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Deadman’s Tome is a growing horror zine that publishes short stories and flash fiction whether it’s ghost stories, zombie invasions, bigfoot sightings, slasher sprees, bizarre fiction, classic horror literature or erotica. The darker the tale the better. If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn’t, leave a comment below as it helps the authors.

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Happy Anniversary by R. L. Schumacher

A soft breeze fluttered the curtains that hung on the open window. Legs tangled with silk sheets on the bed. Two lovers tied in passionate embrace in the darkness. Daria slinked on top. Her palms pushed down on Jake’s chest. He slid inside of her as she began to rock back and forth. The bed creaked in protest of their efforts. He looked up at her as her head cocked back, her raven hair drifting back from her face. Their eyes locked. She began to grind down on his pelvis locking them together in one continuous motion of ecstasy. The minutes passed as their passion built into their inevitable climax. Daria and Jake now spent, collapsed upon each other both exhausted but fulfilled.

Daria moved up close so to whisper into Jake’s ear.

“Happy Anniversary,” Her hot breath almost ignited Jake’s passion once more.

“I love you too.” Jake told her.

The curtains moved again without aid of the wind. Jake looked around and saw nothing but blackness all around them from their bed’s edge. Suddenly red eyes appeared in the center of the blackness. Jake went to move…It all happened at once.

A flurry of motion and panic filled the room. Powerful hands took Daria from him by and dragged her to the window. The One held her in his arms, his bleached incisors clamped down upon her throat. Blood flowed around his mouth and down her neck. She swooned in his arms and went limp. The One smiled at Jake as he rushed the window. His powerful hand slapped Jake throwing him to the ground like a rag doll. The One stood over Jake delivering his pronouncement before vanishing with Daria in his arms. He left nothing but the fluttering curtains in the darkness of night.  

“I have given this mortal love’s greatest gift! More valuable than anything you could possess. Behold, now she is immortal!”

To Jake’s ultimate horror Daria opened her eyes. Their crimson orbs focused on him. Her hungry grin exposed the fangs that protruded from her gums.



That image still burned within him ten years later. He’d spent the last decade learning how to track and kill those like the one that took her. Jake amassed much knowledge on how his adversary’s survived in the world of man. Jake became obsessed in an endless search to find him, the one that took her away.

The long nights he’d spend in crypts searching, Jake journeyed into the deepest recesses of darkness, layers devoid of all light to dispense those like the one who lay in wait for the night. He took great joy in destroying the undead fostered by the One. His retribution laid waste to many of his legions. With modern weapons, he thrust his vengeance upon all those who caused him so much pain. Jake over time had gained a lethal reputation among those he hunted.  

    The sounds of traffic filtered in through the open window. Jake sat in front of a small table. Its surface covered with the tools of the hunt. Silver bullets littered the table top as he inserted them one at a time into his favorite weapon.

As each projectile slid into its appropriate slot, he recalled his most recent kill.

The vampire’s red eyes filled with shock just as a set of perfectly placed bullet holes appeared in his forehead.

Jake smiled as he spun the chamber to the next open slot.

He saw Daria’s face from ten years ago. The woman he loved, her smile now filled with the long fangs of a predator. Her eyes changed forever crimson by the One.

Another silver slug found a home.

Daria and Jake alone in the house knew nothing of the danger that stalked them. They celebrated their wedding anniversary. He’d been happy then.

Another bullet found a home.

The chamber spun to the last open receptacle.

The One appeared from the shadows. Jake tried to move. His powerful hand hit Jake as he fell to the ground. He lay there witnessing the One’s damnation of his wife. He saw her look upon him with the hungry eyes of the dead. As they vanished together, the One’s laughter rung in his ears as the night air grew cold.

The last silver messenger found a home.

    Jake spun the bullet in the chamber gun. The silver slugs blurred from rotating then slowly came into focus as the chamber stopped. He closed the gun locking the chamber into place. Jake held the barrel of the weapon against the side of his face with one hand. A silent prayer came from his lips as the night air filled the room.

The room suddenly felt cold, the sounds from outside fell silent. Jake now on his guard, knew he had company. He scanned the small room, nothing but an old bunk bed and an old dresser. A light hung from the ceiling by a withered cord.

The experience he’d gained in hunting them these past ten years served him well. His senses tuned to a fine pitch due to his training. Jake could feel undead as they drew near. And he had modern technology at his fingertips. Jake’s free hand slid along the table until he found the infrared glasses. Slipping them quickly over his eyes changed the prospective of the room. The dimness fell away, revealing the One standing near the dresser.

Jake’s eyes recognized the One, the monster from his past. He stood there silhouetted in crimson and smiled at Jake. Jake cocked the hammer back on his weapon, its gunsight falling into perfect alignment with the crimson shadow. The Vampire’s laughter filled the room.

“I would think after all this time we would have had proper introductions.” The One offered standing in the darkness.

“Let me introduce you to the silver bullets in my gun.” Jake answered.

The One chuckled as he drew closer.

“You know I’m faster than you.”

“I’ve gotten quicker since.” Jake answered focusing on squeezing the trigger.

“But I’ve come on love’s errand.” The Vampire insisted. “Surely that will warm your heart.”

“My heart’s dead thanks to you.” Jake began to squeeze the trigger. The chamber swapped a bullet into lethal position.

“I’ve come to make amends, see.” The Vampire slowly gestured toward the door of the tiny apartment.

With no physical cue from him, the door of the room opened of its own accord. Jake’s horror nearly unraveled him as he saw Daria standing in the open doorway. She looked just as she did on their last night together; except for her eyes.

“Jake I’ve missed you. I want to come home.” Daria spoke seductively through scarlet lips.

“Ah-,” The One lamented. “She still shares the bond with you even after spending immortality with me. Even the gift cannot break what has been between you.”

The Vampire turned his attention back to Jake. His thin lips parted slightly revealing the lethal teeth within. Ivory shafts sharpened like a spear, the One’s mouth a pointed arsenal of death.

“My heart knows only what we’ve shared my darling Jake. I have waited all this time so I could return to you once more.” Daria’s words slid seductively from her lips.

“Even after all I’ve given her; she only desires to be with you.” The One’s hand gestured from Daria then toward Jake.

The hammer of the gun clicked all the way back now. Jake held his weapon firmly fixed on the One. Sweat poured down his face. His eyes darted constantly between that which he once loved, and the object of his revenge.

