Short Story Strands: Halloween 2012 Edition Read online

SHORT STORY STRANDS

  HALLOWEEN 2012 EDITION

  Copyright 2013 Linell Jeppsen

  License Notes

  FOREWORD

  Hi, my name is Linell Jeppsen.

  The talented writers featured here constantly amaze me! There are indie writers, self-pubbed, and even traditionally published writers who finally left a “BIG HOUSE”, in order to take advantage of full autonomy and control over their work. I try to support these writers by purchasing and reading their work and have found (to my amazement and joy) some of the best fiction I have seen in years!

  I recently started a contest where authors can sharpen their writing chops by submitting short stories, flash fiction, and poetry on my website. There is a choice of cash prizes or a charitable donation for the top three winners. Winners are chosen in a voting process, and stories are graded by originality, word count, and perfection in grammar and editing. I will tell you—picking a winner is not easy!

  The stories you are about to read were submitted to my Halloween contest, and soon authors will start submitting “Holiday Poems” in order to express their feelings regarding this special time of the year. These stories may be funny and filled with Christmas spirit or so melancholy your heart will break!

  So sit back, read, and thrill at some of the best new voices in literature today.

  ~~ Nel

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Insecurity Complex, by Jade Kerrion

  Empty Glass, by P.L. Blair

  The Red Card, by Sheenah Freitas

  Chanceus, by L’Poni Baldwin

  My Soul To Take, by L.M. Boelz

  The Nest, by Linell Jeppsen

  The Medusa Touch, by Sam Kates

  Skinshade, by T. Jackson King

  Little Girls Squealing in the Yard, by Lalo LaFleur

  Tender Moments, by Massimo Marino

  Blood Relation, by Patrick Ottuso

  Grandma to the Rescue, by Sharon L Reddy

  The Power of Spirit, by Ch'Kara SilverWolf

  Dominique, by Edwin Stark

  In Space No One Can Hear You Scream, by Lisa Williamson

  Spoils of Earth, by Michael Youngblood

  INSECURITY COMPLEX

  by Jade Kerrion

  She lives in the most haunted house in the most haunted town in America, and tonight, Halloween, is the most haunted night of the year. You’d think that one of these three facts would carry some weight. Unfortunately, they don’t, not with Alicia Morrow.

  Her husband is out trick-or-treating with their young daughter. Alicia, home alone, settles down in the family room with a novel. I wait until she gets comfortable, and then focus my incorporeal energy to flick the light switch. The scones of light brighten and dim repeatedly. Alicia looks up and mutters, “Damn circuits. Stupid old house.”

  I take offense. This “stupid old house” is mine, and I’ve deigned to share it with humans, most recently the Morrows. Eternity grows dull if there is no one to enjoy it with. Humans, however transient, are fun—so fragile and vulnerable with their fears and imagined horrors. Alicia, though, has been aggravating.

  The good news is that I’m not the only one she has annoyed with her pedantic ways. A month ago, she wrinkled her aristocratic nose with disgust when a zombie shambled too close. “There’s a homeless shelter on Twenty-third Street.” She tossed him a ten-dollar bill and sprayed him with perfume. Chanel No. 5 did what pepper spray couldn’t do; the zombie ran from the toxic fumes.

  Last week, a vampire tried to get a bite out of her. He leaned in to nuzzle her neck but got no further. She shoved him away and held her left hand up to his face, pointing to her ring. “I’m married, and you’re not cute or rich enough for me to risk it.” He stalked away in high dudgeon, so insulted that he lost his appetite.

  Last night, a werewolf prowled through her yard, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. She called Animal Control and told them to take that “Irish greyhound” to the pound. The werewolf was miffed. He’s British, not Irish.

  Still, they’re lucky. They don’t have to live with her indifference. I do. The other ghosts in the house have given up trying to make their presence felt. Most of them have taken to moping in the attic or basement, occasionally making the floorboards squeak out of spite. Once a week, Alicia calls the pest control company—she has them on speed dial. The pest control folks have sprayed down the attic and basement so many times that there isn’t anything alive in there anymore.

