After some time the young cabbie made up his mind. He probably worked hard for his money, for his family, who knows? He wasn’t old enough and dint have enough guts to go back without the money.
“Okay, I’ll take you to the other side,” he siz and jams down his foot and leaves a patch. This cab whips through the cemetery from zero to sixty in ten seconds and it was a narrow bumpy little road and he lops off a few branches as he goes through.
Then way at the end of the cemetery he saw a little light; it was a very little house, and he slammed on the brakes, and some more lights went on outside the house. An aging balding man came out.
“I’ll pay you the fare,” the man siz. “She lives here with me. I’m her father. She’s on drugs and when she runs out of money she comes home. I think she likes to make fun of cab drivers this way.”
“You mean, for kicks?”
“Yes, I think so. If she knows what she’s doing.”
*
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Chapter 38
“The Call”
Rahima Warren
San Francisco, California, USA
My hand shakes. Too cold to continue, I contemplate the canvas. Silken-dark waters, a shimmering path, faint stars. Who will complete this one? The Mistress must be satisfied before I will know, but She is gone. I must wait upon her return. Until then, I must sleep.
Hearing the faint beginnings of the Call, I stir, but the Mistress is weak yet. I return to uneasy somnolence.
Gaining strength, She wakens me gently with her subtle silver touch. Undeniable now, the Call pulls me forth from my redoubt.
Pale faces peer at my sleek black automobile with its darkened windows, wondering which celebrity is inside. Somewhere near this glittery, narcissistic place, there is one who awaits me.
The Call leads me to quieter streets, dimly lit by street lamps shadowed by tall old trees, an occasional porch light, the garish flickering of entertainment screens. Circling slowly, I slide through these streets of simple homes. The engine purrs peacefully, but I pay heed only to the Call, as it fades, returns, grows stronger.
Ah, it is this house, huddling behind overgrown lilacs, with a few pots of drooping geraniums on the stoop. She is inside, alone. Her ripe despair washes over me in an arousing tide. She is not ready to come to me. I will return each night until she is.
A shabby pickup truck turns into the driveway. Reeking of stale anger and tobacco smoke, a man stumbles out of the truck and enters the house. Her fear increases but she covers it with appeasing lies. Soon he has reduced her to hidden tears with his cutting words. He raises his fist. I do not need to witness what comes next. It is always the same – crude, brutal, needless.
This holy night, the Mistress is full and strong, the Call incontestable. I drive through the darkening streets. Jack-o-lanterns glare from porches. Ghosts and goblins haunt the sidewalks. People playing with darknesses they don’t understand, reducing them to child’s play to keep them at bay. I smile, imagining how they would scatter if I walked among them.
Ah. Here is the woman’s house No yellow light glares from her windows, no garish colors flicker. She sits alone in silent darkness, as I wait outside in mine. Life means nothing to her now. He has murdered her will, her soul. I select music for her, sad and languorous. I get out and stand beside the car, leaving the door open, the music playing.
Heavy with emptiness, she walks out of the house. I bow to her and swing open the passenger door. She looks at me, at the dark interior of my luxurious conveyance, shrugs and slips inside.
I am roused to tenderness by her numb despair. She is my bride for the night. She longs for surcease. I am an artist. I will create for her an ending better than any she could imagine.
In an overly-precious village, we stroll a street of stylish shops. In one of these, she uses a piece of plastic to buy the kind of dress she never allowed herself – ruby satin, draped low in front and back - with jeweled sandals for her feet, and a fur wrap. She returns to me transformed, unknown to herself. In a restaurant full of dark glass and feverish chatter, I order a lavish dinner and watch her take neat bites with white teeth.
We return to my vehicle. I cover her neck with lingering kisses, tantalizing myself with the salty taste of her. She smiles distantly, far from the life she has known. We leave behind the smug little town whose people ignore the howling of their dogs.
