by JG Faherty
And then what? his inner self asked. What happens to you?
He’d be trapped in the past still, only this time completely alone. Not even a picture of Erika to remember her by. Doomed to spend the rest of his life in a place as strange and unfamiliar to him as another planet. Haunted forever by the memories of what he’d lost.
How could he live like that?
He looked at the undead standing there, all of them, a mother and her two children, a couple who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, the woman he loved. All of them, in their own ways, dealing with the exact same kind of loss he was feeling.
Lightning flashed outside and thunder shook the walls.
Deep inside him, something moaned and died.
He knew what he had to do.
“Bring his body back,” he said to Osvald’s children, ignoring the cold, empty feeling in his stomach. Turning to Maria, he pointed at the spellbook on the floor.
“Show me what I need to know.”
Erika came to him, took his hand. Her flesh was cold and wet. Soon it wouldn’t matter. “Jason, what are you doing?”
“Making sure we’ll always be together. All of us.”
Both sides of her face smiled.
Hundreds of years away, in one of a million possible realities, people screamed at the sight of the swan boat exiting the Tunnel of Love, and the two wet, decomposing corpses it contained. Locked in a permanent embrace, their empty eye sockets stared into the night as the final strains of “Muskrat Love” faded away.
Standing in the shadows, the Proprietor chuckled.
“Such fun. Such fun indeed.”
About the Author
JG Faherty is the Bram Stoker Award®-nominated author of five novels, seven novellas, and more than 50 short stories. Several of them involve the Carnival of Fear. He writes adult and YA horror/sci-fi/fantasy, and his works range from quiet, dark suspense to over-the-top comic gruesomeness. He enjoys urban exploring, photography, classic B-movies, good wine, and pumpkin beer. His personal motto is "Photobombing people since 1979!"
You can follow him at:
www.twitter.com/jgfaherty
www.facebook.com/jgfaherty
http://about.me/jgfaherty
www.jgfaherty.com
Look for these titles by JG Faherty
Coming Soon:
Thief of Souls
Who knows the secret of Bootleg Cove?
Bootleg Cove
© 2014 Devin Govaere
Young widow Willie Douglas recently moved to remote, isolated Bootleg Cove on the Chesapeake Bay with her four-year-old son. Her plan—to renovate and re-open an abandoned restaurant. Almost as soon as she arrived, a handyman showed up out of the blue, offering to help. Then Amanda and Sam, two apparently orphaned teenagers, came to her door in need of help and a place to stay.
But it’s not just the sweltering heat that’s wearing on Willie’s already fragile emotions. Her mysterious handyman seems to know more than he’s willing to say, Amanda and Sam are acting very strangely indeed, and Willie’s beginning to realize that all three of her houseguests have more history with Bootleg Cove than she could ever have imagined. Willie is seeing too many things that she either can’t explain or refuses to believe. But the most shocking revelation about Bootleg Cove is still to come…
Enjoy the following excerpt for Bootleg Cove:
Willie Douglas flicked the wiper control, and the blades stuttered across the dry windshield, smearing the carcasses of at least six dead bugs across the glass. She peered between the bloody streaks, trying to keep her eyes on the edge of the oiled blacktop. The last thing she needed was to plow into one of the enormous pines that sprawled along this so-called road.
“I can’t see a blessed thing.” She flicked the wiper control again, hoping for the best, but, of course, the best was often hard to come by.
“Ooohh, bug guts. Do it again!”
Willie glanced over at her son and smiled. Kyle stared at the gore with a fascination and enthusiasm only a young boy could possibly muster in the heat of the damp Maryland afternoon. “Give it time. Every bug in Calvert County seems to know we’re here.” She slapped at her arm as another mosquito bit into her skin then she squinted, trying to focus on the areas between the smeared guts. “Damn. I shouldn’t have done that. I’ve made it worse.”
“I can clean it,” Kyle said. “You can put me on the roof like last time.”
“I think we’re almost there, baby. We’ve got to find it soon. I think we’re running out of road.”