  Me, I’m the persistent type. Tonight is my last chance to make a difference; it’s Halloween, after all. I rattle the windows; she checks the weather report on her iPhone. Apparently rain is on the horizon. I glide against her, ghostly tendrils of chill in my wake. She stalks to the thermostat and turns it up. “Probably broken.” She scowls. “This whole damn house is falling apart.”

  The front door opens, and her husband strides in with an excited toddler. Snickers and M&Ms spill out of a gigantic bag of candy. “Uh, honey,” he says. “Jenna ate sunscreen.”

  “Oh, my God, she’s poisoned! What was the damned bottle of sunscreen doing in the car?” Alicia Morrow, the bane of our supernatural existence, is consumed by fear at the smidgen of sunscreen that passed through her daughter’s lips. The woman’s heart is racing, her hair actually standing on end.

  The radiant and absolutely healthy child is bundled up for a ride to the emergency room.

  Sunscreen is more terrifying than I am.

  Fuck it. I quit.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jade Kerrion unites cutting-edge science and bioethics with fast-paced action in her award-winning Double Helix series. Drawing rave reviews for its originality and vision, and described as “a breakout piece of science fiction,” Perfection Unleashed, and its sequels, Perfect Betrayal and Perfect Weapon, are available in print and e-book through Amazon and other major retailers.

  EMPTY GLASS

  by P.L. Blair

  It sits on the counter.

  The glass —

  Empty.

  I remember that night. He finished his last swallow of tea, set the glass on the counter. Smiled at me. “Sure you don’t want to come with me to the store?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve got to finish the dishes.”

  He nodded. Left.

  I was reaching for the glass when they came.

  The police.

  An accident, they said. Drunk driver, they said. Killed instantly, they said.

  I barely heard. Haven’t touched the glass since that night.

  It waits.

  I wait.

  Empty.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: A native of Tyler, Texas, P.L. Blair is author of a series (Portals) of fantasy/detective novels, blending urban fantasy, police procedural and the occasional touch of horror. She lives in Sheridan, Wyo., with a family that includes three dogs and a cat, all rescues.

  Connect with P.L. Blair / Connect with P.L. Blair

  THE RED CARD

  by Sheenah Freitas

  They say that when the sun disappears, the monster comes out. No one is safe in this little town. On the outside, we appear to be perfect. But if visitors ever knew what we do to keep the monster in check . . . What we do to keep the monster from escaping . . . We would be labeled the monsters.

  Today is the day of the red card. Whoever receives it has been chosen to be sacrificed. The monster’s hunt is the only time when its hunger is ever sated.

  No one has returned from the hunt alive.

  The townsfolk are tense. One by one, they sigh with relief when no card is found. But relief changes to worry. Who will they say goodbye to?

  You look in your mailbox and spot the red card. Your hand hov
ers over it. Many have broken down. But not you. You’ll go with dignity. Snatching it, you show everyone the honor that’s been bestowed upon you.

  They look at you with pity and relief that they are spared for another month. Tonight before sunset, a supper will be held in your honor. Like Tom Sawyer, you’ll sit in at your own funeral.

  The night is perfect for hunting. Everyone hurries home. Nobody wants to get the monster’s attention for next time.

  It starts in the middle of the woods behind town. The moon is full. The hair on your arms begins to rise. Everything is silent.

  You close your eyes and feel your heartbeat. It could be your last.

  A whiff of vanilla and rusty metal is carried in the wind. You look around. A dark shadow moves. You take a step back. The smell is stronger now, and you realize the smell isn’t rusty metal — but blood. The vanilla must have come from the last victim.

  Adrenaline flows through you and you flee as far as you can. You dare to look behind you. Nothing. The smell is overpowering. The mass crosses your peripheral. There is only time to run.

