The Cable Monkey’s Nursemaid

The Cable Monkey’s Nursemaid
By D.S. Maiorca

“Cable monkey! Get out!” He shouted across the crowded bar.
Rick knew the voice all too well. It was Jude Riot, roadie extreme, and his boss. He turned and nodded faking a surprised look hoping to pretend not to hear him. After all she was hot, really hot.
Jude was practically on top of him. “Cable monkey, I said get out!” He said as he pushed his way towards Rick.
“Look, Mr. Riot, I had no idea this was your place.” He said pulling back a little. “As soon as she gets here we’ll leave.”
“Who?”
“The Goth chick in the front row, wanted to meet me here.” He said smiling, god was she hot.
“We have more of a problem than I thought kid. I’m here for her too.”
“What, isn’t she a little young for you?”
“You’d be surprised kid. She’s a lot older than you think.”
He thought she was maybe twenty, and god she was hot. “You’re what, at least forty – old enough to be her father.”
“I lost count at a thousand. So yeah I’m at least forty.” He smiled a toothy grin. Rick laughed although it didn’t feel like Jude was joking. Jude set a wad of cash on the bar he was now facing. “I’ll have scotch straight, and get the kid what he wants.”
“I’ll have another beer.” Rick had only been a roadie for a few months and was still trying to get feel for it, but this really confused him. “I thought you wanted me out?”
“I’m not your nursemaid. You don’t want to go, you don’t go.” He slugged his scotch down, and grabbed the bottle before the bartender could take it and poured another one. “Leave it.”
Risk started talking to fill up the dead space. “Is it true what they say about you?”
Jude slugged another Scotch. “I’m not your nursemaid, but that doesn’t make us friends. Drink your beer, but don’t talk.” He pulled a cigar from a mirrored case and proceeded to chew on it. “You know kid over a hundred thousand people go missing in the United States a year. Most of them followed Goth girls to dive bars.”
‘Funny.”
“No, I’m being serious. Why do you think she wanted to meet you here instead of go to the party with the band?”
“So we could get to know each other a little first.” He said sipping his rolling rock.
“Are you daft or just a Romantic? No groupie wants to get to know you. You are just the second string, a stepping stone to get at the band. But groupies always want to go to the parties.”
Insulted he said. “So then she’s not a groupie. She didn’t want to go to the party.” He set his beer down hard causing a carbonated eruption. He knew he hadn’t been out of college that long, but he knew women. What the hell could this fossil know?
“So she’s really into you. A glance at the concert and a conversation in between numbers and that’s all you need to know.” He lit his cigar. “You cable monkey are a lamb to the slaughter. Girls like her will eat you for lunch and serve your heart up on a silver platter.”
“I know more than you think.” He said slamming his beer down on the counter, breaking the bottle this time; cutting his hand. The bartender quickly handed him a towel to clean the blood.
“Look kid, I didn’t mean to upset you. Go back to the bus and have the doc check your hand.
“You know what Jude, Fuck you.” He said wrapping the towel tightly around his hand. “I’m going to stand by the door, so I can leave when she gets here.”
“Your call kid. Take a good look at yourself in the mirror first, and decide if you’re man enough.”
Just then she walked in the door of the club. Red hair flowing past her breasts and blue eyes to pierce the soul, she was magnificent. The behemoth of a bouncer silently slid the bolt locking the door behind her.
“Kid,” he said throwing his cigar case to him, “take an honest look in the mirror.”
Rick fumbled with it as he caught it; “all the drugs must a fried Jude’s brains ,”he thought. God she was hot. She ran her hand under his shirt and started kissing his neck.
“I’m glad you came.” She whispered.
“So am I,” he said glancing down at the cigar case in his hand. He saw himself in ecstasy, but no one else. “What the fuck…” he thought as she tore into his neck. He felt the life drained from him as quickly as the blood, and everything went black.
“Ahhh,” he screamed. “What the fuck?” He flailed about wildly trying to stop the pain.
“Relax kid.” Jude said as he worked a silver dagger into Rick’s neck. A swollen river of blood ran off of Jude’s face.
“Kid, I may have just saved your life. Silver kills the parasite. Now do exactly what I tell you and I may no have to have to kill you myself.”
The room started to go black again and as it did Rick could clearly see the headless body of the Goth chic. God she was hot he thought as he blacked out.

Ghost Writer

GHOST WRITER

Jim saw the sign tacked to the telephone pole on the corner, and put on the directional. He turned onto the street, and spotted a sedan pulling away from a parking spot in front of the house.
“Oh look, they’re leaving.”
“Yep, I see it…I’ll grab the spot.”
Jim slipped the SUV into the spot being vacated by the ladies leaving the yard sale that his wife Carol wanted to check out.
Carol strode into the driveway, saying hello to the lady sitting on the lounge chair, and Jim hung back by the end of the driveway. He scanned the tables quickly, and saw the typical collection of clutter that he’d just toss out.
“You don’t look as interested as your wife does,” came a voice from his left. Jim turned, and saw an older man had come out of the neighboring house, and walked over to where he was standing.
“No, it’s not for me, but my wife enjoys browsing these things.”
“My wife was the same way in her time, but I generally waited in the car while she looked. Bum leg from Nam.”
“Hey honey, I found a nice jacket, and it’s my size. Can I have some cash? Hi there!” Carol had come over while Jim was talking to the old timer, and he pulled out his wallet.
“Well hello, young lady. Looks like a good day for you.”
“Yes it is,” Carol smiled as she took the bills from Jim, and turned to walk back over.
“That’s a smart looking wallet you have there,” the old timer said. Jim held it up so he could have a better look.

