He Watches

 Can their love survive Halloween's heartbreak?

He crouched in the shadows, a creature of the night—a purveyor of passion and a despoiler of dreams. He was young—or young for what he was—ancient in human terms. After a century of watching over three mortal generations, he was well acquainted with waiting ...but he finally found her. She was born, became a woman, and his time was at hand. Their time! His tongue slid over darkened lips. A dribble of saliva, stained red from his evening meal, framed his smile. As patient as any alpha predator, he watched and waited.

***

Evelyn Barrow sighed as she gazed at the old, framed image in her lap. It was an old black-and-white photo, faded by time and handling. Her father passed it down to her through his father, who first received it from his mother—Eve’s great-grandmother, one of the figures in the picture. Alexandra Perkins had been the only female in her family line for generations—until Evelyn was born.

Her father said the picture was from the World War II era. The man in the picture, dressed in an old-style Army uniform, lent credence to his story. Evelyn’s research identified the outfit as a paratrooper’s garb. Her family’s oral tradition said the man was killed in action in the liberation of the Dachau prison camp. After surviving the horrors of the war, he was killed when his parachute failed to open.

The photo’s edges were dogeared, and several creases marred its surface. The blurred focus was the product of an amateur photographer, but somehow, the feelings of the two people were evident. They were in love.

A bent-backed elderly lady in a red plaid apron entered the sitting room with a feather duster in her hand.

“Do you need for anything, Miss Perkins…I mean, Mrs. Barrow?” she asked.

“Iris, after all the years you’ve been with our family, couldn’t you please call me Evelyn or Eve?”

“Yes. Misses…umm, I mean—Evelyn.”

“Please, put that down and sit with me for a moment.”

Iris sat on the sofa beside her, keeping a respectful distance.

“What do you know about this picture, Iris? And the man in it with my great-grandmother?”

“Surely, you’ve heard the stories, child? I was told he was in love with your great-grandmother and died in the war.”

“Were they? In love, I mean? What do you remember?”

“How old do you think I am, Miss?”

“I meant no offense, Iris. They look so happy...” Evelyn dropped her face into her hands and sobbed. Iris put an arm around her, stiffly at first, then tenderly—as if she were her child.

“There, there, Evelyn. Don’t carry on so. Married life takes some adjustment. You love Mister Barrow, and he loves you. Love conquers all, as my mother used to say.”

“I’m not so sure.” Evelyn sniffed and turned her head onto the older woman’s shoulder, wetting her dress with tears.

“I’ll tell you a secret about that picture if it will cheer you up, child, but first, you must dry your tears.”

Nodding her head, Evelyn swabbed at her eyes with the tissue Itris held. “I’m sorry, Iris. I am acting like a child. Forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Evelyn.” Iris stood and picked up her feather duster.

“Wait, Iris. I still want to hear that story you promised,” she patted the cushion beside her.

 “Are you sure?” Iris asked, and Evelyn nodded. “Do you believe in ghosts, Evelyn?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never seen one, but Daddy swore he did once. He was convinced it was the spirit of his grandfather.”

“Well, your father didn’t know this story. His father kept it from him. He was a grand old southern gentleman, your grandfather, but he didn’t truck in ghosts and things that go bump in the night. He said there were enough worrisome things in this life without borrowing trouble.”

“I don’t remember my grandfather very well, but that sounds right.”

“I believe the man who died at Dachau concerned him, though. He said such great evil festers, spreads, and draws in even darker things, wicked things born of ancient evil. Evelyn, that man—the one in the picture? Your grandfather said his mother saw that man several times—years after he died, mind you. He said she thought good things happened to her and your family whenever she saw him.  She called him her guardian angel because she’d see him, especially when times were hard, and they’d get better.”

“What kinds of things?”

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

Big Boy

I have railroads in my DNA 

I have railroads in my DNA. My maternal grandfather was a freight manager for Pennsylvania. My mother remembers getting free tickets to Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey because he arranged for the siding space they needed close by the fairgrounds. A paternal great-uncle worked the yards for the Baltimore & Ohio. That one still exists, as part of CSX. The Pennsy was absorbed by Amtrak/Conrail in the aftermath of the disastrous merger with the New York Central.

This week the Union Pacific 4014 steam locomotive, known as Big Boy, made a rare foray into Texas. Of the twenty or so built in the early 1940's, only eight survive, and 4014 is the only one still in working order. The rest are in static displays in various railroad museums.

There's all manner of stuff on the internet about Big Boy, so of course I ventured into downtown Houston to have a look at it.

Coming from NYC, where there's a parade pretty much every other weekend, I have to say Houston doesn't know how to handle crowds. Of course, it doesn't help that the old Union Station, once the confluence of five different passenger railroads, is now the merchandise shop of the Houston Astros. Minute Maid Park was built on the site of the train yard leading into the station.

Houston's current Amtrak station is tiny, but then it only handles one train at any given time. The Big Boy locomotive was longer than the building.

And yet, given the internet hype, I wasn't impressed. Even when I managed to get up close – which wasn't too close, given that the locomotive was fired up – it was obvious the fans of Big Boy have been doing some digital finagling. I've seen photos where the whole thing seems massive, and some where the name Big Boy appears on the front of the smoke box.

Which of course it doesn't. 4014 wasn't the first completed, and the nickname was written in chalk, which probably lasted only long enough for it to be seen and spread by the American Locomotive Company workers.

But it stuck.

Maybe it was because I couldn't really get as close as I was able to get to Big Boy's eastern rival on static display at the Ford Museum in Detroit. Or maybe because I was only ten or twelve when I got to get up close to Chesapeake & Ohio's Allegheny.

