Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author D.M. Slate @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

Posted on December 20, 2018 by Nina D'Arcangela

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Finders Keepers
by D.M. Slate

I found it in an alley, propped against the side an overflowing dumpster. The tarnished silver frame hinted to its age, and I was surprised by its weight as I lifted the large canvas from the ground. A macabre Victorian house in tones of gray and black evoked feelings of lonely sadness.
I was drawn to the composition.
It hung on my living room wall for nearly a week before a change caught my eye. A pair of wooden shutters on the ground floor level were now open, as impossible as that sounds. Then a few days later, drawn curtains on the second floor. Doubting my sanity, I snapped a picture of the painting with my phone.
Another week passed before I had proof.
My heart raced in panicked shock as I gaped at the portrait.
Whipping out my phone I compared the images. Sure enough, the French doors to the attic balcony were now open in the painting. Shaking my head in disbelief I rushed out of my apartment, banging frantically on my neighbor’s door.
“Margo! I need your help – hurry!”
The door swung inward and Margo peered out with a look of concern. I grabbed her by the arm, dragging her to my apartment.
“The painting keeps changing! Look…”
As I pointed with a shaky finger my breath caught in my throat, before I let out a terrified scream. There was now a woman standing on the balcony in the canvas. Her white nightgown stood out in stark contrast the dark house that she’d emerged from. She stared directly into my soul with her look of solemn melancholy.
Thrusting my phone in front of Margo’s face I showed her the proof. Her eyes grew wide and her face drained of color. Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke. “Take another picture of it, now.”
I steadied my hands and made sure the image was in focus. With a click of my finger the flash popped and the image was captured. We gawked at my phone screen, taking note of the woman.
Looking back up at the painting I froze. She was no longer there.
Goosebumps raced down my spine, and as I turned to look at Margo I saw the ghostly woman – standing right behind us.
Fiction © Copyright D.M. Slate
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from D.M. Slate:

Roots of Deceit

Fueled by the underlying currents of her daughter’s death, Gianna vows to unravel the mystery surrounding the foreboding apparition who keeps making appearances in her new home, but she’s not prepared for the grisly trail of clues that’ll unfold before her; testing not only her sanity, but her guilty conscience as well.

Zack and Gianna call on a team of paranormal investigators to start them in the right direction, and after the initial terror of the ghost’s presence begins to dull, Gianna finds herself sucked into a web of deception, lies and murder, as the ultimate questions are posed: who is the terrifying pale-faced ghost, and what does she want? As the secrets of the past reach their gnarled fingers out beyond the grave, grasping firmly onto Gianna’s soul, she starts to suspect her only neighbor, old farmer Peterson, of committing the unthinkable crime.

But finding evidence to prove a twenty-three year old murder is more difficult than Gianna anticipated, and when the ghost gets tired of waiting, she takes matters into her own hands; at which time the distinction between the two women begins to blur…

Available on Amazon!

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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Fear, by Mark Steinwachs, member of @PenoftheDamned @AuthorMarkStein #horror #flash #fiction

Posted on December 19, 2018 by Nina D'Arcangela

Fear

Tilting my head back I undo the clasp of the invisible collar around my neck. I feel two sets of long, sharp nails remove themselves from the skin of my shoulders and upper back. Bringing my arm over my head I clasp the collar shut and hang it on my bedpost as I do every night.

I run my hands along my neck. There are no physical marks on me. Nothing my friends or family would ever see, but I know they’re there. Twenty nail marks etched into my skin that will not heal for another night, and bruises from the weight of the creatures tugging at my collar.

I turn around and face them. They stand side by side, ebony beings who stare down at me. They look emaciated, their rib cages protruding. They have long, sinewy arms and legs; I shudder knowing I will feel the creatures pierce me again when I wake up. Their faces are dominated by sets of razor sharp teeth that drip with inky saliva whenever they open their mouths. I’ve yet to feel their bite, though I often wonder what would happen if I did.

Fear opens his mouth and his pointed tongue snakes out. I shiver but meet his gaze. I know he is Fear by the only color on his body, amber orbs that are his eyes. I’ve stared him down many a night.

I look to Doubt, his gold eyes glow in the darkened room. He brings his hands up and sneers. He dug deep into me all day and is gloating about it.

