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  When he didn’t immediately collapse in a wave of dizziness, Raines headed across the room with a slow, shambling gait. He managed to reach the doorway of the room without too much trouble and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Only then did he turn on the light.

  Excruciating pain surged through his eyes and into his brain.

  Instinctively, Raines squeezed his eyes shut and smashed his fist through two of the three fluorescent bulbs that provided lighting inside the room.

  In the dimmer light, the pain slowly faded.

  When he felt he could stand it, Raines opened his eyes and looked at himself in the mirror.

  Most of his head was covered with a wide set of bandages, no doubt protecting the open wound on the side of his head where his ear used to be. His eyes seemed to reflect some of the light from the remaining fluorescent lamp and had a yellow tinge to them that told Raines he’d lost a fair share of blood. What was most disconcerting to him, however, was the fact that his skin seemed to be jaundiced as well.

  Could he have contracted some weird disease from that water as the doc had said, he wondered, staring at himself in the mirror. Is that why he felt so queasy? Or was he having some kind of anaphylactic reaction to the medications they been pumping him with while he’d been in the coma?

  He didn’t know.

  A sharp sting of pain shot through his mouth and Raines was surprised to find he had bitten his tongue without realizing it. If he kept this up, he’d never recover.

  It was time to get some rest.

  He turned off the light and opened the door to the ward. With slow, careful steps, he made his way back over to his bed. As he was getting ready to climb back up on the mattress, he noticed that errant foot sticking out from beneath the sheet covering the corpse in the bed nest to his.

  He froze where he stood for several long moments, staring at it

  Then, with a quick jerk, he pulled the sheet down further so that it covered that foot as well.

  THE END

  Learn more about the author at josephnassise.com/

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  ###

  OUTSIDE

  By Kealan Patrick Burke

  The morning bleeds a feeble light better suited to dusk.

  Early birds have forgotten worms and instead shriek their protests into the vermilion sky. Winter is gone and the grass flushes with unhindered vitality, a new emerald hue lending a freshness to this time of the season. Around Alec Martin’s garden, a still-naked ring of trees join spindly arms, engaged in some fraternity he cannot hope to understand, lost in the gentle song of morning.

  The house is quiet.

  He stands by the window, gazing out at the burgeoning morning and the odd light hanging in the air like a secret mist. In contrast, his thoughts are lucid, unobstructed for once by the chatter of the dawn people on the small radio which sits atop the counter. Silently. A flick of the switch when he first entered the kitchen, earned him nothing but white noise and a shifting, undulating wave of gibberish he was quick to mute.

  The house is quiet.

  Shadows stretch and waken and crawl towards the house from the bottom of the garden. Alec sips his coffee. It scalds his tongue. He winces. It will be a lingering hurt for the rest of the day. Much like thoughts of Maury. He touches his tongue, feels it recoil.

  He will be okay. Has to be. On a team with only one player, spirits must remain high. Peristalsis forces away the bile-like taste of betrayal and he shivers off the chill he imagines has snuck unseen around the spaces in the front door. He turns away from the display of nature and pauses, the coffee cup frozen inches from his scalded mouth. The belated image registers of something moving in the garden, something low, pale and slender emerging quickly from the trees at the bottom of the garden. Like a deer, if deer were limbless and crawled.

  Slowly, already chiding his penchant for melodrama and more than certain he is subconsciously seeking distractions to keep himself sheltered from the towering weight of anguish, he turns.

  A worm-like appendage whacks against the glass, rattling it in its frame as the pale thing flashes past the door mere inches away from his face. Jesus!

  The coffee sloshes over the rim of the cup and instinctively he holds it at arm’s length; looks down to see if his suit is ruined.

  Something thumps against the house and he looks in that direction. Silly, of course. The pine cabinets there reveal nothing. The noise has come from outside and the crippled deer driven mad with pain, for surely it can’t be anything else.

  I should take a look, he thinks with a mind braver than his body. The something, whatever it was, whatever it is, has summoned unwanted images torn from pulp magazines he used to curl up with as a child–monstrous things borne of fetid caverns yawning from the earth…Back then he used to wonder at the patience of the illustrator to cross-hatch and shade such intricate abominations. Never did he imagine something akin to those drooling, albino, skinless horrors would be skittering around outside the door to his home, searching for a way in.

  He swallows, carefully sets his cup on the counter top and dares to lean forward, his face inches from the door, widening his field of vision so that now the old barn sidles into view. It is crumbling, has been for decades. His parents’ barn. Before that, his grandparents’ barn. Martin’s only dealings with the building have been to sell the wood from it to local crafts makers seeking aged material for their candleholders and whatnot.

  He almost smiles. The white loping thing slams against the door, knocking the glass against Martin’s forehead, and he yelps in horror instead, sent pin-wheeling backward by shock and the force of the door. Through the fright, he is vaguely aware of a lipless mouth, ringed with many teeth and leaving viscous, transparent drool on the door. It smiles at him as he steadies himself against the far wall, regulates his breathing and reaches for the phone with a trembling hand.

