SLIDESHOW - by Lily Childs

Lily's being 'naughty' again...!

SLIDESHOW

‘So that was my trip to Windsor. Lovely gardens, aren’t they? Now, here’s my world falling apart. Look. See, you can just make out my husband’s feet sticking out from behind the sofa.

‘And look at this. That’s her. That’s the one he was doing it with. Even now, I really don’t understand what she had that I didn’t. Oh well. It doesn’t matter now, does it.

‘Oh, sorry. They’re a bit out of order. You’ll like this though. It’s him looking in his wardrobe – before it happened. Good job we had separate bedrooms. Just look at his face! It was hilarious. I’d filled the pockets of his best suit with prawns and cat food three days earlier, when he went off with her to Cardiff. Absolutely reeked. He’s not happy, is he!

‘This one, is… Let me see. Ah, it must be half-an-hour later because his blood’s all over the parquet floor. All over me too, for that matter. I slipped in it after smashing his skull against the wall.

‘Now where are we? Oh yes, back in the lounge. I remember I had to turn the camera off to drag him down the stairs. He wasn’t quite dead then. Just suffering.

‘So. This is me phoning the whore. This is him hanging onto my legs after he crawled across the carpet to try to stop me. This… Now this is the whore arriving at the front door, screaming at me, demanding to see him. What a sight she is.

‘Um. OK. OK. I know what this is – it’s me strangling her with the tie-back from the curtains. The timer on the camera was a bit dodgy and she wouldn’t keep still so it’s a bit blurred. You can’t quite see him, but he watched me do it. He was crying.

‘She had a good kick on her, I can say that for the woman. Nasty sharp nails too. Red they were. Scarlet. Hah! How appropriate!

‘Here we’ve got a few of him dying; I’ll just flick through those quickly. It only took a couple of days. I didn’t bother to feed him or give him anything to drink. Not much point really.

‘And… Here we are back at the first slide. You can’t see her in this one because I was sitting on her when I took the snap. But you remember, do you? He’s behind the sofa. I hid him there because he was in the way, putting me off while I tried to think about what to do with the pair of them.

‘Now wait. I thought I had another one. No, no. Of course. It was a photograph, not a slide. It must be here in the box somewhere. Yes, here it is. Take it, Sarah, would you? And pass it round. It’s me bricking them up in the cellar. I am rather good with my hands when needs must.

‘What? Yes Ella. Here. In the cellar underneath the vicarage.

‘That’s right Nathan. I used to live here.

‘Oh, come on, Daisy. Don’t cry. It was twenty years ago now. Water under the bridge. The church is better off without him. It already knew about the affair, I was told. So it was better all round that they’d "run off to Australia together".

‘What’s the matter? Are you worrying about what happened to me? Well, I couldn’t stay here, obviously. The church kindly let me have the cottage next door, and I’ve been there ever since. Reverend Charleston came here not long after. Lovely man, isn’t he? Shame he’s leaving us next week. I didn’t think he would do that to us. I’ve given so much of my life to him.

‘Oh my dears, it’s so sweet of you all to weep for me; but I’m fine, I’m completely fine.

‘Now, my little sillies. Off you pop. I’ve got the older ones coming along to Sunday School at eleven. They’re going to see the slideshow too. Jordan, you can stay and watch it again, if you like. Your brother Luke’s coming in; you can sit with him.

‘Get your coat, Joshua.

‘No. Hang on, wait. Ooh, children. I’ve just thought. I still have a key to the cellar. Would anyone like a tour?


BIO:
Lily Childs is a budding writer in the mystery, chiller and horror genre, and is thrilled to have her short stories published on Thrillers Killers 'N' Chillers.
She is currently writing her first novel and lives on the Sussex Coast with her artist husband and beautiful 5-year old daughter. Lily now has a blog: 'Lily Childs' Feardom' at

http://lilychildsfeardom.blogspot.com

RED DUST - by Michael A Kechula

A chilling debut from Michael...

RED DUST

The priest sensed a profound change of atmosphere the moment someone entered the darkened confessional. Gripping his pectoral cross, he blessed himself, and mumbled prayers of protection in Latin. He’d encountered dreadful phenomena during his forty years as a missionary in the Haitian jungle, but none darker than this.

Opening the sliding panel to expose the metal grill that separated their faces, he noticed a peculiar odor. The stink of Hell, he thought, blessing himself again. Another dark entity sent to harass me. He quickly unscrewed the top on a small bottle of holy water.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“I’m so happy, I could burst,” said a woman’s voice. “I just wanted to tell somebody.”

“This is not a place of levity. This is a confessional. A place where evil is purged.”

“I thought priests were bound to listen to anybody in a confessional, no matter what they had to say.”

“You heard wrong. Tell me what you have to say. Make it quick.”

“Suppose I buy your time. Say, five minutes worth. For that, I’ll put $1,000 in the poor box before I leave.”

“Don’t bother to lie. Evil can do nothing good.”

“Evil is good fun,” she said. “More than you could ever imagine.”

“Your mind is foul.”

“How true. Do you know what I am?”

“Vampire.”

“Verrry good. How did you know?”

“I can smell it on you.”

“Ah. A holy man who can discern essences. Let me ask you, Holy Man, have you ever bitten into a neck and drunk your fill?”

“It’s a stupid question,” he said.

“Hardly. It’s a life changing experience. It’s so erotically satisfying, nothing else approaches it. You may be celibate, but I’ll bet you deeply crave erotic adventures.”

“We’re not here to talk about me. Get to the point.”

“I just wanted to tell you how happy I am. I can barely contain myself.”

“How many victims fell into your clutches tonight?” he asked.

“Fifteen. Five an hour. I’ve achieved a record. I know the Master will richly reward me for being so wickedly industrious. Would you like to be the sixteenth?”

“One false move, and you’ll regret coming here,” he said, gripping the bottle of holy water. “Listen, don’t wait until Judgment Day. Confess everything now and ask for the Almighty’s forgiveness. The fact that you were able to enter this holy place without bursting into flames shows you can yet be saved. Confess your foul murders. Ask forgiveness. Amend your life. Do it quickly.”

