Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers

EVIL MOON by S. K. Adams

2012-01-29T22:25:00.000Z

It's our pleasure to welcome S. K. Adams to TK'n' C with his wicked début horror tale.

Evil Moon

Gary McKinley layupon the bed in a foetal position. Sleep was beyond him, he longed for thatempty dreamless void to claim him; yet consciousness remained his jailor,dangling him over a chasm of jagged memories, ever the puppet master andtorturer of troubled minds. There was no hope of escape from the night thatstretched endlessly before him.

Squeaking treadsof heavy soled footwear approached along the corridor beyond Gary’s room; amomentary respite from the crushing loneliness gnawing at his soul. Through thelighted crack beneath the door of his room, he saw movement. The feet came to astop outside. He closed his eyes, heard the flick of a switch. Red tinged lightfiltered through his eyelids. The switch flicked again. Darkness returned andthe footsteps moved on.

Gary sighed,rolling over onto his back, rubber sheets creaking beneath him. Every fifteenminutes they checked on him. Suicide watch; it baffled him why they bothered.He could be dead in less than a minute if he put his mind to it. He wasnot afraid to die, not really, but he didn’t believe anything came afterwards -and that did frighten him. He triedto fix his thoughts on something comforting. There was only Bella.

Most days he washappy to wake up next to her. He missed her so very much. She was the only girlfor him. With his eyes shut, he could almost sense her there beside him. Hecould touch her warm soft skin, feel her moonbeam breath, her long flowinglimbs entwined with his; the familiar morningafter funk of intimacy. Gary’s breath began to slow. Between the sheets, hefelt the first stirrings of passion. Rising, focusing the blood, focusing themoon?

The moon. Gary’seyes snapped open, his arms and legs spread wide like a new-born baby afraid offalling.

“Oh Christ, notnow, not here,” he said through gritted teeth.

In here, in the loony bin, the mad house, in Hill CrestAsylum the lines were definitely blurring. The full moon was rising, and Garyfelt its pull as he had all the other times - but this time he wouldn’t be ableto outrun it. In this place, it would overtake him for sure.

An ache in hisbladder needed remedying. The tiled floor was cold under Gary’s feet as hepadded over to the ensuite bathroom. You couldn’t clean the stains out ofcarpet, he mused. At least the tiles weren’t red. He remembered a painting ofNelson’s flagship, the decks painted red to disguise the blood. He had spenttime in police cells where they still practiced that form of camouflage. Imagesof blood filled Gary’s head. He could smell it now; it was everywhere, like hotrusty metal.

Gary flicked onthe light in the bathroom; an extractor fan in the ceiling began to hum. Hetottered over to the toilet, lowered the lid, pulled down his boxer shorts andsat; wincing as a fiery pain flared in his guts. He forced his still swollenpenis down into the bowl. At least he wouldn’t fall so far should he pass out,he thought as he gingerly allowed his bladder to let go. When it came, the flowfelt like razor blades dipped in dry ice forcing their way out of him.

The effort ofpassing water made Gary nauseous, his skin clammy. He tried tofocus on his surroundings. No windows, just a shower, hand basin and the toilethe sat on. All stark and depressingly sterile. On the grey walls, a noticewarning of the penalties for drug taking, a large red panic button and over thebasin, a mirror. He got to his feet. Out of habit he glanced down at the bowl.The water was crimson. Somewhere outside in the night the full moon had risen.

Gary staggered tothe basin and turned on the cold tap; he cupped water in his hands and splashedit onto his face. He rested his hands upon the basin and tried to control hisbreathing. Slowly he looked up into the mirror. The face that glared back athim was not his own. It was the face of the moon, twisted and leering down atGary from an apocalyptic sky.

“Peek-a-boo, Isee you,” said the moon. “You look like shit. Why are you hiding in that littleroom, Gary?”

Gary watched inhorror as the face of the moon expanded to fill the mirror until just oneterrible eye peered in at him, as if he were a specimen in a jar.

“You killed herGary.”

Gary’s handsturned white as his grip on the basin tightened.

“No, you’re aliar. Bella is waiting for me, and she’ll be there when they let me go home.Please... go away; I just want to be alone.”

The moon’s mouthcracked open, flakes that could have been the size of mountains sheared off andfell to earth as a quake of laughter shook the bathroom. Gary flinched from thesound as cracks appeared in the walls and plaster dust dropped from theceiling.

"Bella isn'tat home, Gary. You killed her because I told you to."

“Fuck off! Youdon’t exist,” Gary screamed at the top of his voice.

“Oh but I do,Gary, I really do… otherwise, could I do this?”

Gary felt asudden sharp pain in his chest, like a bony finger inserting itself under hisribcage, twisting and poking his gall bladder… forcing its way into his lung anddragging a jagged fingernail over the muscle of his heart. He cried aloudbegging for the pain to stop. Like a man impaled upon a spike he felt helplessagainst such excruciating agony. Gary collapsed to the bathroom floor, curlinginto a tight ball. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the pain stoppedand the reflux began.

Gary crawledacross the floor and peered into the toilet bowl as acid rose into his throat,stringy lengths of saliva dripped from his open mouth as his stomach began tospasm. He belched louder than he could ever remember doing in his life. Thesmell reminded him of a dead cat he had once found in a hedge when he was achild - road kill, left to rot in the summer sun for at least a week. Heremembered the maggots crawling inside the cat's rib cage and the fat lazybluebottles buzzing. But mostly it was the smell of decomposing flesh that madehim want to heave his guts. Something rose up inside him forcing a heavy lumpinto his throat. White spots danced in his eyes, he could not catch his breath.

With one finalagonising spasm, Gary’s mouth yawned open, giving birth to something small andfurry that plopped into the toilet bowl and floated there, slowly rolling inthe bloody water.

“Do you recognisehim, Gary?” asked the moon. “Your little Siamese gerbil, Firkin. You killed himfor me when you were ten years old, skewered him with your mother’s knittingneedles remember? I was very impressed; I keep all your gifts to me, Gary.Bella is here too; would you like me to send you a reminder? An ear maybe or aneyeball, she has lovely brown eyes doesn’t she, Gary.”

Ever so slowly,Gary pulled himself up from the floor, adrenalin flooded through every fibre ofhis body. It was not a red mist that descended, but an avalanche. He slippedhis fingers under the porcelain lid of the toilet cistern and picked it up.

“I won’t be yourfucking puppet anymore,” he screamed at the moon. He raised the heavy lid abovehis head and brought it crashing down onto the surface of the mirror. To hisdisgust the mirror did not shatter, a safety feature of your modern day Asylum, but it did fragment, giving theillusion of a hundred evil moon faces seen through the eyes of a fly.

The mirror maynot have shattered but the porcelain lid had, sending shards flying in alldirections. A dull ache drew Gary’s attention to where a jagged white splinterprotruded from his thigh.

“Oh that looksnasty buddy, better call for help or you’re a dead man,” said the myriad facesof his tormenter.

“Yeah, well fuckyou; I’d rather be dead.”

Gary slipped atrembling hand around the shard and pulled it out. It tore through the femoralartery. Blood spurted in a high arc as he staggered backwards, splashing thegrey walls. His eyes focused on the panic button but it was too late, alreadyhe was falling into darkness.

It took three mento force open the bathroom door. Gary’s body had fallen against it. Suicide wasa messy business and involved plenty of paperwork. The attending doctor was newto the job. The claustrophobic bathroom newly painted in Gary’s lifeblood madehim feel a little queasy. He had to sit down on the toilet and take a fewbreaths before he could continue the examination. When he stood, heabsentmindedly flushed the remains of Firkin the Siamese gerbil away withoutanybody ever knowing it had been there.

________________________

Bio: S.K. Adams is a forty something fledgling author writing short stories and poetry. So far he has had two short stories published. [Until today! Ed] He prefers to write about the darker side of life. Most of what he writes comes under the heading of Speculative Fiction. More often than not there is a vein of dark humor running through his stories.

CATTLE CALL by Terry White

2012-01-27T18:09:00.000Z

Terry returns in style with...

Cattle Call

Freddie Arbogast had no more doubts now. When the call came, he was giddy with relief. It was like dropping his gear after a forced march. He had arrived back at two a.m. from his second pizza delivery shift and saw the red blinking light of the message recorder. A young woman’s voice with that irritating California lilt said he was to report downtown in front of the Radisson lobby at five in the morning. He was told to shave closely, wear a dark business suit and would be given instructions and told what to do when he got there.

Expecting something like this, Freddie had already provided himself with three inexpensive suits from Goodwill—blue, charcoal gray, and beige—and had made the same alterations in all three including the darts in the back that would allow him to wear his holster without drawing attention.

Freddie’s cab dropped him off at quarter to five in front of the hotel. A beefeater opened the door. He hadn’t slept and his eyes were scratchy. His heart hammered in his ribs. A film of sweat lacquered his brow and his armpits were dripping from tension. The temperature was in the seventies with the suffocating mugginess of Lake Erie certain to make things unbearable by noon. A one-minute walk-on might not happen until late at night.

By five, people were milling about like hungry sheep. Freddie held himself in check with a pasted-on smile and tried not to seem out of place in case somebody was watching via the hotel’s CCTV system. By five-forty, one of the assistant lackeys herded them all into a dozen SUV rentals and they were driven to the Warehouse District. A different lackey showed up and divided them into groups; when the cue was given, he said, they were to walk toward the camera, on a tracking dolly in front of Arturo’s on the corner of West Sixth. They were not ever to look at the camera. He repeated these instructions with emphasis on not looking at the actors heading opposite them.

Freddie was soaked in perspiration from listening to this self-important minion rattle on. His guts seemed twisted into a pretzel, he had an urge to take a dump, and ants crawled under his skin. He could no longer hear the words the imbecile was speaking.

An hour went by, then two. A dozen times Freddie felt himself on the verge of blowing a rod, ripping off his clothes and running down the empty streets, gibbering. It was unbearable. Amazingly, no one noticed the volcanic pressure boiling up inside him. A tall black man in sunglasses stepped out of the restaurant and looked around for a moment, frowned and fixed his beret. His shaved head glistened when he removed his beret and Freddie recognized him as one of the four stars in town.

At four, Freddie’s group was signalled to begin walking down the street. He manoeuvred to get himself near the back and when the cue was flashed across the street, they headed toward the restaurant at the pace explained that morning. Each man and woman was given a prop—umbrellas, attaché cases, laptops—“accoutrement of the workaday professional,” as that little creep director had tediously explained a million times.

As the group passed the restaurant, Freddie peeled off, a wingman on his own mission, and headed directly up the steps of Arturo’s. He heard a loud voice amplified by a megaphone scream: “Cut! Cut! Where the hell’s that guy think he’s going?”

Freddie ignored him and everything else. Sound coalesced to a tinny buzz in his head. His vision contracted like a hi-beam on what was directly in front of him.

His heart bumped in his chest: Where were they? The Fate Sisters made it easy. The four big celebrities were isolated at a table in the center of the restaurant with all the other tables pushed back. Waiters or actors playing waiters hovered nearby. Three cameras triangulated on the table. Two couples having an unreal meal. A last supper . . .

Freddie removed his Baby Desert Eagle from his holster and shot the older female in the back just as she was raising a cup to her lips. The .45 ACP round blew a grapefruit-sized hole coming out her chest and spattered the young beauty opposite her with a face full of red matter. Her carefully made-up face was instantly stippled with red freckles while tissue debris and bone fragments dotted her coiffed hair. Before she could form her pretty mouth into a scream, the famous tall black man stood up. Freddie shot him just below the Adam’s apple and he somersaulted backwards.
Time had stopped now. No sounds at all, which didn’t surprise Freddie because he had experienced the same thing during those terrifying firefights in Afghanistan.

Freddie held the gun on the bespattered young star, hesitated, and then shot the second male lead instead as he tried to scramble under the table. Freddie suddenly forgot his name. He was a typical Hollywood pretty boy with his good looks and buffed body. The third shot scored a neat wound channel through the scalp and blew off a piece of skull cap.

The starlet’s eyes were glazed over in shock. His fourth shot took her in the right cheek and punched through her brain before exiting with a thwacking sound into the table behind her.

Freddie, now firm master of his destiny, looked down at the havoc he alone had created like a god. Time stood still. He could feel everything in the flood of adrenalin surging through him. Suddenly, the air around him seemed to ripple, sending him signals: danger, movement from the corners. The big bodies of the security men and bodyguards smashed into him a second later; they drove him face-first into the gleaming parquet floor. It was like being dragged beneath the chassis of a speeding car.

While they mauled him on the floor and snarled into his face, spitting curses. Freddie felt his elbow snap and a bone crack in his ribs. One hard kick to his face put his lights out. Before he drifted into that black whirlpool rushing toward him, he smiled through cracked teeth and bloody lips. Freddie wondered what his new body would look like when he emerged once again into the world in his terrible reincarnation.

BIO:
Terry White lives in Northeast Ohio and has been publishing noir and hardboiled fiction for several years. Among his recent publications are stories in Yellow Mama, A Twist of Noir, Sex and Murder and “The Dog Returneth to His Vomit,” archived in TKnC. “The Frotteur in the Dark” was named one of the 6 Best Of stories for 2009 by 10,000 Tons of Black Ink.

An excerpt from Terry's first novel, featuring the P.I. Thomas Haftmann (Grand Mal, 2011) can be read here.

PREDATOR/PREY by Leon Steelgrave

2012-01-20T18:54:00.000Z

Leon's debut TKnC chiller will have you looking over your shoulder... Yes - YOU.

Predator/Prey

Picture a singles bar. You don’t need to know its name or location, we are all familiar with these types of cattle market and no greater definition of the club is required.

The woman is tall, sinuous and beautiful, in a cold sort of fashion. She moves with the primeval grace of a great cat, for that is what she is - a hunter.

‘Will she pick me?’ you wonder. The answer is, of course, no. You are too tall or too short, too thin or too fat. Your gender is wrong, unsuited to the direction in which her sexuality is swinging this evening. The capricious favours of her bed will not be yours tonight. You instinctively know this to be true.

The man, sipping a Gin and Tonic at the bar, is equally suave. The dark intelligence in his eyes shows that he is more than equal to the woman’s lust. If such a thing were possible, one suspects that his desire may run even deeper than hers does. But surely no one is that carnal?

Their eyes lock, a stream of unspoken dialogue passes between them, then they close in for the kill. You watch, a little ashamed of your voyeuristic behaviour. It’s not as though you couldn’t find a trap of your own. God knows you could have your pick of any of the people in this sleazy den. The night is still young and you have plenty of time to try a few moves of your own. In the meantime, you might as well enjoy the floorshow.

Their interaction fascinates you. You’ve seen all the tricks before, but rarely performed with such intensity. The woman accepts a drink form the man and giggles (that laugh’s much too young for her) as she dips a finger with an exquisitely manicured nail in the clear liquor. She traces her finger around the rim to produce a single, ringing note. Whenever she looks at him it is through lowered lashes, showing him deference and hinting that she is willing to surrender herself into his power.

The man smiles in return (I bet he’s sucking in that gut) and reaches across to retrieve an ashtray from the bar, his hand brushes against her breast seemingly by accident. The woman remains ice-maiden cool. Yes, you can touch me but it’s going to take far more sophistication than that to win the game.

She asks for a cigarette and he obliges. When she leans forward to accept a light she is careful to show off her breasts to their full advantage. The movement causes her to lose her balance on the high barstool and she reaches out, her hand grabbing the man’s thigh. It lingers there a fraction too long to be purely accidental or decent.

‘Hi. I couldn’t help noticing you were sitting alone. I don’t wanna to be presumptuous, but you look kinda lonely. Perhaps you need a friend?’

The voice makes you turn, your anger flares momentarily at this interruption to your enjoyment of the floorshow. You smile; this suitor is rather attractive. A sense of irony makes your smile wider, for it would seem that you are now the prey. Your uninvited guest takes this as a sign of acceptance and sits nervously beside you.

The man returns his lighter to his pocket with a well-practised movement. His eyes never stray from the woman during the operation. He is thinking that it is all too easy. The prey is naïve and falsely confident in its abilities. It is a pity there is no greater sport to be found.

The woman exhales and carefully crosses her legs, showing the maximum possible amount of thigh. Her thoughts run in a similar vein to that of the man. She is picking up overconfidence and an excess of ego. It lends a rank odour to the air around her and makes her savour the thought of destroying both confidence and ego.

You offer a drink, conversation, but your attention is rarely focused on your conquest. The man and woman at the bar continue to fascinate you. They draw your attention from your partner at every given opportunity. Your inattention does not go unnoticed, but you gloss over it with saccharin pleasantries. Then the man and woman are moving, weaving through the crowds, heading for the exit. Shocked by your own actions, you find yourself on your feet, mumbling feeble apologies about some forgotten prior appointment. You hustle your way across the room without a backward glance. Your limbs feel stiff and leaden. Perhaps you’re getting old? Ha!

You give the cloakroom girl your ticket and wait impatiently for her to find your jacket. Each second of delay decreases your chances of being able to pick up their trail. Though what you intend to do when you find them you do not know. Will you follow them home to his or her apartment? Will you wait afterwards and follow whoever leaves to their abode. If you do, what then? This is madness. You have clearly lost your mind.

‘Hey, buddy, are you gonna to take your coat or are you just gonna stand and stare all night?’ the girl grouses. Glaring at her impertinence, you snatch your jacket and hurry out onto the street.

Outside it is dark and cold drizzle is falling, making the sidewalk slick underfoot. Despite the weather the street is relatively crowded. You walk a few paces to your left, your head weaving from side to side like a cobra getting ready to strike its prey. You turn on your heel with a silent curse and head back to the right. Something catches your eye. Is it them? Yes. Necking in the harsh sodium glow of the streetlights. You slow down and will them to go on so you can continue to follow them. Your breathing is harsh and you’re surprised to find yourself sweating heavily despite the chill night air. Perhaps you’re coming down with a virus? Maybe that’s the source of your madness?

They disengage and move off down the street. Your heart skips a beat when they pause at the edge of the road, if they should hail a cab you’ll have no chance of following them. But no, they are waiting for a break in the traffic. Your heart slows - it’s all right - you can continue your pursuit.

They cross the road and step into a garbage-strewn alley that stinks of urine. It makes you apprehensive to find yourself in the city’s seedy guts, but you can’t seem to stop yourself from following them. You have embarked on a journey of self-discovery from which there is no turning back.

A hand grasps your ankle and you cry out. The old derelict stares at you with bloodshot eyes as you hurry past. With luck, they will not have heard you.

From the alley to a viaduct beneath the road and then back to another alleyway, you follow them until they arrive outside a cheap motel, the kind that rents rooms by the hour. Not that you are familiar with such places.

You watch them through the glass doors of the reception as they check in. Your wheezing breath reminds you of an elderly relative whom you watched sicken and die. You ask yourself what you should do now the hunt is over. You’re fevered. You really should go home now that there is no more to see. Yes. Go home, back to your warm, comforting and safe little life.

Taking your own advice, you are just about to turn away when a light illuminates one of the downstairs windows. The blind rolls up and the woman stands framed before you. You watch as the man, now naked, comes up behind her and grabs the straps of her dress. His muscles ripple as he tears the fabric into ribbons, which hang about her waist. Her breasts rise and fall in rhythm with her quick, shallow breaths.

The man is strong and handsome. The woman is firm and beautiful. How you crave to feel one set of that ripe flesh against your own, and how you envy them. Ensnared, you continue to watch as the man tears the remaining scraps of fabric from the woman and steps in closer, to encircle her from behind. She shudders. The muscles in her thighs and belly ripple.

You’re sweating heavier than ever and each breath burns like fire as you struggle to draw oxygen into your starved lungs. You ignore your growing malaise and continue to watch.

The woman’s breasts flatten against the glass as the man forces her against it. Her palms and spread fingers press against the window as she braces herself. With horror you realise she is staring straight at you, just like the man who, with fingers knotted in her hair, looks over her shoulder. Their eyes seem to ask if this is what you came to see. You don’t know. You’ve been struck mute. A growing sense of dizziness threatens to rip you from consciousness. You stare in terror at your wrinkled, liver spotted hands and scream silently in fear and incomprehension. Your vision dims and the last thing you ever feel is the sickening lurch in the pit of your stomach as you fall.

The woman sighed. ‘Was it good for you, darling? Such a gorgeously filthy id, I feel quite bloated.’

‘Yes, I knew the moment I felt those eyes watching us in the bar that we’d found the one. Almost too easy. This city’s full of the desperate and the needy. But we’re only doing to them what they do to themselves.’

_____

Bio: Raised and educated in what he describes as a town of narrow streets and even narrower minds, Leon Steelgrave was afforded plenty of opportunity to hone his acerbic wit. If he never looked back, he certainly spent a lot of time looking inward, a practice that has stood him in good stead, not least in his writing career.

White Vampyre, his first work of fiction, was originally published as a Print On Demand paperback by Booklocker.com in the USA in 2003. Out of print for a number of years, he recently issued a revised version via Kindle Direct Publishing. Two sequels are currently in preparation along with a police procedural, A Pauper’s Shroud, and a collection of early short stories.

Web Site: www.leon-steelgrave.com

TEDDY IN THE TREE by Wayne A. Conaway

2012-01-12T22:26:00.000Z

Wayne debuts in style with this chiller...

Teddy in the Tree

It wasn’t fair. Stan had just finished his summer school classes for the day, and now all his friends were leaving.

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go on the zip line.” They had stolen rope and a block-and-tackle from a railroad yard, and hung it in the woods behind their housing development.

“We did that all morning,” said his friend Mike. “We’re going to the movies now. Come with us.”

Stan was flat broke but too proud to admit it. “Nah. I wanna go on the zip line. Is there anyone still there?”

Mike laughed. “No one in the woods except Teddy the Retard-o.”

And they left, leaving Stan alone. A squirrel chittered at him from a tree at the edge of the woods. He picked up some smooth rocks and threw them at the squirrel. The squirrel quickly vanished.

“Stupid summer school!” he muttered. If he hadn’t flunked two classes last year, he wouldn’t have to go to school this summer. Maybe he’d have a summer job, and plenty of cash to go to the movies whenever he wanted.

