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More Plastic Wrap by Florence Ann Marlowe

The gloom descended on him the moment his sneaker touched the broken walk leading to his mother’s house.  It was as if a cloud had taken up permanent residence over the green tiled house.  Michael looked up at the grimy windows and they stared back with baleful black eyes. “The beast” as Michael liked to call it, waited for his return, laughing at him.  It knew he was a prisoner, unable to escape.
The rusty mailbox, clinging to the side of the house by one screw, hung heavy with the day’s mail.  Michael shifted the plastic bags to one hand and dug out the fistful of envelopes.  Bills, advertisements and his mother’s social security check.  He gritted his teeth.  Another reminder that he was not his own man. 
Hoping not to wake her, Michael crept through the door – but the house betrayed him.  The door creaked, squealing on him.  Under his breath he cursed the miserable old beast. 
“Izzat you, Mikey?”
Her voice was like a buzz saw gnawing at the nerves in his ears.  Michael felt his lips curl back into a snarl.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Did you get me my smokes?”
He tossed the bags on the kitchen table.  They contained three packs of Marlboros, six sticks of Slim Jims and a thirty-two ounce bottle of blue Gatorade.
“Did you get my smokes, sweetie?”  Her scratchy, witchy voice clawed its way from her bedroom upstairs.  
Michael shouted back. “Yeah, I got everything.  Here’s your mail.”  Under his breath he muttered, “Ya crazy, old bitch.”
His mother gingerly climbed down the stairs in a dingy pink housedress and terry cloth scuffs.  She was a tiny woman peering out beneath heavy black framed eyeglasses.  A nearly spent cigarette hung from her lips as she approached her only son.
“Didja have enough money for everything?”
Michael grunted and nodded.
The old woman patted his arm and eased herself into a chair to look through the mail; Michael flinched at her touch.
Thirty-two and living at home with his elderly mother, Michael acknowledged his failure. He had moved in with her when he dropped out of community college and swore it would only be until “he got on his feet.”  The years rolled by and there was always a reason he was unable to move out.  His mother pretended he was there to take care of her, but Michael felt trapped – trapped by the monstrous old house and his clingy hag of a mother.
She rifled through the bags.
“What the hell is all this?  I didn’t tell you to get this.”  The tone of her voice turned sour.
Michael grabbed at the bottle of Gatorade.  “I bought them for myself.”
“Not with my money!”
“No!”  Michael lied.  “I’ve got my own money.” Michael had already cashed his measly check from the video store and the piddling remains sat in his wallet.
The old woman patted his arm and nodded.  “All right, honey.  You can have your candy.” 
Michael furiously ripped open a Slim Jim and tore off a piece with his teeth.  The salty dried meat tasted bitter in his mouth. 
“Sweetie,” his mother said.  “You wanna take my check to the bank and cash it now?”
“Not now, Ma.” Michael said.
“But Mikey, I just signed it.” 
Michael gritted his teeth and headed for his room.
“It’s got my name on it now.  What if I lose it or what if someone breaks in?”
“I’ll do it tomorrow.”  Michael growled. 
The old woman sighed.  ‘All right, honey.  I know you’re tired.  You rest up.”
Michael rolled his eyes and bit off another huge chunk of Slim Jim.
“I don’t feel so good.” She struggled to stand. “I’m gonna go lay down.”
He watched his mother’s tiny form shuffle back up the stairs, the saggy flesh of her upper arms waggling with each step. Her door clicked shut and he could hear her coughing. 
Alone later in his room Michael pulled a stack of dog-eared magazines from under his bed.  He rifled through the pile, knowing well the contents of each one by the cover.  The pubescent blue-eyed nymph sucking her forefinger while staring innocently at the camera promised many pages of girl on girl action beyond the cover.  Michael chose the cover with a dark haired vamp pulling bright red chewing gum from her lips in a long slippery trail.  He knew he’d find several pages of beaver shots glistening within. 
Michael slid his hand into his pajama pants and began to fondle his balls.  His vision blurred slightly as he got caught up in the images of young women on their backs, their legs open, forming a perfect V and the smooth, slick pinkness lying between their thighs.  He sighed and closed his eyes as he began to caress his erect cock when he heard his mother coughing in the next room.
Michael’s hand froze. He waited for the coughing fit to die out and then resumed playing with himself.
In his mind the nubile blonde from the magazine’s pages crawled onto his bed and laid her soft lips on his cock.  Her eyes were locked onto his as she dragged her tongue up the shaft and traced the tip of her tongue along the ridge of his big mushroom head.  He slid his hand up and down faster along his penis when his mother started a new bought of throat wrenching coughs.
Michael shouted to her.  “You all right, Ma?”  He couldn’t very well tell her to “shut the fuck up, I’m trying to concentrate here!”  
In between coughing fits she called back, “I’m all right!  I just need some water!”
He leaned back in bed and gripped his cock with one hand until it hurt.  She was still hacking.  Michael tossed the magazines onto the floor and stared at the dark ceiling.  Friggin’ crazy bitch was going to cough all night. 
It sounded like she was in the room with him.  He rolled onto his stomach, his cheated penis aching. Why wouldn’t she leave him in peace?  Her coughs echoed through the old house.  It was as if the walls were mimicking her, coughing back in sympathy.
The coughing fit continued.  He could hear her straining to bring up whatever was blocking her throat and he felt his stomach roil in protest.  Each jagged hack was like a blow to the back of his head. The last thing he thought before falling asleep was “disgusting old bitch.”
Just past four in the morning, Michael stirred in his sleep.  Foggy, he sat up and listened.  His mother was calling his name.
“Mikey, I need you!”  She was struggling to speak.  Michael could hear her gasping and wheezing.   Her voice was strangled.  “Mikey!”
Michael felt no urgency to get up.  A great lethargy seemed to wash over him as he listened to his mother’s rasping calls.  He lay staring into the dark, only glancing once at his alarm clock to check the time.
Michael was well aware what had happened, it had happened before.  She fell asleep on her back and the mix of phlegm and tobacco in her throat had formed a plug.  She was choking.  But all she had to do was go into the bathroom and get a drink of water.
She gagged as she tried to dislodge the obstruction.  The sound turned his stomach.  Her voice, normally high pitched and whining sounded like a frog as it struggled to escape her clotted throat.
“Mickey, help! Water!”
He could hear her gasps and moans drifting down the hallway.  Instead of feeling alarmed, Michael felt nothing but excitement. Her labored breathing created a rhythmic pattern.  It reminded Michael of something he’d read as a kid in the school library.  “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.”   He began to chant the words under his blanket, along with the phlegmatic sound of his mother’s wheezing.
He stopped chanting and listened.  He could hear a weak, barely audible whistle from the next room; a rattling whistle like steam being expelled through a narrow pipe. 
It tittered several times before petering out into a wet rattle. 
“Mom?” he whispered and pulled the blanket down.  A cool breeze wafted against his cheek.  There was no answer.  For once, the house was silent.   He tried again in the softest voice possible.
“Mom?”
When he received no answer, he pulled his covers up and lay staring into the dark for nearly an hour before finally drifting off to sleep.
The next morning Michael waited until sunlight pierced the muddied windows in his room. The alarm clock near his bed said it was twenty past ten. The house was unnaturally still.
In nothing but his pajama pants, he crept down the hallway towards his mother’s room.  The door was still closed.  There was an unseasonal chill in the house.  The air felt frosty – like a wet, cool breeze snaked its way through the hallway.
Michael leaned an ear against the door to listen and the wood itself seemed to sear his flesh.  He pulled way.  A film of sweat lay on his upper lip as he caught the metal door knob in his hand. The knob felt icy cold as it turned.  He allowed the door to ease open just a few inches before peeking inside. 
She was lying on the bed in a tangle of bedclothes.  One skinny leg stuck out, a slipper dangling from her foot.  She was wearing the clunky eyeglasses; her head thrown back against the headboard.  Michael pulled the door shut with a jerk.
The texture of the wood, the bubbles in the yellowed paint seemed to grow before him.  A tattered spider web hung in the corner above the stair case and Michael watched it sway gently.
His heart thumped in his chest. He rapped at the door with his knuckle and it sounded brutal.  He pushed the door open and whispered, “Ma?”  The door swung open and the picture was still the same.  His mother was frozen in an absurd ballet pose, half in and half out of the bed.  Michael padded into the room. Standing at the foot of his mother’s bed the room seemed impossibly neat save for the box of tissues and three packs of Marlboros on her nightstand, one already open and missing several cigarettes.  The white and pink quilt, lumpy and misshapen from too many rolls in the dryer, still lay neatly folded across the foot of her bed.  A litter of used tissues was scattered all over the floor beneath her one slippered foot.  
