Friday, January 1, 2016

Darkness Within Ezine Vol.7-January

Hi all!

Here's the latest edition of the ezine. Hope you enjoy it! Please leave a comment and let us know what you think.



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Vice President & Cover Artist

Editor-In-Chief





  2015 All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction of this ezine in part or in whole.



The Forest of the Dead by Thom Futrell
Lore’s Corner: Father Time by LM David
Jonathan by Sandy Hunter
Third’s Time A Charm by Helen Bishop
The She-wolf of Lake Wildwood: Part 6 by Ronald Edward Griffin
Dead Love Part 3 by Samuel Southwell
Haunted Ohio: Eric Street Cemetery by The Vampire Queen1
The Worm Farm  (7 & 8) by Helen Bishop
Detective Goodson: Rand’s Story: The Blood Lords pt.5 by Brien O’Raighne



THE FOREST OF THE DEAD
THOM FUTRELL

This 8,600-acre forest, located at the northwest base of Mt. Fuji, rates high on the creepy meter. Not only is it dense and virtually silent, but wildlife is scarce, lending an empty feeling to the woods. Aokigarhara is home to demons in Japanese mythology, but it may also be home to human spirits; since the 1950s, more than 500 people have committed suicide among the trees.
As if that weren’t freaky enough, Smarter Traveler reports that, “Every year bodies, bones, makeshift nooses, and flowers left by grieving friends and family are found on the forest floor.” Tourists can visit the area, but it’s easy to get lost (even with a GPS), so official tours are recommended. Some of the sights include a large lava cave where bats hibernate, the plastic tape resident’s use to make search grids during the annual hunt for bodies, and signs that read, “Life is a precious thing! Please reconsider!”  This is one place I hope to visit one day, the energy must be beyond crazy. What would cause a person to commit suicide there? Is it coincidence? Or are people drawn there somehow? Beware the forest, especially when the darkness calls….


Author Bio:



Thom Futrell is a horror writer living in Jackson Michigan. He has been in more than sixty publications and has four films under his belt. He writes under the name T.G. Reaper.




 Father Time.
What is Father Time about? A man is usually depicted as a bearded, elderly individual dressed in a robe with a scythe and hourglass or other timekeeping device (which represents time’s constant one-way movement, and generally and abstractly, entropy). This image is derived from several sources including the Grim Reaper and Chronos, the Greek Titan of human time, reaping, and calendars, or the Lord of Time.
On New Year's Eve many editorial cartoons use the trope of Father Time as the personification of the prior year (or "the Old Year") who typically "hands over" his duties to the equally allegorical Baby New Year (or "the New Year"), or who otherwise characterizes the preceding year.
In popular culture
Father Time is an established symbol in numerous cultures. He appears in a variety of art and media. In some cases, the symbol appears specifically as Father Time, while in other cases it may be coined by another name (such as Saturn). Either way, the characters demonstrate the attributes for which Father Time has acquired over the centuries.
Father Time has been a prevalent part of many cultures throughout the ages, known as Paki┼ż in some countries and even referred to as the "personification of time." In some cultures, Father Time is only seen during the New Year because he is thought to hand over the duties of the new year to Baby New Year. Some cultures believe Father Time, like the Grim Reaper, constantly watches us and has each, and every one of our hourglasses slowly decreasing, the sand slipping through the hands of time.
As for where the legend of Father Time began? Well, that is linked to Chronos (also known as Chronus). He is the personification of time itself. Indeed, the word means "time" and is the root of "chronology". It was, however, originally employed in a purely poetic sense. There essentially is no God or Goddess directly associated with time per se in the annals of Greek mythology, but there may have been a Titan of Time.
Saturn (referred to by the Greeks as Cronus or Kronos) was the Roman Deity of Time. Male ruler of the Roman Gods prior to Jupiter, Saturn's weapon was a scythe or sickle. The Romans honored Saturn at a Mid-Winter festival called Saturnalia that lasted for days and had feasts and making merry. All business was suspended and schools, closed. Parents also gave toys to their children. Saturn may have been worshiped by the pre-Hellenic population of the country but probably not as revered by Greeks themselves.
Since ancient history, time has been identified with Saturn. Mythology states he was the son of Uranus (Heaven or Sky-Father) and Gaea (Earth-Mother) and the youngest of the Twelve Titans. Upon the advice of Gaea, Saturn castrated his father, which separated Heaven from Earth. Saturn's emasculation of Uranus made Saturn King of the Titans. Consequently, the sickle (and later, the scythe) became representative of the cruel and unrelenting flow of time, which, in the end, cuts down all things.
Ouch!
According to some folktales, Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto represented Air, Water, and Death -- the three things that time cannot kill, and the overthrow of Saturn symbolized the demise of the old culture, which worshiped this ancient God.
Visit: http://www.novareinna.com/festive/oft.html, for more information on theories and beliefs of the origins of Father Time.
Sources:

Author Bio:

LM David has been writing stories since Jr. High School after taking a Creative Writing class. Initially drawn to the genre of Science Fiction, a fascination with Paranormal/Urban Fantasy/Romance drew her back into the dark erotic world of vampires. The more she read about the subject of the ‘undead’, the deeper dark erotic world of folklore and legends of the vampire became. You can reach her at:
Twitter: @LMDavid54



Jonathan

by Sandy Hunter

            Janal, now named Jonathan, raised his head and sniffed the alien air. Entry was accomplished but his energies were expended almost to depletion. Janal had been unprepared for the intensity of the struggle with the Jonathan-being for possession of its body form.
            He was preoccupied with accessing the Jonathan-being's knowledge of this world.
            It was raining—rain that smeared the varicoloured lights of the street into the puddles at his feet. He shivered like an old Venerable grown thin of pelt.
            Some beings spoke to him but he was too submerged to attempt to communicate. Some looked at his eyes and veered away.
            He craved denning and warmth.
            Dark, anonymous vehicles hissed by on the slick pavement and on the pathways above—there were networks of travel ways above him, tangled as trees against the lurid sky.
            Almost, the alieness of it overwhelmed him. Fear fluttered in his chest.  He massaged at the shameful ache of it.
            I must find a safe place.
            A man stood alone in front of a doorway. Harsh, rhythmic sounds pumped into the travel way every time the door opened. The man stood quietly, as if waiting.
            Jonathan drew back. This place seethed with beings—their shadows flowed across the amber rectangle of its window. It was not a place Jonathan wanted to approach— too many unknowns existed for him right now.
            He almost turned, and then saw the man's energies— they swirled in the soft hues of tenderness and nurturing spirit.
            Uttering a youngling mew of yearning, Jonathan approached, pausing when he realized the man was aware of him. He trembled, exposed, at the edge of the light.
            The man’s eyes widened as he regarded Jonathan. "You are beautiful," he murmured. Then, "My name is Seth Refkym."
            Jonathan sighed. To survive was imperative, but how to survive in a world where he knew and understood so little. His thought processes wanted to shut down, and it wasn’t safe to do so.  He shivered, pressing back against the cold, obsidian glass of the building.
             Warm body scent— the man followed him into the shadows.
            "Are you new? I don’t recognize you." Seth said. "Why you are half dead with cold! And your shirt is ripped..."
            The man's fingers, light as youngling's down, brushed the chilled flesh of Jonathan's chest.
            "...Surely the Bureau looks after you better than this?"
            He lifted his hand to Jonathan's face. Jonathan flinched, his pupils dilating fully to take in Seth's features.
            "I'm just looking for your tattoo... we can take a cab to your Bureau. You’re not well, my friend." Seth's brows drew together, "Do you understand me?
            Friend, the man named Seth said. Jonathan focused his hunter vision—the man’s energies flashed a soft, glowing sunset colour as he spoke the word. Jonathan relaxed slightly.
            Seth placed his fingers to the side of Jonathan's face, tilting it. "Here...let me see..."
            Fingers near his throat. A dominance ritual, Jonathan surmised. He trembled, and then submitted.
             "No tattoo..."  Seth compressed his lips and stepped back, "Rogue..."
             Jonathan drooped with weariness. This body was weakening, perhaps dying. He did not know.
            The buzzing lights behind Seth flickered out. The two of them stood in the sullen glow of the smog lamp. A crowd of beings poured from the darkened building.
            Seth threw them a quick appraising glance, and the corner of his mouth drew down.
            "Come."  He grasped Jonathan's arm and half carried him into one of the waiting vehicles at the curb.
                                   
