crimson online magazine, issue 2

7/27/2019 Crimson Online Magazine, Issue 2

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NIGHT TERRORSNINETEEN STORIES APPEARING IN THE FIRST SEVENISSUES OF NIGHT TERRORS HAVE OR WILL RECEIVEHONORABLE MENTION IN THE YEAR’S BEST FANTASY AND

HORROR.

Stories receiving honorable mention in the YBF&H (St. Martin’s Griffin, Ellen Datlowand Terri Windling, Eds., 1997, 1998, 1999) include those by Keith Minnion NT #1, A.R. Morlan, Don D’Ammassa, Barbara Rosen, and William Scheinman in NT #2, KeithMinnion, 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 D’Ammassa, Tim Waggoner,Derek W. Wass, and Hugh B. Cave in NT #6 and Trey R. Barker, and Don D’Ammassain NT #7.

FIVE STORIES — FROM ISSUES # 4, 5, 6 AND 7 — RECEIVEDNOMINATIONS FORTHE HORROR WRITERS ASSOCIATION’S BRAM STOKERAWARD FOR SHORT FICTION.Stories receiving nominations for the Horror Writer’s Association’s Bram Stoker Awardfor Short Fiction were by Ken Abner in NT #4, Trey R. Barker and Alan Smale in NT#5, Don D’Ammassa in NT #6 and Trey R. Barker in NT #7.

“A magazine to watch.” Ellen Datlow — THE YEAR’S BEST FANTASY AND HORROR,TENTH ANNUAL COLLECTION, St. Martin’s Griffin, 1997, Ellen Datlow and TerriWindling Eds.

THE WRITERS

NT #1—Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Mort Castle, D. F. Lewis, Dominick Cancilla, KennethGoldman, James S. Dorr, Louise Dragon, Keith Minnion, Charlee Jacob, Kurt Newton,

Kevin Toth, Marion Deeds. 41,000+ story words and 10 illustrations.

NT #2—A. R. Morlan, Mort Castle, Don D’Ammassa, 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, O’Neil De Noux, Debra GrayDe Noux, Billie Sue Mosiman, Yvonne Navarro, Elizabeth Massie, Brian A. Hopkins, MarkRainey, 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 #4—A. R. Morlan, J. N. Williamson, Don D’Ammassa, Dominick Cancilla, KennethGoldman, 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 #5—Mort 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-MichaelEmory, Chapin Shaw Tucker. 47,000+ words of stories and 8 illustrations.

NT #6—Hugh B. Cave, Don D’Ammassa, 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 #7—John Maclay, Don D’ Ammassa, Trey R. Barker, M. Christian, Jason Bovberg,Greg F. Gifune, Phyllis Pyle, Adam Edwards, Laura Capewell, Vince Cusumano, StefanoDonati, Paul Walther, Anthony Jude. 46,000+ words of story.



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NIGHT TERRORS PUBLICATIONS

ISSUE #2

EDITOR/PUBLISHERD. E. DAVIDSON

ALL MATERIAL PUBLISHED IN CRIMSONIS PROTECTED BY THE AUTHOR’S ORARTIST’S COPYRIGHT AND MAY NOT BEREPUBLISHED IN ANY WAY, NOR MAYCHARACTERS OR ANY OF THE STORY BEUSED IN WHOLE OR PART WITHOUT THEAUTHOR’S PERMISSION.

COPIES OF THIS MAGAZINE CAN BEGIVEN FREE TO OTHERS BUT THEMAGAZINE MUST BE PROVIDED IN FULLAND MAY NOT BE ADDED TO, REDUCED,EDITED OR CHANGED IN ANY WAY.

All correspondence should be addressed to:[email protected] by snail mail to:NIGHT TERRORS PUBLICATIONS1202 WEST MARKET STREETORRVILLE, OHIO 44667-1710

ADVERTISING RATES ARE AVAILABLE.PLEASE SEND REQUESTS FORINFORMATION TO: [email protected] by snail mail to:ADVERTISING

NIGHT TERRORS PUBLICATIONS1202 WEST MARKET STREETORRVILLE, OHIO 44667-1710

CRIMSON is published six time a year and newissues are available on theNIGHT TERRORS web page athttp://users.aol.com/NTMagazine/

CONTENTSEditor’s Note............................D. E. Davidson 4

TEMPEST TOSSED.................K. G. McAbee 5

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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EDITOR’S NOTEby

D. E. DavidsonCopyright 1999 by D. E. Davidson

At publication time I discovered that this issue had fallen a bit short in length. I added anold 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 Magazine’s slushpile. Stories which don’t fit the NIGHT TERRORS concept but which the Editor—that’sme—finds entertaining will be contracted for CRIMSON. And since I receive a variety of stories inappropriate for NIGHT TERRORS, CRIMSON will cover a variety of genrésincluding science fiction, suspense, mystery, and mainstream work. In other words, you mightfind almost anything here but primarily you will find dark fiction. Other than those significantdifferences, and the fact that CRIMSON is much smaller—approximately 1/3 the size of aNIGHT TERRORS issue—you will also find the stories in CRIMSON more as they wereoriginally written. Although my editing of the stories in NT has been well met, I will do verylittle editing of the stories in CRIMSON. So if you like variety and fiction in the raw, you’ll

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 [email protected] with“Problems with CRIMSON” in the subject line of the e-mail.

CRIMSON will survive or fail based at least in part on the number of subscriptions. Themagazine will eventually be paid for by advertisers and the number of advertisers and theamount I can charge for advertisements will be based on the number of readers so if youhaven’t subscribed, and think CRIMSON is worth your time, please do. You can subscribefree by sending an e-mail to [email protected] and please put “Subscribe CRIMSON”in the subject line.

If you wish to advertise to a targeted (readers of dark fiction) audience we charge onlyone-cent per subscriber for a half page ad (8"wide by 4.5" high). Contact us to find out how

many subscribers read CRIMSON and thus your cost.Subscribers who are reading this with ADOBE ACROBAT READER and who can

receive attached e-mail files (AOL members can) may receive future Issues as attached e-mailfiles. Send an e-mail to [email protected] and include “Subscribe CRIMSONAttachment.”

For those who don’t have ADOBE ACROBAT READER and are thus reading this onthe web page, please see the ad for NIGHT TERRORS. You can receive ADOBEACROBAT READER on CD-ROM (a valuable software for those who serf the web) forFREE by ordering NIGHT TERRORS #6 and #7 on CD-ROM for $5. You also receive thePremier Sample Issue which contains 12 stories and color illustrations. In all you get over130,000 words of story and ADOBE ACROBAT READER for just $5.

