Archive for April, 2012

Tales from an Apartment, by Gerald Rice

Posted: April 29, 2012 by Shaina in Gerald Rice
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Tales from an Apartment, by Gerald Dean Rice

Tales from an Apartment, by Gerald Dean Rice

Tales from an Apartment, by Gerald Dean Rice

Description: From the author of “Fleshbags” and “The Ghost Toucher comes 9 tales to scare, tantalize, puzzle, and make you laugh. Through different times and realities, see how the people change within the same four walls. From a woman whose husband has become obsessed with the vending machine in their living room, to a man raised from the dead by a wife who just can’t let go, a thief who’s being watched by unseen eyes, a voyeur who can’t stop watching the ghostly girl across the street and finally a husband who finally gets his wish when his wife suddenly dies, but life takes a complicated turn.

Excerpt

The B Side

When Henry awoke, Velma was dead.  To his credit, he knew this not by the glazed look in her eye or her slack, unhinged mouth—she looked like that many times first thing in the morning.  No, he knew because for the first time in almost thirty years of marriage, she hadn’t clapped an icy hand onto his wrist the second before he rolled out of bed.

“Well, good morning, Velma,” Henry said to his dead wife propped up on his elbow.  She stared at the ceiling in reply.  “And how did you rest, dear?” he said, nodding as if she were actually responding.  He wondered if he were breaking some sort of taboo, teasing the dead, but didn’t really care.  It was about time she died.  Henry hadn’t felt this alive in… well, ever.  It was as if for thirty years his life had been poured out into two glasses, but now he had the full glass to himself.

First, he would need to call the police.  Then a funeral home, he supposed, and maybe the few remaining cousins of hers spread throughout the country.  The Marlowe women were far and few between, but of hardy stock.  They didn’t go down easy.  So far as he knew, all the ones over the age of fifty were widows.  Those lucky men.  Velma’s mother was already dead by the time he’d met her, but the old woman had been a hardy seventy-something and had only died because she’d had separate falls down the same flight of stairs within minutes of each other before being stabbed seventeen times.  Even then the old bat (Velma’s words, not Henry’s) had clung onto the last few scraps of life in the hospital for two weeks.  It had taken a combination of multiple injuries and a staph infection to finally take Velma’s mother out.

As he dried himself from the shower he glanced over at the picture Velma had insisted stay on his nightstand.  Her hated mother, who had somehow become sainted in death, stared at him with the same impassive hatred he’d had to bear witness to upon waking every morning.  But today, those eyes didn’t have the same anchoring despair pulling down his insides as on other days.  Velma was thirty when they’d married and over the process of the last several decades, she’d blossomed into a carbon copy of the gaunt, crow-faced, scowling woman who’d eyed him to sleep with that grey expression and jolted him awake in the morning.  She could easily have been a stand-in for her mother had she been too ill to fulfill her duties in Hell.  He’d put that picture frame face down many times during the night, but somehow Velma had sensed it and put it back up.  Or it had crawled upright in a feat of beyond-the-grave hate-will.

Henry felt entirely too good.  He looked at Velma, still in her state of rictus and was slightly crestfallen that this could have been a dream.  Good wasn’t a word he’d used too often in his life.  Or rather, all the power in the word had been drained out.  Dinner was good, the movie was good, her outfit was good, the love-making (on rare and strictly regimented encounters) was good.  He looked at his wife, willing her to move, almost expecting her to lurch upright, screaming or leap onto the wall and crawl across the ceiling.

That brought a smile.  No, this was real.  And if it wasn’t, he had nothing to look forward to but more of this awful life anyway, so he may as well enjoy it.

“You know, dear,” he began, fishing boxers and knee-socks out of his drawer, “you do so much.  You should really take a day for yourself.  Stay in bed, watch TV, order a pizza.  You never admitted it, but I know you like that show Cheaters.”

He caught sight of himself through the corner of his eye in the mirror.  Henry stood straight and looked at his naked body.  He’d really let himself go.  His saggy belly had creased underneath it had grown so large.  Henry still had a full head of hair, but Velma had always insisted on this shaggy cut that swallowed his ears in a thick, curly thicket of grey and faded red.  His noodly arms didn’t have an ounce of muscular definition—Velma had ridiculed him for any time he’d tried to exercise—and he’d somehow managed a tan that faded upward from his wrists.  He thought about it a moment—she’d ridiculed him whenever he’d done anything to improve himself.

But she’d maintained that hard, unfeminine body of hers.  Twice a week for the last thirty years she’d gone dancing, had forced him to dance the first ten years until it had become obvious he was a hopeless, graceless foot-clubbing, two left-footed beast.

Henry scowled at his reflection and began stripping on his clothes.  Velma had already put out his clothes for the day, a striped, short-sleeved thing with brown tweed pants that always itched his crotch.

“No,” he said.  “I’m not going to wear this.”  He threw the shirt on the floor and went to the dresser, fishing around in the bottom drawer until he found the pair of blue jeans he remembered there.  He could wear them as long as he paid the dollar at work for whatever this month’s charity was.  Velma hadn’t approved of dressing down at work.  Henry put the jeans on and topped them with a grey t-shirt.  It had a small bleach stain on one sleeve, but that made it more appealing to him.  He looked at himself in the mirror and thought he recognized that guy.  Those were his clothes all right and his silly haircut and his bowling ball of a gut stretching against the shirt, but the twinkle in his eyes and that too-wide smile were on loan from somebody else.

Henry combed his hair in the opposite direction Velma had always tugged it down in and promptly left their apartment without the lunch his wife had made for him or even a goodbye.  He had six dollars or so in his pocket, but he was going to use his debit card at a fast food restaurant and he wasn’t going to put the transaction in the register.  If Velma had been in her grave already she would have been spinning in it.

Henry came home happy.  He had an awful job with horrible coworkers and customers coming to the counter who constantly found new ways to degrade and revolt him, but today it had all washed off him.  The worst part of any day prior by far was over.  Henry had come to a sudden realization—and had consequently developed a new credo.  Ever since he could remember, he’d lived his life on the B side.  He’d thought that up while pondering over his life and how exactly he’d gotten to where he was.  He’d had a favorite song back before Velma had crushed his love of music by taking a tack hammer to records he’d had since his teens.  Back when the world still listened to vinyl.  Henry couldn’t remember the name or the artist, but he remembered how that song had made him feel.  It had been on the B side of a record lost somewhere in time.  And then it had hit him that he’d been on the B side of life and he’d lost himself somewhere in time.  If he’d ever had himself to begin with, that was.

But today, new Henry had been born.  And he held every inch of himself.  From now on, Henry would live his life on the A side.

“Honey, I’m home!” he said, but he clapped a hand over his mouth.  His voice had been too loud, had carried too far.  It had scared him for some reason.  The apartment had a sudden hollowness to it not present before, like all the furniture had been removed and what was set out before him was only an optic illusion.  He stood there for a moment, holding his breath and wondering if Velma had played a trick on him.

Of course that was ridiculous.  A-Side Henry shrugged his shoulders and fluffed the back of his hair.  He’d gotten it cut into a mullet, half as a joke.  Velma hated jokes of any kind, practical or otherwise.  Instead, she preferred tests.  Velma loved giving Henry pop quizzes- presenting him with two options and pouring scorn over him until he inevitably withered and picked the wrong one.  Like when she’d caught him masturbating in the bathroom and had tortured him with a storm of questions, finally settling on asking if it was better for him to touch himself or sleep with another woman.

“Touch myself?” he’d guessed and Velma had tut-tutted, shaking her head as if he were a child who’d just misunderstood a lesson.  She’d proceeded to explain to him that touching himself was a waste of seed, that it was purely a selfish act, that hands were meant for labor and not self-labor.  She’d spoken with all the fury and self-righteousness of a southern Baptist minister.  He’d wanted to remind her that they’d never had children, but when Velma interrogated and explained, there was no room for rebuttal.  When a verdict delivered, no appeal.  And when a sentence pronounced, no stay of execution.  There had been no ‘option’ this morning.  He’d simply gotten up, seen his wife was dead, and then proceeded to get ready for work and leave.

But still his insides were steeped in boiling hot dread.

Tales from an Apartment, by Gerald Dean Rice
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes and Noble

Cheerage Fearage, by Kimberly Dana

Posted: April 27, 2012 by Shaina in Kimberly Dana
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Cheerage Fearage, by Kimberly Dana

Cheerage Fearage, by Kimberly Dana

Available at:
Amazon,  Barnes and Noble

Description: Welcome to Camp Valentine – a cheerleading camp with raging spirit. A ghost that is! It’s ten years after cheer captain Lexy Mills’ bizarre drowning, but the bloodthirsty pranks are still going down at a hypnotic pace. Urban legend says it’s Lexy seeking revenge, picking off cheerleaders one by one in a symphony of horrors. Peppered with humor and wit to offset the diabolically scary, CHEERAGE FEARAGE will have teens salivating for more Tiki Tinklemeyer and tales of the sleepy, supernatural town of Valentine. CHEERAGE FEARAGE is the first installment of a paranormal jaw-dropping teen series, jam-packed with chills and thrills that will leave no pimple ungoosed! Fire up as the girls get ready to fly high and die! Ready? O-kay!

CHEERAGE FEARAGE is an award-winning Writers Digest Young Adult novel.

Excerpt

The silver moon threw light on the two girls as they eagerly peeled off their clothes, tossing them in heaps on the wooden dock.  They jumped off into the vast lake, giggling and squealing at the shock of its coldness as the dark water swallowed up their tanned, limber bodies.

Although fierce competitors on the school’s most exclusive faction, the two girls were the best of friends with much in common.  They ran with the same elite crowd, dated the same square-jawed jocks, and chose the same stylish trends to be mindlessly imitated by the featureless masses.  Quite simply, they were perfection personified coupled with a “rules-don’t apply-to-us” attitude that even the teachers chose not to challenge – the outcome resulting in unequivocal classroom suicide.

“Nervous about tomorrow?” asked the sandy blonde with an I-know-better grin.

“Yeah, right,” shot back the redhead.  “It’s in the bag, sister.  Fly high or die.”

“You know I love you best, right?

“Of course.  It’s you and me forever.”

They traded playful splashes and squeals until, without warning, the blonde gripped the redhead’s neck, forcing her under.  She held down the thrashing body, welcoming the newfound power and control that had evaded her for so long.  Vindication was only moments away….

Responding to a startling kick to the shin, she released the girl without delay playing it off with a full-bodied laugh.  “What are you doing?” the redhead yelled, spastically choking.  “You trying to kill me?”

“Relax,” said the blonde.  “You’re my best friend.  I would never hurt you.  You know that, right?”

But the redhead didn’t answer – at least not with words.  Her shrill scream was cut short by the blonde thrusting her under again, this time with even more force.  She yanked tufts of the covetous red hair everyone always spoke about, the crowning feature that solidified her title of reigning school beauty.  Brutally jerking her head to the left and then wrenching it to the right, she forced the girl to swallow massive amounts of water.

The redhead’s adrenaline now metastasized into rank, primal fear.  She kicked and scratched for dear life, causing the blonde to tighten her grip.  Overcome with sheer panic, followed by pure helplessness, the redhead relaxed into an inevitable surrender.

With the determined patience of a professional assassin, the blonde counted slowly to fifty, waiting for the shapely, agile form that had cruelly beat her out of every competition to go still and flaccid forever.  She delighted in feeling the strong steady pulse slow to a mere fleeting throb and then finally to complete nothingness.  When the time came, the blonde released the body into the dark water without pause or sentiment, and gracefully swam back to the dock, crawling up the ladder with a smooth, athletic gait.

Mission accomplished.

