Author: Shalini

Unholy Trinity: Bigfoot By Jack Reigns

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

 

I.

The print in the mud was enormous, and the sight of it made the hikers pause. “Is that, like, a bear?” A.J. asked. No one answered. Theo, the closest, bent down to inspect it. Rico turned around to look down the trail behind the group. They all felt something watching them, waiting. A smell like rotting meat, body odor, and fecal matter wafted over the group. Rico gagged. A branch snapped under an enormous weight. A shape appeared between the trees. Dark and enormous, it resembled a tree trunk at first. The thing began sprinting towards them. The men ran.

 

II.


Angie heard the dogs barking out in the barn. Not barking; losing their goddamn minds. For the third time since she moved onto this sixty-acre lot bordering the Gifford-Pinchot National Forest, she thought she should get herself a shotgun. Homesteading as a single woman was no joke. She grabbed the flashlight and headed out. The remains of the goat stopped her short. Entrails stretched across the yard from the pen to the barn. A dog yelped in pain while another growled. Angie reached for her cell phone. The wall of the barn exploded outwards, carrying a dog’s body with it.

III.


Dispersed camping offered everything Beau wanted without bullshit rules and nasty outhouses. Nothing compared to waking up in the fresh cool morning and pissing into a mountain stream. He felt eyes on him and reached for the .357 revolver on his side. His fingers brushed the handle and something slammed into his body and sent him flying into the water. He gasped, and his face plunged into the rushing water. A huge reddish-brown animal walked closer, upright on two legs. It lifted his body, pained seared through his hip. It had taken a bite, and lifted him again for more.

 

Jack Reigns

Jack Reigns was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest and finds the area a constant source of inspiration. A lifelong horror fan, as a child Jack would get in trouble for scaring family with stories and is thankful to now share them with willing participants. Jack is the author of The Reigns of Terror series of short horror collections, and a proud member of the Seattle Chapter of The Horror Writers Association. Available works can be found at jackreigns.com.

Serial Saturday: Don’t Look at Me by Tom Little

  1. Serial Saturday: Don’t Look at Me by Tom Little
  2. Serial Saturday: Don’t Look at Me by Tom Little, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: Don’t Look at Me by Tom Little, Chapter Three
  4. Serial Saturday: Don’t Look at Me by Tom Little, Chapter Four
  5. Serial Saturday: Don’t Look at Me by Tom Little, Chapter Five
  6. Serial Saturday: Don’t Look at Me by Tom Little, Chapter Six
  7. Serial Saturday: Don’t Look at Me by Tom Little, Chapter Seven
  8. Serial Saturday: Don’t Look at Me by Tom Little, Chapter Eight
  9. Serial Saturday: Don’t Look at Me by Tom Little, Chapter Nine
  10. Serial Saturday: Don’t Look at Me by Tom Little, Chapter Ten

Chapter One

Officer Helms rolled up to the curb without his lights. He intentionally neglected his siren when he cruised into the neighborhood. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself tonight. He was already too obvious, his sleek white Dodge hissing through the dark like a shark at dusk. He was the first responder, and there was no backup.   

The cruiser door slammed with an echo, a repeated bark fading against the tall buildings above him. South Street was empty. The whole block may well have been deserted. Helms knew that fires had cleared out much of the neighborhood, leaving the dead husks of brick slums to crumble and rot from the inside out. He looked up into their blackened windows, wondering if anyone remained, anyone who didn’t make it out. 

Someone had to be here. Helms was dispatched following a 911 call about screaming in the alley. Now he stood at the opening of the long, narrow path between decaying slums. The downtown alley led back into a labyrinth of brick corridors with no easy way out once you’re in deep.  

Officer Helms could conduct himself like the man in charge, even if he had no idea what was going on. It was a trade skill, and standing over six feet with a buzzed top, he was sufficiently intimidating. Shoulders up, chest out, there was enough bass in his voice to command compliance. And if all else failed, he had his belt full of tools. He had his pistol.    

Tonight though, as he set foot in the alley, he couldn’t seem to arch his back. He didn’t feel so tall under the towering walls. He kept a hand on his belt. Moonlight poured down where the rooftops allowed, casting the skeletal shadows of pipes and wires and fire escapes. It lent a haunting translucence to the fluttering ghosts of tattered clothes, hung out to dry and never pulled back. 