That locomotive was polished, protected, and cold. The only sound it made was a recording of its steam whistle, taken when it had been running at track speed with a full head of steam. A piercing, banshee shriek guaranteed to make you get the hell out of the way.

I got to hear Big Boy sound off three times, live and in person. Once while I was standing near, twice as I was walking through the nearby theater district to catch the bus back home.

Standing still with the fire more or less banked, the sound was loud, but without the full steam pressure, was more of a mournful moan. The sound of a powerful creature that had once conquered mountains, now tamed and posed for photo opportunities.

I have to say though that it is a more classically handsome machine than the Allegheny, which has all manner of enhancements attached to the boiler to get more power from it. The Allegheny was massively heavier than the Big Boy, with a different wheel configuration that made hard work of moving itself, let alone the heavy freight it was meant to pull.

The Big Boys lasted a bit longer, but both mighty beasts were phased out by the 1960's. 4014 is the only one in working order, restored to burn oil instead of coal. Pulling two water tenders behind it in addition to the standard fuel and water tender, as the change to diesel made water stops redundant.

Though it was likely at the head of the vintage cars that had been detached and moved up ahead of the locomotive, I'm sure there was a UP diesel or two along, for two important reasons. One in case the 80-year-old behemoth were to break down, but more importantly for dynamic braking. Steam locomotives, once you get them going, aren't exactly easy to stop.

I didn't pause to listen to the lectures. I have no hankerings to ever drive the thing, or hear about how it's done. The beauty of a steam locomotive is in the workings of it, so many moving parts that have to be so precise, so perfectly maintained, or an entire train might come to grief. I don't think people traveling long distances by steam train ever realized how often the locomotives (and crews) were changed, because of the high maintenance all those moving parts required.

I quickly tired of the heat (I wouldn't have gone if it weren't October) and the crying children who were also tired of the heat and the crowds. Not to mention a motionless machine too huge to fully comprehend. How can you tell what it's really for, when it's only standing there? There are plenty of videos taken during these heritage tours, but I think my favorite is an old black and white TV show which can be found split into several parts on YouTube. Most of it was staged, of course, but there was actual working footage shown as well.

All that being said, I think my favorite internet video was of someone with an O scale model layout who had finally managed to acquire a model Big Boy. Now the special thing about Big Boy is that, having such a long boiler, curve radius could be a problem. They were built for moving freight over mountains, not through urban areas. So the leading truck, or pilot, which is where the cowcatcher is attached, is articulated on big hydraulic arms.

Well, this model railroader made sure the curves of their layout were large enough to accommodate a Big Boy. The model locomotive arrived, they set it on the tracks, hooked up some cars, and started it on its way. Big Boy came to a curve, the pilot articulated perfectly…

and the smoke box hit the wall of the room the layout was in.

Perhaps that O scale Big Boy is now on static display, as well.

 

Karen Ovér

https://balletsandbogeys.weebly.com/golemwerks.html

Karen Ovér is back in Texas after more than a decade in New York City. Her latest works appear in the anthologies The Book of Carnacki, The Legion Press, Dark Yonder #6, and the forthcoming Arkham Institutions, available late 2024 from Dragon’s Roost Press.

Master Brahm's Studio

 A master seeks to teach his students valuable lessons

The students, carefully selected from multiple kingdoms, fiefs, and villages, stood dutifully at their stations, clutching paintbrushes. Their eyes focused on the empty canvas on an easel before them; they waited for the master to speak.

“What do you see before you?” The master, a wizened man of advanced years, asked, “What do you see?”

An overly eager lad from the isle of Winsey raised his free hand, and the master raised an eyebrow and motioned for him to speak.

“A blank space, waiting,”

The master grunted, then sneered, “Poetic, but incorrect.” He looked around at the silent group and grunted again. “Waiting, yes, but what you see, ahh...” His voice trailed off, and his eyes narrowed. “What you see before you cannot be put into simple words; it is what you feel, what comes from within if you listen. It is what you allow if you permit yourself.”

The master glared at the wilting student from Winsey, “Not all of you will do that; not all of you are capable.” He whirled, turning his back on the nervous student, and the boy visibly sagged in relief.

Master Brahm hummed to himself as he chose a paintbrush from the collection on his desk. There were many, all different sizes, ranging from a large flat brush to the most delicate of all, a brush that sported only one long hair. His choice was made, and the master asked, “What is this?” He held a medium-sized brush in front of him like a sword.

Not a single student dared raise a hand.

“What? Not a one?” the master scoffed. “No one brave enough to venture a guess? I will give you a clue,” he chuckled. “What is a tool when it isn’t a tool?”

The room remained silent, but one girl fidgeted, and the master’s eyes were on her like a hawk. “You girl, you have a thought? A musing? A slight glimmer of understanding?”

The girl, a waif found in a small village from beyond the Blue Mountains, straightened her shoulders and fixed her pale, blue eyes on the master.

“What I should say, I will not, for I think we are here to learn what it is you want us to learn,” she said, then boldly added, “I think whatever I would say, you would find fault.”

The master stared, then guffawed, slapping his knee with one hand, the other still clutching his paintbrush.

“Quite right, quite right. You are an egg, barely pecking at your shell; you know nothing, struggling to free yourself,” he laughed. “Peck, peck, peck! But” he rasped,” Miss Thisbe from nowhere, you will share with me your thoughts, or you shall leave my studio!” He thrust the paintbrush into her face. “What is this?”

Thisbe didn’t flinch, and most of the room looked at her with admiration as she answered, “Sacrifice.”

“So,” Master Brahm whispered.

The master stared into Thisbe’s eyes, and she stared back without fear. Master Brahm held her gaze a moment, then turned to face the rest of the class.

“I could just tell you, yes? I am the teacher, yes?”

