THIS WEEK’S TOPIC

Tales by Anne Rice

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NEXT WEEK’S TOPIC

Women in Horror

She had waited weeks to see the newest hit comedy, Romancing For Dummies, and the opening scene found her belly jiggling and her mouth stuffed full of the buttery salted goodness. The cold soda barely washed her mouth clean before she shoved another handful in.

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T.K. Millin lives on the west coast of Florida, known as the Nature Coast, with her husband and their furry pawed family. The most infamous being, Efi Loo, her feline ghost writer and the inspiration behind her blog, The Cat Vamp Diaries: All Things Scary, where she post her Friday Flashes and writes about Efi Loo’s life as a cat vamp. She also authors the blog, The Unknown Author, where she writes about the writer’s life, writing tips and the road to publication. In addition to writing flash fiction, T.k. Millin enjoys writing middle-grade mystery novels and adult short stories in the horror and mystery genre.

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As her right incisor cracked against the kernel, Margie knew the long awaited dreadful day had finally come. No longer could she use the excuse of not having dental insurance be her reason for never seeing a dentist. It was time to face her biggest fear, but fear would have to wait.

To avoid having to face the crowd of movie goers, Margie escaped through an exit door in the back of the theatre and stepped out into the alleyway.

The moon’s reflection on the dampened asphalt and the echoes of life in the distance sent a shiver of regret through Margie’s overstuffed belly and she turned to grab the door handle.

The coldness of the solid steel door sent a bolt of pain straight from her broken tooth all the way to the right side of her brain. Taking a deep breath, she turned and dragged her way down the alley. Halfway to the end, a pile of rubbish on the left rattled and shifted and a bottle rolled out and landed in front of her feet.

“I don’t have any money and I’m fat so you won’t want to rape me!”

A dark shadow crawled out of the rubbish and zig zagged its way toward Margie. She squeezed her eyes shut and stood frozen in fear at the thought of being mauled to death by the giant rat.

“Meow.”

She opened her eyes and smiled. “Ah, your just a cute little kitty cat.” She bent over and reached out to the pet its silky black fur.

“Hiss! Growl! Hiss!” The white fangs found their way into Margie’s right hand before the cat ran off into the darkness.

“Damn cat!”

The glare of the morning sun found Margie waking refreshed and invigorated. She lifted her right hand and rubbed her fingers across the two puncture wounds. “Hmm, they don’t even hurt.”

Moping her way toward the bathroom, she reached up to feel the soothing sensation of her right incisor and pricked her finger against something sharp. She ran the rest of the way down the hall and switched on the light and lifted her top lip. “Oh my gosh, I have a brand new tooth!”

She paused and stared at the reflection of the shiny white fang. “Wait a minute, I just ran down the hall.” She slammed the bathroom door and spun around in a circle. “Oh my God, I’m thin!”

She realized if it worked for one it might work for the rest.

Margie pulled open her kitchen junk drawer and pulled out a pair of pliers and then grabbed the bottle of Wild Turkey from the cupboard she had been saving in hopes of a special occasion and headed back toward the bathroom.

After every shot of whiskey, Margie clasped the pliers around a tooth and yanked.

Margie yawned like a cat at the rising sun and the anticipation of making her first dentist appointment in years found her fearless.

The wrapping of the leather chair around her newly formed curves and the softness of the music made Margie hungry.

“Good afternoon, Margie, I’m Dr. Giggles and what brings you here today?”

“Oh, just a routine check up.”

He pulled his chair closer. “Let’s have a look.” He slapped on a pair of latex gloves and flipped the light strapped to his forehead on. “Wow! I’ve seen some strange dental oddities before, but I have to say you win the prize. Which parent did you inherit this gene from?”

Margie purred. “Let’s just say, the cat’s got my tongue.”

The white fangs found their way into Dr. Giggles right hand and Margie delighted in her payback to many years of torture in a dentist chair.

© Copyright 2012 T.K. Millin
728 words

“Your first patient is Veronica Marsden,” the nurse read from a single sheet of paper clipped to a pad. “Six years of age, and recently moved into the area, this is her first visit to the practice.” She pushed a pair of gold framed glasses more severely on her hose with her middle finger. “Her mother says she was unable to feed the child last night due to chronic tooth ache.”

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Robert A. Read is Originally from south west of England, the author now resides in the Cote d’Or of Burgundy, France, an area renowned for some of the best red wines in the world. A boarding school education spawned an ambition to become a writer of science fiction and horror stories. However, responsibility to a wife and son, and a career in electronic design subverted the dream until divorce in 2003 when the creative urge was re-ignited. A writer of short stories and novels, he adheres to no particular genre, although much of his writing depicts elements of the occult and paranormal.

He also writes a little poetry, usually on dark subjects, but never considers himself to be a poet, likening it more to weaving colourful patterns with words on a form, which hopefully depict an image to the reader like a tapestry.

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The dental surgeon washed his hands and slid them into a pair of disposable gloves. ”Ask her to come in will you, Liz?”

While waiting for the patient to arrive, Matthew arranged his instruments on the tray attached to the chair. Humming a nameless tune, he fitted the obligatory mask over his nose and mouth.

Mrs. Marsden ushered the small girl into the surgery followed by the nurse who closed the door. “Hello Veronica.” Matthew tried to keep his voice jovial. “If you jump up into the big chair, we’ll have a look at that nasty little tooth, shall we?”

He thought she seemed a little small and thin for her age. Undernourished. She wore a red coat, a red, woollen hat pulled down below her ears and covering her hair, and a red, knitted muffler. The skin of her face was pallid, anaemic looking, and pinched around protruding cheek bones. The most unusual thing about her was the eyes. Larger than any he had seen on a child, they seemed too big for her face. An amber pupil filled the wide, staring eye socket like a coloured marble. Apart from the extreme corners of the eyes, the whites were invisible. The black iris, more than two thirds the size of the pupil was not circular, the vertical dimension being significantly greater. The girl’s unblinking, cat-like stare made Matthew feel uneasy.

“No good talking to her. She can’t hear you.” The mother’s voice twanged with an accent Matthew was unable to recognise. “She’s been deaf and dumb since birth.” The woman grasped the child about the waist, and none too gently, plumped her into the leather recliner.

“I’m sorry to hear that. What a shame for the poor child.” Matthew felt even more saddened by the woman’s apparent lack of affection. “Can you take her hat, scarf and coat off so I can fasten the bib?”

“She won’t let me take the hat. She’s grown very attached to wearing a hat. Probably because the older kids make fun of her ears.”

“That’s not very nice. Children can be so cruel sometimes. I’m sure, in a few years, those ears will look quite normal.” Matthew added the last comment in consolation for the girl before he remembered her deafness.”

“Not very likely.” There was a hint of sarcasm in the woman’s voice. “She has none.”

“Born with no ears? How awful.” This explained why she was deaf. “The poor little girl. That is so sad.”

Matthew sat in the swivel chair attached to the patient’s recliner and reached to adjust the bright lamp. “Could I get you to open her mouth, wide, Mrs. Marsden?”

“Of course doctor.” The woman jabbed her thumb and fingers into each side of Veronica’s cheeks forcing the jaws apart, while at the same time, opening her own mouth wide for demonstration.

Matthew guessed Veronica knew what was required by the ease in which she complied. “Do you know which side of her mouth is causing the problem?”

“The right, I think.”

With his free hand, Matthew adjusted the light to get a better view. The brightness of the beam, he noticed, had caused the iris aperture in her eyes to narrow into slits. How strange he thought. Unable to suppress a shudder at the intensity of Veronica’s stare, he leaned forward to examine the inside of her mouth.

The hiss of inhaled breath through his teeth was audible across the room. “What the…?”

Eyes bulging wide in amazement, he sat back in the chair aghast, staring. “I’ve never seen anything so bizarre in a patient, particularly not a child. Mrs. Marsden, is this some sort of sick joke?”

“What do you mean doctor?”

He could sense the false innocence in her voice. “I mean the weird surgery that’s been inflicted on her mouth. You can’t tell me this is natural.”

“I assure you it is. That’s exactly how her teeth grew.”

Matthew leaned forward again, as if to confirm his initial reaction was not due to hallucination. The upper and lower incisors appeared to have been ground into needle sharp points. Her lower canines, twice the length of the incisors were similarly modified, while the upper canines, even longer, and wickedly curved, looked similar to stilettos embedded in the gums. They reminded Matthew of the venomous fangs in the mouth of rattlesnake.

Even through his mask, her breath stank of decomposing flesh. A reddish tinge, like rust, was visible in the gaps between her teeth, as if her gums had recently bled.

“Does she regularly clean her teeth?”

“We’ve not been able to for a day or so because of the pain.”

Matthew would have believed her if she admitted to months rather than days. Taking a mirror and periodontal probe, he held his breath while prodding the tip tentatively against the inside of each molar. “Ah! This looks like the cause of the problem.” He looked up at the nurse standing behind the patient. “I think we can fix this with a composite resin filling if you could mix one for me.” Turning back to the reclining patient, and without thinking, he asked. “Does this hurt?”

The gargled, choking shriek of agony, and the speed at which her mouth snapped shut, startled Matthew. For several long moments, he felt nothing. Mesmerised, he watched the trickle of blood oozing from the corner of her mouth. His blood! A numbing ache edged into the palm of his hand before chaos erupted in the room.

The girl’s mother screamed. From the sound of the slap, she must have hit the girl, and then Matthew was aware of the jaws being forced apart. His hand came free, and he felt a burning sensation, as if he was holding it in a flame. He staggered to his feet sending the tray of dental instruments clattering across the floor.

“I’m sorry doctor! I’m so sorry…”

Mathew hardly heard the words. He clutched his lacerated palm in attempt to quell the flow of blood. Liz was at his side with napkins trying to assist. Neither of them saw Mrs. Marsden bundling Veronica into the red coat, then, clasping the girl against her chest, run from the room.

“I’ll be alright, Liz. Could you get me a cup of tea?”

Liz disappeared through a door into the adjoining room. Matthew felt sick. He could feel the room spinning. The pain, like molten steel, engulfed his whole arm and shoulder. He leaned back against the wall. His knees gave way and he slid into a sitting position on the floor.

Liz returned with the tea, pushing the door open. For a moment, she stood gawping at him. “Oh, Mr. Roberts, are you alright? You’ve gone a funny colour.”

He could feel perspiration running from his forehead and around his neck. The last words he was able to utter were, “Not feeling so good. You’d better phone for an ambulance…”

© Copyright 2012 Robert A. Read
1250 words

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Lisa McCourt Hollar is a wife and the mother of 4 children. She is the author of several short stories and story collections on Kindle, as well as being published in several anthologies, including the soon to be released Satan’s Toybox: Demonic Dolls anthology through AngelicKnight Press. She is working on a novel, The Legend Of Graystone Manor, which is planned for release in 2012.

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When he unlocked her cell, she wasn’t waiting for him on her bed, as he had hoped. Instead, she was huddled in the corner, looking as though she were trying to melt into the shadows. Shaking his head, Roman strode across the floor and pulled her up, yanking her into a standing position by pulling on the back of her neck.

“How dare you sully yourself by sitting in the filth. I had your sheets changed today for a reason. I want you clean, when my mouth touches you.”

“Please,” she begged, “it is too soon.”

“Then you should have done a better job pleasing me and maybe I wouldn’t need you again so soon.”

It was a lie. She had become his favorite and he intended to visit her as often as he deemed fit. Pulling her to him, Roman ripped the front of her smock open, revealing her breasts. They weren’t large, but they were real and it was what they contained beneath the skin that he longed for.

Cupping one of them in his hand, he squeezed it, deriving pleasure from the pained groan that came from her throat.

“Tell me you want me.” It was a game to him. He knew she wouldn’t say it, not until he caused her more pain. She also knew it was about the pain he inflicted, as well as the satisfaction he would get when he took her, although not in the way she had expected his first time with her.

She was so beautiful the day she was brought to him. She had killed her husband and children, so society wouldn’t care what happened to her. She had been deemed insane by a jury of her peers and sent to Greenlawn, where she would be forgotten about. This suited Dr. Knight. He had smelled her the moment she walked through his door, shackles on her feet and arms. He had gone to her that night.

“Please,” she begged again, but Roman didn’t listen. He pushed her down on the bed and climbed on top of her, forcing her legs apart. It was after he had forced himself into her, thrusting hard and causing her to scream, that he bit into her breast, opening her with his sharpened canines.

Roman had been five when he was diagnosed with porphyria, a medical condition that caused his skin to burn in the sunlight. When a few years later, his mother had caught him drinking blood from their cat, she had taken him back to the doctor. He had assured her that a craving for blood was not one of the symptoms of porphyria.

