Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Nina D’Arcangela @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 28, 2022 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Relic
by Nina D’Arcangela

Tiny bones arranged on a bed of cotton. A single daffodil snuggled in golden glory and lavender sprigs – an offering of love and fidelity. A stone from the garden to keep her beloved grounded; Lucy’s favorite toy sacrificed so she’d never be alone. To say her tears could fill a sea would be an understatement, though today they flowed with intent as each drop was captured in a small heart-shaped vial. Once stoppered, this too was placed with care. A final relic, the band she wore the day she came home. A watershed moment in a life yet unlived. With broken heart, the young one spoke the words only an eight year old’s grief could conjure before the lid was sealed and the small box buried at the base of Great-grans favorite tree.

As they turned to walk back to the house, the ground rumbled, the clouds darkened, and the tree began to shake. Brilliant fingers of light spread below them; enchanted, the child ran back to the tree. She hugged the bark and called out to her beloved Lucy, and Lucy answered in vibrant hues of orange yellow and red. As the phoenix burst through the canopy, the young girl began to scream. Flesh melted from bone. Blood ran free to quench the earth. Flaxen strands crisped in the heat.

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More from Nina D’Arcangela:

Mental Ward: EXPERIMENTS

A dank basement, shadow filled hallways, the deep echo of a metal latch being thrown while faint screams are heard… These are the things you might experience in a place where the unspeakable happens, where conscientious action and moral turpitude turn a blind eye in the interest of advancing one’s own personal pursuits in the most deranged and unjustifiable manner. The type of place where power corrupts, and depravity runs rampant among those imbued with it. A place where the unfortunate are abandoned to the devices of those who convince themselves their actions are in the best interest of science.

Mental Ward: Experiments is a collection of ten short stories that demonstrate the worst of humanity’s ambition in the interest of ‘civilized’ advancement. Step into a world where sanity is left behind, and horror is what the doctor ordered!

Available on Amazon!

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As Fast As She Can by E.F. Schraeder Review

Posted on July 28, 2022 by Nina D'Arcangela

Anthony Avina’s review of ‘As Fast As She Can’ by E.F. Schraeder!

authoranthonyavinablog's avatarAuthor Anthony Avina

I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.

Two young women dive deeper and deeper down into a blood-soaked world of carnage as they give into their unquenchable new appetites in author E.F. Schraeder’s “As Fast As She Can”.

The Synopsis

Living in a quiet house on the outskirts of town, Ginger isn’t like

the other girls.

When she wakes up and discovers the unthinkable about her

adoptive parents, she runs away and goes on a rampage straight

to the only friend she has. Can she control what they both become?

With a violent, growing hunger and more questions than answers,

Ginger has nowhere to turn.

The Review

This was a shocking, pleasantly campy horror read! The humor and dark comedy aspects of the narrative are felt instantly, as the protagonist joke and go out for a…

View original post 1,737 more words

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Sheikha A. @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 28, 2022 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Mantis
by Sheikha A.

to giving Venus a Sun
.
They say she was hit – this is how
they warn their village – by fireball
.
that skulled out of night’s crevice,
forming first like an incision – stitch
.
less beauty of supple surfaces – new
like peach on a sprig in daylight – old
.
as wisdom tucked under a hypnotic gaze
as deep as Zuhal penetrating her nemesis.
.
The village knew what she was after:
heads of men of valour who would fall
.
onto the silk she weaved – bed of air,
dense and bottomless. She appeared
.
as butterfly: dragon-belly: malefic breeze
in their house of cards; conquests of war
.
over centuries of dipping their hands
into vortices, pulling out limp limbs:
.
comets she called her future – progeny –
that would cast her into a pool of fire
.
and her cape of regal immortality
shadowing Star. Her ambition blind
.
like ice crystallising surface of Pacific,
wild and magnetic – Zuhra riding black
.
horse – she is dignified and unfallen
in the house of her lord, seething fury
.
on men that had dared birth her future.
Her hair is a forest of tangles and knots
.
but her scent is aphrodisiac; mating
time is near. They come from Mirykh
.
on steeds of fiery hooves to leash her,
unknowing they won’t survive the night.
.
.
Fiction © Copyright Sheikha A.
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.

