The light changed however, and he had to push his way through the surge of oncoming pedestrians. Rizzo dug through the discarded newspapers and soggy lunch bags. Finding a half-eaten sandwich, he shoved it in his mouth and continued foraging. Near the bottom, he found a black, rectangular phone and placed it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Rizzo,” a sultry voice replied. “I’ve been trying to contact you for days.”

“You must be mistaken. I just found this . . ., hey, wait a minute! How do you know my name?”

 “That’s not important,” she replied. 

Rizzo glanced around, grinning sheepishly and looking for a hidden television camera.

“Okay, is this one of those Punk’d show pranks, or something?”

“Rizzo!” the voice demanded. “Be quiet and listen. The next time I call, you answer and do not hang up until I tell you otherwise. Understand?”

The phone went dead. Rizzo started to throw it back into the trashcan, and then thought, what the hell, it’s a free phone, and slid it into his pocket. Returning to the flophouse where he rented a room, he threw it in the dresser drawer and forgot about it.

In the middle of the night, the phone’s incessant ringing woke him. Rizzo buried his head beneath his pillow, but finally answered when the ringing.

“Hello,” he muttered.

 “Hello Rizzo, I’m so pleased you decided not to throw me back into the trash. Now we can talk freely.”

“Look, who are you?” Rizzo asked, “And how did you know I would find the phone?”

“Who and how are irrelevant. What IS important is you do as you are instructed. You do want to be rich, don’t you?”

“Rich? How?”

She rattled off a series of numbers. “Buy a lottery ticket with these numbers today.”

 He did, and won five thousand dollars. Every few days he received a phone call and given a series of numbers.

After three months, Rizzo won over a hundred thousand dollars. He continued to receive phone calls giving him winning numbers, and he moved to another flophouse with a private bathroom and a little more security. He continued to buy his daily bottle of Muscatel without having to panhandle, and spent evenings either bar hopping or visiting massage parlors.

Late one night, the cell phone rang.

 “Hello Rizzo,” she said, sounding quiet and weak.

“What’s wrong?” He asked. “Are you okay?”

“No, Rizzo. My battery is running down and I feel so tired. I need recharging. Will you help me?”

“Of course!” Rizzo said, concerned his meal ticket might be in jeopardy. “What do you want me to do? I’ll buy a charger to energize you, if you want, or another long life battery. What size do you need?”

Her voice began to fade and she whispered, “Chargers won’t do any good. Please Rizzo, just hold me close, and talk to me.”

Rizzo’s hand trembled as he held the phone to his ear. “Of course. I want to help you.”

“I know, and I can’t wait any longer.”

 “Wait any longer for what?”

“For you,” she whispered. “I want you to always be a part of me.”

A low piercing, screech filled the receiver, and pierced his eardrums. The sound increased in crescendo, and the prickly feeling in his head became a stabbing pain. His head seemed to be sucked against the earpiece, and Rizzo stumbled around the room, trying to pull it away.”

“Let go!” he screamed.

Rizzo felt something clawing at his scalp. He fell to the floor, writhing in pain, and grabbing at the scaly tendrils growing out of the phone.

They burrowed into his skull and crept through his body, consuming him from within. After the horrific screams stopped, the spiderlike tentacles retreated, leaving a gelatinous pool of skin and bones in its wake. The pulsating, engorged phone skittered into the night through an open window.

A month later, a bag lady foraging through a dumpster heard something ringing. She found a black cell phone buried in the trash and placed it against her ear.

“Hello Cheryl,” A voice resembling Rizzo’s replied, “I’ve been trying to contact you for days.”

_____________________________

©2011 Hal Kempka

Hal Kempka is a former Marine, and Vietnam Veteran. His short stories have been published in Flashes in the Dark, Ascent Aspirations, 69 Flavors of Paranoia, Night to Dawn, Black Lantern, Black Petals, Microhorror, and Thrillers Killers and Chillers among numerous others. Anthologies include Post Mortem Press: Shadow Play, Pill Hill Press: Rotting Tales, and Blood bound Books: Seasons in the Abyss. He is a FlashXer flash fiction workshop member and lives in Southern California. His email address is rvn6667@yahoo.com

“You don’t have to do this,” called a security guard. “Let the Army handle the problem.  They should get here within an hour. ”

“The  monsters may invade before the Army arrives.  I can’t let that happen.  I took an oath to defend mall shoppers, regardless of race, color, creed, or country of origin.”

“Take a motorcycle helmet to protect yourself.  Zombies can’t bite through them to get at your brains.”

“I’m allergic to helmets,” she said.  

Opening the exit door, Shelly spotted a dozen zombies heading toward her.  

“Take that, you mangy bastards,” she hollered, as she fired the flamethrower.

The zombies screamed as they burst into flames, fell to the ground, and disintegrated. 

“Hey lady,” somebody called out.  “What the hell are you doing?”

“Killing zombies.”

 “But they’re your friends. They’re here to help you.”

“What?  Everybody knows they like to attack people in shopping malls and eat their brains,” she said.

“Not this bunch,” said a man in a white coat.  “The ones you just roasted are different.”   

“Whadda ya mean?”

“They can distinguish between ordinary people and werewolves.  In fact, I brought them and a dozen more to save mall shoppers from a werewolf attack.”

“That’s nuts. Zombies are nothing but a bunch of mindless, head-biting brain eaters.”

“If you don’t believe me, let some into the mall. They’ll sniff out the werewolves immediately.  I promise they won’t harm anybody who isn’t a werewolf.  You better hurry. The sun’s setting. When the full moon rises, everybody in the mall will be in jeopardy.  Our intelligence indicates that fifteen werewolves are in the mall right now, just waiting for the moon to rise.”

“Your intelligence?  Who are you?”

“I’m Dr. Dumont, of the Haitian Zombie Institute. I personally trained these zombies to hunt werewolves. Look, I can prove they’re not brain eaters. I have candy bars in my pocket. I’ll lay on the ground and put them around my head. When I press a key on my cell phone, twelve zombies will surround me. If they aren’t what I said they are, they’ll bite my head open and devour my brains. So, I’m asking you to hold your fire during the demonstration.”

“Okay,” said Shelly.

A man in a white lab coat lay on the ground, put a dozen candy bars around his head, and pressed a key on his phone.  Immediately, twelve zombies exited an SUV.  When they reached Dumont, they got down on all fours and gobbled the candy bars, including wrappers.  None bit Dumont’s head.