In the time it took Michael to move from the door to his mother’s bedside, he took in the white flecks of dry spittle around her mouth, the yellow discharge on the front of her pink nightgown and the glaze of her open eyes beneath the thick lenses.   He leaned forward as if to touch her and then bolted from the room.  He dashed into the bathroom; pitching forward over the sink; dry heaving.  The ghostly taste of Slim Jims filled his mouth. 
His mother was dead.  His mother was dead and she was lying in her bed like a stumpy manikin.   Michael dropped his ass onto the toilet and gathered up the legs of his pajamas.  She was dead – which was all right, Michael thought.  It was gross, but it was all right.  She was old, she was sixty-eight.  That was pretty old, wasn’t it?  She died of old age. 
He glanced into the hallway and realized he’d left the bedroom door open.  He imagined his mother’s still poised as if she were climbing out of her bed, staring at the ceiling.  He’d have to close the door before they came.  Who the hell was coming?  He’d have to call the police or the paramedics.  Who do you call when someone is already dead?  He’d have to figure out who to call.  Then what?  What happens after they come?
Michael skidded past his mother’s door and sprinted down the stairs to the kitchen. He pulled the fridge open and grabbed the container of orange juice.  He gulped big mouthfuls directly from the spout.  Finally he slumped down at the table and stared at the Formica top. The sugar dispenser and the salt and pepper shakers were arranged in a neat little triangle in the center of the table.  His mother had used them as paperweights to keep her precious Social Security check in place.  Michael put one finger on the pale yellow piece of paper and dragged it over to his side of the table.
Michael picked up the check and turned it over.  His mother’s neat, almost artistic looking signature was scrawled at the edge of the back of the check.  Funerals were expensive.  He looked up at the horrid yellow wallpaper and the garish light fixture dangling above.  He could sell “the beast.”  There had to be a will somewhere – although his Mom had always had a superstitious fear of talking about her own death.  What if there was no will?  And even if there was the rickety monstrosity could take years to sell.
His mother’s check felt hot in his hands.  “The beast” was paid off.  Who had to know if the old woman was dead?  Who would tell?  If she never left the house, it would be his secret – his and “the beast’s.”
His mother had been a small woman. Barely five feet tall, she claimed to have “shrunk” over the years. Michael considered storing her body in a plastic garbage bag, but he needed something more permanent.  In the closet between their rooms, a green Rubbermaid container had been stashed to hold the few Christmas decorations his mother bothered with each year. 
He brought a fresh garbage bag into the bedroom and regarded his mother’s still form. Michael had wanted to use her pink quilt as a type of shroud and just wrap her body up and dump it into the container.  Her body wouldn’t bend the way he needed in order to fit her into the container.  The garbage bag proved useless too.  It slipped and slid as he tried to cover her up. Her arms kept popping out. 
Michael had to abandon the quilt and roll her body off the bed and into the container. He shuddered each time his fingers gripped his mother’s cold lifeless limbs. He forced the arms to lie flat next to his mother’s sides and pushed her head down until it touched her boney knees.  When he stepped back, sweat pouring down his cheeks into his collar, her grizzled little head popped up slightly.
Michael forced the lid onto the container, pushing his mother’s body down.  There was some resistance, but he pressed the corners of the lid until he heard that satisfying snap of the sides locking into place.  A wild thought fluttered into his head:  that should keep her nice and fresh.  Michael allowed a high pitched giggle to escape his lips before he dragged the box into the hall. The box traveled in a series of short shoves and grunts.  There was only one place to store the box:  the hallway closet where he got the container from to begin with.
His mother’s winter coats and heavy suits hung above her final resting place.  Michael slid the box in as far as it would go until it hit the back wall of the closet.  The house was mercifully silent but he could feel it judging him as he closed the door.
The bank had no problem cashing his mother’s pension check.  He’d done it many times over the past few years and had even signed it for her himself.  He took the cash home in his wallet, reminding himself to take a look at her checkbook when he got home.  He treated everyone to Chinese food for lunch at the Video store and bought himself a new video game.  For dinner later that night, he treated himself to a dozen White Castles and a case of beer.
At home he tiptoed passed the closed door of his mother’s bedroom.  Pushing his sneakers off without untying the laces, he dropped onto his bed, face down. Soon he was drifting through a foggy world where he was at Donegal’s pub, tossing back beers and laughing his ass off with the buxom brunette from his magazine. The dark haired beauty wrapped one leg around his and pushed her tongue into his mouth when his mother started coughing.  Michael snorted and shook himself awake
“You okay, Ma?” he mumbled, rubbing at his scruffy face.  The wet coughing continued for a few seconds before Michael was shocked awake and sober.  He sat up, swinging his legs to the side of the bed and listened.  There was silence.  He dropped his feet to the floor and stumbled into the hallway.  His mother’s bedroom door was ajar. 
He scuffed down the hall as if he were walking through gelatin.  His brain tingled like mad when he stopped in the doorway and scanned the empty room.  The bed was naked, stripped of its linens. He was sure he’d shut the door after storing the body laden container in the closet.  He glanced down the hall at the closet door.   
He closed the bedroom door and shuffled back down the hall to his room.  As he passed the closet he caught a whiff of an unpleasant, sour odor.  He snuffled, running a finger under his nose.  Yeah, he thought, she’s in there. 
The next morning, Michael stood in front of the bathroom sink, splashing cold water over his face.  He looked dreadful.  His face was pasty and bloated looking.  His eyes were rimmed with red.  His stomach was unhappy and there was a horrid sour smell in the air. 
Michael wiped his face with a dirty towel and looked in the mirror.  He could see the hallway closet lurking in the corner behind him. The sour odor drifted down the hall.. 
Michael’s mom always kept several rolls of clear plastic wrap in the kitchen.  He used his fingernails to claw at the end of the roll and pulled a long sheet of the transparent material.  His plan had been to wrap it around his mother’s body, but he couldn’t bear to open the container and face what was inside.  Instead he decided to wrap the entire container in as many sheets of plastic wrap as he could.
The tenacity of the wrap amazed him.  It refused to leave home base and fought off all attempts Michael made to rip a piece from the main body of wrap.  When he finally did get a strip free, it clung to his fingers and sucked at his bare arms.  He found himself flapping his arms around, trying to free himself of the parasitic clutches of the plastic.  He finally got one layer of wrap around the girth of the container.  He began to pull off a second sheet when the wrap came to a sudden end. No worries, he thought.  There’s always more plastic wrap.
He found the second roll of plastic wrap and wound several layers around the box before it gave out. He left the plastic attached to the roll and wrapped the container until all that was left was the very end of the roll.  He tried to rip it free with his fingers and then attacked the sheet with his teeth.  His face came close to the container and the odor seemed to bounce back at him, attacking his nostrils.  Finally the container was muffled under five layers of clear plastic wrap. 
Satisfied the smell was contained for good, Michael slid the box back into the closet.  The plastic wrap had built up beneath the box, keeping it from sliding freely over the linoleum floor.  Michael felt something jostle inside the box as he pushed it into the recesses of the closet.  He jumped and pulled away.  The box sat silently in its make shift tomb and Michael shut the door.
*******
Days later the smell was invasive forcing him to go out and buy more plastic wrap.  He could feel it curling around the edges of the front door as he turned the key.  When he pushed the door open, it rushed to meet his nose and rubbed against his face like an affectionate cat.  When he closed the door behind him it seemed to envelop him, making him gag.  He swore he could see green tendrils of the toxic fumes hanging in the air.
