wrong was something they were all just waiting for. They were just grateful that he had done this and was not sitting in a bell tower somewhere with a gun. Right after they called the police they all went back to their homes and stood behind curtains, waiting eagerly for the scandal to unfold and now that it was revealed they stood there in disgust in loss of something better to do.

As if he was still dreaming Lucas heard how the door was kicked open not so far after Mrs. Mattson called 911. Still tired he looked at Cecilia who lay smiling beside him in bed. They would be so surprised, everyone who despised him for such a long time that she had chosen to be with him of all people. He could hear how they rushed in and gasped for breath. The sound of voices in his home made him truly wake up, he felt as if he had been sleeping for a very long time and not been able to see the truth up until now. The first thing that hit him was the distinct smell of embalming fluid that stung in his nostrils and made his eyes start to tear up, while hers on the other hand stared with emptiness onto the ceiling. He could hear the people talk, hear their condemnation but was too tired to react. Slowly he took up his hand and gently brushed away a dull lock of her hair from her forehead.

"Goodbye, Cecilia," he whispered tenderly. He didn't resist when they brutally pulled him out of bed, he just closed his eyes and kept them close the entire time out to where the car was waiting for him.

"Well that wasn't a surprise!" Even though his eyes were shut he recognized Mrs. Mattson's old and creaky voice.

"Necrophile!" a voice that he didn't recognize shouted at him. Tears welled up and hanged in his eyelashes. Another car drove up on his driveway and then he could hear Jack's voice, but he still wouldn't open his eyes.

Jack jumped out of the car and couldn't believe what he saw. It was just too much; no one could have such luck! The faulty cremation had been his own doing so that wasn't lady Fortune's divine hand that helped, he would have to admit that, but this beat it all. It was just like Lucas had planned it all for him and honestly he couldn't have done it better himself.

Lucas the outcast had killed the girl, off course he had, you never knew what a guy like that could have gotten into his head. Possibly he killed her because she rejected him or maybe even because she gave him a smile. Jack felt a great weight lift from his shoulders. Everybody was going to believe that Lucas took the young life of the girl who was the only one in Walnut Spring that even cared about him. Cecilia had been such a good girl, had such a good heart, but the mind however hadn't been that brilliant. She didn't understand if his threats were real or not...

"If I can't have you no one will," Jack had said to her and she looked so uncomprehendingly at him without moving an inch out of fright. It had irritated him more than anything, her compassionate eyes that had blinked in blue at him. He had screamed at her and she had cried for Lucas, for that freak when she had him, a pride of men right in front of her and that is where he had lost his patient. Overwhelmed with anger he had looked for anything he could find and there on the counter was a kitchen knife that was trusted into her stomach. She had died with Lucas name on her lips, the stupid bitch. But all of that was in the past; it wasn't his problem anymore. They wouldn't even think about suspecting him, would they? There were no links between him and the girl, so why would they even look now that they had the perfect killer in custody? The one who would be convicted was Lucas, poor, dumb, outcast Lucas who couldn't even harm a fly. It was all so ludicrous that he almost laughed, but it was neither the time nor the place to gloat. The whole town was speculating about where and why, but it was obvious that he was guilty in their eyes. Jack heard their voices murmur about Lucas and his depravity and he enjoyed every moment of it.

Cecilia lied in the bedroom and he snorted because of the strong smell of formaldehyde that was in the room. As soon as he could somewhat function in the intense smell he got her down into the body bag and pulled up the zipper. Through the plastic he could see the milky white layer that before used to be over the eye had burst. It actually looked like she was crying. A vague feeling of discomfort crawled over him, but he managed to shake it off and got her out into the car. The sooner he got rid of her the better. He shut the doors and pulled out of the driveway, this action making him feel better. The only one who knew about his crime was now lying in a plastic bag in the rear of his car, so soon his problems would be over whilst Lucas would only have begun. If there was any physical evidence they would surely been wiped away by Lucas when he prepared her. That thought got him more cheerful as he drove off with his car and he couldn't help but to whistle. He got into the rhythm by drumming with his thumbs against the steering wheel.

What he couldn't see was that the bag had started moving on the stretcher. Behind him in the dark the zipper was pulled down slowly but in a resolute way. She softly tumbled down the stretcher and slid down onto the floor. The glitter in the blue eyes was no longer soft, but cold and shrewd and there was a cruel smile on her lips. With the slenderness of a feline she rolled from back to stomach and an evil look covered her beautiful face. Jack continued to whistle unaware what was going on behind him. "It's a beautiful day to die, it's a wonderful day to..."

"A good day to die." The sound of the voice apart from his own made him tense up. Carefully he let his eyes go to the rearview mirror and Cecilia's image stared frigidly at him. Jack opened his mouth to scream, but it froze before it had reached his mouth. It was a brilliant day to die, Cecilia smiled.

The End.