Giddily content, the blonde patted away streaming lines of lake water with her tank top, tossing it back on along with her vintage cutoffs.  She left the other’s clothes balled up below the “NO DIVING” sign and never looked back.  The long-suffering second-in-command was now the captain of the Valentine Cheerleading Squad.

It was official.  The queen bee had be dethroned and destroyed.


The Valentine Post

August 6, 1999

            The body of Alexa “Lexy” Mills’ (17) was found floating on Camp Valentine Lake this morning where the squad captain was attending annual cheerleading camp.  The bizarre death was ruled an accidental drowning by the deputy sheriff of the Valentine Police Department. 

            Since she was a young child, Mills had experienced episodes of somnambulism, a disorder where the affected engages in behavior normally associated with wakefulness during sleep, more commonly known as “sleepwalking.”  According to her distraught mother, Lucille Mills, it was not unusual for Lexy to sleepwalk outside at night, although she never had a history of suffering bodily harm hitherto.

            Tonight the sidewalks of Valentine High School teem with red roses, teddy bears, and pom-poms, as friends, students, and teachers pay tribute to Mills.  A visibly shaken Katie Towne, co-captain of the cheerleaders, echoed this sentiment between sobs, “Lexy was my best friend and embodied the true spirit of Valentine High.  She was everyone’s role model and a beacon for the entire student body.  I don’t see how we’ll get along with out her.  High school will never be the same.”   

            In addition to captaining the varsity cheerleading squad, Mills was president of the poetry club and active in the Valentine Church Youth Group.  She would have been a graduating member of the 1999 senior class.

Ten Years Later…

Chapter 1

MONDAY

Lonely farms, dusty diners, never-ending wheat fields.  Was there nothing else to look at on this coma-drive?  I sighed and played with the radio scanner, half listening to Mrs. Tinklemeyer wax parental pride while making it perfectly obvious she OD’ed on the caffeine this morning…

“Dr. Tinklemeyer and I are unequivocally elated with your impending extracurricular endeavors!  Here we are, new residents to the town of Valentine and already my children are aspiring to the extramural pursuits of cheerleader and varsity soccer respectively.  We are just so delighted!”

“Junior varsity, Mrs. Tinklemeyer,” I corrected.  “That means everyone plays regardless of talent and ability.  In other words, you don’t have to worry about Toby being the tool benchwarmer.”

“Speak for yourself, Ms. Four-Eyed-Flirt-in-a-Skirt,” laughed my twin, flipping the shaggy bangs he so proudly wore over one eye.  “Whoever heard of a Magna-obsessed cheerleader?  Mrs. Tinklemeyer, do you realize Tiki’s the first person to transcend cliques?  Hey T., maybe when you crossover, you can combine the book club and cheerleading squad.  You know, do book-of-the-month cheers!”  He mimicked in a high voice, “Ready?  O-kay!  Books are tight!  So fight-fight-fight!  Go Nerds!!”   

“…Now Tiki and Toby Tinklemeyer, please terminate this exhibition of reciprocal sibling derision instantaneously!  Here I am applauding your imminent successes.  Don’t make me assume regret,” chided Mrs. Tinklemeyer, lifting her oversized rhinestone sunglasses and giving us the eye.

I should have kept my mouth shut!  Toby can goad my Achilles heel with a red-hot poker like no one’s business, and it did nothing to calm my already twitchy nerves and fragile ego.  Bottom line: I’m a freaktard with self-esteem the size of a pea, destined from birth to suffer teen-misfit syndrome and be perpetually plagued by Sally Self-Conscious and Natalie Negative Thoughts.

You want the gnarly details?  Although the laundry list is long, the three things I hate most about myself are:

1)      the living, breathing mass of unruly Medusa frizz that sits on top of my head;

2)      my thick, horn-rimmed, Hey-the-Geek-Guild-called-they-want-their-glasses-back glasses;

3)      and, my freakishly elongated philtrum, which is that vertical groove just below your nose.  Whereas 99.9 percent of the population’s philtrums are only an inch long, mine looks like a stretched out piece of chewing gum.  To make matters worse, it perspires profusely whenever I’m in a socially awkward situation, which inevitably causes people to stare and inquire which inevitably causes it to perspire even more.

Oh, and as far as my athletic prowess, activities requiring basic coordination completely elude me.  You know, the normal, everyday things regular people take for granted, like walking across a room without tripping.  Such treacherous journeys often result in calamity for the likes of me.  Which makes me want to scream at the top of my lungs, WHY IN THE WORLD AM I IN THIS CAR HEADING TO CHEERLEADING CAMP?  It would be almost funny if it wasn’t so tragic…

My mind tripped back to the muffled conversation I wasn’t supposed to hear between Dr. and Mrs. Tinklemeyer when discussing yours truly:

“Tiki is a cerebral child who suffers from a severe, debilitating inferiority complex.  Do you really think cheerleading camp is a suitable remedy for her confidence issues?”

            “We haven’t a choice, darling.   Cheerleading per se may have a reputation for being insidiously vapid, but it was all they offered this summer when we went to register at the high school.  Now it is extremely critical that Tiki gets off to a favorable start this year, meaning abstention from solitary confinement and reading those inane cartoon books of hers.  It’s clear Toby’s a natural extrovert with an aptitude in social dexterity but Tiki – I just worry sometimes.”

            “I know, lovely.  I just hope it’s the right thing for our Tiki.” 

 

The right thing?  No, sending me to cheerleading camp is absolutely the most spiteful, cruel, hateful thing you could do to someone schlumpy like me!  And so what if I wear an invisible “Keep Away” sign over my head twenty-four/seven?  Truth be told, I much prefer sitting in my bedroom lair reading about sword-wielding school girls than socializing with my – god forbid - peers.  At least by myself I don’t have to talk to another human being, which inevitably causes me to wither into a stuttering, stammering, sweating, purplish-red blob of facial tics who can’t string a single sentence together.

But as always, my clueless, fossil-aged adoptive parents meant well.  And they were right – in a mere four weeks I’d be starting high school; public high school, on top of that, and who needs to be lost and friendless?  I just never imagined my friends to be the hyper-competitive, micro-miniskirt plastic types who started everything with “Ready? O-kay!” 

Cheerage Fearage, by Kimberly Dana

Available at:
Amazon,  Barnes and Noble

Kissing Corpses, by Amy Leigh Strickland

Posted: April 23, 2012 by Shaina in Amy Leigh Strickland
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Kissing Corpses, by Amy Strickland

Kissing Corpses, by Amy Strickland

Available at Amazon

Description: Kissing Corpses starts as a vampire romance, but quickly spirals into a suspense horror novel. Kendall Harker thinks she’s met Mr. Perfect when a stranger, Rawdon Hale, rescues her from a possibly deadly mugging. Her new beau looks good on paper, but soon Kendall discovers that he is hiding a terrible secret: he’s a vampire. When Rawdon decides that he wants to turn Kendall into a creature of the night, Kendall isn’t given much choice. She must reach out for help from a rude and callous vampire hunter who only cares about his catch and has no interest in Kendall’s well-being.

Excerpt

At his core his body trembled; the minute shaking motion magnified as it traveled down the length of his arm until the gun in his hands was convulsing wildly, unable to be aimed. Every shudder, every twitch, took place in slow motion. Guns are powerful. They can end lives with the squeeze of a trigger and, if one is pointed at you, they can slow down time. The man pointing the gun at me was a stranger. He had the gaunt face and yellow teeth of a meth user. The tremor of his withdrawal was only compounded by the cold. My purse was the ticket to his next fix.

I held my hands in the air, thinking very quickly about what I needed to do. His aim might have been terrible, but I knew that if he got spooked and pulled the trigger, I didn’t want to bet against his marksmanship.

“Okay,” I breathed, watching the heat roll out from my lips, “You can have everything. Just… take it.” I held out my purse. He edged towards me, one hand reaching for the purple and black damask tote, the other trying to reign in the quaking pistol.

He changed his mind. “Open the car,” he said.

Fuck. This was turning into a car jacking. I could cancel my credit cards and buy a new iPhone. It was insured. I could stand to lose the twenty dollars and the pack of Big Red in my purse. The car was a whole new level of problems.

“Please,” I begged.

“Give me the goddamn keys!” he barked. I winced, but nodded and opened the purse to follow orders. My only hope was that someone had heard him shout.

I felt my hands curl around my braided leather key chain. Then something vibrated. My phone. In that half second between the vibrate and the ring tone, I had all the time in the world to realize how much trouble this could be, but no time at all to react.

“STOP CALLIN’, STOP CALLIN’, I DON’T WANNA THINK ANYMORE!”

The sudden blaring of Lady GaGa at top volume cut through the cold night air like a siren. He panicked. I can’t say that I didn’t panic, too. I felt the barrel of the gun strike my cheek just below my eye. My head whipped back and my body followed. I fell hard against my car, catching the rear-view mirror across my lower back.

“I LEFT MY HEAD AND MY HEART ON THE DANCE FLOOR.”

“It’s my phone,” I bawled, clutching my throbbing face. An injury like this would normally have me on the ground, unable to speak. Adrenaline is a wondrous hormone.

“Open the car,” he ordered.

“Or you could put the gun down,” another voice said. It seemed to carry a proper British accent.

During my undergrad survey of Psychology, we learned that strangers didn’t normally stop to intervene in public cases of assault. The instinct for the average human being, no matter how altruistic you’d like to think you you are, is to label it “not my problem” and keep walking. The uncommon individual who had come to my aid, stood at the corner of the street with his hands shoved into the pockets of a navy blue, wool top coat.

My cheek was swelling up, making it difficult to keep my eye open and I’m pretty sure the contact had been knocked out by the blow. I covered the offending eye and tried to focus on the stranger. He was young with fair skin, blonde hair, and thick black glasses. The shadow cast by the sport’s bar seemed to absorb him. “Put the gun down,” he said.

“Who the fuck are you?”

My rescuer didn’t answer. He walked towards the mugger with a calm that would make a Buddhist monk envious. The mugger lowered his weapon and stared back at the stranger. His hands steadied.

“Have you looked in a mirror recently?” the stranger asked. “Have you seen what you look like? More of that junk in your veins isn’t going to help anything.”

I would have expected a backlash from the mugger, but he just stared at the stranger, waiting for what he would say next.

“I’m giving you a chance,” he continued. “If you take her automobile, the police will pull you over in three blocks and you’ll go to jail. You’ll go through withdrawal in there, alone, with a metal toilet and a swastika tattooed bunkmate who’s looking to trade you for a pack of cigarettes.”

The adrenaline was wearing off and I was getting dizzy. The scene before me was beginning to feel like a dream. Was he really keeping the mugger’s attention captive for as long as it felt?

“Or you can give me the gun, take this dollar I’m about to give you, and get on a bus.”

The mugger nodded. “To where?”

“I’m sure the Emergency Room staff at the hospital can refer you to a decent rehabilitation center.”

There was a long pause. I leaned back against my car to steady myself.

“Give me the gun,” the stranger repeated. The mugger stepped forward and placed the gun in his outstretched hand. The stranger opened the clip, dumped the ammo down the storm drain, and threw the gun in a nearby public trash can. He reached into his pocket and handed a silver dollar to the mugger. “Go. Before the police arrive.”

The moment the stranger turned his attention from the mugger, the mugger came to his senses. He started to shake again and then he ran. Where he went, I don’t know. The important part was that he was gone.

“Are you alright?” the stranger asked, turning his gaze on me. He approached and pulled off his leather gloves. His face was still a bit fuzzy, but I could make out the basic shape now. He had sharp, angular features and cold blue eyes. He had to be my age; I was six months out of college at the time.

“I feel sick,” I said. There was no way I was going to drive. “Should we call the police?”

“He won’t be trying that again,” the stranger said. He touched my cheek and pulled back with bright blood on the end of his finger. “You’ll keep until I can bandage you up. Is this your car?”

