NIGHT TERRORS

NINETEEN STORIES APPEARING IN THE FIRST SEVEN

ISSUES OF NIGHT TERRORS HAVE OR WILL RECEIVE
HONORABLE MENTION IN THE YEARS BEST FANTASY AND
HORROR.
Stories receiving honorable mention in the YBF&H (St. Martins Griffin, Ellen Datlow
and Terri Windling, Eds., 1997, 1998, 1999) include those by Keith Minnion NT #1, A.
R. Morlan, Don DAmmassa, Barbara Rosen, and William Scheinman in NT #2, Keith
Minnion, and E. S. Serken in NT #3, A. R. Morlan in NT #4, A. R. Morlan, Trey R.
Barker, William T. Tripp and Alan Smale in NT #5, Don DAmmassa, Tim Waggoner,
Derek W. Wass, and Hugh B. Cave in NT #6 and Trey R. Barker, and Don DAmmassa
in NT #7.

FIVE STORIES FROM ISSUES # 4, 5, 6 AND 7 RECEIVED

NOMINATIONS FOR
THE HORROR WRITERS ASSOCIATIONS BRAM STOKER
AWARD FOR SHORT FICTION.
Stories receiving nominations for the Horror Writers Associations Bram Stoker Award
for Short Fiction were by Ken Abner in NT #4, Trey R. Barker and Alan Smale in NT
#5, Don DAmmassa in NT #6 and Trey R. Barker in NT #7.
A magazine to watch. Ellen Datlow THE YEARS BEST FANTASY AND HORROR,
TENTH ANNUAL COLLECTION, St. Martins Griffin, 1997, Ellen Datlow and Terri
Windling Eds.

THE WRITERS
NT #1Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Mort Castle, D. F. Lewis, Dominick Cancilla, Kenneth
Goldman, James S. Dorr, Louise Dragon, Keith Minnion, Charlee Jacob, Kurt Newton,
Kevin Toth, Marion Deeds. 41,000+ story words and 10 illustrations.
NT #2A. R. Morlan, Mort Castle, Don DAmmassa, Jason Bovberg, Mark McLaughlin,
William Orem, Terry Campbell, Barbara Rosen, Kurt Newton, William Scheinman,
Gregory L. Norris, Pam Chillemi-Yeager. 46,000+ story words and 6 illustrations.
NT #3 J. N. Williamson, A. R. Morlan, Roman A. Ranieri, ONeil De Noux, Debra Gray
De Noux, Billie Sue Mosiman, Yvonne Navarro, Elizabeth Massie, Brian A. Hopkins, Mark
Rainey, David Niall Wilson, Jeff Osier, John Rosenman, Karen Miller, Keith Minnion,
James S. Dorr, E. S. Serken. 47,000+ story words and 8 illustrations.
NT #4A. R. Morlan, J. N. Williamson, Don DAmmassa, Dominick Cancilla, Kenneth
Goldman, Ken Abner, Barbara Malenky, James B. Mastous, Lester Thees, Steven Carr, S.
Lawrence Parrish, Lee Clark and Morgan Larkin. 46.000+ story words and 7 illustrations.
NT #5Mort Castle, A. R. Morlan, Corrine De Winter, Trey R. Barker, Julie Anne Parks,
Trevor Floyd, T. Everett Cobb, William T. Tripp, D. E. Davidson, Alan Smale, Jon-Michael
Emory, Chapin Shaw Tucker. 47,000+ words of stories and 8 illustrations.
NT #6Hugh B. Cave, Don DAmmassa, Dominick Cancilla, Keith Minnion, Craig Jones,
John Platt, Robin Spriggs, Tim Waggoner, Paul Walther, David M. Anderson, Derek W.
Wass. 46,000+ words of story and 9 illustrations.
NT #7John Maclay, Don D Ammassa, Trey R. Barker, M. Christian, Jason Bovberg,
Greg F. Gifune, Phyllis Pyle, Adam Edwards, Laura Capewell, Vince Cusumano, Stefano
Donati, Paul Walther, Anthony Jude. 46,000+ words of story.

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NIGHT TERRORS PUBLICATIONS

ISSUE #2

CONTENTS

EDITOR/PUBLISHER
D. E. DAVIDSON

Editors Note............................D. E. Davidson

ALL MATERIAL PUBLISHED IN CRIMSON

IS PROTECTED BY THE AUTHORS OR
ARTISTS COPYRIGHT AND MAY NOT BE
REPUBLISHED IN ANY WAY, NOR MAY
CHARACTERS OR ANY OF THE STORY BE
USED IN WHOLE OR PART WITHOUT THE
AUTHORS PERMISSION.

TEMPEST TOSSED.................K. G. McAbee

COPIES OF THIS MAGAZINE CAN BE

GIVEN FREE TO OTHERS BUT THE
MAGAZINE MUST BE PROVIDED IN FULL
AND MAY NOT BE ADDED TO, REDUCED,
EDITED OR CHANGED IN ANY WAY.

HOTLINE................................David Sakmyster 15
ALL BECAUSE OF JOE....Barbara Malenky

19

A TASTE OF WAR....................Ralph Gamelli

29

DREAM HOUSE.......................D. E. Davidson

36

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EDITORS NOTE
by

D. E. Davidson
Copyright 1999 by D. E. Davidson

At publication time I discovered that this issue had fallen a bit short in length. I added an
old story of mine to lengthen the issue a bit. This is not a trend. I have no intention or need
to fill CRIMSON with my work.
What can you expect to find in CRIMSON and how is it different from NIGHT
TERRORS magazine? Well, CRIMSON has its roots in NIGHT TERRORS Magazines slush
pile. Stories which dont fit the NIGHT TERRORS concept but which the Editorthats
mefinds entertaining will be contracted for CRIMSON. And since I receive a variety of
stories inappropriate for NIGHT TERRORS, CRIMSON will cover a variety of genrs
including science fiction, suspense, mystery, and mainstream work. In other words, you might
find almost anything here but primarily you will find dark fiction. Other than those significant
differences, and the fact that CRIMSON is much smallerapproximately 1/3 the size of a
NIGHT TERRORS issueyou will also find the stories in CRIMSON more as they were
originally written. Although my editing of the stories in NT has been well met, I will do very
little editing of the stories in CRIMSON. So if you like variety and fiction in the raw, youll
like CRIMSON.
This is the first issue of CRIMSON E-Zine and as first issues go, there are going to be
problems and changes. Please address any problems to me at DED3548@AOL.COM with
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TEMPEST TOSSED by K. G. McAbee, HOTLINE by David Sakmyster, ALL BECAUSE
OF JOE by Barbara Malenky, and A TASTE OF WAR by Ralph Gamelli.
I hope you enjoy the first issue of CRIMSON and send your friends, and writers and
readers groups here. 

RETURN TO CONTENTS PAGE

K.G. McAbees degree in electronics is collecting dust as she works

towards becoming an established writer. She is published in short
fiction and has three novels existing in that Dantean writers
purgatory called waiting to hear from the publisher. She writes
horror, fantasy, science fiction and alternative history, and reads
everything. Literally.

Tempest Tossed
by

>K.G. McAbee?
Copyright 1998 by K.G. McAbee

The sewer smelled like

Well, what could you expect, really? It was a sewer, for gosh
sakes.
There were rats running along under my feet, and other less
pleasant things floating in the deep but narrow canal in the center of
the arched cement tunnel. The walls were cold, clammy and dripping
with condensate. It was so deep that it would have been impossible
to see much even in daylight, though there were grated manholes
spaced far above the muck. I wasnt lucky enough to be there in
daylight; I had a flashlight to help my struggle through the dark stink.
At intervals a lance of pale streetlight glimmered down, refracting
through drops of water to throw fantastic shadows about me as I
moved forward.
I hoped, if I had to enter one of the dozens of side tunnels, my
halogen light wouldnt fail me. I wasnt feeling too sure, though.
I was after a vampire, of course.
Wait. Lets be a bit more politically correct. I was after one of the
hemo-challenged. And he would pick the nastiest, most disgusting
place to hole up, wouldnt he? Why dont they ever decide to den in
a shopping mall? Or an ice cream parlor?
I reached a crossway ha, a little hemo-humor and flicked
my flashlight to the right, the left, straight ahead. I played it over the
walls from shoulder height on down, looking for traces of blood.
Oh, did I mention? The vamp was wounded, too. He had been
sighted and shot at, so there was a fleck of blood every so often, just
to leave me a clear trail.
Lucky me, right?
Yeah, you can wound one. Theyre not the creatures of the night
from the old horror flicks after all. Through to see some of them,
youd think so. Some of the rogues those are the ones who refuse
to be voluntary clients of the dozens of sanitariums scattered around
the country, receiving their rations of hemoglobin twice a day
anyway, a few of the rogues like to represent themselves as the old


&5,0621
Lee-Lugosi type. You know, well-dressed, suave, fascinating,
tempting instead of admitting that theyre suffering from a
particularly nasty disease and allowing themselves to be treated.
Still, we cant force them into a sanitarium.
Not always, anyway.

>?
The turning to my right seemed to be the correct one. I could see
a smear of blood along the far wall about waist-high. My light played
over a small furry body, too still.
Yep, thats the way, I thought. And hes had a snack.
I cleared my throat, spat into the surging waters of the canal,
patted my holster for the third or thirtieth time since I had started and
checked to make sure my cross was clearly visible.
Sure its just a disease.
But Im not stupid.
I set out up the left-hand tunnel.

