Posted on 1 Comment

The Case of the Missing Penis?

Some of you may or may not know that I post a lot of videos on YouTube on the MrDeadmanDt channel. The channel covers news, drama, with some horror and writing trickled in. The’s not really important, though. What is important is that I recent covered a news story where a deceased man’s penis has apparently went missing?

How does that happen? How does a deceased man lose his penis?

I have no clue, but I think it would be interesting for a quick piece of flash fiction. Consider this a writing prompt challenge. Write what you think happened down below in the comments section, and it’ll be shared on a the Deadman’s Tome podcast.

 

Posted on 5 Comments

Downward God – S. E. Casey

Douglas woke in the middle of the night to find his wife missing again.  Dinah had taken to doing yoga alone, long sessions at odd times of the day and, most recently, night. 

Sure enough, the door to the in-home studio was closed.  Douglas tried the handle—locked.  He resented the fact that after thirty-five years of marriage she refused to let him join her, the excuse always the same:

These are complex positions.  They take many years to master.   

He should have understood.  Dinah had taught him a few basic moves over the years, but he lacked the patience and discipline for anything advanced.

He took out the duplicate key he secretly had made.  He felt guilty, but nonetheless, he unlocked the door and entered. 

Lit by moonlight, the room was infernally hot.  Dinah taught Bikram yoga classes and had installed a radiant heater.  The soundproofed walls shook with whale calls—low moans with that distinct underwater echo.  However, neither distracted him from the tangle of humanity in the room’s center.

He barely recognized his wife; her contorted frame supported by one foot, an elbow, and three fingers.  Her left knee somehow bent the other way.  Her right arm was obviously popped out of its socket, an alien limb pinned underneath her torso at an odd angle.  However, it looked healthier than her other arm that hinged in two places, another joint added to the forearm.  While she laid chest-down, her neck rotated an impossible full-turn to face the ceiling.  She was tranquil despite the grotesque pose, eyes rolled back to the whites.   

Suffocated by the noise and heat, Douglas swooned on the verge of blacking out.  He realized he hadn’t taken a breath since he entered as if underwater.  Instinctually, he assumed Downward Dog.  Dinah always started him there—the key to all positions.  Head ducked under the arch of the body, he found an air pocket and greedily filled his lungs.

Vision restored, Douglas opened his eyes to a massive stone tower rising from an unknown shore.  Covering the spire in slippery green, seaweed snaked up the ancient edifice like ivy.  Through the nighttime doom, he spied himself in one of the lofty windows.  Douglas’s mind swam, but he realized the window was a mirror.  However, his reflection turned as if someone inside the fortress called to him.  With a lingering look off to the horizon, his image retreated from sight.

Douglas pivoted to follow his double’s pointed gaze.  However, he slipped on the rocks that surrounded him, the slimy seaweed spreading over everything here.  Unable to even shuffle his feet, he twisted hard at the waist to look behind.  In the mirror glass of another tower’s window, he again found his reflection.  His likeness stared to his left before stepping out of sight.

Despite his lack of flexibility, he violently swung an arm to torque himself in the new direction.  His dislocated shoulder burning, he spied another of his reflections.  Again, it pointed to a different site.

Knotting himself over the slimy rocks in a series of excruciating maneuvers, he assumed the same pose as his wife.  Less flexible and practiced, he endured the pain of his torn ligaments and broken bones.

These are complex positions…

Suddenly, he appeared in every window, hundreds of eyes gazing upwards to the moonless heavens.  Positioned facedown, he rotated his neck a full turn to the night sky.  His novice tendons snapped, muscles tore, and a splinter from his shattered spine punctured his jugular.

Bleeding out, he stared into the endless void of the night, that unblinking eye of a Dreaming God.  He despaired that it didn’t look back, smothering him with the lonely madness of indifference.

Author Bio:  Vacated scarecrow poles.  Smoking factories without doors. An hourglass filled with ants.  Clinging to the coast of New England, S.E. Casey writes of the darkly wondrous, strange, and grotesque.  His short stories and poetry have appeared in many magazines and anthologies which can be found at secaseyauthor.wordpress.com.

 

Posted on Leave a comment

Month of Horror Winners Announcement and Drunk Reading!

On Friday at 10PM, Mr. Deadman will announce the winners of the 2nd week of the Month of Horror flash fiction writing contest. Three contenders enter the ring, but only one will come out victorious as a featured story on Deadman’s Tome AND earn .20 cents per view, like, and comment for a year’s time!

