SHROUDVersion 1.02

DEMENTIS MORTUUSWord Games for the Worst of Us

Richard Wright’s

“CRAVEN PLACE” Chapter Two

KRIS ST. JAMES“Die Wassergeist”

ADAM BLOMQUIST“Trap”

The Digital Journal of Dark Fiction and Art

Shroud Publishingwww.shroudmagazine.com

Scott Christian Carr’s

“SOMEONE OUGHTA SELL TICKETS…!”

DE 1.02

Robert DaviesHiram Grange & The Ghosts of Marrakech

ALAN MEYROWITZ “Vampiric Nights”

CONTENTS

Digital EditionVersion 1.02

PublisherShroud Publishing LLC

121 Mason Rd.Milton, NH 03851

www.shroudmagazine.com

Cover Art: “Matthew’s Memories” Colored Relief Print by Danny Evarts

Managing EditorTimothy P. Deal

Art DirectorDanny Evarts

Additional Line Editing Rodney Carlstrom

Copyright © 2011 by Shroud Publishing LLC.

Individual works are © 2011 by their respective creators.

All rights reserved.

This publication is a result of hard work and creative effort. Enjoy it, and celebrate

the possibility of all things.

TRAPAdam Blomquist 4

VAMPIRIC NIGHTSAlan Meyrowitz 9

Hiram Grange & The Ghosts of MarrakechRobert Davies 11

Scott Christian Carr’sSOMEONE OUGHTA SELL TICKETS …!DOWN & OUT IN RACHEL, NEVADA Part 2 14

DIE WASSERGEISTKris St. James 17

GRIMOIRES & TOMESBook Reviews 27

CRAVEN PLACEChapter 2 of a Serialized Novel from Richard Wright 30

DEMENTIS MORTUUSWord Games for the Worst of Us 34

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TRAPKent was drifting off to sleep

when he heard the snap and was startled awake.“Gotcha,

ya little bastard,” he mumbled, then rolled over and slipped back into unconsciousness.

In the morning he was already halfway through breakfast before he remembered the trap. He was standing in the apartment’s small kitchen area, in his boxers and night shirt, eating cereal and watch-ing The Huckleberry Hound Show, before he recalled it had been sprung. He left his ce-real to get soggy and went to the cupboard to get the flash-light. He then wove his considerable bulk through the numerous piles of girlie magazines, lighting equipment and film canisters that had amassed in his living room since his last bi-monthly cleaning.

He eased himself down onto his hands and knees and clicked the flashlight on, sending its beam out under the couch. The trap lay next to a dog-eared issue of Cabaret. The cleavage on that particular cover had been awe-inspiring, leading Kent to carefully study the interior photos for ideas to inform his own work. The mouse’s tiny neck was pressed against the wood of the trap to the point of non-existence. Its eyes bulged from its head and Kent had to wonder if it even had time to be sur-prised. If, when the rusty metal bar

descended, the mouse had died still enveloped in the rapture of finding a lone glob of peanut butter nestled under the sofa. Despite the headache the rodent had caused him, Kent thought the instantaneous death the

trap provided was pleasantly swift, if a little bland.

He used a blank 1960 census form, which he also found under the couch, to wrap the corpse up and throw it out.

I t was Ginger who had first spotted the mouse. Kent had

her bent over an ottoman in the only clean corner of the small apartment. He had this corner specially reserved for photo shoots. She had loosened the strap on her

bikini top and just the slightest hint of areola was beginning

to peek forth, winning her breasts’ lopsided battle

with gravity. Kent always worked

alone. It was

Adam Blomquist

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never creepy for the girls after the first ten minutes or so. After that time had elapsed they saw that Kent was a staunch professional, silent and to the point.

With her breasts just about to spill out and greet their adoring public, Ginger let out a scream that sent Kent toppling over an electrical cord. She was up off her stomach and standing on the ottoman in a split second. It wasn’t until several moments later, when she actually screamed the word “mouse,” that Kent had any idea what was going on. It took fifteen minutes to calm her down, and by that time she had to leave in order to make it back to the office. She worked as a sec-retary at some ad agency uptown when she wasn’t posing tastefully nude in the living rooms of men like Kent.

Mice were something you had to deal with quickly in New York. The city was full of all kinds of vermin, and if you gave them an inch they’d eat you alive. Kent had just recently waged a skirmish with a local group of six-legged heavies: cockroach-es. Every manner of modern spray, powder and poison was employed in his week long campaign against the roaches. The only casualties on his side were a couple boxes of cere-al and the unpleasant experience of stepping on one barefoot while he was taking a late night piss. Luck-ily they were a stealthy guerrilla force only moving under the cover of darkness, leaving Kent’s models to remain comfortable in their own skin while on the premises. This mouse was bold. He had ruined a photo session, and deserved to die.

When Ginger left, Kent made his way down to the corner store, the same corner store he came to on Sundays to sell and trade snapshots with the owner, Max.

I t was a Wednesday and Max was visibly elated to see Kent stop by

so early in the week.“Done already?” The small store

was empty except for the two men, so Max dropped the usual pleasant-ries. “That Ginger, she’s a firecrack-er. I told you.” With that the gaunt man behind the counter plucked a Lucky Strike from his pocket, struck a match, and took a long self-con-gratulatory drag.

“Sorry, but no dirty pictures to-day,” Kent said and forced a frown. The end of Max’s cigarette dipped down, as if it were disappointed too.

“Got any mousetraps?”“Well we don’t sell them, but I

think I have a spare floating around in the back. The little bastards get into everything,” Max’s skel-etal body disappeared into the back room of the shop, he had to duck to keep his head from hitting the door frame.

He came back with a mousetrap so rusted it would be a miracle if Kent could arm it without either breaking the spring in half or con-tracting tetanus.

“I’d take two bits for it,” Max said with a smile.

“Yeah, sure,” Kent said. He scooped up the ancient trap and made a rude gesture to his friend with one of his fat fingers as he walked out the door.

K ent called Ginger back on the same day as his victory over the

rodent.“It’s all clear sweetheart, I got the

mouse,” he wheezed into the re-ceiver.“Gee, I don’t know,” Ginger said

into her office phone, and then pro-ceeded to rook an extra dollar out of Kent, bringing her fee up to an unheard-of five dollars.

“Better be worth it,” Kent grum-bled as he hung up. He looked over at his trash can: the mouse, the cen-sus form and the trap lay on top of a mountain of garbage. He would have to remember to take it out be-fore she got there tonight, or at least bury it further. The whole place needed a cleaning, but it would have to wait. With such little time before the girl’s arrival he would need to worry about setting up the camera and again clearing off an area for her to model in. Kent went into the kitchenette and stared at the dead mouse as he poured him-self a glass of J&B. The census form had unfurled revealing the poor lit-tle bastard, a tiny drop of blood on his whiskers. Kent turned his back to the can and upended the drink. Walking to the living room he heard a sudden burst of movement from behind him. The sound of rustling papers mixed with a faint scratch-ing startled him so badly that he dropped his glass. The drink landed harmlessly on the dirty carpet with a light thud as Kent whirled around to investigate.

There was no movement in the kitchen, but the mouse and trap had fallen from the top of the pail and onto the tile floor. Must have been nerves twitching, Kent thought as he inspected the body of the mouse. The tiny cadaver had now grown stiff in the heat of the apartment.

He pushed the contents of the can down with his foot and then picked the mouse up by its tail and dropped it in the trash. He shud-dered to see how its glassy eyes had grown matte in the hours since its death.

With the time it took to pour an-other drink he barely had enough to fix up the camera, set up the three studio lights, and clean off his cor-ner “studio” area before there was a knock at the door.“Hey bub,” the girl said as he re-

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moved the chain and opened the door. Ginger had the look of a well-endowed lady of King Arthur’s court, but her voice was a grating Brooklyn accent that even the easy-going Kent had trouble stomaching.

“Let me take your coat,” he said, as he slipped the girl’s fur off and hung it on the coat rack, which was broken and propped up against the wall by a stack of yellowing maga-zines.“You’re sure you got the mouse?”“Very sure,” Kent said. Pandering

to this girl was beginning to take its toll on his politeness reserves. There was a rustle similar to the one be-fore coming from the kitchenette. Kent just smiled and hoped she did not hear it.“What was that then,” she asked,

the happy light gone from her voice.“Goddamn radiator’s on the fritz,

like it needed to be any hotter in here,” he lied.“Oh, you should talk to your super

about that, doll.”How the lie had worked he could

not fathom, but he suddenly had the overwhelming feeling that it was best to get the pictures done as quickly as possible and get her out of here.“So what I wanted to do here is the

same as last time, a couple of glam-or shots and then some nudie pics, nothing out of the ordinary,” he said and then added, “Do you want a drink?”“Oh yes, please, scotch if you got

it.”“It’s all I got, sweetheart.” He felt

silly adding the “sweetheart,” but that was the way girls like Ginger were used to being talked to, and who was he to disappoint her?

“I’m glad it’s just skin you’re in-terested in. Some of these guys …” she said. “Man-alive, I could tell you stories about how some of

these yahoos had me dress up like a baby holding a bullwhip. I like you, though. You’re real quiet and nice, could be a bit neater though.”“Yeah, I know,” he said from inside

the kitchen. He was not registering what she was saying because he was looking down into the garbage. The trap was there, but with no body in-side it. The mouse was gone.

Beginning to sweat, Kent re-en-tered the room and handed the red-head her glass.“Thanks hon. Are you okay?” she

asked, noticing the flush in Kent’s chubby cheeks. “You don’t look so great. No offense.”

