by Unknown
THE SECRET OF MRS. IS
GRIER JEWELL
Each night before he went to bed, Mr. Was, the graveyard’s tenth caretaker, dug fresh holes for the dead to breathe so that they would not disturb him while he slept.
The holes would gape like open wounds in the earth until Mrs. Is arose and filled them in.
Back and forth they would go—Mr. Was digging fresh holes and Mrs. Is filling them in—until one night Mr. Was stayed awake and confronted Mrs. Is.
Mrs. Is, said Mr. Was, will you please tell me why you are filling the holes I dig?
I fill the holes with a secret that only the dead can keep, said Mrs. Is.
What secret is that?
Why, Mr. Was, said Mrs. Is, that is for me to know and you to find out.
As soon as she departed, Mr. Was re-dug every hole of his that Mrs. Is had filled, examining each for clues to her secret. But all the holes appeared to be empty.
The next night, Mr. Was dug several fresh holes and waited for Mrs. Is to appear.
You’re not burying anything at all, he said. I demand to know why you are filling the holes I dig for the dead to breathe. Are you trying to make trouble for me?
Mrs. Is merely gazed at Mr. Was and said nothing in reply, which only made him more curious.
Unable to sleep for fear he might miss a vital clue, Mr. Was watched Mrs. Is glide with ease through the graveyard night after night, month after month, and year after year. It occurred to Mr. Was that while he grew stiff and slow with years of digging, Mrs. Is had not appeared to age a single day.
That’s it, thought Mr. Was, Mrs. Is must possess the secret of youth!
Feeling very old and pained in his joints, Mr. Was determined that he would get the best of Mrs. Is once and for all.
The very next night, he dug an extra large hole and climbed inside so that he could surprise Mrs. Is into dropping the secret of youth right in his hands.
But the wait was long, and Mr. Was could feel the dead stirring beneath him. He rolled on his side to allow room for them to breathe.
When he felt them kick and fuss, he held his breath to make himself as small as could be so as not to disturb their eternal rest.
Mr. Was held his breath so long it became his last.
So now you know my secret, Mr. Was, said Mrs. Is as she rose from her grave and buried her tenth caretaker.
So now you know.
Grier Jewell is a graduate of the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts MFA program in creative writing. Her work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in Black Lantern Publishing's Journal of the Macabre, Crow Toes Quarterly, Danse Macabre, Soundings Review and Underneath the Juniper Tree.
THE SUBJECT
CHARLES THURSTON-SNOHA
Dr. Olin stared down at subject 313223’s file.
***
03/31/2003- Mr. Halderson, with his wife in his company, finalized his contract to be cryogenically frozen.
06/19/2010- Mr. Halderson, a 48-year-old Caucasian male is pronounced dead from acute cardiac arrest. Body is immediately transported to CryoGens Incorporated.
06/20/2010- Head is successfully removed and cryogenically frozen.
06/21/2010-02/24/2143- Zero cell deterioration detected.
02/25/2143- After reviewing Dr. Olin’s manuscript entitled, “Cell Deterioration and the New Tomorrow”, panel decides to attempt revival on Subject 313223. Dr. Olin is personally invited to be Subject 313223’s Primary Revival Physician.
04/2/2143- The revival process begins. The subject’s head is prepped along with the cadaver transplant body. Surgery is scheduled for tomorrow.
04/3/2143- Surgery is ruled a success. Subject is showing no signs that the head is rejecting the transplant.
04/7/2143- Comatose subject is beginning to show signs of minute brain activity.
4/7/2143-4/14/2143- There have been no recent changes in responsiveness or brain activity in the subject. Exploratory surgery is scheduled.
4/15/2143-Surgury revealed minor swelling in the temporal and parietal lobes. Steps were taken to alleviate the swelling.
4/16/2143-4/28/2143- Vast improvement has been noted. Subject is showing signs of movement in his appendages and increased brain activity.
4/30/2143- Optimism is beginning to grow after the subject showed signs of REM sleep.
5/6/2143- It’s a miracle. Subject has awoken from the coma and, although unable to communicate, is observed as moderately responsive. Dr. Olin starts the subject on a trial drug, Memrothral, and an intense regimen of therapy and cognitive rehabilitation.
5/26/2143- Another breakthrough is noted. The subject said the word, “Good”, after being asked how he was feeling.
6/22/2143- Subject is displaying vastly improved fine motor skills and is now speaking fluently. Still no memories reported.
7/16/2143- Subject is able to stand independently.
8/6/2143- During music therapy, subject recalls piano lessons that he received as a youth.
8/28/2143- Subject appears agitated and asks to speak with Dr. Olin.
***
File in hand, Dr. Olin, briskly entered the subject’s room. Over the past several days, the subject had been recalling memories at a rapidly progressive rate. Dr. Olin hoped that this day would be the one when he could ask the big question.
The instant their eyes met, the subject angrily shouted, “Look, I’ve had enough of all your treatments! Day after day, I’ve been doing your treatments without complaint and, to be honest, I’m tired and I want to see my wife. Why hasn’t anyone called her?”