You will receive information about the second issue of CRIMSON in May. It will contain

TEMPEST TOSSED by K. G. McAbee, HOTLINE by David Sakmyster, ALL BECAUSEOF 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 writer’s andreader’s groups here.



K.G. McAbee’s degree in electronics is collecting dust as she works

towards becoming an established writer. She is published in shortfiction and has three novels existing in that Dantean writer’spurgatory called ‘waiting to hear from the publisher.’ She writes

horror, fantasy, science fiction and alternative history, and readseverything. Literally.

Tempest Tossedby

>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 lesspleasant 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 impossibleto see much even in daylight, though there were grated manholesspaced far above the muck. I wasn’t 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 Imoved forward.

I hoped, if I had to enter one of the dozens of side tunnels, myhalogen light wouldn’t fail me. I wasn’t feeling too sure, though.

I was after a vampire, of course.Wait. Let’s be a bit more politically correct. I was after one of the

hemo-challenged. And he would pick the nastiest, most disgustingplace to hole up, wouldn’t he? Why don’t they ever decide to den ina shopping mall? Or an ice cream parlor?

I reached a crossway — ha, a little hemo-humor — and flickedmy flashlight to the right, the left, straight ahead. I played it over thewalls 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, justto leave me a clear trail.

Lucky me, right?Yeah, you can wound one. They’re not the creatures of the night

from the old horror flicks after all. Through to see some of them,

you’d think so. Some of the rogues — those are the ones who refuseto 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



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Lee-Lugosi type. You know, well-dressed, suave, fascinating,tempting … instead of admitting that they’re suffering from aparticularly nasty disease and allowing themselves to be treated.

Still, we can’t 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 playedover a small furry body, too still.

Yep, that’s the way, I thought. And he’s 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 andchecked to make sure my cross was clearly visible.

Sure it’s just a disease.

But I’m 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 orfrozen 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.I’ll ignore it and they’ll go away, I thought, shutting the fridge

door with a small snick of sound. It’s probably just a kid or two,

running down the hallway towards supper, or some old grannybumped against it on her way home from the corner store, her handsfull of bags.

It came again, hard and insistent, this time with voiceaccompaniment.

“Tempest, open up. It’s your night off so I know you’re in there.”

Damn, it was Grooms. Lieutenant Grooms of the NYPD — theNew York Pathogenic Department, that is. A business associate, you

might say. Almost a friend, sometimes. Nearly an enemy, others.“I’m 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 Iwandered out of the kitchen yawning. “I’m coming —”

I flung open the door in mid-sentence.

“— and it’s my night off, so this had better be a social call!”Grooms stood there in the hallway like some monolith dressed in



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ratty blue serge. That’s the image that always comes to mind when Isee 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 endearingin a sick sort of way.

OK, I admit it. I’m a sucker for big men. When you’re 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, oneguy I told that to said I was about as cute as a tarantula — but I hadbroken his arm the day before in karate class, so he may have been atad prejudiced. Hey, it was an accident. Some guys just can’t take a

joke, is all.Grooms grinned down at me, a stony twinkle in one grey eye.“This ain’t no social call, Tempest, and you know it,” he rumbled

like gravel pouring out of a dump truck.“Let me guess,” I yawned. “There’s a vamp loose and your bunch

don’t want to get their pretty little hands dirty?”

“If you’d get a phone, I wouldn’t have to come by and tell you

when the department needs you in a hurry,” he pointed out for thehundredth 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,I’d get a phone,” I pointed out logically for the hundred-and-first timeas I followed to curl up in a chair opposite him. “Since I don’t have

one, you do the math.”The usual amenities over, Grooms snorted like a wounded

wildebeest, then said, “Never mind. I’m here and you’re going towork tonight.”

I shook my head.

“Nope, night off. I don’t hunt vamps on my night off.”He tilted his head to one side.“It’s a rogue,” he said, his rumble almost a whisper.

Well, of course that was different. That was a whole new ballgame.

I had a talent for tracking the poor sick bastards who came down

with HDS — hemoglandular deviant syndrome, the nasty disease thatgives its sufferers an unappeasable thirst for blood. I could smell ‘em,

you see, sorta, since I’d once contracted the disease myself. I’d beensick for about a week and I still wake up nights — well, days —remembering that ceaseless craving and aching for blood, worse thana junky for his smack. Or so I hear. Then I’d gone into spontaneous

remission and been pronounced cured. There were a few others likeme, former sufferers who were immune to a vamp bite, their bitebeing the way that they spread HDS.

We immunes were in high demand ever since the disease becamerampant, simply because of our sensitivity to those who suffered fromit. We could help hunt them down, find them and make sure they got



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treatment. The government thought that treatment was the least theycould offer, after accidentally releasing the bioengineered diseaseonto us unsuspecting citizenry and all.

Whether the vamps wanted to be treated or not, of course, madeno difference. They couldn’t be left loose to bite others, now couldthey? 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 gruelto keep me breathing while I was experimented on to see if I couldoffer up some kind of cure?

Not really. But the government couldn’t allow the rapidlyspreading 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 effectsof the bug and become immune to a vamp bite. That thought wasn’tvery 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 can’t feed off vamps, though they can eke out a paleexistence 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 theycontracted the disease, and they had no close friends or relatives to raton 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?”“We’re not sure if it is a ‘he,’” Grooms growled.

Grooms doesn’t like rogues any more than I do. He lost his oldestboy to a female rogue. But she didn’t just infect him — she suckedhim dry. So Grooms doesn’t even have the faint comfort of visiting

his son in the neighborhood sanitorium and hoping for a cure someday.

There ain’t no cure for a tombstone.

“A woman?” I asked, surprised. There are far fewer female roguesthan 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 heardof a female rogue since the one that took Groom’s boy.“Maybe,” he grunted.“What does that mean?” I asked impatiently. I could feel my

hackles beginning to rise — and I don’t even know what the hellhackles 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 hairiercheek. “The few that we’ve caught won’t say anything about theirmaker except a name.”



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“What, I have to guess?”“Malakar.”“That’s it?”

“That’s all they say. Just ‘Malakar’. When they can say anythingat all. Most of the time she — or he — drains ‘em dry and leaves ‘emlaying in a heap.”

I could understand Grooms coming to me but not why he had

waited so long. Why hadn’t I heard something about this before now?I was a trained professional, after all, who did this sort of thing for aliving — 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.“You’re set up to search out the sick ones, not the rogues. They’re

police business, pathogenic division.”“Yeah, like you’ve minded using me before,” I scoffed. It felt

good. I didn’t like where this was heading, so I scoffed some more.