“It was a lucky find. I have a thing for distressed leather, and this was perfect.”
“Give me just a minute. I want you to see something,” he said, and walked back to his house. Carol walked over wearing her new jacket, and did a twirl for him.
“So? What do you think, Jim?”
“It really looks good, babe. Good find for you.”
“I love it too, and thanks,” she flashed her brilliant smile.
“Well that looks marvelous, young lady,” the old timer said. He’d come back over, and held a very old looking leather bound book in his hand.
“Here’s what I wanted you to see,” he said, handing the book to Jim.
Looking closely, Jim could see that the thick leather cover appeared to have been trimmed and sewn by hand. He opened it and found pages of heavy vellum paper, also bound by hand. The paper had a silky, almost creamy texture, and he wondered where it had come from.
“Wow, this is a beautiful book…but you haven’t written anything in it?”
“I’m not much for writing. Hell, I’m not much for talking usually. Oh, begging your pardon, Ma’am. Not used to having company, especially ladies around here.”
“My husband writes all the time,” Carol said. “He’s trying to break through as a writer.”
“Yeah, and keeping my day job too,” Jim laughed. “Have to keep up with the mortgage.”
“Smart man. Do what you need to do, so you can do what you want to do. Tell you what…take this book, and see what a writer can make of it.”
“Oh, I couldn’t. Besides, that looks like it might be worth some money…it looks very old.”
“Well, so do I,” he laughed, “but I’m not worth a whole lot these days. When my time comes, somebody cleaning up will just toss it out. At least, you’re a man that will appreciate it.”
“At least let me give you something for it.”
“Nah,” he waved his hand, “Here…when you write a million seller, come on back and take me out for a nice steak dinner, how’s that?”
“Well, thanks…hey, I don’t even know your name.”
“Name’s Ed, and the young Missus called you Jim, so there we are.”
“Thanks very much, Ed,” Jim said, shaking Ed’s strong, calloused hand.
“You’re welcome, Jim. You folks have a nice day now…I have to get some chores done,” Ed said, as he turned and headed back to his house.
“Hey, lucky you, fella! We both got something nice at this one,” Carol said, smiling up at Jim.
“We sure did…this book is beautiful. I’m going to have to make sure I make good use of it.”
“Yes you will. Hey, I’m getting hungry…wanna get some lunch?”
“Sounds great,” Jim said, as he put his arm around Carol, and they walked back to the SUV. They put her jacket and his book in the back seat, and headed off to find a place to have lunch. They chatted casually as Jim drove, but his thoughts kept returning to that book. There was something about it, something that compelled him to write.
Neither of them noticed the old man watching them from his window.
That evening, Jim sat in his recliner, oblivious to the news program Carol was watching on TV. He had the book in his lap, and had brought one of his mechanical pencils along, which he tapped against his chin.
“Somebody’s deep in thought,” Carol said, as she muted the sound of the commercials coming on.
“Yeah…I think I’m going to write out some ideas for a new story longhand, and see if it might help the outline process.”
“I thought you might save that book to write your first novel in.”
“Don’t I wish,” Jim said ruefully, “but the magic muse hasn’t stopped by yet, babe. I’ve got some ideas going, but they’re for short stories, not a complete novel.”
“Don’t worry hon. It’ll come when it comes.”
She put the sound back on, as her show was coming on, but lowered the volume so Jim could concentrate better.
He opened the cover of the book, and clicked the pencil to advance the lead. At the top of the first page, he wrote the title for the story he wanted to do next, and then a paragraph below to outline the general idea.
He was surprised at how smoothly the pencil would glide across the page, feeling no friction in his fingers at all from writing. If he didn’t see the words on the paper, he’d have thought the pencil wasn’t even touching the page at all.
By the time Carol’s show ended, he’d written far more than he intended, a complete outline of the story, and thumbnail sketches of the characters that would be in it. He was surprised at how easily the whole thing flowed, almost of its own doing.
“End of day, Hemingway,” Carol laughed. “We have work tomorrow, and we still need to clean the kitchen and set up the coffee maker before bed.”
“Yep, you’re right, honey,” Jim said, setting the book and pencil on the end table.
As they moved around in the kitchen, tending to the cleanup, they chatted about the coming week, as couples usually do.
Jim felt completely at ease, as though he’d satisfied the thoughts and idea for his next story, and could put it out of his mind completely. That was unusual, as he generally second guessed and revised his first notes over and over in his mind before starting the actual writing.
The week progressed as most do, with them comparing notes about the good days, the not so good days, and some of the more interesting encounters with customers they’d had. Friday arrived, and they went out for dinner.
When the server took away the plates from their appetizer, Carol looked up with a surprised expression.
“Oh, I meant to ask you…when did you have the time to work on your new story?”
“I haven’t, well not since last Sunday…why do you ask?”
“I had no idea you wrote as much as you did then, hon. I was dusting one day, and I moved your book and the cover opened up. I didn’t read it, but it looked like a whole story. I like the fancy handwriting too, by the way.”
Jim was confused. Fancy handwriting? He’d done his outline in block letters, and it was far from a whole story.
“Well babe, I guess I must be writing in my sleep now…I didn’t do a complete story last Sunday at all. Just an outline and some details I wanted to capture, that’s all.”
“I must have thought it was more, because you never wrote by hand before.”
Two hours later, Jim sat in his recliner with the book in his lap. Carol had turned in, as she was tired, and Jim said he was going to sit up for a bit. After kissing her goodnight, he opened the book and read the story, the whole, completed story inside.
Carol was right about the distinctive hand, and the story was his idea, with his characters, but expertly written, gripping him as he read, unable to put the book down until he came to the terrifying end. He caught himself holding his breath during the more frightening sequences, which had turned out far better than he’d originally envisioned them.
The front page he’d written his notes on was gone, replaced by the first page of the completed work, yet there was no sign of a page having been torn out of the book. The binding was completely undisturbed, no trace of a torn or ragged edge anywhere. What he was seeing was clearly impossible, yet there it was.
The thought suddenly occurred to him that the story could disappear as quickly as it had arrived, so he got up, and brought the book to his desk and opened his laptop.
He devised a serviceable stand for the book, and opened his word processing program. He typed slowly, making sure he copied every word, every detail from the notebook, and once it was completed, saved it to the laptop, then to the network backup drive, and then to his cloud account.
If this wasn’t the most elaborate dream he’d ever had, he wanted to be sure he saved that story, so he could dissect it, analyze it, and try to learn how to write that well himself. He noticed he was holding his breath again, as he typed some of the more chilling passages.
Finally satisfied, he closed the program, lowered the screen to put the laptop to sleep, and put the book back on the end table next to the recliner. He needed sleep, and felt now it would finally come.
He slipped quietly into the bed, so he didn’t disturb Carol, and fell immediately into a deep sleep, undisturbed by dreams.
Jim rolled over in bed, and realized two things. Carol was not there, and the light coming in from behind the drapes was bright, much brighter than it is on a work day. He’d obviously slept late, and desperately needed to pee. He rolled out of bed and padded quickly to the bathroom, letting out a deep sigh as the pressure backed off. He washed up, and made his way to the kitchen, where he found a Post-it note on the counter in front of the coffee maker.
‘Went to class, see you later. Love ya, C.’
He poured a cup of coffee, adding just a little Half & Half, and brought it to the desk. Taking a sip, he lifted the lid on his laptop to wake it, and saw the story file on his desktop, right where he’d left it. He hadn’t even been aware that his neck muscles had tensed up until he felt them relax once he saw that the file was safely there.
He walked into the living room, sat in his recliner, and set his coffee cup on the end table after taking another sip. He picked up the book and opened it up and gasped out loud, nearly dropping it.
The story was gone.
The pages were as blank as the day he first saw the book, not even an impression from where the pencil had touched the page.
“What the hell?” Jim’s eyes widened, and he took a deep breath. He put the book on the table, nearly spilling the coffee, and jumped up, running to the other room.
“Please, please, please,” he muttered, as he clicked on the file. It opened in his word processing program, and was exactly as he’d saved it the night before.
“Oh, thank God,” he whispered aloud. He closed the program, noticing that his hand was shaking, making the mouse miss its target twice before it finally closed. He walked back into the living room, sitting back in the recliner. He picked up his cup carefully, and sat back as he drank.
None of it made any sense at all. In fact, the circumstances surrounding the book would make as good a story as anything else he’d ever read, and he was living it. He glanced at the clock on the DVR, and guessed that Carol would be home soon.
Jim decided to try something. He put his cup down, picked up the book and his pencil, and again wrote down a short synopsis for a story, a couple character ideas, and a working title, much like he’d done before. And again, the pencil flowed so smoothly that he expanded on his original ideas without even trying, as though he’d become a conduit for the words that flowed onto the sheet.
Satisfied, he put down the book and pencil in their accustomed spot, and got up to get another cup of coffee. His had gone as cold as the chill he’d felt when he found the blank pages in the notebook. He had to go back to that house, to talk to Ed, who gave him the book. If anyone had any answers, he’d be the one.
As he sipped his coffee, his cell phone rang. He picked it up, saw it was Carol, and pressed the icon to answer.
“Hiya beautiful. How was your class?”
“It was awesome! I feel like a million bucks.”
“That’s great, babe. Heading back now?”
“Well, that’s why I called. I ran into Judy at the class, and she’s having a demonstration at her house this afternoon. Would you be really upset if I came home to shower and change, and then took off again?”
“Tupperware party, huh?”
“No, you dinosaur. It’s jewelry, not Tupperware. They don’t even make that anymore.”
“Just kidding, babe. No, it’s fine. I have a few things I can get done, so sure.”
“Thanks honey. I’ll tell her, then I’ll be home soon.”
“Drive safe. Love ya.”
“Love ya back,” she said, hanging up.
Jim smiled, setting the phone down. This would give him some time to go back to Ed’s house and ask some questions about the book. Speaking of the book, he walked over to the end table, and opened the cover. Still his own notes, in his own handwriting, no change.
Not yet, anyway.
Jim got out of the SUV, noting ruefully that it was the same spot he’d parked in the day of the yard sale. The day it all started. The curtains were drawn, the house quiet.
He walked to the door, reaching for the doorbell, when he noticed the door was slightly open. He heard the voice from inside.
“Come on in. I’ve been expecting you.”
Jim stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
“If you’ve been expecting me, then you probably know why I’m here.”
“Yep. The book.”
“Where the hell did that book come from? And more important, why me?”
“Sit down, young fella. I’ll tell you what I know, but it didn’t come with instructions.”
Jim took a seat on the sofa and looked around. There was a mantle over the fireplace with only two items on it. A framed portrait of a younger Ed with a beautiful woman, and next to that, a hardcover book lying on its side.
“I wasn’t exactly truthful when we met. I don’t write anymore, but I did write back in the day. That damn book was a big part of it, and made me a lot of money, but it had a cost that I didn’t know about.”
Jim stood up and walked to the fireplace, picking up the book there. ‘Break Of Dawn’, by Ed Garrett. He remembered this book causing quite a stir when it came out.
“So, you’re Ed Garrett, and this is yours.”
“Yep. My first, and only novel.”
“Let me guess. You put down some ideas, some character sketches…”
“And found the completed novel in the book a few days later,” he finished.
“I did the same thing with a short story idea, and it also came out finished. But, once I copied it out on my computer, it vanished. The pages were all blank when I looked at it later on.”
“Yep. Did the same to me with my book. Or, its book, I should say. Did you publish your story?”
“No. I wanted to look at…”
“Don’t. Don’t even show it to anyone. Just erase your copy, and write your own story.”
“The writing was brilliant…I was going to try and put my own spin on it.”
“Let me tell you something. After I copied out my book, and the writing had gone away, I left the book open in the kitchen while I was making a salad. I cut my finger pretty bad slicing an onion, and when I reached for the napkins on the table, I spilled a lot of blood on the book.”
“I didn’t see any stains on it.”
“That’s because when I went to mop it up with a napkin, the blood was moving. It flowed to the binding, and went down those little holes where the thread holds the pages all together. It was like a kid with a straw, sucking it all up.”
“Come on, that’s impossible!”
“Maybe so, but that’s what happened. Damned thing has a taste for blood.”
“OK, if that’s all true, then why didn’t you destroy it?”
“I tried. I got a nice fire going right in that fireplace there, and set the book on top. I sat here in this chair and watched it burn to a crisp. Must have dozed off watching the fire, because I woke up later, the fire had gone out, and that damned book was back on the coffee table, none the worse for wear. Not a mark on it.”
“And you gave that to me.”
“I thought that was the only way to get rid of it. That’s how I wound up with it, and nothing else I tried worked. Like I said, it don’t come with instructions.”
“The lady in the picture. Your wife?”
“She was. Claire was the payment the notebook took in return for the sale.”
“What?”
“You know how they promise payment upon publication when you sell your work? The very day the money from the publisher arrived, she had a heart attack and died right in this room. Never had any health problems, her heart just stopped cold when that damned check went into the bank.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jim said, sitting heavily back on the sofa. He realized he still had Ed’s book in his hand, and set it on the coffee table, as far away from him as he could.
“Look, do yourself a favor. You have a nice missus. Erase anything you got from that book, don’t use a word of it, and find someone to give the book to. Do your own work, and save yourself a lot of trouble.”
“Why me, Ed? Why’d you give it to me?”
“Nothing personal. Just wanted to see if it would stay away, or if it would wind up back on my table, like it did after I burned it. And it stayed with you, so that has to be the key. I got it from a stranger, and then you did too, so find a stranger and pass it along.”
“And kill someone else’s wife? No thanks. There has to be a way to just get rid of it.”
“Sure, try it,” Ed shrugged, “maybe you’ll have better luck than I did. Maybe I could have tried something else, I don’t know. With Claire gone, nothing really matters anymore.”
The despair in Ed’s voice was clear. He hadn’t given the book to Jim out of malice or fear, he’d just given up.
“Look, I get it. You didn’t mean to hurt me or my wife, but you did. If I’d have done what you did…” he couldn’t finish the thought. The thought of anything happening to Carol would be unbearable.
“I don’t know how, but I’m going to get rid of the God damned thing. Good luck living with yourself.”
Jim got up without another word, and walked to the door, stepping outside. He closed the door behind him, and returned to the SUV, clicking the remote to unlock the door.
As he started the engine, he thought he heard a bang, and wondered if the SUV had backfired, but it was idling smoothly.
“Oh damn, don’t tell me,” he wondered aloud. He thought for a moment about going back to the house to check on Ed, but decided against it. If Ed was still sitting in his chair, he’d look like a skittish fool.
And if not, if he found Ed with a hole in his head, and a smoking gun on the floor, then what? He’d call 911, of course, but then he’d have to explain why he was there, how he knew Ed, and tell them about a haunted book that writes stories for its owner. If they didn’t consider him a suspect, they’d likely have him committed.
“Nope, let it be,” he said, putting the SUV in gear and driving away. Let someone else make the discovery, if that were the case. He had other things to do.
Jim got home before Carol, and went inside. He glanced at his end table, and the book and pencil were exactly as he left them. He considered looking to see if his notes were still there, and decided against it. He didn’t want to know.
He sat at the desk in their home office and tapped the touchpad, bringing the laptop to life. He selected the story file, and hit Delete. He then went to the local backup and deleted it there, and did the same at the cloud backup.
Three copies, all deleted. Click on the wastebasket icon, and select Empty.
“Am I sure? You bet your ass I’m sure,” he muttered, sending all traces of the story file to oblivion.
That done, he had two things yet to do. First, he wanted to tell Carol everything, knowing full well she’d have a hard time believing him. Hell, he had a hard time believing it himself.
Then, with her help, he had to get rid of the book. He wanted to destroy it and insure no one else would find it, and use it.
“Timing is everything,” he said softly, as he started the coffeemaker. He heard the garage door open, signaling Carol’s arrival home. The kitchen door opened, and she walked in with a radiant smile.
“Hey sweetie! How was your alone time?”
“Oh, it was pretty interesting. How was the Tupperware party?”
“You asshole,” she laughed, “It was fun, but I didn’t see anything that appealed to me. Well, except the wine. Hey, is that fresh coffee I smell?”
“Yeah it is, hon. We need to talk.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not. It’s nothing that either of us did, but we have a problem to take care of.”
Two hours and one pot of coffee later, he’d told her everything, fielded her questions as best he could, and they sat quietly, each lost in thought.
“So, how do you want to try and get rid of it, Jim? If what Ed told you is true, it sounds like it heals itself somehow.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. He said he saw it burn to nothing, but fell asleep. When he woke up, it was on the table, like nothing happened.”
“So?”
“So, maybe Ed was drowning his sorrows a bit, and lit a fire, and thought he put the book in. And maybe he didn’t. Honestly, I don’t know, but something about his story just doesn’t click.”
“You want to try and burn it yourself? We don’t have a fireplace, hon.”
“No, but we do have a fire pit out back. And we have wood. And we have lighter fluid for the barbecue.”
“Okay…what do you want me to do?”
Jim got up, and walked behind her seat, wrapping his arms around her.
“I want you to stay in here, as far away from that thing as you can. Remember what he told me about his wife.”
“He told you that happened when he published a book, hon. You didn’t publish anything, you didn’t gain anything from it. There is no debt.”
“Maybe so, but humor me please? I don’t want to take any chances with this damned thing.”
“Jim, you’re scaring me,” Carol’s eyes were filling up as she spoke.
“That’s good, scared is good. Scared makes you more careful,” Jim heard the tremor in his voice, and knew she heard it too.
“Can’t we just call somebody for help?”
“Hello 911, we’re being held hostage by a ghost in a notebook. Babe, I think we’re on our own here.”
Carol stood and turned, wrapping her arms tightly around Jim.
“Fine. But, be careful! If something goes wrong, run like hell to get me so we can get away, okay?”
“Promise. I’m no hero, babe. I love you.”
“I love you too,” she replied, hugging him as tightly as she could.
It was time. Jim went out back and loaded kindling in the pit, adding some wood scraps on top. He saturated the whole pile with the lighter fluid, and set the can down away from the pit. He went inside and picked up the book. He held it tightly closed now, not wanting to even see what was on that first page.
He set the book on top of the wood, then picked up the can and saturated it. He took the long nose lighter from the table, put it against the kindling and clicked the trigger.
The result was immediate, and powerful. Jim jumped back from the flashback as the fluid ignited, and the entire pit was consumed in flames. His neighbor looked over from her backyard next door and yelled at him to be careful, just as they both heard the bloodcurdling scream coming from inside Jim’s house.
“No, no, no, NO!” Jim yelled hoarsely, dropping the lighter and running as fast as he could into his house. His neighbor was frantically poking at her cell phone, trying to call for help.
Jim stopped abruptly in the kitchen, staring in horror, mouth moving, but not making any sounds.
Carol was lying on the floor, burning from within. Flames came out of her eyes, her ears, her mouth. She made a horrible retching sound, trying to form words, her hands clutching at thin air. She jerked from side to side, her body reacting violently to being cooked from within. Her back arched once more, and then she lay still, as the flames continued exiting her body wherever they could. Her eyes closed, and tendrils of black smoke crept up from beneath her blistered eyelids.
Jim grabbed the cordless phone from the counter and dialed 911. As the dispatcher answered, he turned to look away from Carol, and saw that the fire had gone out in the pit. The book lay on top, completely untouched by the flames.
Jim started screaming incoherently, the dispatcher trying in vain to get him to calm down so she could get information. She already had his name from Caller ID, and knew police and fire were en route.
The aroma of burnt pork suddenly reached him, and Jim fell to his knees, retching furiously. Between spasms, he kept screaming her name over and over again.
Outside, sirens were getting louder, as the first responders got closer. Diane Peterson stood outside her house, cell phone in hand, ready to point the paramedics to the Carter’s house.
The rescue van turned the corner, a fire truck right behind it, and Diane began waving frantically.
“Help, please! They’re inside, someone is hurt, and the fire pit is out of control in their yard!”
“Relax ma’am, we’ll take care of it now. Please step away, and let us do our job,” the first EMT said to her. He and his partner headed to the house as the fire captain and a couple of firemen went to the back to survey the fire pit. A police cruiser had arrived, and a patrolman asked Diane if she could make a statement.
One of the EMT’s spoke quietly to a policeman, who began speaking into the microphone on his shoulder. Someone thought he said “crime scene”, and rumors started spreading through the crowd.