A series of tests revealed that he also suffered from Celiac disease. It was rare for someone to suffer from two different diseases that resembled vampirism, but it wasn’t unheard of. The doctor suggested that perhaps the latter was psychosomatic and Roman was sent to councelling. This turned out to be his salvation, nurturing a love for psychiatry. To his mother, he appeared to be improving and the neighborhood wildlife ceased to diappear.

In reality, Roman had learned to hide his desire for blood, hunting away from his neighborhood. As he grew into a young adult, he noticed a sweet smell among certain people. It wasn’t until he paid for the services of one prostitute, that he realized that it was blood. He had never drank anything, but animals, but as he came inside the whore, he did something he had never done before. He bit into her neck, ripping it open and drinking the wonderful nectar that would become his addiction.

Greenlawn Mental Institution was a godsend. Not only could he spend his days in the dark, but he had an unlimited supply of blood. No one cared what happened to his patients. No one ever came by to check on their welfare and if they did, who would believe the ravings of the insane.

“Dr. Knight has been feeding on my blood.”

“Oh did he dear? Here is a shot to calm you down.”

A few months after being appointed head doctor at the institute, Roman visited a dentist. He’d asked him to file his teeth into fangs. The doctor hadn’t even batted an eye. It had become a common request, what with the rise in popularity of movies like Twilight and television shows that romanticized vampires. Of course he had come back later to thank the good dentist and by the way, kill him. His blood hadn’t been as good as the woman he now terrorized, but it had filled him. He’d also made sure to take his records. It wouldn’t do for anyone to find out about his dental work and begin to wonder if any of his patients rantings were true.

Finished with the woman, he climbed off of her, zipping up his pants and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. The patient cried quietly on the bed. No one in the Institute would notice, nor would they care if they did. He had made sure all the employees would be immune to sympathy, hiring those who held a similar desire to inflict pain. Leaving the room, he nodded to the nurse that would take her turn with the patient. It wasn’t blood she desired, but something else. Roman was halfway down the hall when the screaming began. The nurse had begun, dragging the sceams out in long, torturous assaults. Roman didn’t care, as long as the patient was kept alive. Her blood was AB negative, his favorite.

© Copyright 2012 Lisa McCourt Hollar
1000 words

Discovering the Author in the Text by Gaynor Stenson

Angela Carter was born in 1940 and sadly died in 1992 from lung cancer at the pitifully young age of 51.

A journalist and writer, for me, she epitomises what women can contribute to the genre of horror writing, although strictly speaking none of her novels or short stories fall comfortably into any one genre.

She read English at Bristol University and later was Fellow of Creative Writing at Sheffield University. She was also writer in residence at a number of universities around the world and lived for a time in Japan. Carter wrote many novels, works of nonfiction and anthologies. A number of her more famous short stories were aired on the radio, including The Lady in the House of Love, renamed Vampirella, and a couple of her fictional works were made into films, the most famous of them being A Company of Wolves.

The Bloody Chamber published in 1979, the collection retells a number of European fairytales from the oral tradition, but from a feminist perspective. In an interview with Anna Katsavos, Carter says,

It’s not very pleasant for women to find out about how they are represented in the world. They find out much more about what their real existential status is from pornography, and it’s very unpleasant. It really is. It’s enough to make women give up on the human race.

In The Lady in the House of Love, a vampire sits alone in her ancient chateau, like sleeping beauty, above a deserted village. Unlike the Hollywood vision of the vampire’s home, the villagers, instead of torching the castle and staking the vampire, have simply moved away, moved on and left the vampire behind obsolete. Carter herself experienced a similar translocation from danger as the villagers when, as a child during the war, she was evacuated to Yorkshire to live with her grandmother leaving her mother behind. In my opinion, this story, and in fact most of Carter’s fiction is informed by her experiences, her family and views on life, politics and feminism.

Her writing has been described as Gothic, subversive and picaresque. Carter’s style and knowledge give a fresh perspective for the modern reader discovering new meaning in fairytales. In a radio interview (link provided) she dismisses the term of magical realism, which is most commonly used to describe her writing, as having no meaning in terms of an English writer. Her writing, her reinvention of the vampire, shows a respect and knowledge of writers in whose footsteps she has followed. However in Carter’s story the Countess is as much a victim as the young men whose bones are dispatched by the servant.

There are echoes of Le Fanu’s Countess Carmilla Karnstein and Goethe’s The Bride of Corinth (1797) in Carter’s nameless vampire character, but also an ambiguity, for her vampire envies humanity without having any real link to it unlike previous incarnations, the Countess has never been human. Carter’s vampire lusts not for blood, but for the ability to love without killing the object of her desire, however it is the consummation of that love which brings about her own mortality. In a cultural context childbirth was one of the biggest killers of women along with kitchen fires in previous centuries.

In Carter’s own words this story is speculative asking if a vampire could change its nature and in turn asking bigger questions of society,

There’s a story in “The Bloody Chamber” called “The Lady and the House of Love,” part of which derives from a movie version that I saw of a story by Dostoyevsky. And in the movie, which is very good, the woman, who is a very passive person and is very much in distress, asks herself the question, “Can a bird sing only the song it knows, or can it learn a new song?” Have we got the capacity at all of singing new songs? It’s very important that if we haven’t, we might as well stop now. Can the marionette in that story behave in a way that she’s not programmed to behave? Is it possible?

In my opinion, women writers, artists and filmmakers working in the horror genre are at the forefront of change, in a changing society itself. In Carter’s own lifetime, many attitudes changed and women left the kitchen sinks to fill in for husbands away fighting in the war. The post-war jobs for heroes aftermath decimated women’s new found independence and saw a reinvention of these women, through state propaganda, as ‘homemakers’ in the 50’s and the backlash was the bra-burning radical feminist of the 60’s when Carter herself began her writing career.

Carter gives the Countess only one piece of clothing, apart from her bloodstained nightdress, her mother’s faded wedding gown. This is the only mention of her mother in the text and she is nameless like the Countess herself. Most of the characters in the collection are in fact nameless just like the anonymous women writers in the past whose places in the canon are filled by white male middle-class authors.

Under the eyes of the portraits of her demented and atrocious ancestors, each of whom, through her, projects a baleful posthumous existence (The Bloody Chamber p. 93).

The only characters named in this short story are her famous or infamous ancestors. She is the last descendent of the infamous Vlad the Impaler and the iconic figure of Nosferatu. In the radio interview (link provided), Carter speaks of inheriting her literacy from her father’s side of the family, from her mother’s the pragmatism of people who ‘got by’. In The Lady in the House of Love, like Carter herself inherited stoicism, the Countess has inherited something, a wedding dress, with the significance that holds, from her mother and greets her visitor wearing it under the patriarchal gaze of her ancestors from whom she has inherited her vampirism.

Just like the vampire in Carter’s story, women in horror are dogged by the past, a past where women’s place was seen as that of the victim; a shallow character, expendable or the passive object of admiration such as Mina Harker in Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Carter describes her vampire as “both death and the maiden”, turning on its head the unspoken, or spoken in some cases, rule that in horror, the female protagonist must either be virtuous or dead.

In Stoker’s novel Dracula, his judgement on women is coloured by his preconceived Victorian ideals of womanhood, the wife and mother who is sexually non-threatening, she can be saved and is worthy of being saved. On the other hand, his characterisation of Lucy as both corrupted and corruptor is marked by changing Lucy’s name to the Bloofer Lady. She is transformed, made other, de-humanised, an outsider, which means she must die to preserve the natural order. Carter’s vampire is neither good nor bad, but is a product an older mythology; one lost in time and as such, it is the invasion of modernity that kills her. It robs her of certainty or her place in the world. Where Stoker gives Lucy two names Carter gives her character none.

Within Carter’s own text, the vampire is passive, waiting, as generations of women have waited for a hero to save them, while a mute servant serves her. One thing Carter was scathing of was the bourgeoisie novel where the protagonists live in big houses and employ a cleaning lady, but the Countess’s servant is more. In the short story, Carter likens her role to that of a governess and just as in Stoker’s novel, she uses the relationship as a metaphor for the dying, or imagined, social order infected by changes in modern society.

Just as all her ancestors have been served, the servant provides food by bringing stray male travellers into ‘the vampire’s larder’, her bedroom. The Countess is forced to live on rabbits, hunting them in her garden at night and dreaming of keeping them as pets and feeding them lettuce, dreaming of becoming human herself. It could be argued that, when Carter creates her vampire, she is using her own early experiences with anorexia as a teenager to inform the character’s attitude to food and self-image, “her beauty is a symptom of her disorder, her soullessness”. In fact, on one level, this whole story revolves around the lady’s relationship with food and self-image; one of the servant’s duties is to keep the Countess from her own reflection.

I didn’t discover Angela Carter’s writing until after her death, but from the moment I read The Lady in the House of Love, I became fascinated with the vampire as a metaphor for the lives of women in the 20^th century. Like the turning of the Tarot card in the story, for long periods of time, nothing changes, but it is how we react to change that defines us. The underlying message at the end of the story is that the young man discovers the cards are blank, the images worn away by time. The Countess herself has changed her own fate. She is the one to choose.

In reading this text and its subtext over the years, I’ve gained a great appreciation for Angela Carter’s talent as an author and why, however you classify her writing, she brings horror alive, putting a mirror up to society and showing the true horror is in reality. In her own words, ‘A book is simply the container of an idea like a bottle; what is inside the book is what matters’.

Primary Source for this article

Carter, Angela. The Bloody Chamber. (London, Vintage 1995)

The BBC Archive

Dalkey Archive

Angela Carter Quotes

“You there. Are you hungry, would you like to sit by the fire?”

The girl backed away into the shadows for she feared showing herself. She frightened people with her teeth.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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Carole Gill was selected by North West Playwrights of England for further development. It was an invaluable experience but Carole found she prefers to write fiction. She loves to scare herself and others with her horror fiction and is widely published in horror and sci-fi anthologies. Currently, Masters of Horror Anthology One, Masters of Horror Damned If You Don’t, Sonar’s Ladies and Gentlemen of Horror 2010, SNM’s Bonded By Blood3 Languish In Lament, Sonar’s Whitechapel 13, Anthology, Rymfire’s Undead Tales, Zombie Winter, Angelic Press’ Demonic Toys, Netbound’s Spirits of the Night and Enter at Your Own Risk, Dark Gothic Fiction. Sci Fi Almanac 2009 and 2010 and Science Fiction Freedom Magazine, issues 1-4, Sci Fi Talk’s Tales of Time and Space. Although she loves writing sci-fi her true love is dark gothic horror. Her gothic horror novel, The House on Blackstone Moor, published in 2010 by Vamplit is her first novel. The sequel, Unholy Testament will be published by Vamplit later this year.

THE HOUSE ON BLACKSTONE MOOR
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She was born with tiny, sharp teeth. Teeth her mother felt every time she nursed her.

As she grew older the teeth became too noticeable and the villagers started to talk; one day the mayor came with priests and others to take the child away ‘for her own good.’

The mother agreed, not intending for a moment to go along with any of it. Instead, she took the little girl to the woods.

“If God sees fit for you to survive you will, my child. Forgive me.”
She left the child there and since she could not live with what she had done, she killed herself. The girl, barely five, wept for days. She wept until she was rescued.

Ironically it was a coven of vampires that saved her, taking care of her, eventually telling her that they would never force their world upon her nor their way of existing.

“If you decide to enter our world, it will be your decision.”
And so it was, for when she was no longer a child but a young woman she allowed herself to be created. When she tasted the master’s blood, she saw his entire existence. And she was moved and wept for she saw savagery and persecution.

“We are hunted down and always shall be, for what we are. I regret you are one of the afflicted now…”

She said she didn’t mind for she loved her coven and him and they returned that love.

But all was not well for one day vampire destroyers came and they wiped out those she thought of as family.

She hid in the forest, frightened lest they find her, for she had seen what they did–the staking and beheading and she feared for herself.

A year went by with her hiding in caves and feeding on whatever small animals she could find.

Yet this could not last for she was lonely. She missed her coven and yearned to be a part of something again.

When she could no longer stand the solitude she wandered some distance, and came in sight of a village. It looked like a small settlement.

She still feared destroyers, but her lonely heart pushed her forward and so she went, stopping at a small cottage just on the outskirts.

It was dark and she could see light from within. How inviting it looked to her, for in the far recesses of her mind she did recall such a cottage. Actually she was remembering the one she was born in.

