Introduction

I love books. Books are permanent. Don’t get me wrong, I love magazines too. But they tend to get thrown away, unless you’re an avid collector. I have a collection of magazines and books, much to my girlfriend’s delight!

When I started Morpheus Tales with a couple of friends back in 2008, we were on the verge of recession, the credit crunch was hitting, but I wanted to do it again. I wanted to be part of something. I wanted to edit a magazine.

Back in the mid-nineties I first got the bug. I visited my favourite bookshop (Forbidden Planet) every week, joined the British Fantasy Society and discovered the small press. My hunger was insatiable. As a poor student most of my money went on subscriptions rather than beer and beans. I was hooked. I wanted to be a part of this. I needed it.

Using a borrowed photocopier and PC, back in the days when the internet was just a myth, I started Black Tears Magazine. Meant as a one-off it became a quarterly magazine as the submissions (hard copies!) flooded in.

Two years after Black Tears started, Violent Spectres made an appearance. Darker, edgier with no non-fiction, Violent Spectres had an actual budget!

Another year in and Violent Spectres and Black Tears (my humble publishing empire!) were forced to close. Reality and paying bills overtook my love of fiction.

Ten years later I wanted to do it all over again.

The internet had changed the way publishing worked. Laser printers meant you could print high-quality copies, along with print-on-demand and ebook publishing.

Morpheus Tales began in 2008 as a quarterly magazine featuring SF, horror and fantasy fiction and non-fiction. By issue 7 the non-fiction section was too big to contain within the printed magazine and we launched the MT Supplement, a free online magazine. We brought in new blood, the team continued to grow, Tommy B. Smith provided the Dark Sorcery Special and the Urban Horror Special. Trevor Wright worked on the Scream Queens trilogy.

We were developing a small-press. A real little publishing company. What should we do next? I asked my fellow founders. A book, someone stated, with such determination that grins spread across our faces and our eyes lit up.

Those first few issues of the magazine were more broad-based genre fiction as the magazine, and I, found ourselves. Later issues became more focused, the fiction became darker. Many issues are now out of print, available only through lulu.com as large format Collector’s Editions. But these are good issues, these are the foundations on which Morpheus Tales is built. So, what better way to celebrate these first steps into publishing again, than by producing a best-of collection.

Although inspired by the genre-blending roots, the best-of collection shows the darker side of Morpheus Tales. The creepy, the chilling, the menacing and maniacal side. “Weird fiction” it says on the cover.

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And visit us (www.morpheustales.com) for more previews, free magazines and loads more!

Thanks for your support, and most of all, thanks for reading.

Welcome to the dark side of Morpheus Tales.

Adam Bradley

Under The Bridge By Wayne Summers

I remember Grandma Reilly standing at the wooden table in her kitchen in one of her floral, cotton dresses, beating eggs in a bowl tucked under one flabby arm, and telling us about the troll that lived under the bridge by the road. I’d listen with my eyes wide, under a long, dark brown fringe and a quickening thumping in my chest, and then when she’d finished I’d say, “But Grandma, that’s not true, is it?”. She’d reply that if I didn’t believe her I could always go and ask Grandpa, only Grandpa was dead. There was always a twinkle in her eye as she said it and I never knew why until much later.

“What does the troll look like?” I used to ask, wanting to hear the grisliest details.

“Ooooh,” Grandma Reilly would begin dramatically. “It looks like your worst nightmare.”

And at that point she’d look directly at me, the biscuit in my hand poised in mid-air between the plate and my mouth.

“He’s tall and skinny, with scaly green skin, covered in patches of thick, coarse hair. His eyes are yellow and bulging, and he’s got thick, bright red lips, rubbed raw from eating so many children. Behind those big lips hide jagged, yellowing teeth, and breath so foul it could stop a charging elephant.”

I’d then attempt a bit of my homemade biscuit, bringing it to the edge of my mouth, thinking that Grandma Reilly’s description had ended, but it hadn’t. Every time she told the story she would add to it.

“All hair and skin and bones it is,” she’d continue, her breathing becoming shorter and more rapid as she whipped those eggs into a frothy lather. “Looks like it wouldn’t eat much, but my word it does! You know it ate your grandpa, swallowed him whole and used his thigh bone to pick its teeth clean.”

I’d look anxiously across at the door to check that the latch was in place and imagine that I could see the shadow of the troll in the space beneath the door.

“But Grandpa died in the war,” I’d say, and Grandma Reilly would stop beating the eggs for a moment and peer over her specs at me.

“I know that’s what they say, Pet,” she’d reply mysteriously, “but that’s because the truth is too scary for words. I, myself, won’t go near that bridge, nor that part of the river! I don’t mind taking the other bridge even if it adds another ten minutes to my journey. I know all too well what lies beneath the first one.”

I can never forget how she’d glance at the door at that point, pretending to do it secretly, although always making sure I’d catch her. My grandma was so very crafty that I never knew for certain what was real and was not in these tales she would weave. The story of the troll terrified me the most since she herself seemed frightened.

One season followed another into the unending future. Grandma Reilly grew older and I grew into a man. University had taken my mind off those days long ago when I would sit by the wooden table in my grandma’s cottage, watching her bake cakes and listening to her wild stories, so it was a complete surprise when I received a letter from her.

I need to see you.

