Twisted 50 Volume 1

by Wessell, Stephanie

  Twisted 50

  Volume 1

  www.Twisted50.com

  Written by

  Stephanie Wessell, Troll Dahl, Susan Bodnar, Marie Gethins, Kendall Castor-Perry, Kim Rickcord, Caroline Slocock, Karen Sheard, Lucy V Hay, Stephen Deas, Diana Read, Scott Merrow, Steven Quantick, Dylan Keeling, Steve Pool, Jacqui Canham, Nick Twyford, John Ashbrook, Gordon Slack, Richard Craven, Adam Millard, Penegrin Shaw, Geoff Bagwell, Steven Stockford, Andrew Williamson, Alex Thompson, Joshua Saltzman, Rachael Howard, Christopher Patrick, Charles Maciejewski, Hillier Townsend, Bartholomew Cryan, Jonah Jones, Duncan Eastwood, Shirley Day, Richie Brown, Gareth Eynon, Nick Yates, Maggie Innes, Elizabeth Hughes, Kristopher Rickards, Jeanette Hewitt, SV Macdonald, Jessica Brown, Leo Robertson, Chris Jeal, Sasha Black, Thomas Cranham, Neil Bebber and John Read

  Edited by Elinor Perry Smith

  Produced by Cristina Palmer-Romero

  Create50 Team Leader: Chris Jones

  Twisted50 is the first book to arise from the Create50 community and initiative. Can you write a short story? If you can, join our growing community of supportive writers at Create50. It’s free to join at www.Create50.com

  Join the writing community here… www.Create50.com

  Check out the book series website here… www.Twisted50.com

  Follow Create50 on Twitter here… @MyCreate50

  Join the Facebook page for updates here…

  https://www.facebook.com/MyCreate50

  Twisted50 was first published in Great Britain by Create50 Limited.

  Copyright © 2016 Create50 Ltd and respective authors.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

  Thanks and Acknowledgments

  Create50 is powered by people who want to help create something extraordinary. Aside from the writers whose work is included in this volume, we must also thank everyone involved.

  Cristina and Elinor, thank you for working so hard in putting this book together. Lucy, Emma, Judy, Lucia, Vicky, Hattie, Julian and the whole team, thank you for pulling it out of the bag. To the Create50 community, the writers, the readers, the proof readers, far too many to list, thank you. And Danny for building and maintaining the site, thank you.

  Chris Jones

  Founder of Create50

  http://www.Create50.com

  Follow me on Twitter @LivingSpiritPix

  Introduction

  by Cristina Palmer-Romero

  The darkness fascinates me. Our fears drifting through the dark provokes a multitude of reactions.

  To be given the opportunity to ask writers to share their most Twisted musings was an opportunity not to be missed. We all have different notions of scary and twisted, whether we write gory matter or deliver delicate blows, horror writers dare to venture into these spaces. Not because they are weird or insane, but because they have the courage to peel back the layers from the ordinary, as they ponder what life might look like in an alternate reality.

  Producing this project went beyond my expectations. I never would have thought that such a supportive and cohesive community could have been achieved online, with writers from all over the world. The level of commitment that each and every writer demonstrated in perfecting their craft and encouraging other writers to hone their skills, was extraordinary.

  As the project gathered momentum I saw a great leveller in the writing community. Placing new writers alongside accomplished writers, young and old, new horror writers & horror aficionados, meant that this jamboree of writers facilitated a platform for creativity to thrive. Imaginations were stretched. Creative boundaries were pushed. Every. Single. Day.

  I am immensely proud of this project and ‘my’ writers.

  My top tips for cracking horror:

  Great horror asks troubling questions – write as though no one will ever read it, and answer those terrifying ‘what ifs’

  Don’t censor yourself.

  Write from your gut and with integrity.

  Feel the fear of your characters and double it on the page.

  Make your characters do what you really wish they wouldn’t do.

  Listen to your instinct, write from there, not what you think

  readers/agents/publishers want.

  Experiment.

  Be wild and courageous.

  Learn your craft.

  Read your work out loud.

  And read every day!

