After an hour filled with idle chatter and the smoking of tobacco products, Malcolm’s guests were growing agitated, waiting for something, anything, to happen. They had all expected a sign of something miraculous, an ineffable mystical experience, the phenomenon of religious ecstasy, or an epiphany. At this point, they would have even settled for a buzz, but they felt nothing. They were just as empty as they were before coming to the Thorndike Mansion. Some were entertaining doubts about Malcolm’s immortality claims and began to feel they had been swindled out of their money.
“I think I speak for everyone in this room when I say we’ve waited long enough for a sign that a change in the status of our mortality has taken place,” Mortimer Cromwell announced. He was normally a man of very few words; however, his rising anger was propelling his comments. “It’s quite obvious to me that the Christ turd didn’t possess the powers that you claimed it did.”
The other guests agreed with him.
Cromwell then demanded that Malcolm return his money, and the others joined in, expressing their demands for a full refund.
“Everybody, please calm down,” Malcolm begged, dreading the thought of parting with all that money that was weighing down his pockets like bricks. “These things require time to take effect,” he said, hoping to stall for some time. “I think we should all wait and see what happens in twenty-four hours, or maybe give it three days—the time is took for Jesus’ resurrection.”
The raging anger burning in his guests’ eyes scared him, but not enough to hand over the money. Visions of being torn limb from limb invaded his mind’s eye. He contemplated how to make his escape.
Giselle retrieved Butler’s gun from the floor near her chair and pointed it at Malcolm, aiming for between his eyes. “My money back, please, or I swear you’ll be the first to have your immortality tested.”
Malcolm panicked at the sight of the gun, but he tried to remain cool and collected. “Giselle, dear, please put down the gun. Don’t do anything you’ll regret later.”
“I never regret killing men who steal my money,” she replied.
“Motoshi!” Malcolm yelled, the sound of fear in his voice increasing. “Come here at once!”
Moments later, the Japanese houseboy entered the parlor through the pocket door. “Yes, Mister Thorndike?”
“Motoshi, did you prepare the Christ turd exactly the way I showed you?”
The servant nodded his head.
“And you performed the ritual of immortality without leaving anything out?”
Motoshi again nodded.
“I don’t understand what could have gone wrong!” Malcolm’s face was growing paler by the second.
“Say your prayers, Malcolm!” Giselle ordered, her finger anxious to pull the trigger.
With their voices rising up like an angry mob, the others began to shout for Giselle to fill their host with lead. As far as they were all concerned, he had fallen from grace and punishment by death was in order.
Malcolm fell to his knees, tears glistening in his terror-filled eyes, and begged, “Please, don’t kill me. I don’t want to die. All I ask for is a little bit of time.”
“I’m afraid you’re time has run out,” Cromwell Mortimer observed.
The chant calling for Malcolm’s murder grew in its intensity, prompting him to cover his ears with his hands. It rang throughout the mansion and was loud enough to drown out the sounds of the storm outside.
A deafening thunderclap suddenly shook the mansion like an earthquake as a hole ripped open in the ceiling of the parlor, and from it, a swirling column of blinding white light beamed down, illuminating the entire room. Cracks, like crooked lightning bolts, zigzagged down the walls, sending mirrors and artwork and turds on display crashing to the floor. Above, the chandelier swayed back and forth like a gibbeted man in a gale, its prisms of crystal tinkling. Doors banged with violent force as if trying to break free from their frames. Windows rattled and sprung cracks across their panes. Objects took flight from their places atop shelves and glossy table surfaces, as if thrown by invisible hands, pelting Malcolm and his screaming guests.
It was then that the venerated turd, which had, eons ago, made its way out of the holy bowels of the Son of God, rose out of Motoshi’s pocket and floated across the room. Upon witnessing this, Malcolm realized that his manservant had double-crossed him, pretending to prepare the Christ turd in the prescribed manner, while intending to keep the holy relic for himself. Anger swam through his veins like piranhas. However, before he could do or say anything, the turd began to slowly rise up within the beam of white light.
“No!” Malcolm bellowed angrily, as he made a lunge for the ascending chunk of fecal matter. “That turd belongs to me, God damn it!”