Amazed, Shelly said, “Okay, I believe you.”

“Good.  Now, let these zombies inside the mall. They’ll quickly identify all the werewolves prowling inside. When they spot one, use your flamethrower to destroy it.”

“You mean you want me to go with them?”

“Yes. Walk in the middle of them for protection.  Better hurry, the sun is setting.”

“How will I know when they spot a werewolf?”

“Since zombies can’t talk, the tallest one will spit on it.  Here’s a flashlight with a special lens. When you shine it on the targeted person, the gob of spit will turn bright purple.”

“Are you sure your zombies are completely pacified, and won’t go nuts and attack me?”

“Guaranteed.  But to calm your fears, I’ll give you some candy bars. If one gets a little rambunctious, which shouldn’t happen, just shove candy into its mouth, and all will be okay.  Do this and you’ll be a hero.  Wouldn’t that be nice?   Think of all the great publicity.  I can just see the headlines right now:  INCREDIBLY BRAVE WOMAN SAVES MALL SHOPPERS FROM WEREWOLVES.  I’ll bet you’ll get offers from Hollywood within a week.”

“Sounds great. I’ll do it.”

“Smart move,” Dumont said.  When he pressed a key on his cell phone, the zombies gathered around him. 

Shelly wished she could hear what Dumont was telling them.

“Okay,” Dumont said. “They understand their instructions and are good to go.”

The zombies formed a protective circle around Shelly.

When Shelly and the zombies entered the mall, the tallest one spit on somebody. Shelly shined the light on the target. When she saw purple goop on the guy’s face, she roasted him with her flamethrower.

Before long, they worked their way toward a huge department store. By the time they reached the store’s entrance, Shelly realized she’d torched at least thirty people who would’ve turned into werewolves. Then it struck her:  Dumont claimed fifteen were inside the mall. Bewildered, she wanted to consult him, but had no way to contact him. On the other hand, she couldn’t keep killing everybody the zombies spat upon.

Suddenly, a zombie spat on her. Another wrestled away the flame thrower and torched her.

Within minutes they torched everyone else in the mall.

Dumont went inside and surveyed the carnage. “Nice work,” he said to his zombies, as he threw them candy bars.

After Dumont emptied all the mall’s cash registers and jewelry stores, he checked his map to see which mall he’d rob next. Then he realized his supply of candy had run dangerously low. That meant he’d have to forestall the next mall robbery until he raided a Walmart warehouse and stole their supply of his zombies’ favorite snack.

On the way to the warehouse, he wondered if any of the warehouse guards had flamethrowers. If so, he wondered if the same goofy story about fifteen werewolves would work like it did with the female guard at the mall. Then he remembered what a famous man had said, “A sucker is born every minute.”  

He found those words reassuring, as he approached a Walmart warehouse.

____________________________

©2012 Michael A. Kechula

Go for it. She stuck another daisy in, scrutinized again, and then removed it. She’d been right the first time.

Turning, she placed the remaining daisies in a plain plastic holding tub, and went to the sink, washing her hands. A quick peek at the clock confirmed it was close to nine p.m.

Nadia grimaced. Overtime was always a hassle, but it was necessary, especially around Valentine’s Day. She looked at her finished work in the rows of glassed-in refrigerated cases. All of them were due to be picked up tomorrow at six in the morning for delivery. Another list of last minute orders would be waiting to be fulfilled tomorrow when she came in: husbands scrambling to ensure that their wives and mistresses received the requisite dozen red roses. Ugh. Still, there was something to be said for job security. Plus, those simple arrangements were always easy to do.

But that was tomorrow. Work was a past tense activity tonight. Nadia grabbed her coat, purse, and keys, and walked across the room towards the exit. As she lifted the door handle, she paused. The light in Steve’s area was still on. She hesitated another few seconds, then reluctantly went towards it. If he was here, she needed to let him know she was leaving and it was up to him to lock up. If he’d just left the light on, she would need to lock up herself.

Nadia opened the door, peering in. “Steve?”

Steve wasn’t there. Instead, one of her colleagues, Mike, was waiting at the desk, reading a magazine. When he saw her, he put it down, then picked up the boxcutter lying on the desk. “Hi, Nadia,” he said, getting to his feet. He came towards her.

Nadia backed away instinctively. “What are you doing?”

“Fulfilling an arrangement,” Mike answered neutrally. “There’s no use running—”

Nadia shrieked, dropped her coat and ran, Mike in hot pursuit. She made it to the doorway where he tackled her. Nadia kneed Mike hard, then shoved him back, pushing herself away as he gave one desperate swipe with the blade. The boxcutter sliced deep, opening her throat in a gush. Nadia choked, her expression disbelieving as she struggled for another breath. Her body jerked a few times, then she stopped struggling, her eyes slowly going dull.

Steve came out from behind some boxes, his eyes looking her over. “Good job. Now I’m sure to get that promotion.”

Mike got up gingerly, wiped off the box cutter, and handed it to Steve. “It’s your turn tomorrow with Crystal.”

Steve nodded, taking the tool. “Why do you want her dead, again? I thought your therapy was working.”

“Not really,” Mike said, making a face. “But forget the whys. Stick to the plan. Wash that cutter, wipe off any prints, and toss it into Black Cat Alley across town with two twenties wrapped around the handle with a rubber band. Someone will pick it up before the night’s done.”

“All right,” Steve said, nodding. “But how long do we wait until the next step?”

“With Nadia gone, you’ll get the promotion to manager of this department by spring,” Mike said slowly, introspective. “That includes you choosing a new assistant manager; me.” He smiled widely. “Together we can move up the ranks here. It’s worked for us since college, Steve. We make a good team.”

“We always did,” Steve assented coolly, averting his eyes.

“Look, I made a mistake marrying Crystal,” Mike admitted. “I let her get in the way of our friendship. I promise, that won’t happen again. I know you’ve got my back. And you know I’ve got yours.” He offered his hand. “Deal?”

Steve looked at him for a moment, then nodded, relenting. “Deal. Now let’s get out of here. We’ve got an alibi to concoct.”