This was when the housemaid saw her.
“Are you a wood spirit?” she asked, for she was a simple girl with a good heart. “Whatever you are, I should like to offer you some food.”

The maid’s voice startled the girl. “I cannot,” she called out, slipping back into the shadows.

But the housemaid was persistent and the girl acquiesced and walked toward the open door.

It wasn’t until she smiled that the housemaid gasped. For her teeth were truly frightening—worse than they had ever been. Still, she insisted the girl have soup and bread.

“Come in and eat. Sleep by the fire if you wish, my master is not here…”

The girl thanked the woman and fell into a deep sleep, only waking later to find the housemaid dozing too. She was so overcome with gratitude that she hurried to her, to thank her.

She was surprised at how sweet the housemaid’s skin smelled.

She only meant to kiss her hands, but she did more. She began to feed gently, moving up her arm and beyond. When her lips found the soft, white throat she wept with joy and began to feed there. Yet, her teeth did not tear the flesh; it was a caress if anything.

The housemaid opened her eyes and smiled. And because she had never been with anyone in this way or any other, she gave herself up there in the light of the fire and the two became one. And the night passed and their affection grew until passion came to claim both their hearts.

The door opened at dawn. The master of the house stood gazing at the two recumbent figures, one feeding quietly upon the other.

“What is this?”

The housemaid was startled and apologized but she needn’t have bothered.

“No it’s alright, for I know how I shall end my story! You see it is something I have been working on for ages! And now, suddenly—I find you and know that I will be able to finish my writing! Who are you?” he asked the stranger. “What is your name?”

The girl, with the housemaid’s blood upon her face and breast replied: “I am Carmilla and I come from another place.”

“Have no fear little one, I am Le Fanu and you may stay here as long as you like.”

© Copyright 2012 Carole Gill
916 words

“Sebastian—that’s his name, isn’t it?” Mandy asked herself.

Oh well, Sebastian or Sinbad or whoever he was looked like a predator casing her possessions, and that’s what she liked about the Escort service she used, it wasn’t your uptown type. There were never any questions, no bothersome paper trails or screenings. Just pay your money and get laid by a slightly lower class of escort—one who would probably arrange for some friends to visit your apartment while you were at work and commit a little afternoon larceny.

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Timothy C. Hobbs is a consummate horror writer and his stories are both horrific and beautifully crafted. The Pumkin Seed published by Vamplit Publishing in 2009 was Timothy Hobbs first published novel. He is now working with his editor at Vamplit Publishing on a collection of stories based on popular fairytales.

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“Nice apartment,” Sebastian commented, removing his hands from his pockets, retrieving his own martini from the glass top of the avant-garde entertainment center, and taking a diminutive sip of the Dirty Vodka concoction Mandy had mixed up. “Nice drink too,” he commented. He sat his drink back down close to the watery ring previously left on the glass surface. “Glad you decided to skip dinner,” Sebastian said. “We can have more quality time together.”

Mandy thought Sebastian, as well as her recent escorts, tried to imitate George Clooney and Michael Fassbender lately with their GQ hairstyles and fashion choices.

“Yes,” she said out loud with a grin. She lay sideways on the couch, letting her short skirt rise even higher on her thigh. “It’s my birthday,” she informed. “I want to make the most of the evening.” She let her tongue lick away the martini residue from her full lips. “I want you to take your time in bed with me.”

Sebastian smiled and started to walk towards her when he noticed a jar sitting on the shelf just above the wall-mounted, flat screen television.

“What’s that?” he asked, moving back toward the TV. He reached up and took a container about the size of a Mason jar from the shelf. He held it up, frowning as he scrutinized the contents. “Looks like something from biology lab.” He gazed intently at an object floating in some type of oily preservative inside the jar. Sebastian frowned deeper and looked toward Mandy. “Looks like a goddamned tadpole or something.”

Mandy slid off the couch, cocktail in hand. She walked to Sebastian and placed her free arm around him.

“Hmmm,” she said, nestling her head against Sebastian’s shoulder. “Looks like a tadpole all right.” She took the jar from him and placed it back on the shelf above the TV. The thing in the jar swished from being moved, its tail and knobby appendages stiff; its dark, beady eyes gazing into infinity.

Mandy reached up and kissed Sebastian, her tongue deeply probing the olive-tinted vodka tang lingering on his gums and teeth.

“I’ll tell you all about that specimen in the jar once we’ve been in bed for awhile,” she whispered after breaking her kiss.

“Your twin sister!” Sebastian exclaimed as he drained what was left of his drink and placed the glass on the nightstand by his side of the bed. He laughed, saying, “That’s impossible. The thing in that jar wasn’t human.” He looked at Mandy and saw she was dead serious.

Mandy scowled and reached toward her nightstand. She lifted a full martini glass from it and took a long drink. Her face brightened a bit. She inhaled and sniffed the muskiness around her. The bed smelled of sweat and semen and mucous.

“You don’t believe me. Why should you?” Mandy stated. She pulled the sheet from her naked body and stretched. Sebastian observed her with renewed hunger filling him. “That thing in the jar is my twin sister,” Mandy said as Sebastian crawled between her legs. “It never developed beyond the embryonic, amphibian stage.”

“Sure,” Sebastian commented mockingly as he moved his head downward until it was buried between her legs.

“Ummm,” Mandy moaned in distraction. “It was still attached to me when I was born,” she explained as her fingers pulled roughly through Sebastian’s hair. “Its jaws were clamped on my spinal chord; surgery was risky, the odds of survival very . . .”

The orgasm hit her and she arched her back, riding every wave.

Eventually, Sebastian raised his head and slid up Mandy’s body.

“What did you say about a sister?” he asked as he positioned himself inside her.

The bathroom was dimly illuminated. Sebastian stood by the sink. He held his watch next to the nightlight plugged in just to the side of a tooth brush holder. It was a little after midnight.

He couldn’t believe he had fallen asleep for awhile. When he had awakened, he had found Mandy turned on her side, facing away from him. Sebastian knew by her deep, slow breathing that she had dozed off as well.

Sebastian turned the cold water on in a small, steady stream. He splashed his face and rinsed his mouth. In his search for a towel, he found the specimen jar from the living room sitting opened on the side of the bathtub. A shower curtain was pulled closed around the tub.

“What the . . .?”

The bathroom light flicked on.

Sebastian turned to find Mandy standing nude in the doorway. A sudden splashing noise caused Sebastian to turn his attention back to the tub. A foul odor wafted over the shower curtain. It had the reek of a brackish tide pool.

“Ugh!” Sebastian voiced with a gagging sound. His eyes were actually watering when he pulled back the shower curtain.

The thing in the jar had grown considerably. Its tail moved slowly from side to side; its appendages twitched in the putrid water filling the tub. The black eyes located on the sides of its head were half in, half out of the water, fixing a voracious intent on Sebastian.

“She gets big so quickly when put in the primordial pool,” Mandy said. “Once she crawls out and feeds, it only takes an hour or so for her to shrink back to her tiny size.”

“Who?” Sebastian asked, backing away from the bathtub. “What?”

“My twin sister. It’s her birthday as well,” Mandy announced. “She deserves a present too before she shrinks and gets put back in that jar for another year.”

“Present? What are you talking about?” Sebastian asked, staring in dread as a dark, green form began to slide wetly over the side of the bathtub.

“Why, fast food delivery, of course,” Mandy said with a chuckle.

Sebastian had just a second to glimpse the jagged scar descending down the nape of Mandy’s neck before she exited the room, locking the bathroom door behind her.

© Copyright 2012 Timothy C. Hobbs
1123 words

‘This was the wrong job for me,’ thought Dr. Ben Billing as he gazed out into the night. ‘I need to get back to a city. Any city. Three months of nothing more interesting than moonshine overdoses or lawn mower accidents and I’m already going out of my mind.’

He sighed.

‘How many times can I give a charcoal treatment, or try to sew on some toes someone carried in here in a Dixie cup? This ER is killing me.’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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Rob Smales, though 42, is a new writer who just enjoys telling stories. His shorter work can be found in Bewildering Stories E-zine, Dark Moon Digest, and most recently in Dark Moon Publishing’s anthology, Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror. Vamplit’s Friday Flash seemed a fairly natural next step, though a challenge – Rob has a tendancy to over-write. When not spending time with his young son or writing short, somewhat random fiction, he spends his spare time (wait, what spare time?) working on a series of original ghost story anthologies, the first of which is titled The Dead of Winter.

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The hospital (if you could call it that) sat on the outskirts of Iggerton, what Ben like to think of as “a podunk little shithole”. The place was so small they only required one person to man the ER overnight, and tonight that person was Ben.

“Well,” he said aloud, “it is Halloween. Maybe one of the hicks will go nuts and I’ll have a nice stab wound to suture or something.”

He turned from the window and took two steps before falling back with a gasp.

There was a boy.

Half-way down the corridor that had been empty when Ben had walked to the window, sitting on the one gurney the tiny Emergency Room sported, was a curly haired lad of about 15, in jeans and a t-shirt. There was a sheen of perspiration on his face and he was doubled over as if he were trying to warm the arms he held across his stomach.

“Hi! Uh… Hello?”

The boy ignored Ben, staring past him toward the window. Ben took a cautious step forward, realizing it was a little late but trying to sound authoritative anyway.

“Can I help you, Son?”

The boy rocked slightly and muttered something in a low voice, still staring. Ben paused and looked over his shoulder to see what it was that so fascinated his visitor. All he saw was the window. And the swollen moon. He turned back to the boy.

“Sorry, I couldn’t make that out. What did you say?”

The boy finally looked at Ben, his eyes dark and large, liquid with unshed tears.

“Hurts…” the boy growled, clutching his stomach even tighter. “…It hurrrts…”

“Your stomach? Did you eat something?”

Ben put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and felt him trembling.

“Can’t eat. Hurrrts…” Seined through gritted teeth, everything became a growl. He pried one arm from his abdomen, extending it toward the window to point a shaky finger.

“…hurrrrts…”

Ben looked to the window. Saw nothing but the moon. That sparked a recollection, but he was distracted by the boy’s exposed arm. It was covered with thick, dark hair.

“Oh my God…”

He gripped the wrist, turning the arm over in a sort of daze.

‘I’ve never seen anything like this before! I wonder if…’

The inside of the forearm was bare, but there was hair growing on the boy’s palm, fine and dark. That recollection returned, but the boy pulled his arm back as if embarrassed.

“Is that, uh, new?”

“Yes,” gasped the boy, eyes squeezed shut. “The hair… the pain…what’s happening to me?”

Ben shook his head.

“I don’t know. Come with me, please. Here, I’ll help you.”

Ben assisted him into the next room and onto the sheet draped exam table. He looked at his patient. His hair was thick, and his ears seemed strangely pointed. His forearms were covered with a thick mat of hair. Ben felt a prickle of unease, remembering something he’d read long ago, as a child…

“Wait here,” Ben said. “I’ll be right back.”

He went up the hall to the front desk and grabbed his stethoscope. He was on his way back to the exam room when a high scream of pain stabbed out of the exam room, freezing Ben where he stood. He gaped for a second, then ran down the hall, bursting through the exam room doors.

“My God, what’s going—”

He froze again, this time in terror. Before him stood the boy — at least, he thought it was the boy. Hair covered him from crown to toes. The sneakers had been kicked off and the shirt torn to shreds, and there was hair everywhere! White teeth bared in a fierce snarl, hairy fingers hooked into talons, he howled at Ben.

All those childhood recollections, the books, the movies, it all came back to Ben in a rush. He felt a liquid warmth in his crotch, and he had time for one panicked thought:

“Wolfman!” he screamed as he spun and fled from the room. He sprinted up the hall to the exit. He ran through the parking lot blindly, no thought of his car. He aimed for the town almost a mile away and he ran and ran.

Behind the hospital two boys climbed into a large truck, one covered with hair, the other smooth skinned. They were laughing as the engine started. Across the hood was painted the words“Haradan Bros. Circus”, and each door was emblazoned with the words “Los Lobos – The Wolf Brothers”. The smooth-skinned one scratched his face as he held up a small video camera.

“This is going to itch like hell while it’s growing back,” he said. “Next time we switch, and you shave, okay?”

“Deal,” replied the hairy one. “But wasn’t it worth it?” He laughed again.

“Oh, definitely,” said the smooth one. “Who would have thought hypertrichosis could be so much fun!”

He pointed to the playback screen on the camera as, on it, the doctor burst into the room. The viewpoint was low, from beneath the exam table, and showed off the doctor’s groin to advantage.

“Watch, watch! This is the part where he wets his pants!”