I don’t remember telling him my address, or much of the ride home. I have some memory of sitting on the toilet in my bathroom while he carefully placed butterfly bandages on my cheek and checked my pupils. After two Tylenol and a tall glass of water, he propped me up on my couch with a bag of frozen peas to watch a Lord of the Rings all-night marathon on some cable station. He asked me questions to keep me awake, but what they were or how I answered, I couldn’t say.

When the sun and the sound of a braking bus outside stirred me from my sleep, I was laying on my sofa in the living-room of the house I shared with my best friend. There was no sign of the bespectacled stranger with the British accent.

The front door slammed. The bowl on the table next to the door rattled with the impact. My head throbbed. I sat on the sofa with a bowl of cherry-chocolate granola cereal in my hands and a mug of steaming black coffee on the table at my feet. Geneva tossed her Coach bag over the back of the sofa. It landed next to me.

“What, not even going to ask where I’ve been?”

I turned to look at her. She was wearing the same outfit that she had left the house in the night before, tight blue jeans and a red top that squeezed her extra pounds in and put her cleavage out on display.

“Holy crap! What happened to your face?” she asked.

“Pistol-whipped,” I grumbled. “Mugged.”

“After I left? Outside the bar?”

I nodded.

“Oh my God. I am so sorry! Who the hell mugs someone in Cheyenne?”

“A meth head. I’ll be fine. Some guy came along and scared him off. Or… well… talked him down. Didn’t really scare him.”

Geneva and I had been out the night before at a sports bar, but she had gone off to hang out with some hunky co-ed and I had gone home alone. Or tried to. Geneva had always had much better luck with men than I did. She had a friendly round face and brown eyes. She was always complaining (to me) that she was twenty pounds overweight, but she was bubbly and flirty and available. She said I scared men away by being too smart.

“How was your date?” I asked, trying to sound happy for her.

“It was great. I kicked his butt at Nazi Zombies mode on Call of Duty and had him wrapped around my finger like that.” Geneva snapped her fingers. I forced a smile.

“But your face– did you drive home like that? Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?”

“I’m fine,” I assured her. “Like I said, some British guy came and the mugger took off. He drove my car home and made sure I didn’t slip into a coma.”

Geneva looked around the house and strained her neck to peek into the hall. “Who? Is he still here?”

“He was gone when I woke up. I didn’t even get his name. Don’t worry, he didn’t steal anything. I checked.”

“British? Was he cute? Oh, wait, how old was he? He wasn’t an old guy, was he? Or at least, was he a sexy old guy?”

I rolled my eyes. I was not going to have this conversation with the pounding in my head. “He was our age. He was alright. Honestly, everything’s a bit fuzzy.”

“Kendall!” she moaned, “What good are you as a damsel in distress if you can’t remember if he was cute!”

“I was mugged, Geneva,” I snapped. “I didn’t plan it to pick up cute guys.”

“Sorry.” She sat down on the arm of the couch. “Should you, like, go to the hospital or something?”

“I didn’t die from brain swelling in the last 8 hours. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“No, you know what? You need a Doctor’s note. If you’re going to be a grump with a migraine for a while, you at least deserve some time off of work. Do you have sick time yet?”

I nodded. “I think I’ve accrued one day.”

“Good, use it for this. You got pistol-whipped for God’s sake. That’s hardcore. You have street cred now.”

“For all of those rap battles I participate in,” I said, my tone flat.

“At least it’s a story to tell at parties, right?”

“Geneva,” I groaned. “Could I have some quiet?”

“Right. I’ll go take a shower. Let me know if there’s anything you need when I get out, okay?” Geneva leaned down and hugged me. I nodded.

“Thanks.”

There was a shrill beep and Geneva shot up. She pulled her phone out of her purse and grinned. “Text from Jeremy. He’s hooked.”

I picked up my cup of coffee, hoping she’d leave so that I could stop talking and have some peace. “Oh, last night, I called you. Did you get my voicemail?”

I laughed, in spite of my killer migraine. “Yeah. Your ring tone scared him,” I said, gesturing to my split cheek. “Thanks.”

Geneva winced. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s not really important now. I was just letting you know that I’d be in late, if at all.”

“Oh. Well… that shower?”

“Right! Sorry.” Geneva hopped off the couch and ran down the hall with a bounce. I chugged half the mug of coffee in front of me and then laid down on the couch to wallow in misery for a while.

Kissing Corpses, by Amy Strickland
Available at Amazon

Satan’s Casting Call, by Lisa Maliga

Posted: April 21, 2012 by Shaina in Lisa Maliga, Thriller and Suspense
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Satan's Casting Call, by Lisa Maliga

Satan's Casting Call, by Lisa Maliga

Satan’s Casting Call, by Lisa Maliga 
Available at:
Amazon

Description:  

Duncan Smith-Holmes is a struggling young actor who is in desperate need of a paying gig or he has to leave Hollywood. But a bizarre casting call and an opportunity to land a major role in a high budget movie is something he can’t pass up — no matter what the consequences.

Excerpt:

Duncan Smith-Holmes was running late for his casting call. He rushed into the kitchen and almost threw his cup of instant coffee into the chipped porcelain sink. Tina, his fiancée, was sitting at the tiny breakfast table with a short stack of freebie weeklies. She was reading the Daily Variety as she sipped her coffee and circled ads in the classifieds section. She was disgruntled with the small selection of assistant positions. One of them was in Beverly Hills and the rest were scattered between the San Fernando Valley and Santa Monica.

“Interns wanted, no pay, great experience,” she read quietly, contempt showing on her freckled face. Why doesn’t it just say, “We need slaves?” She shook her head. “Junior administrative assistant, long hours, work for executive … I know what that means.” She paused. “Morning, Duncan,” she said, not bothering to look up at the slender young man who resembled a surfer with his wavy sun-bleached hair.

“Hi honey,” he glanced at the calendar on the wall above her, right next to the clock.  Time was ticking, he thought. The June calendar had one date circled on it in bold red ink, the 25th.  That was D-Day for the couple. It was their agreed upon deadline for both of them to find employment within the entertainment industry. It was also the day the rent was due. Her chances were greater than his as she was looking for any type of secretarial or clerical work.

He glanced at the laptop sitting on the cluttered coffee table in front of the loveseat. On Monday a virus had shut it down and the recovery disk had been lost. The Dell had to be repaired or replaced—neither option affordable right now. The nearby Hollywood Regional Branch Library opened at 12:30 so neither one of them could do any online job searching.

Duncan wasn’t opting for that office work route; he wanted to be an actor and he would accept nothing less than a role in a movie [he wished!], TV, video, cable, anything that involved him being in front of a camera. Duncan needed the glare of the limelight. He thrived in it.  And if he didn’t find some sort of acting role that was either long term or leading to bigger and better parts, he was going back to Iowa.

“Break a leg,” Tina said. She watched her future husband, dressed in office casual attire of khakis and a blue shirt, rush towards the open front door. Already the sun was glaring down at ten o’clock and she knew that it was going to be unbearably hot in the old, un-air-conditioned apartment. Why did she always have to be out of work in the summertime?  As soon as she got up she opened the door to allow some of the Pacific breeze that traveled east down Sunset Boulevard to assist in cooling off the one bedroom apartment. All the neighbors in the eight-unit building were at work and she was alone with nothing to do but look for a new job. Craving a cigarette, she sighed, knowing she was out of Newports and would be until she found steady work.

Inside Duncan’s weather-beaten red Mustang he cranked up the radio and listened to some fake new age guru answer questions on the afterlife. He couldn’t call in like he sometimes did as his cell phone was broken and he couldn’t afford a new one. He hated those tiny plastic things anyway as they couldn’t hold up to his temper and he’d methodically gone through several of them. He remembered how they’d become useless. One was thrown into a pool, another sailed over the wall at a backyard wedding, two of them had been crushed by his feet, and he’d hurled that first generation iPhone out of his car on the 405 when traffic had stopped due to a car chase that he didn’t get to see.

He despised open calls but since his agent had retired he had to fend for himself.  Not that old Harry had done much for him, a few sitcoms and some extra work in three low budget horror films, yet it was better than what he was coming up with which was exactly zip. His headshots were over a year old and his hair had grown a lot since then plus his face was thinner. Tina said he looked sexy; his mother said he resembled a corpse.

Duncan looked at the address he’d jotted down on a blue message pad that Tina had stolen from her last office job. He looked at the cross street. Yeah, he was in some shitty part of the San Fernando Valley. Universal Studios was only a couple of miles away but the heavier pedestrian traffic and the seedy buildings meant one thing – off the Hollywood map. He passed a boarded up store with spray-painted gang signs and rolled his eyes. Super high class. He turned off the radio and looked for the last two digits of the address. 38, 40, 42…there it was.

The gray prefab building looked new. A uniformed guard sat on a folding chair, looking ominous with his mirrored sunglasses, his tanned bald head glistening in the relentless Valley sunshine. Before Duncan had a chance to park in one of the half dozen “G.G.K. Productions parking only” spaces, the guard hurried over, almost giving himself a heart attack in the process. The older man leaned on Duncan’s convertible and panted before addressing the youth. Duncan watched the sweat rolling down the hairless head and the dark stains spreading from underarms to chest.

“I’m here for the audition,” Duncan told the man.

The guard nodded as he wheezed, then gestured towards the lot. “Park…” was all he was able to get out as he struggled to breathe. His hand slid away and Duncan watched with concern as the man turned and slowly went back to his post. All that fuss over a lousy parking space! There was plenty of room. A couple of hand-lettered WE WILL TOW signs were clearly displayed. One car was parked in the corner, a forlorn looking white bottom of the line Mercedes that was spotted with bird crap.

Once inside, Duncan approached the empty reception desk in the small tiled lobby. The light was dim and the air was stuffy. He looked around, not seeing anyone. He checked his watch. Weird. The audition had been scheduled for eleven o’clock and it was 11:10. Where was everyone? Usually open calls were packed with dozens of hopefuls.  He clutched the manila envelope containing three of his portraits with the requisite resumes stapled on the back. For an instant Duncan wondered why he wasn’t back in his father’s Iowa cornfield taking care of the family business. The corn would’ve been planted by now, he thought, recalling the thick humidity of the air and the tall bamboo-like stalks with the sagging leaves scraping his arms and face as he rushed down the narrow rows.

Now he was in some bottom of the barrel production office that didn’t have any employees. He looked at the doorway on his left and saw an empty nameplate holder.  The wrong address must have been put in the trade publication. People made mistakes. But, he reflected, lately he’d made just a few too many…

The door opened and all he saw was a slit of darkness. Duncan felt sweaty in the air conditionless lobby and the ominous vibes he was starting to sense. Nervousness was a common feeling at auditions; outright fear wasn’t. There was no gust of wind, no circulation to open the door. Suddenly a man stepped out of the office and the look of surprise that crossed the broad Scandinavian pale features was quickly replaced with a grin.

“Hi! I’m Monty Cross! I’m the producer.” He strode over to Duncan and eagerly shook his hand, dispelling the nervous fear.

“Hey, I’m Duncan Smith-Holmes and…”

“This place is usually a mob scene.” Monty looked around at the starkly empty lobby with only a dingy old couch and some thrift store reject tables and chairs. A dog-eared issue of Vanity Fair magazine was the sole reading material. “Can’t understand it. The ad ran today, I checked it.”

“Maybe it’s a full moon,” Duncan joked.

“Could be the reason,” Monty said as he walked back to the door. “Let me see those head shots.”

Duncan quickly pulled the black and white glossies out of the envelope.

The producer grabbed them and looked at the photos and the resumes. He nodded.

“You want to see the script?”

“Sure!” Duncan replied. He was feeling optimistic. But he felt that way whenever he went on an audition. There was always a chance, he thought.