There was a great nodding of heads and whispers of consent, and the master shouted, “It is, yes, ‘Master Brahm! No Master Brahm.’ Do they not teach you manners from wherever you were found?”

The students mutedly replied, “Yes, Master Brahm.”

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

An Ode to Crabs

 Grab a bowl, a crab knocker, and a knife

Crabs—who doesn’t love them? I’m talking about the incredibly edible crustacean, the Atlantic blue crab, of course. A stable fare around the Chesapeake Bay and beyond for centuries, I wonder who the first brave soul was who threw a few on the fire and decided to chow down. Bet they wished they had some Old Bay seasoning…

If you live anywhere near the Chesapeake watershed, you’ve been exposed to crab mania. Crabs are a focal point of many activities in this area.

If you like participating in individual sports, you might try pursuing these delectables. Whether “chicken necking” (tying a string to a chicken neck and tossing it off the end of a pier to wait for a nibble) or trot lining (same principle, but with a long line and multiple chunks of dangling chicken or eel that you follow along in a skiff to check). As for team sports, we even have a baseball team named the Blue Crabs!

For the culinary aspects, there are crab balls, crab cakes, crab imperial, crab meat omelets, crab dip…  There are hard crabs and soft crabs. A crab is “soft” when it grows and molts, but it doesn’t stay soft long and is a special delicacy. Speaking of fried soft crabs, I’m aware that some restaurants remove the legs before frying. Although the uninitiated might be traumatized by seeing crab legs dangling from their burger buns, omitting this crunchy delicacy is an atrocity.

Crabs are a great source of art in the region, inspiring paintings, pennants, summer flags, etc. I’ve personally been moved to do several wood carvings featuring our denizen of the deep.

The blue crab even touches on politics. The female crab wears an apron that’s shaped like the U.S. Capitol while the male’s is an image of the Washington Monument.

Even the literary world is moved by the blue crab. I’ll share a snippet from the beginning of the third book in the Legends of the Family Dyer trilogy, “Sons and Brothers.”

“The trotline cord glided through the johnboat’s roller system. The stains of dredged mud and deep-water slime gave testament to many trips here. The trolling motor was locked at an angle to maintain the boat’s course, compensating for the incoming tide’s pull.

He felt the jerk on the line, gentle at first as the creature took hold, then a stout pull as it latched on to his offering. He peered through the murky depths and saw the creature’s mouth open and close, savoring its victim’s flesh.

As if sensing danger, the sea dweller flailed one claw from side to side in warning, prepared to defend its right to the captured prey. Its smaller claw and saber-tipped legs skewered the exposed meat and fat, unwilling to share. As it was pulled toward the surface, greed trumped caution, and the predator became the prey. Brodie readied his net as the ghostly crab floated closer to the surface until…

With a flip of his wrist, he moved his net under and up. The large blue crab broke the surface in a clacking frenzy of legs and claws. He noticed the long thin apron and smiled.”

I’m proud to say that the crab world recognizes no racism and truly does not see color because they’re all orange after a few minutes in the steamer! Sexism is a different story. If you start keeping too many female crabs, folks are going to talk about you (and it’s illegal for recreational crabbers). If you keep a sponge crab (a female with eggs attached), well you should maybe think about moving to another state.

Few things in life are as much fun (crabbing) and promise as great a reward (crab eating!).

Crabs are the basis for many special social events along the Chesapeake watershed and the camaraderie around a crab picking table is unmatched. Be aware, though, you may get your hand slapped if you reach in for a particularly “fat” crab that’s in closer proximity to your neighbor’s bowl than your own! To be invited to a crab feast by a local means you are accepted. So, welcome, friends! Grab a bowl, a crab knocker and a knife. It’s time to feast!

For Steamed Crabs You Need

1 large steamer pot

Crabs!

1½ cups water

1½ cups of vinegar

¼ cup salt

3 TBS of Old Bay seasoning

Directions

Bring the liquids and salt to a boil and add in 2 tbsp of the Old Bay seasoning.

Place the steamer section into the pot, making sure the steamer bottom is not touching the liquid.

Transfer your live crabs into the steamer pot one by one. Put a layer of crabs down and sprinkle them with Old Bay seasoning. If you have more crabs you can do up to two more layers right on top of the first layer, sprinkling each layer with Old Bay. If more, do a second batch.

Blue crabs take about 20-30 minutes to cook. The crabs should be bright red with no trace of blue or green on them. Let the crabs cool before cleaning them. 

David W. Thompson

https://www.david-w-thompson.com

David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer and a member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.

Organs for Sale

 The Witch's One Stop Shop is selling organs

The air was crisp and cool, signaling the arrival of autumn. The leaves had begun to turn to shades of fiery red and golden yellow, a beautiful backdrop for the second weekend of October in the early nineteen eighties. It was one of the last opportunities to sit around a campfire before winter’s chill set in. Jack’s father had recently built a firepit in the backyard, and a group of nine-year-old kids eagerly huddled around it, their faces lit up by the dancing flames. They roasted marshmallows on sticks and traded scary Halloween stories, trying to outdo each other with tales of ghosts and ghouls. Jack, a lanky boy with unruly jet-black hair, couldn’t resist sharing his classic story about the ghost that haunted the spooky house in the woods.

However, Steve, his short blond friend, quickly protested, declaring that they had all heard it countless times before. “Come on, Jack! You told this story a gazillion times already.”

But Jack persisted, determined to give them all goosebumps with his eerie storytelling skills. His face flushed with anger, and he was on the verge of snapping at Steve, but Claire, a tomboy who hated girly clothes and was known as the diplomat of their friend circle, stepped in. “Enough, you two!” she scolded the boys, shaking her head. “Steve, if you find Jack’s story boring, why don’t you tell a new story?”