“I’m fine, just the heat,” he said. “Would you like to get started?”

There was a chair and ottoman set up in the bare corner of the apart-ment, the mismatched upholstery on both had seen better days. Gin-ger undid the first few buttons of her blouse and put one knee up on the chair, assuming her starting po-sition. Taking his place behind the camera, Kent thought he heard a faint scratching. He tried ignoring it and snapping a few pictures. “Hey, how about some music?”“Oh that would be great,” Ginger

smiled and undid another button.“Yeah I got a great new record,”

Kent forced himself to sound com-posed, the small talk helped. “If I could only find where I put the …” He scratched his second chin and peered around the mess of the room until his eyes fell on a small record player. He carefully removed it from the pile of junk around it, found a place for it on the couch, and after a moment of crackling the room was filled with Del Shannon’s “Little Town Flirt.” A great record, even if Del sounded like a woman when he hit the high notes.

Returning to the camera, Kent made a slight motion to Ginger that she should continue disrobing. The

heat of the apartment was mingling with the lights and Ginger’s skin had begun to gain a nice sheen. It was when she peeled off her blouse that Kent spotted the first mouse. It was poking its nose out of a hole in the chair’s faded red upholstery. Kent tried his best to stifle a cry of surprise; he wanted to get in at least one picture of this girl before she ran off again. The mouse poked its head back in and Kent allowed him-self a small sigh of relief.

She undid her bra and he felt something brush past his pant leg. He couldn’t help but jump. He tried to make it look like he was getting into the song, which was now enter-ing its final refrain.

She was playing coy, crossing her arms over her chest. Kent took a couple more snaps and then made a motion with his head encourag-ing the girl to get to the goods. She giggled and turned her back to the camera, giving a quick seductive look over her shoulder before facing the corner. This wasn’t some profes-sional gig, she didn’t have to waste his film on foreplay and it was be-ginning to aggravate Kent. It was a good thing she turned her back though, because two mice criss-crossed paths over the carpet right in front of the camera.“Could you just turn this way,

honey,” Kent said briskly, with no attempt to hide his frustration.“Well if that’s the way you want it,

buster,” she said and turned around quickly. Kent was so relieved to fi-nally see her breasts that he didn’t notice the look of stunned horror that overtook her face on turning around.

She made a confused gasp, strug-gling to find words as Kent kept clicking away. She finally forced a scream to the surface and grabbed for her blouse which lay crumpled on the ottoman. Kent fell over backward onto a pile of magazines

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and shoeboxes full of photos. Gin-ger gripped the blouse tight and pressed it to her skin, but then had a renewed look of terror when she felt a half-crushed mouse squirming between her fingers. She released it and it fell, still twitching, to the floor.

Kent righted himself and took a look at the rest of his apartment. The stacks of clutter were teeming with mice. He then turned back to Ginger who was frantically trying to wipe mouse blood from between her fingers.“Here, let me help,” Kent hurried

toward her. Her eyes had gone wild and she put out her clean hand to stop him. His bare foot crunched down on something soft and he went toppling headlong into the

naked girl. His greasy hair landed right under her chin and the domi-no effect sent the two crashing into one of the lights.

There was blood in Kent’s mouth when he woke up. He could hear

the “whick-whick” sound of the .45 as it spun on the record player and he could feel something soft under his face. He looked up to see Ginger, her pretty face pocked with the bro-ken glass of the shattered bulb and her neck contorted in an impossible angle under the metal stand of the light fixture.

Before he noticed the audience that had amassed around him, he

saw the dead girl. The familiar steel bar pressing against her neck. Kent began to cry, sweeping his eyes across the rest of the apartment.. There was a circle of mice around the two bodies. A hundred beady eyes: all watching the fat man. After that he did not want to cry anymore, just scream.

Adam Blomquist was raised on a steady diet of candy corn, rock n’ roll, and monster movies. He has been published in SHROUD, Necrotic Tissue, and a host of other print and online markets.

You can read more on his blog at Brain-Tremors.com.

“A bludgeoning celluloid rush of language and ideas served from an action-painter’s bucket of fluorescent spatter, D. Harlan Wilson’s Peckinpah is an incendiary gem and very probably the

most extraordinary new novel you will read this year.” - Alan Moore, Author of Watchmen, V for Vendetta & From Hell

PECKINPAH

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Bram knew more than he let on.He would abide their turns to feed,was soon to learn of appetite to fill

a more peculiar need: blood was notthe only undead hunger to be fed.

Pressing talons to his side, they allowedthat he could write yet not confess that

other fright, for threat their bite would bethe least of nighttime’s stress.

I, too, comply in darker feast, undead’sdelight, assuring all the worst will go unsaid.

How sad my soul, craving to be set upon,welcoming what light of day would have

be gone, confined to grave.Yet I would have them here againfor pleasure had in midst of pain,

what Bram would know but not divulge,what I would say but must refrain.Let them drink, and then indulge.

V A mp IR ic

N i g h T s

AL A N

M E y R O w I T z

ALAN MEYROWITZ received a Doctorate in Computer Science from George Washington University in 1980, and his professional work in artificial intelligence and robotics has been widely published in industry and scientific research publications. Alan is a longtime bibliophile, and his love of the written word includes collecting and selling rare books.

http://www.damnationbooks.com

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The four ghostly dessicates, cursed guardians of an ancient treasure, were as invisible as the wind until they chose to appear as whirling clouds of sand that continually morphed between wild men and feral beasts with shining eyes of virulent red.

Hiram had left the Range Rover miles behind him at the city gates, steam jetting from the crushed radi-ator, green fluid gurgling from split lines. The windshield shattered, the tires flayed, the very paint scoured from the body. The SUV had carried Hiram from the desert city of Ourzazate over the Atlas Mountains.

He had hoped the dessicates could not travel far from their ancient resting place, but as the pink walls of Marrakech arose before him they had appeared out of nothingness on the road and proceeded to wreck the vehicle in a ferocious storm of sand.

Hiram had barely escaped with his life.

The dessicates were maddeningly insubstantial; despite all his best efforts, Hiram could not hurt them or halt their pursuit. Bullets from his Webley were wasted. His fists met only warm air. His ribald taunts fell on deaf, uncaring ears.

But whenever Hiram paused to catch his breath and prevent his hammering heart from bursting, the

dessicates would surround him and turn solid to viciously strike before fading to dust again. In those hellish moments, their clawed, flinty hands threatened to shatter his bones. They had shredded his father’s ill-fitting black suit and gouged bleeding run-nels across his face, back, and chest.

Hiram Grange ran as, crimson-eyed, silent and starving, the dessicates came. They wanted the key back.

Hiram emerged from the nar-row alley into bright sunshine. He tried to get his bearings. Across the wide square of the Jemaa al Fna, the rectangular pink-stoned Koutobia Mosque loomed.

Cautiously, Hiram moved past vendors selling the juice of blood oranges and wheeled carts weighted down with piles of dates, walnuts and figs. Off to his left, slothful black cobras lazed on a filthy blanket guarded by elderly sun-browned men in while djellabas.

The crowds seemed to take no no-tice of the dessicates. Most saw only suggestions of a dirt-laden breeze, where Hiram saw whirlwind beasts born of ageless malice. The dessi-cates ignored everyone else in the square, so intent was their focus on Hiram. They moved as patiently as predators. They were content to bide

their time and wear him down.If they caught up to him again,

Hiram would die. They would force themselves into his nostrils and down his throat and shred his insides with the ferocious heat of the sharqi wind. They had done as much to Addi, the Berber guide that had led Hiram to the desert ruins outside Ourzazate, that had led him to that damned chamber beneath the sands.

Hiram pushed himself into the crowds, keeping an eye out for the glowing red eyes of the dessicates.

A distant cry caused him to turn his head and, distracted, Hiram stum-bled against a young man who spent the day tossing dirty, clinging mon-keys onto tourists and demanding fistfuls of dirham for their removal. He took Hiram for a tourist and lost his livelihood as Hiram nimbly ducked beneath the screeching air-borne menace and darted between two startled onlookers. The monkey hit the ground and darted away into the crowd trailing its leash, clearly intent on simian malice.

Hiram pushed into the crowds again, his eyes scanning.

Gnarled old women kindly offered to mark his wrists with intricate henna designs and then cursed him to hell when he passed them by. The

Robert Davies

Hiram Grange & The Ghosts of Marrakech

A bloodied and exhausted Hiram Grange ran through the crowded souks, and the dessicates pursued him with a dogged patience learned from long centuries spent dreaming beneath the desert sands.

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harmonious cacophony of several women cursing together had an odd effect. At the edge of Hiram’s vision, a desiccate resembling an emaciated hound snapped into solidity for a moment, seemingly startled, before it roared and faded away to dust. The henna women had fallen silent and shuffled away from the fell spirit they too had seen.

It happened again when beggar children pushed toward him sell-ing packets of tissue and single cigarettes. Their competing cries for his attention reached a near deafen-ing crescendo, and directly behind them a desiccate with a mouthful of sandy fangs appeared in the bright sunlight, a glimpse of terror on its ruined face before it dimmed away to nothingness.

The beggars’ taunts followed Hi-ram as he darted across the square.

He had an idea.He glanced at the sun; it was almost

noon. He had very little time. Still, he had to chance it; he was nearly spent, and the ageless dessicates would never stop their pursuit until he was dead.

Cursing his fate, ignoring the fire in his legs, Hiram ran.