  “Doctor Lords, please,” he breathes into the mouthpiece once the stuttering chirp of speed-dial has ended and a connection is made.

  The deep timbre which swells the line is soothing. “Martin?”

  “Doctor Lords. Thank God.”

  “Has he come back?”

  “Yes. And I’m scared. He’s frightening me. I think, on purpose.”

  “Now Martin,” the doctor chides, “I did warn you he might escape. You should be relieved he’s come back. He wasn’t engineered to be that loyal. I would think of his reappearance as miraculous, and significant of the bond between you two, wouldn’t you say?”

  Martin ponders this. Looks toward the door. The creature has moved away, leaving an orb-shaped ring of slime on the glass. The porch boards creak under its weight as it circles outside. “Why did he leave?” he says, his fingers tightening on the phone. “Why did he go in the first place?”

  The doctor sighs. “Did you two argue?”

  Silence.

  “Martin?”

  “Yes, we did. It was silly. It was about the children. I didn’t want to keep feeding them to him. I was starting to feel bad. I wanted to stop. He told me I had no choice but to feed him or he’d find them himself and did I think he wouldn’t be noticed wandering around the neighborhood. So he broke the basement window somehow and crawled out. I was glad at first. Relieved. I thought it would be much easier without him. Without having to look after him.”

  “But it wasn’t, was it?” the doctor asked.

  “No. I missed him.” A shaky sigh. “Still do.”

  There is a smile in Doctor Lords’ voice. “Then let him in, Martin. You were meant to be together. Don’t deny your feelings and don’t let silly little arguments get in the way of your happiness.”

  Martin nods and hangs up. A scratch at the door. He turns and cataract-clouded eyes beseech him through the glass. A tentacle squeaks against the panes. Martin’s eyes fill with tears. He notices a pink ribbon, with blotches of red, trails from the corner of the t
hing’s mouth but it matters little.

  He rushes to the door and throws it wide.

  White eyes look up in adoration.

  “I missed you, Maury,” Martin says as his lover slides into the kitchen.

  THE END

  Learn more about the author at www.kealanpatrickburke.com

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  ###

  THE SUNSEEKER

  By Simon Wood

  I don’t think a man who has watched the sun going down could walk away and commit a murder.

  —Laurens van der Post

  It had started with the Whistler. He had changed Paul Thompson’s life irrevocably but it was Thompson’s life to do with as he pleased and he was doing just that. Thompson knelt on the beach waiting for the sun to rise, reflecting on the events of the last two days.

  He had been an award-winning architect. He had dazzled the world with his visions, made stunning by his use of natural light. He had been the creator of the Glacier casino, a glass iceberg jutting out of the Nevada desert. He had been a lot of things but that life was been behind him now.

  It all came down to one action. If he had not left his home Friday night to buy the champagne, he would not be on the beach right now.

  Thompson had clinched the commission for his latest project. As a reward, he wanted to select the champagne for the celebration he was planning for his project team. Back from the presentation, he was glad to be home indulging himself in his favorite activity, watching the sunset. After four long days in a stuffy boardroom with its bleached complexion from too many fluorescent tubes, he was ready for the natural spectacle.

  His beachfront property north of San Francisco, the Conservatory, was aptly designed for watching the sun with its large expanses of glass. The bay window stretched from one side of the property to the other providing an unhindered panoramic view of the ocean and the sky. The roof to the room was also glass so he could track the sun’s progress from high in the sky until it melted into the horizon.

  Heat radiated down from the sun and he felt his flesh tingle from its touch. He watched the sun change colors as it dissolved into the blue waters. He drank slowly from his wineglass in time with the disappearing sun. He had one more chore before his day was over.

  Thompson entered Grapevine Wine Importers where he was a regular customer. He ordered two cases of Moet & Chandon for his team and bought a Californian Chardonnay and an Italian Merlot for himself. He left the store with his two bottles; the champagne would be delivered. He made his way back to his car, on a side street away from thieves and meter maids.

  The whistling was loud. The Whistler was talented; the music carried easily on the night air. This was not whistling that could be produced by just anyone. This was music and the whistle was an instrument no different from a flute or piano. What was startling about the music was that no one whistled that well.

  The architect recognized the music as either classical or an operatic aria, he had heard it before but he was unable to put a name to it. It was not that the sound failed to do justice to the score but that his musical knowledge was lacking. All those who heard the Whistler broke their conversations to listen to the crystal-clear music.

  As beautiful as the music sounded, its menacing nature unnerved the architect. His every step was shadowed by it. Every time he changed streets on his journey he saw fewer and fewer people but the music continued to pursue, as did the Whistler. He looked to locate the Whistler but never found the source of the music. The music intensified in harmony and clarity with each street, ricocheting off the walls of the imposing buildings like a pinball. The proximity of the sound closed upon him with every step. He turned onto the deserted street a little way from the alley where his car stood. He increased the pace of his walk; the whistling matched it and exceeded it.