Before Duncan got to step inside the office Monty returned holding a thick script.  Duncan’s nervousness had kicked in and when he saw the size of the screenplay only one phrase popped into his head…feature film.

“The hottest script in town!” Monty began.

Satan’s Casting Call, by Lisa Maliga 
Available at:
Amazon

The Summer Set, by Jay Province

Posted: April 19, 2012 by Shaina in Jay Province, Young Adult
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The Summer Set, by Jay Province

The Summer Set, by Jay Province

The Summer Set, by Jay Province
Available at:
Amazon

Description:  

In the summer of 1956 two teenagers rescue a drowning woman from the Susquehanna’s turbulent waters, and their predictable lives suddenly veer towards a deadly detour. Shadowy men in black cars start tracking their every movement. A tall foreboding man clutching a snake-headed staff and chain-smoking through a hole in his throat seeks their names.

Fourteen year-old catcher Peter ‘Chumbucket’ Miller and his best friend pitcher Mike DeSorcier begin the summer on a mission to capture the World Series championship of their youth baseball league. Spying on a league meeting from a sweltering attic perch they uncover a group of extra-dimensional beings infiltrating the league. During their breathless escape, the boys discover two things: they are in mountains of trouble and they need help. Assistance (and more trouble) arrives in the form of two daring and mystifying girls – the unusual Karen Croft and the beautiful Jo Munro. Together, the teens must solve the mystery of the Noqumiut before a fateful August lunar eclipse.

Bizarre and comical events trail the foursome’s investigation: Santa and his merry elf magically appear in June running for their lives from a town hall fire; a teen girl flies her Cessna from the scene of a refinery explosion; and a dead body is left as a present on a leather couch – carefully wrapped in a mink coat and holding a red gift bow.

Unlikely sources aid their efforts. These include an Eskimo shaman, a magic stone carving of a lively seal, a ferociously loyal dog, and an opponent from Roswell, New Mexico whose talents (and origins) may literally be out of this world.

The Summer Set is a humorous, intense, action-packed story about friends, enemies and the pursuit of winning it all. The novel is for all story lovers ages twelve and up.

Excerpt:

Chapter One:

Karen imagined when she left her body at death it would feel the same as practice. But even in practice it was never the same twice. That early May evening she felt like pollen rising in the spring air. She lifted dreamily from her body and drifted out beyond her bedroom walls and into the dusky sky. Her unburdened spirit swept overWilliamsport’s rooftops and zoomed to the town clock tower. Three blocks away and far below she saw her friends Peter and Mike heading upThird Street.

Karen toyed with the idea of pulling Mike’s dark hair and pinching Peter’s cute nose. Later, she would casually ask them if anything unusual happened when they were walking home from baseball. She giggled when she envisioned their wide eyes and twisted tongues begging her for details, but she resisted her mischievous impulse. She reminded herself she didn’t know them that well, and her discipline returned.

She watched a woman in a white beret stop and question Mike and Peter. Across the street, a man wearing a black suit and hat unfolded from the rear door of a long black car. He eyeballed the woman, shoved the heavy door shut, and stepped into the shadows to light a cigarette.

Curious to know the man’s business, Karen concentrated her attention on him. His head suddenly jerked up like a bird’s and his sunken eyes seized on her. He snatched his hat off and an inky bloom jetted from beneath the brim, rapidly spreading and clouding her vision. She didn’t see the lashing black tentacle zooming up at her. She shuddered when its filmy tip pierced her and injected its cold venom. In that instant she recognized he wasn’t a man at all, but a Noqumiut.

Clawing in panic at the slimy tentacle, Karen heard her grandfather’s encouragement in the surrounding dark mist: ‘In the shaman’s world a thought is a thing, and fears are bad things. Release your fear. Steady your mind.’ She visualized her body safe in bed and a strong distant tug at her spirit’s silver cord brought her back with a sharp snap. She bolted upright in bed, startled and shaking. She shivered for a moment more and gathered her thoughts. Her mother called from the living room.

“Karen, it’s almost time for the show. I’ll drive you over if you want.”

“I’ll be out in a sec. Don’t worry about me, I’ll walk.”

Karen rolled from her bed and picked through her closet to change clothes. She didn’t want to involve her mother in such dark matters, but she wanted her grandfather’s opinion. She knew from experience the Noqumiut were very dangerous. She wondered whether Peter and Mike were safe.

*     *     *     *     *

“I saw a chopped-off finger yesterday,” Mike announced. “It was on my dad’s desk.”

Chumbucket and Mike were in a hurry to get home from practice. Chumbucket avoided stepping on cracks while he searched his duffel bag for a lost apple.

“The Case of the Missing Finger,” Chumbucket narrated darkly. “I’ve been waiting for this episode of Mike’s Amazing Stories. How did it get on his desk?”

“He said an FBI agent fromCaliforniawas coming to pick it up.”

“What do they want it for?”

“It matched the print of some guy that died in a shoot-out in 1954.”

“That’s pretty cool. Where did your dad find it?”

Mike removed his baseball cap, folded it and stuck it in his belt. He produced a cheap comb from his baseball jersey to feather and smooth his tousled pompadour. He quickly checked his hair placement with practiced hand pats. Satisfied, he pocketed the comb.

“The finger came from the door of Martin Flint’s T-Bird. Some guy reached inside and tried to grab his keys while he was necking with Susan Hebb on the Route 33 Overlook. Martin zoomed away before the guy could grab them.”

“So the finger came off when Martin pulled away?”

“Probably. My dad found it on the door’s rubber seal. There wasn’t any blood. It was like the finger was already dead and just snapped off. It could have been a prank.”

Chumbucket imagined the bloodless finger lying on the desk. The image both horrified and fascinated him.

“Martin was lucky. He probably carries a rabbit’s foot like mine.”

“Chum, that rabbit’s foot is pure superstition. It sure wasn’t lucky for the rabbit.”

“It’s lucky for me,” Chumbucket grinned. He pulled the lost apple from his bag. He held it out for Mike to admire, and quickly snatched it away.

“Where did you get it?”

“Jo stopped by my locker and asked if I wanted it.”

“And? Anything else?”

“Nothing else – she said it was a lunch leftover.”

“A leftover?” Mike frowned. “No way. Jo has a plan for everything she does. You’ll find out.”

Chumbucket inspected the surface before polishing the apple on his uniform sleeve and chomping through its glossy skin.

“Not bad. Pretty juicy.”

He took another bite. His eyes widened in disgust at the sight of a half worm dangling from its burrow in the apple’s flesh. He dashed to the curb and spit the mash in the gutter.

“Gross! A worm! Ppptthh! Ppptthh!”

“Ah, so Jo does have a plan. A brain worm. Ingenious. It’ll eat its way through and come out your ear.”

“Mike, cut it out, ppptthh,” Chumbucket spit a last bit and they continued on their way. “You don’t take anything seriously – sometimes even baseball isn’t serious to you. The big game is tomorrow and you weren’t even listening to Coach. You really pissed him off.”

“So what? Coach gets pissed at me all the time.”

“Did you have to smile when he said the league was having problems?”

“I wasn’t. I was smiling at Jo flying over the ball field and jiggling her wings. I wish she would take me up someday. I hope the league stays in town, and I hope we win the World Series, not just the puny city title. But if my every wish and hope came true I’d be Pope. Actions are the only thing that matter.”

“Okay, Captain Action. Just so I know we’re serious about the same thing – winning it all.”

The boys continued up the block. A brown sedan rolled by on its lonely way out of town. Mike pointed up the street to a woman tugging at the locked door of a building. She stopped and cupped her hands to look inside the glass.

“She may as well stop trying,” Mike said. “The FBI office closes at five. There’s no one there.”

The woman knelt at the building’s entrance. Chumbucket looked at Mike with knit eyebrows.

“What do you think she’s doing?”

“She’s trying to slide something under the door. It might be stacks of cash, or spy papers. Maybe we’ll see when we pass her.”

The woman stood when they neared and she looked in both directions. She tapped her open palm with a thick envelope. Chumbucket noticed a large ruby dangling at her neck. Her brown eyes attracted his attention and she smiled at him.

“Hi. May I ask you guys a favor?”

“If it’s quick,” Mike answered. “We’re in a hurry.”

The woman smiled at Mike, but spoke to Chumbucket.

“Can I look at your duffel bag? I want one for my nephew, but I don’t know how much a bag like that will carry.”

Chumbucket dropped his bag to the ground and opened it for her inspection.

“It carries a lot of stuff. My dad used it during the war. It holds all my baseball equipment, including my catcher’s gear.”

She read the stenciled lettering on the bag’s side.

“Peter ‘Chumbucket’ Miller. You have an unusual nickname, Peter. Where did you get it?”

“Mr. Scott, our league commissioner, gave it to him,” Mike said. “Chum is fish parts used to catch big fish. Chumbucket can catch anything.”

“Do you have a nickname, Mike?”

Mike pulled at his collar and turned his head to avoid the woman’s eyes.

“Some people call him ‘Showboat’,” Chumbucket answered. “But he doesn’t like it.”

“I never liked mine either, Mike – ‘Maddie’. Can I ask you one last thing? You’re both from here. Tell me if you recognize the men in that car.”

Their eyes followed hers to the long black car idling on the opposite side of the street. A man in a dark hat and suit stood beside the car smoking. The man quickly looked away and up at the clock tower. He seemed to see something and took off his hat, perhaps to get a better look. Mike turned back to the woman. He noticed the envelope in her hand was gone.

“Never seen them before,” he said. “What about them?”

“Maybe I’m crazy, but I think they’re following me,” she said. She stared at the car for a moment until Mike scuffed his shoe noisily on the sidewalk. “Oh, forgive me. Thank you for stopping. It was nice meeting you both.”

“You’re welcome. Nice meeting you. Come on, Chum.”

Mike hurried on. Chumbucket shouldered his bag and read the writing on the glass door: ‘Department of Justice – Federal Bureau of Investigation’.

“If you don’t feel safe, you’re welcome to come with us.”

“Thanks for the offer,” she laughed. “Don’t be surprised if I look you up sometime. I might have a look at your duffel again.”

“Okay by me. See you later.”

Chumbucket jogged to catch up to Mike. Rounding Court Street he looked back a last time and saw the black car prowling towards the woman. She darted across the street and he heard the faint clatter of her heels as she disappeared down Market towards the bridge. The car turned slowly, stalking her movements. Chumbucket stopped.

“Mike, I think that car is following her. She might really need help. I have a bad feeling.”

“She said she’ll be okay, she’ll be okay.”

“What happened to Captain Action? You go on ahead. I’m going back.”

Mike cursed under his breath when he found himself racing acrossThird Streetwith Chumbucket, through an intersecting alley and edging the last five feet to Market. The black Cadillac zoomed past them and headed back toThird Street. Distant cries for help pulled them past rows of warehouses towards the bridge. They found a man on the riverbank gesturing towards a drift of tangled wood.

“A woman jumped from the bridge. She waved her arms like she meant to flag me down and then over she went. I watched her drifting in the water towards that pile of logs. It’s probably forty feet to the water where she went in. I’d go after her, but I can’t swim.”

Chumbucket looked to Mike.

“You’re the one with the Rescue Merit Badge.”

“It’s a bad time you’ve chosen to remind me of it. Mister, you go call the police. My dad’s on duty – he’s the chief – Chief DeSorcier. Tell them to get here quick, and bring blankets.”

Mike stripped off his baseball uniform, shoes, and socks. He left his pants on for decency. Chumbucket watched the bare soles of his feet running into the cold waters. Mike ran in up to his chest before stretching into a dive and swimming towards the dark heap on the drift pile. He reached the woman in about a minute. He towed her limp body on his hip, keeping her head above water while paddling to shore with his legs and free arm. The current washed him fifty yards downstream. Chumbucket ran through the undergrowth, wading out to meet Mike as he came near shore.