“I give her back to you. I have no hold on her.” The One pronounced.

“Jake it’s true; I’ve come back for you.” Daria begged.

Daria smiled, her fangs exposed, her smile identical to the One’s. Jake felt the rush of his revenge flow through him. He leered at the One, his heart filled with hatred. Then it all happened at once.

The One moved toward him. Jake unloaded his weapon. Daria burst into the room toward Jake. Jake rose from his seat as the One fell to the floor holes from the silver bullet spread out over his chest. His lethal grin forever locked on his face. Daria leaped on Jake, his weapon falling to the floor. Her arms wrapped around him. Jake turned his head just as Daria’s head leaned back, fangs exposed. Her crimson eyes fastened on his neck as she plunged down. Jake felt the darkness encompass him.


He awoke in her arms. Her hands held his face. She gazed down upon him with a mix of love and passion. They would be together again. His eyes opened, his crimson orbs reflecting back into hers. Daria’s fangs mixed with an angelic smirk. She leaned in close and whispered in his ear.

“Happy Anniversary-”   



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Deadman’s Tome Book of Horrors Anthology

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Deadman’s Tome is a growing horror zine that publishes short stories and flash fiction whether it’s ghost stories, zombie invasions, bigfoot sightings, slasher sprees, bizarre fiction, classic horror literature or erotica. The darker the tale the better. If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn’t, leave a comment below as it helps the authors.


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Life Cycle by Adam Phillips


    Mica wedged himself through the huddle of children, stepping on feet and shoving, craning to see what everyone else was looking at.  At the center of the throng was a leaf, and undulating on the leaf was a turgid, shiny brown caterpillar. Mica pushed to the front of the group, bending closer, squinting.  

    On the caterpillar’s rear end, waving in the air, was a cluster of vivid markings creating a perfectly rendered clown’s face, replete with blue eyes, bright red nose, and an arc of pink lips.  The face bobbed and swayed as if greeting them to a party.   

    “I bet nobody’s ever seen one like that,” said a girl, ogling in wonder.  

     “No one ever has,” said a boy.  “I’ve got a bug book, at home?  And that thing’s sure as hell not in there.”  

    An argument broke out as to who was going to trap it, in what, to whom they would take it to verify their discovery, and who had seen it first thus earning the right to name it-

    The children flinched as Mica lunged forward, skewering the evanescent creature on his pocket knife.  A few of the kids, groaning, crying out, began to say something, but stopped themselves.  They moved away as the boy produced a lighter from his pocket and, holding the knife to his face began to burn the writhing insect, deeply inhaling the smoke.  


    From the end of the long dirt driveway, Mica saw his dad sitting just inside the open doorway, slouched in a kitchen chair.  The boy stopped uneasily, struck with the disconcerting impression that the house and the man were deteriorating commensurately.  The moldy shingles slid off the roof leaving wet rotten-looking spots and clusters of ruptured blood vessels appeared in his father’s cheeks.  The foundation cracked and the old man limped back and forth between his chair and the refrigerator.           

    Things hadn’t always been like this.  They’d moved to Priest River for a fresh start.  His father had found work painting houses, and Mica…much to his incredulity, the other kids had liked him.  He was the novelty, the new game in town, the only city kid in the entire school.  And if he seemed to be a little different, well then it was only because they did things a little differently in Seattle.  

    He remembered, that first spring, watching a butterfly in the backyard squirm its way, wet and awkward, out of its chrysalis and thinking That’s us.  Me and dad.  

    But, within a year, all of that erumpent opportunity had been squandered.

    Both father and son had fallen back upon their customary antisocial habits.  The old man had started fighting in bars, following women home, spending nights in jail, and the boy…

    The boy had been unable to keep his true nature swallowed up, and before long his new classmates had recognized something far more unsavory than the eccentricities of the urbanite.         

    Sweating onto the dusty driveway, watching the house and the slumping man, the boy encountered another unpleasant thought.  In many ways, Mica was just like his father.  Everyone said so.  The same big ears and high forehead.  The same short arms and large hands.  The same tendency to grit his teeth and clench his fists when he got frustrated.  The same lack of self-control…

    And there sits my future, thought the boy, watching the mashed shape in the doorway.       

    Against his will, Mica incorporated himself into the vision of the decaying, collapsing house. He felt his body coming apart as beams and slabs of sheetrock crashed down all around him, the parts of the boy and the house and the parts of the father contracting into one vast festering heap.   

    Shaking the image from his mind, Mica stepped off the driveway into the woods, creeping around the side of the house.  


    Phil kept sneaking glances at his wife as she sat looking out the car window wanly, until Katy, without turning towards him, said “I see you looking at me.  Stop it.  I’m fine.  Just watch the road.”  

    “Sorry, I just…”  He leaned forward, concentrating on the endless strip of wet blacktop.  

    “I know you’re just trying to help, and I’m being difficult, but I sort of just need to let myself feel however I’m going to feel.  Okay?”


    She gave him a strained smile, and returned to the window.    

    This three thousand mile pilgrimage, Boston to northern Idaho, had been conceived a year earlier, after Phil had proposed, and Katy, shockingly, had said no.  During the aftermath, the fallout, Katy had come to realize, after counseling and much self-reflection, that she’d refused out of a reluctance to move into adulthood.  Because, in her experience of the world, adults failed at everything they attempted.  Adults lied, and beat each other up, and abused drugs.  Adults allowed their children to live in squalor until the state interceded, taking those children, shipping them hundreds of miles away to live in one negligent foster home after another…

    As soon as she had recognized the source of this anxiety, she’d begun to appreciate the pernicious toll it had exacted on her life.  Over the years she had refused promotions, continued cohabitating with shitty roommates, and most recently, nearly driven away the man she loved, all out of a subconscious fear of adulthood.  

    So she and her therapist had devised a plan.  In order to confront and conquer the demons of her childhood, the specifics of which she had suppressed and could recall only vaguely, she would spend the summer revisiting all the places she’d lived.  

    The trip would culminate with the house in the woods outside Priest River, Idaho, where she had spent the longest, and most difficult, period of her childhood.  Then, with her catharsis complete, she could return to Boston and marry Phil, begin her new job, buy a house…

    So far, the plan had been a success.  They’d visited the Minneapolis neighborhood where she’d last lived with her parents, as a six-year-old.  Stepping out of the car, facing the dilapidated apartment building, all the memories had come flooding back: the neglect, the terror of living amongst erratic  strangers, the filth and darkness…After a night spent cursing her parents and crying, she’d awoken purged, and returned to the freeway, traveling west.  

