R.M. DuChene's Blog, page 11

MOMMY LOVES YOU

Troy Creech looked around the living room when he walked in the house. Head barely poking through the door, he listened for sounds. Not just any sounds, but the banging and slamming of heavy items that would alert him, in advance, that his mother was in one of her moods. After he was assured that the coast was clear, he walked the rest of the way into the house, threw his book bag down, then headed for the kitchen. His mom had been in one of her moods that morning, so he had left the house early, forgetting to pack a lunch.

Just before he reached the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the living room, his mother walked through it; her face lit up when she saw that he was home.

"Troy!" She said, pulling him into a tight hug.

He tried not to tense up. If she sensed how scared he was, it would only set her off. She kissed his cheek and then let him go.

"Are you hungry?" She asked.

"Umm…I guess so"

His mom’s smile grew wider. She took his hand and pulled him into the kitchen; talking rapidly as they went.

"What would you like? I think we have some peanut butter and jelly."

"That’s okay."

She set to work, bustling around the kitchen. Once the sandwich was made, she put it on a paper plate and sat it in front of Troy, who was sitting at the dining room table by then. When he started eating, his mom ruffled his hair and told him that she was going to clean up. When she walked out of the dining room, Troy felt as if a house had been lifted off of him. He didn’t really care for peanut butter and jelly, which was his dad’s favorite. Troy always preferred bologna and cheese, but he’d never tell her that.

About half way through the sandwich, Troy became annoyed by the copious amounts of peanut butter that stuck to the roof of his mouth. He went back into the kitchen to ask for a glass of milk, but his mother wasn’t there.

He tried to pull the refrigerator door open with his right hand, but had to switch to his left when a sudden, dull pain crawled up his arm from his elbow to his shoulder. The bruise that his mother had given him was nearly gone, but the pain came and went. He grabbed the handle of the refrigerator door and pulled it open, that’s when he heard her scream.

Usually, Troy would run and hide when he heard his mother scream like that. To him, it wasn’t a scream at all, but the roar of some vicious beast, coming to dine on him. The thought of hiding never had the chance to tap him on the shoulder because the scream was followed by his mother storming into the kitchen; his book bag in her hand.

"What’s this shit?" She screamed at him, swinging the book bag and hitting him in the face with it; knocking him to the floor. "Do I look like your Goddamn maid?"

Troy knew better than to answer her. The last time he had tried, she nearly tore his arm from the socket. He scootched backward on his behind until his back rested against the cupboard under the sink. It wasn’t a defensive posture, which would just make it worse. It was more a display of submission. Sometimes, if he was quiet and didn’t look like he would fight back, her rage would burn out and she would be nice again. This time, it didn’t work.

His mother stood above him, eyes burning red with fury. She looked around the kitchen until her eyes became fixed on something that was out of Troy’s eye-sight. She nearly ran to the counter and began to fumble around with the cooking utensils that were kept just next to the stove. When she reappeared into Troy’s field of vision, she was brandishing a large wooden spoon.

"I’m not your maid!"

About an hour later, Troy was looking at his new bruises in the upstairs bathroom. He found a fresh one on his back, another on his upper arm, and one more on his face; he would have to make up something to tell his dad about that one. It’s not so bad, he thought. At least she didn’t grab a frying pan.


His dad came home from work just as Troy descended the stairs. He had a bucket of chicken and a couple of other bags of food. Troy grabbed the bags and carried them into the kitchen. During dinner, Troy’s dad asked him how he got the shiner on his cheek. His mom sat up straight up and looked at him; tell him and die, that look said.

"I got hit in the face with a softball."

His mom relaxed after the lie passed from his lips. She sat back in her chair and honored Troy with a warm smile.

"You need to be more careful Champ," his dad said, then resumed eating, satisfied.

That night, in bed, Troy listened for hours as his mother’s yells, name calling, and sobbing drifted through the otherwise quiet house. His dad never fought back. Sometimes, Troy hated him for that.

The next morning was uneventful. Troy got out of bed and brushed his teeth, and then he threw on his clothes and ran downstairs. His mother wasn’t around, so he snatched up his book-bag and hurried out the front door. School was always a safer place then home. He decided that he would ask his friend Jake if he could spend the night. It was Friday after all, and he would just call his dad at work and ask him. He needed at least one day away from his mom.

Troy’s plans were interrupted when he heard his name over the intercom, instructing him to go to the office. His first horrible thought was that his mom had come to the school to get him, but he dismissed it; she couldn’t drive.

When Troy walked into the school administration office, the principal was waiting for him. He took Troy into his office and sat him down on a large, comfortable chair.

"You want to tell me what’s going on?" Mr. Brown asked. His face looked sad to Troy; sad and worried.

"Ummm…I dunno what…"

"The bruises Troy; tell me about the bruises."

"I…ummm…I just got his by a soft ball."

Mr. Brown’s expression changed from worry to anger, then back to worried again.

"Mr. Moore told me that he saw bruises on your back when you were dressing after P.E. Did you get those from a softball too?"

Troy’s chest felt like there was a jackhammer inside of it, trying to chisel its way out. He opened his mouth to speak some made up, on the fly story, but words failed him.

"Troy," Mr. Brown said. "I am here to help you. You have to tell me what happened son, so I can fix it."

Still unable to talk, Troy’s tears took his voice’s side and betrayed him. A dam broke behind his eyes and twin Rivers began to run down his face.

Troy’s mom and dad arrived at the school within the hour. His mom stood on one side of him and his dad stood on the other.

"Abused?" His dad said. "That’s ridiculous! The boy’s just clumsy!"

Mr. Brown jumped up from his chair. He looked as if he was about to tell Troy’s dad off, but then he looked at Troy and calmed down a bit.

"Troy; can you wait outside for a few minutes?"

Troy didn’t have to be told twice. He walked out the office and took a seat on one of the wooden benches just outside the door.

When Troy was gone from the office, Mr. Brown told his father to have a seat.

"Your son says that he’s abused Mr. Creech. If you’re not going to take this seriously, then I’ll have to. Normally, we would call the police in these cases, but I wanted to talk to you first."

"Wait a minute," he said, "you’re not suggesting that I…"

"Hold on…Mr. Creech…hold on." He didn’t say that you’ve been abusing him."

Mr. Creech looked puzzled.

"Then who?" he asked. "Kids at school? If so, I’m going to come down here and…"

"He said that his mother is beating him."