“You tell a story, smarty-pants!” Steve retorted with a sneer. Despite his tendency to criticize others, he rarely had any original thoughts of his own to contribute. His sharp tongue was often used to deflect attention from his lack of creativity.

Claire’s voice quivered as she spoke, “Okay. I’m going to tell you what I saw yesterday.” She paused to take a deep breath before continuing, her eyes wide with fear of the memory. “Grandma and I went to the Witch’s One Stop Shop, you know, in that spooky house that used to be empty. And Marie’s mom, who works nearby, saw a ghost there when she was walking home late one night.” The words hung in the air, thick with tension.

“Come on, Claire, you didn’t see a ghost, did you?” Steve cackled.

Claire replied with a nervous tremor in her voice, “Of course not! It was in the middle of the afternoon. But I’ve seen something that scared the daylights out of me.”

“What did you see?” Jack asked, his interest peaking.

“When we went into the store, there was a sign that said used organs for sale. And when the woman came out of the back door, I could swear she was a real witch. She wore black clothes, her hair in a messy bun, and she wore a black eyepatch over her right eye.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s a witch!” Charlie looked at Claire wide-eyed.

“No?” Claire snapped. “She had bloody gloves on, and she just took them off and threw them in the garbage.”

“Um…bloody gloves?” Jack shivered. “You mean…if, as you said, she’s selling organs…”

“What?” Steve whispered. “Like kidneys and livers and hearts kinda organs? Naw, it can’t be true!”

“I guess so...and what I saw made me think because I saw Marie’s mom leaving the store with a small package in her hand that was smeared with blood,” Claire said, wringing his fingers and taking a deep breath. “You guys know that Marie is very sick and waiting for the right organ donor who can give her a kidney, right?”

“Jack let out a heavy, sympathetic sigh. “Yes, poor Marie,” he muttered.

“I went to visit her the other day,” Claire continued. “Marie was asleep, but her mom insisted I wait for her to wake up. So, I sat in the living room and started reading the book I got for Marie. But I couldn’t help overhearing Marie’s parents talking in the kitchen. Her mom cried and said that there was still no match for Marie and asked Marie’s dad what they were going to do. But then her father got angry and shouted that if they couldn’t find a match soon, he’d have to buy a kidney on the black market. He said there are plenty of organs for sale; they just needed to find the right seller.”

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

Mist and Moonlight of Halloween

 Be careful who you mess with!

Leon Birch sat inside his rented room, listening to the Senate committee hearings. Eating his cold supper, wishing he could afford to get married. Since getting his degree, he’d only been able to pick up a few substitute teaching jobs.

Listening to the government root out subversives usually gave him hope for the future, but now it all seemed far away. The hearings were all taking place back east, and he was in San Francisco, which seemed to be ground zero for everything that was going wrong these days.

It really wasn’t fair that he was living alone, paycheck to paycheck. He had all the skills and all the credentials. He certainly had the necessary moral convictions, yet the good jobs all seemed to be taken by determined spinsters and others of questionable politics and even more questionable “lifestyles.” No wonder the public schools were turning out delinquents.

And worse, like that Carstairs boy in the fifth-grade class he’d taught today. To Leon’s great annoyance, the school he’d graced with his services was one of those careless places that allowed the students to wear costumes on Halloween. Leon wasn’t having that nonsense and required his class to remove their dime store covers and masks. All would have been well but for the Carstairs boy.

Instead of a cheap costume thrown over his school clothes, Patrick Carstairs was dressed in green and brown, with some sort of ivy twined around his tattered sweater. The same stuff was also tangled in his black hair, which Leon thought badly needed cutting. Instead of a mask, the boy wore makeup. Not only eyeliner but glitter, for heaven’s sake.

“What are you supposed to be, young man?”

“Robin Goodfellow, sir,” was the grinning imp’s answer.

Leon glanced down to scan the attendance chart. The class tittered, so he changed his gaze to the seating chart and found the impertinent brat’s name. “I don’t know how you got out of the house dressed like that, Carstairs, but it won’t do. Go to the restroom, wash that filth from your face, get rid of that shrubbery, and comb your hair.”

The whole class stared in dumbfounded silence. “What are you waiting for, Carstairs? Get on, and don’t be all day about it!”

As the boy slunk toward the door, something else caught Leon’s eye. “What on earth is this?” He yanked at the boy’s ear, and a pointed rubber tip came off in his hand. “Fairy ears?” Leon pulled the other ear tip off and threw them in the wastebasket. “Your parents shall hear of this. Now get going.”

The class kept their heads right down after that, working away on the assignment he gave them. Should have been a simple task to fill their day, writing a family history. But again, the Carstairs boy proved a problem.

“We come from an Elder Race. My grandfather, Jonathan Hamilton Carstairs, came to San Francisco in 1912. He established Carstairs House on top of Shipwreck Hill because the hill is full of faerie magic, just like the place he came from, the Hamilton estate in England, called Oakwood. Oakwood is named for its ancient oak groves. Some of the trees are harvested, but some are left untouched so our Faerie ancestors can continue their revels, and the Carstairs family retains the blessing of the Fair Folk. Carstairs House doesn’t have oak trees, but Uncle Nigel planted a holly hedge all around the property to contain the magic. So, our house has the blessing of our High King Oberon and our High Queen Titania, and the Fair Folk are free to hold their revels in our secret garden at the center of the holly maze.