Three weeks had passed, and detectives Bannon and Perez were at their desks, catching up on paperwork.
“Dammit Felix, looks like the Carter case is going cold on us.”
“How so?”
“Doc Wilkins returned an open verdict on the wife. Evidence points to spontaneous human combustion, but she had none of the underlying conditions that are generally associated with that.”
“Her husband was a suicide, from what I read.”
“Yeah, no doubt about him. He took a chef’s knife and dragged it across his throat. Hit both the carotid and jugular. The EMT said he’d have bled out in a minute or two at most. He wouldn’t have lasted the walk out to the bus.”
“Guilt, ya think?”
“Nah, he was in full view of the neighbor when the wife lit up inside. Looks like he lost his mind when he went in and found her cooking like a pig roast.”
Perez grimaced. Joe Bannon was a good detective, but as blunt as a rock.
“The wife was,” Bannon squinted and pushed his reading glasses up on his nose, “not elderly, not obese, not a smoker, and not an alcoholic. Everything associated with spontaneous combustion was not present or applicable here. In other words, we got bubkus.”
“What about the neighbor?”
“Let’s see, that’s Diane Peterson. Said Carter was starting a fire in his pit and used way too much fluid. When the fire blew up, she yelled to him to be careful. That’s when they heard the screaming from inside the house. He went running inside, and she dialed 911, which gives us a time stamp for when the wife lit up.”
“Why was he building such a big fire?”
“FD found a book in the pit. Said it was a miracle that it wasn’t even singed, even though the fire blew itself out once the fluid was exhausted. They say miracle, I say weird.”
“Why weird?”
“The fireman that moved the book out of the pit said he saw the words ‘Paid in Full’ on the first page in it, but crime scene said there was nothing written inside when they bagged it for the lab. Also, the lab found no sign whatsoever of damage or stains, but the bricks at the top of the pit were still hot from the fire.”
“Okay, you win. That is weird…I agree.”
“Like I said, we got bubkus here,” Joe closed the folder, pushing it away. “C’mon, let’s get a coffee. We got other cases waiting, and this one sure as hell ain’t going anywhere anytime soon.”
END.
by G.A. Miller

