The Legend of Darklore Manor
and Other Tales of Terror
by Joseph Vargo and Joseph Iorillo
Artwork by Joseph Vargo
Digital formatting by Christine Filipak
Copyright ©2008 Monolith Graphics.
ISBN: 0978885767
ISBN(13): 9780978885762
www.MonolithGraphics.com
Contents
The Coroner
Black Heart
Mr. Stitch
Darkness Immortal
Golem
Spiders In The Attic
Brotherhood of Shadows
Afraid of the Dark
Sister Salvation
The Pumpkin Patch
The Westgate Phantom
The Doll
The Legend of Darklore Manor
More From Monolith Graphics
The Coroner
by Joseph Vargo and Joseph Iorillo
It was just after midnight when the doors to the city morgue swung open, interrupting Jack Caldwell's otherwise quiet night. A stocky paramedic pushed his gurney to the side of Jack's cold steel examination table, then pulled back the sheet to reveal the body of an elderly man dressed in a dark suit and conservative red-striped tie. The old man looked to be about seventy years of age, and even in death, the gray-haired gent looked distinguished.
Jack's eyes shifted back to the paramedic who was staring curiously at the cadaver.
"Found him at a bus stop on Grove Street," the paramedic explained. "Just sitting there on the bench, waiting to get picked up. All dressed up with no place to go."
Jack smirked at the paramedic's limp attempt at humor, then asked, "Any wallet or I.D.?"
"No, but you're gonna love this." The paramedic picked up an evidence bag from between the dead man's polished black shoes and handed it to the assistant medical examiner. "This was all he had in his pockets."
Jack took the bag and examined its contents through the clear plastic to discover a spool of thick thread and a large curved sewing needle. He glanced back at the paramedic and caught him staring at a steel tray beside the autopsy slab. There, amid the serrated bone saws and razor sharp scalpels that were used to severe limbs and filet human flesh, was a similar-looking needle and a spool of heavy surgical suture.
The paramedic raised his eyebrows. "Maybe I should've checked him for stitches."
This time Jack didn't respond. He knew what the paramedic was referring to, but it was considered bad taste to discuss the topic around the coroner's office. He gave the paramedic a cold stare as he grabbed the old man beneath the arms. The paramedic took hold of the dead man's feet and transferred him to the autopsy table. Jack scribbled his signature on the paramedic's clipboard and handed it back to him.
As he wheeled the empty gurney out of the room, the paramedic couldn't resist leaving Jack with a parting remark. "I'll just leave you two alone."
There was virtually no pressure to working the graveyard shift in the city morgue. After six months as assistant medical examiner, Jack did little more than undress and wash the bodies, log them in, and administer a preliminary examination, leaving the more unpleasant work for the day shift. As he began to prep his post-mortem guest, Jack thought back to the paramedic's comments about checking the old man's body for stitches. He was referring to an infamous unsolved homicide case in the city's history. It was a taboo subject, but now Jack couldn't get it out of his head. Six bodies had been found over the last twenty or so years. The victims had all shared the same gruesome, inexplicable fate. They had all been discovered dressed in suits, and in each case, the victim's heart was missing. The bodies were vivisected and neatly sewn back together. The papers and local media had dubbed the ritualistic killer 'The Coroner.'
Jack's curiosity was piqued. As he removed the dead man's jacket and tie and began to unbutton his shirt, Jack discovered an unusual metal pendant around the old man's neck. At first glance it appeared to be a strange and intricately carved medallion, but on closer inspection Jack realized that it was actually an ornate skeleton key. This odd token seemed somehow fitting, considering the old man's other personal effects. Jack set the key down on the examination table and resumed his work.