Troy’s father froze, looking at the principal in unbelief.

"What?"

Just then the office door opened slightly and then closed again. Both men looked toward the door, but dismissed the sound when they didn’t see anyone there. Then, they looked back at each other.

"Mr. Brown, my wife killed herself… just after Troy was born…the school knows that."

"I know, Mr. Creech, but there is obviously something going on with your son."

Daniel Creech turned back toward the office window and looked at his son, his mouth hung open.

Outside the office door, Michelle Creech leaned over and whispered in her son’s ear.

"I’ll never leave you again," she said. "Mommy loves you."

His bladder betrayed him…

THE END

©2012, Ray Duchene

Previously published in Schlock! Webzine - http://www.schlock.co.uk/

New YA Horror Novella Free on Amazon until July 15th

A Collaborative effort between R.M. DuChene and his daughter, Dasia Marques; Appendix Z takes the sub genre of Zombie Apocalypse to a whole new place. If you think you’ve read all of the possible scenarios, Appendix Z is the novella for you. It’s a short, fun read that will leave you wanting more. In this first installment of a continuing series, Appendix Z begins with a young basic training Soldier and follows his experiences through the beginning stages of humanity’s downfall. The content has been deliberately kept to young adult standards.   Download now for Amazon Kindle at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00DV60B6IShow more Show less

Parental Guidance, by R.M. Duchene

Emptiness...that's what I felt. Not sometimes, all of the time. The inside of my body was a vacuum within a void, which was placed inside a mason jar, and then vacuum sealed, just to be sure. It wasn't always like that. I could remember happier times. Times when my parents loved me...times when they actually wanted me…but that was long ago.
 From the moment they died, they tormented me. Hardly a night would pass without them screeching inside my head or throwing objects across my bedroom. No matter what foster home I was in at the time, the torment never stopped. They are trapped in this world with me...forever damned to scratch at the walls of existence, searching for a way out.
 The night before my new foster parents had come to get me, I woke up screaming, just as I’d done all the nights before. I'd been without a foster home for a few months by then; the longest time that I could recall. I was told to get dressed and then ushered, suitcase in hand to the benefactor's office. I don't know why they called Mr. Brown the benefactor; they just did.

The skinny, frail, old woman that I knew only as Sister Anne guided me into the office and then closed the door behind me. Mr. Brown was sitting behind his large desk, smiling at me as if I’d walked in naked. He told me to take a seat in the empty chair next to his desk then spoke to the other two people in the room as if I wasn't there.

Sam and Terry Poole had tried for years to adopt a baby, but for one reason or another, were unable. Mr. Brown made the introductions. All I could do is look down at my shoes while they ogled about me, as if they were taking inventory. I never looked directly at them while we were in the benefactor's office, I didn't see any reason to.

I'd been ogled over by so many prospective parents that I'd lost count, and every other couple who’d fostered me had brought me back eventually. I didn't see any reason to think that these two would be any different.
The ride to their ranch took a couple of hours. My last foster parents let me keep the game system that they'd bought me the Christmas before (most of the others didn't), so I sat in the back-seat the entire way, trying not to eavesdrop, but it wasn't easy. They'd occasionally ask me a direct question and I would pretend that I was following along the whole time. I must've sucked at it though, because the last hour or so of the ride, they didn't talk to me again.

One of the biggest things that I learned about the Pooles' while I was trying to ignore them was that even though they'd been together for over fifteen years, they were newlyweds. Washington State had made it legal for same sex couples to marry the year before, so Sam and Terry rushed over to the courthouse before the powers that be could change their minds. They said their vows and began their new lives together as ummm…husbands. I knew a lot of grown-ups had a problem with same sex couples getting married, but I didn't. Especially after I had met the Pooles', I'd been in the custody of many so called traditional couples, and they all turned out to be rotten parents. To tell the truth, I kind of felt hopeful here...if only a little.

Their ranch was huge...and I don't mean five bedroom huge...it was a monster. Painted a weird, almost bluish color on the outside and trimmed with an odd shade of green, the only thing that looked better to my eyes was the inside. Terry spent his working hours searching online for antique furniture and fixtures. He'd buy them for almost nothing, fix them up, and then sell them on his website for tons of money. The house was decorated with couches and such that he just couldn't let go of -- and there was a lot.

Sam came from what I'd heard was referred to as "old money." His father owned some newspaper company and left it all to him when he died. This was even after Sam had told his father about his relationship with Terry. Grandpa John was gone long before I came into the picture, but I would've liked to have met him. He seemed like a really good guy.

My new foster parents led me up a spiral staircase to the second floor of the three story monster and showed me where my room was. I ran to my bed when I saw it. It was perfectly outfitted in Sci-fi blankets and I threw my suitcase on top of it. My mouth hung down in awe as I looked around the room and saw the entertainment center, complete with game systems and a bookshelf, loaded with all of the current young adult stuff.
"Do you like it?" Terry asked. He was standing right behind me, both of his hands on my shoulders.

"Boy, do I!" I shouted. "Can I stay?"

He turned me around and bent down to my level, still keeping his hands on my shoulders.

"Jake," he said; "you can stay here as long as you want."

*

The first night in my new home, my parents came to visit me; of course. Somewhere inside, I hoped that they would give me at least one night, just one, without them. I woke up screaming as they pressed my body down onto the bed and began to shake me violently. They screamed silent words at me, screwing their faces up in rage at my very existence. Frustrated when I couldn't hear them or answer them, they disappeared from above me, reappeared next to the book case and pushed it over…

When Sam and Terry came rushing in seconds later, my parents were gone.

They did what they could to console me. They comforted me as much as they could, but I could tell that they were new to the parenting thing. In the end, they pulled me into their large, king-sized bed and held me until they fell back asleep. It took a while for me to join them in dreamland. I lay between them for what felt like hours, jerking at every noise, sizing up every shadow. My parents didn't attack me again that night, but I knew that they were still there...watching me.
 The next morning turned out just as every first morning with new foster parents did, with the talk. Sam asked me how long I'd been having night terrors. I dreaded this talk; despised it. After foster parents found out about my visits, they never really looked at me the same.