“No! I love my existence. I feel bliss throughout my waking hours, and even more so at night. But you have to wait until you’re dead, and then hope you'll attain the bliss of Heaven - a place my Master assures me doesn’t exist. Even if it did, why wait? Join me now. I could use a priest for an ally. You’d make a good decoy to ensnare trusting souls.”

The priest hurled holy water through the screen.

She didn’t even have time to scream.

Using his cell phone, the priest called the housekeeper and asked her to put a fresh bag into the vacuum cleaner and bring it to the confessional.

Later, when opening the bag and examining the deceased’s dust, he found it bright red. He carefully poured her dust into an empty Coke bottle. Sealing it with wax, he said prayers of exorcism.

Carrying the bottle to the cellar, he stored it in a safe next to others containing werewolf, ghoul, and zombie dust. Then he called an all-night radio talk show that focused on the uncanny and macabre.

“I just killed a vampire,” he told the host.

“Sure you did. And I guess you see black helicopters, shape-shifters, and were abducted by aliens.”

“You must listen to me very carefully. The only reason I’m telling you this is to warn everyone. Beware! This kind is particularly vicious. Like nothing seen for hundreds of years.”

“Oh? How can you tell?” asked the host.

“She turned to red dust.”

“Really? And what color dust is there when you kill vampires that aren’t as nasty?”

“Grey.”

“I see. So, what did you do with the red dust?”

“I vacuumed it. Then I poured it into a Coke bottle.”

“Hear that folks? Here’s a guy who kills vampires, and stuffs them into Coke bottles. What about zombies? Kill any of those lately?”

“As a matter of fact I did. But that was in Haiti, a few months ago.”

“Oh my. Aren’t you the nasty serial monster killer. How about telling us what color zombie dust is.”

“It depends on how they were zombified. But most are pale yellow.”

“Get the hell off the phone, you freakin’ loon, and go take your meds!”

Later that night before returning to his coffin, the talk show host took inventory -just in case the goofy caller had actually killed a vampire. Checking the seventeen coffins hidden beneath his Beverly Hills mansion, he found one empty. One of his newest female recruits hadn’t returned from her nightly hunt, and dawn was near. There was no time to search for her remains and perform a resurrection ritual. He raged and pounded the walls.

With only minutes left before the accursed sunrise, he summoned rats, lizards, lice, beetles, leaches, and cockroaches. He ordered them to scour every nook and cranny of the city for a sealed Coke bottle containing red dust. Whoever found the bottle would be awarded a dozen putrefied corpses on which to snack. An even richer reward awaited the one who found the priest.

Closing his coffin lid, he fell asleep wondering why the killer chose a Coke bottle instead of Pepsi.


BIO:
Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in eight contests and placed in seven others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards four times. His stories have been published by 114 magazines and 30 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.”
eBook available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com
Paperback available at www.amazon.com

BLOOD SISTER by Lee Hughes

Blood Sister: Part 4 of the Osseous Box

One of the many problems of city living was not getting the chance to see the true splendour of the night sky. The unnatural light from the streetlights and the throttling smog sullied its definition.

Father Charleston stood at the window with a tumbler, its contents of whiskey two-thumbs deep; and going from his dull eyes it wasn't his first of the evening.

It had been a whole day since Danny had gone off in pursuit of the Devil's hound. Danny's sacrifice wasn't the first in history for the cause and it most certainly wouldn't be the last; there would be many more, Father Charleston was sure of that.

He settled into his armchair and drank deeply of his whiskey. He'd found of late that drinking before sleep greyed out some of the nightmares that had been visiting him nightly. But no matter how much he supped he'd still wake up with a few new mental wounds.

But not tonight, tonight he took a handful of pills and chased each down with a mouthful of whiskey; then he waited to be taken into the arms of a slumber deeper than he'd ever taken before.

*

Sister Gail's eyes snapped open as she bolted upright. Her mouth was locked open but the scream remained internal.

Sister Gail swung her legs out so she could sit on the edge of the bed. She wanted so much to reach for the lamp and flood her surroundings with light but she didn't want to disturb the other two sisters in the dormitory. The dorm was built to house up to twenty nuns, their shy numbers proving that times-they-were-a-changing. Not many people thought they needed belief any more; certainly not enough that wanted to dedicate their life to the Lord anyway.

She stood at the window.

The moon was full bar the tiniest of errant slices. She looked down into the courtyard and thought about the nightmare. They were coming every night, each one more savage than the previous. More harrowing than the scenes of torture were the fire, it was everywhere, a world burning and bodies were its fuel.

Sister Gail remained at the window whilst the passing seconds worked at the sharp edges of her memory, slowly softening the details. They'd never be smoothed completely but they faded enough that she returned to bed; albeit not to sleep, that would elude her.

It would be another night without proper sleep, fatigue was settling in.

*

Mordecai watched her as she left the convent. He knew he had to approach her. For now he had seen the circle of her face framed within the habit. He'd seen that face enough times in the dark hours; it was the face that had been crowding his dreams.

Mordecai wondered if she'd been having visions too. He hoped so; otherwise it would be more than a task to convince her of her role and what her duties were.

He dogged her steps as he thought about making contact. He'd been so preoccupied with finding this nun from his visions that he hadn't thought about how he was going to handle the next step.Should he just accost her? Mention the visions and hope that it meant something to her? Or should he use deception first to get her to open herself up? It soon became a redundant train of thought.

The nun stopped and turned. Perhaps she'd had that strange sense of being watched and followed. Mordecai wanted to dive for the nearest cover; instead he stood his ground and made eye contact with the face from his visions.

*

Sister Gail felt heckles rise on the back of her neck. It was that unwelcome feeling that you got when you think someone is watching, or following you. She felt as though she had nothing to fear as attacks upon people of the cloth were very rare. She stopped and turned. She spied the culprit immediately for he made no move to conceal himself. He just stood there, staring.

She turned back around and took a step, deciding to ignore the young man and see if he kept up with his pursuit.

She recognised him.

He'd been seen hanging around the convent for a few days. The mother superior had informed the police. The police had arrived and had shared a word or two with the young man and he'd left, but not for good it seemed.

"Wait!" the man called.