Mr. Deadman has material lined up for a segment of Real Horror and possibly a drunk reading? That depends on how well this post is shared via twitter!

The Deadman’s Tome podcast starts Friday at 10pm and ends at 12am CST and can be listened to by using this link:

http://www.spreaker.com/user/8056632

Austin Malone, writer of All The Time, The Screaming and last week’s Month of Horror winner, joined Mr. Deadman to discuss the inspiration behind his work, the various interpretations, and then reveal a secret about writing advice. The interview can be accessed using:

http://www.spreaker.com/user/8056632

Posted on 1 Comment

Month of Horror Writing Contest 

It’s October 1st, the first day of the month of horror, and Deadman’s Tome has some great things in store.

First, Deadman’s Tome Book of Horrors II is out and with it ten relentless, terrifying, scary tales of absolute horror for those brave enough. Order a copy on Amazon or ask me how you can get a free copy! Tweet me at @MrdeadmanDT

Second, a writing contest that’ll run for the whole month! Flash fiction horror writing contest 350 to 500 words with some spill over excepted. What is Deadman’s Tome looking for? Stories of monsters, stories that scare, and stories that test limits.

Deadman’s Tome will judge stories on a weekly basis and once a week one will be featured on Deadman’s Tome friday night podcast and published on the site where it will earn money – .20 cents per like, view, and comment!

Submit submissions with subject Month of Horror to

jessecdedman@gmail.com

Posted on 21 Comments

[NSFW] Unbloom by Kristine Hall-Garcia

Deadman’s Tome is home to Book of Horrors, a horror anthology loaded with terrifying horror short stories that’ll chill you to the bone!

6x9_Front_Coverhand
Available on Kindle

DISCLAIMER: Deadman’s Tome is a dark and gritty horror zine that publishes content not suitable for children. The horror zine proudly supports the freedom of dark creative works and stands against censorship. Hardly any subject matter is too taboo for this horror zine. As a result, Deadman’s Tome may feature content your mother would not approve of. But she doesn’t control your life, right?

 

  I lie on the bed, in this room that never smells of sex, and rub one of the many surrounding rose petals between my fingers. These are sex organs too.  

    Looking down at my breasts, I feel the sex organs lying between them, and think of His. I close my eyes. Touch all of the places I think He will want first: lips, throat, breasts, thighs.

    Tick Tock.

    I strike a pose, many different ones. Which will He like the best? Which will cause Him to burn most with desire? This one. I think it’s this one.

    Tick Tock.

    He’s late. I trace the inside of my thigh, higher until I’m pushing into my garden. I ripped all the hair out today because I think that is what turns Him off. He doesn’t want a woman. He wants a girl; a child.

    Tick tock.

    My garden is dry, so I play. I want to be ready, and I have time to kill. If things don’t go according to plan, this may be the most fun I have.

    Tick tock.

    Still no noise. Only the stirring of something inside me. The breaking of the dam: honey.

    My body begs for fast—faster—but no. I am only to carry myself to the edge, not over. I build a perfect agony.

    Tick Tock.

    The front door slams. My body quivers with anticipation; I am ready.

    Footsteps pound the hardwood floor. I gasp, arch, and rest again, on this bed, in this sexless room. I slick my tongue across my lip.

    Tick Tock.

    The door opens. I moan. Husband enters, still in his work clothes. I wait, writhing and moaning, my desire still unquenched. He watches, expressionless. Why doesn’t He come to me? Is this not what every man wants? He tugs at the collar of His fatigues as if they are suddenly too tight. Three tours in Iraq, and He still loses composure at the sight of a naked woman. I smile.

    Unable to wait any longer, I crawl to the foot of the bed where He stands. I grab Him by the pants and pull Him to me. He is like a child too—scared and stiff in all the wrong places.

    I press against Him, and hope the gesture will give him confidence. Then I take His fingers and push them inside of me.  At first, I think He is going to try. He plays, half-heartedly. I moan, arch, and twist. Pretend He gives me pleasure when I was doing better myself. He needs encouragement.

    I look up at Him with smoldering eyes, hope His will do the same, but they are cold. He is elsewhere now, not with me. I bite His lip, hard, to bring Him back to me, and see something far worse than disinterest in His eyes: disdain. Why doesn’t He love me?