The truck was put into gear, and rich laughter rolled out behind the truck as they drove through the night.

Hypertrichosis  (also called  Ambras Syndrome) is an abnormal amount of hair growth on the body; extensive cases of hypertrichosis have informally been called  werewolf syndrome - See Wikipedia Entry

© Copyright 2012 Rob Smales
984 words

WARNING: ADULT SEXUAL CONTENT
GRAPHIC AND DISTURBING

He sits on the bar stool, wearing dark shades even though the joint is typical of the poorly lit gin joints frequenting this part of town. There’s barely enough light for the bar-keep to mix and pour drinks. But that’s what is wanted here. No one wants to see all that goes on in this or any of the other dives in the area.

Yet, the activity in here does not escape his eyes. Nothing escapes his eyes.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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Blaze McRob is a regular Friday Flash contributor here in the Vamplit Blog. His short stories are featured in a number of anthologies including: Satan’s Toybox: Demonic Dolls and Masters of Horror, Damned If You Don’t, the evils of drug use, alcoholism, scarification, obesity and obsession amplified into blood-curdling cautionary tales.

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Over in a corner booth, after a drug deal has been completed, the mysterious, magical powder is spread on the table top, and the occupants snort to their hearts content. Between the drug of choice, a few beers, and a cheap bottle of rot-gut, they’re wasted in no time, and their unconscious forms flop over every which way.

No more than five feet from where he sits, some floozy is trying to get some scratch by giving a guy a blow job on the bar stool, sucking him dry when his jizz erupts in wild frenzy. He groans in ecstasy and gladly parts with a couple of twenties when his composure returns. She takes the money. plants a kiss on his forehead, and orders a gin and tonic. Mr. Satisfied slaps his flacid manhood inside his pants and zips himself up.

He shakes his head. Different bar, same shit. It’s always the same: drugs, sex, and alcohol. Sometimes a lethal mix.

Yet, for him, it is all a show. One he will become an active participant in.

“Would you like some company, stranger?”

He looks at a young lady, dressed to the nines, smiling at him. It would seem she’s a bit out of place for this skid row den of iniquity, but he’s seen high class hookers trolling the dredges, trying to separate men from their money, knowing that before they are in any condition to enjoy her company, they will pass out in any of a myriad of stupors.

“Sure,” he says, “it is a bit lonely in here.”

He waves a twenty at the bartender and gets a martini for his companion and a neat Scotch for himself.

“I’m not here very often,” she says, “but I’ve never seen you here before. A man like you would be hard to forget.’

Ah, so typical: different woman, same approach. Pitiful, really.

“Just passing through,” he says, “trying to absorb a little of the local color, so to speak. and you? You don’t quite seem to fit here.”

She places her hand on his knee and works it slowly and deliberately towards his groin. “I am looking for a certain type of man tonight, a man who rises above the rest, who knows how to treat a lady, and how to show her a good time. Do you know of anyone like that?”

A smile crosses his face. “I believe I do. I suggest before your hands go any higher that we perhaps leave this shit-hole and go to a place where the moment can be fully appreciated.”

“And where might that be?”

“To my apartment. I’ll call a cab, and we can be there in minutes.”

She purrs with delight and slides in next to him once the cab arrives, teasing him with her hands and the provocative show of skin she displays. Ten minutes later, the cab pulls up in front of a gorgeous brownstone and they walk inside.

It’s not at all the apartment she had envisioned. This is a house. He owns the whole damned house, and it is fitted with lavish furnishings, gorgeous art work-both paintings and sculpture-and a crystal chandelier of such breadth she wonders why it hasn’t fallen from the ceiling.

“This . . .this is your apartment?”

“Yes, do you like it?”

“Very much so!”

“Let me take you to my favorite room, my dear. If you like what you have seen so far, you are in for a special treat.”

He takes her by the hand and leads her to the bedroom. She gasps in disbelief at the size of the bed, easily twice the size of a standard king. Never has she seen anything quite like this. Mirrors, grand, huge gilded mirrors are everywhere. There is no way that any vision of themselves they wish to see as they are making love will go unseen.

Walking to a huge wood appointed refrigerator, he removes a bottle of champagne and skillfully pops the cork. He pours them both a glass and motions for her to sit on the edge of the bed. She does as he asks, and when they have consumed the bubbling wine, he sets the goblets to the side and gently removes her clothing, piece by piece, until she is wearing nothing other than her natural splendor.

“Oh, you are a lovely lady. I will enjoy pleasing you and myself.”

He removes his clothing swiftly and is beside her in the bed in seconds. The ambiance of the room has her love juices flowing rapidly, and he takes her over and over again, driving deeper with each orgasm they experience, there seeming to be no end to his virile endurance.

Exhausted, she lies there, barely able to move, wondering why he has not removed his sun glasses. It would be a comical sight were it not for the fact he is so well hung. Nothing could detract from that vision.

When she is able to talk, she asks,”Why do you always wear the shades? Are your eyes sensitive to light?”

Smiling, he says nothing, merely removing them as she gasps in horror. No sound comes from her throat as she gasps for breath, unable to cope with the visual before her. She looks deep into his eyes and sees the soul of pure evil, far beyond anything she could have ever imagined. picture after picture is shown her, in time frames unfamiliar to her as well as those that are.

My God! She sees herself, back when she turned her first trick, stealing all the money her sleeping customer had before slipping out the door; the time she slit the throat of a man because he was ten dollars short of the bargained price; and the time she killed a regular and his new choice of the evening in a fit of rage, emptying a .38 into both of them.

“Not liking what you’re seeing, my lady friend? Are you disturbed by these visions of evil, many caused by what you have done? You are. I can tell. Look deeper, and you will see a young woman leaving her baby on the steps outside a church because of his medical deformities, things she can not accept.

“This poor child was born with eyes that were not really eyes. They were so much more. Not only were his dark black eyes the portal to his soul, they were the portal to the soul of anyone gazing into his eyes. Yes, my dear: I can see your past, the present, and your future.”

She screams, for she can see her future as well; through his eyes; tied to his soul.

They come for her, grabbing her so tight she feels as if they will tear her limbs off. Out of the light and into the darkness she goes.

Then it is all over.

He dresses and looks in the mirror, liking what he sees. To others, viewing him as he is now, he is a monster, a very paradigm of evil. Ah, but they see themselves in his eyes as well. It is not his fault they chose the path they did.

The night is still young. He dons his shades and hails a cab.

“Where to, Mac?” the cabbie asks.

“Wherever people are looking to have a good time, my friend. A place where there is sex, drugs, booze, and music. Yes, music would be nice this time around.”

The cabbie heads to the east side. he knows the place; the perfect place.

Tonight, more than other nights, this will be the city that doesn’t sleep.

© Copyright 2012 AUTHOR
1346 words

Ok, going to the dentist is not at the top of anyone’s’ list, but you know, I like to go.  Call me crazy, call me nut-so, but there’s something to be said about the cleanliness, and the comfortable chair…oh alright, I go because my dentist is drop dead gorgeous.  Oh my lord, I’d do anything for him and not complain one bit.  Hell, if he so much as said, “strip Miss Parker…” I’d gladly do it!  Not that he would, but oh, it would be nice!

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Sue Mydliak is the Vamplit published author of Birthright. Candra Rosewood returns to Utica, but she’s already missed her parents funeral and everything she thought about her life turns out to be a lie. When Kane turns up unannounced on her doorstep, Candra, fights her strange need for him.Is he somehow involved in her parents’death? Is the mysterious Mr Bennet a friend or foe, and can she trust him when he says she’s descended from powerful vampires.

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Anyway, I had an appointment in the afternoon to have him extract a wisdom tooth that died and was giving me grief.   Actually I thought someone had grabbed hold of my nerve and was yanking on it, that’s how bad it ached, but I had some pain killers from a past operation I had, which was making the pain ease up considerably, so I was doing just fine…but then again if the “doing just fine” looked like someone just tweaked your undies into a slight wedgie, then I guess ok, but my dentist thought the look had a different meaning…pain.

“Miss Parker, you look like you’re in a bit of pain.” He gestured for me to take my place in the chair.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”  Just pull it out now I thought, and then we can have pleasantries later.

“Well, aside from looking as lovely as ever, your face is telling me a whole different story.”

“Well, even though I took some pain killers, I’m still in a lot of pain and I just want you to take this out for me, please and soon if you don’t mind.”

“Let me have a look at it alright?  Just open wide.”

I gapped open my mouth, while he probed and prodded.  He didn’t say anything except for the few “ah’s…” and “Mhmmm’s….” Which didn’t tell me a whole lot, but I sat there as still as I could for him.

“Miss Parker, you’re tooth is dead, because you’ve got yourself one heck of an infection.  I can do one of two things.  The first is, is that I could put you to sleep and pull it out or numb you up real good and pull it that way.  Your decision.”

“I really don’t care about my position in this, only that I want it out.  So I guess put me to sleep.”

“Ok then.  This is what will happen.  I’ll give you a Halcion, which is basically a short acting benxodiazopine.  It’s on the same line of drugs such as valium.  You won’t remember all the details of the extraction, but then again you won’t feel any pain either.”

“Well, that sounds just great.  Let’s get this done and over with, because I have to go to work tonight ok?”

“I wouldn’t recommend going to work.   It’s still a surgical procedure, and the medicine can make you quite groggy.  In fact, you’ll need someone to come get you today and bring you home.  You are not allowed to drive home.”

“You’re kidding right?”  I was stunned.  I couldn’t miss another day of work, I just couldn’t.  Dek would have to find someone to take my place again and as it was he wasn’t too happy with my absences or it would seem that way.

“I wish I was, but no.  Why don’t you go call your boss, while I get the injection ready?”  He walked out leaving me wondering if I did the right thing in coming in.  I knew I was right, I hadn’t been able to sleep for the past two days, and I couldn’t go on like this.

“Damn.”

I got my cell phone out and dialed up work.

“Wild Monkey Butts, the place that’ll get your rear in gear, this is Sam how can I help you?”

“Sam this is Joanne, can I speak to Dek please?”

“Joanne, well this is a pleasure.  You sure you want to talk to Dek and not me?”

Lord the man is insufferable.  “Just get me Dek Sam will ya, it’s important.”

“Ok, ok, don’t get your panties in a bunch.   Hey Dek…phone…it’s Joanne.    He’s com’in sugar.  Say when can I see you, you know, like as in a date?”

He doesn’t get it does he.   His brain is as thick as molasses.  Just one big gooey mess.

“Never Sam ok?  I’ve told you before I don’t date people who I work with and I don’t date men who think with their penis’s.”

“Joanne, whats up?”

It was Dek.

“I can’t come in tonight.  I’m at the dentist and he’s goin to put me to sleep to extract my wisdom tooth.  I’m real sorry, I hadn’t planned on not coming in, but he said it wouldn’t be wise.”

“I see, do you need someone to pick you up?”

Dek was special.  I had been working for him for about 8 years now and he’s been sweeter than sugar when I’ve needed any kind of help.   I sometimes wondered what it would be like to go on a date with him.  Oh, I know I said I didn’t date anyone I work with or work for, but Dek was different.  We were, I don’t know…close?  Not in the way you may think, we just respected each other and I guess you could say we were good friends.

“Yeah, he said I wouldn’t be able to drive.”  He didn’t sound mad which I was glad, for a while there I thought that maybe I had tested Dek’s friendship too much.

“I’ll take you home Joanne.  It’s been slow and I don’t see tonight as being any busier.  What time do you need me to be there?”

“Why, that was really nice of you Dek.  I owe you big time.  If you wouldn’t mind could you come now?”

“Sure, sure-um, I can do that.  No problem.  I’ll be there…what dentist?”

“Oh, Dr. Tom, you know the one on Briarwood Drive?”

“Yeah I remember.  Alright you just sit tight and I’ll be there.”  And hung up.

“Well, I guess this is working out just great after all.”  I felt really good about everything now.

“Is everything set then?”

Dr. Tom came back in and in his hand was the biggest needle I’d ever seen.  My mouth dropped open and I just stared in disbelief.

“Is that thing going in my mouth?”

“Yes, but not the whole needle Miss Parker.  So you have a ride I hope?”

“Yes, my boss is driving me home.  He’ll be here real soon.”

“Well, that’s a mighty fine boss you work for.  You must be something special to him.”  He smiled at me in a way that I felt that he was hinting at something.

I just looked at him, puzzled like.  “Well I don’t think – nah, I’m nothing special.  We’re just…”  Careful Joanne, watch what you say.  “…good friends that’s all.”