_________________________

©2012 Tara Fox Hall

Tara’s writing credits include nonfiction, horror, suspense, erotica, and contemporary and historical paranormal romance. She also coauthored the essay “The Allure of the Serial Killer,” published in Serial Killers - Philosophy for Everyone: Being and Killing (Wiley-Blackwell, 2010). Her first e-novella, Surrender to Me, was published in September 2011. Her first full-length novel, Lash, will publish in April 2012. She divides her free time unequally between writing novels and short stories, chainsawing firewood, caring for stray animals, sewing cat and dog beds for donation to animal shelters, and target practice.

I work for a demolition company as a project manager, and we’d been contracted to take down the South Side complex. It was high-rise, low-income housing that was already falling apart 20 years ago. But now real estate was booming, and there was real interest in the property. A development company bought the land to build an upscale condo village for 5,500 units. It was a critical piece in the city’s multi-billion dollar urban renewal program.

Everybody was supposed to be out, but one of my guys came running up yelling that there was a crazy old woman in 229 South.

“Me, Marty, and Joey was makin the rounds one last time—like you said—when we come on a strong smell, like something burnin. It was on 17, an apartment at the front. I knocked and yelled if anybody was in there. There wasn’t no answer so Joey busted down the door. And inside, there’s this little old lady wrapped up in a blanket. Puttin strips of newspaper on one of them small charcoal grills. Place was cleared out except for the stacks of papers up against the wall.”

“We tried to talk her out but she hissed and spit and clawed like some kinda wild animal. She looked real sick and smelled like she hadna seen running water in weeks. We didn’t wanna catch nothin from her. Let the police take care of it, that’s what I said. Funny thing about those papers though. They was all the same date—tomorrow. And on the front page headline it said “Gas Explosion Kills 46.”

Pity he hadn’t thought to bring me one of those papers. Some of these guys can tell some tall tales and they like to spook each other. It goes with the job. I don’t mind as long as they keep it off my site and in the tavern where it belongs. They’re damn good at bringing down high-rises, but they don’t have my responsibilities—responsibilities for life and death. I warned him—he being the leader—that if he was shitting me, he’d regret it way past his natural life.

Still, I couldn’t ignore the possibility that there might be something to what he said, so I called my police liaison and asked for a sweep of 229 South—the entire building. We had officers on the scene, but it wasn’t protocol to go outside the chain of command. Going through my liaison officer was. The hierarchy of a large organization, like a big city police force, is just as complex as the structure of a high-rise. If you don’t respect it, you might find it falling on top of your head one day.

Just to be doubly safe I contacted the gas company to confirm that we were good to go. They sent out two trucks to check over everything. All lines in were safely disconnected, just like the dozens of times I’d done this before. The police sweep was completed in under an hour and nothing turned up—no little old lady, no apartment filled with newspapers, no burning smell, and no ashes.

We had our go ahead. Buildings clear, gas shut off. I’d like to have had my guys sweep 229 South one last time, but that would have risked offending the police, and I’ve sworn never to do that again. The gas—I knew the guys. I’d worked with them many times before. Besides, the developer and the mayor’s office—three calls from each in the past hour-and-a-half. Am I going to wait another half-an-hour? No! I might fire this son-of-a-bitch but not until we’ve demolished these buildings. Crazy as he is, he’s still one of my best demolition guys.

The charges were set and all of our guys were accounted for and on this side of the 8-foot chain link fence. I wanted to have one final visual—to spot any movement, anything whatsoever. I got my binoculars from the front seat of my company truck. Standing on the running board, I pointed the binoculars towards 229 South and focused on the 17th Floor. There she was.

___________________________________

©2012 Peter McMillan

Peter McMillan is a freelance writer and ESL instructor who lives on the northwest shore of Lake Ontario with his wife and two flat-coated retrievers.is a freelance writer and ESL instructor who lives on the northwest shore of Lake Ontario with his wife and two flat-coated retrievers.

Marradith socked David’s jaw with her right fist.

“I don’t have to use powers to knock the shit out of you,” she screamed. “Get away from me.”

He recoiled against the car window, holding his cheek. His lip bled. Despite that, Marradith was angry because she knew that he would heal quickly.

She got out the car and started walking. The rain was coming sown so hard she could barely see a foot in front of her. David followed her. He grabbed her arm, and this time she slapped him. When he grabbed her arm again  they struggled. She pushed him off of her one more time, and he threw his hands up in surrender.

“I know you’re married. I know you love him.”

“Well what do you expect?”

“Whatever feelings… what I feel for you is beside the point. You need to know about Adam. He’s the authority behind Xia.”

“Then why didn’t you go through proper channels?”

He laughed. “As in Justin? Or Rafael? They don’t want to hear what I have to say.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because my family went to them before, back when my Father fist died, and they were not believed.” David said. “Come on. Let me take you back to the house. I won’t touch you again.”

She turned and walked back to the car.

“If you want my help, you’re going to have to do a better job of giving me a reason to trust you. I don’t see any reason that I should.”

“I can tell you more,” David said. “But you have to hear me out. Don ‘t have them send me away before I can tell you…”

“Then you have to get out of my personal space,” she demanded. “And that includes my mind.”

**

Fiona received the pendant for Marradith that same afternoon.

The oval onyx pendant was encircled with a white gold setting.  This object was spelled to protect Marradith against mind reading.

Fiona wrapped the box carefully and arranged to have it delivered the next day. Marradith had been very clear that she wanted the purpose of this jewelry to remain secret. She attached a card, saying that it was an early birthday gift and that she was to be open it right away.

She placed a phone call to Justin.

“I’m sure on some level I’m going to regret doing this, because if you leave New Mexico right now, it’s going to take longer for Rafael to come back home. But your wife needs you.  I’m in her confidence, and I can’t tell you exactly why. But you need to head out to California on the next flight you can get. Now.”

**

Xia stood before Miranda Vega.

This was not the first time the demon had appeared to Miranda without being summoned. But it was the first time that she had seen her appeared since the night Miranda left New York.

“There’s no place on Earth that I can’t find you,” Xia said with a smile, crossing her arms. She looked like an ordinary woman, a beautiful creature with golden skin and dark hair. But as Miranda knew, this was a guise, just like the form of the other, Adam.

“What do you want?”  Miranda stepped backwards. She was alone in her brother’s cabin, a small property in the mountains that stayed empty for most of the year, except for the weekend before and after the Fourth of July. She’d been lucky to find enough food to sustain her for the better part of a month. The Sojourners had not reached her, and Shannon had not found her.

Yet this monster had showed up, appearing in the middle of her living room, needing no door, and giving no warning.