    He wriggles His hand free from my grasp and steps away. Fine. He doesn’t have to love me, but why won’t He fuck me? Is that not what men do?

    He walks to the bathroom and wipes my honey on a towel. Meticulous, like a surgeon, He washes His hands. To Him, I am a germ He can kill with soap and water. He leaves the room, me still hanging on the edge.

    Is it my breasts? I shove them into my back, but I can never make them disappear.

    How does one unbloom?

    I gaze at the photo of our niece at her eighth birthday party that He keeps beside the bed. Flat chested, gap-toothed, and freckled, she looks the kind of happy only a child can look, but not anymore.  

    Creak.

    The wooden staircase leading to the basement groans beneath His weight.

    Now, at ten, His niece is a frosted lily shivering in the darkness of our basement. Her endangered smile is Paper Mache.

    I smash the frame against the night table, and shatter glass like innocence.

    Girls dream of becoming women, of knowing our deeper shades of red, of riding our curves. They desire to be like us. It should not be the other way around.

    I look down at my woman’s body, and weep.

    Bastard.

Readlikeshareeyes

patreonBecome a patron

facebookJoin the Fan Club!

twitterFollow Mr. Deadman

Deadman’s Tome is a growing horror zine that publishes horror short stories and horror flash fiction. The online magazine publishes dark and gritty content from professional horror writers, Bram Stoker award nominated horror authors, along with talented newcomers of the horror writing craft. Deadman’s Tome features chilling, terrifying horror shorts ranging from ghost stories, zombie invasions, bigfoot sightings, monster horror, and even horror erotica. Deadman’s Tome is one of the best online horror zines to publish horror short stories, horror flash fiction, and dark flash fiction. 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 horror authors.

 

Posted on 3 Comments

Caught In The Act by Brian J. Smith

 

Deadman’s Tome is home to Book of Horrors, a horror anthology loaded with terrifying horror short stories that’ll chill you to the bone!

6x9_Front_Coverhand
Available on Kindle

DISCLAIMER: Deadman’s Tome is a dark and gritty horror zine that publishes content not suitable for children. The horror zine proudly supports the freedom of dark creative works and stands against censorship. Hardly any subject matter is too taboo for this horror zine. As a result, Deadman’s Tome may feature content your mother would not approve of. But she doesn’t control you life, right?

Caught In The Act by Brian J. Smith

WHEN the door flies open and hits the wall, it’s already too late; my dick shrivels like a turtle dodging a bullet and everything seems to slow down.

The air in the room grows into a thick suffocating noose that wraps itself around my throat and renders me speechless; my heartbeat muffles all sound, even the ones I can barely make out. Claire Hopkins sits up, her naked body still spread-eagle across my desk and gasps; her eyes only got that big when I’ve made her come but this is different. She is young enough to be my oldest daughter (twenty-one to be exact) but she’s got the body of an Internet scam. Smooth pale skin pulling taut over a slim rack of ribs, Grade-A breasts with stiff brown nipples, bubble-gum pink lips and shoulder length blonde hair pouring down her face like rivers of liquid sunlight.

How could I resist?

She was begging for it, wearing all those “fuck-me” clothes that didn’t leave much to the imagination. A little sliver of skin here and a little bit there and I was drooling like Cujo. I’d seen her staring up at me amongst the sea of other slack-jawed zombies slouching in their seats half sleep from long boring lectures about Hitler and The War of 1812 and blah-blah-blah. She’d always beam at me from her seat, all bright and cheery like a newly risen sun. To be honest, she’d caught it before I could.

“I need to pass this course, Mister Swanson.” She’d said ten minutes ago. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

The brightness in her eyes died and sadness clouded her looks. When I mentioned a one-on-one, the exuberance came back and she smiled like a California socialite. Today, she’d worn a breezy-white see-through and fire-engine red heels; her smoky blue eyes were accentuated by two thick rings of black mascara. She smelled like a rose that wanted to be fucked although she had hair as bright as a sunflower.

A shadow flees down the stretch of red carpet running between the seats, looking vague and blurry. Claire grabs her dress off the edge of the desk, her twisting under a mask of shock. Her lips drooping apart, she exposed a nice cum-dumpster mouth. I back up against the chalkboard, rapping my lower back against the chalk tray. I squint at the gloom as the shadow steps into the light like a whodunit and trip over my words.