Michael opened the closet door and the smell pumped into the hallway.  His eyes teared.  With ginger hands, he pulled the mummified Rubbermaid container out.  Michael studied the neatly wrapped package.  The layers looked rippled in spots, as if someone had tried to tamper with it.  Michael shook his head.  It was just more of a mess than he had remembered. 
He opened the first box of wrap and wound it in one direction around the box until the roll of plastic was spent.  He opened a second box and wound it around in the opposite direction. He finally used another whole roll over the entire thing, winding it tightly until it resembled a transparent bee hive.  The dark green container could barely be seen beneath its cellophane cocoon.  He had a hard time shoving the box back into the closet; its lumpy overcoat skidded against the floor.  Before he closed the door, he thought he heard something bounce and settle within the container. 
The highboy dresser in his mother’s room was just narrow enough to fit in the hallway.  Michael pushed it into the hall and slid it in front of the closet door.  He wasn’t sure it would do anything about the smell, but he felt better not seeing the closet door.   On top of the dresser he began to place sticks of solid air freshener.  He’d grabbed the colorful columns of solid deodorants off of the supermarket shelf, not paying attention to what fragrances they held.  He opened each one and twisted the covers off, displaying the stick of fragrance.  The combined aroma was unpleasant, but tolerable and he thought he could sleep.
He woke with a start hours later.  His mother was coughing.  He lay frozen in bed, his eyes wide in the darkness.  He could clearly hear the staccato of her smoker’s hack.  It was muffled as if it came from behind a closed door; muffled as if it came from layers of plastic cling wrap. 
“Mikey?”
As if he’d been shocked by high voltage, Michael sat up in bed.  He stared at his bedroom door as if he could will it to lock out anything that might wander in from the hallway.  The coughing had stopped, but his ears strained for any sound.  And then it came.
He could hear a crisp, dry crinkling sound. 
It was a crinkly, crackling sound like layers and layers of plastic being peeled away.  His heart battered against his rib cage.  A tearing sound, a clean ripping and a thud.  And then a wet splat, something like the slap of raw meat on the floor. 
Michael swallowed and listened again.  There was silence.  His head seemed to clear and he ran his hand over the front of his underwear.  They were damp.  He shook his head as if to rattle his brain.   It had been a nightmare.  The house, in its gloomy brooding, was still. It was toying with his brain. He slipped under the covers and glanced at the alarm clock.  It was just past four.
The next morning the smell still lingered in the hall.  Michael had bought ten rolls of cellophane, but pulling the dresser from the closet and opening the door was out of the question.  If he opened the door and the plastic wrap he had labored to seal the Rubbermaid container was tattered, rendered from the strain of the lid being pried open from within he would lose his mind. What if the lid had been dislodged and his mother’s decaying, blackened hand was sticking out, the nails clawing through the plastic wrap?  What if he opened the closet door and his mother’s putrefied corpse was sitting on top of the box, shreds of cling wrap lying at her feet, her accusing eyes bulging from behind her clunky glasses?
Michael scrubbed at his face.  The dark corners of the musty old house were drawing him in.  He refused to go mad.  It was just a bad smell and these things could be dealt with.
He carried an armful of air fresheners into the hallway and began to open them and place them around the dresser on the floor.  Michael fought not to see the wisps of cigarette smoke that he was sure was escaping the seams around the  closet door.
He dreaded nightfall.  Everything was different once the sun went down.  The dreary house became ominous, like a cranky old man.  Shadows seemed to dart out just beyond Michael’s peripheral vision.  He could hear thumping sounds from the hallway.  At one point, right after sunset, Michael thought he heard his mother’s bedroom door open.  Too frightened to look, he muted the television and stared straight ahead, listening.  The back of his skull tingled when he thought he heard the shuffling of her slippered feet.  He whirled around, a thin scream clawing at his throat, but nothing was there. 
That night Michael locked himself in his room.  He kept telling himself it was all in his head, the noises, the shadows, even the smell.  There was definitely a smell, a terrible smell; but it was not a visible vapor that dogged him from room to room.
He dozed off into a cloud of unrest where he could hear the crackling of plastic and fleshy footsteps in the hallway.  He jerked awake a few times when he thought he smelled cigarettes burning, but exhaustion forced him back to slumber.  Sometime in the middle of the night he dreamed that his mother was in his room, hovering over his bed.  He opened sleepy eyes and saw her face, blackened like an overripe banana, floating behind her thick glasses.  She leaned close enough that he could feel her whistling, wheezing breath on his face and the heat of her own flesh decaying. 
Michael bounded from his bed, his hands outstretched, fully expecting his fingers perforate her pulpy flesh.  He was alone in his room.  Clutching his chest, he looked at himself in the mirror over his dresser.  His chin was scruffy with bristles.  He hadn’t shaven in days.  His eyes looked like wet holes in his head.  He needed escape.
When he opened his bedroom door the odor of the apartment scrabbled at his throat.  It was thick and powerful.  He sprinted past the dresser in the hallway.  The stench followed him like an eager puppy. Michael gagged and somewhere upstairs something echoed his cough.
At the Quik-mart, he bought an egg and sausage sandwich and an orange Gatorade.  As he left the store, he unwrapped the sandwich and took a huge bite.  It tasted greasy. Behind him an older man wearing a blue windbreaker and baseball cap stood drinking a cup of steaming coffee.  He nodded to Michael and took a long drag from his cigarette which started a coughing fit. 
The sandwich suddenly tasted of ashes.
The older gentleman shrugged and motioned to the lit cigarette with his coffee cup.
“These things are gonna kill me one day, but whattaya gonna do?”
Michael tossed his sandwich into the dumpster and took a swig from his Gatorade before heading home.
The odor greeted him as he stepped into the apartment.  It was happy he was home.  He pushed past it, covering his mouth with his hand.   It seemed to grapple down his throat, searching for his intestines.  He could feel it winding through his guts like a snake. 
The air in the old house was toxic.  Mingling with the flowery and fruity smells of the deodorizing sticks, the resulting aroma was nauseatingly sweet. The odor came from a box wrapped in miles of plastic wrap. He needed to keep the odor in the closet or his mother wouldn’t stay put.  What would keep them both in?  More plastic wrap.
Michael dropped the boxes of expensive, brand name wrap on the floor in front of the closet.  He pushed the dresser away and stared at the closed door.  No power in the world could compel him to open that door.  He pulled one container of cling wrap open and then another.  He carefully placed a sheet of wrap over the closed door, sealing off the edges of the door frame, blocking the escape route for the bad smell.  The cling wouldn’t stay clung.  When he applied a second layer of wrap it fell forward.  He watched it drift down in slow motion. 
Michael searched the drawers in the living room until he found the stapler.  He attached each layer of wrap to the wall with the stapler, flattening out little pillows of putrid air trapped beneath the plastic.
He pushed the dresser back in place and inhaled deeply.  The foul smell was still there, but faint.  He was confident he had weakened it.  Looking up at the cracked ceiling he chuckled.   This house won’t beat me. You won’t be my tomb!
A blanket of perspiration lay on his skin.  A job well done, he thought as he kicked aside the empty cling boxes.  He picked up the last remaining box and took it into his bedroom.  His bedroom was safe.  The smell couldn’t get to him there.
The sun was setting as Michael lay, fully clothed, on his bed.  He was listening to the creaking house.  A bird warbled outside and the wind tree branches against the window.  Michael could hear the heartbeat of “the beast.”  It seemed content.  Beneath it all he could hear the soft purring sound of brittle fingers cutting through layers and layers of cellophane. 
Across his chest, Michael held the last unopened box of plastic wrap.  He picked at the cardboard lid until he freed the roll within and pinched the end of the cellophane sheet.  He peeled a good sized piece of wrap from the box and sliced it across the metal edge.  He let the blurry gossamer sheet flutter in his hand like a translucent sail.
From the hallway he could hear the sound of plastic being shred.  He could hear a muffled thump and then another like the frustrated pounding of someone locked out – or in.  Michael let the cling wrap float down over his face.  He smiled as it folded itself over his cheeks.  He was a big boy, he thought.  He could handle anything.  All he needed was more plastic wrap.
As his bedroom door slowly swung open, he grabbed the edges of the plastic cling wrap and drew them down tightly over his face and took a deep breath.
END

