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Love, Loyalty, and a Little Dog Shit
Written by: Andy RauschAs he flipped the light switch, he heard Dierdre’s voice behind him, “Why don’t you have your robe on, baby?”
Of course that was what she noticed—that he wasn’t wearing the blue robe she’d given him as a gift. The woman was obsessed with that robe, constantly asking him to validate the gift by telling her how much he loved it.
He turned halfway around to look back at his blonde girlfriend. Dierdre looked at the smudged shit on the carpet and then back up at Orlando, giggling.
“Ha-ha-fuckin’-ha,” he said. “Could you please get me a rag?”
She moved past him, making her way to the bathroom where he’d originally been going before stepping on the dog shit. Orlando heard the faucet run for a moment and then Dierdre was back with two maroon face towels in hand. She handed one to Orlando to wipe off his foot while she went to work cleaning the brown stain from the gray carpet.
Once his foot was clean, Orlando went to the restroom and took a leak. He flushed the toilet and washed his hands. As he turned back toward the hallway, Dierdre stood and turned toward him. Now face to face, they both smiled.
“I’m sorry, babe,” she said. “I promise Dax won’t do it again.”
Orlando looked at her beautiful face, taking it in, “You can’t promise that.”
“I can,” she said. “I’m promising.”
He grinned. “Then we’re in agreement that if he does it again, he goes to live someplace else.”
“Like where?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe doggie heaven.”
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We have no bells to ring
Written by: Brian WarfThey were then so close beside me that I could see freckles on their faces. I too could feel the combined essence of their coldness.
“We have no bells to ring,” the ghost children uttered a third time.
I shut my eyes and clenching my jaw, I placed my hands tightly over each ear. I heard them still as they continued to shuffle toward me.
“We have no bells to ring,” they said for the final time.
I opened my eyes and they were gone. It was to me an enigma more than just two bizarre occurrences that I was visited by the spirits of Mister Blankenship and six children. It was then that I seriously contemplated sending for a coach the next morning to take me back to Richmond, in lieu of the full payment to stay until spring. I was faced with a true conundrum. If I left, I would have faced a probable marred reputation and ridicule if I dared to reveal the true reason for my wish to leave. Even had I left and kept the spiritual visitations to myself I would have possibly ruined my career.
I thought of it all night, for I could not sleep. I dared not. By the next morning, I was weary from the lack of proper rest and had changed my mind about leaving. In the days to come, I found that I could no longer blame on drink the seeing of Blankenship’s ghost. I had not touched the bottle of whiskey since that cold winter’s night when I too saw the ghost children. Hesitantly, I resumed my duties. I thought to myself that I was on the verge of madness or that I had already been engulfed by it and was far too mad to realize it.
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Brad said, “Dude, she’s not the ‘real deal.’ Nobody is the ‘real deal.’ It’s all about tricks and illusion. None of it even comes close to being real. And no matter what you might want to believe, your ‘Mistress of Black Magic’ is as phony balonie as any other sidewalk magician out there. But, I am curious to see if she’s as hot as you’ve claimed.”
“She is, Brad; maybe hotter. She’s got a set of humongous mockatushkies that won’t quit. Look, up on the front of the theater; there’s a poster with a bunch of her pictures.”
Brad approached the poster, expecting to see some cheap, less-than-attractive Elvira wannabe dressed like a vampiress with dyed black hair, dark eye makeup, and matching long black fingernails. But he was pleasantly surprised by what he saw. The poster displayed seven photos of a lovely blonde magician with blood red lipstick, who appeared to be close to six feet tall, performing various magic tricks. In each picture, she was dressed in the same stage costume. She wore shiny red thigh-high boots with four-inch elevated heels. Black fishnet stockings were held up by gold garters attached to a black and gold bustier with gold frills used to accent her abundant cleavage. She wore a red half-top with short sleeves, allowing plenty of the aforementioned cleavage to be seen. Gold and black armbands covered her elbows.
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A Dame, A Drink, and a Death Wish
Written by: E.S. WynnJust another night in The City. Two million people, and it seems like half of them must be awake, despite the hour. It’s the kind of night where the cold settles into your bones like a disease, eating at you, and you can’t get rid of it no matter how much whiskey you drink or how many suspects you chase down dark alleyways, hoping that this time isn’t the last time, hoping this night isn’t the night you catch a knife in the dark.
I’m seated at the counter at Mickey’s, nursing a glass of rye and going over the details of my latest case. A string of murders, each one more grisly than the last. All the victims are girls working the streets in the poorest quarter of The City. A regular Jack The Ripper this guy is, I figure. A copycat of the worst kind.
But all of that goes out the window when this dame walks in and sits on the stool next to mine.
The smoke in Mickey’s is so thick you could cut it with a knife. This dame, she moves through it all like a divine wind, and when she turns her eyes on me, it’s everything I can do not to drop my shriveled cigarette right there on top of my notes.