    On to a well-meaning but abusive-for-Christ aunt and uncle in Mason City, from whom she’d been taken after the school nurse had pulled up her shirt to hear a cough and gasped at the purple and yellow thatching created by her aunt’s belt.  On to a drunken grandmother in Norman, Oklahoma, who had burned down the house cooking, a foster family in Denver who, called to change the world, had taken in a half-dozen kids all at once and given them all back two weeks later…

    At every stop, Katy had broken down, vented anger, and left lighter, relieved of another burden.    

    Now, with no further stops before Priest River, no lesser emotional hurdles to focus on, she was beginning to wish they had never come.  


    Standing in the backyard, with the events of the afternoon spreading out before him, Mica felt better.  Grass twitched with the movements of insects and small animals, and the air crackled with the warm buzzing of tiny wings.  After he had memorized each detail, a living picture in his brain, he went quietly into the house, retrieving a sack of sugar from the kitchen cupboard.  His father yelled something as Mica slipped back outside.  

    He dumped the sugar into a bucket and filled the bucket with water.  Slowly, carefully, he poured the sugarwater in an arc around the back of the house, and returned to the stoop.  

    It didn’t take them long to come.  

    Mica watched the vanguard of scouts tentatively tapping at the wet grass with their antennae, freezing in disbelief before scrabbling back to their hills bearing word of the miraculous manna.  As the ants accumulated, Mica rose from the stoop, carefully hopping over the living stripe, en route to the shed.  

    He returned with a red plastic gas can and leaning close to the ground delicately poured a thin stream just inside the crawling parabola.  Then he retraced his steps, trailing gas on the other side of the roiling ants.  With the same lighter he’d used to fire up the rare caterpillar an hour earlier, he lit the twin trails.  Flames sprung, clashing and mingling like saw teeth.  He heard the small bodies popping and smelled the peppery smoke and saw the minute beads of liquid boiling up through the exoskeletons and he thought he sensed, on some sub-audible level, a chorus of high-pitched keening shrieks.  

    Tracking the frantic survivors to their hill, he widened the arterial tunnel with a stick, filled it with gas, and lit it.  Flame regurgitated in a hissing blue-white jet, singeing his eyebrows and eyelashes and bangs, chapping the skin of his face.  Looking over the scorched earth, Mica felt the poisonous cloud of anxiety that had plagued him all day at school abating, replaced by a blossom of demulcent calm blooming within his chest, radiating outward.  Returning to the shed, he traded the gas for a pair of aerosol cans he kept stashed behind his father’s painting tarps, and set off into the forest.  

    Creeping to the wasps’ nest, he fired the hair spray over the lighter’s flame to produce a blow torch, then as the crepe paper of the nest caught flame, he dropped the hair spray, switching cans to shoot pesticide at the fleeing insects so that they dropped, convulsing, their wings aflame and nervous systems burnt out, shutting down…

    Hurling themselves at the source of their pain two dozen wasps stung him, but Mica felt only a crackling of nerve endings, a surge of exhilaration within his general sense of vivacity and well-being.  

    With the nest fallen, burnt to sheets of disintegrating ash, he began to hunt piecemeal, picking through the smoldering, apocalyptic scene, stomping, crushing the frangible bodies with his hands.  

    At dusk, chapped and singed, his red flesh pocked with weeping white lumps pinching the stingers, Mica went up to his room, exhausted.  

    Healthy and happy.       


    Basking in the triumphant afterglow of the day’s work, Mica pulled the shoebox out from under the bed, and arranged his trophies on the windowsill.  

     Reverently, hands trembling with pride and excitement, he placed the praying mantis skewered with the sewing needle, its head thrown back and arms flung up in shock and agony; the carpenter ant with its head spattered in a spray and the rest of its body perfectly intact; pregnant spiders and rearing centipedes and vicious termites perpetually frozen in lacquer…

    Mica looked at this world he had created and his mind cleared peacefully.  

    If only, he had frequently thought, there were a way to make this feeling last.  To take it outside of this room, into the real world.  

    But every morning, the moment Mica stepped out the door for school, the congenital dread and shame would return, heavy and hobbling, until he made it back home to his sugar water and aerosol cans…

    Recently, Mica had experimented with raising the stakes in the hope of producing a more enduring ameliorant for his affliction.  One evening, waiting until his father had weaved upstairs to bed, Mica had taken the old man’s twenty-two out of the coat closet and waited on the back stoop until a squirrel had come chattering into the yard.  Mica shot and the squirrel’s head exploded.  Standing over the carcass…Mica had felt nothing.  Maybe a mild twinge of disgust.           

    The next day, it had occurred to Mica that perhaps the lack of satisfaction had been due to the impersonal method with which he’d gone about his business.  So he’d sat in the woods, still as a stone, for over an hour until a squirrel had come sniffing right up to the peanuts in his hand, and his other hand had descended with a fishing net.  This time, Mica had intended to get as personally, intimately involved as possible.  

    Donning a pair of heavy leather work gloves he’d squeezed the creature until things had popped inside of it and a disproportionately voluminous quantity of blood had spewed from its orifices.  Looking at the ruined ragged thing at his feet, smelling it, Mica had felt vague annoyance at its weakness, nothing else.    

    He’d been just about to abandon the experiment when that evening it had occurred to him that perhaps a more significant target would be more likely to enact the desired effect.  Squirrels, after all, were so ubiquitous that their lives didn’t have much value, and it was impossible to tell one from another.  

    Mica had taken a handful of hamburger from the fridge and gone out walking.  

    An hour later he’d returned with the black lab from the farmhouse at the edge of town.  Leading it into the shed he’d fired his father’s nailgun into the top of its skull.  Instead of dying the dog had begun to spin, staggering in a seemingly endless circle, upsetting coffee cans full of nails.  Mica had leapt onto the dog’s back and beat it to death with a shovel.  

    He’d stood over the dog, breathing heavily, pitching aside the bloody tool, waiting.  


    That night, burying the dog in the woods, Mica had officially declared animal-killing of no use to him.    

    He appreciated the wry humor in this.  How this act, the putative precursor to serial killing, the provenance of the Satan-worshipper, struck him as bland and petulant.  An impotent idiot’s childish revenge on a cruel world.  Too obvious to mean anything.  Too brutal to be evil.  