But Teddy was back there. Stan and his friends had been stealing Teddy’s lunch money since the second grade.

“Time to pay up, Teddy,” he said. And he entered the woods.

***

It took Stan so long to find Teddy that he was afraid that the retard-o had left. But there he was, sitting high up in a sycamore tree, at least fifteen feet above the ground. If Teddy wasn’t wearing his usual red shirt, Stan might not have found him at all.

The sycamore was a good climbing tree, but it was hard to get to. There was a huge bramble, taller than he was, on one side of the tree.

Stan called to Teddy, but he didn’t respond. Well, Teddy was weird. He wasn’t really retarded, but he has a disease called Asperg-something. It made Teddy really, really concentrate hard on some things. Other things he ignored, even important things. For instance, Teddy didn’t seem to care about money, and gave his up without arguing.

When Stan finally reached the crotch of the tree where Teddy was, he saw that Teddy was concentrating on some bugs. Teddy loved bugs.

Stan, puffing slightly from his climb, was about to demand Teddy’s money when he noticed that Teddy had his pipe with him.

Teddy loved bugs so much that he carried around a kit for collecting them. They wouldn’t let him bring it to school, but he carried it everywhere else. Teddy had a magnifying glass, and a bug book for identifying bugs, and little plastic jars for storing bugs in. And he had a long, narrow length of aluminium pipe, sharpened at one end.

Teddy liked to stick the pipe in an ant hole, and watch the ants crawl up the pipe. He’d look at the ants with his magnifying glass as they crawled out of the end of the pipe. The ants always seemed to be confused when they reached the end of the pipe. Sometimes Teddy used the sharp end of the pipe to dig into rotten wood, where he would usually find disgusting grubs and things.

Today Teddy had a big piece of sycamore bark in one hand. There were some kind of egg cases on the underside of the bark. He used the sharp end of his pipe to scrape one of them off the bark and into one of the plastic jars.

“What’cha got there, Teddy?” Stan asked. Not that Stan cared. Teddy didn’t answer; he didn’t even look up from his work.

Stan wasn’t afraid of Teddy the Retard-o, but he wasn’t about to demand money from him when he had his long, sharp pipe in his hand. He decided to wait until Teddy put the pipe away.

The two of them leaned on separate branches, almost close enough to touch. Stan looked around the tree. Once you looked carefully, you could see bugs everywhere. Ants crawled up and down the tree. Beetles, too.

Stan looked down. At his feet, the two big branches met, forming a small depression. The depression – almost like a bowl – was filled with rainwater. And flying around the surface of the water were bugs. Then something bit his neck. He slapped at it, and found a crushed mosquito in his palm.

“Skeeters!” Stan shouted. “They’re not supposed to bite during the day!”

Teddy finally looked up. As usual, he didn’t look Stan in the eye. Teddy didn’t look anybody in the eye.

“No,” he said. “There are lots of different types of mosquitoes. Lots and lots. This type is the tree-hole mosquito. It bites during the day.”

Teddy was always tapping something: his fingers, his hands, his feet. Now he was tapping the tip of his pipe on the tree.

Stan was getting impatient. He wanted money for the movies, and all Teddy could do was talk about bugs and wave his pipe around. “I’ll show you what I think of your tree fulla bugs,’ he said.

He unzipped his fly and started peeing into the puddle of mosquitoes.

And suddenly, Stan noticed that Teddy’s pipe was sticking out of his side. He stopped peeing. His blood was spewing out of the end of the pipe like a faucet. He felt weak, and leaned back against the thick branch.

Stan slid down the branch a little, until one foot was in the puddle of pee and mosquitoes. He was kind of wedged in, and it kept him from falling out of the tree.

Teddy looked at Stan like he was just another bug. A confused ant, maybe.

Then Teddy reached over and grabbed the pipe. He twisted it so that the stream of Stan’s blood went into the mosquito puddle. “Mosquitoes eat blood, not pee,” he said.

After a few minutes, Stan started peeing again. This time his pee was red with blood.

When the blood stopped coming out of the pipe, Teddy was pretty sure Stan was dead.

Teddy had been to a funeral once, and recalled that people talked about God when someone died.

Teddy was happy that he knew a quote about God. He pronounced some of the hard words carefully:

When somebody asked the scientist J.B.S. Hal-dane what he’d learned about God, he said that God has “an in-or-din-ate fondness for beetles.”

Getting a good grip on his pipe, Teddy gave Stan a push. The pipe slid out easily. Stan fell into the center of the bramble, completely obscured by the growth. Disturbed by the impact, a riot of insects flew, hopped, and crawled out of the bramble.

Leaning out over the bramble, Teddy whispered, “The beetles are gonna love you, Stan.”

A beetle crawled on the tree limb. He looked at it and identified it. “Carrion beetle. Go eat.” Teddy flicked it into the bramble, where Stan fell.

Teddy packed his insect kit into his backpack. Then he climbed down from the tree.

Teddy stopped by the stream, to wash the blood off. Then he went home for dinner.

BIO:
Wayne A. Conaway has co-written nine books and authored many articles and essays. He has twice been president of the Brandywine Valley Writers Group (www.bvwg.org). He blogs at http://wayneaconaway.blogspot.com/

P+E Readers' Poll... last day of voting...

2012-01-10T18:14:00.001Z

The 'Best of 2011' polls close at midnight tonight (Jan.10th).

There's still time to cast your votes for TKnC here...

http://critters.org/predpoll/fictionzine.shtml

...and for our horror Editor, Lily Childs, here...

http://critters.org/predpoll/zineeditor.shtml

...David Barber's TKnC story, Best Mates and Lovers was nominated in the short story section - vote here...

http://critters.org/predpoll/shortstory.shtml

...and my 'fun' adult short, Supper Time, is up for best horror...

http://critters.org/predpoll/shortstoryh.shtml

... and help children read by voting for OFF THE RECORD charity anthology here...

http://critters.org/predpoll/antho.shtml

Congrats to all the nominees, and thanks for your continued support.

Best,
Crime Dude,
Col Bury

MAN MEAT by Angela Sargenti

2012-01-08T22:29:00.000Z

A tasty soujourn into the land of knitters and critters with the inimitable words of Angie Sargenti.

Man Meat

I guess I’m man meat now.

Yeah, me.

Can you believe it?

Well, let me tell you how it all went down.

There I was just walking down the street, not bothering a soul, when this weird-looking guy came up to me. Well, I never watch the news, so how was I supposed to know?

How was I supposed to know about the outbreak?

I never was too smart, I guess, nor too good-looking, but I do kind of like this new look of mine.

Gives me character.

And what the hell?

I didn’t need that damned ear anyhow.

Hurt like a mother, though, having it off like that. And I would’ve thought a person would bleed to death just from that, but no.

I didn’t even go deaf on that side.

Just makes it harder to figure out where the sounds are coming from, is all.

So there I am just standing there, my hand over the gaping hole in the side of my head. I’m looking at him and he’s looking at me while he chews up my ear. And he probably would’ve come after me again if he wasn’t so busy trying to figure out what to do about my earring.

He couldn’t chew it, I guess.

The post kept getting stuck in his gums.

Damnedest thing I ever saw, except for my ear hanging out of his mouth.

It finally occurred to me maybe I ought to start running or something. Then I remembered about the knitting needles I had in my bag.

See, I was on my way to this knitting class I was taking. Me and a lot of other overweight, homely girls, and a couple of old ladies, too.

Hell, wasn’t like any of us was getting laid any time soon, so what else was there to do? And if that zombie bastard didn’t like the earring post in his gums, he sure as shitwouldn’t like what I did next.

It was real fun, though.

Satisfying, if you know what I mean.

And by the way?

All those crappy old Hollywood movies?

They’re right.

You can kill them if you can wipe out their brains.

I tried ramming them knitting needles down his throat a few times, but he still moved and flopped around, so I gave him a few jabs in the eyes, figuring at least I could slow him down some if I blinded him.

Slowed him down, my ass.

Dropped him is what I did.

I looked around, but I didn’t see any more of them in the street, so I figured maybe it was a good time to take it on the toes and forget about that knitting class for the day.

When I got there, I turned on the TV.

Yep.

There it was, on all the major channels. The usual bone-headed nonsense.

I swear, this government can’t find its ass with both hands.

I started feeling kind of funny and all, but the bleeding petered out, so I had me a good look in the mirror.

“That’s gonna to leave a mark,” I told my reflection.

It don’t hurt a lick, though.

At least, not after that initial blast of pain, and even that’s nothing to be scared of. I mean, I broke my ankle once (that’s what I get for trying to prance around in high heels) and that hurt way more than this.

I am gonna wash this dried blood off me, though. No sense getting it all over my furniture. And maybe after that I’ll go pour me a nice big glass of whiskey and call it a day.

Makes me wonder, though.

Do zombies have sex?

I mean, they’re ugly as hell, so they can’t be too picky, can they?

All I have to do now is get past their stinking breath and I’ll be in business.

Man meat.

Can you believe it?

Someone finally wants me, for chrissakes.

Yeah, me.

Nice.

____________________________

Bio: Angie is the author of the zombie blog After Old Joe, and is currently working on her next novel. She's penned dozens of erotic and horror stories and has written for Leo DeGraunce, Every Night Erotica, Oysters & Chocolate, For The Girls, and others. Her most recent work, “Snow White,” was published in Best Bondage Erotica 2012 under her pen name, AR Shannon. You can find her zombie blog at www.afteroldjoe.wordpress.com and her erotica website at http://angiesargenti.blogspot.com/. She also invites followers on twitter, @angiesargenti

ANOTHER MAN'S TREASURE by Joe Clifford

2012-01-05T01:04:00.000Z

Joe's back, and hits the new year running with this beaut...

Another Man's

Treasure

“He’s just a skeezy old man that sells junk,” Geiger says,sifting through scraps of foil in the candlelight, “what do you care?”

“I don’t.”

“Then shut the fuck up.”

It’s just me and Geiger in thecondemned church off 22^nd and Mission. Geiger used to sell meth to the decrepitpriest who held the lease. The priestain’t around anymore.

It’s dark inside the church. We got some butane candles in spread-outclumps, a mattress we dragged in from the street.

“And who’s that young boy he’salways got with him?” Geiger asks, inspecting each piece of tin foil. “Little fucker with the squinty eyes?”

“Donnie.”

“Well, a dime bag says the old man’sdiddling Donnie. Which makes him a skeezyold man pervert, too.” Geiger finds ascrap with a nugget left, smiles, his fleshy mouth filled with brown nubs. “You told him about the furniture, right?”

“I told him. But Idon’t want to hurt anyone.” Last week Iasked the old man if he wanted to look at some furniture my mom is supposedlygetting rid of.

“Christ,” Geiger says, “you soundlike a fucking after-school special.”

Geiger sticks the straw in his mouth, puts flame to foil,sucks in a big hit, his long shadow cast like a racked ghoul against thebroken-down altar. “Stop being such apussy and hit this.”

He passes me the foil. I take to it like a starved rat to rotten alley fruit.

***

On Saturday, me and Geiger are backat the flea market off Bayshore. It’searly. The sun is up but you can’t seeit. A wall of fog has rolled off theocean, blotting it out. It’s usuallyfoggy and cold this time of year but today is worse than usual.

The flea market is where me and Geiger do most of ourbusiness. Most of the vendors aretweakers too, taking meth to stay up all night and dumpster dive across thecity. You’d be amazed at what peoplethrow out. Electronics that only need anew plug or fuse. Sometimes you canreally score, like vintage train sets or old-time cigarette lighters like thekind my granddad used to have. His wassilver and shaped like a genie’s lamp. He brought it home from the war. He said it was a fair trade, since the Koreans took his leg. I took the lighter when I left Kentucky. I don’t feel bad about too much of the stuffI done. I feel bad about that.

A lot of the vendors make what they sell—knitted hats andgloves, pottery. Geiger says it’s allshit, but I think some of it’s pretty cool. Like what the old man does. Hecollects roadkill, boils their heads, bleaches off the fur and turns the hidesinto bracelets, the skull fragments into jewelry. The old man sells other shit, too, likefurniture and lamps. But I like thejewelry best. Sometimes I help the oldman and Donnie load the trailer. The oldman don’t like Geiger. Once Geiger triedto sell him shit, and the old man called him a parasite. The old man might be the only seller here whodoesn’t do meth.

A couple weeks back the old man gave me a bracelet andnecklace. Didn’t want no money for it ornothing. I got my fingers wrapped aroundthe necklace now. I play with thingswhen I get nervous.

“Stop daydreaming and pay attention,” Geiger says. “I want to be sure he’s got the same sizeroll as last time.”

***

We’re walking around the flea market now, keeping an eye onthe old man and Donnie. I don’t likeDonnie much. He looks inbred. You’d think he was twelve, he’s so small, butwhen you get up close you can see he has whiskers. He’s a weirdo. Last Saturday when I was helping him and theold man, Donnie kept singing these little kid songs, nursery rhymes my mom usedto sing me before she got killed. Exceptwhen he was done, he’d say this fucked-up shit that ain’t true. Like, “You know what ‘London Bridge’ is really about? It’s about burying dead bodies.” Or “‘Ring around the Rosy’ is about kidsdying from the plague.” Creepy assshit.

I still feel bad about what we’re planning to do. But you can’t argue with Geiger. He’s about ten years older, and about 50 lbs.heavier, and he’s got a temper. I onceseen him almost kill a man at this crumbly old house on the hill above thehospital, bashed his head with a toaster.

We go seller to seller. No one seems to be buying today. All we sell is a teenager, that’s half an eight ball, and some lousy quarterbags.

“It’s OK,” Geiger says.

Because we’ve seen the old man whip out his roll. There’s more cash than last week.

***

Everyone is packing up, loading the racks of clothes and TVsnobody bought into the backs of trailers. It’s a sad sight. Maybe Geiger’sright and this is all nothing but a bunch of junk.

“Do your thing,” Geiger whispers.

I ask the old man if he still wants to look at thefurniture. Very much, he says, then glowersover his shoulder at Geiger, off in the distance.

“I don’t know why you hang around with that trash,” the oldman says.

I shrug. Sometimes Idon’t know either.

I hoist the last box, slide it across the trailer’s woodpaneling. The inside of the trailerstinks like somebody died. You can seenasty red-brown stains from all the roadkill they scoop up.

All I have to do is get the old man to go inside an abandonedhouse on Potrero Hill for the furniture. Geiger says he’ll take care of the rest.

The three of us climb in the cab. The old man tells Donnie to give me asandwich.

“Looks like you could use something to eat,” the old man says,kindly.

I am pretty hungry.

The old man passes me a soda. “Something to drink too.”

My mouth is so dry, I chug the whole thing in one longgulp.

The streetlights look like fuzzy halos in the fog, zippingtaillights on the overpass ahead like tracers racing between invisiblestars...

It’s the last thing I remember.

***

I come to with a terrific headache, my bones and musclesstretched, like after football games in the winter back home in Kentucky. My eyes don’t work so good, too crusted andswollen. Through a haze of orange light,I can make out the outline of a cow hanging next to me about to bebutchered.

I’m having a hard timebreathing. My hands are over my head,ropes around my wrists. It feels like myshoulders are being ripped from the socket.

I start to shiver so hard I almost spasm. It feels like I will break my own back. Now I understand why I am so cold. I don’t have any clothes on.

Something groans beside me. It’s not a cow. I look over andsee Geiger strung up and naked too, his head slumped. I whisper his name but he don’t answer. I can see where his skin’s been pulled offhis back and ribs in long strips, like straps of jerky to be dried.

“Geiger,” I say again, but not too loud ’cause I don’t wantthe old man or Donnie to hear me. ButGeiger don’t wake up. Whatever the oldman put in that soda bottle, he must’ve put twice as much into Geiger.

I gotta think. But Inever been too good at that.

Someone fiddles outside with the padlock. I shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep.

“Open your eyes, boy,” I hear the old man say with a groan ashe climbs into the trailer. “I knowyou’re awake. I can hear you outside.”

I open my eyes, and there’s the old man dressed like abutcher, heavy canvas apron, rawhide gloves. He’s holding a big tin bucket in one hand, a plastic jug in theother. Donnie stands beside him,rat-faced and giddy.

Now Geiger screams, feeling the pain of having been skinnedalive.

“And you can stop that screaming,” the old man says. “Ain’t nobody can hear you.”

Geiger rocks back and forth, snorting snot, which bubbles outhis nose and mouth. He gives up andstarts whimpering. He reminds me of oneof those coyotes we’d trap on the farm. You hear coyotes in the wild baying allthe time, but they don’t sound like they do when they get trapped. In the wild, coyotes sound strong,dangerous. When they’re trapped, theyact docile, cowardly. They really willchew off their own paw if you let them. When you go to finish them off, they don’t bare their teeth or growl atyou. They’re meek as a housecollie. I once seen a coyote lick mygranddad’s boot just like a pet dog. Before he put the shotgun between his eyes.

“Ain’t so tough now,are you?” the old man says to Geiger. “Iknow what you were planning to do, take my money.”

I look down at Donnie, who returns a devil’s grin. He must’ve followed us back to the church onenight, eavesdropped as we made plans, the sneaky little weasel.

The old man reaches into the bucket, pulls out a hacksaw,which he passes to Donnie, and a box cutter. The old man slides the razor blade out, stepping in my direction.

“Please,” I say. “Itwasn’t my idea.”

He shakes the box cutter at me. “But you was gonna do it just the same,weren’t you? You wasn’t gonna stophim. Makes you just as bad. Maybe even worse. ’Cause you know better.”

The trailer doors are open into the black night. There is nothing to see out there, just thecold fog drifting like aimless ghosts cursed to wander the ends of the earth.

The old man stands in front of Geiger, who keeps blubbering.

“You think I’m just an old man who sells junk,” the old mansays, to no one in particular.

“No, I don’t,” I say.

“It’s OK,” the old man says. “I do dabble in junk. And you and your friend here are the garbage.”

The old man thrusts the box cutter into Geiger’s stomach,sticks and sticks, yanks it up like he’s gutting a sow, bloody entrailsslopping on the floor. Geiger convulsesbut doesn’t die right away.

I try to break free, fight against the restraints. It’s useless.

The old man walks behind Geiger and slits his throat. Hot blood spurts, gushes, until it’s nothingbut a trickle.

Donnie brings over a stool, cuts Geiger down. He empties the jug into the bucket, turninghis head to avoid the fumes, and even from where I hang, I can feel the toxicacid singeing my nose hairs. Donniepicks up the hacksaw, and starts sawing away. First the fingers, then the hands, then the arms, and so on, droppingeach part in the bucket, bleaching off the flesh.

And I understand. Theblood stains on the floor. The leatherbracelet on my wrist and bone necklace around my neck. None of it came from any roadkill.

The old mandrags the stool in front of me, straddles it. “I come across garbage like you two all the time,” the old man says,wiping the blood from the razor on his canvas apron. “In fact, I seek it out. I collect it. I take scum and vermin, the refuse and waste that serve no good purpose,and I make it useful again. I strip awaythe ugly parts, make something beautiful.” He waggles the razor in front of me. “Because you know what they say. One man’s trash…”

BIO:
Joe's work has appeared in Big Bridge, Bryant Literary Review, the Connecticut Review, Dark Sky, Fringe, Hobart, Opium, Thuglit, and Word Riot, among others. He produces Lip Service West, a gritty true story reading series in Oakland, CA.

P&E Readers Poll - Lily, Col 'n' TKnC nominated!

2011-12-31T20:15:00.000Z

It's that time of year again. It's great to see so many of our writer and editor friends nominated for awards this year.

We're honoured that Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers are again in the race for 'Best Fiction Magazine', and in some great company.

Here's the link to vote for your favourite: http://critters.org/predpoll/fictionzine.shtml

Some selfless, hard-working ezine editors have been nominated... notably and unsurprisingly, our very own horror editor, Lily Childs, who has invigorated TKnC with her class. Plus, my long time mate, David Barber for resurrecting The Flash Fiction Offensive so adeptly. Top notch U.S. editor, David Cranmer is also one of my faves, for the sterling work he does over at Beat To A Pulp.

If you have a minute, vote here...
http://critters.org/predpoll/zineeditor.shtml

Personally, I'm ecstatic that my adult zombie short, Supper Time, has been nominated in the 'Best Short Horror Story' category (I'm supposed to be a crime writer!). It's in good company along with the likes of... Paul D Brazill... Richard Godwin... Erin Cole... the list goes on...

You can vote for your favourite horror short here...
http://critters.org/predpoll/shortstoryh.shtml

Finally, TKnC is ably represented in the 'All Other Short Stories' section by David Barber's Best Mates and Lovers (it has the most comments of any story ever on this site), along with some crackers from Darren Sant, Graham Smith and Luca Veste, to name a few.

Vote here:http://critters.org/predpoll/shortstory.shtml

Current standings are here.

The poll runs through to January 10th 2012.

Ps. Sorry if I missed anyone out - nominations increase hourly.

Editor's Christmas Special...THE HOLLY AND THE I.V. by Matt Hilton

2011-12-28T17:37:00.003Z

Rounding up this trio of editor's treats for Christmas, I bring back a good ol' chestnut (being seasonal and all), a morality tale featuring my regular thriller character, Joe Hunter. Enjoy, and all the best of the season to one and all.

The Holly and theI.V.

(A Christmas morality tale featuring Joe Hunter)

I’m a bad ass mutha, and don’t let anyone tell ya otherwise.

You doubt me an’ I’ll kick your ass all the way to NewYear’s Eve.

So don’t be doubtin’ me, man, an’ we’ll get along just fine. You start thinkin’ you can take aliberty with my good nature an’ I’ll do yer. Got it? Good.

See, the way it is, it’s Christmas, and even a bad ass muthalike me ain’t all bad at this time of year. The season’s good will can evenaffect a bastard like me. I can laugh with the best of ‘em. Last Christmas I nearlylaughed my dick off when that punk, Jakey Cenato, got his balls crushed in avice when her old man caught him with Sherry Bischoff. Jakey was givin’ Sherrya good ol’ seein’ to in back of the garage where they worked. Office romance,my ass! Jakey was just hot for the little whore and Sherry had just gone wayover the top on the eggnog. Johnny Bischoff got two of his boys to hold Jakeydown while he twisted the screw tight. Jakey won’t be filling any stockings onChristmas Eve ever again, I’ll tell ya. What a freakin’ wheeze.