As we drive on, our darknesses merge. The Mistress paints the slender road silver as it winds through the soft hills toward the sea’s shore. Yellow light from a foreign land shines in occasional farmhouse windows. Unsubtle music, clumsily sensual, booms and fades as we pass a rowdy saloon.
The silver path takes us along bluffs overlooking the sea, far beyond any cottage or tavern. The slow pulse of the Mistress surges through me, relentless as the unseen waves swelling and receding below. I drive the curves and twists recklessly. My bride clings to me, uncaring, caressing her fur-draped, satin-clad body in absent surprise.
I stop at the cliff’s edge. The Mistress turns the fog-clad ocean below us into land of silver mysteries. My bride follows me out of the car without protest or question. With cold, trembling hands, I wrap her new fur about her warm body. Soon, I too will be warm. The fog enshrouds us as we descend the path to the hidden beach at land's end. Now we can hear the ceaseless voice of the Mistress's vast slave, feel the cold wet touch of sea mist.
I brush her fog-bejeweled hair off her face. She kisses my hand and turns empty eyes toward the restless waters. The Mistress's cold fire rises within me. I am desperate to please her, but I am an artist.
I carry my bride across the sands into the waiting circle of heavy chain. In the center, I spread her fur on the sand and lay her upon it. I caress her face, her arms, her breasts, her thighs. Her passion mounts and I am hard with hunger, yet I await her summons.
“Please,” she begs. “Please.”
Invited, I enter. The Mistress’s demand pulses through me, yet I take my time. When my bride reaches fulfillment, I plunge my fangs into her arched neck. Her bliss-sweetened blood pulses raw and hot through my veins, exquisite agony flooding me with urgent life, raging desire. I climax, howling my praises to the Mistress.
I clasp her limp body tenderly, thanking her for her gift, whispering blessings for her journey. She smiles a small, grateful smile as she slowly grows cold. The Mistress breaks through the fog and looks down, satisfied.
*
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****
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Chapter 39
"The Corn Maze"
Matthew C. Nelson
Jacksonville, Florida, USA
On the outskirts of a small village along the Texas-Mexico border...
Mike had just finished his late Friday night shift at the diner and wasn't ready to go home and spend the evening with his parents and little brother. He'd just gotten a car the week prior and he was aching to pick his girlfriend, Rachel, out and do something fun.
As Mike punched out of the time clock, he looked up to see Rachel waiting outside with the rest of his friends. He smirked as he got to the door.
"I see how it is. You guys are only capable of showing your asses when I get a set of wheels, but just last week, you all were unable to return my phone calls?" Mike teased as he wrapped his arms around Rachel and planted a firm kiss on her lips.
Letting out a slight purr, Rachel replied, "So, it's Friday night, we have absolutely nothing planned tonight. What are we doing, oh darling?"
Pulling out a piece of paper, Mike unfolded it from his back pocket and handed it to Rachel
as he spoke. "I want to go here!"
Mike's best friend, Craig, leaned over the side of the truck and looked over Rachel's shoulder and read aloud.
"S. Hain Farms' Corn Maze....come experience the fun and terror of the Haunted Corn Maze...with Hay Rides...admission is just three bones. Sound's cool to me!"
With unanimous cries of "Sounds awesome", Mike nodded as he and Rachel got into his truck with the rest sat in the bed of the truck. "The Corn Maze it is."
It took about three hours to get there, with the last stretch being a long winding dirt road. Marking the exit was a sign that said "S. Hain's Corn Maze". Mike maneuvered his truck and navigated the side road until he finally came to an old white barn with an older gentleman sitting in a rocking chair smoking a cigar.
"You youngun's must be here fer the maze, right? Well then, park yer car and pay the devil his due boys. Just three dollars a person...except the pretty little gal, she can go fer free."
Blushing, Rachel blurted out, "Why thank-you. I guess I have an admirer."