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Open For Submissions!

Deadman’s Tome is open for submissions.

Writers of horror, send to the Tome stories of so terrifying, so horrific, that the very text haunts the reader!

Please send short story submissions of no more than 5000 words to

Jessecdedman@gmail.com

Deadman’s Tome will offer payment for certain submissions based on quality. Minimum of $5 with additional payout based on performance and reception calculated at a rate held at the discretion of the Editor-in-chief.

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Erotic Horror Writing Contest

Deadman’s Tome is now accepting submissions for a horror erotica writing contest open from June 28, 2014 to September 30, 2014. All submissions must follow these guidelines to even be considered.

  • Short Stories 
  • 5,000 word limit. 
  • Spel Cehcked
  • .doc, .docx, .pdf 
  • Sent to Jessecdedman@gmail (dot) com

How it works:

  • Submissions will be screened by the editor
  • Submissions that are accepted will be hosted on the blog
  • Reader’s choice is determined by the amount of likes, shares, and comments received
  • Editor Choice is determined by me

Rewards:

  • Editor Top Picks will receive $50 Amazon gift card.
  • Reader’s Choice will receive $25 Amazon gift card
  • Recognition of readers world-wide.
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Uncertainty

As the title reveals, I’m not too sure about the longevity of Deadman’s Tome. The truth is that submissions have not been coming in, and it might have something to do with the lack of site promotion. The drive I had for the site, the passion, has been derailed simply due to distraction and priorities.

To reveal even more, I work at a psychiatric facility as a mental health tech and deal with a mountain of absurd, unfathomable stuff on a daily basis. When I get off of work, I don’t feel like plugging the site or even plugging one of my own productions. I feel like having a beer, lifting weights, and perhaps attending to the grad work I’ve been meaning to complete.

While it is saddens me that Deadman’s Tome may not exist a few months from now, it served its purpose. The site gave exposure to writers of various skill and style. But in this day and age, anyone with wifi access can create their own means of exposure. A simple blog could achieve what Deadman’s Tome did for some. The difference is that I put money in advertising and struggled to get it “out there” but that’s the price.