Anyways, I’m whatchacall digressin’.

I’m tryin’ to point out that, see, when it’s Christmas, I’mnot as bad as I normally am. So, I was just not on top of my game. Doesn’t makeme any less a man than normal, just, like, not as up for it as usual.

I was in Blake’s Bar. My usual hang out. Most of the usualguys were there. We were drinkin’ for ol’ times sake and stuff. Thinkin’ aboutgoin’ home and trimming the tree and all that crap. Some asshole had even put aBing Crosby track on the juke box. Christmas in fuckin’ Kilarney or some otherfreakin’ Mick shit. I supposed it was a good match for the Irish whiskey I wasputting in my guts, so I didn’t complain. I was havin’ a good time. I was ashappy as a bad ass mutha could be on Christmas Eve.

Jakey’s nuts roastin’ on an open fire, Bischoff nipping athis balls...yeah, we even struck up a Yuletide carol. I was feelin’ warm an’fuzzy when I finally stumbled outa Blake’s an’ hit the road. It was blowin’ ablizzard. Didn’t dent my good mood, though, just made me want to get homequicker. The bitch I’d hooked up with, Brenda, was waitin’ for me, an’ therewas a certain part of me that was in need of hottin’ up.

Most of my pay check was in the cash register behind Blake’sbar. There wasn’t enough in my pocket to get me all the way back home. Themgoddamn cabbies are on a good thing, way they bump up the price of a fare atChristmas they need their heads bustin’. Uncharitable pricks!

But that’s what got me thinkin’. Good will to all men an’all that crap. All I hadda do was ask somebody an’ they’d hand me over theirchange. An’ if they weren’t feelin’ up for the season, I’d just hafta remindthem. Problem was, there weren’t too many people out in the weather, ‘ceptin’one guy who’d been sittin’ in a corner of Blake’s half the night. Once over Ialmost went over to him and asked him what the hell he was lookin’ at, butBilly and Clem had told me to leave it. Some sorta bad ass this guy wassupposed t’be. Joe fuckin’ Hunter,Bill said in a whisper, the mutha who did the dirty work for that Jap dick overat Rington Investigations. Well, I owed Jared Rington big time. That slant-eyedgook stuck a shotgun in my neck an’ led me back to my bail bondsmen an’ got mea six-month stretch in the big house. It even got as far as me gettin’ up, butmy buddy Clem grabbed holda me. He knows karate, Clem warned. Like I gave afuck! He starts all that Bruce Lee jumpin’ about bullshit, I says, an’ I’llshow him what a kick in the balls feels like. Plus, in my coat I've got me teninches of lead pipe. One slap upside the noggin with that should do the trick.

Maybe this Hunter asshole knew to get the hell outa my face.He got up an’ walked outa there before I could show him who he was messin’with. Bastard doesn’t know how lucky he was. I downed another coupla drinksbefore I heard Brenda’s hot little ass callin’ me home.

Shoulda wondered what Hunter was doin’ standin’ there in thesnow. But like I said, I was in a good mood, a bottle of JD down, an’ lookin’forward to givin’ Brenda her Christmas treat.

Gimme fifty bucks an’ I’ll let my beef with Rington go, Itold him. To show him I wasn’t beggin’ for charity I pulled out my lead sap.

Musta been the booze an’ my good mood.

Hunter kinda swarmed all over me.

Bastard.

He took a freakin’ liberty with my Christmas spirit.

If I’d been my normal bad ass self he wouldn’ta stood achance.

But, hey, I’m still in a good mood.

Apparently when Bill and Clem found me I’d been makin’ someof them angels in the snow. Very seasonal, huh?

Two broken legs, two broken arms, a busted jaw…sheesh, is itany wonder?

First time I’ve spent Christmas in hospital, but it ain’tall bad.

I’m warm and I’ve got these pretty nurses fussin’ all overme. Not that the bitches’ll give me the sponge bath I asked for. An’ it ain’tthe same eatin’ Christmas puddin’ through a goddamn straw or pullin’ a crackerwhen you’ve got a I.V. drip in your wrist. But at least I did better outa thisdeal than Jakey did last year.

At least when I’mhealed I can get back to bein’ my normal bad ass self.

BIO:

Matt Hilton is the author of the Joe Hunter thriller series, the latest of which is 'Dead Men's Harvest'. Matt has also recently published two standalone horror thrillers, 'Dominion' and 'Darkest Hour', available as ebooks via all Amazon platforms. Matt is the founder, and current thriller editor of Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers.

Editor's Christmas Special... LICKING IT UP by Lily Childs

2011-12-26T19:10:00.000Z

I'd like to echo Col's message and wish everyone a great holiday and a happy, healthy and prosperous 2012. I'm looking forward to reading/posting more delicious horror from you in the New Year so don't be afraid to make me afraid.

Here's my Editor's Christmas Special Licking It Up. If you think you've been tricked into a light-hearted piece of gastro chick-lit, please do read on...

Licking It Up

We’d all beenlooking forward to the annual glam-fest with its usual tinsel and trollopingabout, and had agreed to make an early start. Big mistake - I get bored tooeasily, then the craving starts; it’s inevitable.

Casa Molana inBroad Street served fusion food and confusing drinks. I decided to play itsafe. A green Margarita, heavy on the tequila with plenty of crushed ice - no salt. Assoon as Jodie’s old-fashioned Martini arrived I so wished I’d ordered one instead. Classic, classy – everythingJodie wasn’t. The cocktail should have been mine. Sucking through a squat blackstraw I grumped and grouched and examined the way-too-long menu.

We had a gossipand a bitch and I forgot about my annoyance - until the starters arrived. Thewaiter minced up to us and placed three plates in all the wrong places. Jodietutted and swapped them around. I looked at my potted shrimp and knew, before Ieven tasted it that it would be disgusting. Wrapped in thick, transparentgelatine the prawns were huge. I picked all the jelly off and prodded one ofthe pink monsters before forking the thing. I gagged as it hit my tongue. Cold,tasteless – it hung in my mouth like a watery fibroid. I swallowed it quicklyto stop the rising bile. That wasn’tpotted shrimp. Potted shrimp has a delicious pâté quality to it; a buttery melt in your mouth-ness, all studdedwith gorgeous chunks of prawn. I shoved the foul offering away.

Beside me Adie –Adrianna – had ordered a poncey-sounding chickenliver parfait in a warm marsala coulis. I’d laughed as she read it out fromthe menu but when the dish actually appeared my heart fell. It looked bloodygorgeous. We all drooled at the sight and moved in closer. Adie let each of ushave a dip with a smidgen of bread – it tasted like heaven.

I prayed my maincourse would make everything right, make me feel better - guinea fowl in aNormandy cream, cider and caramelised apple sauce. It arrived. The meat wasbrown and gamey, not white and peppery as it should be and the apples were burnt.I dug at the sautéed potatoes, only to find the golden crisp exterior hid apar-boiled lump of lead, and when I bit into the squeaky French green beans theyspat butter all over my brand new midnight-blue top. Perfect.

Lisa, with her sweetlips pursed to an unnecessary level of cuteness actually squeaked when her maincourse arrived. I was quite surprised; I hadn’t heard her order blue steak andlobster tails. She giggled - a rapacious child - cutlery in her hands ready andwaiting to attack. I watched her face, studying the pale, steely grey eyes thatdarkened to reflect the carnage as she ripped into the meat. Taking the firstbite she looked up at all of us, her smile savage. The flesh on Lisa’s platehad been flash-griddled – a minute at most on either side. She poured aRoquefort sauce onto a dark-leafed salad and watched the blood streak curlingpatterns into the pale yellow cream. Spittle glistened at the corner of herlips as she anticipated the next mouthful. I don’t eat red meat, but by God Iwanted it at that moment.

I left my ownplate scattered with bones and slivers of fowl; a disappointment – as was theChardonnay I’d ordered to go with it. Crisp, pale – and decidedly unoaked - thebloody thing was Italian. Cheap Italian at New World prices. I knew at thefirst unscented sip that it would give me heartburn like so many Pinot Grigios.

“Would you bringme the wine list please?” I asked a passing waiter who vaguely nodded in mydirection. I handed the offending Chardonnay across the table to Sarah; sheusually stuck to water, being so skint.

“Oh, really?Thanks babe.”

She grabbed theglass and downed half the wine in one gulp. At least someone appreciated it.

The indifferentwaiter arrived with the wine list for me and dessert menus for all of us. Imumbled a request for a large Merlot and looked around to see what the otherswere up to. Despite complaints of full bellies and the inability to dance laterI counted three Banoffi Pie orders, two Eton Messes and five Tiramisus. Howcould they? Jeez. I don’t have a sweet tooth – I just don’t get it. I declinedto order, feeling suitably smug until I heard Ellie ask for the Spanish CheesePlatter with sliced pear and a walnut chutney. I nearly succumbed but withEllie sitting opposite me I thought I’d just wait for hers to arrive and try anibble, if she’d let me.

She did. I leant over the table towards the slice sheheld out on the end of small wooden paddle and took the smallest suck of theewe’s milk cheese. Oh heaven and bliss on a stick – even the tiniest morsel wasexquisite. We looked up as the restaurant owner, smiling graciously, came over to demonstrate how to best eat the Manchega. He cut a thin wedge of pear,sandwiching it between the cheese and a chunk of chutney, then picked up a tinypot I hadn’t noticed and dribbled what he explained was his family’s ownValencian thyme honey over the combination. Fantastic. It looked... fantastic. AndEllie had it. Not me.

It wasn’t mynight. All my girl friends had everything I wanted; everything I needed. I hadnothing. I slumped down in my chair and drank several glasses of Cointreau togetherwith a thick double espresso and let the others argue over the bill and tip.Before we even got in the cab I was shaking with the caffeine and more drunkthan I wanted to be.

They all pulled.Of course they did; they’re stunners, each and every one of them. Fed up, and writinganother Christmas off as lonely and shagless I grabbed my coat to leave –alone - when I saw him. Drop dead gorgeous; angry but vulnerable and so damnedpretty. He watched my friends and every other dancer on the floor with a moodyglare. Before I could make my move Liz already had her claws out, ready to nailhim. I decided to stay.

Somehow we allended up going back to Liz’s flat – Club Boy too. And that’s when everythingchanged. I couldn’t let Liz have him – it was one tease too many, besides I’drecognised something familiar about her treat that night. I noticed how hisskin shone translucent in a certain light, how he licked his teeth when hesmiled. It had been so long since I’d had one of my own I just couldn’t resistit. I only had myself to blame for the bad choices I’d made earlier in theevening but this was just right. Although Liz had pissed me off with her usualman-eater act I did love her – as Ilove them all – so thought I’d better warn her.

“Sorry Sweets,” Isaid in the kitchen as Liz hung her head, a solitary tear ripping through thethick foundation trowelled onto her face. I wiped it away with a thumb andkissed her on the cheek. My lips lingered as I breathed in the throbbing pulseat her neck. Liz pushed me off, reaching for a bottle and a glass with anunsteady hand.

For a moment Ifelt bad, but I knew she’d thank me in the end. I put my arms around her waistand whispered in her ear.

“I know him. He’smine. I’m afraid he’s always been mine.”

“You’re bastards, you gay blokes,” she spat, deliberately misunderstanding. Her nose ran and shewiped it on her wrist like a child. “Why are you always the most gorgeous ones?”

She walked away and I heard her mutter the old classic under her breath. “What a bloody waste, and poor bloody me.”

***

His name wasChristos. It suited him. He would be my Yuletide present to myself and I wasready to unwrap. Christos stood with his back against the front door barelyable to disguise his irritation.

“She was myfeed,” he said finally, blaming me for his hunger.

“Not tonight, Ireplied. “Not any night.”

I left my girlsto bitch about me and walked Christos a fumbling and sticky mile home with the promise of sex anda fridge full of blood afterwards. He got the sex, but I just didn’t feel likesharing any more after that.

His head came away from his body quite easily. I’d garrotted him – he thought it part of the game until his eyes shone livid with shock, his lips swelled – blue and pert.

I don’t suck the blood off thedeceased any more; I don’t need to. But I extracted it with trusty, well-usedequipment and in the morning drove down to the hospital with it and the remainsto visit an old mate. One of us, he looks after the bodies - and any excess blood- gratefully received.

I hadn’t riskedfeeding on Christof’s blood myself; I didn’t know where he’d been or who hebelonged to. The hospital supplies me with more than my fair share so I feel itis only right to make the occasional donation, get it cleansed before it’s soldon to the local tribes.

I picked up a boxof fresh vials, stored at the right temperature. I like it chilled these days –more Mohito than cocoa. When I got back to the house I found Liz sitting on thedoorstep. She smiled, sad.

“Was he worthit?” she asked, reaching for my hand. I pulled her to her feet.

“Not really. Youwouldn’t have liked it.”

She nodded.

“I didn’t tellthe others. Bit of a double-humiliation-whammy really.”

Interesting; unlikeLiz my reputation remained intact.

“Yeah,” I said. “Iunderstand. Sorry hun, but...”

She cut me offwith a wave of a perfectly-manicured hand and we walked down the hallway to thekitchen where she watched me stash my chinking glass ampoules in therefrigerator.

“Where’d you doit?”

I laughed andnodded at the staircase. She reached my bedroom in seconds. I ran up behind herin time to catch her expression. My bed was made, everything gleamed clean,white... almost clinical. Liz’s disappointment was palpable.

“Dammit. I justwanted to see the scene, smell him.”

She threw herselfonto my crisp sheets and kicked off her shoes. I knew what was coming – and itwasn’t me.

“Don’t you ever,you know... want one of us?”

I laughed.

“What, girls – orthe living?”

Liz lay back onthe bed, stretching out her legs.

“Both,” she said.

I didn’t reply.

***

We held thefuneral in the New Year. Not that there was much left to cremate. The policewere still looking for ‘Christos’, a strange, intense drifter. All of us hadgiven the same account; how the guy stared at us all night, how only Liz hadn’tseemed to notice the haunted expression, the blank eyes. Seemed Christos was alreadyan urban myth, moving between towns blatantly stalking his prey in full view ofthe night crowd before ripping their hearts out with his teeth in dark alleysor bedrooms. Cops up and down the country had been gathering descriptions of himand his methods for years, too manyyears – and were convinced they were chasing copy cat attackers.

My tears weregenuine as the white coffin disappeared behind thick blue curtains. I feltshame. I had lost a friend to guilty lust for the first time in hundreds ofyears; it was why I stopped playing with girls in the first place. My answer toLiz’s final question – had I taken the time to reply instead of fucking andbiting her to death – would have been “Yes. Girls – the living, I want youboth.”

For the firsttime I shivered in the sunlight as we traipsed back to our cars, and Irecognised the beginning of the end. The memory of Liz’s flesh in my hands was stillfresh in my mind. I’d dribbled it with some of Christos’ blood I’d kept forposterity before half-burying lumps of Liz in a trail across the countryside –London-bound – where it could easily be discovered.

We kissed at thecar-park – all of us.

“Jeez, babe –you’re so cold,” Sarah wrapped me against her bosom. I pulled away – the smellof her, the heat of her – the desire rising too fast in my mouth, in my groin.

“Gotta go,” Islurred and clambered into my Peugeot.

***

I’ll send them postcardsnext week, once I’ve put the house up for sale. They all know I’m a sucker forthe Algarve in the winter – and I’ve got just enough time to get a flightbefore it’s no longer an option. I don’t think any of them will be surprisedthat I’ve given up on soulless England and taken my bones somewhere warm.They’ll forget me over time – they’ll have to. They know what I am, but theydon’t know what I’ve done. And that’s how it must stay.

I take a finallook in the mirror; I’m already half the man I used to be – transparent, gaunt.

Still beautiful.

Like Liz.

This time nextChristmas I’ll be living in a box, living off tramps and counting my days.

It won’t takelong.

I have to go now.

Forgive me.

I forgot.

____________ * _____________

Bio: TKnC Horror Editor Lily Childs likes her demons best when they're dancing.

She has a pile of stories published online and in print anthologies including THEIR DARK MASTERS; TALES OF EXTREME VAMPIRE HORROR, DAILY BITES OF FLESH 2011 and CAUGHT BY DARKNESS. Lily is the author of the MAGENTA SHAMAN dark urban fantasy e-book series and is a Spinetingler Award nominee.

Visit The Feardom where she blogs and runs a weekly microflash fiction challenge, 'Lily's Friday Prediction'. You can follow her on Twitter @LilyChilds and Facebook www.facebook.com/lilychildsfeardom

Editor's Christmas Special... WITNESS 'A' by Col Bury

2011-12-23T13:19:00.000Z

Merry Christmas 'n' Happy Holidays to all our readers, writers, subscribers 'n' friends. This week the three editors will post a story apiece in our Editor's Christmas Special...

Witness 'A'

The five gang members stood cocksure in the dock, their smirks testament to the disrespect within today’s society, as the prosecutor called again for ‘Witness A.’

The black-gowned court clerk scurried in shaking her head.

The judge peered over his glasses, his red gown, white wig and wispy grey beard providing an unintended hint of the festive season. However, Santa he was not. The only pressies he’d be giving were prison sentences, although probably not today, such was the state of current proceedings.

‘So where is “Witness A”, Mr Oliver?’ he grunted.

The CPS lawyer, Tim Oliver, wasn’t feeling very Christmassy. With all eyes on him, he looked at the dozen intense faces of jury. Turning to the empty witness box, a burgundy curtained screen across it to protect Witness A’s identity, he tightened with panic. Oliver glanced at sneering gang leader, Jerome Kingston, in the dock. Kingston winked then grinned at Oliver, the defendant's gold incisor twinkling under the courtroom's lighting.

‘Please, your honour, give me two minutes.’

The judge’s gruff tones oozed both authority and derision. ‘Hurry, Mr Oliver. I don’t want to miss my Christmas dinner!’

Passing two armed officers, guarding the court from Kingston's crew, Oliver dashed from courtroom one, scanned the foyer. Left to the court's cafe, or right to the gents? He’d not lost a case for two years and with this unwelcome blemish on his impeccable record his bloody Christmas would be spoilt. As was Oliver's custom, there would be no boasting while toasting at the CPS Chrimbo do.

He had discussed the probability of defeat with his key witness, but David Gacy had been unimpressed by Oliver’s 30-70 against odds. Had Gacy given up on him or just bottled it? Understandable really, as Gacy had somehow survived a brutal attack by Kingston and his cohorts. His best mate, Brian Ranger hadn’t been so lucky, his head kicked about like a football. The life support turned off only last week.

The snow bucketing outside the foyer’s expansive second floor windows briefly caught Oliver's attention, until he saw a hooded youth shuffle from the gents past a poorly decorated fake tree. Could be anyone, but something in Oliver’s gut suggested otherwise. He headed for the gents.

The door squeaked open and he gasped.

David Gacy wasn’t there. A sprawled youth with a slashed throat was.

Feeling sick, Oliver raced to courtroom one, his mind spinning, his heart doing somersaults. He swung open the doors, hearing mayhem inside, people jostling past him, screaming. The judge scarpered swifter than Santa on his sleigh.

Four security guards and the two coppers grappled with Gacy, his eyes manic. A kitchen knife with the court cafe's logo on, shimmered in the struggle. The cops couldn't open fire in such a melee. But, anyway, it was too late. Kingston’s blood-pumping grin was now ear to ear.

Oliver gazed in shock…

…but, hey…at least he’d still not lost a case.

BIO:
TKnC Crime Editor, Col Bury is currently writing a crime novel series with a difference. His ever-growing selection of short stories can be found scattered across the net, and in various anthologies, notably: THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF BEST BRITISH CRIME 9, RADGEPACKET 6 and children's charity anthologies, OFF THE RECORD and BRIT GRIT TOO. Col has an eBook of short fiction out, MANCHESTER 6. He blogs, reviews interviews crime authors at Col Bury's New Crime Fiction.

WHAT PARTNERS ARE FOR By James C Clar

2011-12-12T12:01:00.000Z

'Mele Kalikimaka' to all with this Christmas themed Higa and Kanahele tale...

What Partners Are For

HPD detective Ray Kanahele sat on a bench in front of Leonard’s Bakery on Kapahulu Avenue. He popped the last of a warm, cinnamon malasada into his mouth and sighed contentedly. He wiped sugar and oil from his fingers with a napkin and picked up the slim stack of papers that lay clipped together on the seat next to him. He squinted up in the late morning Hawaiian sun and looked at his wiry partner, Jake Higa, who stood on the walkway a few feet to his right. The health-conscious Higa was unobtrusively running through what he referred to as a “micro-stretch-break.” The Japanese-American detective was rolling his shoulders, bending at the knees and waist and turning his head slowly from left to right.

“You ever try this shit, Jake?” Kanahele asked as he shuffled a paper to the top of his pile. He pointed a beefy finger at the image of a beer coaster featuring the black-ink figure of a tiger against an orange background. The animal stood beneath a stylized date-palm.

“I’ve had it a few times,” Kanahele continued before Higa could answer. “Tastes like tiger-piss.”

Higa straightened up and smiled. It hadn’t taken the detectives long to determine that the logo in question was that of a cheap beer made in Singapore called Tiger Gold Medal. Still, it was Tuesday and four full days had passed since the aforementioned coaster was discovered in the back pocket of the jeans worn by a ‘Jane Doe’ whose body had been discovered on the bank of the Manoa-Palolo drainage canal out where it ran beneath the bridge on Date Street behind the Ala Wai Golf Course. So far, there wasn’t a shred of helpful forensic evidence. Blunt force trauma was about all the M.E. had to offer. As Kanahele had said, “like we needed her to tell us that!”