 

 


Read the rest of the story in HORRGASM

6x9_Front_CoverHORRCENSORED.jpeg
Read More
Posted on 27 Comments

I See Your Night, and Raise You Hell by Charles Gramlich

 

I was crossing the University of Arkansas campus at Fayetteville with my wife, Rachel, when a young male student approached us and said something weird. It was Saturday and there weren’t many people around. Just a few moments before, I’d found one of those squirt-flowers like clowns often wear. It lay on the ground like a yellow sunflower with a tube and squeeze bulb attached. I figured it belonged to some college prankster and picked it up on impulse. It was still in my hand when the kid made his comment.

“Nasty piece of work that,” he said, pointing at the flower. “You could do some serious damage.”

Now, Rachel and I were older than your average college kid and both of us were dressed well. I had on a jacket and tie. Surely the kid would have thought of us as parents, or perhaps considered us faculty. What student says that kind of thing to parents or to faculty members he doesn’t recognize?

The comment clearly made Rachel uncomfortable so I just ignored the guy and walked on. We were here to see Rachel’s son and within a few moments found his dorm room and began our visit. A little while later I had to use the dorm’s bathroom and was standing at the sink washing my hands when the same young man came up beside me.

“Bet you’re wearing that squirt-flower already,” he said. “Hurt anyone with it yet?”

Irritated, and not eager to have an uncomfortable discussion with a strange young fellow in the bathroom, I snapped an answer to his question, “No! And it’s not in my plans for today.”

He smiled crookedly. “Look,” he said. “I know that under your respectable clothing you’re a clown. I recognize you because I’m one too. And every one of us has the brain of a psychopath in our heads. You’ll hurt someone with that flower. Just like I would.”

I sighed, then lifted the left side of my coat to reveal the flower where I’d hooked it to my shirt pocket. The kid smiled, without getting too close, and while the dangerous little toy held his attention I slid my right hand into my pocket and drew out the silenced 9 millimeter I carried there. Quickly placing the business end of the pistol against the young man’s chest just over the heart, I pulled the trigger.

“Phfhfft.”

The kid’s eyes widened but my movements had been too swift for him to react. He collapsed slowly to the floor, like a blow-up doll deflating. He kept looking up at me as life fled him.

“When psycho clowns meet,” I told him, “it’s best for one to kill the other immediately and get it over with.”  

Pocketing the pistol, I dragged the body into one of the stalls and locked the door. It’d be a while before it was found. After climbing out over the top of the stall and washing my hands, I left the bathroom. I kept the squirt-flower. The kid was right. It was a great tool for mayhem and murder. A little poison. The right kind of acid. Something viral. All were far more subtle than a bullet.

The kid had clearly been new to clown-work; he hadn’t deserved such artistry. There were plenty who did.

 

Posted on 33 Comments

The Boxer by Charles Gramlich

 

The Boxer sits on his stool in the corner of the ring. He sits hunched, eyes closed. He can’t hear the crowd, though they must be near. All that his ears register is the rasp in his throat and the thunder-boom of his heart.

The Boxer’s arms lie heavy across his legs, and the legs tremble from the weight. He wants the shaking to stop but the legs are past the point of listening to such commands. He thinks about water then, and wonders for a moment why he doesn’t have a manager. Shouldn’t someone be offering him a drink and wiping the sweat from his face? Those thoughts soon fade to be replaced by more important ones.

How long until the bell sounds again? How long until I have to get up? Again.

It can be only seconds now. The interlude between rounds isn’t long. It’s never long enough. He wishes the bell would never sound, that he could sit here until time itself turned to amber around him. That boon is not to be his.

The bell rings.

The Boxer opens his eyes. Brightness explodes like shrapnel in his face; tears fog his vision. He blinks rapidly, then reaches out and grasps one of the cables that define the ring and levers himself to his feet. Without looking for his opponent, he shuffles toward the center of this combat zone while the ringside commentator spews verbal fireworks in a voice engineered for drama.

What round is it? the Boxer wonders.

The fight is scheduled for fifteen rounds. Surely this is the last one. He just has to stay on his feet a little longer.

Three more minutes and I can rest.

Then words register from the referee: “Round Thirteen!”

Almost, the Boxer’s knees give out. Not just one round to go. Three!

He hasn’t the strength for three.

