W R Todd
Oct 14, 2016 | Horror, 1st pages
The Whitaker House Curse
1
December 23, 1902: the last entry in the diary of Jules Croft
I must confess that for someone who is about to die, writing in my diary is a most odd notion. However, since there is no form of self-defense, no diminutive space on earth in which I can hide that will keep me from this terrible fate, I must do what comes naturally—I must write.
Being a man of middle age and a widower of nearly six years, writing gives me a chance to converse with my beloved Joan. She never answers me, of course, but I know the spirit of my dearest reads what I write, nonetheless. It comforts me to know that, and I must do what comforts my soul. These few words will be my last comfort—in this life and the next.
It is almost midnight. The witching hour. The winds howl outside my home. Their coldness has breached the window I now sit by; they betray the one who is, no doubt, waiting anxiously in the eldritch comfort of the shadows outside, counting down the minutes to my doom. At the appropriate time he will enter and begin to search the rooms, one by one, until he has found the only one occupied. That room is my room, and the Devil himself will be here to collect on a debt.
There is great debate in theological circles as to what the Devil looks like. Can he take the shape of a mere human, or is he the cloven hooved monstrosity portrayed in so many paintings and pictures? I have seen both diabolical manifestations of that most fallen of angels. And even at this very moment, as I hear the deliberate, hollow clapping on the cobblestone in the street below my window, I know which form he takes this night. The intruder is not far off. He is eager to take what is his, so I must hurry to put to paper the events that precipitated this dreadful event:
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William Knight
Sep 30, 2016 | 1st pages, Featured, Horror, Thriller
Prologue
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In 2001 the New Scientist reported that researchers had isolated a gene for regenerating damaged organs from the DNA of a South American flatworm. Within five years it had been spliced into the chromosomes of mice, pigs and rhesus monkeys, transported through the cell walls by a retro-virus denuded of its own genetic material.
Results remain secret, but success could yield extreme rewards. If ageing could be stopped or even reversed, and diseased or damaged organs regrown, life could be extended well beyond a natural span. No longer would you expect to retire and wait for death. You might remain fulfilled and active for ever, your worn out parts simply regrown and replaced.
Attempting to regrow impaired or elderly tissues, a scientist will one day modify the DNA of a human being by injecting the gene-carrying virus. It is just a matter of time.
Before consenting to treatment, you may want to ask a simple question: could there be a situation in which you would want to die but were unable to do so?
Karl Drinkwater
Aug 12, 2016 | Horror, 1st pages
She ignored his swearing as he fixed whatever was wrong with the sails. Instead she looked out at the undulating blue which glowed in the sunlight. A shimmering surface. Unknown what lay below.
“I shoulda knowed he’d stiff me. Typical damn chink furreigner.” He banged a tool against the deck, making her flinch.
You only discover what’s underneath after you’ve dived in. And then it’s too late.
“We Burmese. Not chinks.”
“Chink, gook, burmen, same thing.” Damp patches spread under his arms and down the back of his short-sleeved shirt. He was clumsy, the spanner often slipping from the corroded bolt he was trying to tighten near the mast, something he had called a bird neck … no, gooseneck. “Don’tcha mean ta say Myanma? Ain’t you all proud nowadays?”
“That is literary, not spoken.”
“Just mincing words.” More cursing as he used brute force to adjust the fittings, kneeling and surrounded by tools. “Hey now, you just go on and enjoy yourself there,” he said, with a tone she thought might be sarcasm. “Nothing else ferrit, right?”
The anger steaming from him made it impossible to relax and enjoy it.
“I would help but I do not know much about boats.”
“You’re telling me you grew up by water without learnin’ a damn thing about boats? You gotta be shittin’ me.”
“My ah phay … my father …” But her voice faded out, and she looked up at the sky, shading her eyes with a forearm.
A dot which grew in size; it resolved into a speeding jet, low in the distance, roar of engines reaching them across the water. A machine’s screech breaking the natural peace. He stopped to watch it too. Soon it faded to a dwindling streak on the horizon.
“Military. Jest sabre rattlin’, pay it no mind,” he said. “We all so impressed now, we shakin’ in our boots. Still, ’tis mighty odd fer the M.A.F. ta be this fer away from Pathein. Wonder what’s got them all riled up? Lookin’ fer something?”
R.G.Knighton
Jul 22, 2016 | Horror
PROLOGUE
Carrion birds circled high in the cloudless sky, lazily surfing the hot thermals rising above the huge confluence of people gathered in the royal courtyard of the grand palace of Memnon. The high walled and gated square covered an area the size of a battleground and backdrops the sight of many a grand procession and close quarter sporting tournament. It even had tiered seating with private enclosures for important guests and the Pharaoh’s extended family.
Today it looked as if the whole city of Thebes had packed tightly together to witness the execution of Toomak, high priestess, shaman, and necromancer for the royal family and former close friend of Memnon himself. For months, the marketplace gossip has been of Toomak’s whereabouts, who had disappeared following the murder of the king’s only son Haspet. For twenty years, her magus powers helped Memnon hold the throne of Egypt, starting with success in the civil war, and culminating in the defeat of Memnon’s twin brother Hakset whom Memnon still keeps in chains in the palace dungeons.
Her magical powers seem to have no boundaries, from conjuring up the great flood wiping out most of the enemy chariots threatening the gates of the city, to the death of the usurper himself Xerses the Great. A hugely muscled and fabled warrior who now stood alone on the battlefield in front of twenty-five thousand of his own men, challenging anyone brave enough to fight him in solo hand to hand combat, in substitute for a full scale war. To the victor, unity of the two crowns of Upper and Lower Egypt, to the loser, death.