“Halloween is a special night for the Fair Folk. They often reveal themselves to mortals during the hours when the veil between the faerie and mortal realms is thinnest. Especially the Huntsman. He is King Oberon’s enforcer. Unlike the courtly knights who are defenders of the faerie realm, the Huntsman is a monster. Darker than night, but for his eyes, which shine red with lust for the blood the Wild Hunt demands. He leads a pack of damned souls in pursuit of other damned souls, who will, in turn, join his Wild Hunt. Unless the High King has decreed they be hunted to death, in which case, the Wild Hunt shows no mercy. Even their horses will join the hounds in rending the prey till nothing remains.”

Leon smiled, recalling his enjoyment of the shock on the boy’s face when he handed back the paper at the end of the day with a large red F in the upper margin.

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

Book Sunday

 Featured Books Sunday

Time travel romance

The stakes are high, and the risks even higher. SEE MORE

Embark on a journey through time with Dylan Anderson, the lead guitarist of Ablaze, as he strives to recreate the magic of the '70s, inspired by Kenny Chesney's iconic hit, "I Go Back." In his pursuit of reliving his golden days, Dylan becomes entangled in the hidden world of a mysterious cult, eager to uncover the secrets of time travel.
The stakes are high, and the risks even higher - challenges he's prepared to confront head-on.
This adventure is far from a solo act. With his enduring love, Jennifer Kovich, by his side, Dylan is determined to bring her along on this journey whether she's ready or not. However, there's a catch - The dark spell Dylan has created will not allow him to return to the present even if he ever wanted to. Only Jennifer would have a chance at finding an escape route back home, but according to Dylan, it's almost impossible. Or is it? Brace yourself for a tale of love, danger, and the irresistible pull of a past era as Dylan leads us on an unforgettable voyage to the heart of the '70s.

Historical thriller

When the descendants pay the price of the ancient family curse SEE MORE 

Jayden and his archeology group find the burial site of a Medicine Woman from the 5th century. Strangely, Jayden also finds a crude leather book in his grandmother's secret room that was written in 426 by a Shaman.
His sister, Sofia, decodes the ancient runes, and they learn that a powerful curse cast sixteen hundred years ago destroyed the lives of their ancestors for centuries. If it remains unbroken, the curse will ruin the lives of future generations as well.
Dark memories of their childhood start to surface, and they’re stunned to realize the similarities between the tragedy of the family described in the Shaman’s book and theirs, sixteen hundred years later. They’re stunned by the conclusion that Jayden is in danger due to a family curse.

Occult ghost & haunted houses

The dark side of Southern Maryland SEE MORE

Take a journey to the dark side of Southern Maryland, one of the most haunted spots in America, and visit with the ghosts and otherworldly specters of the area.

Southern Maryland is one of the most haunted spots in America. From pre-colonial settlements to modern times, the tales of every era of its history are often dark and sometimes bloody. Brave readers will meet the many otherworldly specters that loved the area too much to leave, like the spirit of the witch Moll Dyer or the nun reclaiming her ancestral home. Learn the haunted history of Sotterley Plantation and the stories of the ghosts that remained after the Civil War. Author David W. Thompson takes the reader on a spooky journey through Southern Maryland's long history.

The Last Resort

 A grieving woman meets a mysterious stranger

On a day unlike any other day, Rose walked into the airport. Her sneakers made minimal sound as she pulled her only suitcase behind her on its almost soundless wheels. Rose glanced up, her face wooden, looking for the correct terminal number.

Her face was expressionless as she walked through the metal detector arch without glancing at the man who waved her through.

Rose walked toward the last barrier, her passport clutched in her hand.

“Destination?”

“Mexico,” Rose answered, “for the festival.”

“Los dia Mortes?”

“Yes,” Rose tonelessly affirmed.

“Where are you staying, and for how long?”

Rose mentioned the resort, adding, “Ten days.”

The woman gave a double-take and returned Rose her ticket and passport without further conversation. She only motioned her through the gate and pointed to the small lounge where several people sat quietly, with their carry-ons waiting to board.

Rose chose to stand at the window, where she numbly watched as the airplane taxied into place and the bridge was driven toward the plane door and readied.

Rose gave a polite, distant nod to the flight attendant who helped her find her seat during boarding, then stared through the plane’s window, ignoring the woman beside her; she hadn’t expected it. The aircraft had few passengers, and Rose had looked forward to not having to climb over someone to get to the aisle, let alone fend off a conversation.

“Is this your first time in Mexico?”

Rose bit her lip in annoyance, answering curtly, “Yes.”

“Ah, not for me,” the woman gave a laugh, “I go away, I come back.”

Rose gave a noncommittal grunt.

A flight attendant stopped, offering a pre-flight beverage, but Rose shook her head, only to have the woman scold her, “You go without too much, I think. You must have juice for a toast if you will not have something stronger.”

Rose looked at the woman’s determined face and shrugged at the attendant, who nodded in affirmation before leaving to take other orders.

“Better, but not by much, eh?”

Rose looked at the woman again, who gave a broad smile on a face creased with deep lines—an older woman wearing a dark, shapeless dress and wrapped in a shawl. On her lap, she held a large purse, into which she reached, searching, smacked her lips with satisfaction, and offered Rose a granola bar.

“Eat,” she urged the reluctant Rose, “you are thin, yes? Too much. And not by wanting to be thin, I think? Yes?”

The woman pushed the bar into Rose’s hand and took it without further argument. And, when her juice arrived, Rose took it because it didn’t matter; it just didn’t matter anymore.

“A toast, yes?”

Rose shrugged.

“To those we love and all who have loved us, we drink this in memory.”

Rose ignored the toast and the safety demonstration and put on her seatbelt when the indicator lights came on. The plane taxied into position, and she closed her eyes as she felt it accelerate beneath her, feeling herself pushed back into the seat as the aircraft angled up toward the clouds.

“Do not fear, no, not at all,” the woman said.

“I am not afraid,” Rose retorted grimly, then added as a polite afterthought, “but thank you.”