Sister Gail turned.

The young man had his hand held up and he hastened his walk as a means to catch her up.

"Yes?" Sister Gail asked warily.

"I need to speak with you."

"About?"

"Something important, can we go somewhere and talk?"

"Why can't you tell me here?" she asked.Mordecai looked around at the passing people. All were casting curious glances at the nun as though she were a novelty.

"Please." Mordecai asked in earnest.

"Tell me what it concerns first."

Mordecai sighed and knew he was going to have to be blunt. "Fires everywhere. Men hanged from lamp-posts. Others dismembered in gutters, eaten by the befouled. Women passed about in sin, some through consent, a thousand more through rape. Babies flayed. Children enslaved. But the fire, the flames, they crawl everywhere, stroking and burning."

His eyes were wide and wild as he finished. Sister Gail's mirrored them. What he had just described was a carbon copy of what haunted her every night.

Mordecai knew instantly that she had been having them too. That solidified his convictions, not that they needed bolstering. It at least proved that he wasn't insane, that he was working for a higher power."Do you want to go somewhere to talk now?" Mordecai asked.

Sister Gail could only nod.

*

They sat for what seemed like hours in the grounds of the hospital where Sister Gail volunteered. She didn't say much, she merely listened to Mordecai as he told how he had started to have visions. And that he had studied what they had meant over the last year or so and had come across a thing that some texts referred to as The Osseous Box.

Mordecai finished his retelling. Sister Gail looked at him in rapture. She had known from an early age that she had a calling; that was why she had joined the nun-brigade. But even once she'd finished being a novice and had taken full vows she'd felt there was still more for her to accomplish through her calling. And now here it was, and the scope of it frightened her. But she handed that fear over to her faith and allowed the Lord to give her the strength for the undertaking that Mordecai had spoken of.

"I will do it," Sister Gail said without any hesitation. Her mind had been flooded with the scenes she had bore witness to in her nightmares. If anything, there was a level of eagerness there.

*

Sister Gail snuck Mordecai into the grounds of the convent. For this to work they needed to be smart. There had to be no room for error. If she was going to make the ultimate sacrifice for her faith then she knew it had to go perfectly and having Mordecai ending up in prison would help no one and make a waste of everything and even perhaps bring about the downfall.

*
Dusk was settling in and the other sisters would be at prayer. Sister Gail led him by lamplight down into the cellar and then along the older catacombs that ran beneath the convent. The air was dank and tasted old and rotten in their mouths and lay heavy in their lungs. The place would be perfect; the whole plan would crumble were it to come to light too soon as to what had befallen the young sister.

*

They placed candles about the chamber. Once the candles were lit the shadows danced about as though alive and carefree. Sister Gail arranged religious artefacts around the chamber. If this was going to be her final resting place then she wanted it to be a reflection on why she'd died.She was amazed that she felt no fear. She wondered if this was how Jesus had felt knowing that he was going to the cross.

*

Everything was ready. Sister Gail looked to Mordecai. "You'll need help."

"I know. And I've seen the face of the man who will help me." Mordecai reached for the knife.

"Pray with me first." Sister Gail lowered herself to her knees, Mordecai followed suit.

*

Mordecai held the knife. "Where do you want me to do it?"
"Here," Sister Gail said as she pointed to her side, it seemed symbolic.
Mordecai took a deep breath. "It'll be a slow and painful death like that." He hadn't really thought about how he'd feel when it came to the moment when he would have to stab her.
"I think it has to be." Her words were so soft, reassuring to Mordecai.
He said a couple of words to God, a mumbling or two about forgiveness and then he thrust the knife into the soft of her side. He drove it all the way to the hilt and held it there as she collapsed upon him. Her breaths were rasping in his ears. He listened as the breathing switched from that of the injured to that of the dying, and then to nothing.
Mordecai wasn't aware of it, just as the nuns in the vaulted chapel above weren't aware that the life-sized figurine of Christ upon the cross at the front of the chapel had shed a tear. The tear ran down, overtaking the waxen one and left a damp track to mark its route.

*

Mordecai wiped away his own tears as he left the chamber. Sister Gail lay in death beneath a shroud, blood still pooling about her body. Mordecai walked fast, clinging to the flask as though more than just his life depended upon it.

*
With the curtains pulled back only a smidgen, Mordecai watched as the police made their way to the building where he lived. He knew that Sister Gail would be noticed as missing and he would be the first person to come to mind for hanging around the convent. He was ready; they would find nothing and he would be free soon enough to continue with his quest, which was what he saw it as.

*

Mordecai sat in the interview room staring at the cup of instant coffee that was growing cold before him. The door behind him opened. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes widened. It was the man from his visions, the one who would aid him. Mordecai knew that he just couldn't come out with it, not the way that he had with Sister Gail; he would have to be smart to get this man on his side.
The man sat down across from Mordecai. His face was like stone, his eyes tried to pierce Mordecai's skull and get to the truth that way. The man didn't smile as he introduced himself.
"I'm Detective Howard. That's the niceties over. Where the fuck's the nun?"

*

Jon looked to the blood in the river that against all natural possibilities was running upstream. He glanced at the back of Mordecai after listening to what had befallen the nun. He wasn't sure he believed it all, but the way that the blood was acting meant that he couldn't dismiss it completely.
Mordecai glanced back. He'd wiped away most of the blood that had spilled from his nose. "I think you broke my nose," he grumbled.
"Well I wasn't trying to tickle it," Jon said as they marched on beside the river and the phenomena of the blood.
Beth was just staring at the blood, completely enticed. Jon had been thinking of telling her to fuck off home. But she'd seen too much, so she'd have to be brought along. Jon speeded up so he was beside Mordecai. "I asked you before what this Osseous Box thing is and you told me it was destruction. But what actually is it?"
Mordecai took in a deep breath through his mouth seeing as his nose wasn't working properly. "I suppose you'll need to know. It was made in Anno Domini, three-hundred and sixty-seven."
Beth caught up to hear what this box thing actually was. The manner in which Mordecai told it filled Jon's mind with visions; as though he could actually see the past in his mind. Jon and Beth walked in silence and listened to the tale and envisioned it.
"His name was, Wulf..."