He sprinted up the Rue Bab Agnaou, the cheap eateries and elec-tronics shops a blur as he passed. He must have appeared mad in his bloody tattered suit; passersby gave him wide berth. He reached the Avenue Houmman el Fetouaki and paused to catch his breath. He darted across the kasbah toward the nest-covered ruins of the Baadi Palace, his disheveled form a startling sight to the merchants that lined the square with their ware-laden tables.

Hiram had just minutes left.A wolfish desiccate with the face of

a child approached from the north of the square.

Hiram was already off balance when something grasped his left leg. A serpentine desiccate emerged from a grate, spiraling around his leg, its

whirling, moist sand grains befouled by sewage. Hiram fell forward and was set upon by the others.

Their touch burned his skin like the flaming sirocco. Hiram thrashed in the flinty whirlwind, screwing his eyes shut against the biting bits of sand and stone, forcing himself back to his feet. The sentient sand wailed and scraped at his eyelids and whipped around his throat.

Hiram fell backward onto a spice merchant’s table, overturning the tall colorful cones of spice on display. The air filled with fragrant clouds of yellow turmeric, spicy cardamom, and red paprika. Cinnamon burned his nostrils. The bestial dessicates gained more solidity as they drew the spices into themselves. Veins of turmeric and arterial streams of paprika gave the sand creatures form. Bloody cinnamon hearts throbbed in rib cages of wild sand.

Breaking free, Hiram darted up the stairs of the KozyBar. It was one of the few places in the Medina where alcohol was readily available.

Hiram had made a point to know them all intimately.

He reached the roof deck that over-looked the rough ruins of the Baadi Palace. Nesting white storks dot-ted the sun-baked, crumbling walls. Beyond them, the Atlas Mountains loomed. Hiram fired his Webley into the air and shouted for the startled tourists and waiters to run away.

He did not want any collateral damage if his plan worked.

If it didn’t, he did not need an audience to watch him die.

The dessicates floated up the stairs, now four wild men formed of timeless sand. There was nowhere else for Hiram to run.

Hiram glanced at his watch as the hand struck noon. It began. Soft at first, then rising to a crescendo was the ululation of the muezzin making the call to prayer. He did not understand the words, but Hiram had always found the sound enchanting.

The dessicates surrounded him, but they seemed hesitant, as though the amplified voice annoyed them.

They had him encircled when a second voice joined the first, another nearby mosque making the call. The dessicates froze, their red eyes blazing. A third ululation started, perhaps even louder than the first two. The voices came from three distinct points in Marrakech, twining each with the other, harmonizing for a brief span of time.

That was all it took.The dessicates gained solidity be-

fore Hiram, their hearts throbbing with scarlet light. The harmonious voices bound them to this layer of reality, and they wailed in realization as Hiram raised his trusted Webley and fired, fired, fired, fired.

The four dessicates exploded into clouds of spice and loose sand that were soundlessly whisked away by a strong wind into the stork-filled skies.

Hiram dropped to his knees and holstered the Webley. He had never felt so drained, so tired. So thirsty. He stood and checked the pocket of his shredded jacket to make sure he still had the key. Bothwell hadn’t told him what it would open, and at the moment he couldn’t care less.

He had passed a bar on the way up the stairs to the patio. A well stocked bar.

And by any standard of civilization, a drink after noontime was perfectly acceptable.

Robert Davies has been published in magazines ranging from Weird Tales to SHROUD, and his story “The Harvesting of Jackson Cade” was the winner of the 2011 WHA/Black Static award. He is also the author of Hiram Grange & the Digital Eucharist, Book 3 in the Scandalous Misadventures of Hiram Grange.

Read more at www.robertedavies.com.

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True Story.Scarier words, ne’er spoken …

“The only ones for me are the mad ones,” wrote Kerouac, “the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything

at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn,

burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”

There’s a world of crazy out there … a fringe to be explored …

Someone oughta sell tickets.

Down & Outin Rachel Nevada

or,

“I Was Almost Killed At Area 51 and All I Got Is This Lousy Coffee Mug …”

Part Two(for Part One, check out Shroud Digital Edition #1)

The storm has been trapped in the valley for just over five days, throwing bolts of lightning down onto the sparse Joshua trees and free-roaming cattle, unable to surmount the ridge of mountains that hide the enigmatic Area 51 from public view.

Amy and I, we’re still sitting at the bar—devouring ‘outta this world alien burgers’ and beer. Wild-bearded Joe Travis, bartender and proprietor of the Little A’Le’Inn, he’s pouring himself another shot. Ranting about the Jews and the gays and the new world order. Telling us he’s armed and stockpiled. Telling us he’s ready.

With a gust of wind and sand, the door of the bar swings open. Dust settles on the papier mâché ET head nodding atop the jukebox. Wind tips the blurry framed photos of flying saucers and upside-down pie tins. And into the bar swaggers a sleeveless, muscular, wild-haired man. At his heels, a twelve year old miniature version of himself—both sporting messy blonde locks and deep tans.

“We almost hit a cow!” the man declares. “Where the UFOs at?” They sit next to us at the bar. Burgers and beer. A coke for the kid.

“Gerry Conklin,” the dude juts a thumb at his own chest. “Gerry Jr.,” he indicates his son. “Pleased ta meetcha!”

Before we can introduce ourselves, he tells us all there is to know about him: World champion long distance jet-skier. In Vegas selling costume jewelry from a suitcase (an allegedly lucrative side business). Gerry Jr. wanted to come down and see the saucers, so they rented a fast car and here they are. And, oh yeah, they’d almost hit a cow.

Amy and I still haven’t introduced ourselves—have barely got a word in edgewise (even the voluble and volatile Joe Travis has been reduced to awkward silence)—before Gerry Conklin, world champion long distance jet-skier, is up off his stool, grabbing me by the sleeve, and muttering, “Come on, C’mon … Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go …!”

His son hot on his heels.That it is nearly one in the morning and pitch-black

outside doesn’t seem to matter—Gerry wants to see UFOs.

He wants to go to Area 51.

“Try to keep up!” he laughs, manic hysteria edging his voice as he leaps into his convertible rented hotrod something-or-other. Engine roars to life, tires screech, and they’re off!

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Our rental car, it doesn’t start so easily, and when it does, it lurches and moans, tired from all the miles we’ve put on it over the course of our cross-country road trip to visit every UFO hotspot, new age mecca, folkloric landmark, roadside curiosity and paranormal oddity that this country has to offer.

Gerry’s taillights, fading in the distance.Joe’s hand-drawn map to Area 51, it says to hang a

right at the black mailbox—to turn onto an unmarked, unpaved road and cut twenty miles through the desert. To keep going till we hit the gate. But to not go past the gate, or we’ll be shot.

USE OF DEADLY FORCE IS AUTHORIZED

We catch up with them about ten miles into the desert. Lightning strikes a Joshua tree just off the road—the storm is nearly on top of us.

Gerry and his son, they’re out of their car. Dancing wildly in the headlights, kicking up clouds of dust. Insane grins splitting their faces.

“What took you so long?” Gerry laughs.“We’ve got a scorpion!” announces his son. In the

headlight of the sports car, a terrified scorpion scampers from side to side, trying to avoid kicking feet and kicked-up sand.“Come on, slowpokes!” the Gerrys dive back into their

car. “Try to keep up!”

And then we are at the gate. An enormous barricade of steel and razor wire spanning the gap between Whitesides Mountain and Freedom Ridge (traditional public viewing areas for UFO-watchers and top-secret airplane enthusiasts—until recently, the only public places from which the top-secret base could be seen, they had recently been confiscated in an illegal government land-grab—TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT!)

Area 51. Dreamland. Also known as S4, The Pig Farm, Wonderland, Oz, Groom Lake, The Ranch … We are at the very threshold of untold alien secrets and paranormal projects—a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream.

No sooner are we out of our cars when a spotlight flares into life at the peak of Freedom Ridge. A tight beam exploding on my chest, blinding me. The beam holds for a moment, then glides over to Amy.

Then to Gerry.Then to his son.And then it winks out. Leaves us shivering in darkness

and fear.Without missing a beat, Gerry Conklin—world

champion long distance jet-skier—draws a metallic object from his pocket. Points it at the peak of Freedom Ridge.

Pulls the trigger.Zzzzzzttt! A thin red laser beam erupts from his

penlight. Aimed directly at the place from which the spotlight had come.

Time stops. Images of laser rifle scopes and jet-skiing terrorists storming the UFO base fill my cringing brain. Of spending the rest of my life rotting away in a subterranean prison cell with my fiancée, a big-eyed gray Roswell refugee, a world-champion jet skier and his son … Of scrambled assault helicopters and guided missiles … Of machine gun fire raining down from Freedom Ridge and Whitesides Mountain, cutting us to pieces where we stand … and then,

BOOM! CAA-RAAACK!!!I feel it in my chest, in my bones. My knees buckle,

my legs give out. Thunder shakes us to the core. The storm is upon us—lightning bolts are striking all around. Splitting cacti, burning the earth.

The rain is like a baptism, washing the dust and sand and fear from our skin.

The mountain peaks, they remain dark and silent.“Well,” says Conklin, “So that’s Area 51. Huh. Come on,

Gerry, let’s blow this pop stand …”

Scott Christian Carr has been a radio talk show host, editor of a flying saucer magazine, fishmonger, spelunker, journalist, TV producer, and author. In 1999, he was awarded The Hunter S. Thompson Award for Outstanding Journalism. But his most satisfying and rewarding job is that of “Dad.” He lives in a home once owned by George Hansburg (inventor of the pogo stick) on a secluded mountaintop in New York’s Hudson Valley. He writes every day.

