This Dark Place

The Roof Dwellers

2006-09-02T18:40:00.000-04:00

I first saw them quite by accident, a casual glance skyward that would change my world forever. There were three of them, crouched along a narrow ledge three stories above street level. They blended into the grey skyline almost effortlessly, there drab clothing and pale complexions making a perfect camouflage against the urban decay of the city.

Once I had spotted them the first time it became obvious that they were everywhere and I began to wonder how I had not seen them up until this point. Always huddled in small groups of three or four they gave the unsettling appearance of homeless people who had been infused with the mentality and agility of birds. It was very disturbing to watch them wander about the highest roof and narrowest ledge with uncanny sureness of foot and absolute fearlessness in regard to altitude and the shattering drop to the busy streets below. How had I missed such an obvious display and how had everyone else for that matter?

After convincing myself that these roof dwellers were neither optical illusions nor the product of an over active imagination, I took it upon myself to attempt a closer investigation. This was not to be as easy a task as I had hoped, my fear of heights being part of the problem and the other part being there preternatural ability to be wherever I was not. Many times I would race up the stairs to the roof of a building and emerge into the cold air only to find myself alone, where moments before I had seen a group of them sitting in silent contemplation of the street below.

My first actual contact with these creatures came in fact by there doing, not my own.

I was rushing towards my car attempting to head off a parking warden about to place a ticket on my windshield when a strong hand fell roughly onto my shoulder. Before I could release the shriek that was building in my chest I felt myself hurtling upwards at a sickening speed and was not able to unclench my eyes until I felt myself being dumped onto a hard surface.

I was on a roof top in the cold evening air and standing before me one of them, the roof dwellers.

He looked at me blankly, not a trace of emotion or expression crossing his face. I rose to my feet slowly, my hand stretched out before me in a futile gesture of warding. As soon as I had fully gained my feet he began to circle me and a rasping, choking sound emerged from his throat. It took a moment to realize that he was attempting to speak to me.

“Steady” I said in a low voice as I backed away from the thing.

At closer range the differences between there species and ours were quite pronounced. There skin had a leathery toughness to it and the face seemed to be re-enforced with ridges of cartilage and bone. There skin was a sickly grey and coal black rings encircled there eyes, making them look cavernous and hollow.

“We will be watching.” it’s sandpaper voice rasped. “You will be watching us and we will be watching you.”

It held a long finger to it’s blackened lips and winked grotesquely. With blinding speed it leapt into the night air and away from my sight.

In the days that followed I began to see them even more frequently, this tribe that lived amongst the city’s aeries and perch’s, and more frequently did I notice one of there numbers watching me from high above as I went about my routine. I told no one, and no one else seemed to notice the creatures that moved along the city skyline, leaping from roof to roof and climbing along ledges with far more than human agility and speed.

I may have been capable of convincing myself I was having an episode of some sort, or even perhaps of blocking them out entirely in a single concentrated effort of denial, had I not witnessed the events which were to follow.

Upon leaving work late one evening I glanced around to see how many of my roof top shadows were in attendance, and caught a glimpse of slender white legs disappearing around a third story ledge, carried along by one of the roof denizens.

I began to fumble with my car keys, trying to force them into the lock, and trying desperately to ignore the faint muffled screams that were fluttering down on the cold night air.

I managed to open the car door as the voice gave a final pathetic yelp and was silent. I stood motionless for a moment, cursing myself for my cowardice and then cursing myself even more venomously for getting involved in what was obviously a dangerous situation.

I slammed the car door shut and made my way to the building on which the woman had been abducted. Upon gaining the roof I emerged to see a group of four roof dwellers standing in a circle around the unconscious figure of a young woman. She was bloodied and battered, her dress torn and blood seeping from a deep gash in her forehead. The four fixed there stares on me in unison, then back to the figure on the ground as one in disregard for my presence.

With quick jerking motions they drew long knives from there coats and fell upon the unconscious woman, there voices raised in a furious cawing as they plunged there knives repeatedly into the prone figure. They sat hunched around the corpse, tearing at the flesh and cutting it into smaller pieces which they stuffed into the pockets of there voluminous coats and popped into there mouths with obvious relish.

I stood frozen in horror, trying to scream but managing only desperate, croaking sounds. With a fluid motion one of the roof creatures stood and turned, moving towards me with long determined strides.

I stood immobilized with fear.

He pushed the tip of his knife firmly against my stomach and leaned in to whisper in my ear, his stench overpowering and his voice making my skin crawl.

“You watch us, we watch you.” he breathed into my ear and with a sharp tug of his teeth removed most of my earlobe, swallowing and making an exaggerated gesture of licking my blood from his lips as I screamed and ran back to street level.

Now I find myself trying desperately not to see. Trying not to notice there coming and going above street level, and trying not to hear the shrieks of horror, the desperate wails that only I seem to be cognizant of. They seem to be amused by there game of stalking and watching, both they and I knowing that at any moment they may end it with a leap from the night sky and the flash of a knife. How can I spend my remaining days knowing that we are food for an evil that dwells just above us in the cold night air?

End.

M. Stafford 2006

Are You Receiving?

2006-07-21T14:41:00.000-04:00

It happened the first time as I lay in my bed in a hypnogogic state, right on the borders of sleep. It was a man’s voice but heard as if through a static filled radio.

“Are you receiving?” was all it said.

I drifted to sleep with it bouncing gently around in my head, just below the level of conscious recognition.

I woke the next morning to find my hands covered in blood and my mind frantically trying to recall the events of the previous evening. There was nothing, only the vague memory of a restless sleep. I showered frantically, scrubbing flesh till it turned pink, and disposed of my soiled sheets and night clothes. Perhaps I had walked in my sleep or possibly something had made it’s way into my bedroom. Whichever it was there had been a struggle and apparently I had been on the winning end of things.

I spent the day going through my usual routine at work, calm on the outside but trying desperately to recall the events of the previous night.

Later that evening I found myself facing my bed, tired but unwilling to lay down. The idea of a repeat of the previous night filled me with horror. There had to be an explanation but until I discovered it sleep was a darkened landscape into which I dare not venture.

I found myself being dragged unwillingly into slumber as I sat reading in my chair, my book falling away to the floor.

“Are you receiving?” the voice echoed in my head.

I awoke the next morning once again bloodied, this time my own. An angry looking gash ran across my forearm, crusted over with dried blood and throbbing with a dull ache. I cleaned myself again, more gingerly this time as the wound looked to be on the verge of re-opening, and began to formulate a story to tell at the emergency room.

Again the day passed, this time in nervous contemplation as I waited my turn to be treated. Twelve stitches and a tale involving an accident while working on my car satisfied the attending doctor and again I found myself facing the prospect of sleep.

I lay down in my bed grimly determined to solve this mystery.

In my right hand was the pistol which normally rested in a locked box in my closet and slung across my chest by it's shoulder strap, left recording, was the video camera I had purchased for my vacation two years ago. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply and evenly as sleep engulfed me.

“Are you receiving?”

I woke with a start, cold sweat covering my body. I checked my pistol; a round had been discharged during the night. The video camera had remained in place still recording. Cold horror filled my stomach as I stopped the camera and looked into the eye piece. Holding my breath, I rewound the tape and pressed play.

The scene which unfolded before me seemed too nightmarish to be real.

The camera described my progress as I left my apartment and moved at a slow pace to the elevator near the end of the hallway. Entering the lift, the end of my pistol hit the button for the basement and began it’s slow descent. I emerged as the doors parted and walked through dim light past the furnace and vibrating pipes.

The camera continued it’s slow progress finally coming to rest on a woman. She was bloodied and beaten, hands and feet tied and working frantically at dislodging the gag in her mouth as I approached.