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More from author Sheikha A.:

Screen Shot 2019-12-17 at 10.57.17 AM.pngNyctophiliac Confessions:
Poems by Sheikha A. and Suvojit Banerjee

“The night is cold enough to inspire poetry,” says Sheikha A. in her poem, “Reading My Bones.” This is the basis of Nyctophiliac Confessions – poems that are introspective and luminal, poems that require a certain amount of silence and space to be fully formed and appreciated. Reading these poems, I imagined that they were the kind of poems that assert themselves unbidden during a bout of insomnia. (A nyctophiliac being someone who loves the night or loves darkness).

Nyctophiliac Confessions is the 17th installment of Praxis’ chapbook series and contains twenty-six poems written by two poets, Sheikha A. and Suvojit Banerjee, interspersed with abstract paintings by Robert Rhodes.

Available Here!

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The Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Marge Simon @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 27, 2022 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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The End

A Poem Redux 
by Marge Simon 

Composing his last poem, the Poet walks the beach at the end of the world. His lover lags behind, a bag over her shoulder. The ocean is a dirty brown. Waves moves sluggishly, heavy with death. He pauses, waits for his lover to catch up. She takes her time, picking up the prettiest shells which she places in the bag. She is bent nearly double with the burden, but it is her choice to follow him.

Just at sunset, the Poet and his lover come upon a cage. Hunkering down, the poet inscribes his words in the sand beside the cage. His lover covers them with the contents of her bag.

The Poet takes her hand. “We’ve done all we can. My poem, your shells, are the business of the sea. They are no longer yours or mine. Perhaps they never were. This is all there is to be said. Come, let us sleep inside this cage tonight and ponder universal enigmas.” His lover does as bidden, for she’s quite exhausted from their travels.

When sunrise comes, they awaken inside the cage, which is now locked. His lover begins screaming as the tide begins to rise. “Save us!” she implores, “open the cage!” But the Poet loves the profundity of it all. A big smile on his face, he drowns without protest.

.

Fiction © Copyright Marge Simon
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 

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More from Marge Simon:

Victims_MargeSimon

Victims
by Marge Simon and‎ Mary Turzillo

The title of this collection sets you up for the surprise of lyrical stories of victimizations with unexpected endings for the villains. Be ready to have your heart opened and cheer for perceived victims, human (made and unmade) and other life forms, victorious in the hands of these two award-winning poets. —Linda D. Addison, award-winning author, HWA Lifetime Achievement Award recipient and SFPA Grand Master.

Across histories and cultures and from Auschwitz to Babylon this book leaves you questioning who are the victims, and regardless of your conclusion you’re likely to get throat-punched. This is horror where everyone has a knife, and is ready to deliver this message: “Remember, you are always guilty. —Herb Kauderer, author of Fragments from the Book of the After-Dead.

Simon and Turzillo have only gone and startled me again. What a collection! Brutal. Beautiful. This quiver of poems strikes with the unflinching truth of persecution and oppression as seen through the lens of feminism. Prepare to come away bruised and yet strangely bolstered by Victims, a symphony of sadness orchestrated by two masters of dark poetry. —Lee Murray, Bram Stoker and Shirley Jackson Award-winner.

This is one of the braver dark poetry collections I’ve seen in a while. Horror poets generally employ victims in their work, but the focus is generally on the Evil. Turning the camera the other way is unusual, unsettling, emotionally risky, and surprisingly effective. From their stark opening take on Pygmalion, to the ending poem about the wasted life of Stateira of Persia, this powerful collection teases apart an impressive number of the threads of victimhood. Some are the usual cases, but quite a few are surprises, or reversals, or cases with unexpected layers. There is nothing repetitive about this collection. —Timons Esaias, winner of the Asimov’s Readers’ Award and the Winter Anthology Contest

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Scarlett R. Algee @ScarlettRAlgee @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 27, 2022 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Locked Room with Friend
by Scarlett R. Algee

Your landlord’s name, you think, is Henry.

He stares at the locked, battered door under the stairs to your tiny loft bedroom, scratching at a scab on his arm in a way that makes you think he’s on crank or glue or drain cleaner, something. A flake of paint wilts off the door underneath his scowl and drifts to the floor.

“You sure you want to open that?” he demands. “Gonna be full o’ rot an’ rat shit.”

No. You’re not sure. But your boyfriend lost his job at the QuikMart two days ago and he’s started pestering to move in with you, even though your sleeping space won’t fit anything that’ll hold both of you, so you nod. “I can clean it up and use the space.”

Henry grunts and scratches and says nothing, but the next day, when you get home from work, there’s a rusty key Scotch-taped to your door.