“It’s that woman, for sure. We have to get the water out of her lungs.”

After pulling the woman from the muddy waters, they lay her on her back. Mike knelt at her head, sweeping his hand through her mouth.

“Nothing in her mouth. Collect some brush to prop her shoulders up while I do the arm lifts.”

Mike gripped the woman’s wrists, crossed her arms at the jewel on her chest, and pressed down hard. He released the pressure to draw her arms out, up, and back over her head. He repeated the motions while Chumbucket pushed his collected brush under her shoulders to allow her head to drop back. She began spitting up water. Mike and Chumbucket looked at each other and smiled.

“A few more times. We’ll carry her back to the road when my dad gets here.”

The woman moaned and coughed up more water. She pulled at her necklace and mouthed a few words. Mike placed his ear close to her lips to hear. He removed the necklace and put it in his pocket.

“She wants me to take it.”

The boys carried her to the bridge with Mike supporting her shoulders and Chumbucket her legs. Chumbucket noticed two puncture wounds just above her right ankle.

“Mike, she’s got a snakebite.”

“She’s alive, that’s the important thing. She needs to get to the hospital, fast.”

Flashing red lights signaled the arrival of Mike’s father. Chief DeSorcier pushed into the brush to help carry the woman to his cruiser. They laid her across the back seat.

“Do you know what happened?”

“We were passing by onThird Street. The man who called you said she jumped from the bridge.”

“Well, ain’t this a mess? This is gonna take a while to straighten out. I have his statement. I’ll get your story later, Mike. Are you boys okay to get home?”

“We’ll be okay. Take care of her.”

Chief DeSorcier turned on his siren and pulled away. A small group of interested bystanders shared their excited stories. Chumbucket plopped down on the riverbank and waited for Mike to put his shoes and socks back on.

“Man, you’re Tarzan,” Chumbucket said. “I don’t know who else could have done that.”

“Everyone a swimmer, every swimmer a lifesaver. That’s the commodore’s motto. Lucky for her we came back. She was face down in the water when I pulled her out. I wonder who she is?”

“I guess we’ll find out. Why didn’t you say anything about the necklace or the black car to your dad?”

“The man saw her jump from the bridge. We didn’t see anything. I don’t think she wants anyone else to have the necklace. If my father turns up anything about a stolen necklace or some men in a dark car I’ll say something. Otherwise, we’ll assume it’s hers and keep it safe. Swear you’ll keep quiet about the rescue. I don’t want my name in the news, do you? Those men who were after her might come looking for us.”

“Cross my heart I won’t tell. What did she mumble to you?”

“The same thing over and over: ‘Don’t let them have it.’ She’s probably delirious. I’ve got mud all over me and you don’t look so good yourself. We need to get home and shower before the show. Meet me at the tree house and we’ll head to school together. Karen will have our skins if we’re late.”

The Summer Set, by Jay Province
Available at:
Amazon

Wet Linda, by Paul Parducci

Posted: April 17, 2012 by Shaina in Occult, Paul Parducci
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Wet Linda, by Paul Parducci

Wet Linda, by Paul Parducci

Wet Linda, by Paul Parducci
Available at:
Amazon

Description: Popular Hollywood Actor/Filmmaker Paul Parducci’s first pulse-pounding Psychologically intense and Twisted Horror Novel will have you looking twice at all things liquid.

A self-hating Eighteen year-old moves into a sterile California suburb and her life becomes a lung-filling nightmare as she comes under the control of something very evil met at the community pool.

A Novel about a Bad Thing from the Water.

Excerpt

Chapter 8: History

Mandy knelt just outside the stall in the Palmetto pool house ladies room. The light was off and the door was locked. She was cold because as always she wore only her wet swimsuit. Her suit was always wet when she knelt because before she was allowed to come in she had to swim four laps front to back, four laps back to front, four laps left to right, and four laps right to left. Four fours…absolutely blessed.  Mandy was not worthy to go inside the stall. She had to prove herself. She was still forming and had not even really been tested. After formation was complete and testing was finished, then and only then, she would be given permission to prove. And when she was proven, she would get the list and begin the good work. She had heard a priest on TV say once “Faith without works is dead.”

The pain of the gritty tile as it dug into her bare knees was purifying and she welcomed it; you needed hard edges and boundaries to form anything.

The first week of school had passed quickly, but now she needed instructions. Would she come today? Sometimes she didn’t. When she didn’t come Mandy just went to the supply closet and refilled her vial of Happy Blue from one of the gallon containers of Pool Shock Algaecide and left. She always genuflected before she left, facing the stall all the way out.

Then the scent came. The wonderful scent of the one who knew… the one who overcame loneliness and lack of power… the scent was pressed—and-close—and full. It always made Mandy dizzy in that wonderful way, like spinning on the sunny front lawn when the ice cream truck was coming…

At first the scent was hard, but she had learned that it was all about perfect life. It had smelled to her only of diseased death at first, stagnant and vile. Now she knew better.

The water lapped at her knee, water from the stall, electric and wonderful.  This had never happened before. Tears came to her eyes and her inner thighs flushed with blood. The water kept coming and started to puddle around her knees until she was an island. Mandy pushed her head to the floor and like a butterfly rested her lips on the surface of the water. It was liquid warm like a sun that made waves instead of rays. She opened her mouth and began to lap up the water. At first she was slow and delicate, but as she felt the brilliant warm goodness flowing down her throat she began to slurp. She stopped only when her front teeth scratched on the damp tile and the puddle was gone. She raised her head and tried to adjust herself back into a proper kneel, meaning bringing her lazy ass off her heals and straightening her back. The room began to spin and when she tried to get to her feet to get outside for some air she fell to the floor and began to dream. Not to dream she knew even as it began… but to see.

It was the Palmetto Pool on a cloudy day. Not a day anyone would pick to go swimming. The gate was posted: POOL CLOSED FOR CLEANING. In smaller letters at the bottom of the sign it read: Warning-Chemicals Being Used Can Be Harmful Or Fatal.

A chubby girl with stringy hair and smatterings of angry acne was being led to the gate by a group of three boys. Mandy saw immediately who two of the boys were. There was Mike Rall and “not Mike” who she had learned to be Kevin Spillman, and another boy she had not seen before. He was built like a linebacker even though he was wearing an aqua-colored Garth Swim team sweatshirt over a pair of black swim trunks with a tiny logo of a shark. The other boys were in this team uniform as well. Although the girl barely resembled the newspaper photo she had seen, Mandy knew it was Linda Frack. She saw the sad hope in her eyes—she was like a puppy.

Then something she didn’t expect—Karen Wilkes walking up as well and then two more girls following—she saw them before at the other pool; Lori and Bethy…

As Mandy watched in this non-dream a hard knot formed in her stomach. Three attractive girls and three attractive guys and… Linda.

Linda wasn’t there for any reason she might have construed in her most outrageous teen fantasy. Linda was there to entertain the others.

The difference was stunning between the six and the one. The immediate analogy for Mandy was of a farm animal at a birthday party. It wasn’t a mean thought, just automatic. An animal from a very nice petting zoo where it is mostly well cared for, at a party filled with spiteful cruel children who are currently putting on their best face for the benefit of calming the creature before the planned mischief.

They were giving Linda more attention then she had ever had in her life. This was obvious. She drank it in, vacuumed it like air after a close call at suffocation.

Linda pointed at the sign. Mandy heard her.

“It says no swimming.” Her voice was flat.

Mike Rall spoke up first and directly like he was reading from a script. “Oh, forget that sign. They finished cleaning the pool a week ago. Isn’t that right, Karen?

“Yes.” She was obviously uncomfortable with…what? But she said it…she lied for Mike. There was a plan here.

Linda shakily sat down on one of the aluminum pool chairs; she sat on the edge like she didn’t deserve to be fully set in the chair. Or maybe she was testing it for stability as if she didn’t quite know if it would hold her.

Mandy felt the damp floor beneath her. It was strange, but it all somehow made perfect sense. She was in two worlds at once. Another gift from her Lady… Her Lady of the Pool…

They were all inside now, standing near the edge—too close. The water was a deep blue-green, the chemical smell sharp and fresh. Linda looked at it with great concern. Kevin and the other one were standing just behind Mike. Beth and Lori were clustered by Karen- the air was full—bad air. Strong Mike was all about moving what was to happen ahead: “Let’s swim…”

He pulled his sweatshirt off and looked very quickly at the others who were ready to go along with him. Mandy knew that the worst looks were always the quickest. The boys took theirs off as well and after a second’s pause, Karen stepped out of her white shorts and unbuttoned her shirt revealing a very taut body in a very small bikini. Beth and Lori hesitated a second more and they too disrobed.

Mandy squirmed and felt her cheek slide on the tile in the other world as she watched Linda blush crimson and sit down gingerly on the edge of a pool chair. They all watched…the vultures watched, the willing vultures and the go-along vultures, the doubts-before vultures and the lets-do-this-thing vultures.

They watched as a chubby plain girl with bad skin and stringy hair pulled off her out-of-style jeans and her yellowing white smock to show off an ugly one-piece with a fraying swim skirt. Linda stood at the edge of the pool. She moved her foot forward stepping toward the steps that led into the shallow end. Then she saw Rall look at Karen—this was the signal. Karen spoke up and looked in turn to Lori and Bethy, “Hold on I’ve got to pee.”

Bethy did not miss her line, “Let’s all go, I hate swimming when I have to pee.”

Karen’s hand delicately encircled Linda’s as she pulled her along with the others toward the restroom. Mandy wondered if she would see them here now, if the two worlds would converge. Mandy watched as the door opened there… but not here… and the light went on there… but not here. Karen went into the stall and peed first, and she left the door ajar. Mandy heard the urine as it hit the surface with a bubbling rush. She watched Linda as she heard it too, and her cheeks turned crimson. Mandy saw immediately that Linda had never been near another person while they were urinating. Karen was clearly visible dabbing her vagina with toilet paper and snapping her suit into place. She stepped out and said, “Linda you better go now…”

Linda went into the stall and Mandy saw her slide the bolt, heard her slip her suit off her shoulders and watched as her large stretched out swimsuit slid down her thick legs to the top of her feet. Mandy waited along with Bethy, Lori and Karen—her urine, when it finally came was a dribbling, splashy trickle. Karen leaned in, “Do you have to go number two?”

The answer from inside the stall came more as a question, “…no…”

“Are you sure? Because it’s better to be cleaned out, I mean…empty before you…swim.”

“I’m…sure.”

The suit slid back up Linda’s calves and the toilet flushed. Linda stepped out of the stall and went to the sink to wash her sausage-shaped fingers.

As the water ran, the air seemed to leave the room. Eye signals all around—Bethy left, then Lori. Karen called out, “We’ll see you outside.”

Karen walked out of the Ladies room at the Palmetto Pool as Mike Rall, Kevin Spillman and the large boy who looked like a linebacker walked in.

“Hi Linda,” Mike said. “We’re going to make you a very popular girl.”

Mandy watched from the floor as it all played out before her in real time yet also not there. She saw the fear explode on Linda’s face as she saw the three large boys blocking the door.

“Please go,” she said. Her voice was like a mouse or maybe a bug. Kevin looked like he wanted to leave but he would not leave because Mike wanted to stay and he was in charge. Linebacker would do exactly what was to be done without a second thought. Mandy looking up at him from the other floor thought that he could even be thinking of something else, like dinner. It amazed Mandy but she thought, yes he is probably thinking about what he will have for dinner.

Mike answered Linda. “No, we can’t go because we have something important to do. You see Linda, even though you are a fat, disgusting cow, you still have a use for us and you are going to find that you will like what we use you for. And then you will become our permanent special Use Buddy.”