>?
Just four hours or so before I reached that side tunnel, I had been
safe at home in my apartment. It was just after sunset I work
nights, of course. What else, with a job like mine? and I was
scrounging in the fridge, trying to decide on leftover Chinese or
frozen pizza for breakfast.
There was a knock at the door.
It was my night off. I had planned on spending it alone, just me,
a book and a few beers. OK, I always spend my night off alone.
Anyway, so I knew right off, deep down in my bones, that this
knock did not mean good things for my future.
Ill ignore it and theyll go away, I thought, shutting the fridge
door with a small snick of sound. Its probably just a kid or two,
running down the hallway towards supper, or some old granny
bumped against it on her way home from the corner store, her hands
full of bags.
It came again, hard and insistent, this time with voice
accompaniment.
Tempest, open up. Its your night off so I know youre in there.
Damn, it was Grooms. Lieutenant Grooms of the NYPD the
New York Pathogenic Department, that is. A business associate, you
might say. Almost a friend, sometimes. Nearly an enemy, others.
Im coming, I called, cursing my predictability. I glanced down
to see if I was decent, pulled my oversized t-shirt down in front over
baggy knee-length boxers, ran a hand through tousled hair as I
wandered out of the kitchen yawning. Im coming
I flung open the door in mid-sentence.
and its my night off, so this had better be a social call!
Grooms stood there in the hallway like some monolith dressed in


&5,0621
ratty blue serge. Thats the image that always comes to mind when I
see him you take one of the standing stones at Stonehenge, see,
and you dress it in a cheap suit, and you end up with Grooms. Tall,
broad, blocky, cold, expressionless yet somehow oddly endearing
in a sick sort of way.
OK, I admit it. Im a sucker for big men. When youre a tall and
lanky broad like me, you kinda like to find a man who can tower over
you, make you feel all petite and cute and feminine. Of course, one
guy I told that to said I was about as cute as a tarantula but I had
broken his arm the day before in karate class, so he may have been a
tad prejudiced. Hey, it was an accident. Some guys just cant take a
joke, is all.
Grooms grinned down at me, a stony twinkle in one grey eye.
This aint no social call, Tempest, and you know it, he rumbled
like gravel pouring out of a dump truck.
Let me guess, I yawned. Theres a vamp loose and your bunch
dont want to get their pretty little hands dirty?
If youd get a phone, I wouldnt have to come by and tell you
when the department needs you in a hurry, he pointed out for the
hundredth time as he wandered past me into my living room and
settled onto my couch like a burst hot-air balloon.
I shot a brief glance up and down the corridor outside my door,
then slammed and bolted it.
If I was worried about you getting hold of me when you need me,
Id get a phone, I pointed out logically for the hundred-and-first time
as I followed to curl up in a chair opposite him. Since I dont have
one, you do the math.
The usual amenities over, Grooms snorted like a wounded
wildebeest, then said, Never mind. Im here and youre going to
work tonight.
I shook my head.
Nope, night off. I dont hunt vamps on my night off.
He tilted his head to one side.
Its a rogue, he said, his rumble almost a whisper.
Well, of course that was different. That was a whole new ball
game.
I had a talent for tracking the poor sick bastards who came down
with HDS hemoglandular deviant syndrome, the nasty disease that
gives its sufferers an unappeasable thirst for blood. I could smell em,
you see, sorta, since Id once contracted the disease myself. Id been
sick for about a week and I still wake up nights well, days
remembering that ceaseless craving and aching for blood, worse than
a junky for his smack. Or so I hear. Then Id gone into spontaneous
remission and been pronounced cured. There were a few others like
me, former sufferers who were immune to a vamp bite, their bite
being the way that they spread HDS.
We immunes were in high demand ever since the disease became
rampant, simply because of our sensitivity to those who suffered from
it. We could help hunt them down, find them and make sure they got


&5,0621
treatment. The government thought that treatment was the least they
could offer, after accidentally releasing the bioengineered disease
onto us unsuspecting citizenry and all.
Whether the vamps wanted to be treated or not, of course, made
no difference. They couldnt be left loose to bite others, now could
they? Sometimes that thought bothered me more than any of the
others circling through a tired brain after a long night. Would I have
wanted to be locked away from my loved ones (if I had had any),
chained up in my more violent moods, fed just enough thin red gruel
to keep me breathing while I was experimented on to see if I could
offer up some kind of cure?
Not really. But the government couldnt allow the rapidly
spreading disease to infect more people than it already had, could it?
I had also heard rumors that there were some like me locked away
as well, studied to find out why they were able to throw off the effects
of the bug and become immune to a vamp bite. That thought wasnt
very appealing either.
But the HDS bug was spreading too fast for the niceties to be
observed. If it went on much longer, everyone would get it.
Result: annihilation.
Vamps cant feed off vamps, though they can eke out a pale
existence on the blood of other mammals.
But a rogue, now. That took all the soul-searching out of the
equation for me. Rogues refused to turn themselves in when they
contracted the disease, and they had no close friends or relatives to rat
on them to the authorities. They went around feeding off of healthy
people, infecting them and creating more vamps.
Instead of going like sacrificial lambs to the local sanitarium.
Not nice, either scenario, is it? Not pretty.
I sighed. Where is he?
Were not sure if it is a he, Grooms growled.
Grooms doesnt like rogues any more than I do. He lost his oldest
boy to a female rogue. But she didnt just infect him she sucked
him dry. So Grooms doesnt even have the faint comfort of visiting
his son in the neighborhood sanitorium and hoping for a cure some
day.
There aint no cure for a tombstone.
A woman? I asked, surprised. There are far fewer female rogues
than male, just as there are many more female immunes than male.
No one knows the reason for either. But this was the first I had heard
of a female rogue since the one that took Grooms boy.
Maybe, he grunted.
What does that mean? I asked impatiently. I could feel my
hackles beginning to rise and I dont even know what the hell
hackles are.
He or she has infected over thirty in the last three weeks,
that we know of, Grooms said, rubbing a hairy hand over a hairier
cheek. The few that weve caught wont say anything about their
maker except a name.


&5,0621
What, I have to guess?
Malakar.
Thats it?
Thats all they say. Just Malakar. When they can say anything
at all. Most of the time she or he drains em dry and leaves em
laying in a heap.
I could understand Grooms coming to me but not why he had
waited so long. Why hadnt I heard something about this before now?
I was a trained professional, after all, who did this sort of thing for a
living which is a really funny phrase when you think about it.
So. I asked him.
Why now and not when you found the first body?
A sigh gushed up from deep in his soft belly.
Youre set up to search out the sick ones, not the rogues. Theyre
police business, pathogenic division.
Yeah, like youve minded using me before, I scoffed. It felt
good. I didnt like where this was heading, so I scoffed some more.
Youre just spooked, right?
Grooms shook his head back and forth real slow twice, then
reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. He read
over it, his lips moving, then shook his head again in that irritating
fashion.
I jumped up and grabbed the paper. I think it was what he wanted
me to do, just so he didnt have to offer it to me.
The whole thing was out of his hands now. I had seized the
moment.
I held the paper under the only lamp in the room that was on, the
one I used for reading. The brown jagged scrap looked like it had
been torn from a heavy bag like the kind you get sugar in, or maybe
an old grocery bag from back before they all went to plastic. The
printing was hard to read, the ink smudged and dim.
Then I realized that it was written in blood.
Cute. Lets get melodramatic, shall we?

>?
How long till the tempest strikes?
How far to the shores of death?
How much is the cost of life?
How dim will the last light gleam?

>?
I scratched my head in confusion. Except for tempest in the first
line, I didnt see anything in this perky little ditty that would call me
to Grooms mind. Unless hed somehow read some of my term
papers, last year of college, and even they werent this obscure. Or
this boring. Well, not quite, anyway.
I handed the paper scrap back to him, noting with a professional


&5,0621
eye that it had been dusted for fingerprints.
OK, you got me interested, I admitted, sitting back down. But
its a stretch, you know. Sure my last name is Tempest, but
We found that on the last casualty, Grooms interrupted. Then
we got a phone call, early this morning before daybreak. A voice said
that if there wasnt a tempest in the sewers tonight, thered be a lot
more killing.
Wow, I always wanted to be famous, I murmured as I thought
this over. Sometimes a reputation for cockiness can be a problem.
You feel honor-bound to uphold it, especially when you least feel up
to it. Are you absolutely positive that this snazzy little doggerel
refers to me, thought?
Nope, Grooms said with a grin. But we dont have another
choice that fits any better. Your names Tempest and we cant take
any chances when theres a rogue involved.
But I can?
Grooms shrugged.
Well be following close, watching out for you just like you was
one of us. But we cant find it without you. We need you to track it

to its lair, I drawled in sepulchral tones. I shook my head. I

think its a crock, Grooms. Some psycho who doesnt like how I
make a living and is trying to be cute about it. But its my job, like
you say. Ill do it, but itll cost you mucho overtime through my
department.
Grooms levered himself to his feet.
Youll get a bonus when we get the creep, he promised.

>?
So here I was, wandering through the city sewers at midnight,
hooked to all sorts of tracking devices, with an invisible plug in one
ear to receive directions and a mike under my turtleneck, just over my
larynx, to report my twists and turns.
Left, I whispered as I trudged along the corridor, waving my
flashlight beam in front of me. It was one of the older brick tunnels,
narrower than the newer ones made of poured concrete.
A tinny voice in my ear agreed with this assessment.
Thats one of the older sections. But dont worry, youre still on
our map.
That was way reassuring, from a guy a mile away. Thanks for tiny
favors.
Three turns later, though, I was off their damned map and deep in
one of the oldest sections of all, built late in the century before last.
But I was still being followed by a team of armored cops.
Yeah, at a safe distance. Safe for who, I wondered?
Still, I hoped they really were there. And I was very careful to
give an exact description of each and every turn.
I reached another intersection. There hadnt been any concrete for


&5,0621
some time, just old brick faded to the color of thin dried blood.
Now there was a comforting thought.
Crossroads, I whispered, then listened. Checking for a trail.
I listened for a reply as I scanned the corridors to my right and
left. But well before I heard anything about whether theyd pinpointed
my location, I knew which way I had to go.
Straight ahead of me on the uneven brick floor was another dead
rat, mangled and bloody, its naked tail curled into a question mark.
Straight, I murmured, listening for a sound from behind me. I
was beginning to wonder just how close my armed followers were. I
hadnt heard a sound from them in too long.
Roger that, said the tinny voice in my ear.
The tunnel wound around for a couple of hundred feet, then
narrowed and lowered. This was definitely not good. I didnt like
having to stoop and concentrate on not bumping my head, not when
I should have been thinking about what was following close behind
I hoped and what was waiting for me ahead.
But it was just a few dozen feet and a right angled turn before the
tunnel opened out onto an arched brick cavern. The abrupt change
startled me. That made me wonder if I was wound up to an even
greater pitch of fear and uncertainty than I had realized.
I played the beam of my flashlight around the cavern. It looked to
be about thirty feet across to the next tunnel, the only other tunnel
opening from it that I could see. Thirty feet. Thirty long feet. Thirty
next-to-impossible feet. Thirty feet that I would probably never get to
cross, never want to cross, because of what stood in the middle,
directly in front of me.
It was a vampire. Without a doubt, the very vampire I was looking
for, unless it was he that was looking for me. And absolutely as rogue
as you could ever wish not to see in a hundred million billion years.
The guy stood at least six and a half feet tall and he had his
Lugosi thing going full blast. Red eyes with pupils like inky pinpoints
radiated hate, ashen face looked months past dead, arms folded across
his snowy white shirtfront, cape draped over wide, wide shoulders.
A cape, for gosh sake. How corny can you get?
My gun was in my hand. Dont ask me how it got there. I dont
remember.
The vamp smiled a long slow smile in the beam of my flashlight
and flashed elongated incisors. OK, fangs, if you insist.
Isnt this where you bid me velcome? I asked with a tremor in
my voice that I couldnt hide.
His smile broadened. His lips were red. Lipstick, I thought, stage
makeup. Then I remembered the furry bodies that had lined my
pathway on the way into this place.
Smatter, bat got your tongue? I asked, tremor gone now. This
guy quite obviously believed he was for real. If I didnt want to end
up drained and curled on the floor, I had to let him know that I wasnt
afraid, that I was in charge.
I gestured with my gun.