Additional lab reports also determined that the woman, who looked to be in her mid-thirties, hadn’t been sexually assaulted. Other than the Tiger Gold Medal coaster, which had been soaked from the brackish water of the canal, there was no identification on her body. Neither were her fingerprints in any of the standard databases. A young woman with her head bashed in a mere ten or fifteen minute walk from the tourist-choked streets of Waikiki was never something about which the Mayor’s Office or the Visitor’s Bureau was exactly ecstatic. Now, though, with Christmas just a few weeks away – and with it hoards of visitors celebrating the holidays in Hawai’i Nei – the pressure was really on to solve the case.

“I’m not a beer drinker, Ray” Higa finally replied with a twinkle in his eye. “You know that. As far as ‘tiger piss’ is concerned, well, I’ll have to take your word for it. The Japanese have some weird, traditional herbal remedies – maybe not as many as the Chinese – but I can’t recall my parents or grandparents ever recommending tiger urine for anything.”

Kanahele clambered to his feet. He spent a few seconds looking through his papers and shuffled another one to the top.

“I suppose we better get back to our friggin’ list. Thank God most of the places that serve or sell this crap are in the Waikiki and Kaimuki areas. Otherwise we’d be chasing all over the island. As it is, I promised Maile we’d go downtown and check out the Honolulu City Lights. We already missed the ‘Electric Light Parade’. Shit, between this case and her schedule at the nursing home, it’s been days since we’ve even had a meal together.”

Higa was too polite to say so aloud, but knowing his longtime partner as well as he did, he was pretty sure that the thought of missing another meal rather than an inability to visit the City and County of Honolulu’s month-long festival of holiday lights and decorations with his long-suffering spouse was what really upset Kanahele. With a sigh, Higa recalled that he had told his girlfriend and the woman’s ten-year-old son that they, too, would make the trip downtown together to take in the sights “one of these nights.” The way things were going, though, he wasn’t holding out much hope of ‘making good’ on his promise either.

Short of clues, Higa had called around to the beer and liquor distributors on Oahu in order to compile a list of bars and restaurants that sold Tiger Gold Medal. Armed with a picture of their Jane Doe the two detectives had spent the last few days trolling the watering holes and hotel lounges that offered the Singaporean beer. So far, Higa and Kanahele had come up empty; and they had only two places left to visit.

As the two detectives got into their car, Higa’s phone began playing the theme from Hawaii Five-O. He looked down at the display. Kanahele turned to the right and glanced at his friend on the passenger side.

“Aren’t you going to get that?”

“No,” Higa answered. “It’s Charlie Apana. You remember him, right?”

“He’s the guy who trained you, isn’t he? I heard he was having some issues since he retired.”

Higa fiddled with his phone and clipped it back to his belt. The two men stopped at a light on Kapahula directly across from the Rainbow Drive-In. Kanahele looked wistfully out his window at his favorite plate-lunch spot as the light changed and they continued toward Ala Wai Bulevard. The trade winds had picked up and the palms that lined the road swayed gracefully. Their soft susurration could just be heard above the traffic noise.

It had, in fact, been Apana’s retirement that had cleared the way for Higa’s promotion to detective. The two men weren’t especially close, but the veteran detective had stayed on for a few months in order to show Higa the ropes and to help him tie up some loose ends on a couple of old cases before he left for good. It had been years since Higa had heard from Apana. Curiously, this was the third time the older man had phoned in the last two or three days.

“‘Trained’ might be too strong. But I did learn a lot from Charlie in the short time we worked together. He was, maybe, the best investigator I’ve ever known.” Higa declared. “As far as ‘issues’ are concerned, yeah, rumor has it he married a younger woman who has a real wild streak. Charlie always had a temper and I hear that, lately, he’s also seen the bottom of a bottle a few times too many. Not a good combination.”

“What’s he want with you,” Kanahele asked as he piloted the car onto Ala Wai Boulevard. Off to their right, the bright, tropical sun made even the dingy waters of the canal sparkle. The usually burnt out fairways of the Ala Wai Golf Course were lush and green from all the recent rain; so, too, were the slopes of the Koolau Mountains further off in the distance to the north.

“He’s bored, I guess. Who knows? Maybe the holidays have made him nostalgic. He wants me to stop over, talk shop, that kind of thing. Normally I would. Charlie was always an interesting guy. But who’s got that kind of time now?”

A few minutes later, the detectives were on Nohonani Street just up from Kuhio Avenue. Unbelievably, they found a parking spot right in front of their destination, a little dive called the Red Chamber Bar nestled between the Aqua Wave Waikiki and the Ohana Waikiki Beachcomberhotels. The entire complex looked like it had been built in the late ‘50’s or early ‘60’s. It hadn’t gone completely to seed yet but it had certainly started to wither.

The bar occupied a fairly spacious area that allowed access from the lobby of both hotels and which looked out on the tiny pool that served the guests at the ‘Wave. A gaily decorated Christmas tree stood incongruously in the corner just behind the diving board.

As their eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior, Higa and Kanahele noticed a small stage to the left of the door and a lengthy bar off to the right. In addition to the ubiquitous Christmas decorations, red leather upholstery and traditional Chinese artwork clashed with Mexican sombreros and potted cacti. Clearly the establishment had seen a number of different owners over the years, each with a different idea as to décor and theme. The only occupants were the Hawaiian bartender and a couple of middle-aged ‘hard-throwers’ about three-quarters of a way through a liquid lunch.

“Jesus,” Kanahele muttered as he and his partner seated themselves at the bar, “you’d have to drink to hang out in a place that looked like this for very long!” The sounds of Jimmy Buffett warbling his way through Mele Kalikimaka emerged from speakers tucked somewhere overhead and added to the surreal atmosphere of the surroundings.

The detectives ordered iced tea. When their drinks arrived, Higa opened his wallet to reveal his badge. Once he had the bartender’s attention, he placed the picture of their ‘Jane Doe’ face-up on top of his shield.

“Do you recognize the woman in that picture?” he asked.

“Sure,” the startled bartender answered immediately, “that’s Renee. But, man, she’s actually pretty good looking for a woman her age, know what I mean? She looks like shit in that picture.”

Congenitally unable to restrain himself, Kanahele leaned forward. “Yeah, well, she’s dead in that picture, ‘bruddah. How good you expect her to look? You know what I mean!”

The bartender’s face registered genuine surprise.

“Listen, detectives,” he stammered. “I didn’t know. We have HPD in here once in awhile … someone gets drunk and acts up, or maybe there’s, like, a fight. But, hey, this is the first time I’ve had cops in here showing me pictures of dead customers for Christ’s sake. It’s actually a pretty quiet place.”

“Yeah,” Kanahele interjected with a smile, “it reminds me of House without A Key over at the Halekulani.”

Unfazed, Higa continued. “Does this ‘Renee’ have a last name?”

“Not that I’ve ever heard anyone use. She comes in once, maybe, twice a week. Never any trouble. A good tipper; most of the time she just sits and reads … lady always has a book. It’s never too long before guys start hitting on her. Come to think of it, she hasn’t been in for a few days. Guess now I know why!”

“Do you remember the last time you saw her?

The bartender absent-mindedly wiped down the bar with a damp towel.

“Toward the end of last week … maybe Thursday. Yeah, it had to be Thursday. I was off this past Friday. I remember now because she seemed kind of down-in-the-dumps about something. I was busy, though, a holiday crowd. I never had a chance to talk to her.”

“Listen,” Higa said as he and Kanahele got to their feet. “If you think of anything else, give us a call. Here’s my card. By the way, did Renee leave with anyone that night?”

“It’s like I said, detective, at one point or another, and as quiet as she was, Renee basically left with everyone. But, no, I don’t remember that she was with anyone in particular that night. At least not that I saw, anyhow.”

With that Higa and Kanahele paid for their drinks, turned and walked out. The two habitués at the end of the bar seemed completely oblivious to what had just transpired. Kanahele was vaguely aware of Bing’s version of White Chrismas as he left the darkened interior of the bar and hit the brilliant light of the street.

“At least we have a name, that’s more than we had two hours ago,” Kanahele offered as the two men got into their car. “We should probably come back to this dive tonight when it’s more crowded. Meanwhile, we got one more place to check off our list.”

Higa, busy writing in his black, Moleskine notebook, was lost in thought.

“Listen, Ray, this is going to sound crazy, but let’s take a break. Maybe pay old Charlie Apana a visit. As I said, he was a top-notch detective. Can’t hurt, right? It’s the Christmas season after all. Think of it as an act of charity. I feel like I owe him, I guess. Besides, we can use all the karma we can get. Last I heard he was living over there on Campbell, just off Monsarrat. I have the address somewhere here in my notebook.”

Kanahele looked quizzically at his friend. All of his instincts cried out for him to object. Still, over the years he had learned to trust his often enigmatic partner’s hunches and intuitions. Wordlessly, he turned the car around and headed down the street toward Kuhio Avenue.

A few moments later, the two men turned at the corner of Kapahulu and Kalakaua and headed up Monsarrat past the zoo and the Waikiki Shell. They came to Campbell and turned right. As they did, Kanahele looked longingly at another of his favorite establishments, The Diamond Head Grill.

They parked in front of a little house near the corner of Hayden Street and got out. Somewhere in the otherwise quiet, well-tended neighborhood a dog barked. To their right, they could see the slope of Diamond Head off in the distance. The landmark shimmered in the sunlight as they walked up to the door of the house. A small banana tree growing in the yard gave off a rich, cloying scent. There didn’t seem to be a bell, so Higa knocked.

Before long, they heard footsteps. The door opened to reveal a balding, powerfully built man in his early sixties.

“Jake, son of a bitch, what a surprise,” Charlie Apana blurted. “I figured I’d never hear back from you. C’mon in. It’s great to see you.”

“Good to see you, too, Charlie. This is my partner, Ray Kanahele.” The three men shook hands. Apana held the door and the two detectives entered the house. Instead of the pizza boxes, beer cans and overflowing ashtrays they had perhaps unconsciously expected, the place was neat and tidy.

“Can I get you guys something to drink?” Apana asked as he ushered Higa and Kanahele into the living room.

“Some guava juice for me, if you have it, Charlie. We’ve been pounding the pavement most of the afternoon.”

“The same,” Kanahele echoed.

Apana headed for the kitchen. While they waited, the two men looked around the room in which they sat. What struck Higa the most – apart form the lack of photographs – were the books that lined the shelves on the far wall. He’d never have taken Charlie for a reader. Kanahele, for his part, was relieved by the absolute lack of Christmas decorations. After the Red Chamber Bar, he was glad to be in a place that was singularly devoid of theme-oriented décor

Apana returned to the living room. On a tray, he had what was clearly a Scotch for himself along with two tall, chilled glasses of guava juice. He set the tray down first. Before giving his two guests their glasses, he opened the drawer of an end table and extracted two cardboard coasters and placed them on the coffee table in front of where Higa and Kanahele were seated. The cardboard circles became immediately damp as soon as the older man set the condensation covered glasses down on top of each. Even so, the two detectives recognized the by-now-familiar image of a black ink tiger under the silhouette of a date palm tree.

Kanaele’s eyes traveled up to meet those of his partner. Simultaneously, both men turned toward their host.

“Tell me, Charlie,” Higa inquired quietly, “what’s your wife’s name?”

Apana hesitated perhaps a moment too long. He must have sensed something in his former partner’s tone.

“It’s Renee,” he responded as he averted his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

***

My partner’s a goddamn savant, Kanahele thought two hours later as the detectives walked back to their car. The area around Charlie Apana’s Campbell Avenue home had been cordoned off and the street was choked with all manner of official vehicles. Residents watched the early evening drama from their yards as well as from behind half-closed curtains and blinds. Christmas lights winked on in the neighborhood as the sun began to set behind the Waianae Mountains to the west.

“Looks like you and Maile might be able to make it down town to the Hale tonight after all, Ray,” Higa suggested. “I’ll take care of the paperwork on this one. He was my partner, after all.”

“Really,” Kanahele responded incredulously. “Shit, we might even have time to stop at that Italian place on Beretania. I owe you one, Jake. Really, I do.”

“Merry Christmas, my friend,” Higa spoke with more than a trace of irony, “that’s what partner’s are for.”

THE END

BIO:

Short fiction by James C. Clar has been published in venues as diverse as 365 Tomorrows, Apollo’s Lyre, Static Movement, the Taj Mahal Review, Powder Burn Flash, Resident Aliens, The Magazine of Crime & Suspense. Everyday Fiction and A Twist of Noir. Stories featuring Honolulu detectives Jake Higa and Ray Kanahele may also be found from time to time right here on Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers.

THINGS THEY DON'T TEACH YOU IN MEDICAL SCHOOL by Paul Newman

2011-12-12T08:30:00.001Z

TKnC welcomes Paul back into the fray with a chilling moral tale.

Things They Don't Teach You In Medical School

Gloria hadn’t changed into the hospital gown yet. Shesat on the edge of the gurney in a short denim skirt. It was faded and slashed and looked like powder blue road kill without the tire marks. She wore it with a red camisole top that should have been sexy but there was nothing there to show off except the stark geometry of collarbone and sternum. She talked into her cell phone. Her voice was thin and raspy like there wasn’t enough air behind it or maybe it was just worn dry from friction.

“Yeah, I'm still waiting. Stop yelling at me, It’s not myfault!”

“I dunno. The nurse just came in and took my blood pressureand stuff. It’s crazy in here today. It may take a while.”

There was a long pause. Her face went red as she listened.

“You ought to try doing this some time if you want to get so fucking picky! It’s not like they hand me a menu!”

The privacy curtain slid back with a metallic scrape. She flipped the cell phone closed without another word and looked up at the doctor as he walked in.

He looked like a doctor, moved like one, walked like one; confident and controlled with an overriding sense of purpose, like he expected tables and chairs to move out of his way. He wore a white lab coat over green scrubs and a Stethoscope draped over his neck. His hair was thick and curly, still sandy brown but now with a hint of grey. His pale blue eyes squinted at her from behind rimless glasses. He started with a smile. It was clean and disinfected like everything else in the room; detached, clinical.

“So, Gloria, is it? What brings you in today?”

“It’s my head, doc. It’s killin' me. I think it’s oneof those migraines, I feel like I’m gonna puke. I need something for the pain, maybe some vicodin or something.”

“Ummm Hmmmm.” He nodded his head and flipped a fewpages on her chart. “It says here that a few weeks ago we saw you for atwisted ankle. X-rays were negative. How’s it doing?”

“Oh fine, fine. It’s better now. I was sore for a fewmore days
but it got better just like you guys said it would.” She talked too
fast and bit every word hard to show she meant it.

“Hmmmm, good, good.” His head was still bowed over herchart. “And before that, it was your back. We gave you a shot of Fentanyl and sent you home with a scrip for Percocet.” He paused. “Now, here you are again. Looks like it’s been a rough few months for you hasn’t it?”

Gloria didn’t say anything, she couldn’t, she didn’t dare; but she answered anyway. Her shoulders sagged and her chest hitched where shetried to catch a sob. She turned it into a cough to hide it and just nodded at him.

He stopped pretending to look at the chart. His eyes turnedon her and dissected her like any other specimen; they pried her open and analyzed the secrets underneath.

Her legs were long. Too long, too thin. Not enough meat. Theywere just bones balanced lengthwise on top of each other and held in place by the thin layer of skin wrapped around it all like duct tape. Her hands jerked and twitched and were afraid to stay in the same spot for too long. Her right hand reached out and clutched at her left elbow and pulled her arm in tight against her side like she wanted to give herself a hug but just couldn’t get it right. Her eyes looked old and hollow. Her pupils were swollen and heavy but they wouldn’t slow down. They kept darting back and forth; watching, waiting for something heavy to finally land on her. To fall out of nowhere and crush her. She wasn’t strong enough for the weight of being alive.

His eyes softened, he’d seen enough. Too much. He setthe chart aside. “So, why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”

He waited.

The quiet between them grew until it filled the exam room and he still waited.

It was finally too much. She opened her mouth and the words tumbled out but made no sense, they piled up at her feet. This time Gloria couldn’t hide the sobs; sloppy tears fought past her eyelids and fell to the clean white linoleum. It felt like she cried forever but finally the tears were done. They left her empty but calm.

Clean. She could see clearly and it terrified her. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and then she jumped.

“It’s the fucking pills. I think...I think I need somehelp.”

If she fell, she knew she’d fall forever. She hoped to god he would catch her.

The doctor leaned back on his stool. He looked around theroom for help but there was no one else there. He took a deep breath then reached out and laid his hand on top of hers. Her skin felt wrong to him without a clean layer of latex between them. He was terrified.

He needed to quantify, to diagnose, to biopsy and sanitize. He needed to do anything else but this but he could feel Gloria’s pulse quivering through her warm skin and it caught him and held him and brought him back to her. The spark in her touched him and found something familiar, common to them both. Universal. Human. Something he had forgotten about a long time ago.

Gloria felt his hand on hers, then looked up at him. Hesqueezed her hand once, gently. He wasn’t sure how to do it but it seemed to turn out alright; she smiled. For the first time in a long time he saw a person filling in the white space where a patient used to be.

Maybe they both were going to be alright.

Bio: Paul Newman's most recent published stories appeared in: Ethereal TalesMay/10, Midnight In Hell March/10, and Beat To A Pulp Feb./10. If you'reinterested, you can find a few more stories on his website http://www.logicalvoodoo.com/

WOODY by Keith Gingell

2011-12-04T21:34:00.001Z

A chilling, crime-biting return from Keith Gingell...

Woody

My name’s Charlie Wills, I’ve been living in the Black Prince nursing home for the last ten years. When I first came to this converted Victorian workhouse on the south coast, I gave myself four years top-whack. I reckoned I’d get bored out of my skull and turn my toes up pretty bloody quickly. That’s what I wanted I suppose.

It didn’t happen like that. For a start, they’ve got a really big library, everything from crime pulp to Shakespeare. Then there’s the gym. They’ve got top-notch trainers specialised in keeping old buggers like me fit without killing us. The grounds are full of shrubs and enormous Beeches in the summer; you can lose yourself in there. It’s like living next to Hyde Park. I’ve never been so busy in my life. If we do get bored, we’re free to go into town unaccompanied whenever we like, providing we can put one foot in front of the other and aren’t wheelers or droolers.

I signed up when I was seventy. It weren’t cheap, but I had a bit put away, left over from an investment I made when I was about thirty-five. I didn’t have any family left and I’d lost touch with all my friends and contacts so I thought, why not? You’ll probably croak soon anyway.

I’m pushing eighty-two now and I’m fitter that I’ve ever been. Strange thing, life. Some of the inmates (we’re not supposed to call them that really) are stuck in wheelchairs or suffering from senile dementia, but most of us are pretty good. And the women – they can be very naughty. I’ve had some interesting walks around the grounds, if you know what I mean. The staff are very understanding – very good at turning a blind eye: keeps us young at heart I suppose.

We get a lot of new arrivals and, naturally, a lot of departures. It’s kind of a rich-geriatric conveyer belt. I know that sounds cruel, but I’ve always had an odd sense of humour. Why worry? I reckon. I could be the next one out of here wrapped in oak. It’s not exactly rocket science to work that one out, is it?

Anyway, about four months ago, we had this new bloke turn up in a wheel chair. He was around the same age as me. Apparently, he’d been sent here because the outfit running his nursing home went bust. Lot of it about I hear. I didn’t take much notice of him at first. He was just another poor sod with more money than time: just like the rest of us.

It’s a funny thing; a man can change dramatically as he gets old. He can go bald, get fat, wrinkled out of recognition, shrunken like a dwarf and loads of other things, but there’s one thing that don’t hardly change: his voice. One afternoon I heard a voice I recognised. A simple, ‘thank you,’ when a nurse gave this new arrival a cup of tea. I couldn’t believe my luck.

I didn’t say anything straight away in case I was wrong. I moved to a chair near him so I could see his face better. I watched him while he tried to drink his tea out of one of those cups with a spout like they give toddlers, trying to see if I recognised anything about his face. He’d had a stroke; all his left side. That made his face sag, twisting his mouth down so it was hard to see his features. I noticed his nose was broken and it bent slightly to the right, and his eyes were very light-blue, like a Husky’s. Yup, it was “Harry-the-Husky” alright. His real name was Harry Jones, he’d got the nickname at school. They called me “Woodbine,” on account of my surname. We were best mates. When we grew up, everybody knew us as, “Woody and Woof.”

I watched him trying to drink his tea. The cup wobbled in his one good hand, the right, and I remembered he’d been left-handed. Life would be doubly hard for him now. He put the cup down when he finished, but as he did, he knocked a little box containing his medication on the floor. I went over to him and picked it up.

‘There you go, mate,’ I said in a hushed voice.

He raised his eyes and looked at me, but there was nothing in them to say he recognised me. ‘Thank you,’ he said. I smiled and returned his gaze, but he looked down at his cup. He seemed to concentrate on it. I went back to my chair, deciding to let it go in case he’d lost his mind to dementia.

During the following week I watched him from a distance. It soon became obvious, although he was severely handicapped, there was nothing wrong with his mind. I listened as he made little jokes with the nurses and some of the more sprightly residents. I could see from his lop-sided smile and his guttural chuckles, he liked the way people fussed around him. I decided to try again.

One morning I offered him my newspaper, but he shook his head. He said he couldn’t hold it upright. ‘It’s alright, mate,’ I said, ‘I’ll hold it for you.’

That’s how we struck up a new friendship. We got into a routine. Every morning, I’d get a newspaper for him and hold it for an hour. He liked to read The Times. Then I’d go to the gym and have a workout. In the afternoons, I’d take him a cup of tea and a cake and I’d hold my newspaper for him to read. I like the Daily Mirror.

We did this for about three weeks, but in all that time he never recognised me. I knew it was over forty years since we last saw each other, but I thought something about me, my gestures or my voice might trigger something. Then it dawned on me: I’ve spent a very long time in foreign countries. I’ve lost my accent and picked up different mannerisms. People often said I seemed a bit foreign, and apart from that, I had more reason to remember him than he did me. I decided it was time to introduce myself.

I chose a Saturday night to pay him a visit. On Saturdays there’s less staff on duty and it’s easy to move around without being noticed. I wanted to speak to him in private so I waited until about two in the morning before I went to his room.