Neither emit a sound, the silent monsters who haunt me. They have been with me for years. Gnawing at my being every day, growing inside me until they forced themselves out. Everyone has these creatures in them, but mine reign over me. Control me.

I am not alone. There are others whose demons are just as powerful. There are no support groups, no doctors who can heal us. We are broken. What I’ve learned about mine, I’ve learned on my own.

They look down at me, watching. They are weaker at night when I am alone with my door closed to the world. But they know I cannot leave these four walls without them. They grow stronger each day. They rule in the outside world, but in mine, my room, I can stand up to them. Keep them at bay while I sleep. Dreams are my only safe place.

I walk to the side of my bed, their eyes never leaving my body. They turn in unison, standing guard as I slip under the covers. I turn off the lamp and my last vision is of their bedside vigil.

***

My eyes open to a new day. Fear and Doubt stand exactly as I left them. I push myself out of bed and they flex their taut muscles, their claws extending. I know what must be done. My body trembles inside. Each day I lose more of myself, but I cannot stop it. I reach for my collar and put it around my neck. I turn away, offering myself to them as I clasp it shut.

Closing my eyes I wait to feel them. Ten nails pierce my skin, what little healing happened overnight is erased.

Fear.

He pushes in deeper, tendrils snaking inside my body. As more of him enters me his body shrinks. He is no longer standing over me but now attached to me. Feeding from me. I inhale sharply, choking, as my collar is pulled to one side from his weight.

Waiting. One breath. Two breaths.

Doubt.

He stabs at me. Ten wounds at once. He is swift. Brutal. Taking hold. I gasp and grab the corner of my dresser so I don’t fall over. His tongue flicks my ear as I straighten myself.

They settle in as I open my bedroom door, ready to face the world.

***

Shutting the door to my bedroom I lean against it. I can’t face another day of school, the humiliation, the bullying. I’m done. I can’t fight anymore. I realize there is only one thing left for me. I finally understand what to do. No longer doubting myself, I will give in. I smile, it will all be over soon.

Pushing myself away from the door, my heart races. The weight shifts along my neck as my collar pulls against me when Doubt’s feet hit the ground. His body comes free and I feel his presence behind me.

I turn to face him. He is losing substance, shimmering in my vision.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper through clenched teeth, tears streaming down my face. I slide my hand under my shirt, feeling along my shoulder blade. Once again I smile. Just as I thought, his wounds are gone.

He steps forward and gently lays his hands over mine. Our eyes stay locked. He has been a part of me for so long. His tongue slips out and he kisses my tears away. Then he is gone.

My heart thumps against my chest. Unclasping my collar, I pull it around in front of me. I wait. His finger traces my body as he steps in front of me.

Fear.

My body is shaking but I don’t move. I am no longer crying. My hands quiver, fumbling with the clasp that binds Fear to the collar. Patiently he stands in front of me. I release the clasp and drop the collar to the floor. Fear smiles. It is grotesque and beautiful.

His hands roam over my body, feeling flesh he never has before. He grows as we stand together. Every inch of me is now his. There is only one thing left.

He opens his mouth.

My heart races as I close my eyes. A hundred spikes of pain shoot through me. I scream out in agony and fall to the floor, instinctively curling into the fetal position, rocking.

The door bursts open behind me. I hear my mom yelling asking if I’m all right. I know she is only a few feet from me, but she sounds so far away.

***

I’ve lost count of days, maybe it’s been years. I hear everything that is being said, but my body never responds. I’m trapped. My only reaction is to sob when they give me medication to relax. No one knows why I cry. They don’t understand they are tears of joy for being free.

Inevitably I feel my body slowly twisting into position as the drugs wear off. My tears stop. Those few hours of peace are gone. Once again I return to the hell in which I reside.

Fear is waiting for me.

My body enters his.

I am home.

~ Mark Steinwachs

© Copyright 2018 Mark Steinwachs. All Rights Reserved.

Please visit PenoftheDamned.com for more free horror!