“It is okay to be afraid,” the woman said, “sometimes.”

Rose did not reply and continued looking out of the window as the woman beside her began to hum to herself.

“Fear is good, eh? Sometimes, eh? It is a good teacher,” the woman chuckled.

Rose gave the woman a sidelong look but didn’t respond.

The woman patted Rose’s hand. “Grief, and her sister, Mourning. They accept offerings of tears as their due, but they do not demand them forever.”

“What are you talking about,” Rose demanded. “You are talking foolishness.”

“Am I? Maybe, maybe,” the woman cackled. “But even so, it is true.”

Rose grunted in annoyance, glaring at the woman who only smiled at her with sympathy before adding softly, “Depression is a woman; she is a demon, that one; her hair hangs like a greasy shroud, covering eyes as black as the blackest night.”

Rose’s eyes widened in alarm as the woman took her hand firmly, in her own, and attempted to free herself to no avail.

“Yes, her hair, hanging like a shroud,” the woman repeated,” and her arms are thin, and her hands, they grab you, eh? They pull you close to her breast, which hides a heart that does not beat.”

“Who are you?” Rose whispered, “I will scream. I will.”

“She presses her cold lips to yours,” the woman continued earnestly, “until your breath is gone, and your soul cries, but it is trapped in a frozen shell.”

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

When a Dog Needs a Job

 The story of Mop read by Carrie Wimmer 

One of my fondest memories from childhood is of a dog named Mop. He was a Puli, a herding breed that my parents knew little about when he followed my dad home one day. As it turned out, Pulis are high-energy working dogs requiring physical and mental stimulation.

Unfortunately, our small yard was not enough to keep him entertained, and soon he became lethargic and uninterested in anything. My mom quickly realized that we needed to find a larger space for him to run freely and use his energy, as well as a sense of purpose and responsibility.

Click the video to listen to the story read by Carrie

Written by Erika M Szabo www.authorerikamszabo.com

Narrated by Carrie Wimmer www.narrationnation.org

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative and educational and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.

A Spell to Restore Youth

 What is she willing to sacrifice?

The bright Arizona sunlight permeated through the plantation shutters, waking Gemma Lowry from a restless night, which was not unusual considering her marriage was going down the tubes fast. Russell, her husband, had already left for work, which was normal with having to take over the accounting agency he’d inherited from his late father years ago.

Throwing back the fine linen sheets, Gemma walked through her vast territorial-style home and headed to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee before her usual morning walk. October in Arizona still meant warm mornings. She sat at the kitchen table, glancing out over the open courtyard at an unused chiminea that graced the corner. I don’t know why we never use this thing. Maybe it’s because Russell has been so busy working late these days. Hopefully, with the cooler weather coming, we can make it a point to spend evenings out here enjoying the beautiful view of the mountains. Her thoughts quickly turned to Russell and his behavior over the past year. Their daughter, Hope, was off at college, and things had indeed been different, but he seemed to lack interest in their relationship, and sex had become less and less frequent, if not non-existent. Gemma wondered if he was having an affair with his attractive secretary, who was young, blonde, and thin. After all, he was an attractive, well-built man five years her junior. It’s no wonder, can I blame him? I mean, it’s not hard to notice the few pounds I’ve put on, not to mention my absence from the salon for some time. Did he also find me boring? Maybe I need to get back into teaching or doing some substitute work. That’d most likely get me back into my routine of dressing up and looking more professional. I guess this is what early retirement does to some people.

Taking an early retirement was something Russell had brought up a while back as the business was doing well, and he had suggested for Gemma to retire from the classroom and do some private tutoring. After teaching for twenty-five years at the local middle school, she’d jumped at the idea.

After her morning walk, she decided to call her longtime fellow teaching partner, Lorna, and meet for coffee later that morning. Lorna had retired a few years back. Gemma needed a friend to confide in regarding her home situation.

Following a cool shower, she headed into her closet to select a simple sundress. After trying on several, she became irritated as most were all too snug. Looking in the bedroom mirror, she shook her head. No more walks; I’ve got to cut back on those sweets I’m so addicted to or start running.

She ran her hands through her dull red hair and fastened her long locks into a ponytail. She remembered the days when her hair was a brighter red. The Arizona sun did have its effect on redheads. She suddenly remembered she had some other outfits hanging in Hope’s closet. Now that her daughter had gone away to school up north, she’d transferred some of her things into Hope’s closet.

Gemma had successfully found the perfect summer shift, but her eyes were soon diverted to the boxes that housed mementos that were stacked in the back of the closet. She knew they were mostly old toys that belonged to Hope when she was a child. Feeling a strong urge, she pulled the top one out, finding old yearbooks and some of Hope’s favorite children’s books. She opened the second box and lying on top was an old shoebox labeled Margie, written in fancy script-style writing.

She sat on the floor, eager to open the small, tattered box. There was layer upon layer of tissue paper on top. She tore away at the papers, scattering them about the floor to find Margie, the fashion doll perfectly wrapped in silk and tied with twine. At least my daughter wanted to keep this doll well preserved, she thought.

She gently picked up the doll that resembled so many of the famous fashion dolls at that time, but Margie was unique with her long platinum blonde hair and sparking green eyes. She looked as though she was ready for bed in her white silky gown. Gemma couldn’t help but notice the doll’s brilliant emerald eyes. I don’t think anyone has eyes this color except for a toy, she reasoned. I remember when Hope spent endless hours playing with her and changing her into the many outfits I’d bought. All the memories resurfaced from a different time, a happier time. She examined Margie, closely admiring all of the doll’s youthful features. “You are perfect, you know. You never age nor gain weight. You have it all and don’t even know it. What I wouldn’t give to be in your shoes.”

