WHAT'S IN THE CELLAR? by Jeanette Cheezum

Jeanette returns with an adult mystery...

What’s In the Cellar?

1940: Deep in the woods of Georgia.

If it rained or snowed no one would come down to check on Lucy. She wore diapers, sometimes only one a day until she turned four. The weight of the soiled fabric made it easier for her to slip out of them. She stomped her feet in the urine puddles because it felt good to her feet. Sometimes she could play in the wash tub that sat under one of the windows. The man had dropped a hose down the wall and put water in there for her to sit in, once or twice a month. There wasn’t much else to do down in the cellar. Except hold onto her rag doll and lay on her old mattress on the floor.

Bugs crawled on her at night but somehow didn’t feed on her nasty skin. One morning the large doors opened and the man that came to see her brought a pot downstairs for her to use. The first time she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do when he handed her a pair of cotton bloomers. She stuck her hands through the holes and placed them against her sparsely covered chest. They felt nice and soft and she liked that.

The man shook his head, removed them, and pulled them onto her soiled bottom. Up and down several times in an attempt to make her understand.

Lucy looked forward to his visits and watched his every move.

“I brung ya some food.” He shoved a bowl and a quart bottle of water in front of her.

She learned to eat slowly and save some of her food. To make a safe for the food under an old crate was the only way to keep the rats from eating it. When the man turned to leave, she shook her head flailed her arms and grunted. He paid no attention and left her alone.

An index and middle finger was used as a game to skim along the cool cinderblock walls. She did this several times just before she ate the bread and beans or apples and bananas the man brought her.

***

The warmth from the steam heater kept the cellar toasty in the winter for years; in the summer the man would open the two windows at the top of the wall. She watched the mosquito’s land on her and when they bit her she slapped them until they quit.

***

Around the nineteenth summer the man hadn’t come to see her for two nights and two days. Only crumbs were left under the safe, and the chamber pot had spilled over the brim hours ago, but she continued to use it.

The door opened and remained that way. A taller man stood in the opening and gasped. The stench was stifling.

The light was bright from the doors being open so long, and Lucy shielded her eyes with her rag doll until they adjusted.

After some time the man came down to investigate. Would there be another body like he had found upstairs? He pulled the chain to allow more light then stopped at the bottom step.

Lucy stood still; then handed him her bowl and empty quart bottle.

“Oh, my God, I wasn’t the only one--How long have you been down here?”

Silence surrounded them.

“Come let me take you upstairs.” He reached out his hand.

She didn’t budge, only stared.

“It’s okay . . . I want to take you out of here.” He brought her to the stairs and tugged.

Lucy held onto her rag doll. Once outside, they climbed another set of stairs and entered the meager house, set in the privacy of the woods.

“We need to do something about your cleanliness, but first, let’s get you something to eat?”

Before he took his big hands and moved her to the kitchen table, she had paid no attention to him, looked around the room and touched things. She stopped in front of a picture frame showing the man and another person with long hair.

“You’re not going to talk to me are you?” He moved to the sink and wet a dish towel. Tried to wipe her face and hands but she pulled away. He relented and brought her some food and water. “You can’t speak or hear can you?”

Lucy made strange sounds and grabbed the food. Eating like someone that hadn’t been fed in a long time. He watched her and thought about his mother’s story of his father. How his father had walked away when he was born and never came back. How hard he and his mother had to work to stay alive. Now that she had died he came to have it out with his sperm donor, but had been robbed of that pleasure. He had found him dead in the middle of the living room floor. At least he had the pleasure of burying him behind the house. No funeral and friends for him, he didn’t deserve it.

Zachary left the room and went into the bathroom. He rifled through the shelf where the thread bear towel and washrags were kept. At least soap and shampoo sat on the window ledge.

Lucy followed him after he waved her on to the shower. The water sputtered and came out cold at first. He had her touch the stream of water. Now . . . how would he get her to clean herself?

He stripped off her tattered clothes and moved her into the shower. She grunted a pathetic cry and struggled with him.

He turned off the shower and removed his clothing. Knowing she would watch closely, he stepped inside the rusty old shower and turned on the water. He held his head under the stream and placed soap on his face. He smiled as he rinsed and held out his hand for her to join him. She stepped in slowly. He handed her a soapy rag. She didn’t know what to do so he rubbed her face again and moved her face to the water to rinse. She held her breath flailed her arms and shook her head.

What could he do to relax her? He continued to wash himself with the soap, maybe ... He soaped up his hands making a nice lather, and ran them across her shoulders and down her back.

Lucy seemed to like this. She made a humming noise. He massaged shampoo onto her hair but found it impossible to penetrate the layers and get to her scalp. She kept trying to look up to see what he was doing. The dirty water began to puddle and soap scum skimmed against their feet. She wriggled her toes.

He continued to rub her full grown chest and moved down towards her stomach. Should he? Well it would be the only way he could clean her. He tried to ignore the swelling in his groin.

He moved up to her ears and her neck. They were unbelievably soiled from neglect. He ran his hands under her hairy armpits and raised them to the warm gentle water. She smiled and made sounds that he had gotten used to hearing. He turned her around and let the water rinse away the filth.

Did he dare? Yes it had to be done. Mother always said “never leave a job unfinished.” He lathered her behind area and slipped in and out of the crevice. At least she had used toilet paper downstairs. He washed her legs and ankles and moved in close. Her body was against his and she didn’t move. He massaged her breast and used his fingertips on her rock hard, nipples. Then he slid his fingers down to her pubic area. He ventured slowly, so as not to alarm her.