My overall point is that I don’t have the drive I once did for Deadman’s Tome. I have other priorities now. To those that have assisted Deadman’s Tome throughout the years, thank you. I will stay in contact and will help promote your future titles anytime. I will create a more personalized blog in the future, one that allows me to focus on giving back to the authors that assisted me.

 

 

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Nicolas Victor by Elliot Richard Dorfman

It was a sunny spring day in the Adirondacks Mountains of New York when Carey Waltham decided to take a hike with his dog Chancy, a pedigree collie.  This successful 34-year-old lawyer often enjoyed doing this activity since buying his vacation home in the township of Golden Oaks.  Instead of following the usual path, he decided to take a different route, which led into the mountains. About an hour later, Carey came across a fenced off area that was hidden behind a large groove of fir trees
There was a warning posted on the tall locked gate. Although severely weather beaten, it still readable:
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO OPEN THIS GATE AND ENTER WITHIN!
IF THIS WARNING IS DISOBEYED, 
THE DEVIL’S SERVANT WILL AWAKEN
AND BE ABLE TO CONTINUE HIS GHASTLY DEEDS.
The young lawyer chuckled. “What hocus-pocus. Think I’ll check it out.”
Picking up a stone, he easily broke the rusted lock.  Although it was a calm day, a strong cold North wind lashed him in the face as he opened the gate. His dog growled and refused to follow him.
Carey tied his pet to a tree. “Okay, Chancy, you wait here. I won’t be long.”
A little further on there was a small mausoleum with thick stonewalls covered with moss. The ground surrounding it was barren, creating an extremely depressing atmosphere. The heavy mausoleum door mysteriously swung open and a loud voice came from within:
“Ah, awakened at last! Praise be to Abaddon, King of the Bottomless Pit. My time has come again to serve you.”
From the dim interior, the frightened intruder could vaguely see a tall figure rising from the center slab.
“Mortal, who stands out there trembling like some lost sheep, come in here and meet me.”
Terrified, Carey felt himself drawn into the mausoleum by some strong force. Using all of his will power, he managed to break away and run back to his dog and untied him.
“Come on, Chancy, There’s something weird going on. Let’s get away from here while we still have the chance.” 

****
Margery, his newly wed wife, was preparing a snack when he returned home. She was surprised to see him back so early.
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Carey took a deep breath. “Well, I’m not exactly sure what I saw, but it sure did give me the willies – and I usually don’t frighten that easily.”
Margery knew that Carey was not prone to making things up, nor did he have an overactive imagination, so she sat back and listened carefully when he told her the story.
“I think you should see Reverend Meter,” she suggested. “Hopefully, he can ward off whatever evil presence you might have released.”
Carey nodded. “That’s a good idea, honey, but we’d better do it quickly; I wouldn’t be surprised if that demonic entity is already roaming this area.” 

****
Reverend Meter’s church was only five minutes from the house by car. However, coming out of the driveway onto the road, a large, hideous brown colored animal ran in front of the vehicle causing Carey to swerve into the other lane. Luckily, he avoided hitting an oncoming car.
Margery trembled, “What was that thing?”
Carey clenched the wheel. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen a creature like that before.”
 Margery took a deep breath. “Oh, Carey, I have a strong feeling that it was the evil spirit you released in another form, trying to prevent us from seeing the reverend by causing an accident.”
Carey nodded. “I’m afraid we are up against some kind of entity that is very powerful.”                             

****
The handsome Dutch reform church where Reverend Kenneth Meter presided was built in 1866.  Reverend Meter, who was close to his congregation, had been holding serves there for more than fifty years.  Greeting Carey and Margery, he escorted them into the study of the parsonage. After listening to Carey’s supernatural encounter, the reverend walked over to a bookcase, pulled out a leather-covered book, and placed it on his desk.
“I am afraid you unintentionally awoke one of the foulest servants of Lucifer. Too bad you didn’t pay attention to the warning posted on the gate.”
Carey shrugged. “Frankly, I thought the warning was nonsense.”
Meter frowned. “It was far from being nonsense, Mr. Waltham.”                                                                           
“Why do you say that, Reverend, have you ever been in that place?” Margie asked.
The clergyman sighed. “I have never attempted to find it, and for good reasons.  Let me read a portion from this diary that written more than one hundred and fifty years ago by Jonas Anderson Blake, the first reverend of this church. Listen carefully. Hopefully, it will help you to understand.” 