It became the beginning of the end in most cases. I told them that I'd had night terrors my whole life and they didn't need to come running when they heard me screaming in my sleep. When I finished talking, I settled back in my chair and waited for it...that look. It didn't come. Terry only ruffled my hair and said that they would have to get used to it -- and that was it.
The second night at the ranch, Terry was the only one who came into my room after my parents ripped the game system out from its usual spot and threw it at me while I was sleeping. I let out a scream and sat up in bed. Both my real parents were floating above me, looking down and shaking their fingers. I knew that they were telling me not to do something; but what, I couldn't tell. They vanished in mid-float and I just managed to get the system back into the entertainment center and jump back into bed before Terry entered. I quickly rolled over and faced the wall, pretending to be asleep.

 I heard the door open, saw the shadow of Terry's head project on the wall above me, and then the door closed again, leaving me to the darkness. The next morning, I was relieved when Terry acted like nothing had happened. I was relieved and hopeful... for the first time that I could remember...I was hopeful.

*
Weeks went by, and it was more of the same. Sometimes Terry would come in when I’d scream in the night, and other times Sam would. They never complained about having to wake up...not once. Usually, by a few weeks in, other foster parents would be at their wits end. They would begin to get snippy with me, telling me that it was my fault, and then start asking me if I could give it a rest for just one night. When it got to that point, I'd begin to pack my bags, making sure to leave everything that they'd given me for the next lucky kid...whoever that might be.

My parents would make their nightly visits to me, terrorize me for a few minutes then go on their way. After three whole weeks in the same place, though, they either began to back off a little, or I was becoming more accustomed to them. The night terrors stopped feeling so terrible. A few times, they jerked me awake and I told them to go away. If a picture could be taken of vengeful spirits, I would've loved to have had a camera at that moment, capturing their wide-mouth, gawking expressions as I rolled over and turned my back on them like they were never there.  

With the fading night terrors, my parents decided to play a different game of practical jokes. They hid my left shoe and I spent hours searching for it, only to give up and find it that night hidden under my pillow. I'd found my toothbrush in the toilet, and small, dead mice under my bed.
I refused to let them get to me. They wouldn't ruin my new family like they'd ruined others, and every other one I'd had since. Seeing that they couldn’t get to me anymore, they turned on my foster parents instead.

I couldn't prove it, but I was pretty sure it was my parents who slammed the front door on Terry's hand, breaking three of his fingers. I was also sure that it was them who kept messing with the thermostat, cranking the heat all the way up until someone finally went to check on it. Sam asked me a couple of times if I'd been playing with it. I told him no, but got that look... that dreadful look: the one that said he didn't believe me.

One night, my parents made an all-out-attack on Sam and Terry just as they were getting ready for bed. I ran to their bedroom when I heard them screaming. Sam was on top of the bed, which had been lifted to the ceiling. My father stood under it and slammed it up, over and over; making Sam hit his head. I called for Terry and heard him scream. I stepped further into the room and saw him, pinned up against the wall; his feet a full foot off of the floor. I was grateful that he couldn't see my mother, holding him up and licking his face with her unnaturally long tongue.

"Stop it!" I screamed at them.

They didn't listen. My mother began to pull Terry away from the wall and slam his body back into it. On the third strike, a blood-spot appeared where his head bounced off. He went unconscious, so she dropped him to the floor and joined my father under the bed. Together my parents pushed the bed upward to the ceiling. I heard Sam screaming and struggling as his body sank deeper into the mattress.

"What do you want from me?" I screamed out. In all the years that they'd been haunting me, I'd never thought to ask them that.

They vanished from under the bed, sending it falling to the floor. When the bed landed, Sam's limp body bounced off of it and slithered off to the side. Both of my parents appeared before me. My mother mouthed the first thing that I'd ever been able to understand; she said,"What?"

I leaned back against the wall and began to cry.

"What do you want from me?" I asked again.
I felt her hand under my chin. She pulled my head up until our eyes met. In those dark hollow eyes, lightning began to flash. I felt myself being sucked into those storm-filled sockets. There was a flash...little hands opening a kitchen drawer and pulling out a knife almost too big for them to hold.  Yet another flash...the light from the hallway falling upon my parent's sleeping forms. Another flash...both of my parents leaning off the sides of their bed, their throats cut; eyes staring into some unseen abyss. Another flash...I was standing in front of Sam and Terry's dresser, staring at the vanity. Across the center of the mirror, written in blood, were the words, Let us go! I lifted my hand to touch the writing and found that a large knife, not unlike the one that I'd used to kill my parents, had been placed in it. I turned from the mirror and approached Sam and Terry, one at a time. It was simple...a couple of cuts and it was all over.

When I was done, my parents didn't reappear again. They took their first opportunity to leave the world without looking back. I was happy to see them go. I left my foster parent's room and returned to my own, changed into my pajamas, washed my face, crawled back into bed, and fell asleep.

The alarm woke me. It was the first day at my new school and I didn't want to be late. I threw on my clothes and ventured out of my room. As I passed by Sam and Terry's room, I noticed that their door was slightly open, so I closed it. I didn't want to disturb them. In the kitchen downstairs, I poured a bowl of cereal and was still in the process of eating it when the bus pulled up outside. I jumped from the dining room chair and rushed out the front door, blowing a kiss to a picture of my foster parents as I left.

"Hey!" someone called out from behind me as I ran to the end of the drive. I turned around and saw Terry, standing on the front porch in his bathrobe, holding out a paper bag. I ran back to him and took the lunch.

"Sorry," I said. I couldn't look him in the eye.

"Hey...hey," he said. "You don't ever have to be sorry again." He leaned over and gave me a tight hug, then a quick kiss on the cheek. "Hurry," he said, "before you miss your bus."

I grabbed him and gave him an even tighter squeeze, before running off. As the bus pulled away, the front room’s curtains pulled back and the faces of Sam and Terry appeared. They each blew me a kiss goodbye...I returned it.

