Free Pulp Magazine Featuring Horror Stories, Dark Fiction, and Pulp Articles

Twisted Pulp Magazine Issue #42

Pulp magazine delivering horror fiction, dark fantasy, pulp articles, reviews, comics, and cult weirdness.

Oh yeah, this issue’s got the goods, baby. We’re talking Beth Lee kicking things off with Blink (you’ll never look at blinking the same way again), followed by E.S. Wynn splattering ink and viscera across the page with Bloody Hands of the Ripper. Scarlett Stratten brings a little continental flair with Joie de Vivre of Josephine J-ua de Vivrah, while Thomas M. Malafarina gives us the dark arts straight-up, no chaser, in Mistress of Black Magic. That’s before we throw some gasoline on the fire with more sizzling Saucy Aussie photos from Jessie Pfriem. Need a breather? Mark Slade’s got your back with a review of Promotional Pandemonium! (and probably a snide comment or two), Andy Rausch delivers the mythmaking in The Stuff of Legend, and Brian Warf keeps his epic Dead Ringer for a Black Fox saga rolling with Part Three. Oh, and if that ain’t enough—there’s comics, weirdness, and the usual suspects of pulp degeneracy lurking in the margins.

All wrapped up with Chauncey Haworth pulling the strings, Lothar Tuppan chasing the high, Mark Slade refusing to give up on Rick Astley, and cover model Saucy Aussie making sure your eyeballs stay firmly glued where they belong. In short? It’s another glorious pile of pulp, horror, camp, and questionable life choices—exactly what you came here for.

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Editorial: Franchise Fatigue
Blink By Beth Lee
Bloody Hands Of The Ripper by E.S. Wynn
Josephine Baker: Joie de Vivre of Josephine
Mistress of Black Magic by Thomas M. Malafarina
Cover Model, Saucy Aussie with Photos by Jessie Pfriem
Promotional Pandemonium! Book Review from Mark Slade
The Stuff of Legend by Andy Rausch
A Dead Ringer for A Black Fox Part 3 By Brian Warf

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Editorial: Franchise Fatigue

Written by Chauncey Haworth

A lifelong fanboy looks back on the stories that shaped him and wonders if his obsession with elaborate lore and serials has gone from inspiration to crutch.

I think it has finally happened. I’ve always been a fan of world-building and the deeper layers behind stories. One of my excuses for getting overwhelmed by my own projects is my love of Robotech and The Lord of the Rings. Growing up, I read The Lord of the Rings before I could even really understand it, and since then I’ve gone back and read it at least five or six times. The vastness of Tolkien’s world was absolutely enthralling—he created history, side stories, languages, even recipes. I still remember making the sugar cookies from The Hobbit with my mom when I was a kid.

Likewise, Robotech blew my mind. As a child, I had no idea it was just three different anime series stitched together. To me, it was a sprawling 83-episode intergalactic soap opera that spanned generations.

Since then, this love has fueled my fandom. I’ve seen every Star Wars, Star Trek, Stargate, Doctor Who, and every DC animated series—literally everything. If it was a fan-built world, I was there.

But recently I’ve started questioning this love of world-building and serialized storytelling. I was watching the newest Jurassic Park movie (of course I’ve seen all the others, including the cartoons), and afterward I came across a complaint online about how the film wasn’t very good. I thought to myself, “Of course it’s not great. It’s the seventh film in a series about people running from dinosaurs.” How much can we really expect from a franchise that exists mainly to give us more of the same thing we already love?

And then I had to ask myself—am I doing the same thing? Am I clinging to familiar stories while denying myself new ones? Am I just rehashing the same old material instead of exploring something fresh?

I guess I’ll put on the same old Justice League cartoons tonight and think about it.

Date Created: 10-15-2025
Date Modified: 10-15-2025

This article has been featured in...

Twisted Pulp Magazine Issue #42

🔗

Blink

A Short Story Written by Beth Lee

Genres: Horror, Psychological, Supernatural

Angela Collins installed a Blink camera on her front door for security, expecting to catch nothing more than passing cars and nosy neighbors. But when she starts receiving notifications at exactly 3:08 AM, the footage reveals something chilling—a man in a derby hat and a sinister bald figure lurking outside her home.

I felt immediate reprieve from the heat as a wave of cold air hit me before I even stepped through the door into the District 7 police precinct. I got a quick glimpse of a reflection of myself in the glass door. My brown roots were too long, and my wet-from-the-humidity shoulder-length hair was thrown into a pony barely held up with a scrunchie. I saw the dark circles under my eyes, even though I’d put makeup on that morning before work. I looked like I’d been out walking in a rainstorm.

It was unseasonably warm, even for September, as if summer forgot it was over. As it closed, I let the door lean up against my back, sweaty from the block and a half walk where I parked on the street.

There were two men sitting in dark-colored fabric covered chairs that looked comfortable, despite the starkness of the waiting area. It was quiet, and I could hear the low buzzing of the overhead fluorescent lighting, though just feet behind me was one of the busiest

I walked up to the chest-high desk and found myself talking to a woman into a hole in the plexiglass. She gave me a long, unimpressed look when I hesitated to tell her why I was there. After a long pause, she spoke.

“You think you recorded a murder?” The way she punched the word think made me question myself. Unsure how to respond, I shrugged and looked down.

“Name?”

“Angela Collins.”

“Ok.” She pointed to the chairs. “Sit.”

I chose the chair against a window, but furthest from the men already waiting. The evening sun was hot against my back and I began sweating again. There were shades, but I wasn’t sure if I could pull them, and I didn’t want to ask the lady. Instead, I dozed off.

I was startled awake hearing a door buzz and a wiry middle-aged man in a brown suit and beige tie asked, “Collins? Angela?” and pointed at me. I wiped a bit of drool off the corner of my mouth and nodded, noticing the other two men were no longer there. The detective had no expression on his face, as if it was perfectly normal for people to fall asleep in the waiting room. Maybe it was. He waved me though the door, letting it slam behind us, ensuring our safety from the outside world.

I followed him behind a second door into a large space with multiple desks. He pointed to a wooden chair next to his desk, facing his office chair. The room was loud, with many officers talking in differing tones and levels. I think they called it the bullpen on one of the tv cop shows I used to watch. It smelled like stale coffee.

“I’m Detective Wenchel. What can I help you with today?” he asked matter-of-factly as he straightened some files on his desk. I had to take a second glance at the files, surprised they were even used anymore. Several other men in suits, probably detectives, looked over at me, sometimes leaning in to listen. I presumed that Detective Wenchel drew the short straw, but they were interested in what I had to say.

While driving from my house to the precinct, I planned exactly what I was going to say. My plan was to smartly engage the officer’s critical thinking skills to explain what it was I actually caught on camera.

Instead of using the sound reasoning in my head, I replied quietly, “I think my Blink camera recorded a murder.” I shrugged again.

He continued fussing with his files, looking down when I said it. For the briefest moment, he looked up and straight ahead. Then, he looked directly at me, studying my face for a moment. I saw a smile cross his eyes, but not his face. He was actually rather handsome, although he was at least twenty years older than my thirty years.

“Okayyyyy,” he said. “Can I see the recording?”

I opened the app on my phone, but I couldn’t pull it up. I tried to connect to the Wi-Fi, but my phone refused.

“Why don’t you describe the recording to me, Miss Collins,” he said, seemingly without judgement. I told him everything, about Derby Man, as I’d come to call him in my head, and Bald Man. I cried, resisting an urge to run out of the building. The detective handed me one Kleenex, and then another. I wondered if he was normally a patient man or it’s something he learned on the job. I think I heard a detective behind me snicker.

Once 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.

Six months prior, I pulled my gray Nissan Rogue into Milwaukee’s Golden Valley neighborhood and fell in love immediately. At the time I was living in a nondescript apartment building on the east side, two blocks from a busy road filled with bars and restaurants. I liked the location, but it felt crowded. Here, each house was different from the next, each with its own personality. It felt cozy and safe.

Between the streets and the homes, there were swaths of green space with mature trees that towered over the one-story homes. In the late 1940s, the city planted Elm trees and today they loomed large over the neighborhood, offering a bit of privacy from the street and the repetition of lush greenery in summer and falling leaves in fall, with a bit of both in between.

It was a rainy period in early spring, and the trees had already begun their regrowth after the cold and snowy winter months of Wisconsin. I noticed yellow daffodils springing to life underneath the bay window of the house for sale. It was early for perennials; they were eager to awaken from their winter slumber.

As a kid, there was a storybook I loved to read. I don’t remember the story itself, as that was a distant memory; but an old lady named Grandma Gertie owned a house where she baked cookies and entertained her family by playing piano. As soon as I pulled up, I thought of the house in that book, and felt an instant connection.

Unlike the cream city brick houses in Milwaukee are known for, this one was a reddish-brown Canadian stout brick, according to the real estate agent. The second story loft and steeply pitched gabled roof with an overhang technically made it a cape cod. Unlike the daffodils, which seemed to be easily popping out of the ground, the grass fought to turn green.

A concrete path meandered from the front sidewalk and split into two at the corner of the house. In one direction, it went to the front door, and the other, to the detached garage in the back yard, facing the alley that runs north-south through each block in the neighborhood.

With only a fifteen-minute drive to my office downtown, and a large down payment that made payments cheaper than my current rent, I put in an offer and it was accepted.

It was a sunny Friday in late April when I moved in. The air was cool at night, but I already felt spring turning into summer during the daytime. As I unpacked my belongings, I opened windows throughout the house, reminding myself to close them before nightfall. I was too far from Lake Michigan to experience the famous “cooler by the lake” weather, but spring always brought unpredictable chills anywhere in the city.

As I stepped out of the shower, I heard a knock on the front door. I dressed quickly, expecting whoever it was to leave before I opened the door. To my surprise, a middle-aged women stood before me, smiling.

“Hello, I’m Sharon,” she greeted me warmly with a gruff voice, holding a plate for me. “I brought you cookies.”

I introduced myself and invited her in, but she declined. I took the plate of cookies and noticed the smell of cigarette smoke radiating from Sharon.

“I have to go pick up my grandkids. I tried to ring the doorbell, but I don’t think it’s working,” she said, waving goodbye and retreating down the stairs. I watched her walk across the street and looked at the doorbell. It looked to be a Blink camera.

I downloaded an app for the doorbell and set up an account. The neighborhood was mostly safe, but a bit of extra security will give me some sense of peace, and I could see if anyone came to my home when I wasn’t there.