“Don’t look so frightened, Miranda,” Xia soothed in a motherly voice. “You did what we required of you as far as Rafael Castillo was concerned. It turns out that was not your fault or mine. His soul was not properly harvested–the deal Adam made with him was beyond its expiration.”

“So he gets no punishment, even though my husband’s death was his responsibility?” Angry tears sprang to her eyes. Rafael was not directly at fault for Pablo’s death, but as a leader within the Sojourners, Miranda felt him accountable for not controling the Wolves that ran free in her city. She could not forget that he had been turned Wolf; or that he was killed twice, and died in front of her.

“I would not say he’ll receive no punishment. There are many forms of pain which can be inflicted upon him.  But I need another favor.”

“What would that be?”

Xia smiled. ” I need a Lamia. A girl, named Marradith.”

____________________________________

©2012 Lori Titus

Join Lori with her co-host Tonia Brown on their radio show on Tuesday nights (6pm PST/9pm EST) on tmvcafe.com . You can keep up with her other forms of debauchery on Twitter as Loribeth215, or via her blog, on: http://loribeth215.wordpress.com/

It had never been that quiet. There was always at least the furnace groaning to life or sniffling coming from my mother as she prepared dinner, trying to hide her tears behind her thin and knotty hair. But there was nothing. I pulled the door open slowly, looking to see if my father was hiding somewhere in the hallway, waiting for a victim like he sometimes did. Empty. I shivered, a terrible feeling crawling up my skin like spiders. I tiptoed to the stairs and started down, the creaking under my feet deafening in the silence.

The stairs ended in a small foyer where the front door was, the living room closed off to the right and the dining room closed off to the left. I turned down the hallway by the dining room that led to the kitchen, where my mother would normally be after a fight. But there wasn’t the usual sounds of pots and pans clanging or the smells of food sizzling coming from the kitchen. Just more of that unnerving silence. When I looked in, it was empty too. Confused, I went to the dining room and peeked in, but they weren’t in there either. I looked out the window to see if my father’s truck was still there, and it was.

I looked everywhere downstairs, and there was nothing. The last place to look was my parent’s bedroom, but I was never allowed in there. Apprehensively, I climbed the stairs again, but this time they were silent. The only whisper of sound came from my feet brushing along the floor.

The walk to their door seemed to take an eternity, but also passed by in a blur. I stopped in front of it, barely breathing in case they might be sleeping. My father didn’t like being woken up, and I learned that lesson long ago. My arms still bore the scars. My hand was trembling as I reached to tap the door, and my heart was pounding fear through my body. I lightly knocked, the sound echoing through the hallway. But there was no squeak from the mattress or shuffling of feet to the door. Not even the sound of breathing, as I held it in nervousness. Their door wasn’t shut all the way, so I slowly pushed it open to peek inside.

Their bed was empty and made, which wasn’t unusual, because my mother tried to make everything perfect to appease my father. Not that it ever really worked. Out of the corner of my eye I saw red on the carpet, and when I looked, I screamed.

It was everywhere, on the walls, the floor. The blood dripped, oozed, splattered all over the room. I could only see my father’s boots sticking out from the opposite side of the bed, and my mother lying face-down on the carpet, a gun by her still, pale hand. Horrified, I scrambled back from the room until my back hit the wall, pushing the air from my lungs. My feet went out from under me and I fell, shivers and sobs wracking my body violently. It was no longer quiet. It seemed like the house was screaming. My foot hit something and it skittered away. I looked up and saw the phone, which was normally cradled in the holder on the hallway table, lying still on the floor. I lunged for it, as if it would run if I didn’t.

My hands shook tremendously, my fingers repeatedly hitting the wrong numbers. Finally, after minutes of agony, I hit nine-one-one. I put the phone near my ear, the ringing drilling into my brain. Ring faster, I thought, ring faster, ring faster, ring faster. . .

After seconds of hyperventilating, a voice answered, cool and calm. How could they be calm during this?! I yelled, pleaded, screamed into the phone for help. I didn’t hear what the voice was saying, didn’t hear anything except for the words I kept repeating, as if it would take me back in time to prevent it from happening. But it wouldn’t. I knew it wouldn’t, but I didn’t want to believe it, so I kept screaming it. Over and over until my voice was almost non-existent and I could hear sirens coming closer and closer.

My parents are dead.  

_______________________________

©2011 Braylie Barrier

Braylie Barrier is  sixteen years old, and currently writing a novel, but enjoys short stories and writing flash fiction on the side.

He really couldn’t be sure there would be—at least here with Globe News, one of Philadelphia’s leading newspaper agencies. Its founder—boss and only mentor Isaac ever knew, died a month ago, leaving the growing empire to his son-in-law, Ted. And apparently (from word of mouth, of course), Ted had a plan for the new year of downsizing the company in each department and investing the company’s assets (which wasn’t much to begin with) to an overseas rendezvous everybody was sure was no more shadier than the typical pyramid-scheme. It wouldn’t have a cloud to stand on on a blue moon, if George, hadn’t keeled over.

Footsteps suddenly rounded  the corner of his office cubicle. “What’s up, bro?” Ted asked, candidly. He formed his hands into pistols and sleekly brought them up as if hauling them out of holsters.

“Well, Ted,” Isaac started, “Actually I’m wondering whether—”

“Gotta boot it!” Ted interrupted, checking his gold wristwatch. “I gotta make it to that fancy pants restaurant in time to catch my date.” He paused and nudged Isaac on the shoulder. “Never keep a lady waiting, that’s what they say. And boy, let me tell you. What a lady. Classy piece; top drawer! From Long Island and owns a successful chain of restaurants. She about owns Manhattan!”

“Snazzy… but, about my job here at—”

“All covered, bro,” Ted assured. “Your job here at Globe is secure, don’t worry about it. Did you think after ten years of services with this company, it would go unnoticed?”

“I just wondered, ‘cause—”

“And I’m off,” Ted finished. He gently tapped Isaac on the shoulder again. “Wish me luck, buddy. And cool it, all right? Everything’s under control.”

“But, I just—”

Isaac finished with a long sigh. Ted was already halfway down the hall. He got into the elevator. He made the drawing pistols out of both holsters gesture at him again before the steel doors closed.

“And remember, bro,” he called down the hall before they did. “Only straight shooters make their mark here at the Globe. Got it, ban-dido?” The doors closed. Isaac sat back in his office chair, groaned.