                                    ****
           
            Jonathan felt drenched in comfort—snugged into a light, warm covering in a soft bed. Dusty sunlight filtered in through a translucent wall. He edged his body into its light and fanned his limbs over the warm spot on the bed.
            "A sight to warm the cockles of my heart," came Seth's voice from the doorway, “or the heart of my cockles...whatever."
            He placed a tray on a bedside stand, and sat hip-slung on the edge of the bed.  "Well, you go ahead and enjoy it. I pay extra rent for the rare sunshine I get in the morning. Don't worry, the plasex filters out U-V."
            Jonathan smiled tentatively. His attention snapped to the food-tray. Nostrils quivering, he realized this body form was aching with hunger.  And the thirst... he reached for the orange drink. It was thick, and unutterably sweet. He gulped lavishly, his tongue seeking the sweet filaments left on the glass.
            "Enchanting..." Seth murmured. "So" Seth moved to an armchair near the bed. He smoothed the nubby material of his robe, as he spoke. "You don't say much, do you? Do you understand me at all?  Can you tell me your name?" 
            Jonathan wished to please Seth. Friend. Seth glowed with the friend energies...
            "...Jonathan," the human voice sounded strange to his ears.
            Seth's long, lean face grooved into a smile. "Jonathan," he repeated slowly. His eyes surveyed Jonathan. "You are blonde, that is unusual to find, these days.  And what are you doing on the street without the protection of a Bureau, I wonder?"
            Jonathan resumed the avid consumption of food. He, in turn, observed Seth. There is grey in Seth's hair.  Is he a Venerable, then? Jonathan had not seen this last night when Seth's hair had been sprayed with a sparkling gold colour.
            Seth raised his hand to his head. "Well, as you see, I'm not as young as I look —rejuv can make the flesh look younger, but the eyes...the eyes age. So. I thought it appropriate to show some grey."  His wry voice lifted on a light laugh.
            They walked out, after the meal. Jonathan caught a scent, and his head lifted.
            "Can you smell the change in the air?" asked Seth.  "We're almost at Stanley Park Reserve."
            Jonathan began to run. Seth laughingly caught up, and they jogged across the pedestrian cloverleaf into the park. 

                                                                        ****

            "Jonathan! I refuse to go any further. If I'd known a sedate walk in the park could turn into such an athletic event, I'd never have proposed it."
            Jonathan laughed.  He felt washed clean by the forest's sweet exhalations.  He snapped off a small twig of spruce, inhaled its scent again, and then offered it to Seth.
            "No, thanks." Seth fingered through his tangled hair.  "I've got one of my own.  Hmm."  He brushed at his clothing. "You make me look disreputable— must you explore every off-the-beaten-path trail in the whole reserve."
            Jonathan smiled and hunkered down to enjoy the view across the water.  Seth joined him, folding his legs in a strange, flat conformation. He sighed, "Look," Seth pointed across the harbour, "when I was a boy, a long time ago, you’d see this inlet filled with tankers and freighters from all over the world. Then they banned them from the harbour. Got rid of the refineries too.  They’re all up north now."
            He turned, lifting a lock of Jonathan's hair against the light. "What are you, I wonder," he murmured.  "An angel, hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky." He laughed, misunderstanding Jonathan's expression. "Oh, I get fanciful, you know. I was a professor of English, back when literature was still part of the university curriculum."
            Seth rose to his feet—he stretched, arching his back.
            "Come. I want to show you Aristide's.
            “Aris-teed?”
Seth explained, "Aristide's is a wonderful little art-gallery-come-cappuccino-bar. I mean real art, not holographic reproes."
            Aristide Brulle, hugely fat and jingling with jewellery, enveloped Seth in a copious, colourful embrace.
            "Mon ami! Ca va, Seth? Et quel bel enfant!"
            Crimped, dark hair hung in a long braid down Aristide's back. His huge hand patted Jonathan's face. Jonathan did not take offence. The being's energies were lively and bright as the robe he wore.
            As Seth murmured quiet responses to Aristide's jingling gestures, Jonathan was handed a foaming cup of dark, sweet liquid.
            Drifting from Seth's side, Jonathan stepped into the grotto-cool interior of the gallery. They found him, later, standing transfixed before a display.
            "Ah!" breathed Aristide. "Magnificent creature, n'est pas?"  He stood a moment as Seth moved beside Jonathan, and then trundled away. 
            "Jonathan, what is it?"  Seth whispered. "...hmm..." Seth leaned toward the painting, "it's the eyes, isn't it—a mysterious feral intelligence about them.  Snow Leopard, it's called... "
            That night Jonathan could not sleep.  He prowled the small apartment.
            The compulsion could come at any time! It is my nature. I am a fool!
            He growled low in his throat. Fear for Seth drove him—he slapped open the port and left. 
            On the street, he leaned against a lamp standard. White-knuckled, he gripped the post. Have I been changed in this reality? Have I already failed my Passage Rite?
            "I am Janal! Warrior-hunter of the Felusta Sha'der!"
            An orange-haired passer by turned his shoulder to Jonathan and sniggered to his companion.
            I now fully access this body's knowledge and memories. That is well. I only took shelter while wounded and vulnerable. Seth served a purpose—I don’t need Seth now.
            Janal/Jonathan grimaced and ruefully acknowledged a sense of loss. But, I have not escaped the wanting—the memory of friend.
            Resolute, he shoved the feeling away.
            Jonathan turned toward a transit platform and boarded an empty car. As the ancient car hurtled, rocking and squealing to Old-Town, Jonathan paced. The compulsion continued to create unbearable tension within him.
            The station platform was bare except for a sleeping man propped against a graffiti-scourged wall.
            Jonathan approached the sleeper. Suddenly, another being lurched from the side of a communications kiosk.
            "Eh! Man, you wanna jug-jabber…" He held a hypo-gun out to Janal. 
            The being's bloodshot eyes bulged as Janal/Jonathan's hand shot out, grasping him by the throat. Thumb and finger applied careful pressure to carotid arteries. Spittle drooled through the dark stubble of the being's chin, and his feet flailed against Janal/Jonathan's legs. 
            "Here, man," he gasped, "...takes 'em all..." The being's thin hands left off their scratching at Janal's wrist long enough to dump various hypo pumps and skin patches from his pockets.
            Jonathan drew his lips back— a residual reflex from ancient days. His kind had not fed that way since primordial times. The squirming being's energies were dark and blotted with past and pending illness, but there was sufficient vitality to feed him. Focusing his mind, he started the draw. Finesse was out of the question—he was too hungry. However, he mercifully closed off the arteries and sent the being into unconsciousness.
            In the small hours of the morning, Jonathan returned to Seth.
            Thereafter, Jonathan was careful to feed before visiting Seth. Even then, he had night dreams from which he awakened sweating, of taking Seth's energies in his sleep.
                                                            ****
                                                                       