Dr. Olin was both shocked and terrified at the same time. He nervously asked, “What is your last memory?”
“It all came flooding back to me last night. I remember my childhood, my kids, my marriage, and how I got here in the first place.”
“How’s that?”
“I started feeling tightness in my chest and then I just blacked out. I don’t remember anything after that.”
Dr. Olin turned from the subject and left the room, devastated, realizing that an afterlife was only achievable through his treatment . . .
Charles Thurston-Snoha is a life-long fan of anything horror. He has a B.A. in psychology from Montclair State University. He was born and raised in New Jersey, but relocated a bit and have finally found himself living in West Virginia, the state which serves as the setting of several horror movies.
UNEXPECTED VISITOR
JOHN T. FOLEY
He awoke to a crashing sound. His head jumped from the pillow; followed quickly by his body off the bed itself. Running into the living room his eyes froze at the site of a nine-foot green thing standing before him.
Unfortunately his legs didn’t freeze quite as fast as his eyes and he tumbled right into the beast; his mouth landing on the beast’s grotesque, distended belly.
His face slid down the greasy bulbous stomach; his lips parting and the upper lip flipping up and his gums contacting the beast’s slimy, gelatinous gut.
Oozing pustules popping against his teeth, he could taste the beast on his tongue.
Vomit shot up his throat.
The creature looked down at him with grey eyes. Squinting, it lifted a sheet of paper to its face and studied it closely before looking down at the man lying before him.
The beast reached down and picked the man up by the hair, ignoring the screams.
He looked him in the face quizzically, comparing the man to whatever was on the paper.
After a moment, he dropped the man back to the floor and scratched his head with his other hand. He looked again at the paper and then at the man.
From the floor—in a fetal like position—the man looked up at the beast. “What do you want with me?”
The creature looked down, almost absentmindedly. In a voice unlike any the man had ever heard before, the beast said, “Sorry, wrong address,” and left the apartment.
John T. Foley, simple man, simple minded, (those are his words, not ours . . .) welcomes this first
opportunity to share his twisted thoughts with people other than his wife. And she's even happier for it.
FINIS
STAN SWANSON
Harold’s fingers flew across the keyboard.
His aching digits could barely keep up with the thoughts tumbling inside his head, but the letters and words still flashed across the screen as if he were in some kind of trance and the computer had become the author. He paused to grab another slurp of coffee. The drink had grown cold long ago, but it didn’t matter. The two of them were almost finished. The coffee had dribbled down the front of his shirt. A shirt he hadn’t changed for three days.
“Hey, don’t stop now,” the voice beside him urged. “We’re almost done!”
Harold stretched his neck and massaged the muscles that had ached for longer than he cared to think about. He reached for the nearly empty bottle of aspirin and gave a side-glance at his writing partner.
“Maybe you should learn to type, Murray,” he muttered and downed the pills with the last dregs of his day-old coffee.
Murray shrugged. “What does it matter? We’ll never have to type anything again after this, because what you’ve got there is going to make us rich, buddy. We’re gonna give Stephen King a run for his money with this one. We’ll make millions!”
Harold smiled. “We’ll make half of millions,” he said. “Remember, we’re fifty-fifty partners.”
But he knew Murray was right. This story was by far the best thing they had ever written together. Maybe it had been the all-night tequila party with the twins from upstairs. Maybe the few hits they’d shared from their dwindling pot supply had helped, or watching that marathon of bloody slasher films they’d rented from the video store. Whatever the inspiration, it didn’t matter. This story was destined to be a horror classic.
“Do you think we killed off too many people?” Harold asked Murray.
“Naw,” his partner replied. “It’s perfect the way it is. I can already see this thing on the big screen, pal. Think about it! We couldn’t get a single online e-zine or horror blog to even look at our last few pieces, and now we’re about to enter the big time.”
Harold agreed. “I know what you mean, man. I could almost cry—it’s like the words are flying out of me. I’m telling you, man, I’m almost pissing myself over this one!”
Murray coughed. “Okay. Enough imagery, my friend. Let’s just get this thing finished before fate drops an airplane on us or something.”
Harold’s hands hovered over the keyboard. “But can’t you feel it? This is the best, scariest, most exciting thing we’ve ever written together! These words are coming alive!” His fingers trembled as they raced from key to key on the keyboard. Fifteen minutes later they paused again. “Geez, Murray. I don’t know if I can even type ‘finis’ at the end. You know what I mean? I feel like something will happen. Like doing that will bring the story to life or something.”
Murray sighed.
Harold barely felt the razor-sharp blade of the knife sink into the center of his aching neck to quickly sever his spinal cord. His fingers curled, and ever so slowly, his lifeless body slumped to the floor.
Murray tossed the bloody knife aside and sat down in the still warm chair.
“Don’t worry about it, buddy boy,” he whispered.
And with his two index fingers, he typed the words . . .
THE END