Lucy hummed as he touched her mass of hair she giggled with a honking sound. He spread her legs just a little and lathered the area. She looked down to see what he was doing when he slid his finger into her young virgin area. Her humming became more intense. He rinsed the lips with a shower hose to remove the soap and stench that had gathered for so long. He turned her around. While finishing the job he lost his erection with an explosion up against her back. He shuddered and she never knew what had happened.

He assumed Daddy had never washed her or showed her how. The detective told him his daddy had taken another wife and she died giving birth. This must be the child. Lucy held her slender fingers above her head and watched the water bounce away.

No one would know - Daddy was dead and surely wasn’t looking down from heaven.

After he dried them off, it was time to teach her how to brush her teeth. He showed her how, but when her turn came she ate the toothpaste and drank the swish water. He laughed out loud. “I can see my work is cut out for me.”

“Now to cut that hair.” He opened the medicine cabinet to find only a straight razor, shaving bowl and cream next to a brush. “Well we may have to do this the hard way, if there are no scissors.

After three feet of hair and more under her arms he felt satisfied with his master piece. He found some clothes that must have belonged to her mother and helped her get dressed. They could live here no one would know the difference. Neither of them had anyone to love so he would teach her everything. She had already started to mimic him. But he would never kiss her if she wouldn’t clean her mouth.

Zachary showed her the mirror and she jumped. Lucy had no mirror so she never gave any thought to her appearance; large nose, sunken eyes, protruding brow, thin lips and matted brown hair.

He touched the mirror and then touched her face. Pointed to himself and then touched his face. “See, we look just alike. No one wants us, but now we have each other.”

“Let’s go to the bedroom and change the grimy sheets,” he wondered if she’d want to sleep on the floor. He led her to the side of the bed. On the other side he lay down and patted the mattress for her to do the same.

She stood still and gazed around the room. He crawled over to her side and pulled her down on the bed, then turned off the light.

All night she entered his thoughts. He moved closer to her wanting to feel her body against his. Daddy had given him something after all... a home and a woman that didn’t care how he looked.


Jeanette Cheezum 2010

BIO:
Jeanette lives in Virginia Beach, VA. She watches the rolling surf of the Chesapeake Bay for inspiration. You can find her work on several online writing sites; including this one. She has been published in three of Smith Magazines anthology books, and two of Six Sentences anthology books. Forthcoming: Harbinger*33*book.
Last year she published 160 online stories. She hopes to publish her latest novel this year.

THE DEVIL KNOWS MY LOVE by Phil Beloin Jr.

TKnC welcomes Phil from across the pond...

The Devil Knows My Love

“Shot of whiskey,” I said, “with a beer back.”

Leroy didn’t move. “You think that’s a good idea, Sheriff?”

I was damn tired. But you go on.

“What about…”

“Pour the drinks, Leroy.”

As Leroy’s hands went to work in the well, the bar mirror reflected back my bloodshot eyes, the thinning white hair. Christ, I wasn’t even fifty. Setting the drinks by my hands, Leroy leaned back, folding his arms, his eyes darting behind me. The shot burned going down and I cooled the flames with the chilled brew.

“Like I told you over the phone,” Leroy said, “she got off the last bus.”

The station stood across from the bar. The ten o’clock usually rolled on through—no one stopped here anymore.

“Uh-huh.”

“I watched her stroll on over,” Leroy said. “She’s a fucking number.”

I finished my beer in a couple of messy swallows. “Stay here,” I said then headed to the back room where the raucous was coming from.There were a couple of pool tables set up and a young gal was standing on one. Leroy’s mathematics was right on—the dress was indecent and her assets were bopping around as she swung a pool stick through the air, fending off the three Cleburne brothers.

“Evening, boys,” I said.

Their heads turned in unison and Jake, the youngest, took the stick off the temple. He staggered back into the other pool table, his hands pressed to his head.

“Oh, damn,” the gal said.

“What’s got me out of bed at this hour?” I said.

Harry took a swig from his beer. He was the oldest and tallest of the three still alive. Sam Cleburne had disappeared hunting in the woods a year ago and we never found no trace of him.

“Well, Sheriff,” he said, “this whore here hustled us.”

“And we was just tryin’ to get our money back,” Abe, the middle brother, said.

“You playing these boys, miss?” I said to the gal.

She gave me a glimpse of a smile, pearly as the handle of my gun. “I won the money fairly,” she said.

“I don’t doubt it,” I said. “Boys ain’t much for playing pool when they’ve been drinking.”

“We can’t shoot sober, neither,” Harry said.

Abe bent over snickering and his older brother clapped him on the back.

“Screw this,” Jake said. “I’m bleeding.” He showed me the red on his hands and dove for the gal’s legs.

Almost got them, too, but he was drunk and I was far from it. I grabbed him by the shirt and tossed him to the floor. He hated me then, but it didn’t mean nothing.

“Remember our talk, Jacob?” I said.

Jake had been accused of rape a few months back, so I went and visited the girl and her parents. I got the charges dropped. And Jake promised me he wouldn’t punch no gal in the face if she didn’t put out.

I reached my hand up. “Miss, come on down from there.” Her hand was soft, too soft.

“Thank you, sheriff.”

“How much you take them for?” I said.

She let her chest heave with a sigh. “Not nearly enough.”