“Mhm…I see.  Well, just relax now and open wide.  There will be a slight pinch and then in few minutes you should start to feel really calm.

I did as he asked and the pinch wasn’t so slight, it hurt like heck, but I didn’t flinch.  I gripped the arms of my chair as if I could crush the stuffing out of them.  Then…in a few minutes…he was right!   I felt as happy as a cucumber, if a cucumber could feel happy.  Then the room started to look fuzzy and blurry and it was then that I blacked out.

I don’t know what time it was.  All I remember seeing is blood and lots of it.  I was shocked to see so much of it, I mean, it was all over me and I thought oh my god what’s happening to me and yet, I tried to ask but I couldn’t!  My mouth had all this gauze and tubing and I thought I saw someone else in the room besides Dr. Tom, but I couldn’t make him/her out.

“She’s perfect and her blood tastes like fine wine…I have to have some more, just a little bit more.  So exquisite…”

Did I hear this person correct?   He was talking about my blood and tasting it.  Oh God, I’m being killed!  Someone help me!

“Sedate her some more, she waking up!  You’ve got to finish her off now!”

I’m being killed.  “Dek!  Help me!”  But those weren’t the words that were coming out of my mouth.  Remember…gauze and all.  I saw someone with this thing in their hand as it came closer…closer to my face.  Then I blacked out again.

I woke up rather groggy like.  I wanted to get out of my chair and run to the police, but I was held down.

“Easy Miss Parker, you’re not stable enough to walk just yet.  Take some deep breaths.  You thirsty?”

You bloody bastard.  You killed me and you ask me if I’m thirsty?  Wait…that didn’t sound right.  If I’m dead, why would he offer me water?  I had to think for a moment then.  Blood…that’s right I saw a lot of blood!  I looked down at myself, but I looked as clean as when I first came in.  What the hell is going on here.

“Doctor?”  I said breathy.  “Where is all the blood?”

“Blood?  Oh, that, you did bled quite a lot, but not enough to cause any alarm.  I’ve seen it before.  It happens.”  He gave me that charming smile of his that right now was far from charming especially after what I saw.   Or did I?

Your darn tooting I bled a lot, heck it was all over me!  So where did it all go?  How did he get it off my shirt?  Then I paused.  “He wouldn’t…” I thought.  “He didn’t…” I thought more and the more I thought the more I wanted to leap out of my chair and kick him right in his junk.

“You evil man, you – you- how could you?”  I was mad.  Even all gauzed up and looking like a chipmunk with food in its pouches, I still had the fighter in me.  I did look a bit crazy, but hell, wouldn’t you be?

“Miss Parker what are you talking about?  I asked you how you wanted it done and so I did just as you asked.  You must calm down.”

I got out of that chair…I got out of that chair…I was having some slight difficulties getting out of that chair and none to graceful either, but I did get out of that chair.  Swaying.

“wufust, woov waft…” good lord.  “…I…I…” Then I gave him the finger.

Dek heard the commotion and came in.  “What’s going on here?  Why is Joanne so upset?”

“I’m not exactly sure why, but I think the anesthesia has had a bad reaction on her.  It happens.  Just keep an eye on her tonight.  Here is a prescription for pain meds she’ll need to take and make sure she swishes her mouth with salt water after she eats her meals.  It’ll help to aid in her healing.”

“Ah, thank you Doctor.  I will.”

I was ranting and raving like a lunatic so bad that I almost ranted myself into a wall and I felt really sick too.  Was that supposed to happen?

“Come on Cassius Clay let’s get you home shall we?  You don’t look so good, real pale.”

I gave him a look that could kill.   Dek held my arm and guided me to his car, opened the door and helped me in, then he locked the door.

Dek stayed the night.  Not in my bed I’ll have you know, but on the couch.  I was so tired, and so very cold too.”

I felt my bed give a little.  It was Dek.

“How are you feeling Joanne?  I brought you some hot tea.”

I opened my eyes.  I saw Dek, warm, delicious looking and smiled…Dek didn’t smile back.

© Copyright 2012 Sue Mydliak
2000 words

INTERVIEW WITH LAUREN CURTIS

Above is Lauren’s newest piece in her x-ray series. She is a freelance illustrator and fine artist. She has been involved in the Wiccan/Pagan and Gothic communities for many years. Her work reflects her interests in mythology, (especially Egyptian, Celtic, and Greco-Roman), spirituality, the Occult, and dark fantasy. Lauren works in many mediums, such as pen & ink, oils, acrylics, watercolors, and photography. She exhibits her work regularly and has sold pieces across the US and abroad.

Lauren it’s great to have you back here with us on the Vamplit Blog. I really enjoyed your appearance on oddities, especially considering the object you were selling. I am forever amazed by the medical inventions of the past. So first I have to ask you, where in the world did you find a prostate warmer?

Well, I worked at a medical office for many years so you find a lot of odd things in the storage rooms, LOL.

I laughed when Evan read, “It leaves no evil effects” off the package. Was this what enticed you to collect the instrument?

The packaging was definitely my favorite part! And I had absolutely NO need of the item itself so figured best to sell it.

Do you know if the warmer has found a new home yet?

No, I don’t. Obscura is moving to a new location so I’m sure everything is crazy there right now…hopefully Evan will let me know the warmer’s fate.

Do you collect any other interesting objects?

Yes…animal bones (found, not killed!!), gargoyles, antiques, shells & crystals, feathers, interesting glass and metal beads…I use many of these objects in my mixed media artwork.

How much fun was it to be on Oddities?

It was awesome…and great to catch up with Evan since we hadn’t seen each other in ages! We used to hang out in the central NJ goth scene together. We had a lot of laughs filming the episode. Very cool that they came to my apartment/studio to do the shoot.

What was it like getting ready for your appearance on Oddities?

It was pretty easy as they liked me “as is”…they wanted me to be myself and to show how I live in my own place, surrounded by my artwork. They made me feel very comfortable.

On television, the Obscura Antique shop is such an interesting place, although I just noticed they’re moving to a new location. Do you visit it often?

I have been to the shop and it’s really fascinating! So many fascinating, bizarre and macabre objects crammed into a small space so I think it’s great that they’re moving to a bigger location in NYC…can’t wait to check out the new shop!

Any plans for future appearances?

I’d LOVE to appear on the show again (hint, hint, Oddities!)….I’m hoping if enough people post comments on their Facebook fan pg. and website that they’d like to see me back, it’ll work…so far I’ve gotten many very nice, positive comments and I really appreciate that!

I love your creations. Would you like to tell us about any pieces you have in the works?

Currently I’m still creating new digital photo collages for my “X-RAYted” series, the newest one is posted here on this page. I’m also working on a Steampunk wooden and metal box piece as well as the Steampunk Landing project with my partner in Florida…we have a fan pg., group pg., websites, free e-newsletter & a gazette which I do a lot of the artwork design and some of the writing for. Click her to check it out

Also, I’m working on over 400 35mm & digital photos I shot on a recent trip to Italy as well as doing freelance illustration and design work for clients…I try to keep busy…and employed! You can see more of my work on my website (commercial & fine art)

Any upcoming art shows you’d like to share?

Absolutely! I was just invited to exhibit work in a group show this March in a gallery in Red Bank, NJ and I currently have work in the online exhibits on www.caladangallery.com I’ve also submitted work to several shows throughout NJ so waiting to hear back about those. Then come Spring/Summer the outdoor art fests begin & there might be a NYC event too so stay tuned!
Thanks so much, Wendy, for this interview!!! I love your website….a lot of talent here!

Thanks for taking a few minutes to answer a few questions, Lauren.

Thanks so much, Wendy, for this interview!!! I love your website….a lot of talent here!

I also wanted to mention that Lauren has joined the Bloody Hearts Blog Hop, and as a part of the hop we’ll be doing another interview, more centered around her artwork next week in Dark Media Magazine.

Before we get to my story, I wanted to mention that this week starts our February theme, inspired by the cable television show Oddities on the Science channel. “ODDITIES dives into the weird world of strange and extraordinary science artifacts through the eyes of the proprietors of Manhattan’s Obscura Antiques & Oddities.”

I immediately thought the object Lauren was selling would be perfect for this week’s medical and dental theme. So I contacted Lauren about including her appearance with a short interview. Gentleman, try not to cringe too badly while you watch the video clip below. And, in the right column is an interview with Lauren about her appearance. Enjoy!

NOW ON TO THE STORY

Dave inserted the key in the front door of his recently deceased Uncle Billy’s home but had to jiggle the lock to open it. It was Monday, nine o’clock in the morning and the third day of the long President’s Day weekend that Dave had been there to help his family clean out the clutter in the old Victorian house.

The place was falling apart after years of neglect, and no one in the family except his daughter Sandra had realized how out of control his hoarding and collecting had gotten over the years. No surprise, Sandra had been enabling her father for years due to a sick dependency of her own. By keeping him confined to the house prior to his death, she had managed to gain control of her father’s money as well as spend nearly every last penny of it.

Dave thought the whole situation a shame considering Billy had once been the most respected proctologists in the country. And, the house had once been the pride of the town. Sandra, on the other hand had grown up a spoiled rotten brat, and despite her fifty-two years still thought the world revolved around her.

So it was no surprise to Dave that Sandra had promised to get an early start cleaning, but had not arrived before him. Precisely why he had insisted she give him a key.

As the door swung opened Dave sighed. They had barely dented the hoards of Uncle Billy’s treasures, which were nothing more than boxes and bags filled with trash he had piled nearly to the ceiling. It would be another day of heavy lifting while Sandra spent the day updating her facebook status and tweeting complaints about how much work she wasn’t really doing.

Dave reached behind a box to turn on the light switch then followed a narrow path through the living room and into the kitchen. At least the room was partially cleared with a couple feet of counter space and a working coffee maker, he thought. It was the only small part of the house Sandra had cleaned as far as he knew.

After preparing the coffee maker, Dave stood back, his arms crossed over his chest while he watched the brown steaming French roast drizzle into the pot.

His phone rang and he sighed. It could only be one person, Sandra, calling with some excuse why she was late. He didn’t bother to answer, and instead pulled the pot from the coffee maker then poured the fresh brew into a cup.

While he sipped his coffee, Dave ventured up two flights of stairs to assess the clutter on the third floor. On the landing, he first noticed the attic door cracked opened. Odd, Dave thought. He remembered the attic being off limits and locked when he was a child and his family visited during the holidays. Then again, children had not wandered his uncle’s home for over thirty years.

Dave approached the door and cautiously opened it. Inside, the staircase was barely lit by a window above, but there was no light fixture to illuminate the way. Holding tightly against the wall like a child sneaking where he didn’t belong, Dave ascended the creaky steps.

As he reached the attic it was like being in a black and white photo of the lower floors. More boxes, black trash bags and old trunks scattered everywhere, although thankfully not quite as cluttered as was the rest of the house.

Dave glanced upward and scanned for overhead lighting, which he found just off to his right. He yanked on a string hanging from a low watt bare bulb, but all it did was accentuate the dark shadows across roof joists, floor and half exposed door that Dave had not noticed at first.

Is that what you were hiding up her, Uncle Billy?

Dave maneuvered between the boxes then turned the knob, but the door was stuck to the frame. He heaved his shoulder hard against it, grunting with each hit. Finally the door gave way and Dave lost his footing and fell inward and onto the dusty floor.

“What the hell is this?” Dave jumped to his feet and shivered. Despite the poor lighting, he could tell that his uncle had lost his mind years before anyone in his family had suspected. Except for a five foot clearing in from the entryway, the small room was cluttered with bizarre instruments of medical torture from floor to ceiling.

The beam of light from the adjoining room reflected off shiny metal, but what really stood out was a blue light bulb protruding from a weaving of metal syringes. Dave poked at it and it dropped. Nervously, he fumbled to catch it until he saw that it was connected to a black cord tucked into the ominous wall, as if placed in its own cubby hole. Painstakingly, Dave pulled nine feet of it out before it appeared wedged.

“What are you doing with Daddy’s prostate gland warmer!”

Dave jumped when he heard Sandra’s voice and yanked at the cord, pulling free a black dildo like tube.

“No!” Sandra shouted right before the wall collapsed down on Dave.

TO BE CONTINUED

© Copyright 2012 W.J. Howard
893 words

Here are a bunch of links you should check out:

Obscura’s Facebook Page

Oddities on the Science channel

Lauren’s Website

Lauren’s Blog

Lauren’s Facebook Page

Steampunk Landing

February’s theme is Oddities

February’s theme is inspired by the cable television show Oddities on the Discovery channel. I (Wendy) am addicted to this show and while watching a marathon over the Christmas holiday thought it would be the perfect theme for February.