A Creature Scorned, by T.J. King

The night was calm. The sky speckled with stars as Tara slipped out of her car.  It was a routine night of work, much like every other. Show up, log in, and try to stay awake until Alex relieved her at seven a.m. or seven fifteen in Alex time. Tara assumed that he did it to piss her off. He still resented that she got the supervisor position when his buddy got fired. That’s his problem, she thought. She wiped her access card, punched in her code, and opened the door to boredom.
As usual, Alex was chomping at the bit to leave when she walked in. The lazy prick left early every night and never failed to leave behind a mess. The desk was always littered with candy wrappers and the leftovers from his lunch. True to form, he brushed past her as soon as she stepped into the camera room. He mumbled something about ‘glitches’ and ‘stupid false alarms’. The high tech lab had a myriad of cameras and motion detectors set to swing into action at precisely 1800hrs every night when the last of the staff left.  What exactly they did there, Tara didn’t know. They paid her well enough to not really care. Nothing ever happened on the twelve hour shifts anyway. 
Tara settled in to read Alex’s vague reports and noticed the printouts pointing to repeated alarms.  Beside each, Alex had noted “all clear”.  Yeah, she thought. Like the lazy bastard really checked them out. She gave the cameras a once over and just as she was about to document nothing to report, the alarm for level 2—section 1 sounded.  Since it was a motion sensor, Tara quickly checked the camera and saw nothing. She grabbed her gear, deciding that a visual inspection was in order.  Before she got out of her chair, the alarm for level two, section two went off.  That time, she saw the snowy, white noise appear on the screen. 
“Wow! That’s not right!”  She said. 
After notating both alarms, she hurried to the lower level. Cautiously, she approached section one’s antechamber and listened at the door.  They were designed with peepholes but they only worked from within the antechambers. Hearing nothing, Tara swiped her card, punched in the code and slowly opened the door.  There was nothing there.  The same thing greeted her in section two.  Sighing, she returned to the camera room. 
Over the next six hours, everything was quiet.  Then, the silence was again broken. Both alarms were set off at once.
“Aw, for fuck sake, why now? Why can’t you wait until Numb Nuts gets here at seven?”
Again, she trudged down to the lower level, expecting nothing, and grumbling, “Oh sure, state of the art security… my ass.”
Without bothering to listen at the door first, she opened the chamber and hurried in. The door slammed shut behind her and she was assaulted with the worst smell she had ever experienced.  It was like a combination of rotten eggs, corn chips, and two month old gym bag. She had to will her stomach not share her partially digested lunch with the floor.
Strangely, the alarm was no longer blaring, it cut off with her access to the fresh air of the stairwell.  Deciding she didn’t need to check section 2, Tara turned to open the door and escape the rancid odour.
“Screw this,” she said. “He can check this out at seven!”
It was at that moment that she heard the noise; a scraping followed by a rustling. Pausing, she looked over her left shoulder to try and pinpoint the direction it was coming from. She stood frozen in place, listening, but the noise didn’t return. She place her hand back on the door knob and turned it, but before she could push the door open a gravelly voice that sounded like one of her mother’s two packs a day smoker bingo buddies croaked out “Hey pretty girl, come here.”
“What the fuck!” Tara yelled out as she swung around, hands fumbling for her pepper spray.
“Yes, I’m talking to you. Come here. I need help.”
Every fibre of Tara’s being told her to run, but her morals stopped her; someone needed help. She turned back to the second antechamber and tried to look through the peephole, then remembered that it only worked from the inside. Fighting to ignore the smell, Tara asked, “Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?”
“I need help,” the voice rasped. “I need to get out of here now!”
“Tell me what happened, “Tara said “Are there leaks in there? What’s that smell?’
“Help me” it wailed. “Please help me…”
“I'll be right back” Tara said “I’m going to go call for help...”
“No!” It screamed. “Help me!”
Tara knew that her phone was useless in the lower levels and that she’d have to get through the first antechamber to push the emergency button…unless she went into chamber two.
“Reach up on the wall to the right of the door and hit the emerg...”
“I can’t reach....” it moaned
Heart pounding and sweat running down her neck, Tara made the decision to go into the second chamber. She took a deep breath as she readied herself, which only let her taste how horrendous the stench was. She swiped her card, punched in the code and slowly pulled the door open.
She managed to get the door a quarter of the way open before it was blown out of her hand. She threw herself against the wall and dropped to a crouch as the heavy, metal door slammed into the opposite wall, nearly crashing through it. A large, flaming projectile flew through the air, passing exactly where her head would’ve been had she not crouched. Her eyes followed its path as it sored across the room, slammed into the outer wall, and slumped down to the floor, seeming to unravel.
An inhuman entity rested across the room from her. The smell that followed it inside the room could only be described as a product from Lucifer himself after a hard night of consuming substandard barrel wash and pickled eggs. It looked at Tara, lime green and black mucous splattered the floor from its flattened, bulbous nose. It sneezed and shot a mucous wad of phlegm far enough to grace Tara’s pant legs with an unwanted memento.
Its right eye looked out at her from under a jagged and scarred lid.  The white pupil glinted in the fluorescent lighting. Below its snotty, pockmarked nose was a mouth boasting the sharpest, most jagged and crooked teeth imaginable. Drool strings hung from both sides of its monstrosity of a mouth.  It was naked except for the thick, black, coarse hair that separated the blisters that threatened to burst forth their white and bloody pus at any moment.
“Ahhhh, thank you child” it hissed, stroking its chin with dagger like claws as it pondered. “How shall I repay you? The last one tapped on the window and made fun of me, then walked away, leaving me to suffer. Not a very nice guy, that one… not at all.”
Tara felt rage well up inside her.  Alex had known? She knew that he resented her, but this? It was beyond what she could believe. He couldn’t have known…could he?
“They won’t be doing those things to me again. The lights...they hurt....the needles...oh how they burn! They will all pay!”
Tara thought fast.
"Wait,” She said. “You want out of here, right?  And… and you don’t know how to thank me, right?”
The creature grimaced.
 “Yes, that’s right. I’m still deciding how to repay you.” It stepped closer to Tara, who took a step back and raised her palms out in front of her.
“You… um… still need me to get out that door.”
The creature looked at her suspiciously, glanced at the main entrance to the room, and then looked back at Tara, squinting.
“Yes,” it said, taking another step toward Tara. “I’ll make you a deal. If you open the door for me, I’ll just kill you. I won’t eat you. How’s that sound?”
It took another step toward her, licking its lips. A new long, thread of drool was forming at the thought of eating her flesh.
Tara continued to back away from the creature. She knew that whatever she did, it would have to be soon.
“I need to put my code in with my card to let you out,” she said.
She reached down toward her key card and the creature warned, “No tricks girl, or ill eat you alive.”
“No… no, I’m just getting my card” Tara lied
“Come closer,” the creature said. “The light hurts. I can’t see you properly”
Tara saw her chance...she flipped on her mag-light and directed its powerful beam directly into the beasts eye. It howled like it was mortally wounded and threw itself onto the floor, rolling from side to side as if it was on fire. Tara leapt over it, swiped her card and punched in her code. As soon as the panel flashed green, she ripped the door open and ran out, taking the light off the beast. She slammed the door just as the creature hit it with all of its might.
“You Bitch!” The creature shouted as it slammed into the door over and over. “You tricked me!
Tara ignored the creature’s tantrum and made her way back up the stairs. She ran into the security office and picked dialed 9...1… and then hung up the receiver.
***
Alex arrived to work precisely 15 minutes after his shift was scheduled to begin. Without looking at him, Tara pulled on her coat, collected her purse and headed for the door.
“Wait,” he said. “It shows here on your report that there were multiple alarms last night…the last one was only twenty minutes ago. Did you go down to check that one?”
Tara lowered her eyes to the floor.
“Come’ on, Alex,” she said. You know the deal. You do what I tell you to, not the other way around.”
He tensed up in his chair as if he was about to say something snide, but relaxed almost immediately.
“Roger that, boss,” he said, offering her a mock salute. “I’ll take care of it.”
Tara looked at her watch and saw that it was twenty after the hour. A ten minute head start should be good enough, she thought. She walked out the door, but turned back around and poked her head inside again.
“Don’t make an extra trip out of it,” she said. “Check it out during your next patrol.”
He saluted her again without bothering to turn around. Tara closed the door and made her way to her car. When she sat down behind the wheel, she was smiling.