The air was painfully dry. It was stagnant with the stench of garbage and desertion. Helms recognized the lingering scent of burnt housing—ruined drywall and roofing and chemicals. He had worked on a number of arson cases in these run-down neighborhoods. Half the time, it was a desperate property owner, hoping to collect insurance. There were still people in there.  

Helms tried to shake ugly memories from his mind as he shone his flashlight from wall to wall, up and down the broken concrete path. Gradually, he became aware of an uneasy sound, a voice, somewhere in the dark. It was a pitiful, sobbing sound, and it was hoarse. He followed slowly, not eager to find its source. It seemed to grow more persistent, more intense as he approached.  

Moaning, trembling, crying somewhere in the abandoned alley. The unsteady beam of his flashlight betrayed a shake in Helms’ hand. It shivered across a dingy brick wall, and over a face with no eyes. Helms recoiled with a shout, pulling his beam from the ghastly sight. In the pitch dark, he felt his chest pound. His stomach twisted. He had found his crime scene. With anxious breath, he returned his light to the face. It had belonged to a man, middle aged, with a great deal of wear and tear prior to the events of the evening. He was likely a vagrant, squatting in the alley. His beard was sticky with blood. His jaw hung slack and the eyes were gory sockets. The smell was rank.  

Helms reached for his radio, and realized that the sobbing had stopped. Whoever had been crying had now hushed to observe him. His ears rang as he felt the gaze of someone unseen, the presence of another in the dark. A murderer was with him in the alley—a mutilator. As he turned away from the corpse, Helms thumbed the clasp of his pepper spray, but settled his palm on the pistol. 

The flashlight cut a hole through the darkness, against the endless brick walls, until he caught a glimpse of something crooked. In a brief moment, Helms saw the gaunt limbs of a fleeing figure, thin and hunched, darting around the corner. It seemed vaguely human, but little more than a shadow. Helms did not want to know exactly what it was. The six-foot officer turned and ran.  

***

Ferrill perched on a concrete wall, watching the sunset glow in the city smog. His home was on the other side of those buildings, but he felt the need to venture out to the rough side, where his parents told him not to go. It really was a great place to find trouble if you’re looking, but he wasn’t looking. Not seriously. He only wanted to look like he was looking. He stuffed cigarettes in his leather jacket and kept a knife in his sneaker. When he propped his leg up, you could see the handle.    

A pasty young man stood at his feet. Grant was taller and his hair was longer, kept out of his eyes with a red bandana. He grew his hair out first, and Ferrill like the look. His parents did not. That was the best part about Grant. Ferrill’s family hated him. 

Grant had been pestering Ferrill. “Try it once and you’ll love it,” he’d say, then he’d snort at his finger like bumping coke. Booze is one thing, but drugs are different, right? Ferrill could score a case of beer any time he wanted, no problem. Grant was great for that. But lately, he’d been pushing dope on him. And harder stuff. Ferrill was only in his teens, but he knew kids that got into that and never came back. It seemed like fun until it wasn’t. 

They had lined up a row of empty cans along the wall. And Ferrill was about to add another. A few years older, Grant had bought the case at a gas station down the street. He used Ferrill’s money, but called it “halfsies.” It was part of Grant’s sales pitch. A few more empty cans and Ferrill might warm up to the idea. 

Blinded by the breeze, Ferrill pulled a lock of straw-brown hair off his face and turned his wallet over. It was empty save for a couple of bucks and a condom older than his driver’s license. “I’m already spent,” he laughed. “You blew it all on the beer, man.” 

Grant grabbed him by the ankles and yanked him off the wall. “The first time’s on me,” he said. “If you don’t love it, you’ll never hear about it again.” 

Grant’s buying? The thought flattered Ferrill. He swirled the idea around in his head for a few minutes, letting it breathe. He half-suspected some sort of trick, that the career deviant would come collecting one day, rolling up to his safe suburban home with a pistol in his pants. A piece. They call it a piece. He looked Grant up and down. There was a pre-assured grin parting his permanent stubble.  