***

Your boyfriend promises to be there when you open the room, to help you clean, but that’s before one of his buddies calls. So you’re alone when you pull on gloves, strap on a mask, and fumble the key into the lock, knocking off another shower of collected paint.

Bucket. Brushes. Tile cleaner. Bleach. As you nudge the door open with your hip, you’re prepared for almost anything.

You’re not prepared to find the room occupied.

***

You don’t scream. You just suck in a lungful of stale air through your mask and cough.

A television on a teetering stand, its screen spiderwebbed by cracks. A ceiling fan, thick with dust and unmoving. A cloudy window with its drapes pulled back to drag the floor, their once deep red color faded to nearly beige by years of sun.

And a recliner, black or brown, leather flaking away and stuffing sticking out, shoved against a peeling wall.

You don’t scream because something is sitting in the recliner, looking at you from tiny black-button eyes.

“…Hungry,” it says.

***

It makes no move to attack you, or even to get up from the rotting chair. Just says again, “Hungry,” and stares quizzically at you, until you set down your cleaning supplies and go make a cheese sandwich with potato chips, because that’s all you’ve got in the kitchen.

Funny. When you were six years old you’d had a little crush on Peter Jenssen in first grade, until the teacher had loudly announced one day that boys didn’t have crushes on other boys, and the laughter had started.

You’re sure there had been words. But what you remember is going to a toy store sometime after that with your parents, and finding a blobby black and white plushie that maybe was meant to be a cartoon whale, but to you had just looked snuggly and soft and friendly.

You’d named it Clyde, and the other kids had laughed about that too, and you’d squeezed and whispered to and cried on Clyde off and on for the next eleven years.

And this thing in your spandrel recliner, it seems to shimmer out of focus when you look at it directly, transparent and indistinct; but if you look from the corner of your eye or from beneath your lashes, it solidifies, becomes black and white and bulbous. Soft-looking. Friendly.

You decide to call it Clyde, too. It doesn’t seem to mind.

***

Every day you go to work, and every night you bring back burnt pizzas and leftover breadsticks. Clyde doesn’t comment on the food, but the plates are empty every morning.

The cleaning is its own task; you’d been foolish to think a day or two would be sufficient. Three days in, the broken TV and the ceiling fan are gone, the window is halfway to clean, and you’ve ignored fifty-eight messages from your boyfriend, demanding to know what’s taking so long.

On the fourth day he shows up and breaks your nose because you haven’t answered him.

And while you’re hunched over the bathroom sink, sniveling and bleeding, he tromps for the room under the stairs and throws open the door, shouting that he’ll do it himself.

Unlike you, he screams, but it’s a short-lived noise.

The snaps of his bones, the slurps, those take longer.

***

You’ve just wrenched your nose back into line, coughing and gagging on half-clotted blood, when the door to that room creaks open.

The footfalls are soft thuds. The broad flat—hands?—that grip your shoulders aren’t plush, but almost gummy in their gentleness.

“Hurt?” Clyde says.

You straighten up, smearing gore as you wipe at your face. In the mirror, Clyde is just as you remember from being six: plush, rotund, smiling with a red open mouth.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, leaning back against him. Now you’re grateful you’d pressed Henry for that key. “I’ll be okay.”

And you ask, “Are you still hungry?”

.

Fiction © Copyright Scarlett R. Algee
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Scarlett R. Algee:

The Lift: Nine Stories of Transformation, Volume One

The hall is dark and the overhead light flickers. Sounds echo, and there’s a creaking and clanging that gets louder as you stand in the semi-dark. The elevator opens and you’re offered a ride. Step inside and ride it to the story chosen for your transformation. Don’t be afraid, for Victoria, the mysterious girl who operates The Lift, waits to guide you. Set in the same world as the award nominated audio drama, The Lift’s first written anthology features nine all new stories by fan favorite writers and special bonus content by creators Daniel Foytik and Cynthia Lowman. The collection is brought to life with beautiful illustrations by Jeanette Andromeda for each story.

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Kim Richards @Kim_Richards @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 26, 2022 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Magic Returns
by Kim Richards

The ground rumbled though it was no earthquake. The sound came from magic gathering beneath the surface of the Earth. For centuries it swirled and flowed deep below within rivers of magma. Now it answered a call…a summons from the dying world above. The surface world cried out for help.

The magic found crevices with its white-hot fingers and turned them into pathways. It pulsed and moved along them as if they were blood vessels and magic rivulets of blood.