            Jonathan had been away from Seth a longer absence than usual. He was jogging along the seawall, when he suddenly felt that Seth needed him.
            He tracked a sexual raptor in the reserve's forest trails—fed and ran.
            As he took the stairs to Seth's apartment, foreboding crept over his flesh like the tingle of a Bureau scan. The door butler recognized his voice and opened with a soft chime. The small front room was crowded with Seth’s friends. A hush fell over them, as he paused in the doorway, then a whisper like wind rustled round the room.
            "Jonathan. Jonathan's here."
            Aristide surged forward, hands outstretched, and tears welling in his amber eyes. "Jonathan!" He lay a moist kiss on Jonathan's forehead.
            Jonathan was rigid, in dread of what was to come.
            "He said you would be here soon. Mon pauvre."  Aristide dabbed at his eyes with a corner of his sleeve. "I think that's all he's been waiting for."
            Human grief permeated the room, and something else threading through this.  Hatred—hatred emanating from one individual.
            Twitching his shoulders, Jonathan strode to the bedroom door. Seth was not in the bed. He sat in the armchair, a blanket wrapped around him. The long-cheeked profile was turned to the plasex. Over his bed hung the Snow Leopard painting.
            "Aris?"  The voice was Seth's, but the hand that gripped the arm of the chair was clawlike, grasping the leather as if it were a grip on life itself.
            "No. It's Jonathan."
            Painfully, Seth's head turned. "Jonathan," his voice was breathy, weak.
            The change in Seth's appearance was startling. This illness had ravaged his physical being. Jonathan scanned the signs he knew best. Seth's energies glowed, as ever, and flowed toward Jonathan like the eddies of an ocean responding to the moon. Jonathan also saw that these energies were also flowing almost free of Seth's body.
            Jonathan keened, a brief, bitten-off cry. He flung himself toward Seth and laid his head beneath the frail hand. Thin fingers combed through his hair.
            "My poor Jonathan."
            "What is this that takes your life?" 
            The fingers continued their stroking.  "All my life, I have been so careful. Diet. Exercise. It’s just my time.”
            Seth closed his eyes, then lifted them to the Snow Leopard painting. "You can tell me now—is that what you are?"  His voice was mild, wondering.
            Jonathan felt amazed—how had Seth sensed what he was? "Yes. In my own reality—very like."
            "I always thought you were like a great cat. From that first morning I saw you luxuriating in the sun. I love cats, you know."  Seth's voice dwindled, and the lids of his eyes drooped.
            Anxiously, Jonathan felt of the pulse at his neck. To his surprise, Seth's hand clasped his wrist. "I will die, my dear.  And it will be soon. If you can make it quicker for me, I ask that you do."
            Jonathan regarded Seth in horror, but the eyes in that sunken face were still Seth's, full of love.
            "I cannot." Jonathan breathed.
            "I understand." replied Seth, patting his hand. "Just be with me then."
            Jonathan lightly squeezed Seth's hand. He watched as Seth fell into a sleep brought on by his weakness. Dazed and hurting, Jonathan rose to his feet and left the room.
            Jonathan traced that thread of animosity he'd sensed when he entered the suite.  One being stood alone, watching him.
            He was a well-made young male, wearing a plas-bonded decoration on his skin—a cobra snake. The hooded head flared on his shaved scalp, its iridescent eyes over each shaved brow-ridge. The male's energies are not human, Jonathan realized, they are Felusta.
            In a cold wash of shock, Jonathan waved him into the hallway.
            "Well. Well.  No greeting for Felusta-kin, Janal?"  The young male swaggered. "We're the last, you know.  You and I."
            Jonathan turned, his hunter-vision seeking the identity of this Felusta.
            "Teras and Misst didn't make it in. Lesset and Kinth didn't, uh, choose their human forms well."  He threw an arm around Jonathan's shoulder. "So. How many kills you got?"
            "Kinisht."  Jonathan hissed the name and jerked his shoulder from under Kinisht's arm.
            "Thought you'd never recognize me, man."  He smiled, but his eyes watched Jonathan carefully. "So what's with you and that old gischt in there?"
            Jonathan hissed.
            Kinisht spread his fingers before Jonathan's face. "What's the matter with you, man?" His lips curled, "You become that thing you're wearing?"
            "You couldn't understand."
Kinisht and he were of the same tribe, yet no bond of affection had ever existed between them. Young males were encouraged to fight—for dominance. There were, however, strict taboos against mortal combat in almost all circumstances.
            "Hmm."  Kinisht glanced upstairs.  "Maybe I will have to kill that old gischt to bring you back to your senses"
            Jonathan launched himself at Kinisht. They struggled, at first so evenly matched they hardly moved, muscles straining as they reached for each other's throats. Kinisht swung Jonathan and slammed him against the stairwell wall. Jonathan collapsed, throwing Kinisht off-balance. Locked together they tumbled to the next landing.
            Jonathan glared into the cobra's glittering plas-eyes as he fought for advantage.  Kinisht's body was sweating profusely. It made his human skin slippery. No fur scruff to hold onto.
            Aristide appeared at the top of the stairs.
            "Jonathan!"
             He began to lumber down.
            Kinisht's mouth twisted. "Old gischt...fat gischt..." he panted.  "I will feed 'til I burst."   
            Aristide's energies flowed toward Jonathan, though Aristide, himself, was not conscious of the sending. Jonathan drew deeply, feeding on the energy.
            Kinisht realized what Jonathan was doing. He too reached for Aristide's energy stream, but it eluded him as if it had a will of its own. Jonathan felt his strength renewed and he bore down on Kinisht. His hand strained toward Kinisht's neck.
            His tribe-kin writhed under his grip, breath whistling painfully.
            Kinisht gasped, "You wish for the tribe, I relinquish it to you."
            "Craven," gritted Jonathan, "speak the words."
            Kinisht's eyes were wild. Jonathan's fingers began to close.
            "Sha'Janal. Te dis' tem. Az!" Kinisht rasped the ritual words.
            Forever. The words were complete capitulation.
            As he prepared to ease his grip, Jonathan saw Kinisht making another furtive reach for Aristide's energies.
No! Not my friend, Aristide! He saw Aristide already slumped on the stair.
            Jonathan roared. Never could abide Kinisht.  He closed his fingers on the carotid arteries, and drew Kinisht's energies into himself so fast and hard, that Kinisht's human-form seizured in its death throes.
            Dropping the lifeless body, Jonathan hissed.
            So. I am renegade now.
            He leapt up the stair to Aristide.
            "Aris?"
            The dark head wobbled as Aristide raised it. His eyes blinked blearily, and he raised a shaking hand to scrub at his face. "Jonathan?  Mon Dieu... thought you were going to be... killed by that crazy..." He lay his hand on his chest a moment. "I never got so puffed...going down the stairs before."
             Aristide's flesh was pallid and sweating.
            Jonathan's brows creased. A new thought occurred to him.  Hesitant at first, he laid his hand on the crown of Aristide's head, willing an energy flow back to Aristide. Before Jonathan's eyes, Aristide's energy field reshaped— its colours flaring with renewed vitality. Incredulous, Jonathan trembled as he observed this.
            Aristide inhaled deeply, his normal colour returned. Slowly he heaved himself upward.
            "I feel better, Jonathan. We must go back."  His voice dwindled as he realized Jonathan was gone. The big man glanced at the lifeless body on the stairs.  "Alors...,"  He sighed and shook his head, anticipating endless bureaucracy.
            Jonathan slapped open the apartment door, running to where Seth slept. He was as full of energy as he had ever been in his life. Kinisht must have fed to a most luxurious level before coming to attack him. 
            Very gently, Jonathan laid his hand at the crown of Seth's head. Closing his eyes, he again willed his energy to join with another's.
            It was full night, when Jonathan wearily keyed the room to soft light. Anxiously, he examined Seth's face. The long, lean lines were there, as they had been before, but the flesh was plumped and firm. The hand, too, when he lifted it, was fuller fleshed—the fingers no longer claw-like. Seth's breath was even—his energies swirled in their usual gorgeous array.
            Jonathan lifted the light form from the chair onto the bed, and slipped from the bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind him.
            Aristide rose from the shadows where he had been sitting, and moved into the blue neon glow pouring through the plas. His bon-vivant face was creased in thought.
            "Are you leaving?"
            Jonathan stared a moment, before he replied, "For a while, Aris. I...I may be hunted. I've killed one of my own kind."
            He waited for Aristide's reaction, but the big man just gazed out the plas. Then he tipped his head toward the bedroom door.
            "Seth?"
            "He will be well now."  Though he was weary, the elation Jonathan felt rang in his voice.
            "Toi," Aristide shook his head, "tu n'es pas de ce monde."  Then his grin flashed amazingly white in the blue-tinted light.  "When do you come back to us, Jonathan?"
            "Tell him, soon, Aristide.  Soon.  "