ODDITIES dives into the weird world of strange and extraordinary science artifacts through the eyes of the proprietors of Manhattan’s Obscura Antiques & Oddities.

• Issue 38 February 3rd: Medical & Dental Oddities (instruments or diseases)
• Issue 39 February 10th: Antiques Scientific Oddities
• Issue 40 February 17th: Little Shop of Oddities
• Issue 41 February 24th: Writer’s Choice of Oddities

March’s theme is Reader’s Choice

Issues 42-45: Requests so far: MORE Clowns, Small Town Madness, Dark Cellar, Evil Hand, Haunted House, Hit and Run

April’s theme is Superstitions

• April 6th: Broken Mirror
• April 13th: Friday the 13th
• April 20th: Black Cats
• April 27th: Writer’s Choice of Old Wives Tales

ABOUT #FRIDAYFLASH

Note that Friday Flash is a separately run writer’s group.

“Friday Flash is an Internet meme designed to increase your visibility as a fiction writer. The idea is simple enough. Write a piece of flash fiction, defined as 1000 words or less, post it to your blog, and then on Friday announce it to the world via Twitter or some other social network along with the link to your post. If you use Twitter be sure to include the hashtag, #fridayflash.” More guidelines…

THIS WEEK’S TOPIC

Tales by Stephen King

Our horror chat is open to everyone whether you are a writer, publisher, film maker, artist, gamer, magazine or just someone who loves horror. Remember this is a fun and promotional chat. Feel free to invite your friends across Twitter to join our chats.

HOW TO PARTICIPATE

1. Every Monday afternoon we’ll post the current (above) and following (below) week’s horror chat topic.

**If you’d like to suggest a topic, post it here and it’ll get added to the list of future topics.

2. All day Wednesday on Twitter, starting 12:00 A.M. GMT and ending 11:59 P.M. Pacific time, tweet your answers, comments and replies to other participants on the topic. Make sure you include:

• #humpday #horrorchat in your responses so other chat participants can find the chat tweets (on longer tweets, include #horrorchat at a minimum)
• short links to websites, videos and other stuff related to the topic. Promotions for your works (literature, films, artwork, magazines, games, etc.) and friend’s work are welcome and expected

If you don’t use Twitter, you can also participate on our Facebook page.

3. Search for ‘horrorchat’ and/or ‘humpday’ to find other members chatting on the topic and comment on their responses using @ mentions.

TIPS FOR TRACKING THE CHAT

• Try using TweetChat to view the combined conversation. Enter ‘horrorchat’ in the search criteria or go directly to http://tweetchat.com/room/horrorchat. You can join the conversation from TweetChat as well.
• On Twitter, search for horrorchat and save the search. This makes it easy to switch between @ mentions and your search. You can also expand the tweets to the right using the arrow button and see all the replies to a particular tweet much easier than provided in TweetChat. Need specific directions, click here.

If you have any questions, please post them to the comments here or direct them on Twitter to @by_wjhoward.

NEXT WEEK’S TOPIC

Tales by Edgar Allan Poe

WARNING: ADULT SEXUAL CONTENT
GRAPHIC AND DISTURBING

The heavily tattooed bouncer at the Ass-U-Like-It strip club stood outside the entrance squeezing tightly on the nozzle of a hose. He held it close to his beer belly and aimed downward, in a hurry to spray a mix of beads, plastic cups, and other Mardi Gras debris into the street. The bulldozer that cleaned Bourbon Street nightly was nearing. If he didn’t clear the side walk in time, he’d have to pick up the putrid mess himself.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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W. J. Howard is a Vamplit author and administrator here at the Vamplit blog. She writes horror, fantasy and sci-fi with a bit of comedy thrown in. In addition, she is the author of the award winning novel, The Courier, a satirical, good vs. evil fantasy novel about Barry, who takes a job that seems too good to be true and soon finds out it pays to read the fine print. The Courier releases in quarterly serialized episodes and is available on Smashwords. Many of Wendy’s short stories are featured here in the blog.

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ENTER RAFFLE

As the water washed away crusted vomit, a half chewed piece of andouille sausage tumbled and dropped into the streaming water in the gutter. Like driftwood it floated to the sewer grate then cascaded downward into an underground cesspool.

The river of the previous night’s debauchery streamed through the sewer trunk, but only yards before it met with a gelatinous obstruction preventing the flow. The blob oozed over the piece of meat and swelled as it united with discarded spirits. A desire to return to the streets fueled the monsters momentum toward light that peaked through the grate.

* * *

Tanya stretched her long bare leg out of the cab and stepped into the French Quarter for the first time, while her life long friend Rachel paid the cab driver. Rachel was familiar with the city, having vacationed there with her parents three years prior. This visit she and Tanya were barely twenty-one and unsupervised for the first time in their lives. By the sight of their tight midriff tee shirts and short skirts, they intended to take full advantage of Mardi Gras’s nightly insanity not to mention test years of parental rules.

After momentarily gazing at the passing crowd, heading toward Bourbon Street, the girls shuffled on spiked heels and wiggled their asses with purpose as they dragged luggage toward the entrance to their hotel.

* * *

As the sun set, the stimulation from the aroma of food and spirits had stiffened the blog into a long snake adorned with glittery beads for scales. It throbbed against the grate where the andouille sausage had fallen, at the same time wagging its tail down deep inside the sewer trunk to the sound of jazz and merriment.

Above Tanya and Rachael weaved through the crowd, sipping from cups filled with vodka and lemonade. Tanya sucked in a large ice cube and swished it around her tongue at the same time suggesting they visit the bar beside the Ass You Like It strip club.

“What?” Rachael could not understand her muffled speech.

Tanya removed the cube from her mouth and held it between her thumb and forefinger. She licked it with her long tongue while repeating her suggestion.

Two elderly men, by the girl’s standards, over weight, balding and with no chance of attracting the attention of two college hotties, turned and followed the girls. “Show me your tits,” the taller of the men said to Tanya while blinking his eyes nervously and waving beads in her face.

The girls glared back at the men and were mortified by the heavier man who stood stroking his crotch. Simultaneously the girls objected, “Pervert.” They curled their lips in disgust and backed away.

Still, Rachael could not resist and honored the men. She lifted her short t-shirt and exposed the firm crest of her breast just short of her nipple.

Tanya grabbed her friends hand and yanked it downward, stopping Rachel from going any further. “Behave yourself.”

“It’s Mardi Gras. Everyone shows their tits.”

“We just got here.”

“If I would have known you were going to be such a party pooper, I would have brought someone else.”

“Party pooper?” Tanya said. “How old are you, seventy?” Tanya then backed up closer the sewer grate. She toasted to the crowd with one hand and lifted her shirt with the other. “Here’s to the nicest tits you’ll see all night, Bourbon Street!”

Whistling rang out through the streets and from the balconies while the spectators showered beads down from above.

Through the sewer grate, the monster froze for only a second before it sniffed at the ass end of Rachael and Tanya, squatting down beside the opening to pick up the beads. Mixed with the girl’s intoxicating laugh and the clicking of the plastic necklaces, it sent the thing into a frenzy. It slammed against the grate once then twice with colossal force. The grate cover projected outward and knocked the girls off their feet and sliced Rachael’s thigh.

Upward the snake like creature lifted like a cobra, mesmerized by the festivities it found at street level.

Half the crowd turned and ran and the other half froze as did Tanya and Rachael until it leaned down and sniffed again at the girls.

“Don’t move,” Tanya mumbled without moving her lips.

But Rachael paid no attention to her friends advice and crab walked backward away from the monster. It swooped down upon her and lunged between her legs, tearing through pink cotton panties, it impaled her.

Upward, it lifted her over ten feet into the air as it delved into her anal cavity and tunneled backward through her digestive system. Rachel whimpered as her inside both burned and froze from the pain.

The monster softened and liquefied in the mix of stomach acid. Then all at once she convulsed and spewed a mixture of blood and sludge. Tanya’s eyes rolled back in her head just before she burst in an explosive display of flesh and beads that sprayed over the spectators that had remained on the balcony above. Some even say it rivaled the fireworks display from the previous evening.

The streets of New Orleans quieted that night and remained empty for the first time in Mardi Gras history. No musicians, no party-goers, no women baring their breasts while the creature slithered through the French Quarter to find them.

© Copyright 2012 W.J. Howard
975 words

‘That, my dear, it’s nothing but a cheap glass trinket of no real value. If you’re looking for jewellery, we have some beautiful jet necklaces or pearls.’ The woman moved across the junk shop with a grace and speed that belied her obvious age as she snatched the necklace out of Sadie’s hand.

‘No, I like this one, but it doesn’t have a price tag.’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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Grace Mahoney is the Vamplit published author of The Dancing Dead. She lives and works in North Wales, she writes poetry because she hears it in her head and writes vampire poetry for fun. She has no plans to write anymore vampire poetry at the present as she is working on another project. She also edits and publishes other authors work and finds this just, or more, fulfilling than writing herself. And…she’s our very own Gaynor Stenson.

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ENTER RAFFLE

‘No, it wouldn’t. That necklace isn’t for sale, I’m sorry. My grandson, Ned, comes and helps me with the heavier items and he must have left it out.’ As she spoke she nodded towards a tall and very attractive young man hovering at the back of the shop. ‘This necklace belongs to me and has been in my family for generations.’

‘But…’

‘No, I’m sorry. Now I’d like you to leave my shop.’ The shop’s owner then walked to the door and held it open. Sadie had no option but to leave, feeling slightly bemused by the old woman’s odd behaviour.

***

Sadie couldn’t rest, couldn’t think of anything other than the bead necklace. It even invaded her dreams, with each new dream becoming stranger and more vivid than the last, culminating with her looking down on the corpse of the old shopkeeper as she used the bead necklace as a ligature; the beads glowing and shimmering in Sadie’s murderous hands.

Permanently tired and constantly irritable, Sadie’s life began to unravel. First to go was her boyfriend who’s parting shot of “You were never much good in the sack, Sade, but at least you were easy going,” didn’t hurt as much as the fact he cleaned out their joint bank account. Next to go was her job with the prestigious firm of Snodgrass, Jerks and Banks Investments along with the excellent salary and bonuses. The beautiful apartment she lived in was purchased with a staff mortgage, which became repayable in full with her dismissal, so she was now also homeless too.

As the only child of older parents, who themselves had both been only children, Sadie was completely alone in the world. Once the notice of eviction had been served, Sadie boxed up her life and realising she had nowhere to send them, she grimaced and looked around her for the last time before dropping the keys down the toilet and walking out the front door.

Finally, she found herself standing outside the shop watching people going in and out as she tried to catch a glimpse the old women. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she knew something was wrong, the past month had decimated her for a reason and it had to be linked to the dreams. Nothing else made sense.

Daylight began to fade away and the street lights at the other end of the dingy street came on. Where Sadie stood, the only light came from the shop window, bathing the pavement in a golden, inviting glow similar to the shimmer she’d seen in the necklace when she’d held it up to the light. Then she saw her, the old woman, standing in the window wearing the bead necklace and smiling as she closed the blind. In an instant, anger blossomed into rage and she rushed across the road into the shop.

‘You took you time in coming back, my dear. Would you like to touch the necklace and see if it still feels so good in your hands? Isn’t it beautiful isn’t it, wouldn’t it feel wonderful against your skin?’

The old woman was taunting her, but Sadie was beyond thought, reason or even sanity. She grabbed the bead necklace pulling it tight around the scrawny neck. It glowed with life, just as it had in her dream; she pulled tighter and tighter until the light died in the woman’s eyes and she lay still, unmoving on the floor.

Sadie pulled the glowing necklace from the dead woman and in a daze placed it around her own neck.

‘Well?’ Ned asked from the shadows at the back of the shop.

‘Who are you?’ She smiled at the look of shock on his face. ‘Only joking Ned, God can’t you take a joke yet sweetheart.’

‘No I can’t, love. This time the necklace has taken us to the wire that old body was on its last legs. I don’t know why the necklace can’t just choose a couple each time.’

‘Why worry, the necklace chooses who it chooses and hasn’t let us down since it was thrown to me two-hundred years ago. Now help me drag this lump of meat down into the cellar and dispose of it with the others, be quick about it, Ned, this body is hungry for more than food,’ she said, absently twirling the beads between her fingers.

‘Thank God for that I’m fed-up with you picking at your food and it will be a relief to make love to a body that doesn’t smell of decay and creak like an old floorboard.’