"Since I just got paid, let me pay for you all...my treat." Mike smiled proudly as he spoke. Looking back at the old man, he replied, "So, I guess I owe you twelve bucks." He reached in and pulled a ten and two single bills.
Smiling, the old man accepted the money and slipped it in his shirt pocket. "Go have some fun." Mike and the rest of the gang ran off down the road and stepped into the corn maze.
The old man walked over to Mike's truck and nodded. He lifted up a walkie-talkied and spoke, "OK, Jim, you can tow it away." Moments later, a massive tow truck drove up, hooked Mike's truck to it, and hauled it away.
Smiling, the old man mused, "They won' be needing it anymore." He turned and walked towards the corn maze as well. The moment he stepped foot into the corn maze, he vanished into the earth.
Mike and the rest of his friends eventually made it to the center of the maze that night.
The prize for it? The ground beneath their feet opened up all around them and swallowed them whole.
Such are the events of S. Hain's Farm....Samhain's Farm, that is.
*
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****
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Chapter 40
“Spider”
(Excerpt from “Inside My Shorts: 30 Quickies” © 2011 Adam Sifre)
Adam Sifre
Wayne, New Jersey, USA
"JAY!!"
Just the sound of her voice made him want to hit something. Lately, it seemed Wanda had only three ways of yapping -- loud, bitchy and irritating. When it came to pissing him off, Wanda was a multi-tasker.
"Jayyyy!! Get up here!" It had been one grade-A bitch of a day. Triple digit temperatures and a dying air conditioner at the office left him moist, stewed, and raw. Receiving his first paycheck reflecting garnished wages for the ex was the cherry on the fucking sundae.
He trudged up the stairs, cursing himself for trading jerking off to the playboy channel for shacking up with the built Harpy.
Wanda was standing in the bedroom doorway. Jay had a few seconds to appreciate her finer aspects, mainly a sweet ass framed in black and white polka dot panties, and a perky set of titties that defied gravity just fine. If she could just keep her mouth –
"JAY!! Get up here!"
"Jesus, Wanda –"
Wanda whirled around in surprise and he marveled at the effect she still had on him. Even when he wanted to kill her, he wanted to fuck her.
"Just kill it!"
"What are you talking—?"
She grabbed his hand and half pulled, half twirled him into the room, at the same time putting Jay between her and the bed. His foot caught on the door jamb and he stumbled the rest of the way. Being the proud owner of a recent ex with a decent lawyer, Jay's bedroom, like the rest of his life, was sparsely furnished. There was the queen bed directly in front of him, flanked by two IKEA end tables, and that was it.
Completely off balance, he had little choice but to let inertia carry him to the bed. He hit it, arms outstretched, the frame catching him just below the nut sack, thank Christ.
Just before arms and head met goose down, he saw it. Smack dab in the middle of the bed; a big, hairy, alien-looking spider. It had lots of brown hair, gray spots and legs, legs, legs. He let out a small yelp which was drowned out by a screeching Wanda.
Jay hit the bed, and the Spider flew into the air. He saw it pull its legs together, getting ready to tuck and roll, for Christ's sake. And then he thought he heard –
No, spiders don't scream.
It landed on his hand and, while spiders may not scream, sometimes a 230 pound divorcee with a thumper of a headache and a dwindling hard-on screams like a little girl.
He snatched his hand away like he'd leaned on a hot grill. The spider began its second flight of the night, this time landing at the beautifully pedicured feet of Harpy Wanda, who let out a scream that made her previous yelling sound like a lover's whisper. Jay would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy that one.
Wanda kicked at the bloated bag of legs and tried to back away at the same time, screaming the whole time. The spider, now air-borne for the third time that night, made a bee-line for Jay's chest. He jumped back in revulsion and smacked his head a good one against the window air-conditioner beside the head of the bed.
He woke up some time later. In fact, he jumped up, swatting at his chest and legs and -- well, not screaming; definitely not screaming. Satisfied he was spider-free, he took a few seconds to catch his breath. His head felt like someone had taken a hammer to it.