Linda blinked and then blinked again, this time much slower, as if her eyelids were connected to some vast mountain-encased supercomputer that could process where she now was and give her the plan that would save her. But her eyelids were just eyelids and the linebacker grabbed Linda and held her down so that her forearms were pinned to porcelain sides of the sink.

Mike took out a penknife and cut through her swimsuit and as it fell to the floor he called out, “Karen, you guys still out there?”

Karen answered through the door. “Yes.”

“Well, keep watching. We’re going to have a party with Linda.” Then he leaned in very close to Linda’s left ear and whispered very clearly. “This pool is closed. You are alone with us and the girls are watching outside. If you do this well everything’s going to be cool. If you scream then everything’s going to be fucked up and we’ll kill your ass…” Mike kicked her legs further open and pushed himself into her. Linda yelled out in pain. Mike smacked her in the back of the head and grabbed her hair hard. “I said no screaming you stupid bitch! What part of no screaming did you not understand?  Put something the fuck in her mouth!” Kevin picked up a beach towel and stuffed a significant corner of it in her mouth.

Mike called out: “Karen! Is it still clear out there?”

Karen called back, “What’s going on in there?”

“Never the fuck mind, is it clear?”

“Yes.”

He leaned in again to Linda’s ear, this time he wasn’t whispering. “You are a filthy cow who is barely worthy for us to fuck. But before we fuck you we’re going to make sure you are clean!”

Linda was still except for the machine-like clenching and unclenching of her jaw. She was nearly catatonic with fear. Kevin couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Maybe we should just let her go and go home Mike.”

“Shut the fuck up Kevin you little fucking Mama’s boy. If I knew you were a faggot I wouldn’t have invited you. Now help us take this bitch out to the pool so we can wash her ass out. I’ve never been so grossed out in my whole fucking life! Fuckin’ Bitch! Fuckin’ Karen, I told you to make sure she was all cleaned out!!! Let’s go…”

Linebacker and Kevin grabbed Linda and Mike Rall pulled open the door. As he did, the three girls moved out of the way, jaws hanging, as the gagged focus of attention was dragged naked to the pool.

Halfway to the pool Linda stepped on the dragging edge of the beach towel stuffed in her mouth and a cordon of string that had worked its way around one of her front teeth yanked it out by the root sending a spray of blood onto Linebacker’s arm.

“Fuck!”

Linda opened her bleeding mouth and started to cry. Tears streamed down her cheeks and into her ruby mouth, but not a sound came out. Her terror and sadness was too great to allow her a breath. The bottomless, humiliating sorrow was flowing from a reservoir of such size that nothing could move against its rushing torrent. Her face began to turn a grey blue. Karen noticed.

“She’s not breathing! Let her go!”

The boys didn’t miss a step. They just kept up the walk to the pool all the while Mike gulping with a deep lust and scanning the surrounding area for any witnesses.

Mike responded like a panther. “You fucking women are all the fucking same, she lost a tooth she’ll fucking live—watch how fast she breathes once we toss her in the pool.”

A step later they were at the edge, and then she was in.

The water rushed past her as she plunged to the bottom. Linda opened her eyes and they immediately began to burn. She closed them but it was too late. Whatever was in the water was now tearing at her eyes.

Mike, Kevin, the Linebacker, Karen, Lori and Bethy all stood looking at the pool’s surface. It was quiet and the water was settling from the large, wavy, splashy movement of Linda’s entry into a gentle back-and-forth sluicing at the water’s edges. It was too dark to see through, so they were all waiting for the same thing, Linda to come up for air. She did not come up.

Beneath, enveloped, Linda stopped her soundless cry. The dark water calmed her. In fact it felt like a salve. She liked it here. She knew what was waiting for her outside and she decided to breathe…

Mandy saw this moment like all the others. She was present like a twin, a Siamese twin connected at the soul.

They all saw the bubbles at the same time. They were very small. More like the remnants of bubbles as they hit the surface in half-domed fits and starts.

“Fuck Me!!!” Mike jumped in the water and ducked below the surface, a second later spitting and blinking. He had the dead weight of Linda encircled by his arms. “Fuckin help me, Dickheads!”

Reluctantly, Kevin and Linebacker slipped into the water and helped Michael Rall whose father had lost a leg pulling another soldier to safety in Afghanistan (the apple fell light years from his family tree)-pull Linda Frack out of the water.

“Fuck this,” said Lori Hester as she left. Beth Morgan, also known as Bethy followed close behind Lori, like always.

Lori and Bethy knew to their core that Linda Frack had drowned and was dead, but with each step toward the gate they resolved to never think of this fact or to speak of what happened to anyone…ever. Beth even had a thought fragment of working as a lifeguard or teaching swimming to handicapped kids.

Karen just stood there. She felt as if she was bolted to the concrete, fastened firmly like the support beams of the new patio cover her parents had put in the month before. She could not move and she would not speak. This would pass, whatever this was; it would go away just like stomach flu. She had to show her strength to Mike. She had to show him that she was not just another hysterical woman. When this all ended well, like everything else had ended well in her life so far, she would be Mike’s girlfriend. He would lick her neck and she would wear his team sweatshirt.

Mike’s lust gulps were gone, replaced by pure animal panic as he looked around at the few breaks in the trees that could possibly allow for an angled view of the pool.

“Let’s get her back to the bathroom, now!”

They fell into an automatic pattern, with Linebacker at the shoulders and Mike and Kevin each on a leg, but they couldn’t get good purchase. Linebacker said what they were all thinking. “She weighs a fuckin ton, there’s no way.”

“You’re right, let’s just fuckin’ drag her.” Mike said. He looked directly at Karen, “Go home.”

“No, I’ll stay.”

“Go the fuck home, I’ll call you later.”

Karen watched her feet all the way home, her nose felt very full and she wished she had a tissue.

They got Linda back into the Ladies Room and Mandy continued to watch. Mandy Helger felt like a camcorder, one that recorded on muscle and sinew and bone. She knew that her watching was important and vital. She needed to know it all, every last speck because worthy people are people who know. When you know you can act.

Mike expertly moved Linda’s head back to check her airway. Next, he used his index and middle finger to check for a pulse on her neck. He must have taken CPR thought Mandy.

“Fuck Me! She’s fuckin’ dead.”

Kevin looked like he was going to wet himself as he sputtered. “Let’s just go.”

“Gutless” Mandy thought.

Mike looked like he was considering this as he stared at Linda’s angled head on the tiled floor and ran his fingers softly down her neck and onto her nipple erect breasts.

“She’s getting cool,” he said almost hopefully.

“Dave, help me roll her.” Linebacker had a name and it was Dave.

They rolled her body over and as they did, Linda’s head flopped with a clunk against the short edge of the stall’s metal shell.

Mike put both his hands on the corpse’s ample buttocks and looked right at Kevin.

“No one is going anywhere. We came to fuck the fat bitch and we are going to do it.”

Kevin wanted to leave the nightmare but he did not. He did not want to be known as a pussy so he stayed to accomplish what he knew he had to do to keep a good rep.

Dave was there so of course he would do it, another thing to do so that another thing had been done.

Michael Rall volunteered to go last. His friends didn’t notice his secret rolling swallow as he wondered how cold it would be inside.

Wet Linda, by Paul Parducci
Available at:
Amazon

Gothica, by Jack Wallen

Posted: April 15, 2012 by Shaina in Jack Wallen, Thriller and Suspense
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Gothica, by Jack Wallen

Gothica, by Jack Wallen

Gothica, by Jack Wallen
Available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes and Noble

Description: In the second book of the “Fringe Killer” series, Detective Davenport finds herself dealing with horror brought to life from the past. A killer is terrorizing the same building that held him prisoner – decades ago.

A killer from the past manages to escape the bonds of time and redefines “horror” for Jamie Davenport. In this new entry to the “fringe-killer” series, Gothica, Detective Davenport finds herself dealing with horror brought to life from the past. This time the killer is terrorizing the same building that held him prison – decades ago. The building now serves as a club for the darker denizens of Louisville…and a breeding ground for the emotions needed to bring evil back to Gothica.

Weaving elements of both the horror and the thriller genres together, Gothica tells the tale of the past and the present as they collide in the darkest recesses of a club built upon suffering and sorrow. Jamie Davenport and Skip Abrahm are tossed into a world of gothic delights and horror as another Fringe Killer is brought to life.

Excerpt

.8.

The Deep

1942

DR. SCHELLER would never be appointed to any position of power within the psycho-medical society. No. Scheller was a much smaller cog in the much larger wheel known as Justice. Still, he would perform his duties, unflinching, until the day he was buried in the dirt.

And today’s duties included introducing his favorite patient to a new tool given to The Deep.

Recently, Scheller had the privilege of attending a lecture given by a young German-American physician named L.B. Kalinowsky. Kalinowsky had created a device that could safely deliver brief electric shocks to a human being. It was promised that 90% of all cases of severe depression and other associative disorders would practically disappear after a few weeks of the new electroshock therapy treatment.

Scheller was eager to try out this new method on Freeny. So far, nothing had shown any promise. In fact, it seemed as if Freeny was regressing, becoming more and more violent, and communicating less and less.

Scheller had tried so many techniques on his patient. Their last meeting, a failed attempt at lobotomizing Freeny, had resulted in the near death of the doctor. This would not happen again. Scheller had taken steps to ensure that Freeny could not pull the same stunt twice. The thought made the doctor’s cheeks flush with rage. He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. He felt a jolt of shame rack his body. He was a doctor of psychiatry, and he was letting one of his patients get the better of him.

Before he had time to dwell on the issue further, Freeny was escorted into Scheller’s lab by two very large guards. There was no way Freeny could attack the doctor. Not this time.

“Ah, Mr. Freeny. Good day to you. I hope you have been treated respectfully and without undo harm.” Scheller spoke cautiously, not taking his eyes off his patient. “What we are going to do today is a bit out of the ordinary. You might even think it goes against everything you have known here in The Deep.” Scheller was pulling a serum into a hypodermic needle as he spoke. “But with you, my dear patient, extreme measures must be taken.” With the hypo filled, Scheller nodded to the guards, who then forced Freeny onto a medical examination table. From the sides, the guards pulled up thick leather straps and began strapping down the patient whose eyes never left sight of the doctor.

“Do you know what this is, Mr. Freeny?” There was no reaction from the restrained man. “This is thiopental sodium. It consists of five ethyl-5 molecules, one methylbutyl molecule, and two thiobarbituric acid molecules. Some call this a truth serum. Of course, we know there is little to no truth within you. So, why would I use such a serum on such a man?” Doctor Scheller sat down on a chair next to Freeny and began preparing his right arm for the injection. “I like to think, Mr. Freeny, that what this serum will do is help me to get inside of you.” Scheller leaned in close to Freeny’s face. “I want to know what’s inside your mind, Mr. Freeny.”

Scheller backed away, tapped the hypo, and injected the liquid into the veins of Freeny. After the contents of the hypodermic were delivered into the patient, Scheller removed the needle and the rubber hose around Freeny’s arm.

“The thiopental sodium’s effects are fairly immediate.” The doctor was speaking as he glanced as the second hand of his pocket watch. After thirty seconds ticked by, he looked up and saw Freeny’s eyes were glazed over. Freeny had the hollow, vacant look of so many of the lost souls the doctor had come across. It was a look that both disturbed and fascinated him. It was that which drove men like Scheller into the science of the mind.

“Mr. Freeny? Mr. Freeny, are you there?” There was no reaction other than the patient’s head slowly lolling back and forth. “Mr. Freeny, I want you to tell me why you killed the guard, and why you tried to kill me.” Dr. Scheller’s voice was a soothing lullaby.

The only sound was the creaking of Freeny’s neck as his head continued its rolling. The guards and the doctor were holding their breath, awaiting the devil’s confession. One guard shifted his weight to another foot, and his knee popped loudly. The other guard let out a heavy sigh as his patience began to grow thin.