He sees his opponent stalking him then, coming quickly. His foe is big, big as life, and seems fresh. It’s as if all the blows the Boxer landed in early rounds have done nothing. The Boxer lifts his arms, though it is agony. He takes the first blow from his opponent on his left forearm. More punches rain in; the Boxer is pummeled around the ring. In earlier rounds he’d grunted each time he’d been hit, and had often sent his ripostes flying back into the big body of his foe. He no longer has the strength for any of that. In silence, he takes his beating, with no chance to strike back.

With only a few seconds left in the round, a blow sneaks through the Boxer’s guard and caroms off his skull. He is down. For a few seconds he doesn’t even realize it. The referee’s count is already at three when the Boxer understands what has happened. Four and five pass as he lies thinking.

I won’t get up. Could never last two more rounds anyway. Thirteen. Made it almost through thirteen. Surely that’s enough.

But the voice, the voice he has heard rasping in his ears all night…all his life. The voice doesn’t agree that thirteen is enough.

“Get up,” it rages. “Giving up is a sin. Get up or you’ll regret it. A man would get up!”

“No,” he whispers from a throat so dry it feels seared.

But he knows the voice is right. And he won’t be the only one who regrets it. Others depend on him.

He flops his gloved hands in front of his body. He starts to push.

“Eight!” the referee counts.

The Boxer rises to his hands and knees. His breath comes like a bellows. His arms shake like willows in a storm as they try to hold up his weight. Sweat and blood comingle as they drip from his body to the canvas. The resulting pattern is almost artistic, he thinks, a surreal image scrawled by a sadistic painter.

“Nine!”

Not going to do it. I can’t do it.

“Te—”

The Boxer is on his feet somehow. The bell signals that the round is over. The referee catches the Boxer’s gloves, holds him while he looks him in the face. The Boxer tries to make eye contact but his vision is blurry. ‘Two’ referees study him, or so it seems. Finally, the Boxer just stands there, his whole body aflame as his many hurts weave themselves into one.

The referee releases the Boxer’s hands and nods that the bout can continue. The Boxer staggers to his corner, falls onto his stool. His opponent’s manager is talking to the referee, gesturing wildly as he protests…something. The Boxer thinks the man is telling the referee to “call it.” The referee is shaking his head.

The Boxer wonders if the referee gave him a long count on that last knockdown. He can’t be sure, and he doesn’t know whether he would be grateful for such consideration, or would be filled with intense hate for the person who prolonged his agony. Right now, he is capable of neither emotion, nor of any other.

The bell rings, though he doesn’t know how a minute could have passed already. He struggles to rise, struggles to rise. Then he hears the referee declare:

“Round fifteen!”

The Boxer blinks. He knows he is not thinking clearly but he remembers, or thinks he does, that the last round was thirteen. Now it’s fifteen? How could he have lost a whole round? But even his blurred vision sees his opponent coming at him, huge, shadowy, like a shark in darkened waters.

The Boxer makes it to his feet. The thought that this is his last round pours a bit of strength back into his arms. He knows he must use it wisely. He can’t throw it away. His opponent looms, so confident in his dominance of the fight that his own arms aren’t even in defensive position.

For a moment the Boxer stands toe-to-toe with his foe. The other seems to be measuring him for a final blow that will stretch him cold on the canvas. In that instant the Boxer throws every regained ounce of strength into a one-two punch—a left into his foe’s solar plexus, a right to the chin.

Twenty years ago the fight would have been over, with the Boxer lifting his hands in victory. Ten years ago the punches would have given the Boxer needed time to recover. Now, the opponent only staggers back with a look of surprise, a look that quickly flares into anger. Quick as a riff of lightning, the foe surges forward, raining blows from thunderous fists.

The Boxer goes reeling against the ropes, is beaten along them. His nose crunches. A tooth breaks and cuts its way out between his lips. Any one of these heavy blows should have sent him to the floor, but the combined storm of them actually works to keep him on his feet.

The opponent makes the mistake in anger of stepping in too close. The Boxer flings his arms around his foe in a last defiant gesture. He clinches, holds on. There is a moment of frenetic dance as the other fighter tries to break free and finish the Boxer before the last bell sounds. He doesn’t quite manage it.

The Boxer hears the bell, knows the fight is over. He made it to the end. The relief in that thought is exquisite. He lets go of his opponent, turns a wobbly head to see the stool waiting for him in the corner. He lurches toward it like a skid-row drunk, a thin bloody smile creasing his lips.