“2B” she sobbed, finally spitting the gag out of her mouth as the camera recorded my pistol leveling with her forehead. “He’s in apartment 2B.”

The sound of my .22 firing was little more than a pop, barely audible over the noise of the boiler room. I watched myself take a large toolbox from behind a stack of boxes and began removing her head and limbs with what looked like a surgical saw. I was uncontrollably sick as my image carried her pieces to the garbage incinerator and threw them in one by one.

It took only a little time to work up my nerve. With my pistol concealed in my jacket I knocked twice on the door marked 2B.

An elderly man who I recognized as the building superintendent opened the door and peered at me through thick spectacles. “Yes?” he asked mildly.

I drew the pistol from my jacket and pointed it at his stomach.

“Oh” he said in a small voice “you’d better come in then.”

I entered his apartment as he backed away from me, his hands held out towards me in a placating gesture. Immediately the apparatus caught my eye. It looked to be a combination of short wave radio and laptop computer surrounded by unidentifiable pieces of electronic equipment. The monitor displayed various rows of numbers and a sine wave and what looked like a pulse running across it’s screen.

“My own invention.” he said with a nervous smile. “It picks up alpha waves and allows me to control them once they’ve reached a certain resonance. Limited in it’s range but terribly effective on certain personality types. They were all whores you know, you needn’t feel too badly about doing my dirty work.”

My .22 cracked twice in rapid succession and the old man crumpled to the floor.

There would be one more trip to the basement but at least I would sleep tonight.

End.

M. Stafford 2006

Bring Me The Head Of H. P. Lovecraft

2006-07-20T02:48:00.000-04:00

As his eyes opened and flooded with consciousness, the head of H.P Lovecraft surveyed the room or at least the part of it that was in his field of vision. Usually they screamed. Howard didn’t. He simply closed his eyes, re-opened them, then set his jaw firmly against the scene which had unfolded before him.

I prefer to give my patients a little time alone so they can properly acclimate to there surroundings but this was a special case. This is what all the failures had been leading to. All the searching and reading and experimenting. All the ridicule from friends and family, the accusations against my sanity, it had all been for this moment.

I stepped out of the shadows in what I hoped was a dramatic manner and addressed the head of H. P. Lovecraft.

“Good evening Mr. Lovecraft.” I said with a slight bow. The head stared at me with a look of shock and amazement then seemed to regain control of itself.

“Good evening to you as well sir.” Lovecraft spoke in a quiet and controlled voice. “Perhaps you could tell me how I came to these circumstances.”

“Certainly” I replied, my composure momentarily disturbed by Mr. Lovecraft’s amazing display of calm given the situation. “It was simple really. I’ve reanimated your head using a process which I’ve developed and recently perfected.”

“A combination of electricity” I said as I gestured to the bank of car batteries on the wall which were attached to Lovecraft’s earlobes by wire and alligator clips, “a suitable electrolytic medium” which in this case was a pie plate filled with sports drink, “and of course the appropriate incantations.”

I finished with a macabre smile in hopes of filling Mr. Lovecraft with a sense of cosmic horror.

“Which one of us is mad” was the head’s response, “you or myself?

I held the smile a few seconds longer then crossed my arms. “Really Mr. Lovecraft, I thought you of all people would be able to appreciate what I’ve accomplished.”

“I am a layman sir, but I believe your science to be somewhat improbable.”

“Ah well under normal circumstances I’d agree with you” I replied “but after relocating my experiments to the dreamlands my success rate has been steadily improving.”

Howard’s facade crumbled as he fought to contain himself.

“How did you procure my bodily remains? How did you find the key to the gates of deeper slumber?” he nearly shouted as he glared at me from his pie plate.

“No bodily remains, just a bit of DNA purchased on eBay.”

“Purchased on e-” Howard began then thought better of it. “To what end sir?”

The smile that crept across my face this time must have been truly macabre, because his eyes widened with terror.

“As a service to your readers.” I walked to the bookshelf and pulled down a copy of his complete works. “Lets start from the beginning shall we?”

I propped the book in front of the horrified head and pointed to the story title, “The Call of Cthulhu”

“Now how do you pronounce this one...”

End.

M. Stafford 2006

When Alice Gets Home

2006-07-20T00:41:00.000-04:00

I've been sitting here for hours now waiting.

Two years I've been in love with Alice. Pregnant when she was sixteen, didn't even finish high school. Two years I've looked out for her and watched over her. And for two years she's cheated on me.

Right from the beginning I Knew Alice was trouble. Even when she was pregnant she couldn't stop her boozing and smoking and staying out late. Alice was bad right from the start but oh god I couldn't help myself. Alice was the first, and from the moment she let me inside her she knew the power she held over me. When we finished I laid beside her and confessed that I had never made love to a woman before.

Alice laughed at me.

"Jesus" she said in a mocking tone "we didn't make love we fucked."

But that was Alice, always so ready to hurt the people who loved her most.

I did my best not to notice Alice's infidelities but deep in my heart I knew that no matter how much I loved her Alice was trouble and always would be. Some women can't help themselves.

Even when the baby died I couldn't stop loving her. The poor thing lay in a drawer in her bedroom slowly dehydrating and too weak to even cry while Alice and her boyfriends listened to music and danced and smoked there drugs. Alice was in too much of a stupor to know what was happening when the police came and wrapped up our dead baby and took it and Alice away. I don't know who I cried for more, Alice or our child.

I came every week to visit her in the hospital but after the first time she was too embarrassed to see anyone.

"What the fuck do you want?" were her first words to me across the scratched table of the visitors room . It was the drugs talking. Alice looked thin and drawn out and tired but underneath it she was still my beautiful Alice.

I told her I still loved her and I would wait for her till she was healthy and could come home and we could be together again. I told her all was forgiven and we could have another baby and pick up the pieces of our life together.

She looked at me for a moment, confused and not sure what to say.

"Get the fuck out of here!" she screamed across the table.

The attendants took her away. She was still screaming and crying.

Alice comes home tomorrow.

It's been fourteen months but the doctors say Alice is healthy and ready. When I asked the doctor what time I should come and pick her up he looked at me and said that Alice had already made arrangements and that she had requested that I make no further contact with her. He said that the police would be informed if necessary.

So here I am, it's four am and I'm sitting in my kitchen in the dark. I've cleaned my guns and prepared myself mentally for the task ahead. Alice isn't a bad girl she's just made some bad choices. I blame myself mostly. Why hadn't I seen her slip into the desperate life of a prostitute?

And besides it's not Alice it's her friends. Men who stop in front of her apartment at all hours with there drugs and there booze and there loud music. When Alice gets home I'm going to knock on her door. I'm going to go inside her apartment like I did two years ago, only this time I won't be stuttering and embarrassed. This time instead of handing her fifty dollars I'm gonna take out my gun and shoot the bastards who are corrupting her. Then I'm going to take her in my arms and carry her to our home.

I've made a room for her in the basement. She'll have to be locked in for her own safety. I would never forgive myself if I let Alice hurt herself. I need Alice to be healthy so she can start having babies again. I want as many as she can give me and no more doctors or hospitals. I've been reading books on child birth and I know when the time comes I'll be ready to bring our children into the world.

This time it will be different when Alice gets home.

End.

M. Stafford 2005

Unseelie Street

2006-07-20T00:39:00.000-04:00

It was my friend Patrick who first told me about the Unseelie court. We would walk to school and whenever we would come to Unseelie street he would say "Keep your eyes open there watching us.", half in jest and half in childish superstition.

It was Patrick's grandfather who told us about the Unseelie court.

"Come across with the first immigrants, faery who mean no good to anyone. People now they laugh at the idea but folk from the old country they tell the stories and pass them on and they believe just enough to keep the Unseelie alive."