&5,0621
I dont want to hurt you, Bela. Why dont we just go back this
way and Ill see that you get some help, OK?
I said it nice and loud, to make sure the guys at the other end of
my mike could hear it too, then I jerked my chin, motioning back
behind me. I was pretty sure I could hear the rustle of careful feet
back there, approaching closer and closer over the rough floor.
So, said the vamp in a sibilant whisper that ran up each
individual vertebra in my spine, you are the tempest who destroys
my kindred?
Yeah, thats me, I nodded, not daring to take my eyes off his.
Ariel Tempest. Mom had this Shakespeare thing, ya know? And you
must be Malakar. Pleased to meet you.
It is a name I have born for centuries, he remarked in a
conversational tone, the whisper gone but not forgotten.
I let it pass. They like to think theyve lived a long time, some of
them, makes them feel better about having a disease thats killing
them inch by inch. Besides, this guy didnt look like hed appreciate
any argument from me, either.
Well, now that were on a first name basis, lets get out of this
place and talk things over, why dont we? I suggested.
I took a step back and was in the middle of another one when
Malakar raised his hand, palm facing me, and uttered a word in a
language Id never heard.
My foot stopped in mid-air, like an invisible hand had reached up
through the bricks and grabbed it.
The rustle in the tunnel behind me was growing louder. I could
picture a horde of husky guys bristling with guns. I grabbed hold of
that image like a lifeline.
My foot set itself back down, but in the wrong direction, toward
Malakar instead of away from him. My other foot joined in the fun,
took a step in his direction. Closer to Malakar, another step, another.
I can no longer allow your depredations, little one, said Malakar
as I jerked toward him like an unwilling puppet. I must make you
one of my children.
Of the night? I asked, my throat hoarse as I tried to regain
control of my feet.
Then I shot him. Three times.
I dont like to shoot sick people; most of the time I dont even
carry a gun when Im on the hunt. But the greater good, you know?
Meaning, I needed to stay alive so I could help find others like him,
find them before they hurt people, made them sick.
I was close enough not to miss. I had the satisfaction of seeing the
bullets rip into his nice white shirt and leave a carefully grouped
pattern of blistered, charred and perfectly round holes.
I waited for Malakar to topple.
He smiled at me.
You do not understand, do you, my dear? he said, his tone
amused and caressing. I am not one of your sick, one of those dying
from a corrupt governments mistake. I am a vampyr, born in the hills


&5,0621
of Rome a dozen centuries ago. And I am here to make you one of my
own.
Why? I managed to gasp as my feet resumed their traitorous
journey towards him. I was so close I could see the wrinkles in his
ancient, ancient face.
Malakar spread his arms wide, his cape hanging like wings from
them.
Why? To prevent you from destroying the real thing, of course.
What better way, than to make you one of us?
His arms swooped around me, gathering me to him. I could hear
the distant clatter of my gun hitting the floor. The smell of blood and
death rose around me as I felt his teeth, hard and sharp and cruel, at
my throat.
I struggled, managed to free a hand and entangle it in the silver
chain which hung around my neck.
The silver chain with the cross on it.
I grabbed the cross between two fingers, shoved the icy metal
against his wrinkled cheek.
My dear, he murmured through a mouthful of my blood,
youve seen far too many movies.
The rustling behind me rose in intensity as my vision blurred and
dimmed.
Bats.
I could see them all around us, whirling in the air, laughter in their
tiny bright eyes.
Bats. &



&5,0621

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RETURN TO CONTENTS PAGE



David J. Sakmyster, a native and current resident of Rochester, NY,

has been writing science fiction and horror stories for eleven years.
He has six short publications, plus the recently published novel,
Twilight of the Fifth Sun. Currently working as a financial analyst at
a long distance telephone company, he spends his spare time at work
on his next novel, traveling, and pursuing interests in mythology and
ancient cultures.

HOTLINE


by

David Sakmyster

Copyright 1998 by David Sakmyster

Hotline Central. This is John. Talk to me. He held the mute

button for a moment as a sudden, long yawn came out. God, this night
shift was infuriating. Of course, the day could be even worse. At least
at night the phone rang and gave him a chance to actually work. There
must be something to that notion about the therapeutic value of
sunshine.
The psychos only called after dark. Actually, make that after
midnightwhen he was exhausted. Hello? he said after a moment
of silence. You had to get them out of their shell sometimes. It was
only his fifth week on the jobtransferred here from two years at the
social work center. He did all right there, actually did wonderful
work. Turned a lot of kids around. Saved a few from drugs, got a
couple young girls out of destructive relationships. But the hard luck
cases were just too overwhelming. And they never ended. It was too
much straindepressing to see their blank faces day after day. Or
read about their deaths in the news. Finally, Johns coach made a
suggestion. Youve got a good voice, he said. Soothing, relaxing. The
hotline service could really use you.
Actually, it had been a welcome change. He enjoyed the thrill of
successseeing immediate results. You talked the caller out of some
horrible decision, or got them to see the lightand you usually had
a good shot at it, as they wouldnt be calling unless they really wanted
to be helped.
Hello?
Its here.
John adjusted his headset. The phones always started to hurt his
ears after just a few hours. Why they couldnt make them more
comfortable, hed never understand.
Im sorry, he said, stifling another yawn. Whos there?
It was a womans voice. John guessed she was young, not much
older than thirty-five. He checked the monitor. Calling from a private
residencethat was good. At least it wasnt a pay phone, or some


&5,0621
hotel; those ones signaled serious trouble. This was probably just
something domestic.
The name was Seward. Charles and Fern Seward. 222 Hurkel
Lane. No info on children. Who am I talking to? he asked. Standard
procedure. Try to get on a first name basis.
Its here, she said again.
John frowned. Another light popped up on the phone, then the call
immediately routed to someone else. Good, he thought. Wake up one
of the other four do-gooders here tonight.
Whats there? he asked, with a rising fear that maybe she meant
to call 911. Was it a burglary? Stalker?
A whisper issued through: Ive let it loose.
Okay Listen to me, he said in his best soothing voice. Are
you in danger?
Silence.
Not working. He had to try something more direct. Fern? Is this
you, Fern?
Yes.
Are you all right, Fern? Are you in some kind of danger?
No.
Fern? Talk to me. Let me help. Why did you call?
Because its here.
What is? John scratched at his scalp. God, dont tell me Whos
on first This whole conversation, if nothing else, had the makings
of the strangest one hed ever heard. At least there didnt seem to be
any immediate danger. Not likely a suicide. If this didnt shape up
soon, hed have to give Fern the old hangup
Ive let it loose, she whispered, and he could imagine her
clutching the receiver with both hands; sitting in the corner, eyeing
the shadows for furtive movements. Maybe this was a 911 callshe
might have let out a pet python or ferret or something.
Fern, again, please tell me. Are you in danger from something in
the house?
No.
Youre not in danger?
No.
Then why are you calling?
Because
Silence. John watched the seconds flashing by on my monitor.
This call was already approaching three minutes, and he hadnt a clue
as to Ferns problem.
Because, she repeated in a hollow, sad voice, you are.
Cold chills broke out over his back. I am?
In danger.
Me?
Yes.
He swallowed, tasting how dry his mouth had become, and
cursing that he didnt take his break before this call. Maybe Jean or
Frank would walk by with an extra cup of coffee


&5,0621
John decided to play along, just a little longer, and see where this
was going. Probably just lashing out at methe only one around to
listen. It was uncommon, but it did happen. Why am I in danger?
Because youre talking to me. Because you care.
I do care, Fern. Thats why I want you to tell me everything.
Whats happened?
Ive let it
Loose, yes. You told me. Can you tell me what it is?
Youll see it. Soon.
He leaned back in the chair, locked his fingers together in a fan
and cracked three knuckles at once. This was getting way too strange,
and out of his control. Time to switch directions. Fern? Wheres
Charles?
Dead.
His spine chilled. Fern?
It took him first no. Last. You will be next, but at the end it
got Charles.
Control slipped away again. What do you mean he was first? Or
last? Whatever.
Its all happened already.
What has?
This call. You. Charles So many, so many othersgone.
Because of me.
John rolled up his sleeves and scratched at his elbows. He
hunched over the desk. Someone on the other side cleared their
throat, and took a sip of something. Farther away, a door closed.
Fern said, I havent long. Can only talk while it rests. Its not
strong enough yet, but grows with every day, every week backwards.
What?
Drops me off, lets me rest while it recovers, then back we go.
Erasing everyone in my past, every relationship, every contact,
everyone Ive even brushed up against.
John started to reach for the hang up button.
She said: The last time I called was because Charles was beating
me.
He paused. Lowered his arm. The last time? You did call about
your husband? Now were getting somewhere. When was this?
Three minutes ago. And I spoke to you.
His head started to throb. Fern, listen. This is our first talk,
and
Its stirring. You dont have much time. I just wanted, felt I had
to say Im sorry. Apologize to you. It tricked me, got me to let it
kill. I wanted only to be undone. Wanted out of this life, away from
Charles, away from a past full of regrets. I cast the spell to make it as
if I never was.
Spell?
Only, it called something up to ensure that my wish came true.
Fern, I want you to relax. Theres nothing after you. Tell me
about Charles. She had to be on some kind of medication. She had


&5,0621
been abused, that much was certain. Now on anti-depressants,
wishing she had never been born. This was familiar territory, John
thought, relaxing. Just have to shut out that other nonsense.
Its torturing me while granting my wish. Taking me back
through my life, and erasing everyone Ive known along with me.
Making me watch. Its too powerful I didnt imagine what price it
would ask.
Okay Fern. Have you talked to anyone else about Charles?
It erased Charles. I admit I kind of enjoyed that. It wasnt
painless to him, and for whats coming, I apologize to you. But then,
it took my sister. My boss. The paperboy and the mailman. Oh my
God. It just leftcoming for you now, tracking this call. Im sorry,
John. You were so nice to me the last time. You almost freed me,
gave me enough hope to leave him. But I couldnt pull free, and then
I found the spell
Fern John was sweating. His voice cracked. The lights
dimmed, and his skin broke out in gooseflesh as the temperature
dropped, it seemed, ten degrees. He stood up, pressing the Mute
button. Looking over the cubes, he called to Stan, who he saw
without his headset.
Hey he started, but froze, realizing his voice made no sound.
It was as if a column of icy silence had descended over him.
Everything dimmed even more. He looked down and saw his cube,
desk and phonegone. In their place a fax machine. Terry walked by,
holding out a file for Stan.
John lunged, mouthing a cry for help which went unheeded in the
darkening room. A leathery rustling issued from just over his
shoulder. And gentle pinpricks stabbed at his back, like a giant cat
flexing the tips of its claws. A chilled breath caught in his hair, and
the stench of death blew across his skull.
And the world faded as a demonic laughter drew him into a
nightmare of pain and unmaking. &

RETURN TO CONTENTS PAGE



Barbara Malenkys fiction has appeared in nation crime magazines

and several have been reprinted in yearbooks and anthologies. She
has also published in LORE, SPACE AND TIME, PIRATE
WRITINGS, TERMINAL FRIGHT, GATHERING DARKNESS,
NIGHT TERRORS, and the anthology YEAR I. She has stories
upcoming in BLOODREAMS, THE LITERARY JOURNAL,
EPITAPH, THE OBLIGATORY SIN, 69 FLAVORS OF
PARANOIA, ETERNITY PRESS, DARK MATTER, BARE BONE,
IMMORTAL WINE, 13th HOUR BOOKS, THE ROSWELL
LITERARY REVIEW, THE BLUE LADY, THE BLACK ABYSS,
HORRONET, NIGHTMARES, ABERRATIONS, DETECTIVE
FILES, YEAR 2000 and others.