Feeling safe, tired and satisfied with my decision to move to this house, I fell asleep in my new bedroom before the sun set.

Two weeks later, as the weather became warmer and daytime light lingered longer, I fell into a routine of working in the office three days a week and from home two. As I lived alone, the extra bedroom in my house gave me a home office that faced onto my small patio out back.

As an accountant, I enjoyed the order of things. At work I made numbers fit into columns and worked into a necessary balance. At home, I continued to unpack, placing each item I owned in the right spot. The house itself wasn’t larger than my last apartment, so everything fit nicely.

One morning in late May, I awoke, as I normally did, fifteen minutes before my alarm went off. I got up at the same time each weekday morning whether I drove to the office or not. I often took coffee out to my patio and sat on my new brown wicker furniture in the mornings. The sun hadn’t reached it yet, but the heat outside made for a pleasant situation. The robins were back from their winter migration, and I could hear their celebratory songs. I imagined they were looking for their friends and planning a get together.

It wasn’t until I was going to open my phone to read some celebrity gossip in Daily News online that I realized there was a Blink notification from 3:08 AM. Dog poop mysteriously appeared in my yard several times since I moved in, and I thought maybe I’d catch the dog and its owner on camera.

Instead, I saw a fog. It was kind of unusual, just hanging in the air, seemingly defying the laws of physics. I was reminded of a game I played on my phone, where I had to press 15 times to clear the “fog” in the scene. I decided it was just a fluke of the camera at night.

Strangely, over time, the fog disappeared. I’d wake up every four nights or so to find the Blink notifications at 3:08, and one area of the fog disappeared, until it was clear, though it was too dark to see much else. I was bemused, not knowing what I was seeing. I once asked Sharon about it, but she didn’t have a doorbell camera, explaining they were too fussy for her.

Two weeks later, in early June, I opened my eyes, anticipating a notification on my phone, as they began to appear regularly, about every four nights. The recording was clear, and there was now a slight glow from the streetlight just out of view. I still wasn’t able to see clearly beyond the dim light. I watched the recording for the full fifteen seconds and nothing appeared. I bit my lower lip slightly and watched again. Nothing. It must be a malfunction. Smelling the freshly made coffee emanating from my kitchen, I grabbed my bathrobe and went to pour a cup.

Once the summer heat kicked in, the recording showed movement just out of view. Was what I saw a shadow of someone? Was it just the shadow of a tree because of the wind? I didn’t notice any wind, and I heard only the vague humming of ambient noise and some crickets. I the movement was probably just someone walking their dog and for whatever reason, chose to turn back the direction they came just outside of view.

The next time a notification appeared, I saw the figure of a man wearing a dark overcoat and a derby hat walking down the sidewalk. His arms were behind his back, and he was slightly hunched over. The walk was deliberate – neither slow nor fast. He was facing down, as if trying to see what was on the ground in front of him. He never looked up. Though his clothing seemed more than someone who would be out walking in the middle of the night in summertime. I looked up into the corner of the room and put two fingers over my mouth. He didn’t approach the house, so I convinced myself not to worry about the unusual man.

I gasped aloud when I played a recording one Sunday morning in July, after a night out. I slept longer than normal, fighting off a headache and nausea, the effects from too many martinis and eating only a salad for dinner. I grabbed my phone to check out how much I spent on Ubers, fighting the urge not to throw up on my floor.

The man in the derby walked into the middle of the recording, as usual. I had begun to leave the light on the front door on, so I was able to see him fairly clearly, though I couldn’t see beyond him into the road. In this recording, the man in the derby stopped and turned toward my house, his face expressionless. He lingered, standing akimbo. I could see he had sharp features, a long nose and jutted chin.

I shot out of bed and paced my small bedroom. I watched the 30-second recording over and over, trying to make sense of it for that entire Sunday.

My hands shook when I realized the Uber dropped me off at 2:49 AM. The man was recorded at 3:08.

Two more recordings followed before a second man appeared. He was bald, so I began thinking of the two as Derby Man and Bald Man. In his first recording, Bald Man looked at my home, smiling, though his body language didn’t convey a man who was playful. I had no context to understand why he acknowledged my home. When the second video began, Bald Man was already facing my home, as if he appeared from nowhere. Again, he was smiling. His face was rounder than Derby Man. His eyes were shadowed out, as if they were sunken in.

Both times I felt my hands shaking and a warmth washed over me. I looked around my bedroom, not knowing how to respond. I think my brain stopped thinking for a moment, but my hangover overrode the fear, and I gave in to my hangover and laid back down. When I awoke hours later, I cancelled the Blink service, deciding not knowing what was lingering in my neighborhood in the night made the most sense. I didn’t get a notification for a month.

In mid-August, I received a notification at 3:08 on a Tuesday morning. The light emanating from my porch seemed to get brighter with time, though I still couldn’t make out actual images such as the house across the street, or even a car parked in the street. I tried to change the settings, but I still wasn’t able to see more.

Bald Man was already in the middle of the screen, with his back to the camera. As usual, he wore dark clothing. He wore pants and black shoes, but I could see his arms, because he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. I could see what looked to be a tattoo on his right forearm but couldn’t make out what it was. Unlike other videos with ambient sound, there was no sound at all. I checked to see if it was on mute, but it was not. The Blink camera simply had not recorded any sound.

Derby Man walked into view and grabbed Bald Man from behind, towering over him. I noticed derby man’s arms for the first time. It must have been shadows and darkness, but they were long and thin, almost too long for a man.

The recording ended, but one more nearly identical recording came through. The only difference was that Bald Man looked sideways, as he noticed Derby Man walking towards him at the beginning of the recording. I noticed the smile literally drop off of Bald Man’s face, and his shoulders dropped. Again, there was no sound.

It was nearing the end of August when I finally saw what Derby Man did to Bald Man. Derby Man grabbed Bald Man from behind, putting his right arm around Bald Man’s throat. Derby Man walked backwards just out of view of the camera, dragging Bald Man. I could still see Bald Man’s legs. They were moving, but his arms appeared to go limp.

Bald Man suddenly lunged forward, and both men re-entered the screen. Derby Man fought him a bit, but he still had Bald Man by the throat. Now both facing my house, Derby Man briefly stopped and smirked at the camera, almost as if he paused the action around him. Bald Man appeared to faint, possibly overcome from being choked. I could hear my own heart beating as I watched.

And then, suddenly from out of nowhere, Derby Man held a long knife that reflected from a streetlight. I’d never seen a knife so long before. Derby Man looked directly at the Blink camera and plunged it into the side of Bald Man’s neck. Blood squirted out of Bald Man sideways, seemingly defying gravity. It looked like a movie scene, rather than real life. The blood from Bald Man shot out of his neck perpendicular to his body. It was bright red, as if it was photoshopped to look more real. Bald Man dropped to the ground and Derby Man sneered momentarily at the camera before walking off in the opposite direction he came.

And that’s when I noticed it for the first time. Previously, I couldn’t see Sharon’s small ranch house across the street, but when I looked closely at the recording, I noticed that it was not Sharon’s house across the street. The house in the recording was a large two-story home with cedar siding.

I debated reporting what I’d seen, and finally decided to go to the police station.

I didn’t sleep at all in the nights after I witnessed what I thought was a murder, and before I walked into District 7. In fact, I sat on my couch and watched outside from 3 AM to 3:30 AM each night. Sitting high on my knees, facing backwards against the couch, I peeked out between a very small slit in the blinds in my living room. I felt like a final girl, staring out, listening my shallow breathing, waiting for a murderer to return. Finally, I was too exhausted to stay awake, and my knees hurt from sitting upright on them. I cried myself to sleep, which I hadn’t done since I was eighteen and ghosted by someone I crushed on in college.

Some weeks after meeting with Detective Wenchel, I was able to sleep more than six hours at a time. And when I woke, I began looking for notifications of a different sort – from a man named Tom I’d met at a party and began dating.

It was nearly a year after I walked into District 7 when Detective Wenchel called and asked me to come into the station. At this point, I was exclusively dating Tom and spending about half the week at his house in Wauwatosa. He’d spent some time at my house, as well, but always had to go home to tend to his dog, Oscar. The recordings felt as if they’d occurred a lifetime ago, rather than twelve months.

When I arrived, Detective Wenchel was waiting for me. He smiled at me and waved me back to follow him. His desk was the same. Before I sat down, I noticed he had pictures on his desk.

“Kids?” I asked and pointed to the little girl, smiling.

He surprised me by laughing.

“Grandkids. Two girls. One is nine and the other eleven. They like gymnastics,” he said.

“Oh, that’s nice,” I said, not knowing how to respond to that detail.

“You look well rested,” he said. I assumed he was referring to looking as tired as I felt when I was in last.

He moved his computer monitor to face me.

“I’ll be blunt with you. When you sent me the recordings, I thought you might be playing some sort of game with us, but I couldn’t figure out why.”

I shook my head. “What do you mean?”

“The recordings were weird. That man in the derby looking directly at the camera. The blood squirting. It was unusual, to say the least. Why would anyone do that unless it was a joke or scam?”

I shrugged.

“Don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble. In fact . . . Well, I’ll just show you,” he said and showed me two pictures of men, side by side.

They were undoubtably the men in the recording. Derby Man wasn’t wearing his lid, but I recognized his sharp features. Bald Man looked younger than the recording, but it was him.

“That’s the men,” I said, confused and shocked.

“Yes. The man on the right is Eric Braden. He’s a sixty-year-old man who recently plead guilty to the murder of this man, Charles White. White was a forty-year-old man who was dating Braden’s ex-wife. Apparently, he didn’t like the idea that his ex was dating and it wasn’t his idea for the divorce. Braden had been stalking her for about six months by parking outside her house day and night. That must be why he was looking into the camera. He wanted her to know he was there.”

“Yikes!” I said and grabbed onto the base of my neck.

“I know. But you seemed sincerely nervous about the recordings. And you looked exhausted. Your hair was a mess and there were dark circles under your eyes. People lie to me all the time, but you can’t fake exhaustion. So, after talking to some other detectives, we decided to send the recordings to the FBI.” He paused and switched the photo to a pretty woman who I assumed was Braden’s ex-wife.

“Braden already confessed to murder before I even sent the video to the FBI, so the only investigation to be done was how you ended up with the recordings and not his ex.”

