Michael Romkey
May 6, 2016 | Horror, 1st pages
Parker sits on the balcony in the dark, high on blood, thoughts coming quick and sharp as razor wire. The river rushing cold and fast over stones worn to soft ovals makes Parker think of the five smooth stones David took from the wadi to kill Goliath.
It is too late for people to stroll along the Animus but there is something moving through the cottonwoods. A coyote is coming down the far bank to drink. It stops just before advancing into the open, looking this way and that, wary.
Parker says hello, projecting his mind. The strange invasion of the animal’s inner ear makes it shy and toss its head. In the next instant it is gone, running away to find another place to drink.
Parker pushes up on the metal chair arms and goes back inside. The room is illuminated by a light from the bathroom. The girl is on her stomach. Parker’s eyes explore the heavily inked flesh, like viewing pictures at an exhibition. Angel wings are tattooed over shoulder blades. There is a dragon, another skull. On the back of one thigh, the image of Marilyn Monroe but as a zombie, or so it seems. The words Daddy’s Girl written into the white skin of her ass in script.
My God, Parker thinks.
A permanent bracelet of Celtic design encircles one wrist, the fingers on that hand tattooed like a carnival worker’s.
Parker wonders if there is a story to go with each tattoo. He eyes the pentagram above her left ankle on the outside of her leg. Perhaps he doesn’t want to know. He thinks of the words inked on her breast: Memento mori.
Brian M Taylor
May 5, 2016 | Horror, 1st pages
A slow stream of consciousness began to waft through Sam's brain like the smell of bacon that fills the air right before someone eats it all. The ever so vivid dreams that can never be remembered rapidly began to erase themselves as his eyebrows raised just enough to barely crack open his eyelids. It was the start of what promised to be yet another dull as hell day in the life of Sam Rittenhouse.
He could pretty much map out the day before it began. He would take the next twenty minutes to wrangle himself out of bed, which was not a bed. It was a couch. Sam could neither afford a bed nor did he have a place for a bed in his ultra-tiny apartment. The one room studio apartment was the ultimate in downtown living. Super cramped and small, very expensive and located in an overpriced part of town full of a bunch of well to do, cooler than you, bike riding, beard growing douchebags, or hipsters as they refused to refer to themselves.
This apartment was little more than a room and a closet. It did not even have a kitchen. There were only two plugs. One powered the microwave, which sat on top of an empty mini fridge. The other plug was across the room and remained empty. It was located in the vacant space where Sam imagined there would be a large flat screen TV.
A. Martin
Apr 26, 2016 | Horror, 1st pages
You’ve won!
“What can they make us do?” Jon sighed. “We weren’t forced here; we agreed to be on this game show!” As they weren’t forced or bribed to leave Highway 67 on their way to Boston after being pulled over by Highway patrol for a minor-infraction (so they both thought—a broken left taillight—something like that), and given friendly thank-you- kindly advice by Mr. Patrol that if they were in a hurry—or just wanted to shorten their trip, that they should take the shortcut through Bangor, Maine, and not to mention it. He liked to help passersby—Mr. Patrol, and besides, it would be where they would find the finest homemade momma’s all-American apple-pie as close to heaven as stripping fresh bacon off a hogs’ ass at that time of day. Which would be lunch-hour: 12: 05pm. They had been waiting there on two steel stools since around that time—almost half an hour.
Their behinds were definitely past numb—they would have been in Boston by now, Jon reminded, if their piece of crap (a yellow Subaru—Rita’s choice, he also added) car wouldn’t have up and decided to drop dead in the hub of Bangor. But that’s exactly what it did, after refuelling at a small Texaco, of course. “All right, you two love-birds!” hollered a short well-dressed man hurrying their way from down the hall of star-labelled dressing rooms. “It’s showtime!” They eagerly hopped off their seats and the man directed them in front of a large stage-curtain.
Simon Graves
Apr 22, 2016 | Horror, 1st pages
The house sat at the end of a short curving driveway that was cut off from the street by a small thicket of trees. It hadn’t taken Bryan long to find it. The mailbox was decorated with an action figure and curling vines painted in green and blue on a chipped white undercoat. A promising sight, not the kind of thing a serial killer decorates his mailbox with.
Bryan had promised himself that if anything seemed weird he would bail. He stepped off his bike onto the loose gravel and walked it up to the side of the house, leaning the bike against the white painted siding.
He pulled his smart phone out of his pocket again. This must have easily been the third time in the last five minutes he’d checked the house number in the message, and the floating icon with Jake’s picture in the FIND’M app. This was definitely the right place. He wiped his glasses on his shirt, ran his fingers through his hair, took a deep breath and walked up to the door.