“You’re just spooked, right?”

Grooms shook his head back and forth real slow twice, thenreached 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 irritatingfashion.

I jumped up and grabbed the paper. I think it was what he wanted

me to do, just so he didn’t 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, theone 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 maybean old grocery bag from back before they all went to plastic. Theprinting was hard to read, the ink smudged and dim.

Then I realized that it was written in blood.Cute. Let’s 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 didn’t see anything in this perky little ditty that would call meto Groom’s mind. Unless he’d somehow read some of my termpapers, last year of college, and even they weren’t this obscure. Or

this boring. Well, not quite, anyway.I handed the paper scrap back to him, noting with a professional



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eye that it had been dusted for fingerprints.“OK, you got me interested,” I admitted, sitting back down. “But

it’s a stretch, you know. Sure my last name is Tempest, but —”

“We found that on the last casualty,” Grooms interrupted. “Thenwe got a phone call, early this morning before daybreak. A voice saidthat if there wasn’t a tempest in the sewers tonight, there’d be a lot

more killing.”

“Wow, I always wanted to be famous,” I murmured as I thoughtthis over. Sometimes a reputation for cockiness can be a problem.You feel honor-bound to uphold it, especially when you least feel upto it. “Are you absolutely positive that this snazzy little doggerel

refers to me, thought?”“Nope,” Grooms said with a grin. “But we don’t have another

choice that fits any better. Your name’s Tempest and we can’t take

any chances when there’s a rogue involved.”“But I can?”Grooms shrugged.

“We’ll be following close, watching out for you just like you was

one of us. But we can’t find it without you. We need you to track it—”

“— to its lair,” I drawled in sepulchral tones. I shook my head. “Ithink it’s a crock, Grooms. Some psycho who doesn’t like how Imake a living and is trying to be cute about it. But it’s my job, like

you say. I’ll do it, but it’ll cost you mucho overtime through mydepartment.”

Grooms levered himself to his feet.

“You’ll 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 oneear to receive directions and a mike under my turtleneck, just over mylarynx, to report my twists and turns.

“Left,” I whispered as I trudged along the corridor, waving myflashlight 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.“That’s one of the older sections. But don’t worry, you’re still on

our map.”That was way reassuring, from a guy a mile away. Thanks for tinyfavors.

Three turns later, though, I was off their damned map and deep inone 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 hadn’t been any concrete for



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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 andleft. But well before I heard anything about whether they’d pinpointedmy 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. Ihadn’t 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 didn’t like

having to stoop and concentrate on not bumping my head, not whenI 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 changestartled 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. Thirtynext-to-impossible feet. Thirty feet that I would probably never get tocross, 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 rogueas 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 pinpointsradiated hate, ashen face looked months past dead, arms folded acrosshis 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. Don’t ask me how it got there. I don’t

remember.

The vamp smiled a long slow smile in the beam of my flashlightand flashed elongated incisors. OK, fangs, if you insist.

“Isn’t this where you bid me velcome?” I asked with a tremor inmy voice that I couldn’t 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.“‘S’matter, bat got your tongue?” I asked, tremor gone now. This

guy quite obviously believed he was for real. If I didn’t want to end

up drained and curled on the floor, I had to let him know that I wasn’tafraid, that I was in charge.

I gestured with my gun.



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“I don’t want to hurt you, Bela. Why don’t we just go back thisway and I’ll 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 feetback 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 destroysmy kindred?”

“Yeah, that’s 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 they’ve lived a long time, some of them, makes them feel better about having a disease that’s killingthem inch by inch. Besides, this guy didn’t look like he’d appreciate

any argument from me, either.

“Well, now that we’re on a first name basis, let’s get out of thisplace and talk things over, why don’t we?” I suggested.

I took a step back and was in the middle of another one whenMalakar raised his hand, palm facing me, and uttered a word in alanguage I’d never heard.

My foot stopped in mid-air, like an invisible hand had reached upthrough 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, towardMalakar 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 Malakaras I jerked toward him like an unwilling puppet. “I must make youone of my children.”

“Of the night?” I asked, my throat hoarse as I tried to regaincontrol of my feet.

Then I shot him. Three times.

I don’t like to shoot sick people; most of the time I don’t evencarry a gun when I’m 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 toneamused and caressing. “I am not one of your sick, one of those dyingfrom a corrupt government’s mistake. I am a vampyr, born in the hills



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of Rome a dozen centuries ago. And I am here to make you one of myown.”

“Why?” I managed to gasp as my feet resumed their traitorous

journey towards him. I was so close I could see the wrinkles in hisancient, 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 hearthe 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, atmy 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,“you’ve seen far too many movies.”

The rustling behind me rose in intensity as my vision blurred anddimmed.

Bats.

I could see them all around us, whirling in the air, laughter in theirtiny bright eyes.

Bats. &



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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 andancient cultures.

HOTLINEby

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 nightshift was infuriating. Of course, the day could be even worse. At leastat 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

midnight—when he was exhausted. “Hello?” he said after a momentof silence. You had to get them out of their shell sometimes. It wasonly his fifth week on the job—transferred here from two years at the

social work center. He did all right there, actually did wonderfulwork. 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 toomuch strain—depressing to see their blank faces day after day. Or

read about their deaths in the news. Finally, John’s coach made asuggestion. You’ve got a good voice, he said. Soothing, relaxing. Thehotline service could really use you.

Actually, it had been a welcome change. He enjoyed the thrill of success—seeing immediate results. You talked the caller out of somehorrible decision, or got them to see the light—and you usually had

a good shot at it, as they wouldn’t be calling unless they really wantedto be helped.

“Hello?”“It’s here.”

John adjusted his headset. The phones always started to hurt hisears after just a few hours. Why they couldn’t make them more

comfortable, he’d never understand.“I’m sorry,” he said, stifling another yawn. “Who’s there?”It was a woman’s voice. John guessed she was young, not much

older than thirty-five. He checked the monitor. Calling from a privateresidence—that was good. At least it wasn’t a pay phone, or some



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hotel; those ones signaled serious trouble. This was probably justsomething domestic.

The name was Seward. Charles and Fern Seward. 222 Hurkel

Lane. No info on children. “Who am I talking to?” he asked. Standardprocedure. Try to get on a first name basis.

“It’s 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 oneof the other four do-gooders here tonight.