Those words leapt off the page at me like a savage dog. I immediately thought the worst and couldn’t pack my suitcase fast enough. I managed to lose myself in music for most of the journey, although every now and again my thoughts wandered to the woman who had made my childhood so magical. As I drove along the winding dirt roads, passing beneath the overhanging branches of the jacaranda and eucalypt trees, I prayed I would make it to the cottage before nightfall. I had no intention of driving through the woods after dark. It had been years since I had visited my grandma, and the woods were not a place I wanted to get lost in. I may have been twenty-one years old, but my grandma’s stories of the troll under the bridge had scarred me for life.

As the sun hit the tip of the Warburton Mountains, the sky appeared to be leaking a riot of pink, orange and gold. The clouds were tinged purple, and great shadows began to creep across the fields of grass and wild daisies. I took the Reilly Road turn-off and dropped down a gear. The corrugations on the dirt track were horrendous; they always had been, although I suspected they’d become deeper over time. Then something completely unexpected happened. My car ground to a halt. Just like that, it stopped!

I looked at the fuel gauge and cursed. I’d been in such a hurry to get to Grandma Reilly’s that I hadn’t checked the petrol situation. I hardly used my car and had assumed it had been full from the last time I’d filled it up. Fortunately it had got me this far. It was only another mile or so to the cottage and I could call the Automobile Club when I got there.

As I walked down the road, lugging my suitcase with me, it suddenly dawned on me that I would have to cross the troll bridge; the bridge which Grandma Reilly had warned me never to use.

“Go the other way. Use the other bridge. It may take longer but at least you’ll arrive in one piece.”

I could hear her telling me even as I approached the rickety wooden structure, twisted and worn from decades of weather. As my eyes fell upon the familiar frame, I dropped my case and took a few minutes to scan the area for anything out of the ordinary. Cocking my head, I listened carefully, but all I could hear was the breeze through the trees and the faraway sound of water babbling over rocks. I felt rather silly but the magic in my grandma’s words was powerful and a small part of me still believed in the troll.

I picked up the suitcase and put one foot forward, and then the other. Soon I had made it to the bridge, and the troll was nowhere in sight. I took a deep breath and planted a foot onto the rough wood of the bridge, half expecting something to leap out and devour me. I couldn’t believe how nervous I was, and it was with great trepidation that I began to cross the bridge.

As I was moving across the middle of the bridge I caught the faintest whiff of something dead and rotting. At the same moment I heard the bridge creak, and I could have sworn I felt it lurch to one side. It may well have been my imagination playing tricks on me, but I didn’t hang around to find out. I was over the bridge like lightning and I didn’t even turn around to see whether or not I was being followed. Up ahead I could just make out the cottage through the tree trunks and shadows. If I could just make it to the front door, I’d be safe from both the troll and my imagination.

“Grandma Reilly?” I called out as I burst through the door.

“Is that you, Jonathon?” I heard a weak voice call from the bedroom.

“Yes, Grandma.”

I walked through the warm living room, and then to the room she had slept in for more than sixty years.

“Can I come in?” I asked, poking my head around the door.

The woman I saw in my grandma’s bed shocked me. Gone was the robust, rosy-cheeked woman who loved to cook, and in her place was a frail, pale stick of a person with hollow eyes and barely enough breath in her bony frame to string a sentence together.

“Well come in!” she said as I hovered by the door trying to mask my shock.

I walked to her bed and took her hand in mine.

“I got your letter,” I smiled, not knowing how else to begin the conversation.

For a moment there was silence.

“I wrote you the letter because I knew you’d come,” she began. “I am not long for this world and I needed to speak to you.”

“Grandma!” I protested, not willing to accept the fact that she was probably right.

“Just listen,” she scolded. “It’s difficult to speak, but there is something I must tell you.”

I sat down on the side of her bed. Her eyes were closed now and her hand sat slightly curled in mine. Her breathing became slightly deeper and her nostrils flared as if she was building up to something.

“Remember the troll under the bridge?” she asked. I said I did. “I never knew whether you believed me or not,” she continued, “but I have to tell you that it is the truth. Trouble is, I never told you the entire story and I need to. I need someone to know the whole truth.”

Then she stopped speaking once more to gather her thoughts and her breath. I waited without speaking, feeling that I was on the verge of learning the darkest and most important secret that had ever been.

“These woods hold many secrets. The troll under the bridge is just one of them. I’ve lived here for longer than I can remember, and there are places deep within its very heart that have never seen the light of day. No man has ever set foot in those parts, but on the edge of that dark heart lives a witch.”

“Grandma!” I exclaimed. I had hoped she’d given up her wild stories, especially now.

A weak smile struggled onto her pale, wrinkled face, and she opened her eyes.

“My boy, a witch is nothing compared to some of the creatures that lurk in the shadows.”

At that moment I heard a noise behind me, outside on the porch. I turned and thought I saw a dark shadow move by the window. I heard the loose boards of the porch floor creaking, and something knocked into the porch swing and set it rocking with such gusto that it banged rhythmically into the wall. Then the shadow passed again and I gasped as it lingered by the window, trying to peer in through the drawn curtains.

My heart began racing and my breathing deepened. What could I do against such a monster if it decided to break in? It would surely swallow us both whole. Had I locked the front door? I couldn’t remember. I went to get up, adrenalin racing through my veins and giving me the courage that I needed. But as I started to stand Grandma gave my hand a slight squeeze.