Barely, he summons the strength to climb onto his stool. The ropes support him as he collapses back against them. In the center of the ring, his foe is congratulated on a victory. That doesn’t change the fact that the Boxer made it all the way through the match without being knocked out. A sense of pride fills him.

The Boxer looks up. The light overhead is bright and shining, like a burnished shield. But it doesn’t hurt his eyes. He nods toward the light, mumbles a few words through torn lips—“Thank you!” He is smiling when the bell rings. That smile dies when he looks at the referee standing like a whirlwind of dark smoke before him.

“Round one!” the referee says.

Posted on 4 Comments

The Appointment by Karl Lykken

 

“I wasn’t expecting you back so soon,” Dr. Dunkelheit says, showing a brief look of genuine concern before his usual stoicism reclaims him. “It’s only been six weeks, yes?”

“That’s right,” I confirm. “I’m not here about my stomach pains this time, though. I’m here about this.” I lift up my shirt and show him the purplish growth on the side of my gut. Not that the shirt did a great job of concealing it anyway. “Frankly I wish it was just more stomach pains.”

“When did you notice this growth?” Dunkelheit says, bending down to examine it.

“Yesterday. I got bit by a spider. At first I thought the bite was just swelling up a bit, but then it got so hard and just kept growing. I mean, you could fit a tennis ball in there! That can’t just be a normal spider bite, right?”    

“No, but I’ve seen this before,” Dunkelheit says, pulling on a pair of gloves. “It’s nothing you need to worry about, but I need to move quickly. We don’t have time to schedule an operation, so I’ll just remove it myself.”

“Wait, what?” Panic sweeps through me. “Why is it so urgent? Shouldn’t I get a scan or something first?”

“Try to relax,” Dunkelheit says, motioning for me to lie back on the bed. “You’re just having a reaction to the bite. This is a simple procedure, but it’s important that I start draining the fluid right away. Otherwise it may burst.”

“Burst?”

“Don’t worry; I won’t let that happen. And on the bright side, since I’m performing the operation you won’t have to pay for a surgeon.” He gives me a smile that I know is meant to be comforting.

“It’s not my wallet that I’m worried about right now, Doc.”

“You don’t need to be worried about anything. I’ve done this many times before.” His voice is calm, but his eyes are not. God, what kind of bite is this?

He moves toward the counter and readies a pair of hypodermic needles. “I’m going to give you an amnesiac,” he says, bringing over one of the syringes and rubbing an alcohol swab over my arm.

“Jesus, Doc, this has got to be nasty if you don’t want me to remember it. What is this thing?”

“It’s nothing. The amnesiac is just because I prefer to operate in the nude, and I don’t want to give you nightmares,” he says with a smirk. I would chuckle if I wasn’t so terrified. He gives me the injection and then picks up the other syringe. “Now I’m going to give you a local anesthetic.”

I feel a small prick as he sticks in the second needle, then soon nothing at all around my stomach. “That amnesiac should already be kicking in,” he continues. “So we can go ahead and get started.”

I angle my head so that I can see the growth. The doctor brings over a small surgical tray and picks up a scalpel. He makes a small incision along the top of the bite, and a foul odor issues out from it. I wonder if he’s cutting into my bowels. I see him set down the scalpel on the tray and then reach into the growth. He pulls out–what is that? What the hell is that? He sets the thing down on the tray, its wings and pincers limp and lifeless.

“Damn. Spider bites can induce early birth, but six weeks was far too premature for him to survive,” Dunkelheit says. “I’m afraid we’ll have to try again.” His mouth opens wide, his cheeks forced apart by two long pincers, and a stinger snakes its way out from his throat. I want to recoil, but I’m paralyzed from either the drugs or my fright. He bends down and lets the stinger plunge deep into the middle of the deflated growth. I try to scream but nothing comes out.

Dunkelheit stands up straight, the pincers and stinger sliding back into  his throat. He rotates his head, cracking his neck joints. “Now then, hopefully it will be a good eight weeks before you need to come for your next appointment.”     

readlikeshare

Become a patron today and support the online magazine!
https://www.patreon.com/user?u=3340730&alert=2&ty=h

Deadman’s Tome Book of Horrors Anthology
https://deadmanstome.net/2016/05/21/deadmans-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, lovecraftian literature, or erotica. The darker the tale the better. take The Appointment for example, a story of body horror, spiders, and wicked doctors. If you’re thinking where to submit horror short stories then consider Deadman’s Tome. If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn’t, leave a comment below as it helps the authors.