ALL BECAUSE OF JOE

by

Barbara Malenky
Copyright 1998 by Barbara Malenky

Old Ben prodded along the dirt road. His black meaty nose
twitched eagerly, picking up a multitude of smells. He knew with his
mutt senses that to the west meat was bar-b-queing, to the east a
chicken-killing was taking place. Somewhere down South a skunk
lifted its tail to scent the air, and up north a ways wafted a distinct
female odor beckoning for his attention.
It was an early fall day. The sky was clear and blue. The flea
season was ending. A great day to be a hound-dog. Old Ben turned
off the dirt path, trundling into a bushy thicket, where he rooted a bit
underneath and scratched his smooth back against the prickly limbs
before climbing up to reclaim his original path.
He moved easily, secure in his right to be here, covering the same
territory he had known for the past eleven years. He didnt realize he
was old. Although his paw pads no longer took orders from his
instincts, Old Ben still felt his urges strong as ever.
In his dreams he continued to chase rabbits, leap through the air
to catch a thrown ball, fight off mightier canines to claim a bitch in
heat.
A pheasant flew across the road in panic, so close to his head the
feathers brushed his face. Old Ben stopped to contemplate his
chances on the chase. He stood trance like, his brown eyes watering.
He could taste it. After awhile, he continued his lumbering shuffle
down the road.
Old Ben didnt see or hear what hit him. It was sudden, forceful
and deadly. There was hardly a moments difference between life and
death as he was thrown upwards, then sideways through the
nothingness of air. He landed on the opposite side of the road in the
deep part of the ditch.


&5,0621
It would be days before his owner would come upon the broken,
pitiful body of mans best friend. By then he would be only a dirty,
wormy mound of fur, blood and bones.

Living right! Terrell hollered. He twisted around so he could

see the action behind the roaring car. Damn! Cant see nuthin! He
righted himself. Too much friggin dust. Thatd be a good one, too.
Did ya see how high that sonsabitch flew? Wow! He clapped his
knees. Spittle decorated the dashboard. He hastily wiped it off with
the palm of his hand, cocking his head shyly toward the driver. He
hoped Joe hadnt noticed. Joe didnt like Terrell to spit. Especially on
his pride and joy 58 Chevy. But Joe wasnt paying attention anyway.
His cold blues were fixed straight ahead. Terrell felt a chillnot on
the roadJoes eyes werent taking in the countryside. For sure they
werent. Terrell quit laughing. He sat back to wait. It wasnt long.
You notch it? Joe asked quietly. I didnt see if you did. Did
you, Terrell?
Terrell was tempted to say yes but he had learned Joe pretty well
in the six months they had been together. Joe never asked a question
he didnt already know the answer to. That was one of his little tricks.
Terrell knew about the punishment for lying. He had been on the
receiving end of it more than once. Unconsciously he rubbed his
wrists, erasing invisible rope burns.
No Joe. He stuck out his hand to press the dash button. I will.
Right now.
Wait! Joe ordered. I have in mind to get another one. Then you
can notch twice.
Terrell rode in silence. He felt sad the only thing to save his neck
would be the annihilation of another animal. Terrell held no love for
them himself, but he hadnt quite got used to the vicious murdering
and probable maiming Joe left in his path as they crossed the
countryside. His preference would have been to ignore them
altogether. Live and let live was his motto. Those thoughts he kept to
himself. Yet he was thankful there were so many strays around. Like
Joe said, theyd die anyhow.
He sat watching the countryside for candidates as Joe sped along.
Terrell was finishing up the last of four notches on the wood piece
when an hour later Joe guided the Chevy across the gravel parking lot
of Homers Grill. Wouldnt be long they would need another chuck
of pine. Terrell was running out of room on this one.
Homers was all lit up in a glory of green, red and white
florescent brilliance. A permanent Christmas tree. A few cars were
scattered around the lot. Terrell wondered if the girls were already
inside waiting. He felt excitement surge through him at the thought.
A woman waiting for himit didnt seem possible. He glanced at
Joe. It was all because he knew Joe. Gratitude flowed through him.


&5,0621
Yeah, all because of Joe.
Joe climbed from the car first and as was his habit, walked slowly
around the Chevy, observing, making sure nothing was clinging to the
bumpers. Checking for any damages. Terrell watched. He held his
breath. It was as bad a thing as could be when a nights activities
resulted in a dent marring a gleaming bumper. Joe just lost itthat
was the way Terrell could describe what happened if anyone cared to
askjust plain lost it. But luck was with him this evening and Terrell
let his breath out with a whoosh when Joe motioned for him to get
out.
He jerked up on the handle, his mouth full of words of praise, but
Joe was striding away from the Chevy already. Terrells short legs
had to run to catch up with his long and deep strides. He tried to look
up into his face, but Joe ignored the smaller man much like a bored
husband would his dullard wife.
He followed Joe through the double glass doors of the grill. A
shock after the gaudy exterior, it was an old, cheerless building
inside. It reminded Terrell of the old Woolworth lunch counters. One
side was taken up by a pink lamented lunch bar facing a partially
open kitchen. Pink plastic covered barstools sat squeezed tightly side
by side, utilizing every spare inch of customer space. A half dozen
people were eating at the counter, their backs sad and bent over a
lonely dinner of burgers or BLTs and steaming cups of coffee. A
weary-faced waitress moved back and forth along the counter with a
large silver coffee pot twinkling in the dim overhead lights. Someone
had slipped a coin in the ancient juke box at one side of the counter
and the ghostly voice of Richie Valens proclaimed his love for a girl
named Donna. The other side of the establishment was filled with
small pink-topped tables. To the back of the room sat three
semiprivate booths and it was to the last one that Terrell followed
Joe.
Terrell didnt see any women sitting around that looked like they
were waiting for dates. Besides the waitress, there were only two
other women and they were draped lovingly around men of their own
at the little tables.
Terrell swiveled around to stare out the window where there was
a clear view of the parking lot. The parked automobiles were all
empty. Terrell wanted to say something encouraging to Joe about
maybe they were early or maybe the dames were late or maybejust
the slightest chancethe girls had misunderstood Joe on when and
where to meet, but the look on Joes face made Terrell open and then
close his mouth in the same breath. He averted his eyes to the
darkened window and onto his own reflection . He concentrated,
surprised as usual, on his image; a dark-haired, pale moon-faced,
chubby-cheeked, five foot, five inch tall, brown-eyed, 34 year old
transient image. And he couldnt help but let a small smile play
around his mouth. He wasnt all that bad to look at. Not at all, even
though when he was standing next to Joe, who was tall and thin with
golden brown hair and olive complexion, Terrell felt like a mutt next


&5,0621
to a pedigree. There wasnt any reason to think girls didnt like him,
yet Terrell was a barrel load of insecurities and it was only when he
caught an unexpected look at himself like now, that he gave himself
a little credit.
The waitress arrived to take their orders.
Were expecting some ladies, Terrell said proudly.
Bring me a cold Bud and a bowl of pretzels, Joe said and
Terrell quickly ordered the same.
Well have a brew and thats all, Joe informed Terrell quietly.
I aint waiting on no cunts.
Terrell tried not to stare at him. He was afraid the man would take
it out on him if the women didnt show. He decided to stay quiet as
it was possible to be. To become invisible. To be as his Mother
always told him as a child, when she would have a date in; out of
sight, out of mind.
For Terrell, who loved to talk, although most of the time nobody
listened, staying still was near impossible. He twitched. First his feet
danced against the floor, making a steady patt-patty song. Then his
fingers began a slow, steady drum roll against his arms, moving
finally to the table top. His tongue played along his lower lip. His
eyes danced around the room, taking in framed pictures of old-time
movie stars. A lone couple slow-danced by. The woman allowed her
partner to feel every part of her body and Terrell felt his stomach
move. A flutter, a jolt of pleasure maybe. He didnt know exactly
what it was, just that it was.
Quit the fuck moving, Terrell, Joe said quietly. And Terrell did,
as suddenly and completely as a man who has fallen asleep.
It wasnt the sound of Joes command that made Terrell obey. It
was the look of calm in his eyes. Joes eyes were blue and clear as a
perfect summer sky. The whites were as clean as a first snowfall. It
was the terminal coldness Terrell saw in his eyes. The kind that never
warms a degree. A kind of icicled permanence that could slice
through a ray of hope in someones warm soul as accurately as a
surgeons saw. And it never changed. No amount of joking on
Terrells part could bring a smile to those eyes. No bit of good
fortune. Like the time he had found a loaded wallet alongside the
road. It didnt matter. The icy soulless look remained.
Sometimes, when he allowed it to, the idea came to Terrell, Joe
was something less than human. But he wouldnt let it tickle his brain
for long. No. Thoughts like that were bad, very bad. If he allowed
them to grow and multiply he would have to confront their meaning
and thenwellwhat then?
Terrell would not ever win an intelligence contest, but he had
enough common sense to know one thing; Joe would be the one to
decide if and when their partnership (Terrell could never quite make
himself call it friendship) would end. The possible repercussions of
pulling away before Joe was ready made Terrell break out in goose
bumps. He knew without having the benefit of time experience that
the man sitting across the pink cafe booth from him was bone