“Have no fear,” she said gently, moving her attention slowly towards the window and back again. “It’s just your grandpa come to say goodbye.”

My eyes might have been playing tricks on me, but my ears certainly weren’t.

“Grandma,” I began tenderly, “Grandpa is dead. In the war. Remember?”

Grandma Reilly closed her eyes and gently shook her head.

“No,” she sighed. “No, he’s not. That was all a terrible lie. That creature out there, pacing up and down my front porch, is your grandpa. He has come to say goodbye. He senses that I’m dying.”

I was stupefied. I hardly knew what to say. Could I believe this wonderful woman who had spent her whole life weaving truth with fiction? Was this the result of a mind close to death and hallucinating?

“B-b-but how?” I stuttered. “I mean, why?”

“The witch. Jasmine Le Croux, her name was. As ugly as the day is long she was, except when she had a gentleman caller. Then she’d transform herself into a beautiful maiden using all the wicked powers she had at her disposal.”

I listened, fascinated.

“As you well know, your grandpa was a tax inspector. It was part of his job to travel around the countryside collecting unpaid taxes. He was not a very popular person,” she giggled. “Jasmine, due to the nature of her work, had never paid a penny of tax in her life. As you can imagine, by the time your grandpa was sent out to collect what she owed, the bill was quite considerable.”

Grandma paused for breath.

“The discussion became quite heated. She refused to pay. Then your grandpa threatened to call the police on her, and that’s when it happened. She used her dark powers to turn him into a troll.”

“But how do you know this?” I asked. “How can you be sure?”

“Well, you see, the spell wasn’t instantaneous. Not like the spells you see in cartoons. It was a gradual process. But soon after he arrived home he became too large to live inside, and then, after catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he decided to go and live under the bridge, away from everyone else.”

With tears welling in her eyes, Grandma Reilly concluded her story.

“I know you probably don’t believe me,” she sobbed. “But I’d like you to do something for me. Would you let the poor soul in? He had his life with me stolen from him, so I don’t want to rob him of the chance to say goodbye. I fear the time is fast approaching.”

I sniffed back my own tears and tried to restrain myself from becoming too upset, but the love for my grandma, and the thought of no longer having her around, prevented me from keeping them at bay for long. I nodded and got up from the bed. As I walked to the door I watched her, lying there amongst the starched, white pillows and feather quilt, waiting for death to claim her. I could not refuse her final request no matter how difficult it was for me to open the front door and let in the grotesque creature waiting on the other side.

The troll looked me up and down, snorting as it breathed my scent in. I was like a statue. After I had stepped away from the door, I froze. Sensing I would not harm it, the troll that had haunted my nightmares all these years hesitantly entered Grandma Reilly’s cottage. It plodded along slowly, sniffing the air and leaning down from its lofty height to examine the odd piece of furniture, closer to the floor. An invisible trail of stink, smelling like vomit and rot combined, followed it around like a shadow.

As it shambled into Grandma’s bedroom it turned and looked at me. I stepped back again and hit the cold stone wall behind me. I smiled nervously and the creature let out a whimper before turning and disappearing around the door. I waited for a scream; instead I heard a faint giggle and then silence.

I gave them as much time as I thought they needed. I put the kettle on and made myself a cup of tea. I sat at the same wooden table I had sat at innumerable times as a child, and drank my tea. Outside it was dark. The rest of the world seemed a million miles away and suddenly I felt lonely.

It was time to go and check on Grandma.

I entered gingerly, not wanting to disturb anyone, and was shocked to find an elderly man sitting on the side of the bed, stroking grandma’s hand and sobbing.

“Grandpa?” I said softly as I entered.

He looked up at me, and in his eyes I saw the truth in everything my grandma had told me. I felt a rush of shame overwhelm me.

“Yes, Jonathon. It’s me.”

I rushed up to him and hugged him tightly. My tears flowed freely, the happy ones with the sad. I looked over my grandpa’s shoulder at the smiling face of my grandma, and knew that she had passed on. My grandpa, on the other hand, had seemingly returned from the dead.

“I’ve missed you,” I cried. “But I wish I had you both.”

Grandpa patted my back and shushed me.

“I’m afraid that could never happen,” he replied. “You see, only when your grandma died could I return. The nature of the curse put on me meant we were both punished.”

By now we were sobbing together and trying to offer each other words of comfort.

“At least we had a few moments together before she passed.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, sitting on the bed next to him.

“There was a tiny moment after my transformation and before my darling wife passed on when I was human again. She looked into my eyes and I stared back into hers. We smiled and then she closed her eyes forever.”

He looked down at his wife and spoke directly to her.

“And I wouldn’t trade that moment for all the money in the world.”

Originally published in Morpheus Tales #1, July 2008

Pristine By Vic Fortezza

Waiting to be called to the first tee, Adam was seated at a table in the clubhouse, eyes on the TV screen, where a senator was lauding the enactment of strict environmental safeguards.

“With these programs in place, with new technology, we’ve taken a huge step toward the ultimate goal of all clear-thinking citizens - a pristine environment. All man-made greenhouse gases will soon be eliminated.”

Bill joined Adam, placing a streaming cup of joe atop the table. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Environmental perfection.”