Then, Freeny’s head suddenly stopped rolling. His eyes opened wide and glared viciously at Doctor Scheller. Drool began to run down the drugged man’s chin, and his tongue was drunkenly moving in and out of his mouth. Sounds began to softly spill from Freeny’s mouth. The sounds were unintelligible at first, a bubbling, hissing sound. It was as if Freeny’s vocal chords had been removed.

The doctor was astounded. The thiopental sodium was supposed to render the subject nearly unconscious. Freeny was obviously aware of his surroundings as he glanced over at the guards and then back to Scheller.

The gurgling sounds began to take on a more natural form. His lips, covered in mucous, began trying to shape words. Strings of Freeny’s saliva swung off his lips and landed on the doctor’s legs and arms.

The sound took on form and very quietly, “They’re coming.” issued from the killer’s lips.

As quickly as it began, it ended. Freeny’s head smacked hard on the examination table and, with a violent convulsion, his eyes and his mouth closed tight.

Doctor Scheller stood and wiped the spittle from his lab coat and wool pants. He pulled off his sweat-covered glasses and wiped them down. After returning his spectacles to his face, the doctor looked over to the guards.

“I require the two of you to please wait outside. What I must do now, I must do alone and without interruption.” Scheller wheeled a large box to the head of the examination table. “Please. I will call you when I am finished.”

The two guards looked at one another and finally turned and left the room.

“My dear, Mr. Freeny, you are a very lucky man.” Scheller spoke to a patient whose conscience was nowhere to be found. “I have been given the approval by the State of Kentucky to employ a new means of psychotherapy just for you. Recently, a rather famous German colleague of mine developed a safe means of using electrical shock to treat the sickened brain. And you, my good man, are going to be the first in The Deep to reap the benefits of modern science.”

While Scheller was speaking, he had been preparing Freeny to receive the treatment. The main instrument consisted of a 2×2 wooden box that contained the various electrodes and tubes to transfer the current into the proper sine-wave form. A tangle of wires snaked out of the box to a large metal clamp that fit over the skull.

As prescribed, the doctor took a damp cloth and fit it over Freeny’s head to aid the conductivity of the electric current. Once the cloth was properly covering the temple area on both sides of the cranium, the oversized metal clamp was attached, and the cloth was cut in half and folded over the clamp edges so the path of the electricity would not be able to jump from one temple to another.

He placed a wooden block in Freeny’s mouth to keep him from biting off his tongue. Although Freeny wasn’t fond of speaking, it would be a shame to prevent him from communicating in the future.

Everything seemed to be in order. The doctor was filled with a nervous energy he hadn’t felt in a long time. Although he had studied, in detail, every nuance of the electroshock therapy, he had never been witness to the process. He had no idea what would happen to the poor wretch.

Scheller slipped on a protective rubber smock, rubber gloves, rubber overboots, and a rubber facial mask. To ensure that no one would interfere with the procedure, he locked the laboratory door.

The wooden box of the ECT machine seemed to be a safe distance from the examination table. The electrical cords were well over ten feet in length, giving the administrator safe harbor from the electricity’s destination. Scheller had no idea how Freeny would react the shock. Would the madman break free of his restraints as the current passed from one side of his skull to the other, and attempt to kill him again?

For a brief second, he thought of abandoning the experiment. But this was science, and he was a scientist. This was how it must be.

The doctor took a deep breath, plugged in the machine, said a brief prayer, and flipped the switch.

Freeny’s head had become a dark cage. The world had disappeared, slipped away like liquid mercury. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a voice speaking in a monotone, slurred speech that he couldn’t understand.

He wanted to open his eyes, but he couldn’t. His brain sent the impulse to his eyelids, but they wouldn’t comply. He tried to move his arms and legs, but they were locked down. An eerie silence plagued his brain. He hated the silence. Ever since the voice had promised salvation, any moment of silence quickly grew into a fear of horrid loss. He had a purpose now, he thought, and that purpose was to pay mind only to the voices. Only the voices would lead him away from pain and to the safe, ignorant bliss of truth. The voices would serve as his lullaby and reason. But, they were silent now, and this he feared greater than anything he had ever known.

Suddenly, it felt like the hand of God was jarring his skin from his bones. Freeny’s body was being twisted and wrenched from within. Inside his skull, thunder and lightning were waging a war on the synapses of his brain. Freeny saw memories jump to the fore, and then dissipate like fog in a winter wind. He saw memories of his childhood. He saw his father coming home drunk and beating him senseless. Gone. He remembered the first girl he fucked. Gone. He remembered the first life he took. Gone. All memories he held tightly. Gone. All but one.

He was sitting near the pier watching the gathered crowd actually have a moment of release from their pitiful lives. It made him sick. The sound of the laughter, something he once shared with his beautiful wife, pierced his ears like the screams of dying dogs. That laughter would never tickle his heart again. Freeny’s wife perished under the cold, icy grip of the Ohio river. During a near-disastrous flood, her body was swept away in the undertow when she attempted to save a drowning child. Neither his wife nor the child survived.

He sat in the humid air alone, until a little girl invaded his space. The homeless moppet was wet from the river and smiling a pixie smile. “Hey mister, why don’t you jump in the water with everyone? It’s nice and cold.”

He was shocked from his thoughts. His heart was instantly racing and his jaw clenched, threatening to shatter his rotting teeth. He stared quizzically at the little girl. The noise from the pier had turned into a sharp static and was canceling all other sound.

The little girl’s mouth was moving, but Freeny heard nothing but static. When her smile faded with his lack of response, he heard a voice from somewhere he couldn’t place.

“Kill her.”

The voice soothed his mind. His heart slowed, and his jaw relaxed. A peaceful feeling began to wash through his veins. For the first time since before his wife’s death, he felt right with the world.

He knew what he had to do.

He stood up, towering over the little girl. Her mouth moved again, but he heard no sound from her lips.

“Kill her.” The voice echoed between his ears.

He reached down as if to stroke the cherub’s dirty-blond hair and, with one hand, twisted her head one hundred and eighty degrees. The child dropped like a sack of dirty laundry.

The static grew louder and louder. Inside the bones behind his face, his own laughter began to toll. As the laughter grew, so did the static. Both sounds were at war for his attention. As soon as it seemed the laughter would win, the static would take over. His body began to convulse violently. Freeny felt as if his arms and legs were going to snap in half.

Somehow, through the static, the voice was able to make itself heard. “I am the bogeyman. I am the first, but not the last.”

The static once again overtook the voice as he was brought to his knees. He was praying for death, but death would not come for him, yet.

Sleep Stalkers, by Jacki O’Dierno

Posted: April 13, 2012 by Shaina in Dark fantasy, Dystopian, Jacki O'Dierno
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Sleep Stalkers, by Jacki O'Dierno

Sleep Stalkers, by Jacki O'Dierno

Sleep Stalkers, by Jacki O’Dierno
Available at:
Amazon

Description:  In SLEEP STALKERS, Dee’s solitary existence is suddenly shattered when a demon army’s invasion becomes imminent and, as each night passing draws our world closer to disaster, she fights to fulfill fate’s astonishing plans for her and realign the balance between love and tragedy.

A new plague is ravaging the country, but the infected are not so much sick as they are homicidal. Demons have begun escaping their prison and found a way into our world through the slumbering minds of humans. As their ranks expand with incredible speed, it falls to Dee to halt their invasion. Rather unexpectedly she finds herself paired with two others of her kind, each struggling with the paths set before them. Dave, a father who has lost his child, and Luke, the one person who may be able to save her soul. Together they help her delve into the very core of evil that plagues the country and, through bloodshed and heart break, realize just far they’ll have to go to save that which they love the most.

Excerpt:

Its presence was unmistakable. One moment the room was completely void of any sense of life except the soft sound of breathing, and the next there was a feeling of dread creeping up his spine, setting every little hair on edge. The back of his neck and shoulders tensed with a quick jolt of awareness and his breath caught in a sharp intake. His heart hammered against his chest as blood rushed to his head. White-hot fear caused his whole body to jerk in a violent shudder. Suddenly the light in the room seemed much too meager against the darkness that crept closer to him from behind.

He didn’t even have to turn around to know the girl was no longer asleep. He knew what had happened, how his momentary weakness had brought this upon him. Overwhelmed by loneliness, he had allowed his feelings to cloud his judgment. Safe in the daylight hours the nightmare seemed so far away. But there was no escape from this; there was no peace to be found anywhere. Companionship wasn’t something he could afford, not if he wanted to stay alive. He was sure he had learned that lesson after his uncle had been slaughtered, but apparently he still had more to learn.

The girl’s shadow fell across the carpet as she made her way into the room slowly. Luke kept his back to her, cursing himself for a fool. He should have kicked her out the moment they’d finished in the bedroom. Instead, he’d allowed her, a complete stranger, to stay with him and she had been taken while he daydreamed in the next room. There he stood, half naked and defenseless, before a monster wearing the skin of the woman with whom he had just slept. All of his weapons were in the bedroom, amongst his clothes on the floor. The bedroom was only a few yards away, but it could have been down the street for all it helped him. That thing blocked the hallway; the only exit and his only chance at living.

Still facing away from her he surveyed the living room through the reflection off the window, trying to formulate some sort of battle strategy. The things were incredibly fast and strong, no longer hindered by human frailty. She may have still looked like a woman but she was stronger than any human man. Every aspect of her was a danger to contend with. Her pink fluorescent nails were a deadly weapon she would use to gauge out his eyes and tear the skin from his bones. The teeth in the mouth he had been so eager to kiss before would rip out his throat and savor the coppery taste of his blood on her taste buds. Her hands, which had softly caressed his body less than an hour before, would crush his skull in a merciless grip.

He had to think of something fast because they felt no remorse; they didn’t have the burden of a conscience or a soul. It wouldn’t matter to her that they were lovers; April was gone forever forced from her own body by the thing that stood behind him. The things were also exceptionally hard to kill, even if you could somehow outrun and overpower them. You could stab them in the heart repeatedly to no avail; their bodies didn’t suffer from human weaknesses. The only place they were vulnerable was in the head, and even then it took an inordinate amount of damage to stop them. One bullet to the head wouldn’t do the job; sometimes it took an entire clip just to put them on the ground. The surefire way to kill them was decapitation, though getting an opportunity to perform that deed was difficult at best. Electricity was one of the only things that could actually incapacitate them long enough to cut off their heads. Stun guns were the most effective weapons against the Sleep Stalkers, though Luke’s was too far away to be useful.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” the demon said in a voice that he could barely recognize as April’s. He recalled the times that she had spoken to him in that fluttery and delicate manner of hers with a deep remorse. Her lips would never utter that delicate tone again. Now any sound that came forth would be guttural and foul, the tone reflecting the malignance of the being beneath the surface.

He turned to face her and found the creature standing naked before him, its’ hair still rumpled from their lovemaking. A twisted grin cracked across its’ face, so utterly loathsome compared to the sweet smile that had constantly adorned her lips before that Luke felt bile well up in his throat. It ran its’ hands seductively down its’ hips but made no move towards him. There was no need for it to rush and waste these moments of anticipation and fear, he was helpless and the demon knew it. Black eyes stared at him in wicked amusement, patiently waiting for him to respond. The demons’ eyes were always inky black and bottomless, as if their inner evil were polluting their outward appearances.

“I was going to let you sleep for a bit longer,” Luke said stiffly, slightly shifting his body to a better combat position. It looked every inch the predator it was as its grin turning feral and hungry.

“I’m trying to decide how I should celebrate my awakening,” it said as it took a small step forwards. “At first I considered killing you right away, but that wouldn’t be much of a celebration, would it Minion?” It advanced another step towards him. “Now, I think I’ll break your arms and legs so you don’t try to escape. Then we’ll have all the time in the world to celebrate together,” it said impassively, as if it were discussing dinner plans.