&5,0621
crushing cruel. A bottomless barrel of barbaric savagery. So far
Terrell had only witnessed it used on dogs, which Joe seemed to have
a solid dislike for. He felt fortunate.
When a bell sounded, Terrell jumped. He turned his eyes toward
the cafes entrance.
Two females entered. One was tall and lanky, bleached blonde. She
wore a form fitting white jumpsuit. Her right hand played with the top
of a zipper that ran the length of the suit. She stood eyeing Joe and
Terrell in anticipation. Terrell recognized the type. She was perfect
for Joe.
Terrell liked the looks of the other girl immediately. Shorter and
more modest looking than the blonde, she had a thick head of brown
hair that cascaded around her shoulders and framed a petite but
heavily made up face. Terrell thought she looked every bit like a
scared little squirrel. He smiled at her. She ignored him. It fueled the
fire in Terrell who was unconsciously drawn to women who would
misuse him every time.
The blonde moved across the floor and stopped in front of their
booth.
Sorry were late, fellas. She slid in beside Joe. He was eyeing
her critically. He didnt say anything but Terrell knew he was
deciding whether he wanted this one or not. Terrell held
his breath.
The blonde patted Joes hand.
Whats the matter? You forget me already? She winked an eye
at Terrell. She wore heavy makeup and a double set of fluttery black
eyelashes. Still looking at Terrell, she slid one hand under the table
toward Joes lower parts. I guess he needs some reminder. Hi, Im
Dottie. You must be Terrell. Joe done told me all about you but he
didnt tell me how handsome you were. She turned her attention
toward Joe. Why didnt you tell me how good looking your friend
was, honey? If Id known I could have rustled up somebody better
than her for him. Dottie cocked her head sideways indicating the
brunette, who still stood by the door nervously looking around the
diner. Not a one of my girlfriends wanted no blind date. If Id
known, I mightve been able to convince one of them. Her names
Jean Anne. She all right with you, Terrell?
Shell do. Wont she, Terrell? Joe said coldly.
Terrell nodded and Dottie motioned at her to join them. Terrell
watched as she came across the diner. She wore a light blue cotton
blouse and conservative black skirt that hit below her knees. Dottie
turned toward Joe. She placed both hands under the table and leaned
in to plop her lips against Joes. Jean Anne stood uncomfortably by
the booth as if afraid to sit. Terrell patted the space beside him and
she slid in. Terrell breathed in deeply. She smelled good, not too
sweet like most women he had been around.
Im Terrell, he said and realized he wasnt a bit shy talking to
this girl. Usually he became tongue tied and awkward.
Im Jean Anne. Its real nice to meet you, she said sweetly and


&5,0621
gave him a quick glance before lowering her eyes back to her hands
which lay folded primly in her lap. Terrell felt a sudden
possessiveness. He wanted to put his arms around her and pull her
tightly to him.
Youre real pretty. You know that, Jean Anne? he whispered at
her. Real pretty, like aa little girl.
Are we gonna order? Im starving. Dottie straightened and
reached for a menu. I know if I dont get fed now she glanced
meaningfully at Joe who was busy with his own hands under the
table.
Order anything you want, Joe offered gruffly. He raised one
hand from under the table and motioned at the waitress.
While they ate, Terrell couldnt take his eyes from Jean Anne. She
nibbled at her burger, her eyes shyly downcast. Terrell, who was used
to seeing aggressive women around Joe, was fascinated. He couldnt
get her to say more than a few words. Dottie was busy filling in the
rest of the quiet space with stories of life as a topless dancer. Terrell
shut out her voice and concentrated on the woman beside him.
After they ate, Joe decided they would take a drive. Terrell knew
what that meant and was filled with excitement. The couples left in
Joes car with Dottie pressed against Joe in front and Jean Anne and
Terrell in the back. Joe drove recklessly into the darkness.
Were going to the lake, Terrell offered to Jean Anne. Just in
case youre worried, us being strangers and all. She was sitting
quietly on the far of the back seat.
Do you go there a lot? she asked, staring out the window.
Sometimes. Not a lot I guess, but sometimes. When Joe wants
to, you know.
Terrell looked over the seat at Joe. Dotties head had disappeared
from view.
You dont have a say in where you go? Jean Anne asked
quietly. He always tell you whats what?
Surprised, Terrell stared at the side of her head. She looked
somehow different in the dim recesses of the back seat. A difference
he couldnt quite describe.
They rode in silence the rest of the way. The sound of Dotties
advances made Terrell squirm. Normally he would have scooted up
so he could watch the action, but there was something naive about
Jean Anne that made him embarrassed for Dottie and Joe. Still and
all, he wished Jean Anne was more aggressive. As it was, he wasnt
sure how to proceed with the first move. He stole glances at her. He
studied her profile in the car window. She looked stronger than in the
bright lights of the diner and sure of herself. He felt more comfortable
sitting beside her than he had ever felt before. The old sensation of
inferiority he always got around others was missing with her.
Once at the lake, Joe hopped from the car and pulled Dottie with
him. They disappeared into the inky darkness, leaving Jean Anne and
Terrell alone.
Would you like to get out? Terrell offered. We can move up


&5,0621
front if youd like and listen to the radio.
You know Joe doesnt allow you to play the radio unless hes in
the car with you. Isnt that right, Terrell? She had turned to look at
him for the first time. Her eyes were glittering. Terrells mouth
dropped open.
How did you know that? he asked.
I know, thats all. She began to slide across the seat toward him.
It only took a second but that slide was time enough for Terrell to
swell with desire and courage. He reached for her and they came
together, their lips pressing roughly against each others. Terrell
clasped her tightly to him. He drowned in her kisses. He gasped for
air as Jean Anne tore at his shirt, all shyness gone. She allowed her
hands to run over his chest, pausing to finger the nipples. He couldnt
believe what was happening. Then he blanked all thoughts from his
mind and slid his fingers between her legs. Her hands found his
zipper and she pushed at him to lay back in the seat. She climbed on
top and straddled him with her thighs allowing Terrell to guide his
own rising need into her.
They rocked together. Terrell held to the back of her buttocks.
I knew, she whispered against his ear. I knew you were the
one.
Pushing backward, Terrell was thrust deeper inside her. He
moaned happily. He heard the things she said, he just couldnt
concentrate on the meaning.
I knew you were the one to do it. To help us she breathed.
The time has come to end it.
Terrell felt the rise of his orgasm and he clenched tightly at Jean
Annes gyrating hips. Her back arched and she pushed him inside her
harder.
Will you help to end it? Will youyes, say it. She rocked back
and forward at a fever pitch until Terrell felt the roar before the
explosion.
Sat itsay it! she commanded.
Yes. God YESanything, yes! he moaned as the feeling crested
to take him away in a wave of fulfillment.
He slept. All around him was quiet save the singing of insectsongs in the tall weeds growing around the car. In his half sleep he
heard Jean Annes breathing coming out in small sighs, only to be
pulled back inside her with tiny inhaling sounds. He was soaring like
a bird in contentment foreign to him. He was back in his mothers
stomach, waiting for birth. Warm, dark and moist, floating in an
abyss of safety.
Terrell, Terrell, its time, his mother whispered.
Im not ready, he moaned sleepily. Not ready yet. He drifted
back towards the darkness, comforting and warm.
Theres not much time now, his mother insisted.
Terrell opened an eye. It wasnt his mothers face hovering over
him. It was Jean Annes pale one and it was different. The features
were sharper, more defined. In the dim light, he could see the sparkle


&5,0621
of her eyes. It seemed to him the light was fathomless, deep and
crystal clear. Like looking into a cats eyes after dark. The more he
stared into them the more confused his senses became. He sat up and
felt for his shirt. Jean Anne curled up on her side of the car, patiently,
almost lovingly, watching him.
By the time he had buttoned his shirt, she had crawled from the
car and stood outside, waiting. Terrell wanted to tell her he loved her.
He wanted to tell her he had never experienced sex like that before.
Wanted to spend some time just talking, then make love again. But
Jean Annes presence outside the car seemed to forbid it and Terrell
climbed out and zipped up his pants.
Come on, she said. She turned and disappeared into the
darkness. Although his mind protested, Terrell followed. His feet
found the way for he could no longer see Jean Anne. He took a few
steps down the slope when his feet hit only air and he fell awkwardly
forward, landing on his right side. He rolled over and over until
coming to rest at the bottom of a bank. He could smell water. He
could hear the lapping sound of the lake. There was a sliver of moon
and it enabled him to see the outline of the water. He sat up, felt his
arms and legs and deciding he wasnt hurt, stood to his feet.
Over here, Jean Anne called to him. Hurry. We havent much
time.
Terrell walked toward the sound.
Wait a minute, he called but there was only silence. He
stumbled along for a few minutes. Suddenly Jean Anne was beside
him.
Listen! There they are.
He listened, at first not making out anything but sounds of water
and night insects. Then, breaking through the night came a noise. It
was low. The sound of speech, then the expressive music of
lovemaking. Yet the sounds forming were not sounds of love, more
the protest of muted pain. Jean Anne took his hand and pulled him
with her. As they drew closer to the sounds, he recognized Joes
voice, yet it wasnt exactly in the right pitch.
With a sudden move, Jean Anne dropped to the ground. She
pulled Terrell to his knees beside her.
Run with me, she whispered.
She moved fast over the ground with Terrell scrambling after in
a crouched position. When they broke into a clearing along the lake,
Terrell looked at the woman and what he saw, or thought he saw,
made his heart stop dead for a few seconds. For the moonlight
outlined not a woman, but the figure of a sleek and dark animal. It ran
lightly and with direction and Terrell was running alongside it. He
wanted to call out, to stop where he was, yet couldnt seem to
accomplice either and so continued in the direction he was headed.
He was filled with the joy of living. For the first time in his life,
Terrell felt free and safe from harm. Power pulsated through him. He
wanted to leap through the air. He wanted to throw back his head and
howl at the sky.