Bill waved curtly. “They can’t even get the weather right. I didn’t play once all winter. Global warming, my ass - it’s Good Friday and it’s still freezin’.”

“If it wasn’t for global warming, there’d be no United States of America, the greatest nation in history. Ask Siberians if it’s a bad thing. These guys think the warming’s gonna slow down with all these restrictions. Meanwhile, fossil fuels account for only five-percent of greenhouse gases.”

“You’re kiddin’,” said Bill, sceptical.

“They don’t want anybody to know that. It’ll jeopardize what they want. Some scientists think the warming’s from sunspots. Man accounts for very little of the greenhouse gases. Most come from nature, like cow farts….”

Bill tittered.

“And volcanoes and swamps.”

Bill shrugged. “Fill in the swamps, black top over ‘em, – and make ‘em golf courses. Us baby boomers are gonna need ‘em once we retire.”

Adam laughed. “You’d get my vote. Trouble is, a lotta people think we’re ‘one’ with nature. Nature could give a rat’s petootie about us. That’s what makes it so scary – it’s completely indifferent to mankind. Earthquakes, hurricanes and lightning will kill people of all ages, creeds, colour and gender. Hopefully the environmentalists will be better at perfection than the Nazis and commies were, than the terrorists are.”

“That’d be nice. At least their hearts are in the right place.”

Bill’s drive on the second hole bounced into the woods to the left. They found the ball immediately.

“What happened to all these trees?” said Bill, troubled. “They look dead.”

Adam shrugged. “Maybe those Chinese beetles got to ‘em – or were they Japanese?”

“Whatever. They shoulda used chopsticks.”

Adam chuckled. “Why’m I laughin’? They might take out the whole course.”

# # #

On Memorial Day, waiting on the 13th tee, they were buzzed by a swarm of insects. They swatted wildly with both hands.

“What the hell’re they?” said Bill, looking over his clothing, brushing himself off.

“They look like somethin’ you’d find in the tropics.”

“Good thing we’re wearin’ sleeves. I’m buyin’ a case of bug spray this year.”

“Sometimes I think the environment’s gotten so clean that species that’ve been dormant for decades have come back to life. A few years ago, maggots that hadn’t been seen in years started chewin’ up wooden piers. They must thrive in clean water.”

Bill smirked. “Just what we need. I got crickets in my backyard. I haven’t heard ‘em since I was a kid. Sometimes I can’t sleep ‘cause of the racket they make. My nephew in Jersey’s got bears in his backyard. He’s afraid to let his kids out.”

Next morning, as John was walking to the subway, he felt as if he were on a movie set, as there were so few people on the street. He had his pick of seats on the train. He assumed schools were closed.

Even the streets of Manhattan were eerily quiet. As he entered the office, he found a handful of employees huddled around a TV. There’d been an outbreak of flu. Hospitals were swamped.

“No wonder,” he said.

“Thank God I got a shot,” said Lois, who was 60.

Everyone present had had one. Of the firm’s 25 employees, only ten made it to work.

Next day Lois called in sick. A week later she was dead, as were countless others in the nation, mostly toddlers and the aged. Doctors were baffled by the new strain, which had appeared just as the season should have been ending. By summer, millions around the world had perished. Terrorists had killed only a few thousand.

# # #

In August, waiting out the umpteenth rain delay of the season, Adam and Bill killed time watching TV in the clubhouse. Wildfires were ravaging the west. A business executive blamed environmentalists, who’d won the battle to keep certain forests untouched. The man argued that the brush, which would have been cleared by loggers, had fed the fires. Activists blamed arsonists, perhaps terrorists.

“Maybe it was the same nudniks who set fire to that development in ski country,” said Bill.

“Sounds like the law of unintended consequences to me. My favourite was when they freed the minks, which wound up eating every animal in sight, and when there were none left, turned on each other.”

Bill laughed and looked to the TV.

“Another thing is the bio-diesel craze. There’s so much money to be made that forests are bein’ cleared to grow the stuff that’s turned into the fuels. It’s the exact opposite of what the zealots want, unintended consequences again. When DDT was banned it was supposed to save people from cancer. Meanwhile, millions of Africans have died from malaria since then. No way even a tiny fraction of that would’ve died from the big C. And they still won’t let Africans use the stuff. It’s crazy.”

Bill had stopped listening. Adam stifled himself.

“On a more positive note,” said the anchorman, “officials report that the ozone layer, thought to have been damaged beyond repair, is closing at a rapid rate. Cases of skin cancer are expected to plummet. Activists cite this as one of the benefits of the elimination of greenhouse gases.”

Adam and Bill let out a subdued mock cheer.

# # #

By next season tee time reservation was no longer necessary, as people were avoiding wooded areas. Adam occasionally had the entire course to himself. Bill no longer played, citing his wife and kids. Adam missed his friend’s cheerfulness and sense of humour. For the first time in his adult life he did not regret not having a family. He imagined how worried parents must be, despite the assurances of doctors and politicians, as disease was increasing at an alarming rate.

# # #

The beach season was brief, as the area’s waters attracted mysterious predators, which, soon lacking bathers to devour, resorted to feeding on their neighbours, which ruined the fishing. And insects moved from the woods to the streets, which drove people indoors behind closed windows and sealed doors. Many who did not have air-conditioning suffered heatstroke and were hospitalized. Some went mad, leaping from fire escapes and rooftops.