Bio:
Lee Hughes's short fiction has appeared in Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9 and on Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, A Twist of Noir, FlashShots, Powder Burn Flash, The Daily Tourniquet, MicroHorror and Blink-Ink. Find out more at www.LeeHughes.net

SORRY, LOVE! - by David Barber

A huge TKnC welcome to, Dave - my first ever writing buddy (when we were spotty teenagers!).

SORRY, LOVE!

“Jesus, that was the most vivid dream I’ve had up to now – so real!”

In the blackness of the bedroom his wife just murmured next to him.

“Sorry, love, but I dreamt that I strangled you with what seemed like a never ending silk scarf, wrapping it round and around your neck so that you couldn’t get it off.”

His wife moaned something unintelligible.

“Oh sorry, love, didn’t mean to disturb you,” he whispered tenderly.

He gently patted the duvet covering his wife, unaware of her hands falling away from the silk scarf tied around her neck and her lifeless bloodshot eyes staring up into the darkness.


BIO:
Manchester born and bred, but now living in Crieff, Scotland, with my wife, Lisa, and our two daughters, Imogen & Melissa. Wrote some years ago but have recently been inspired to write again by an old and good friend (Col Bury) and the beauty that surrounds me up here. Always reading - when not entertaining my girls and working - crime and horror…and now writing!

AN EYE FOR AN EYE By Jimmy Calabrese

Warning: Here's one from Jimmy that animal lovers may not appreciate...until the denouement...but then again...

An Eye For An Eye

I slide open the glass door, and the cat crouches in the middle of the patio. It’s the same cat that’s been crying outside my bedroom window at four in the morning. I aim the BB gun between the cat's eyes.

I pull the trigger and watch the cat jump three feet into the air, land sideways, and run for the space under the back fence. I hoped to crack its skull, but I just took out its left eye. Laughing, I slide the patio door closed, and turn to find my wife scowling at me.

"That's not funny. You’d feel horrible if you hurt that cat."

"I feel horrible now, it's been a week since I've had a good night's sleep." I place the BB gun next to the door when my six-year-old daughter, Iris, enters the kitchen.

"What are you doing with that gun Daddy?"

"Shooting at the neighbor’s cat."

"Please don't shoot the cat, that's a living animal."

"That animal needs to be LIVING somewhere else."

"Please Daddy don't shoot the cat! Do you promise?"

"Listen to your daughter," my wife chimes in. “You might regret it."

Defeated, I take the BB gun and put it on the top shelf in the garage. I blame my daughter’s school. Kids today don't understand that humans are above animals. When I was my daughter’s age, I’d already killed dozens of birds, and maimed countless stray dogs.

With a click, my wife turns off her light on the nightstand and rolls back into bed. I can already hear her snoring. I on the other hand just lay there awake, dreading the night. My wife’s a sound sleeper, and can sleep through anything, so I’ve been the one who goes outside to shoo the cat away. By the time I get back into bed I'm wide awake.

The four cups of coffee I drank today are finally wearing off. I can feel the deep pull of sleep. I roll over when the howling begins. I sit up quickly, and pound my fists on the bed. I stare at the glowing red numbers on the alarm clock; it's four in the morning. Fuck, I have to get up for work in two hours.

I run to the garage, grab the BB gun, and pump it over and over again. I stop pumping when I get to the kitchen. I need a free hand to quietly slide open the back patio door. The yard is pitch black; only the nearby street lamp lights my way. Through the shadows I follow the howling.

I swiftly raise the BB gun toward the howling disturbance and pull the trigger.

A shrill scream pierces the air, and my heart sinks as I hear a child crying. The lights from my bedroom window turn on sending a spotlight on my daughter. Iris holds her face, covering her right eye as blood seeps between her fingers. She sits on the grass rocking back and forth screaming hysterically. A plate of moist food lies in front of her. The cat on my daughters lap stops feasting to look up at me with its one good eye.

---

BIO:

Jimmy Calabrese is a singer, songwriter and bass player for the internally acclaimed cult horror rock band Calabrese. He's been published on Microhorror, Flashes In The Dark, and when inspiration strikes on the Official Calabrese Blog - http://calabrese666.blogspot.com/ . Check out all things Calabrese at http://www.CalabreseRock.com

ANOTHER BAD DAY - by David Price

ANOTHER BAD DAY

He heard the buzz of the alarm. Already he was pissed off. He woke up angry, just like he did every day. He guessed it was because he went to bed mad. Mad and drunk.

His life had turned to shit. His wife left him a year ago. He couldn’t really blame her. He had an alcohol problem.

They were married for two years. The first six months were great. She liked a good time so the partying every night was new and fun for her. Unfortunately for him, she had a sense of boundaries which he managed to blur for a while. Finally, she figured him out. He was a depressive loser who drank to stay out of the black hole that waited to swallow him.

He gave her credit. She hung in there but nobody in their right mind would put up with his crap if they had any sense at all. She wasn’t stupid.
She moved out and took most of the furniture and even the dog. He never did like that mutt and the mutt knew it.

He got out of bed and stumbled into the shower. He let the water run over his head and face and then cascade down his body. He turned the water to cold to wake himself up. It worked. He shaved. There he felt a lot better. He put on his slacks, shirt and sport coat. Then he ran a comb through his hair and looked at himself in the mirror. He didn’t like what he saw. He guessed that was part of his problem. He stared hard in the mirror at the foreign eyes looking back at him. Then he felt it. Anger. He couldn’t shake it. It followed him like a shadow.

He went to the kitchen and pulled a few cold cans of beer out for breakfast. He sat down and drank his liquid pacifier.

He thought, today would be a bad day to piss me off.

At the door, he reached down to the end table and picked up his Sig 9mm and slipped it into his shoulder holster.

Yeah, definitely not the day to fuck with me.

***

Steven woke up to the usual morning bustle in the hallway outside his room. He looked at his clock. 7:00am. Med call was in thirty minutes. Breakfast would be served at 8:00am. He got up and went to the bathroom to clean up.