I waited for him to answer.

“Well, we don’t know. The FBI did their magic and found out who the men were and then basically followed the Wi-Fi trail.”

“And?”

“And, we don’t really know, Miss Collins. The best the experts can say is that somehow the wires got crossed,” he said, making finger quotes as he said experts.

“Okayyy,” I said. “Well, that’s freaking weird.”

“I agree. It’s weirder than hell, and I never heard of anything like it happening. I mean, sometimes people will pick up conversations on their nanny cams, somehow. But, this happened clear across the country in Denver.”

There was an awkward silence and he asked if I had any questions. I did not. He escorted me out and I drove to Tom’s house.

I renewed my blink subscription, safe in the knowledge that nobody was stalking me. I wasn’t home nearly as often, spending so much time with Tom and Oscar. In mid-January, I woke up and noticed my phone glowing. I looked at the clock on Tom’s bedside. It read 3:08 AM. I checked my phone and there was a notification that had just come through on my Blink camera. I set it down and went back to sleep.

Date Created: 10-15-2025
Date Modified: 10-25-2025

This story is featured in...

Twisted Pulp Magazine Issue #42

🔗

Bloody Hands Of The Ripper

A Short Story Written by E.S. Wynn

Genres: Crime, Detective, Hardboiled, Noir

The streets of The City don’t sleep, especially when there’s blood in the gutters. Detective William Gray thinks he’s chasing a Ripper copycat—until a crimson-clad woman walks into a smoky dive bar and sends him down a rabbit hole darker than any alley.

Just 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.”

“Yeah?” I pull myself together enough to stub out my cigarette and string some words into a sentence that’s as sharp as it is slurred. “What can a half-drunk private dick like me do for a dame like you at this time of night?”

“It’s my sister,” she says, and there are tears at the edges of her eyes. “She’s gone missing and I fear the worst.”

“Well, where did you last see her?” I ask, turning my notepad to a new page and picking up my nub of a pencil.

“The boards,” the dame says, and it comes shaky. She glances around, nervous, then leans in. “She’s a, well, she’s a working girl, if you know what I mean. She likes to help the sailors spend their money.”

“Sounds like a nice way of putting it,” I tell her. “How long ago did she go missing?”

“Three days now,” the dame says, swallowing. “I’m just really worried sick about her, you know?”

“Yeah, I can imagine,” I nod, pulling in a deep breath to try to steady myself. It doesn’t help. This dame, she’s just too intoxicating. Either that, or I’m already too drunk. “Listen, a lot of working girls have been going missing down by the boards. I’m working a case right now about a copycat killer that seems to think he’s Jack The Ripper. If your sister’s been missing for three days, well,” I shake my head, unable to finish as this pretty dame suddenly turns on the waterworks. It’s near enough to make me cry myself, just seeing a broad this beautiful reduced to tears. Damn shame.

“I just can’t live without my sister,” she says, and when I reach out to touch her shoulder, she’s as hot as the dress she’s wrapped in. “Please, Detective! Please tell me you’ll look for her! Please tell me you’ll search the boards and find my sister!”

“Okay, okay,” I nod, patting her on the shoulder. “Listen, what’s her name? It’s late, but I guess there’s no harm in taking a look. Not the first time I’ve wandered through the boards at night. Hell, I’ll do it as soon as I get upright if it’ll stop the waterworks.”

“Oh thank you, thank you, detective!” She says, wiping the tears from her eyes suddenly and then wrapping me in a strong, fierce hug. Just about knocks the wind out of me too, when she does it. The dame’s got arms, and she’s strong like a man who’s been tossing sacks of grain around all his life. As soon as she lets go, I drain the last of my glass and grimace through the kick. I’m going to need all the courage I can get for what’s ahead, I figure, liquid or otherwise. “Her name is Doris, and she usually works the north end, where the military ships dock.”

“North end,” I nod, scooping up my notepad and slipping it into my pocket. “Right. I’ll go there now. I’ll catch a cab, take in the night air, ask around, see what I find.”

“You’re a hero, detective, a real hero,” she says, beaming at me.

“Hardly,” I manage, picking up my fedora and squaring it on my head. “Leave your number with the bartender here. I’ll call if I find anything.”

It’s well after midnight and treading toward dawn when the cab drops me off at the north end of the boards. The inky waters lap against the creosote-soaked pilings, carrying in a chill wind that no amount of whiskey can keep out. Even at this time of night, the boards are alive with activity, with music and shouting and the sounds of people rutting together in the shadows. It’s the kind of place where the dregs of humanity congregate to skirt the straight and narrow. It’s the closest place to hell I’ve ever seen in this city.

There are plenty of working girls showing their wares out in the open. Some are dressed in furs, some are so caked in makeup you can hardly see the sores on their faces. I ask every one of them about Doris, and in every case, they all say the same thing. They don’t know any Doris. They’ve never seen her, never heard of her.

And then I hear the scream.

I’m talking with a couple of street girls when it happens. The shriek cuts through the night so sharp that I just about lose my hat turning toward it. The two girls I’m talking with look at each other, stub out their cigarettes and run, but not me. No, I hone in on the sound. I draw my gun, holding it against my thigh, and I walk straight into the darkness.

There’s movement, a twist of shadows on shadows. I see the color red, flashing and splashing against the bricks of the alleyway. My gun comes up, my finger right there on the trigger, but I can’t fire. The flash, the red, the shape that comes walking out of the shadows, dragging a corpse by the hair, it’s her.

The woman from the bar, the woman who sent me here to find her sister.

“Detective William Gray? You’re right on time,” she says, and her grin is as sharp as the knife in her hand. “I found my sister.”

“I’m thinking you better put that knife down,” I offer, keeping the gun on her. The confidence in her eyes is enough to throw me off, to make me shake, but I still manage to keep my pistol level between us. “We can go down to the precinct together, okay? Get this sorted out.”

“You don’t understand, detective,” she says, still grinning. “Doris is just my latest sister. I’ve been collecting them, and you’re like a moth to a flame when it comes to my handiwork. I’ve watched you since the beginning, since I chose my first sister and made a blood pact with her. I’ve watched you as you’ve studied my art. You must be my most ardent admirer, and yet all along, you never knew that it was me until this moment. Now, I have revealed myself. Now, you know that I am the artist behind all of this art.”

“Just stay right there, Miss,” I shout. My finger is quivering at the edge of pulling the trigger. The lady in red, she’s stalking toward me slow and deliberate, her dress and her skin splashed with dripping crimson.

“There’s only one piece of art left to make,” she says, heaving the butchered body of her sister forward so it lands with a heavy squish at my feet. Doris’s stricken face yawns up at me, pale and bloodless, and I’m so transfixed by the horror of it all that I take my gun off the lady in red. I look away for an instant, only for an instant, but it’s enough. When she starts to move, when the knife rises and glitters in the moonlight, I know it’s too late.

My gun snaps up, but there’s no time to fire. Blood-spattered and grinning, the lady in red takes the knife to herself there in the dark alley and starts to stab her own chest over and over again, scream-laughing and grunting until she can take no more. When she collapses against the bricks, she still has that damn knife jutting out of her chest, and she’s all smiles, chuckling sadistically as her life drains away.

I’m with her in an instant. I try to prop her up against the wall and keep her from sagging into the dirt. I get my hands on the knife, blood-slick and sticky, but before I can pull it out of her, she’s got her hands on mine, guiding the knife deeper, twisting it, getting her blood all over me.

“You’re the ripper now,” she whispers with her last breath, and then she’s gone.

I’m shaking. I’m shocked to my core. The lady in red sags and the knife comes free of her chest, then someone screams. When I turn, I still have the knife in my hands. My coat and shirt and sleeves are covered in blood.

“It’s the killer!” A woman at the entrance to the alleyway screams as she jabs an accusing finger at me. “It’s the ripper! It’s the guy who killed all those girls!”

I don’t get enough time to do more than stutter. I don’t get enough time to explain. A dozen hookers stride out of the shadows on either side of the alleyway, and every one of them is armed. Baseball bats and tire irons, truncheons and shovels– I see it all.

And as these ladies of the night stalk toward me, I know those weapons are the last things I’ll ever see.

Date Created: 10-15-2025
Date Modified: 10-25-2025

This story is featured in...

Twisted Pulp Magazine Issue #42

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Josephine Baker: Joie de Vivre of Josephine

J-ua de Vivrah

Written by Scarlett Straten

Genres: pinup

How did a poor Black girl from St. Louis become a global star, a war hero, and a Civil Rights warrior? Josephine Baker’s life defies categorization—she danced through barriers, whispered through war zones, and sang truth to power.

My introduction to Josephine Baker was a brief glimpse of her animated likeness in the 1997 Don Bluth children’s film Anastasia. While she only appears on screen for around 10 seconds, the image of the chocolate-skinned woman, in the purple bodysuit, and banana skirt … walking a cheetah … left an indelible impression in my mind. But exactly how did an American-born dancer, actress, and singer leave such a lasting impact / that one of the greatest animators of all time felt it necessary to introduce her to a whole new generation?

Josephine Baker was born Freda Josephine McDonald on June 3, 1906 in St. Louis, Missouri. Outside of her African American heritage, the specifics of her ancestry are unknown. What is known is that her childhood was a sad one. Her family was impoverished and she began working as a live-in “domestic” for local white families at the age of 8 / and had dropped out of school by 12. A year later, she entered into her first marriage, to a man by the name of Willie Wells, whom she had met at the club where she was then working as a waitress. They were divorced in less than a year.

After her divorce, she found her first gig performing with a street group called the Jones Family Band. At age 15 she married again, this time to William Baker, from whom she would get the famous surname she would retain throughout the rest of her career and life … But … When her vaudeville troupe was booked to play in New York City, she left him behind without hesitation. Thus ended her second marriage, but she was focused on her burgeoning career.

Baker was next cast as a member of the chorus in two Broadway revues. It was after these engagements that she would make the move that would alter the course of her life and career … And possibly history as we know it; Josephine went to Paris.

Josephine had been given her first starring role in La Revue Négre, where she was an instant hit for her erotic dancing and almost nude stage appearance. She followed this up with a successful European tour, after which she broke her contract in order to return to France and star in what might be her most well-known engagement, the Folies Bergére, where she also donned the outfit she would become most famous for, the banana skirt.