So we would walk down Unseelie street, not so quickly as to let on we were frightened but not so slow as to tempt fate.

The street it self was long and lined with tall brooding trees keeping it in shadow even on the sunniest days. The houses along the street looked old and disused. Paint flaked on the porches and weeds grew in the yards. There were never any children playing on Unseelie street.

Many times we would hear whispers from behind a tree or around the corner of a house inviting us to come and play, but we would never see the source of the voices and would always hurry on towards school.

This was our routine and always it seemed safe enough. As long as we walked Unseelie street together nothing could happen. It was an adventure and proof of our bravery to each other and ourselves.

That was the summer just before Patrick disappeared.

His mother slowly wasted away, her will to live ebbing from her while his father sank into fits of rage and alcohol abuse. The police had searched until there was nothing left but assurances to the parents that the case would remain open and they would continue to do everything they could.

And all along I knew the truth. The Unseelie court had taken Patrick.

I don't know what made Patrick risk Unseelie street by himself. Maybe he was trying to show me up or maybe he felt he was old enough to put away his fear. But I knew that's where he'd gone and where he was still.

My parents hadn't let me out of there sight since the incident. There would always be one of them there to drive me to school and pick me up afterwards, but as the months went by life returned to it's normal routine as it always must and I found myself facing Unseelie street by myself for the first time since Patrick's disappearance.

I began to walk briskly down the tree lined sidewalk, my eyes forward and my pace steady. Shapes played in the shadows and voices whispered and tittered and made nonsense sounds like children at play.

Then I heard my name being called, carried on a gentle breeze to my ear. It was Patrick.

I looked in the direction of his voice and he was there, standing on the porch of an abandoned house. He was pale and his clothes had been torn and his face cut and bruised. Across his chest was a brutal slash which still leaked fresh blood. Peering out of the windows of the house were several pairs of bright red eyes. Delighted squeals of laughter escaped in spite of attempts to muffle them.

"They said I could leave if someone would come and get me." Patrick said in a lost voice.

At that moment I felt no fear, only shock and anger and a desperate need to act. I ran across the lawn and up the rotting stairs and grabbed Patrick by the hand. I spun and dragged him stumbling along behind me until we crossed the weed choked lawn and ran onto the sidewalk.

As I turned I felt Patrick's hand change. It was dry and brittle and the smell of decay surrounded me. Patrick's head rolled back and he fell to the ground, a corpse many months dead.

From the abandoned house I could hear the Unseelie court howling with laughter.

End.

M. Stafford 2006

The Thing That Crawled Into My Head

2006-07-20T00:36:00.000-04:00

It must have went in through my ear while I was sleeping. It's the only explanation I can think of.

Almost immediately it started re-arranging neural pathways and short circuiting my thinking patterns. Concentration and memory were the first to go, then coordination, clear speech, and just about anything else the little bastard could sink it's claws into.

Initially I could ward it off a little but one by one my defenses fell. Drugs, alcohol, sex, even books, they all stopped working until it was just me and the little fucker running wild through my head.

Eventually I gave in and went to see a doctor. From there a referral to another doctor, this one a psychiatrist. He gave me some pills that made my head feel like concrete and talked a lot about the cognitive process and mental illness while all the time the thing in my head was urging me to find a heavy object to hit the ass hole with.

I tried ignoring it, I tried living with it, and god help me I even tried reasoning with it but it just kept shredding and chewing and turning my mind to jelly.

So time to take action.

First I tried banging my head against the wall, but it was no good. I think the little bastard actually got a giggle out of that. Then I went in through the left ear with a screwdriver but it was way too fast. I tried pouring bleach into the other ear but when I regained consciousness it was still there.

I went into the garage and turned on the table saw, lining my neck up with the blade - measure twice cut once they say. I laid back on the table and rolled slowly over onto the whirling blade but managed only to slice off an earlobe and land on my ass.

After a little thought I finally had it. I cut a length of heavy gauge wire, smashed a hole in my windshield, and ran it into my car's engine giving it a good wind around the drive shaft then looped the other end around my neck in a slipknot. Last chance fucker, I thought to myself. Walk or die.

I turned on the ignition and pushed down the gas peddle. My head slammed against the steering wheel and as everything turned black my last thought was that I could swear I felt something pop out of my ear.

End.

M. Stafford 2006

The Rejection Slip

2006-07-20T00:28:00.000-04:00

I suppose I should start this with an explanation.

I first noticed it sitting in the Regency, a dirty little hole in the wall pub down the street from my apartment. I hated the place but ended up there pretty much on a nightly basis. I was discussing books with Sandra one of the regular barflies.

"The problem" I said after taking a pull from my warm pint of beer, "is that writers today have run out of ideas. It's all rehashed shit. And when someone does write an original story the editors won't have anything to do with it. People want the same drivel by the same hacks over and over again. Stephen King needs to stop writing books and go spend his money. Make some room for new talent."

"Stephen King is a very successful author." Sandra said sipping her gin and tonic. "He's sold a zillion books and you can't argue with that."

"Well a lot of people eat at McDonald's but it doesn't mean the food is good." I shot back at her. I was getting angry, the usual have a few beers and get pissed off at the world angry.

"You're just jealous." she said, her mouth curling up into a mean little smile. This was her usual coup de grace when it came to discussing literature with me. I was a failed writer who couldn't accept the fact that I would never be published and I would spend the rest of my life in menial jobs in her estimation.

I usually replied that she was an over the hill whore who couldn't sell her ass for more than a couple of drinks but tonight I didn't bother. Something was pulsing in my head, a dull throb of a headache except it wasn't a normal headache. It had a voice.

"Get rid of her." the dull throb said.

"What the fuck?" I said jumping up and looking around the room.

Sandra drained her gin and tonic and then stood up from the table. "Go fuck yourself." she said with a curt smile and staggered away.

"Listen buddy" the voice in my head continued "sit your ass back down and stop making a scene. First thing you need to know is I'm in your head so shouting isn't necessary. Got it?"

"Got it." I said out loud.

"Oh shit." I thought to myself. "Got it."

"Now lets dispense with all the psychological nonsense" the voice continued, "and just say that you've finally lost your mind. You're as crazy as a shit house rat and have been for a long time. I'm the culmination of all your suppressed anger and all the humiliation you've been subjected to these past years. Can you accept that or do we need to go through all the dramatics?"

"Sounds reasonable to me." I thought.

"Good. Now lets get on with it." the throbbing in my head said.

"Uh, and what exactly are we getting on with?" I asked myself while gulping down the rest of my pint. Talking to a voice in your head does have the advantage of leaving your mouth free to drink.

"Your revenge. A killing spree. Why else do you think I'd be here?"

"Well it's not very original, is it?" I thought. "Writer can't sell his stories so he goes on a rampage. C'mon, you're my fucking psychosis be a little more creative will you?"

"Everyone's a critic" the throb in my head muttered. "I wasn't finished. The interesting part is your going to write a story. It's going to be about a frustrated writer who submits his work to magazines and then kills everyone who sends him a rejection slip. Real nasty stuff, peel off there faces with a carpet knife or whatever. The details will come later."

"Alright" I thought to myself "but if I start killing editors doesn't that still leave me unpublished? I mean sure it sounds like fun but it doesn't exactly get me in print does it?"

"Sweet baby Jesus." I heard the voice in my head groan. "After you've mangled a few of these bastards you let yourself get caught. You make the news and your work becomes infamous which is the the next best thing to being famous. You send out your work from prison and all the sick fucks out there will eat it up. Trust me it's really the best you can hope for. You're not that talented."

When you're right, you're right.