The couple dealt effectively with the remains and then locked-up and headed to their flat above the shop. If the locals noticed that the old lady had gone and that her grandson finally had a girlfriend, they didn’t mention it and so the cycle began again. One day in the future they would begin to age and then it was only a matter of time before the necklace found new bodies as hosts. They never questioned the why of it; they just enjoyed their immortality and thanked their good fortune that they attended the Mardi Gras so long ago.

Laissez les bons temps rouler. Let the good times roll.

Jangles pushes the lid of his coffin open and takes in the scents of the city, the ambiance of frivolity assuaging his senses, the lure of debauchery tickling his dark soul.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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Blaze McRob is a regular Friday Flash contributor here in the Vamplit Blog. His short stories are featured in a number of anthologies including: Satan’s Toybox: Demonic Dolls and Masters of Horror, Damned If You Don’t, the evils of drug use, alcoholism, scarification, obesity and obsession amplified into blood-curdling cautionary tales.

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ENTER RAFFLE

“Oh, the glories of this place!” he shouts, waking his newly turned disciples, wanting them to join him in the fun to come.

Stephan crawls out of his traveling home and agrees with Jangles. “Yes, Master, this is a city worthy of our presence. Dare I say that we will make our presence known here.”

Jangles laughs. “Yes, we shall, my friend! This is our town now.”

The old Vampire has been here many times before. How could anyone of his stature not be enticed by the bounty awaiting him? Yes, he is a clown with the Davis Bros. Circus, but he takes a vacation at Mardi Gras time. He earns it. After all, he is their number one clown and has been for many years.

“What would they think if they only knew about my joyous little vacations?” he thinks. “Tsk, tsk. They don’t know. So what does it matter?”

The newest addition to the Vampire family is still asleep. Anita has had a difficult time adjusting to this new life of theirs. Maybe a new death would be closer to the truth for her. Her mind still wants to cling to the ways of the old world, but for her, there is no going back. She is truly undead and needs the sustenance provided her from the blood of others: most of the times, those not willing to share and thus entering the next stage of their existence in less than glorious fashion. Yet, she feels no guilt about causing them a speedy journey to death.

Anita has her own coffin now and that pleases her, for although she desired some extra attention after her change to the Dark side, the desire for a place of her own, allowing her to wander in her dream world alone, is more to her liking at the present time.

It is more to Jangle’s liking as well. He certainly has no desire for an eternal tryst with any woman-alive, dead, or undead.

Fresh meat! Be it for sustenance or for sexual desires is what fuels him!

“Arise, Anita!” Jangles shouts. “The city awaits us! Our destiny is now!”

A rumbling stirs within her and she knows Jangles is right. She is hungry for fresh blood and meat and desirous of some other fun. Yes, she as much as Jangles, wants to enjoy the joys of forbidden love before the end comes for her lover. Ah, the Black Widow of the Davis Bros. Circus, spinning a magical web, and performing grandiose gyrations within the midst of her creations has garnered her quite a reputation. But Black Widows are known for much more than that, and she is true to the very essence of the legends.

The three Vampires apply their makeup and venture out onto the streets. How perfect for them here. Costumes abound: they fit in perfectly.

While the parade runs through the streets below, Jangles chooses the balconies above, filled with lovely women bearing their breasts for beaded necklaces to be worn as a sort of prize.

The old Vampire casts his spell on them and before long, little rivers of blood flow from wounds in their necks, soon reaching their erect nipples, creating a panaroma of red and pink beauty that will be the last blush of womanhood to titillate the senses. One after another they fall to his charms and his deadly style of sexual gratification. All of them die with smiles on their faces.

Alas! Poor Stephan has still not mastered the patience of his Master and is more concerned with food vs love. He remains on the streets below and consumes his meals in the dark alleyways, away from the main action of the parade and dancing. In no time at all, the alleys are strewn with blood and intestines scattered everywhere. Most of the passers by do not notice anything out of the ordinary; after all, this is Fat Tuesday and all hell is breaking loose; and those who do notice are quickly brought into the action and devoured themselves.

This is indeed Stephan’s time and place!

Sweet Anita has no problem carving out her own little slice of paradise. Which of the men on the streets are capable of resisting her charms, driving their manhood deep into her while she slowly and deliberately drains them of their lives? Once their act of gratification occurs and their seed flows into her, the blood is drained from them, rendering them useless for any more love making.

She goes from man to man, satisfying all her needs, wondering if Jangles had somehow conveyed the powers of a succubus to her. Tonight is the best night of her existence. She does not want it to stop.

Yet, stop it must for all of them. Dawn is approaching, and with it a need to retreat to their sleeping quarters. The three vampires are tired but well sated.

Inside the cozy warmth of their coffins, they fall asleep. Their dreams are pleasant.

Jangles is the last to succumb to the land of unconscious contentment. Tonight, they will board a train back to New Jersey and rejoin the circus. What pleasures await them there?

The Pine Barrens, the home of the Jersey Devil is their next stop.

The fun never stops . . .never . . .

© Copyright 2012 Blaze McRob
970 words

“This is the biggest parade,” Scott said. “Look!”

Dany looked incredulous. “It’s fabulous!”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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Carole Gill was selected by North West Playwrights of England for further development. It was an invaluable experience but Carole found she prefers to write fiction. She loves to scare herself and others with her horror fiction and is widely published in horror and sci-fi anthologies. Currently, Masters of Horror Anthology One, Masters of Horror Damned If You Don’t, Sonar’s Ladies and Gentlemen of Horror 2010, SNM’s Bonded By Blood3 Languish In Lament, Sonar’s Whitechapel 13, Anthology, Rymfire’s Undead Tales, Zombie Winter, Angelic Press’ Demonic Toys, Netbound’s Spirits of the Night and Enter at Your Own Risk, Dark Gothic Fiction. Sci Fi Almanac 2009 and 2010 and Science Fiction Freedom Magazine, issues 1-4, Sci Fi Talk’s Tales of Time and Space. Although she loves writing sci-fi her true love is dark gothic horror. Her gothic horror novel, The House on Blackstone Moor, published in 2010 by Vamplit is her first novel. The sequel, Unholy Testament will be published by Vamplit later this year.

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They all were–these themed floats. Some were inspired by fairy tales or magic, some by history. Whatever theme they had each was filled with the most fabulously costumed people throwing necklaces and coins at the crowd.

A great cry would go up as people rushed forward to catch the gifts.

Some were lucky. Not Scott or Dany though. They hadn’t caught anything. That was why Scott was determined they would.

It was their first time away as a couple and if Dany wanted a necklace or some coins as a souvenir Scott was going to see she had them.

Once again, the crowd heaved forward, with Scot trying so hard–even clapping to catch someone’s attention. Sadly, he didn’t catch a thing.

“Next time,” he promised.

He was right because when the next float came by he actually did manage to catch a necklace.

He was so excited he hadn’t noticed the float really. He only looked at it when Dany continued to stare at it. “Do you see that one?”

It was frightening looking. Clearly the theme was Death. One of the riders was waving at them and yelling something that neither Scott nor Dany could make out.

It was then that Dany looked down at the necklace. The necklace was weird looking. There were tiny skulls on it.

Dany shuddered and tossed it away.

She was studying his face, “You‘re not mad are you?”

“No, you’re entitled to keep what you like and get rid of what you don’t like. Come on,” he urged. “Let’s go for a drink before we go back.”

Go back as in a night of love making with the French doors open and the damp, sweet Louisiana air blowing over their naked bodies.

“I hope the revelers won’t keep us up.”

He shook his head. “Look, everyone’s going.”

It was true. It was as though someone had turned off a light.

Once the parade was over the streets began to empty. Yes, there was the odd drunk or loud kid raising a ruckus but for the most part it was pretty obvious that the parade had indeed passed by.

They decided to sit in a little bar and sip New Orleans’ Hurricanes.

“It’s like heaven, isn’t it?”

“I‘d love to live here someday.”

“So would I.”

They finished their drinks and started walking back to their hotel. They were staying on Royal Street in a sweet little bed and breakfast. Okay it was super expensive but it was furnished beautifully, real period stuff or so it seemed.

They returned to their hotel quite late.

It wasn’t until they stepped inside that they noticed the change. It was darker for one thing.

“Hello? We can hardly see here, can someone please put the lights back on?!”

Dany was from New York and she wasn’t shy about speaking up but Scott was from a small town in New England and he was. He tried to shush her which only annoyed her.

They were arguing when they heard a scream. It was the worst God awful scream either of them had ever heard.

Dany got frantic and rushed every which way. “Get me outta here. I gotta get out of here!”

Scott didn’t know what to do so he reached for his phone even though he knew he wouldn’t get a signal.

He started to say something but Dany shushed him. “Listen, do you hear it? The music?”

It was hauntingly beautiful music and it was coming from somewhere close by.

“What is that? It sounds like a…”

“Harpsichord.”

Now they both looked frightened. He started to laugh “Look, there’s a perfectly good explanation for this, right?”

No not right because the music suddenly stopped and a woman appeared.

“Are you lost?” she asked.

“We must be could you just show us the way out, please?”

The hall was darkened but they could just make out the woman was masked. It wasn’t until she removed it and lit a candle that they could see how beautiful she was. Yet, there was something strange about her features–her eyes in particular.

“Won’t you join me in a toast?” she asked.

The glass seemed to come out of nowhere. She stepped forward with it. “Do taste it, it will make things easier for you!”

But they didn’t want to taste it for it reeked of something metallic, something like the smell of blood mixed with some kind of poison.

When they realized someone else had come into the hall, they spun around. Their eyes fell upon a masculine figure standing in the shadows.

“Come, Leonard, we have guests.”

Her husband began to step forward. “How lovely to have new ones, these we will savour!”

His wife nodded. “But they are afraid. Do not be, for we are Madame and Monsieur LaLaurie and we will show you worlds you have only dreamt of!”

It was Scott who suddenly knew. “You’re them! You murdered and tortured scores of people! But it can’t be! You’re..!”

“Dead? Death is relative. You will find that out for yourself,” Madame said as she held up a necklace. “This is the necklace I threw to you. The one you didn’t want. You may have it back now.”

They would have screamed but she stopped them.

“Oh no, no mon petites, there is no use screaming, no one will hear you here in the House of the Dead.”

Possibly not, but they screamed anyway.

Epilogue:

The LaLauries were wealthy socialites, the toast of 19th Century New Orleans Society.

When a fire broke out in their mansion it was discovered they had been killing and torturing countless slaves.

During the confusion and excitement of that night, they escaped in their carriage.

They were never brought to justice for it was believed they had escaped the hangman and fled to France.

Their mansion is reputed to be very, very haunted!

© Copyright 2012 Carole Gill
1023 words

It wasn’t my fault. It was Max. I went along with him, but that’s all I did. I swear.

I think.

There are bead necklaces on my table. Four necklaces, four colors. Mardi Gras souvenirs I’d give anything to get rid of. I’ve tried; they keep coming back. The blue one was Max’s. The Mardi Gras trip was his idea, and it was fun until he brought out those damn pills.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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Rob Smales, though 42, is a new writer who just enjoys telling stories. His shorter work can be found in Bewildering Stories E-zine, Dark Moon Digest, and most recently in Dark Moon Publishing’s anthology, Frightmares: A Fistful of Flash Fiction Horror. Vamplit’s Friday Flash seemed a fairly natural next step, though a challenge – Rob has a tendancy to over-write. When not spending time with his young son or writing short, somewhat random fiction, he spends his spare time (wait, what spare time?) working on a series of original ghost story anthologies, the first of which is titled The Dead of Winter.

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“C’mon, Phil,” he said. “You need to relax and get into the Mardi Gras spirit!”

We all took them. I didn’t want to look uptight, did I? God, that sounds like one of those After School Specials on ‘peer pressure’, doesn’t it?

I woke in our room the next morning and staggered into the bathroom, my underwear sticking to my skin. I flipped on the light, and I started screaming. In the mirror I saw myself wearing only boxers and a string of gold beads – and covered in blood. Most of it was dry, spattered across my legs and chest, but it seemed thickest beneath my boxers. The guys woke up and started freaking out. All but Max, though he was in the same condition as the rest of us. All of us wearing beads and blood. The blood wasn’t ours, the beads weren’t ours – and none of us could remember where any of it had come from. Max actually got the giggles. I think he was still on something.

We all showered, frantic (except for Max, who took his time) to get clean. Max said he was hungry and went for some take-out. He was wearing his blue beads when he left, fingering them thoughtfully.

The rest of us stayed holed up for the day, struggling to remember what happened after we took Max’s pills. That was the last thing we all recalled clearly, taking those damn pills. Then Ted remembered the girl.