During this period, Josephine became an international sensation, traveling abroad to perform, producing songs, appearing in films, and rubbing elbows with such luminaries as Picasso and Hemingway. Ironically, one of the few places where she wasn’t seemingly adored was her birthplace; her attempt at a star turn in a Ziegfeld follies revival back in the United States led to scathing and racist reviews from critics and she returned to Europe heartbroken. She eventually gave up her American citizenship altogether and became a legal French citizen.

Knowing all the accolades she was receiving, you would think that when WWII broke out Josephine would have taken off for some neutral country to wait it out in the comfort of her fame and wealth, but no. Instead she put that fame to use for the French intelligence agency. Because of her standing in café-society, she was able to socialize with high-ranking Axis-Powers officials and bureaucrats without suspicion. She would charm them everywhere, from embassies to nightclubs, and report back what she learned, even going so far as writing notes on her arms and pinning them in her clothes, which led to critical information being delivered to the French Resistance. Later in the war, after the Germans had invaded, Josephine moved to her home in the south of France, but did not cease her activities. If anything she doubled down. She used her chateau to shelter resistance fighters and Jewish refugees, even providing them with forged documents she financed herself. She also had a radio transmitter installed in order to maintain communication with Allied forces, and used the cellar to store weapons. Later still, she toured to entertain Allied troops in North Africa.

Given all this, it’s no wonder that after the war she was awarded the Resistance Medal and the Croix de Guerre, and was named a member of the Legion of Honor.

After the war, Josephine went back to her wildly successful performing career, but after a few years, she found yet another calling. After traveling to the United States with her current husband for an engagement and experiencing severe racial discrimination, Baker took up the cause of Civil Rights. She wrote articles, gave speeches, and even leveraged her fame by refusing to play gigs unless the audiences were integrated. It cost her some of her influential friends, including columnist Walter Winchell who decried her in the press and labeled her a Communist sympathizer. But it gained her new allies in the Civil Rights movement, including the NAACP and Martin Luther King Jr., alongside whom she appeared as the only official female speaker at the March on Washington in 1963.

As if being a Black entertainment pioneer, Civil Rights activist, and war hero weren’t enough, Josephine was and is an LGBTQ icon on top of it. She was openly bisexual in a time when that label didn’t even exist. In addition to her 4 husbands, she was also rumored to have had relationships with, among others, Frida Kahlo and French novelist Colette. Her open attitude towards sexuality and erotic performances were boundary-pushing for the time, making her a symbol of sexual liberation and bodily autonomy even today.

It’s hard to encapsulate in one article everything Josephine was. I’ve only managed to scratch the surface here and there is much more to tell. Suffice to say she was the definition of a cultural icon. Whether you know her name or not, her life and work had a tangible impact on the world we live in. Whether it was destroying hang-ups about sex, combating racism, or fighting back against literal fascism, Josephine Baker’s entire life was a performance for the ages.

Date Created: 10-15-2025
Date Modified: 10-28-2025

This article has been featured in...

Twisted Pulp Magazine Issue #42

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Mistress of Black Magic by Thomas M. Malafarina

A Short Story Written by Thomas M. Malafarina

Genres: Cosmic Horror, Horror, Supernatural

When two skeptical friends attend a small-town magic show to ogle the glamorous star of the act, they get far more than smoke, mirrors, and cleavage. As the show builds to its final, reality-warping trick, the line between illusion and dark truth disappears.

“Magicians are the most honest people in the world; they tell you they’re gonna fool you, and then they do it.” – James Randi.

“You don’t get into magic. Magic gets into you.” – David Blaine

“The real secret of magic lies in the performance.” – David Copperfield

“Do not be a magician – be magic!” – Leonard Cohen

As the two young men approached the theater, Brad Seltzer, the taller of the two, said, “Jeeze, Dwayne. I can’t believe you conned me into going to this stupid magic show. I hate cheesy crap like this.” Brad was a handsome, well-built twenty-year-old with styled blond hair and deep blue eyes. Brad was the favorite of all the local ladies and never had trouble finding female companionship. He worked as a carpenter’s apprentice for a few bucks above minimum wage and still lived at home with his parents. He and Dwayne Coombs had been best friends since nursery school and lived only a few streets apart. Dwayne also still lived with his parents. The two young men had plans to eventually move into an apartment together once they could afford it.

Dwayne said, “I’m telling you, Brad. This babe is the real deal.” Dwayne was not the chick magnet that Brad was, but occasionally, he could snag one of Brad’s cast-offs. Dwayne’s appearance was more “natural,” leaning toward “unkempt,” with a head of dark brown hair that seemed to have a mind of its own. Neither was his choice in fashion on par with Brad’s, but that was perfectly okay with Dwayne.

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.

The first picture showed her holding a black stuffed bunny with white feet and a white “X” bandage on its forehead. The second picture showed her pulling the same stuffed bunny from a black top hat. In the next picture the lovely magician held a glowing turquoise crystal ball. The fourth photo was of the magician striking a provocative pose on the floor with the black top hat. She held a magic wand pointed skyward, which shot a stream of glitter. In the next picture, the magician stood before a large red and black target with the knives sticking out. She was holding her own knife. In the sixth picture she held the black top hat in her right hand and the black stuffed bunny in the other. In the seventh and final photo, she held out a card, the ace of spades, while various other cards floated around her.

“Holy crap, Dwayne! You weren’t kidding. She is one smoking hot babe. Suddenly, stupid magic doesn’t seem as cheesy as I thought. Did you come to the show before?”

Dwayne said, “No, I didn’t. But I saw this poster and figured, what the hell. Even if her act is bogus, she is hot enough to make up for it. Did you see those magic rib balloons?”

“Oh yeah. How could I miss those abundant crumb catchers?”

“Yeah, luscious lung lumps.”

“Bodacious tatas!”

Dwayne said, “Well, we better get in there before the show starts.”

“I hope these are good tickets, Dwayne.”

“Bradley, my boy. Have I ever let you down? These babies are front and center.”

Brad said, “Excellent. I’ll spend the entire show praying for a wardrobe malfunction, aka Janet Jackson.”

“You bet. Now that would be real sweet magic!”

***

The theater was much smaller than Brad had thought it would be, but it still looked like it might seat more than one hundred souls. Not that mattered since the show was just minutes from starting, and only about one-third of the seats were occupied.

Brad said, “Looks like a light crowd tonight.”

“Excellent! With us in the front center spots, the magic babe might focus on us and maybe even show us some skin.” Dwayne replied, hopefully.

“Honestly, Dwayne. You are such a hopeless horndog.”

“Excuse me, but some of us don’t have girls tripping over each other to get close to us.”

The house lights flickered and darkened as soon as the two took their seats, signaling the show’s start. A scatter of lukewarm applause echoed in the mostly empty theater. Then, a man dressed in a dark suit stepped out from behind the curtain, and the applause gradually diminished.

He didn’t smile but looked seriously at the audience and said, “Few know what evil mysteries exist in the realm of Black Magic. One such person is here tonight to take you on a journey into the darkest known region of this and any other world. She is the woman who has no name, the woman who needs none. She is known only as the Mistress of Black Magic, and she’s here to thrill and chill you this evening. So, without any further ado, ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Mistress of Black Magic.

A puff of black smoke shot up from the stage, engulfing the master of ceremonies. A moment later, a similar cloud of smoke, this time white, bellowed upward from the stage. When it dissipated, A spotlight trained on the stage, and the gorgeous blonde Mistress stood in the same sexy outfit Brad and Dwayne saw on the poster.

“Wow!” That was all Brad could say.

“I think I’m in love.” Was Dwayne’s response.

To his surprise, Brad initially enjoyed the show, primarily because the lovely Mistress had smiled at him and made alluring eye contact several times. He was genuinely impressed with her skill. Although he knew everything he saw was an illusion and not magic, Brad had to admit that each act and trick was almost believable. The most impressive part of the show was she never spoke a single word during any of her tricks.

But as the show progressed, it began to bore him. Brad sat nonplussed while the magician moved from one trick to the next. He became unimpressed with her array of cliche magic tricks. On the other hand, Dwayne sat staring at the stage, his mouth agape as if hypnotized by the performance. After one particularly impressive trick, the magician disappeared in another puff of smoke, and the master of ceremonies reappeared.

He stared into the audience and said, “The Mistress of Black Magic is preparing to show you her greatest trick. This trick is called The Box of Nargroth. It is one of the oldest and most difficult and potentially dangerous tricks to perform.”

The curtain opened, and the Mistress stood next to a tall black box resembling an oversized phone booth with no windows. It was covered with bright gold stars and crescent moons. With a typical flourish, the Mistress opened the front of the box, revealing its empty, dark purple, felt-lined interior.

The emcee said, “The Mistress of Black Magic will select a lucky candidate from the audience to enter the box and travel to the mysterious land of Nargroth. Do I have any willing volunteers?”

Before the words had left the emcee’s mouth, Dwayne’s hand was raised high in the air in a pick-me gesture. Brad was slightly embarrassed by his friend’s actions but tried not to show his displeasure. The Mistress walked to the front of the stage and pointed, not at Dwayne, but at Brad. Brad pointed to himself and mouthed the question, “Me?” Before he realized what was happening, Brad felt the emcee grip his arm and lead him onto the stage. Brad turned to see Dwayne’s disappointment and found himself standing on stage before the mysterious Box of Nargroth.

The Mistress of Black Magic gestured for Brad to enter the box. He stood only a few feet away from the magician now, and although she still appeared quite beautiful, there was something a bit “off” about her. Was it her eyes? Perhaps her smile? And what was that strange earthy aroma? Was it her cologne, or maybe perspiration? It was a scent Brad had never smelled before, making him feel odd, a little nauseous, and frightened.

Brad stepped into the box without resisting and stood with his hands pressed against the velvet sides. The magician began closing the door, and the last thing Brad saw was her eyes staring at him through the final remaining sliver of light. Her eyes expressed some evil knowledge that chilled Brad to the bone. Then, he was in complete darkness.

On stage, The Mistress of Black Magic spun the box around on its swivel in a clockwise direction for two revolutions to show there were no trap doors or any way for Brad to have gotten out. Then she tapped the front with her magic wand and opened the door to reveal the interior chamber empty. Brad was gone.

***

Brad opened his eyes to discover he was no longer inside the claustrophobic darkness of the box but was outside in a strange, unfamiliar landscape. It appeared to be a tropical rainforest, a feeling accentuated by the thick, humid air. An earthy smell filled his nostrils, which he immediately recognized as the same strange scent he had gotten from the Mistress. He couldn’t believe it; he had somehow been transported to a tropical forest.