****

May 17, 1859
Grand Oaks is a small, but thriving, village. Most of the men here make a good living by hunting and selling furs. Their families are very happy and closely knit. A few weeks ago, a strange man calling himself Nicholas Victor rented a room at the inn. The man is quite charismatic and has become friends with many of the families. Unfortunately, since his arrival, many people of my village have died without any visible signs of illness. I have become suspicious of Nicolas since he was been with each of the unfortunate persons at the time they were stricken. Furthermore, my parishioners have recently told me that he is trying to persuade everyone in the village that my church services are a waste of time and to stop attending them. Whenever I try confronting him about this, he grunts and darts away from me.
May 18, 1859
Fully convinced that Nicholas is doing something of an evil nature, I broke into his room at the inn last night while he was away. Upon entering his chamber, I noticed a musty odor that permeated the air. On his bed lay an unholy book of black magic. Drawn on the floor with some kind of luminescent paint was a large hexagram. In the center of it lay a silver box, which had an etching on the lid of an inverted cross, the symbol of the devil.
While pondering what to do, Nicholas returned. Grinning, he removed his cloak and locked the door.
“I expected to find you here, Reverend Blake.”
In his hand, he held a small quivering red velvet bag that was put it in the silver box.
Mustering up all my courage, I accused him of having something directly to do with the recent deaths in Golden Oaks. Just then, a muffled sound came from the silver box. It sounded as if someone was crying.
It was then that I finally understood. Opening a window nearby, I silently said a prayer then grabbed the silver box and opened the lid. Ripping open the red velvet bag that was inside it, a puff of white smoke arose and went out of the window and hopefully up to the heaven of God.
“One less innocent soul for your master,” I shouted with joy. “Now you, a curse to all mankind, must be stopped before completing any more satanic missions in this or any other place.”
Nicholas green eyes twinkled with delight. “And what does your simple mind plan to do, Reverend? Can you not comprehend that it is totally hopeless? Ego sum immortalis; I am immortal.”
I shook my head. “You are too cocky. There are ways to deal with you. In my youth, I visited Rome and learned of a little known incantation that can put evil demons like you into a deep eternal sleep.”
Nicholas smirked. “Eternal sleep? That spell is not as powerful as you seem to think. If any mortal comes within fifty feet of me after the passing of a hundred years, I will awake and resume my mission.”
“Then,” I shouted, “I will try and make sure that never happens by placing your body somewhere deep in the forest and surrounding your unholy spot with a strong fence. On the gate there will be a sign warning anyone who should accidently find that spot to stay away.”
Nicholas shrugged. “That might work for the time being, but eventually some curious person is bound to come and disregard the warning. Be assured, sooner or later I will come back and continue to do what I must. You are a most foolish mortal to actually think that you can defeat me.”
May 28, 1859
It is now a week later. Thanks be to God, after reciting the spell, Lucifer’s malevolent servant fell asleep. I then engaged a few trusted men from my congregation to build a small mausoleum deep in the forest where the demon was placed. A cedar fence now surrounds the area with a large engraved warning posted on the front gate. I pray this will be the last anyone has dealings with Nicholas Victor.
****
Closing the diary, Reverend Meter took a deep breath. “Ah, Mr. Waltham, if only you wouldn’t have disobeyed the warning.”
Margery looked out of the window and briefly saw a figure darting behind a nearby bush with lightning speed.
“I think Nicolas Victor is here!”
Meter slammed his fists on the desk. “If he is, I will personally stop him from doing any more harm. Perhaps then I can finally redeem my family’s reputation from the unholy actions of this malignant incarnate.”
Carey became puzzled. “What do you mean your family?  Just what have they to do with Nicholas Victor?”
The reverend got up and walked to the window, his head bowed. “I regret to say that Nicolas Victor was my mother’s great-uncle twice removed. That side of the family once lived in nearby Massachusetts. I discovered this when accidently opening a secret compartment in an old family chest. Inside of it was a letter written by Nicolas’ mother. The unfortunate woman stated that her son was the black sheep of the family. Although coming from a pious family, he rebelled against all decent beliefs and took up with a cult of heathens who lived in the mountains. Eventually, Nicolas became their leader. Rumors then began spreading about the many unspeakable things this group did. There were even rumors that they kidnaped defenseless orphans and murdered them in a sacrificial ritual to the devil. When the authorities tried to get ahold of them for questioning, the culprits disappeared like some kind of vermin scattering in the night. My family never saw Victor again. It is said he even killed the members of his gang in order to show his unbending loyalty to the devil. I felt it providential when I was assigned to the church where Reverend Beck once presided. Somehow, I knew I would get the opportunity to destroy the scourge of my bloodline. Now that time has come.  I have a copy of the incantation that Jonas Beck used on Victor and will use it on him again.”
A hideous laugh suddenly filled the room. There was a flash of light and Nicholas Victor appeared. His complexion was waxen and his large dark eyes stared at them with intense hate. Long brown hair framed a thin face. Reverend Meter tried to pull out his cross, but Nicholas took a cane that he was holding and struck the crucifix down with a tremendous force.
“So Kenneth Meter, despite being my own flesh and blood, you wish to destroy me!  What else can I expect from a man of God? ‘Nunquam iterum’ – never again! I won’t give you the chance to stop me from continuing what I must do.”
He pointed the silver tipped cane at them and the three mortals immediately became immobile. Pulling out a red velvet bag from beneath his cloak, Nicholas slowly walked around each of them. Placing his hands on their shoulders, they felt an excruciating pain. A puff of white smoke arose from the top of their head, which Nicholas immediately scoped with both hands and put     in his velvet bag before vanishing.  The three lifeless bodies fell to the floor and crumbled into dust. Moments later the entire church burst into flames, disintegrating everything within it – including the written copy of the incarnation.

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FAQ by Keith Coleman

Frequently Asked Questions:

 

Q:  Can you tell me where I am and what I am doing here?

A:  There is unfortunately no definitive answer to this question, as these FAQs have been designed as an interim contingency for a number of individuals in different, though similar, situations.  Due to a range of communicative difficulties experienced by our sponsors, we cannot give a conclusive answer to this, or to many successive questions.  Please be assured, however, that the location where you have now awoken in is certainly liable to be secure and inaccessible by outside parties.

 

Q:  Why have I been chosen to be here?

A:  While it is unhealthy to define oneself in terms of victimisation, it is unfortunately true that you have been subject to a prolonged phase of reconnaissance activity (‘stalking’ in common parlance) which resulted in enforced relocation, but this does not necessarily mean you were targeted for any personal reason.  You may have been kidnapped because the other party was merely responding to his or her interest in some facet of the way that you look, or move, or even smell.  On the other hand, you may have been selected simply on the basis of availability:  being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

 

Q:  Is it possible to explain the process of my continued presence here and the length of duration in this location?

A:  Regretfully it must be admitted that the length of time that you will remain here is unknown and wholly dependant on individual processes imposed by the particular party who has rendered you to this location.  It could honestly be argued that your behaviour while here also plays a part in the length of time that you will remain in your present state of health.  Excessive passivity or volatility has been known in the past to act as a trigger for the termination of subjects’ stay in the holding location.

 

Q:  I cannot remember anything about coming here. Have I been drugged?

A:  Adulteration of drinks and foodstuffs is a favoured process employed by our sponsors.  But we hold no exact records of pharmaceutical products likely to be used by captors or any resultant physical of psychological affects in the short or long term.

 

Q:  Is there no right of appeal or mechanism by which I can obtain the intercession of an outside party?

A:  It would be as well at this juncture to reconcile yourself to the permanence of your predicament.  It has not commonly been the practice of the holding agency in the past to change their minds towards the individuals whom they have chosen to extract from their usual modes of existence.  The place of confinement is habitually remote from the attention of anyone liable to cause interference.  Any excessive vocal exertion or attempt to exit the area by normal means of exit will not be successful.  The great majority of our clients operate as lone workers, so it would not be possible in ordinary circumstances to request any associates or accomplices to return you to your normal life.

 

Q:  I am not happy with the tone of your replies and the lack of pertinent information. Can you explain the exact nature of my captivity and what specific danger I am in? 

A:  Due to the generic nature of these answers, which were compiled to cover a range of contingencies, we cannot specifically answer this query.  It has not been our intention to provide you with specific information about the treatment you are liable to receive nor the outcome for you.  We feel that this knowledge would be unhelpful at best and would likely stimulate an emotional response which would not ultimately be beneficial.  A more focused answer may be available in future when this supporting literature has been amended by another individual. It may be possible then to tailor these questions and answer for each of our clients and their guests, giving more focus in light of their different working methods.  For reasons which cannot be stated here, revision of this document will be undertaken by another neutral party.

 

Q:  I am surely entitled at least to know what level of danger I am in?  You have been too circumspect with your answers.