Gemma shook off this silly feeling and placed Margie back in the box, wrapped snuggly in her silk cloth minus the twine, feeling she didn’t need to be bound up again after being bound up for all these years. She closed the lid to the box and wished her a restful sleep.

Gemma was looking forward to seeing her longtime friend Lorna again. The Coyote Corner Coffee Shop was not overly crowded for 11 a.m. They scored a back table and ordered their usual lattes and cranberry scones. A month had gone by since they’d last met. Lorna looked stunning for fifty-seven with her new short pixie cut. They’d been teaching partners for fifteen years at Brighter Days Academy and had become great friends as well.

Talking about memories of past teaching days was usually the main conversation, but today’s topic would take a slight twist as Gemma was about to confide in Lorna about her rocky relationship with Russell.

Lorna listened with rapt attention and didn’t interrupt until Gemma was finished venting. She’d offered her some sage advice and hoped her friend would listen. Lorna had suggested picking up a few more students for tutoring, knowing Gemma only had a fifth grader at the time. Gemma had commented that she wasn’t motivated to get out there and advertise lately. Lorna had also mentioned that the two of them join the local gym. Gemma nodded, agreeing that both of these suggestions sounded promising. She reached out and took her friend’s hand, thanking her and reminding her of what a good friend she’s been after all these years and proceeded to ask her a heartfelt question. “Tell me truthfully, do I look older than 52? I mean, I want you to be honest.”

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

The Master Parachutist

 The difference between skydiving and parachuting

This story is to help people unfamiliar with this topic understand the difference between skydiving and military parachuting. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve told folks I was a military master parachutist, and they go off asking questions you should ask a skydiver. And when I try to correct them, they look at me like I’m a Martian. So folks I hope this will clear up the confusion, and hopefully get people to understand what it really means to be a military parachutist (or what it means to be one of our close cousins, a smoke jumper. Except for the firepower we carry, the parachuting is the same).

To help the reader understand the full impact of what we do I present the rule of LGOPs:

The rule of LGOPs, or Little Group of Paratroopers, is a concept in the US Army that describes how soldiers adapt and overcome situations in combat:  After the demise of the best Airborne plan, a most terrifying effect occurs on the battlefield. This effect is known as the rule of the LGOPs. This is, in its purest form, small groups of pissed-off 19-year-old American paratroopers. They are well-trained. They are armed to the teeth and lack serious adult supervision. They collectively remember the Commander’s intent as “March to the sound of the guns and kill anyone who is not dressed like you” – or something like that.

We are in extended ranks for a late afternoon manifest call. This is how every night jump begins. We stand in formation, dog tags hanging outside our shirts, ID cards in our left hands. The jump masters walk down the ranks checking each trooper’s IDs against the jump manifest and that they have their dog tags.

Once the jump masters have verified that all the jumpers on the manifest are present, and they all have their dog tags and IDs we close ranks, pick up our gear, and load onto the trucks for the ride to “green ramp”.

People always make the mistake of thinking that skydiving is the same as military parachuting. The truth is the only thing they have in common is that you use a parachute in both.

The ride to “green ramp” is relatively quiet. There is some good-natured kidding, and a few jokes, but mostly there’s introspection. Some pray, some smoke, and all of us recheck our equipment.

The trucks pull into the unloading area at “green ramp “. We get off the trucks, assemble, pick up our gear, and march to the rigging area. When our commander directs us to, we ground our equipment and move over to parachute issue. We draw our main and reserve parachutes and return to our equipment.

We pair up and use the buddy system to put on our parachutes. We attach our equipment and weapons. We will carry on our bodies everything we need to fight and survive for seventy-two hours of sustained combat. We check each other and move over to the jump masters for pre-jump inspection. Once we have been inspected and assigned the door we’ll be jumping we get in stick order and sit down. Tonight, I will be the first jumper in the starboard door.

As we wait, I check that I can reach the knife I have strapped to my right boot. I release the safety strap and grip the handle. I pull it up and it slides smoothly out of the sheath. Most of the guys prefer the Marine Corps Ka-Bar, but I feel that my Gerber Mk II is more elegant, though it requires more skill to use. After checking the blade, I slip it back into the sheath and snap the safety strap back in place.

The jump masters go to conduct their safety inspections of the drop aircraft. When they’ve finished, they put on their parachutes and equipment. They inspect each other and join the rest of us as we wait to get on the airplanes.

A stark difference between skydiving and military parachuting is in skydiving there are few people in the sky at the same time. Tonight, I’ll be in the first of four flights of aircraft just minutes apart, tonight I’ll share the sky with nearly six hundred members of the battalion.

But there is a moment, a very elusive moment, one that we all seek. It is this moment that keeps us coming back, that keeps us jumping.

At 20:00 hours we load onto the aircraft. We waddle onto the tarmac and to the waiting planes. When you’re wearing 96 pounds of combat equipment, ammunition, water, and food plus 46 pounds of parachute all you can do is waddle. I’m a medic so I have an extra 15 pounds of medical supplies. Fortunately, I’m not carrying a W.I.C.E. bag, that would really suck.

At 20:40 hours the first flight taxis for takeoff. The JATO (Jet Assisted Takeoff) bottles ignite, and the acceleration of the aircraft slams us against each other. When the planes clear the runway the JATO bottles fall away. The forty-minute flight to the drop zone begins.

Believe it or not, you can sleep when you’re this loaded up. Packed into the plane like this there’s nothing else you can do. No one wants to talk; everyone is too busy with their own thoughts.

Flying in an Air Force transport for a jump is not like being in an airliner. There are no rows of seats and no flight attendants. Port and starboard “sticks” sit with our backs against the skin of the aircraft, and the center aisle “sticks” sit back-to-back facing us. There is no room to walk down the aisles so the safety NCOs must walk on us to do their inflight checks.