Author Bio:


Sandra’s novel, Elanraigh: The Vow ( YA/Adult) Fantasy, published by Eternal Press (2012) was awarded the Dante Rossetti 2014 Award, First in Category, Young Adult High Fantasy, from Chanticleer Book Reviews.

She won Spinetingler’s Dark Fiction Writing Competition with her short story, And the Coyotes Sang, which was published in the Sprintinglers 2011 Anthology.

Her sci/fi short story, Prevailing Winds, was published by On Spec magazine.
Sandra’s also published poetry in various small press; Gaslight, Lynx and Women & Recovery.

She’s currently working on the sequel for her novel, to be titled Elanraigh: The Sacrifice and a new paranormal romance, “Dragon Heir.” She expects to publish both in 2016.

Sandra’s a member of SF Canada, The Burnaby Writers Society and W.I.P. (a local writers group)

Sandra’s always lived at the edges of ocean and forest in the Pacific Northwest, so it came naturally to have a sentient forest as a major character in Elanraigh. She’s a “fair weather” kayaker, and a lousy gardener, who tries hard. She has a ready sense of humor and an optimistic outlook (a good thing, when you’re a writer). 



Author.

The She-wolf of Lake Wildwood
Part 6



3am at Kurt’s house

            Kurt lay in his bed with his arm around his wife Diane. He smiles after the wonderful love making session they shared together. She rolls over facing him with a big smile on her face. He slowly strokes her cheek with his hand and she looks into his eyes lovingly.
            “Thank you for the flowers honey.”
            “I would do anything to make you happy Diane. You’re the only one that I love. Always have been and always will be.”
            “I’m sorry that I keep getting jealous. I know you love me It’s just hard seeing someone so young and attractive flirting with you.” Diane says.
            “I don’t think she was flirting with me. Was she?”
            “Oh please Kurt you have got to notice.”
            “I love you that is all that matters anyways honey.”
            She snuggles closely to him burying her face into his chest. The two of them lay together in a peaceful bliss. Then the moment is interrupted by a knock on the front door. Diane Grips his arm to keep him from getting up.
            “Just ignore it and maybe they will go away.” She says.
            He does just that and starts kissing on her neck.
            “Now you know what that does to me. Keep that up and we will have to start round 2.”
            He ignores her warnings and continues kissing along her neck. The knocking continues though and Diane lets out an aggravated sigh.
            “Go answer the door.” She says through gritted teeth.”
            Kurt gets out of bed and puts his robe on before walking down the hallway to the front door. When he opens the door he is surprised when he sees the same two police officers that were interrogating Tabetha before.
            “Yes officers how can I help you?”
            “We are sorry to bother you so late tonight but we wanted to let you know an employee of yours was killed by an animal tonight.”
            “Oh my god who was it?” He asks while covering his mouth in disbelief.
            “Jade Willis, we believe she was the closing cashier with you tonight. Did you see anything out of the ordinary earlier tonight?”
            “No, I had asked her if she wanted me to stay with her until her mother showed up but she said no.”
            “Yeah the poor girl’s mother was the one that found her dead in the parking lot where the two of you work. Her throat was torn out and her body shred to pieces. Just like that boy found down the street.”
            “You mean the boy that went out on a date with that girl next door?” Diane says while wrapping her arms around Kurts’ waist. “Say honey didn’t you say that girl had an interview with you tonight? Strange coincidence wouldn’t you say?”
            “Is that true sir was Miss Greer at Pizza Hut tonight?” The other officer asks.
            Not wanting to answer because he agrees himself that it is a strange coincidence he nods his head.
            “Yeah I had told her I would see about hiring her since she’s new in town.”
            One of the officers is writing down notes in his notebook while listening.
            “I see, well it is more than likely an animal attack though. I don’t believe a person could do those things to that girl and that boy, but just to be sure we should probably go ask her a few questions. Sorry once again to bother you so late thank you for your time.” One of the officers says.
            “If it is a wild animal I would make sure that your kids stay indoors, especially at night.”
The other officer says.
            “Thank you officers we will be sure to do that.” Kurt says. 
            The officers leave and Kurt closes the door as they step off of the porch.
            “So are you coming back to bed for round two sweetheart?” Diane asks.
            “Honey Jade just died.” Kurt says disappointed.
            “I’m sorry baby you’re right I wasn’t thinking. I just really enjoyed making love to you.” She says while wrapping her arms around him. “I love you.”
            “I love you too.”
            She leans up and kisses him on the lips and rubs his shoulders.
            “Let’s go to bed honey.”
            Kurt nods and follows her into the bedroom closing the door behind them.

To be continued…
Author Bio:



Ronald Edward Griffin is a native of Macon, GA where he was born and raised. He is an accomplished Author in his own right and is always working hard on something. He has two children whom he hopes to pass his writing bug on to them.