For a while theatres were packed. Soon rats invaded, causing panic in some venues. Those who remained activists insisted that other species had as much right to the planet as humans. One, interviewed on a street corner, was chased into traffic by a mob and struck by a truck. Police had to beat back the dogs that feasted on her remains. The incident was captured on film. Another activist said it proved which was the most dangerous species.

Bear, deer and wolves were spotted in Central Park, in Forest Park in Queens and Prospect Park in Brooklyn. Games at Yankee and Shea Stadium were interrupted, as trained handlers had to be summoned to corral the beasts. The sparse crowds booed lustily. All businesses suffered except those that manufactured bug spray or guns. From March to November people sprayed themselves from head to foot. Incidences of skin cancer rose dramatically.

Backlash began with human predators, criminals, who made sport of shooting animals. An occasional stray bullet found a bystander. The ugly element thrived as civic resources were depleted, at first by recession, then depression, despite the enormous savings on social security and Medicare realized because of the death of so many of the elderly. The police force was stretched thin.

Those in dire straits fed their families venison. Those who hadn’t abandoned the city went hunting at night, using homemade spears. Some were mauled by animals. The stench of rotting flesh was prevalent throughout the world’s large cities. Activists, diminishing in number each day, decried the savagery of man.

When dead rats began turning up everywhere, politicians found their spines. Tens of millions were dying around the globe. The price of food skyrocketed as corn was being used to make ethanol. This led to riots in developing countries. The hardcore activists lamented that environmental restrictions hadn’t been implemented soon enough, that the eco-disaster they’d long predicted had finally arrived. Soon they disappeared or went underground. One pundit quipped that they’d joined the list of endangered species.

When the forests were made barren, the beetles turned to telephone poles, confounding scientists. Utility companies, understaffed, were unable to keep up with demand. Cities were frequently plunged into darkness for days. Looting was commonplace - until there was nothing left to loot. Those politicians unable to afford bodyguards armed themselves. Some were killed, others killed in self-defence. Government buildings were vandalized, eventually abandoned.

# # #

Adam, now 65, long out of work, had not left his building in years, since depleting his savings. He’d travelled as far as the lobby to retrieve his mail. When it’d stopped coming, he no longer left his floor. He lived on the rats he caught and cooked. At times he went days without nourishment. Fortunately the water was as clean as it’d ever been.

He no longer feared eviction. He wondered if the landlord had died or simply abandoned the property. He didn’t hear much movement and suspected he was the last tenant in the building, which had housed hundreds.

The sun shined brightly beyond his windows. If not for the media, he would not have known of the horror outside.

His phone went first. Even his cell phone stopped working. He was no longer able to log on to the internet. He lost contact with relatives and friends. When his TV died, he relied exclusively on the radio, as newspaper delivery had ceased. He clung to life even when gas was no longer delivered to the stove. He cooked rats over fires he built in other apartments. He was constantly searching for matches, which in winter saved him, as there was no other means to provide heat, or to warm water for bathing or washing clothes. He shaved his head to maintain cleanliness.

One day there was only static on the radio, then dead air. Eventually nothing came out of the tap.

Sand wedge in hand, he chose to go outside to die. It was not a tough decision, as he hadn’t much of a life and he’d relinquished hope that things would get better.

There was a pond several inches deep in the lobby. The water main had burst, buckling and cracking open the asphalt. The only living things Adam saw were rats, dogs and cats. The street looked as if a bomb had landed on it. There was not a trace of smog in the air, however. The environment was pristine save for the stench of death, which he supposed would dissipate once man was extinct.

He chuckled as he came upon his car. It’d been brutalized by vandals - and there were parking tickets, weathered by the elements, stacked under a windshield wiper. Priorities, he thought, shaking his head.

He was followed by dogs - or were they wolves? His vision had deteriorated during his seclusion. His hearing was fine, as the cackling above him was loud and clear. There were vultures in the sky - in Brooklyn. Will wonders ever cease, he said to himself ironically.

He felt the sting of mosquitoes and knew it would not be long. Although he was too weak to protect himself, he held on to the sand wedge, hoping it would deter the animals, have them wait until he was dead before they began gnawing on him. He would have liked to die on the golf course, but it was too far. Besides, he was certain it would be unrecognizable, wild with growth.

He sat at the curb and stared back at the animals that were sizing him up. He imagined they were drooling. “Dinner’s on,” he thought, the phrase his mother had used to summon him from the street. He was glad she hadn’t lived to see this.

As the animals inched closer, he chuckled, and wished for once he were an environmental activist.

They’d probably spit you out, he thought.

Originally published in Morpheus Tales #1, July 2008

He Said Something By Todd Austin Hunt

When I met Satan, I was inside Sav-a-Bunch on the corner of Rimwall and Wellington, waiting in the slowest fucking line ever to pay for my gas, water and chocolate pie. My head was fucking killing me. I was thirsty as hell, and even though it was only closing in on nine am, my mouth tasted like some dying dog took a shit in it. Me and Josh Gunther finished off a fifth of Beam the night before.

Oh, yeah. My name’s Josh Gunther.