Kyle’s face swiveled toward her, a worried frown pulling at his mouth. His dark eyes studied her, far too serious for a four-year-old, as his fingers clutched at the teddy bear sitting on his lap. “What happens if we run out of road, Mama? We’ll fall in the water?”
“We won’t fall in the water, honey.” She traced an X over her blouse. “Cross my heart.”
Kyle threw himself back and settled into the seat. “Okay.”
He lifted his arm and flung it out the window, his hand rising and falling as though caught in a breeze. Willie would have given anything for a breeze, even an imaginary one.
Rounding yet another bend, the beat-up old Ford rumbled and shook its way between yet another pair of tall pines in the endless wood. Overgrown, gnarly tree limbs slapped the body, and Willie winced with every slow, long screech of a branch along the paint. As the truck continued to clatter and thump along the pitted road, the branches snagged at the mirror and antenna. Willie glanced in the rearview mirror when one branch reached out and threatened to snare the tarp that covered the piles of boxes in the bed. She veered sharply to the right, and the branch cut harmlessly through the air. Kyle rocked in his seat.
As the truck cleared the shadows and lumbered into brain-piercing sunlight, Willie blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to sudden blindness. The scent of stagnant water and mud drifted through her open window along with the hot autumn air. The truck bumped over some debris and rocked when it slammed back down. She heard the squishy sound of tires hitting water and felt a slurping suction beneath the truck as it continued to roll forward.
“Oh shoot.”
“Shoot what?” Kyle lifted his small body, trying to see out the glass. His little head swung back and forth, refusing to believe what he saw. “Oh no…”
The bay loomed right beyond the bug-infested windshield, a grayish-green vista of still, calm water. It looked both beautiful and terrifying.
She slammed both feet on the brakes to avoid driving right into the water. She braced herself with one hand on the wheel as she catapulted forward, instinctively thrusting out her arm to block her son from slamming into the dashboard. Kyle’s little body hit her arm, the breath whooshed out of his lungs, and he bounced back against the seat. His little hands clenched into fists, clutching Teddy’s fur in a death grip.
“Sorry about that,” she said softly.
“It’s okay,” Kyle said.
With a silent prayer, Willie eased the gearshift into Reverse. At first, the wheels spun uselessly, and she cursed under her breath. Holding her breath, she rocked forward then tried again. This time the truck obeyed and began to move backward. She backed up a few feet until she felt the solid ground beneath all four tires. She turned the key in the ignition, and the truck sputtered and clanked then fell into a fitful sleep. She released the breath she’d been holding. “That was close.”
Kyle let out an exaggerated breath, the sound of a boy who had survived the worst moment of his life, but she turned in time to see him roll his eyes. “Nice driving, Mama.”
She ruffled his dark hair. “At least we didn’t fall in the water.”
Teddy momentarily forgotten, Kyle gripped the edge of the dashboard and pulled himself forward. He stood up and pressed his nose against the windshield. “That’s a lot of water.”
“It sure is,” Willie said. “I wonder where—”
She glanced out her window and saw it. Nestled at the edge of a forest of
giant pines, the two-story structure leaned precariously at the edge of a sandy stretch that fell away into murky water. A narrow parking lot enclosed it on two sides, but scraggly patches of dried grass had begun to poke through the gravel and broken asphalt, giving it a somber, neglected appearance. The property had seen better days, but Willie couldn’t have begun to guess when those days had been.
She’d been told the building had been built in the early days of Prohibition and used as a way station for moonshiners who wanted to sell their product in the big cities like Washington, DC, and Baltimore and as a speakeasy for those Maryland citizens who refused to give up their booze. It certainly looked old enough. It hadn’t been occupied for almost a decade, though the agent had told her the site had a fully working kitchen and the last tenants had run a profitable bar and grill. After driving through Calvert County for almost an hour, Willie couldn’t imagine where those patrons might have come from. She’d seen four vehicles along the highway and no sign of life since they’d turned onto this side road.