Upon reaching the top, air cooled them into yellow tendrils which spread out across the ground, weaving their way among the grasses and over the rocks. Overhead the skies were grey. Pollution and smoke blotted out the sun and stars. Everything stunk of dry decay and now with an overtone of ozone.

The magic gathered in special places. Nodes of power from ages past. Many were marked by trees, standing alone in the fields or forests. As it came together and fed through the roots, the trunks were set ablaze. Smokeless fires climbed and consumed the limbs, often forming into faces of terrible creatures with fangs and claws.

The Earth cried out for help and Magic understood there must be a cleansing. With a thunderous clap it challenged the destroyers and lifted its lighting sword to the sky. In that instant, the beasts were loosed upon the world to devour the flesh of mankind.

.

Fiction © Copyright Kim Richards
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Alex Grehy @indigodreamers @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 26, 2022 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Frankenstein’s Angel  
by Alex Grehy

Through the generations, 

the fire of Frankenstein’s obsession,

to kindle life from death, remained 

unquenched by failure.

.

The last Doctor F, deluded as the first,

found the feather glowing at the 

bottom of the grave, below the 

noisome remains he’d unearthed for spare parts.

.

He thought it a sign, maybe a phoenix feather, 

an omen for his latest resurrection; how was he to know

that the corpse had been blessed by an angel, granting

a gift of peace and a death free of fear, so unlike her life.

ended too soon by a father who feared

the loss of her virtue more than the

damnation of his eternal soul.

.

He secured her shapely remains to the table, 

placed his apparatus, the helmet, the electrodes.

The angel’s feather, in its specimen jar, leapt, shattered the

glass, hovered, shaking, like an like an admonitory finger 

before settling between the woman’s breasts.

.

He threw the switch, regardless. A flash more divine 

than rational blinded him for a moment, then 

she stood before him, her monstrous beauty divine, 

wings of light streaming as she wordlessly regarded him.

.

Unlike the others, she did not rise confused or dismayed, 

She knew her purpose – to heal all fears, as hers

had been healed by death; her diamond eyes seeing 

a clarity of mercy, untainted by vengeance.

.

She erased his fear of being alone, 

the driving force of his existence, left him 

senseless, barely motivated to breathe.

.

The windmill sails spun wildly as she swept through

the countryside on her celestial mission. She pacified

the braying mob; eliminated their fear of the unknown,

their vile hatred dropping with their pitchforks.

.

Freedom from fear, the angel’s gift – 

released from the fear of failure, they failed,

released from the fear of hunger, they starved,

released from the fear of death, they died,

.

So did Frankenstein’s Angel bring 

a peace of sorts to the world.

.

Fiction © Copyright Alex Grehy
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Alex Grehy:

147443997_865719290883677_3441953034998826390_n

After a lifetime of writing technical non-fiction, Alex Grey is fulfilling her dream of writing poems and stories that engage the reader’s emotions. Her work has been featured by a wide range of publications including Siren’s Call, Raconteur, Bookends Review, and Toasted Cheese. One of her comic poems is also available via a worldwide network of public fiction dispensers managed by French publisher, Short Edition. Her ingredients for contentment are narrow boating, greyhounds, singing and chocolate. It is a sweet life, yet Alex’ original view of the world has led to her best friend to say ‘For someone so lovely, you’re very twisted!

Please click here to discover more!   

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Asena Lourenco @ElaLourenco @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 25, 2022 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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The Ocean’s Lie  
by Asena Lourenco

Innocent white strokes of fluff paint the sky,

As bright blue hues conceal the ancient lie,

The soft beige sand stands on top of a ruin,

And the worshipped ball of fire distracts from secrets of the moon,

As clear curls of liquid fold at the shore,

Their depths trap treasures forevermore,

But as the weather changes and life dies out,

What was lost long ago can now be found.

.

Fiction © Copyright Asena Lourenco
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.

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More about Asena Lourenco:

AsenaAsena Lourenco is 14 years old. She loves reading, playing Scottish traditional fiddle music on her violin, dancing, and martial arts as well as writing her own stories.

She would like to be a teacher and writer when she grows up. She also loves cats and babies!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author K.R. Morrison @KRMorrison2 @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 25, 2022 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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The Storyteller’s Chair
by K.R. Morrison

.

Delson’s eyes darted around as he took in the oversized nursery-rhyme characters that seemed to poke out from every turning in the path.

“This place gives me the creeps. What possessed you to stop here?”

His sister, Denee, was just as uneasy as her brother. “I dunno. It just kinda…drew me in.”