I wrote and began submitting and the rejection slips started rolling in. I sold everything I owned and I've spent the last few months crossing the country by bus and living in cheap motels. I guess it's a testament to my lack of imagination that I in fact did use a carpet knife to peel their faces off. I have nine of them so far preserved in jars of formaldehyde. I figure I need one more rejection to rate as a serial killer worth paying attention to, so I patiently await your response to this submission.

See you soon.

End.

M. Stafford 2005

The Devil's Highway

2006-07-20T00:25:00.000-04:00

One thirty in the morning, the moon is hanging bright above the desert and my charger is roaring down the highway all chrome and black and sleek in the night. The windows are rolled down and the radio is turned up loud.

She's laying in the back seat, her hands tied and her mouth covered in electrical tape. She's whimpering and pleading with her eyes. Her blonde hair falls across her face and makes her look young and helpless, which she is.

I push my cowboy hat back a bit, light a cigarette and turn my head towards her. "Darlin'" I say with a smile "didn't your mamma ever tell you not to take rides from strangers?"

It's always the same scenario. Runaways who haven't seen enough of the world to be afraid of cars that stop in the middle of the night on deserted highways. Teenage girls that can be lured in with a friendly smile and not missed when they're gone.

I turn off the highway and race down country roads that become more narrow until there nothing but loose gravel paths. Fields stretch out on both sides and lonely farmhouses dot the landscape.

I hit the brakes and pull the steering wheel hard to the right, sliding onto a driveway leading to a small house. I skid to a stop and kill the engine. I reach up to the rearview mirror and adjust the angle, panning past her eyes which are wet and pleading so loudly I can almost hear them to the swell of her breasts beneath her tight t-shirt.

"We're here baby." I say looking into the mirror. "Party Time."

I open the door of the charger and and grab a fistful of long blonde hair, pulling her out of the car and roughly to the ground. She kicks her legs furiously and shrieks into the electrical tape across her mouth as I drag her across the lawn and onto the porch.

"Get your lazy ass up!" I yell while pounding on the door with my fist. The porch light comes on and the front door opens.

Dr. Grey is standing in the door way smiling.

"Curtis, good to see you. Come in. Bring your friend."

He's wearing a smoking jacket over his pajamas and worn out slippers on his feet. A small elderly man with white hair and beard, Dr. Grey is delighted to see me. He always is.

"My boy you could not have come at a better time. What wonders shall we experience this eve, eh?" He walks hurriedly towards what he always refers to as his "operating theater" obviously excited by the evening's catch.

I catch them but Dr. Grey is the real artist. He has this technique for removing the pineal gland after he gets them real good and scared. He told me that it excretes a hallucinogen at the moment of death that when tempered with a little opium has been the drug of choice for mystics and hedonists since the Roman empire.

Dr. Grey thinks it's a way to touch the infinite. I just think it's a wild fucking trip. To each there own I guess.

We get this girl, Linda I think she said her name was when she got into the car, strapped down to the operating table and the doctor goes to work on her. Like I said they need to be real good and scared before he can start cutting and shit if he doesn't have it down to a science. Slice some flesh here, chop off a finger there, he has a hundred different tricks. One time he even ate one of there tongues while she watched in mute horror gurgling in her own blood . All part of the process he says but I think the the little fuck gets off on it. Still it's a mutually beneficial relationship and I'm not one to judge.

So finally Linda is about as stoked as we can get her, there's nothing left working behind those big green eyes, so the doctor goes in. This part is hard for me and I'm far from squeamish but the sound (not to mention the smell) of a surgical saw cutting through a skull always gets to me. But like I said Grey is an artist and before I know it he's popping half the gland into his mouth and offering me the other half. I down it real quick and we retire to the den to sit in comfortable chairs in front of the fire place, passing a pipe full of opium back and forth and waiting for the trip to begin.

It never takes long to kick in and kick is about the best word I have to describe it. No gentle floating sensation like weed or slow downward spiral like heroin, just a few minutes of relaxation from the opium then then your body is grabbed and squeezed into nothingness till all that's left is you and your brain lost and wondering what the fuck just happened.

Trying to describe the trip is like trying to describe an orgasm to someone who's never had one. You can talk till your blue in the face but you're wasting your time. Trust me when I tell you it's worth the effort and we'll leave it at that.

When I finally come down I look over to Grey who is still reclined in his chair his mouth is hanging open and his eyes are glazed over. God damn it if the little fucker doesn't look dead.

I walk over and lean in real close to hear his breathing. Nothing. I jab him hard in the chest a couple times and yell into his face but there's nothing doing.

My one source and the little fucker goes and dies on me. Some partner, the prick.

There's little chance of finding another doctor who would be willing to indulge in my pastime with me but I figure I've seen Grey yank the gland out enough times to do it myself. The first few attempts are going to be messy but I’ll get the hang of it. Once you've tried pineal gland there's no going back to conventional highs.

I leave the little bastard where he is along with Linda's corpse after taking a few essential tools from the doctors bag and take the charger back out to the highway. I've got a lot of trial and error to perform if I want to keep my habit up.

Grey finally did touch the infinite and I'm going to be having twice as much fun now that it's a one man operation, so I guess everyone is happy.

Well except Linda but she really should have known better.

End.

M. Stafford 2006

The Campfire At The End Of The World

2006-07-20T00:23:00.000-04:00

When the plague first came no one took it seriously until it was too late. People began to realize this wasn't like other health scares where the only people affected were ones on the evening news and began to understand when the black sores appeared on there neighbor’s bodies, there families’s bodies, and there own bodies.

Before the networks went off the air there was talk of global infection and only a minute percentage of the population showing any immunity against the disease. People sat and watched entire cities die around them. Slowly or quickly, in a matter of days or weeks, they would watch everyone they knew grow angry black welts until their bodies became too soft to hold themselves together and spilled open like rotten fruit.

They were the lucky ones. I was immune.

I stayed in my home as long as I could, but the stench of rotting bodies became unbearable. I moved north, traveling by pick-up truck stocked with as much food and camping gear as I could carry out of the cities and into the wilder parts of the country.

It was on a highway heading north that I saw Charlie. At first I couldn't believe I had found another survivor. I slammed on the brakes and reversed hard. I jumped out of the truck and we stood and stared at each other.

Then like a dam breaking we both began to talk. He'd had the same idea, head north and try to live off the land. The plague had hit only humans so there would be plenty of game to hunt but his truck had gone off the road and he was forced to walk until I found him.

As we drove Charlie continued to talk. I was so relieved to here another human voice that I was content to just drive and listen. He told me about his many girlfriends, and other girls as well. He talked about young girls and how he used to pick up hitchhikers too, but not like I'd picked him up. Only the pretty ones. The young pretty ones.

It was around the campfire we had built in front of the tent while cooking game we had shot earlier that day that Charlie started going into detail. Maybe he thought there wasn't any reason left not to tell someone or maybe he was just bragging.

I reached into my shoulder holster and took out my service revolver. I aimed and fired once, hitting Charlie directly between the eyes. I walked over to his corpse and put two more rounds into his skull.

It may have been the end of the world, but I was still a cop.

End.

M. Stafford 2006

Tales Of The Flesh

2006-07-20T00:19:00.000-04:00

I've always leaned towards the macabre in my reading. I have read the nightmares of authors from this century and the last, from the haunted prose of Poe to the most gruesome of modern slashers, and have devoured these worlds with morbid fascination. I believe that it is partly escapism that drives my obsession but more than that I feel I have always been able to immerse myself in these worlds to a greater degree than most.

Some might call this delusional but I've always thought that being able to enter these literary worlds as I do as being the mark of a disciplined mind and a good imagination. I always felt that I was arming myself with knowledge while delving into the shadowed worlds of fiction.