     

DEAD LOVE
By
Samuel D Southwell
Part 3

1
Mike woke up on his back. His head was throbbing and his neck felt like it was on fire. He tried to move but he was trapped. A row of chairs had him pinned to the floor. He scanned the area and it looked as if a bomb had gone off. The other passengers were in the same shape as he was. Some trapped maybe dead. Others hovering over loved ones.
“Mister please my mom is ill!”
Mike saw Sam sitting next to Heather. He had tears in his eyes and he was rocking back and forth. Heather was not moving. “Sam.”
Mike reached his hand under the chair and pushed with all his might. He pushed until his arm started to buckle. “Come on!” Suddenly the chair started to move slowly. He continued to push through the pain. His arm was now burning more than his neck. Finally he got the chair up far enough for him to squeeze out.
Sam was still rocking and crying next to his mother. Mike crawled over to him and took him in his arms. “Come here Sam. It is going to be alright.” Sam allowed him to hold him and buried is face in his shoulder.
Mike put his free hand under Heather nose. Breath. “Thank god! It’s OK Sam! Your mom is going to be alright.”
Mike pulled Sam away from his shoulder so he could see his face. The look on his face made Mike’s heart sink. “Listen to me Sam. We have to help your mom. OK!”
Sam wiped the tears from his eyes.
“Alright Sam. I have to get this pillar off her. Can you help me?”
Sam nodded.
“Alright I am going to try and roll it. What I want you to do is watch your mother’s face and see if it hurts her. Do you know what pain looks like?”
“Yes! Like when daddy left.”
Mike stared at Sam with disbelief. “Ok. Are you ready?”
Sam climbed up and stared at his Mom’s face.
Mike stood up shakily trying to find his footing. He planted his feet hard. Then he put both his hands on the pillar. “Here we go!” He pushed hard and the pillar moved about an inch. He glanced over at Sam. The boy was staring at his mother with all the concentration a young child can give.
Mike took a deep breath. Let it out slowly and push again harder. The pillar moved this time a bit further. He did it again and again until the pillar finally fell to the floor. Then Mike fell to the floor himself. He was out of breath. He heaved in and out until the pain in his body subsided. Then he once again glanced over at Sam. “Still with me Sam?”
“Yeah! She had some but I think she...” tears started to fall from his eyes.
Mike crawled up to him and pulled him into his arms again. “You did good little man. Your mom will be proud. Don’t worry she will be fine. I promise.” Mike stared down at Heather hoping he was right.


2
Mike looked down at Sam who was still in his arms. Then he looked over at Heather she was staring up at him. “Still with us then?”
She looked over at Sam and tried to smile. “It seems so.”
Sam let go of Mike and hugged his mother hard.
“Careful baby. Mommy is sore.” She raised her arm and rubbed his back weakly.
Mike scanned the room. Most of the people were in the same shape as they were. No help ever came. No paramedics, no cops, or even terminal personal. Weird. Where was everyone? He stared toward the window but he was too far away to see anything. He reached over and patted Sam on top of his head. “Be right back.”
“K!” Sam said without looking at him.
Mike grabbed the edge of the nearest chair and pulled himself up. With a lot of effort he got his legs under him. He hobbled over to the window and stared in disbelief. “My god what happened.”
3
“What do you think it was? A bomb?” Mike sat in a chair next to the window. Heather sat next to him with Sam in her lap. The other people were all near the window as well.
“I don’t know! But it hit this place bad.” John spoke up. He glanced over at his wife Martha who was laying on a chair. She had his blood soak jacket wrapped around her head. “We need to find help because whatever it was it must have knocked out the cell towers. My phone is dead.”
“Mine too. Maybe we should try to get out of here. Find out what is going on in the rest of the airport.” Steve, a tall skinny teen, holding on to his little sister Emily.
“That sounds like a good plan to me. I mean where’s all the cops or the employees for that matter. I mean we seem to be on our own here. This is so strange. I fly from L.A. To New York all the time and I have never seen this airport so empty.” Jean pulled out her cell phone and tried to get a signal. Nothing.
Mike stood up and faced them all. “Alright I know we all feel we need to do something. So how about this. Jean, Steve, and I will go down a ways to see if we can find some help.”
“I think I should come too.”
Mike walked over to John. “Listen John I know you want to do something but your wife is hurt really back and she needs you here. We will be back as soon as we can. I promise.”
John looked down at his wife who was staring up at him with her one green eye. He bent down and kissed her. “It will be alright.” He turned back to Mike. “Hurry!”
“We will. Take care of them and I’ll watch out for these two.”
“Three.” Emily shouted.
“OK! You can come but stay with me.” Steve held on to her hand tighter.
Mike walked over to Heather and Sam. “Now Sam take care of your mom. Can you do that?”
Sam nodded.
“Alright I’ll be right back with help.” Mike saw the pain in Heather’s eyes as she tried to smile and be strong for Sam. He looked deep in her eyes and whispered. “Hold on.” 
4
Mike rounded the corner and stopped dead in his tracks.
“What is it?”
Mike raised a finger to his lips. Then he stood perfectly still for almost a minute.         Emily was rocking back and forth as Steve tried to hold her still.
Jean watched Mike intensely but did not move.
“OK, I think it’s gone. Come on!” Mike wave them ahead.
“What’s gone Mike?” Jean caught Mike eyes seeing the terror in them.
He quickly turned away. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me!”
“Later! We have to stay focused.”
Jean saw the fear in his eyes but behind the fear she saw something else. “Alright let’s go.”
Steve and Emily came up behind them as they reached the gate. “Where is everyone?”
“I don’t know Emily. Just be quiet for a minute.” Steve looked at Mike and Jean. They were searching for an answer to Emily’s question.
5
“Hey over here!”
Mike and the others sprinted over to Jean.
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure it looks like...”
“Blood!” Emily glanced at them with a slight smile.
“Yes Emily it looks like blood. But how did it get on the security screen and where did it come from?” Jean saw that same glimmer again in the back of his eyes. “What is it Mike?”
“Well I...” his voice trailed off.
“Come on if you know something about what’s going on we need to know.”
“Yeah Mike what do you know?” Steve grabbed Emily’s hand pulling her closer to him.
“Earlier I saw something...Strange.”
“A little boy.”
Everyone turned to Emily.
“You saw him too?”
“Yes his mama is sick and needs help.”
“Yeah that’s right. He came to my hotel door before. Then I saw him just before all of this.” He waves his hands a circle.
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know!” Mike paced back and forth. “I don’t know what any of this means.”
Steve leaned down to Emily. “What did the little boy look like?”
Emily pointed. “That’s him right there.”
“Please help my mama is sick.”
The others turned toward the voice. The little boy was covered in blood from head to toe. His eyes were vacant and void of all feeling. His clothes were in shambles. “Please mister help me.” He came toward them.
Jean screamed, Mike jumped back, and Steve pulled Emily behind the conveyor belt. The boy continued to come closer to them.
“Go away you demon child.” Jean grabbed a shoe off the belt and tossed it at the boy. It struck the boy and the boy disappeared.
“Please help my mama!” The words reverberated through the large empty room.
Jean fell to her knees with her hands in her face. Mike let out a long held breath. Steve held on to Emily’s hand and she stared at the spot where the boy had been.
“He’s gone now.”
“Yes Emily he is gone now.”
6
Mike pushed the door open with a shove and then he went inside the security station. Like the rest of the airport there was no one inside. He began to search the room.
Jean stepped through the door followed by Emily and Steve. “Anything?”
“Not really. Oh wait here is a first aid kit.” He pulled it off the wall and quickly took inventory. “It will have to do. Come on we need to get back to the others.”