“What’s there?” he asked, with a rising fear that maybe she meantto call 911. Was it a burglary? Stalker?

A whisper issued through: “I’ve 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 it’s here.”“What is?” John scratched at his scalp. God, don’t tell me ‘Who’s

on first…’ This whole conversation, if nothing else, had the makingsof the strangest one he’d ever heard. At least there didn’t seem to beany immediate danger. Not likely a suicide. If this didn’t shape up

soon, he’d have to give Fern the old hangup…“I’ve let it loose,” she whispered, and he could imagine her

clutching the receiver with both hands; sitting in the corner, eyeingthe shadows for furtive movements. Maybe this was a 911 call—shemight have let out a pet python or ferret or something.

“Fern, again, please tell me. Are you in danger from something inthe house?”

“No.”

“You’re 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 hadn’t a clueas to Fern’s 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, andcursing that he didn’t take his break before this call. Maybe Jean orFrank would walk by with an extra cup of coffee…



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John decided to play along, just a little longer, and see where thiswas going. Probably just lashing out at me—the only one around to

listen. It was uncommon, but it did happen. “Why am I in danger?”

“Because you’re talking to me. Because you care.”“I do care, Fern. That’s why I want you to tell me everything.

What’s happened?”

“I’ve let it—”

“—Loose, yes. You told me. Can you tell me what it is?”“You’ll 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? Where’sCharles?”

“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.“It’s all happened already.”

“What has?”“This call. You. Charles… So many, so many others—gone.

Because of me.”

John rolled up his sleeves and scratched at his elbows. Hehunched over the desk. Someone on the other side cleared theirthroat, and took a sip of something. Farther away, a door closed.

Fern said, “I haven’t long. Can only talk while it rests. It’s notstrong 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 I’ve 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 we’re 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—”“It’s stirring. You don’t have much time. I just wanted, felt I hadto say… I’m sorry. Apologize to you. It tricked me, got me to let itkill. 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 asif I never was.”

“Spell?”

“Only, it called something up to ensure that my wish came true.”“Fern, I want you to relax. There’s nothing after you. Tell me

about Charles.” She had to be on some kind of medication. She had



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been abused, that much was certain. Now on anti-depressants,wishing she had never been born. This was familiar territory, Johnthought, relaxing. Just have to shut out that other nonsense.

“It’s torturing me while granting my wish. Taking me back through my life, and erasing everyone I’ve known along with me.Making me watch. It’s too powerful… I didn’t 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 wasn’t

painless to him, and for what’s coming, I apologize to you. But then,it took my sister. My boss. The paperboy and the mailman. Oh my

God. It just left—coming for you now, tracking this call. I’m sorry,John. You were so nice to me the last time. You almost freed me,gave me enough hope to leave him. But I couldn’t 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 sawwithout 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 phone—gone. 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 hisshoulder. And gentle pinpricks stabbed at his back, like a giant cat

flexing the tips of its claws. A chilled breath caught in his hair, andthe stench of death blew across his skull.

And the world faded as a demonic laughter drew him into a

nightmare of pain and unmaking. &




Barbara Malenky’s fiction has appeared in nation crime magazines

and several have been reprinted in yearbooks and anthologies. Shehas also published in LORE, SPACE AND TIME, PIRATEWRITINGS, TERMINAL FRIGHT, GATHERING DARKNESS,

NIGHT TERRORS, and the anthology YEAR I. She has storiesupcoming 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, DETECTIVEFILES, YEAR 2000 and others.

ALL BECAUSE OF JOEby

Barbara MalenkyCopyright 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 hismutt senses that to the west meat was bar-b-queing, to the east achicken-killing was taking place. Somewhere down South a skunk

lifted its tail to scent the air, and up north a ways wafted a distinctfemale 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 bitunderneath 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 didn’t realize he

was old. Although his paw pads no longer took orders from hisinstincts, 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 inheat.

A pheasant flew across the road in panic, so close to his head the

feathers brushed his face. Old Ben stopped to contemplate hischances on the chase. He stood trance like, his brown eyes watering.

He could taste it. After awhile, he continued his lumbering shuffledown the road.

Old Ben didn’t see or hear what hit him. It was sudden, forceful

and deadly. There was hardly a moment’s difference between life anddeath as he was thrown upwards, then sideways through thenothingness of air. He landed on the opposite side of the road in the

deep part of the ditch.



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It would be days before his owner would come upon the broken,pitiful body of man’s 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! Can’t see nuthin’!” He

righted himself. “Too much friggin’ dust. That’d be a good one, too.Did ya see how high that sonsabitch flew? Wow!” He clapped hisknees. Spittle decorated the dashboard. He hastily wiped it off with

the palm of his hand, cocking his head shyly toward the driver. Hehoped Joe hadn’t noticed. Joe didn’t like Terrell to spit. Especially onhis pride and joy ‘58 Chevy. But Joe wasn’t paying attention anyway.

His cold blues were fixed straight ahead. Terrell felt a chill…not onthe road…Joe’s eyes weren’t taking in the countryside. For sure theyweren’t. Terrell quit laughing. He sat back to wait. It wasn’t long.

“You notch it?” Joe asked quietly. “I didn’t see if you did. Didyou, 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 questionhe didn’t 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 hiswrists, 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 hadn’t quite got used to the vicious murderingand probable maiming Joe left in his path as they crossed thecountryside. His preference would have been to ignore them

altogether. Live and let live was his motto. Those thoughts he kept tohimself. Yet he was thankful there were so many strays around. LikeJoe said, they’d 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 lotof Homer’s Grill. Wouldn’t be long they would need another chuck of pine. Terrell was running out of room on this one.

Homer’s was all lit up in a glory of green, red and white

florescent brilliance. A permanent Christmas tree. A few cars werescattered around the lot. Terrell wondered if the girls were alreadyinside waiting. He felt excitement surge through him at the thought.

A woman waiting for him…it didn’t seem possible. He glanced atJoe. It was all because he knew Joe. Gratitude flowed through him.



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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 hisbreath. It was as bad a thing as could be when a night’s activitiesresulted in a dent marring a gleaming bumper. Joe just lost it…that

was the way Terrell could describe what happened if anyone cared to

ask…just plain lost it. But luck was with him this evening and Terrelllet his breath out with a “whoosh” when Joe motioned for him to getout.