The jump masters give the ten-minute warning. They have to use hand and arm signals because the noise from the engines is so loud only those seated close to them can hear them.

Shortly comes the six-minute warning. The jump masters take their positions as the aircrew and safety NCOs make their final checks.

The jump masters start giving their commands.

“Outboard personnel stand up!” Those of us seated against the skin of the aircraft stand, lift our seats out of the way, locking them in the up position, and face the jump masters.

“Inboard personnel stand up!” The inside sticks stand, raising their seats and face the jump masters as well.

“Hook up!” We all hook up our static lines to the anchor line cables.

“Check static lines!” We all trace our static lines as far as we can, and then we check the static line of the jumper in front of us.

“Check equipment!” We all check that our equipment is still properly rigged and connected to our harnesses.

“Sound off for equipment check!” Starting from the front of the aircraft each jumper swats the butt of the jumper in front of him and shouts, “Okay!” This continues until it reaches the jumpers closest to the doors. When the check reaches me, I stomp my left foot, point to the jump master for my door and shout, “All okay!”

The jump master gives me the thumbs up and goes to do the door safety checks. He feels the edges of the door frame. He stomps on the jump step making sure it’s secure. Next, he moves to the edge of the jump step and leans outside the aircraft to check for obstructions. When the jump master has completed the safety checks he moves back into the plane and looks out the door for the ground markers.

Shortly the aircraft’s crew chief touches the jump masters’ shoulder and speaks into his ear. The jump master nods and steps back from the door. He shouts, “One minute!” Then he points at me and commands, “Stand in the door!”

I shuffle to the door and get into position. I can see the jump lights on the door frame. The light is currently red.

Standing in the door, the world passes by. The cool air, the smell of spring mixed with burnt JP4. The clock ticks, seconds turning to minutes. Adrenaline pumping, I’m ready to spring into the sky. Heart pounding, pulse racing. Stars sparkling on the horizon.

The light changes from red to green. A shout in my left ear, “Go!” I leap out of the door.

The wind twists me parallel to the plane. I see the canopy starting to deploy beneath my feet. The roar of engines fade as I swing below the canopy. I check that it has deployed correctly.

The night closes in and for a moment I’m alone, and I become one with the night sky.

R. A. “Doc” Correa

www.goldenboxbooks.com/ra-doc-correa.html

A retired US Army military master parachutist retired surgical technologist, and retired computer scientist. He’s an award-winning poet and author. “Doc” has had poems published in multiple books and had stories published in Bookish Magazine and Your Secret Library. His first novel, Rapier, won a Book Excellence award and was given a Reader’s Favorite five-star review.

Area Code 666

 Phone calls from somewhere that should not exist

The two men moved with deliberation, their forks passing through the food — Chinese for one, Mexican for the other — as they brought the rice and seasoned meat to their mouths in measured, slow movements, hunched over the tiny mock stone table in the main corridor of Lakeforest Mall. The short one, whose features displayed a ruddy, overweight look, stared at the meal without interest.

His companion, a tall black man with the shoulders of a linebacker and a close-cropped buzz cut, dipped and drew at the same rate of speed as if the time to consume the contents of the Styrofoam platter knew no outward bounds.

Another man approached, a pair of paper cups in his hands, the straws jutting upward. As he placed them before the men, he said, “Here you go, guys.” Then he stiffened.

His phone buzzing from his pocket, Steve Hyatt stopped to reach down and then switched it off to prevent the vibration from tickling his thigh. Only later, after he’d finished feeding the ‘tards, did he look to see who called, blinking as he saw the number.

“What the fuck?”

The call read from Area Code 666. Steve stared at it, blinked again, then turned the phone upside down as if to fix the aberration. The number did not change.

He spoke aloud. “Somebody’s fucking with me.” The men, William and Demetri, did not respond, pursuing the earnest consumption of their lunch in continued single-minded silence. Hyatt had long past caring about his language in front of his charges, his supervisors indicating that, while it fell into the area of a technical violation of established protocol, his position as caregiver faced little effect or consequence as they would not comprehend the language.

Tempted to call the number back just to see whether it went to a live line, Hyatt dismissed the notion on its heels as he shrugged. Probably a gimmick. Goddamn corporations would do anything these days to get you to answer the phone.

“Hey, Steve.”

He looked from his cell to his new co-worker, Rachel Brockmeyer. He pocketed his phone.

“Hey. Sup?”

“Hey, so what’s the deal with the schedule tomorrow? How we gonna handle the day?”

“It’s all gonna be different. We’re gonna spend the whole day carting them around to the voting places. You and me, that’s it.”

“Just the two of us?”

“Just like that old song, fam. We gonna be taking the entire clientele –”

“Every client?”

Hyatt nodded. “Every one of them, every single one.”

“How many is that?”

“Few hundred.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck, indeed. We gotta pick ‘em up at all the designated houses, then haul ‘em to the voting booths.”

“Then what?”

“Then we march ‘em to the booths, hand ‘em the written instructions, and cross our fingers.”

“And you say no one’s caught on?”

“Not so far,” Hyatt leaned toward Brockmeyer’s quizzical face, “Runs like clockwork.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

“Look, stop worrying. I have been doing this for like six years. Easy- peasy –”

“You’re making me queasy. Gotchu.”

That night, after they saw the clients to their rooms to sleep, Hyatt retired to his within the halfway house, a Spartan affair that he kept furnished to a minimum on purpose. Hyatt felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He knew what it would read even before he withdrew it. He pulled it from his jeans anyway.

Area Code 666. The same number.

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

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