That was until Mr. Steam arrived.

I met him one evening while I was dozing in my recliner, the collected works of Algernon Blackwood sitting open in my lap. He appeared before me materializing just out of my field of vision so that I caught my first glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, making me sit up with a start.

He smiled wickedly and touched the rim of his top hat with a slight nod of his head towards me.

The room was growing uncomfortably warm.

He was a thin and aged man, pale of skin with wispy grey hair falling to his shoulders. Dressed in clothing of perhaps a hundred years past he had the appearance of a charlatan and trickster for all his gentleman's finery.

"Harry Gibson" he said in a whispered voice. "my name is Mr. Steam and I'm here to make you an offer."

I stared dumbly at him for a moment unable to decide if I was asleep and dreaming or awake and hallucinating. Mr. Steam stood before me leaning on his walking stick seeming to enjoy my confusion and disorientation.

"What?" was all I could manage. Sweat began to bead on my forehead. The room was getting hot.

"Now don't be alarmed Mr. Gibson" Steam said in his low whisper of a voice. "I intend you no harm. You enjoy a good story, yes?"

I nodded.

"Excellent." Steam's shark smile widened to reveal a mouthful of needle like teeth.

"I'm going to give you the name of a kindred spirit. Her name is Emma Walker and you will find her at The Ploughman noon tomorrow. You're familiar with this establishment, Mr. Gibson?"

I nodded again dumbly. The effect of Mr. Steam's gaze was mesmerizing.

"Another will join you for lunch tomorrow, a Mr. Delaine. The three of you will be granted access to the greatest works of horror ever written. safeguarded in the hidden library to which I will take you. Stories kept from the eyes of man for countless centuries will be offered for the delectation of you and your associates Mr. Gibson. And all you have to do is read and enjoy them. Do we have an agreement? This is a once in a lifetime offer, do answer quickly."

I nodded lamely in agreement, more out of fear than any sort of accord.

"Wonderful Mr. Gibson, you are truly a man of few words. Now don't forget your luncheon tomorrow. There are plans to be made and ideas to be discussed. We begin at midnight. Good evening to you Mr. Gibson."

And just as quickly Steam had vanished. I found myself clutching the arms of my recliner fiercely in somewhat of a daze. Sweat covered my body. I leaned back in my chair and played back the encounter in my mind, still unable to decided if it had been real or imagined as the air in the room slowly cooled.

Noon the next day I found myself walking through the heavy oak doors of The Ploughman's Pub. The building was very old with stone walls and wooden floors and roof, the atmosphere dank and gloomy. The few men seated at the bar glanced up from their pints to look at me with disinterest. As my eyes adjusted to the dark I scanned the room and found a lone occupant in the rear of the pub, her face hidden in a thick book. She was in her early thirties and rather heavy set with thick glasses and her hair piled on her head in a disheveled manner.

Ms. Walker no doubt.

I approached her table not having the slightest idea how to initiate the conversation. What if I had imagined the entire encounter? What if she were just someone in a pub waiting for her lunch? The whole thing was beginning to seem a little ridiculous.

She looked up from her book through her thick glasses. "Harry Gibson?" she asked in a hushed voice. I immediately sat down at her table and leaned forward, glancing around the pub though not really sure for what.

"You know me?"

"We have a mutual acquaintance I think." Her voice was low and conspiratorial. "Mr. Steam said I would find you here. I'm Emma Walker."

I was at once relieved and horrified to find out that Mr. Steam wasn't a product of my imagination, but exsited and had made himself known to this woman as well. "Who is he? What does he want?" I asked excitedly.

"I don't know", she replied. "He said I was to wait here for you and another man and the three of us were going to be taken to a library. I thought I may have imagined the whole thing but your proof that I didn't. Aren't you?"

I nodded my head, lost in thought.

Before for I could respond further, the doors to the pub opened again and a man slid through the entrance. He was tall and skinny with messy hair that stood up at random angles. He wore old blue jeans and an army surplus jacket with a bag slung over his left shoulder. He looked about the room quickly and immediately made his way towards our table.

"Arty Delaine" he said and held out his hand. We shook hands and introduced ourselves then over pints of beer discussed what we knew of the situation.

"This guy" Arty began, "crazy old bird, shows up in my apartment out of nowhere and offers me an invitation to a library. Tells me i'll have access to stories no one has seen for ages and if I want I can read them. The whole time he's talking to me it's like i'm paralyzed and I can't look away from him. I'm sitting in my chair sweating and shaking and this Steam fellow is acting like he popped in to say hello to an old friend. It was damned strange."

"There's definitely something off about him" Emma interjected "did you notice how hot it got when he was close by?"

"Yeah" said Arty "like sitting in a sauna with your clothes on. There's something weird about that guy. Something supernatural."

"C'mon" I said "lets not jump to conclusions. Lets try to stay grounded and figure this out. Why we three?"

"You like scary stories Harry. So do I." Emma said. "That's the unifying factor. Were all readers. I'd be willing to bet Mr. Delaine’s bag is full of books."

"Books and sedatives. I've been in a state of panic ever since Steam made his appearance. I don't like a lot of excitement. I have a condition."

Arty emptied his bag onto the table, spilling out several worn paperback novels and an assortment of pill bottles. He tried to smile and failed.

"What kind of condition, Art?" I asked gently.

"You know, anxiety, depression, paranoia. I take my med's and I'm ok. Well mostly ok."

"Bipolar." Emma said raising her pint. "Cheers."

"I've suffered from schizophrenia in the past but I'm over it now." I mumbled.

"Well then there's one mystery solved." Emma said while running her finger along the rim of her pint glass. "Were fans of horror fiction and were all three of us nutters. What use could we be to Mr. Steam?"

Before I could respond the bar man bellowed across the room.

"Harry Gibson? Harry Gibson - phone call."

I looked across the table at my two companions. A sense of dread had fallen over us like a heavy blanket. I walked across the room and the bartender handed me the receiver then returned to washing glasses.

"Hello?" I said in a tentative voice.

"Harry, so glad I found you. How is lunch going?"

It was Steam.

"Listen Steam, we want some answers damn it." I was trying to sound aggressive and failing.

"Harry my dear fellow no need for dramatics. You and your companions will meet me in front of the Ploughman at midnight and I will arrive with transportation to take you to the hidden library. This is what you want Harry. This is the opportunity of a life time. You and your friends have been chosen. It's a great honor. And Harry?"

"Yes?" I croaked into the phone. The sound of Steams voice had drained all the bravado from me and left me trembling.

"Don't be late Harry. That would never do".

The phone clicked and the line went dead. I put the receiver back in the cradle barely noticing how hot the plastic had become during my conversation with Steam.

Midnight found the three of us standing in front of the Ploughman, each glancing about nervously and lost in our own thoughts. We had all decided against our better judgment that we were going to make the trip to the hidden library.

"He's not going to show." Arty said while taking another pill from the bottle and swallowing it dry.

"He'll show." I said simply.

As if on cue a black vintage automobile appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Mr. Steam leaned his head out of the drivers side window and smiled, doffing his hat slightly.

"All aboard." he whispered, his voice full of good humor.

We filed into the back seat, Emma first and then myself and lastly Arty, who seemed on the verge of making a run for it. The car accelerated and we were on our way to the hidden library none of us sure exactly what we were going to find there.

I hoped the trip would be a short one - it was already becoming uncomfortably warm in the car.

As we drove the landscape grew rugged. Houses became fewer and farther between and the terrain had grown much wilder. Thick stands of forest and rolling hills replaced cultivated fields and dark shapes could be glimpsed between the trees almost as if they were pacing along with the car.

Not a word was said by anyone during the trip and it was with relief that we finally piled out of the vehicle to stand before a stately manor which we could only assume housed the hidden library.