Visit him on the web at www.scottchristiancarr.com.

Someone Oughta

Sell Tickets…!

continues in the next Digital Edition and in Issue

12 of Shroud Magazine

Maurice BroaddusDevil’s MarionetteDeath comes for the cast and crew of the hit comedy TV Show Chocolate City, impacting not only their personal lives but the prospect of their show’s continued success. As each member sinks into their own past, and the spirits of those that came before, the tragedies continue. When your terror comes to claim you, who will it be? Nobody.

R. Scott McCoyFEAST

Deputy Sheriff Nick Ambrose can look into someone’s eyes and glimpse their guilt, to an extent. But when he and his brother take on a psychopathic killer,

he gains something more: the ability to see, and devour, souls. Plagued by this terrifying new power, and by the spirits of both his brother and the butcher trapped inside his mind, he sets out to understand and control his new fate

and to grapple with the shadowy auras he now sees all around.Can he command the darkness welling within,

or will he become merely its vessel?

Cindy LittleIntruderWhen the powers of an ancient malevolent creature invade a quiet suburban household, a young mother is forced into a pitched battle for the life of her child.A shocking and intelligent novella from veteran supernatural investigator, Cindy Little.

Rio YouersMama Fish

At Harlequin High School In 1986, Kelvin Fish is the oddball, the weird kid that no one will talk to, except for Patrick Beauchamp, who is determined to learn more. When Patrick’s curiosity leads him into a bizarre and tragic series

of events, he gets much more than he bargained for.

Lift the Veilon Original Fiction from Shroud Publishing

Available now at www.shroudmagazine.com and at finer retailers everywhere.

17Shroud Digital Edition • Version 1.02

October 31, 1954

The sound of the front door opening and feet running up

the stairs startled Jim Andersen. He had just finished clearing the bed of the muddy sheets. He slipped out the kitchen door and threw them into the Buick’s trunk, along with his filthy suit and shoes. His neck was stiff, his joints ached, and he had never felt so thirsty.

Margaret and the kids were home from visiting her mother in Harris-burg. Finally! Something normal! He thought he might get away with the mess in the house—the broken bedroom window, the muddy foot-prints on the carpet, the fishy-smell-ing vomit on the pillows … But that was the least of his worries. He was thinking of the new Buick’s ruined interior. He couldn’t untangle that one. Not yet.

Then the reality of the bet squeezed his gut hard.

Am I absolutely insane?In the haze that was last night,

Andersen had bet their whole life savings on a football game with one simple phone call.

And of all teams—the Chicago Cardinals! The Steelers were going to annihilate them! How could I have blown such an easy bet?

The game was several hours away. There was still a chance, but he couldn’t face Margaret just yet. He already had too much to explain

and no explanations. He didn’t even have lies.

While his family was upstairs, Jim Andersen closed the trunk, struggled to get his prosthetic left leg into the driver’s seat of his beloved Buick, and drove away from his Allentown, Pennsylvania home.

The interior of the car reeked of river mud. He lowered the electric windows to let the stench out. Cot-tony cattail seeds flew up from the floorboard into his mouth and nose as he drove. He glanced down at the bloodstains that spattered the passenger seat and door panel. His stomach churned.

Dear God, I’m thirsty! He wanted a beer. He wanted ten beers.

He might have an idea for the Buick, but first he had to fix the financial fiasco he’d created when he placed that ridiculous bet. That wasn’t going to be easy. He was in good with his bookie, Tony Malcino, although this was “bid’ness,” as Tony often reminded him in his Sicilian accent.“Friends is friends, gumba. But

bid’ness is bid’ness.”As an insurance agent, Jim Andersen

knew this all too well, having had to deny claims from time to time, even to close friends. Bid’ness was bid’ness, after all. Insurance was a gamble.

So was picking up dazed and con-fused broads after midnight during the worst thunderstorm in Pennsyl-vania history.

But this was insanity! The stinking, slimy, bloody interior of the Buick should be evidence enough that something wasn’t right. Something unusual was happening. Surely Tony could see that one of his best custom-ers was a victim of extenuating cir-cumstances, right?

Andersen protected his reputation carefully. He would keep the bet—take a loss on Chicago. But for cryin’ out loud—who in their right mind makes a twenty-five thousand dollar bet on the Cardinals against anybody? They had the worst record in the whole NFL!

He would tell Tony that he’d made a verbal mistake. That what he meant to say over the phone was twenty-five hundred dollars. Still a stupid bet, but a long cry from twenty-five thousand. Yes, that almost made sense. “Tony, I was a little drunk, you know? Meant to say two-thousand, five hundred—was thinking twenty-five hundred, but damn it to Schlitz! Twenty-five thousand fell out of my beer-guzzlin’ mouth before I knew it!”

Surely Tony had dealt with this kind of bumble before? Surely Tony knew when to bend a rule to keep “da bid’ness” of a loyal patron? Andersen had always made good on his debts.

As he pulled into the parking lot of Fat Sal’s, a greasy spoon Tony Malcino and company frequented, he wiped cattail fluff from his hair and fished it out of his collar. He took one last look at the Buick’s blood and mud-stained baby blue bench

Die WassergeistKris St. James

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seat. He’d made just one payment—the car had less than seven hundred miles on it.

He knew he could never sell it and he couldn’t keep driving it. He still didn’t know how to explain it to Margaret. But the truth wasn’t that awful, was it? Yet it was so unbelievable. And the bloodstains just looked so wrong. How could he return from an insurance convention in New York with the blood of an unknown woman all over his front seat? How could he explain diving fully clothed into the Lehigh River after midnight to rescue a baby that didn’t exist? And then waking up in their bed, fully clothed in his wet suit—with no memory of coming home?

No, it was too odd. Too risky. Margaret would never believe him. Not after the affair he had at the last convention. Not with his recent binge drinking. And now the bet?

If nothing else, he knew how the insurance game was played. First, he’d talk with Tony and straighten out the bet—he’d eat the twenty-five hundred. It would hurt, but he’d find it again. Then he’d burn the car and collect on the insurance.

He could do this. He could fix this.The restaurant was a dark cavern

lit by two red neon beer signs. In the back, Andersen saw three dark-suited, heavyweight men crammed into a black vinyl booth. Frank Sinatra sang “Someone to Watch Over Me” from an unseen jukebox. When he finally caught Tony’s attention, the cold expression drew all the logic out of Andersen’s planned appeal to Tony’s sense of fairness and good bid’ness ethic. Tony took a swig from a bottle, meeting Andersen’s eyes. His tombstone gaze stopped Andersen where he stood.

“What da hell do yous want?”Already this was not going well.

James Andersen, decorated P-51

fighter pilot—Silver Star, Purple Heart—knew he was in over his head. He was about to lose every-thing: his car, his family, his retire-ment. The stump of his left leg began to itch within the prosthesis. This was the real gamble.

“Tony, I need to talk to you about that bet I made on Chicago.” Ander-sen smiled weakly.

Tony stared dumbfounded at An-dersen, like he suddenly didn’t speaka da English no goodly no more. Then a boyish grin spread across his ample jaws. A light chuck-le grew into a hearty laugh. Tony turned to an equally large associate and slapped him across the back. His infectious laugh spread to the other two until everyone was guffawing like Jackie Gleason had just farted on live television. Even Andersen felt a giggle rising from his wrenched gut.

“Yeah, I bet you do, gumba, I’ll bet you do! Twenty-five Gs! My God, man, I had no idea yous had dat kinda dough!” Malcino fought down another round of chuckles, tears welling in his baggy eyes. He raised an ample finger ringed in gold and rubies to wipe them away and drew in a deep breath. “And a bet on Chicago! I couldn’t hardly believe my ears!”

Andersen chuckled a little himself. “I know. I can’t believe it myself! I mean, who makes a twenty-five thousand dollar bet on Chicago! That is funny!” Andersen paused, pacing his delivery, watching the

three men as they laughed at him. “That’s why I need to straighten this whole, funny thing out before this big misunderstanding goes any further.”

All smiles fell from the broad faces of the three huge men seated before Andersen. Tony Malcino got down to bid’ness.

“I’m gonna ask dis just once, gum-ba. Did you or did you not place a twenty-five thousand dolla bet on Chicago against Pittsburgh for to-day’s game?”

Andersen’s stump was on fire like a million bees were stinging in rapid succession. His peripheral vision began to fade and he tasted bile at the back of his throat. The white spot began as a pinprick in the center of Tony’s face and slowly expanded. Andersen leaned on his right leg, prepared for blacking out, but the sensation subsided.

What did that bloody bitch do to me?He took a deep breath through his

chapped, cracked lips. Condensation glistened on the outside of the cold beer bottle between Tony’s meaty fingers. The Schlitz defense was go-ing nowhere. Now he just wanted a long, cold drink from that sweaty bottle—to suckle it like an infant un-til he could sleep off this nightmare.

“Yes.”The singular word limped out from

his sandy throat. One of Malcino’s bid’ness associates slid his chair back six inches and unbuttoned his jacket.

“How could he return from an insurance convention in

New York with the blood of an unknown woman all

over his front seat?”

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Jim Andersen, war hero, knew when to retreat.

“Den we has nothing further to discuss, gumba. Good day.”

Before he knew it, Andersen was behind the wheel of the disgusting Buick, flying down the highway to … where?