He was asleep and lying on his back when I entered. That made things easier for me. I moved the emergency call remote out of his reach. Then I tied his right arm to the side of the bed with a bandage I’d brought with me. Finally I filled his mouth with a load of compresses and stuck a wide a plaster over it. He woke up. It took him a while to figure out he was tied down and I was in the room. It was pretty dim with just the night-light. He tried to struggle, but he couldn’t do much being almost paralysed from the stroke. It was easy to hold him down with just one hand.

‘Hello, Woof. Remember me? I asked; quiet like. He tried to shake his head, but he could hardly move.

‘Take it easy, you’ll give yourself a heart attack,’ I said. He relaxed or at least stopped moving.

‘Don’t you remember your old pal, Woody?’ His eyes went wide.

‘We got a score to settle, don’t we?’ He tried to shake his head again.

I smiled at him. ‘Thought I was a fool didn’t you, Harry, with me telling my Eileen where I hid my share in case of emergencies while I was inside.’ He started grunting, but the compresses muffled the sound. ‘Yeah, that’s right. Inside taking the rap for the bloke you killed. Remember that?’ He closed he eyes. I felt a tear roll down my face. ‘You didn’t have to work her over like that, Harry. She would never have grassed you up. She knew she’d be alright even if you took my share.

You didn’t know about the diamonds, did you, Harry? I found ‘em tucked away in a drawer inside a pair of silk knickers while you were downstairs beating the shit out of hubby. They were contraband, even the wife didn’t know about ‘em. That’s why I went down for you. Twenty-five years of my life. My investment for the future I called it. I was going to cut you in when I got out. But you had to take my future away from me. All for a measly hundred grand. The money you got from that job weren’t enough for you, was it? You wanted it all so you could start up that property business. I have to hand it to you though. It was clever the way you made it look like you got your stake money by hard work and then bled in the loot to grow the company. Once you got rich, nobody questioned a respectable landowner did they?

She was five-months gone; my Eileen. That’s why she died from her injuries. . . . Complications. Another thing you didn’t know: little Alice saw what you did to her mother. She was hiding on the landing. I suppose you thought she wouldn’t remember, being just turned four. But she did. Scarred her for life it did. Topped herself when she was twenty-six. I only had a couple of years to go before I got out with good behaviour.

I knew the coppers would be watching me, so I sold the house and got out with the jewels as soon as could. Took me nearly twenty years moving from one shit-hole country to another, slowly fencing the ice. I changed my identity I don’t know how many times. Best part of a million I had by the time I could bring it back here. Not that it did me any good; you saw to that.

There I was, a rich single pensioner, all my friends long gone and no family. I never got Eileen and the kid out my head. I couldn’t stand it, so I ended up coming in here. I gave up the idea of finding you years ago. I thought about killing you when I got back, but I didn’t want to die in prison. And now you end up here; delivered to me on a plate. There must be a God. Eh, Harry? I reckon he wants me to finish his job for him.’

I didn’t have anything more to say so I took out the supermarket bag in my pocket – and held it over his nose and mouth. It took him longer to die than I’d expected, given his frail condition: struggled quite a bit too. Those fitness sessions certainly paid off. Ten minutes after removing the bandages and the compresses from his mouth (I checked inside to make sure there was no lint – he had rotten teeth) I was in my bed. Slept like a babe, I did.

____________________________________

Bio: I have been writing fiction for about five years, firstly as a hobby, but now I am getting serious about it. I have stories published in Volumes 3 and 4 of Radgepacket and one in the newly released Volume 5. I also have a couple of stories on the Radgepacket website.

MOTHER'S LOVE by Chad Rohrbacher

2011-11-29T10:35:00.001Z

It's great to have Chad back with this top notch, hard-boiled tale...

Mother’s Love

Mom always said I would amount to something.

I amounted to exactly 6 ft,168 pounds and 3 ounces not including clothes. When Willie cut off my digitus mínimus mánus, or commonly referred to as pinky finger, I might have amounted to less, but indiscernibly so. A person really never considers the beauty of a pinky until he no longer possesses it.

Willie was my wife’s brother who earned his nickname, Slacker, by selling dope and living off the girls he fucked. He fucked a lot of girls and lived pretty well. He amounted to about 6’4, 248 pounds of unadulterated muscle.

Willie was not a nice guy. Cheryl, my wife, said so herself. She said it was the “juice”, but I thought there was more to it. His shocking blue eyes were a little closer together than the average person making him somehow predatory. He could enter a house and you’d never know. Scared us a few times like that. We’d be eating our mashed potatoes or whatever and he’d be standing in the doorway just staring at us like he was an entomologist watching the eating habits of some damn beetles. When we’d notice him and jump, he’d laugh and give Cheryl a hug, his huge paws draped over her shoulders.

Mom, Cheryl’s mom, was the only real mom I ever had. When I was 17, my father killed my mother then put a bullet under his chin with the family’s .38. I found the mess. It was awful. While one detective said she thought it was homicide, all the others assumed murder suicide. Case closed. I asked them why and they said, “shit happens, kid”. After that I was in counselling for about a year; that is, until the counsellor unexpectedly ran off with some newspaper editor from Reidsville.

I started dating Cheryl in high school and her mom took pity on me and saved me from the foster care system. I was able to finish high school, and Cheryl and I were married right after. I took three years of pre-med at the local state college. Cheryl waited tables at Crawford’s Racks and Ribs where the girls wore pasties while serving cheap beer and bar b-queue to fat townies. I didn’t like her working there, but the money was putting me through school so I couldn’t bitch too much.

Mom said I’d be a doctor from the day I met her. Mom believed in me. She said a psychic in Harrison Village told her in no uncertain terms that her daughter would marry someone special. One of the only reasons mom said yes to the marriage was because I agreed I was going to be that man in the prophecy. If I lived through this, I’d have to find that psychic and give her a piece of my mind.

I’ll admit it, when Willie took my thumb with his gardening snips, I almost passed out. I know he tried to get between the metacarpus and the palm, and I appreciated that, but it was just too hard to get in there with the thick blades. He put his massive frame down on the handles, his forearm muscles straining, and the snap of bone made my stomach lurch. It was the sound of it more than anything.

I was probably down about, what, 10 grams. If not, blood loss would definitely put me there. What a mess.
A couple of hours before I found myself tied up in mom’s basement, a guy up at Crawford’s told Cheryl he’d seen me with some “hot little thing wearing a state T-shirt and painted on jeans”. Willie had me downstairs within about 30 minutes.

“I’m telling you, Willie, I mean, shit, look at me, I didn’t have any hot little thing. Ever.”

Willie was pulling a piece of my flesh that got caught in the snips when he suddenly stopped what he was working on and cocked his head like a dog hearing a door knob rattle. “Ever?” he asked.

“Your sister, I mean, that, that goes without saying. She’s always been really hot.”

Willie was wearing a black mesh wife beater that showed off his sculpted frame, dark jeans, and Wolverine work boots, which made no sense since he didn’t work. Through the mesh I could see his freshly shaven pectorals and wondered just what kind of man actually did that.

“Come on, man, I didn’t do anything with some other woman. I wouldn’t. Let’s go find the bastard that said this and get it straightened out.”

Willie wasn’t in the mood to talk, that was clear. He bent down and reached under a worn workbench that hadn’t been used since their father died 4 years ago.

Willie slid a 40-pound bag of fertilizer to the front of the bench and opened it up. A stench like an overflowing factory farm filled the room. Willie reached both hands as if he was a chef, and then he seemed to clasp something inside and hauled it out. He wiped specks of fertilizer off the top of the package, and then set a kilo of coke on the workbench. Turning on the radio, Hank Williams Jr.’s “Family Tradition” emanated from the miniature speakers.

Willie fished a pocketknife from his pocket then carefully cut a hole in the wrapping. Quickly he produced a gold plated metal straw from his other pocket, dipped it in the powder, and inhaled deeply. There was a half cough, a sniff, and an exuberant “yes”. I could see his neck vein pulsing as he leaned his head back letting whatever was still in his nose drain down the back off his throat.

“Willie, buddy,” I begged, “even if I did cheat, which I didn’t, why all this? It’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?”

Willie opened a rusted toolbox from on top of the bench, grabbed something, and turned toward me.
“You took her years, her money, and more important my sister’s trust. Fuck, Oliver, you took my mama’s trust. How do you imagine the scales of justice would weigh that? A finger? A thumb? Maybe a hand?”

A human hand weighs about 300 grams, give or take. Trust is hard to measure. I knew for a long time scales of justice were not always balanced. That’s when I noticed he had a hatchet in his grip. It was something you would use for kindling or cutting small branches. It was something that could easily go through a man’s wrist. It was something I really didn’t want to see.

“You’re crazy,” I groaned trying to wiggle out of my bindings. Willie strode toward me, a gleam in his eye. A gleam I have recognized in my own at times. I was terrified. He raised his hand above his head, striking a pose that reminded me of the Indians in the old westerns right before they killed the poor settlers.

“Sit still,” he said, “you don’t want me to miss and take half of your forearm.”

At that moment we heard a women’s commanding voice declare that Willie should drop his weapon. When I opened my eyes, Willie had already turned and was rushing toward the stairs.

Two loud pops didn’t stop him as he lurched forward. A third seemed to stun him and his body jerked back like he was zipped with a jolt of electricity. A fourth caused the hatchet to fall to the floor with a thud and a gasp of air leave his lips. He dropped to his knees, and then sprawled forward onto his face.

In front of him at the bottom of the steps was a beautiful woman, all 5’8 and 120 pounds of her. Her chest was heaving, and sweat dappled her forehead. She took her State T-shirt sleeve and wiped her face. Her hands were shaking.

“I’ve never been so glad to see you, Detective.” Hicks has been on me for years. She doesn’t leave me alone with her theories and bullshit. Even caught up with me earlier today on campus. Completely ruined my morning bagel.

“Looks like I owe you an apology.”

Detective Hicks kicked the hatchet away, and then checked Willie for a pulse. She holstered her weapon. She fumbled with my bindings for a while before getting me free. She smelled like Lilacs. Probably a Lilac scented deodorant; it worked great.

“I’ve been telling you,” I grimaced holding my bloody hand, “I had nothing to do with my parents’ deaths or the counsellor’s disappearance.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“You said you owed me an apology.”

“We knew he was dealing,” she said looking at Willie’s body on the floor, his blood pooling on the concrete.

“We just could never get anything on him; but this, we never guessed this.”

“Clearly,” I said looking for my digits hoping that a doctor would be able to sew them back on. “There’s coke over there.” I jutted my chin toward the workbench. My hand was throbbing.

“Why you, Oliver? Why’d he come after you?”

“Could I get an ambulance? Christ?”

Hicks called in for a bus while I tried not to pass out.

“My guess Hicks, I’m just throwing out ideas here, he was an overprotective big brother. He never liked me, I mean, I practically invaded his house when I was 17, and married his sister, all while his mom went on me about being a doctor in the family. But you know the thing that really set him off?”

I heard sirens in the distance that was good because my adrenaline was dropping and the pain was hitting.
“Someone told him I met this ‘hot thing’ today.”

Her face blanched. “I, I was…”

“I know, trying to get under my skin. See if I would lose my cool, even though I didn’t have anything to lose my cool over. Ah, fuck you very much Detective.”

She looked at Willie’s body, then at my bloody hand.

“I guess I deserve that. For what it’s worth I am truly sorry.”

I nodded.

For some reason, I really felt bad for Hicks. She looked so vulnerable, so innocent. Strangely it was the first time I ever hoped she’d find the counsellor, all 5’11, 176 pounds of her out in the woods just beyond Harrison Village.

Bio:
Chad Rohrbacher has had stories published at Powder Burn Flash, The Flash Fiction Offensive, and Pulp Engine. He blogs here: http://rohrbacher.com/

MIRUM PUBERTATEM by Lee Hughes

2011-11-22T21:40:00.001Z

Are you ready?

Lee Hughes has been away from TKnC for a while, and I for one have been patiently tapping my fingernails, counting the days, cracking my knuckles... And oh! - friend, horror writer extraordinaire and previous Horror Editor at Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers - is back.

Lee's writing style is unique; Clive Barkeresque with a demonic hard edge. If you're not familiar with Lee's work then I recommend his incredible series The Osseous Box which, by pure coincidence, can be read in entirety here on TKnC, starting with episode 1 - The Jesus People.

Lee has written a disturbing tale especially for you, Mirum Pubertatem - a special, longer length tale to herald the long awaited return of his writing which we just know you're going to enjoy.

MIRUM PUBERTATEM

“You’ve got to be kidding me? Where’s Aunty Jane? Why can’t you do it?”

“Because, Aunty Jane has an appointment at the hospital today and someone has to sit with GeeGee.”

GeeGee was their name for Thomas’ great-grandmother, she’d been on the television when she’d hit the ton and ten mark, eight years previous.

Tommy had been five when he’d been forced to smile for the camera.

He got nothing from GeeGee, she didn’t even know who he was half of the time. And now he was going to have to sit with her, the human leaky-tap.

Tommy curled a lip. “Again, why can’t you do it?”

“Because I’m driving Aunty Jane, then going to have to wait for her. It’ll only be for a few hours.”

“What if I’ve got plans?”

“What plans?”

It was the summer holidays; the world was his oyster, only now he was at the grit stage.

Tommy said hello and plopped down on the sofa. GeeGee didn’t notice him. She was drooped in her chair and gawping at the television.

The news was on. The Prime Minister was jawing about the age that folks could retire, explaining that there wasn’t enough in the pot to let people retire at the current age. They were complaining that people were living longer yet they were coming down heavy on the bad things; less salt in food, fatty food taxes and making cigarettes and booze more expensive. Not doing those things could solve the problem.

“You watching this GeeGee?”

She was nearly deaf but caught some of his noise and looked. She didn’t say anything she just turned away.

Tommy wandered into the kitchen.

Food wise, there were Tupperware boxes filled with what looked like regurgitated puke and he lost his appetite.

She’d started drooling. He knew Aunty Jane usually went to work with a bit of bog-roll.

He pretended he hadn’t noticed and went for a piss instead.

Tommy admired his newest pube, it took the tally up to four. Every day less a boy, more of a man he thought. His voice was starting to break; it was the early stages so there weren’t too many words that came out sounding like an old door on rusty hinges.

He stopped in the doorway, GeeGee was sat where he’d left her only now she’d lifted a weathered hand to her mouth and was smearing spit about her face.

“GeeGee, you okay?”

She didn’t reply.

She dribbled some more and put her left hand to work at spreading the saliva about her dial and down her neck.

Tommy got his phone out and rang his mother.

No answer.

She’d turned it off.

“I’ll get you a towel.”

He tried to mop her slippery face but she pushed away his fussing hands.

“Fine, crack on.”

Once her face was fashioned with slobber she took her hair to the same task.

He dialed up his dad’s number instead.

His dad’s was a no go too. His dad was on the golf course and would have his turned off out of courtesy. Tommy was slipping it back into his pocket when it started to ring.

It was Steve.

“Hey, Steve.”

-What-up Dick-Lick, where are you?

“I’m babysitting my great-grandmother.”

-Ditch her, she won’t even know you’re gone.

Tommy watched as she lathered her hair with spittle.

“Can’t.”

-What do you mean, can’t?

“I don’t know she’s acting all weird.”

-She’s like two-hundred years old, of course she’s crazy.

“She’s a hundred and eighteen and I mean she is being proper weird. She’s covering herself in spit.”

-So, my gramps used to shit his pants and pretended he could speak Eskimo.

“This is a bit different.”

-Don’t see how, so you coming out, or not?

“I’ll catch up with you later.”

-Pussy.

Steve hung up.

All thoughts of doing a bunk fled as he re-entered the living-room to find GeeGee topless with everything hanging south and running thick spit about her overly-ripened skin. He looked up fast and wished he hadn’t as he saw where she’d already toiled. The spit had dried a dull white, blurring her features like a veil.

It was too much.

He dashed from the room.

If he couldn’t reach his parents the next best thing was the warden. There was a panic pull-string in the bathroom for if she slipped.

He made for it.

The fear made him clumsy. He tripped over the coat-stand, his landing cushioned by his head.

Tommy opened his eyes and felt a throbbing deep in his skull. It took a moment to realize where he was. He touched where it hurt and his fingertips came back wet.

He staggered to the bathroom and dabbed at the spot with a flannel. It was more of a bump with a scrape than a cut proper. The emergency string was beside him. He reached for it before becoming unsure of what he actually saw.

He let go of the string.

He hadn’t dreamt it.

It was worse. She was naked with her clothes pooled beside her. Not an inch of skin was visible through the thick mucus sheeting.

Tommy fumbled for his phone, Steve was on speed-dial.

-Ha, knew it. Caved. Where shall I meet you?

“Come over here.”

-To your great-grandmother’s?

“Yeah.”

-Why’d I wanna do that?

“I need you to tell me I’m not going crazy.”

-What you’ve been having a sneaky grope, sicko!

“Just come over, please.”

-This better be worth it.

He opened the door to Steve.

“So, what’s the deal? What happened to your head? She hit you when you went for the bad touch?”

“Just come see.”

“This’d better be good.”

“I don’t know what it is.”

He led Steve into the living room.

Steve stopped and stared at the sight, for once lost for words, apart from.

“Fuck.”

Steve edged closer.

Tommy grabbed his arm; Steve shook it loose and moved further.

“She dead in there?” He’d made it to within a few feet of the chair.

“I have no idea, what should I do?”

Steve didn't look back. “You got something I can poke her with?”

“No.”

“You phoned for an ambulance?”

“No.”

Steve looked back and grinned. “You phoned me instead, what the fuck did you think I could do?”

“I dunno.”

“Let me poke her, see if she moves.”

“No.”

“Then how’re we gonna know if she’s still alive?”

Steve had a point.

Tommy went and got the poker from beside the electric fire and handed it over.

Steve prodded her in the side.

The cocooned shape wriggled a little.

Steve summed up that. “She’s not dead.”

“Then what is she?”

Steve poked her again.

The form fidgeted some more.

“Haven’t the foggiest.” He scratched at his head. “This could be like some second puberty thing. Not many people have made it to her age. What if we’re just like the pupae stage, caterpillar like, that’d be sweet, get wings and be like a super-hero.”

“I don’t know why I phoned you. She’s just, just…”

“Wrapped up in a cocoon? Because that happens to everyone? It is cool though.” He gave GeeGee another jab and in return she gave a wriggle.

“What should I do?”

“What can you do? You’ll probably get on the telly, me too because I was here. Mum’s always said I’d get on the telly but she was probably thinking more of Crimewatch, this is just amazing. Mind if I?” He lifted the poker and jabbed the air.

“Yes I do.”

“You know what?”

“What?” Tommy was starting to sweat.

“Maybe you’ve got it too, you know, your grandmother lived to be nearly ninety before the bus thing. You could end up like this.” He prodded again without permission.

“Stop it and just shut up.”

“Then stop asking me questions.” Steve broke into a grin. “Your mum is gonna freak when she sees this…probably blame me too.” He got out his phone and switched the camera on. “This is gonna get so many hits on my YouTube channel, more than the video I put up of you busting your nuts on your handlebars.”

“This is not going on YouTube!”

Steve tooled with his phone for a few seconds. “Too late, uploading now.”

Tommy made for the phone.

Steve hoisted the poker. “Come on, this is huge!”

Tommy stopped trying for the poker, his jaw dropped slowly. “No that is huge!”

Steve turned and watched in awe as the surface of the cocoon shifted as whatever was within pulsated and grew, stretching the exterior like a fat-ass entrapped in lycra. He dropped the poker and started dialing a number.

Tommy nodded. “Good idea, you are calling the police, right?” The question came at the end as Steve had punched in more than three digits.

“Jack, he has to see this…”

“Steve, just call the fucking police, that…” He pointed at the still swelling cocoon. “That’s my GeeGee.”

“Not any…” He raised a forefinger. “Hey Jack, you know where Tommy’s great-grandmother lives?... It’s the old folk’s community…Yeah, just past the cemetery.” Steve laughed. “Just get here as quickly as you can…Remember the dead rabbit we found with the two heads?...Well, yeah, this one beats it hands down…His gram’s made herself a sort of cocoon, it’s freaky and she’s changing inside of it…I don’t know what into…I’m not fuckin’ with you. You’ll be sorry if you miss it…” Steve ended the call and looked to Tommy. “He’s on his way.”

“We need to call an adult.”

“What do you reckon they’d do? They’d probably take her away.”

“And get her some help.”

“Like a bit of bandaging, a course of antibiotics? More likely they’ll go at her with a scalpel and do experiments and shit.”

“Not GeeGee.”

“Yup.”

Tommy scratched his head. He’d seen enough films to know what happens to freaks and oddities. Worst still, they might take him along for the ride for sharing the same D.N.A as her. “Think we should just wait and see what happens? She might be fine soon.”

Steve nodded gravely.

Though inside, he was laughing at talking Tommy into not calling anyone from the authorities.

The shrouded form became too big for the chair and spilled drunkenly to the floor. Steve took more footage from as many angles as he could muster.

Tommy felt like crying.

His hopes that GeeGee would emerge as her old self faded into the forgotten as the form became more and more a torment of the misshapen.

Tommy closed his ears to the commentary that Steve was adding to his anomalous documentary as the cocoon began to tear.

“Think we should help free her?” asked Tommy.

“You willing to get close to it?”

“Not very.”

Steve found resolve. “Be right back.” He headed out of the room.

“It’s gonna be okay GeeGee, we’re gonna help you out of there,” said Tommy.

Steve returned with a steak knife roughly taped to a broom handle. “This should do the trick, ready?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Too late now!” Was the war cry as he went to work on the membrane with the precision of an alcoholic surgeon going through the DTs.

Steve rent it open lengthways.

The thing within howled with surprise at its premature birthing.

Both of them took a step back.

Steve kept the makeshift tool leveled at the wailing form. “Don’t think we ought to have done that,” he conceded.

“Me, neither,” said Tommy, bolting for the door. Steve went for retreat in the same manner but a crooked and claw-ended fist reached out and grabbed his ankle with no intention of letting go.

Steve’s mouth contorted to an agape twist of agony.

Tommy spun at the doorway to see the scaled and gnarled hand tightening its grip. “GeeGee,” he ventured, although he knew it was no longer her.