“Took us for a couple bills,” Abe said. “We work all week for that.”

“Give it on back,” I said.

She removed her grip from mine. “But, Sheriff, I…”

“Come on, now, girl,” I said. “It’s too late for this nonsense.”

Her hand went into a slit on the side of her dress and she tossed a wad of cash into the air.

***

I let her ride in front of my cruiser.

“You gonna arrest me?” she said.

“We do got a law on vagrancy.”

“You got a motel in town?”

“Not anymore.”

“Then throw me in the clink, Sheriff.”

“The plumbing ain’t right in the jail,” I said, “and I don’t feel like sitting there all night anyways.”

“Then what are you going to do with me?”

Up ahead, the railroad gate swung down and the bells started clanging. I braked to a stop as the first of dozens of coal cars lumbered through.

I threw the shifter in park. “We got ourselves a wait.” I turned towards her, the red warning lights flashing across her face. “Why don’t you tell me your story?”

“What makes you think…?”

“Cut the bull.”

“Why should I tell you anything?”

“Cuz I’m planning on bringing you back to the bus station tomorrow morning. I’ll put you on the next coach outta here and we’ll wave goodbye to each other.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“It’s the easiest solution.”

“Where am I going to spend the night?”

“I got a spare room in my house.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do.”

“It’s not like that.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I’m married. With a sixteen-year old boy.”

Everybody’s hiding somethin’ and after a few more cars crept by, she started telling me her dirty tale. She was a stripteaser at a club…

“That’s where I learned how to shoot pool.”

…but the manager…

“An angry Russian ape.”

…wanted her to do more on her private lap dances…

“But nobody is touching me like that.”

…and so she had to run…

“And the bus ticket got me this far,” she said, as the railroad gates lifted up and we passed on through.

I lived in the boonies, far from the people I was sworn to protect. My house was a century older than me; termites festered in the joists and studs, water dripped through holes in the roof, and the porch had seceded from the foundation, setting off fissures throughout the walls.

My high beams caught a shadow by the front door, though my rider didn’t see it, too busy taking in the condition of my home.

“Not exactly what I expected,” she said.

“Didn’t promise you a four-star hotel,” I said.

“No, can’t say that you did.”

There was movement in the dark beyond the driveway. My head snapped that way. As the car door was thrust open, dirt stained hands reached in and grabbed my passenger by the waist and shoulder. She shrieked while being yanked out of the car. A fist collided with her cheek, quieting her, leaving behind grit and a bloody smear.

My boy was lean and quick—Sam Cleburne was one of his catches, too—and he dragged the gal along the gravel driveway. The blow had only stunned her and she was screaming again, squirming at the hips, trying to gouge her attacker. He dropped his load and his steel toed boot caught her in the face. When she didn’t move no more, he grabbed a handful of blonde hair and pulled her towards the side of the house, her feet leaving a trail in the stones. I got out the car, shutting both doors, eyeing my son pull her into the hatchway and down into the cellar.

I walked onto the porch, my wife stepping from her hiding spot. She had been waiting since I had told her about Leroy’s call. Her eyes gleamed in the dark. I unclipped my holster and her hand grabbed my gun. She walked over to the cellar, shutting the hatch.

This madness—no, it’s a disease—started within her and then our desire sired it again. The devil knows my love for this woman. I went inside and collapsed on the sofa and as the screams rose up, my hands shook and sweat broke out all over my body. This was the worst part, before they put the gag in.

And then it was quiet. You couldn’t hear what they were doing. Tomorrow I would tell Leroy and the Cleburne boys that I had driven the lady to the next town. My son would go to high school and act normal. My wife’s desires would be sated—if only for a little while.

Before dawn, from beneath me, a single gunshot.

BIO:

Phil Beloin Jr. lives in Connecticut. His first novel, "The Big Bad", is published by Hilliard and Harris and can be found on Amazon.com.

TK'N'C Editors' Halloween Special: Matt Hilton

Halloween is fast approaching, and here at TK'N'C we always get a little excited by the imminent arrival of the spookiest night of the year. So for your delectation, here is a special editor's story, penned for the occasion by Matt Hilton. Enjoy!

Suffering Succubi

‘I am “freedom”.’

The woman stood on the penultimate step on the descent to the cellar. She had halted there, standing in silence, waiting for my bloodied eyes to register her presence, for my concussed brain to make sense of her.

Even with clots adhering to my lashes, my eyelids swollen from the repeated beatings, she was a vision of beauty.

An emerald green dress fit as closely as her musky scent to a body as perfect as any masterpiece designed by Michelangelo. Blazing red hair hung about her shoulders, curls bunching on the swellings of her breasts. Her dress was cut low and I watched the slow rise and fall of the pale orbs that it strained to contain. On her feet were satin slippers, as green as the dress, as green as her eyes as they surveyed me.

‘Have you come to let me go?’

‘I have come to set you free,’ she corrected in a voice as mellifluous as distant birdsong.

‘Then undo these chains and I’ll be gone from here.’ I was trussed to an upright beam, stripped naked as a baby.

‘You misunderstand me, Carter Bailey,’ she said, and this time her voice was every bit as sweet as before, but it was the sweetness of decay and rot.

‘Worth a try,’ I said.

She took the final step down and halted again. Her features appeared set in porcelain, her lips were the painted smile of a creepy pot doll, eyes as solid as their emerald twins. A dim bulb flickered in the stairwell above her, causing the shadows to jitter and shift. The woman’s shadow did not move, because she had none.