     But with the fields of insects dying at his feet…  

    That was what made Mica feel like a world maker.  World breaker.  That felt like communion with the submerged, dark elements of the universe.   After all, he thought, Satan is Lord of the Flies, not Lord of the Dogs.     

    And whereas killing a cat might get him evaluated and institutionalized, slaughtering bugs had simply made him an outcast.  The boys, realizing he was too big to bully, had ostracized him.  And the the girls…

    Mica had never gotten along with girls.  With one partial exception.  

     Getting into bed, pleasantly sated from the afternoon’s events, his thoughts turned to Skylar Garcia.

     Skylar, Mica’s desk mate due to alphabetical proximity during grades one through six, had been the ultimate champion of the underdog.  She had routinely saved scabrous stray animals and vanquished bullies, and she had befriended Mica.  

    As Mica’s fascination with dismembering insects on the schoolyard had grown more pronounced and disconcerting, while the other kids had simply forced him away, she had made it her full time business to try and stop him.  If he picked a worm out of the mud she would try to knock it from his hands.  If his lighter and aerosol can went missing, she would confess to throwing them into the canal…

    Following an incident when Mica, overwhelmed with the need to destroy, had shoved her on the ground to get at a patch of dirt crawling with doodlebugs, ashamed at his own aggression, he had screamed at her “Why do you care so much about these stupid bugs!”   

    “I don’t even care about the bugs,” she’d said, crying softly.  “I care about you.”  

    “What?  You think I want you following me around, bothering me all the time?”

    “No.  I know you don’t now.


    “It’s called karma.  Everything you do, whether it’s good or bad, is going to happen to you too.”

    This had struck him silent.  

    “You have to stop,” she’d whispered.  “Everything you do, comes back to you.  The earth, the universe, protects itself.”

    He had helped her up, walked her home.  

    And while her words that day hadn’t necessarily saved the life of a single insect or annelid or arachnid, he’d continued to hear her voice, throughout the years.  

    He heard it now, drifting off to sleep.  


    As the wheels of the car came off the cracked blacktop, crunching onto the long dirt driveway Katy suddenly grabbed Phil’s arm, looking wildly out the window as if she expected someone or something to come bursting out of the forest.  “Nope nope, turn around, not tonight.  We’ll come back tomorrow, in the daylight.”



    Mica snapped awake and sat up with the feeling that someone else was in the room with him.    “Dad…” he said softly.  It wasn’t uncommon for the old man to miss a turn en route to his own room after a long day and night of drinking beer in the doorway.  In the past, Mica had been awakened by the sound of a body hitting the floor or a cracked voice soliloquizing, or both.  He’d gotten up to piss in the night and bumped into the old man standing in the center of the room breathing heavily, staring off into God knows what.  

    But this was not his father.  In the pitch black room Mica had the impression of vast occupied space, as if the darkness had turned solid.  And as he concentrated into the silence, he could feel…not breathing, exactly, but voluminous respiration, as if all of the air in the room was being rhythmically consumed and expelled.  

    Then Mica’s eyes adjusted.  

    Millions of unctuous, vitreous glints appeared, filling the darkness.

    He heard the rustling of course hairs, the clicking of chitin.  

    And then they were upon him.

    Ants, spiders, wasps, centipedes, a roiling mass heaped floor to ceiling, breaking like a wave…

    As the flood flattened him against the bed Mica crushed them in his hands until his fingers, riddled with stingers, bitten, turgid with poison, swelled to soft fleshy appendages unable even to offer that token resistance.  They chewed away his eyelids and lips, pushed open his jaw and packed his throat so dense that the rising vomit struck their barrier and stopped, and the boy convulsed, realizing with the plucking of his flesh that he would feel himself reduced to bone before completely dying.  

    His father began to shriek downstairs.

    The window above his bed shattered, and he heard the beams above him creaking, the ceiling cracking, sheets of plaster crashing down.  

    The sky opened, with a shriek of metal and splintering wood as if the world was caving in on itself, and then he was falling.  

    Lying amongst the rubble, Mica saw that his ravaged body had broken into segments.  Everything he’d glimpsed in the nightmare daydream was coming true.

    He heard termites chewing the wood.  He heard beetles digging, and the appliances and furniture tumbling into the holes.    

    And the last thing the boy ever saw, lidless eyes pointed at the night sky, were the clouds of flies draining down to pick the flesh, and the microscopic gnats, dense in their billions, come to eat the bones.



    Phil glanced over at his wife and set his hand on her leg.  “We’re not in any hurry, you know.  There’s always tomorrow.”   

    She nodded, sighed through her nose.  “I’m doing alright.  I guess, now that we’re actually here…”  Her eyes drifted away from him, out the window to the morning sun breaking through the trees.

    She shut her eyes, willing both peaceful calm and steel resolve.  She felt the gravel of the driveway, the car slowing, stopping.  She took a final deep breath and opened her eyes…    

    Her brain floundered to grasp the impossible reality of what she saw.  

    Or rather didn’t see.  It was utterly gone.  The house, the shed.  All that remained to indicate that anyone had ever occupied this space was a clearing of dark tilled earth.  

    Phil watched his wife closely.  His hand rose to touch her, and retreated.  He opened his mouth to speak but remained silent.  Katy’s eyes stretched wide, as if by doing so she might find the missing buildings.  Deliberately, stiffly, as if moving underwater, she let herself out of the car and walked to the center of the clearing, Phil following at a slight distance.  

    Katy walked the perimeter, looking into the trees, looking at the ground.  When she turned to face him, there were tears dangling from her jawline.  “Whoever…The demolition…Look at this.  There isn’t a fucking splinter or a nail left behind…”

    “We can find out who…I know they usually take pictures before, at least…”

    “This is…”  Katy shook her head.  Her face fell apart.  “…this is so much better.”  She took Phil’s hand.  “Oh, God.”  She dug the tears away with her fingertips.  “It’s gone.  All of it’s gone.  I’m done with it.”  She laughed through the residual sobbing.  “Let’s go get married.”  

    Phil laughed, crying a little, too.  As they stood looking over the clearing, heads pressed together, several birds that had been flushed by their arrival returned to the clearing.  As they watched the birds waddling, staggering, pushing their beaks into the loam, it struck both of them that these were the fattest birds they had ever seen, nearly headless with their swollen bulk, walking with difficulty.  And the birds continued to eat well, snatching ants and centipedes up out of the mud.  