Posted in Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Pen of the Damned | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Swept Away by Nina D’Arcangela, originally published on @PenoftheDamned @Sotet_Angyal

Posted on December 19, 2018 by Nina D'Arcangela

Here is a piece I wrote a couple years back. While it isn’t straight-up horror, it is a bit… deadly? Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Swept Away

Dwindling twilight; a summer breeze. He hands her a chilled glass of wine. She smiles, thanks him, sips the dry fruity liquid and blushes. He returns the smile, sips from his own glass and looks out over the lapping water of the bay. Taking her hand, her leads her down the steps, across the patio and opens the gate leading to the surf. Slipping off her shoes, she steps through the gate and onto the cooling sand. He follows. Hand in hand they stroll to the water’s edge. Leaning down, he places a chaste kiss upon her forehead, her cheek, her moistened lips. They walk in silence, letting the water caress their ankles.

Rounding the tip of the inlet, the water is much more aggressive, the waves coming ashore with more force. The open ocean lies before them. They’ve always dreamed of sailing away together, escaping the drudgery of day to day life and living as nomads on the sea. They walk for what seems hours, both glasses long since drained, both sets of feet tiring of the sand. She smiles in the moonlight and nods the way they came, indicating they return home. Never one to deny her, he smiles his agreement. They turn, begin the trek back; the tide is coming in. She veers towards the gentler sand; he tightens his grip, holding her in place. She glances up, sure he has misread her cue. His face is shadowed, but seems harder, less indulgent. She tries to pull her hand free; he doesn’t allow it. He draws her further into the water; she tugs back, still believing he is playing. The moonlight slants across his face; she sees no mirth in his smile, but an ugliness she didn’t know existed. She begins to panic; he drags her toward the undertow. Being the stronger swimmer, he doesn’t fear the water at night; he relished the fight of the high tide. She swims only when the sea is calm, terrified of the unseen depths. Waves begin to crash over them; she sputters, he grins. Turning with an iron grip on her wrist, he drags her out into the inky blackness.

Eight days crawl by; he still clutches the swim trunks the police believe he was wearing the night he returned home, unable to find her. The detective sits on the opposing deck chair, tells him there is nothing more they can do. He begs, he weeps; he pleads for them to understand she would never enter the water at night alone. The detective understands, is sympathetic, but must still inform him they are declaring her lost at sea. The only item found thus far is her swimsuit that washed ashore. He identified it himself she reminds him. He is shattered, a broken man, the love of his life lost. The detective apologizes once more and excuses herself. The police presence withdraws from his home, his life, his world. He is the affluent one; there is no reason to suspect foul play. There wasn’t even a life insurance policy to question; she never had one. Playing the part of the grieving widower, he ceremoniously lays her to rest at sea; friends mourn his loss.

Three months later, he sails into port; she waits for him in the lavish bungalow they purchased on the French island of Réunion. They’ve had no contact in the months between. For two estranged lovers, it has been an eternity. They reunite; he pours each a glass of wine; she asks if there was suspicion. He tells her of his hysterics, burying his wife at sea, the long journey to reach the island. She asks again if he was suspected of having a hand in his wife’s death. He laughs as he answers that while he did indeed have exactly that – a hand in his wife’s death – they never suspected a thing. She asks how that could be. He smiles, places his wine on the table and cups her face while reassuring her the plan was flawless. Convincing her older sister to marry him, then gift him her wealth was a stroke of genius; it placed him above reproach and set them up to share a lifetime of extravagance. She’s the one he loves. The wedding; a ruse.

She smiles in return; she’s been swimming these waters for quite a while. She knows which underwater caves have air pockets, and which don’t.

~ Nina D’Arcangela

© Copyright Nina D’Arcangela. All Rights Reserved.

Please visit PenoftheDamned.com for more free fiction from our members.

Posted in Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Pen of the Damned, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

4089: Croatoan by Lydia Prime, #author at @PenoftheDamned @LydiaPrime @Sotet_Angyal

Posted on December 6, 2018 by Nina D'Arcangela

“A little space bug to cure all… Well, read a bit further and you might find out otherwise. A great tale of hope and deceit by Pen of the Damned author, Lydia Prime.”

4089: Croatoan

They thought they’d found it. The miracle ‘cure’. The final solution! I don’t know who’ll get this, but I think it should be sent… Maybe if this makes it further than myself, the next ones – they can be ready.