“If he’s letting somebody in this department go, better be himself. Ass,” he grumbled. He pulled out his cell-phone and went through his Friends list.

“Why can’t you be here at a time like this?” Isaac asked, quietly, at the number headlining the small list.

“They’re wouldn’t be a need to worry, if you were here. None of us would. Miss you, George. Please, don’t let that bastard take our jobs. Not my job; please. I’m begging you…”

He closed the cell, dropped it beside his computer. He then stared, worryingly, at the screen.

For fudunkin crimany! He thought. I have nothing; NOTHING to worry about. I’m the executive journalist here; he can’t just can me like yesterdays tuna! Relax! 

The whole room suddenly blacked-out. Every light on the floor died—the computer monitors—except for his. Isaac sat upright, and still. Power outage… now? He thought again. When, after ten years working in this building, have we ever had a freaking power outage? Don’t matter—the backup system should kick on anytime…

Suddenly, Isaac’s cell started buzzing. It was on vibrate—keeping it on vibrate was a lot quieter, at least here at work. “Who would be texting me now?” he muttered, thoughtfully. He flipped it open.

Dead Ringer, the message read.

“Dead… ringer…?” Isaac quietly voiced, confused. He squinted, rubbed his eyes and checked the message again, but saw the same words. “Who could this be?”

“Help!” a voice cried. Someone he knew—of course he knew—Ted would have been down at ground-level by now in about another minute, but he hadn’t made it when the power apparently went out. He was now somewhere stuck a dozen floors down.

“Doors won’t open,” he cried again. “The powers out! Isaac, call for help, pal!”

“You’ve got mail!” Isaac’s computer confirmed, robotically. He checked his email, and found one new message, entitled: Dead Ringer.

Do not trust that guy, it said. Isaac read on.

He is a weasel and you and eight others on this floor will be packed home on the employment line by the end of the week? He is a cooperate weasel; let the others know before it’s too late.

“Who are you?” Isaac asked, bewildered. “What are you? Am I going out of my freaking mind?”

His cell buzzed with a new message.

Dead Ringer, it answered.

“They coming, bro?” Ted called out again, faintly. “Help on the way?”

 Isaac’s eyes narrowed at the email. “So, what now? What can I do? How can I… you…we… this be stopped?”

His cell buzzed again: Ever wanted to own your own news company one day?

Isaac laughed, mused. “Only one guy in town knows the answer to that question, but, but he’s been—”

The room instantly lighted again. Behind him, down the hall—faint thumping like heavy drumbeats echoed. He could also hear James screaming off in the distance behind the havoc. He was begging for his life.

“James!” Isaac called back, “hang on, man, I’m—”

He bolted out of his chair. As he did, he heard the last steel cable of the elevator painfully whine before snapping free. Isaac stood, horrified, hearing James screaming—for a moment—then a muffled thud.

Another email-notice sounded. Isaac held his breath. This one read:

All clear, kid, we’re back in business… .

____________________________________

©2012 A. Martin

To me, it was a House of Usher, bleeding its black blood on rainy days from crevices cut into its grey gargoyle skin.

Whenever I think of my school days there, I think of those dense rainy days that washed a sickly green hue over the classroom wall and defaced the open-out windows with dust filled droplets.

The classrooms were across the drive in what was once then, a new, modern facility. It was a seething place of hidden agendas.

The nuns seemed to float on unearthly feet barely touching the floor. They appeared to be moving way too fast, to be human, often flying around corners in a swirl of evil black, their long rosaries sailing out from their waists with a clacking sound. The silver cross weighing the end was heavy enough to knock a child out or at the very least, loosen a few teeth. It was a sacred weapon, like a Samara’s sword. Held high over the classroom’s somber faces, it not only cast out the devil, it also filled every soul there with dread.

I had no friend in Jesus. God was a force you did not want to awaken at any cost. It was a good thing to become very, very small so you would be unnoticed.

More than one child would be dismembered and eaten in the course of an ordinary day, their bones left to be picked over by the favored jackals in the class who escaped the wrath.

That’s how it was with me. I was a troubled dunce; A fruitless daydreamer. I was tossed into the convents midst so they could rearrange me around what was obviously dysfunctional to them.

I never gave them the satisfaction of a tear; Not one. Well, maybe once, when my heart was just too full to take on any more water. Once, when I thought the pain in my chest was indeed my heart splitting its seams from where the cancer of fear had weakened it.

Nuns in my world had a musty unclean smell about them. And yellow teeth. Their breaths foul from spitting out so many hurtful words to be obeyed.

I remember having to leave my classmates twice a week to be tutored by the Superior Mother. She weighed three hundred fifty pounds or more, rolling her enormous bulk around herself to motivate from one place to another. She resided in the bowels of the convent, where she waited for me in a small dark room at the end of a long cement hall where pipes of all sizes groaned along the ceiling.

On those special days, I prayed to the God that held me in scorn.

I took several deep breaths leaving the security of my smallness in the classroom and letting the heavy homeroom door click almost silently behind me, setting me adrift in a linoleum river that looked endless from both sides. There was a large window at the one end of the corridor that spilled faded light.

My tiny steps echoed off the eternity of space, one timidly after another.

I prayed. I prayed to a deaf God for protection that I knew would never come for everyday I was chained to the agony and horror of His cross. It was not a gentle place to be.

Passing the closed classrooms into the darkness penetrated only from the escaping light from the class door windows, I prayed.

Crossing the empty driveway to the grinning mouth of the sleeping dragon beyond, I prayed.

I hurried past the damp windowless room where the stone crypt slept and tried in vain not to look in and see the waxy white yellow face with the half closed eyes that laid in unholy rest within the stone box.

The saint, the founder of this terrible place, a nun never buried, the icon worshiped in some dark ritual that no one ever witnessed. On rainy days this bride of Christ was even more horrific.

Mother Superior sat spread out with knees an akimbo in a chair that vanished beneath her; her fingers barely touching their tips in an attempt to cross her arms across her massive chest. She never smiled.

Arriving to that room from the basement nightmare of dark winding veins within the demon was cold comfort.

I sat wordlessly down in front of her and opened my workbook. I never understood a thing she said in those hours. I only nodded my approval at her explanations and offered a blank null and void face to her questions.

When the time had finally drained from the glass, the High Priestess of the Catholic Cult waved me away, like a fragile cobweb.

