Praise for Year's Best Hardcore Horror
"…glutted with graphic scenes of torture, dismemberment, evisceration, and pornographic sex." (Vol. 2)-- Publishers Weekly
"Not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach, the 19 stories in this new best-of annual anthology feature episodes of graphic gore and violence--including torture, dismemberment, self-mutilation, and home abortion--that are designed to push buttons as well as boundaries…strictly for hardcore horror fans." (Vol. 1) --Publishers Weekly
ALSO BY RANDY CHANDLER
EDITOR:
Year's Best Hardcore Horror
Stiff Things: The Splatterporn Anthology
Red Room Magazine
NOVELS AND COLLECTIONS:
Bad Juju
Daemon of the Dark Wood
Devils, Death & Dark Wonders
Dime Detective
Duet for the Devil (with t. winter-damon)
Hellz Bellz
Angel Steel
EDITED BY CHERYL MULLENAX
Year's Best Hardcore Horror
Red Room Magazine
Stiff Things: The Splatterporn Anthology
Vile Things: Extreme Deviations of Horror
Sick Things: Extreme Creature Anthology
The Death Panel: Murder, Mayhem and Madness
Necro Files: Two Decades of Extreme Horror
Deadcore: 4 Hardcore Zombie Novellas
Deadlines: Horror and Dark Fiction
First Red Room Press Electronic Edition, May 2018
Year’s Best Hardcore Horror Volume 3 copyright © 2018
by Randy Chandler and Cheryl Mullenax
All Rights Reserved.
Red Room Press is an imprint of Comet Press
Cover and interior by Inkubus Design www.inkubusdesign.com
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Print ISBN 13: 978-1936964048
Visit Red Room Press on the web at:
www.redroompress.com
facebook.com/redroompress
twitter.com/redroombooks
Copyrights continued here
Diabolically dedicated to all the hardcore and extreme publishers, editors, and authors.
CONTENTS
2017: KILLING IT DARKLY: INTRODUCTION
RANDY CHANDLER AND CHERYL MULLENAX
SO SINGS THE SIREN
ANNIE NEUGEBAUER
JUNK
RYAN HARDING
THE CENACLE
ROBERT LEVY
THE MAW
NATHAN BALLINGRUD
BURNT
LUCIANO MARANO
THE BETTER PART OF DROWNING
OCTAVIA CADE
TIL DEATH
TIM WAGGONER
LETTER FROM HELL
MATT SHAW
THEATRUM MORTUUM
DANI BROWN
BREAK
GLENN GRAY
BERNADETTE
R. PEREZ DE PEREDA
WEST OF MATAMOROS, NORTH OF HELL
BRIAN HODGE
REPRISING HER ROLE
BRACKEN MACLEOD
THE WATCHER
DOUGLAS FORD
SCRATCHING FROM THE OUTER DARKNESS
TIM CURRAN
FOREIGN BODIES
ADAM HOWE
ADRAMELECH
SEAN PATRICK HAZLETT
ULTRA
DANIEL MARC CHANT
TREE HUGGERS
NATHAN ROBINSON
THE DOGS
SCOTT SMITH
AUTHOR BIOS
2017: KILLING IT DARKLY
INTRODUCTION BY RANDY CHANDLER AND CHERYL MULLENAX
It was a killer year for horror fiction of the harder kind. Authors, editors and publishers presented readers with some startling works of horrific imagination, stories graphic in the extreme yet with subtleties suggesting larger meanings, tales that explore humanity by plumbing depths of soulless inhumanity and, in some cases, outright depravity. The stories here represent the best of them, disturbing tales that dig deep and take you into the dark heart of horror itself, unrelenting and unapologetic.
You will no doubt notice that several of this year’s stories edge into science fiction territory. This is not by thematic design; it just happened this way. Authors go where their stories take them, and then take us along with them. As you will see, Sci-Fi makes for very imaginative horror. The same can be said for fantasy, as evidenced by a few tales herein that border on fantasy while never betraying their horror roots.
Case in point, in our opening story “So Sings The Siren” Annie Neugebauer takes us onto a Dark Fantasy stage for a one-night-only performance of mythological torture. Then Ryan Harding’s “Junk” gets right to the hardcore stuff with the ultimate dick-pic horror tale. Robert Levy’s “The Cenacle” is a literary cemetery feast you may have a hard time stomaching (Tums won’t save you).
Nathan Ballingrud’s “The Maw” treads surefootedly on Sci-Fi ground, right up to the edge of the Maw itself in a tale of stunning originality. Luciano Marano made his first pro sell when he sold “Burnt” to DOA III, certainly one of the year’s best anthologies, and the tale has it own fiery fetishistic twist.
“The Better Part of Drowning” by Octavia Cade treads waters of both science fiction and fantasy but it’s pure horror at its biting depths. Tim Waggoner’s “Til Death” is Lovecraftian Post-Apocalypse horror at its absolute best.