  The chilling music was on top of Thompson. He felt the expelled air from the Whistler on his neck. He turned into the alley and looked over his shoulder, frightened. The instant he turned, the whistling stopped and no one was there. Where had the minstrel gone? He continued to move in the direction of his car while frantically searching for the Whistler.

  “Did you like it?” a voice said.

  It was a man’s voice. His speech was calm and level; there seemed to be a smile contained within it. His tone was relaxing and had a hypnotic quality that put Thompson at ease. The voice felt like a comforting arm had been placed around him.

  Thompson walked slap-bang into a stranger standing in the alley. He dropped the bag with the bottles of wine in it. They exploded on the concrete surface between the two men and a stain spread across the paper bag. Droplets passed through the porous material and a puddle formed under the men’s feet.

  “Shit! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. Are you okay?” Thompson said.

  “Did you like it?” the stranger said again, in the same mild manner.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Did you like the music?”

  This guy scared him and his stomach made a complete revolution. He could not see his face although he stood right in front of him. Shadows cloaked the stranger’s face in darkness, although moonlight reflected off his Porsche parked further down the alley. The Whistler was the only obstacle between him and his means of escape.

  “The music? It was very good. You certainly have talent. Well, if you will excuse me I have to get home.”

  He sidestepped the Whistler and tried not to look as if their meeting had panicked him. He made careful, deliberate steps towards his car. To the Whistler he walked like he was about to shit himself or already had.

  “What about your package?”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Don’t you think it’s thoughtless to leave this broken glass where someone could cut themselves? You might even puncture your tires when you drive out of here. You could put it in this dumpster.”

  Thompson stopped. He had been walking away from the man the entire time they spoke. He had not even turned to look at him while they talked. Now he was trapped in no-man’s land, he had gone over the top and he was halfway between the safety of his car and the malevolent Whistler. He turned around.

  Thompson walked back to his spoiled purchases that had leaked out into the alley. His walk was a little more relaxed than earlier but he was still fearful of this man. He bent down to pick up the expensive mess. He lifted the paper bag but the sodden fibers tore, exposing the broken bottles. He cursed the inconvenience.

  He did not see the fist. The downward blow struck him on the side of the head. The force of the impact instantly disoriented him and an explosion went off inside his head. His brain shook inside his skull like snowflakes in a snow dome. He fell forward onto his hands and a lightning bolt of pain shot up his right arm. He had stuck his hand into the jagged glass. It sliced open his palm and blood poured from the gash. The blood mixed with the spilt wine, making an unpalatable cocktail for most beings. He was hoisted into the air and slammed against the side of the dumpster, which rang out like Big Ben striking the hour.

  “Take my wallet but don’t hurt me!”

  “I don’t want your money! I want something more valuable than money.”

  Pinned down, the air squeezed from his lungs, the Whistler’s face came into view. His eyes were ablaze; it looked as if every blood vessel had exploded at once. The irises were encircled in a ring of red. His lips were drawn back in a vicious snarl that exposed a deadly array of teeth that were misshapen and far too big for his head. The incisors and canines were stained yellow and brown like those of a three-pack-a-day smoker. His cruel smile looked as destructive as the broken glass that had torn through his hand.

  The hungry mouth bit down on Thompson’s neck. The distorted teeth tore through his flesh, penetrating tissue, bursting veins and rupturing arteries. Thompson’s body hemorrhaged; blood gushed forth and the Whistler drank from the massive laceration.

  The pain
from the wound was intense, overruling the injury to his hand and the concussion. Mercifully, Thompson’s injuries were swiftly anesthetized by the bite and he became disconnected from his body. He felt his neck twitch where the blood pumped from the severed arteries. He sensed the Whistler licking the wound, sucking at his throat and swallowing his spilt blood. The gash in his hand ceased to bleed; there was not much blood left to bleed.

  A heavy weight hung over him. The weight was an inexorable desire to sleep. Not just his mind but his whole body wanted to sleep. It took too much effort to lie there against the dumpster—it was be easier to succumb to his longing. He felt himself sink into warm waters that soaked his body and his being. He gradually sank to the bottom of the waters, and the deeper he went the darker it became. He was no longer aware of the alley, the Whistler, his wounds, or his suffering. He was aware of nothing.

  The Whistler wiped his hand across his mouth and licked his lips. He breathed heavily from his exertion and excitement. He had sated his lust and his need for human blood, for now anyway. He stood up putting his hand inside his three-quarter-length coat and removed a packet of lemon-scented wet wipes. He took one out and wiped it over his face and neck. He liked to be clean and this was a dirty business so it paid dividends to be prepared. After all, he had been a Boy Scout once, a long time ago.

  He looked down at the crumpled heap of man and admired his handiwork. He smiled and exposed a neat array of well-tended teeth that any dentist would have been proud of. The perfect smile was only tarnished by the small amounts of blood that clogged the gaps between his teeth.

  It was time to go. He bent down to the vanquished man and checked his pockets. He removed Thompson’s wallet and looked for cash. He was not a thief but it was always a bonus if there was some cash to be had. It is not as if a vampire has a nine-to-five job. There were only 15 dollars and a lot of plastic, various gold and platinum charge cards.