Well, I killed most of it, but about an inch soaked my fucking crotch when I fell asleep with the bottle in my hand. That morning I was almost not drunk. It wouldn’t matter whether I was drunk, sober or dead. My job was a damn joke. I was a security guard at the Russet County Public Library. I’m taller than most guys, and my arms are bigger than most guys’ necks. All I have to do is walk around the damn place, look mean, and sometimes touch my gun when some asshole acts up. Mostly it’s the fucking kids. I hate those fucking kids. One time, I caught this little skinny kid with his wanker out, pissing on the carpet in a dark corner of the non-fiction racks. You should have seen his face. He was scared like all get out. I made him get down on his knees and stick his nose in it, like some dumbass puppy. I knew he wouldn’t tell; he was too scared.

Anyways, there were three morons in front of me, and in exactly one minute I was late for work. I cussed under my breath, but the woman directly in front of me heard. Her fat head swung around. The folds of fat hanging from her face and neck followed a couple seconds later. She frowned at me, and her wet mouth opened.

“God hears every word,” she said to me.

That pissed me off. “Turn around, and stuff a couple handfuls of those Cheetos in your mouth, ma’am. That’ll surely stop it up.” I grinned and nodded at her, as if I was giving her helpful advice. Her jaw snapped shut, and her chin disappeared in a fat and a freakish overbite. She turned away, and I heard a squeaky whimper.

Stupid, fat bitch.

A college kid with greasy hair was in front of her. He was staring at me, starting to get angry. I touched my piece and the anger changed to something else. He looked at the floor in front of him, tapping his hardpack Camels against his waist.

I was too thirsty. I couldn’t wait anymore. I ripped the top off my water and guzzled the whole fucking bottle. My headache got even worse from the cold. It didn’t do me any damn good, though. I was still thirsty, like there was some kind of forest fire in my stomach.

The line hadn’t moved a bit. A girl with an ass the size of a beach ball leaned up against the counter, chattering like a squirrel with the cashier. She didn’t even have anything to buy, and the bitch was wasting my fucking time talking to some buck-toothed loser with a crew-cut and a huge zit on his right ear. I couldn’t understand what they were talking about, just a bunch of goddamn noise that was pounding into my headache like a nightstick into Rodney King.

“Come on,” I said. “Hurry the fuck up!”

All of them looked at me like I was some genital wart. But only for a moment. The girl and the cashier continued talking, ignoring me. The empty plastic bottle crumpled in my hands, and my chocolate pie burst open, its guts dripped out, and plopped down onto my boots. I just shined those boots the day before.

I was gonna say something else, but the door opened. A bell chimed, but the cashier and everybody else didn’t even look to see who it was. I did. It was the weirdest looking guy I’ve ever seen. From the neck down, he was huge. He wore a jogging suit, and it looked like the fabric was in serious pain trying to hold back his fucking muscles, which rippled and moved constantly underneath. That made me think of a rattlesnake when it moves across the ground. But his neck and head were the creepy part. His neck was shrivelled, a dark thing that looked like a root. His face was narrow, cheeks hollow, as if he hadn’t had anything to eat for days. His eyes were a dark green, and huge bags sagged beneath them. He was bald, and gross looking liver-spots covered his scalp. He didn’t have any lips.

He opened his mouth, and smiled at me. His teeth were painfully white. Painful. It hurt my eyes; I had to squint. When he smiled at me, I dropped the smashed pie and the bottle. God, I’ve never felt so fucking good in my life. It was like the blood running through my veins had turned to one hundred percent pure smack.

And then he said something. It was real quick and short, and I couldn’t hear it because the dumbass girl wouldn’t shut her fucking mouth. I had to hear what the man said. Had to. If I didn’t, I felt like I’d go crazy.

“What did you say?” I pleaded. “Please, repeat what you just said!”

His mouth was closed. He wasn’t smiling at me anymore. My skin started to itch, and my joints began to hurt like hell. His eyes darted over to the girl. I followed his gaze. She flipped back her bleach-blond hair with her hand, never ceasing the yapping. I glared at the line of her jaw as it moved. She was just a fucking cow without the cud in her mouth.

“Shut up,” I said quietly. Then I screamed. “Shut the fuck up!”

I only saw her surprised expression for a moment, because a bullet from my nine-millimetre sheared off most of the top of her head, and whatever she was thinking of saying next sprayed all over the cashier’s face. A chunk of brain oozed to the tip of his nose and splattered onto the counter.

It was quiet for a second, and I turned to the man again, waiting for him to speak. Once he opened his mouth though, the cashier, the fat preacher lady and the college kid, erupted in shrieks. The lady began to choke on something. I think it was vomit. That shut her up a bit. She collapsed on the floor, her face turning purple. She moved around a little bit. Not that long, really.

The cashier’s mouth had become a huge hole in his stupid face. His hand was below the counter, pushing something. The screams were an ice pick in my brain. Both those guys screamed like little girls; they reminded me of those fucking kids at the library. The college kid yanked at his dirty hair. Without taking his eyes from me, he leaped toward the door. He didn’t even see the man who was trying to say something. The kid passed right through him, and pushed himself out of the store.

The man at the door shuddered as the kid went through him. His eyes closed for a moment, and a wet, black thing slipped from his mouth and licked his phantom lips. The kid outside froze on the sidewalk. He walked a bit to the right of the door, and stepped up to the glass, pressing his face against it, staring inside with a blank look on his face. He beat his head repeatedly against the surface. When he finally dropped, he left a gross smear.