Xerses and his army had already defeated the Pharaoh of the lower kingdom, and now he threw down the gauntlet, challenging Memnon to pit his crown of the upper kingdom against his own.
Storytellers recalled how his entire army laughed and jeered at the sight of a frail dark skinned old woman pass through Memnon’s ranks and walk towards the fabled warrior.
“I see no soldier before me.” Xerses cried, turning around and lapping up the adulation of his men.
“Is there anyone else hiding behind your whore mother’s legs that have big enough balls to die like a man in place of this miserable old hag.”
Memnon’s army murmured their disapproval of the insult, but under strict orders, they remained motionless. The Pharaoh also, did not want to appear a coward in front of his men, but his generals had already persuaded him not to take up the challenge for the sake of his people. Xerses was a true giant of a man, and even though Memnon was an expert with the sword, he stood little chance of success. The Pharaoh’s army numbered less than five thousand, half of which were reserve fighters, making defeat inevitable. This unanimously agreed vote decided that Toomak’s magic would be the best option.
The sun flashed from the surface of Xerses’ highly polished sword while he passed the time practicing thrusts and parries as Toomak slowly approached; finally stopping less than five paces away. Both armies watched in silence, with the only sound heard was the wind flapping the royal blue and gold pennant atop of a golden spear attached to Memnon’s chariot.
Xerses paused and deep in thought, he stroked his pointed black beard, unsure of what to do next.
‘Should I, the greatest fighter hack down the feeble old woman and claim victory over the royal palace, or ignore the insolence, sound the advance and fight Memnon’s army directly, guaranteeing my status as a noble warrior?’
James Summers
Jun 3, 2016 | Horror, 1st pages
Kent, Connecticut
Deirdre was only six when the headaches started to alter her life, resulting in the loss of family and friends. Being a child, she could not accurately articulate her pain. Although her experiences were somewhat debilitating, she managed to have an average childhood. She lived with her mother and father in a small community west of Hartford, Connecticut. Their modest two-bedroom red brick house was centered on half an acre and surrounded by a traditional white picket fence.
The backyard had a small play set with ladders and ropes complete with sand underneath. Deirdre could not easily count the number of times that she had fallen and been comforted by that sand. As a family, they never had pets in the traditional sense, although she did have a frog from time to time. Green was her favorite color and it was the color of her playground. It was also the main color of her bedroom, which, thanks to a local high-school artist, was painted into a dense coniferous forest.
The forest located on the walls of Deirdre’s bedroom was completely different from that of her backyard and surrounding community. The leaves on her trees were thin and narrow needles of all lengths with some even having cones. Outside her window, the trees had large flat leaves in every color and size imaginable, but they were much smaller than what she had on her walls. She enjoyed long walks through the woods with her parents, who often took her to Bigelow Hollow State Park. No matter how hard she tried, she could never find a tree that matched the height or the leaves of hers. She made her mom promise one day to take her to a place where she could enjoy those trees in nature.
It took her mom, Mattie, over a week to locate that artist that had painted Deirdre’s bedroom. After several unanswered e-mails, she finally had her response—redwood trees. The artist had painted a redwood forest like the ones that existed in California. Mattie smiled from ear to ear at the thought of telling Deirdre about those trees one evening over dinner. Arnold would be happy too; although he was a very loving and caring father, he tired easily when the discussion turned to trees.
Six years ago
Mattie was a forty-something, married, stay-at-home woman with a daughter that she had late in life. When Arnold and Mattie found out that they were pregnant, their good news was overshadowed by the bad. Complications were inevitable, and their doctor gave her a fifty-fifty chance of carrying their baby girl full term and only a 10 percent chance of that child being healthy. Mattie had high blood pressure, diabetes, and heart disease. Those potential complications together generally meant that most would not reach the age of fifty, let alone birth a child.
As their baby continued to grow inside Mattie, Arnold worried more than she did. Before he knew it, he had put on about ten unwanted pounds during their pregnancy. Mattie actually felt better after the first trimester. She worked hard at her diet and remained moderately active throughout her pregnancy. Mattie’s latest doctor visit gave her a clean bill of health for her and her baby. “It was a miracle,” Mattie would say.
On the longest day of the year, toward the end of the month of June, on one of the darkest nights Arnold could remember, baby Deirdre Elizabeth Anne Daly was born. On the outskirts of town in the county general hospital shortly after midnight, several nurses scrambled to give baby Deirdre a fighting chance. It was the summer solstice, the beginning of summer in the Northern Hemisphere. Today’s date went unnoticed by most, but it did not escape Lucinda.
M. Van
Jun 1, 2016 | Horror, 1st pages
The pumping beats pummeling my ears weren’t enough to block out the annoying presence of, well, everyone. You might think people would be sympathetic to the sick, but no, they have to be bugged with needles, pain meds, or changing IVs. If it isn’t the poking and prodding, it’s the are-you-okay questions executed with just the right amount of false concern to haunt you until you eventually die.
Tammy walked around my bed to check a monitor and wrote something on her pad. Her oversized fish-eyes peered through a set of thick glasses that offset the rest of her appearance. If it weren’t for those dreadful goggles, I’d bet she’d have a chance at a more exotic career than changing bedpans. She seemed to know it too. I had often seen her hunched over a little too far, leaving some good-looking smug a decent view of what her too-tight nurse’s uniform had to offer. Yet she didn’t do it for everyone.
Over time, I noticed looks didn’t matter that much, but deep pockets seemed a necessity. She wouldn’t be the first nurse to search for riches among the dying.
Thank God, she wouldn’t do that to me. Tammy wouldn’t flash her boobs at a thirteen-year-old girl with a nearly bald, fuzzy head of hair and stage 4 cancer. The doctors figured I had a couple of months left, which sucked.