&5,0621
And then he saw Joe and Dottie. They had built a fire and lay
sealed together as one. Naked, his slim muscular body gleaming in
the firelight, Joe was thrusting between Dotties spread legs. He was
moaning loudly but not loud enough to drown out Dotties cries of
fright as Joe squeezed her neck muscles with his strong fingers as he
came to climax. His face was demonic as he began to chant die, die,
die.
But what Terrell was witnessing, first in confusion, then in horror,
was the change taking place in Dotties features. The blonde hair
grew long to cover her face, leaving only openings for two dark eyes
and a fat, black nose. Her mouth yawned open to release her cries and
reveal sharp yellowed teeth. Her hairy body thrashed beneath Joe and
clawed feet swiped the air.
Terrell stopped at the edge of the firelight, only to have Jean Anne
shove him toward the couple.
It is time to end ithim, she commanded.
Terrell threw himself at Joes driving back. He grabbed hold his
shoulders and together they rolled across the ground. Terrell was no
match for Joe and the man ground his fist into Terrells mouth with
vicious intensity. He rose above Terrell and began to pummel his
head and chest with killing blows. His face twisted as he screamed
down into his face.
Im gonna kill youkill youstupid sonofabitchrip your
heart out.
Terrell had time to see the rage in Joes eyes and to realize his
mistake. He was going to die, right here, right this minute. He tried
to fight back but Joe rose all the way up and brought both fists down
at the same time against Terrells head. Terrell groaned, struggling
against blackness waiting to envelope him. When Joe raised both
arms through the air, preparing another strike, Terrell willed himself
strong. He struggled weakly against Joes weight, but it was no use
and he steeled his body for the next assault.
In a split second, Joe was lifted and thrown sideways off Terrell.
Joe screamed in rage as a large white canine pounced onto his bare
back. Its open mouth bit into Joes shoulder and ripped at the muscle
beneath the skin. As if a signal was passed, a horde of animals
cautiously emerged from the surrounding darkness, filling the
illuminated circle of firelight. Terrell saw the dogs, great and small,
sleek and mongrel, advance. At first they gathered silently to observe
the struggle between human and animal. They inched forward until
they had surrounded the man tightly. With one decisive movement the
animals entered the fight. Joe tried to break free. He began to shriek
as fangs and claws found their prey. At last there was quiet, save the
sounds of ripping flesh and cracking bones.
Terrell sat hunched alone by the fire. He watched with a sated
interest he could not explain. It seemed he was witnessing an
execution. His skin prickled with sensation and heat. Muscles rippled
beneath his taut skin. He moaned with the need to stretch.
After a time the animals moved away, one by one, to disappear


&5,0621
into the night. He saw Jean Anne then. She bent over the sticky Joe
mess. She turned toward Terrell and her eyes were round and golden
with jaundice, her body covered by a shiny coat of brown, her mouth
dripped with Joes life blood.
Terrell felt a moments terror at the cold look coming from her
eyes, but he knew he belonged now. When Jean Anne came for him,
he was ready.
He shook his new coat of fur from his shaggy head down to the
tip of a fluffy tail. As she bounced past him into the night, Terrell
threw back his head and howled at the stars. Then with a great leap,
he followed her. &

BURNING SKY
Adventures in Science Fiction Terror
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Ralph Gamelli has had stories published or accepted by magazines

such as PIRATE WRITINGS, BURNING SKY, SHADOWLAND,
DEAD OF NIGHT, FREEZER BURN, and VAMPIRE DANS
STORY EMPORIUM, and, amazingly enough, an instructional
article published in the writing magazine, ByLine. A year and a half
ago he wrote a UFO humor book, portions of which he has been able
to publish in THE LEADING EDGE, THE GOLDEN AGE OF
FLYING
SAUCERS,
SCAVENGERS
NEWSLETTER,
THINGAMAJIG, KEEN SCIENCE FICTION and a chapbook titled
Greetings From Planet Earth, now available from Moonletters Press.
When he is done milking this UFO book, he says he may have to get
on to writing something new.

A Taste of War
by

Ralph Gamelli

Copyright 1998 by RALPH GAMELLI

Henshaw bolted across the stretch of meadow, tall weeds brushing

his legs as they pumped fiercely, eyes locked on his target. The lone
soldier, hunkering behind a low mound of earth, appeared completely
unaware of his advance.
He surged forward, coming up behind his enemy. The wind that
had once roared past his ears became a faint static in the background;
the impact of each rapid footfall became only a soft, distant vibration;
the world around him narrowed in scope until only his enemy existed,
an enemy that would be in range within seconds.
He charged forward, grip tightening on his rifle, and suddenly the
soldier twisted around on one knee, rifle bearing around at him.
Henshaw fired at once, saw the soldiers shoulder jerk back as the
bullet struck home, but then he was stumbling over a clump of dirt,
hitting his side roughly, rolling, his rifle bouncing away into the deep
grass.
He launched himself at the rifle, and at the same instant, from the
corner of his eye, saw the injured soldiers gun recoil sharply.
The bullet slammed into his leg, and he fell short of his rifle. He
lunged for it again, seized it by the stock, and with a cry of pain and
fury, swung the barrel in the direction of his enemy.
He only got it halfway to its destination before it was kicked out
of his grip, out of reach. The enemy loomed over him. Grinning,
clutching his wounded shoulder with one hand and his rifle with the
other, he planted the muzzle of his weapon leisurely against
Henshaws temple and squeezed the trigger.
Death was a black and lonely and angry place. Suspended in the


&5,0621
darkness, he once again saw the back of his enemy as he raced
forward, once again sensed the distant drumming of his feet and the
background hiss of the wind. But he detected something new, as well.
Rustling. The soft yet unmistakable sound of weeds scraping pant
legsthe sound that had signaled his approach. How could he have
been so careless, so focused on reaching his target that he had paid no
attention to
The voice startled him.
His eyes snapped open and met those of the stranger standing over
him. He was dressed entirely in blue, which Danny Henshaw
recognized instantly as the Union blue of a Civil War uniform.
You all right, boy? the man repeated, and Danny replied with
an instinctive, Fine.
The stranger was holding a rifle loosely in his arms. Unlike
Dannys plastic counterpart, it was very real and very old, it appeared.
His eyes lingered on it for several moments before more closely
taking in the mans uniform, which was creased, coated with dust,
and very authentic looking. One of the sleeves had suffered a wide
tear near the shoulder. Although he wore a beard that made him
appear older at first glance, Danny guessed he was probably no older
than college age. Thinking that maybe he would grow a beard like
that himself one day, he lifted himself off the ground.
How old are you, boy?
Twelve.
The uniformed man adjusted the dusty blue cap on his head.
Twelve is an age for fishing and flying kites and skipping rocks, not
soldiering.
Danny didnt know how to respond to such a statement, so he
didnt. Youre one of those guys who puts on war shows, arent
you? he asked. Re-enactments, theyre called, right? You pretend
to fight famous battles?
He scanned the meadow for Roger Denning, who had so recently
killed him, but he was nowhere in sightwas off somewhere in the
surrounding woods engaged in combat with some of the other dozen
or so neighborhood kids fighting todayand when he looked back
the strangers way again, his eyes automatically fixed on the rifle.
Would you like to hold it?
Danny had never held anything more powerful than a B.B. gun.
Could I? he said eagerly.
Of course.
The stranger passed the rifle, and Danny eased his hands around
it, running a finger across the old smooth wood of the stock.
Carefully, he lifted it into a firing position. It was heavier than hed
expected, but it fit perfectly in his hand, as if it had always been
meant to be there. Sighting down the barrel, he pretended to fire off
a round, unable to stop himself from smiling widely, but when he
glanced back toward where the stranger had been standing, he felt the
smile instantly drop away.
The stranger was gone, but his voice still hung in the air


&5,0621
somehow. Im no play soldier, boy. No re-enactor.
Dannys instinct was to drop the rifle and run, but to his terror he
discovered this was impossible. His hands refused to release it; his
feet would not budge. He had lost all control. Even his eyes had
turned traitor, refusing to close, to turn the lights out on this
nightmare into which he had fallen.


Using those eyes that were somehow no longer his own, he
concentrated on the images flowing past the corners of his field of
vision and realized that the ground he was standing on was not the
same as it had been moments ago. There was a short dull green grass
below him now. And neither were his surroundings the same
anymore: the houses and backyards bordering the field were no longer
there; the tree line in the distance was different, much farther off; and
a thin gray line, which he couldnt identify, stretched off in that
distance.
Looks like the boy cant wait to get out there.
Under a power that was not his own, Danny turned around to face
a wall of blue. Hundreds of soldiersdressed like the one who had
handed him the riflewere strung out in a long line some ten yards
before him, inspecting rifles, fixing bayonets to muzzles. Dannys
uncontrollable gaze stopped on one of the bricks forming the blue
wall.
You got that right, he said. But it was not his own voice that
came from his mouth, nor had it been his intention to speak. He
started walking toward the line of Union soldiers, ordering his feet to
stop, in vain.
You see, boy? I was once just like you. It was the voice of the
vanishing soldier, not hanging disembodied in the air as he had
thought before, but inside his head.
Forcing himself to concentrate once more, Danny saw he was
wearing a uniform that matched those of the men in front of him, that
he was standing about a foot taller; that the rifle in his hand felt much
lighter; that the brown shadow below his nose was part of a beard.
You wanted the gun, boy. Now youll get a chance to use it.
With no control over his actions, a prisoner in this new body,
Danny stepped into a narrow hole in the string of soldiers, drew a
bayonet from a sheath at his belt and fixed it to the barrel of his rifle.
As the stranger looked out across the expansive field, Danny realized
with dread that the long gray line in the distance was a string of
Confederate troops.
Dont be so eager to die, boy, the soldier on his right scowled.
He was the same man who had addressed him moments ago, a
middle-aged man with a graying beard.
Go easy on him, Barnes, the man at his other side said.
Averys new here.
Avery, huh? said Barnes. How old are you, boy?


&5,0621
It was the second time hed been asked that in five minutes, but
this time the answer was different. This time the voice of the stranger,
Avery, rose from his throat. Eighteen.
Seen combat yet, boy?
Not yet.
Well dont be so damn eager to, and maybe youll live to see
nineteen.
Averys gaze returned to the field and Danny noted with horror
that the gray wall off in the distance was beginning to move forward.
A shout came from somewhere far off on his left and Danny,
along with the others, clutched his rifle at the ready. Another shout
and they were advancing slowly forward in formation, hundreds of
boots tramping across the short field grass. Despite both armies
unhurried strides, the gray wall before Danny grew larger with
frightening speed.
I want to go back! Danny pleaded inwardly.
Isnt this what you were just having so much fun at, boy?
This is different! This is real!
Yes. A taste of the real thing is just what you need.
Please!
Relax, boy. You wont remember a thing when its over. But
tomorrow you might find a tiny piece of your brain telling you to go
fishing or fly a kite instead of running around with a gun in your
hand. Now sit still and enjoy the ride.
The two masses closed in on each other. A shot was fired, from
which side Danny couldnt tell. There was another shot, a far-off
groan, murmurs of encouragement running through the Union ranks
as the wall of gray began to grow faces. The rifle below one of those
faces belched smoke, and the man whod minutes ago defended
Danny-and Avery-dropped to his knees, pawing wildly at his ruined
neck.
I want to go back!
There was a shout, and suddenly the two armies abandoned their
measured paces and charged at each other. Screams of aggression
erupted from both sides, as did the deafening boom of hundreds of
rapidly discharging muzzles.
Racing reluctantly forward, Danny found himself picking out a
face thirty yards ahead of him and squeezing his trigger. A circle of
blood appeared on his targets chest, and the man tumbled lifelessly
to the ground, the troops in back of him skirting the body or leaping
over it.
Was it everything you dreamed, boy, killing a man?
In a haze of smoke, the two sides converged, a frenzy of
intersecting blue and gray bodies.
Danny, under Averys control, thrust out with his rifle, plunging
his bayonet into an enemy soldiers gut. Immediately he withdrew it,
slashed out to his right, and tore open another mans chest. There was
a flash of gray behind him and he ferociously jabbed back the butt of
his rifle, catching a Confederate across the side of his face. Danny