How can something so fucking big disappear so fucking fast? He asked himself, rubbing the back of his head and grateful to find no blood.
"Wanda?" Jay called out. Where the fuck did she go?
"Wanda?"
He swatted instinctively at his arms again, sure he felt soft, alien legs skittering across his skin.
He found Wanda when he went to look for a frying pan or a howitzer to take care of the spider. She was lying at the bottom of the stairs, her left leg twisted at a funky angle, eyes staring up at nothing. The spider was nestled between her breasts, which were no longer defying gravity.
Jay stood there, transfixed, for how long, he didn't know. But it was light out before he moved. He slowly made his way down the stairs, his eyes never leaving the spider and, he imagined, the spider's eyes never leaving him. To Jay, it looked like it had staked its claim and was willing to die defending it.
He nearly pissed himself when he had to jump over Wanda's body, expecting the thing to leap at his crotch. He'd call 911 and tell them -- tell them what? A Spider murdered his girlfriend? Well, never mind. He'd call 911.
The phone sat on the kitchen table. A fat, bloated wasp crawled back and forth over the receiver, its soft, alien buzz filling the room.
"Fuck."
*
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Chapter 41
“A Mother’s Confession”
Joseph Alan Gharagheer
Toledo, Ohio, USA
My name is Rachel Maddox, and it was on this day, October 31st, 2012, that I killed four people. Not hours after committing these crimes, I now sit down to write to you my official confession, hands still stained scarlet from the deeds I’ve done. My lip still quivers, unable to shake the vivid imagery from my mind. It is not my intention to absolve myself of any guilt, but rather to explain my actions, so that my children aren’t left to wonder what could have driven their mother to commit such heinous crimes. It was in fact because of my children that I forced myself to muster enough strength to do what had to be done in the first place. I hope that one day they can understand why I did what I
did. Now that that has been established, I can continue with the details.
It all started at a Halloween party. Looking back, it was foolish to go to this party in the first place, but I needed a night out, and it was the children’s father’s turn to take them trick or treating anyways, so they were staying the night at his house for the evening. I took advantage of the situation and allowed myself to get fairly intoxicated, so intoxicated in fact that I didn’t even notice when I was drugged. At first I thought that my drowsiness was just a side effect of the drinking, but before I knew it I could no longer concentrate, and the next memory I have is waking up.
When I finally came to, it was the tight metal chain around my throat that woke me in the first place. I felt it being tugged against my skin, and I choked loudly as I opened my eyes. Even whilst being choked, my surroundings still took a minute to come into clarity. I tried to reach up to grab at the cold chain that continued to constrict around me, causing me more and more pain the longer it held on, but I realized for the first time that my hands were shackled to the table I was leaning back against. I attempted to struggle but found that I couldn’t move as my feet were also shackled. I looked around me at my surroundings as I continued to choke, tears dripping from my eyes, and my heart began to pound when I saw the others. There were two more people shackled just like me, a young man in a pirate’s costume, and a girl in a black dress with cat ears on her head. Neither of them looked any older than 25. On the other side of the room was the scariest part, however. A bearded man sat in a chair, simply staring at us, watching us squirm, with a sick smile on his face. He had a glass of something in his hand, which he sipped on, legs crossed in front of him as if he was watching some kind of show for his entertainment.
I only had one thought in my mind. I had to get out of this sick situation. I had to see my kids again, whatever it took. That’s what I kept thinking to myself when the man finally pressed a button loosening my chain around my neck. I was finally able to breathe, and I heaved and cried for several seconds, but ultimately calmed myself down. I had to remain calm for the children. Getting home to them was my top priority, so when the man finally spoke, explaining to us what he wanted from us, I knew I would comply. Years ago I would have never gone through with the things his asked of me, but becoming a mother changed everything.