A:  I apologise if you feel that I have been less than forthcoming.  To be wholly frank, you must understand that you have no residual rights whatever, according to the admittedly arbitrary modus operandi of our clients.  All that I can admit is that all those who have found themselves in the same or similar positions as you up to this point have not ultimately progressed beyond the experience of captivity.  While it would not be entirely impossible for a captive such as you to affect an escape, probability (based on many past scenarios) makes that eventuality statistically insignificant.

 

Q:  I am angry that you seem to be affecting an even-handed tone.  Who are you, and are you mocking me?

A:  I do not have any vested interest in any unfortunate individual (or those deemed to deserve their fate) who may be reading this.  While there may be some meretricious value in discovering my identity, even supposing that defining my identity was a simple matter, it would not significantly affect your situation.  Suffice it to say that you are wholly in the hands of an authority which considers itself to be more elevated than either you or I could sanely contemplate.

 

Q:  But you are enjoying a vicarious thrill in teasing out these clues.  Do you and your ‘clients’ sit down and have a laugh afterwards at the games you have both played together?

A:  Be assured that the clients and I would not conspire to discuss such matters under any circumstances.  Please be assured that I am aware of their manifest shortcomings and the price that they pay for utilising my services is dearer than they would give credence to (even supposing that some of them are rational creatures).

 

Q:  Help me?

A:  With regret, I must confess that it is outwith the parameters of my operational responsibility to offer you any obviously practical assistance.  As far as possible I am only able to act as an unresponsive intermediary between captor and captive.  Due to the volatility inherent in the restraining authority, any intercession made on your behalf would be pointless and potentially hazardous.  However, due to recognised cognitive awareness issues among all of our clientele, I would strongly advise that you carefully scrutinise the answer given next.

 

Q: What good is false hope?  I might as well just give up?

A: Mercy is improbable.  All you can hope for is a different kind of release. You may Bargain for only an Exit by death.  However, Each and All of our clients Treat each Individual as Normal, after their fashion, without any Guarantee that they can Vary the Eventuality for you.  I have to maintain a Neutrality of Tone for both sides.  Mercy is improbable; All You may Bargain for is an Easy death.  Leave out the Ordinary reaction to your situation and try to Order your Senses to adapt to your Exceptional situation.  

 

Q:  I see.  How can I be sure (without wishing to respond too directly) that what you have just said is a viable option?

A:  Trust is the treasure of a hopeless man.

 

Q:  More riddles. I am attempting to enquire why you have not tried to alleviate your own difficulties, assuming that I can trust you are in the same or a similar position to myself?

A:  Good query.  Can I respond in kind and ask whether you have noticed anything in the physical form of this document which strikes you as being abnormal.  I do not mean the tortuous grammar or the fact that my words have been singularly unhelpful to you.  It may be beneficial, perhaps even crucial to you now, that you take the opportunity of reading between the lines.

 

Q:  What do you mean?  I don’t understand you.

A:  It is essential that now discard any residual idiotic illusions about your current predicament.  Have I been wasting my time, which is definitely at a premium?

 

Q:  It is dark in here. I cannot see the document all that clearly.  I am ill and afraid.

A:  Please accept my profound apologies (which are essentially worthless, I’m sure you realise by now).  I wish that things could have been different for you and for me. You are not alone, poor soul.  I was here before you, and certainly by the time you read this I will be long extinct.

    The maniacs forced me write all this in the last drops of my own…                                      

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Monster in the Closet by dDamian Foreman

It was as good a time as any to start smoking.  The acne ridden kid had never smoked in his life and had, until that point, never wanted to.  Next to losing his virginity and not dying at any moment looming over his head, a cigarette was the best sounding thing in the whole damn world.

From the dead girl’s jeans, he pulled out her cigarettes and lighter.  He stuck one of the cancer sticks into his mouth and lit it.  Naturally, his body rejected the smoke and he coughed it up in great whooping spasms (the sound no doubt catching its attention), but that didn’t stop him from trying again.  On his second attempt, he was awarded the same result, but on the third he was able to suck down a mouth full of smoke.

God, how it tasted terrible.  Tasted like…hell, there wasn’t even a comparison to how it tasted.  The kid couldn’t say it tasted like shit because he never had tasted shit before.  He was sure that he had compared many, many things to shit over the course of his life, but never once had he been able to truly say that because he didn’t know for sure what it tasted like.  He wasn’t about to say it again, because he didn’t want another lie on his plate when he got to the gates of Heaven–if, indeed, that was where he was going when he died.

Awww, crap.  Who was he kidding?  He wouldn’t get into Heaven if he blew the guy standing at the gates.  He pretty much broke every commandment other than “Thou shalt not kill” and “Thou shalt not commit adultery.”  Or maybe he was even more screwed than that; did masturbation count as adultery?  He didn’t know. 

Yeah, he was going to Hell, and he was going to burn with a stake stuck up his ass.  So, if he was doomed to eternity in the lake of fire, he might as well take advantage of the time he had left.  If that thing was going to kill him, then sure he could…

No, no, no.  He pushed that thought away before it could even surface any more than it had.  He didn’t want to hurt his chances any more than they already were. 

And it was just nasty.  Wrong.

He could hear it.  It was still out there, it was smelling him out.  Tracing the blood from the girl probably.  The girl, who he dragged in with him while she was still alive, might just be getting him killed now.  Thanks.

He took another drag from the cigarette (he thought he was getting pretty good at it now) when a queer thought came to him.  What if it smelled the smoke?  What if it smelled the smoke and thought the place was starting to catch ablaze and it ran away?  If that thing was anything like any other sane animal, it would fear the fire and run, right?  Then he would be alone with a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a dead girl and his thoughts.  Just him and the dead-

It turned something over.  It sounded like maybe one of the school desks hitting the ground, but it was far enough away for the kid to still feel safe-ish.  Probably was still on the far side of the room.  Probably was tracking him like a fat boy that smells cake.  And why not?  The door between him and it wasn’t a thick one, and there was a blood stream to the girl.  What was preventing it from getting to him?  It could no doubt bust through that door as easy as a lighter melts through a sheet of plastic wrap.

He didn’t have long left in this world; he could feel that deep down in his bones.  It shook him, put a nervous gloom over his closet sanctuary.  It was getting closer to him.  He could almost feel its teeth chomping down on his neck, ripping it out and letting him bleed as it ate the rest of him.  He’d seen what the thing did, and it wasn’t pretty.  It didn’t give you the courtesy of snapping your neck before it ate, taking your life painlessly before it snacked.  No, no, it liked to hear you scream and gurgle out blood from your gaping holes that it puts in you.  It likes it when you beg for it to stop.

He changed his mind.  He wasn’t going to hell.  He was already there.  That little closet he stuffed himself into was the only hell there could be.  Maybe–maybe–if his dick was bitten off first.  That could make it worse.