He felt the moisture in the air collecting on his flesh and realized his clothing was gone, and he had been rendered naked in this strange place. Brad saw he was surrounded by high-growing bushes and tall trees. However, these trees were unlike any trees Brad had ever seen. Although they initially appeared to be an unusual type of palm tree, their color was all wrong. The long trunks of the trees were red, gold, and purple, and their fronds were various shades of tan. Brad reached out to touch one of the fronds and was repulsed to discover it felt like human flesh. As soon as his fingers made contact with the leaf, it pulled away as if it was equally disgusted by Brad’s touch. Above the trees, Brad saw a dark green and burnt orange sky with two brightly glowing lavender moons. He suddenly realized this land must be the place the emcee spoke of, the land of Nargroth.

Brad heard leaves rustling behind nearby high-growing blood-red and gold bushes. He feared some wild animal might be approaching, and he was naked and defenseless in this bizarre world. As he stood, paralyzed with fear, a strange humanoid being stepped from behind the bushes. The creature was light green in color and stood as tall as Brad. Although it had a rudimentary head, two arms, and two legs, that was where the similarities to any human ended.

The being was naked and hairless but appeared to be neither male nor female, having no organs or physical features to distinguish its gender. The place where the creature’s face should have been was flat and featureless, like a blank canvas awaiting a brush. As Brad looked on in shocked silence, the being’s face began to change, forming eyes, a nose, and a mouth that Brad immediately recognized since it was his own face.

Brad realized he was unable to move or cry out. As he watched in helpless horror, the strange creature continued to change, eventually becoming an exact duplicate of himself. He had no idea what was happening or what would happen next. Unfortunately, he didn’t have long to wait. Brad felt a disturbing sensation as something was crawling up his legs. It felt serpentine as if a cluster of snakes had begun encircling his body. The feeling moved from his legs to his torso and to his head. That was when Brad saw the nature of the things creeping up his helpless body.

The things were not snakes, although they may as well have been. They were some type of vines, but unlike any Brad had ever seen, these were the exact color of his flesh but with dark blue spots. With growing horror, Brad saw the strange creature had become his doppelganger, mimicking every detail of his physical appearance. As if that was not disturbing enough, the strange creature was wearing his clothes. That was the last thing Brad saw before the vines covered his head, and he was absorbed, becoming one with the bizarre foliage.

***

The emcee announced, “And now, The Mistress of Black Magic will bring our brave volunteer back from the land of Nargroth to the safety of the magical box.” The Mistress turned the box counterclockwise for two revolutions, tapped the front with her wand, and opened the door to reveal Brad, apparently unharmed. The audience cheered as the creature posing as Brad stepped clumsily from the box as if unsure of his footing. The Brad-thing heard a female voice in his mind saying, “Go and take your place among the humans. Now, we are few, but soon we will be many. You know what to do. Assimilate, be patient, and await the call to action.”

As the applause died and the curtain closed, the emcee said, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for attending this evening’s show. Remember, The Mistress will be here every night, and we hope to see you again. The creature, who had become a version of Brad Seltzer, sat beside his apparent friend, Dwayne.

Dwayne looked at his friend excitedly and asked, ” Dude! What was it like? Where did you go?”

Brad turned and said in a voice that was struggling to sound like an uninterested human, “I didn’t go anywhere, Dwayne. It’s all a trick … You know, an illusion.”

Apparently too excited to notice the change in his friend’s mannerisms, Dwayne said, “Leave it up to you to put the dampers on something cool, Brad. I wish she would have picked me.”

The Brad replicant said, “I’ll bet if we come back tomorrow night, she will.”

Date Created: 10-15-2025
Date Modified: 10-25-2025

This story is featured in...

Twisted Pulp Magazine Issue #42

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Cover Model, Saucy Aussie with Photos by Jessie Pfriem

Saucy Aussie‘s photos by Jessie Pfriem appeared in Issue #42 of Twisted Pulp Magazine. One made the cover! Whoo-ya that’s some spicy magic!

🔗

Selling Laughter: Laurel and Hardy’s Forgotten Fame

Inside "Promotional Pandemonium," a book packed with rare images, film history, and merchandising gold

Written by Mark Slade

Genres: Comedy

Before memes, before YouTube—there was Laurel and Hardy. In Promotional Pandemonium, author Richard S. Greene resurrects the golden age of comedy through a dazzling archive of images, essays, and behind-the-scenes dirt.

Promotional Pandemonium! – Selling Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy to Depression-Era America Book One – The Hal Roach Studios Features by Richard S. Greene.

How many people remember Laurel and Hardy?

If you asked that question to anyone under thirty, chances are no one that age would know. Authors like Richard S. Greene is out to remedy the cultural divide. Greene has gifted the public a treasure trove of information on the legendary comic duo.

There’s a profusion of photos, lobby card art, posters, advertising for different products, behind the scenes images from their features, etc. so much information, it’s overwhelming, in a good way. Along the way, Greene also clears up some misgivings about Laurel and Hardy’s relationship. Apparently, they got along swimmingly. It was Hal Roach and Stan Laurel that butted heads over many things, money, production of the films, scripts…you name it, they fought over it.

When it came to “Babe” (Hardy’s nickname) and Stan’s relationship, it was more than business. The two really enjoyed working together. And Hardy never minded taking a backseat to Laurel’s creativity. Laurel was a workaholic. Whereas Babe loved to play golf. Laurel definitely took control of things, had a hand in scripts, stories, costumes, how the films should be shot, and the casting. He worked closely with their writers coming up with gags.

Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy in 1939 The Flying Deuces

Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy in 1939 The Flying Deuces

In Greene’s book, we also get a film guide of sorts. He reviews each film with essays, gives behind the scenes look. He discusses the duo’s costars, directors, locations, and Roach’s approach to production. Just because Greene was a super fan of the Duo, doesn’t mean he let’s off the hook for poor quality films, or letting the audience know certain stories and gags were borrowed from previous short films.

The book is divided into sections, and each chapter is an essay on the films. My favorite part of the book is the Merchandise section. Who knew that Laurel and Hardy were one of the first celebrities to promote Nestle Crunch bar for the film “The Chump at Oxford”?

Laurel and Hardy USO — Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy

There’s photos of Laurel and Hardy salt and pepper shakers, the puzzle from Nineteen thirty-four “The Movie Moods game” with the tagline: “An Animated Game for Everybody”. There were trading cards, Postcards, Magazines, and of course the Comic books.

As wonderful and informative as Greene’s writing is, the real star of this book are the multitudes of photographs and art the Author had collected or borrowed. More than seven hundred and fifty images.

Laurel and Hardy in The Tree in a Test Tube

Laurel and Hardy in Babes in Toyland 1934 — Laurel and Hardy in The Tree in a Test Tube

Believe or not, this four hundred page book is only volume one. As Greene promises throughout the book, volume two will focus more on the Dou’s short films and comic books. It’s an astounding bit of nostalgia collected in a precise factual account of one of comedy’s greatest teams. A piece of American cinematic history that should not be forgotten, and hopefully, and in thanks to Richard S. Greene, Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy won’t be lost to coming generations.

Date Created: 10-17-2025
Date Modified: 10-21-2025

This article has been featured in...

Twisted Pulp Magazine Issue #42

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The Stuff of Legend

A Short Story Written by Andy Rausch

Genres: Action, Crime, Dark Comedy, Hardboiled, Irreverent, Noir

Orlando leads a double life, a mild-mannered teacher by day and a ruthless hitman by night.

Orlando was half asleep and maneuvering through the darkness when he felt the soft, gooey dog shit squish between his toes. “Jesus Christ!” he shouted louder than he should have, trying to hop to the light switch at the end of the hall with his sticky foot raised to avoid further soiling the carpet.

As 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.”

Dierdre frowned. Orlando wrapped his arms around her. He’d never wanted the Scottish terrier to move into his apartment, but he had wanted Dierdre, its owner, to move in, and one thing his marriage to Maralys had taught him was that working relationships were built upon a foundation of compromises. So Dax living at his place was his first compromise. As they stood in the hallway at three in the morning, holding one another, Dierdre still holding the dog shit-stained rag in hand, Orlando thought about how strange it felt to hold a woman again. After his daughter had been killed and his wife, Maralys, had left him, Orlando had felt certain he would never love again. But here he was, living with Dierdre. She was wonderful, or at least wonderful-adjacent, but the truth was, Orlando wasn’t completely certain he loved her. But he felt that he might come to love her in time. He definitely felt something, and she was breathtakingly beautiful.

Orlando went back to bed. A moment later, after Dierdre had cleaned up, she climbed in under the covers and snuggled up against him. Just as he was starting to get comfortable, Dierdre turned her face upward and whistled for Dax. Orlando pulled back, looking at her but barely seeing her. “Now I know damn well you aren’t calling that dog in here now, after what he just did on my carpet.”

She giggled again. This was Dierdre’s go-to move. She would tease Orlando or get under his skin a little and then giggle at him, irritating him. A moment later, Dax hopped his little ass up on the bed, did his mandatory three turns before finally burrowing down into the blanket between their legs.

As they lay in silence, Orlando pondered whether it was normal for a woman to get under a man’s skin—or vice-versa—so early in a good relationship. They had only been seeing each other for a little over three months. It had all been quick, and everything had felt smooth. Even the things that hadn’t been smooth had felt smooth because Orlando forced them to be that way by ignoring certain things. Had they been red flags? Was the fact that she routinely got under his skin a red flag? Probably so, but for now Orlando was just happy to have a woman to hold in his arms at night. Just being somewhat happy was still better than being terribly unhappy.

The next day was a Saturday. Orlando and Dierdre spent the morning listening to music together. He played her some Brahms and she played him some Weezer. Orlando played along, pretending to at least tolerate the pop music while feeling like he was dying a little inside, and she stared glassy-eyed at him as he played his classical music. She even appeared to be unmoved by “Hungarian Dance no. 5 in G Minor,” which was Orlando’s favorite. Just as he pretended to not completely hate Weezer, he pretended to not be annoyed by her dislike of Brahms and classical music in general.