Scars by James Smith

The alarm blared endlessly. Mike Kelly tried to hit the snooze button, but wasn’t able to maneuver his arm to the right angle.

"Let me get it honey", His wife, Gayle said."You have a big day ahead of you."
He sat up in bed, rubbing his left arm; phantom nerves twitching in the area that was once his hand; only a scar remaining as a reminder. In the morning rush, filled with coffee and prepackaged muffins, he stared at the pressed uniform Jacket hanging in the doorway. His many awards, bright and new, covered the area just below the right lapel.

"Gayle; can you help me with the jacket?"

His wife walked over and helped the bruiser of a man perform a simple task that he so often took for granted in the past.

"Make sure you take your medicine before we leave," Gayle reminded him in her motherly voice; "you know how your headaches get worse in the sunlight".

Surely he would need them. Months after his release from the care of the veteran’s hospital, the sleeplessness, blurred vision, and headaches were prominent in his everyday life. That day though, was different; somehow, he found the strength to feel positive. Wearing the uniform again felt good. It gave him purpose. He turned and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Tears filled his eyes. For a moment, all was right in his world.

As the couple drove down the highway, Mike imagined once again he was a Team Leader in the passenger seat, similar to his role within the unit.From his vantage point, he could see a white Toyota truck attemptingto merge with the traffic from the right of the roadway. The truck cut in front of his car and he jumped in his seat, heart racing in his chest. Gayle placed a soothing hand on his arm.

"It’s okay Hun. It’s going to be okay."

As they passed a Middle Eastern eatery, the smell dragged him backward in time. He felt the terror fill his bones and the chill of exhilaration enter his blood-stream as he was back, once again in a different land. No longer was he a passenger on a drive through suburbia. He was locked in a moment of time when the road was different, the faces and sounds familiar, comforting in a small sense from the pattern of deployment after deployment, etched into the very fabric of his being.

Suddenly, he was reliving that last day in his mind. He was leading the unit convoy out on mission, same as the hundreds of trips he’d taken out beyond the wastelands of the foreign country, war torn streets, dirty, hot, humid, bustling with activity. In a flash, the impact, the fire, the smell, the loud screams of pain, the kind of noise that you knew might have been the last sound a person makes before death, smoke filling his vision as a Vehicle Born Explosive impacted the front of the Tactical Vehicle, rendering the large mass of metal and electronics useless.

The ringing in his ears, the inability to move or assess the situation, the burning sensation he felt even as the extinguisher tried to do its job of putting out the flame within the cab of the vehicle, the helplessness of trying to move his arms to release the seat belt and realizing he could not move them; blackness filled his eyes as he faded out of consciousness accepting his fate.
Suddenly, the door of the vehicle pried open. An arm reached in and pulled him out; the familiar face looking at him with purpose and conviction as the man dragged him to safety. There was the sound of a rifle shot, then nothingness.

"Honey; you ok" Gayle asked. "It’s only a couple of more minutes. Do you want to stop and get a coffee at Starbucks?"

"No; I’m good. I don’t like traffic in the morning. Besides, you know how the commander feels about showing up late. I want to be early for this."

Mike was on top of his game as the leader of a detail that had been assigned to escort his Commanding Officer on many tactical operations. The call sign of the commander, Warrior 6 described a strong man, who feared no one. Warrior 6 recognized Mike’s potential immediately. He pushed for him to be promoted and mentored him. He stood by his troops and always seemed to make the right decisions; he was a Soldier’s kind of leader. Warrior 6 saw something special in Mike, a leader needing to be cut lose to inspire others, only needing to have the restraints of a complex military structure to be lifted.

Mike was sent to the unit by another commander who felt that he needed a new outlook. After three tours of duty, Mike’s tolerance for the typical hierarchy of military bullshit had waned and he was labeled as a field guy, not a rising star. Warrior 6 thought differently, took him in, and put him in charge of the toughest platoon. Warrior 6 had always said to Kelly,"disagreement is not disloyalty." He expected his combat leaders to argue, to voice their opinions and cut through the crap; he only cared about taking care of soldiers.

There were many times out on patrol, while searching for weapons caches and clearing routes, that Warrior 6 would get too close to the fight. Mike would have to step in and remind him, "Sir, I need you alive! Let us do the job," but Mike knew that was just the way the Commander was; leading from the front, always. Mike acted upset that his commander was so involved in the missions, but in truth, he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

There were two times that Mike had ensured that insurgent bullets, meant for Warrior 6, didn’t hit their intended target.

"I got your back sir," he’d say, a big grin on his face. He’d saved Warrior 6’s life without hesitation, knowing that the Commander would do the same for him, when, and if Mike was in a bind.

When the car stopped, Gayle said, "Its time honey." Mike could see the others; feel the weight of their stares as they watched Gayle help him into his wheel chair. In the parade area ahead he could see the Platoon and the First Sergeant gathered. As he and

Gayle approached the formation, he heard the First Sergeant say, "Hurry up Sergeant! The Commander’s been waiting!"

Sergeant First Class Mike Kelly approached his commander and rendered a salute. Tears filled his eyes and streamed down his face

"What are your orders, sir?"