A searing heat instantly engulfed his hands as he thrust them into the column of white light to grab his levitating prized turd before it could gain momentum on what he assumed was its heaven-bound journey. He cried out in agony as his flesh sizzled and peeled away from the bone. Unable to endure the blistering pain, he quickly withdrew his hands from the light, only to find two charred and smoldering stumps where his hands should have been.
Horror laced with adrenaline ripped at his gut. Choking on the greasy smoke escaping from his new stumps, Malcolm staggered on his heels like a drunkard after a nightlong drinking binge. He dropped to his knees, spasmed from shock, and then collapsed facedown on the floor. He prayed for God to deliver him unto the merciful hands of death; however, the god he prayed to was a cruel, bloodthirsty god, and had other plans for Malcolm and his guests.
All at once, they experienced a peculiar, warm tingling feeling racing through them, beginning at the tops of their heads and terminating at the tips of their big toes. They thought they could hear the trumpets of angels in between the claps of thunder. It aroused confusion, mixed with a strange elation, within their souls. They all knew something monumental was about to happen to them. They knew not what, but could feel it in their bones.
Motoshi watched, almost mesmerized, as the people in the room began to spin around like whirling dervishes. Faster and faster they spun until their legs could no longer support them, and, simultaneously, they plummeted to the floor, soaked from sweat, and lost in the intoxication of rapture.
But then something most horrible and quite unexpected occurred. Their skin began to take on a black, shiny appearance, and they could feel every one of their bones cracking and their internal organs painfully rearranging. Screams of unholy terror burst forth from their gaping mouths, which were now foaming with white froth like the mouths belonging to rabid beasts. Their bodies took on a round shape, formed a hard, protective cover, and began to shrink in size until they were no larger than two and a half inches. From their new bodies, six insect-like legs sprouted, followed by a pair of flying winds. From their heads a pair of horns emerged.
To their ultimate horror, they had physically transformed into dung beetles, and instinctively knew they were doomed to wander the earth, for all eternity, eating shit.
Motoshi, ever the efficient houseboy, swept the insects into a dustpan and deposited each one of them into the alabaster jar that had once belonged to Mary Magdalene. He sealed the top of the jar with the waxy wooden stopper and placed it on top of the antique Chippendale table, next to the pterodactyl dropping.
“Enjoy your immortality,” he said, cheerfully, before turning off the light and locking the pocket door behind him.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Aron Beauregard was born in Central Falls, Rhode Island. He’s been writing horror since the 6th grade when his parents discovered a short story titled “Zombie Child” wedged in the back pocket of his dirty acid-washed jeans. It was about a teenager who couldn’t score the girl of his dreams in life so he decided to kill her and impregnate her corpse… You can imagine where it goes from there. Needless to say, his parents were not thrilled by this tale, and rather than acknowledging his creative genius, suspected he might be a budd
ing serial killer.
Regardless of what he did in his life, horror always followed him. After pursuing careers (which ultimately failed) in music, filmmaking, and full-time drug use, he eventually circled back to his bloody bread and butter: writing highly disturbing and bizarre material that tends to explore the human potential for evil. After tooling around for decades, he’s finally started publishing his work (to the applause of a handful of deranged perverts).
He also contributes to the Evil Examined Podcast, where he explores the strangest and most horrifying events in the history of humanity with his lady and friends. He emits a Manson-esque charm through the pathetic platform, peddling his works of smut and violence to any goon willing to listen. When you enter his realm, be prepared to embrace the ugly and FEEL THE SPLATTER!
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George Alan Bradley was born in London and grew up in Paris and Hong Kong; but, at its heart, his work comes from the American Midwest, where he now resides in Ohio with his wife Lisa, son Everett, daughter Evelyn and several odd pets. After moving to America in his early twenties, a casual interest in scribbling fiction became a love for possessing innocent minds through the potency of prose.
These days, George enjoys writing horror, science fiction, suspense, dark fantasy, the occasional bedtime ghost story (don't tell mom), and occasionally dabbles in screenwriting. Nevertheless, whether it be dark castles or decaying rust belt towns, the sticky seats of a county fairground or outer space, the common theme is always to explore the relationship between ordinary people and demons...both real and imaginary.