‘Who are you?’

‘I am the one you came looking for.’

‘You are Saoirse?’ I gave her name the modern Irish pronunciation: Sur-shuh.

‘Seer-sha,’ she corrected, in the singsong original Celtic tongue. ‘As I said, my name means “freedom”.’

I rattled my chains, thinking of my brother, Cassius, who regularly wore chains when I visited him in the deepest dungeon of my psyche. I could almost feel pity for the depraved lunatic now that I experienced a little of the discomfort he was eternally subjected to. Almost, but not quite. Cash deserved his torment; he could never atone for the suffering he put my wife and unborn child through, or the dozens of other women he raped and slaughtered before I killed the bastard.

Sticks and stones, Carter. Cash’s taunting voice scratched its way through the recesses of my mind. Just thinking of him was enough to wake him from slumber. He’d been conspicuous by his absence during my beating, when I needed his assistance most.

I ignored Cash and concentrated instead on Saoirse.

She moved without seeming to move. She didn’t walk, that was for sure, because I was eyeballing her long, long legs, imagining them wrapped around my back and they never once put as much as a ruffle in that form-hugging dress. The lustful thought clung on, even after I realised that it was more akin to something that Cash would voice, and I had to tear my attention back to her face. No, she hadn’t walked over, yet when I tilted my head up to meet her gaze, she was directly in front of me, so close I felt the exhalation of her breath on my skin.

‘Why did you seek me, Carter Bailey?’

‘Why do you think?’

‘You thought to kill me.’

‘Killing you was never an issue, I hoped only to stop any further killing.’

‘Yet you brought with you a gun.’ Saoirse lifted her right hand and something cold and hard-edged settled under my jaw. ‘And this.’

I couldn’t see what it was that she held to my throat, but I didn’t have to. I knew it was the knife handed to me by my friend and mentor, Paul Broom, Britain’s sixteenth bestselling horror author, when he heard of my latest fool mission.

‘It just might come in handy, Bailey,’ he had said as he handed over the intricately carved silver blade. The handle was bone and looked too much like the knobby end of a human fibular to be coincidence.

‘There might be nothing in the stories,’ I’d told him. ‘You know how urban legends grow out of folk tales and take on a life of their own: do you really think a succubus is alive and kicking and harvesting souls in bleakest Lancashire?’

‘I’ve heard crazier stories,’ he said with a pointed squint at me.

Broom was one of the few people who truly believed in my claim that the soul of my serial-killing sibling was trapped within me, and that the shared near death experience we’d experienced had made him my captive when the paramedics jump-started my heart again. Having discovered what he’d done to my wife and unborn child, my brother had almost murdered me too, but I’d turned the tables and took the fight back to him. Locked in brutal combat we’d both taken a fall from the dilapidated windmill on my property, and sank, still beating and tearing at each other into the stagnant waters of the canal below. Our bodies drowned, but our spirits had still been coiled together in battle when the intervention of well-meaning paramedics had snatched us both back to my mortal coil. It was a difficult claim to palate, but Broom took it even without the proverbial pinch of salt. Broom also believed in my proclaimed ability to read people’s auras, and to also feel the pull of dark energy, and he’d almost convinced me that I wasn’t totally bat shit crazy after all. Limping about on a walking stick, throwing back his mane of blond curls, he reminds me of an aging rock star or over the hill pro-wrestler. On his knuckles he’d had the letters WWDAD tattooed as a reminder of his constant fight against the supernatural denizens of his fevered author’s mind. What would Derek Acorah do? I wondered. I was pretty sure that the famed psychic medium wouldn’t have sought a soul-sucking succubus armed only with a tarnished silver knife and a handgun: at the very least he’d have had a camera crew and the backing of a major cable TV company behind him. Foolishly I’d come to this backstreet of Blackpool alone. And now I’d paid the price of my stupidity. I should have weighed in that knife at one of the many skanky stores that lined the neighbourhood promising ‘We Buy Your Scrap Gold and Silver’.

But I hadn’t been able to deny the tugging in my chest, the feeling within me that drew me like metal filings to a lodestone, whenever I sensed the presence of dark energy. Cash had to atone for his crimes; I had to atone for my failings. In failing to protect my wife and baby I had accepted my self-imposed punishment to root out and destroy evil wherever it reared its ugly head. I tried to think of it as an extreme form of community service, while Broom preferred that I was serving a higher court than human law.

Saoirse removed the knife from my throat. My relief was only momentary. She laid it between my legs.

Whoa! Hold on there, Red! Go ahead and cut Carter’s friggin’ throat but I’m going to need the old family jewels when I take claim of his body!

It was nice of Cash to express his concern for my well being. Yeah, right. In my head, I told him, “Cash, she’s not interested in taking my bollocks. She’s after souls and guess what? Here she gets the special BOGOF deal.”

Shit, Cash said, I never thought about it that way.

“Now would be a good time to loan me a few of those special skills you have in your arsenal, dear brother.”

When imprisoning Cash in the dungeon of my mind I’d to devise the most intricate methods of containment, because in life the son of a bitch had been as tricky as Harry Houdini, and simply locking him down with handcuffs and gaffer tape had never been enough.

‘What are you mumbling about?’ asked Saoirse.

‘Nothing important,’ I lied. ‘Just wondering if you really look like that or if you’re a fan of old Maureen O’Hara movies.’

‘You like the way I look?’