“Detective William Gray?” She asks, and I can hardly think straight enough to remember my name or agree with her that must be the one I’m supposed to have. This dame, she’s a tall drink of crimson sin, all legs, red dress, ruby lips and a figure that could put a man on his knees quicker than any bullet could. “I need your help, Will.”
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It Was Always 3:08
Written by: Beth LeeOnce I was done crying, I apologized.
“Why are you apologizing?” He asked.
I didn’t know, actually. “I don’t know. For wasting your time. I’m so tired. Recently, I haven’t been sleeping.”
“You haven’t wasted my time. You told me what you saw on the recording. What was the date your camera recorded this . . . incident?” he said.
“The actual murder? Two nights ago. At 3:08 AM. They were all at 3:08.”
“All? What do you mean all?”
He still hadn’t written anything down, so I half expected him to stand up and walk me back out to the front.
“There were several recordings of the man, both men really, before the murder.”
“Why don’t you go ahead and send all of the recordings to me when you get home. We haven’t had an unsolved murder in our district since early February,” he said and stood up, indicating our meeting was over.
“Sure, Yeah. But that’s the weird part.” I hesitated and he didn’t speak. “It doesn’t look like it was filmed in front of my house.” I didn’t mention that the blood squirting from Bald Man looked fake. He could make his own judgement when he reviewed it.
He looked behind me and nodded, likely responding to a detective behind him rolling his eyes at what I’d just said. Nonetheless, he ushered me out, handing me his card with information to send the recordings on the back.
Once home, I sent the recordings, but wasn’t surprised when I didn’t hear back. Then, I ate cereal for dinner and laid in bed without brushing my teeth or removing my makeup. For the first time in months, I slept through the night.
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“So what does this friend of yours need?” I asked.
Jim glanced quickly around to make sure we weren’t being observed.
“He’s got a daughter who’s living in New York who’s fallen in with a pretty bizarre crowd.”
“City or State” I asked.
Jim looked puzzled.
“Eh?” he said, then his face brightened. “Oh! City.”
“What kind of bizarre crowd?”
He looked around again, then answered.
“Vampires.”
AdvertisementI blinked at him.
“Pardon me,” I said. “I thought you said ‘vampires’.”
He nodded.
“I did.”
“So do I need to stock up on wooden stakes and crosses and garlic?” I asked, a wry grin scowling across my face. Jim chuckled and waved a hand idly in the air.
“No, no,” he said. “This is a group of people, most of them in their twenties or early thirties, who practice vampirism. They dress in black and hang out at night in a townhouse—I’ll give you all the information on the address and floorplans and so on—and they either have their teeth capped to make them like fangs, and they get girls to let them bite their necks and drink their blood.”
“So where do I come in?” I asked.
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She dropped at my voice, and I had time to curse myself while I made a light and tried to raise her from the floor. She shrank away with a murmur of pain. She was very quiet, and asked for Boris. I carried her to the divan, and went to look for him, but he was not in the house, and the servants were gone to bed. Perplexed and anxious, I hurried back to Geneviève. She lay where I had left her, looking very white.
“I can’t find Boris nor any of the servants,” I said.
“I know,” she answered faintly, “Boris has gone to Ept with Mr. Scott. I did not remember when I sent you for him just now.”
“But he can’t get back in that case before to-morrow afternoon, and—are you hurt? Did I frighten you into falling? What an awful fool I am, but I was only half awake.”
“Boris thought you had gone home before dinner. Do please excuse us for letting you stay here all this time.”
“I have had a long nap,” I laughed, “so sound that I did not know whether I was still asleep or not when I found myself staring at a figure that was moving toward me, and called out your name. Have you been trying the old spinet? You must have played very softly.”
I would tell a thousand more lies worse than that one to see the look of relief that came into her face. She smiled adorably and said in her natural voice: “Alec, I tripped on that wolf’s head, and I think my ankle is sprained. Please call Marie and then go home.”
I did as she bade me and left her there when the maid came in.
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Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter: the latter, a most beautiful virgin, aged eighteen, was called Matilda. Conrad, the son, was three years younger, a homely youth, sickly, and of no promising disposition; yet he was the darling of his father, who never showed any symptoms of affection to Matilda.
Manfred had contracted a marriage for his son with the Marquis of Vicenza’s daughter, Isabella; and she had already been delivered by her guardians into the hands of Manfred, that he might celebrate the wedding as soon as Conrad’s infirm state of health would permit.
Manfred’s impatience for this ceremonial was remarked by his family and neighbours. The former, indeed, apprehending the severity of their Prince’s disposition, did not dare to utter their surmises on this precipitation.
Hippolita, his wife, an amiable lady, did sometimes venture to represent the danger of marrying their only son so early, considering his great youth, and greater infirmities; but she never received any other answer than reflections on her own sterility, who had given him but one heir. His tenants and subjects were less cautious in their discourses.
They attributed this hasty wedding to the Prince’s dread of seeing accomplished an ancient prophecy, which was said to have pronounced that the castle and lordship of Otranto “should pass from the present family, whenever the real owner should be grown too large to inhabit it.”