This had been a long time coming. Finals had been hell, and it had totally killed his social life. Even worse, finals had been the final nail in the coffin for his budding romance with Nathan. That might not have been very serious, but it was something, and Bryan was sure it had been heating up. A few weeks with them both insane with stress had just killed it. Bryan could still feel the dull ache in his chest from the awkward way they’d said goodbye for the last time weeks before. He’d always imagined that relationships ended with a bang. With Nathan, it had just fizzled out into ill-fitting moments.
Bryan hadn’t gotten laid since then. He’d thought about checking someone out on FIND’M. He’d done it before… nearly. That time he’d arrived to the meet up but backed out. At first he told himself it was because there was something off about the bar they were meeting in, but if he was honest with himself, it was really because of the way he felt he looked naked. Scrawny, pale, a bit of a paunch forming from all the computer time. He knew he wasn’t fat, but he also knew he really needed to exercise more. Nathan had told him he had nothing to worry about, some guys just weren’t’ built, and Bryan wasn’t fat. He was just imagining it. That was the problem. The voice in his head sounded like his father, or like one of those gym ads that glared down at him from the billboards across from his room in town. Before and after shots of a pale, soft looking guy turning into a tan Adonis who actually looked happy. Bryan couldn’t help but slump a little when he looked at that.
This time though. He’d had enough to worry about with finals. Now that they were over a feeling of loneliness had started creeping in on him. A feeling of failure. The night before he’d contacted Jake, Bryan had lain in bed, unable to sleep for hours. The ache in his chest had filled into his throat, and hot tears had pricked at the corners of the eyes. He had felt this before. Bryan realized, while staring at his ceiling in the dark, that he could either take a risk or stay, as he was, unhappy and disappointed in himself. He’d taken a risk.
David Turri
Apr 18, 2016 | 1st pages, Featured, Horror
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Foreword
The house at 29 Argyle Drive was the scene of an horrific discovery in the spring of 2010 that turned the quiet, picturesque city of Christchurch into a circus of media frenzy.
The house and its history went viral and soon became the object of fervid speculation and conjecture on occult websites all over the world. Later, it was seized upon by extreme Christian sites, as the dire warning on the previous page shows.
Many people recalled strange things that had happened to them in the house long before it became front-page news. One posting, by way of example, is reprinted here.
…I am a retired businessman, residing in Sydney, after spending my whole career selling ball bearings and automotive steering systems. In 1992, I was visiting New Zealand on a business trip. My business was mostly in Auckland, but I had to make a side-trip down to Christchurch for a day of meetings with suppliers and distributers, scheduled for a Friday.
It had been a hectic few days already and the following Monday and Tuesday promised more of the same, so I decided, after the Friday meetings, to spend the weekend relaxing in Christchurch.
Beforehand, I made inquiries at an Auckland travel agency, and the girl there recommended a seaside suburb called Sumner as the perfect place to unwind. She showed me a selection of hotels and Bed and Breakfasts. One particular B&B attracted my attention, mostly for its reasonable rates, but also for the quaintness of the name: The Dew Drop Inn.
I booked a room there for Friday and Saturday nights and a seat on a flight back to Auckland on Sunday evening.
Friday morning, I flew down and went directly from Christchurch airport to my meeting. When the day’s business was done, I had a few pints with my colleagues in a pub, and I went out to Sumner by taxi, giving the driver the address of the B&B.
Zack Scott
Apr 12, 2016 | Horror, 1st pages
We leave as four.
Years back, he’d repeated this saying often with his three closest friends: Alec, Kale, and Scot. As children and as teens, they always left as four. Then high school ended. A rift in their bond sent them off in separate directions. While Scot headed to college, Alec and Kale stayed in their hometown, Green Hills, but discretely avoided one another. Jeff had joined the Navy before his assignment to the Vault Tactical Force.
While it was the VTF’s biggest mission yet, Jeff couldn’t help but think about his friends. It’s been a long time, boys, but I’ll be back home soon. Once this is over, I’ll see you again, and things will be better. As Jeff thought these things, he hoped he wasn’t being overly optimistic, and he told himself to focus on the mission at hand.
The old, cramped armored transport Jeff and the other members of the VTF were riding in rocked back and forth up a mountain trail. Constant bumping made him feel sick, and since he was a big guy, he’d never liked small spaces. He couldn’t help but think, This junk of a transport is a hand-me-down most likely, as his large knees nearly touched the specialist sitting across from him.
Another bump and his stomach tightened.
We leave as four, his mind repeated, trying to keep calm.