He jerked up on the handle, his mouth full of words of praise, but

Joe was striding away from the Chevy already. Terrell’s short legshad 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 partiallyopen kitchen. Pink plastic covered barstools sat squeezed tightly side

by side, utilizing every spare inch of customer space. A half dozenpeople were eating at the counter, their backs sad and bent over alonely dinner of burgers or BLT’s and steaming cups of coffee. A

weary-faced waitress moved back and forth along the counter with alarge silver coffee pot twinkling in the dim overhead lights. Someonehad 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 girlnamed Donna. The other side of the establishment was filled with

small pink-topped tables. To the back of the room sat threesemiprivate booths and it was to the last one that Terrell followedJoe.

Terrell didn’t see any women sitting around that looked like theywere waiting for dates. Besides the waitress, there were only twoother 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 aboutmaybe they were early or maybe the dames were late or maybe…just

the slightest chance…the girls had misunderstood Joe on when andwhere to meet, but the look on Joe’s face made Terrell open and thenclose his mouth in the same breath. He averted his eyes to thedarkened 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 oldtransient image. And he couldn’t help but let a small smile play

around his mouth. He wasn’t all that bad to look at. Not at all, eventhough when he was standing next to Joe, who was tall and thin withgolden brown hair and olive complexion, Terrell felt like a mutt next



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to a pedigree. There wasn’t any reason to think girls didn’t like him,yet Terrell was a barrel load of insecurities and it was only when hecaught an unexpected look at himself like now, that he gave himself

a little credit.The waitress arrived to take their orders.“We’re expecting some ladies,” Terrell said proudly.

“Bring me a cold Bud and a bowl of pretzels,” Joe said and

Terrell quickly ordered the same.“We’ll have a brew and that’s all,” Joe informed Terrell quietly.

“I ain’t 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 didn’t show. He decided to stay quiet asit was possible to be. To become invisible. To be as his Motheralways 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, movingfinally to the table top. His tongue played along his lower lip. His

eyes danced around the room, taking in framed pictures of old-timemovie stars. A lone couple slow-danced by. The woman allowed herpartner to feel every part of her body and Terrell felt his stomach

move. A flutter, a jolt of pleasure maybe. He didn’t know exactlywhat 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 wasn’t the sound of Joe’s command that made Terrell obey. It

was the look of calm in his eyes. Joe’s eyes were blue and clear as aperfect summer sky. The whites were as clean as a first snowfall. Itwas the terminal coldness Terrell saw in his eyes. The kind that never

warms a degree. A kind of icicled permanence that could slicethrough a ray of hope in someone’s warm soul as accurately as asurgeon’s saw. And it never changed. No amount of joking on

Terrell’s part could bring a smile to those eyes. No bit of goodfortune. Like the time he had found a loaded wallet alongside theroad. It didn’t matter. The icy soulless look remained.

Sometimes, when he allowed it to, the idea came to Terrell, Joewas something less than human. But he wouldn’t let it tickle his brain

for long. No. Thoughts like that were bad, very bad. If he allowedthem to grow and multiply he would have to confront their meaningand then…well…what then?

Terrell would not ever win an intelligence contest, but he had

enough common sense to know one thing; Joe would be the one todecide if and when their partnership (Terrell could never quite makehimself call it friendship) would end. The possible repercussions of

pulling away before Joe was ready made Terrell break out in goosebumps. He knew without having the benefit of time experience thatthe man sitting across the pink cafe booth from him was bone



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crushing cruel. A bottomless barrel of barbaric savagery. So farTerrell had only witnessed it used on dogs, which Joe seemed to havea solid dislike for. He felt fortunate.

When a bell sounded, Terrell jumped. He turned his eyes towardthe cafe’s 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 andTerrell in anticipation. Terrell recognized the type. She was perfectfor Joe.

Terrell liked the looks of the other girl immediately. Shorter and

more modest looking than the blonde, she had a thick head of brownhair that cascaded around her shoulders and framed a petite butheavily made up face. Terrell thought she looked every bit like a

scared little squirrel. He smiled at her. She ignored him. It fueled thefire in Terrell who was unconsciously drawn to women who wouldmisuse him every time.

The blonde moved across the floor and stopped in front of their

booth.“Sorry we’re late, fellas.” She slid in beside Joe. He was eyeing

her critically. He didn’t say anything but Terrell knew he wasdeciding whether he wanted this one or not. Terrell heldhis breath.

The blonde patted Joe’s hand.“What’s 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 tabletoward Joe’s lower parts. “I guess he needs some reminder. Hi, I’m

Dottie. You must be Terrell. Joe done told me all about you but hedidn’t tell me how handsome you were.” She turned her attentiontoward Joe. “Why didn’t you tell me how good looking your friend

was, honey? If I’d known I could have rustled up somebody betterthan her for him.” Dottie cocked her head sideways indicating thebrunette, who still stood by the door nervously looking around the

diner. “Not a one of my girlfriends wanted no blind date. If I’dknown, I might’ve been able to convince one of them. Her name’sJean Anne. She all right with you, Terrell?”

“She’ll do. Won’t 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 cottonblouse and conservative black skirt that hit below her knees. Dottieturned toward Joe. She placed both hands under the table and leanedin to plop her lips against Joe’s. Jean Anne stood uncomfortably by

the booth as if afraid to sit. Terrell patted the space beside him andshe slid in. Terrell breathed in deeply. She smelled good, not toosweet like most women he had been around.

“I’m Terrell,” he said and realized he wasn’t a bit shy talking tothis girl. Usually he became tongue tied and awkward.

“I’m Jean Anne. It’s real nice to meet you,” she said sweetly and



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gave him a quick glance before lowering her eyes back to her handswhich lay folded primly in her lap. Terrell felt a suddenpossessiveness. He wanted to put his arms around her and pull her

tightly to him.“You’re real pretty. You know that, Jean Anne?” he whispered at

her. “Real pretty, like a…a little girl.”

“Are we gonna order? I’m starving.” Dottie straightened and

reached for a menu. “I know if I don’t get fed now…” she glancedmeaningfully at Joe who was busy with his own hands under thetable.

“Order anything you want,” Joe offered gruffly. He raised one

hand from under the table and motioned at the waitress.While they ate, Terrell couldn’t 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 couldn’tget her to say more than a few words. Dottie was busy filling in therest 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 knewwhat that meant and was filled with excitement. The couples left in

Joe’s car with Dottie pressed against Joe in front and Jean Anne andTerrell in the back. Joe drove recklessly into the darkness.

“We’re going to the lake,” Terrell offered to Jean Anne. “Just in

case you’re worried, us being strangers and all.” She was sittingquietly 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 wantsto, you know.”

Terrell looked over the seat at Joe. Dottie’s head had disappearedfrom view.