On March fourteenth the news reported an intergalactic breech. Something, or perhaps even someone, had crash landed somewhere in the vast Atlantic Ocean. They reported that both Americas, Europe, Africa, and even Asia were dispatching search teams. There was so much coverage, everyone was glued to TV’s, phones, watches, holographic sets; whatever could give us updates. Suddenly, on March nineteenth, everything stopped. The teams were no longer mentioned, and all we heard about were celebrity scandals and their bizarre baby naming habits. The world had ignorantly forgotten the events of the days before, just let them go. Conspiracy articles popped up here and there, but nothing concrete. Nothing that seemed…

View original post on PenoftheDamned.com (391 more words)

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When You’re Howling by Guest Author Charles Gramlich on PenoftheDamned.com @Sotet_Angyal

Posted on December 4, 2018 by Nina D'Arcangela

“A gruesome little tale of careful what you ask for by guest author, Charles Gramlich on PenoftheDamned.com“

When You’re Howling

I watched the crazy bastard staggering across the shit-colored wasteland like some post-apocalyptic bindlestiff. He gestured wildly at Heaven and Hell, screaming in some dead language. But a bandana-wrapped poke dangled from the cane over his shoulder. Maybe it held food; I was starving.

A big boulder hid me. The dude walked past. I rose up behind him, cleared my throat. He spun around, and if he’d had a gun he would have shucked it. I had one—a cheap piece of blue-steel crap from before the world went to rot. But I didn’t shoot. The man was ugly as sin. On one side. The left side of his face…squirmed. I didn’t want to look too closely. But the right side was beautiful—uncomfortably beautiful. I looked away.

“I’ll take those goodies,” I told him, gesturing at his poke.

Suddenly calm, he pulled the cane off his shoulder and tapped the bandana-wrapped bindle. “You really don’t want to see inside this,” he said. “Let me offer a cigarette instead.”

I dealt him the nastiest smile in my set. “I’ll have the cigarettes too. But first the bag.”

He shook his head. “You’ve got no reason to believe me. But I’m not here by chance. I came seeking you. To make an end. I see now, though, you deserve more time. That heart’s not quite dead yet. In this bag, there isn’t anything to eat or sell. There’s only destruction.”

I hefted my pistol. “This is real destruction. Brought the world low. Give me the fuckin’ bag.”

…read the rest on PenoftheDamned.com

 

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

Posted on December 3, 2018 by Nina D'Arcangela

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


Elixer of Life
by Asena Lourenco

As I clutched the glass in my grasp

I saw a flashback to my past

The blood of Christ, the heart of God

Reappeared right there at twelve o’clock

As clouds drifted by and tall trees swayed

In the graves, descendants laid

The elixir of life stood before me

Drained from the Holy Tree

Fiction © Copyright Asena Lourenco
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More about Asena Lourenco:

Asena Lourenco is 11 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 Tawny Kipphorn @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

Posted on December 2, 2018 by Nina D'Arcangela

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


Elysium
by Tawny Kipphorn

The withering season has fallen once more, and this lonely path along the river of tears knows well your weary tread. A reflection stares back from within the sacred chalice, the one in which your dreams have drowned. Somewhere deep within the witch’s mind resides a secret that holds the key to Zion. Engage in the consumption of her majesty’s divine offering of sanguine sangria, and you shall rest eternal in her Elysian fields.
She is likened to that of an angel, warming those whom have only known the cold. To others, she is that of a dragon, harboring a beast within that will burn any man to ash. What is done returns with a vengeance that runs deeper than the blood in your veins. So be careful of rejoicing in the pain of the antagonist, in the presence of the druidess.
She is the white witch of the wild. She is the eyes of Elysium. Take care not to dine upon the flesh of your fellow man in the literal and metaphorical as you enter the netherrealm. The words which spill forth from her lips are as honey to the bee, and cursed are those who only taste bitter vinegar. As the season of death has arrived, remember to hasten as she beckons you, for she is the keeper of Eden, and you will surely find your place in Elysium.
Fiction © Copyright Tawny Kipphorn
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from Author Tawny Kipphorn:

A Shadow of Autumn

Fall—a season as beautiful as it is foreboding. A Shadow of Autumn takes you back to childhood nostalgia while peeling away the mask to reveal things that haunt your worst nightmares. Within these pages, you’ll find the usual denizens of the holiday—demons, witches, ghosts, and bloodsuckers—along with strange and unknown creatures lurking everywhere from innocuous cornfields and pumpkin patches to basement hatches and high school dances. These fourteen tales of fall magic and Halloween horrors will keep you looking over your shoulder long after the last light of October has waned. Don’t say we didn’t warn you…

Available on Amazon! 