‘Of course. Who wouldn’t?’

Saoirse proved as vain as most other supernatural beings I’d met who used the weapon of sexual desire to deceive and enrapture before sucking your life force out of every orifice imaginable. To be fair I hadn’t met many. Actually, she was my first, but she was vain all right.

She was at once before me then at the bottom of the stairs again. She ran one hand through her fiery hair, the other on her propped hip. Then she turned away, turning her head to give me a smoky pout over one bared shoulder. The dress shimmered off her body as liquid as mercury, puddling around her finely turned ankles, and I was given a view of her in all her glory.

‘What about now?’ she teased.

“Yeah, now would be a good time,” I told Cash.

Scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, bro.

“How about a nice Perspex cell with a view?”

How’s about you set me up on a barstool at Hooters?

“Take it or leave it, Cash. Agree, or your next prison will be inside the lovely Seer-sha’s gut.”

‘Do you find me comely?’ Saoirse turned with a dancer’s grace, and again was before me without any sign of apparent volition. I’d have got an eyeful of her main assets if she hadn’t looped her knife hand over her breasts. Her other hand, and my Glock, was artistically placed over the juncture of her thighs.

‘”Comely” isn’t a word used very often these days,’ I said. ‘Just how old are you?’

‘As old as Lilith’s children,’ she said with a smile.

‘It’s surprising what the odd nip and tuck can do for you these days, isn’t it?’ Despite myself I could feel the ardor rising in me. Ardor’s another word you don’t hear much and has kind of fallen out of usage except in poorly written bonk buster novels or the latest Paul Broom chiller. I’d learned a lot of old words since Broom had taken it upon himself to be my Professor X. I’d learned quite a few archaic names too, and understood that Lilith in some religious texts was recognised as the first woman, even before Eve. If Saoirse wasn’t exaggerating it meant she’d been around a loooong time.

‘That can’t possibly be your own hair colour?’ I sneaked a peek down and the hand clutching the gun couldn’t cover everything. ‘You dye down there too?’

For the first time Saoirse frowned.

Unlike highly emotional humans this woman did not radiate the auric colours that I was used to. All that outlined her form was a hazy grey smoke. But I didn’t need the firework displays that emanated from my usual quarries to tell me she was growing angry.

‘You do not appreciate this form?’ she said. ‘Perhaps you would prefer I was an incubus instead?’

‘Strictly heterosexual,’ I reassured her. ‘It’s just that I don’t fancy every strumpet that drops her knickers in front of me.’

‘Strumpet?’

Another old word, but it was one she’d understand. Before leaving Broom’s place for Blackpool, my knowledgeable buddy had told me that the etymology of the name succubus came from the Late Latin succubare, or “to lie under”, later shortened to succuba and literally “strumpet”.

‘Old whore, if you’d prefer?’ I said.

Saoirse made a sound that should never have come from her enchantress form. She bubbled out a growl like a drunken hobo clearing his throat after a night on methylated spirits.

She raised Broom’s silver knife.

Go on, Red, cut his throat.

“Shut it, Cash. Concentrate on what you’re good at.”

Maybe you should let me take over, bro. I’ll show the hot little bitch a good time, all right.

“Just get us the fuck out of these chains!”

Saoirse said, ‘I can take your essence whether you wish to mate with me or not.’

‘Honestly, I’d rather you slit my throat. I hear that sexually penetrating a succubus is akin to entering a cavern of ice. Where’s the pleasure in that? And anyway, what’s this about you taking a man’s semen then passing it onto one of your incubus brothers so he can impregnate women with his demonic little offspring? What do you call them: Cambions aren’t they?’

‘You’ve researched well,’ Saoirse said, and my taunting had worked because she’d forgotten about sticking the blade in my neck and again moved away from me.

‘Everything I know you can find on Wikipedia,’ I told her. ‘Is that what you’re up to here? Breeding your own little crop of Cambions. Don’t bother, from the number of ugly inbred trolls I’ve seen out on the Golden Mile someone already beat you to it.’

‘You know little of my kind after all. And this know-it-all Wikipedia is as ill informed as the fools that write it. Too much faith has been placed in the Malleus Maleficarum as a source document, and your modern “Witches’ Hammer” – your Wikipedia – holds as many misinterpretations of the truth. My kind has no interest in your dishwater semen: it is your life essence that we desire. I’m coming now to set it free!’

Suddenly Saoirse wasn’t the enchanting vision of beauty of before.

Her looks fell from her in the shimmering river of mercury that had earlier shed her dress.

Her fiery mane shrivelled into a keeled skull, her almost translucent skin metamorphosing into warty grey hide. Her breasts shrivelled like dried out teabags left on the side of a saucer at one of those backstreet cafes. Her pubis went bare, and her labia hung like soiled rags. Horrible enough before I looked up again at her face and saw that her green eyes had sunk back into the skull and were now snot-coloured currants deep beneath a thick brow, and her mouth…Oh, Jesus. Think anus, puckered, hemorrhoid-ridden, with needle teeth.

I take back what I said before, Cash said. I wouldn’t even touch her with yours, bro.

Saoirse let out a keening hiss. Expelled urine and other foul liquids dripped down her upper thighs, but the sound had come from her awful mouth. Kind of a mating call, I guessed. Then she came for me.

‘Now would be a good time to do your thing, Cash!’

In my urgency I’d shouted out loud.

My odd words were enough to halt Saoirse in her tracks.