“You don’t have a say in where you go?” Jean Anne asked

quietly. “He always tell you what’s 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 couldn’t quite describe.They rode in silence the rest of the way. The sound of Dottie’s

advances made Terrell squirm. Normally he would have scooted up

so he could watch the action, but there was something naive aboutJean Anne that made him embarrassed for Dottie and Joe. Still and

all, he wished Jean Anne was more aggressive. As it was, he wasn’tsure how to proceed with the first move. He stole glances at her. Hestudied her profile in the car window. She looked stronger than in thebright 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 andTerrell alone.

“Would you like to get out?” Terrell offered. “We can move up



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front if you’d like and listen to the radio.”“You know Joe doesn’t allow you to play the radio unless he’s in

the car with you. Isn’t that right, Terrell?” She had turned to look at

him for the first time. Her eyes were glittering. Terrell’s mouthdropped open.

“How did you know that?” he asked.

“I know, that’s all.” She began to slide across the seat toward him.

It only took a second but that slide was time enough for Terrell toswell with desire and courage. He reached for her and they cametogether, their lips pressing roughly against each other’s. Terrellclasped 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 herhands to run over his chest, pausing to finger the nipples. He couldn’tbelieve what was happening. Then he blanked all thoughts from his

mind and slid his fingers between her legs. Her hands found hiszipper and she pushed at him to lay back in the seat. She climbed ontop 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 couldn’t

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 JeanAnne’s gyrating hips. Her back arched and she pushed him inside her

harder.“Will you help to end it? Will you…yes, say it.” She rocked back

and forward at a fever pitch until Terrell felt the roar before the

explosion.“Sat it…say it !” she commanded.“Yes. God YES …anything, 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 insect-

songs in the tall weeds growing around the car. In his half sleep he

heard Jean Anne’s breathing coming out in small sighs, only to bepulled back inside her with tiny inhaling sounds. He was soaring like

a bird in contentment foreign to him. He was back in his mother’sstomach, waiting for birth. Warm, dark and moist, floating in anabyss of safety.

“Terrell, Terrell, it’s time,” his mother whispered.

“I’m not ready,” he moaned sleepily. “Not ready yet.” He driftedback towards the darkness, comforting and warm.

“There’s not much time now,” his mother insisted.

Terrell opened an eye. It wasn’t his mother’s face hovering overhim. It was Jean Anne’s pale one and it was different. The featureswere sharper, more defined. In the dim light, he could see the sparkle



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of her eyes. It seemed to him the light was fathomless, deep andcrystal clear. Like looking into a cat’s eyes after dark. The more hestared 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. ButJean Anne’s presence outside the car seemed to forbid it and Terrellclimbed out and zipped up his pants.

“Come on,” she said. She turned and disappeared into thedarkness. Although his mind protested, Terrell followed. His feetfound 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 awkwardlyforward, landing on his right side. He rolled over and over untilcoming 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 hisarms and legs and deciding he wasn’t hurt, stood to his feet.

“Over here,” Jean Anne called to him. “Hurry. We haven’t muchtime.”

Terrell walked toward the sound.

“Wait a minute,” he called but there was only silence. Hestumbled along for a few minutes. Suddenly Jean Anne was besidehim.

“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. Itwas 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 himwith her. As they drew closer to the sounds, he recognized Joe’svoice, yet it wasn’t exactly in the right pitch.

With a sudden move, Jean Anne dropped to the ground. Shepulled Terrell to his knees beside her.

“Run with me,” she whispered.

She moved fast over the ground with Terrell scrambling after ina 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 moonlightoutlined not a woman, but the figure of a sleek and dark animal. It ranlightly and with direction and Terrell was running alongside it. He

wanted to call out, to stop where he was, yet couldn’t seem toaccomplice 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. Hewanted to leap through the air. He wanted to throw back his head andhowl at the sky.



&5,0621

And then he saw Joe and Dottie. They had built a fire and laysealed together as one. Naked, his slim muscular body gleaming inthe firelight, Joe was thrusting between Dottie’s spread legs. He was

moaning loudly but not loud enough to drown out Dottie’s cries of fright as Joe squeezed her neck muscles with his strong fingers as hecame 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 Dottie’s features. The blonde hairgrew long to cover her face, leaving only openings for two dark eyesand a fat, black nose. Her mouth yawned open to release her cries and

reveal sharp yellowed teeth. Her hairy body thrashed beneath Joe andclawed 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 it…him,” she commanded.Terrell threw himself at Joe’s 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 Terrell’s mouth withvicious intensity. He rose above Terrell and began to pummel his

head and chest with killing blows. His face twisted as he screameddown into his face.

“I’m gonna kill you…kill you…stupid sonofabitch…rip your

heart out.”Terrell had time to see the rage in Joe’s 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 downat the same time against Terrell’s head. Terrell groaned, struggling

against blackness waiting to envelope him. When Joe raised botharms through the air, preparing another strike, Terrell willed himself strong. He struggled weakly against Joe’s 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 Joe’s shoulder and ripped at the musclebeneath the skin. As if a signal was passed, a horde of animalscautiously 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 untilthey had surrounded the man tightly. With one decisive movement theanimals 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 rippledbeneath 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 Joemess. She turned toward Terrell and her eyes were round and goldenwith jaundice, her body covered by a shiny coat of brown, her mouth

dripped with Joe’s life blood.Terrell felt a moment’s 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 thetip of a fluffy tail. As she bounced past him into the night, Terrellthrew back his head and howled at the stars. Then with a great leap,he followed her. &

BURNING SKYAdventures 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 DAN’SSTORY 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 ableto publish in THE LEADING EDGE, THE GOLDEN AGE OF

FLYING SAUCERS, SCAVENGER’S 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 geton to writing something new.”

A Taste of Warby

Ralph GamelliCopyright 1998 by RALPH GAMELLI

Henshaw bolted across the stretch of meadow, tall weeds brushinghis legs as they pumped fiercely, eyes locked on his target. The lonesoldier, 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 soldier’s shoulder jerk back as thebullet 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 soldier’s 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 andfury, swung the barrel in the direction of his enemy.

He only got it halfway to its destination before it was kicked outof 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 againstHenshaw’s temple and squeezed the trigger.

Death was a black and lonely and angry place. Suspended in the



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darkness, he once again saw the back of his enemy as he racedforward, once again sensed the distant drumming of his feet and thebackground hiss of the wind. But he detected something new, as well.

Rustling. The soft yet unmistakable sound of weeds scraping pantlegs—the sound that had signaled his approach. How could he havebeen 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 Henshawrecognized instantly as the Union blue of a Civil War uniform.