  The night wears on. The monster is silent except for a hissing sound like air escaping from a tire.

  You stop to catch your breath. The night is almost over and the monster is desperate to catch you. You lean against a tree. The silence is overwhelming — too overwhelming.

  A hiss emanates from behind you. Perhaps if you stay still, the monster will pass.

  A second passes.

  Your body craves rest. Did the others feel like this? Were their hearts caught in their throats? Were their deaths quick and painless or slow and painful?

  You try to slow your breathing. The last victim made it to town before the monster caught her. Everyone tried to forget the sound of her screams.

  A clammy, leathery hand snatches your arm. You see the eyes of the monster — the thing —boring into your own. You punch and claw out of its reach. Surprised, it releases you.

  You run.

  The town is up ahead and soon, the night will be over. You will become a legend.

  Your house is around the corner; your heart swells with hope.

  This is it. The end.

  It doesn’t follow.

  You bolt for your room; wanting, needing sleep. Collapsing onto your bed, you glance at the clock.

  Two minutes until sunrise.

  The monster would never enter town. There isn’t enough time to return to wherever it comes from.

  You close your eyes. The townsfolk will be surprised.

  A hiss slithers in your ear.

  A dark mass jumps upon you as you open your eyes.

  There is no time to scream.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: A neek at heart, Sheenah Freitas has a love for the whimsical and magical. She looks to animated Disney movies and Studio Ghibli films for inspiration because of the innovative twists on fairytales, strong story structures, and character studies. When not writing, you might find her in a forest where she’s yet to find any enchanted castles.

  View Sheenah’s books on Goodreads / Connect with Sheenah

  CHANCEUS

  by L’poni Baldwin

  Placid, languid. I sat there, thinking. I let the cold grasp my bare body. There was something about being in this unclothed state that made me comfortable. I guess I’m used to it. I’m in it eighty percent of the time.

  The other boys are asleep but I...I want to stay awake for as long as I can. I enjoy night. It gives me time to think.

  I think I’m two hundred years old. I can’t remember my birth year. Mama probably does. As much as I want to say I hate my life, I can’t. I don’t know how many times I’ve been handled or how many times I’ve been used for sexual debauchery. To them, I’m a child made for pleasure, but to Kasiliev and the other boys, I’m a friend. Brandon, the oldest out of all of us, is like an older brother. I can’t count how many times he took the fall for me.

  Poul and Gerald, they’re oddballs. One cannot operate without the other. Often times they finish each other’s sentence.

  Roi is a creepy twit, but he’s my creepy twit.

  Kasiliev, I look up to him. He’s like a master and I am his student. He taught me everything he knew. If it weren’t for him instructing me, I wouldn’t have such a high rating. He told me he used to be the richest boy in Russia until he burned the money. Literally. He would be rich now if he used all his sexual prowess on the clients.

  Me? I’m me. I am “that boy that smiles constantly.” I am “that delicious boy that everyone talks about.” I am “that dragon.” I am “that boy with the hair down to his shoulders.” I am “that kid with the pony doll.” I am “that kid with the honeybee doll.” I am whatever they call me. That kid I’m looking at in the mirror? That’s supposed to be me. That hopeless, sad, naked little boy is me.

  And you know what?

  I hate me.

  I hate everything about me.

  That is why I am going to end it, tonight.

  I have this nice, sharp knife in my hand. I know where to put it.

  I take the sharp edge and curve it, making a perfect, bloody triangle on my cheek. I take that same edge and draw it closer to my eyes, making a perfect bloody line. Now I look stupid.

  And so I take the plunge.

  And thrust it into my right eye.

  It hurt badly.

  I cried out.

  But I couldn’t stop.

  I press the sharp tip gently into the other eye, savoring the pain.

  It hurts!

  I cannot see myself, which is perfect.

  I don’t want to look at myself anymore.

  I take the blade, praying in my head, and I slice the skin that covers my throat.