    There was something unsettling about the spectacle of the gorging birds, antithetical to the moment they’d been having, and with a light frown Katy had just turned to Phil, intending to say “Let’s get out of here, go back into town to celebrate,” when a huge rust-colored barn cat jumped from the weeds pinning a bird beneath her claws and biting into its midsection, rearing up with the bird’s intestines dangling from her jaws.  

    “…Christ…”  They backed to the car as the cat tore the bird to pieces, then leapt upon another that had been too immobile to flee the slaughter.  

    Pale, silent, they backed down the driveway, flipping onto the asphalt just as the fox slid from the weeds like liquid, ripping out the cat’s throat while the cat continued chewing.  


Become a patron today and support the online magazine!

Deadman’s Tome Book of Horrors Anthology

Deadman’s Tome Book of Horrors Pre-Order

Deadman’s Tome is a growing horror zine that publishes short stories and flash fiction whether it’s ghost stories, zombie invasions, bigfoot sightings, slasher sprees, bizarre fiction, classic horror literature or erotica. The darker the tale the better. If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn’t, leave a comment below as it helps the authors.



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Sunday Horror

Sundays are often thought of as the day of rest. A day where one should kick back and relax. So, do just that. Who cares if you’re at work. It’s a Sunday. Kick back in the backroom with a glass of rum and coke or whatever your therapeutic beverage is, and enjoy some dark and unrelenting horror.

Think you’re life sucks? Are you troubled by some evil mother issues? Well, then allow for Confession by Clive Carpenter to correct your perspective. I promise you, no matter who bad your relationship is with your mother you don’t have it nearly as bad as the guy in Confession. Still don’t believe me? Then, I must ask you, has your mother tried to kill you?

Some secrets can never be forgot, and I dare you to face the ethical dilemma in Schrodinger’s Dilemma by Dan Lee. Two brothers thought they could hide a horrible accident beneath six feet of soil, locking away a young dead girl in a locker without eve knowing whether she was alive or dead.

Whether scorned by a former lover, betrayed by a longtime friend, or a scholar of the emotions that make us human, you’ll surely enjoy the dark descent into madness in Lord Weatherby by J. D. Mraz. A descriptive horror short that serves as a reminder that wealth does not protect one from the corruptive nature of jealousy and the festering rage that comes from it.

Think that Bigfoot is just a man in a suit? Think again, Rock-a-Bye Bigfoot by Shawn M. Riddle tales of an event that dates back to the 19th century where a lone hunter discovers first hand that certain monsters should never be allowed to breed!

Dealing with the lost of a loved one? Dealing with the slow withering of a family member? Then allow The Night We Aired the House by Chris Campeau to resonate with you with a strong and powerful feeling of loss. Two brothers watch as their mother slowly succumbs to a disease that has no cure, that leaves its victims without peace at death.


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Deadman’s Tome Book of Horrors Anthology

Deadman’s Tome Book of Horrors Pre-Order

Deadman’s Tome is a growing horror zine that publishes short stories and flash fiction whether it’s ghost stories, zombie invasions, bigfoot sightings, slasher sprees, bizarre fiction, classic horror literature or erotica. The darker the tale the better. If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn’t, leave a comment below as it helps the authors.



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Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers Commentary


A day ago, I stumble upon a little B-movie horror called Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers. The title instantly grabbed my curiosity. I mean, who wouldn’t be curious to just how bad this slaughter fest could actually be, right? Well, if you have read my review of this cheese fest, then you’ll know that it is actually not as bad, thought extremely awful in it areas that still allow it to be enjoyable for the laughs (lulz for the younger generation). But some might be afraid to venture down this horror alone, and that’s where I come in.

The first part of Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers with Mr. Deadman’s Commentary. Is this within fair use? Expect the nudity, the all to frequent scenes of beautiful breasts, to be censored.

Second part of this hilarious and yet hideous master piece of chainsaw worshiping sexy ladies of the night. You NEED to watch the virgin dance of the double chainsaws to really have lived!

Like what you see? Well, I mean, did you enjoy the commentary? Then become a patron to watch future commentaries and riff tracks! All it takes is ONE DOLLAR!

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Deadman’s Tome is a small, but rapidly growing online horror magazine that went from two-thousand views in 2015 to six-thousand views in 2016. The site grows in response to two things: consistent delivery of content and a strong focus on community engagement. Deadman’s Tome offers writers a unique way to earn revenue from their stories. Instead of offering a fixed rate or a rate based on the number of words, I pay based on the number of views, likes, and comments received. As you could expect, writers have reacted favorably by submitting waves of submissions, and the stories are spreading out like AIDS in the 80’s. With a consistent submission pool, Deadman’s Tome is able to publish original, demented, thought-provoking, and often gory horror shorts almost daily!

-Mr. Deadman




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Deadman’s Tome LIVE – Schrodinger’s Cat, Zombies, Exploitation Films, and Murderous Grannies

Authors Dan Lee, Gary L. Robbe, and Sarah Doebereiner meet with Mr. Deadman to discuss their stories, related topics, and may or may not veer off into tangents about ethical dilemma of Schrodinger’s Cat, how to hide bodies, zombies, and sad reason why old people are scary.

Dan Lee is the author of Schrodinger’s Dilemma, a dark tale that proves that some secrets just cannot stay buried.

Gary L. Robbe is the author of My 1963 Ford Galaxy and the Maniacs of Dearborn County, a fun horror short that’ll leave you wondering who is truly crazy.

Sarah Doebereiner is the author of Candied, a sad tale of an elderly woman burdened with loneliness that she invites a family for some treats…

If you enjoy reading horror fiction, dark fiction, or something similar, then these shows offer a bit of personality to the respected stories. During these shows, you’ll learn more about the horror behind the horror, which provides greater depth to the content.


Deadman’s Tome is a growing horror zine that publishes short stories and flash fiction whether it’s ghost stories, zombie invasions, bigfoot sightings, slasher sprees, bizarre fiction, classic horror literature or erotica. The darker the tale the better. If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn’t, leave a comment below as it helps the authors.

Become a patron today and support the online magazine!

-Mr. Deadman

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Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers Review


A video review would really do this justice. I mean, why take the time to write out with words my thoughts and feelings towards an exploitative B-film? Because this exploitative B-film is self-aware and thrives on the fact that the story is not just thin, but bat shit-insane.