  Cristina Palmer-Romero

  Project Leader and Producer // Twisted50

  www.Create50.com

  Follow me on Twitter @CristinaPR73

  Table of Contents

  Bite by Kendall Castor-Perry

  Witches by SV Macdonald

  Shenanigans by Chris Jeal

  Aftermath by Geoff Bagwell

  Summer Sky by John Read

  The Lizard King by Stephen Deas

  Beyond the Flesh by Diana Read

  The Audition Altar by Leo X Robertson

  The Beholder by Stephanie Wessell

  doG lived by Troll Dahl

  True Fear by G P Eynon

  Five Days by Susan Mayer

  A Change Too Far by Adam Millard

  The Sugarloaf and the Red Shoes by Marie Gethins

  Paper Cuts by Kim Rickcord

  Insects by Caroline Slocock

  Itch by Karen Heard

  The Retribution of Elsie Buckle by Lucy V Hay

  SPELLINGS By K.J.B. Rickard

  Full of Surprises by Scott Merrow

  Food Bank by Dylan Keeling

  Silver Load by Steve Pool

  Trying on Tobias by Jacqui Canham

  Sodor & Gomorrah by N W Twyford

  The Spider Taketh Hold by John Ashbrook

  Flat Hunting by Gordon Slack

  Lolitasaurus by Richard Craven

  Keeping A Head by Jonah Jones

  Project Approved by Andrew Williamson

  Meat by Neil Bebber

  The Ballad of Liam and Chantelle by Steven Stockford

  Do Blastocysts Dream of Foetal Sheep? by Alex Thompson

  A Curious Boy by Josh Saltzman

  The Beating of My Heart by Rachael Howard

  Deadlands by Christopher Patrick

  Feedback by Charles Maciejewski

  Us by Hillier Townsend

  Flight 404 by Bartholomew Cryan

  Our Tormentor by Duncan Eastwood

  The Biggest Fear by Shirley Day

  The Cyclist by Richie Brown

  Killer Heels by Sasha Black

  What’s Yours Is Mine by Nick Yates

  Second Chance by Maggie Innes

  Sum of My Memories by Elizabeth J Hughes

  Fingers by J.M Hewitt

  Gooseberry Pie by Jessica Brown

  Helper by Steven Quantick

  The Left is Sinister by Thomas Cranham

  Bloated by Penegrin Shaw

  Bite

  by Kendall Castor-Perry

  ‘Use by December 2010.’ Seriously? Well I’m sorry, but I didn’t get bitten back in 2010, did I, itch cream that reduces irritation and swelling, I got bitten this morning. You’ll just have to ooze out of retirement and do your job, won’t you.

  It’s not like it’s painful, the bite. But it’s been getting pinker all day. And it does… aaaah… itch, that’s better. They always go for the thin, smooth skin,
don’t they? Bugs, I mean. Like that soft patch of skin on the top of your foot. Or like mine, in front of the elbow, just where the nurse stabs you with that sharp little sucky tube when you go give a blood sample.

  And that bug this morning, it didn’t bite me just once. No, five times, count ‘em, the little blood-red dots there in a perfect pentagonal formation. Or maybe the son-of-a-bitch had five mouths. But that would just be freaky, right. I mean, Mother Nature doesn’t do things in fives, does she?

  Hang on… avoid alcohol when using this medicine? That’s going too far. See that bottle of Jack there? I’m just about to get real friendly with it. Your girlfriend didn’t just leave you out of the blue. Mine did. Yep, Lynsey, the girlfriend whose idea it was to bike the river trail this morning.

  “The weather is optimal,” she said, “and some physical exertion is good for the health of the human body”. I know, weird, right? But she really did say it like that. Softening me up for the big good-bye, I suppose. She didn’t get bitten, she rode through that swarm of bugs like they weren’t there, but one of them sure found me.

  I flipped out when it bit me, my arm twitched and I nearly went over. Huh. The way she looked at me. Like she wanted to grind me right into the ground under her heel, like a bug.