Case File: #41687

Zombie Apocalypse Now! by Rachel Tsoumbakos

PART 1:   
CASE ONGOING

ROSALYN

When it first happened there was panic. Then there was fear. And finally there was killing. Lots of killing. Some of it wasn't even the zombies fault! My best friend Clara was killed by her neighbour, Albert. He took a pitchfork to her and stabbed her in the guts so many times she looked like a cartoon character. I was that far beyond crazy as I hid in the roof and peered out into Albert's yard that I wondered if she'd look like a fountain if she was given a drink.

Yeah, fucked up, I know. It wasn't long after that, while the flies were still buzzing around Clara's bloated corpse and I was starting to get worried about my lack of supplies, that a real zombie visited Albert. It turns out he was the fool my mama always pegged him for. He stuck the zombie with his trusty pitchfork. Trouble was that poking them in the guts does nothing but piss off the undead. That damn thing screamed and yanked the fork out of it's intestines and poked poor Albert right back. Hard. Right in the same spot he'd poked it. Albert squealed and tried to run but the puddle of blood at his feet made him slip as he turned. That zombie was on him like cheese on a cracker.

I couldn't help myself. Even when I saw the look of panic in his eyes - and for a moment I even thought Albert saw me up in the hole in the roof - I still couldn't look away. Death is funny, you know. I felt like a voyeur. Like some sort of sick bastard perving down at Albert. To see him in the final throws of death was horrific and yet I still kept thinking about how embarrassed I was to witness it.

All this time later it still hasn't changed.

It took me two weeks to get up the courage to come down out of that roof and make my escape. The roof had those in-built stairs, so I was safe enough while up there, but the trouble was, food was running out. Water was okay though, since I'd diverted the downflow pipe. Still, ut took me two days to build up the courage to lower those stairs and climb down.

The house was so silent. Off into the distance I could hear the occasional moan, but inside it was like a tomb. The thought made me shudder. Being as silent as I could while my whole body whimpered in fear, I inched towards the bedroom. While I needed food, it was probably safer to pack a bag first before venturing down to the first floor and possible doom.

Every noise, every creak and groan the house made were like bullets through my brain. I was sure to be the only person to die of a heart attack during the zombie apocalypse! It was only three measly metres from the rickety stairs that were my only safety net and my bedroom. It seemed to take a week to travel that distance.

My room hadn't changed a bit. When I entered it, I was shocked. For a world that had gone from normal to chaos in just under a month, it was strange to find everything still in it's place here. I picked up a forgotten jumper and hugged it. Tears were something I could not afford yet.

THUD!

I had to be quick! A moan erupted after a second thump. I was unsure if the zombie could smell me or if it was further on up the street; noise always had travelled weirdly from upstairs. I would have to wait until I reached the kitchen to find out if I was a potential snack for the undead.

Quickly, I pulled a backpack from the wardrobe and loaded it up with as many pairs of jeans, t shirts, jumpers and underwear that would fit. It didn't take long to fill the bag. Ducking into the dark en suite, I snatched up two tubes of toothpaste, my stubby toothbrush and an unopened package of citrus scented soap. It wasn't much, but space was at a premium.

Shrugging on my backpack and grabbing another bag, I exited my bedroom for the very last time. I didn't look back, I had no where to go but forward.

The kitchen. Just when I thought the stairs leading down to the ground floor were scary enough, I realised I had to slide open the door to the tiny kitchen. The muted thudding was increasing in volume. Every now and again I heard a moan, but the closer I got to the kitchen, the quieter the creature was.

I stopped and listened. It was definitely my house the zombie was targeting. Fear made me want to run and hide. Hunger, instead, grabbed me firmly by the shoulders and yanked me forward.

Slowly. Ever so slowly, I reached for the handle. The door stuck as I gingerly pulled at it. Taking a deep breath, I stilled myself and tried again. The door rattled a little but shifted on its rollers this time.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Stepping through the door, I unzipped the large black sports bag and turned left towards the walk in pantry.

Shit!

The moaning intensified when the creature saw me. Although, perhaps it didn't really see me with it's milky eyes, maybe it only smelled me as I approached. Either way, the thudding turned into a fenzy as it tried to butt its way through the door. I counted my lucky stars for Max who lived next door. Only six months ago he'd kicked a football over the fence and through the glass door now in front of me. I sure did whinge at the time about having to replace the old (non-regulation) glass with new and improved tempered safety glass.

It was the only thing that saved me now.

Swallowing back my terror, I scuttled across the kitchen and opened the pantry door. Inside was the stale smell of old bread and mouse droppings. I covered my nose and pulled out every tin I could find. At the very bottom of the pantry were two casks of water. Ten litres, that's all I had. How far would that get me, I wondered. Sobbing, I grabbed it and the bottle of cooking sherry next to it.

My last stop was the medicine cabinet. It was a high cupboard situated over the top of the oven. I grabbed a chair and dragged it across the kitchen, trying not to look at the slavering beast still butting it's skull against the glass. The chair skittered and scraped before banging into the cupboard beneath the stove. The pans rattled and clanged inside.

Jumping up, I plonked the heavy bag onto the stove top and yanked open the cabinet. Swiping my hand across the shelf, I cleared it in seconds.