He dressed in the same clothes every day. He had other choices but for him there was only one choice, the black polyester athletic pants with the elastic waist band. He pulled on the Star Trek tee shirt and brushed his hair. He sat to pull on his over the calf white socks and stepped into his basketball shoes which he left unlaced. It was hard for him to take a big step. If he tried to run, he would definitely leave his shoes behind. So he had to shuffle and slide. He thought it made him look cool. He slipped on his matching black warm-up jacket and he was ready to face the day.

First stop was the dispensary where he would be given his meds to treat his paranoid delusion disorder. That was just one of his many problems. When he was not on his meds, he became excessively paranoid.

At the dispensary, he got in line with the other residents of the board and care home.

The nurses were bored and definitely not on top of their game. Usually it wouldn’t matter but in his case it did. He had been cheeking his meds for the last several days. Then he would go to the restroom and flush them.

Next stop breakfast. He looked forward to the meals. They fed the residents well. They even got a couple of choices at each meal.

After breakfast he went to the TV room which was tuned to the cartoon network in the morning.

He pulled the six inch black mag lite out of his pocket. He turned around and shined the bright light into a female resident’s eyes. She blinked and put up her hand but he persisted. Finally she yelled, “He’s doing it again. Make him stop.”

The attendant came over and placed both of his hands on Steven’s shoulders.
“Put it away or I will have to take it.”

“No, it’s my protection. I need it to keep the evil doers away.”

“Last warning.”

He turned it off and put it in his pocket. The last time they took it, they kept it for a week. He was left without protection and refused to leave his room the entire time.

He remembered that lesson. He knew he shouldn’t use the protective ray in the facility but he feared the female resident was “one of them” and he needed to confirm it. Sometimes the only way to search out the evil doers was to shine the light directly into the suspect’s eyes. If they glowed red, he knew they meant him harm. So far he hadn’t found any of the evil doers but he knew they were out there. He needed to be on the alert so he wouldn’t get caught by surprise.

***

He went to his assigned parking space and got into his car.

He had several predetermined sites to visit. Same old shit, different day. In a couple of hours he would stop and pick up a six pack for lunch. He looked forward to sitting in his car under the shade of a tree and throwing down the cold beers. It meant his day was half over.

***

After lunch in the cafeteria Steven went on a half mile walk to the nearby strip mall. It was a ritual with him. He liked to get a cup of coffee and sit outside in a chair and watch people as they passed.
If he saw someone he suspected, he would draw his flashlight and shine it in their eyes. It always paid to be careful.

***

He drove to a couple of predetermined addresses after lunch, with no success. He decided to stop for a cup of coffee. He barely had three hours left in his day.
As he pulled into the strip mall, he saw several people standing in different locations but they were all either staring at or pointing toward a guy dressed in a black warm-up suit. The guy was walking in a random zig-zag and as he changed direction, people moved away from him.

The guy looked strange with a weird vacant expression on his face.
He parked his car near the entrance to the coffee shop. He kept an eye on the strange man in black.

Suddenly the guy did a half turn and headed directly toward him. The guy had a funny shuffle - slide way of walking.

He stood by his car and watched.

Yeah, he’s heading straight toward me. What’s that black object in his right hand?

Instinctively, he opened his car door and lowered the window. He squatted down using the door for cover and yelled, “Stop right there. Don’t take another step.”

The man in black ignored him and proceeded to move toward him in the shuffle – slide.
He looked at the object in the man’s hand.

Is that a gun or a knife?He drew his Sig and used the door to set his aim. He yelled, “Halt, lay down on the ground.”

As the man continued forward, he could clearly see the bright beam of light emitted from the object in his hand.

The fool has a flashlight. What the hell is he thinking?

When Steven closed to within fifteen feet of the car, he shined the light into the eyes of the man hiding behind the car door.

Enough of this bullshit. I’ve got something for you, asshole.

He squeezed off two shots, center mass. The man in black fell over backwards onto the asphalt. He approached the prostrate figure and kicked the flashlight away. He checked for a pulse. None. He stood and holstered his weapon.

At that moment two police cars with sirens wailing entered the parking lot from opposite sides. They sped to his location. The squad cars screeched to a halt facing him from different angles. The doors opened and both officers jumped out drawing their weapons. Using their open doors as shields, they yelled, “Put your hands over your head. Do it now!”

He reached to his belt and removed his leather badge holder. Holding his badge in one hand, he raised them both and said, “I’m a cop, warrants detail. I’m on the job.”

The officers approached cautiously with guns pointed at him. The officer on his right took the badge from him.

“Sorry Sergeant, What happened?”

“He advanced on me pretending he had a gun. Then he pointed it at me. He refused my order to stop and get on the ground. I had no choice. It was self defense.”

“OK Sarge, why don’t you go sit in your car. The Lieutenant is on the way. Looks like a righteous shooting to me. Don’t worry.”

He went over and sat in his unmarked police car. He suddenly felt a lot better. At least for now the anger was gone.

Yeah, today was definitely not a day to mess in my shit.


BIO:
David Price is an ex-college jock and retired probation officer residing in California. His writing efforts can be seen at Thuglit, A Twist of Noir, Flash Fiction Offensive, Darkest Before The Dawn, Powder Burn Flash and Crooked.

SECRETS by Karen Mossman

SECRETS

Secrets are terrible things. Sometimes it’s better to take them to your grave than to utter them out loud.

I was told a secret. I wish it could be taken back. How do you deal with things that shouldn’t be told?

Now I don’t know how to get through the day. I don’t know what to do. I lie awake at night. I struggle to eat even when I am hungry.

It happened one drunken night, at a family party. We’d gone outside for some fresh air. That’s when he told me.

We were leaning on the wall, looking up at the full moon.

“It’s beautiful,” he said. “Just like you, my beautiful daughter. I need to tell you something. We stole you.”

I turned to look at him. “Stole me? Dad, what do you mean?”

“You must never tell anyone, not even your mother, it would break her heart if she knew I’d blurted it out.”

I didn’t know what to say. “Wh-where from?”

“A garden. You were playing and stood by the gate as I went past. You were such a bundle of happiness and your mother so desperately wanted children. I hadn’t been able to give her any.”

I was too stunned to speak when suddenly he started retracting, but it was said now.