Author Bio:

Samuel holds a degree in English Literature from the University of South Florida and has been published a dozen or so times. He published his first book “Twisted American Fairy Tales” on Lulu.com and it is still available there today. He currently lives in Florida where he cuts up dead bodies for a grocery chain and spends his free time writing and collecting books.







Haunted Ohio: Erie Street Cemetery by The Vampire Queen1



Erie Street Cemetery
This is listed as the oldest cemetery in Ohio and the most haunted. There are over 8,000 people buried here since 1827. There are 168 veterans buried here from the Revolutionary War and the Spanish American War. In the 20th Century, the city wanted to move the cemetery to make roads but the Pioneer’s Memorial Association kept them from disturbing the resting place of their beloved veterans. It is Cleveland’s oldest surviving cemetery.
Lorenzo Carter and his wife Rebekah have been found to be the first white settlers. He built a log cabin for his family then built and maintained a general store, trading posts and a central gathering point where the flats currently reside. They had nine children and he died in 1812 of mouth cancer. It is believed that he still walks the cemetery at night.
There is a memorial for an Indian Sauk Chief Joc-O-Sot and he is the most notorious ghost of the cemetery. It is said he even haunts the baseball field that was built right across the street from the cemetery. After he got out of the Black Hawk War with a gunshot wound, he joined a vaudeville troupe here in Cleveland in an effort to make money. When the troupe went to England he got very sick from the gunshot wound he’d had over ten years prior. He came back to Cleveland. He had originally been in Minnesota and when he knew he was dying, he wanted to return to him homeland where his ancestors were buried so he could be buried with them but he never made it out of Cleveland. Reportedly, he was so angry that he shattered his original headstone. It is said that since he couldn’t make it out of Cleveland, his spirit is in a state of unrest so he walks the cemetery nightly. Many people have photographs of him near the mausoleum where most of the ghosts hang out.
Next to him was another Indian, Chief Thunderwater. He was an Iroquois Chief from New York but he was a celebrity in Cleveland. He was credited once as being the inspiration for the Cleveland Indian’s baseball team’s mascot, Chief Wahoo.
(Help and pics from DeadOhio.com & Forgotten Ohio)





 Author Bio:


The Vampire Queen1 aka Jodie Pierce has been writing since Jr. High School but was unsatisfied with her teenage romance stories. One day, a friend handed her an Anne Rice book and she found her inspiration. She’s been writing about vampires ever since.
 The Worm Farm by Helen Bishop (Chapters 7 & 8):

7
He was awake. He didn't look scared, he looked pissed off. He started yelling at me and cussing, and I quietly said, "There's no need for that."

"No need? No need, you damn dummy, let me loose or I'll punch you into next week!"

I explained how I wasn't letting him loose, and he threatened to "yell this place down!' I allowed he could yell as long and loud as he wanted, no one would hear him.

"I'll fight you and get away!" he shouted.

"You're all the way over there," I tried to reason with him, "and I am over here. I could come over there and you still wouldn't be able to get to me, best give up boy." The boy wouldn't quit struggling. "Look up, sir," I said, "next time you wake up you'll be on the hook. Maybe then we can have a conversation." The boy looked up and got really pale.

"You can't put me up there, you can't. I'll get away, I will, and then you'll be sorry!"

"You're tied fast, son, how are you going to get free to get me?"

"You have to let me loose. You can't keep me here. I got to take a leak as it is. Let me loose and I'll pee outside."

"I'm not undoing you son, nature will have to make her call right where you're sitting. Don't be afraid to make a mess, it's easily cleaned up. Now, why were you rooting in my stuff?"

"Well, duh! I wanted to see what you had, creep! Everyone knows you have a lot of money! I wanted some, and I'll be back after I get loose. That'll be better, actually, this time I'll bring the law, and I'll get your money in court. I'll say you kept me here to do things to me! Everyone knows you're crazy!"

"Do I know you, boy? I never saw you out here before."

"Mike told me all about you! Mike said he couldn't come along, because you'd seen him, but I could! You're toast, dummy, now I've seen your face and I can describe you to the cops! Ha! You'll never get away with it!"

"But son," I said. "If I don't let you leave, how can you tell?"

He just looked at me, with his mouth open.

I left then, tired of his griping. He had acted as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him to take my stuff, just because he wanted to! I didn't understand where he had gotten that idea, but that was neither here nor there. He had made his choice to steal, and now he would have to live with it. Or not live with it. I had juggled with the idea early on of beating him to teach him a lesson, then letting him go. But he was right, he had seen me, and instead of that being his salvation it would be my chance to kind of try things out and eventually he would be the worm's dinner. Maybe in time he would see the error of his ways and be sorry. I thought I'd probably feel better about the whole thing if he was sorry. I hadn't done anything to deserve being treated the way I had been treated. He, on the other hand, did do something. But, I had come this far and couldn't back out now.

I did some clean-up where he had ripped up my bait shack and swept up and fed the worms. When I finished watering the pile, the boy had been alone for about an hour or so and I went back down to him.

He looked a little the worse for wear and there was a powerful smell of urine. He was sagging in his bonds, dozing and hadn't heard me creep in. I gave him a kick in the knee.

"Ow! Man why'd you do that?" he yelped, struggling again.

"I wanted to talk to you," I said.

"Well, I don't wanna talk to you; you better get me outta here. I'll tell the cops!!" He was spraying spit all over. I got up from the floor and started out. "Wait, man," he whined, "where are you going?"

"Leaving, I don't need to hear this; all I want to know is why you felt the need to steal."

"I didn't need to, I wanted to! Don't leave, man, let's talk about it."

It appeared he had a change of heart. I went over to check his ties and he quickly tried to rear up and bite me! Me! I wanted him to see the error of his ways, and teach him something he could take to the hereafter! I stooped down and punched him as hard as I could. Then I took a piece of leftover wood and beat him like the dog he was. I was out of control, and he was unconscious when I finally stopped.

I left him then, and went upstairs to walk around and cool down. I'd wanted some time to ease into this new line of work, but if I didn't get my wits about me it'd be over before it had begun, and all this hard work would have been for nothing.

I made myself some dinner and sat out on the porch for a while to calm myself down. I went on the internet to read the paper, and then when I thought I'd be okay I went back down to the dungeon. It turned out he wouldn't be griping anymore or telling folks in town about me. He was dead. It was a big mistake on my part. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t planned to kill him, I had- just not yet.

I figured it really wasn't my fault that he was dead already. I had planned to reason with him over a few days, even feed him somewhat to keep him alive a bit longer. I had meant to kill him, that part I took full responsibility for, but not so fast! He had tried my patience and I lost control. I would have to think long and hard about that and maybe change my strategy so it wouldn't happen again. But first I had some chores to do.