Sergeant Kelly closed his eyes and listened for a response, any response, but his commander didn’t answer him. A Sniper’s bullet had silenced his voice forever

The Captive

From the shadowy confines of a claustrophobia inducing cell, I could hear her scratching, attempting to rip through the wall that divided us. She’d been at it for weeks, sometimes dragging her fingernails feebly against the cold stone, sometimes losing patience and striking it with her fists. As always, the last sounds she made were the ones produced by her mouth as she wailed in frustration. The thought of sweet resignation hadn’t entered her mind yet.I pressed my ear against the wall and strained to hear her. This is the best part, I thought, when I picked up the soft whimpers that always came in the aftermath of one of her tantrums. It won’t do her any good, I thought; all of those tears. They all cried; they all pleaded…and in the end, they all succumbed, one way or another.The alarm from my watch sounded its jingling chime, eliciting more screaming and banging from the captive. I turned off the alarm and left the adjacent cell. As I walked out, I could hear the sounds of her strikes moving with me, until they began to reverberate off of the cell door. She grasped the metal bars of the cell window and stared at me while I took my time opening a single can of tuna, dumped it into a small bowl, and then threw a few crackers on top. I put the bowl on a plastic tray, along with a water bottle and carried it to the cell door. She licked her lips as I opened the slot under the window and slid the tray forward. The captive snatched the tray from my hands and shoved her face into the bowl. It was a disgusting sight, watching her eat like that, but at least she was quiet.The food that I give them is never enough to keep the hunger monster at bay; it’s only enough for them to survive. One can of tuna a day, three crackers, and two bottles of water…that’s all they get from me. In exchange, I expect them to behave themselves. They may cry and scream and beg…that doesn’t bother me at all. It’s the ones that lash out and bite the hand that feeds them; hurt the only person who is trying to help them, that have their suffering ended early. Most of my captives spend about a month in their cells before I free them from their suffering, but I always find another one to take their place quickly enough. I waited until the captive finished her food and gulped down the bottled water, then I instructed her to push the tray back through the slot, with all of the trash on it…I have to be specific about that part. I scraped the trash into a waste basket and returned the tray to the table where rows of tuna cans and boxes of crackers were neatly stacked. She didn’t move away from the cell window after I took her tray, but stood there, staring at the food and licking her lips.“More…,” she said. It came out raspy and weak, just like she was.I raised my eyebrows at her.“More?” I asked.She didn’t respond, just continued to lick her lips and stare at the food. I walked to the table, retrieved a single cracker, and held it out to her. “More?” I asked again.“Please…” she whined.I smiled at her and shoved the cracker into my mouth. She screamed, pulled on the bars, and banged against the door as I chewed the cracker and wondered how she could want such a nasty, dry thing that much. I had to use a whole bottle of water to wash it down! She left the window in a spray of tears and snot and I heard her flop down on her cot… crying into her pillow I imagined. I returned to my usual place at my desk and picked up my notebook. I’d been keeping a diary containing my adventures with my captives, documenting the funny things that they’ve said and done - one even offered me money for sex. That specific captive wasn’t the best behaved one I’d had, but she wasn’t the worst either… She was about average.A few hours later, I was deep in the throes of writing when my alarm sounded again. The captive heard it too and appeared, almost magically at the window of her cell. I set down the notebook, grabbed a bottle of water from the table and took it to the door. The Captive stepped back a pace when I opened the slot and slid the plastic bottom of the bottle toward her. She reached for the water, overshot it, and clutched my wrist instead. Before I could react, both of her hands were wrapped around my wrist and pulling my arm through the slot. I struggled to get myself free, to break her grip, but when the pit of my arm slammed against the edge of the slot, I knew she had me.I stopped struggling almost immediately, afraid that she’d break my arm if I didn’t. Then, I peered in through the cell window and saw that she’d propped her left foot against the cell door and was pulling my arm toward her with all of her weight. The look on her face scared me a little; between the crazy eyes and the tongue that absent-mindedly peeped out from the side of her mouth, I knew that she wasn’t messing around. “You don’t want to do this…”“Open the door or I’ll rip it off!”To validate her threat, she pulled my extended arm to the right. My shoulder wrenched and felt as if it was going to tear away from my body.        “Okay…okay…okay!” I shouted.She relaxed a bit, just enough so I could concentrate on using my free hand to unlock the dead bolt. I put my fingers around the edges of the lock and peered back in at her.“You know what this means; right?”“Yes! It means that you’re done with me. I don’t care!”I unlatched the door and pulled it open. The captive kept hold of my arm and swung me around until I was caught between the large metal door and the outer wall of the cell. She didn’t release my arm right away though and I began to worry a little that she’d decided to break it after all. “I’m not going back in there,” she said, tweaking my arm a little to make her point.“No,” I said. “We’re done.”She released my arm and stepped back from the door. I simultaneously pushed the door away from me and pulled my sore, tender arm out of the food slot. After my arm was completely freed, I took a small step toward her. She backed up frantically and began to shake and shudder a little, so I stopped and pointed to the scale that sat on the floor next to the food table. “Aren’t you curious?”She dropped her gaze to the scale and then moved slowly towards it. When she stepped on it, the needle spun around and landed half-way between 115 and 116 pounds. When she saw her weight, she let out a flood of tears and pressed her forehead against the wall.“Wow!” I shouted.“You’ve lost another twenty pounds just since last week!”“I should’ve stayed another week,” she said, “I would’ve dropped below a hundred…I know I would’ve.”She stepped down from the scale and began shuffling toward the staircase. I grabbed her arm lightly as she passed and guided her to the food table. “You need to eat before you leave. I don’t want to be liable for you falling and breaking your neck on the way out or something.”“Thanks,” she said,“But I’ll be fine.”Before leaving the basement, she paused and looked back at me.“I have a friend…”“Send her over,” I said.“If she comes in the next two days, I’ll give her half off.” 

Scavenger: A Tale From Death Throes (GRAPHIC CONTENT)

 The dream again… He was standing in front of the street merchant.

"Better get your ass in gear!" Specialist Martinez yelled through the propped open door of the HMMV. "This ain't Walmart dude!"