“Our secret,” he said kissing my cheek before going back inside.

What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

TOAST by Alan Griffiths

TKnC welcomes Alan to the fold...

TOAST

Anthony, or Tone to his Sarf London friends was having a mare of a day.

Three years at catering college, with aspirations of being the next celebrity chef on the block, had led to a lengthy spell on the rock n roll.

Tone quickly learnt that the credit crunch was a ready made excuse for the recession hit catering trade.

Eventually he rocked up at a sandwich bar in a concrete and glass shopping complex, complete with annoying Musac.

Days were spent preparing toasted paninis for benefit-claiming mothers and their screaming offspring. Endless mugs of frothy coffee were brewed for coffin dodgers, who were keeping out of the cold and eking out their old age pension.

Despite the frustration and boredom Tone wanted to make an honest living. Villainy ran through his family and he knew that it simmered inside him. As if a dormant rage, bubbled below the surface, waiting to boil and erupt.

“You can take the boy out of the council estate but you can never take the council estate out of the boy.” His old man’s words still echoed in his head.

Frank-O, the owner, was all Brylcreem, fake smiles and pseudo Italian chat with the punters but with the hired help it was very different. He was a bully, with a short fuse that ignited a filthy mouth.

Tone had been working the early shift and it was now past six in the evening. The afternoon shift had failed to show again and he was running late for a date with the lovely but demanding Tanya.

Frank-O’s fuse started to fizz when Tone announced he was offski. His face went as sour as full fat milk on the turn.

“I pay you wages and you leave when I fucking say,” shouted Frank-O into Tone's face, covering him with spittle and halitosis. He hawked phlegm and spat, “You one lazy ungrateful pig - get toasting!”

Snap, crackle, pop.

Tone swung a ferocious boot to Frank-O’s crotch. Frank-O groaned and turned several shades of red. He collapsed to the tiled floor where he curled up whimpering and holding his rapidly swelling testicles.

Tone calmly pocketed several bundles of notes from the cash till while the customers and the rest of his minimum wage colleagues watched in stunned silence.

“Frocio!” hissed Frank-O.

Tone was unaware of the meaning of the insult but had a sneaky suspicion that it was far from complimentary. Grabbing a hold of Frank-O’s collar he dragged him towards the panini toaster.

Flesh touched red hot grill plate and the smell of burning meat filled the air; a smouldering Frank-O screamed long and loud.

“Toast that,” said Tone.

***

BIO: Alan Griffiths is a rookie writer, from London, England. He has a keen interest in reading and writing Crime Fiction, particularly Noir and Pulp. His short fiction can been found on A Twist of Noir, Pulp Pusher, Powder Burn Flash and Six Sentences.

OLIVIA - by Christopher Grant

OLIVIA

Olivia had made enough excuses in the past for Alan's physical abuse.

He was under a lot of stress or she had done something or said something to set him off.

No more excuses.

She was pregnant, seven months along. The child, a girl, was Alan's. She knew he'd go ballistic when he found out she'd lied to him about the sex of the baby.

When Olivia had first told him she was pregnant, so long ago it seemed like another lifetime, Alan had been overjoyed. Olivia had just come back to him after she'd left him over his previous abuse. Her friends had told her that she was just asking for trouble, that he'd do it again and again until she died, unless she left him. Olivia told her friends that they didn't know what it was like to love someone so much that you can't imagine life without them.

They asked her what would happen if she had kids with Alan. Would she let him hit her in front of the kids? Would she let him hit the kids?

Olivia told them it wouldn't happen again. If she really thought that, they told her, she was beyond help.

Things were great, downright idyllic. Alan was looking forward to being a father.

Once reality started to set in, things started to slide, just like her friends said they would.

First, it was verbal abuse. Alan referred to Olivia as "a bitch" and "a stupid whore" no matter where they were. He told her that she was going to stay at home when the baby came and "do your duty" in front of total strangers. Alan wanted to get married, said that would make it official, that she'd have to do what he said then.

The mental abuse started up next.

Instead of simply calling Olivia "stupid", he made her look stupid in front of his friends, blamed her for anything that went wrong. He started to stay out late and told her that he "was allowed" or "entitled". She found lipstick on his collar. Just this morning, she'd found a pair of women's panties that weren't hers in his pants pocket.

It was the straw that broke the camel's back. Olivia had packed a bag even as she formulated a plan to confront Alan.

She could hear her friends now. "Just get out. Don't bother with his dumb ass. Get out now."

She couldn't just leave; Olivia needed closure.

Five-thirty that night, Alan came in the door, pocketed his keys and ran straight upstairs.

Olivia had seen this movie before. He goes upstairs, he gets what little cash he has, steals some of hers and then comes back down and out the door, to the club. Where he finds a hoochie and goes home with her, bringing her underwear home with him, like some sort of sex trophy, a red flag to wave in Olivia's face.

Only he didn't find her cash. Olivia had it in her bag.

"Where is it?" he hollered, coming down the stairs. "Where's your fucking cash, bitch?"

She didn't even get a chance to confront him. A fist to the face. Olivia fell back onto the couch, biting her tongue as she went down.

It was of no consequence to Alan, like he'd just stepped on an ant or something. That she was pregnant didn't matter, either. He left the living room, while Olivia wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and checked to make sure that was all the damage he had done.

She could hear him rummaging around in the fridge, looking for a beer. He must have found one, one of the last, because now he was looking for the bottle opener. Olivia heard the top give way, the small pssst of air escaping the bottle, free at last.

Alan started back into the living room.

Olivia had bought the gun a couple weeks back, for a moment such as the one she currently found herself in. She had never planned on shooting Alan. She just wanted to intimidate him, just wanted to give herself an exit. She raised the gun and trained it on him.

"Go ahead, bitch." Alan took another swig of the beer and smiled like he knew Olivia wouldn't shoot him.


BIO:
Christopher Grant is the editor of A Twist Of Noir and a writer of crime fiction. You can find his stories at Powder Burn Flash, Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers and The Flash Fiction Offensive.

THE ISLAND PEOPLE BY Lee Hughes

This is the latest installment of Lee's thrilling horror series in the Osseous Box Cycle, that began with The Jesus People and The Shaman People. This time we have...