Steve through the tears and the pain realized that the monstrosity wasn’t going to let go of his leg and started to jab at it with the business end of his broom.

The thing didn’t scream.

It tightened its grip until the ankle and the shin bone became more than mere brother and sister and became a mixture of the two.

Steve screeched.

None of the noises worked and he let go of his weapon and surrendered himself to the floor.

The thing sidled its way up Steve’s body, pausing at the knees to crumple them.

“Tommy. Help me Tommy!” Steve managed as the monstrosity's hands climbed higher and higher whilst providing ruination on their travels.

Tommy didn’t have a clue what to do. There was something still inside that tried to convince him that somewhere beneath the misshapen thing still lingered a GeeGee.

The creature’s crooked grip had made it north to Steve’s chest. The talons planted no flags of victory but continued north to the body’s summit.

It became too late for him to decide to go to his friend’s aid. All he could do was gawp at the hunched form and twisted legs. He was sure that there couldn’t be anything left of GeeGee, no little corner where she could have found solace.

A panting came from the creature’s maw, a loud drawing of breath as if it were about to submerge itself. It bit down into Steve’s throat. The sides of its mouth closed around the teeth making the bond air tight.

Any words of horror that Tommy had were left hanging by the vocal-chords on the gallows within his trachea.

The beast drank heartily.

Tommy watched as the rising of Steve’s chest began to slow and then stop. The beast refused to cease with its feeding. It reached down and clawed open Steve’s t-shirt and delved the hand in the front of the ribcage and tore it open revealing an inert heart.

Tommy expected it to rip free the static heart. Instead it almost gently wrapped its corrupt fingers about and around the muscle and began to massage it. Tommy could see from the thing's throat as it began to swallow again that it intended to literally bleed Steve’s body dry.

Tommy pissed himself. The only part of the act that surprised him was that he hadn’t let loose his bodily functions earlier, much earlier.

When there was nothing left to sup on it squeezed the heart until it burst.

It looked up at Tommy, who raised his hands and made begging noises.

It moved over the rug-of-a-body that had been Steve.

It almost looked human-like, yet at the same time, far from it. A creature drawn by the deranged hand of a narcotic-fuelled artist in the latter stages of syphilis showing his hatred for women through his designs.

Tommy found the eyes distracting. Angular and bulging, the pupils a perfect black that showed his own pathetic reflection, one that made him feel ashamed of his cowardice.

The eyes blinked slowly like shutters being drawn closed and opened once more at leisure.

The mouth drooped open, the notched teeth centre-stage. Mumbled words spilled like sewage from its blackened lips.

He recognized the cadence. It was similar to GeeGee's, though the tone was animalistic.

“More…” It moved closer still, hunched over, too tall for the ceiling of the room.

Tommy stood static.

It wanted more. It was asking for more and it was far from Dickensian.

“I haven’t got…”

The doorbell rang.

Tommy looked over towards the door.

It would be Jack.

Tommy looked back at the monster, then back at the door.

Papy, NON!

Nonna quello che sta succedendo a te?

__________________________________

Bio:

Lee Hughes lives on the Isle of Man and has had short stories published about the web and also in print anthologies. He has a blog, but it’s been seldom used of late but it holds links to past stories and he may start using the blog more. Find the stories and more about him at -

www.LeeHughesWrites@Blogspot.Com

SCHOOL DAZE by Charlie Wade

2011-11-18T11:03:00.001Z

Charlie's back with an absolute beaut...

School Daze

Jim could remember them all. Most people could. He had no special gift. Mr Clark had taught art. Miss Randall history but she left and the unfortunately named Mr Pratt took over. Mr Bunce taught chemistry, the boil on his nose unforgettable. All of them. He could remember every teacher he’d had.

Jim’s problem was the opposite.

Twenty years he’d been teaching himself. Twenty years. Sixty kids he’d taught each year. Some years he’d get the same classes, other years a different lot. He reckoned he’d taught over five hundred of the little shits altogether. Five hundred.

Problem was, they could remember him, just as he could remember his. But remembering them? No chance.

He remembered the problem kids. Jonny Briggs who head-butted walls and stabbed the younger kids with scissors. Jamie Trim who got the lab assistant pregnant. Sally Traynor who dealt drugs at a school disco. Bill Cessnar who’d thumped him when he marked his homework down. He remembered them.

It was the others.

The quiet ones.

Well, most of the quiet ones. The brainy ones he couldn’t forget. The Molly Parkin’s and Jeff Gringdale’s who sat quietly through lessons, learning instead of dossing. Mark Dingle, the school’s first Oxbridge graduate. He remembered him.

No, it was the others he couldn’t remember. The quiet ones who weren’t intelligent. The one’s who kept their heads down but had little to show for it. Just like the one opposite him now.

Just like him.

“So then, Mr Parkin,” said the man. “Anything you want to say to me yet?”

Jim licked his lips. The rough gag that’d been over his mouth for the past day had left his lips sore. Even though the gag had been removed, he doubted he could speak. He gave up screaming late last night. Only a dull muffled echo came out of the gag. His throat ached. He knew cords had been damaged.

The man chucked a glass of water at his face. Though cold, it burnt his dry and cracked skin. Trickling into his mouth and down his throat, he felt his stomach contort as a few drops hit it.

“Please,” he croaked.

“Mr Parkin, Mr Parkin. I never thought I’d hear you say please.”

Jim reckoned the man was mid-twenties. He’d have taught him ten to fifteen years ago. The face wasn’t familiar. Jim couldn’t even picture what year he’d been in, let alone who he was or what he’d done to deserve this.

“You still don’t remember me, do you?”

Jim nodded his head but knew it wasn’t believable.

“Who am I then?”

The man’s face turn red. Veins poked through his neck. Nostrils flared and eyes became pierced. Years of pent up anger was being released.

His captor turned to cellar’s tap and refilled the cup. Turning, he threw the cup at Jim. The metal cup smashed into his nose and eye. More water trickled down Jim’s face which he sucked in through cut lips.

“You ruined my fucking life and you don’t even remember me?”

His anger was growing. His hands shook as he picked up the bolt croppers that Jim had eyed on the floor. He waved the croppers in front as he walked forwards.

Jim racked his brain over and over. His mind went back to the school registers. If he thought hard enough he might be able to see the names written there. He picked a year, 1998, and tried to see the names.

Opening the bolt croppers, his captor slid the two blades either side of Jim’s little finger.

“Please.” Jim felt his throat cracking as he screamed. “Dave? Dave Westerman?”

“Dave Fucking Westerman. That twat. Is that who you think I am?”

His arms violently brought the cropper’s poles together. He heard the click as the blades met long before he felt the pain of losing his finger.

Blood squirted high as it pumped from his trussed up hands. As his captor picked up the blow torch and lit it. Jim finally realised what its purpose was: to stop the bleeding.

“That’s one wrong. A minus, Mr Parkin. Looks like you’ve got nine more goes. Now, who am I?”

BIO:
Charlie Wade lives in Derbyshire, England and has written two unpublished books, a comedy spy thriller and a post credit crunch dystopia. He's had a few short stories published online places and his story, Pleading and Bleeding, will be in Out Of The Gutter Magazine issue 7. He blogs at www.spiesliesandpies.blogspot.com
Charlie's also got a couple of eBooks out... here.

SHOOTING STARS by Graham Smith

2011-11-08T18:35:00.000Z

Our friend Graham's back...

Shooting Stars

I nestled the buttof my Parker Hale M-85 against my shoulder and checked my range once more. Iwas perhaps half a degree off, so I adjusted the sights and peered once morethrough the telescopic sights.

Street artists wereplying their public trade with gusto and aplomb. I could see jugglers, humanstatues and street dancers. A mime artist came into view pretending he wasstuck behind a glass wall. God this guy was original! I’d never cared for mimeartists. All that being stuck in a box or descending imaginary stairs bored merigid and the stupid expressions on their faces were more nauseous thancomical.

I lifted my aim tospot the flag blowing on the cinema’s roof. I used it to gauge the correctionnecessary for windage.

Some snipersmodified their rifles. I had never been in favour of changing something socarefully crafted, so lovingly designed. The only concession I had made to mybeloved rifle was the fitting of a sound suppressor which would also reducemuzzle flash.

I wasn’t concernedabout the noise as the world would soon hear all about my intended victim’sdeath. My concern was with the telltale muzzle flash which would betray myposition to all the bodyguards and security people at tonight’s première.

To further concealmy position I had retreated to the back of the room and was shooting from aprone position on top of a sturdy kitchen table. The open window I’d beshooting through would afford me two seconds to shoot the Hollywood starlet who’d mocked me all thoseyears ago.

Two seconds was allI’d get and would be all I’d need. Second one would be spent identifying thetarget and drawing a bead on her temple. Second two was when I’d put the extraounce on the trigger and send my bullet on its murderous way.

My rifle was asalways loaded with just one bullet. I’d never needed a second shot and as thedistance was only one hundred metres I knew I would not miss. Having just onebullet was my secret trademark. If they escaped my single bullet. I let themlive.

I’d crafted a specialbullet for this one. This was an area where I did modify. I trusted no one tomake the alterations but myself. I had taken the round apart and had weighedout the powder to my own exact specifications. I wanted the bullet to mushroomon impact with her skull, to do the maximum amount of damage to her brainwithout coming out of the other side and hurting an innocent bystander.

I was alwaysstringent with my preparations and the one rule I had in my career as anassassin was that I would never incur innocent casualties. This trait hadnearly got me caught once or twice during high speed getaways but I held mystance rigidly.

I checked my watch.Seeing that she was due to arrive in a further five minutes I went into mypre-shoot routine. Stretching first legs and then arms into suppleness, I thenflexed my fingers in the manner of a classical pianist preparing for a virtuosoperformance.

My breathing wasalready under control but I used the routine as a way of relaxing my nerves andslowing my heartbeat so that breaths could be taken as shallowly as possible.

My apprenticelooked across from the other window where he stood. His job was to act as myspotter and give me notice as to what my target was wearing and what colour herhair was today.

By the time my dayswork was done, I could guarantee her hair would be blood red in at least oneplace.

‘She’s here.’ Therewas an excited shrillness in his tone. I would have to work on that.

‘She’s wearing aluminous green dress. Three bodyguards who are all muscle and no skill. Christ,she looks good in that dress!’

I brought my eyeslowly to the scope, willing him to concentrate and took in the view. Othercelebs were making their way towards the red carpet. Waving, laughing andflashing some of the most expensive teeth known to man. The street artists wereperforming in the background but were largely being ignored by the stars whowere more concerned with the paparazzi below me.

‘She’ll be in yoursights in five, four, three, two, one.’ As the apprentice hit one, I saw Jessicain the flesh for the first time since she had publicly berated me for myimpotence.

I centred the crosshairs on her head as she moved from left to right and then she stopped dead inher tracks. She waved to the mime artist and beckoned him over. I’d forgottenhow she loved those silent freaks.

I re-acquired mytarget as her sudden stop had thrown off my tracking movement. Her bouncers hadpeeled away and I had a clear view of her. My finger tightened on the triggerand just before the bullet left my gun, her co-star who was also her latestbeau leaned towards her so they could kiss for the amassed cameras. My bulletwent so close to her that she must have felt its passage.

The mime artist wasnot so lucky. I saw the bullet hit him bang in the sternum. He clutched hischest, blood oozing between his fingers. His knees wobbled, eyes went blank andhe fell theatrically. First to his knees and then face first onto the recentlyswept pavement.

And as for Jessica?Well she’d just laughed at the man dying in front of her, thinking it was allpart of his act.

The irony was notlost on me. I’d just shot a mime artist with a silenced bullet and he got around of applause as he died.

BIO:

Graham Smith is married with a six year old son. He lives at and manages The Mill Forge hotel and wedding venue near Gretna Green. He has been a book reviewer for Crimesquad.com (http://www.crimesquad.com) for the last two years and he has recently been featured At The Bijou (http://at-the-bijou.blogspot.com/2011/11/november-goes-noir-at-bijou-presents_04.html) with his Noir debut.

He has only recently started writing short stories and when not working, reading or writing he enjoys spending time with family and socialising.

DINNER FOR ONE (OR, THE MAD MORTICIAN OF BRINDLE STREET) by J. Bramwell Slater

2011-11-06T09:00:00.000Z

Hellicious Halloween ends as it began, with the chilling voice of J. Bramwell Slater.

We hope you've enjoyed this outstanding showcase of talent. The horror has been exquisite, divine, glorious... not to mention fun.

Huge thanks to all the writers that have taken part and to everyone that's taken the time to comment. Your feedback is genuinely appreciated by the authors and editors.

With no further ado, prepare your receptors, plump up your pleasure palette - this is...

DINNER FOR ONE (OR, THE MAD MORTICIAN OF BRINDLE STREET) by J. Bramwell Slater

Joshua looked on in horror as Hickson skilfully removed huge slabs of meat from the body lying on the table before him.

"This," he said, "is the best bit," holding up a darkened orb that resembled a heart.

It was the first time that Joshua had seen his employer behave this way but then, it was also his first experience of being an apprentice and being the only funeral directors for many miles meant that Brachs & Barton encountered a steady turnover of customers in that borough.

Thomas Barton had died a few years earlier and Brachs had sought an apprentice to train up; to assist him with the work needed to prepare the deceased for internment. It wasn't a particularly pleasant job and he had struggled to tempt anyone in spite of the handsome salary he had been offering but Joshua was young, built like an ox and quite poor.

London was buoyant following the coronation of George V earlier that year, but work was still scarce. He was fortunate, in that: the job included a small room at the top of the house where he could live. In the beginning, he had been assigned to lesser duties such as tending the horses and dressing the departeds' faces for those who wished to offer their last respects but after some time, Hickson believed that he was ready to learn the process of presenting the cadavers in the gruesome and professional task that, until now, only he was proficient.

The rich aroma of bacon greeted Joshua as he arrived downstairs for work and he found Hickson merrily frying breakfast in the small kitchen at the back of the parlour where he lived.

"Breakfast lad? We have a busy day ahead of us and you'll need sustenance inside you for the tasks that I have in mind."

Joshua thanked him and sat at the small table in the centre of the room. Being of humble origins had meant that he was used to spending most of his time in a state of hunger so when his employer was offering the bonus of a free meal, how could he resist?

As Joshua devoured the plate before him, he wiped his chin and commented: "I needed that. I was starving."

"What do you know of hunger?" snarled Hickson as he poked at the embers in the fireplace. "Have you ever wished you could sleep just to escape the wringing ache in your gut, day after day?"

Joshua was taken aback by his outburst but thought no more of it and thanked him for the meal and all the while, Ratchet, Hickson's dog, barked around the legs of the table.

"Quiet, you hound! Be silent!" growled Hickson and taking a leash, fixed it to the animal's collar and lifted it a clear six inches from the floor until its barks became a husky yelp.

Joshua felt that he should say something, but his master's manner prevented him.

"I'll bloody teach you to behave like a gentleman's dog, you..." and without finishing, he dragged the animal across the floor and out into the yard beyond, where it returned to barking as he slammed the door behind him. Later that morning, a thin light shone across the tiled walls of the preparation room as Hickson prepared to treat the corpses and Joshua looked on, as his master began to slice away at the grey mass before him.

"First we must drain all the fluids, like this," he said and with a few skilful moves he had begun the lengthy process.

An odour, the likes of which Joshua had never encountered, filled his senses and he covered his nose with his sleeve as he coughed. Hickson laughed and looked back at his work.

"Take great heed lad, for these are the secrets of the craft and I am putting great store in you by imparting them."

However, Joshua was sure that what followed could not be part of the trade as Hickson produced a leather apron filled with butchery tools and began to dissect the various limbs of their muscle, placing the cuts neatly onto a marble slab to one side of the table. Disgust and revulsion bowled through his every vein as he watched this slaughterhouse madness and his mind retched at the anvil memory of his morning meal.

"Aye, It looks like what you are thinking but I am not suggesting you copy this part of the operation. This is for my own purposes," he said as he delved into the gut of the thing and removed first its liver and then the heart. After a while, there was a banquet of fresh meat arrayed on the block and Hickson reached into a store room for a bag of hay that he had taken from the stables. Stuffing it inside the skin, he stitched up the incisions and washed his hands.

"Now it is ready for the embalming fluid," he said, stepping closer to the trembling apprentice and punctuating his words with a blade, "but if you should ever tell of my passion for the 'corpus humanis', I shall find you; kill you and eat you as well. Mark my words well: An eye for an eye."

At the funeral the following day, Joshua single-handedly hauled the coffin from the back of the hearse and heaved it into the waiting arms of the pallbearers; the strongest of the deceased family, who took the casket through the stone arch and along the path. Only Hickson knew that the cabinet was heavy with the bricks that he had secreted in its lining.

"Will you not join me in the chapel Mr Brachs?" said Joshua.

Hickson took a hip flask from his waistcoat pocket and shrugged as he leaned against the coach. Joshua looked back at him downing the cheap gin and spitting at Ratchet who was barking at his feet and went inside the chapel. Sitting at the back of the congregation, he began to reason that the cause of Brachs & Barton's success was that his master, he suspected, was becoming greedy and had begun to murder his clientele - choosing only the ripest victims for his own, as he learned how the deceased had been 'struck down' by a vicious assailant 'at such a young age.'

That night, Joshua was awoken by bitterly arguing voices downstairs.

"I'll have my money from you one way or another, if it's the last thing I do," said a woman's voice.

"After what you did to me Gwendolyn? I can scarcely believe your impudence in the matter."

"You owe me alimony stretching back for months now. That child of yours needs shoes and clothes. Just how do you expect me to provide those?"

Ratchet was barking furiously as the two jousted their positions ever closer to conclusion.

"If you hadn't ruined my business, none of this would have happened."

"We all know what happened to Thomas and I'm sure that there are others who would be very keen to learn about your 'business' if I had the inclination to tell them. See that you have that money for me by Friday week," she said and Joshua heard the sound of the front door as she disappeared into the night.

For a long while afterwards, Hickson could be heard clattering about in the kitchen along with Ratchet's incessant barking which eventually came to a husky halt. The incident had troubled Joshua greatly and in the days that followed, the seeds of curiosity took hold and his resentment grew like vine, encircling every corner of his thoughts.

As the two of them rode back from a funeral a week later, he felt compelled to confront a question that had been foremost in his mind.

"What happened to Barton?"

Hickson thrashed the reins, snarling: "Don't ever let me hear you utter the name of that scoundrel in my presence!". Joshua steadied himself as the horses recoiled from the chastisement.

"Why?" bellowed Hickson into the wind, "Because he stole my wife whilst she was still heavy with my child and I will not speak of it again."

The following afternoon, Joshua was surprised to receive a visit from Gwendolyn who arrived without announcement when Hickson was out, having gone up to London on business.

"I'm afraid the master is not in, Ma'am."

"I know," she said, "it is you that I wish to speak with." Joshua showed her into the sitting room and sat, facing her.

"I suspect that you know of Hickson's practices, but before you deny it, let me say that: I am well aware of the extent of what happens between these walls." Joshua was stunned but she continued- "I have been extracting money from him for my silence but now I want more and I am prepared to pay you handsomely if you can assist me in …disposing of him, so that I may inherit his fortune."

Gwendolyn's empowering words echoed through the haunted corridors of Joshua's mind from that moment forward and as he went about his daily work the next day, he became resolute in the allegiance that her conspiracy had offered him. He didn't join Hickson for breakfast that morning, or any other that followed, as he had already begun to cook his own wicked recipe.

Having access to the bodies now provided him with the perfect opportunity to inject them with the embalming fluid before Hickson's intervention and this he did with furious intent. Each day he watched him devour the poisoned steak and he recalled Gwendolyn's carefully detailed instructions - His death would never be detected as it would be seen as a hazard of the job following his demise, she had told him - it seemed the perfect murder.

In the weeks that followed, Joshua saw the master descend from being an imposing and incumbent force within the household to being a frail and pathetic shadow and how he relished every passing signifier until the day that he finally died, without struggle, as he slept. Joshua was elated to discover him lying in his pit and was particularly energised after he had informed the authorities and began the process of preparation for the funeral but he had a final act of defiance to complete, for his own sanity.

As the body was lain on the table, he used the skills which had been imparted to him in removing the most select tissue which he later prepared as a feast for Ratchet. The dog gobbled the fresh meat with adoring enthusiasm as Joshua stood proudly in the kitchen feeling freed at last from the horrors he had learned to endure. Little did he know: the true implication of this pedantry gesture.

The minister spoke quietly in the autumnally muted cemetery the next day and his voice hung heavily on the pitiful few who were gathered there. Reciting the words of Job from his crow-black leather book, he gazed emptily at the darkened sky.

"Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery..."

"I need to speak with you Joshua," whispered Gwendolyn so slightly that her words were almost unspoken beneath her veil as she leaned toward him.

"Oh?" he mouthed. His hands clasped before him, tightened their grip.

"In the midst of life we are in death..."

"You have served me well, master Hepton, but I have a final task for you. My underwriters have attended to matters in my favour, as it is the building that is quite clearly the true extent of Hickson's wealth.

"...earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust..."

"Therefore, I need you to be absent for a few days. Consider it a compassionate sabbatical. Further, I would suggest that you find suitable lodgings as there might well be a significant 'accident' to the building."

Joshua's mind reeled like a sailor, freshly landed in port - such was the intoxication of her implications.

"Don't worry," she said, "I shall provide for you, for you have more than provided for me" and Joshua was sure that the vaguest smile played about her lips.

"...and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore. Amen."

That evening, in the still darkness of a cheap lodging house not far from the parlour, Joshua looked out across the rooftops and saw the crimson glow of flames engulfing the building. As the smell of the blaze was thick in the air, he felt the weight lifting from his heart into the night sky and the torment of such terrible deeds (and his own part in it all) peeled from his soul and drifted out to join the rank stench of evil. As he watched in the stillness of his contempt, Ratchet - the innocent animal he had saved from the catastrophe, with the taste for human flesh still on its tongue, snarled with him in its sight.