And in those seconds, I heard the safety glass shattering into a million little non-threatening pieces. It turned out to be the most dangerous sound in the world.

MEET BERTA IN PART 2 OF "ZOMBIE APOCALYSE NOW!"

IN OUR NEXT ISSUE!
On The Record:

A Moment With Richard Gladman

For those readers who are not aware the month of August is British Horror Month, so as you are reading this – sorry, you missed it. However we have an interview with Richard Gladman who amongst other things is spearheading the "Classic Horror Campaign". Here is Richard explaining it in a little more detail.

The Classic Horror Campaign was set up to persuade the BBC to bring back their iconic Saturday night classic horror double bills which were so popular in the 1970's and early 1980's. The campaign has grown from an online petition and now includes this website, a Facebook Page, Twitter account and a regular series of classic horror double bill screenings around the UK.

Richard thank you for taking the time to talk to us today, I know you are very busy .

Can you remember where your love of horror came from and when the love affair started?

My love of horror began with Disney films; I was always attracted to the darker moments and evil characters in such classics as Snow White and Sleeping Beauty.

For some people their first brush with fear in the living room, includes memories of early Dr Who episodes – can you remember your "hide behind the sofa" moment via TV?

My memory is often really dreadful to be honest but my sister told me a few years ago that I definitely hid behind the sofa or a cushion during early Jon Pertwee Doctor Who episodes. I also remember being petrified by a news item on Nationwide that spoke of giant spiders on the loose in Britain but which I believe turned out to be an April Fools Day spoof!

So moving on from TV and into film, with today's audiences do you think the film makers have to go a little "too far" to get the scares. With the likes of Saw's almost torture porn level of violence.

I'm not a fan of torture porn or gore and violence that is too realistic. I can't even watch Casualty! I prefer my gore to have strong elements of fantasy or the fantastic or to be so low-budget and perhaps comedic that it becomes unrealistic. I also enjoy horror films that don't have to rely on blood, guts or controversy to be scary.

On your website the classic horror posters feature heavily, do you prefer the style of the earlier posters? And do you think the newer posters rely too much on gore and photomanipulation, or is it just the right balance?

I love old-style painted movie posters. To be perfectly honest I don't just hate modern movie posters I despise them with every fibre of my being. They are lazy and cheap and unimaginative and are so dull that they have actually put me off going to see the majority of the films they are trying to advertise.

Do you think then (without clone remakes), there is room for a classic horror style revival by film makers as we saw with "The Woman in Black"?

In a word, yes. I would actually like to see the new Hammer become more of a proper British-based production company/studio with a repertory of actors much like the old-style Hammer Films rather than what it seems to be at the moment. I would also like to see them come up with a few gory, sexy, period-set horror fantasies in the old style...just to see if they can still work with a younger, modern audience.

Hammer Films, were the associate producers on the Woman in Black, do you see this as a resurgence of the Hammer name?

To a degree, yes. As stated above I would prefer to see Hammer as a proper studio making medium and low-budget British genre pictures much like the old days. I would also like to see cameos from the likes of Shane Briant, Caroline Munro, Valerie Leon and other former Hammer stars.

Keeping with Hammer, I remember watching the likes of Dr Terror, Chiller, and Hammer Horror films in the late 90's and it was great TV. In your opinion what happened to horror on TV?

Horror on British TV seemed to virtually disappear after the controversy surrounding the BBC One drama Ghostwatch in the early 90's. Programmers and buyers became lazy, particularly those that programme film seasons for television. Horror is now popular again with contemporary dramas such as Being Human, The Fades and Bedlam although you will almost never find any good old classic movies of a certain vintage on free-to-air television at a reasonable hour of the day.

With your petition and your audience ever growing, thanks to your frighten Brighton and Horror double bills across the UK, what is your next move to get the BBC to sit up and notice?

I am planning an "open letter to the BBC" which will appear across all my platforms – the Classic Horror Campaign, Cyberschizoid and Frighten Brighton websites and blogs as well as across various Facebook pages and Twitter channels. Fans and supporters of classic horror will be encouraged to copy and paste the letter onto their own blogs and pages as well as email it (along with their own emails) to the BBC. Aside from that, there are other ideas in the pipeline but I am always open to suggestions!

Thank you very much for your time Richard and I wish you all the best with your campaign. It is time that the BBC and other TV channels see the need for classic and emerging horror, and sorted out its programming.

If you would like to head along to any of the events organised by Richard and his team, head over to http://www.classichorrorcampaign.com/events/ for more details.

We hope you have enjoyed your visit to Clayton Hills Sanitarium. As you leave please make sure that you have with you all of your belongings that you came in with. We don't want a repeat of case #17867 now do we.

Please remember to sign the visitors book, which can be found on most ebook stores. With each record left we can strive to make our guests time here a lot more comfortable than it is already.

Who knows, one day you may even find yourself in the care of one of our world-renowned physicians. but let's hope it doesn't come to that just yet...

Regards,

The Sanitarium Management Team.