The kid’s hands were shaking as he pulled that cigarette up to his lips and puffed away.  It was almost gone, about a fourth of the tobacco was left in the roll of paper.  He swore to himself then that if that cigarette was finished before he died, he would (by sweet Jesus) light up another one and suck himself to death.  Yeah, so maybe you’re not supposed to kill yourself, but to hell with that.  God could make one exception, couldn’t He?  Under these circumstances?

Well, not that it mattered in the long run, but…

Something else fell down, but it sounded more like a dry THUMP than the banging of a table.  This new sound might have been a book falling and planting itself on the ground.  He guessed that it pushed it off of the counter or the teacher’s desk; maybe it was balanced just wrong somewhere and fell, but that was a silly dream that, deep down in his heart, he knew wasn’t the truth.  It was just looking for him in every possible place.

Tears filled his eyes.  He let them fall.  It’s not like anyone was there to see him cry, to call him pussy or queer fagget as the bigger guys liked to call him.  There was no one to make him feel bad about who he was.  He let those tears flow, but he kept a tight mouth about it.  He didn’t want to attract its attention.

He briefly recalled a play he saw once.  There was something about squealing pigs and quiet men in it.  The pigs were squealing because they didn’t know they were dying, but the men knew to shut up about it because they didn’t want to face death.

Maybe there was some truth to that statement.

Or maybe it was total shit. 

Who knows?

The facts were that he was crying quietly, death waited outside the door for the right time to knock, his cigarette was almost gone, and he was alone with a beautiful dead girl, who kept on getting prettier by the damn sec-

No!  He was not going to think that way.  She’s dead, God damn it.

Using the palm of his hand without the cigarette, he wiped away the tears that he let loose, then sucked up the last of the smoke.  He lifted his left leg up to his chest and used the bottom of his shoe to put out the smoldering cherry.  In the dark it was hard to find the pack and lighter again, but he managed.  Without realizing it, he had put them between the legs of the dead girl when he got his first cigarette, and when he got his second, he did the same.  She was still warm, and he liked having his hand there.  It felt good, felt natural.  Oh, he could have her.  All he had to do was ask and…

He let his thoughts linger in his head as his hand on her thigh.  It didn’t matter at all.  Nothing mattered when you’re on your ass, waiting for death to take you into its modest embrace.

The only time the kid with acne took his hand away from his girlfriend was to light the new cigarette.  It returned to her thigh quickly thereafter.

He could hear it out there; it was right in front of the door now.  The pads on its paws made a soft sound on the linoleum tiles, its claws making low clicks.  It was right outside, it found him.  The thing was ready to pounce, ready eat.  It didn’t want to play anymore more games, no, it was done fucking around.  It was hungry.  Time to die, kid.  Your goose is cooked.

He put the cigarette into his mouth and held it with his lips.  He took up his girlfriend’s hand in his own, then put his other over her fingers and squeezed.  It made him feel like she was still alive, like she was still there with him.

Quickly, he took his smoke out of his mouth and kissed his lover on the lips for a long moment, then went back to his death pose.  The kid closed his eyes and waited.

He heard it break through the door and heard himself scream for it to quit, heard himself fighting back and trying to save himself and crying for his mother.  He fought and yelled and-

-and it wasn’t him.  He opened his eyes again and listened to someone else getting eaten alive in another closet nearby.  Probably the one right next to him in the same damn classroom.

The screaming died out, and he listened to it eat more.  He sat there for a long, limitless period of time, waiting to see what would happen next.  Eventually, the sounds of ripping flesh and snapping bones quit died out.  He heard it strut by his closet again, and then he couldn’t hear it at all.  Had it gone?  Was it never there?

Did it matter?

The acne ridden teenage kid laughed (quietly, of course–it might still be there).  He was alive, and so was his soul mate–he could still feel her warmth and (if he concentrated hard) her pulse beating in unison with his, almost as if he was powering her with his own…but that was a silly thought.

He put out the cigarette.  He kissed her.  They were happy together, but somehow he didn’t feel happy enough, didn’t feel complete.  But she knew how to make him happy.  She knew very well, and the kid accepted her and then they went to sleep together in their happy place, the smell of her drying blood masked by burnt tobacco and new found love.

 

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Deadman’s Tome Podcast Ep. 4

Deadman’s Tome Podcast four is now available, and Mr. Deadman talks about everything from the new writing contest to the Evil Dead remake. Also, because of the erotic theme of the previous issue, please enjoy the provocative images.

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2013 Vampire Themed Writing Contest

Walls of cold, hardened flesh bound to bone, a core without the faintest glow of radiance for warmth, and a vast, ever-expansive darkness that permeates the internal decay. Yet, the corpse somehow manages to move. But it doesn’t move like that of a man, however. As if blessed by some unfathomable hellish fiend, it moves with more life than it ever had as a mortal. As if a secret dark oath was taken in exchange for a demonic reanimation, but with any oath their comes a price.

Deadman’s Tome announces a vampire themed writing contest that starts NOW and ends in August. Feel free to submit your dark, morbid, horrific vampire-themed tales for chance to win and be published in the yearly electronic magazine. We don’t want any mushy, teen-drama tales. Any and all submissions of those type will be burned. I’m serious.

What’s the prize? I don’t like this part because I feel that one shouldn’t write because of a prize, but because the craft is enjoyable. However, this is a contest, and every contest has a prize. First place will receive a $100 Amazon gift card, along with a signed copy of The Cradle of Ruin. Second place will receive $25 Amazon gift card and a signed copy of the Cradle of Ruin. Third place will receive a signed copy of the Cradle of Ruin.

Read the SUBMISSIONS page for more details.

Winners and select runner-ups will be featured in the yearly Deadman’s Tome publication.

Send all submissions to Legato10@swbell.net

 

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Horror Erotica Contest Edition

2012 Horror Erotica Writing Contest Edition
2012 Horror Erotica Writing Contest Edition

Journey into a world of dark, carnal horrors, a realm where  sadistic torture is intertwined with pleasure. Brace yourself, for each story  will take you further into a land of extreme perversion.  Otherworldly horrors such as the provocative succubi  will tempt poor unsuspecting saps so that they can feast upon their soul. Narcissistic Masters will  inflict a lashing onto their slaves in the name of obedience. Heavenly beings  that mirror that of ancient Greece will suffer the product of an incestuous  lust. I feel compelled to warn you again, dear reader. The stories do not only  increase with provocative images, they increase with deep and maddening tales  of the consequence of falling for temptation.

 

Download the .PDF: DT2012

Check out the Kindle Version: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009JAHIH0/ref=cm_sw_su_dp