__________________________

BIO: Scoot back to the very first story in the Hellicious Halloween showcase to read all about J. Bramwell Slater, in the bio that follows An Unquiet Slumber

THE FACE OF EVIL by Kevin G. Bufton

2011-11-05T18:00:00.000Z

There is some fine, fine fiction coming out of the Liverpool zone at the moment, with Kevin G. Bufton joining clans with Luca Vesta and Anthony Cowin.

We are really pleased to welcome Kevin G. Bufton to TKnC with his Hellicious Halloween offering The Face of Evil. The writing has such a distinct style it would be a crime for this work not to be published. Besides, it contains one of my favourite mini-scenarios.

Better put the kids to bed before you read on...

THE FACE OF EVIL by Kevin G. Bufton

Let me give you fair warning – this tale does not come with the ubiquitous happy ending that you have come to expect. Why should it? Happy endings are for the weak and the deluded, for those folk who think that everything will turn out right in the end.

Well think again.

I am sat here in the kitchen. Not my kitchen, you understand. Nothing in this house belongs to me...not yet. I'm assuming there's a house; I've never actually seen beyond the kitchen. I can't move but at least I can see and hear. I suppose I should be grateful for that, at least.

I was blind when they took me – those hateful sadists with their maniacal grins – blind and deaf. That I now find myself capable of sight and hearing would be nothing short of a miracle if it didn't come at so heavy a price. That small handful of wet dripping matter on the counter top. I can see it clear as day and I know what it is. It's a piece of my flesh. A piece of my face . Dear God, they just cut off a piece of my face and left it in front of me. It can't be a reminder. There is no way I will forget the feel of the knife piercing my skin and gouging into the soft meat behind it. What, then? A threat? I can't even move – what do they expect me to do?

I can feel a cold, sharp breeze coming from the air conditioning. It whistles through the gaping wound where my perfect nose used to be and it hurts so much. Where two nostrils used to sit, now there is is only one, the delicate strip dividing them crudely split with a blunt blade and tossed into the bin before my eyes. They were smiling whilst they did it, smiling and laughing and exchanging knowing looks as they took turns at my disfigurement.

My own smile is somewhat ragged. There is no mirror close enough for me to see, but I can feel the air moving against my lipless mouth. I have maybe a dozen teeth, all broken and malformed in one way or another, thanks to their heartless ministrations. It is not a mouth made for mirth, but I can do little else but smile – a butcher's knife saw to that. Cutting deep into my ravaged flesh the older of the two – the man – drew a searing incision from each corner right up the side of my face. Then the woman – presumably his wife – reached into the deep groove made by her partner and pulled out that which he had cut away.

“Ugh, it's all over my fingers,” she laughed. Laughed! She threw it down onto the kitchen counter and wiped her hands clean on the back of her jeans. That was the piece that I was looking at now, wet and glistening in the artificial light of the kitchen. This last torture seemed to have been enough for them, for now at least. They left the room hand in hand, the woman leaning against the man and giggling. The sound chilled me to my very core, like the soulless laughter of the damned, but not so much as what that brute of a man said as exited the room.

“The kids are going to love this one.”

Children? They have children? I wanted to feel sorry for them, brought into the world by these two monsters but I barely had enough sorrow for myself. Alone, unable to move, my face hacked to pieces for the pleasure of these sadists and their brood. I determined then, that I would make them pay. I would haunt their dreams and stalk their nightmares for the rest of their miserable lives until they descended, screaming into madness and the cold embrace of an early grave.

They would live in perpetual fear of the dark, in case they should come across my face in the shadows. Twisted, deformed and mutilated by their own hands, it was only fitting that it be the last thing they see.

The lights went out and the kitchen door opened. The man strode in, the leader of the pack, silhouetted against the light from the hall. Behind him, amorphous shapes writhed against the light, no doubt the rest of his devilish kin.

“Daddy'll only be a second, kids,” he said.

He was on me in an instant, peeling back the top of my head, where he had cracked it open with a cleaver hours before. I felt the air rush into the cavity and would have screamed, had I a tongue to give voice to it.

My tormentor drove his fist into my head, forcing an object into my gullet. There was a click and a sudden blazing heat as the inside of my head was consumed with fire. The pain was like nothing I had ever felt before and I wished that I would die.

The next moment it had subsided. I could still feel that burning, lodged deep inside of me, but it no longer hurt. If anything I felt rejuvenated. My senses were heightened and I could feel my strength returning. It may had been some hideous trick played upon me by my own mind, but I felt an enormous sense of power. I looked out through my new eyes and saw my face reflected on the wall in flickering tongues of fire.

Those narrow eyes, cruelly pointed at the top; a ghastly hole set beneath them in mockery of a nose and below that mouth – my mouth. Jagged teeth set in a permanent rictus grin, behind which burned a flame that would consume the world. This was power. I was the stuff of nightmares.

The children would come soon. They would look upon me and fear.

I sat, glowing in the darkness, and smiled.

_________________

BIO: Kevin G. Bufton is a father, husband and horror writer, in that approximate order. He lives in Birkenhead in the UK and is currently working on his first solo anthology. He blogs on an irregular basis at http://buftonsblog.wordpress.com

BACK WHERE I BELONG by Dorothy Davies

2011-11-05T09:00:00.000Z

Dorothy Davies submitted Back Where I Belong to TKnC quite some time ago. I wickedly held on to it, and she graciously agreed for the story to be included in the Hellicious Halloween showcase.

Dorothy is an editor, a prolific writer of horror short stories and author of frank historical novels.

Her tale creeps and crawls, twists and trembles. Scrape forth...

BACK WHERE I BELONG by Dorothy Davies

It’s dark in here. Too dark for me to see anything. I’m restricted in my movements, why can’t I sit up, move my arms about, lift my head ... and what is this strange silky stuff I am lying on? What is this hard pillow I am resting on...

I don’t like this. Any of it. Not one single tiny miniscule scrap of it. Something's wrong and I want to know where and why and how and what and I want to know now. Not tomorrow, or next week, or next year, but NOW!

TALK TO ME!

Nothing. It’s as if I’m in some kind of box...

I am, aren’t I, in some kind of box. A coffin, to be precise.

What else is lined with silky stuff and holds my arms and legs and body in a rigid position where I can’t move around and...

But I’m not dead!

Hold on, think this one through. Sensibly, logically, one step at a time.

I was...

Where?

In my car. Right. First step, in my car. Driving from/to?

Work. I remember. Driving from work, after a long day. Tired. Trying to keep my eyes open. Remember ... some idiot cutting in front of me and me too tired to react quickly and I smashed into him. I remember nothing else.

So, did someone declare me DOA? If so, I’ve been a long time waking up, there would have been an autopsy – hold on – can I feel – yes I can – and then a funeral and they don’t happen very quickly and –

I guess I got buried, because I'm not burned up and ash and scattered somewhere or left in the bottom of the incinerator or stuffed into someone else’s urn.

But you see, I am NOT dead.

I need to get out of here. So, how do I get out of a) the coffin and b) the grave...

By sheer hard work.

Wow, that was hard work too!

Oh hell. I have been dead longer than I thought. The headstone’s in place already. No, not already, look at the date, look at the date ... I've been dead a year. A whole long empty wasted do-nothing year.

But I look all right, what I can see of me, anyway. Not much rotting going on here, feet still got shoes on and nothing leaking out of the seams. The socks don’t feel soggy either, so ... the feet must be intact. Right? The legs, let me look at the legs, tug up the trousers, well, would you look at that, pink flesh and blue veins and come to think of it, what about the hands which did the tugging? Well, would you look at that, too, all my fingers intact and heavens, she buried me with my wedding ring, too! I thought she would have had that off me and sold it immediately. Or do I do my cheating wife an injustice...?

Right. Head. Hmm, seems intact. Eyes, yes, nose, definitely, mouth with teeth, yes, and at least now I can say I will never have toothache again, hallelujah! Ears? Yes, I have ears. Hair? Longer than I normally have it but who’s arguing about a small item like that?

Looks me as if I'm pretty well intact. Not bad for my age, as it happens. My age plus one year – obviously lying around underground does wonders for the body. Look, no paunch. That’s the death starvation diet for you, works every time. I might market that, when I get myself back into civilisation.

And the bitch’s house.

Now, let me orientate myself.

This is the large new burying ground, so my home is – several miles away. Well, I obviously can’t drive there, and equally can’t hire a taxi either; there is no money in these pockets.

Hold on, you fool, you’re not thinking straight.

Would you, after a year underground? Asleep?

No excuse. Come on, think! How did you get out of the coffin and the grave?

By thought.

Precisely.

Now think yourself at home.

Ha! Is it that easy, I ask myself... there is only one way to find out... isn’t there?

And here I am walking up the path. She’s made a few changes, that black-hearted wife of mine. The flower beds are all shrubs, no colour, no charm. Where’s the central rose bush gone? Pride of my life, that was. What’s a conifer doing in its place?

The door’s a different colour. I preferred the green, don’t like this – this wishy washy blue. That’s not a colour for a front door, that doesn’t say ‘look at me, I am proud to be the entrance to this home.’ This one says ‘I am all delicate pastels and femininity and be kind to me.’

I will, when I get in.

Sudden thought, no one appears to have seen me yet. Was I lucky or am I invisible? I will find out when I-

Shocked look, smashed dishes, hand over mouth, eyes like saucers – I thought that was a stupid expression until I saw her eyes go as big as saucers when I walked into the (disgustingly yellow) kitchen.

‘You...’

‘Me.’ I don’t think I have a voice, leastways I didn’t hear anything. Telepathy, perhaps, because her eyes got even bigger, if that was possible and it had to be, because they did.

Stop it with the foolish thoughts.

‘It is you.’ She’s shaking head to foot, nerves, fright, love? Never the last one, never, never. I know my wife and a lot of memories are creeping back. Well, I’ve only been out of the grave for – how long? Half an hour? Taking me a little while to get myself together. Only natural.

Let’s think about the reason I was so tired and couldn't react properly in the accident. Let’s think about the flask she gave me to take to work, the drink which tasted just the tiny bit wrong, think about the look of sex she carried from time to time when she hadn't been with me. Think about the lies ... oh the lies ... I uncovered from time to time without her knowing.

Think about how she'll react when I say the next words to her.

And smile.

‘Darling, I got tired of lying in the grave. I decided to come back where I belong.’

____________________________

BIO:

Dorothy Davies
Author and editor.
Amor Vincit Omnia

Check out my websites: www.oneinspecyal.com and www.circle-of-light.co.uk

SMASHING PUMPKINS by Gill Hoffs

2011-11-04T18:00:00.000Z

She's a mystery to TKnC and Hellicious Halloween - and don't we love a mystery, yet she's a talent we need to read more about. Gill Hoffs is a writer from Warrington in England. She is also a contributor to the incredible Lost Children: A Charity Anthology project started by Thomas Pluck in the US and Fiona Johnson in Scotland. On my knees, Gill.

Her story for our Hellicious Halloween showcase Smashing Pumpkins spirals down witchety pathways until we fall across something far more sombre and macabre. Listen up...

SMASHING PUMPKINS by Gill Hoffs

Pumpkins aren’t supposed to bleed. They’re not supposed to cry, either. But this was Hallowe’en…

When Jenny scooped soft innards from the pumpkin she felt no sense of unease. No chills, no jitters, and certainly no sense of foreboding assailed her as she scoured the thick orange skin with a spoon and listened to Hallowe’en Hits Vol. 3, tapping her slipper on the kitchen floor. It was a grey day, the sky thick with drizzle and falling leaves, but nothing out of the ordinary, nothing unusual for this time of year.

Singing along to ‘Thriller’, not quite hitting the high notes but not caring about it either, she thought about what was for dinner later and tried not to look too hungrily at the tub of lollipops and chocolates meant for visitors tonight. One would lead to two would lead to a trip to the Co-Op for replacements and a plague of spots for the rest of the week, and she fancied neither.

It was when she took a knife to the smooth curve of what was to be its face that things changed. Not just her no-chocolate resolve; everything. She’d decided on a cat theme this year, had little paper ears all ready for the lid, and was trying her hardest not to cut through the narrow pupils when a tear slid down its face.

Jenny was not a nonsensical person, she had no time for ghosts and if something went bump in the night she went to sleep certain of a logical cause for it. But the drop of water dribbling down onto the worktop gave her pause. Especially since it was followed by several more in quick succession, the water puddling at its base.

Perhaps it was an unusually wet pumpkin, she reasoned, it’s certainly a damp day. Maybe I’ve bruised a patch inside, yes, that’s it. Better for it to leak now than when there’s a candle in there, or it’ll never stay alight. And if there’s not a pumpkin in the window, shining with the hope of Hallowe’en, then she’d be left with the whole tub of candy to herself, and not a child to share it with.

She took her time on the nose, trying to get the curves right, then cut narrow slits for whiskers, three on each side. She’d chosen well, this one was the best of the patch, smooth, round and a deep reddy orange. The farmer was an old friend, glad of her help in the fields now and then. He always said she must have green fingers, holding her hands a little too long as he pretended to check; wherever she dug or sowed the plants came up greener, bigger, more lush than they had before. It meant she got her pick when harvest came.

Finally she carved the teeth. The fangs fringed the mouth with menace, and Jenny smiled at the snarl, thinking of the reactions of her little visitors later. Then it bit her…

She banged the pumpkin up and down on the counter with a scream, pushing at the heavy gourd until it let go. Red dripped off the edge of the work surface, spattering on the lino floor. There were deep incisions in the pads of her fingertips, and tear marks around them where she’d ripped them pulling free.

It spat at her, blood speckling the front of her blouse as she clenched her injured hand and stared. When it spoke, her jaw dropped open in disbelief.

It had the voice of a child, a young, angry child. One that she recognised.

“Why did you-" but at this Jenny had run from the room. It screamed and squealed, more noise that she recognised, but it wasn’t till she found the cricket bat by her bed that she considered her return. Screaming herself, she walloped the pumpkin with the bat, her hand throbbing with pulsing pain. Smashing it to a seething pulp, it was a little while till she realised it was her voice still screaming. Calming down, she knew she had to go.

Fingers bandaged, blouse changed, pumpkin mush left to simmer on the stove, she drove out to the farm. Her farmer friend must have been busy, there were perhaps a dozen on the roadside display, including happy faces, angry faces, vampires, and more bloody cats. Parking in the layby rather than approaching the farmhouse as usual, she got out, cricket bat in hand. Maybe she was going nuts, but she couldn’t risk making another mistake.

When they saw it was her, they screamed. Boys, girls, it was hard to distinguish amongst the screams and the rage. The bat was heavy, her fingers sore, but she took a deep breath and started.

“Where’s my mum and dad?” squealed a cat.

“Why did you take me?” screamed a vampire.

“Why did you leave us out he-“ she managed to shut an angry face up.

It was hard for Jenny to hear the siren over the screams. At the trial, she pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity. The police officer who saw her smashing pumpkins as he headed back to the station for his tea mentioned hearing screams, but chose not to mention in his report that he believed them to be from murdered children. Attributing them to Jenny, apparently mad with guilt, seemed the most sensible course of action. Especially when they dug up the patch to find out what made her fingers so green and the produce so big.

Twenty little trick or treaters, skeletons and costumes showing bright in the light. Twenty girls and boys. Twenty little bodies showing signs of Jenny’s cricket bat and teeth.

When Jenny choked on pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving, nobody was at all surprised. The warders who sourced the ingredients least of all…

____________________

Bio:

Gill Hoffs lives in Warrington, England with her husband and 4 year old son though her mind wanders all over the place. Her work has won several prizes including the Crimson Skull competition, and is available widely online, and in print.

Check out her website http://gillhoffs.wordpress.com/or email her at: scottishredridinghood@hotmail.com

WHAT FATE IMPOSES by Patricia Abbott

2011-11-04T09:00:00.000Z

Glimpses - I have had - of Patti Abbott's writing over the last few years. Her fiction is dark, strange and beguiling. I urge you to check the long list of Stories on the Web on her blog, Pattinase. She is also a mine of information about what is going on in Pulp Fictionland where crime, noir and horror overlap.

Patti's Hellicious Halloween story What Fate Imposes stitches American folklore together with a disturbing and chilling tradition. This is a tale of Craft, told with craft...

WHAT FATE IMPOSES by Patricia Abbott

“I’d just as soon get started early. Never like being out late on Halloween.” Clara Muir finished wiping the last dish. The air was redolent of supper’s goat stew. “I never will forget that time….” Catching the look on Anna’s face, she stopped.

Letitia made her final microscopic stitches, nodding without hearing her sister.

It was a log cabin quilt and one of her finest in a number that didn’t bear counting.

Although her blue eyes were still strong, her fingers had grown crippled. Each week another bag of her fragile fabric, some centuries’ old, found its way to the church resale shop.

“Can’t help but think that’s too fine a piece of needlework to cover a squalling infant,” Anna said. She always said exactly this when Letitia pulled the needle through the three layers for the final time.

“They’re meant as a keepsake, you ninny. Who’d think of allowing a child to destroy a work of art?”

So far - and far was a long time ago now - none of the parents in Shelterville had allowed this to happen. Not wanting to tempt Fate, the proffered birth quilts were quickly put away in the cloth bag they came in. Few were opened a second time.

Rituals were to be observed even when they made no sense.

Every child was treated to both a quilt and a visit from the Muir sisters three nights after the child’s birth. Few families greeted the sisters with less than complete dread. Books, family heirlooms, fabric, baked items usually festooned the hall table on their arrival. Sometimes one was taken; other times the sisters’ aquiline noses turned up.

“It’s not like we have any choice,” Letitia said. “We are obliged to pay a visit.

Required even.”

Yet this responsibility did not greatly trouble them. It was the sole reason for their existence, truth be told.

“I took special care with this quilt, knowing baby Matthew would be the Fenwick’s only child,” Clara said.

“And their child for no more than a few minutes.” Letitia mumbled as she looked in the closet for a tape measurer. “There it is!”

Her sisters looked at each other with unblinking eyes. It was difficult to get worked up after all these many years.

“Just a little time, you say. Ah, then,” Anna said, looking for her scissors. “Save us another visit. These legs grow stiffer every day.” She hung the large scissors on a lanyard from her neck.

The three women crept outside to Bumberry Road, which was strewn with red and golden leaves. Anna, prone to ankle sprains, looked fearfully for the hidden acorn or fallen branch. With linked arms, save for the bag with the quilt inside tucked under Clara’s arm, they made their down. Boys on bikes, mothers with strollers, the first children coming outside in their Halloween costumes and cars coming home from work, skirted the trio. It had always been like this and the sisters rarely noticed. Having each other, there was little need for the company of mortals.

The Fenwicks lived in a gatehouse near the bottom of the hill. There was no choice but to open the door to the Muir Sisters, which they did. The quilt was handed over, the baby admired if the Muir Sisters’ indifferent way could be called such.

It didn’t do for them to get too attached to the children - especially one so fated.

“Time for the prognostication,” Clara said after some tea had been sipped, after the quilt had been admired and put away. “No sense postponing it.”

“Wait a minute,” Brent Fenwick said. “You came to our house on Halloween and didn’t say “Trick or Treat? Doesn’t seem right.”

The three sisters knew he was stalling, but being polite if nothing else, they shrugged and in unison uttered the words. “Trick or Treat.”

From behind his back, Mr. Fenwick pulled out a burlap bag. “Treat!”

Letitia peeked inside. “Hair,” she pronounced with a snort. Her sisters laughed politely. “Hair from an goat, I believe.” Pieces of it escaped the burlap and floated near her nose. She sneezed obligingly.

“We stopped taking hair in return for a different fate when Letitia turned to quilts.” Clara looked at them with something approaching kindness. “It only worked once or twice, you know. No one cares for hair blankets now.”

The three sisters stepped forward together and looked into the cracking fireplace. “The boy—“

“Say his name,” Mrs. Fenwick cried. “How am I to know you have the right child if you don’t even say his name?”

“Matthew Fenwick.” Clara said, “It is my sad duty to inform you that Matthew will die before the log in that fire burns out. Its final embers will signify the end of his days.” Anna rattled the scissors at her neck.

“You mean right now,” Mr. Fenwick exclaimed. “Within the next hour? I never imagined it could be this soon. No one warned us….”

“It doesn’t happen often,” Clara said . “It’s a large log so perhaps…”

“It’s the dying embers and ash that signifies his life is extinguished,” Mrs Fenwick interrupted with a strange light in her eyes. But perhaps it was the light from the fire.

Clara nodded.

Mrs Fenwick pursed her lips and before anyone could react, she picked up the pail of water that sat by the fire and doused the log. “No embers,” she said as the smoke washed over them. “No ash either. Just a smoky, charred piece of wood.”

Coughing from the smoke, the sisters looked at each other. Finally, they shrugged and headed for the door. The Fenwicks watched until they turned the bend in the road and started up the hill.

To be on the safe side of prophecies and fate, Mr Fenwick placed the sodden log in a bird bath filled with water, thus ensuring it could never be relit.

_____________________

Bio: Patti Abbott blogs at http://pattinase.blogspot.com/

HALLOWEEN LOVERS by Phil Ambler

2011-11-03T18:00:00.000Z

What is it about so many horror writers that they are nicest people you could ever wish to meet? Phil Ambler fits that bill, yet the weekly drabbles he posts to The Feardom's Prediction Challenge and elsewhere are chilling in the extreme. Indeed he recently won the challenge with Host - one of the darkest pieces I have read in a long while.

Phil brings fear and romance to Hellicious Halloween with his tale Halloween Lovers. This is his second outing on TKnC - and we're glad he's back.

HALLOWEEN LOVERS by Phil Ambler

We both stood there in the kitchen, staring silently at each other as the candles flickered around us. Her face was as beautiful as I remembered it, pale as a porcelain doll with those big, doe like eyes of hers so full of longing and sorrow. She wore the same gingham dress which she had worn on our first date in October 2007, a black jumper draped over her alabaster shoulders.

She had smiled coyly at me that evening when I had told her how pretty she was as we walked in the silvery moonlight. I had joked that I would see her safely back home, past all the hellacious Halloween monsters wanting to drag her back to their foul and fetid pits. We both knew that I would end up in her bed that night but it was nice to have the excuse to hide behind.