“You all right, boy?” the man repeated, and Danny replied withan instinctive, “Fine.”

The stranger was holding a rifle loosely in his arms. Unlike

Danny’s plastic counterpart, it was very real and very old, it appeared.His eyes lingered on it for several moments before more closelytaking in the man’s 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 himappear older at first glance, Danny guessed he was probably no older

than college age. Thinking that maybe he would grow a beard likethat 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 didn’t know how to respond to such a statement, so he

didn’t. “You’re one of those guys who puts on war shows, aren’tyou?” he asked. “Re-enactments, they’re called, right? You pretendto fight famous battles?”

He scanned the meadow for Roger Denning, who had so recentlykilled him, but he was nowhere in sight—was off somewhere in thesurrounding woods engaged in combat with some of the other dozen

or so neighborhood kids fighting today—and when he looked back the stranger’s 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 aroundit, running a finger across the old smooth wood of the stock.Carefully, he lifted it into a firing position. It was heavier than he’d

expected, but it fit perfectly in his hand, as if it had always beenmeant 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 thesmile instantly drop away.

The stranger was gone, but his voice still hung in the air



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somehow. “I’m no play soldier, boy. No re-enactor.”Danny’s 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 hadturned traitor, refusing to close, to turn the lights out on thisnightmare into which he had fallen.

Using those eyes that were somehow no longer his own, heconcentrated 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 grassbelow him now. And neither were his surroundings the same

anymore: the houses and backyards bordering the field were no longerthere; the tree line in the distance was different, much farther off; anda thin gray line, which he couldn’t identify, stretched off in that

distance.

“Looks like the boy can’t wait to get out there.”Under a power that was not his own, Danny turned around to face

a wall of blue. Hundreds of soldiers—dressed like the one who hadhanded him the rifle—were strung out in a long line some ten yardsbefore him, inspecting rifles, fixing bayonets to muzzles. Danny’s

uncontrollable gaze stopped on one of the bricks forming the bluewall.

“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. Hestarted walking toward the line of Union soldiers, ordering his feet tostop, in vain.

You see, boy? I was once just like you. It was the voice of thevanishing soldier, not hanging disembodied in the air as he hadthought before, but inside his head.

Forcing himself to concentrate once more, Danny saw he waswearing 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 muchlighter; that the brown shadow below his nose was part of a beard.

You wanted the gun, boy. Now you’ll 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 abayonet 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 realizedwith dread that the long gray line in the distance was a string of Confederate troops.

“Don’t be so eager to die, boy,” the soldier on his right scowled.He was the same man who had addressed him moments ago, amiddle-aged man with a graying beard.

“Go easy on him, Barnes,” the man at his other side said.“Avery’s new here.”

“Avery, huh?” said Barnes. “How old are you, boy?”



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It was the second time he’d been asked that in five minutes, butthis 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 don’t be so damn eager to, and maybe you’ll live to see

nineteen.”

Avery’s gaze returned to the field and Danny noted with horrorthat 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.

Isn’t 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 won’t remember a thing when it’s 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, fromwhich side Danny couldn’t tell. There was another shot, a far-off

groan, murmurs of encouragement running through the Union ranksas the wall of gray began to grow faces. The rifle below one of those

faces belched smoke, and the man who’d minutes ago defendedDanny-and Avery-dropped to his knees, pawing wildly at his ruinedneck.

I want to go back!

There was a shout, and suddenly the two armies abandoned theirmeasured 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 target’s chest, and the man tumbled lifelessly

to the ground, the troops in back of him skirting the body or leapingover 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 Avery’s control, thrust out with his rifle, plunging

his bayonet into an enemy soldier’s gut. Immediately he withdrew it,

slashed out to his right, and tore open another man’s chest. There wasa 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



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turned, glanced down at the Southerner struggling dazedly to find hisfeet 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 onepoint, a slashing bayonet caught him in the arm and blood streamedwarmly, 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 newbody, his awareness of it, was increasing. He began to sense when hishost would thrust out with his bayonet, when he would dodge

someone else’s, when he would sidestep or duck or back peddle inretreat 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 terrorthat had once engulfed him receded into the distance.

Swinging violently, he cracked his rifle against a Confederate’s

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 man’s torso for leverage and started to pull, a faint sounddistinguished itself from the din of combat.

Footsteps. Quick ones. Coming from behind.

He tried to whirl around, but Avery would not let him, and histerror returned in a rush as he frantically fought to turn and face theenemy soldier he knew must be bearing down on him. Avery,

however, was still in the middle of retracting his bayonet from theConfederate 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 Avery’s body. He was a prisoner

again, and he wanted out. Now!He knew from experience he could not alter Avery’s actions, but

in his earlier efforts to do so, he had focused primarily on gaining

control of his host’s legs, trying to alter their course. Now, he focusedon Avery’s 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 man’s rib cage, was as oblivious to the approachingfootsteps as Danny had been, in another battle, to the alerting soundof 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, tearthrough 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 he’d always been,

always wanted to be.



&5,0621

Avery’s forefinger slowly uncurled from the rifle.What are you doing, boy?

His host’s voice had lost its authoritative edge.

The middle finger uncurled, Avery’s grip weakening. How? Avery demanded.

I don’t want to ride anymore, Danny replied.

Nothing like this has ever happened before.

I want to drive!Avery’s thumb fell away from the rifle, followed instantly by his

entire right hand. The sudden release of the hand made Danny staggerto his left just as the approaching footsteps reached him. A glinting

blade, a rifle and a gray body whisked past him. The Southernertumbled headlong over his dead comrade.

With a quick thought, Danny’s other hand came off the rifle and

he knew he had control now. Teeth grinding, cheeks flushing withrage, he hurtled the body still holding his rifle and bayonet and leapedon 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 hisenemy’s neck.

This is wrong! Avery croaked from behind Danny’s thoughts. It didn’t happen this way! I should have died!

Danny continued to squeeze the life out of the soldier who had

nearly killed him. The man’s eyes bulged enormously from theirsockets.

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. It’s happening because I’m 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 neighborhoodmeadow where he’d played his war games. His arms were bent as if

he were holding a rifle, his head cocked as if sighting down the riflebarrel—but there was nothing in his hands. He lowered the gun thatwas not there and turned and smiled at a person who also was notthere. 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. Hewas too good of a soldier for that.

Claiming his victim’s weapon, he continued the fight.