I went and got the tools and cut him up as neatly as possible in the dungeon using the stack of newspapers I had collected. I had practiced butchering with the road kill and found out that it went easier into the grinder if it was sectioned up beforehand. I brought his pieces upstairs and put them into the buckets in the golf cart for the ride to the bed. I didn't need to do anything else to him, but I put him through the grinder and mixed him with the crumbles anyway. I figured that if anyone ever came looking, bone meal was easier to explain away than a skeleton. The worms would've worn that down eventually, but this was just as easy and got rid of it sooner. He was just a little fresher than my other road-kill. I had stripped off his clothes and ripped them up while sectioning him, and put them in the buckets for the trip later on to the river. Last of all I brought up the newspaper and ground it up too, and forked it into the mass. I wet down the bed and the pile of mixed kibble, and then locked up the house and gate. Later I took my bucket and shovel down to the river.

When his clothes were buried in the soft loam of the near bank, I dipped my bucket and cleaned out the cart. Lastly, I dug a bucket-full of the slimy, river sludge to take back to the worms.

Afterwards, when all the cleaning up was done, I took a shower and went to bed. As I lay there, I thought about what had happened today. I had been worried that I might not be able to carry it off when it was face to face. Killing my mother, if that was who she was, and that man she was with, had almost been remote control. I had seen them come up the drive and heard them run into the house, but I was gone for all intents when they died. I hadn't even made it to the funerals, not that it mattered to me but now I had gotten my taste of it. Next time I would be better, next time I would stay calm and in control. I could wait now too, and not be so eager. I knew there would be others, others that thought they could take my things because they thought I was damaged. I knew they would come, and I'd be waiting.
           

8
Over the next couple of months more and more people had come to my farm for worms. I was up early, just before dawn every morning to man the shack, and during any lulls I would feed the worms and clean up around the beds. Then in the mid-morning I'd go in and make lunch and bring it back out. I would use some of the extra time to grind up newspaper and leaves, and for walking around the bed to seek out worms making a 'run' for it. These I would pick up in my gloved hands and fling them back into the mass. I had started wearing gloves around the worms about a month ago. One morning I was picking up the stragglers and tossing them back in, when one worm bit me. He actually broke the skin and was slightly sucking at the wound. I guess they had used up all that boy and were looking for more of the same.

By the way, the Sheriff had come out about that boy, seems he hadn't come home and somebody had actually wanted him back. Go figure. Anyway the Sheriff came out and asked if I'd seen him and of course, I told him there was just me and the worms here at the farm, but he was welcome to look around. He said the kid was a no-account and had probably run away and he was wasting his time. I got a great idea then, and sprung it on Sheriff Rooney.

"I could keep an eye out for him," I gushed. "I could be like the neighborhood watch! If I see any problems I could call you straightaway, and then you or Dan could come right out! How would that be?" Sheriff Rooney smiled and said it would be fine. He had worried about me out here alone, he said, and he was sure that there wouldn't be much trouble, but he'd feel better knowing I was watching.

So I figured if something happened and it wasn't too bad, or bad for me, I'd call the Sheriff, otherwise I would carry out the sentences in the dungeon. That would keep things sweet between the town folks and me, and would work out fine.

About a week later, a group of teenagers went flying by on their bicycles, riding hell-bent for leather toward the river. They were whooping and hollering, and some of them gave me the finger as they rode by. A bunch of fishermen left the river right after that, and one or two stopped to tell me how the boys were ripping up the banks and scaring the fish. On their urging I went in and called the Sheriff. A little later Dan rolled up and waved as he passed my shack. About 15 minutes later, the kids all came out and one or two gave me the finger as they followed the Deputy's car back to town. I figured I had made a few enemies by calling them in, but I was doing my job.

Except for looking for the next person to take to the dungeon, my life settled down into a kind of routine. I got up early for the fishermen, recycled the old worms and dipped new ones. I fed the worms, swept out the shack, and basically did whatever fix-up, clean-up that was around. I took to reading in the off periods, and it was for pleasure instead of to learn something. Helen, the librarian, had fixed me up with a list of the classics that she said I should have read in school, and I was working my way through them. I really enjoyed Robinson Crusoe, but found Dickens a little hard to understand. Helen had told me to write down whatever I had problems with, and then next time I was down at the library, we'd go over the list.

I was meeting more people too, every time I rolled into town. I would always look in at the Sheriff's office, sometimes he or Dan and I would go to lunch. I would report on people I had seen that looked suspicious, or ask about stuff I had read in the paper and we would while away the better part of the afternoon. Days like that had to be planned for, the worms didn't need much, but they needed to be fed and watered on a regular basis. They were a big investment in time and money, and I didn't want to mess it up.


One day I read in the paper about a man who had been picked up for being drunk in public. He had been charged, spent the night in jail and then was released. When the man went home, he was angry at his wife because he got arrested, and even though she hadn't done anything to get him arrested, and somehow the wife ended up in the hospital. The man said he didn't know how she had gotten hurt, and there was no one to ask, the wife was in a coma. They lived outside of town, and had no close neighbors, and there were no witnesses. There were pictures in the newspaper showing her injuries, and editorials about domestic violence. Apparently, domestic violence is when your partner beats the mean out of themselves by hitting you. Like Sir and the woman had done to me! It made me really angry that she had been hurt, and I decided to do something about it.

I looked in the telephone book for the husband's address, and drove out there; well, near there, with my golf cart. I crept over to the house and heard music coming from around back. I peeked around the side of the house, and there he was. The guy was lying in a hammock, beer cans all over the ground under him, and he was passed out. I made a slight noise and he never even moved, except to snore very wetly. I cleared my throat, and nothing. Then I poked him to see if he would get up.

The man had some trouble getting out of the hammock, even though I excitedly told him that I had just seen someone ram his car in the street. I had to practically hold him up as I walked him down the yard to the drive.

"I don't see anything" he slurred, blowing his beery smell in my face.
"It's over on the other side," I said, taking his elbow, "Come over and look."

When he came around to the other side of the car, I turned and cracked his head hard off the trunk. He went down right away.

I went for my cart.

He was heavier than the boy had been, and harder to get in the cart. I pretended he was like moving the bags of cement and got him up onto the cart, then went around and pulled him farther on. Happily there were no neighbors, and after I got him in the cart and covered him with the tarps, you would have had to know he was there to see him. I chunked him a couple more times on the way back to the farm, just to keep him out in case someone was nearby when I had to move him.

The farm was quiet when I got back. I drove the cart over to the shed and put a tarp down on the ground, then rolled him off the cart and onto it. I dragged the tarp and him down into the tunnel and back to the room. It took a real long time, and I had to stop and rest every once in a while, but finally he was there and I could tie him up.

I slid him over to the wall, and with the hook and a rope I raised him to a standing position and tied him upright, face-front and spread-eagled to the wall.