G.A. Miller is a new voice in the chorus of horror authors, drawing his ideas from every day, commonplace events that take unforeseen turns down dark corridors, often with horrific consequences.

Born between the original Japanese “Gojira”, and the Americanized “Godzilla, King of the Monsters!”, G.A.’s interest in horror developed early on, nourished by televised movies on “Shock Theater” (Hosted by Zacherley, the “Cool Ghoul”), Famous Monsters of Filmland magazines, old issues of the late, great EC Comics, the British Horror Invasion of great films from Hammer Studios…the list goes on.

Making a living as a technician, he enjoys stepping away from the digital world, where ones and zeros are absolute, and entering the world of dark imagination, where a single “What If?” can turn normalcy to nightmare in a frenzied heartbeat, and rules of logic do not apply.

His published tales include:

“Bequeath” – Hinnom Magazine 001, Gehenna & Hinnom publishers.
“Shower Time” – The Edge: Infinite Darkness, Patrick Reuman publisher.
“Ear Wax” – Year’s Best Body Horror Anthology 2017 – Gehenna & Hinnom publishers.
“Nightmare” – Horror Bites Magazine, November 2017 Issue
“Just A Little Bloob” – Trembling With Fear column, Horror Tree web site, November 5th update

G.A. lives where Lovecraft lived, due south of where King lives. Perhaps there’s something in the water in New England? One wonders…

Organ Manipulators

Organ Manipulators

By Justin Boote

Wayne peered above the gravestone and watched the large group which stood around the freshly dug grave, listening to the vicar recite his passage. Most wept uncontrollably, others simply hung their heads, hats in hand.
His eyes gleamed with anticipation. A low growl escaped his throat. Tonight, he’d have new material. He had no idea of the age or sex of the person now being covered in dirt, and it was largely irrelevant, although it was always nice to know what one was dealing with beforehand. On one occasion, it had been a young child he’d retrieved, who had evidently been subject to a nasty accident of some kind. Half his face had been missing, and what remained of his vital organs had been useless for his purposes. The shock had almost provoked his own death via a serious heart-attack. How ironic that would have been.

The family and friends-he assumed-finally began to leave. Some hugging, others hands in pockets, shaking their heads. Now they would head to a family member’s home and initiate a process he had never comprehended. Sandwiches would be eaten, beer or wine drunk, an occasional chuckle or perhaps a bellow of laughter. One might think it was a birthday party were it not for the black veils, black suits, and women weeping in the corner.
It was said that it was to remember the deceased. Why? Had he/she been forgotten for some reason? If not, why prolong the agony? How could anyone be hungry after paying their farewell to a loved one?

Finally, everyone left. Wayne was alone. He crept towards the grave, hunched down, checking to make sure no-one might detect him. This was imperative. Being caught now, when he was so close, would be disastrous. Looking at the grave marker, he made a mental note of the name and age;Jeremy Stim. 1995-2017.

Perfect; only twenty-two years old. Hopefully it had been a car crash, or some bizarre accident, that would have left enough organs in conditions for him to work with. Had it been cancer or some other disease, the risk was too great. The organs had to be in perfect conditions.

Memorizing the location of the grave, he crept away and returned home. To wait until nightfall, when hopefully his faculties would be sufficiently intact to return and claim his prize.
#####

“Hey Mike! How’s it going?”

“Hi Stewart. Well, not too bad. Why?” This was an understatement. Mike was feeling terrible.
“I ask, because we’re meeting at the Crown tonight for a few drinks. Thought you might like to come.”
“No, thanks for the offer, but I don’t really feel like it. Maybe another time,” he said. He was sweating. And shaking.
“Ah, come on Mike. It’ll do you good to get out once in awhile. I can’t remember the last time you came out with us.”
“Sorry Stewart. Maybe next time.” Mike hung up, and slumped into his armchair. The sweat was pouring from every orifice, the muscles and veins in his body throbbing.

“No, please no. Not again,” he sobbed. He tried to think of something-anything- to prevent the inevitable. It was futile, and he knew it. He was powerless to resist. All he could hope for was that his victim that night might be some forgotten soul, lost to the underworld, where no-one would lament their departure.

Mike grimaced. The pain was always intense during the first stage. He’d tried drowning his stomach in whiskey to alleviate the changes, but it never worked. The only result was the pounding headache when he awoke the next day, lost in some abandoned warehouse or nearby field.

His chest became a cauldron. His organs burned as they expanded, his heart furiously pumping the scalding blood throughout his body. He tensed and gritted his teeth as the wire-like strands of hair began to grow all over his body and face, bristling with vitality. Claws slowly stretched from hands and feet that might have shamed Nosferatu himself.

And then, as Mike began to scream in agony, his muscles contracted and took on new proportions and strength, until-gleaming, white fangs protruding from cracked lips- his metamorphosis was complete.
A deafening howl broke the tranquil night, sending rodents, owls, and all nocturnal creatures running or flying in terror, as the creature threw open the front door of its cottage and bounded away on all fours into the night. It was ravenous, ecstatic and ruthless. A victim was needed and it cared nothing should it be its own mother it came across first.

#####

A large cloud passed in front of the moon, obscuring the light that highlighted the gravestones.
“Perfect,” Wayne whispered. Ensuring that nobody was looking, he climbed over the short, wire-mesh fence and jumped. He ran to a large oak tree to prevent being seen by passers-by, then squatted. If his memory didn’t fail him-and it rarely did-the grave he wanted was just a few yards to his right, next to a smaller oak.

Wayne opened his rucksack and once again, checked its contents. It wouldn’t do to be half-way through the job and realize he’d forgotten his torch or even worse, the ebony handled, silver knife he used to finish. The risks were high already without receiving reward at the end of it.

Confident that all was in order, he crept to where the smaller oak tree was, and knelt. Yes, here it was; the grave marker to the burial he’d witnessed earlier that day.

Sweating with nervous apprehension of the task ahead, Wayne produced a short, folding spade and began to dig. Being summer, the soil was still soft and fresh, not like in winter when occasionally he’d had to hack at it due to the frozen ground.