  I slice the thing inside that helps me breathe.

  And I die.

  I have it all planned.

  Tonight, I will do it.

  LINER NOTES: This is meant to inspire fringe horror (the kind of horror that real isn’t horror but as you think about it, you realize how horrific it is). Chance is one of the dragon shifters from my stories, and I really enjoy writing about him, but I can never get in the mood to write about his older brother, Ashuton. The story takes place in 1537 (or 1437) in a technologically advanced city called Crota. Dragons aren’t allowed there, only Crotonians, and when dragons do come by (usually children) the mayor, Overture, acts as their father but later turns the tables, making them work for him. Chance became the victim of Overture, and his powers were taken away so he had no way to escape.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: I am an African-American poetess trying to open up a new avenue in the world of Dragons: Space Dragons! I’ve been writing short stories since age ten.

  MY SOUL TO TAKE

  by L.M. Boelz

  The grey mist, as if signaled by the setting sun, silently floated up from beneath the churning soil while the headstones lay festooned by the inhabitants clinging to the intricate webs cradling them. Gently, the ground continued to roll and bob like pieces of cork drifting in a brown sea of moss on undulating waves.

  With infinite patience they waited in anticipation of the stroke of midnight, marking the time the thin veil separating the spirit world from the world of human reality was at its thinnest. Soon it would be time for only the evilest of souls to reach out in hopes of finding a host body to possess, allowing them the opportunity to live again.

  The sound of footsteps creeping closer to the family cemetery, skirting the far side of the house, brought a stop to the movement of the earth. Suddenly, the ground shook and trembled with the excitement of the spirits approaching their desired goal.

  As it is on many All Hallows’ Eve, a group of four high school students, on a dare, had come to walk among the dead.

  The spirits strained to free themselves from their prisons, from the wretched, rotting bodies they lay trapped in. No longer did they wish to endure the living hell they had been thrust into. No longer did they wish to feel the pulsating bodies of the earthworms and beetles as they dined on
their flesh, day and night, unabated.

  As the innocent young ones drew closer to the burial sites, the spirits encased within, fed and grew stronger as they absorbed the life essences emanating from the bodies standing only a mere few feet away.

  Hungry to live again, their voices rose and lingered on the wind. The air was filled with soft, sorrowful moans, beckoning to them to come closer, closer yet. The crisp October night grew colder as the spirits began to reach up, up through the cracks and crevasses in the loosened earth.

  The spirits strained against the unseen bindings that held them at bay until the veil of life separating them from the world of the living grew paper thin.

  The young girls, in an effort to get them to leave, pulled and tugged on the arms of the laughing boys who stood and taunted them with stories of ghosts and goblins. With each cracking of a twig or howl of the wind, the girls threw themselves against the bodies of their protectors in unabashed fear.

  With shuddering anticipation coursing through their shapeless bodies, the spirits rose under the guise of the drifting fog. Methodically, they spiraled up the legs of the unsuspecting youths. They clung to their bodies like a death shroud sent to consume the damned. By the time the couples realized the fog contained more than they bargained for, the spirits had gained control and had entered their bodies.

  The air was filled with shrieks of anguish accented only by the screeching of a hoot owl. Who, without response, oversaw the casting-out of the former souls which only a few moments ago had occupied the vessels now crumpling to the ground.

  Carefully, the spirits lifted the corpses from the ground, and aided by a wisp of wind, ascended the steps of the house they had once lived and loved within, so many years ago.

  Turning to peer out into the black, velvet night blanketing the sky, they paused to listen as the tortured screams of the new guests in the graveyard faded with the retreat of the witching hour, until again the night lay still.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: A proud mother of two children and three grandchildren, she has had a fascination with legends and stories told around campfires for as long as she can remember. She was always the first one to jump up and offer a chilling tale of what is really hiding in the shadows. After being asked by several people if she ever planned on writing a book; she decided to follow her passion and write down some of her stories.