Mr. Steam turned to us and smiled. "Welcome to Hodgson house, friends."

He began walking briskly towards the Manor, humming softly and twirling his walking stick.

Arty clutched the sleeve of my jacket and hissed into my ear. "Harry we need to get the fuck out of here now."

"Art, I don't even know where the fuck here is. You said you wanted to see the library and here we are. Just stay calm and we'll figure this out."

Arty shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets and walked behind us as we made our way to the mansion. It was as grand on the inside as it appeared from without, furnished tastefully and expensively but in a decidedly old fashioned manner. In spite of all it's opulence the manor gave the appearance of being empty and unlived in.

No one greeted us at the door and no servants moved about the premises. Shadows flickered around the rooms and cold draughts brushed past us but there was only the illusion of life here, not life itself.

"No time to waste." said steam ushering us along the darkened hallways and through heavy oak doors, down spiraling staircases until we came to a final portal the likes of which none of us had ever seen.

Before us stood a doorway of blackest ebon, sigils and glyph's of unimaginable origin covering it in silvered inlay. Mr. Steam spoke softly under his breath and the markings on the door glowed brilliantly for a moment then the door swung itself open wide. He turned to us and smiledas he motioned us to follow him.

We stood in a large comfortable room, shelf upon shelf of books lining the walls. Arranged around the fireplace were three comfortable chairs. I looked at my two companions and recognized the rapture on there faces as they drifted towards the rows of books. I too found myself pulled towards the stately leather bound tomes and didn't pause to wonder where Mr. Steam had vanished to.

"Lamereth's End" said Emma softly, as she took a large volume from a shelf and ran her hand down the spine of the ancient tome. She drifted slowly towards one of the chairs, as if in a dream, and seated herself and began to read.

"Behind The Stars" was tucked under Arty's arm as he too made his way to a chair and began to turn pages, immediately lost in the story.

I was drawn to a small black book, it's pages illuminated and gilded, titled simply "The King In Yellow". I seated myself between my two companions and began to read.

Of the hours that followed I can tell you little save that we poured through the volumes as if in a trance. None of us spoke, each of us too enthralled with our reading.

Horror after horror, unspeakable act upon unspeakable act, we delved through the collected atrocities of man down through the ages. The origins of the books I could not say save that they all seemed incredibly old. Strangest of all, tho' the book I read was written in the cryptic symbols of some unknown language I could read the words with ease. Even this did not cause me to question the sanity of the situation as I was too enraptured by the literary feast I had been offered.

It was Emma who noticed the change first.

"Harry?" she said in a soft, far away voice. "My skin is changing Harry." I looked up from my book and she was right. She had begun to grow a fine white fur over her body, her face taking on a distorted feline shape. Her eyes had narrowed and taken on an eerie green glow and her hands had a claw like appearance.

I set down my book and surveyed myself. My skin had gained a tough and leathery appearance, grey and thick. Running my hands over my face revealed deep ridges and a nose that had turned into a pig like snout. Running my tongue (which seemed abnormally long and rough) along my teeth revealed long, fierce fangs. I was sure I could feel leathery wings beginning to emerge from my back.

I glanced towards Arty for the first time in what seemed days and was horrified to see an oozing black pool with mouths and eyes floating at random in the blackened slime.

"Steam!" I shrieked, my voice sounding like the cry of a predatory animal. In an instant he was in the library wearing his typical nonchalant smile. "Problem?" he smiled pleasantly.

"What have you done?" I roared. I stood up to my full height which was considerable now and threw my head back in rage. My shirt ripped from my body, my wings unfolding and my muscles rippling.

Steam gasped and clapped his hands together with joy. "An excellent transformation Harry, truly exceptional. I'm very pleased."

"Why Steam?" I cried. Emma was trembling and convulsing, her forearms elongating and her claws make a ripping sound as the extended. Arty Bubbled and gurgled incoherently.

"Harry my boy, no need to get excited. You three were selected to perform a very important role."

"You're insane." I said.

"Harry you and your cohorts are going to join the ranks of the monstrous, the horrifying, the supernatural. Isn't it exciting?"

"My god Steam, why?"

"Harry, please think. What are people afraid of? People no longer fear the supernatural. The only thing left for men to fear is other men. Religious fanatics killing indiscriminately, poisoned air and water, children shooting other children in classrooms, the person next door dining on the body parts of his victims. What can a creature no matter how nightmarish do to compete with this?

We simply give people a lesser horror to dwell on Harry. Something small to let there minds worry on when they can no longer deal with there real fears. What is one victim of a hell borne creature compared to the mass destruction of society? We give them an escape Harry. The price we extract is small compared to the peace of mind we offer."

His words floated around me and though perhaps my mind had been altered already by the transformation, I couldn't argue there logic. Let chaos descend on society. Let them fear me and tremble before me as I rend and kill. Let them whisper their stories to each other and let the urban legends grow larger and most of all, let them forget the true horror of their lives.

I looked about the library and only Steam and I remained. Arty and Emma had already made there way back through the ebon doorway into the night.

I spread my wings and with a tremendous roar began to follow.

End.

M. Stafford 2006

Sister Rose And The Immaculate Conception

2006-07-20T00:14:00.000-04:00

My name is Alice and I was nineteen when they let me out of the hospital. I thought things were going to get better. I was stronger and more stable and I could deal with the sort of shit that people had to deal with on a daily basis. I had lived through sexual abuse, drug addiction, prostitution, and the death of my child and came out the other side a functioning person ready to start again.

But he wouldn’t leave me alone.

He was only a john, there was nothing special about him. He paid his money, spent twenty minutes doing his filthy business, then ran away stuttering and stammering. I would see him now and then on the street, I think he lived near by, but I never thought anything of it until he came to visit me in the hospital after the baby died. That’s when I knew he wasn’t going to leave me alone.

The night he came back to my apartment the police were waiting for him. He was carrying a gun and some rope and a few other things in a bag, what the police referred to as a “rape kit”. He didn’t put up a fight when they put him in the back of the cruiser and took him away. I didn’t stay around long enough to find out exactly what happened. I had seen enough shit in my life to know that this was a bad scene aching to get worse so I packed and I ran just like I always had.

I hadn’t been in the city more than a day before they found me, The Church Of The New Covenant. They were young and friendly and they offered me a place to stay until I’d gotten myself settled. I had forty dollars to my name and everything I owned in the world in a bag slung over my shoulder so I wasn’t in a position to be choosey. Besides, for religious freaks they seemed pretty hip and street wise. They seemed like my sort of people except for the religious part and even then it wasn’t the Jehovah’s witness bull shit. It seemed deeper and more profound. Sort of like they actually knew something.

It wasn’t long before I was a full member of the church. They preformed a beautiful re- naming ceremony for me and that’s when I became Sister Rose. The words were powerful and they resonated inside me and even though I knew what they believed wasn’t what other people thought was right it felt right to me.

Things were good for a while then it all went to hell.

They came one night while I was sleeping, four of them. They took me roughly from my bed and dragged me to the altar where we performed our ceremonies, the ones that had moved me so deeply. I was stripped and tied as the entire congregation gathered around to watch.

I knew what was coming or at least I thought I did.

A man stepped forward, one I had never seen before. He was older and dressed in expensive clothes. When I tried to look at his face my eyes would involuntarily jerk away. No matter how many times I tried I couldn’t focus on his features.

I saw him hand a thick roll of bills to one the men who had tied me down and some words were exchanged. A moment later the stranger moved towards me and I was engulfed in a black miasma of insanity. Images of rape and mutilation flashed uncontrollably through my head as the man in the black suit laid on top of me. He stank of sulfur and decay and when he embraced me his body turned soft and dissolved into a thousand worms which burrowed there way into my flesh until I screamed myself into the dark embrace of unconsciousness.