Author Bio:



Helen Bishop is a native of Pennsylvania and a true fan of the written word. She works as a litigation paralegal; reads on average 20 books a week; writes book reviews for an internet blog; writes stories, poems and novels in various genres; and-just to fill out her dance card-contracts with fellow authors to proofread and copy-edit their work before it goes to the publisher. You can check her out at

thttps://www.facebook.com/HelenBishopAuthor?ref=bookmarks


, and 


Rand’s Story: The Blood Lords 5
A Southern Hospitality Companion Story

By

Brien O’Raighne


RED THORNE CONFERENCE CENTER • DOWNTOWN STORM CITY

Don Bertolli, Marcos Santos, Gina Torres, Luke Kellermeier, and Dat Pham all sit across the table from one another. Lance Thomas and his brother, Matthew, walk into the room. All the vampires hiss at the Metapol Agents. Matthew pulls his pistol. Lance puts his hand out on Matthew’s pistol.
“Calm down, Matt. This is only a natural reaction.”
“What does Metapol want with us, human?” Marcos spouts.
“You might have heard of the recent arrival of the incubi and succubi in Storm City.”
“That we have.” Don Bertolli fidgets with his fingers. “Like my esteemed colleague asked, what does this have to do with us?”
“We know how many there are.” Matthew says as he holsters his pistol.
“Really?” Luke raises a brow. “And how many might there be right now?”
“There are a total of four. Were five, but Detective Goodson took one down.” Lance gulps
Gina notices the guilt building up within Lance. She raises a brow. “Is this why you called us together. We know about the incubi and succubi already. Though, we do not always get along. There are certain things we keep in contact about.”
“No. Detective Goodson was planted in the SCPD by Laurel Jonas. Very few know what he truly is.”
“Are you trying to tell us that there are vampires on the SCPD?” Dat asks. He rubs his chin. “This is very good news.”
“No this is not.” Matthew spouts. “We fear they are taking him to Lucifer Morningstar to convert him from vampire to incubus and be their leader. He knows more about this city than most who live here. He could be a major threat if Lucifer is able to change him.”
Don Bertolli rubs the back of his left hand and fidgets with his ring. “The Agents are right. I know Goodson. He is a good man. We cannot allow him to be corrupted.”
“Why should we care about him?” Marcos asks. “What has he done for us? He has not helped or even favored us.”
“Are we in jail, Marcos?” Gina asks. “No we are not.”
“You make a good point, chica. That is for sure.” Marcos shrugs his shoulders. “Still I do not see what we will gain by helping out the vampire cop.”
“First off, Santos, he is a Vampire!” Luke spouts. “We need to help our own. We cannot allow these incubi and succubi to roam free. Especially allow Lucifer to change a vampire into a very powerful incubus. Are you dense, Santos?”
“Dense, no? An idiot? Of course Santos is.” Spouts Dat. “There are only four of them right now. But they can easily multiply if left unchecked. We outnumber them. We can force their hand in rescuing Det. Goodson. Besides he would owe us.”
“Dat, you make a very good point. He would owe us.” Luke says as he fidgets with his fangs. “Hmm. But we would need to make sure that what we would need him for would not seem so obvious.”
“Of course not.” Don Bertolli says. “Because if it is too obvious that might expose us as well. That would not be a good thing at all.”
Gina stretches her arms. “Now, if we are all decided on what to do, I say we take a vote on who is going to help out our fellow vampire.”
“We appreciate this.” Lance says before the Blood Lords 5 take their vote.
“The Mafia Sangria will help out the Det.” Don Bertolli says.
“As will the Sangres.” Gina says.
“The Crimson Clan is not interested in this endeavor.” Santos says.
“Maus are in.” Dat says.
“The Fuil Clan is in.” Luke says.
Lance looks at the Blood Lords 5. “Well that’s four of the five. We are going to need your best people to help with this endeavor. It would not hurt for you to lead your own groups so they don’t start some sort of Blood War across town.”
“Of course, Agent Lance Thomas. We will all get together after leaving here and get our teams together.” Don Bertolli says. “I am sure that they have their own adepts following them that are not completely turned. Those will be the most dangerous to us. Let us know when this all goes down.”
“We will.” Matthew tells them.
Both Lance and Matthew Thomas turn and walk out of the conference room. The vampire guards look upon the Metapol Agents with contempt.
Gina looks across the table with concern. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind, Marcos?”
“I am not about to cross Lucifer, even if I do not like what he is up to.” Marcos rises. “Gunther, Henry, come.”
Marcos and his guards follow the agents out of the conference center.
“He has the largest contingent.” Don Bertolli says. He rubs his chin. “However, I can understand his concern. We all at one time or another have worked with Lucifer to further our various agendas. This will, inevitably, piss him off.”
“I’m sure that Goodson being a cop didn’t sit too well with him either.” Luke says.
“You are right, Kellermeier. I bet it doesn’t. But that does not mean we can let these abominations run free. Now, I suggest we all go get together our best people. This is going to be one hell of a fight.”
Don Bertolli rises as do the other remaining Blood Lords. They all shake hands and go their separate ways.

SCPD PRECINCT 3 • DOWNTOWN STORM CITY

Captain Elerby Hill hangs his head. He swishes a glass of bourbon as his phone begins to ring.
“Hill, here. This better be good.” He says into the phone.
“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised, Captain.”
“Go ahead, Lance.”
“We managed to get four of the five Blood Lords to help rescue Randall out of his predicament.” Elerby hears over the phone. He sets down his glass.
“Really?” Captain Hill raises a brow. “Which one did not agree to help out?”
“Marcos Santos.”
“Can’t say that I blame him. Although, would’ve been nice to keep an eye on the Crimson Clan.”
“Oh, we will definitely keep an eye on the Crimson Clan after this. He just does not know how badly this will look in the eyes of Metapol.”
“Keep me apprised of the Detective’s situation.”
“Will do.”

DARK TOWER • SHEOUL
Rand thrashes back and forth in the dungeons below, in the depths of the Dark Tower. Two dark angels walk down the stairs. They are coming to get the detective. He hisses as the dark angels open the prison cell.
“You won’t get away with this! My friends will rescue me!” Rand spouts.
“Precisely, my dear detective.” Borothiel says. “You think that Lucifer really wishes to turn you into an incubus. Pleeease. You’ll be disappointed.”
“Borothiel, shut the chit chat. Bring him. The lord wishes to have a word with him.”
“Of course, Asmodiel.”
Borothiel walks into the cell and yanks the chains off the wall. He pulls the chains and drags the flailing detective behind them.




Author Bio:




He is a connoisseur of sci-fi and paranormal films and books. He, also, lives in Houston with his son.
https://www.facebook.com/groups/DRBStreetTeam/

*Note from President: I have to end this edition with sad news. Some of you know, The Lost Boys was my favorite movie and my introduction to vampires which I've had a long history with since. Well, in December, we lost one of our favorite characters, Paul, Brooke Carter to a genetic liver disease at age 52. RIP my friend!




**Brien had a new book, Southern Desire coming out the beginning of 2016. Keep checking here for more information. 


*Anyone looking for a GREAT editor/beta reader should contact Jessica Sawa (same name on facebook) or at her email: jessisawapromotions@gmail.com. She does excellent work and is even offering specials for Nano pieces!!! Check her out!!!


****Jodie Pierce has a new book that came out the end of November titled Vampiro do Brasil which was released first in English and then in Portuguese. Follow her on facebook for more information (screenname Jodie Pierce-Author). The cover is being done by Lindsey Jayne of L J Book Creations which can also be found on facebook!




******If you'd like to contribute an article or become a columnist, please contact me at darknesswithin.jpierce@gmail.com. Also, please feel free to leave a comment here letting us know what you think of the ezine! We love to hear from our readers!!!!

Keep Writing/Reading!
Jodie Pierce