After excavating half a metre or so of soil, he stopped for a cigarette. As time went by, and his disease took a stronger hold, the job was getting harder. Inhaling smoke from the cigarette, he began to cough and splutter. He was already seriously out of breath from digging, and the cigarette wasn’t helping, and now he could discern spots of blood on his hands that could only have come from his lungs.

“Great,” he whispered. “Just what I needed.”

He leaned back against the oak and, breathing heavily, wiped off the blanket of sweat that covered his face. There was still some way to go before he reached the coffin, and while haste was required before any guard came around, he still needed to recuperate. His lungs were getting worse it seemed, although- just when he had begun to lose faith in what the old Gypsy had invoked- the cancer that had ravaged his bladder also, had disappeared.

Burying the cigarette butt in the soil-can’t leave evidence of any kind-Wayne resumed digging. After another hour, his spade finally clanked on metal. Sighing with relief, he threw away the spade and brought out a small crowbar. Once more he checked to ensure no-one was in the vicinity. On another occasion, a couple of damn kids had almost provoked another heart-attack after they had sneaked in the graveyard for a session of illicit snogging. For a moment he’d considered killing them instead and taking their organs, such was his fury.

Slowly, he began to pry open the lid, until suddenly, he stopped. A bolt of fear flew up his spine and he almost dropped the crowbar. A terrifyingly loud howl came from nearby. A sound that could not possibly come from any dog or human.

Although the graveyard was situated close to a main road, few houses dotted the skyline. The village was made up mainly of fields and small woods, the only inhabitants those that made their living working away or farmers that grew and bred both crops and deer. For this reason, he had chosen this graveyard for his nightly excursions. It was small, and the chances of discovery were slim.

So where the hell had that noise come from?

Then, it came again. Closer. Long and drawn out as if some animal had trapped a leg in some vicious trap. But, by Christ, it sounded like a damn wolf! And here in Norfolk, wolves had died out hundreds of years ago.

Wayne crouched down, shivering, but not from cold. Something was in the vicinity, and getting closer. He waited a few minutes, cursing whatever it was that spooked him, until a gasp of fright burst from his lips. Two Red Deer were bolting across the adjacent field, and in close pursuit, some giant animal was sprinting after them. Wayne watched in shock and horror. Even though the light from the moon was faint, he could still discern a creature running on all fours that had to be almost the size of the deer itself; black, covered in hair and growling like a rabid bear. Eventually it caught up to one of the deer and leaped onto it, tearing into its throat with a purpose and fury, until just a few seconds later, the deer’s head came free in its mouth. The creature spitted it out and resumed its insatiable devouring of the rest of the animal, growling and slobbering as it did so.

“Jesus, what the hell is that?” Wayne whispered to himself. He poked his head above the hole he was squatting in, and watched as the creature finished ravishing the deer, emitted another great howl of triumph and sped off.
Wayne reeled with the shock of what he had just witnessed, but there were more urgent matters to take care of, and he’d already wasted too much time already.

With one great heave, he finally managed to release the lid of the coffin, and taking a deep breath, looked inside.
Despite having repeated this operation on numerous occasions, a sense of uncertainty and sadness always overcame him. On the one hand, the person before him was already dead, so wasn’t going to miss an organ or two, but at the same time, he felt like a thief, a rapist. Stealing and violating another. One who had never caused him grief, or had even met before, yet principles dictated that what he was doing was still wrong; stealing from another to sustain his own pathetic existence.

The boy’s face was at least intact. Nothing was missing that would cause nightmares later, after replenishing. In a way, he thought, this was worse. He’d had a whole life ahead of him, and something had happened to end it. Death was not biased when it came to choosing acolytes.

Now moving quickly, Wayne produced the silver knife that he had considered adequate for the job(it came as a box set for Christmas from his parents) and deftly opened the boy’s chest. The organs were all intact. Removing the heart, he placed it in a small box and climbed back out of the hole. Replacing the dirt-it was the least he could do-he grabbed his rucksack and headed for safety and the comfort of home, where he would eat the heart raw and hope that another section of the cancer that was ravaging his lungs would disintegrate.

As he approached the door of his house, another blood-curdling howl stole through the warm, summer air, sending him panicking and bundling inside.

The next day, Wayne awoke feeling replenished, vibrant. Tentatively, he lit a cigarette. Poised, awaiting the first bout of coughing to hit him, he dragged on the fumes and blew out the smoke. Nothing. He took another, longer drag. Nothing.

“I don’t believe it,” he said, smiling. No blood, no manic coughing fits for the first time in weeks.

“God damn that old Gypsy!” One, maybe two more sessions of grave-robbing and he thought he might at last be fully cured. With the heart he’d eaten last night, that was now seven. The gypsy had said not to stop until all signs of the cancer disappeared. Well, he’d stopped pissing blood weeks ago. All that was left was the cancer in his lungs.
Sighing, he lay back in bed, took deep, long drags of his cigarette and recalled the encounter with the old gypsy.

#####

“You are dying man!”

Wayne looked up. He was sitting on a park bench having just vomited-again.

“I know, thank you,” he said.

“I know you,” said the gypsy.

Wayne looked at him. The gypsy was old, he had to be at least a hundred judging by the wrinkles that adorned his entire face. Straggles of grey hair blew wildly in the wind. The old man was so gaunt Wayne wondered if a stronger gust of wind might blow him over and yet there was something in his eyes that suggested a strength far more potent than a few meagre muscles on a withered body. They pierced straight into Wayne as though they could detect every secret, every hidden memory that lay behind the grey mass between his ears.

Wayne looked away. He felt as though he was being inspected by some voyeur surgeon on the operating table.
“What do you want?” he asked.

“You work at bank.”

“Correct. What do you want? A loan?” Wayne chuckled, provoking a bout of coughing.

The gypsy ignored the comment, but remained passive, staring at Wayne. “You help me, I help you,” he said.
“See, I knew it. How much do you need?”

“Money-nothing. But your bank has possession of our land where we stay for now. Allow us one more month at site. We leave, I help you.”

“And how exactly can you help me? You a doctor or shaman or something?” Wayne shook his head and chuckled again.

“Do not joke with me. You help, I help.”

Wayne stopped chuckling and looked at him. The old guy was probably senile but he at least looked serious.
“Okay, sorry. But how do you suppose I might help you stay for another month on the field?”
“You are bank manager. You decide if we stay or go.”

“Okay, let’s say I do let you stay. Look at me. The doctor has said I have another six months left to live at most. My bladder and lungs are ridden with cancer. I’m finishing work this very week to ‘get things in order’, as they like to say. How can you help me?”

The gypsy sat down beside him and produced a small knife.
“Give me your wrist.”

“Hey! What do you think you’re going to do with that?” He edged away, wondering if he’d have the nerve to punch or push the guy should he become aggressive.

“Give.”

Wayne looked at the gypsy. From the harsh, intense look in his eyes he appeared deadly serious. Well, what damage could he do that might be worse than that already inflicted upon him? He stuck out his arm and tensed, ready to retaliate should it become necessary.

The gypsy began to mumble something unintelligible in his own language and with his free hand, placed it on Wayne’s stomach.

Immediately Wayne felt a warmth inside, as though the sun’s rays were penetrating directly at his intestines, and then, before he had even realized, the gypsy made a small slit in Wayne’s wrist and began to slurp at the wound, drinking the small stream of blood the slit had produced.

“Hey! The hell you doing?” he exclaimed, as he tried to release his arm and failed. The grip the gypsy had on it was surprisingly strong.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “no blood. Only urine. Remove order for expulsion from field, and I will show you how to cure completely.”

The gypsy’s prophecy had proved correct. The next morning Wayne had almost forgotten about his encounter and had only remembered when he looked suspiciously into the toilet bowl. For the first time in weeks there was no blood swimming in the bowl.

I don’t believe it! He felt a rush of adrenaline and joy course through him. Maybe there was something in what he had said after all. But he had slit his wrist in the process of demonstrating his evident power. What would he do to cure him completely? Cut his arm off?

After ensuring that permission was granted for one more month to the gypsies at the nearby field the old man had told him what he needed to do.

Wayne had almost thrown him out of the bank in his shock and disgust. The gypsy told him that he needed to remove and eat the heart of those recently buried to regain his health; thus the tissue and organ would regenerate in his own body and, at the same time, remove all malignant tissue.
Wayne stared at him aghast, disgusted.

“You’re telling me I have to become a grave robber-a ghoul?”