Michelle Bauer giving a lucky man that “look.” Seems a bit crazy, though. Might be better off talking to her friend with the dark hair.


The opening scene consists of a blonde woman being interviewed. She goes through the steps of her routine of prostitution, and then claims that she gave the man male enhancement treatment and pulled out a chainsaw. Yes, you read that correctly.

The movie is literally about an ancient cult of people who worship chainsaws because they represent a force that combines life and death. You’re probably wondering how a cult that worships a modern tech could be ancient. Well, according to the film, the Mayan’s were the chainsaw of the gods. Honestly, I don’t even understand the logic.

This is that friend you were thinking of hooking up with. Still think you’ll have a good chance? 

The winning quality of this film is that men would be presented with several very nice full frontal nude scenes along side of women killing predatory men. Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers may not have an outstanding story, or a coherent one at that, but it combines misogyny and misandry! Radical feminists will be pleased to hear that women are empowered. The vulnerable hookers are actually the predators in this film, preying on men that would normally prey on them. Imagine that an exploitation B-movie would challenge the patriarchy! Hollywood could really learn something from Chainsaw Hookers.

Because Egyptians and chainsaws have something in commen

Yes, the movie is cheesy, but it’s not heavy or a strain to endure. The pacing is fast and doesn’t dwell. Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers moves like a crime film with lazy dick of a detective that goes from in the office, to a strip club, to strapped to a bed. The problems with the film isn’t with pacing. The problem is the, obviously, the story. But when the film doesn’t even take its story own story seriously, but just goes along with it, what can you really say?

The amount of skin and the quality of said skin is just great. Ass, boobs, and bush.

Marvel movies don’t make any sense and people just go along with it.Sure, it’s cool to believe that a super soldier with a trashcan lid can take on a bunch of dudes with guns. What happens when a bullet hits the captain, huh? He dies. But, it’s crazy to believe that a cult would worship chainsaws?

yeah, it’s still fucking insane. But is it worth watching? Yes. Even if just for the novelty of it all, yes. Watch the film, and remember that this was a legit project, and it’s still better than some films of the current year.

Still on the fence? Well, sounds like you need some TFC: Tender Fucking Care. Here’s a link.

Deadman’s Tome is a growing horror zine that publishes short stories and flash fiction whether it’s ghost stories, zombie invasions, bigfoot sightings, slasher sprees, bizarre fiction, classic horror literature or erotica. The darker the tale the better. If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn’t, leave a comment below as it helps the authors.

Become a patron today and support the online magazine!

-Mr. Deadman




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Deadman’s Tome LIVE at 10PM (Central Time)

Tonight at 10PM (central time):

Mr. Deadman interviews horror authors Gary L. Robbe and Dan Lee, talk about their short stories, discuss inspiration, and may trail off on to somewhat related topics.

Stories discussed are My 1963 Ford Galaxy and the Maniacs of Dearborn County

Schrodinger’s Dilemma


Deadman’s Tome is a growing horror zine that publishes short stories and flash fiction whether it’s horror stories, ghost stories, monster stories, zombie invasions, bigfoot sightings, slasher sprees, bizarre dark fiction, classic horror literature or erotica. The darker the tale the better. If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn’t, leave a comment below as it helps the authors.

Become a patron today and support the online magazine!

-Mr. Deadman

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Confession by Clive Carpenter


I was dying and I knew that today would be my last day in this pathetic world. I needed to tell someone my story before I died. So, I had the paper send a reporter, a bright young man named Charles Fain.

I actually asked for him by name. His stories of local life were always the highlight of the Sunday paper and I was a fan. “Bring a voice recorder,” I said. “I don’t want you to miss a single word.”

In his late 20’s, nicely dressed and handsome, Fain came in at around one o’clock, just after my lunch: bland chicken, dry mashed potatoes, some kind of shitty, mixed veggie side dish and that nasty cube of orange Jello that always has more color than flavor. Sad that this plate of dog shit would be my last meal. But the appearance of this bright young man more than made up for it.

“Ms. Marris?” he said as he entered my room at the Silver Acres Retirement Home.

I nodded.

“Hi, I’m Charlie Fain, from the paper. I was told you asked for me by name.”

My voice was a little strained as I said, “I’ve read your stories in the local life section. I love your work.” I smiled weakly. I tried to sit up a bit in my bed to get a better look at him.

Charlie smiled, dimples and all, as he walked over and helped prop a pillow behind me. Then, he helped adjust the oxygen tube under my nose. Such a polite and kind young man.

“Well, thank you, ma’am. I’m very flattered,” his voice was so smooth and soothing. “I brought a recorder. I know you asked for one, but it’s my standard practice, anyway. So it’s a win-win.” He smiled again as he placed recorder next to me on my bedside table. “Well, I won’t ask any questions. Just tell me your story.” He pushed the ‘record’ button.

I looked at him and began, in a weak voice:

“My name is Mavis Elizabeth Gordon-Marris. I was born in nineteen forty-two and I’m dying from a brain tumor. I’ve been married twice… outlived them both. And I’ve had six children, five of which are dead.” Charlie’s expression was sympathetic, until I said: “I want to confess to their deaths.”

Charlie sat forward, jaw agape, at my last statement. He looked a bit uncomfortable and confused and I could see it in his eyes: the sweet little old lady before him had just died. But, to his credit, he didn’t say a word as I continued to give him the story of his career:

“It was in nineteen fifty-eight that I had my first child, I was sixteen and the father was just some punk I knew from another school. There was no fanfare, no cigars… not even a proud father at my bedside. Just me and Hazel. I named her that only because I remembered my mother had a bottle of witch hazel in her bathroom cabinet and it was the only name I could think of at the time. I was too young to have a baby and I really didn’t want one. My parents weren’t going to let me keep her, anyway.

“So, that night, while she slept in a crib in my hospital room, I put a pillow over her face. It actually covered her whole body. I could barely feel her struggle. Then, she stopped and was quiet and I lay back down and slept.”

Charlie nearly stood from his chair, “Okay, Ms. Marris. This interview is over.” He reached for the recorder.

“Don’t you dare shut that fucking thing off!” It took almost all of my strength to get that out as strongly as it came and I was nearly sitting straight up at that point. “You will sit your little ass in that chair and listen to my confession.”

“If you think I’m printing this, you’ve lost your mind, lady. If this is a true story, how about you tell it to the police?” He went for his phone.