When I regained my senses I was back in my own bed, a handcuff going from my wrist to the frame. They told me I would be here another nine months and then I would be free to leave after it was born. They told me it wouldn’t be human but it didn’t matter because it wasn’t mine to keep anyway. It had already been purchased by the father.

They told me it was a great honor to bear his child and that most women couldn’t survive impregnation by a demon.

The nature of there desires were violent and powerful they said, and the expression of there lust could take many different forms. They told me I had been lucky, that other’s had been torn to shreds and put back together again, kept alive only long enough to birth the child. They told me in spite of what I may think I was now sacred to the church as were all there vessels and that I had taken part in an immaculate conception and would always be remembered with reverence.

Then they injected a needle into my arm and a familiar warm rush coursed through my body as i fell into the comforting arms of sleep.

End.

M. Stafford 2006

Scarling

2006-07-19T23:52:00.000-04:00

Everyday I would see her come out of her rundown tenement, huddled into herself and never looking about, her eyes always focused on the ground. She seemed to move through the crowds in an ethereal manner, not quite part of the throng, neither affecting it or being affected by it.

I'm not sure what made me notice her the first time, she being rather plain and doing her best to not stand out in the crowd. There was something about her though, an aura that radiated from her. An aura that spoke of pain and suffering, of brutality and hopelessness.

Day after day I would see her emerge from her building then hurry down the crowded streets and disappear around the corner, to where I do not know. Everyday I speculated, making up lives for her as she disappeared from sight. Sometimes I imagined her a secretary hurrying to her dominating and unappreciative boss, other times I envisioned her on her way to a soup kitchen to ladle out food to drunken and surely street people. But always when I saw her my mind would race away with her.

Finally, one cold October morning, I followed her.

I kept my distance, her slow and deliberate pace and refusal to so much as glance at the people around her made shadowing her a remarkably simple affair. She walked slowly through the streets of the downtown core, down garbage strewn avenues, past shops with boarded windows, until I was no longer sure of my bearings in a city I had lived my entire life.

As I looked about me, the atmosphere of the city had changed, growing more alien and threatening. The people milling about the street corners and shop fronts regarded me with hostile and challenging glares, and there comments were in a language I could not understand, almost English but a degenerate form that seemed to have decayed somehow.

I chanced a glance at a group of young men gathered in front of a boarded up cigarette shop and noticed the subtle deformity of features they all shared, as if they had all been victims of the same affliction.

Still I followed her, although with a growing sense of unease, until at last she stopped at an old stone building of solid Gothic architecture, a solemn and foreboding place. A place of punishment.

She hesitated only momentarily in front of the building, then moved forward through the large wooden doors.

I stood in front of the building hesitating, not sure what to do next. Could I follow her into the building without being noticed or would I be apprehended by men with strange, distorted faces? Surely I had not come this far to turn back now, so I lifted the collar of my overcoat and jammed my hands into my pockets, and with my head down I made my way towards the wooden doors.

The doors opened before me and I was met with a dark empty hallway, catching a glimpse of her turning a corner and disappearing from view.

I walked casually down the richly carpeted hallway, looking at walls lined with oil paintings of men and women of obvious wealth, dressed in fashions of many years past.

Upon rounding the corner I stopped short to see a group of men and women standing in an opulently appointed room, sipping drinks and smoking pipes and cigars. A hand fell on my shoulder and a balding heavy man in his fifties handed me a brandy.

"Show's about to begin" he said in a friendly manner, as if my appearance there had been nothing out of the ordinary.

Suddenly the lights dimmed and a curtain was drawn back revealing a stage on which stood a machine who's function I could not even guess at. It was almost comical looking, something out of a black and white horror movie. Large coils sparked as electricity traveled up and down their length and an electrical generator hummed loudly. Wires and electrical components surrounded a standing platform. Secured to this platform with heavy leather straps, naked and trembling, was the girl.

A man stepped forward and the group hushed at once. He was elderly but hard looking, dressed in a dark suit and looking at the group with even darker eyes. I have not often be given to flights of wild speculation, but I fancied this man was a source of malignancy, a focal point for evil.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, esteemed members of the society, the time is upon us once again. We will bathe in the essence of the good and gentle, and through suffering we will be cleansed and revitalized. Let the ceremonies begin".

Shouts of "Here here!" and "On with the show!" rose from the crowd as the hum of the generator increased significantly. The lights went out completely and all attention was on the spectacle of the stripped and helpless girl strapped to the machine on the stage.

A strange tension filled the air, giving one the feeling of dislocation, of being slightly outside the normal passage of time and events. People in the crowd shimmered and wavered as if the eerie light from the machine was playing tricks with my eyes.

Upon the stage the girl thrashed against here leather bonds, electricity coursing up and down her body, her face contorted in anguish. She was being electrocuted, but something else as well.

Part of her was fading.

My first impulse was to rush forward and release her, to pull her free of the leather straps and carry her away from this place. I took a step forward and found myself momentarily disoriented, thoughts of the girl falling from my mind to be replaced with decadent images of torture and pain and suffering. I began to moan softly, the experience being one of great pleasure. I looked again upon the figure of the girl who was now hunched forward against the straps, sobbing and convulsing but obviously too weak to fight the pain she was enduring. All the while I looked a feeling of warmth and vitality spread through me.

I felt good. I felt young and strong and powerful. And most of all, I felt nothing for the girl who hung unconscious from the platform, the generator now almost completely powered down.

The lights were raised and a loud cheer rose from the group, and there was much smiling and shaking of hands. I stood there momentarily lost, until the beefy man who had handed me the brandy walked towards me smiling.

"Hell of a show, wouldn't you say? Come back anytime, anytime at all. Welcome to the society."

Still feeling a strange euphoria, I made my way through the crowd glancing back only once at the stage. The girl had been released from her bonds and covered with a robe. Money was being shoved into her hand and she began to limp off the stage.

"Pity", I heard a woman's voice say "not much left in that one. Two or three more performances and she'll be nothing but cinders and ashes".

"More where she came from." another woman replied as they sipped there liqueur.

I should have been horrified, I should have been outraged, but I was neither. I was in a state of bliss. I felt clean and strong. I felt that what I wanted was mine for the taking. I had been invited to return to the society for the next performance and I was already anticipating it with just the slightest tinge of sadistic glee.

I wouldn't miss it for the world.

End.

M. Stafford 2006

Five Minutes Alone

2006-07-19T23:50:00.000-04:00

The last thing I remember was reading the newspaper. There had been another body discovered, this one a fifteen year old girl. She had been raped and her neck had been broken.

"Another one." I said to my wife who was drinking her coffee and ignoring me. "Why can't the police do anything?"

"They're trying dear." she said humoring me. "The police are doing there best."

"Well there best obviously isn't good enough." I muttered across the table.

"Not nearly good enough as far as that little girl is concerned. You know what would be best?" I said feeling self-righteous and indignant.

"No dear." she said indifferently.

"Give me five minutes alone with that bastard."

With that, the world spun.

Initially I thought I must have lost consciousness or had some sort of seizure. I was completely disoriented and at a loss to explain my surroundings or how I had gotten there. It was dark and I was sitting on concrete. The light was bad but it seemed like some sort of basement or workshop. I was still in my bathrobe.

I heard a door open and light flooded in from the top of a wooden staircase. A man was coming down the steps dragging a girl behind him by her hair. Her mouth had been taped but muffled sobs and whimpers escaped dying in the air in front of her. He pulled her roughly down the stairs and she crumpled into a ball at his feet. He stood above her grinning.

He was a monster.