They’d been on patrol when Sergeant Mike Lipscomb saw a stand on the side of the road, peddling movies. He'd been in Khost Province for six months and was running out of stuff to watch on his laptop. It was a perfect opportunity to pick up some cheap DVD's. Most of the movies were still in the theaters and he'd really wanted to see some of them. He finally managed to pick about six of them, talking the vender down to three for five dollars instead of two. He maneuvered around his holster, dug inside his pocket, pulled out a ten dollar bill and handed it to the vender. The vender smiled, stuffed the DVDs into a worn out plastic bag and handed it to the Soldier. Mike thanked the vender in English and turned back toward the vehicle just as Specialist Martinez began to yell at him again.

"Come ‘on dude! Hurry up!"

"I'm coming dammit!" Mike yelled back… and the vehicle exploded.

Within the prison of his nightmare, the vehicle exploded...then exploded...then exploded again. There was a flash of bright, white light, and then the medics were pulling the charred remains of Specialist Martinez from the smoldering debris.

Another flash…

He guided Rebecca into room 117, pushed her onto the bed, made love to her.

Another flash…

Mike was in the shower, the curtain pulled to the side, and a hand thrust inward. Mike looked down at the handle of the hunting knife, buried to the hilt, in his belly. He tried to get to her, crawling on the bathroom floor, but it seemed that the further he crawled, the further away the door became. Exhausted, Mike rolled onto his back. Above him, peering down at him was the face that would be forever burned into his mind. The stranger smiled, gave a little wink, and then brought the heel of his boot down on Mike’s forehead.

Another flash…

He was lying in a pool of his own blood, feeling the life pour from him. He could hear her screaming for him to help her, to save her. In reality, she was sleeping when the monster cut her throat and never made a sound... But in Mike’s dreams, her screams could wake the dead... how he wished that were true.

He woke suddenly and sat up in the hospital bed, the sound of her screams still echoing in his head. His regular nurse was standing at the foot of his bed with a clipboard in her hand and a scowl on her face.

"Good morning, Mr. Lipscomb," she said, "You have physical therapy in half an hour. I suggest you get yourself ready."

Mike spent the better part of a month in the hospital recovering from his wounds. The first couple of weeks, his hospital room was filled to bursting with family members, friends, and police officers. They all wanted details. Did he see anything…did he hear anything…did he know who was doing such terrible things; for all of their questions, his answer was no.

The most persistent of the police who came to visit Mike in the hospital was the cop who found him, Officer Litherland. He thought that Mike knew more than he was telling and made no secret of it. The Scavenger Killer had been leaving a trail of dismembered corpses across three counties for months, Officer Litherland said.

"I never saw the guy," Mike said… and he stood by his story. The killer murdered the only person left in the world that Mike Lipscomb gave a shit about. There was no way in hell that he was going to leave it up to the cops to find justice. Another week, maybe two, Mike thought as the nurse left his room; then, the bastard is going to pay.

It didn’t take long for Mike to find the bastard. When he was finally released from the hospital, he began to hit all of the local roadhouses and dive bars in the area. From the shaggy, unkempt way the killer looked, Mike assumed that the man was local and not rich. It was a stretch for sure, but one that paid off.

Three days after he got out of the hospital, Mike found the Scavenger Killer sitting in The Watering Hole, a local bar that catered mostly to truck drivers and bikers. The Killer was sitting at the bar when Mike walked in. Mike saw his face, clearly reflected on the mirrored wall behind the bar. His first instinct was to approach the man, place the barrel of his 9mm pistol to the back of his head, and decorate the bar with his brains. He kept his cool though. He knew that in order to escape the situation with his own freedom

intact, he'd have to play it safe, wait until the asshole was alone somewhere and then pop him. When the Killer paid his tab and left the bar, Mike counted to fifty in his mind, and then followed him out.

The man turned off the highway a few miles south of town on a gravel road. Mike would've followed him up to his house and killed him on the spot if the damn cop wasn't following again. He continued to drive on; just a normal guy, out for a nice drive in the country. At least he knew where the bastard lived. It was just a matter of time.

***

This cop thinks I’m stupid

...

The cop followed him to the bar again. Mike ordered his third shot and stared at the back of the killer's head for a few seconds before pounding it down. Tonight will be the night, he thought but I'm going to have to shake bacon-boy somehow.

On the other side of the bar, the sound of multiple gasps caught his attention. The majority of the patrons were standing in front of a mounted television, watching a breaking news story about The Scavenger’s latest victims.

"The man was stabbed multiple times," the anchorwoman said. "It’s been reported that Mr. Chesterfield was found in the garage with his throat cut, while his wife was reportedly bludgeoned to death. More details at eleven…"

They didn’t say what body parts were missing

, Mike thought as he stared at the back of the killer’s head. It didn’t escape his attention that during the news update, almost everyone in the bar rushed to the television…everyone, that is, except for himself, the bar tender, and of course, the bastard on the stool.

The killer, whose name was Anthony Teller paid his tab, used the bathroom, and left the bar. Mike waited a few minutes before following him out. He already knew where the man lived, so there was no need to risk being spotted following him. Besides, bacon boy had followed him to the bar and was probably still waiting outside to shadow him home.

Just as Mike thought, the cop was still in the parking lot. After the few drinks he’d slammed down, Mike couldn't contain his anger any longer. He decided to approach the cop and give him a piece of his mind. After all, it was America. Police can't just follow people whenever they felt like it.

The conversation was extremely short and extremely one sided. Before Mike could approach the window, he saw the wide gash in the cop's throat. He jumped back from the car, making sure not to touch anything. You poor bastard, he thought. You should’ve left this one to the real men.

After he got behind the wheel, Mike fished behind him, pulled the 9mm from the back of his pants, and sat it on the passenger seat. The cop's death was sad and tragic…collateral damage…just like the couple the night before. Mike had followed Anthony Teller to the Chesterfield’s home and watched from the shadows as the cold blooded son of a bitch knocked on the door and then punched the sweet looking old lady in the face. Every fiber of his being wanted to help her…screamed to, but Mike couldn’t move. He didn’t want to take the chance that something would go wrong. He popped open the glove box and pulled

out a small bottle of rum. After a couple of large gulps, he put the bottle back inside the box and slapped it shut. Collateral damage, he thought. Who am I trying to kid? I’m going to hell. He put on his seatbelt, started the car, and pushed the stick into first gear.

"I'm coming for you, you son of a bitch."

***

Mike pulled onto the gravel road and turned off his headlights. He eased the car along slowly, trying to avoid making too much noise. Just before he reached the clearing at the end, he turned off the ignition, picked up the 9mm from the passenger seat, and got out of the car. It was time.