The hospital. He had to find that freaky woman. He couldn’t cover up

this mess, not without Tony letting him renege on the bet at least a little. He was certain he’d lost the twenty-five thousand. He’d done what that washed-out wacko had told him when she took his hand and sent that eye-popping jolt of electricity through his body. Surely she was still at the hospital, as loony as she obvi-ously was. Maybe it was her head in-jury. Maybe she was just drunk.

Andersen suddenly wasn’t sure he could even recognize her. As he drove, he tried with all his might to recall the previous night.

It was late and raining extremely hard as he was coming home

from the New York convention. There had been no traffic for the last twenty miles. Just after midnight, the rain had turned briefly to hail and Andersen had stopped inside the covered bridge that crossed the Lehigh to wait out the storm and look over the sports page. She’d wandered out of the gloom, staggered into the side of the idling car like she didn’t know it was there, scaring the hell out of him. All that blood streaming out her nose, over her mouth.

He couldn’t remember her face—no definite details about her remained except she was soaked to the bone in a once-white dress that was now covered in blood and mud. Dead leaves clung to her soggy hair. She got in and mumbled something incoherent, then started shrieking about her baby as they exited the bridge.

Andersen had found her car par-tially submerged with its headlights still on and immediately jumped into the Lehigh to find the baby. Just before her car sank into the depths, he’d got a quick glimpse inside, but no sign a baby was ever there. He’d crawled back up the muck-covered slope through the painful hail to the woman waiting in his warm, dry car.

When he returned to the Buick, she was humming contentedly as she ca-sually examined the costumes he’d bought earlier at Woolworth’s for his kids. No mention of the baby. He im-mediately drove her an hour out of the way home to the hospital.

When they had arrived outside the emergency room, Andersen opened

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the passenger door and took her hand to help her get out. At her touch, something like a bolt of lightning shot up his arm, across his soaked and muddy body, down the metallic leg and into the ground. His vision filled with a bright white spot that radiated out from the center. A memory so powerful, so painful, came back to him in that instant. A memory he had buried deep long ago.“Chicago.”“What?” he’d replied, the white

spot beginning to fade. “No, this is Allentown. Pennsylvania?”

“Bet big on Chicago,” she’d said in a distant monotone. “I’d wager everything.”

Jim Andersen left her standing at the emergency room doors.

U ntil her touch had awakened that memory—that horrible,

unspeakable event that happened so long ago in a war filled with atrocities—he’d thought she was nuts. Now he questioned his own sanity. He shivered at what all this might mean.

He raised the windows and refocused on the present. If she went into the hospital, no one would ever forget the sight of the bright red blood that coated her mouth and chin and ran down her neck onto the front of her silky white party dress. She was a walking nightmare. That horrible scene would surely be imprinted on the minds of the whole emergency room staff for months—years.

He parked the car and retrieved a pen and notepad from his briefcase. He found the note that Kathryn, his youngest, had scrawled in crayon and slipped inside.“Daddy I wont to be a gost.”He looked for the Woolworth’s

bag with the costumes he’d bought

on the way home last night, but couldn’t find it anywhere in the car. He checked the clock on the dash-board—three forty-five. It would be dark long before he got home to take the kids trick-or-treating. It didn’t matter. The kids could throw sheets over their heads and they’d all be a family of ghosts this Halloween.

The hospital emergency room was empty, save for a nurse wearing dark purple eyeshadow and globs of black mascara. She sat behind a small reception desk, reading an old issue of LIFE magazine and drink-ing from a bottle of Coca-Cola. She hardly noticed Andersen.

“Excuse me, but do you know anything about a patient that was brought in here last night? It was really late—during the storm? About two a.m.?”

The nurse turned the page and finished the sentence she was read-ing, then dog-eared the corner and tossed the magazine on the desk.

“Don’t you mean this morning?” She took a slow drink from the Coke.

“I’m sorry—I wasn’t on duty this morning.” She produced a filtered Kent from a desk drawer and lit it before finally making eye contact.

“Do you have the patient’s name?” White puffs escaped her thickly-painted lips as she spoke. She rotated a piece of paper with names typed across it for him to read. A tiny tendril of smoke coiled out one nostril as she

stared dully at the cripple who was apparently interrupting her break.“No, I’m afraid not. I found her in

the storm just after a car accident and dropped her off here. I never knew her name.”

The nurse took another draw on her cigarette and blew the smoke directly in Andersen’s direction.“I’m terribly sorry. Without proper

patient identification, I’m afraid I can’t be of much assistance.”

Andersen tried to ignore the smoke, but his eyelids scraped across his corneas. He had never felt so … dry. His irritated eyes fell on the green bottle of Coke.

Just a sip. Just one sip to settle my stomach. Before he could act on his thoughts—his needs—she took a final drag on the cigarette and dropped the butt into the bottle. Andersen hacked up a cough as the cloud cleared. He hadn’t had a cigarette since last night and was normally a two-pack-a-day man, but the thought of smoking now made him sick. He fought back nausea.“Is there anyone working who was

here last ni … I mean this morning?”The nurse retrieved her lipstick

and compact from her purse in the drawer. She spoke to him through the “O” shape of her mouth as she coated her lips.“Hon, it’s Sunday. It’s Halloween.”

She blotted the excess lipstick on the

“Until her touch had awakened that memory—that horrible, unspeakable event

that happened so long ago in a war filled with atrocities—

he’d thought she was nuts.”

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magazine cover. “I can check with medical records, but without a name, it’s gonna take a while.”

She continued to examine her reflection, ignoring Andersen. His right leg began to cramp again and the white spots buzzed about like television static. All he wanted to do was get back on the road, stir up a fresh breeze and clear his aching head.

And he wanted a drink. He felt powdery—like he was being slowly drained of moisture.“No, thank you. I’m sorry to have

disturbed you.”She looked up from the compact,

satisfied that she had finally rid herself of his nuisance and smiled prettily. “Oh, no trouble! Happy Halloween!” She closed the compact with a soft click and returned to her dog-eared LIFE.

Andersen exited through the dou-ble doors into the deepening twilight of evening. He knew Margaret must be worried sick and the kids were eager for trick-or-treating, but he couldn’t go home yet. Couldn’t call. Not with all these questions and no answers. He had one last option.

The river.The only thing he knew for sure

(did he know anything for sure?) was that the car sitting at the bottom of the Lehigh near the old covered bridge would have a receipt in the glove box, a vehicle identification number, a license plate registered to … somebody. Something that led back to that woman. Something that would once again anchor him to real-ity and allow him to dig his way out and salvage at least a piece of his life.

The sun dropped below the horizon. He pushed the Buick faster, leaning hard into the curves and leaving black streaks as the tires squealed along the serpentine back roads to the river. He felt confident. The car was solid. The car was real.

The dark mouth to the covered bridge came into view. The clock on the dashboard read four fifty-eight. Andersen estimated he had ten min-utes of daylight before it would be too dark to see, but beneath the rush-ing muddy waters of the Lehigh, he wasn’t sure any amount of sunlight would be helpful.

He parked the Buick on the grassy shoulder and pulled a flash-

light from beneath the seat just in case. It wasn’t waterproof, but it provided some obscure assurance that he would find what he was looking for.

From the trunk he retrieved the spare tire and the wad of soiled sheets he’d removed from his bed when he awoke three hours ago. He ripped the sheets into long strips, tying the ends together to form a

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rope. He would dive to the woman’s car and tie one end to the bumper. The other end he attached to the spare, which he hoped would serve as a temporary anchor on the shore, marking the location of the wreck until a tow truck could haul it out of the river.

He saw the swiftly moving brown water and noticed it had risen some ten feet since last night. The car would be even harder to locate, but hopefully it hadn’t moved with the current.

Andersen sat on the edge of the grassy incline and removed his shoe and sock, stripped to his white T-shirt and undershorts, and removed the leg. He bundled the make-shift rope into his arms and inched his way downhill on his back and el-bows. Kicking the tire down the slope as he followed behind, he looked like a fleeing crab that had been picked apart by a seagull.

The tire threatened to bounce into the water, but stopped short. As he reached the bank, Andersen tied one end of the sheet to his waist. He was fumbling with the flashlight, trying to decide how he could use it, when he heard the sound.

It was unmistakable. Unnerving. Unnatural.

A baby’s cry.From beneath the dark water, Jim

Andersen saw the dim glow of two lights.

The car? he thought. After all this time, the headlights still work?

He dropped the flashlight onto the bank and slid into the cold October water. His teeth chattered violently. The current was strong, but the makeshift rope held fast and the Buick’s spare tire should be heavy enough to hold.

He inched along the mucky bottom on his one foot, hopping farther into water which rose quickly to chin

height. Another hop and he was in over his head.

Andersen drew in a deep breath, dived down and opened his eyes. The two lights glowed dimly back at him. His body was going numb from the cold, but he felt confident that this was the best solution. A sure bet. What else could possibly be giving off that light except the woman’s car? From beneath the rushing waters, Andersen heard the sound again.

The baby. Her baby.With his lungs just beginning to itch

and his skin covered in gooseflesh, Andersen dove deeper toward the lights, dragging the makeshift rope out behind him. He only needed ten seconds to reach the lights and he could tie off the sheet and make for the surface. He continued to dive, struggling against the current, reaching out toward the lights. They should be within reach … just a few more feet.

From one of those many unmarked graves that littered the landscape of his mind, something responded to the baby’s wail. Something began to stir beneath the blackened soil; to wriggle its way into the moonlight of semi-awareness. An aborted memo-ry was fully reborn.

E arly in 1945, a more or less com-plete Jim Andersen—one with

both legs and a clear conscience—was shot down while attacking a column of Waffen-SS Panzers during Patton’s push to the Rhine. A flak gun crew found him before he could find the gun.