The Island People


“So, what can you tell me about him?” Jon asked as he sipped his pint.

The old man sniffed, yanked the string that was attached to his dog and replied. “Clever lad, not daft, not by a long shot.”

Jon reckoned the old codger was thinking about someone else. Mordecai Shimmin. He'd been born and christened Vincent but had changed his name by deed-poll to Mordecai, and he was anything but a clever lad.

Jon remembered sitting across from him in the interview room back on the mainland. He'd sat there looking like a lost lamb. A terrible stammer didn't help him any. Jon was sure that if it had been any other detective then they would have marked Mordecai down as innocent, even though he'd been hanging around the convent like the shine on a glass eye.

Then when Sister Gail had disappeared of course they were going to put the pinch on the freak.

Jon dug about in his pocket for the photograph. He passed it over to the man who had a quick shufty at it. “Yeah, that's Vincent Shimmin.” The man looked to the flickering television that sat on a wonky shelf in the corner of the pub.

Jon looked at the photograph again. The old man spoke as he stared at the goggle-box. “Bloody Keltic done it again, bastards.”

Jon looked up at the screen. It was the football results. Rangers had gotten a beating from Celtic. Jon looked at the old man as though he were endearingly slow. He couldn't help but correct the old man.

“You pronounced it Keltic, you meant Celtic?” Jon lifted his drink.

The old man looked at him as though he'd just pissed on his shoes.

“Maybe to you, but I've Keltic blood and C's are said hard, like the word 'cunt'.” The man's stare left nothing to the imagination.

Jon didn't care, his head was spinning. Spinning so fast that it felt as though it were rushing back in time. Back to when he was sitting before Mordecai questioning him about the missing nun.

He'd said 'Kerbrous' at one point when asked where the nun was. Jon had just put it down to him being slow. Jon had linked that to the building work that Mordecai had been doing. Labouring for a local building firm that was laying new kerbing. So they'd had a geographical survey done and found no bones. That had been the end of that line.

They'd released Mordecai without any charge; the lad did a bunk and Jon had his suspicions that the lad had high-tailed it back home to the island. And Jon's gut instinct told him that Mordecai had something to do with the nun's disappearance so he wasn't going to let it drop.

His superiors didn't share the same interest and had put the kibosh on Jon's wanting to travel over to the island where Mordecai had grown up to see what he could find out about the lad.

Without their backing he booked himself some vacation time and crossed the Irish Sea hoping for answers. He'd now gotten them, but he wasn't sure he felt any richer for it.

Jon looked at his watch. Half-past four on a Saturday, if he were lucky he might just be able to make it to the library before it closed for the night.

*

“So you're not a member then?” inquired the librarian.

Jon sucked in breath. She fell right into the stereotypical portrayal that female librarians seem to get lumbered with. She wore her hair plain, sober clothes and looked like she'd never been fucked, and that maybe such an occurrence might do her the world of good.

“No. I'm over here on police business.” He hoped that sounding official would help.

“Then why aren't you using official police computers?” She asked, her eyes looking over her half-moon glasses. There was no way she was over forty, yet she was wearing glasses and dressing like someone in their seventies.

Jon changed his mind, he wasn't sure now whether she needed fucking or punching.

“Because...Look, can I have a quick go of your computer or not?”

“It's over there. Don't be too long, it's supposed to be for members only.”

Jon couldn't believe it. Why the fuck she couldn't have just let him on it in the first place was beyond him. Then it hit him, she was bored and a little self-importance made up for being who she was.

The library was empty as he headed past the books towards a bank of knackered looking computers.

He cast a quick glance at the rows and rows of books and wondered what the point of them was what with the internet. He fired up Wikipedia and started tapping away with both fore-fingers.

The old fart at the pub who had known Mordecai when he was growing up had said the lad was clever. Jon kicked himself, the thought of being Keyser Soze'd was killing him. He typed in 'Cerberus' and hit enter. Mordecai hadn't meant anything to do with a kerb when he had said 'Kerbrous' he'd just been playing Jon for a fool.

He started to read the web page. It had clicked in the pub, Mordecai affecting the hard 'C' just like so many others seemed to on the island where he grew up. He'd meant Cerberus, he'd been using a kicking 'ker' instead of a curly 'ker'.

He knew that Cerberus was the three headed hound from Greek mythology that guarded Hell. But there must be more to it. At the very least Mordecai had used it to play a game. Anything more than that was sinister. But it all seemed to make some sort of sense. Mordecai was a pebblehead that had changed his name to a biblical one. Jon had long ago looked up the meaning of it. It meant contrition. This didn't seem to work in too well with abducting a nun.

He went back to reading about Cerberus. There had to be something there, something significant.

The shadow of the librarian splashed down in front of him.

“Two minutes.”

Jon looked up and around. She was peering down at him and showing off her watch.

“Okay.” He decided he couldn't be arsed arguing the toss or bargaining for more time. He twisted a lip. “You know anything about that three headed dog thing, what's it called? That guards Mount Olympus?” He was purposely erroneous and vague. He'd read her as being someone who liked to be smarter than others and had played on it.

She took a moment as though she had sent a mental-minion off through the corridors of her knowledge to look upon the shelf where facts about three-headed dogs were kept.

“Firstly, the dog's name is Cerberus, and it's from Greek and Roman mythology. It guards Hades, Hell, not Mount Olympus.”

Jon nodded, he'd read that much himself. “Any idea what it might have to do with the Island?” Jon asked as he swiveled in the chair to give her his full attention.

She took on that thoughtful look once more as the mental-minion went away to harvest the knowledge.

“Sticks River.” the librarian suggested.

Jon nodded, it was the River Styx that you had to cross when you were dead, and you paid the ferry man.

“Where is it?” he asked.

“Sticks River branches off from the Silverburn.” She was enjoying being in the limelight with her vast knowledge. Wearing that same smug look that the twats on Mastermind sported when they'd not had to pass on any questions from their chosen subject.

He made a few scribbles that might have been notes. “Is it far from here? Could you show me on a map?” he asked.

She breathed heavily through her nose. “Come on then.”