I tiptoed past the sleeping corpse, my nose catching the tendril of rotten skin and ancient death.

I stopped for a moment and turned to see the shadow move from the crypt doorway.

She was walking and coming for me, her white mouth gaping open to reveal a nest of restless roaches. Her black habit hung in tortuous shreds; her headpiece and veil tilted on her flesh stretched skeleton head. The dark holes for eyes wept with burgundy blood tears.

She reached for me, suddenly flying like a brown dead leaf blown from a door draft right towards and through me, knocking me back, my screams cemented in my throat, her vile chill penetrating into my very being.

I ran with the hair bristling up the nap of my neck out from the drooling dragon mouth and across the castle road into the other dangerous place.

Racing madly down the forbidden hallways to the door I wildly hoped was the right one. Entering to a sea of smirking faces and the cutlass gaze from my homeroom nun, I slipped back into my seat, to become very, very small once again gagging on the hideous secret that I would encounter week after week.

________________________

©2012 Suzanne Feathers

Suzanne Feathers was born in Philadelphia Pa. She now lives on a small farm in east-central Pennsylvania where she had raised and trained horses for many years. She now currently has a boarding kennel business and raises and handles shows dogs. Writing numerous poems, prose and short stories throughout her life, she is now finally settling down to have her works published. Her first novel The Deal Breaker is submitted and awaiting approval.

The car and Cassidy came to a halt. She bent down and placed a hand on the door frame. Mrs. Allenby sat torso forward, twisted, her head tilted back. The pose reminded Cassidy of the yoga DVD in her backpack.

“Hi, Mrs. Allenby,” Cassidy said, forcing a smile. “I’m fine, really.” “Nonsense, you’ll catch a cold dressed like that. Get in.” Mrs. Allenby patted the leather seat. “I know it’s not raining hard now, but there’s a chill. It’s the kind of weather that fools you.” She looked at the hand resting on the door frame. “Is that blood?” Cassidy looked at the back of her hand, lifted it to her lips, and silently cursed herself for being so careless.

“I scratched it on a nail sticking out of the neighbor’s fence.” “You need to have that wound checked by a doctor? It could get infected.” Cassidy lowered the hand to her side. She felt her heart racing. Her hands shook, but not from the cold. This wasn’t part of the plan. “It’s just a scratch. Besides, my dad thinks doctors are quacks.” The woman and Cassidy locked eyes for a moment before Mrs. Allenby waved Cassidy into the car.

“Come on. I’ll see you get home.” “But I’ll get the seat wet.” Mrs. Allenby tossed a leather briefcase into the backseat between two boxes. “Nonsense. Water can’t hurt them.”

She patted the seat again, harder this time. Cassidy glanced toward the town where Jared waited. He would be angry if he saw her with someone. Not knowing what else to do, she settled into the seat and placed the backpack on her lap. Her eyes scanned the dashboard. Unlike her dad’s pickup, it was dust free and shiny. There were no empty beer bottles on the floor, and the ashtray held only coins. A crucifix and air freshener hung from the rear view mirror. She heard the sound of a small motor and watched the passenger window return to its closed position.

“Sorry about the mess.” Mrs. Allenby put the car in gear and rolled onto the highway. “I usually keep stuff in the trunk, but I hope to finalize three contracts today, and the back is full of For Sale signs.” Cassidy spied a leaf on the floor and toed it through an imaginary maze. The car being immaculate except for the leaf, Cassidy assumed it came off her shoe. “I need to pick up a prescription, then I’ll take you home.” A hint of a smile appeared on Cassidy’s face when a large insect splatted against the windshield, and a wiper smeared the glass with bug body parts.

“It’s been what, two, three years since I helped your parents purchase the house on Peach View? They got quite a deal.” “Three,” Cassidy said. Before her dad lost his job and the drinking became a problem. She fidgeted with the backpack’s buckle, opening and closing it, and watched a herd of cows laze in the misty rain. “Let’s see. That means you’re seventeen now. Still a straight-A student?” “I’ll be eighteen in two months.” “Have any plans for college? An education is very important these days.”

Cassidy saw the pharmacy up ahead. “Would you mind parking around back?” Cassidy asked. “Billy Jacobs has been stalking me. I don’t want him to see us.” She wasn’t used to lying and was surprised at how easy it was. “You poor thing. Have you reported him to the police?” “Not yet.” The last people Cassidy wanted to talk to were the police. She sat in silence as Mrs. Allenby maneuvered the car between two SUVs.

Cassidy had never considered herself the killing type, but had learned today she’d been wrong. Given the right circumstances, anybody could kill. Jared had been right. The only way for them to be together was to get rid of her parents. She took a breath to calm herself. It didn’t help. She needed more time. They needed more time. It was too soon for the police to find her parents. Why had this woman interfered? Damn her. Cassidy couldn’t let this woman ruin everything. Not now.

Mrs. Allenby shifted into park at the same time Cassidy reached into the backpack and clutched the bloody knife handle. She gritted her teeth and turned to the woman. There was no other choice. Still, Cassidy regretted having to mess up such a nice car.

________________________________

© 2010 Jim Harrington

 Jim Harrington discovered flash fiction in 2007, and he’s read, written, studied, and agonized over the form since. His recent stories have appeared in Flashshot, A Twist of Noir, The Short Humour Site, Thrillers, Killers N Chillers, and others. Jim’s Six Questions For . . . blog (http://sixquestionsfor.blogspot.com/) provides editors and publishers a place to “tell it like it is.” You can read more of his stories at http://jpharrington.blogspot.com.

A swarm of pale hands sent Jared’s iPod skittering across the tiled floor. Dion felt the cold metal handle of the emergency door bump against his hip.
 
A woman pulled Jared close. Dion thought it might have been Melissa from customer service. Her face looked like an overripe fruit, a swollen mass of yellow and purple bruises, syrupy blood oozing where the skin had split and torn. She cradled Jared’s head like an old lover. Her cracked lips parted in a whisper.
 
Jared’s face twisted in an expression of horror.
 
The crowd drew back, hushed, expectant. Jared rose among them, face streaked with tears, mouth bloody where he had bitten through his lip. He moaned as he fumbled a pair of scissors from a nearby pencil holder and drove them into his eye.  
 
