July 1, 2010

From “Dark Secrets of the Clark Building” by Patricia Ellersby

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Let’s face it, you’re still scared of the dark. It’s hard-coded by our species’ relative lack of night vision, and reinforced by a thousand hours of pop culture.

As you wander through the darkened hallways, catching a glimpse of the city lit up at night, you reflect on how many films have shown someone in the same situation meeting a grisly death at the hands of mass murderers, monsters, and other fun chaps. The emergency lights give the place an eerie sheen like the best Hollywood mood lighting, and the fact that, in your mind’s eye, the place bustles with attentive life makes its still, cold silence all the more difficult to bear.

Even with the weight of years upon your brow, you can’t help but believe in some heart of hearts that Murgmagh the Eyeball Plucker is lurking out there, and that unless you turn back now, he will have his meal.

 

June 22, 2010

From “666 Things You Didn’t Know About Deerton General Hospital” by Holly Sallysworth

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“We call it the Cabinet of Horrors, you know,” the nurse said.

Jeremy’s eyes widened. “You’re making that up.”

“Oh no. It was donated to the hospital by Dr. Julius Rhinehart, a notorious rogue and quack who owned what they used to call a ‘cabinet of curiosities,’ a collection of wierd and deformed plants, animals, and even…body parts.”

“For real?” Jeremy was still and attentive for the first time since he’d been admitted.

“Some say that the ‘curiosities’ in Dr. Rhinehart’s cabinet were stitched together from failed experiments or patients that his vile, poisonous patent medicines killed.”

“They wouldn’t let him get away with that,” Jeremy said confidently, though there was a hint of quaver in his voice.

“Maybe not today, but back in the old days, well…anything went! Dr. Rhinehart was on the hospital’s board of directors even though he didn’t have a proper degree, after all, and people were happy to look the other way if it kept the money coming.”

“How’d the hospital get it, then?” Jeremy asked. “Is all that…stuff…still inside it?”

“Rhinehart eventually died after taking some of his own medicine, and he left the cabinet to the hospital. As for what’s inside of it…well, I’ve never seen it open!”

Jeremy had more questions–and barely even noticed his IV change–but no answers were forthcoming, and the nurse sauntered out with a knowing look on her face.

“Janice, that was mean,” one of her fellows said. “Scaring the poor kid like that.”

“If it means he’s quiet and still, I’ll tell him Dracula himself is buried under the west parking lot.”

 

June 3, 2010

From “Armageddon at the Bijouplex” by Dale Carson

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“Oh, not the whole world,” the demon said, daintily sawing at its nails with a file. “But for everyone inside the Bijouplex, it’ll be the Book of Revelations. The end part, with the fire and such, not the boring intro.”

“Why tell me this, then?” Irv asked.

“Pure sport. Every few decades my lads do a little bit of Armageddon here or there. You know, to keep our hand in. But it can get a little dull–screams and seared flesh and the like. So every now and then we’ll make things interesting by telling someone about it and watching them scurry about trying to do something.”

Irv was on his feet. “You mean I can’t stop it?”

“Did I say that?”

“Well, can I?”

“Perhaps,” the demon grinned coyly. A whiff of brimstone filled the room as it exhaled. “But you’d best be quick about it. Look Who’s Oinking begins at 5:10, and there won’t be any theater left for the 7:30.”

 

May 8, 2010

From “Legend of the EverNut” by Quentin Thoreaux

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“Old Man Withers was a nasty piece of work. During the war he shot soldiers from both sides that set foot on his property, and he was famous for feeding ground-up glass to neighborhood dogs. The only thing that rotten Old Man Withers loved was chestnuts, fire-roasted, from his trees out back. They say he fertilized the trees with the bodies of trespassers.”

Howard emphasized each scene with a shadow puppet from the campfire’s light.

“But there was nobody to help him when Old Man Withers choked on a chestnut. Some people said they could hear him bargaining with the Devil with his final gasping breaths. They buried him in his own backyard. But wouldn’t you know it, one day a chestnut tree sprouted from Old Man Withers’ grave. They say that the tree has all the rotten old coot’s meanness pent up in it; more than that, it started gathering up the meanest souls that shuffled off in Royal County, maybe as part of some deal with Old Scratch himself.”

The assembled scouts drew closer.