The roof sagged across the wide porch and several of the shutters had fallen to the wooden planks. The blue paint had become splotchy in some places and had peeled away in others to reveal remnants of old pink paint. On the plus side, none of the windows were broken, and other than a few holes, the clapboard siding looked to be in relatively good shape.
Willie ran damp palms across her denim shorts then turned to her son with a smile. “Well, what do you think? Do you like it?”
Kyle tilted his head, took a deep breath and made a tiny noise, “Hmm.” He continued to stare out the windows, his gaze moving from the gray-green expanse of the bay to the dirty, sad-looking building that could tumble into the sand at any moment. “I don’t know.” He turned to her, studying her face, and she waited. “Do you like it?”
She couldn’t lie to him. He’d know. She glanced toward the water then let her gaze drift across the dilapidated structure again, wanting to say yes, needing to say yes. Instead, she smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know.”
No one could ever know what happened in the blue classroom.
The Blue Classroom
© 2014 Rod Labbe
For four decades, Sister Emmanuel’s second grade class kept their lips sealed, locked tight. They didn’t tell about the beatings, humiliations, blood-soaked dreams or those horrible deaths so close to Christmas. What happened in the blue classroom stayed secret, a sacred trust between God and child. Not even Father Begin’s confessional could break that Rule.
Then, on an October day in 1998, backhoes and steam shovels descended upon Immaculate Heart of Mary Academy, and the blue walls of a classroom seeped human blood.
God was everywhere. She was everywhere, and a penance had to be paid. Don’t tell, or I’ll find you. Don’t tell, or I’ll kill you.
Enjoy the following excerpt for The Blue Classroom:
After Morning Prayer on this spectacular Halloween day, Sister Emmanuel did not climb the gray riser to her desk.
“One of you has done a disobedient thing,” she said, gravely. “I am sorely disappointed, as is God. Mr. Stinneford?”
“Yes, Sistah Emmanuel.”
“Please stand and approach the front.”
Everyone craned their necks to watch, as they did whenever any of them was spoken to by Sister Emmanuel.
The walk down the aisle was rockier than a sea voyage, and as that frightening figure in black came closer, Tim’s stomach did a nauseating churn. He hadn’t done anything! What could she want?
“Are you wondering why I asked you up here, Mr. Stinneford?”
“Yes, Sistah Emmanuel. I’m wonderin’.”
“It’s for a question…and an honest answer. Will you answer me truthfully?”
“Yes, Sistah Emmanuel, I’ll answer truthfully.”
“My question requires either a yes or a no. Did Mr. Babcock throw you to the pavement yesterday?”
Robbie! How had she found out? Who had told? His thoughts thumbed through a catalog of lies and excuses.
“Well? I’m waiting, young man.”
“No, uh, Robbie never pushed me, Sistah Emmanuel, I tripped on my skippy, uh, the steps. I sorta…sorta…”
She cupped his chin. “Wasn’t it Mr. Babcock who tore your trousers and hurt your knee?”
“No, I…”
“God doesn’t love little boys who lie, and you are lying. Miss Butler saw Babcock push you and Mr. Jefferson, but I want to hear it from your own lips. Did he push you down?”
Her grip tightened.
“Yes,” Timmy stammered, “but it was my fault too!”
“Your fault! Why? Because you were minding your own business? Don’t be ridiculous. Babcock is jealous of you. You have manners, and you’re a scholar. Everything he is not.”
“I…I don’t…”
“And he used profanity, didn’t he? Our Lord’s name in vain? That is a Mortal Sin, Mr. Stinneford. Catholics do not commit blasphemy, nor do they use dirty talk.”
A tear glistened on her hand.
Sister Emmanuel gently released him. “No good can ever come of jealousy. Take your seat.”
She retrieved her pointer, and the classroom atmosphere instantaneously changed; it was like when Robbie had pushed Timmy, an odd, electric feeling. Something was about to happen…but what?
“Mr. Babcock, would you come here, please? NOW!”
Robbie’s throat worked; he eased himself away from his desk.