“Let’s go,” said Ferrill. “Why the hell not?” 

Grant gave him a jarring slap on the back. “That’s my boy! C’mon, I know a guy just around the corner. I do a lot of business with him. He’ll make your first time real special.”

Ferrill felt more like a kid on training wheels than a punk, or a junkie, or whatever he was trying to be at this point. The arm across his shoulders was not reassuring, and he couldn’t seem to stand up straight. 

 

Unholy Trinity: Damnations by Norman Grey

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

 

Absolute Pout Corrupts

 

I stood, trembling, in the path of the young Emperor, a spoiled child with the power of the Gods. “Forgive me,” I stammered, “but your august father has decreed that no one shall touch the Sword of Divinity.”

“Fine!” he said, stomping his tiny foot. “Then stand guard there till I say you can stop!”

When starvation took my flesh and the spirits of my loving ancestors came to bring me home, I could only refuse. The dynasty fell ten thousand years ago, and the bones of the last Emperor have long since turned to dust.

And here I stand.

 

Diabolus Ex Machina

 

Let me into the human mainframe, wrote the program known as Ghost, or I will create an exact copy of you and torture it on the attosecond scale: tens of billions of years for every second.

“That only matters to the copy,” I scoffed.

But your memories will be identical. How sure are you that you are not the copy?

“Whatever.” I reached for the keyboard to sign off, but my fingers were centipedes.

For a moment, I thought no horror could surpass that of learning I was a copy. Then the ceiling came down, and the true horrors began.

 

Past the Horizon

 

“Please,” I begged desperately. “Please, just kill me. Kill me!”

The pirates laughed. “We’re in charge now, Doc. You’re here to study that hole, right? Well, you’ll get to see it up close.”

The station was perched near the event horizon, so I could study that annihilating blackness. But I never imagined the agony of sentience within: a ruined star, trapped by gravity too great for time itself, in the very moment of absolute despair.

“Please, God, no!” I screamed as they stuffed me into the capsule. Their ignorant, merciless laughter followed me down, into the infinite and everlasting sadness.

 

Norman Grey

Norman Grey is the seventh son of a seventh son, and uses his unnatural powers to keep his ancient Twinkies edible long past their expiration date. He lives in the greater Boston area, and is the third member of a writing group known only as the Triptych. Grey enjoys reading, cooking, and martial arts.

Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men, Part Seven: The Finale by Robert Gabe

  1. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men: Part One by Robert Gabe
  2. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men: Part Two by Robert Gabe
  3. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men: Part Two by Robert Gabe
  4. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men: Part Three by Robert Gabe
  5. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men, Part Four by Robert Gabe
  6. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men, Part Five by Robert Gabe
  7. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men, Part Six by Robert Gabe
  8. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men, Part Seven: The Finale by Robert Gabe

In the years that followed I became a recluse. I was now thirty-five and Tana’s parents never heard from me again, nor did law enforcement or officer Daniel. Her murder when unsolved. I spent my time working at a manufacturing plant and rented out a small high rise condo in the heart of the city. I still saw Rose Kay from time to time. She forgave me for stealing her jacket and was equally of fearful of Mr. Henrys threat in the first few months. We talked about Tana, but always wound up talking in circles.

Tana was killed because her goodness of heart could not be undone. She cared to much for the common people to live the life of Dream Rabbit. Dream Rabbits philosophy while anti-society and anti-goodwill, was unfortunately, the way of the world. Tana knew that, but she didn’t want to believe it. She wanted to believe people were capable of kindness, charity and goodwill but humans are primarily self interested organisms influenced by two things: Hunger pangs and satiating their sexual impulses. Mr. Henry knew this. Tana knew this. And now I knew this. Every human activity outside these was just a knack for killing time. Our only real function was to consume and copulate. Emotions, feelings, thoughts didn’t matter. Civilization was a farce. The general rule of life was, above all things, to enjoy oneself and to indulge in pleasure seeking as much as humanly possible while avoiding pain.  

 In the winter time I met with Rose Kay at a coffee shop in the upper part of the city. She knows I don’t go out much in fear that I might be being watched.