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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Lori R. Lopez @LoriRLopez @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction #poem #poetry

Posted on December 2, 2018 by Nina D'Arcangela

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


Them Bones
by Lori R. Lopez

A quiet gravesite in an out-of-way corner,
ventured by those who cannot accuse, with tongues
forming squawks and trills, a chatter of flight-risk
testimony — no statements or symbols a court
might accept. And them bones, them poor bones,
well, they ain’t talkin’.
Half buried, half not, arest in ill-at-peace pieces
of solemn repose. Watchful, awaiting the chance
to bare it all for one glance of an interested eye,
an inquisitive gaze with deeper thoughts than those
that chirp or buzz. And them bones,
alas, them bones ain’t walkin’.
This is where the luck ran out: this forest path
near a lonely route, an empty road too seldom used
once a town went under deep as a tomb.
An above-the-ground catacomb. The highway
tiptoes by with a rare flash of paint. And them bones,
them bones should no longer worry . . .
After stopping for a stroll in sunless Pines,
to stretch her legs at a wooded place on the side of
a lengthy trip. By luckless chance, such random fate,
she had to pick that very spot a hunter shot his gun
to claim the life of a gentle Deer. Now them bones,
them bones are in no hurry.
Can’t take a bullet back when fired. Can’t apologize
if it crashes through a wall of twigs and leaves
to break the wrong heart, punch a hole through the chest
of a pretty lady. Sad enough if he killed the Doe . . .
but the cretin heard her cry and knew. So he left —
he just left the girl to bleed!
His truck roared to life on an access lane as she
lay dead beneath manmade steps. The hiking trail
has overgrown, its park deserted yet protected land.
She fed the earth, scores of worms and beetles;
trees of nagging unsympathetic birds. The bones don’t lie,
tucked in dirt and Jimsonweed.
Every moonless night a grisly shadow must haunt
the silver band with a crimson crest. Revenge can fuel
the tamest breast to fright the wits and daylights if
a poacher she meets. Cause an accident, spook his aim
to veer and crash, bash headfirst, hood-first against a trunk.
Her bones would rattle and cheer.
Or so the legend croons down a godforsaken patch,
where a spirit roams distraught against the dusken swirl,
a soul unable to cross the brink. How many lives
will it take to appease? Though her death spared another
and a mother survived. Them bones, ah yes,
them bones abide right here.
Fiction © Copyright Lori R. Lopez
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 

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More from Lori R. Lopez:

Cornstalker

Trouble with a capital C! The tale begins when a car stops and a body is tossed into the Corn. But this is not just any crop. It is the battleground of a legendary creature who haunts fields along desolate highways, only when stalks are tall and the blood of brothers has been spilled in the soil — rising above the Corn like a burly Scarecrow.

A novelette of betrayal and retribution, “Cornstalker” pits a female truckdriver and a man with blood on his hands against a mythical beast summoned by a band of men wearing feathers and paint.

Jane is searching for her younger brother, who disappeared along a highway bordered by many ears. The last message on a sputtering cellphone had been something about a monster. So she took over his rig, coincidentally called “The Monster”, a heavy-duty black beast with a long snout, double chrome stacks and a reinforced grill. Anxiously prowling the roads of The Cornbelt, she picks up a stranger who could be dangerous. Our heroine may need to unleash her own demons to emerge from the Corn once she goes in.

First appearing in the 2014 anthology DEAD HARVEST, “Cornstalker” is part of Lori’s SPOOKTACULAR TALES collection.

Available on Amazon!

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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Poetry, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Lydia Prime @LydiaPrime @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

Posted on December 1, 2018 by Nina D'Arcangela

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Molly 
by Lydia Prime

Immobile, trapped beneath the weight of a thousand thoughts. Unable to feel my heart beat or my body move, anxiety surged through me but no cold sweat would break. Am I floating? Dreaming? I tried to scream but my lips wouldn’t move; betraying me so only a muffled hum escaped.