George is working on his debut novel, Sowing Season, aimed for release in mid-2020, as well as continuing to publish short stories.
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Cardigan Broadmoor lives with two hellhounds in his very spooky third-floor apartment. During the day he works at a hole-in-the-wall bookstore in Providence, Rhode Island, and at night he reads and writes to pass the time. He has released several picture books, including The Bullywol Visitor and Dead Air.
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Scot Carpenter is a writer living in Arizona. His stories and flash fiction concern the darker side of humanity: crime, cruelty, perversion and unrepentant evil, and have appeared in the anthologies, The Sharpened Quill, Southwest Noir and Switchblade Magazine, among others.
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Myna Chang writes flash and short stories. Her work has been featured in Daily Science Fiction, Mad Scientist Journal, Twist in Time, and Dead Housekeeping, among others. Read more at MynaChang.com or find her on Twitter @MynaChang.
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Clay McLeod Chapman writes books, children's books, comic books, film and TV. You can find him at: www.claymcleodchapman.com
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Nick Dinicola saw Candyman way too young and couldn't sleep for days, thus beginning a lifelong obsession with horror. A Technical Writer by trade, when he's not trying to teach people how to use software, he's trying to scare the hell out of them.
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Jude M. Eriksen was born and raised in Western Canada, and is a writer whose interests skew toward the uncanny places that lie just beyond the realm of possibility. When he isn’t writing, Jude enjoys reading, hiking, photography, and fiddling with the unknown.
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Michael Martin Garrett is an author, poet, and recovering journalist. He has broken courthouse corruption scandals, worked as the communications director of a U.S. Senate campaign, and played in a handful of shitty punk bands. His small-town crime and horror fiction has been published by Flame Tree Press, Close To The Bone Publishing, and Dark Alley Press. He lives with his two cats in Central Pennsylvania, where he spends his free time trying to remember to take his antidepressants. Follow him on Twitter @MichaelMGarrett.
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Ken Goldman, former Philadelphia teacher of English and Film Studies, is an Active member of the Horror Writers Association. He has homes on the Main Line in Pennsylvania and at the Jersey shore. His stories have appeared in over 900 independent press publications in the U.S., Canada, the UK, and Australia with over thirty due for publication in 2019-2020. Since 1993 Ken’s tales have received seven honorable mentions in The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror. He has written six books: three anthologies of short stories, You Had Me at Arrgh!! (Sam's Dot Publishers), Donny Doesn’t Live Here Anymore (A/A Productions) and Star-Crossed (Vampires 2); and a novella, Desiree (Damnation Books in print and for Kindle, and for Kindle by eXcessica Publications.) His first novel, Of a Feather (Horrific Tales Publishing) was published in January 2014. His second novel, Sinkhole (Bloodshot Books) was published in August 2017.
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Gerri R. Gray is an American novelist, short story writer, and a lifelong aficionado of horror, dark humor, and all things bizarre. She blames her twisted sense of humor on a wayward adolescence influenced by the likes of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, Charles Addams, Frank Zappa, and John Waters.
Her debut novel, The Amnesia Girl, was published by HellBound Books in October of 2017, followed by Gray Skies of Dismal Dreams (a collection of dark poetry and prose), and The Graveyard Girls (an all-women anthology of horror.) Gerri has been writing since the 1970s, and her work has appeared in numerous anthologies and literary journals.
She lives in Upstate New York in an historic nineteenth-century house with her husband and a bevy of spirits. When she isn’t busy creating strange worlds filled with even stranger characters, she can often be found rummaging through antique shops, exploring haunted houses, or traipsing through old cemeteries with her camera. For more information, please visit her official website at: http://gerrigray.webs.com
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Christopher T. Hamel is an emerging writer whose work has appeared in Massacre Magazine and Morpheus Tales. He is an active advocate for mental health through organizations such as NAMI—known as the National Alliance on Mental Illness. He enjoys spending time with his friends and family, volunteering at the Habitat for Humanity, reading while walking, playing survival horror games, and seeing how much he can get away with being weird, funny and morbid—mostly all at the same time.