“If you want to live, you must do it. If not, you die. Your choice.” With that, the gypsy left. Wayne never saw him again.

Wayne spent several days pondering over his situation. Being a divorcee with no kids he didn’t have to worry about being interrogated as to his sudden late-night excursions, but the thought of digging up a recently buried person, risking the humiliation of being caught, and then actually eating their organs filled him with a repulsion and dread only comparable to when he’d been told he had cancer in the first place. This was a perfect example of the cure being worse than the diagnosis. And yet, the gypsy had been right. What were his options? If he was caught and sent to prison, at least he wouldn’t be there for very long, or have to worry about ‘getting his things in order’.
So, after an important session with a bottle of whiskey he kept as pain-killer, he did it. And fortunately, it hadn’t gone too bad. Primarily terrified about being caught, he’d dug up the grave and been confronted by his first dead body. The young girl looked asleep. He’d half-expected to be confronted by a writhing mass of maggots and worms but because she’d only been buried that same day, he had been spared.

And then, he had taken the heart home. Almost vomiting just from looking at it, he took several shots of whiskey and forced himself to eat it. Slowly at first, only minute bites and forcing himself to think of the long and fruitful life he’d have ahead of him if he persevered, until it was all devoured. His first human heart was now battling against the disease inside.

So, a week later, he had repeated. Until now. Only one or two more. But there was something else that bothered him; the something that had ravaged the deer in the field opposite, and then made that terrifying howl. Wayne had seen enough movies to recognize the kind of animal associated with that kind of howling and he didn’t like it, but worse was that only a few weeks ago he would have dismissed it as paranoia. And yet, a few weeks ago, he had scoffed at an old gypsy who had offered him a cure for cancer.

He decided that the next time he returned to the cemetery, he’d take a larger knife with him.

#####

Mike opened his eyes, looked around and then at himself. He was naked.

“Shit,” he exclaimed. Sitting upright, he scanned the field he found himself in. It looked familiar somehow, and then he saw them. In the adjacent field were gravestones; it was the local cemetery.

“Well, at least I’m not too far from home this time,” he muttered. Rising to his feet, he checked that nobody was in the vicinity and began to scamper away in the direction of home. As always, he had no idea how he had come to end up in the field, but the circumstances that led him there, he did.

He had been fishing one night in a river that ran through the larger of the surrounding woods. At night was always the best time; no-one else would be in his spot and he enjoyed the secluded and peaceful atmosphere that reigned. The only sounds were the owls that called to friends or loved ones, or the occasional scurrying of some small animal or rodent. In order to get to the river, one had to park the ca, and then walk for at least ten minutes through the wood until reaching the path that led to the river. From there, there was no continuing any woodland stroll and the clearing was small. Thus few people knew of its existence. It was his own secret fishing hole.

And then, one night, he had heard a noise in the wood. It sounded like a bear or some such creature was in pain or ecstasy; a deep, resonating howl emanating from close-by. He’d heard strange noises before and sometimes the silence contrived to enhance the screams and shrieks of the nocturnal hunters that patrolled in search of food, but this was something completely different. He knew of no animal that could possible make such a sound-at least one that still thrived in this part of the world.

And then it had begun to draw closer. Heavy panting mixed with a thick growl like some rabid dog was pacing the area. Loud cracking of twigs and branches as it approached suggested that it was big as well. A rabid fox maybe? He could hear it sniffing the air; for what? Food? Increasingly nervous, he fumbled in his fishing bag for any utensil to ward off the animal should it approach. All he had was a small knife for cutting bait and line.

Taking it in trembling hands, he gripped it and stood up. He thought about throwing something in the direction of the panting in the hope of scaring it away, but before he could even stoop to collect anything, something huge came charging through the clearing and, growling and roaring incessantly, pounced at him.

Screaming in terror, he thrust the knife in the path of the creature as it landed on top of him, sending them rolling around on the floor. The knife must have found a direct hit, because the creature let out a piercing howl of agony as jaws clacked manically in its search for flesh. Mike writhed and struggled to avoid having his head ripped off by the hairy beast, as he withdrew the knife and stabbed it once more. Another shriek of pain filled the night sky, until, without realizing the danger, both fell entangled into the cold river’s water.

Such was his panic and terror that Mike didn’t even feel the cold as the water engulfed him, but the creature that had now released its grip, apparently did. It became a wriggling mass of fur and claws as it desperately tried to swim to the opposite bank and escape, splashing and roaring in panic but it was evident that swimming was not a strong point as it was dragged down the river by the strong current, constantly being sucked under and re-surfacing again, until it disappeared from view.

Mike managed to swim to the nearest bank where his fishing gear lay, and dragged himself out, laying there breathless, trembling and in shock, yet when he eventually managed to calm down, he noticed the deep cuts in his arm where the creature’s claws had struck him. Three weeks later, the process was complete.

He could never recall exactly what he did when he transformed, only what he learned from reading the local newspaper. Should a person or animal be found mauled or decapitated in or around the nearby woods, he knew he was responsible. And yet, occasionally he had flashbacks; a sense of power, of malice, of a great feeling of ecstasy and adrenaline that flowed through him like a tidal wave as he prowled the night sky. All were afraid of him; he was the master of the universe and nothing could stop him.

He’d recall a smell of blood and how the desire to rip and tear into flesh would be almost overpowering. Bursting through undergrowth in pursuit of his prey, smelling their fear which only enhanced his heightened state and need for nourishment. And then; entrapment, as he’d sink his enormous teeth into…

He stopped. Something else had happened last night. He had smelled something different. Something that only a finely-tuned and sharpened sense of smell could detect. And he knew it for what it was.

It had been the smell of fear and adrenaline, yet mixed with death; of decaying organs and tissue. As he had chased the deer through the field, it had come from the one opposite. What was it? Stones came to mind. An abandoned settlement? No, there was no such place. And then it hit him; the graveyard. Something had been uprooted. Someone or thing had desecrated a grave, but for what terrible purpose? He decided, curious, that when transformation was dormant, he would hide among the gravestones and keep a vigilance for the imposter.

#####

Wayne finished his cigarette. There was only one left in the packet, and it would save until hopefully his last excursion into graverobbing was carried out later that night. It wouldn’t be the wisest thing, he considered, to finally rid himself of lung cancer and then cheat the devil by continuing to smoke, and thus provoke it again.
No, after tonight, he’d begin a new life. Perhaps start working out at the gym, cut back on the liquor intake. And, he vowed, he’d never visit a graveyard again, not even if it was his elderly mother’s funeral. He still felt certain remorse for his acts and the threat of discovery was ever-present, but it had served a purpose. Thinking about it, he might even put flowers on the graves he’d dug up, as a final thank you.

But that was for later. Wayne grabbed his backpack, and headed, stealthily, for the cemetery.

There it was; the burial he’d witnessed earlier that day. Only a handful of people had been present, and no-one had been crying, so he guessed that it was either someone from out of town with no family or an elderly person who had outlived their own acquaintances. The gypsy hadn’t said anything about age being important and had they suffered cancer or some other disease, he’d know. He had, after all, done his research into autopsies and surgical operations on the Internet.

Nervous as always, he set about digging up the fresh earth. An owl hooted nearby, provoking a short gasp of shock.
“Damn thing, go away,” he spat. Tonight, he was especially tense. That howl he’d heard previously had scared him badly, and he’d read in the newspaper about some strange mutilations occurring in the vicinity, both animal and human. The police were being especially vigilant, and there was a sense of dread and stupor in the village. As added protection, he’d brought with him a larger knife, similar to the first; ebony handle with a long, curved, silver blade made in Spanish Toledo.

Half-way through removing the earth, he stopped. His heart skipped a beat and then began a manic jig in his chest, as if awakened from its lethargy. A twig had just snapped nearby, followed by another. He was not alone.
He peered over the top of the hole he was digging and looked around, while his free hand fumbled frantically in his rucksack for the bigger knife. The owl hooted again and took flight, disturbed from its vantage point on the arm of a large oak tree. Another cracking of twigs. Whatever was out there was heading in his direction. But what? A local constable? A hungry dog? The…the thing…?

Shit. His chest a great empty chamber, all breath having evaporated from his lungs. He clutched at the knife and decided to confront whatever it was that approached. Were it to be a policeman or security guard, there was nothing he could possibly say to defend his actions, and, being so close to success, prison was not an option. He would fight to the death if necessary and it would be on his head alone to assume the psychological consequences of murdering a living person.

As Wayne climbed out of the grave, he was stopped short by a voice;

“You sick pervert! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” it asked.