The cashier wouldn’t quit screaming. I approached the counter, and he backed up against the wall. His screams took the form of words. “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!”

I wanted to get right up to the counter, but the dead bitch he was talking to was in the way. Cursing, I bent down and grabbed the corpse by the front of her Levis, and hurled her out of the way. I leaned on the counter. “Quit screaming,” I said calmly, pissed off as fuck. With my free hand, I pointed to the man at the door. “Can’t you see the man is trying to say something? He’s got something important to say to me, and because you won’t be quiet, he won’t talk.”

The cashier looked at the door, but, like the college kid, he didn’t see anything. Whatever little patience I had was fucking used up.

“Shit,” I said. I jumped onto the counter on my knees and grabbed the little dumbass by his shirt, yanking him close. His shrieks got louder and higher. I stuffed the barrel of my gun into his giant mouth, which muffled his noise a little bit. Tears rolled down his face, getting my hand wet.

“Damn.”

I switched hands for a moment so I could wipe my hand on my shirt. Since the little bastard didn’t have any hair, I had to grab him by his ear. I felt that massive pimple burst against my fingers, which pissed me off even more. “Don’t scream anymore,” I said quietly. “I want to hear this man speak. Shut up.”

No. He didn’t stop.

“Shit.” Letting go of his ear, I pushed the gun deep into his mouth and pulled the trigger. His head exploded. The cigarettes above and behind him caught most of the dumb shit’s blood and thoughts. I didn’t get any on me. I holstered my gun. Taking my handkerchief from my pocket, I wiped the pus and blood off my fingers, and tossed it on the cashier’s body.

It was finally quiet. I got down from the counter, my boots smacking against the floor. I walked over to the man at the door. He hadn’t moved a bit. The man was tall. I had to fucking look up to see his eyes. In the distance, I heard sirens approaching. People were starting to crowd around outside. It wasn’t going to be quiet for long.

I looked up at the man and smiled. He grinned down at me.

“Finally,” I said. “I thought those fuckheads would never be quiet.”

He was silent.

“Well, what was it you said to me? I have to know what you said.”

His lipless mouth cracked open. His voice sounded like a rake on asphalt. “I didn’t say anything.”

I felt my chin fall.

“What?” I said. “You’re a liar. You’re a fucking liar.”

Originally published in Morpheus Tales #1, July 2008

The Sliding By Kevin Lucia

November, 2007

I’ve broken a promise made long ago, and I don’t know what’s going to happen.

The cursor on my IMAC blinks, daring me to continue what I’d started months ago. What once seemed safe, now felt foolish. I was dancing at the edge of something terrible, but I didn’t know if I could stop, or wanted to, for that matter.

Maybe it’s the long nights, which have only become more desolate since Jennifer packed her bags and left, or the cold bed I wake up in every morning. Maybe it’s driving to work and eating alone; or maybe it’s the dead eyes looking back at me from the mirror, dull and flat.

I called Joel and Chris the other day, but the conversation fizzled. They remember three high school kids trespassing in an old house, nothing more. Even with gentle prodding, I couldn’t get their shuttered memories past a certain point. To them, nothing happened.

However, something did happen. One August Saturday afternoon we glimpsed a dark, powerful truth: that a shadowed world exists next to ours, one that defies explanation.

Slowly, my fingers engaged the keys, initially hesitant, but with each keystroke the corridors in my mind widened. With care, I again opened doors shut long ago, wondering if tonight the things sliding in the dark would claim me at last.

# # #

August, 1985

I hesitated on the old porch outside the closed window, hand resting lightly on cracked siding. Through dirty glass the room appeared empty, littered with the debris you’d expect in an abandoned house.

“This’s stupid,” I breathed. “You seriously want to do this?”

I couldn’t see, but heard the smirk in Joel’s voice. “C’mon, you’re the biggest guy here. Don’t tell me you’re chicken.”

I glared at him over my shoulder. Joel and I’d been friends since kindergarten, but sometimes he pissed me off. I’m cautious by nature and he’s not, especially when I’m going first.

“Listen, you may not have football this fall, but I do. I don’t want to miss the season because I sliced myself on a broken window messing around.”

“Honestly, Joel,” Chris said, leaning against the siding, “that window wasn’t closed up last summer. Maybe this isn’t smart.”

Chris’s support emboldened me. “Okay, we can open this - I’m just gonna need a hand, because the frame’s weak, and I don’t want the glass to break.” I grasped one corner of the window, and nodded at the other. “Chris…?”

He nodded, moving quickly, without second thought.

As we carefully tried to open the window, I asked, “So what’s the deal with this place?”

The story was typical. Bassler House was an old, three storey Victorian that had stood abandoned for years, and every summer when Chris and his brother visited their grandmother at Clifton Lake, they took a pilgrimage here to test their mettle. According to Chris, its walls and floors were adorned with hastily scrawled Satan-worshiping paraphernalia: pentagrams, 666 and predictable slogans such as ‘Satan Rulz’ and ‘Jesus Suks’.

“It’s lame,” Chris finished as the window opened, “it was fun to poke around as kids, but there’s not much here.”

“That’s only because we haven’t gone into the basement yet,” Joel remarked from behind.