He was easily six feet tall, his head shaved and looked solid and muscular. His eyes were set too close together under a thick low brow and he wore greasy mechanics coveralls and dirty work boots. He looked every inch the criminal psychopath that people from good homes should never have to deal with.

I inched behind a pile of cardboard boxes, holding my breath and praying I was out of sight.

The man reached down and pulled the girl to her feet. She stared at him with huge eyes, shaking with fear. He took hold of a corner of the tape across her mouth and pulled hard making a loud tearing sound as it came loose.

The girl stood motionless staring at the monster in front of her. The monster stared back and smiled.

The girl closed her eyes and screamed, her face buried in her hands desperate with panic. The man leaned towards her face, pulled her hands away and screamed back mocking her. She sobbed pitifully.

"No one can hear you." he growled at her.

"Please." she sobbed over and over, her breath hitching.

The man cupped her face in his hands, almost lovingly, and slammed his forehead into the bridge of her nose. She hit the concrete floor with a dull thud, a pool of blood forming a red halo around her head on the grey floor. The man pulled his coveralls down around his ankles and fell on her tearing at her clothes and grunting out animal sounds. He lasted only moments then rose to his knees and once again took the girls head in his hands and twisted violently. There was a sickening crunch and she dropped to the floor once more.

I curled into a fetal position behind the cardboard boxes and screamed inside my head, shutting my eyes and tightly as I could.

I heard the cardboard boxes being kicked out of the way and a voice came from above.

"Alright asshole" he said calmly and evenly, "were alone. You've got five minutes."

End.

M. Stafford 2005

Fever Dreams

2006-07-19T23:48:00.000-04:00

The man who just stepped onto the bus and sat down across from me is staring.

I've never seen him before but he glares at me with a look of absolute disgust on his face. His eyes are narrowed and his teeth are clenched and he doesn't blink. If it were not for the unmistakable malice in his eyes it would be an almost comical expression.

As he continues to stare at me his face begins to change. It grows darker - not in color, but as if the light around it were diminishing.

His mouth becomes a black hole and streams of white light pour from his eyes.

Suddenly all the passengers are standing and pointing. They scream as the thing in front of me rises from it's seat. I pull down hard on the bell and the bus shudders to a halt. I throw myself out the back door and into the cold night air.

A girl I've never seen before runs up to me and grabs my wrist. "Hurry!" she hisses and begins to run, dragging me behind her. We sprint down a dark street and scramble over a fence and into a field and continue our dash until we reach a stand of trees. We stumble down a dirt path and without warning she pulls me off the path and we collapse at the base of a huge oak.

I want to ask her what's happening. I desperately need get some sort of grasp on the situation, but all I can do is stare at her and feel my throat constrict as I try to speak. She is sitting cross legged with her hands over her face, her head bowed towards the ground. The night smells heavy with impending rain and I can hear thunder rolling in the distance.

"What the hell is going on?" I finally manage to whisper. My voice sounds frightened and very small among the thick growth of trees.

"It's not over yet." she says softly. She raises her head and looks at me. I begin to scramble backwards, my feet pin wheeling underneath me and slipping on the fallen leaves scattered on the ground. Her face is beginning to change.

I am running again, down the dirt path and deeper into the forest. The storm clouds have broken and the downpour turns the dirt into thick mud that grabs at my boots as I run. The trees along the path become older and more gnarled looking , like malicious old men. They slap at my face with there branches and try to trip me with there roots but I am being driven by panic now and crash through the barrage and onto an unfamiliar street.

I am doubled over, sobbing uncontrollably and gasping for air. Before I can regain myself a horrific figure emerges from the woods dressed in black hunstman's clothing primitive in there aspect and bearing great antlers. He is impossibly tall and taking great loping strides towards me. Before him are a pack of dogs snarling and baring their teeth. I turn to run and see a flash of light and then nothing.

I am sitting on the bus again watching the rain spatter against the window. I am not sure if I have forgotten my medication or if I am dreaming.

It probably doesn't matter.

End.

M. Stafford 2005

Dream A Little Dream Of Me

2006-07-19T23:45:00.000-04:00

Stars shining bright above you, night breezes seem to whisper "I love you"
Birds singin' in the sycamore trees, dream a little dream of me

The dream is so vivid. The house is dark and still and quiet. I walk through the living room towards the bedroom and pause for a moment. I can hear a gentle sobbing coming from the other side of the door. I turn the doorknob and enter the room.

There is a large ornate bed made of wrought iron in the center of the room and kneeling on the floor beside the bed curled into a tight ball is a girl. Her name is Angela but everyone calls her Angel although I'm not sure how I know that.

There is a thick chain running from her ankle to the leg of the bed.

"She won't let me leave." she says between sobs.

I move to her and begin to pull on the chain but to no avail.

"She made it too strong" Angela says "there's no way out."

"I'll be back" I tell her "I'll find a way to free you I promise."

"It doesn't matter" she tells me "it's only a dream. It's all just a dream."

I awake in my own bed with cold sweat covering my body. There is a melody from an old song running through my head but I can't seem to place it.

That morning I am walking through an unfamiliar neighborhood, pleasant and suburban with well manicured front yards and lawn mowers drowning out the delighted squeals of children at play. Halfway down the street I recognize the house from my dream.

I walk to the front door and ring the bell. A woman answers. She is dressed all in black and for a brief moment I get the notion that I am interrupting a wake. I can think of nothing to say to her, but she invites me in and I sit on the sofa as she goes to the kitchen to make tea.

I look around the living room and everywhere are pictures of Angela. There are flowers laid at the foot of what seems to be a shrine to the child, a table filled with photographs and votive candles and pictures of hands clasped in prayer with comforting passages from the bible.

On a shelf above sits an urn which holds Angela's dust.

The woman returns with a tray of tea and biscuits and sits across from me. She is in her forties and may have once been beautiful but pain and sorrow have aged her and worn her down and now she seems a frail and used up thing.

"There is no greater tragedy than a mother who out lives her child." she says, although I'm not sure if she is talking to me or to herself. "It was her kidneys you know, they just stopped working. It took so long for her to pass and she suffered so. I prayed for her every day. I still pray for her everyday, not a moment passes that my Angel isn't in my thoughts."

She stands up and motions for me to follow her. We walk down a short hall and enter Angela's bedroom.

"Everything is just the way she left it." the woman says in a far off voice. "All her stuffed animals and her toys and her phonograph. Such a silly thing for a child her age, but it was my mother's and she loved to play all the old records over and over again. It's been eight years since she passed and I've kept her room the same. It makes me feel as if she's closer this way."

I thank her for the tea and turn to leave. I still can think of nothing to say to the woman, and she seems to hardly notice me as I walk back down the hallway and out the front door. She is still standing in Angela's bedroom.

That night I return to the house but this time not in dream. I climb through a window, carefully balancing the can of gasoline I'd brought with me, and make my way up the stairs to the second floor. I begin walking quietly down a hallway until I come to a door. I open it and see the Angela's mother asleep in her bed.

I walk softly towards her and cover her mouth with my hand while my knife slips quickly across her throat. Her eyes open wide with horror for a brief second and then shut tightly. A gurgling sound dies against the palm of my hand and she is gone.

I walk back downstairs and into Angela's room and pour the gasoline on her bed and on her stuffed animals and splash more on the walls and floors. I take out my lighter and flick it twice, finally getting it to light.

I touch the flame to the bed and the room fills with smoke and fire.

"Sweet dreams Angel" I say softly "it's time to go."

I turn to leave and as I'm walking towards the front door I hear Angela's phonograph begin to play the melody that's been stuck in my head.

Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you, sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you But in your dreams whatever they may be, dream a little dream of me

End.

M. Stafford 2006