“Well, let’s draw ourselves to the exit. We have to get to the wedding reception at the winery.”

Denee shrugged. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I don’t know why I turned off here. I wonder…”

She stopped short, as did Delson. They stared at a huge concrete shoe that almost blocked the path ahead of them.

“…where the exit is…”

Delson shook his head and walked around the toe. He was about to turn to say something to his sister, but found himself alone on the path.

“Denee?”

“In here.”

With a sigh of frustration, he retraced his steps.

He stopped at the door that was built into the shoe. “Looking for the old lady and her kids?” he asked with a smirk.

“Ha! If I was the old lady, I would have moved to Montana and changed my name. Just to get away from all those kids!” Her voice sounded muffled.

A moment of silence, then “Hey! I found something!”

Delson peered in from his spot by the door. “Better not be one of her kids. That would be one weird wedding present for Jim and Jennifer.”

No sound.

“Hmmm. Losing my audience.” Delson shook his head. “Might as well go in and find her. We are going to be really late otherwise.”

He found her staring at a closed door, her eyes wide.

Delson looked from her stricken face to the door, and back. “What? So it’s a door. We have those at home.”

When she didn’t answer, he rolled his eyes and grasped the handle. “Probably the exit. I hope so anyway.”

He yanked the door open, and was highly disappointed to find himself in a dark, dusty room.

“Well, this isn’t going well,” he muttered to himself.

Denee finally spoke. “We gotta go!” There was a tremor in her voice.

“Well, I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

A dim light suddenly appeared in a corner, and the twins beheld a sight that looked completely out of place in this environment.

Huddled there was a recliner—one that had seen many years of backsides. Beside it was a dust-covered table, and on that table was a book.

Delson, who could never pass up anything readable, was immediately interested; thoughts of leaving disappeared as he picked it up. Dust fell from its cover, revealing letters wrought in gold:

A COMPENDIUM OF NURSERY RHYMES

READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

“Wow—bet this book is worth a bundle.” Delson examined it from all sides. “Wonder why it’s here, where just anyone could take off with it? And why the warning? Sheesh—they’re just nursery rhymes.”

A feeling of dread overcame his sister, and she edged toward the door. “I don’t know, and I really think we must be going.” She could barely keep from running out.

Delson ignored her. He had opened the book, and as he did so he lowered himself into the recliner.

“Not a good idea…”

Delson waved her away. “Hush. I just want a look…Hey! I found it!” He pointed at the page he had turned to. “Jack and Jill—my favorite!”

His eyes scanned the verses, and as he did so, a faraway look came into his eyes.

Then, in a poof of dust, he was gone.

Delson opened his eyes to a very strange scene. He was lying in a bed, his eyes covered with some brown substance, and the smell of vinegar was so strong as to make him gag.

He heard a voice above him.

“Jack! What happened? And where is Jill?”

“Say what?” He sat up and pulled the brown – paper – off his head.

In front of him were several odd-looking people, all wearing cone-shaped hats and what looked like elfin costumes.

He had barely taken this in when someone else burst into the room.

“I found her!” He gave Delson an ugly glare. “She’s at the bottom of the hill, and I think she’s dead!”

There was a collective gasp from everyone in the room, and all eyes turned toward Delson.

“Jack?” An older man approached Delson. “What did you do?”

Delson was about to explain things when he saw what the man had in his hands.

A rope.

“We won’t hear your excuses, Jack. First you burn the town’s one barn up with your candlestick exploits, then you eat all the plum pies. We won’t have it!”

The old guy turned to the townsfolk. “String him up!”

As he was being manhandled out the door, Delson suddenly found himself back in the dusty room, sitting in the recliner.

“Wow!” He sniffed the book. “Wonder if they packed some LSD into these pages?”

No answer.

Denee would never answer him again.

To his horror, she was splayed out at his feet, her neck broken.

At her feet was an upended pail.

Fiction © Copyright K.R. Morrison
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.

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More from Author Loren Rhoads:

Enoch’s Return (Pride’s Downfall book 4)

All hell broke loose, as demon fought saint, and undead fought mortal. Fangs and swords, fire and light, mingled in a cacophony of noise that would have awakened the dead — if they hadn’t already been in the pitch of battle.