They showered together at noon and then made love—or “like” at the very least—on the tile floor in the kitchen. Then they held each other for a while. After that, they got up and got dressed and sat on the couch reading for a couple of hours. After that they watched The Postman Always Rings Twice. It was the version with Jack Nicholson, which Orlando kind of hated. He’d enjoyed the original—the one with Lana Turner—and had enjoyed the book even more. But it was the version that was on at the moment, so he watched it.

When the film was over, Orlando leaned in to kiss Dierdre. She looked at him with big sad eyes. “Is it that time already?”

He nodded. “Time to make the doughnuts.”

They kissed a good, long kiss. Whatever faults Dierdre might have had, kissing and making love were not among them.

“When are you gonna tell me what it is you do?” she asked.

Orlando exhaled, trying to maintain his smile. “I teach. You know that.”

She gave him a look. “You’re not teaching today. It’s Saturday. You’re not even wearing your normal clothes.”

This was true. Today Orlando was wearing a blue track suit and white Nike sneakers, which were clothes he would never wear in his normal day-to-day life.

He looked down at his apparel and grinned. “You ever think maybe I’m just going to the gym to work out?”

“Really, Orlando. It’s not good to keep secrets. Not if you want our relationship to work. When are you going to share your secrets with me?”

He kissed the end of her nose. “Soon,” he said, although he wondered if that was true. Either way, he wasn’t telling her today.

He stood up. She remained sprawled out on the couch.

“What are you gonna do while I’m gone?” he asked.

She tilted her head and gave him an expression conveying boredom, “I’m gonna read some more of my book.”

“Are you still reading Bridges of Madison County?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Bridges of Madison County was Dierdre’s favorite book and she claimed to have read it eleven times. Or maybe it was twelve; Orlando didn’t care enough to remember.

He went into the extra bedroom, knelt down, and slid the brown briefcase out from beneath it. He then stood and walked back out to where Dierdre was. She looked at the briefcase. “Well, aren’t you the fancy man?” she asked.

“You know it,” Orlando said, leaning down and kissing her forehead one last time.

He stood and looked at her, her big blue eyes staring up at him. In this moment, Orlando remembered fully why he adored her. She was gorgeous. If her personality ever caught up with her looks, she’d be the stuff of legend.

“What time you gonna be home?” she asked.

“I’ll probably be back by midnight.”

“I’ll be waiting for you,” she said in a purr. “If you play your cards right, I’ll be naked.”

He chuckled. “What, are you trying to kill me? I’m an old man, Dierdre.”

“You’re not old,” she said. Then she grinned. “Not that old, anyway.”

Orlando walked down to the parked Escalade and opened the door. He climbed in, setting the briefcase in the passenger’s seat. He switched on the CD player and Boccherini started to play.

Orlando drove eight miles to the parking lot of the Super-Saver grocery store. The parking lot was about half full. Orlando spotted the stolen blue Caprice Don Vitelli’s men had left him. He then parked the Escalade, grabbed his briefcase, and went to the Caprice. He reached under the wheel well and felt around for the Hide-A-Key. Finding it, he unlocked the car and climbed in. He started the vehicle and drove across the city to a rural neighborhood near Echo Park. When he was a couple of blocks from his destination, he saw the headlights of another vehicle half a block back. He watched in his rearview, but then the vehicle parked on the side of the street and its lights went out.

Orlando drove another two blocks, hooked a right and parked along the curb in front of what looked to be an empty house. He turned and clicked the locks on the briefcase, opening it. He removed the .45 and the silencer, then screwing the silencer on to the weapon. He shut the briefcase. Then he put on his sunglasses, climbed out, and stuck the pistol down into the waistline of his sweats and began walking. He checked his watch. It was 7:36. He still had a few minutes. He walked another three blocks, encountering no one. A couple of cars passed by, but Orlando just continued walking.

It was cold as all hell. “Colder than a witch’s titty,” his father had liked to say. Certainly colder than Orlando had guessed it would be. But it was November, so he got what he deserved for not wearing a coat.

A few minutes later, he reached the fenced in-track behind the high school where Councilman Timms liked to walk each night. Orlando made his way to the gate of the high chain-link fence. He looked around the track, seeing only one man walking. The man was all the way across the track. Orlando began walking in the opposite direction the man was walking, hoping like hell it was Timms. A moment later, he and Timms approached one another. It was dark, but Orlando could see that Timms was squinting at him, likely trying to figure out why he was walking in the wrong direction. Or maybe he was just frightened by the sight of a black man out here alone in the dark.

Orlando moved to the left to clear the way for the man. They both nodded hellos as they passed one another. Once Timms had passed, Orlando stopped and pulled out the gun.

“Jerry Timms?” he asked, just to be sure.

The man stopped and turned, saying, “What? You know me?” Just as the words had left his mouth, he saw the open hole of the silencer staring at him.

This was where Orlando was supposed to say, “Angelo Vitelli says to tell you ‘shame on you,’” but Orlando saw no point in this. Timms would be dead either way and Vitelli would never know the difference. Vitelli was always asking him to say dumb shit like that to his marks, but Orlando never did it. This wasn’t the movies. This was a job and Orlando was a pro. That nonsense was beneath him.

Orlando squeezed the trigger, dropping the track suit-clad councilman. He walked towards the body, standing over it, and fired another two rounds into the man’s face. Then he stuck the pistol back into his waistline and began walking briskly back to the stolen car.

During his walk, Orlando again encountered no one.

Once he was back inside the car, he took off his sunglasses and stuck both them and the pistol into the briefcase, started the engine, and headed back to the parking lot to retrieve his own vehicle.

He was back home at the apartment complex by ten. When he pulled into the parking area behind the building, he saw that Dierdre’s Ford Fusion had moved and was now parked in a different spot than it had been when he’d left. He wondered where she’d gone. After he parked and started walking back to the apartment, he considered this. Was she cheating on him? And then, to his surprise, he realized he was actually hoping she was so he’d have a reason to get rid of her. This realization hit him suddenly and made him feel sad, so he tamped the thought back down into his the recesses of his mind so he could ignore it.

When he entered the apartment, he found Dierdre sitting on the couch where he’d left her. She wasn’t reading or listening to music. She was just sitting there staring at him with a strange expression that seemed like a mixture of confusion and disappointment.

Seeing this, he knew immediately something was wrong.

“What is it?” he asked. “You okay?

Her lips spread into a half smile; another expression he couldn’t quite read.

“Have a seat,” she said.

Unsure what the move was, Orlando sat down beside her, standing the briefcase on the floor by his leg. He would put it away later.

Dierdre eyed the case. “You put your gun in there?”

This startled Orlando and he knew his expression had to be one of shock. He tried to play it off, but found difficulty in doing so. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, I know where you go when you leave. When you’re not teaching.”

He stared at her. He would just feign ignorance and push this as far as he could to find out what she knew, or if she really knew anything at all.

“Go ahead and open the briefcase, Orlando.”

He stared at her, giving her an incredulous look like she was nuts.

He chuckled a fake chuckle. “You’re acting crazy, Dierdre.”

One of her eyebrows lifted and she gave him a defiant, challenging look. “Am I? Am I really?”

“You know you are.”

“Then go ahead and open the briefcase.”

“I will not open the briefcase,” Orlando said. “What’s in there is none of your business.”

She smiled a crooked smile. “What if I told you I followed you last week to that pawn shop where you shot that man?”

This stunned him again, but he did a better job selling it this time. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Sure, you do. I followed you to that pawn shop. I parked down the street and watched you go in. You were only there for about five minutes. Then you left. And guess what? Lo and behold, the owner of the store was found dead the next day.”

Orlando stared at her, saying nothing.

“Guess how he died, Orlando?”

Orlando knew how he died, but he said nothing. He was trying to decide what to say next.

“The guy’s name was Tommy Spinks, like the fighter. Only he was a white guy. Turns out, somebody put a couple of .45 rounds into Tommy’s head.” She had an almost cocky look in her eyes now. They then moved to the briefcase. “Now go ahead, open the case, Orlando.”

“Come on,” he said weakly.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You afraid I’ll see your .45 in there? It’s probably got a silencer, like in the movies, right?”

Orlando stared at her. “You’re acting crazy, Dierdre.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But you murder people. Probably for a living.”

He said nothing.

“What if I told you I followed you to that grocery store where you dropped off your truck?” she asked. “And what if I then told you I followed you from there out to Echo Park?”

He stared at her, knowing his face must be registering his shock, but he couldn’t help it.

“You know what I think, Orlando?” Dierdre said. “I think they’re gonna find some poor bastard dead somewhere down there in that neighborhood tomorrow. Hell, maybe they’ve already found them.” She stared into his eyes, knowing she had him. “So you gonna tell me about all this, or what?”

Orlando stared at her.

“You know what I can’t figure out?” she said. “In the movies, hitmen always use a .22, but you use a .45. So either you go against the rules or the movies have it all wrong.” She stared at him. “Which one is it?”

He sighed, seeing no use in continuing this.

“The movies got it right for once,” Orlando said. “Traditionally speaking, hitmen use .22s.”

“And you don’t,” she said.

“Right.”

She didn’t seem upset. She just made a face, considering this. Then she looked at him. “Why a .22? Isn’t that a really small weapon? Couldn’t that allow them to survive?

“Thing is, the .22 doesn’t have the power to go all the way through the head,” Orlando said. “So the thought is, the .22 slug will go into the front and then bounce around inside the skull, obliterating everything.”

She nodded. “But not you. You use a .45. Why is that?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just prefer the .45. Other than it’s tendency to occasionally jam, it’s a good weapon.”

“But it doesn’t knock around in their brain?”

Orlando said, “It gets the job done.”

He told her everything. She looked happy that he was sharing these things with her and she didn’t look at all offended or judgmental, so he told her about how he’d gotten into his line of work and about damn near every hit he’d ever carried out. The truth was that it felt good to get these things off his chest. It felt good to have a confidant.

When he finished speaking, they just sat there staring at one another.

Orlando said, “So?”

“So what?” she asked without expression.

“Where does that put us?”

She furrowed her brow. “I don’t understand.”

He took a breath so he wouldn’t rush this; so he could say what he wanted to say clearly without screwing it up. He looked into her eyes. “I’ve just told you every dirty little secret I have, Dierdre. Enough to put me in hot water for sure.” He paused and then said, “To drown me in hot water, actually.” He stared into her eyes. “So what I need to know is, does this change things with us?”

“No,” she said without hesitation.

He stared into her eyes—deep into them. “Can I trust you, Dierdre?”

She flashed him a genuine smile, showing off her bright white caps. “Of course you can.”