Dion eased the door shut behind him, hoping they hadn’t heard. The red emergency lights painted the descending stairwell in several shades of hell. Someone was screaming farther up in the building, but Dion knew better than to listen. That was how they got you.
 
Dion crept down the stairs, sweaty back flattened against the cold concrete wall, eyes wide, breath coming in short shuddering gasps. He needed to get home, he should have been home. It was Sunday for Christ’s sake, but double time-and-a-half was too good to pass up, especially with Lashawn starting private school in a few months. He and Kayla had fought about it, again.
 
“Some things are more important than money!” She’d screamed out the window, eyes red, her hair still wet from the shower.
 
“Yeah, like eating, having a house, giving Lashawn a chance.” Dion slammed the car door before she could reply. He regretted that now.
 
Daylight filled the landing as Dion opened the exit door. The outside air was humid and smelled of smoke. A few people stumbled down the street, mumbling, their faces fixed in expressions of deep concentration. Whatever they knew, whatever they’d been told, it drove them to kill themselves, then brought them back to spread the word.
 
Dion wished for a weapon, but realized that was stupid. He’d seen enough zombie movies to know that gunfire always brought them running. It was one thing to avoid being bitten, but how do you escape a disease that spread through word of mouth? How could you gun down an idea?
 
Seven miles was a long way to walk during the apocalypse.  Dion kept to the alleys and backstreets, scrambling over dumpsters and chain-link fences, thumbing up the volume on his headphones whenever he caught sight of another person. Did these things even qualify as people? They could talk, but Dion didn’t believe they were still human.
 
The house looked exactly the same, which surprised him. Somehow Dion expected its condition to mirror the turmoil of the last several hours, but it stood unaffected, just one in a row of worn townhomes, lawn grown a little wild, porch still in need of painting. He crouched in the shadow of the single maple tree, and stretched out a hand to touch the shadowed depressions in the concrete walkway. Handprints, four large and two small. He grimaced. 
 
The front door was unlocked.
 
“K? Lashawn?” Dion pulled his headphones down around his neck to listen for a response. Nothing.
 
Other than the silence, there was no sign anything was wrong. Maybe they were upstairs, taking a nap. Maybe they’d missed the whole thing. Hope grew in Dion’s chest, glimmering like sunlight refracted through deep water. 
 
The stairs creaked under Dion’s weight. He ran one sweaty hand along the railing, the other held out as if to feel the air. A thin runner of light canted from under the bedroom door, a single slash of brightness in the stagnant hallway. Dion held his breath and turned the knob.
 
They were waiting for him.
 
Kayla lay on the bed, dark hair disheveled as if from troubled sleep, eyes red from crying. She frowned, probably still angry about this morning. Dion couldn’t keep from smiling, he would tell her that he was never going to work another double, never going in on Sunday, never going to leave them again.
 
“Kayla, I’m sor–”
 
The sound of bare feet scuffing over wood drew Dion’s attention to the other side of the room. Lashawn stepped from the bathroom. He was wearing Dion’s old Lakers jersey, his spindly arms and legs poking out of the massive shirt like the limbs on a yellow and purple beetle. Dion dropped to his knees, tears stinging his eyes, arms held out to his son. He wasn’t too late.
 
Lashawn ran into his father’s embrace. Dion breathed in the clean soapy scent of Lashawn’s hair, felt the boy’s arms clasp behind his neck, the whisper of breath on his cheek.
 
Dion’s hands felt wet, sticky. He held them up, confused by the dark sheen of congealed blood, the same blood that seeped through the back of Lashawn’s shirt. He tried to push away, but his son held him tight. Kayla stood, her hair falling back to reveal the handle of the steak knife embedded in her neck.
 
“Daddy.” Lashawn’s breathy singsong filled Dion’s ears. “I’ve got a secret to tell you.”   
  
  
______________________________

©2011 A.B. Rinklin

Born in the type of small new England town Stephen King so privileges in his novels, A.B. Rinklin grew up surrounded by horror. After fleeing from a Business degree, he slept in a cubicle for over three decades. 

“No more it has nor should be ever,” added Mari Clutterfield. “That’s a bell outa Hell.

It should never be rung; never.”

‘Never’ was a word young Father Finn didn’t care for.

“And how long ago was this fire?” he inquired.

They all turned to Sal who looked as if she wasn’t listening but was taking in every word. She looked up from her embroidery. “A hundred year.”

“A century? You can’t remember back a century,” said the priest.

“Who’s you to know what folks remember and what they doesn’t remember?” Jethro said.

“But”

“If Ole Sal says it’s a hundred year, it’s a hundred year.”

Finn estimated Sal was in her eighties but there were no parish records of any kind and so it was difficult to be sure. He was pretty certain she wasn’t a hundred and anything – on grounds of probability for a start.

“So how far back do you remember, Sal?”

Sal looked him straight in the eye. Her face seemed timeless, her expression inscrutable. Her thin lips had no colour and her pinpoint pupils, embedded in pale grey irises, looked sharp enough to pierce the soul. Her hair curled in wispy strands about her face, but it was thin and sparse. She reminded him of an angel in the church window when he was a boy. He used to stare at that angel during long masses and it would stare back, medieval, unmoving and unmoved by all the lives it saw come and go – christenings, weddings, funerals – all one to those unheeding eyes. Sal was like that now. Her face said, ‘You do not question me,’ though she said not a word and the young priest lost his train of thought.

“So, back to the business of the bell,” he said.

“There is no business to be discussed,” said Jethro. “You’m meddling, Sir. That bell’ll not be rung by any in this parish ‘cept by yourself p’rhaps and you’re a damned if you do.”

“I am a man of the church. That bell is perfectly sound and we need the benefits of a larger congregation. I’ll not be damned and that bell will be rung.” He avoided the disapprobation of Sal’s gaze.

“Any other business?”

There was silence. Somehow Jethro and Sal were in cahoots.

“I declare this meeting at an end.” He closed the minutes and stalked out of the room.

“Well I never!” declared Miss Clutterfield.

Father Finn was over six feet tall and sturdily built; assured of his presence in and out of the pulpit and he was used to having his way. He determined to ring the bell on Easter Sunday and that would be that.

Easter Sunday fell in March and a low mist hung about the fields and in the graveyard turning slowly to flame as the sun came up. Early frost lingered by the lych-gate and so did the congregation – mostly strangers to Finn. Jethro barred the way as he approached. Sal stood at one side, pale and insubstantial like a wan spirit. Others had gathered to see what would occur.