Toby was looking forward to celebrating his 21st birthday with family and friends. However, the day is shattered by the arrival of his sister, Erica, fresh out of the juvenile detention center, where she has lived in isolation most of her life. There is something very wrong with her still; witness her biting the ear of her taxi driver and licking the blood from her lips, and the way she antagonizes everyone around her. The other thing that is very off-putting about the day is a gift he receives – a musty tent and a few iron spikes that have been lying in the ground for years. Toby faints at the sight of the “treasure,” while Erica reacts violently and runs off to who-knows-where.

While he is unconscious, Toby learns who he truly is, and of his mission.

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Melissa R. Mendelson @melissmendelson @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 24, 2022 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Lightning in The Otter Fields
by Melissa R. Mendelson

Now, let me tell you since you don’t think me crazy. Every ten years on July 8 for whatever damn reason, there will be a storm over the Otter Fields. They may predict clear skies or cloudy weather, but those weathermen do not know shit. And lightning will strike that tree in the Otter Fields. Make sure that you don’t stand in that field when it does. Some poor soul found out the hard way last year and is now nothing but a crisp remain.

Give it ten minutes, but no more than that. Another fellow waited twenty, and nothing happened. He called me a fraud, but I said he waited too damn long. Ten minutes. That’s it, and then when the lightning dies down, bury what you need to bury. Legend goes that whatever you want, you get depending on the size of what you leave there. Bury a dime, you get a shred. Bury a baseball, you get a handful. Get me drift? The larger the object, the more reward, but be warned. It’s like that old saying. Be careful what you wish for.

Larry parked his truck a short distance away from the Otter Fields. He checked his cell phone, five p.m., July 8th. The old man never said what time specifically, but it was usually after evening. He would just wait, but as he did, he looked into the backseat, at a large black bag. Freaking thing was heavy, but the man inside was no lightweight. And nobody would miss him.

“What happened to your cousin,” and he would merely shrug.

Lightning struck the tree, and the whole field lit up like a baseball game. He raised up a hand to shield his eyes and then lowered it. Not one cloud in the sky, but it didn’t matter. And he hopped out of his truck, grabbing the body out of the back. The shovel rested on the floor near it, and he grabbed that too.

He dragged the large, black bag out into the fields. He looked around, but not one soul was nearby. Still, he felt vulnerable as if something were watching him, and he quickly buried the body. “Fuck you, cousin. No one’s gonna miss you.”

Hopping back into his truck, he took off, thinking of what the old man said, “Can’t tell you how fast it works, but it works. Trust me that it does, but beware the price.”

When he got home, the power was still out. Water dripped out of the sink. No food in the fridge or cabinets. The dog stared at him in hunger, and when he tried to pet the dog, it snapped at him.

“Tomorrow will be different, friend. You wait and see.” He went to bed.

When he awoke, he felt different. He hopped out of bed and flipped the light switch up, the lights came on. The shower was hot and not cold, and when he stepped out of the bathroom, he smelled food cooking. But who was making him breakfast?

He hurried downstairs to the kitchen, a knot forming in his stomach, but it was his ex-girlfriend making him eggs. The dog was enjoying its breakfast with some bacon sticking out of the bowl. He took a seat and smiled as his ex-girlfriend placed the plate down in front of him.

“Thank you for the eggs, but what are you doing here?”

“What are you talking about, Larry?”

“We broke up. A week ago. Remember?”

“No, I don’t. Why would I do that especially when you came into all that money?”

“Money? What money?”

“The money that your cousin gave you. Have you seen him? He was supposed to come over and talk business with you.”

He almost choked on his eggs. “No, haven’t seen him.”

“You sure? He said that he met up with you yesterday, but nobody’s seen him since.”

“Haven’t a clue.”

“But you did see him yesterday, right?”

“Yeah, briefly.” He finished his eggs. “Then, he had to go.” He smiled at his own words.

“Strange.” She made herself some eggs. “You kind of look like him too.”

“What?”

“Your face. I never noticed it before until now, but you have his face.”

“No, I don’t. We don’t look anything alike.” He didn’t like how she was staring at him.

“Okay.” She turned her back on him, but even the dog glanced at him.

He hurried away from the table and moved toward the bathroom. He passed by a window, barely noticing a police car pulling into the driveway. He closed the door and turned on the lights, approaching the mirror. His cousin stared back at him.

.

Fiction © Copyright Melissa R. Mendelson
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.
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About Author Melissa R. Mendelson:

Melissa R. Mendelson is a Horror, Science-Fiction, and Dystopian Author. Her short stories have been published by Sirens Call Publications, Dark Helix Press, and Transmundane Press. She also has a variety of short stories and poetry available on Medium.

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