His heavily-perforated P-51 Mus-tang bellied-out into a soft, freshly plowed field. Andersen miraculously survived, crawled from the flaming wreckage on his elbows and hid in an ancient forest. His left leg was badly injured. Within an hour, Captain James Andersen blacked out from the pain. But as he was fading into unconsciousness, he heard the hushed voices of an old man and a young woman approaching through the dense undergrowth.

He awoke in a clean bed to the smell of frying bacon. How long he had lain there, he didn’t know, but he was reasonably sure this was not a German prison. He was dressed in a linen nightshirt and, considering his fantastic crash, he felt little discomfort, save for a horrible itching along his left leg—all the way to his toes. He attempted to scratch with his right foot, but after a full minute of groping beneath the blanket he discovered his leg was missing from the knee down.

Suddenly, there was a loud knock at an unseen door. Shouts. Scuffling. Gunshots. The door to his room flew open and he braced for execution, but was greeted by a very beautiful, very pregnant young woman. She

“… as he was fading into unconsciousness, he heard

the hushed voices of an old man and a young woman

approaching through the dense undergrowth.”

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said nothing as she closed the door and slid the bolt.

The woman lifted the corner of a rug and pulled an iron ring. A trapdoor opened to a dank root cellar. He saw her face only briefly. She was weeping. The sound of breaking glass came from somewhere outside the room. More shouts. Between sobs she whispered hoarsely in broken English.

“We escape the river now!”Andersen slid from the bed and,

with his remaining leg, clambered down a crude ladder. The wom-an followed, closing the trapdoor behind her. Without a word, she pushed something into his hands: a wooden crutch.

She lit a candle and led him down a twisting tunnel that exited through another root cellar. He could hear rushing water; could smell the fecund odor of damp earth.

She threw open a rotted door to

reveal the mighty Rhine. It was get-ting dark. One hundred yards away he could just make out a decrepit rowboat tethered to a rickety pier. Andersen was familiar with their approximate location from study-ing reconnaissance maps. They were about fifty miles upriver from Pat-ton’s forces. All he had to do was get to that boat and the swift current would carry him to safety.

Ten yards out from the root cellar they heard shouts from the house. A gunshot missed them wildly, hitting the river and sending a tiny geyser of water into the air. The woman shrieked something in German and pushed Andersen toward the boat.

Adrenaline overtook his muscles and propelled himself forward. He found a rhythm with the crutch and covered the ground quickly. He dove from the end of the pier into the old rowboat. As he wrestled with the oars, the woman struggled to untie the rope, fear filling her fingertips

until her hands were useless. Ander-sen saw two SS officers a hundred yards away, running toward them, pistols outstretched. Another wild shot. He began to row, uncoiling the old rope as he pulled away. The sob-bing woman kept fumbling with the knot, but made no progress.

Twenty feet out, the old cord pulled taut and the boat jerked to a stop. The rotten rope snapped at the pier and fell limply into the cold, dark Rhine. Andersen began to move again. He was free.

The SS fired another volley, this time hitting the old boat just below the waterline. He heard a loud splash and looked to the pier. The woman had fallen in after the rope and was now using it to pull herself toward the boat.

The Nazis closed the distance and fired a much more accurate shot at Andersen’s exposed body above the gunwale. He began to row harder, but the drag of the woman was

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slowing him to a near standstill. She continued to pull on the rope.

When she reached the boat, the SS were at the end of the pier—a scant fifty yards away. Andersen thought his heart would explode from panic when two delicate, feminine hands clutched the gunwale and tried to pull her pregnant body over the top, out of the water.

A bullet struck the boat. Another. The SS were finding their range. The boat tipped precariously to port as she tried again, shouting something in German. Andersen dropped the oars and grabbed her hands, tried to pull her in. The boat tipped even fur-ther. The gunwale dipped below the waterline for a long second. He felt the frigid water on his singular foot.

She was too heavy. Andersen was too weak. Another shot struck the boat. Another whizzed past his ear. She pulled again and this time the boat really threatened to tip over. Andersen knew this was hopeless. If the boat flipped, they were both finished.

He moved back to the oars and pulled hard against the deep water. The woman was too much—they were going to be killed.

Or worse, caught.There was a new sound from the

pier: a louder bark, a bigger bite. A third Nazi had arrived with a bolt-action rifle. Their fate was sealed. She pulled herself up higher on the gunwale and nearly capsized Ander-sen a fourth time.

He pulled the oar from the star-board gunnel and, without hesitation, brought it down on the woman’s hands. She wouldn’t relinquish her grip.

She shouted again, begging. But all he heard were gunshots. With his remaining strength, he brought the oar down hard on the top of her head. She released the gunwale and slid beneath.

The rifleman fired again, striking the boat, but the current suddenly became very swift and took him rapidly out of range into the darkness.

A ndersen fought the impulse to inhale. His heart pounded in

his eardrums.Almost there …He felt the sheets go taut. The

lights were close, but out of reach in the murk. Could he pull the tire down the bank a little? Just to the river’s edge? He only needed a few more feet …

Andersen tugged on the sheets and felt the tire move. He dove another two feet, felt the tension again. His lungs burned, but he wanted to gulp down the cold water more than anything.

He tugged harder on the sheet, not caring if the tire fell into the water. Maybe it would float, marking the submerged car like a fishing buoy?

He had no time. The dim lights were still just out of reach, but draw-ing nearer with each downward stroke. He was now inches from the glowing lights; could sense the cold metal of the grille.

He began to untie the sheet from around his waist. His oxygen-starved lungs were ablaze. He felt a hard tug on the sheet. The tire? Had it sunk? Shouldn’t it float, being filled with air?

Another hard tug, this time straight down, which brought him eye level with the two dim lights which weren’t lights at all.

Billowing before him, of purest white, was the party dress and an infant’s nightgown. Now he under-stood. Not a party dress. A burial gown. A shroud.

He felt another tug downward, downward, downward. The sheet-

rope had somehow entangled his remaining leg.

His lungs were at their breaking point. His pounding pulse finally blotted out the maddening sound of the infant banshee and he could resist the urge to drink no longer. Jim Andersen gulped down the Lehigh River as he felt tiny, icy hands grasp his phantom leg and latch on.

E arly Thanksgiving morning, Margaret Andersen, grieving

over the bizarre loss of her husband on Halloween, reluctantly answered an unexpected knock.

She opened the front door and saw a dark sedan driving rapidly away and a woman pushing her baby car-riage down the foggy sidewalk. She didn’t understand why someone would play such an inappropriate joke on her. Margaret was about to call to the unknown woman and ask if she had seen who had knocked when she noticed a large cardboard box on the step.

Inside, the widow Andersen dis-covered stacks upon stacks of one hundred dollar bills. On top, a note:

Chicago Cardinals 17- Pittsburgh Steelers 14

Who knew?I also pay my debts, gumba.

Kris St. James is a Southern Gothic writer who enjoys stories about the fringes of life. He resides with his family in Birmingham, Alabama.

CliCk-Thru Classifieds

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thru Classifieds are an economical way to reach your target audience. For only $10, you can post a 45-word classified ad with an active link to your book, art, music, or similar product or service.

Sure, zombies are pretty scary. They stink.

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down and bumping into things?

Sometimes they can even be cute.

So, before you run away screaming for your lives,

stop and appreciate the beauty of the undead.And remember…

It’s Okay To Be A ZOmbiEStory by Nathaniel Lambert and Pictures by Danny Evarts

Available now at www.shroudmagazine.com

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Abominations17 Spine-tingling Tales of Murderous Monsters

Expertly-crafted, never-before published tales of horrifying creatures, mythical beasts, and murderous monsters from some

of the best voices in modern horror. With stories from John Teehan, Anna Lowther, Eric Christ, Rhonda Parrish, William Vogel, Tracie McBride, Mark Tullius, Kevin Lucia, Brandon Berntson, Jeff Parish, Lee Zumpe, Lon Prater, Lincoln Crisler,

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Beneath the Surface13 Shocking Tales of Terror

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Supernatural beings, Gothic settings, shadowy creatures, and atmospheric haunts tantalize and thrill in this collection of eerie and terrifying old-school works of short fiction. Including works by

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Northern Haunts100 Terrifying New England Tales

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that the reader can customize these treacherous tales in order to tantalize friends and terrify family.

Profits from the sale of this book are donated to the American Cancer Society.

Shroud AnthologiesDark fiction and horror in tasty bite-sized pieces

Enjoy some of the most terrifying Bram Stoker Award nominated modern fiction on the market.

27Shroud Digital Edition • Version 1.02

Grimoires & TomesBook Reviews

Dark Things II is a fun, lightly horrific collection of short stories meant not only to disturb and haunt their readers, but also to entertain, often provoking a chuckle of laughter as much as a sense of dread.

While many readers will find this anthology to be hit or miss, there are enough solid stories in this collection to keep an avid reader awake at night:

The pinnacle of the collection has to be C. J. Sully’s “The Chevalier Sisters: A Tale of Voodoo,” which weaves a southern gothic narrative about Thena Chevalier and her constant struggle in life with physical disabilities, the emotionally heavy loss of her mother, and the antagonistic torments of her sister, Dusa. With a revelatory ending reminiscent of Poe, Sully’s story is sure to capture the attention of any horror fan.“Bug Boy,” by Matt Kurtz, is the story of social

outcast Stanley who has an affinity for collecting bugs. Living close to a cemetery in an area that has been experiencing a lot of rain, Stanley is certain he’ll be able to see a dead body soon, and be able to collect some great bugs to terrify the students in his classroom. He pursues his hunt into the cemetery itself, to a gruesome discovery.“Polarity,” by David W. Landrum, is the introspective

tale of a prostitute who is hired for participation in a demonic ritual. Once she realizes that all is not as it seems with the daughter of the house, the two of them make plans to end things once and for all, but not without a sacrifice.