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Carlton Herzog is an Air Force Veteran. He is a graduate of both Rutgers College, magna cum laude and Rutgers Law School where he served as Articles Editor of the Rutgers Law Review. He has published both non-fiction—law review articles—and fiction—with six short stories coming out in 2019 under both the Horrified Press and HellBound Books imprints. He is currently employed with the U.S. Postal Service.
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B.T. Joy is a British horror writer whose short fiction has appeared within the printed pages, Internet presences and podcasts of markets such as Static Movement, Surreal Grotesque, James Ward Kirk Fiction, Human Echoes, Flashes In The Dark, SQ Magazine, Forgotten Tomb Press, Chilling Tales For Dark Nights, Horrified Press and Pseudopod: The Horror Podcast, among others. His debut collection of horror stories, Long Dead Before Dying, was released in 2015. He has also published two collections of poems Teaching Neruda (2015) and Body of Poetry (2016) and, in what seems a previous incarnation now, he once thought of himself as a wandering haijin in the mould of Matsuo Bashō and has written two collections of haiku: In The Arms of the Wind (2010) and The Reeds that Tilt the Sky (2011). He later found that, although he’d covered enough physical ground in his travels, he was far too tangled in mundane illusions to make a serious fist at a truly ecstatic three line poem.
In addition to his writing, B.T. has worked in his home country, the USA, Italy and China in various fields. He is an educator and has taught in the primary, secondary and university sectors. He is currently working on his PhD at Glasgow University, where he his engaged in an examination of the onto-epistemological impulses of William Faulkner. B.T. can be reached through his website (http://btj0005uk.wix.com/btjoypoet) where readers are invited to contact him directly with thoughts, comments, requests and lists of their favorite episodes of The Twilight Zone.
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A.L. King is an author of horror, fanta
sy, and science fiction. He proudly calls the town of Sistersville, West Virginia home.
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Daryl Marcus is an IT professional and trained hacker working in Colorado. Despite all his technical certifications, he has found writing is the most fun he has ever had in front of a computer. He writes horror, thriller, crime, and science fiction, sometimes all at the same time. In his spare time, he enjoys finding and watching B-horror movies in the hope of discovering true gems the world has forgotten. He lives with his wife and an ever-growing menagerie of robotic pets. His writings can be found in various issues of Under the Bed, Disturbed Digest, Cheapjack Pulp, and Tales from the Grinning Skull.
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Jeremy Megargee has always loved dark fiction. He cut his teeth on R.L Stine’s Goosebumps series as a child and a fascination with Stephen King’s work followed later in life. Jeremy weaves his tales of personal horror from Martinsburg, West Virginia with his cat Lazarus acting as his muse/familiar.
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Donna J. W. Munro has spent the last twenty years teaching high school social studies. Her students inspire her every day. She has an MA in writing popular fiction from Seton Hill Writing University. Her pieces are published in Dark Moon Digest # 34, Syntax and Salt, Sirens Call eZine, The Haunted Traveler, Flash Fiction Magazine, Astounding Outpost, Door=Jar, Spectators and Spooks Magazine, Nothing’s Sacred Magazine IV and V, Graveyard Girls (2018), Hazard Yet Forward (2012), Enter the Apocalypse (2017), Killing It Softly 2 (2017), Beautiful Lies, Painful Truths II (2018), Terror Politico (2019), and several Thirteen O’Clock Press anthologies. Contact her at https://www.donnajwmunro.com
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Hari Navarro has one great fear in life: Writing in the third person. It scares the hell out of him and he worries that he is in fact dead or that perhaps Hari Navarro will one day try and contact him for the money he owes him. Hari has had work published at the very fine 365 Tomorrows, Breach and AntipodeanSF magazines and numerous titles via Black Hare Press. Hari has also succeeded in once being in a film with Julia Roberts (she never calls) and being a New Zealander who now lives in Northern Italy with not one single cat. https://harinavarro.tumblr.com/
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