“Good.” He put his arms around her and pulled her close, kissing her. It was a long wet kiss, his tongue wrestling playfully with hers. Then he stood up, looking down at her for a moment, lost in ecstasy. He reached down and slid one arm under hers and the other under her ass, lifting her. He carried her to the bedroom, where they then made love. Orlando generally liked to play music when they had sex, and he would have liked to have had some light so he could see her expressions change with each thrust, but neither of them adjusted anything. They were both consumed by their lust, too wrapped up in the moment to make any adjustments.

When they were finished and Orlando had rolled off of her, Dierdre propped herself up on her elbows and said, “That all you got, old man?”

Orlando was tired, but this woke him back up. “Who the hell you calling old man?”

She giggled. “You’re the only old man here, Orlando.”

Even in his fifties, Orlando was easily temped by a challenge. Within a matter of seconds he was inside Dierdre again, making love to her. Or like. Orlando didn’t give a damn one way or the other. Whatever it was, it was good enough for the moment. Dierdre had two hard, quivering orgasms, and when Orlando climaxed he came as hard as he ever had.

He leaned down and kissed Dierdre’s forehead and said, “Old man, my ass.” They kissed and Orlando rolled off of her again. He lay on his back and Dierdre maneuvered her head, resting it on his bicep. They fell asleep almost at once.

Orlando woke up the next morning with the smell of bacon and French toast in his nostrils. He got out of the bed, still naked, and walked to the dresser where the blue robe lay folded. He slipped it on and made his way through the apartment, his bare feet padding on the soft carpet. Just before he reached the kitchen, Dax met him enthusiastically, sniffing his ankles.

When he reached the kitchen, Dierdre was standing there naked beneath her own robe. She smiled a bright smile that seemed to light up the room.

“I made you some breakfast,” she said.

“So I see,” Orlando said approvingly.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, kissing her. Once their kiss was concluded, Dierdre made them both plates. While she was doing this, Orlando poured them both orange juice. They sat down across from each other at the table.

As Orlando took his first bite of bacon, Dierdre asked, “How’d you sleep?”

“I slept well,” he said. “You wore my ass out.”

She smiled, eating some of the French toast. She looked at him with a mouthful of food and said through it, “I’ve been thinking.”

The words were simple and didn’t carry much weight, but Orlando sensed something unpleasant was coming.

“Oh?” he said.

She met his gaze with a level stare. “I’ve decided on something.”

He stared at her, waiting, trying his best to appear happy and comfortable, as if he wasn’t expecting to be hit with a bomb.

And then came the bomb.

“You and I both know that I could go to the cops,” Dierdre said. Orlando did a double take, but Dierdre held out her palm to stop him from getting excited. “Hear me out. I could go to the cops, but I’m not going to.”

He stared at her. “No?”

“No, of course not,” she said. “You and me, we’ve got a thing. At least I think we’ve got a thing. What do you think?”

She wasn’t saying it was a relationship or love, so Orlando saw no harm in agreeing. But the truth was, at this moment he was relatively certain he didn’t want to be with her any longer. However, he had painted himself into a corner. He decided to play along and see where she was going with this.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “We’ve definitely got a thing.”

She smiled happily.

“Okay then,” Dierdre said. “Here’s my deal.”

“There’s a deal?”

Dierdre smiled and nodded. “There’s always a deal.”

Orlando stared at her, waiting.

“So,” she said, “you remember me telling you about my ex-husband Ray, right?”

Orlando nodded. How could he forget? Ray had been all she’d talked about when they’d first met. She’d told him about how Ray had beaten her and couldn’t keep a job and was an alcoholic and lots of other vile fucked up shit. Ray, Orlando now saw, had been the first red flag, so it was fitting that he came up now, bringing everything full circle.

“Well, I was thinking,” she said. “You could kill Ray. You do that, and in return I keep my mouth shut.”

He stared at her, feeling anger boiling up inside. “I thought you said we had a thing,” he said irritably.

“I know, I know,” she said dismissively. “And we do have a thing, baby. We absolutely have a thing. But I don’t think I can move forward with this until Ray’s gone.”

He looked at her. “By gone you mean dead.”

“Exactly,” she said, nodding. “Once Ray’s dead and in the ground I’ll be able to move forward with my life.” She looked at him. “Our life. Together.”

Orlando just stared at her, thinking about how much he was starting to dislike her. He’d told her his secret—the one thing he’d never told anyone else—and this was how she repaid him? Hadn’t his life been hard enough? First he’d lost his little princess, Keisha, and then, on top of that, his wife had walked out on him. Despite his being a hitman, Orlando didn’t see himself as a bad man. The things he did, he did out of obligation. It was his job and a man had to eat. And if Orlando hadn’t clipped those men, someone else would have. That was the game. So why, he wondered, did all this shit have to happen to him?

“I don’t know,” Orlando said.

She looked at him hard now. “You’d better know.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “What? You’re threatening me now?”

She smiled. “Don’t be like that, baby.”

His hard eyes remained fixed on hers. “But you did just threaten me, right?”

Her smile didn’t fall away. If anything, it contorted into something almost mocking. “Take it any way you need to, baby, but I need you to do this one thing for me.”

“Just this one thing,” he repeated.

“Right. I just want you to kill Ray.”

He just stared at her.

“Ray is a shitty person,” she said.

You’re a shitty person is what he thought. But that’s not what he said. What he said was, “This is fucked up that you’re putting me in this position.”

“What’s the big deal?” she said. “It’s literally what you do for a living. It’s no different than a woman asking her mechanic boyfriend to change the oil in her car.”

Orlando stared at her. “I may kill for a living, but this is different.”

“Why?” she asked. “What makes this different?”

He thought about it. At first he couldn’t put his finger on it. He didn’t know Ray, so really Ray was no different from any of the other faceless pricks he’d put in the ground. But then he realized the key difference which was that Dierdre was blackmailing him into doing it. And for all Orlando knew, Ray might actually be a decent guy. At this point, there was no way Orlando could trust a single word Dierdre said. In his day-to-day work, Orlando could generally be certain his targets were all scumbags. But he didn’t know jack shit about Ray.

He stared at Dierdre. “How you figure I should do this?”

She lit up. “I thought we could make it look like an accident.”

“You mean me.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You said we, but it’s not we,” Orlando said. “I’m the one who’s going to be doing the work.”

She shrugged. “Tomato, tomahto.” Her flippant attitude towards Ray’s death and Orlando’s work only served to make him hate her more. And the realization that he literally hated her now startled him, but that didn’t change it from being true.

He stared at her, nodding for her to go on with her plan.

“His car’s a beat up old piece of shit,” she said. “A Honda Civic. I figure you could do something to his car, maybe cut his break line or something.”

Orlando grinned. “You got it all figured out, huh?”

She grinned a devilish grin. “I always do.”

He believed that. Dierdre was a woman who saw all the angles and knew exactly how to play them. But Orlando decided right then and there that she wasn’t going to play him. And beyond that, she had overplayed her hand.

The conversation concluded and Orlando sat at the table and looked at the newspaper. As he did, Dierdre picked up the dishes and went to the sink, running water to wash them.

A few minutes later, she was midway through the dish washing when Orlando went to the kitchen. He stepped up behind her.

Hearing him approaching, she tilted her head. “You coming to give me a hug?” she asked happily.

“You know I am,” Orlando purred.

When Dierdre turned around, she saw him standing there with the blue belt to his robe up in front of her face. Her eyes went big and Orlando forcefully wrapped it around her neck.

As he strangled her, he became enraged. “Look at what you made me do!” he growled into the bugged out eyes in her now purplish face. “I trusted you, and this is what you do?! This?!” Orlando continued to choke Dierdre a full two minutes after she had gone limp. Then, finally, he let go of the belt and let her body topple to the linoleum.

He’d never killed a woman before. Dierdre was his first. And he’d never killed anyone inside his own apartment before. Dazed and confused, Orlando stumbled back a little, leaning against the kitchen island. He stared at her dead body. He didn’t mean to speak, but the words came out anyway: “I can’t believe you, bitch,” he said. “I thought we had something here…” It was a lie and he knew it. Remembering the phrase she’d used, he said sarcastically, “A thing, right? You thought we had a thing.” Staring at her he became angry once again and said through gritted teeth, “You murderous little bitch.”

He took a deep breath to compose himself. Then he went to the bedroom and grabbed his cellphone. He sat down on the bed beside Dax, who had been sleeping. He stroked the dog’s head as he called the familiar number.

“Hey,” he said. “I need you to send Teddy and his guys over to my place.”

He listened for a minute and then said, “Yeah, my apartment.”

Another pause and Orlando answered, “Unfortunately, yes, but it wasn’t supposed to be this way. An unforeseen problem arose that needed dealt with. It couldn’t be helped.”

Once Orlando finished the conversation, he pet Dax some more. “Sorry, Dax,” he said. “Mommy’s not gonna be around anymore.” Dax didn’t seem too much affected by the news and just lay his head back down on the bed.

Date Created: 02-19-2025
Date Modified: 10-20-2025

This story is featured in...

Twisted Pulp Magazine Issue #17

Twisted Pulp Magazine Issue #42

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A Dead Ringer for A Black Fox Part Three

A Short Story Written by Brian Warf

Genres: Ghosts and Hauntings, Gothic, Supernatural

Unearthly visitations—first from the ghost of Henry Blankenship, then from the spirits of six children, unable to leave the cursed estate. Though he attempts to dismiss the encounters as hallucinations, the horrifying truth begins to unravel when the black fox—his strange and persistent companion—leads him into the fog-laden cellar.

New to the story? Click here for part 1.

All of them took a step closer to me as if I did not hear. Though, hear them I did.

“We have no bells to ring,” they said again and stepped closer.

They 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.

By the first week of February, sun shone brightly for a few days and warmed the ground considerably. On the last morning of that sunny spell, the sun went away in the afternoon and was replaced by storm clouds. It rained hard for the rest of the day and did not let up until just after sundown. A very thick fog then hung about the place as would an uninvited guest.

I slept until my restful slumber was interrupted sometime in the night, for I did not bother to look at the face of my G. Wellington pocket timepiece. The disturbance began with a series of low, guttural growls that I remember hearing as I dreamt, though, I do not recall the dream. The sound began to get louder. A creak on a loose step of the stairs stirred me fully awake, for I knew it to be a step around the middle of the staircase. The origin of the growling was getting closer to the bedroom door.