&5,0621
turned, glanced down at the Southerner struggling dazedly to find his
feet again, and drove the bayonet into his back.
Minutes passed during which he attacked anything gray, lashing
out with his bayonet, with his rifle butt, kicking, punching. At one
point, a slashing bayonet caught him in the arm and blood streamed
warmly, painlessly down the inside of his sleeve.
Bodies increasingly littered the ground, and Danny found himself
growing less sensitive to the ringing gunshots, to the coarse cries of
pain-yet, strangely, at the same time, the sensitivity toward his new
body, his awareness of it, was increasing. He began to sense when his
host would thrust out with his bayonet, when he would dodge
someone elses, when he would sidestep or duck or back peddle in
retreat or lunge forward in attack. The feel of his feet moving, sliding,
picking their way over the ground, of his fingers on the rifle, grew
steadily more natural, as if they were almost his own. And the terror
that had once engulfed him receded into the distance.
Swinging violently, he cracked his rifle against a Confederates
skull, then buried his bayonet into the unconscious body sprawled on
the ground. He tried to withdraw the blade but it was stuck,
embedded between two ribs. As he placed one of his boots against the
dead mans torso for leverage and started to pull, a faint sound
distinguished itself from the din of combat.
Footsteps. Quick ones. Coming from behind.
He tried to whirl around, but Avery would not let him, and his
terror returned in a rush as he frantically fought to turn and face the
enemy soldier he knew must be bearing down on him. Avery,
however, was still in the middle of retracting his bayonet from the
Confederate corpse-was so focused on it that he was apparently
unable to sense the danger he was in.
The footsteps approached.
Danny no longer felt at home in Averys body. He was a prisoner
again, and he wanted out. Now!
He knew from experience he could not alter Averys actions, but
in his earlier efforts to do so, he had focused primarily on gaining
control of his hosts legs, trying to alter their course. Now, he focused
on Averys right hand, desperate to break his grip on the rifle.
The footsteps grew louder, more distinct. Danny even felt their
vibrations in the ground, but still Avery did not react to them. Still,
he was trying to free the bayonet that had lodged itself stubbornly in
the dead mans rib cage, was as oblivious to the approaching
footsteps as Danny had been, in another battle, to the alerting sound
of weeds scratching his pant legs.
But that mistake had cost him only an imaginary death, by
imaginary bullets. This time, cold steel would puncture his back, tear
through his flesh, bring forth a warm gush of blood.
Danny concentrated as mightily as he could, focusing, prying with
his mind at the fingers wrapped tightly around the rifle.
He focused. He fought. Like the good soldier hed always been,
always wanted to be.


&5,0621
Averys forefinger slowly uncurled from the rifle.
What are you doing, boy?
His hosts voice had lost its authoritative edge.
The middle finger uncurled, Averys grip weakening.
How? Avery demanded.
I dont want to ride anymore, Danny replied.
Nothing like this has ever happened before.
I want to drive!
Averys thumb fell away from the rifle, followed instantly by his
entire right hand. The sudden release of the hand made Danny stagger
to his left just as the approaching footsteps reached him. A glinting
blade, a rifle and a gray body whisked past him. The Southerner
tumbled headlong over his dead comrade.
With a quick thought, Dannys other hand came off the rifle and
he knew he had control now. Teeth grinding, cheeks flushing with
rage, he hurtled the body still holding his rifle and bayonet and leaped
on the Confederate whose blade had narrowly missed him. He
punched the man squarely in the face before he could use his weapon,
then wrapped the hands, that were now his to control, around his
enemys neck.
This is wrong! Avery croaked from behind Dannys thoughts. It
didnt happen this way! I should have died!
Danny continued to squeeze the life out of the soldier who had
nearly killed him. The mans eyes bulged enormously from their
sockets.
How could you not have noticed the footsteps! Danny roared at
Avery as he squeezed, teeth bared, grinding harder. You were a
soldier! A real one!
How can this be happening? Avery demanded once more.
Its happening because Im more of a soldier than you ever were!
Because while I was playing war, you were flying kites and skipping
rocks!
This is impossible! Avery insisted, but his voice was diminishing,
growing fainter, fading. Impossible....
The voice drifted away, was gone. Forever, Danny thought.
He released his grip, staring into the eyes of the dead man beneath
him. Within the fixed pupils, a pair of images formed, each identical.
Danny saw himself, his body, standing in the neighborhood
meadow where hed played his war games. His arms were bent as if
he were holding a rifle, his head cocked as if sighting down the rifle
barrelbut there was nothing in his hands. He lowered the gun that
was not there and turned and smiled at a person who also was not
there. An instant later his arms went limp, his head lolled to one side,
and he collapsed lifelessly among the high weeds.
And then he was staring at a dead man again.
He rose to his feet, studied the slowing eddies of battle around
him. He was here to stay, he understood. And he was not afraid. He
was too good of a soldier for that.
Claiming his victims weapon, he continued the fight.


&5,0621


That night, sitting in camp at the edge of the battlefield, warming
himself by a fire with several others, Danny was approached by the
man he recognized as Barnes. He had a bloody bandage wrapped
around his leg, similar to the one around Dannys arm.
I saw you out there today, Avery. You handled yourself damn
well. For a kid.
Danny rubbed at the beard he was wearing much sooner than he
would have believed. For a man, he said.
Barnes frowned wearily. And just how did a man like you get so
good at fighting?
Danny ignored the mans derisive tone. He stared into the fire, his
mind returning to a distant suburban meadow. Practice, he said, and
then grinned up at his fellow soldier. By never holding a kite when
I could hold a gun instead. &

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RETURN TO CONTENTS PAGE



D. E. Davidson is the editor/publisher of NIGHT TERRORS and CRIMSON

magazines. This story was first published THE ULTIMATE UNKNOWN, Issue
#4, Summer, 1996.

'5($0
+286(
by

D. E. Davidson
Copyright 1995 by D. E. Davidson

The last mile of road wasn't much more than two ruts held
together by a central span of weeds so tall they clawed at the
undercarriage of the Jimmy. For the last ten minutes Megan Pelzl
had been able to see the house sitting above the tree line, on the hill.
Three stories with a slate shingle roof and gables, the house stood
grey against the sky and hung over the road like a vulture above its
prey. It evoked nothing in her mind so much as the word ancient, and
the closer they drew the more solid that perception grew. And as she
watched it grow in the distance, the house seemed to call to her above
the haunting chir of the cicada, "Come and renew. Come and renew."
"She's a bit creepy, but she's pretty much like you described in
your letter," the owner, Chyle Penny, said. Needs a little work. A
country side fixer upper for you and Mr. Pelzl." He nodded to John.
Megan shook her head slowly. "It's perfect, Mr. Penny. It's
exactly what I'm looking for." She wanted to say that it was exactly
as in her dreams, but she took one look at the scowl on her husband's
face and buried the thought.
John shifted uneasily, took a breath as if to say something but
stopped when his gaze met hers. He would rain on her parade, she
was sure of that, but he would do it behind closed doors. That was
his way.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Chyle Penny glance at John
and roll his eyes. "I have some smaller places closer in to town.
Won't need as much work neither."
"Work never hurt anyone, Mr. Penny," she said. I want to see this
house."
"Megan, don't you think this is a bit far out?" John said. And she
knew it wasn't a question but a warning. John didn't want her in this
house.
"Roads out this way can get pretty bad in the winter," Chyle
Penny said, apparently missing John's point entirely.
Taking a breath she screwed up her courage. John would not take
this from her. "I want to see this house," she said.
Chyle Penny stared at her for a moment, appearing to expect a
change of heart. When it didn't come, he shifted the Jimmy into first
and steered it onto the rocky drive that circled the hill in its climb to
the house.



&5,0621
From the road the house looked to be painted grey and trimmed
in black. But as they neared it Megan could see that the exterior
boards were bare save for dark green flakes which clung stubbornly
at the corners and in the ornamental work around the gables.
Chyle Penny allowed the Jimmy to coast to a stop in the thigh
high weeds growing between the barn and the house.
"Looks like no one's live hear for a long time," John said.
Turning to look up at the house, Chyle Penny said, "Looks worse
on the outside than she is. Structure's sound. Belonged to the
Ruthven family for a hundred and fifty years. They took good care."
"Ruthven?" John asked. He tossed Megan an accusatory glance.
She caught it and returned a hard stare. He would accuse her of
knowing about the connection. She hadn't.
"Yeah. You know the name?" Chyle Penny asked.
Still staring at her, John said, "It's Megan's maiden name."
"Your family from around these parts Mrs. Pelzl?" Chyle Penny
asked.
"There are a lot of Ruthvens, Mr. Penny," she replied.
"Not around these parts," Chyle Penny said. "Abraham Ruthven
and his family was the only ones I ever heard of. Since his
granddaughter, Carmilla Ruthven, disappeared in '70 there haven't
been any."
"What do you know about the family?" Megan asked.
Chyle Penny removed his ball cap and combed his hair back with
his fingers. "Only gossip and what turned up in the title search," he
said. "Abraham Ruthven built the house for his bride in 1835. It was
passed down to the son, Damion, and from him to Carmilla. Carmilla
just up and disappeared in '70.
"Rumor was she had sons, but no family laid claim to the estate.
The State took the house and land for back taxes. I bought it at
auction."
"The house has stood empty since '70?" John asked.
Megan thought the question made Chyle Penny look uneasy. He
rubbed the palms of his hands on his overalls and stared off at the
house for several seconds before answering. "I've had renters," he
said. "Ain't reliable. Keep moving out without notice. Keep finding
the place empty."
Megan opened the Jimmy's door. "Let's see the inside," she said.

YZ YZ

Chyle Penny tried the light switch just inside the door, and when
nothing happened, he brought a large flashlight from the car and went
from room to room lighting gas lamps. "Guess the power lines went
down in the big storm t'other day. Carmilla wasn't much for modern
improvements. I had the house wired for 'lectricity, but I kept the gas
lamps all the same. This is Amish country and Amish like houses
with gas lamps. Put in a generator for emergencies. It ain't been
started for a spell, but I can go out to the barn and give 'er a try."