Her arms hung by her sides, my weapons still clutched in mitts that were boney and ended in ragged claws. Maybe she still thought she could get me up by threat of a bullet or knife slash: such foreplay never did it for me. But now she paused to contemplate just whom the hell I was shouting at.

From above filtered the clumping of footsteps. Saoirse had her lackeys on stand by; they were the same sons of bitches who’d grabbed me, kicked the shit out of me and then hung me here in the bitch’s cellar like a side of tenderized beef. They were an ugly bunch, and pitiless, so maybe there was something in the Cambion myth that Saoirse wasn’t letting on. Any second now and those brutes would come downstairs and hold me down while Saoirse had her wicked way with me.

‘Cash!’

Allez, hop! cried my demented brother, like he was some old time circus performer. Let’s go, bro.

For the last minute or so I’d been working my fingers and wrists, manipulating them without any conscious sense, really Cash working his wizardry through my hands without any assistance from me.

The chains fell from my wrists just as Saoirse puckered up for a kiss. I struggled to free my arms from the clinging links, and Saoirse just put my energetic thrashings down to one playing hard to get. Her needle teeth nipped into my lips and she clamped on tight. A slick, wriggling tongue invaded my mouth and I coughed in revulsion. It was colder than three days old polar bear shit, and tasted just as bad.

Earlier I’d imagined Saoirse’s long legs wrapped around my middle. Well, the dream became reality, and it was a nightmare. I felt the icy clamminess of her vagina as she tried to clamp on, her second puckered opening chewing its path up my left thigh towards my genitals. The only saving grace was that at least this one didn’t come with teeth. Let alone her trying to latch onto my penis, the invasion of my mouth was bad enough, and then the extraction of souls began.

Fuckin’ hell, Carter, she’s starting with me!

It wasn’t often my brother panicked. He was generally too sociopathic to care about anything, except when it was his own immortal soul. In all honesty I contemplated waiting for a while, allowing the soul-sucking demoness to gulp down Cash’s spirit – shit, I’d been looking for a way to expel his soul from mine for good, and now an unconventional opportunity had presented itself – but as much as I hated the murderous piece of shit, I hated Saoirse’s violation of my body more.

I wrenched loose from the chains and gripped hold of her right hand. A trick I’d learned during a self-defence class stripped the knife from her grip. More likely it was desperation that made the technique work than any skill but the knife was now in my hand and I reversed it just as Saoirse realised she’d been fooled. She snapped her tongue from my mouth and reared back, and the curve of her fangs almost tore my lips off before she’d fully disengaged.

I stood before her.

She looked down at my empty hands.

Then dawning realisation struck and she peered down at the only boner she’d get from me: the erect handle of the silver knife jutted from between her shrivelled breasts.

She was dead; she just didn’t know it yet.

I reached out, braced my palm against the knife handle and gave her a shove.

She fell flat on her back and didn’t move.

Broom would be happy to hear that the supposed magical knife had worked better than even he’d imagined. He swore that the blade had been forged by some vizier of the Zoharistic Kabbalah persuasion and was based upon a much earlier design. The first knife was made for none other than the Archangel Samael after he had a bit of a fling with Lilith and realised that he’d made a major faux pas when she wouldn’t return to Adam in the Garden of Eden. Samael’s way of getting rid of the bunny boiling temptress was to have a knife forged by Tubal Cain, the first metal worker, that could do Lilith and her kind in for good. I didn’t have the heart to tell my friend that you couldn’t rely on EBay as a source for genuine angelic weapons, but now I wouldn’t have to.

I left the knife jammed in the succubus’s breastbone. Maybe by extracting it she would rise up again like a vampire in a Hammer movie. I reached instead for the gun. It would be more effective than a blade against the group of Cambions now thumping down the stairs.

Naked, my mushy lips a match for my mushed up face, I greeted the fuckers as they stomped down and stood in a semi-circle behind their late mistress. Blazing auric colours sparked all around them. They were pissed. But then so was I.

‘Cash,’ I said. ‘Time for your special skills again.’

With pleasure, bro.

My gun hand came up. Truthfully, Cash, my murderous brother wasn’t the only one in control of my fingers this time.

BIO:

Matt Hilton is the bestselling author of the Joe Hunter thriller series, but also enjoys writing in other genres, one of which is horror. Matt has had seven Joe Hunter thrillers published to date, plus an ebook of Hunter short tales, with more to come. He has self-published two horror novels (Dominion and Darkest Hour) as eBooks and also edited and collected the terrific Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Vol 1 anthology, and a number of his short stories have appeared in various collections and anthologies.

Find out more about Matt at http://www.matthiltonbooks.com

Matt is also the founder of Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers and the current thriller editor.

 * NOTE*

Carter and Cash Bailey appeared first in an unpublished Matt Hilton novel called 'The Thin Grey Man'. This is the first time this original 'Bailey Brothers Tale' has appeared anywhere. If enough interest is shown, then Matt might be tempted to publish the original novel.

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

TK'n'C Editors' Halloween Special: Col Bury

As the competition entries pour in (there's still time to win 4 eBooks!), the Editors are certainly getting into the 'spirit' of things as Halloween approaches. Col really enjoyed switching back to his horror roots, from his crime novel endeavours, with this tense tale.  We sincerely hope you 'enjoy' it too... if you can...!

The Writing on the Wall

“You moving in this place then?”  The elderly woman, carrying a bag of groceries, didn’t make eye contact.