  And it was all going so well, our relationship. Fate’s way of saying that I’m better off without her, I guess. So, farewell, sweet, itch-reducing, out-of-date unguent. And hello, Jack.

  *

  Fuck. Jack. What did you do? Feels like someone dragged a chainsaw through my head. You were supposed to help. To be my friend in my time of need. Thank God it’s still dark outside.

  Wh… Shit. Who put that fucking golf ball in my arm? And what the fuck is that pink caterpillar thing doing inside it? It’s kind of… ewwww, squirming. Squirming inside the huge blister that’s managed to grow around those five bites in just a few hours. Jeez, the thing’s even got red lit-up eyes, five of ‘em. Bloody pentagons everywhere today. Must have been a carnivorous glowworm or something. I have got to get that thing out of me. Right now, hangover or not. Fucking wildlife. Get them before they get us, that’s what I say.

  *

  OK. Antiseptic, check. Wads of absorbent cotton, check. Box cutter with the new, well, new-ish, blade, check. Worked a treat on that big splinter last year. Ouch, yes. Still sharp. If I sit in the big chair here, I can brace my elbow against its back and cut into my arm more precisely. Why waste money on the ER, right? And anyway, what would they know about squirmy little bugs you meet when you’re out riding with your girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend.

  I do like this chair, though, it’s so comfortable. Maybe I’ll wait for morning, when the light is better and I can see what I’m doing. Don’t want to slice an artery open or anything. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Sleep on it. Thank you after all, Jack.

  *

  I’m standing by the river. Smells crisp. Earthy. No-one about, which is weird, because usually everyone is powering down this trail on their bikes when the summer weekend weather is so nice. And there’s the swarm of those damned bugs. Sort of copper-coloured, with five lights at the front, eyes I guess, like those LED tail-lamps you get on a trailer. They have a nest, like a metal soccer ball hidden in the weeds by the path. That’s where they are all flying out from.

  And then they’re gone, like they have a mission or something, and it’s quiet. Something bumps me from behind.

  So I turn around, slow-mo, like you do in a fever dream, because that’s what this is, right? The Jack, the out-of-date itch cream, the bite, who knows. And there’s the copper-coloured caterpillar thing, like in my arm, except now it’s tall as me. Looks a bit like the big beetle larva I found in a rotting log once, a wrinkled sausage burnt at one end. It’s… beautiful, and I think… yes, friendly. Definitely friendly. It bows towards me like an attendant in a Japanese department store, bowing down, down, down. Five red eyes on the top, lit up, the eyes look right at me, shining with love, and then the top opens up like a beautiful, beautiful five-petaled flower or a mouth and then it jumps at my head –

  *

  It’s morning. My head doesn’t ache any more, amazing considering the bottle of Jack, and I feel really warm, and ever so comfortable. I told you this was a good chair. The sunlight looks deep blood-pink through my eyelids, like when you’re not quite ready to believe it’s time to get up and open your eyes, and you’re just in that waiting-room state until the better part of you finally makes you get your shit together and crack those eyes open. The dream was weird, sure, but I feel OK. Yuh, OK.

  That better part of me does its trick, and the new day floods in like someone sliced my eyelids right open. Huh. Cloudy. Well, looks like cloud anyway, a big, fluffy cloud, through the goop that’s coating my eyes. Blood-pink goop. Actually, that cloud looks more like a wad of absorbent cotton as it gets closer. Why would a cloud get so close? It wafts past my eyes, clearing the bloody crustiness away as it passes.

  Wow. I really need a shave. I can see each and every day-old bristle thrusting out of my hung-over face, like I have super high-def vision.