My chest did not rise, nor did it fall; I wasn’t breathing. The sting of tears welled up behind my eyes, finally something familiar, I welcomed the salty droplets – though they never spilled.  My cheeks never dampened and my lips, traitors still, never quivered. Arms and legs failed me, my fingers and toes felt as if they’d been sewn together as one.

This abyss, this void I must have fallen into, overwhelmed my senses. Hardly aware of my surroundings, it occurred to me I had no idea what was before me, all around me, are my eyes even open? Worse thoughts penetrated my already rampant mind, what if I’m not alone? What if it’s not just dark? If I could feel my limbs, I’m sure I would be shaking.

Without warning, a crash of light and sound. Lightening? Thunder? Where am I?! More noise followed by a blinding light; my paper prison now gone. As my eyes adjusted, I peered through the glossy barrier at the giants who grabbed for my box. The smallest of the creatures shook me up and down with the most sinister grin I’d ever seen.

“Welcome home, Molly!” It squealed before tossing me aside.

Molly? I questioned silently as I landed with a thud.

Fiction © Copyright Lydia Prime
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More about Lydia Prime:

Lydia grew up in a small, ‘Mayberry,’ sort of town, in New Jersey. She thoroughly enjoys gummy bears and laughing through the darkest depths of life. More often than not, she writes about demons and monsters, however, being a recovering addict tends to turn inner demons into fearsome foes to be fought beyond the constraints of the mind. ‘Sometimes,’ she states, ‘what’s inside, is scarier than anything reality throws at you.’

Please visit Lydia on Facebook for more info. 

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The Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Stacey Turner @Spot_Speaks @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

Posted on December 1, 2018 by Nina D'Arcangela

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Time to Die
by Stacey Turner