The cabin was centered in the clearing. As he crept toward it, Mike tried to be mindful of twigs and other debris that could give him away. He stepped on a brittle stick and paused, heart racing, before moving slowly on again. He picked up his pace as he got closer to the cabin. His heart went into attack mode, his fight or flight response dialed to kill. By the time he reached the cabin door, he was nearly at a full run.

Mike leapt into the air and kicked the door just above the knob. It flung open and smashed against the wall of the cabin. The pistol was out in front of him, held in both hands, ready to fire. His initial intent was to bust in, gun blazing, and shoot anything that moved, but the sight of the three men, none of them the killer, sitting around a circular table with a large iron bowl in the center of it, made him pause. It wasn’t a long pause, just long enough for the wooden baseball bat to slam into the back of his head.

The blackness of unconsciousness lightened slowly; bringing forth a terrible, dull pressure that felt like it wanted to burst out of Mike Lipscomb’s skull. He opened his eyes. Through his fogged out, hazy vision, he saw four men sitting around a table, laughing and going over what looked like some kind of paperwork. He tried to move and found that his hands and feet were bound together. From his position on the time and traffic-worn couch, Mike had a clear view of Anthony Teller’s face. The man was chomping on a cigar and looking at a small notebook.

"So," Teller said; "who finished their list?"

"I got everything but the woman’s pinky finger," said the chubby, older man who was sitting to Teller’s right.

"Shit," the man to Teller’s left said. "I still needed a woman’s big toe."

"What about you Junior?" Teller asked.

"I still needed blue eyes," the kid who sat directly across from Teller replied. "This game is harder than I thought. "

Teller laughed and threw his list on the table. Then, he reached into the large bowl, lifted out a penis and began to flop it around, and in front of the other men’s faces. They recoiled in horror and Junior nearly fell out of his chair.

"Well, with this…," Teller said, "I got my list complete! Good game boys…now pay up."

The other men around the table began to groan and reach for their wallets.

At the sight of the penis in Teller’s hand, Mike Lipscomb nearly choked on his gag. He gazed down at his midsection and gawked in terror at the blood soaked stain on the front of his pants.

The men to Teller’s left and right handed him a hundred dollar bill and stuffed their wallets back into their pockets.

"You’re one lucky son of a bitch," the older man said as he sat back down in his chair.

"Shit," Teller said, "Luck had nothing to do with it. I played that son of a bitch."

He looked over at Mike.

"Ain’t that right, boy?" He said. "I played you like a geetar!"

Then, he turned back to his son.

"Come on Junior," he said, holding out his open palm, "be a good sport now."

Junior reached down, pulled up his pant leg, and slid a hunting knife from his boot. He held the knife up, and then brought it down on the table top, burying the point into the wooden surface.

"Not so fast, Dad," he said. "Uncle Tony…What color eyes did I say I needed?"

"Blue," the older man said.

"And what color eyes does our new friend here have?"

The old man looked over at Mike and smiled.

"Why… I do believe that they’re blue, Junior."

The young man, stood up, pulled the knife free from the table and turned toward Mike. When the boy’s shadow fell across him, Mike tried his best to fight, to struggle. When death finally came for him, he welcomed it with open arms.

THE END


Find the whole Death Throes Collection on Amazon Kindle : http://www.amazon.com/Death-Throes-ebook/dp/B00CJD4QXI/ref=la_B0085AH54Q_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1369763866&sr=1-1

 

Review of "This Little Piggy," by Craig McGray

 Anyone who's read a single story of mine knows that I lean more toward dark morality tales. For that reason, "This Little Piggy" was an awesome read for me. Seriously, from about half way through the story, my heart was pounding non-stop in my chest and I had to keep flipping the pages to get to the end so I could calm down.
The lack of an actual protagonist made this story much more effective than it would've been otherwise I think. Evil against evil is sometimes more frightening. There's also that added emotion of feeling guilty afterward because no matter whom you were hoping would come out of the story alive, you'd be wrong for feeling that way.
Thank you Craig McGray, for making me doubt my already questionable morals. I enjoyed this story more than I should have, in other words. The descriptions were HD quality. The mood begins as dark and then the darkness gets sucked into a black hole. You can by "This Little Piggy" at the link below :)


http://www.amazon.com/Little-Piggy-Short-Horror-ebook/dp/B00771MF1C/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1368505451&sr=1-2&keywords=this+little+piggy

Review of "Mine," by Regina Puckett 5 out of 5 Stars

I loved this short story! I say short story because it seemed to short to be considered a novella, but it sure did pack a punch.

The story starts out with the protagonist getting ready to go on a first date with a co-worker, but soon finds out that his idea of a romantic evening is stalking around in an abandoned insane asylum, with his group of ghost hunter buddies. The story progresses from there and every page, just keeps getting darker and darker, leading up to an ending that made me hold my breath to get through. I won't go too much into the fine details and spoil the story. You'll just have to check it out for yourself.

I highly recommend this book for anyone who loves short, effective, horror tales. It would be perfect for a plane ride or to read while chilling on the couch (Like me). My rating: 5 out of 5 stars.

You can find "Mine" here for the well worth it price of .99 cents.

http://www.amazon.com/Mine-ebook/dp/B...

A little excerpt from my WIP that I'm writing for my Daughter. It's a YA Horror novel titled Appendix Z. Let me know what you think

The beast that stood before me, its huge body blocking the window frame, didn’t look like the zombies that had surrounded the building up until that morning. The zombies were average, human size…The new thing, whatever it was, stood a good foot taller than the tallest person I’d ever seen. The black patches of skin that stood out as a trademark on the zombies were also present on the new creature, but the skin itself looked slicker, stronger, and redder. Like interwoven, thick cables, the creature’s muscles covered its body, with the exception of the middle of its chest, where a large, head-sized hole sank into a darkness so black, I thought it might pull me in. All of the previous person’s hair was gone, replaced by an extra helping of thick, red skin that seemed to twist back into a sort of horn behind its head. It stared at me, not with the hungry eyes of a wild thing, but the cold, calculating piercing stare of a snake. I took a step backward and it responded by spreading its wide, paper-thin wings and hissed at me through teeth that would have given Dracula a complex. It’s looked familiar to me, but not completely. I knew, somehow that it wasn’t exactly a vampire, but what someone, or something thought that a vampire should look like.