Wayne looked up. A man stood before him, heavily bearded and wearing jeans and a jacket-no uniform or badge in sight. So convinced had he been that an officer or guard had finally caught him, that he was lost for words.
“Know the person buried there, did you? Come back to pay final respects?” the man asked.

Wayne finally found his voice, although he was trembling slightly in anticipation of a probable fight.

“Actually, it’s a bit more complicated than that, and rather difficult to explain, so why don’t you leave now, and pretend you never saw anything,” he said rising to his feet, the large knife hidden behind his back.

“Well, you could say I’m used to strange occurrences and explications, so why don’t you give me a try?”

Wayne looked at him. He was big and muscular, giving him the appearance of a body builder or professional wrestler. His eyes seemed void of colour. He found it impossible to discern the colour of his irises and they stared into him with a malice that sparked an icy shard to fly up his spine. A sneer on his face suggested a grave lack of humour and a lack of qualms about breaking his neck should his response be sarcastic.

But Wayne was no spindly figure either. At six foot six and a firm body developed through weeks of backbreaking digging, he tried to ascertain rapidly if he might be a match should the inevitable happen. With the knife in his hand, he thought he had a good chance. He tried to change the subject.
“What are you doing here anyway? Surely up to no good either.”

The man’s response left him aghast.

“I smelled you the other night.”

“What? What do you mean: you smelled me? I know I’m probably not the most regular user of showers, but even so. Besides, you haven’t answered my question.”

“You were graverobbing, just like now. I could smell your fear and the organs of the cadaver you were removing. You’re sick. I want to know why, and I might let you live.”

I might let you live. Not; I won’t phone the police. There was something seriously wrong about this guy and the outcome did not bode well.

He took a firmer grip on the knife behind his back.
“I told you, and actually you’re not too far from the truth. I am sick, and I need the organs from the dead to recuperate.”

“Bullshit. You a necrophiliac as well?”
“Don’t be stupid. Do I look like one?” he said and then regretted doing so. What does a necrophiliac look like? Or a graverobber for that matter?

“So, are you going to answer my question? If you smelled me the other night, what were you doing out here?”
The man produced what might have passed for a smile. “Hunting,” he said.
A realization came over Wayne. The deer, the howling. His original, preposterous thought was maybe not so ridiculous after all. He looked at the man’s hands. They were huge, as were the unnaturally long nails that protruded from each finger.

“It was you! The howling the other night. The thing chasing the deer. My God, what the hell are you?”
“One who has certain needs just like you. Sustainment is the word that comes to mind. Although I believe there is a small problem here. I have survived for a long time with my…condition, and now here you are, putting in jeopardy everything. How long will it be before someone discovers what you are doing, begin to patrol the area, and thus; put me at risk?”

“Well, I thought you were doing quite a good job of that yourself. You have the police and the whole village in turmoil and scared half to death.”

At this, Mike’s features began to change. He crunched his nose as a low growl began to emanate from his permanently sneering mouth, showing teeth that were unnaturally long and sharp. His eyes grew wider, darker if possible, the eyebrows becoming as one, as without warning, he launched himself with both hands at Wayne’s throat, the growl slowly developing into a piercing howl, as gnashing teeth searched for his jugular.
Wayne shrieked at the sudden attack and was thrown backwards, edging precariously towards the grave he had just dug. With one hand, he pushed Mike’s chin upwards to avoid having his throat ripped out, while at the same time produced the knife from behind his back and thrust it into Mike’s side.

Mike howled again, this time in great pain as the knife sunk in; it’s silver edging causing him more harm than the knife itself. In their struggle, both toppled over; Mike raking furiously at Wayne’s arms and throat, while in return Wayne withdrew the knife and thrust it again and again in Mike’s stomach.

The change was instant. The buttons split on Mike’s shirt as his chest began to expand like an inflatable balloon. Claws extended from giant hands. Spittle flew from exposed and jutting jaws-fangs snapping furiously still searching for a hold on Wayne, but the wound had proved too much.

Never had it felt so much pain as when the knife entered. It had been invincible. A creature both created and cursed at the same time to rule the night, to devour all that dared cross its path, and yet, this graverobber-this ghoul- had defeated it.

As life began to ebb rapidly from its body, in one final burst of grim determination, it managed to rake one clawed hand across Wayne’s face, almost removing his nose with the force of the attack.
Wayne screamed in pain as the werewolf rolled on top of him, trying his hardest to sink the knife further while the blood from his disfigured face seeped into eyes and mouth, only for both of them to fall directly into the hole in their tussle, the werewolf breathing its final putrid breath as it came to land on top of him.
Gasping and wheezing in relief, Wayne managed to squeeze his way out from under the creature and climbed out of the hole. All thoughts of organ manipulation were now forgotten as he staggered to a nearby tree and slid to the floor.

A werewolf! A God-damn werewolf! But these were the invention of comics and movies. How could such a thing exist in the 21st Century? It was one thing having a gypsy provide some kind of remedy to remove cancer, but a damn monster? This implied that maybe vampires and ghosts, and all kinds of demonic creatures existed also. But, he reasoned, that was a philosophical debate for another day. Right now, there were more important things to worry about.

Carefully removing his blood-soaked shirt, he put it to his bleeding nose, grimaced and looked around the graveyard for any signs of onlookers or anyone that may have been alerted to their fight. The howling from the werewolf must surely have woken the dead, he thought, but; despite the pain, chuckled at the pun.
Satisfied that he was safe, he struggled to his feet, collected his utensils that were now strewn around the grave, and crept away.

#####

A week passed. All signs of the cancer that had ravaged his body had vanished. Not a single cigarette had he smoked since the fight at the graveyard, not because he was afraid of provoking cancer again, but simply because his body didn’t require the nicotine anymore. He thought it rather strange that he had been able to give up smoking so easily, yet there were other things that had him more concerned.

His shirts no longer fit him, although his stomach was a perfect example of muscular development. Where previously he had shaved every three or four days, now he was forced to shave every morning and the razor that usually lasted for months now had to be replaced weekly. His finger and toe-nails required a serious snipping daily as well.

Wayne sat, sobbing, while downing what remained of the bottle of Jameson he had begun earlier. All he had ever wanted was a simple life where he wouldn’t have to worry about how to pay the next bill, where the next meal came from, and a clean bill of health.

And yet, circumstances, fate, or simple bad luck had seen all his hopes for the future thrown into jeopardy because of some disease that still resisted all attempts to eradicate it. He had been popular at the office, promotion seemed a very real possibility, and the secretary had started looking at him in a way he had almost forgotten existed.
All this had gone to ruins because his simple, primitive desire to live had seen his fate-through pure coincidence- put into the hands of a simple gypsy, with a special gift. He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time doing the wrong thing, when two worlds collided; one where a creature that should not have existed outside of the comic books, had been prowling the woods and fields, and his own world where he was obliged to carry out a task that belonged in the realms of the horror movie.

Since discovering that the curse of the creature would now be transferred to him, he had spent the long, lonely days and nights contemplating suicide. It seemed paradoxical. Just when he had finally been cured of cancer, and thought he could finally enjoy what few pleasures life might provide him with, here he was wishing he was dead. The idea of roaming around the countryside in a manic, malicious desire for blood-regardless of where it came from-filled him with a terror far greater than having to dig up a grave. Aside from the fight two weeks previous, he couldn’t remember the last time he had been put in a violent situation. A vision of the wolf huffing and puffing on the piggy’s door came to mind, except this time, he had an idea that the piggies might be replaced by some poor soul sitting at home watching television or asleep in bed.

Wayne was also something of a coward. The courage required to end his own life-in whatever way he saw fit-he simply didn’t possess. He’d read stories of those that had put a gun to their heads and it had gone wrong, leaving them in a vegetative state, throwing themselves in front of a bus or train, only to awake in hospital with all their limbs missing. Quite simply, he couldn’t do it. All he could do, was finish the bottle of whiskey and hope and pray that the next day, when he read the morning newspaper, he wouldn’t see a headline that insinuated some bestial creature or madman was on the loose and savaging the villagers. Which of course is what had been happening, and he, inadvertently, had stopped it.

Wayne grimaced. His blood felt as though it was boiling inside. His bones expanding, ready to explode. Tears poured down his face, their route made difficult by the wire-like hair that was rapidly growing across his whole head. He fell to the floor clutching his chest, as the buttons on his shirt began to pop and fly across the room.

Ten minutes later, Wayne was gone. In his place, a creature with only one thought in its head, began to howl. The front door blew across the garden, as it burst outside and began sniffing the air. It was hungry and knew instinctively a place where fresh food could be acquired with minimum effort. By simply digging a soft hole. It had, after all, been there only a few days before.