“Letter From Hell” comes with that special delivery you only get from Matt Shaw. Dani Brown gets down and very dirty in her “Theatrum Mortuum,” which may be the most extreme thing you read all year. If the thought of torture porn scares or offends you, you may do well to skip this one.
Glenn Gray’s “Break” is a hard-to-take anatomy lesson given to a man weary of doing hard time. In “Bernadette” Ramiro Perez de Pereda gets medieval in his tale of a djinn summoned by a desperate priest.
Brian Hodge takes you on a trip to Mexico you will never forget in “West of Matamoros, North of Hell.” This story is a masterpiece of suspense, a grueling experience that may well leave you exhausted by the end. You might even feel like a vacation afterward, but we’re betting it won’t be to Matamoros.
Bracken MacLeod’s “Reprising Her Role” takes us behind the scenes of a porno snuff film for a gut-wrenching reprisal and unexpected bonus footage.
The tension doesn’t let up in our next offering. A real-life death threat inspired Doug Ford’s “The Watcher” and we think it shows. “Scratching From The Outer Darkness” showcases Tim Curran’s descriptive prowess and gives you a tale of hardcore Cthulhu Mythos.
Brace yourself when Adam Howe’s “Foreign Bodies” takes you deep into the bowels of a nasty abyss—which might make a good echo chamber for the laughter Adam’s patented black humor is likely to elicit.
Sean Patrick Hazlett introduces us to “Adramelech,” an ancient demon with a taste for broiled children. Daniel Marc Chant’s “ULTRA” jacks into a popular VR game called Slut Slayer. But what if it’s more than a game?
Nathan Robinson takes us into the trees with a group of militant environmentalists who will discover a tree hugger of the deadly sort, entirely alien to their experience.
Scott Smith (A Simple Plan and The Ruins) wraps up th
is year’s fat package of the hard stuff in a big bloody bow with “The Dogs.” The canines in this tale are not Man’s Best Friend variety, nor are they Woman’s Besties, as you will see. But the story certainly is one of the best of the year, and not one you’ll soon forget.
Thanks for coming along into this year’s heart of hardcore darkness. We hope to see you on the other side.
SO SINGS THE SIREN
ANNIE NEUGEBAUER
From Apex Magazine #101
Editor: Jason Sizemore
Apex Publications
You can hold yourself back from the sufferings of the world, that is something you are free to do and it accords with your nature, but perhaps this very holding back is the one suffering you could avoid. —Franz Kafka
___
When the woman moved forward to order, the girl stepped within her shadow. “A vodka Sprite, please, and a bag of peanut M&Ms.”
The girl tugged on her mother’s brushed satin dress. “Mom, I’m thirsty too.”
The woman glanced over her shoulder. “There’s a water fountain by the bathroom, sweetie. I’m not paying six dollars for a bottle of water.”
The girl returned her hand to her own dress of royal blue velvet, a fabric both heavy and soft. She liked to rub a fold of it between her fingers, feeling the nubby pile slip back and forth under her thumb. The dress’s straps kept slipping from her shoulders beneath her sweater. Her mother bought it one size too big so she could wear it again next year. The girl didn’t mind. It was the most beautiful dress she’d ever had.
The woman sat on an upholstered bench in the hallway, sipping her drink, but the girl couldn’t sit still. She twirled to make her skirt flare, dancing back and forth across the hall as she crunched her candy.
“Hurry up, sweetie. We can’t take those in with us.”
The girl poured more M&Ms into her mouth, then spoke around them. “Mom?”
“Hm?”
“Will the siren have wings?”
“Yes, she should. I think they always have wings.”
“What color will they be?”
“Whatever color her skin is, probably.”
The girl twirled. “Will she have bird feet? And a beak?”
The woman smiled. “No. That’s a myth. Stay here for a minute. Finish your candy.” The woman walked down the hall and around the corner to throw away her empty plastic glass.
The girl rubbed her skirt between her fingers, tipped back the bag, and spun and spun and spun. She bumped into a man.
“Sorry,” she muttered, glancing up at him. He was tall and crooked.
“That’s all right,” he said. “So much energy—best to get it out now. You’ll be sitting still for a long time.”
The girl glanced down the hall to where her mother had gone, then eyed the man warily. “How long?”
“That depends on the musician. The best ones can draw it out for hours.”
“Hours?”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “Hours. Is this the first time you’ve come to hear a siren sing?”
She nodded, crushing velvet between her fingers.
“Is that your mom you’re with?”
Another nod.
“Did you get seats on the floor or up in the mezzanine?” he asked.
She glanced to the corner. “We have a box.”
“Oh, I see. Does it face the stage or the audience?”
Velvet specks stuck to the dew on her fingertips. “The audience.”
“Ah.” The man straightened himself. “That’s a shame. You won’t be able to see the siren’s face that way.”
“What does it look like?”
The man wobbled his jaw. “Her face is contorted in beautiful agony. Her pain is what draws the beauty of her voice in contrast. The better the musician, the more beautiful her song.”
The mother hurried toward them. The girl asked the man, “What does he do to her?”
“Surely your mother told you that he tortures her.”
“Yes, but how?”