As he carefully unbuttoned the man's shirt, a mesmerizing tapestry of tattoo-work adorning the dead man's upper body revealed itself. The design was unlike anything Jack had ever seen and seemed completely out of place on a man of this age. It appeared to be some sort of tribal motif with black spidery arms flaring out from the center of the corpse's chest to entwine themselves around the man's torso and upper arms. The central pattern was a complex mass of scrollwork that formed a shape resembling an old lock. It seemed at once Celtic and Oriental, some baffling mystical emblem that conjured up thoughts of dark magic and unspeakable rituals. At the very heart of the design was a small dark slit that penetrated the man's flesh.
Jack picked up a thin surgical probe and inserted the tip of the instrument into the opening. The probe disappeared into the slit a full two inches before he removed it. Jack set the probe down beside the key that he had found around the old man's neck, unease and bewilderment growing inside of him. He glanced back at the lock-shaped design that surrounded the opening in the dead man's chest and a strange thought occurred to him. Jack picked up the key and paused for a moment to contemplate the macabre ramifications of what he was about to do, then he inserted the key into the dead man's sternum. It was a perfect fit.
Jack drew a deep breath, then turned the key.
The instant the key turned full circle, a burning cold pain, not unlike an electrical jolt, surged through Jack's body. He stood frozen in place, unable to move or relinquish his grip on the key. He watched in horror as the spidery arms of the tattoo slowly began to stir and writhe beneath the dead man's skin, as if awakening from a deep, ancient slumber. The serpentine tendrils strained against the man's withered flesh until they began to tear through it. Oily black tentacles wrapped themselves around Jack's hand and slowly began to slither and climb up his arm, and as they did, the burning cold pain was replaced by a numbing sensation.
This is not happening, Jack thought. Dear God, I'm imagining this. But his own panicked thoughts were replaced by a sudden onrush of brutal mental images that seemed to come from nowhere. He saw men with their eyes wide with shock, their trembling hands held up to ward off the furious, incomprehensible black storm rushing at them. The dark phantom that engulfed the men was possessed with a diabolic, ancient hunger and madness, beyond any human evil Jack had read or heard about. Jack saw the victims being devoured from inside as if from a fast-moving, corrosive cancer. His head throbbed with the monstrous hate emanating from the horrifying tattoo that had sprung to life. Whatever had caused this gargantuan hatred was lost in the mists of time, but the diabolic Thing still remembered and would never forget. Its hunger would never die. Jack wondered what hellish Pandora's Box he had opened. He could feel the mass of tentacles squirming and undulating beneath his shirt as the spidery arms sprawled across his chest. The sounds of human torment pierced Jack's ears. The echo of wails and lamentations accompanied the nightmarish visions that flooded his mind, revealing a chain of countless victims stretching back through time. Eventually the flurry of images came into focus, forcing Jack to bear witness to an arcane ceremony. He saw a black altar that held a human captive, a young, dazed man, bound to the ebony slab by thick ropes. Strange markings and symbols were painted on the stone floor surrounding the altar. Blood red candles lined the ritual circle, offering the only illumination in the dim chamber. A hooded figure in a bla
ck robe emerged from the shadows, chanting in an unknown tongue.
The ancient necromancer entered the circle and stood over the man who lay bound to the altar. The dark priest continued to chant forbidden rites as he raised an ornate dagger high above his human offering to one of the banished gods. The sorcerer plunged the blade deep into the center of the victim's chest, impregnating him with the raging vengeance that would go on and on forever. And then Jack Caldwell's last shreds of consciousness slipped away.
In the morning when Kelly Campbell, the day shift M.E., arrived to relieve Jack, she found the old man's body in peaceful repose, vivisected and neatly sewn closed. The toe tag read John Doe 004459. Even the death certificate had been meticulously filled out, listing the man's death as 'heart failure, due to natural causes.'
Kelly turned and was startled to see Jack standing closely behind her. "You've been a busy bee," she said, taking a step back.
Jack offered her a devious grin. "I was inspired." Then he picked up the skeleton key medallion from the instrument tray and slipped it around his neck.
"Key to your heart?" Kelly asked.