I sat up in bed, sleepy eyes now wide with anticipation. I stood quietly, eased across the room, and picked up a candleholder with a burning candle standing upright in its middle. I also grasped onto a poker before I made my way to the bedroom door and I noticed that there was a faint mist in the air. Looking down, I watched as a fog rolled in through the crack at the bottom of the door. I, of course, had opened no doors on the first floor, so I wondered how fog, as well as the growling culprit of whom I was sure of the identity of, could have gotten into the house.

I turned the doorknob slowly with my free hand, but pulled the door open quickly. Inadvertently, I had invited a rather thick wall of fog into the bedroom. Raising the poker high, I eased onto the landing, barely able to see the top of the staircase peeking through the fog in the circle of the candle’s light.

“Ho there!” I cried out. It was a warning call to my rather frequent outside visitor, the black fox, for I was sure it was he that growled inside the house. On the edge of the landing I peered down the foggy staircase.

Halfway down, two red eyes glinted, catching the light of my candle in its gaze. I could make out a dark muzzle under the eyes. It was indeed the black fox. It lowered its head but kept its eyes locked on mine. It made another sound, but it was not a guttural growl as before, it was instead more of a shy yelp. It turned its head back toward the bottom floor, then it looked at me once more. Call me a madman if you like, but I do believe it wanted me to follow just as a dog would. The fox turned and trotted back down the stairs, disappearing into the fog. Cautiously, I followed.

On the first floor landing I looked around for the black fox. I saw that the fog was not as thick to my right in the parlor, but to my left, the way of the kitchen, the fog was so invasive that I could only see perhaps three feet in front of me. Near the floor, the bushy, black tail of the fox swished from one side to the other before it was swallowed up by the roiling, white mist.

I followed the fox into the fog-filled kitchen and felt a great cold, continuous draft to my left where the door to the cellar stood. I felt for that door in the murky darkness. I felt nothing inside the door frame until I moved my hand to the far right and it was there that I felt the door. It was wide open. I had noticed before that the latch on the door was old, barely hanging in its place. Replacing it seemed to be something that Mister Blankenship never bothered with. If need be, a small child could easily have pulled it open from the kitchen side or pushed it open from the cellar side.

I understood then that the black fox had likely come up from the cellar to push the door open with his muzzle or front paws. What I did not understand was how the fox came to be in the cellar in the first place.

I held the candle up high through the cloudy, dark space of the door frame and stepped into it. Down the stairs I again saw the swaying black tail of the fox before it was swallowed up by the fog-laden cellar. With each step I took down those murky stairs I could feel that the air was much colder than upstairs. That should not be I thought, for the air outside was not as cold because it had warmed up considerably several days prior and the warmer air had brought with it much rain. Hence, the fog outside. I wondered why the cellar air was so much colder even than the air outside. I knew then that there had to be a hole somewhere to the outside, yet a hole would explain the fog, but not the damnable cold.

I held the candle before me and there came over me a great sense of fear. Though Mister Duncil had shown me the cellar on my day of arrival, I had not left the bottom of the stairs. The only real instruction I was given about this vast space was that I was not to touch Blankenship’s wine collection in the racks along the wall. In fact, he said it would be best if I stayed out of the cellar entirely. The wine was the sole property of the state he’d said. I thought it rather stingy myself that I could not have even one bottle, but as I stated earlier, I am not much for drink. I thought about the positioning of that wine rack and remembered where it stood as I blindly navigated my way through that fog-muddled space.

All around me were crates of various sizes as well as tall and cobby pieces of furniture. It was as quiet as a tomb save for the soft falls of my bare feet. The deeper I went, the air grew colder. I was about halfway through the cellar when I saw the swish of the black fox’s tail cutting through the fog only a few feet before me. I proceeded another few steps until I came to a halt once more upon hearing the sound of digging.

‘Twas the sound perhaps a dog would make upon digging into the ground for a favored bone and as I saw a dark form low to the floor, I knew it to be the black fox. It paid me no mind at first as it continued to dig. I noticed to my left a foxhole dug in the floor that went under the stone wall of the cellar through to the outside. That explained how both the fog and the fox came to be inside.

I swung the candle around and as I shifted my footing, I stepped on something cold and hard, and yet brittle, for it snapped under my weight. I looked down and saw what looked to be two small, thin tree limbs sticking up from the earthen floor. One was mostly straight whilst the one I surmised I stepped on was leaning somewhat with the top half broken and drooping.

Strange it was to see two random tree limbs poking up through topsoil that never saw sunshine. Something else strange about these tree limbs was that though they were a dingy brown shade, it was evident that they were once white. I got down on one knee for a closer inspection and set the poker aside. The fox stepped out of the fog next to me with another of those tree limbs clenched between its teeth and dropped it next to me. I picked it up and eyed it closely. I then realized what I was looking at and dropped it to the floor next to the others.

“My God,” I gasped as I came to a revelation. What I’d first thought were tree limbs, or sprouts even, were actually lower skeletal arm and hand bones of human origin. Judging by their small sizes, they looked to be the partial remains of children. In shock, I stood up.

So stunned I was to see such a gruesome sight, I nearly dropped the candleholder. I gripped it tighter as my hands shook profusely. I know not how long I stood there, but I did notice that the black fox had disappeared amid the fog. I heard it rustling around again and as I stepped toward the sound, I nearly stumbled over a bump in the floor. I looked down and saw a dirt mound in the shape of a small grave. Four small, skeletal fingers were sticking up from it.

I moved with the candle and saw four more mounds in the dirt floor very close together. Two of them were partially dug up and again I saw small, skeletal arms that were erect. The last mound nearly made me lose my balance, for it was uncovered profusely. There, lying in that shallow hole was a small, dirt-filled skull, neck bones, and scantily clad rib cage of a child. I then turned and vomited on that dirt floor.

What atrociousness I had just discovered there amongst the fog. The fox stepped out of the mist with a child’s lower skeletal arm in its mouth. It dropped it near my feet.

“Good Lord,” I muttered. “You don’t have to show me anymore my little friend.”

I stumbled toward the steps and there stood six small figures. The ghost children it was with eyes shimmering through the fog. I just stared at this sad, otherworldly sight.

“Do you now see?” the eldest ghost of a girl asked. “We have no bells to ring.”

“Yes, I see,” I answered as a tear fell from each of my eyes.

“We have no bells to ring,” all the ghost children repeated.

I shut my eyes but for a moment and when I opened them again, they were gone.

Trembling, I made my way halfway up the stairs until I came to an abrupt halt. The ghost of Blankenship stood in my way, blocking the top step and the doorway to the kitchen. Startled to see his spirit again I was, but I was not as shocked as before. I felt great anger toward him then more than fear, for only God knew what he had done to those children I thought at the time.

“You did not answer my bell,” the ghost muttered with a pointed finger.

“Old bastard, why are you not in Hell?” I asked. “Where you should be for what you did to those children.”

Blankenship’s ghost looked aghast that I had said such a thing. Guided by my own exasperation, I suppose, I put fear aside and walked straight through him. The coldest of chills ran over my body as the ghost became part of the fog.

I never saw the black fox again. Though, I do hear him from time to time. I too never saw any of the ghosts again. However, I may see them again soon enough. I shall explain, for this is very likely my last testament here on Earth.

The next day I nearly went into town to see the sheriff, but my reservations about receiving my payment in full kept me in that house. I covered the hole under the cellar’s wall but left everything else alone. Still shaken, I neglected my duties for several days and found myself searching the whole house like a madman for anymore morbid surprises.

In the library, behind a top shelf dictionary and a world encyclopedia, I found a nearly seamless, square, covered hole in the wall. A small chamber it was and in it was a book on devil worship, a book on witchcraft, and two journals. The latter journal was empty, and it is the one in which I have written down my own musings. I swear every word is true to the best of my knowledge and conveys my honest opinion.

I was never one to scribble my thoughts in a journal, but the things I’ve experienced as of late and the things I saw in Blankenship’s hidden journal have compelled me. There were drawings and diagrams, descriptions of torture, and a macabre form of bloodletting involving taken children. Blankenship and certain others of this town, others with money and power, I do believe that they drank the blood of these children in the throes of terror as their young adrenaline was rich to achieve a vigorous inebriation. Such a ghastly practice described in crude sketches and text that sickens me to the last. I believe that the six children in Blankenship’s cellar, and possibly more in other parts of the county, were drugged and buried alive.

I remembered what Archibald had said on the first day that I met him: “If they should find out I’ve said something to you, they could –… Black foxes are a rare sight. They are a sign of witchery and bad things to come… This house and its grounds are cursed.”

I waited until the first day of spring to reveal what I’d found, first to Mister Duncil just after I received in hand the rest of my payment. Feigning shock he did as he accompanied me to the sheriff, who I came to find that along with Duncil and prominent members of the community, allegedly himself participated in Blankenship’s satanic, ritualistic fantasies.

In secret, I was held captive for several days and told to write what I wanted in this journal, for no one else would ever see it or believe it. I’d already started from the beginning and so I continued.

I came to find that Blankenship had not died of natural old age, he had become a loose-tongued babbler at social gatherings and had to be silenced. Poisoned he was, but his wish to have a bell above his grave went fulfilled. I presume the poison ultimately failed and he awoke to ring his bell as he was dying of suffocation or starvation or freezing in his coffin.

Ironically, I have ended up similarly as Blankenship. Though, I was told that I am in a blank grave in the middle of nowhere. Cruelly, they have stood me up in a pine box with a crudely cut board to hold me in place and to serve as a desk and barrier should I drop my journal. I have been given an ink bottle and a quill. There is a hole in the coffin above my head and it goes clear to the surface of the ground through an iron pipe. I now write these words only by a bit of sunlight. For an extra jab of cruelty, they have placed above my grave a bell with the clapper removed and a pull rope coming down to me. If I pull on it, rather than tootles, the bell only makes teasing, clicking sounds that I can barely hear.

As I said, I can hear the black fox from time to time. He comes sniffing at my grave and tries to make the bell ring. I imagine that he is confused as to why he cannot. I haven’t much strength left. These will be the last words I write on the matter in the hopes that someday they will be found along with my remains. Thus, these will be the last words that I know. The Bible says that we are here but for a fleeting moment, or something along those lines. ‘Tis a dark world in which we live.

Date Created: 10-17-2025
Date Modified: 10-27-2025