The bell jingled over the door, and Fifika passed through the beaded curtain to greet the new arrival. A man stood inside the shop, glancing at the merchandise. She studied his face: handsome, with a strong jaw and cheekbones, heavy eyebrows, youngish, maybe early thirties. Even with the slightly amused smile playing about his lips, he appeared dark and brooding. He raised his gaze to hers. She stared into heavily lashed, piercing blue eyes, and she felt a bolt of recognition, though she was certain she didn’t know him.
“Ah,” he said. “You must be the beautiful Madame Beauville.”
She inclined her head. “Are you here for a reading?”
When he nodded, she led him beyond the beaded curtain to her reading room, indicating he sit at the small table. She sat, anxiously smoothing the velvet table scarf. “Tarot?”
“Please.”
She took her deck from an antique hand carved box and removed the purple silk scarf in which they were wrapped. She wasn’t sure why she’d decided to use her special deck, when surely the normal Rider-Waite would have been sufficient.
“Your cards are exquisite, Madame. Is that a Tarot de Marseille?”
She regarded him coolly, trying to hide her surprise. Very few people knew the historical origins of the Tarot, let alone recognized an original deck.
“It is,” Fifika answered. “It’s a family deck, passed down through generations. My family migrated to France in the early eighteenth century. And my grand-mère brought them with her when she came to America.”
“You are true Romani then,” he mused. “So you know this specific deck was devised for cartomancy in the eighteen hundreds?”
“I do.” Again, she hid surprise. Who was this stranger?
“I will tell you something even more interesting after my reading. A simple three card spread will do.”
“As you wish.” She shuffled the cards, then handed them to him. “Please cut the deck.”
He did so, and she laid three cards face down on the table between them. As she flipped the first—Death—she explained, though she was almost certain she didn’t need to, “The first card represents your past. And though the card is Death, it doesn’t necessarily mean literal death. It can mean the end of a cycle, a change or metamorphosis.”
He laughed. “The end of a cycle. Like the Life cycle, yes?”
Unnerved, she nodded and continued. “This next card—The Hermit—represents your present. In its reversed form it often represents loneliness or isolation. Or perhaps the querist has lost their way.” She fidgeted as he let out a harsh chuckle. She was good at this; readings were in her blood, but she was having a devil of a time figuring him out.
She turned the last card—the Wheel of Fortune—and spoke, “This last card reveals your future. It speaks to the inevitability of fate, but also signals a major change or upheaval.” She raised her eyes, but he no longer sat opposite. The hair on her nape tingled, and she bit back a scream as his hands gripped her shoulders. She hadn’t sensed his movement.
“You are a true diviner, my dear, just like your grand-mère, or was it your great grand-mère? Maybe even great great. That’s a fantastic spread for a vampire. Death, loneliness, the inevitability of my fate. You are talented and beautiful.” He lowered his head and licked her cheek. “But alas, we are destined to part. Me from your company, you from your life.”
Fifika straightened her spine. “You cannot be in here, you were not invited, and you are unwelcome.”
He backed away from her and clapped his hands. She whirled off the chair and stood to face him.
“So you were taught about things which go bump in the night. Bravo to your maman. But I was invited, quite literally. The sign in your window reads, ‘Come In, We’re Open.’”
Fifika groaned inwardly. Damnit. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Maybe because she’d never really credited her grand-mère’s stories? Thought them crazy Romani stories like the rest of her family’s folklore? Now, she’d live—no, die—to regret her disbelief. Frantically, she cast her mind about for some weapon, something to fight back.
He came forward and chucked her under the chin. “Don’t even try, chérie. I could snap your neck before you so much as took a step. I’m here to fulfil a longstanding debt to your family. Sabina Beauville is the one who cursed me to my current fate and stole my Tarot de Marseille. I’m not sure which I’m angrier about, to be honest. But your death will have to suffice for both.”
“Killing me won’t make you human again. Nor will it hurt my long dead ancestress.”
“True,” the vampire answered. “But it will make me feel better.”
“I doubt it,” Fifika said. “Revenge always sounds better than it actually feels. You’ve carried this grudge for the last—what? Two hundred years? All my death will do is take away your purpose. There’s no one left to mourn me. Only you will know you had the last word.”
He considered for a moment. Then he was behind her again, pulling back her head, exposing her throat. “You’re right, gypsy. So I will modify my plan. I will turn you, and then you will spend eternity knowing I won.” He bit down on her neck, piercing the carotid artery and sucking the warm blood until she was limp. Then he bit his own wrist and forced his blood into her mouth before dropping her.
She whimpered as she hit the ground with a bone rattling thump, gagging at the coppery taste filling her mouth. He’d done the one thing worse than killing her. Her veins throbbed, and the wound on her neck itched with an agonizing intensity as her body fought to repel the curse. But she couldn’t let him win. She knew he’d hear her, even if she only had the strength to whisper. And so she did.
“Hear me, vampire. This is not a victory for you. With the strength of my ancestors and my Romani heritage flowing through me, I curse you.”
He turned from his place by the beaded curtain to gaze at her. He shook his head. “You Beauville women just don’t give up, do you? What could be worse than the fate I’m already suffering?”
She smiled. “There’s only one think I can think of worse than an eternity of life—an eternity of ennui. And so, I curse you to an infinity spent existing in no more than a fifty mile radius of your current lair.”
“Nooo!” he roared.
She wheezed out a laugh. “It is done.”
“This is not over, sorcière.” He whirled and vanished.
“Not by a long shot, asshole.” Fifika lay, staring at the ceiling contemplating the evening’s events and waiting for the hunger to begin.
Fiction © Copyright Stacey Turner
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Stacey Turner:

Morbid Metamorphosis: Terrifying Tales of Transformation

Metamorphosis occurs every day as caterpillars become sweet fluttering butterflies, tadpoles become gorgeous frog princes and chameleons become one with the beauty of nature – but you won’t find any of that here.

The transformations you’re about to witness are unnatural, sometimes gruesome and deeply psychological. They will make you question reality and take your mind places it was never meant to go.

Terrifying Tales of Transformation from Greg Chapman * Roy C. Booth & R. Thomas Riley * Terri DelCampo * Dave Gammon * Nancy Kilpatrick * Rod Marsden * Jo-Anne Russell * M.J. Preston * Stacey Turner * Tina Piney * Suzanne Robb * Franklin E. Wales * Donna Marie West * Suzie Lockhart * Cameron Trost * Daniel I. Russell * Simon Dewar * Amanda J. Spedding * Ken MacGregor * Erin Shaw * Gregory L. Norris * Nickolas Furr

Available on Amazon!

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