"Not exactly," Jack said with a wink. Then he tucked the key in his shirt and quickly buttoned the top few buttons, hoping she wouldn't notice the newly acquired knotwork of black tendrils that snaked across his chest.
Black Heart
by Joseph Vargo
"So you want proof of the supernatural—monsters and witches and things that ain't supposed to be? Well then, Mr. Morgan, meet me at Black Bayou Junction, tonight at 10. Come alone... and don't be late."
The phone call from the mystery woman was cryptic, but it had piqued my curiosity enough to convince me to meet with her. I'd had my share of weird calls and letters since I began writing for Shadow Hunter magazine, but I was always pretty good at weeding out the kooks. Maybe it was a prank to send me on a wild goose chase, but her low, throaty voice sounded kind of sexy, and since I had no plans for the evening, I decided to take a drive. It was already after 9:00, so I grabbed my camera and ran.
After a harrowing ride through unlit country backroads, I arrived at the desolate crossroads a few minutes late. She was already there, smoking a cigarette as she sat behind the wheel of a late-model pickup. Her long black hair reflected the moonlight. I guessed her age to be about twenty-five. In the red glow from her cigarette, I could see that she was even more attractive than her voice had led me to believe. "You're late, Mr. Morgan," she said. "Get in." Her startlingly flat, commanding tone made me climb in without a word. "I'm Nicole," she said as she threw the truck in gear, "and I'll be your hostess for this evening." With that, she floored the gas pedal and we were off.
We drove for about twenty minutes along a narrow backroad, during which time she kept the conversation limited to small talk, skillfully avoiding the topic of where we were headed. Finally, she pulled over and parked along the road. She got out and said "This way," motioning with her head toward the woods. I followed a few steps behind her as we proceeded to make our way along an overgrown path. Thick vines entwined throughout the woods and moss hung heavy from the branches of dead trees. After a short trek through the black forest, we came upon a ramshackle mansion in the middle of the misty bayou. The place had become a haven for crows who had taken to roost upon every ledge and cornice of the dilapidated manor. The girl began walking to the house, but I grabbed her arm.
"Hold it. I'm not trespassing on private property until you tell me what's going on."
"All right," she whispered, then lit another cigarette, "but I doubt if you'll believe me." For the first time that night, her strong, commanding voice softened, becoming more solemn and reflective. "It was six years ago when my boyfriend Eric talked me into venturing into the swamp one night in search of a local legend. I didn't really want to go, but I figured it was the least I could do for the guy who had my name tattooed over his heart. When we were kids we had all heard stories about a place called Hangman's Hollow, where vigilante justice took its toll on those accused of practicing witchcraft and the black arts. The bodies of 13 witches were supposed to be buried beneath the old hanging tree in the middle of the swamp. A rotting rope dangled from one of the branches of the tree, supposedly the remnants of the hangman's noose, and stories told that if you swung from the rope at midnight, the dead would claw their way out of the ground and try to drag you down into their graves with them." She smiled and shook her head. "We never did come across that old hanging tree that night, but we sure as hell did find something."
The girl gazed off into the distance as if looking back into the past. "It didn't take us long to get lost in the bayou. We tried staying on dry ground, but soon we found ourselves surrounded by mist, and wading through an endless bog. The swamp bubbled and the mossy water rippled to reveal the presence of things slithering just beneath the surface. After a while, we heard a strange sound in the distance, rising above the serenade of crickets and frogs. It sounded like the growling of a large animal, followed by a low wailing cry.
"Against my better judgement, we followed the sounds through a dense area of vines and withered trees to a small clearing where an old shack stood. The moans were coming from a root cellar shed behind the decrepit hut. As we slowly approached the shed to investigate, we could hear feral growls, deep and guttural, between the moans. We got about twenty feet away from the shed when we were startled by a light from behind us and we ducked for cover in a nearby thicket. The door of the shack creaked open and a hunched figure came out, holding a lantern high.