Overall, Dark Things II is a decent anthology of horror stories, some aiming to be terrifying, some aiming to be disgusting, and some aiming simply to be silly with elements of horror. In spite of some iffy

production values, the anthology is well put together and the stories make for a quick read, with something included for every horror fan to enjoy.

— Joshua Gage

One might think that by now we’d all be tired of the standard horror tropes–vampires, zombies, demons and the like. There’s a couple of these old horror standbys that James Herbert tackles

in The Secret of Crickley Hall: ghosts and the haunted house. The novel’s 633 pages seem more like half of that because the story just keeps rolling, and Herbert definitely makes the reader willing to accept these things that might seem to be stale when handled by lesser authors.

This is a story about a family that has been having some difficult times. The Caleighs move into Crickley Hall, a mysterious place in a remote part of England, when Gabe has to do a temporary engineering job. His wife, Eve, hasn’t been the same since their son went missing during a trip to a local park. There are two daughters who move into the house with them, and it isn’t long before bad things start happening all around.

Scary sounds in the middle of the night, doors opening and closing of their own volition, even things that the family starts to think that they are seeing but just aren’t sure: Crickley Hall has all the problems one might expect from a haunted house. When the Caleighs go into town to a store they find out fairly quickly that no tenant has wanted to stay at the Hall for long. A little research shows that it was once a boarding house for orphans that was under the care of siblings Augustus and Magda Cribben. The history of Crickley Hall and the Cribbens unfolds at a rapid pace and soon offers plenty of explanation for the

Dark Things II:A Horror Anthology

Ty Schwamberger, ed. Pill Hill Press

The Secret of Crickley Hall

Crickley Hall Macmillan

28Shroud Digital Edition • Version 1.02

Grimoires & TomesBook Reviews

frightening events that surround the house many decades later. Clearly the Cribbens were in the wrong line of work and their treatment of the orphans would understandably create some restless spirits.

James Herbert creates a carefully orchestrated story in The Secret of Crickley Hall. By the time the reader reaches the end, Herbert’s onomatopoetic swish-thwack! is likely to instill more than just a twinge of fear. This is a long novel, and it is still easy to digest because there is plenty of space devoted to developing well-rounded characters. Everyone has a backstory and everyone has a purpose for being in the story, making for a satisfying read that has plenty of shocks and horrors along the way. I found myself paying attention to something I usually gloss over: every chapter has a title. Some chapters are titled after characters, some are just ominous words, but all of them are meaningful and worth taking a look at. All of the plot’s loose ends are tied up nicely by the story’s end; all that the reader has to do is sit back and enjoy the work of a horror author who clearly knows how to build a heart-racing and frightening tale.

An important thing to note: if anyone thinks this is a brand new book, that’s mostly untrue. It’s been readily available in the U.K. for five years but is just making its way to an American release.

— Christopher Larochelle

Everyone knows not to tempt fate. Since the time of the Greeks we have been warned and warned against uttering that magical incantation “what’s the worst that can happen?” Doing so practically guarantees that the poor fool will find out exactly what that “worst”

would be. In his latest thriller, The Worst Thing, Edgar-award winner Aaron Elkins tests this theory against an interesting protagonist with decidedly mixed results.

Bryan Bennett is a research fellow and expert in hostage negotiation and corporate security. He has literally written the book on the subject. But memories of his childhood experiences as a kidnapping victim trigger unexpected and potentially debilitating panic attacks, forcing him to walk gingerly around his deepest fears, never testing the limits of his resolve. Drawn to a training seminar in Reykjavik, Iceland with the hope of finally confronting and overcoming his panic attacks, Bryan finds himself drawn into his own worst case scenario. Once again taken hostage and with his life on the line, Bryan is forced to face his terror without the crutch of medication or the comfort of his loving wife.

Throughout The Worst Thing, Elkins displays the skill of an experienced and award-winning author. Bryan’s first-person narrative provides insight into the psychological nature of panic and remembered trauma and Elkins adeptly makes his experience tangible for the reader. The writing is strong, the author maintaining a break-neck pace without sacrificing story or relying on those false cliffhangers that many lesser writers use to sustain interest. However, Elkins makes some critical missteps that ultimately undermine much of the suspense of the novel. Firstly, Bryan’s relatable-yet-acerbic wit ends up taking the sting out of several key scenes. Further, Elkins chooses to alternate the point of the view of the novel from first-person (with Bryan) to third-person (with everyone else), disrupting the flow of the story as well as the steady build-up of anxiety as the conflict progresses. Finally, the author indulges himself with a final twist that is largely unnecessary and ultimately renders all of Bryan’s previous struggles virtually meaningless. When the final page is turned, The Worst Thing can be termed an interesting book, but, unfortunately, not a particularly suspenseful one.

— Shedrick Pittman-Hassett

Expanded and additional reviews can be found in Shroud Magazine and at

shroudmagazinebookreviews.blogspot.com

The Worst ThingAaron Elkins

Berkley Hardcover

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30Shroud Digital Edition • Version 1.02

Craven PlaceT he vagrant’s hand was up

because the sun was behind her, dazzling him. Half-man was a cruel first impression, though tat-tered was accurate enough. Brown, shoulder length hair tangled down to his torn and faded black overcoat, itself burdened with stains, and his beard was short and unkempt, clinging to his face like a loyal pet. There was a grey canvas haversack beside him, making him look like a navy deserter from a bygone era.

Most intriguing were his bright, piercing eyes. They were free of the miserable fog clouding the ex-pressions of the homeless men and women she so often saw in London. There was quiet joy there, and a piercing curiosity.

Her trip-hammer heart eased the pressure it was applying to her body, and her fight or flight pos-ture eased. Her voice had still to escape from the paralysis of fear though, and she found herself star-ing, mouth agape.

The vagrant’s dark eyebrows rose in calm bafflement. He took a sip from the cup-cap of a garish red thermos flask. It was hot, whatever he drank, sending steam rising up around his face. She noticed that his little finger was slightly extend-ed, a bizarre, aristocratic inversion of the traditional tramp clutching a brown paper bag concealing cheap liquor.

Still she could not speak, and he chose to break the silence for her.

As far as she could tell, his patience had not worn thin. He was making conversation, aborting an uncom-fortable silence, and that was all.

His eyes never left her own.“Here for a funeral?” She wanted

to shake her head, but to do so would be to abandon those penetrating eyes. The voice that passed from her ear to her core was accentless, of everywhere and nowhere. “A wedding?” Again, her muscles refused to risk losing the strange safety this man’s soul wrapped around her. He gestured loosely at the gravestone he was sitting against, legs outstretched.

“Visiting relatives?”Now she was at war with her own

subversive tongue. The world had been sucked into this man, leaving nothing left to look at, nothing left to say. The church behind her was really before her, as was Craven Place, and Hag’s Nook, and Nich-olas. She wanted this man’s help. The instinct was compelling, and it came from the core of her, speaking in a voice she had never ignored.

Now she would. Though it was a mistake to deny her instincts, this

man was an innocent. To involve him, even if he would allow himself to be involved, would be to kill him.

Trying a different tack, the man held out the cup-cap he drank from. She knew the movement had been made, could see it in his universe eyes, but was unaware of hand or arm.“Do you drink tea?” When she

didn’t take it, he drained the rest, then turned to put the cap back on the flask.

How could he turn, and still be nothing but eyes?

She knew her soul was reacting to his presence, intoxicating her with the importance of him. She felt drunk on his spirit, a sensation that was almost sexual, yet far removed from desire. She was blanketed by a pure and potent comprehension.

He would save her.“You’ve come from the house on

the hill.”The statement broke the spell. Her

mind and thoughts were her own again. How much did he know? Fate had placed him here, in her path, fully informed and powerful.

by

Richard Wright

Presenting Chapter Two of a new serialized novel

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She needed more. She needed to validate her suspicions.

“Are you … are you gifted? Do you have knowledge?” Her own intensity, her desperation, startled her. The man said nothing, tilting his head like a curious bird. She clarified. “Are you psychic?”“Ah! Psychic.” Drifting off as he

spoke, gazing at nothing, he per-haps saw everything. “In touch with the higher planes. Possessed of instinctive understandings. One with the hidden secrets of the Uni-verse.” His eyes took root in hers again, and this time they were just the eyes of a man. “No. Um. Are you?”

The dynamic changed, and Tanith was left reeling by the light hint of mockery under the question. It was scarcely enough to offend, but he no longer felt like the solution to her problems, and that was good. That meant they could not harm him.“I … yes, of course I am.” The obvi-

ous blurted from her lips while she was thinking other thoughts, and she resented her own abruptness. In babbling apology, she continued.

“I’m sorry, I assumed that …”She stopped, before she could

make an even bigger fool of her-self. Over the years, she had met sceptics in their hordes. As her grandmother, her tutor and friend, had taught her, it was better to let them come to you, rather than try to chase and bully them into accep-tance. She changed her approach.