“Put that thing away, Charlie,” I settled back a bit. “After I’ve told you everything, you can go to the police, the FBI, the KGB. I don’t give a shit, but, I suspect the first place you’ll want to go is to one of the biggest papers in the country. I’m giving you a story that will make your career, you idiot,” My chest began to hurt. I drank some water and settled back into my pillow as I caught Charlie silencing his phone before putting it back in his pocket.

Once we were both settled, I continued:

“In the winter of nineteen sixty-five, I was six months pregnant when my first husband, William, got sent to Vietnam. The baby came a few months later… William Baines, Jr., we called him.

“He was only eight months old when his father was killed in a foxhole. We lived… well, I lived in a small mobile home on the outskirts of a small Missouri town. There was hardly any insulation and it snowed for several days. In my grief, I put William, Jr. in the room at the opposite end of the trailer and left the window open that night. I couldn’t bear to raise a child with no father. I never heard him cry that night; he froze in his sleep. That was a damned rough winter.”

By now, Charlie was disgusted. “You’re fucking insane. I can’t believe I’m listening to this shit.” He stood. “I need some air.”

“Want me to open a window?” It was a very disturbing remark, I know, but I couldn’t help myself.

“Fuck you.” He turned off the recorder but left it on the table. “I’m stepping out for a moment. Is there a vending machine close by? I need something to drink.”

He walked out and returned in less than five minutes with a bottle of lemonade. Bullshit or not, there was something about my confession that grabbed Charlie and wouldn’t let go. He just had to hear the rest. He sat in the chair and guzzled the lemonade.

“How much longer will this take?” He was visibly shaken.

“That depends,” I said between breaths. “Do you need to pee after drinking your lemonade? Or can I continue uninterrupted?”

He looked at me and cocked his head to the side, “Are you for real or just some old lady who’s full of shit and wants to leave a mark after she’s gone?”

I smiled. “I like you, Charlie,” I said with a bit of rasp in my voice. “It’s good to know you have doubt,” I breathed deeply. “I’d hate to leave this world thinking that you believe everything you hear. Your stories in the paper are always so vibrant and full of life. But I sense some bullshit in all of them. They seem a bit contrived and a little too mushy to be true. I’m sure there’s some embellishment here and there.”

That didn’t sit well with Charlie.

“I don’t embellish a damned thing,” he snapped. “Everything I print is as true and accurate as the stories I’m told by the people I interview.”

“Good, then keep that in mind as I continue my story.”

He turned the recorder back on and settled back into his chair, arms crossed. He took a deep breath, looked to the ceiling for moment then turned his gaze to me. “Well?”

I took a deep breath, myself. “Nineteen seventy-one, I was a cocktail waitress at a shit hole strip club just outside of Detroit. The bartender was a real prick, but real good looking, too. We had a little fling late one night after a big bar brawl. I got pregnant and he found another bar to tend, never came back. Later that year, Chloe came along… named her after one of the dancers.

“Late one night, after working a double shift, I bathed her for the last time… she was about two. I was exhausted and Chloe wasn’t sleeping very much at night. In fact, this was night number 5 or 6… maybe 10. I don’t recall.”

My heart began to ache as I told Charlie about Chloe’s death; I had grown quite fond of her. But, I held back my tears as I continued:

“I washed her face… she had spaghetti earlier that night. Then, as I washed her hair, something happened. It was like a veil came over me and I held her under the water until she stopped splashing.”

I stared at the ceiling, but out of the corner of my eye I could see Charlie looking at the floor and wiping a tear.

“I wrapped her in a towel,” I continued. “Put her in a suitcase. Packed a few things and left Michigan the next morning. I’m sure that suitcase is still somewhere at the bottom of Lake Erie.”

Charlie couldn’t contain himself, “Are you fucking kidding me? ‘A veil’ came over you? The first two babies you…” He took a deep breath, gained his composure. “The first two times, you try to give reasons for… murdering your children. You were too young, your parents wouldn’t let you keep it, your husband was dead, you were distraught. But this last one… Chloe… you just did it. No reason.” He looked me right in the eyes, “You’re evil. Pure evil.”

I broke the gaze between us and looked at the faded watercolor floral print that hung on the wall across the room near the foot of my bed. That piece of shit… I hated that damned picture.

“You deserve whatever it is hell has in store for you,” he said. “And I hope it comes sooner than you expect.”

I turned my eyes toward him. Then, slowly turned my head towards him. I smiled. “Me, too.”

“Don’t you fucking smile at me,” Charlie was letting his emotions get the better of him. He stopped the recorder. “I could choke your ass out right here.”

“You probably could, Charlie,” I said. “But you’d miss the rest of my story. And right now I’ve got you too curious to screw that up.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Charlie was just a bit disturbed. “I can’t figure you out, but that’s probably something I’m better off not trying to do. How the hell could anyone do what you claim to have done to your children and live all these years without telling a soul? Like it was no big deal. I can’t imagine a mother like that.”

“Oh spare me, Charles!” I looked at him, again. “You’re a big boy. You’re telling me you’ve never heard of a mother killing her own children? I suppose your parents never did anything to hurt you. How the hell do you explain that burn mark on your arm? Looks like it’s been there a while. Mommy give you that?”

It was barely visible, peeking out from under the long sleeve of his button-down shirt. The burn scar ran from his left wrist and disappeared under the sleeve. He rubbed it.

“I pulled a pot of boiling water from the stove when I was three,” he explained with fevered conviction.

“Mm-hmm,” I kept at him. “And that scar on your chest? Just below your neck. Looks like a stab wound.”

The two top buttons on his shirt were open and made the scar visible on the right side of his chest. Nearly faded, but it was there.

“I fell off my rocking horse when I was two, impaled myself on several pieces from my brother’s Erector Set. And how dare you?” He seemed a little offended. “My parents were loving people. I had a happy childhood. Fuck you, lady,” he pressed ‘record’. “Let’s finish this so I can turn your ass in. Maybe we can get those children some justice before you croak.”

I smiled weakly, again. I looked out the window at a family coming to visit someone they had abandoned in this hellhole of a nursing home. Fuck them! Damned, ungrateful kids.

Another deep breath:

“Nineteen seventy-nine. My second husband, Tony, was a DJ at one of the biggest disco joints in Houston. We had twins that year; Derek and Dewayne. They were a handful, I tell ya.”