"Who's there?" a gravelly voice croaked. We remained silent and still for what seemed like an eternity until the voice whispered once more, "Who's there?" The figure passed in front of us and I could see that it was an old woman who looked like she had aged beyond death itself. She hobbled to the shed and unlocked the storm cellar doors. I wanted to run, but Eric had an iron grip on my wrist and held me fast. The old hag threw open the thick wooden doors and we could hear the sloshing sound of heavy footsteps slowly climbing the root cellar stairs. A shambling form, cloaked in shadows, emerged from the black pit to tower over her. The thing stood a full foot taller than the old crone and swayed before her, growling lowly. She held forth a jar and began whispering strange words. As the incantation grew louder, the thing grew silent and still. She pointed a bony finger in the direction we were hiding and the thing turned and began to move toward us."
The girl shivered, then took a long drag from her cigarette. "We ran through the woods until we were both out of breath. We were fast, but the creature was unrelenting and we could hear it following our trail, getting closer with every step. Eric and I were both exhausted as we ran through a large clearing, but we made it to the other side and tried to hide behind some trees at the hollow's edge. We heard the growling sound grow louder, announcing the creature's approach. After a few seconds, the thing emerged from the shadows and we could see it more clearly in the moonlight. The thing looked like a scarecrow slowly shambling across the hollow. It stood well over six feet tall, and it was clad in tattered remnants of a long black coat. The creature lurched and swayed as if it were a life-sized marionette being controlled by some unseen puppeteer.
"We were quiet and still as the thing ambled past us, but then it suddenly stopped and turned its head in our direction. I could feel my heart pounding as the creature stood before us. It raised its head as if to detect our scent in the wind then began to step toward us. Eric leapt out at the thing with his cigarette lighter, hoping to startle it with the flame. I could tell Eric was scared, but he wanted to defend me. And the pitiful, small flame did briefly fend-off the creature. The flame touched the thing's tattered cloak and it began to smolder, then burn. Soon the creature was engulfed in flames and blindly stumbled into the swamp. I was terrified. I began running, and I ran all through the night."
"What happened to him, your boyfriend?"
"I never spoke to him again after that night."
"That's a wild story," I said, trying not to
sound too unsympathetic, "but it doesn't prove a thing. And what the hell has it got to do with this God-forsaken place?"
"You want proof, Mr. Morgan? Proof of witches and monsters and things that go bump in the night? Well, it's waiting for you inside that old house." Just then, a blood-curdling moan from inside the mansion broke the still of the night. "Come on," she said.
We entered the immense house through a broken door under the watchful eyes of the sentinel crows. The girl's flashlight revealed dust-covered furniture, tapestries and paintings, all of them hinting sadly at the former elegance of the old plantation. We made our way to the entrance hall and headed upstairs. Ever so cautiously, we ascended the creaking staircase. The second floor had a gaping hole in the roof that allowed the crows to access the attic interior, and shadows fluttered overhead on black wings.
"Did you know that certain cultures believe that crows and ravens carry the souls of the dead into the netherworld?" the girl asked me. She opened her hand to reveal several voodoo wards. One of them looked like a crow's severed foot clutching a dark red stone in its talons. She held the crow's claw before her as if it were a lantern to guide her in the dark and followed its unseen light into a room at the end of the hall. She opened an antique cabinet to reveal six large jars that each held what looked like a human heart suspended in a dark liquid. She held the talisman out and moved it in front of the jars until her hand began to shake before a jar holding a heart as black as coal. Her eyes welled with tears and she picked up the jar.
Rats scurried across the rotting floorboards as we returned to the dilapidated entry hall of the manor. She walked along with the jar held out in front of her as if the black heart within were now guiding her. My own heart pounding with dread, I followed her as she made her way into an old library. Cobwebs and dust were all that remained on the empty bookshelves that lined the walls of the room. She stopped in the center of the room and pulled back a decayed area rug to reveal a trap door that led down into the cellar. We made our way down the creaking steps.
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