END.
By Justin Boote

The Barrow-wright

The Barrow-wright

ByClint Wastling
It reminds me of one of those wartime films with search lights arcing across the night sky. There must be four security guards up on the ridge, each idly searching the undergrowth for me. They’ll give up long before reaching the rig. I’ve seen it happen before, they’d rather wait until dawn and send out a helicopter than walk miles in a fruitless search. Besides I’m not a criminal yet, only a suspect.
I push myself into a disused badger sett and wait. This gives my eyes plenty of time to acclimatise and seek out familiar shapes in the landscape. With the full moon to aid me I have no difficulty in picking out a circular mound. I notice that frost glistens on the blackened heather stems around me. It reminds me of the silver I’m searching for in the darkness. More frequently I find verdigrised copper, only once did a piece of gold sit in the palm of my hand. That was a real eye opener, a £1000 bonus courtesy of the long dead.
There are miles of forestry tracks and they all seem to end at the Rigg. A friend said it was the convergence of ley lines on a place of power but you don’t want to believe that sort of thing, it can drive you mad alone on the moors. The torch lights are disappearing between the trees and Thompson’s Rigg is alone under the stars and moon. Here I feel at one with the world, as though I’ve always belonged here. I pull my coat around me in an attempt to drop my teeth chattering. Whatever the security guards are doing, I’m going to have to move or when they decide to investigate they’ll find a frozen body.
I forge a path through the heather. Twigs shatter beneath my boots. The full moon has an almost sapphire glow and the stars definitely twinkle. Even through its perishing, I can still see the magic of the place, the haunting beauty of the nightscape with which I’ve become so familiar since losing my job. Shit happens. Fortunately I met this German collector who’ll pay cash for any artefacts I find. He wants something special this month. A present possibly? Whatever it is he’s paid me in advance. That came in handy to buy Jenny something. Usually there’s just enough for essentials like food and bills but he gave me £100 and I feel lucky.
I pace around the site I’ve chosen. It’s definitely circular and to my mind there’s a slight ditch around one side. I get out the metal detector. There’s a response and I start digging. Alone under a myriad stars I believe the past and present are one. Time might have ceased to exist and I wouldn’t be surprised to see a chariot or Landrover speed across the flatland.
Out here you could believe time had been suspended except for the passage of moon and stars. My spade cuts the peat. A partridge screeches in flight. I wait until my heart rate calms. I lift a shovel full of soil. When you dig peat on a frosty night, an earthy smell is released as though phantoms from the soil are escaping. The odour sticks behind my nose and doesn’t go away until I have a coffee on the way home.
I begin hacking into the contorted stems of heather and push off the loose peat underneath. Soon the side of the barrow is revealed and I begin to dig downwards. The soil becomes clay then a spark shoots from the edge of my spade in in imitation of the shooting star racing across the firmament. I stop and catch my breath and cross my fingers this is the capstone.
My fingers go stiff over the spade handle. Between shovelling dirt, I look up. The glistening firmament reminds me of Jenny’s philosophy that time curves like the night sky. We’ve had several late night talks discussing the idea. If time curves around us all then surely reincarnation is fact? I stop to rest. The only thing between me and success is the capstone sparkling under the setting moon.
I wait for a moment to get my breath back then with all my strength, using the spade as a lever, I shift the stone. It scrapes like a scream. I dive for cover expecting the night to be filled with torch beams but the sky is empty. The security guards have not returned.
My heart pounds and I hear blood hiss in my ears. Excitement and fear mix equally as the tomb sucks in air as if returning to life.
I peer into the depths, seeing nothing until my eyes acclimatise and darkness reveals its remains. The wheel, the bones of fingers holding the reins, I take a deep breath and enter the tomb. There’s a ring, a torc of gold, I can barely contain my excitement. I am the first person to see this majestic loot in three thousand years. I hardly dare breathe in case the wood becomes dust or the bones disintegrate. I reach and touch the gold. It is cold and heavy. It easily slips off the neck and my life warms it. I turn on the torch and its light scatters on dust and reveals more bones. Each was once a person. I stare into the empty eye sockets of the chieftain. I feel the chill of death permeate my bones. It is time to leave. I heave myself up then thinking I’ve seen something, look back. I imagine the line of bodies behind the chariot are chained to it and all are headless. Skulls dangle from a golden belt adorning the warrior.
I stand outside in the freezing night. I push the capstone back and conceal some of my handiwork, making a careful note of the position so I can return and take the golden belt. The torc is cold and heavy, it wants to go back. The further I get from the tomb the more of a burden it becomes. After half a mile a wave of tiredness rushes on me. I stop and look around. The stars twinkle and begin to dance. It’s as if I’m sliding down a passage of time dragging the night sky with me. I draw in enough cold air to make me cough and bring me to my senses.
A roar permeates the moor. I sense movement and the sound explodes into the grating of metal against stone. Panic seizes me. I run. I run uphill panting bent double with stitch. I hear horses galloping. I hear metal wheel rims on the earth. I turn. The chieftain is pursuing me, whipping his horses to greater speed, the heads of his foes rattling from his belt. I run and almost gain the car before the spectre is upon me. His cape flaps wildly. My breath steams in the air between us. I notice his does the same. The car body is cold. I take out the key and smile. I will outrun the ghost in my vehicle. My hand touches the handle when I hear a whipping sound. I somersault. I pulse out a warm liquid. I watch my decapitated body stand as a fountain of blood sprays the white paintwork of my car. I see all this. I feel lifted by my hair and roughly fastened next to the decaying trophies of the warlord’s belt.
The cold wind, the encroaching night and my dimming sight see only the slender band of gold as it is taken from my crumbling body and replaced round the neck of its rightful owner. What is left of me is dragged behind the chariot. Whatever fate awaits me I am powerless out here on the moor under the vast firmament of the eternal sky.
The End
Clint Wastling

They Don’t know

They Don’t know
By Donna J. W. Munro

“That’s the thing. They don’t know they are dead.”
“Ghosts?”
“Yeah, they’re clueless. Reenacting the motions of their minutes days, trying to find the groove of their life only to slide with a shriek along the ridges of reality.”
“They know something’s wrong though, right?”
“Maybe. Or Maybe they just keep trying because it’s all they know. Not who they were or what things might have been, just what cost them their lives. They don’t know it’s all over, the fat lady sang, and the ushers are sweeping the aisles.”
“It’s too dark in here. Turn on your headlamp will you? The ghosts never find out? They keep going around in circles, until what? Doomsday?”
“I thought that maybe we’d let them know. Like if we found a way to tell them that they were gone, then maybe we’d be heroes, right. Ghost busting heroes. Oops, watch it. I almost ran into the door. It’s like this place eats the light.”
“Where do we find them? If they don’t know that they are dead, then they aren’t like… seeking out help, you know. They just are wherever. We gotta tell them, but to figure it out, we gotta find them. Stay close, there’s no windows in this hallway. No moon, no light, broken up mansion on hill—it’s perfect for finding ghosts.”
“That’s what I thought when I saw it. But I still don’t get how we’re going to do this. We’re going to help them by telling them they’re dead. If they just keep going on and on, living the last few minutes of their lives, over and over, how are they going to tell us who they are if they don’t remember?”
“They’ll be doing the same thing over and over. Maybe that’s where we start. Watch them… you know… die again. Then we can research about them, figure out who they are, and tell them. Maybe they can move on then.”
“Do they always show the way they die?”
“I dunno, do I? I’ve never done this before. We just watch and wait.”
“Maybe if I check the cellar? Seems like a good place for ghosts.”
“These stairs, don’t they seem rickety to you?”
“They’re fine. Go look in that corner, will you?”
“I am. Don’t get worked up. So, if they don’t know they are dead and they just keep repeating their lives…”
“Their deaths, you mean.”
“Right. How do we know that anything is real? Know what I mean? Like us even?”
“I think there’s something back here. I feel air or something. Help me pull this shelf away from the wall.”
“Okay… how do we know? Damn! That’s heavy. Put your back into it… What’s your name again?”
“Huh…I don’t… Push, there’s something…”
“Watch it… the shelf is falling!”
“The shelf was… not solid? Went right through me!”
“How can a shelf be a ghost?”
“Or maybe…”
“What?”
“Why can’t I remember my name? Or yours?”
“Hmmm. But… I can’t…”
“I can’t remember anything.”
“That’s ok. They can’t either.”
“They?”
“The ghosts don’t know they are dead.”
“So, they’re just clueless?”
“Clueless. We’ll just tell them then?”
“That they’re dead.”
“Dead.”