I coughed a bit as pain shot through my head and down my chest. For a quick second I thought I’d black out. Charlie, in spite of his disgust, leaned in and helped me drink some water, my hands we too unsteady to hold the cup myself.

“Sorry,” my voice was a little more strained; weaker and raspy. Charlie pulled his chair closer and leaned in so he could hear me a little better.

I took another deep breath:

“The boys were almost four years old when I’d finally grown tired of them. I took them for a walk. There was this wooded area in the neighborhood and a trail that passed an old junkyard with a hurricane fence. That junkyard had three of the meanest sonsabitchin’ Doberman’s that ever walked the earth. You think I’m evil?” I chuckled. “These hounds had to be straight outta hell.

“Some of the pot-head teenagers from the neighborhood had pulled the fence away at a section furthest from the road… far and away from anyone’s view, probably so they could sneak in and smoke their weed and do God knows what else.

“I stood there, near the small opening in the fence, pulled at it to make the opening a little bigger, then, made the loudest commotion you ever heard. The boys started crying and those damned dogs came fast and fierce.”

Charlie was thoroughly sickened by this incident. He knew exactly where the story was going and stood up, holding his stomach. For a moment, I thought he was about to puke all over me. My shaking hand offered him a drink of water from my cup and he looked even more disgusted.

I put the cup down and finished the story:

“As I ran down the path, back to my house, I heard the dogs come through that fence,” I stared at Charlie as he locked his terrified eyes with mine. “And those boys justa screamin’ away.”

He turned away and walked toward the foot of the bed, staring at that shitty floral print. That damned thing was such an eyesore; I was a little embarrassed.

“I got home and called the police, crying, of course. Told them that the boys wandered away from the house. They gathered a search party. Blah, blah, blah,” I chuckled, again. “And, you know, they killed those dogs. Which was probably a good thing,” I took a deep breath. “I can’t compete with that kind of… evil.”

My last statement got his attention and he shot a glare at me that sent a slight chill down my spine. He walked over and leaned in close. The tone in his voice had turned. It was darker, a little more menacing –

“I cannot begin to fathom how you went almost 60 years and never got caught. You’re going to burn in hell. But not before you pay for what you’ve done, you piece of shit. I’m taking this to the cops,” Charlie turned and picked up his recorder.

“Don’t turn that thing off, just yet, Charlie,” I pleaded. “I’ve got one more.”

“One more? You said there were five.”

“No,” I took a deep breath. My vision was beginning to get a little blurred, my breathing labored. “I said there were six children… I killed five.”

He cocked his head at me. Perhaps there was as much curiosity in this cat as I had hoped for.

“Sit, please, Charlie. Believe it or not, this story has a happy ending.”

Charlie sat back down, but this time he put the recorder on the bed next to my head to catch my ever weakening voice.

“Tony and I moved to Missouri to be closer to his family after the boys died. He was so saddened by it and I finally got a glimpse of humanity through his grief. He cried for days and every holiday season we bought Christmas presents for them; usually something small.

“It broke my heart to see him that way and the time came when he finally decided he was ready to have another child.

“In nineteen eighty-six, we had another son, Gavin. Good Lord,” I huffed. “Why he chose that hideous name is beyond me, but I let him have his way.

“Gavin was a good boy. Quiet. Smart. But something wasn’t right; I just didn’t feel like we were a family. I felt empty, like I needed to tell Tony about the twins. But I couldn’t.”

Charlie was all ears. He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the bed.

“One night, when Gavin was three, I drugged Tony’s dinner and while he slept, I stabbed him about a dozen times with a kitchen knife and lit a fire in the living room.” I took a deep breath. “Then, I went to Gavin’s room and stabbed him several times.” I looked at Charlie. “Five to be exact. I left him in his crib and skipped town that night as the house burned.”

Charlie was puzzled. “Wait, you said you only killed five of your children. What the hell kind of happy ending is this?”

I ignored him:

“I was long gone, in some little roach motel somewhere in Arkansas, I think, when I caught the story on the news the next day. The fire department had come, fought that fire and, wouldn’t you know it, they pulled out a tiny survivor… Gavin,” I finally got a little smile, a glimmer of hope, out of Charlie.

“I’ve always wondered what ever happened to him. Did he die later at the hospital? Did he grow up and become a doctor? Lawyer? Policeman?” I chuckled as I said, “A fireman?”

I took another deep breath. I was getting weaker. “Anyway, according to the news, he suffered some burns. Pretty bad ones,” Once again, I locked eyes with Charlie. “I believe to the left side of his body.”

That’s when the light went on in Charlie’s eyes and for a moment I lost his gaze as he rubbed his left arm, then, his chest, caressing the stab wound just above his collar.

I watched the tears well up in his eyes as he stared at the floor and began to vaguely remember something that had been locked away in his brain for twenty-six years. Somehow, something clicked and he knew the truth about how he got that burn scar on his arm and those five scars on his chest.

Then, I asked, “You were adopted, weren’t you… Gavin?”

Something in him snapped. He looked at me with a blank face, his eyes piercing, pupils dilating. I knew what was coming next and I let it happen. I welcomed it.

He leaped from the chair and came at me, grabbing my throat. That grip… such a strong boy.

“You fucking devil!” Charlie’s voice echoed in the room. “I’ll kill you right here, you bitch!” There was no doubt that the nursing staff would come soon, what with his big mouth and all. I had to act quickly.

With my right hand, I clutched the back of his head and pulled him close. My left hand came from under my blanket with the knife I had taken from the cafeteria earlier in the day and I shoved it in his throat.

He loosened his grip on my neck and stared at me for a moment. A tear streamed down his face.

My senses were fading. This was it. I was dying, but not alone.

I looked into his eyes for what seemed an eternity and I sent a chill down my own spine as my weakened voice, deep and raspy, whispered, “You almost got away, you little shit.”

With my last bit of strength, I ripped the knife across his throat and felt his warm blood all over my face and neck.

He slumped to the floor, gurgling in his death throes. I think I could barely hear him as he clawed his way towards the door. Then, silence.

The taste of his blood filled my mouth. I swallowed it.

Then, I died… happy.


Deadman’s Tome is a growing horror zine that publishes short stories and flash fiction whether it’s ghost stories, zombie invasions, bigfoot sightings, slasher sprees, bizarre fiction, classic horror literature or erotica. The darker the tale the better. If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn’t, leave a comment below as it helps the authors.

Become a patron today and support the online magazine!

-Mr. Deadman