*

Jon wasn't one for the countryside. He was stood on the banks of the Silverburn River. A well trodden pathway shouldered the river but it wasn't as good as paving. The librarian was a dozen feet ahead.

She'd decided to show him the river personally as he had struggled with her directions on how to get to the beauty spot.

She'd driven him to the outskirts of the small town where the river began and then acted as a guide. Jon had been right; she was a bitch because she was bored. She still seemed priggish; but that didn't matter seeing as she was doing him a favour. Her name was Beth. He'd expected something plain like Maude.

“It might be summer detective but the night comes in eventually.” She smiled as she said it. Jon smiled back somewhat sourly. It was working to her advantage dressing in a boring manner. Her flat shoes were perfect for going off road in. His shiny office shoes on the other hand were a nightmare, he might as well have just strapped two blocks of butter to his feet.

He caught up at best as he could. Then she was off again at speed with both her legs and her mouth.

“Not sure how it got its name, one of the problems with a small island, people sometimes forget to pass on such details and then it becomes a plaything of conjecture.” At that point Jon stopped listening but remembered to nod occasionally.

*

A small wooden bridge arched over the Silverburn. Beth pointed. “We cross here. It breaks away from the main river.”

They crossed the bridge. Jon looked at the Sticks River. It was far from impressive and you'd struggle to drown anything in it. He checked his watch; it was coming up to seven o'clock. Probably wouldn't start getting dark for another couple of hours.

They followed the Sticks River for nearly a mile. Jon reached out and touched Beth's shoulder.

“Stop.” He whispered it.

She gave him a stare filled with questions. “What's up?”

He pointed up the river. About a half mile up there was tent pitched beside it. Jon knew it could just be some nature loving camper, it could also be Mordecai.

“Stay here.” Jon didn't check to see if she was doing as she was told. He was marching towards the tent. He knew he wouldn't find one of the woolly-hat brigade poncing it up inside the tent. Just that gut-feeling; it had served him well in the past.

When he was about two dozen feet away from the tent he called out. “Mordecai Shimmin. Come out of the tent.” Jon refrained from adding the 'hands up' part.

There was that distinct sound of canvas being unsettled that went with tents. That regular noise was followed by the zip being drawn down. Mordecai's voice came from within the flaps.

“Detective Howard?”

“Yeah.” replied Jon.

“Clever you.” Came the voice.

“I see your stutter’s cleared up, must be a relief.”

“A miracle. Can I call you Jon?” The voice wasn't smarmy, it sounded polite if anything.

“Can I put you in cuffs?”

“No. Not yet anyway.”

“Do yourself a favour and come out of the tent.”

“Who's with you?”

“Just a librarian.”

“Interesting.”

“I'm counting to three and then I'm gonna come drag you out of there.”

“Don't you want to know about Sister Gail?” asked Mordecai from within the tent, showing no inclination to leave its flapping confines.

“Rather hear about it at the station.”

“Not going to happen. This is much too serious.”

“No shit.” Jon said and took a step closer.

Jon could see the tent-flap pulled back fully. Mordecai crawled out with something in his hand. Jon's body went rigid and then relaxed when he saw it was just a thermos.

“Put the flask down.”

“I need it. Sister Gail gave her life to fill it.” Mordecai's dark eyes were serious, even to the point where the lids forgot to blink.

Jon felt his stomach tighten. He didn't need a rampant imagination to guess what was in the flask. At least it proved that he had been right, that Mordecai had been the reason that Sister Gail had dropped off the face of the planet; he'd killed her.

Time to stop playing his game. “Drop the flask. I'm not going to ask again.”

“I can't. The hunt is on for the Osseous Box. If evil finds it first then evil will find us!”

“Whatever, drop the fucking flask.” Jon took a step closer.

“I gave you the clues. I needed you here to help me. Sister Gail said I would need help. Help me find the box and help me hide it somewhere safer!”

Mordecai was just spitting out insanity. Jon ignored it and took another step. Mordecai took one back to compensate.

“Jon. The river shall point the direction but holy blood will lead the way. Sister Gail gave her life so that we might get to it first. Don't let her death become a waste,” Mordecai pleaded.

“Stop talking Mordecai, you're fucked up. You killed a fucking nun, they'll probably bring back hanging for you.” Jon burst into a run. More to stop Mordecai from getting the chance to say anything else.

Mordecai dived for the small river. Jon was soon on him. Wrestling with Mordecai, rolling him over only to then be rolled over himself. The deranged always had more strength than was fair.

Jon struck down with an elbow that smeared Mordecai's nose across his face. Still Mordecai struggled to get to the river. Jon tried to get the flask. Mordecai didn't want to share it. They struggled and they rolled. Beth was shouting something. Jon couldn't make out what it was, it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was gaining control of the situation and getting the sick prick into cuffs.

Mordecai found some more strength and managed to momentarily shrug himself free of Jon. He used the inches of freedom that he had gained to take the top off the flask and hurl the contents into the river.

Jon saw red-anger. He watched as the contents of the flask poured away into the river. It was Sister Gail's blood. It pooled in the river like something had been slain within the shallow depths. Jon clenched a fist and was about to take it to task with Mordecai's face but stopped. The blood didn't run downstream with the flow of the river. It stayed together in a liquid mass.

Jon couldn't help but crawl over to the riverbank and stare. Mordecai held a hand to his nose and stumbled over. Beth joined them in their strange vigil. None spoke as the blood broke every law of physics and began to work its way up river.

Mordecai smiled. “Holy blood will guide us.”

“What the...” Jon couldn't find anything to say.

“That can't be happening,” Beth added.

Mordecai began to follow the rogue blood. “We must find it first, we must.”

Jon started off after Mordecai; he didn't know whether to arrest him, beat him up or question him. He went with a question. “What is this Osseous Box?”

Mordecai didn't stop or look back. “Destruction.”

***

BIO:
Lee Hughes' short fiction has appeared in or is due to appear in the anthology Cern Zoo Nemonymous 9, Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, A Twist of Noir, MicroHorror.com, The Daily Tourniquet and Powder Flash Burn. To find out more visit: http://leehugheswrites.blogspot.com/.