&5,0621
"I much prefer the gas lights, Mr. Penny," Megan said. "I want
the house as a get away. Something to make me forget about the
modern world and it's electronic gadgets."
John gave her a sideways glance and frowned. He had always
been uneasy with her penchant for the old ways. He had even tried
to blame the disparity between her lifestyle and her career, which was
totally immersed in computers, the Internet, and cellular phones, for
her emotional collapse earlier in the year. "Trying to live two lives
generations apart," he said, "can only lead to madness." She wanted
to tell him that the madness she felt was from trying to live his
modern life, not from the combination of the two. She didn't. John
would never accept that she had the soul deep feeling that she was
somehow born in the wrong century.
"If it's a get away you want, this is your house,"Chyle Penny said.
"Lumber and paper mills own all the timber for miles around. You'd
have road access and twenty acres of fields if you get the hankering
to do some gardening."
"It'll need all new paint," John said. "And the grounds will need
a lot of work."
"True," Chyle Penny said. "But she's still a good buy. The
furniture goes with the house. All the rooms are big. The kitchen is
huge. And the floor, roof and stairs are solid. Not a creak or moan
in the whole house. She sets on a granite foundation.
"Hell, whole hill's granite. Guess that's why the kudzu ain't
climbing all over it."
Megan gazed about the great room. From the large fan back
rocker by the window down to the somber flocked wallpaper, this was
the house which had filled her dreams since childhood. She felt like
she was home.
Ignoring the men, she walked to the three broad windows at the
front of the room and looked out over the property to the west.
Below, the fields were blanketed in kudzu vine. The leaves rippled
in the afternoon breeze like waves of deep green water. The vine
covered the whole field and beyond that it rose up like a great green
mountain canopying the trees as far as she could see.
At the edge of the field a woman appeared, dressed in the same
green as the kudzu. She led a small girl by the hand. "Probably two
of the Amish Chyle Penny mentioned," she thought. And then, "My
daughter . . . half sister would be about her age." She pushed the
thought down and, without conscious effort, hid it from herself.
The two made their way through the kudzu to the only space free
of the vine. It was a small well kept cemetery near the forest's edge.
They stopped at the wrought iron fence which circled the cemetery
and for several minutes the woman gazed longingly, Megan thought,
at the graves within. Then she turned and stared up at the house.
"How is it that you didn't sell the house to an Amish family Mr.
Penny?" Megan asked.
"They weren't interested."



&5,0621
"Not interested?" John said. "How is that? Seems this would be
exactly what an Amish family would want."
"At first I thought it was because there is so little land with the
house," Chyle Penny said. "Then I heard the rumors."
"Rumors?" she asked.
"Seems Carmilla and the Amish didn't get along despite their
common distaste for anything discovered since 1800. Rumor has it
that the Amish considered Carmilla the spawn of the devil."
"Like a witch?" she asked.
"Don't rightly know," Chyle Penny said. "You see, the Amish in
these parts are Swartzentruber sect, particularly devout. I suppose
they think all us who ain't Amish are tools of the devil. I've heard of
Amish being shunned for months just for talking to the likes of you
and me. But weren't no evidence."
"Evidence?" John asked.
"That the Amish were responsible for Carmilla's disappearance,"
Chyle Penny said. "There was some that had that in mind when she
just up and disappeared. But I think she just wandered into the woods
and got lost. These woods have swallowed many a soul, and Carmilla
was going on to ninety. Bad country to be lost in, but bad especially
for the old and the kids."
The woman had turned back to the cemetery and was kneeling at
the wrought iron fence. The child was several yards away struggling
with her long skirt and petticoats which had become tangled in the
Kudzu vine.
Megan turned to look at Chyle Penny. "Is the little cemetery, near
the woods, on this property, Mr. Penny?"
"Yes'um. That's the Ruthven family cemetery. All the Abraham
Ruthven family, 'cept for Carmilla and her sons, are buried there.
There's a painting that shows the house, cemetery and the land to the
west above the fireplace. Course that was before the Kudzu vine.
Don't quite look the same now."
"There's a woman down below. Do you know who she is?"
A puzzled look crossed Chyle Penny's face. He walked to the
window and stared out. "Where?"
"She's right by . . . ." The woman was gone. Megan scanned the
fields around the cemetery and traced the road until it disappeared
into the forest to the south. Did I imagined the woman? Since the
hospital she had become suspicious of her senses. The psychiatrist
had said that the hallucinations and the belief that everyone, even
John, was trying to take what was hers stemmed from her father
forcing her to give up her daughter for adoption. But this was
different.
"She was there by the cemetery only a moment ago. Dressed in
green with a bonnet tied over her head. She had a child with her."
Chyle Penny shrugged. "Nearest house is two mile away. They're
Amish and their women folk generally travel in groups or keep to
their own property. Could be one of their women was out looking for
mushrooms. It's that season. But it'd be strange for an unescorted


&5,0621
Amish woman to come near the Ruthven home, 'specially with
evening coming on."
Megan nodded, looked about the great room once more, then
turned back to the window. With her back still to John she said, "I'll
take the house, Mr. Penny."

YZYZ

They moved into the house a week later. And for the next month
life was as she had always dreamed it would be. In the day John
worked in his office in the barn. It was complete with electricity,
computers and cellular phones. And it was even more perfect in that
she never had to see those reminders of the twentieth century. She
didn't allow electricity in the house.
She cared for the house during the day, cleaning, painting, fixing.
And often she just sat in the great room gazing with jealous eyes over
the dark green sea of kudzu leaves which seemed intent on
consuming all her land.
Then, one Friday evening, she saw the woman in green as she
entered the field below the house, and the certainty filled her that this
woman wanted her land.
It was always on Fridays evenings as the sun ducked behind the
trees that the woman appeared knee deep in the weeds at edge of the
road. And each time she came, she would wade through that sea of
leaves to the little cemetery where she would kneel and bow her head.
She always came hand-in-hand with the child. The girl who more
and more reminded Megan of the baby her father had put in her
before disappearing like the morning mist. And woman and child
always disappeared before John could make his way to the window
to see them.

YZYZ

Megan began to fantasize about the woman's connection to the

Ruthven family. Was this woman a skeleton in the family closet by
way of some ancient illicit affair? Was she Carmilla's granddaughter?
No matter which, Megan was sure this woman would try to take her
home. And as the weeks and months passed she became more and
more sure that this home was part of her, that she could not let it go
no matter the cost.
Megan passed ten Fridays in the house. It was ten Fridays of
seeing the woman and child who John never saw. It was ten Fridays
of self doubt. It was ten Fridays of fear that she would lose that
which she had found.
On the eleventh Friday she decided she had to know who this
woman was. She waited until the sun neared the tree tops, then she
took a Coleman lantern and a large kitchen knife and drove her car to
the end of the drive to wait for the woman.


&5,0621
She watched as the sun set, then lit the lantern and placed it on the
roof of the car. This done, she snuggled into the driver's seat and
concentrated on the road, waiting for the woman and child to appear
at the point where the road emerged from the forest.
As the forest became an amorphous lump in the evening gloom
the moan of a child dragged Megan's attention from the road to the
field. There she saw the woman and child, several feet from the
roadbed, knee deep in the vines, and wading deeper into the field.
The child whose moan had drawn her attention followed the
woman's lead, yet Megan could read reluctance in her stride.
Megan watched as the woman and child made their way to the
cemetery. There the woman released the child who backed away
several feet before entanglement in the kudzu brought her to a stop.
Moaning, the child struggled with her skirts, occasionally stopping to
stare with vacant eyes at the house.
Unmindful of the child, the woman knelt at the wrought iron
fence which circled the cemetery and bowed her head.
Megan opened the car door and walked to the edge of the field.
But as she approached the kudzu a damp, fetid odor addressed her
like the last comment of some ancient corpse. The image of her foot
sinking into the maggot-infested, gelatin flesh of a carcass hidden
beneath the leaves flashed in her mind's eye. Recoiling, she backed
away from the field and called to the woman. As if in answer a cool
breeze rustled the kudzu between them.
The woman continued her silent prayer vigil, ignoring Megan's
call. The girl looked up from her skirts. Her eyes were hollow circles
filled with the fire of the setting sun. Her face glowed with the green
of the kudzu. A cry rustled as dry as fall leaves from her lips, "Come
and become."
The voice went directly to Megan's blood, mixing, flowing with
it, striping her body of nourishment, making her hunger for . . . what?
Without further thought Megan stepped from the roadbed. In seconds
she was knee deep in the kudzu, moving toward the girl. Vines
tangled her legs. She felt the leaves climbing her thighs, grasping,
sliding over her flesh like tiny mittened hands. They dragged her
down. Kicking, rolling, cutting the vines with her knife, Megan got
her feet under her. She knew she had to reach the girl. Why?
She made three steps before the vines pulled her down again.
They crawled over her like starving leaches, sucking, drawing her
strength.
The girl released another dry moan. Close to her now Megan saw
the skin of her face. Like her clothing, it was the same green as the
kudzu. Her dress, bonnet, all of her began to peal, fluttering in the
wind like thousands of small butterfly wings. Then before Megan's
eyes the girl began to unfold into the field, flesh becoming kudzu,
bones returning to dust as the night air touched them.
She had seen this before. In her dreams. The child was her dream
self, renewing the soil with her body. There was no doubt in her



&5,0621
mind about that. And once she had accepted the thought she could
see it more clearly.
The woman in green stood and turned to face the scene and
Megan realized that she also was a sculpture of kudzu. And as
Megan watched the vines unraveled, revealing a skeleton of sun
bleached bones. And suddenly she understood that the bones were
Carmilla's and that Carmilla was the kudzu, owner of all she covered.
The vines intertwined forming a woman again. The woman
smiled. "Blood of my blood, come and renew me. Come and
become," she rasped.
The vines knotted tighter into Megan's flesh. Gasping in pain, she
crossed her skin with her blade. Blood bubbled up. The kudzu tasted
the blood. Roots slipped into the into her veins. They drank her
blood. They renewed the Kudzu. They fed the soil. And as they did,
Megan realized she was becoming. She was becoming part of the
land. She was becoming part of the kudzu, part of the house, part of
everything that she had wanted and dreamed of since she was a child.
And she knew that when she became, no one could take this from her.
She smiled.

YZYZ

That night John reported Megan missing. The next day the Forest
Service initiated a massive search for her. The ground search was
canceled in hours, when three rescue workers went missing. The air
search turned up nothing.
"It's bad country to be lost in," the man directing the search told
John.
John moved back to the city a month later.
Megan lays permanently joined with the land, with Carmilla, and
with her father. The kudzu intertwines their bones and roots them to
the soil. Tens of thousands of their tentacled arms spread out over the
countryside, claiming it, caressing it, waiting for family and waiting
for intruders. And when family comes, they become and renew the
blood. And when intruders come, the land feeds.
Author's Note: Megan now knows what only Carmilla and the Devil
once knew. Flesh is for a lifetime. Kudzu is forever. &

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