“Faster, faster! You’re wasting my time, and I don’t appreciate my time being wasted!” Sister Emmanuel barked, raising the pointer menacingly.
“You ain’t gonna use that stick on me.”
“This is my classroom, Mr. Babcock. I give the orders. Not you.” She lunged forward, grabbed him by the hair and shook his head violently. “When I speak, you jump! Am I clear? No backtalk! Am I? Answer me!”
“Yes!” squawked Robbie.
“Yes, what, you homely thing!”
“Yes, Sistah Emmanuel!”
“Put your hands out, palms up.”
“No!”
“Why, you insolent ruffian!” Her skin bloomed into crimson. “I could either strike you in the face or send you to Mother Emily’s office for a strapping. Have it your way, Mr. Babcock. I’ve done far worse and to older boys than you. Put out your hands, and it will be ended.”
He took a decisive step backwards.
“I said, put out your hands!”
“No! You can’t make me do nuthin’!”
“Can’t make you? Can’t MAKE you? We’ll see about that. You’re no match for me, little man. Put out your hands!”
“No!”
She yanked his hair again, and Robbie obeyed.
The pointer came down, over and over, whack, whack, whack, but he didn’t cry, not one tear. Robbie took Sister Emmanuel’s Pill like a man.
Whackkk!
The class was petrified. They didn’t dare move. They didn’t dare do anything but pray that The Pill would never be given to them.
Two spots of red glowed hotly on Sister Emmanuel’s cheeks. “Mr. Babcock,” she wheezed, trying to catch her breath, “apologize and be quick about it. Are you sorry for what you did? Are you sorry for bullying Mr. Stinneford and using our Lord’s name in vain?”
Robbie seemed much smaller; his hands were scrunched into defiant fists, skin a blotchy red.
“Yes, Sistah Emmanuel. I’m sorry.”
“Louder. So your classmates and Jesus can hear how sorry you are.”
“Yes, Sistah Emmanuel. I’m sorry for all of it.”
“You won’t bully people again, will you, Mr. Babcock. Because if you do, and I learn of it, your second Pill will be worse. Much worse.”
“No, I won’t bully people again.”
Sister Emmanuel straightened her rosary beads. “If you weren’t such a bad-tempered, stupid boy, you wouldn’t pick on those who are defenseless. Stayed back twice, thrown out of St. Francis! I doubt you’ll ever amount to any
thing in this life or the hereafter. You’re a very stupid, stupid boy, and where do stupid boys go?”
“I don’t know, Sistah Emmanuel.”
“They go to Hades, Mr. Babcock. Hell. Paradise lost. Damnation. Where Satan’s fires will sear the skin from your bones.”
For emphasis, she tweaked his ear viciously.
“Are you daydreaming, Stupid Boy?”
“No! I’m payin’ attention!”
“And who dressed you this morning? A monkey? Mismatched shoes, orange juice on your shirt and bad breath. Disgusting.”
“I take a bat every Sat’day night.”
“Do you, now? And you actually use soap?”
“Yes. Ivory soap.”
“Saints be praised! Mr. Babcock has a weekly bat, and he uses Ivory soap, 99 and 44/100ths pure! There may be hope for him, yet. Oh, go sit down. And I don’t want to hear a peep out of you for the remainder of the day. Stupid Boy.”
Robbie scuffed to his desk, head down.
“That’s right, hang your head, Mr. Babcock. Show remorse. Be ashamed,” Sister Emmanuel said, contemptuously. “This is a Catholic school, and the basis of your education is Discipline. Be good. God has chosen us as the one true religion, and we cannot—we must not—disappoint Him.”
She climbed the riser, pointer in hand, and sat regally before them. “Another thing. What you all saw stays here. Don’t tell anyone! God will be watching. I will be watching. We’ll both know if you told. Understood? Answer, please.”
“We undahstand, Sistah Emmanuel,” they answered, stupefied.
“Say it with me. ‘Don’t tell.’”
“Don’t tell.”
“Where does The Pill stay? In unison.”
“Here. Inside these four walls.”
Castle by the Sea