 

Posted on Leave a comment

Cycles by Jareb Collins

 

The young woman woke with a gasp.

She sat bolt upright, the world cloaked in darkness, and thought maybe she was blind. Fear bit deeply into her chest, clawing its way towards her heart. She fought the urge to panic, and stifled a scream swelling inside of her as she discovered the blindfold around her head. Drawing a ragged breath, she clawed at the linen bound around her temples, unravelling the cloth as fast as her stiffened fingers could move.

The last strip fell, and she paused for several moments as her eyes adjusted. She could hear nothing but the sound of her own labored breathing and the pounding of her heart. A solitary lamp flickered above, casting her surroundings in a sickly, intermittent light. Her eyes ripped through the small space, confusion melting into horror. She was in a trailer, a single-wide space that was empty except for the bed she now lay in. She tried to pull her legs from under the thin sheet covering her, discovering they were strapped to steel rails on either side. She was in a hospital gurney.

Ohmygod

Fumbling in the dim light, she loosened the straps and freed her legs. A stab of cold revealed concrete beneath her bare feet. The chill of the cement crept into her legs, and a draft blew up the short hospital robe she was wearing. Shock was rapidly setting in, and her mind began to shut down. The space pressed in around her, and she stumbled sideways. She crashed into the rough, unfinished wall, her hands breaking the fall. She pushed herself upright, crying out as a splinter bit deeply into her palm.

Her voice came out as a croak, swallowed in the empty space.

Shuffling to the end of the rectangular room, she found a door set in to the far wall.
Locked.

Ohmygodohmygod

She beat her fists against the unyielding surface. She felt hot tears spill down her cheeks. She froze when she saw the smear of blood on the small, polished square. The blood was hers. The square was a mirror. She shuddered in the fringes the feeble fluorescent lighting as she searched the reflection before her.

Her lips moved wordlessly as she stared blankly. She didn’t recognize the face.

My face?

And then she heard the voices.

Moments ago: silence, broken only by the shallow breath of fear. Now, a fierce wind howled outside, shaking the walls around her. She strained her ears for the low moan swaddled in the folds of the gale, the words almost imperceptible. She closed her eyes tightly, focusing on the roaring gusts, concentrating. Slowly, she began to pick the language out.

“…..terror…”

“………is lost…..never see…”

“…..the cycles. She cannot…….it’s over…”

As she listened, her skull began to pulse. It was not painful, at first, but the volley of words increased and the pulses became sharper.
“…straining straining straining…finding a way inside…fear……devastation….

it’s the shock…too much strain….”

The pain in her head became a blinding maelstrom of anguish. The words continued to pour into her mind, becoming garbled as the jagged white lighting threatened split her skull and spill the nonsensical diatribe on the freezing floor. She dropped to her knees, clutching her head in agony.

“…stifled……….losing

her………dwfs….dfg….muummmffff…..dying….”

She toppled to the ground, feeling nothing but the excruciating fury in her head. She spasmed, hearing nothing beyond the thrumming of death pounding at her skull.

Slowly, the pain began to recede. The gush of words deteriorated to the low hum of angry bees in flight. She tried opening her eyes, but the flickering bulb above punished her efforts. She retched. The bile burned her throat; too tired to cry, she curled into a ball. She lay her head on the floor and sighed at the coolness against her fevered face. She was exhausted, but sleep would not come. Eventually, she pushed herself to her hands and knees. She grimaced as she inched her way in the direction of the bed, carefully peeking through lidded eyes. Reaching the metal frame, she grasped the railing above her and, with herculean effort, pulled herself to her knees.

The voices began to speak again.

Fear ripped a hole in her chest. She gave in to the uncontrollable sobs. She screamed, her voice escaping in raw, clipped shrieks. Grabbing one of the gurney’s dangling leg straps, she wrapped it twice around her neck. She lurched to her feet, then threw herself to the floor. She heard her own neck bones snap like fragile branches surrendering to the unyielding mental tempest.

The light winked out.

She awoke in the hospital bed with a gasp. The world was cloaked in darkness, and she feared she was blind.

The low droning of voices buzzed in her mind.

“…..begin again….”

readlikeshare