“How did you know I came from Craven Place?” She tried to remem-ber how she had felt when she first set eyes upon him. He had seemed so huge, a mystic figure. Now she saw only rags and undernourish-ment. Rack-thin, he had a loose dynamism in his limbs, like a tired spring. Beaten by the weather, his skin was coarse and lived-in. She

estimated he might be some three or four years her junior, perhaps thirty years old. Still, she could not deny the power of her vision, even if the details were increasingly hazy. He had felt … meant.“How do you think? I saw you.

With my actual eyes.” Tanith’s spine tingled as she recalled the sensation of intense spectation.

“I’ve been watching you for about fifteen minutes, tearing down that track like a bat out of hell.”

If only he knew. The sunlight could not suppress her shiver. Cra-ven Place had become her hell. She closed her eyes, trying to throw up a barricade to memories too recent and painful. His voice drifted to her as the rush of memories co-alesced into panic.“Makes me wonder who you’re

running from.”All her resolutions, so carefully

constructed to protect this stranger, dissolved. Without waiting for per-mission, the panic seized her lips and made them active.“Megan Morgan. She took my

husband. I switched beds, or I’d be with them now.” A fraction of a sec-ond after she spoke the words, she replayed them, and winced at how they sounded. The vagrant raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.“Of course you would. This woman.

Close friend of the family, is she?”In her anxiety, she did the last

thing she should have, and could feel her grandmother’s disap-proving frown echo down to her through the years. She was blunt. With a sceptic. “She’s dead. She died three hundred years ago. She was a witch.”

He didn’t flinch. She held her breath, waited for his response.“Right.” Utterly noncommittal.

“Good. A witch. And you are?” If

there was damage done, if her questionable credibility had scared him away, then it was too late for subtlety. She opted to continue her accidental policy of blunt honesty, and sent her grandmother a silent apology for wasting so many child-hood lessons.“Tanith Pearce. Psychic Consultant.”Still he didn’t flinch, or look away.

Instead, he took a long, deep breath, as though preparing for something arduous. Then, in a clean, jack-knife movement, he was standing. Taking an abrupt step toward her, he extended his hand. “Matthew Hopkins.” She took his hand in startled reflex, and he pumped it enthusiastically as he stared from too close, making her want to step backwards. “Witchfinder General.” The hand kept pumping. “A joke.”

He broke away then, with a flu-idity that was out of sorts with the shambling eccentricity of his appearance. Pushing his thermos into his bag, he slung the whole thing over his shoulder. All at once he was back with her, the hand he placed on her arm hardly an impo-sition at all, guiding her towards the gate of the graveyard.“So,” he said, “tell me about this

witch. You say she took your hus-band?”

Despite her resolute determi-nation not to let Megan have this man, she found herself nodding. It was the firm, yet innocuous, way in which he put the question that caught her off guard. “Killed him,” she heard herself saying. “My hus-band. Nicholas Eldritch. You might have heard of him …” She trailed off. Hopkins evidently had heard of him, for he stopped walking at the mention of the name. Dawning realisation spread from his eyes outwards, dragging harsh con-tempt in its wake.

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“Not the ghostbuster? The self-styled Van Helsing who roams the land slaying spooks and demons, then inflicts godawful books about it on a mostly innocent public?” He snorted. “Well, they say the pen is mightier than the crucifix.” His gaze rested on a headstone. It seemed to remind him that he was speaking ill of the dead, but his apology was brusque, off hand.

“Sorry. Go on.”No, her mind had been made

up. This man was not her solution. There was no solution. If he was homeless, then life had already taken too heavy a toll on him. She was selfish even considering bring-ing him into her world of hurts.

“Look, I’m sorry. You’ve been very kind, but I can’t involve anybody else. She already seeks me out, and that’s bad enough, but if she knows of you she might …”“I’ll take my chances.” There was

no flippancy. He was grave, accept-ing. In the space between seconds, she changed her mind yet again. She was going to tell him. The de-cision came so suddenly that she found she no longer had words to begin her task, and so she kept walking, buying time. Matthew followed, watching her with those clear, patient eyes. Events lined up in her head, returning to her in a series of shattering collisions, each demanding to be the centre of the tale she was to tell, each blurring the others until her thoughts were a furious, unfocused whirl.

Reaching the gate, she fought a new weakness in her limbs, des-perate not to be seen trembling like a frightened schoolgirl. Matthew sensed her difficulty. His prompt was gentle. “Why were you there?”

It was a rope, and she grabbed it. “Nicholas invited me. This was his last stop, and he …”

Matthew held up a hand as he opened the gate for her. “Please. His last stop? Try taking a deep breath.” She did so, stepping quick-ly through the gate. Beyond this sanctified ground the witch had power. The difference now was that she journeyed with another. She sensed that Megan would not as-sault her if she kept company with this man and stayed away from the cottage. Her head down, she chose to continue along the grass track, towards the coast road, away from Craven Place. Pulling the gate to, Matthew jogged to catch up, and she started to share the previous days with him.“The last stop on his tour. He

has—” and that was wrong. Tanith fought back a sudden welling of tears as she corrected herself. “Had been visiting sites of spiritual un-rest across Britain, staying at each for a few days, soaking up the at-mosphere and making notes. It was for his new collection, The Spectred Isle.”

An exasperated sigh from Mat-thew. “Spectred … Sceptred. Very clever. Very good.”

She ignored the sarcasm. “This was his last port of call before re-turning home to London.” She felt a sudden urge to justify allowing her husband to be here, and she looked earnestly into the eyes that refused to leave her, to miss a nu-ance. “I’d warned him, of course. I told him that if he stared too hard into the next world …”“Something might stare back. In-

deed.” Why did she have so strong a feeling that this man already knew what she was telling him? How could he seem to understand so much in one moment, so little in the next? The wind was picking up slightly, sweeping across the fields to chill them as she turned her

mind back to her tale. “Did you go on the tour with him?”“He wanted me to, but I couldn’t.

These places have emanations, vi-brations, which my gifts make me sensitive to. I’d visited him at one or two, but I could never bear to stay for long. When he invited me to this last, I thought it would be an end to it. Craven Place has a his-tory.”

Again he cut her off, but this time he was not looking at her. This time his gaze seemed to track back through time. “Yes.” She barely heard him, so soft and sad was his voice. “I know about its history.”

For a second, she watched him, noting the sudden heaviness that pulled his shoulders in and his head down.“Then you know why Nicholas

came here. It was only when I ar-rived that I felt the evil of the place, the malignancy. I never would have come if I’d known.”

(Craven Place continues in the next Shroud Digital Edition …)

Richard Wright is an author of strange dark fictions, currently living with his wife and daughter in New Delhi, India. His stories have been widely published in the United Kingdom and USA for over a decade, most recently in magazines and anthologies including Dark Wisdom, Withersin 3.2, Beneath the Surface, Shroud, Tattered Souls, Choices, Dark Faith, and the Doctor Who collection Short Trips: Re:Collections.

Richard also authored Hiram Grange & the Nymphs of Krakow, the fifth book in The Scandalous Misadventures of Hiram Grange.

For more on Richard, visit him at www.richardwright.org.

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34Shroud Digital Edition • Version 1.02

Dementis MortuusWord Games for the Worst of Us

Words by Victorya, Blanks by Danny Evarts

• Well Term of Affection

, I do believe Mother should be with me everywhere I go, her

Body Part is in my backpack right now.

• So, if I was to choose you for a date, do you think you could lose ten Noun (Plural)

by Friday?

• I only date girls a D-cup or Comparative Verb

, sorry.

• This is my own Adjective

scent I created, made from Animal

sweat, eucalyptus, rhinoceros

internal organ , and unicorn

bodily fluid. Pretty awesome, isn’t it?”

• I verb ending in “ED”

the cheeseburger dildo. Maybe we can skip the rest of this charade and go to my Place

.

I’ll bring the meat, you bring the cheese.

• Do you mind Noun (Plural)

? I think they’re adjective

.

• If I said I wanted to eat your Noun

, would that turn you on?

•Serial Killer

was a pussy. You never listen to your dog. Mythical creature (Plural)

, they’re the ones you listen to.

Did you know Deity

was a chinchilla?

SPEED DATING

TErM of AffECTioN

BoDy PArT

NouN (PlurAl)

CoMPArATiVE VErB

ADjECTiVE

ANiMAl

iNTErNAl orgAN

BoDily fluiD

VErB ENDiNg iN “ED”

PlACE

NouN (PlurAl)

ADjECTiVE

NouN

SEriAl KillEr

MyThiCAl CrEATurE (PlurAl)

DEiTy

INSTRUCTIONS: Without peeking at the story below, pick words to fill in the blanks in the word list based on the language parts shown. Or have friends pick (if they’re still living or can otherwise somehow

communicate their answers). Then read the story aloud, putting each chosen word in its given space.Note: If you don’t know the following parts of speech, your editors kindly recommend that you go back to school and get an education.

further Word games can be found in the pages of Shroud Magazine.

The latest pulse-pounding stories from the masters of the genre.Fiction, art, book reviews, films, and insightful articles that pull back

the veil separating fantasy from reality. Shocking, cerebral and satisfying.

“An excellent Magazine. I endorse it fully.”–BRIAN KEENE, Stoker Award-winning author

“Very swiftly becoming one of the best horror magazines in the business.”

–NATE KENYON, author of BLOODSTONE

“Already making itself known as one of the better horror/dark fiction mags available.”–J.G. FAHERTY

“This is one of the best horror fiction magazines already …”

–DAVID RILEY, Riley’s Books, UK

Dark Fiction • Noir • Horror • Suspense • True Events • Macabre Artistry All Delivered to your Door

We Think We May be on to Something…

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