It was a year later to the day that I proposed to her. Logs crackled in the open hearth and the living room was adorned with candles casting shadows across its length. I had sat on the sofa, a bundle of nerves, rehearsing those specially chosen words as I waited for her to get home. She had walked through the door dressed in a sexy little witches outfit, all black lace and fishnet tights. She took one look at me sitting there with that little red box in my hand and fell upon me, her sweet, full lips plastering my face with cheap black lipstick. I never even got to ask her the question.

We married the following year on 31 October, when else, in a castle in Scotland. It was perfect. It had been a beautiful autumnal day, the trees laden with golden leaves as the sun painted an umber sky which shimmered in the crystal clear waters of the loch. Some people said we were condemning ourselves to a lifetime of misery marrying on Halloween but we didn't care, it was superstitious nonsense to us; we had each other and nothing else mattered.

I wonder what might have happened if we'd married a day later.

Things changed between us. Little things which we'd laughed at beforehand grated on the pair of us. We started arguing over stupid things, who did the washing up, whose turn it was to cook, how much I was drinking. I started working late, going out to the pub with my friends or just on my own, anything to avoid going home to her. And then one day I hit her.

She left me on our anniversary. One day she was there and then the next she was gone. People sympathised with me, offered me their support, but they didn't know the truth of the matter and I wasn't about to tell them.

I spent a year trying to get her back. At first I didn't know how I was going to do it. All I knew was that it was all down to me and there was no-one else to blame. I went to specialists who helped me to understand that and what I had to do to get her back. I spent hours pouring over books until I knew the exact words that I would use to be able to see her again.

So here we were now; just the two of us staring at each other in what had been our kitchen waiting for one of us to break the silence. It was appropriate that it was on Halloween, our anniversary; it would not have been possible on any other day. There was no other day of the year I could have persuaded her to come back over to me. We had lots to talk about. We had to talk about what happened. I had to tell her how much I missed her. I had to tell her that a day didn't go by that I didn't think about her. Most importantly I had to apologise. I hadn't meant to hurt her. It had been the drink. I had to tell her how sorry I was. She had waited up for me the evening that she left me. When I got in she had thrown our anniversary meal at me, turned to charcoal from sitting in the oven whilst I was out drinking. If she had just gone to bed things would have been different but I couldn't stop myself. I hadn’t meant to make her leave me. If she hadn't shouted at me she would still be here. If she hadn't hit me I wouldn't have killed her.

And so we stood there staring at each other.

_________________________

BIO: Phil Ambler is a writer from the South East of England who prefers to write on the darker side of life. Phil's short story Well has been published on Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers and he currently has several finished shorts he is trying to find a home for. Follow Phil on Twitter @phlambler.

MNF by Absolutely*Kate

2011-11-03T09:00:00.000Z

Absolutely*Kate tells me she is a TKnC virgin. I find this impossibly hard to believe having read her work and listened to her incredible words - and believe me - you really do have to listen.

Kate's Hellicious Halloween story MNF is yet another unusual theme for the showcase, as I'm sure readers will agree. Please welcome her in, and open your ears as well as your eyes - for this is the unique voice of Absolutely*Kate...

MNF by Absolutely*Kate

Monday night's mood was intense in the press box. The Zagwars wanted to impose their wills on the Bravens defense. Brutally so. Blood and gore and more so. But some force was blockin' customary urge o'rage. I saw it. I felt the opposite energy. I was there in the sticky heat of Florida's juiciest Stadium with 67,483 fans who I sensed drank it in too. I tell you it was more than the ol' calendar turning edges to edginess, ending October midst week#8, the Halloween NFL scene. Somethin' just out of reach was spooking everyone. Oxymoronically, I felt it. Jim Flynn, next to me in the sound booth, dazzling his Blackberry with a frenetic performance like he was inches to goal in OT, was cussin' on 'bout heebie jeebies o'bad vibes all night. My bud Hank Jenkins down the line? Hell, he shot me the What the Fuck more 'n five times in the second-quarter. It's the look you see when you never saw somethin' comin' that you still see. That's about how it shook down that night. Well, how it shook me up that night, is more like it.

~ ~ ~

Night started like any Monday Night Football game starts. Home team arrives. National media coverage and camera crews set up. Vendors vend full force, shooting silver bullet Coors into the stands - the stadium gets jazzed. There's more than just good natured gridiron goin' on when the Zagwars' testosterone puffs and struts prime time. Decibels raise. Cheerleaders' cleavage dips far beneath any semblance of the Mason-Dixon line. (I dated both Jenny Mason and Dottie Dixon once or twice and they made an art form of that line.)

How I crossed that line though isn't tonight's glory story. Actually, that one would be a helluva lot easier to spiel my guts on as I knew what I went in for and what the score was, but this one - damn, this one's tough to figure, hard-pressed to report on.

You see, though thousands of screaming visitor fans were lined up when the Bravens stomped en masse through spiky wrought-iron gates to the stadium locker room, the excitement subdued. Players came in with heads huddled low, 'neath voluminous silvery black jersey hoods. No eye contact. Most sporting earbuds or headphones plugging them into zones a world away from their current fan base. Zombie like. Opposite energies.

When the game got goin' there was plenty of action on the playing field, yet negative yardage. Opposite energies again. Go figger. Not so much defensive/impressive as some mighty intangibles we were all jawin' eerie about upstairs. Me? I'm Jimbo Ray Jordan, vital voice of WFLO and I still can't rightly speak about what happened that night.

From the befuddled Zagwar's rookie quarterback to any penny-ante sports hack, word spread from the 50-yardline on, there were 13 men on the field - at numerous occasions. When refs' yellow flags eradicated monster moshpits of mass destruction tinted Zag-orange and silvery-black, the count showed a solid eleven. No penalty, no first-downs. Opposite energies.

Brutality brandished by brazen Bravens excruciated weirdness. Bonecrunching, gut-stomping crazed tackles, facemask-twisting, eye-gouging, even biting to beat the band. And the band was playin' loud. Enough blood slashed the red zone to dub it true.

Pocket presence? Pass protection? Nah. Muddled O-line men muttered from stretchers, demoralized and demolished. Never saw the fast faces looming under shadows of hard-hitting helmets. Yeah, lotta ugly in that Halloween game. Tricks? Plenty. Treats? Fagettaboutit!

~ ~ ~

It was the radio in my primo teal metal-flake Camauro, that better acquainted me with haunting truths. Peelin' outta the parkin' garage just about midnight, blowing a g'bye kiss to sweet little Millie's tollbooth, I got the signal coming in on local AM Sports Jive. Wanted to glean how juggernauts and knuckleheads butted heads post-game. Instead - still a pickle of a puzzle why nothin' made it over the wireservices or net when we were in Ogroveco Stadium, but the sad skinny that came down was . . . well, I really hate to have to tell you foks, but it was the Bravens' team plane. Yep. Came down in a ravine. Crashed down and crushed up like the end of a Crest toothpaste tube no one wanted to take a turn with anymore. Playbooks, coaches, tight ends, free safeties, reinforced helmets, dangling heads, firm shoulderpads, squashed shoulderblades, jostled jock straps and what squished in 'em were strewn over and under like bad odds in Vegas through matted, tangled, crimson underbrush. No pride there for them boys who'd been signed this season from Alabama. No pride, no prowess, no life for the boys signed on from any Big 10 or Eastern Conference leagues . . . no more, no how, no way I'm sorrowed to say. Every darn vestige of a divisional championship team flying high, now - grounded, lifeless, tragically cut from prime glories, lifelong stories. Report dubbed it a freakish accident. They had good weather comin' off the Coast - then a gaggle of geese, ironically in a classic red zone scoring V-formation, had entered airspace on a downwind. Feathered impressions clogged visions and all attempts to regain control from the tumultuous downward spiral. Opposite energies, I tell you.

Rest in peace brave Bravens.

ETA and proclaimed TOD by first EMTs on the NFL horrific crash scene were simultaneously three hours before gametime. The game? Oh yeah, the game ended in ignominious slaughter.

Some say the Zagwars never had a ghost of a chance.

Word on the astroturf was the debacle in N'awleans, NFL week #6, made some psychobabble fans more than usual sick. There was bad voodoo that they do comin' down, spinnin' round. I don't mess wit' dat stuff. Opposite energies of good football and bad magic aren't reality TV. This is prime time baby.

But then, who were - those guys?

This is Jimbo Ray Jordan, vital voice for WFLO,
saying, "G'nite Sports Fans . . . Everywhere."

October, 2011

_____________________________

Bio: Absolutely*Kate AUTHOR AND PROMOTER . . . WITH PIZAZZ

ABSOLUTELY*KATE believes in believers, shadows of noir and moxie. World needs more moxie.

Showcasing AT THE BIJOU ~ "Where Writers' Raves are Readers' Faves", she creates virtual theatre for enticing the mind as authors centerstage. Sailing soon HARBINGER*33, heralding 33 stellar authors, 3 stunning artists and 3 scintillating authenticators, with 33 salutes fore and aft, midst - Aye, 33 ports o'call. . . . Percolating ~ THE ESPRESSO*CAFE ~ a robust brew of Author Promotion in Motion.

BOOKS?

Absolutely*Kate, mighty proud in crimewriter crowd of GRIMM TALES. Fairytales take a shadow's turn - not the usual suspects. Releasing ala editor John Kenyon & Untreed Publishing. Predicted hit in any parade.

EBook Alerts! "HOLY MOXIE!" + "IF THE GUMSHOE FITS" in edit/design/pizazz stage.

Anticipation-Sensations!

Three novels in creation ~ where Detective Nelle Callahan and Ziegfeld Girls plug holes, dance showstoppers - enhance hard-boiled and soft-hearted. Meanwhile, the butcher, baker, cocksure candlestick maker and an Einstein timetravel tale trips the lights fantastic ~ THE VILLAGE SMITHY, excerpting AT THE BIJOU.

HOLY COLLABORATIONS! { in the dazzling works }

Cowboy-surfer HARRY B SANDERFORD and Absolutely*Kate knuckle 1-2 punches in ~ SWEET CHILI PHILLY. Get ringside baby ~ it's a November knockout.

Insightful Irish/Frisco scribe KEVIN J MACKEY and Absolutely*Kate stir social political foray in ~ THE 1976 SOCIETY.

Daunting noir/crimer AJ HAYES throws fedora into the shadowy ring with Absolutely*Kate for sultry espionage high jinx in ~ SPY-SIDE ECONOMICS.

LINKS:

NOVEMBER GOES NOIR ~ AT THE BIJOU http://at-the-bijou.blogspot.com/ ABSOLUTELY*KATE WEB-SPLASH O'PIZAZZ http://about.me/AbsolutelyKate

PICK YOUR OWN PUMPKIN by Chris Allinotte

2011-11-02T18:00:00.000Z

Whenever I start reading a story by Chris Allinotte I'm on the edge of my seat, not knowing if I'm going to jump up in terror or fall off laughing. Often - it's both. Chris has a great talent for combining gritty crime with poignant emotion; graphic horror with murderous humour.

When we received Pick Your Own Pumpkin for the Hellicious Halloween showcase I clapped like a girl. This story introduces two characters to TKnC that visitors and contributors to my blog's weekly flash fiction challenge The Prediction will be very familiar with.

Ladies and Gentlemen - meet Milton and Blackwood...

PICK YOUR OWN PUMPKIN by Chris Allinotte

"Can we get some more light out here?"

Milton tried again to get the attention of the uniform who was sitting in the passenger seat of his car. The man's face was ash pale.

"Officer?"

The man looked up, seeming to finally hear.

"P-Power's out. We radioed for them to bring the big Kliegs and Gennies out, but they're twenty minutes away."

He put his head down, hands gripping the dash. "Jesus, detective. You ever seen..."

"Yeah." Milton nodded, grim. "This one's up there though." He ran a hand through his hair. "But it's all the same crime. Dead is dead."

The officer didn't answer, so Milton crossed the barnyard to revisit the grotesque wall of jack-o-lanterns. Window dressing or not, the killer had gone to a lot of trouble. There were three rows of ten
pumpkins, stacked one on the other, each carved into a goofy grin, sinister smirk, or - most chilling to Al - shock and surprise. Through the little "o" mouths of these last, he got a clear view of the pieces of Mrs. Edna Chalmers inside. The foot stool sized pumpkin that held her head was of the "surprised" variety. A big, wooden handled meat fork was jammed savagely into the side.

Inside each gourd was a chintzy, flickering LED light. Blue, purple and red light glittered off the pools of blood that were overflowing the hollow mouths of the pumpkins. It was the only light in the place.

"Quite the spectacle, huh?" asked Blackwood, coming around the sign that gave the entire scene a hint of black comedy: 'Don't miss our Famous 'Punkin' Chunkin!'

"Yeah," agreed Al. "Anything in the house?"

Blackwood nodded. "Yeah. There's signs of a struggle in the kitchen. Lots of blood in the living room. That's probably where it happened." He looked over at the patrol car. "Where's the kid that called it in?"

"They took him home. He was scared shitless."

"That we'd charge him with trespassing?"

Al stared at John for a moment. "No, John. By the thirty-one pieces of farmer's wife that are oozing onto the ground."

"Oh," said Blackwood. "Right."

John Blackwood was a brilliant investigator, and could deduce huge amounts of detail from the tiniest clue - but his social skills were strongly lacking. Milton thought that it was precisely this low degree of empathy that made John so effective when investigating the sociopathic crimes they'd built their reputation on. Mostly, though, it drove Al crazy.

Running down the line of pumpkins with his flashlight, Blackwood asked, "All the pieces here?"

"Yeah," said Al, "From what I can see. You ready for the old man?"

"He's still here?" Blackwood turned to face his partner.

"Yeah. Out in the barn." replied Milton. "The meds did their best, but he got away on them.

"Alright," said Blackwood. "Let's see what we can get from the body before they take him away."

"Fair enough," said Milton. "Damned flickering is giving me a headache anyway."

They walked toward the barn, following Blackwood's flashlight beam.

"You're quiet tonight." said John.

"Just thinking," replied Milton. "I told the uniform not to get freaked by the details. It's murder. Murder happens every day."

Blackwood stopped. "It doesn't though, Al. Not like this." He looked back at the pumpkins. "For a man to go to such lengths - this was building up for a long while. This wasn't a momentary loss of control."

Inside the barn, which had been turned into a makeshift apartment, there was a ratty looking yellow sofa, a small television, and three large garbage bags. The smell of pumpkin was overpowering. Three battery powered lanterns created a harsh circle of white light near the sofa. Mike Thurgis, an EMT who had been on scene with John and Al more than once, waved them over.

"It was thirty-seconds too long," said Mike. "Me and Rashid had him back for a second, but the damage was done. We're waiting on the ME to come and call the time."

Al looked past Mike to the body on the floor. "He say anything before he went?"

Mike went pale.

"Yeah," he said. "Matter of fact, he did."

Blackwood had his pad out. "Okay - what did you get?"

"He said Peter Peter. Twice - just like that- Peter Peter." Turning around, the EMT looked in the stall too. "Then he started laughing. That was the end of it. He choked on his own blood, and we couldn't get him back."

Al moved around the others and crouched by the body. The man was wire-thin, but his limbs were ropy with sun-hardened muscle. Blood was drying in dark splotches across his swollen, blue-tinged face.

"What are these blood spots here?" he asked Mike.

"I'm not a dick," said Mike. "You tell me."

The medic lifted the farmer's shirt. Milton exhaled sharply. The man's chest was covered in hundreds of tiny circular scars. Blood was congealing over two of these.

"The meat fork," said Blackwood.

"Yeah." Al agreed. "Seems like Edna'd been poking at her hubby for quite awhile, too. Old Peter here probably just had enough."

Blackwood burst out laughing.

"What? What is it John?" Al stood up.

"You may be a sick bastard, but you've got a sense of humour," said Blackwood, bending down to address the corpse. He looked over at Milton.

"Think about it, Al. All of it."

Al did. After a moment, he shook his head, unable to suppress his own uncomfortable grin. "Sick fuck," he muttered.

"What the hell are you guys talking about?" asked Mike.

Blackwood nudged the body with his toe. "All we have to do is write this one up. Think Hollis would appreciate the short version?"

Milton shook his head. "No."

Mike started to object again, Al held up a hand. "It's like this, Mike:

Peter Peter, pumpkin eater,
Had a wife but couldn't keep her,
He put her in a pumpkin shell..."

Blackwood finished, "And there he kept her, very well."

_____________________________

Bio: Chris Allinotte lives in Toronto, Canada, with his wife and children.

His work has been featured in many places online, and recently in the anthologies "Novus Creatura" and "Creepy Things". You can check out more about Chris' stories at his blog http://chrisallinotte.blogspot.com

THE MONKEY TREE by Sean Patrick Reardon

2011-11-02T09:00:00.000Z

The first time I encountered Sean Patrick Reardon's fiction - on TKnC as it happens - I knew this was a writer with a very unusual voice. Since then I've discovered that he appears to invest so much emotion in whatever topic or genre he is tackling that I for one, come away quite dumbstruck.

Sean's Hellicious Halloween contribution The Monkey Tree can't fail to touch your heart. Let's climb...

THE MONKEY TREE by Sean Patrick Reardon

“Good evening old boy,” The voice proclaimed, sounding like that of an elderly Englishman.

“Who’s they-ah?” Thomas replied, with a tinge of a Maine accent.

“Tis I, Sir Alistair Oakwood, your neighbor of more than eighty years.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name, the only thing I see is the oak tree.”

“Then it appears, by your acute sense of deduction, you have solved the mystery my good man.”

“Hello, Mister Oakwood.”

“Is that all you can manage to say to such an ardent sidekick? After all, I have known you since your infantine beginning in the year nineteen-ten, when I was but a young strapping lad of some twenty years.”

“I’m sorry sir. As you can imagine, I was very startled after all these years of silence, to hear a voice.”

“Indeed, and I certainly understand your astonishment. Now that you know who I am, I am under the assumption that your surname is Monkey, as that is all I have ever heard bandied about when you were the subject of conversation.”

“I do not mean...to laugh...at you Alistair. My amusement comes from your misunderstanding of my...name. It is actually Thomas Edwin Coppinger. Monkey is a name that a young boy gave me many years ago. And from that day on, I was only known as the Monkey Tree.”

Their conversation and laughter continued, until the sun started to stir from its daily hibernation.

“Isn’t this splendid Alistair?” Thomas waited for a response, but none came.

***

The landscape had repainted itself into a grand morning. The sky was flawlessly blue without even the hint of a blemishing cloud and the soft breeze stirred the mild, late October air. It was a glorious day that would surely segue into a perfect night for trick or treating.

The new friends thought about each other and what they would talk about, if they ever got the same chance they had under the cover of darkness.

Neither of them questioned why they were graced with this special ability. They just appreciated and reveled in it. They hoped when evening came, the magic would return.

***

By mid-afternoon, the weather had taken an unexpected, drastic turn. The sunless sky was dominated by layers of ominous, coal-black clouds, mixed with a hodgepodge of dark, silver disruptions. A raw, penetrating wind added to the gloomy pall that had overtaken the land.

From the front yard of Thomas’s lot came a steady, piercing, BEEEEP, BEEEEP, BEEEEP sound and within minutes, the large truck came to a stop twenty feet from him.

Two men got out it and stared up at Thomas. Both wore thick leather gloves. The larger of the two men held a rope and a saw, while the other maintained a steadfast position at the base of the truck.

The larger man wrapped the thick rope around his waist, slung the saw over his back like a troubadour, and started his ascent up Thomas’s body, climbing limb by limb, until he reached the upper most section.

He paused momentarily to look at a makeshift platform made of wood and nails that traversed two of the thick branches. He noticed the initials T.E.C. followed by 1972 were carved into the wood and 1983 was written in what looked like red marker.

“You all set up there?” The man on the ground yelled up to his partner, while holding tightly to his end of the rope.

“Yeah, let’s do this,” He shouted.

Both men secured their industrial ear muffs. The man in the tree wrapped his legs around Thomas and pulled the ripcord on the saw, bringing it to life.

***

Alistair could only watch in a palsied, state of shock as each piece of Thomas’ defenseless, vulnerable body was lacerated, severed, and fell to the ground. Alistair’s soul ached with the thought of the suffering and agony that was being inflicted on his new friend.

The butchering continued as Alistair’s feelings of anguish transformed into complete detestation toward the assassins. If he just had the means, he would deliver the ultimate retribution to repay this gratuitous act of savagery.

When the executioners finished, confident that the death sentence had been meted out appropriately, they stood among the carnage of sawdust, severed limbs, needles, and pinecones. The smaller man walked toward the truck with the Grim Reaper’s tools of their trade.

The big man stood gloating in the morbid remains, preparing to light a celebratory cigarette. As he raised his head from the match, his facial expression slowly transformed from one of satisfaction to astonishment. He stood motionless and mesmerized as if in a trance.

His mouth involuntarily opened and the cigarette cascaded end-over-end as it fell to the ground. He tried to speak, but could only muster a few unintelligible words.

The smaller man turned and caught a glimpse of his silent partner and the blank stare on his face.

“Hey, what’s going on? Are you alright?”

The big man raised his arm in a slow motion and pointed toward Alistair. The small man looked to the spot where his partner’s finger pointed, and his face reshaped itself into a slack-jawed expression.

Both men stood, frozen like ice sculptures, and stared at Alistair as all his leaves started to fall from his branches, like he was being disrobed by the most ferocious winter storm. All of his beautiful, six pointed leaves that minutes before were a colorful mix of orange, yellow, and green, had turned brown, crisp, and lifeless.

The men were left standing in a knee-deep pile of mortified brown leaves as the final one fell and drifted to the ground, like the last tear from an eye whose source had been exhausted by sadness. Both men, still unable to move, were unsure of what had just happened. The silence was broken by a cracking sound, that within seconds, became an ear-splitting eruption as all of Alistair’s limbs came crashing down in a thunderous detonation, crushing the two men’s bodies.

____________________

BIO: Sean Patrick Reardon is the author of the crime thriller novel "Mindjacker". He's blogging at: http://seanpatrickreardon.blogspot.com