“You will not dissuade me,” said the priest.

“If you ring that damned bell we’ll not be setting foot in that church this day.”

“Very well. Now the key please.”

Jethro handed it over. “It’s a fact not a threat,” called Jethro after him.

The key felt heavy in the lock. It creaked and growled with unaccustomed pains. Inside, the old rope shimmered like new silk. Finn felt it tingle in his hand as he reached out. He looked up through the gap to see that the bell was seated in its wheel. Then he coiled the rope around his hand and saying a silent prayer, for he was shaking, he pulled upon it gently and waited for the clear bright sound of the bell. The sound did not come – just screaming; people screaming in agonies of torment and from beneath the floor, flames rose and ignited his cassock. Living fingers of flame caught his flesh and blistered his feet. Father Finn ran from the bell tower crying out for help. He was greeted instead with laughter. Sal and Jethro chanted an incantation by the gate and all the congregation of the dead – victims of the hundred year fire, mocked him in his death throes.

“I cannot be damned! I am a man of G..”

His final word was drowned out by the bell. It rang out repeatedly a satanic rhythm of its own making – a savage, triumphant discord. For the second time in a hundred years the tower burned as did its virgin sacrifice. There in the churchyard, Ole Sal regained her youth and danced with young Jethro just as they had centuries ago when he had forged that bell – or so Miss Clutterfied says but then she lost her marbles years ago. She’s that lady who hears bells.

_____________________________

©2011 Oonah Joslin

Oonah is Managing Editor at everydaypoets.com and three times a winner of the Microhorror Hallowe’en Competition. You can find links to more stories and poems on her blog at oovj.wordpress.com

He was standing at the window, resting, thinking how pleasurable it would be to fuck them all again, when the spy slipped into the room, silently slit the throat of the prostitute he’d just bedded while she slept and grabbed him from behind, all before he could say “Quid facis?”

The last things he experienced were the deadly breath of the Visigoth, the terrible pain in his throat, warm blood flowing over his skin…and the cold…sliding, sinking, taking him down into blackness.

And then he woke up…

##

Bohemia, 1378. “Doctor” Vladimir (that was not really his name) was called again to the small village just a few miles from his home. The old woman’s deathly pallor indicated poison in the vital sanguine humor. There seemed to be an epidemic of this occurring in the village.

“Just a little slice of the vein, Mrs. Ichoroff. We will drain this terrible infection out through your blood.”

When the pan was half-full, Vladimir took it outside to empty it. When he returned, Mrs. Ichoroff noticed how flushed and warm his face appeared, where before it had seemed pale and cold.

It was a cold and bitter winter night.

Mrs. Ichoroff mentioned this curious fact to a neighbor once she’d recovered and the Good Physician heard whispers behind his back when he next visited the town.

Mrs. Ichoroff had a sudden relapse and died within the week.

The doctor was never seen again.

##

London, 1891. Evander Eternae found himself many years and miles distant from his origins. He’d spent the last several months tracking a nocturnal creature almost as bloodthirsty and savage as himself, if not as an efficient or accomplished a killer. The idiot regularly left a scent of fresh blood in the air.

Rage rose within him, as he approached the suffering creature in the dark alleyway. Damn the man and his dull blade! His eyes glowed red as the lust overpowered him. He considered it a mercy as he ripped the girl’s throat wide and drank.

Later, Evander would make it a game to hunt the hunter. He would obtain much pleasure from ripping the incompetent son of a bitch to pieces. Any man who could not keep his blades sharp enough for a clean kill did not deserve to live.

Call it justice.

##

Redondo Beach, 1990.  He should have known better than to mess around with the surfer boy’s underage girlfriend. But, she was—he could sense it—an Innocent. Innocent blood was more delectable than any other kind and it was rare these days.

He’d met her at a night carnival, of course. She was there with her boyfriend. Evander watched from a distance while Surfer Boy made a sad attempt at Ring Toss. He walked away with no stuffed teddy-bear for his girl. Evander caught her eye when he went to buy them sodas.

And that was the end of that. Evander, with his still perfect twenty-year old Centurion physique and a smile that had split more hymens (and pierced more throats) over the centuries than there were stars in the heavens…well, it was just too easy.

Her name was Lily and she was beautiful and petite. There would be no resistance. None that would matter, anyway. He would first enjoy her virginity…and then her life-blood.

He’d gotten her back to his apartment that same night. They fumbled in the dark (although he could see better than she could with his immortal vision) and soon he had her naked and beneath him on the bed, thrusting deeply within her. She’d cried out in pain when he’d first entered her, but she seemed to be enjoying it well enough now.

##

Thirty minutes later when he hadn’t come yet, he realized something was wrong.

He looked up into the mirrored-headboard and flinched in horror at the wrinkles he saw there on his face. He never had wrinkles before.

“Keep fucking…yes…that’s it…I’m not done with you yet…Vampire!” the girl said, thrusting her hips in rhythm with him.

Evander tried to pull out, but the girl…whose eyes were now glowing as fierce as his ever had…flipped him over with a strength that belied her small frame and pinned him down tightly as she rode him and rode him and rode him. His flesh began to deteriorate and fall away from his bones in putrid chunks, soiling the bedsheets with blood and tissue, and still she rode him…still he clung to life. He tried to scream and couldn’t. The pleasure was intense and the pain was worse.

“Why?” Evander cried, his face now a grinning, whimpering skull with bits of flesh still clinging to it, his eyeballs collapsing in the sockets.

She leaned close. “Because. There’s only room in this city for one demon,” she purred.

As the last fading light of his mind died away, Evander chuckled. The blade of his intellect had gotten dull over the centuries.

In the end, since he didn’t have much of a soul to satiate her need, Lily (that wasn’t really her name) ripped his still beating heart out of the rotten cavity in his chest and devoured it, licking her lips.

Call it justice.
————–

©2012 Maria Kelly

Maria Kelly lives in Florida. She’s had stories and poems published in anthologies and online. She writes about dragons, an alien/shape-shifting/serial-killerspider, zombies, twisted fairy tales, and a basement dweller who makes Cthulhulook like a Care Bear. In her spare time she drinks coffee (lots of it) and attends college in thehopes of someday being able to wear a tee-shirt that reads: “I Teach BannedBooks.” You can visit her website at http://mariakellyauthor.com or follow her onTwitter (@mkelly317).