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That night, sitting in camp at the edge of the battlefield, warminghimself by a fire with several others, Danny was approached by theman he recognized as Barnes. He had a bloody bandage wrapped

around his leg, similar to the one around Danny’s arm.

“I saw you out there today, Avery. You handled yourself damnwell. For a kid.”

Danny rubbed at the beard he was wearing much sooner than hewould 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 man’s derisive tone. He stared into the fire, his

mind returning to a distant suburban meadow. “Practice,” he said, andthen grinned up at his fellow soldier. “By never holding a kite whenI could hold a gun instead.” &

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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 theundercarriage of the Jimmy. For the last ten minutes Megan Pelzlhad 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 stoodgrey against the sky and hung over the road like a vulture above itsprey. 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 shewatched it grow in the distance, the house seemed to call to her abovethe haunting chir of the cicada, "Come and renew. Come and renew."

"She's a bit creepy, but she's pretty much like you described inyour letter," the owner, Chyle Penny, said. Needs a little work. Acountry side fixer upper for you and Mr. Pelzl." He nodded to John.

Megan shook her head slowly. "It's perfect, Mr. Penny. It'sexactly what I'm looking for." She wanted to say that it was exactlyas 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, shewas sure of that, but he would do it behind closed doors. That washis way.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Chyle Penny glance at Johnand 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 thishouse."

"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 thishouse.

"Roads out this way can get pretty bad in the winter," ChylePenny said, apparently missing John's point entirely.

Taking a breath she screwed up her courage. John would not takethis from her. "I want to see this house," she said.

Chyle Penny stared at her for a moment, appearing to expect achange of heart. When it didn't come, he shifted the Jimmy into firstand steered it onto the rocky drive that circled the hill in its climb to

the house.



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From the road the house looked to be painted grey and trimmedin black. But as they neared it Megan could see that the exteriorboards 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 worseon the outside than she is. Structure's sound. Belonged to theRuthven 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 Ruthvenand his family was the only ones I ever heard of. Since his

granddaughter, Carmilla Ruthven, disappeared in '70 there haven'tbeen any."

"What do you know about the family?" Megan asked.

Chyle Penny removed his ball cap and combed his hair back withhis fingers. "Only gossip and what turned up in the title search," hesaid. "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 atauction."

"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," hesaid. "Ain't reliable. Keep moving out without notice. Keep findingthe 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 whennothing happened, he brought a large flashlight from the car and wentfrom room to room lighting gas lamps. "Guess the power lines went

down in the big storm t'other day. Carmilla wasn't much for modernimprovements. I had the house wired for 'lectricity, but I kept the gaslamps all the same. This is Amish country and Amish like houses

with gas lamps. Put in a generator for emergencies. It ain't beenstarted 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 wantthe house as a get away. Something to make me forget about themodern world and it's electronic gadgets."

John gave her a sideways glance and frowned. He had alwaysbeen uneasy with her penchant for the old ways. He had even triedto 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 livesgenerations apart," he said, "can only lead to madness." She wantedto 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 wassomehow 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'dhave road access and twenty acres of fields if you get the hankeringto 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 ishuge. And the floor, roof and stairs are solid. Not a creak or moanin the whole house. She sets on a granite foundation.

"Hell, whole hill's granite. Guess that's why the kudzu ain'tclimbing 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 wasthe 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 rippledin the afternoon breeze like waves of deep green water. The vinecovered 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, "Mydaughter . . . 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 freeof 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."



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"Not interested?" John said. "How is that? Seems this would beexactly 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 youand 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 Carmillawas 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 theKudzu 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 thewest 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 thehospital she had become suspicious of her senses. The psychiatrist

had said that the hallucinations and the belief that everyone, evenJohn, was trying to take what was hers stemmed from her fatherforcing her to give up her daughter for adoption. But this was

different.

"She was there by the cemetery only a moment ago. Dressed ingreen 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 totheir own property. Could be one of their women was out looking formushrooms. It's that season. But it'd be strange for an unescorted



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Amish woman to come near the Ruthven home, 'specially withevening 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'lltake the house, Mr. Penny."

YZYZThey 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. Shedidn'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 overthe dark green sea of kudzu leaves which seemed intent onconsuming all her land.

Then, one Friday evening, she saw the woman in green as sheentered the field below the house, and the certainty filled her that thiswoman wanted her land.

It was always on Fridays evenings as the sun ducked behind thetrees that the woman appeared knee deep in the weeds at edge of theroad. 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 childalways disappeared before John could make his way to the windowto 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 byway of some ancient illicit affair? Was she Carmilla's granddaughter?

No matter which, Megan was sure this woman would try to take herhome. And as the weeks and months passed she became more andmore 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 thatwhich 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 shetook a Coleman lantern and a large kitchen knife and drove her car tothe end of the drive to wait for the woman.



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She watched as the sun set, then lit the lantern and placed it on theroof of the car. This done, she snuggled into the driver's seat andconcentrated 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 awayseveral 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 herlike the last comment of some ancient corpse. The image of her foot

sinking into the maggot-infested, gelatin flesh of a carcass hiddenbeneath the leaves flashed in her mind's eye. Recoiling, she backedaway 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 greenof 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 secondsshe was knee deep in the kudzu, moving toward the girl. Vinestangled her legs. She felt the leaves climbing her thighs, grasping,

sliding over her flesh like tiny mittened hands. They dragged herdown. Kicking, rolling, cutting the vines with her knife, Megan gother 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 sawthe skin of her face. Like her clothing, it was the same green as thekudzu. Her dress, bonnet, all of her began to peal, fluttering in the

wind like thousands of small butterfly wings. Then before Megan'seyes 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 dreamself, renewing the soil with her body. There was no doubt in her



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mind about that. And once she had accepted the thought she couldsee 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 asMegan watched the vines unraveled, revealing a skeleton of sunbleached 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 womansmiled. "Blood of my blood, come and renew me. Come andbecome," 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 tastedthe blood. Roots slipped into the into her veins. They drank herblood. They renewed the Kudzu. They fed the soil. And as they did,

Megan realized she was becoming. She was becoming part of theland. 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 ForestService initiated a massive search for her. The ground search was

canceled in hours, when three rescue workers went missing. The airsearch 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 tothe soil. Tens of thousands of their tentacled arms spread out over the

countryside, claiming it, caressing it, waiting for family and waitingfor intruders. And when family comes, they become and renew theblood. And when intruders come, the land feeds.

Author's Note: Megan now knows what only Carmilla and the Devilonce knew. Flesh is for a lifetime. Kudzu is forever. &

crimson online magazine, issue 2

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