          “Yes… yes we are… we have.”  Sarah couldn’t disguise the pride in her voice, at her and Mike having finally found their dream home.  “Do you live through the woods? I saw a little cottage earlier.”

          “Sure. On my own now. It’s lonely out here… alone.”  Her voice was crackly, like sticks breaking underfoot.

Still no eye contact. Strange.  “Oh, Mike and I will pop over to see you. He could cook you a meal. Was a head chef in Manchester, and he’s lovely is my Mike. Funny too, he’ll soon cheer you up.”

“We’ll see.”  She craned her neck upward at charcoal clouds.  “Best get going. It’s a different place at night, you know.”  She turned away and trudged off, unsteadily, using a wooden walking stick.

“Bye… er… do you have a name?”

She didn’t turn around.  “Sure.”

“Mine’s… Sar.. ah…” 

The old lady mumbled something, Sarah didn’t fully catch.

Very odd.  Sarah watched her go, slowly disappearing through a path of flattened foliage into the woods.  Sarah shrugged and went back inside the grand old house.  Their grand old house.  Smiling with pride, she grabbed the metal wallpaper scraper and busied herself in the huge living room.  Well, it was huge compared to their dingy end-terraced in Eccles.

She thought of the aged woman, as she laboriously stripped the walls.  Why was she so aloof?  Maybe her age.  Probably lost her husband.  Anyway, nothing could spoil this dream move for her and Mike.  They’d saved up, sold up and here they were, in the middle of Wales, a few miles from the sea, and with a backdrop of Snowdonia.  Beats the concrete jungle any time.

The house sale - damn cheap too for its size and location - went smoothly and the transfer from Mike’s head office to the Aberystwyth restaurant was also timed to perfection.  Sarah recalled her excitement as she checked on Google Maps how close this house was to his new prospective workplace.  “Ten miles and just half an hour’s drive,” she’d said excitedly.  They’d hugged because they both knew it could really happen.  Just up the road from one of her favourite places too: Aberdovey, and its stunning bay.  It was truly meant to be.

Sarah stopped scraping as she saw a girl’s name scrawled on the wall.  It was faded, but she could just about make it out.  Lucinder.  Bet it’s when a kid who’d lived here had measured herself.  But there was no pencilled line, just the number 8 beside it.  Aw, must be her age.  She scraped some more and saw Jennifer 9.  It reminded her of the fact they couldn’t have kids.  It wasn’t Mike’s fault, it was her.  It had been a dark day when the doctor had informed them, but Mike was the perfect gent about it - “It doesn’t change anything. I love you and always will, Sarah.” 

Glancing again at the names, she shook thoughts of kids away.  This new house was their ‘baby’.  If it wasn’t for their… her… infertility, then they probably wouldn’t have self-indulged with the move.  Now though, nothing would spoil this for them.

Hearing a crunching sound, she paused and glanced through the bay window.  It was Mike pulling up on the drive, the four by four’s sidelights flicked off.  She ran to the front door, like a giggly school girl.

They embraced, a tingle of excitement shooting through her. 

“Bloody’ell, darkness falls quick round here, dunnit?”

“It’s lovely though.”

“Certainly is, babe.”  They unhooked themselves.  

“Drive home okay?” 

Mike grinned.  “Stunning scenery… and I defo went the scenic route.”

They strolled down the hall into the living room.  “What do you mean?”

“I was driving round in circles for twenty minutes. Bloody Sat-Nav lost its signal.”

Sarah picked up the scraper again.  “Work okay?”

“Yeah. They were all pretty friendly to the Englishman. Quite easy to boss ‘em about really.”   He grinned again.  “So, what’ve you been up to? Busy I see.”

“Talking to the neighbour.”  She raised her eyebrows and passed him a spare scraper.

“Let me get my coat off, cheeky!”  He took it off, lay it on their new leather suite that was still covered in plastic while they decorated.  “What’s with the face? We’ve not moved close to weirdos have we? I knew things had gone too well.”

“Nah, just this old lady. She was a bit strange, but I’m sure she’ll come round, once she gets to know us.”

“Strange?”

“Wouldn’t look at me or tell me her name.”

“That’s cos yer a dodgy Mancunian!”

“Oy! Says the man arrested in his teens for joyriding!”

“I dint know the car was stolen, honest!”  He tickled her and they laughed and wriggled, then embraced and kissed.

Sarah broke free first.  “Here, I want to show you something.”  She passed him the spare scraper and this time he took it.  She pointed at the girls’ names.

“And?”

“And, nothing, it’s just… help me. Let’s see if there’s any more.”

Mike looked at the bay window and walked over, shutting the blinds.  Opposite, trees swayed and creaked in the wind.  He reached up and shut the top windows before peering out of the window.  “It’s pitch black out there. You can really see the stars. No light pollution here, eh?”

“Here’s another one…”  Abigail 4.

Mike studied the names.  “So the previous owners had three girls. Bet they’re grown up by now, judging by the style of this crappy old wallpaper.”

They both scraped away. 

“Mike. Look.”

Sarah pointed at another name.  They stared agog.  Joanna 10  - screamer.  “What the hell does ‘screamer’ mean?”

 “Dunno.”

Sarah heard a dull thud and jumped.  It came from below, in the bowels of the house.  “You hear that?”

“What? Hey, steady on, babe. Old houses make noises you know. Chill.”  He smiled reassuringly, smoothed a hand across her cheek.  “So do yer reckon the numbers are their ages?”