“You guys remember the girl with all the beads?” he said. “I just remembered the girl with the beads. Like, a ton of those necklaces – a real party girl.”

He stared at his own beads, green and shiny, with horror.

“I just remembered her. Do you guys remember her?”

Marty’s eyes widened.

“Marylin! Her name was Marylin, right? Or something like that? I can’t remember…”

Ted thought it sounded right, but wasn’t sure. That’s all they remembered. A face and a name. I couldn’t even remember that much. We looked at each other, wide-eyed. What the hell had we done? We waited for Max to come back, wondering if he remembered anything. We waited.

And waited.

It was almost midnight when the police called. A hit-and-run, they said. A truck, or bus, they said; very messy. If not for his driver’s license they might never have identified the body. It was while we were getting ready to go to the station that Ted found the beads. Max’s blue beads, the ones he had been wearing when he left, piled in the center of Ted’s bed.

We spent the next day dealing with the police about Max. We were all terrified they would start asking us about a woman named Marylin, what we had done and why, but they never did. Maybe they took our twitchy fingers and staring eyes to be shock over Max. I don’t know. I do know it was nighttime when we got back to the hotel. Marty and I stopped at the hotel bar, but Ted went right up to the room. He looked exhausted. Marty and I sat in the bar until the screaming started. There was a commotion out in front of the hotel; we ran to see what was going on.

Ted was easy to identify; he had landed on his back. His face was unmarked — strange, since the impact had spread the back of his head like pancake batter on a hot skillet. The police said he had jumped from the roof, 10 stories up, to make an impact like that. We insisted that Ted couldn’t have — he was terrified of heights, couldn’t even look out a 3rd floor window. They wouldn’t listen.

Another day with the police, worse this time, getting back after dark again. Marty didn’t care that the police had ordered us to stay in town, he was going home. It was the beads: blue, green, and his own red, waiting on his bed when we returned.

I left with him.

The red-eye to Boston was less than four hours. Half-way through the flight, Marty got up to use the lavatory. Once the door locked he started screaming. It went on and on, screams that stopped just as they forced the door.

Marty sat there alone and dead, terror stamped on his face.

I didn’t wait for any investigation, but took off as soon as we were on the ground. I came home. Unpacked. Found them in my suitcase.

Beads. Red, blue, green and gold. I tried to get rid of them. I threw them out the window. I put them in my neighbor’s garbage can. I ‘forgot’ them on a cross-town bus. Each time I got home I found them. Waiting.

While I was contemplating the beads I saw the news. A Rhode Island co-ed on a trip to Mardi Gras, found brutally raped and beaten to death in her hotel room. I knew the girl in the picture. Knew her though I couldn’t remember her. Still can’t.

Marylin Hereford.

They said the police are following good leads. Maybe they’re on their way here now, I don’t know. But they won’t get me. She’ll be here first. I wanted to write this down, though. So people would know that I’m sorry. And it wasn’t my fault.”

Phil put the pen down and pushed the paper away. He stiffened at the sound of the door opening behind him, then relaxed in resignation. His eyes closed, and tears, long held in check, began to flow. He spoke in a murmur, without turning around.

“Hello, Marylin.”

© Copyright 2012 Rob Smales
1004 words

Paul slid from the bed and stumbled to the dresser. He looked down and found a flyer on the dresser’s slick top. Shelia, his biology lab partner at LSU and current roommate, had left a scribbled note under one corner of the flyer: “If you’re through puking, meet me here at midnight”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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Timothy C. Hobbs is a consummate horror writer and his stories are both horrific and beautifully crafted. The Pumpkin Seed published by Vamplit Publishing in 2009 was Timothy Hobbs first published novel and his second novel, The Smell of Ginger was published shortly thereafter. He is now working with his editor at Vamplit Publishing on a collection of stories based on popular fairytales.

NEW RELEASE

MUSIC BOX SONATA

At the top of a steep cliff a derelict church serves its congregation of dust, cobwebs and birds roosting in the rafters. One human occupant lives there hidden in the cellar. He is cursed never walk in the tortuous sunlight, but to roam the woods on the cliff at night in the form of a hideous beast struggling with the violent desire to kill while striving to preserve remnants of his own humanity.
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Paul’s vision blurred for a moment before focusing on the red script NEW ORLEANS VAMPIER TOUR – FAMOUS MURDER SITES AND MOVIE LOCALES – GATHER AT MIDNIGHT ON THE STEPS OF ST. LOUIS CATHEDRAL ACROSS FROM JACKSON SQUARE – CAPES OPTIONAL.

Midnight was approaching when Paul came up to the cathedral. He saw a small group assembled on the bottom steps huddled against the late February chill. A hand shot up. “Paul! Over here,” he heard Shelia cry.

She ran to meet him.

“Wish you’d brought a jacket,” she kidded.

Shelia introduced the others braving the late hour, most of them college students like Paul and Shelia.

As the group exchanged pleasantries, another assemblage appeared from a swirling mist.

“I am Louis,” the first of the actor troupe announced.

There were three women and two men with him.

The women were dressed in heavily laced black garments. The men wore ensembles haunted with eighteenth century flair: dark suits, vests, and top hats.

Louis, the spokesman for the troupe, also donned a black cape lined in scarlet.

Louis bowed, announcing, “The Vampire Troupe welcomes you.” He grinned, revealing fangs.

Paul and Shelia, along with the other patrons, giggled and clapped at the theatrics.

Louis spread his arms and announced, “Now that the Witching Hour has arrived, please follow me.”

The crowd spread out behind Louis. Paul noticed the other members of the troupe stayed slightly behind.

Louis guided the entourage away from the cathedral. As they moved down dimly lit streets, he pointed out structures of historical and chilling significance: various buildings that housed scenes of ghastly crimes; stately homes rumored to be haunted by pitiful spirits and others by darker, spiteful ones.

The night fog and the chilly air added to the ambiance as the travelers passed beneath street lamps, and by the time the tour was nearing its last stop, the group was sufficiently thrilled and entertained.

“Before we make our final stop,” Louis announced. “Let me point out the house just across the street. It was one of the shooting locations used in the movie Interview with the Vampire.”

“Ahhh,” the crowd responded.

“It was near the end of the movie where Lestat was living in decrepit conditions,” Louis informed.

“Oh, I remember that part,” Paul heard one of the females say as Louis moved them on. “Lestat was in pathetic shape and drinking rats’ blood.”

Paul thought he saw just the hint of a smile crease Louis’s face at the woman’s comment before the group stood in front of an old bar whose doors were open wide with welcoming light and heat spreading out into the night, embracing the Vampire Tour and its clients standing under the vaporous glow of a solitary streetlamp.

Inside, the mood lightened. A special selection of appropriately themed drinks ranging from Bloody Mary’s to Paul and Shelia’s favorite, cranberry juice and gin, were served. The crowed mingled and talked, eventually some left while others, like Paul and Shelia, stuck around, talking with Louis.

“Been doing the tour long?” Paul asked.

“Oh yes,” Louis answered. “For many years now.”

“But what’s your day job?” Shelia asked, slurring her words under the influence of a third drink.

“Day job?” Louis asked and winked. “Vampires rest during the day, my dear.”

“Oh, you,” Shelia commented with a hiccup.

“Those are great fangs by the way,” Paul commented, beginning to feel a little tipsy himself.

“You can purchase some that look just like them,” Louis advised. “Down on Canal Street.”

Shelia stumbled forward and Paul caught her.

“Whoopsy,” Shelia said.

“Here,” Louis said and led Paul, still gripping Shelia, over to a booth toward the rear of the bar. “Let her sit here for awhile,” Louis suggested.

Paul eased Shelia down into the booth. She promptly sprawled across the seat.

Paul laughed. “I should probably get us back to the hotel,” he said.

“Listen,” Louis interrupted. “I believe all the other tourists have left. That leaves just you and your lovely companion. And since she seems quite comfortable at the moment, maybe I could interest you in a special part of the tour.”

“Really?” Paul asked. “There’s more?”

“Only for those who have remained,” Louis said. “Those whose fascination has been aroused. Someone like you, I’m guessing.”

The alcohol from his last gin and cranberry juice seemed to amplify its presence, embracing Paul like impending oblivion. He grabbed Louis’s shoulder for support against the sudden giddiness.

“Whoa!” Paul exclaimed. He looked around the room and focused on the booth where Shelia had been deposited. He noticed the five other members of Louis’ troupe were huddled there. The group resembled a flock of black and malevolent butterflies.

“Hey,” Paul said. “I better get Shelia.”

“My friends will see to her,” Louis advised. He directed Paul’s wobbly legs toward a pair of French doors. Louis opened them. Another room spread beyond.

Louis walked Paul toward a large coffin suspended at an angle from the floor.

Paul’s mind swirled as he focused on the casket. It was composed of darkly stained wood. Figures of humans writhing in torment were ornately carved along its sides. The inner lining was silk so deeply crimson it resembled blackened blood.

“The figures represent tortured souls from Dante’s poem,” Louis informed as he moved Paul closer to the coffin. “Please, climb in,” Louis invited.

Paul resisted. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“Oh, it’s an honor actually. We only let the special, the chosen from our Vampire Tour, experience what it’s like to rest as we do.”

“No,” Paul insisted. “I want to leave now. I want Shelia. I . . .”

Louis shoved Paul inside the coffin and slammed the lid closed.

Inside, Paul strained, pushing against the top of the heavy lid, but it wouldn’t budge.

Panic seized Paul. He tried to calm himself. He took deep breaths and slowly began to feel the effects of the alcohol subside.

“This is just a joke,” Paul said to himself. “The lid will flip open and Shelia and Louis and his actors will be laughing and lifting me out of here any moment now.”

But Paul’s hopes vanished when he felt a pair of arms emerge from beneath the silk lining and grab him tightly around the waist. He shrieked as a face nudged itself into the nape of his neck and the words “Let me introduce myself” were whispered into his ear.

“My name is Lestat,” the voice said coldly, hungrily as fangs pierced the warm flesh of Paul’s neck.

© Copyright 2012 Timothy C. Hobbs
1185 words

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Nicole Hadaway is the Vamplit published author of Release and the sequel Return to be released this fall. As a former lawyer, Nicole Hadaway knows all about bloodsuckers and deals with the devil. She currently lives in Texas where she pens such tales of horror, usually with a literary theme (she just can’t help her academic background!).

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“Damn!” Kit exclaimed aloud, as large, pink plastic beads nearly whacked the side of her head.

Really! Can this holiday be any more ridiculous? Year after year, drunkenness, beads, boobs – get a life and get over it, people!

None of that was said aloud, of course, as Kit didn’t have the guts to anger the two beer-soaked frat boys standing right next to her, waiting for the float to pass so that they could cross the street. Krewe d’Etat wasn’t as famous as the Muses, Komus, or Bacchus parades, but it still drew large crowds on the Friday before Mardi Gras.

They should all just wrap themselves up and take it elsewhere. Brazil. Away from where I live, for sure.

Now, where’s my apartment again? St. Charles and … which cross-street?

“Can’t remember where you live, eh?” the old, fat gentleman behind her said. She’d not noticed him before, but there he was, hovering behind her, his whiskey-breath and sweaty hair making her nose wrinkle in disgust. Kit wanted to smack that smug smile right off his face.

“That’s the sign, you know. It’s been more than a year,” he nodded, shuffling his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Not nervous, though. Not exactly.

“Get away from me!” Kit yelled, not caring what the frat boys thought, but looking in their direction anyway. They didn’t notice her one bit.

The sweaty man caught her gaze. “They won’t notice you. Some still will, but after a year, it’ll get harder and harder. Best move on, honey. You’re not happy here, I can tell.”

“What the fuck do you know about me?” Kit retorted, hands on her hips, ready for a full fight now. She’d make those frat boys notice her. She’d make everyone on the neutral ground stare at her. Because no one did that anymore, no one talked to her, smiled at her, or walked out of her way on the sidewalks as she wound her way through town. No one. Not anymore. Not since that night…

“That’s who you are!” the sweaty man exclaimed, jabbing his pinky finger at her as he held his beer. “The girl from last year’s Mardi Gras, what got herself killed right behind Jacques-Imo’s restaurant. You wanted some beads, showed what ya got to a guy, and then he strangled ya. They hushed it up, though – woulda been real bad for business. City still strugglin’ after the hurricane and all. Dumped your body in the Mississippi, didn’t they?”

Kit knew she wasn’t crying, because ghosts shed no tears, but she thought she felt them anyway, hot and salty, coursing down her cheeks.

© Copyright 2012 Nicole Hadaway
453 words