“If you faced the stage, you would see for yourself. You would see the tools and methods he uses to play his instrument. He is a master, this man. A true artist.”
Her mother took the girl by the hand and pulled her several steps away. “I have no desire to see his vulgar artistry, nor for my daughter’s mind to be filled with such things.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “The siren is willing. You don’t respect the musician’s work?”
The lights dimmed off and on. Crowds of murmuring people moved toward the auditorium.
“I respect the song itself, and the siren for sacrificing herself to give it. I respect the musician for drawing it from her, as is her wish.” She raised her chin. “But I do not respect those who would watch the musician do his work rather than listen to the song. The musician is always a sick man. A mad man.”
The man said, “Yes. He must have an exquisite sort of madness, to do what he does without breaking. Playing the song of a siren is not for the weak of will, nor the weak of heart.”
The woman dipped her head in strained acknowledgement and turned to leave.
The man added, “What with the prying up of fingernails, the spindling of intestines, the flaying of skin. God forbid we see where the beauty is coming from.”
The woman gasped, dragging the girl by the arm into the crowd. When the girl looked back, the man was shaking his head softly to himself. Then the cool, muted cave of the performance hall enveloped them. The brightest part of the room was the dim spotlight on the stage, where a beautiful but ordinary-looking woman sat on an empty stool in front of closed curtains.
“Where are her wings?” the girl whispered. Everyone whispered here. When her mother didn’t answer, the girl tugged on her dress. “Where are the siren’s wings?”
“Oh. They’re down right now, sweetie. Closed like a bird, not out like a butterfly. They won’t show until the musician spreads her arms.”
“Mom, can I watch the stage when they start? Just for a little bit?”
Her mother didn’t stop her path toward their box. “Not until you’re older.”
The lights flickered on and off several times, and the entire room sank into silence at once, seated but fidgeting. From her seat, the girl watched them in the darkness. An announcer introduced the musician, then the siren, who said in a soft voice that she was honored to be here sharing her art, that she could imagine no better cause for a life. Clinks and shifting from the stage punctuated long moments of silence.
Finally, the audience members grew still, the air grew thick, and a collective gasp charged the room. The siren began to sing.
It was unlike any music the girl had ever heard. There were no instruments, no lyrics, not even a melody to carry the voice along, but the girl knew at once that, somehow, it was still a song. She rubbed the nap of her skirt, leaning forward. The audience members’ faces grew taut and full of emotions the girl couldn’t name. The siren’s voice grew and grew, filling the space with perfect clarity, slipping between notes in a way wholly unpredictable, yet perfect.
Some women fainted. A few couples got up and left. One man vomited into a bag even as he wept. Eventually, the girl closed her eyes and listened, crushing velvet between her fingers, and let the song fill her up with something she would someday learn was worth suffering for.
So felt the girl, that night. So sang the siren.
JUNK
RYAN HARDING
From DOA III
Editors: Marc Ciccarone & Andrea Dawn
Blood Bound Books
Nick didn’t know where the impulse came from, but he followed it with vigor. It seemed to have been there as long as he could remember, like a post-hypnotic suggestion. Those moments were the only ones that mattered in his life. All the rest was simply preamble and postscript to the thrill.
The website was called InterphaZ. Nick thought of it as some kind of glory hole for casual conversation, a way to meet new people from all walks of life and
forge some kind of friendship or perhaps even a relationship. A complete waste of time, in other words, but it hadn’t taken him long to realize its potential for his own needs. That’s when the fun began. And it hadn’t let up in the past four months.
Virgins were the conquest—the ones who just signed up on InterphaZ and were more likely not to have had the random chat experience spoiled for them. New arrival HelKat84 looked promising, an attractive blond with hair tied up in two twists on her avatar. Like horns, he thought at first, but then realized they were supposed to affect cat ears. She must have liked what she saw from his avatar and profile (expertly crafted to present a charming and unthreatening persona after weeks of trial and error), because she accepted the chat request. Her webcam feed sprang up in the left corner of his screen.
He had it down to a science. As soon she accepted his request, he bolted up from his ergonomic chair and hit his mark like a consummate pro. The view of his maroon shirt and plain face—eyes too close together, nose too thin as if compressed by the nearness of his eyes, his fingers curled over his chin to suggest a pensive harmlessness—vanished in a flash, a smash cut leaving HelKat84 with a window to the bearded thatch of his scrotum. He lifted his shirt to allow her the unhindered view. And of course he was rock hard; how could he not be? This was the pinnacle. He could have run dick-first into a brick wall and crashed through like the Kool-Aid Man.
“Ugh!” HelKat84 grunted over the computer speakers. She recoiled from the image, eyes squinched shut like he’d proffered a photo of children blown to pieces in a drone strike rather than a pulsing boner. The resolution on webcams always left much to be desired, so it wasn’t like she could see Rand McNally tributaries of veins spreading the good word about his arousal through the length of his girth, but if she wanted to act like it was the first time Cinderella went to ball, Nick was all for it. This was the kind of reaction he relished best.
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