“And when it was about as tall as a man, that mean old chestnut tree up and vanished. They say it walks these woods still, in the shape of a man, taking the souls of every man, woman, and child it meets. Any of you wonder how I know this?”

“H-how?”

Howard had turned away from the scouts to cast more shadows; he slipped on the bark mask that had been hidden in the bedroll.

 

April 22, 2010

From “Fortress Gilvery” by Joe Kull

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There was no question of who was to blame: Thompson has said it himself, in blood-red oil paint wired to his neighbors’ fence. Gilvery had done it—or, rather, had driven Thompson to. That much was plain as day.

The real wrinkle was that no one knew who Gilvery was, or what they could possibly have done to provoke such a response.

That morning found Vincent Gaines strolling down Main Street in Porthaven, hands in pockets and a satisfied grin on his face.

“Congratulations, Mr. Comissioner of Schools,” called Sam Joliet, Porthaven’s premier greengrocer, from his storefront. “I voted for you, so I knew you’d win.”

“Thanks, Sam,” said Vincent. “I can’t say I’m too happy myself, though. Whole thing left a sour taste in my mouth. Unless that’s the rutabagas I bought from you yesterday, that is.”

“If the rutabaga leaves a sour taste in your mouth, it’s just doing its job,” Joliet laughed. “No, I mean Thompson. Run into him?”

Vincent sighed. “I’m not sure I want to see him. You saw the posters that he put up?”

“Which ones? The ones that accused you of being an anarchist, or the ones that said you’d spawned a mulatto bastard in Port au Prince?”

 

April 10, 2010

From “Night of the Roars” by Stanley Quinn Jr.

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His footsteps rang down the hallway in quick succession. Even though he could hardly see the floor in front of him, Mark could hear the footfalls to the rear, gaining. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, but his leg muscles were beginning to cramp.

“I can’t keep this up,” he wheezed in a panic. “I’m dead.”

As if to underscore the point, more echoes emerged from the darkness—grimy sneakers, tattered dress shoes, and heavy, labored breathing. The night terrors were closing in with a speed and singlemindedness that belied the fact they’d once been human.

A stitch had been growing in Mark’s side, and at this crucial juncture it flared up, joining his legs in demanding an immediate and unconditional rest. “No…” Mark said. “Don’t you understand…you worthless…appendages? If I stop…you die!”

Despite this exhortation, he continued to slow. Moments later, he felt the first probing fingertips on his back and neck.

 

April 7, 2010

From “Into a Dream” by Adrian Drocer

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Few places are as intimidating as a dark corridor at night.

The absence of the usual background noise makes any sound seem twice as loud, and any doors along the hallway’s length were fertile breeding ground for the imagination. The one on Jameson’s left seemed to be slowly breathing in and out, while the one on his right seemed to have simply faded away, appearing only in moonlit snatches.

The light switches could only be worked with a special key—part of the latest round of cost-saving measures—so there was no prospect of light ahead. Moonlight only did so much.

Something skittered noisily across the floor in front of him. A rat? A bauble spilled from a thief’s bag? He wasn’t sure which was worse, but the answer wasn’t long in coming.

 

April 4, 2010

From “Infernal Night” by Terri Alston

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“I’ll be blunt,” Ken says. “I can’t fix this. Have you got a cell phone?”

“No,” you say.

“Perfect. Wonderful. Great. Fantastic.” Ken mutters. How far do you think it is to the nearest gas station?”

“I haven’t seen anything but wild grass for a long time,” you say, “I get the feeling it’s a long walk in either direction.”

Ken swears thickly and fluently. “Well, what do we do now?”

You look up at the approaching dusk. “Got a flashlight?”

“No.”

“Then we stay here. At least until morning.”

 

March 20, 2010

From “Guardian Skies” by Elijah Wilkinson

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The town had an eerie stillness about it, a kind of emptiness that cut into Carl more deeply than the chill February breeze. Walking down the street, not a soul stirred: the sidewalks were vacant, the cars were parked and locked, and the store windows were fogged and frosted. Carl knew that the subzero temperatures had forced everyone indoors, but he still felt a kind of grinding uneasiness as he walked along.

A shape appeared at the far end of the block. Carl felt a bit of relief in seeing another soul, and was about to cry out a friendly hello when he noticed something very strange about the other person’s gait.

“Hey, are you all right?” he said. A moment later he gasped—a sound that quickly became a shocked yelp.

 

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