  My… hang on, why am I looking up at my own face? My gigantic sleep-deprived face, with the five perfectly-arranged little red lights on each eye’s iris. And at my gigantic finger and thumb, charging towards me. Huh? This doesn’t feel like a dream. Come to think of it, it doesn’t feel like anything. Not even when my gigantic finger and thumb pinch me around my waist, well, around where my waist would normally be, but um, hang on, I don’t think I have a waist –

  And Christ, that was fast, and now I’m in mid-air. Held in my own finger and thumb. I can see it’s a nice day, just a few copper-coloured bugs circling outside the window, and I’m looking right into my eyes, the eyes with the five red lights, my gigantic face looking right back at me. But that’s not me behind those two eyes. I’m behind these eyes. These five eyes –

  And there, that’s Lynsey, a giant Lynsey, she has the five lights in her eyes too, and she’s naked, and she’s rubbing my dick, the dick on the naked, gigantic me with the eyes that I’m no longer behind, and now I know for sure that it’s not me, it’s the bug, the bug that bit me, that’s inside the me with the dick, the growing dick, and that Lynsey was bitten too, and now I know what they are going to do because there’s a bit of the bug left behind that showed me what happened. They are going to fuck and make a baby but it won’t be a human baby, it will be a special bug baby with five of everything, and they’ve been waiting so long to get here and humans are the ideal hosts and Lynsey and I are the first but we won’t be the only ones –

  And I’m falling. I hit the floor but it doesn’t hurt. I look up and I see my hard dick, the dick on the me that I’m not in, I see it enter Lynsey and it’s the end of the human race and the beginning of the bugs’ next phase, and I look at Lynsey’s foot, straining against the floor as she pushes against my dick, and I can see the bloody hole in her own skin, that soft skin on the top of her foot where she must have ripped out her own bug, the bug holding the human Lynsey, and the fucking-bug Lynsey looks down at me with those perfect five-light eyes, raises her foot –

  Witches

  by SV Macdonald

  Thrills of excitement run through his body, leaving him weak and trembling. Tonight. Tonight the moon will be dark. Tonight they will come.

  Darkness falls and he waits at his open window. Bats swoop in and out of the square of light. The night is silent and forbidding, like the start of a nightmare. Not even the screech of an owl to make it real. But somewhere in the woods they are gathering. He is sure of it.

  Midnight strikes. And with the last stroke (he knows because he counted) comes a high, keening shriek that pierces his skull with lancing pain. Blackness flows through his brain and he flounders, collapsing vacant and empty on the bed.

  Morning. Sunlight pouring through his window. His head aches. He stumbles upright, not quite sure how he managed to fall asleep in his clothes. The low morning sun beckons him outside.

 
; Suddenly he remembers – the dark of the moon! Draining a mug of strong coffee, he grabs his coat and his camera and runs outside. Into the woods.

  Shaking with anticipation and caffeine he follows the track through the uneven growth of birch and sycamore that fills this abandoned quarry complex. The path is uneven, littered with strange growths of rusty metal and piles of odd-coloured shale or rock. Fallen leaves cover holes deep enough to snap an ankle, and every now and then a length of hidden cable reaches for the sky, as if someone has sent power lines directly from the centre of the earth.

  It takes no more than half an hour to reach his destination. The sun is still low enough to send hazy beams through the trees and this only accentuates how dim the light actually is. The sunbeams fall on a growth of young birch trees that create a natural circle. The centre of the circle is clear of undergrowth – or any growth at all, in fact – and beaten flat as if many feet have stood there.

  And on each tree is painted a symbol.

  He is so excited he could hug himself with delight. Automatically he lifts his camera and fires off a few shots of the circle as a whole, and then some of the individual trees. The dark red symbols glow in the sunbeams as if they are burnished with gold. He steps forward into the centre of the trees. The day suddenly becomes darker and a new breeze sends chilly fingers down the back of his neck. He gasps. In the centre of the circle, directly in front of his feet, are the remains of a fire. White ash and charcoaled wood. And one yellowed and blackened bone.

  He takes a step back. Each compass point of the circle is marked by a little heaped mound of earth, each large enough to conceal a shallow grave. He counts them, and counts again. There is one more than there was yesterday. He is sure of it. But the circle is not yet complete. He glances around the clearing. There are other changes. A scrap of stained cloth caught on the ragged bark of a tree. Something that might have been a handprint pressed into the earth near the fire. A little bundle of feathers tucked under a rock. And the inside of the circle is perfectly clean, apart from the dead fire. Not even a stray crisp packet or fallen leaf.

  He knew it. They came.