I glanced at the crumbling foundation and remarked, “That’s probably smart.”

Joel snorted at what he probably thought was cowardice; but I ignored him, knowing the only way he’d venture into the basement would be if I went first.

Thank God we didn’t go into the basement that day; because I don’t believe we would’ve made it out of there.

Seconds later, after crawling through the window, I stood in the middle of a musty smelling room on the first floor. Wallpaper peeled from the walls in shrivelled strips like used-up snake-skin, the floor covered with gritty dust, corners piled with crushed soda cans, broken beer bottles, a headless doll here, a broken plate there.

An open door stood in the corner.

“So the stuff’s in the other room?”

“Yeah,” Joel drawled, “check it out... if you got the guts.”

Chris sighed as he climbed in after me. “You’re an ass.”

Joel’s reply was brilliant in its eloquence. “Bite me.”

I ignored them, approaching the far room. A feeling lingered in the air, exerting a slight pressure I felt in my ears and head. Maybe all abandoned houses were like this, haunted by the memories of their former occupants.

Bassler House held more than memories.

I stepped through the door and stopped, arrested by what I saw.

In the room beyond was the much-rumoured pentagram - but it wasn’t hastily scrawled on the wall, nor did it appear the work of drunken college students. Planted with the meticulous care of only the most committed was a brick-laid pentagram, roughly the size of the room.

It was a near-perfect circle.

At that point, Chris reached my shoulder. “Holy... “

Still on the porch, Joel swiped a broken tree branch, wedged it between windowsill and window, and scrambled through. “What’s up?” He joined Chris at my back, stopped, and muttered, “Damn.”

I glanced at him. “That’s never been there before?”

Chris, breathless. “No freakin’ way.”

Joel, numb. “Uh-uh.”

Of course, we did the next, most logical thing: we walked slowly around it.

Instantly, a putrid smell hit my nostrils, a high-pitched buzz I hadn’t noticed before in the air. Squinting, I saw above each pentagram triangle a mass of flies, and as I passed them, a rotten smell wafted upwards, making me taste bile.

Several somethings had apparently been sacrificed here - or at the very least, someone wanted people to think so.

I never saw what rotted in those triangles, and to this day, I’m glad. I tell myself ‘squirrel’ or ‘mouse’, and I’m content.

We made our circuit and found ourselves clustered by a winding stairway leading to the second and third floors. The whiteness of my friend’s faces told me enough: the pentagram was something they’d never seen before.

Stating the obvious, Chris whispered, “This is new.”

I believed Chris’s sincerity, but prodded Joel, who was prone to arranging elaborate pranks, “You didn’t do this?”

The shock on his face was unnerving. Though Joel often talked with exaggerated flair, he was no coward. “No way,” he muttered, the corners of his mouth drawn tight.

Someone had painted the room’s walls white, and the blankness felt alien, out of place. No debris collected here, and with the exception of the pentagram, the flies and stench, the room was practically sterile.

However, as no black-robed Satanists slid from hidden crevices to offer us as virgin sacrifices, (which we’d be, despite our grandiose lies to each other), we relaxed. We figured the pentagram was the creation of some lonely Goth kids with nothing better to do; the buzzing flies feasting on rotten hamburger, not animals. We couldn’t explain the whiteness of the room, so we dismissed it.

Of course, the best thing to do in a situation like this is something stupid; because that always helps chase away cold sweats. After sharing very mundane explanations, Joel flashed his trademark grin. “We should wreck it.”

I glanced at Chris. “You mean... “

“Sure. Toss the bricks out the window; screw up their little Goth-Satanist party.” He raised his eyebrows pointedly. “God would want us to, dontcha think?”

If you’ve never been raised country-Baptist, such a challenge means nothing. However, both Joel and I had deacons for fathers, and though an Episcopalian, Chris had attended Afton Baptist with us for three years. The idea of God using us to smite the forces of lonely, Goth-Satan worshipers was absurd, yet oddly empowering.

This time I wasn’t content to lead. “Fine,” I nodded at the bricks, “be my guest.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, I thought he’d pass.

In a flash he grinned, vaulted to the pentagram, grabbed a brick, and flung it with rare enthusiasm at the room’s only window.

The brick crashed through the glass with a righteous sound.

The next few minutes are hazy in my memory. When hordes of Satanists didn’t stream forth to devour us, we descended upon the pentagram, driven, grabbing and chucking bricks through the window in a whirlwind of arms and legs.

I don’t remember much except our flashing, twisted faces, howling mouths, burning eyes. We tossed, grabbed, threw - moving like manic machines.

I hate to think that in our fervour we scooped up the rotten masses in the pentagram’s triangles with our bare hands, but we must’ve, because when the moment passed, the floor lay bare - though smeared in places.

Minutes later, we stood in the room’s centre, panting, shirts soaked with sweat - though it wasn’t hot. As our adrenaline ebbed, we eyed each other with dreadful fascination. We’d lost ourselves in the brick-throwing frenzy, the fervour of which was alarming.

We stood there in the tired weirdness, waiting.

Joel broke the silence by clapping his hands with authority, saying, “Well, that’s that. Let’s go see if there’s anything cool upstairs.”

Suddenly, Bassler House was nothing more than an old house in need of exploring. Our momentary fugue dismissed, we tramped up the winding stairs in search of more oddities.

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