It was difficult to make any sense of this prophecy; and still less easy to conceive what it had to do with the marriage in question. Yet these mysteries, or contradictions, did not make the populace adhere the less to their opinion.
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Echoes of Frost and Fire
Written by: Robert E. Howard“Asgard and Vanaheim,” Prospero scanned the map. “By Mitra, I had almost believed those countries to have been fabulous.”
Conan grinned savagely, involuntarily touching the scars on his dark face. “You had known otherwise, had you spent your youth on the northern frontiers of Cimmeria! Asgard lies to the north, and Vanaheim to the northwest of Cimmeria, and there is continual war along the borders.”
“What manner of men are these northern folk?” asked Prospero.
“Tall and fair and blue-eyed. Their god is Ymir, the frost-giant, and each tribe has its own king. They are wayward and fierce. They fight all day and drink ale and roar their wild songs all night.”
Advertisement“Then I think you are like them,” laughed Prospero. “You laugh greatly, drink deep and bellow good songs; though I never saw another Cimmerian who drank aught but water, or who ever laughed, or ever sang save to chant dismal dirges.”
“Perhaps it’s the land they live in,” answered the king. “A gloomier land never was—all of hills, darkly wooded, under skies nearly always gray, with winds moaning drearily down the valleys.”
“Little wonder men grow moody there,” quoth Prospero with a shrug of his shoulders, thinking of the smiling sun-washed plains and blue lazy rivers of Poitain, Aquilonia’s southernmost province.
“They have no hope here or hereafter,” answered Conan. “Their gods are Crom and his dark race, who rule over a sunless place of everlasting mist, which is the world of the dead. Mitra! The ways of the Aesir were more to my liking.”
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Popular imagination, I judge, responded actively to our wireless bulletins of Lake’s start northwestward into regions never trodden by human foot or penetrated by human imagination; though we did not mention his wild hopes of revolutionising the entire sciences of biology and geology.
His preliminary sledging and boring journey of January 11–18 with Pabodie and five others—marred by the loss of two dogs in an upset when crossing one of the great pressure-ridges in the ice—had brought up more and more of the Archaean slate; and even I was interested by the singular profusion of evident fossil markings in that unbelievably ancient stratum.
These markings, however, were of very primitive life-forms involving no great paradox except that any life-forms should occur in rock as definitely pre-Cambrian as this seemed to be; hence I still failed to see the good sense of Lake’s demand for an interlude in our time-saving programme—an interlude requiring the use of all four planes, many men, and the whole of the expedition’s mechanical apparatus.
I did not, in the end, veto the plan; though I decided not to accompany the northwestward party despite Lake’s plea for my geological advice.
While they were gone, I would remain at the base with Pabodie and five men and work out final plans for the eastward shift.
In preparation for this transfer one of the planes had begun to move up a good gasoline supply from McMurdo Sound; but this could wait temporarily.
I kept with me one sledge and nine dogs, since it is unwise to be at any time without possible transportation in an utterly tenantless world of aeon-long death.
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It must have been a little after three o’clock in the afternoon that it happened—the afternoon of June 3rd, 1916. It seems incredible that all that I have passed through—all those weird and terrifying experiences—should have been encompassed within so short a span as three brief months.
Rather might I have experienced a cosmic cycle, with all its changes and evolutions for that which I have seen with my own eyes in this brief interval of time—things that no other mortal eye had seen before, glimpses of a world past, a world dead, a world so long dead that even in the lowest Cambrian stratum no trace of it remains.
Fused with the melting inner crust, it has passed forever beyond the ken of man other than in that lost pocket of the earth whither fate has borne me and where my doom is sealed. I am here and here must remain.
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Late that October night, the station was showing vampire movies, three in a row, starting with the original “Nosferatu” and Max Shrek creeping across the screen in silent, yet comical, horror. Both boys snorted with derision each time he appeared and threw cheese balls at the television set. Finally, the movie was over and the host appeared.
“Good ev-en-ing,” he said, in a voice that could only be described as broadcast Romanian. “Tonight’s second film is ‘Dracula’, the classic motion picture produced in 1931 and starring the one and only Bela Lugosi as the Count himself. Mwa-hah-hah-hah.”
“This is lame,” Danny said, digging deep into a bag of a bag of barbecue potato chips. “Black and white. Again.”
Mike shook his head. “No way, man. This one’s cool. I saw it before. That dude, Lugosi, is the coolest. I mean, they didn’t even have special effects but they made him look awesome creepy. Like there’s this one scene where he’s just standing there, staring, and all they did was shine two little flashlights on his eyes to make them glow. You’ll see.”
Five minutes later, both boys were silent, the only sound the munching of snacks and an occasional belch. They watched the entire film, unconsciously holding their breath as Dracula fed on Mina and was stalked by Harker and Dr. van Helsing. Finally, when the movie finished, the host came back on the screen, dressed in a black cape with streaks of red dripping from each corner of his mouth.
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