“Assume so.”  She was still looking through the open living room door into the hall.

They continued peeling off the paper with vigour. 

Mike suddenly stopped.  “Bloody’ell, Sarah.”  He pointed.  “They’re not ages… they’re marks… marks out of ten. What the…?”

Sarah saw the name Layla 9 / 10.  She quickly scanned the other names and numbers.  Jennifer 9 also had  / 10, but it was somewhat faded. 

“Jesus. What is this, hun?”

“Don’t worry. It’s probably nothing. Summat obvious, that we’re missing.”

They bounced looks, then continued.

Sarah stopped, leaned against the wall, arms up.

“What’s up, babe?”

“It was just something the old lady said as she walked off.”

“What? What did she say?”

“I thought she said, ‘They never caught him, you know’, or something like that.”

“Really?”  Mike looked stern, not his usual self, fuelling Sarah’s angst.

“I think so. Does your laptop get a signal here.”

“Er. Not sure. Not had chance to check yet, but I’m paying for it and the telly’s working, so it should do. I can give it a go.”  He walked into the dining room and grabbed his laptop from the drawer of the sideboard containing his football trophies.  Sarah joined him as he turned it on and placed it on the dining room table.  They both sat down and waited for Windows to fire up.  

“Yes!"  The Web browser opened.  "Okay, what are we searching for exactly?”

Sarah hesitated, then said in a hushed voice.  “Missing girls in mid-Wales?”  Mike frowned at her, shook his head, and typed it in.

They stared as eight photos came up.  “Jesus Christ. Look at the names, Mike.”

Suddenly the lights and laptop went off.

Sarah felt ice shoot up her spine, and screamed.

“Shit! Okay, calm down. Give me your hand. It’s okay, babe. I’ve gotta torch on me phone.”  After a few seconds fumbling, he lit the immediate vicinity, shining the light around, causing shifting shapes of the furniture around them.

“Did you see that? The names… I’m really scared, Mike.”

 “Come on. Get a grip. Please. I’ll go down to the cellar.”

“No, don’t leave me!”

 “I won’t. We’ll both go. It’s probably just a blown fuse. The house hasn’t been lived in for a while. They did say that, remember? That’s why we got it so cheap. Needed a bit of work.”

They moved slowly out of the dining room, into the living room, through the hall and up to the door beneath the staircase.  Sarah felt a shudder as she peered into the kitchen to the rear, its dense blackness seemed to stare back at her.  She quickly looked away, holding Mike’s hand every step of the way.

Thankfully, the door to the cellar didn’t creak.  The phone torchlight wasn’t so bright, and Sarah felt jumpy, seeing dark, fluctuating shapes and shadows.  She’d not been down here before.  It smelled really musty.  The stairs were stone and their footsteps seemed amplified by the gloom.

“You okay?”

She didn’t answer.

“Right. The fuse-box is over here somewhere.” 

“What’s that?”

“What?”

“There. Looks like another door.”

“Oh yeah. Not noticed that before.”

In the far corner was the shape of an old dark wooden door, somewhat camouflaged in the brown stone brickwork.  “We’ll take a look in a minute.”

“We don’t have to.”

 “Here we go.”  He shone the torch at the fuse-box.  “You’ll have to just let go of my hand for a minute.”

Sarah released her grip, her hand clammy, her heartbeat audible.

“Yep, as I thought.”  A click later, and the lights came on, including the bare bulb just above them.

Mike grinned.  “You gonna relax now, babe?”

The wooden door burst open and a dark figure flew at them.  The sword swung at Mike before he could turn, and it cut through the air toward his head.  

Sarah screamed and froze to the spot.  Everything funnelled in, like slow motion.  The bearded man wearing a long black cloak turned to her.  He leered, his manic eyes shining with glee.  She looked at Mike and he staggered.  His expression was fixed, wide-eyed.  His head slowly slid from his neck and fell off onto the stone floor.  It bounced, settled and he stared up at her, like a dead salmon.  His jerking body crumpled beside her, blood spurting onto her legs from the gaping neck.

Catatonic, she couldn’t scream.  Her legs wobbly, she turned to the stairs and clambered up.  She instantly heard throaty laughter and felt sturdy hands gripping her ankles, as her bladder gave way.  She was pulled back down, slowly, her chin buffeting the steps, one by one.  At the bottom, he grabbed her by the hair and an excruciating pain ripped through her scalp as she was dragged past Mike’s head, those eyes still staring, helplessly.

"I hope you're a ten out of ten, like Joanna," the man said gruffly, before slamming the door.

BIO:
Col Bury is the Crime Editor of award winning webzine, THRILLERS, KILLERS ‘N’ CHILLERS.  Under the guidance of his agent, he's currently developing a crime novel series based in Manchester.  Col's ever-growing selection of short stories can be found around the net and in numerous anthologies.  His vigilante story MOPPING UP is in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF BEST BRITISH CRIME 9, and FISTS OF DESTINY, from Col’s eBook MANCHESTER 6, was selected for THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF BEST BRITISH CRIME 10.

Col lives in Manchester, UK with his wife and two children.  He's 'not a bad stick' at 8-ball pool and is an avid fan of Manchester City FC.
He interviews crime authors & blogs here: http/colburysnewcrimefiction.blogspot.com/

NOTE: HALLOWEEN COMP' DEADLINE: MIDNIGHT (UK) OCTOBER 22ND.