Dread took over Luke’s mind for a moment, doing more to debilitate him than a demon’s venomous words. With a sharp shake of his head he brushed off the demon’s words and his own terror filled thoughts, and tried to keep the fear out of his eyes. He wasn’t afraid of dying, not really, not after everything he had been through in his life. However, he was afraid of being at one of these demons’ mercy because he’d seen the nightmarish things they did to their victims. He remembered what they did to his family and used the old rage to bolster his courage. He let his anger well up and consume him, pushing all hesitation from his mind.

“Get it over with then,” Luke lifted his chin in challenge and defiance.

“As you wish,” it lunged forward, reaching for his throat. Luke dove out of the way and rolled across the ground to the small wooden table where the lamp sat. Knowing it would be on him at any second he ripped the cord from the back of the lamp, exposing the wires beneath the plastic. Suddenly it gripped him from behind and threw him into the wall with amazing force. He put his hands out in front of him to cushion the blow, but the impact was still hard enough to stun him. With a grunt he crumpled to the ground. He lay there momentarily dazed as it strolled over to him and knelt beside him.

“Silly man,” it admonished him and shook its head in amusement. Leaning forward it gripped his hair and pulled his head towards it with a hard yank. “I might just have to take your eyes as well,” it hissed.

He let fear fill his eyes and held its gaze with his own, knowing it would revel in his terror. He reached behind himself and felt along the ground for the lamp cord.

“Please…” Luke begged, trying to distract it from what he was doing.

“Yes, we’ll start with your eyes,” it said menacingly, resting its’ hand against Luke’s cheek. With a delighted sneer it dragged its nail gently under his left eye in a taunting manner. Luke’s breath caught in his chest and his eyes widened in horrible anticipation. Frantically he continued his search of the ground behind him.

At last, his hand closed over the cord and adrenaline shot through his body. In one swift motion he leaned into the demon and shoved the exposed wires through its parted lips and into its mouth. It screamed in agony as electric currents ran through the moist confines of its’ mouth and into its’ body.

Luke broke the grip it still had on his hair and quickly moved away from the creature. He backed out of the room as he watched it flop and twitch on the ground while electricity burned through its’ body. Luke ran into the bedroom with unerring focus and grabbed his stun gun from its holster. He then reached into his inner jacket pocket and took out a wicked looking knife. Cradling the gun between his arm and body, he removed the leather sheathe from the knife to reveal a long curved, serrated blade. He dropped the sheath to the floor and left the bedroom, the knife in his right hand and the gun in his left.

Sleep Stalkers, by Jacki O’Dierno
Available at:
Amazon

 

The Taking of Arianna Grayson, by JC De La Torre

Posted: April 12, 2012 by Shaina in JC De La Torre, Thriller and Suspense, Vampires
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The Taking of Arianna Grayson, by JC De La Torre

The Taking of Arianna Grayson, by JC De La Torre

The Taking of Arianna Grayson, by JC De La Torre
Available at:
Amazon

Description:   Detective Arianna Grayson takes us through the harrowing chase for the serial killer known as Allister the Annihilator. When she finally catches up to the fiend, she discovers that there’s more to him than being a deranged lunatic. In a struggle for her life, she makes a choice with terrible consequences and her life changes forever.

Excerpt:

Death isn’t something to be feared, my dearest.  It is the warmest, most welcoming sensation anyone can experience. It’s pure joy, passion and ecstasy rolled into one.  As you travel down that tunnel toward the light at the end, you feel the most amazing sensation of belonging. You are finally where you should be – a place with no pain, no horror.  There’s no suffering or injustice. There’s just a dazzling light that seems to engulf every single atom of your essence.

Enjoy your death, my friend.  Bathe in the light when it comes to you.  Be thankful it can come, for not all of us can go down that path.  I’ve died. I began my trek down that path but the light was robbed from me; substituted with darkness…terrible darkness that infests you like the worst of cancers.

You see, I was marked by a vampire to become his off-spring – his child of the night.  He brought me death but then breathed in an entirely different, terrifying life. Everything that I was and believed in – all that made Arianna Grayson – died with me when my heart stopped and I began my journey to the place of death. It’s gone now. I know and accept it.

All that is left within is a soulless monster that feeds on humans.  I never wanted this – unlike so many others. I sought to root out the killer and I became what he was.  He raped my soul, robbed me of my decency – my humanity, my ability to die, to love, to have children – real human children.

The monster that I am has become glorified in movies and literature. Thousands of teen age girls would give anything to feel his kiss but they don’t know the truth. The Edwards, Stefans and Vampire Bills of the world don’t really exist. They’re a sexual deviant’s fantasy. Our kind, from what I gathered so far, doesn’t fall in love with humans. We get infatuated, certainly, but not for sex. It’s more about the blood, every single drop of it.

To feel the vampire’s kiss you have to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. When it’s laid upon you, it’s not a simple peck on the neck. There’s nothing sensual about it. It’s a brutal, vicious attack that will leave your body torn to shreds.  Our blood rage consumes us, changes our physical features to better serve our diabolical purposes.

Normally, I’m a thin redhead with a decent figure. My hair is about shoulder length, eyes emerald green and my skin definitely shows the need for a decent tan. I may be “ginger” but my body doesn’t show any freckles or moles. In fact, there isn’t a flaw anywhere, if I can be that conceded. It’s one of the few benefits of the affliction.

When the rage takes me, though, any perceived beauty disappears – I completely transform. My nails morph into long, dagger-like claws. My mouth expands and a set of long, jagged teeth come to the surface. My red hair disappears, receding somewhere into my epidermis as my ears elongate and my true form reveals itself.  My eyes are no longer green but black – like looking into the darkness itself.

If you come across me in this form, it will be the last thing you will ever see. When the rage takes you – there’s no controlling it. There’s no stopping it. All we can do is surrender to the lust, satisfy it and clean up the mess left behind.  It’s all done in the shadows, mind you, to avoid discovery (although some like my maker, Allister, flaunt our power over you).

I don’t want to hurt anyone – I hate that I am responsible for so much pain and death. I have no choice. The affliction will consume your every thought and all that matters is tasting the blood – chewing the internal organs and sucking them dry like a demonic milkshake.

I tried for a while to channel my hunger, to focus it on the murderers I was charged to capture. It worked well for a time but then one of my partners came across me at the wrong time and…well, I’ll get to that.

Just know it’s a terrible existence, my friend.

So how did Arianna Grayson, Special Agent in the FBI, become a monster? I was on a case – one of those career making cases – tracking the most active serial killer in the United States.

***

I worked to become part of the Bureau’s serial killer task force for several years. I took every assignment in every backward podunk FBI office I could. If it was a murder, I’d do everything I could to solve it. Mostly I dealt with drug related murders, domestic violence that turned deadly and your random prostitute meeting the wrong john.

After five years of experiencing the seedy side of the world, I was finally called up to the majors.  I joined the FBI task force to find a Michigan serial killer with a fondness for stabbing black men.  Called “The Serial Stabber” in the press, he was caught in an Atlanta airport trying to leave the country.  I discovered his Middle Eastern descent from my research into the killings and advised of the flight risk. I found his itinerary through the FAA’s internal computer system enabling us to make the collar.

With my first big case under my belt, my new unit welcomed me on the next.

Carl Ambrose had been on the S.K.T.F (Serial Killer Task Force) for about four years. He was one of the first African Americans to get the assignment. He had been decorated multiple times with the FBI Medal for Meritorious Achievement, the Medal of Valor and the Shield of Bravery. Needless to say, he was one of the best.

In his forties, he still kept a young appearance, with a close-cropped hairstyle and smooth mocha skin. His frame was fit, muscular and he sported a tiny mustache.  He had an air about him…a confidence that made all around gravitate to him.

His partner for the past two years was LaRissa Cantello. Like Ambrose, Cantello had gone through some traumatic murder scenes. She was instrumental in the capture of some of the most notorious Serial murderers with her command of forensics, meticulous data analysis and ability to put pour through the data and see the truth.

She was pretty, in her twenties, with short cropped dark brown hair and caramel skin. She had a tiny nose with a mole near the tip. Cantello always seemed to be trying to prove herself to her partners, even though she already had their full confidence.

Our SAC (special agent in charge) was Panagiotis Nasso. He was older, with gray bushy hair that he obviously struggled with combing every morning. His suits were expensive, more than most government salaries would pay for. Still, “Gio” as he asked to be called, wasn’t dirty. He ran a tight ship, complete with deadlines and expectations placed on all of his subordinates. He also had a keen mind for criminal investigation, able to pick up on some of the minutest detail that most would miss.

As I walked in to the meeting room for S.K.T.F. at FBI headquarters, my senses were assaulted by hundreds of pictures of brutally mutilated bodies – fourteen murders in total, all people of different sexes, races and religious beliefs posted on a large whiteboard. There were young preppy college kids and old vagrants. There were hetero and homosexuals. Each murder was extremely violent in nature but the manner of the deaths seemed to change.

All the victims had their insides torn out by sharp objects and in all of the cases; the organs were gnawed on by some strange animal that we simply couldn’t identify. Even stranger, the DNA recovered from the scenes (that didn’t belong to the victim) was identical, but had the most unusual characteristics. It was definitely human but with something different. Some sort of chromosome or mitochondrial strand was off according to the squints (lab technicians).

They couldn’t definitively identify the perpetrator as human.

Aside from the mutilations and weird DNA, there wasn’t much stringing the cases together. They were all from different parts of the country. The closest thing you could find to a pattern was that they always seemed to occur at night. Still, it didn’t matter which night of the week or the cycle of the moon. Each victim seemed to be chosen randomly.

As I scanned through the evidence on the board, I noticed something peculiar with each. There were strands of fabric – the same fabric – near or on the bodies in each instance.

“Good to see you here early Agent Grayson,” Nasso said as he headed into the room, a cup of coffee steaming from his hand, “Take a seat, if you would.”

I acknowledged with a nod and headed to a chair next to the extremely long mahogany meeting table. The others came in shortly after I had settled in and gave me glancing nods.

“I believe you both know Agent Grayson,” Nasso began, “After her exemplary work on the Stabber case I’ve extended an offer for her to join our team, which she’s accepted.”

Ambrose and Cantello provided a golf clap; I smiled my acceptance of their congratulations.

“Okay, so moving on, this case – 306-HQ-234568 – we’re going to call the Annihilator case,” Nasso continued, “Since we’ve allegedly received a letter from our perp.”

“What?” Ambrose gasped; Cantello’s eyes bulged in shock.

“Indeed, we now have a message from our perpetrator.”

“What does it say?” Cantello asked.

“Here you go,” Nasso handed a one page copy to each of us and I quickly scanned through the hand written letter.

DEAR BOSS,

IF YOU’RE WONDERING, YES THE MURDERS OF ALSTAN MORRIS AND MARIA TOCANADO ARE RELATED. I DID THEM, AMONG OTHERS.

TO PROVE TO YOU I AM WHO I CLAIM TO BE, HERE IS A PIECE OF TOCANDO’S LOWER INTESTINE. TEST IT WITH YOUR DNA TECHNIQUES; I ASSURE YOU IT BELONGS TO HER.

I WANT YOU TO STOP ME END MY SPREE – BUT I KNOW YOU CAN’T.  SO I URGE YOU TO STOP YOUR INVESTIGATION – YOU’LL SPEND YOUR ENTIRE LIFE PURSUING ME TO NO END. I WILL NEVER BE SUBJECT TO YOUR JUSTICE.

YOURS ETERNALLY,

ALLISTER THE ANNIHALATOR

The Taking of Arianna Grayson, by JC De La Torre
Available at:
Amazon