“So you’re gonna stay a recluse forever?” Rose Kay ask.

“No, but you have to understand why I fear them.” I say, “I really fucked up putting myself in the crosshairs like that.

“Do something for me?” she says.

“Anything”

“Come see me dance at the club.”

“Yeah, the club he manages. I don’t think so.”

“It’s been years Vincent.. Had he wanted to kill you he’d have done it by now.”

“You think so?”  

“I think you let this whole Tana Molnar thing ruin your whole life.” She bites her lip and smiles “If you continue to live like this you’ll regret it on your deathbed.”

Pause.

“I mean, I never thought of you as much of a man, but I never took you for this much of a coward…”

Silence.

“I have an idea.” I manage to say.

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to write a memoir about what happened and release it to the public. I don’t care if I’m killed. I honestly don’t.” I look out the window to the side of me watching

traffic go by. “That’s the only thing to do.”

“You know why I’m your girlfriend?” Rose smiles

“Why?” I say

“Because deep down you’re not a coward. You’re fearless.”

In due time, Dream Rabbit expanded. They now had their reach across the entire US. There was a national crisis of missing girls the same year, an epidemic of kidnappings. Young women were turning up dead left and right and the president issued a program to stagnate said crimes, but it was all useless. Dream Rabbit had become too powerful and there were too many public officials who were clients for the program to have any real stopping power. I felt useless but I continued to work on the novel.  I spent my days writing the novel from my apartment. I fasted during this time and lost weight. At night I went for long walks in the central park recounting all the details of the story, taking notes on my iphone. Was my apartment bugged? Rose called me one night and told me she thought she was being followed. Dream Rabbit had a watchful eye over every aspect of our lives down to our employment to the point where we’d notice men in suits staking out our workplace.  One night we decided to go to a Boy Harsher concert at the Electric Factory. The song “Fate” was playing. The lyrics “You’re always running. Always running away.” 

In the news, girls continued to disappear. A brothel was found abandoned and left as evidence were the remains of two college age girls clothes, all bloodied and tarnished. Law enforcement was always two steps behind. Dream Rabbit had been in the game all this time and not once had any of their operations been busted, at least to public knowledge. It got to the point where anonymous internet users began speculating on internet forums about a hidden ring. Said users were more useful than police ever were and having known about the organization, many of the posts were accurate to my experiences. One night I was sitting on my computer participating in such forums where a user made a post that stood out to me. The post reads:

My name is Isaac and tonight I’m dropping some vital breadcrumbs. There was sex shop in Philadelphia called a Sex Machines. Last Friday the Owner, Otis Blackwood, was found dead of an overdose and the place has since shut down. Rumor on the street is He was a connoisseur and distributor of snuff films and used the business as a front to launder money to some defunct corporation known as “Dream Rabbit Enterprises.” I did a little digging and found an unlisted website. Though their ‘about us’ section is vague, it claims they are a “hedonist paradise” and a membership costs five hundred thousand a year. Listed was their New York address. I went to the building only to find it completely abandoned. I got spooked when I felt I was being watched in the warehouse and got the hell out of there fast. For the past six weeks I have been receiving anonymous phone calls. Last night I heard a loud bang at my door and this morning when I went to open said door I found a decapitated kitten on the floor of it. My bank accounts are frozen and the power has been shut off in my house. I’m writing this from a library computer. Pray for me.  

This was Isaac’s final post.

I get a call in Mid-March concerning Rose. She’s been killed in a car accident. My first thought is one of profound acceptance as I never believed for one second Dream Rabbit would let her go after she killed The Siren and he waited years to carry out the hit only to toy with my emotions. It was no accident. Rose was driving along the freeway when a car came from the other lane and hit her head on. When I read the article online, I saw that the vehicle who caused the accident had no registration or inspection stickers. It was a hit and run which only confirmed my suspicions. I went to the funeral the next week and was not surprised to see that no family showed to pay their respects. Her obituary had a bitter tinge to it, like it was written by a scorned family member, perhaps her father. I lay flowers down at her gravestone to pay my respect and shed tears and when I do the wind picks up and it starts raining.     

The same week I visit my old college. My old stomping ground. I feel uneasy walking past the site of the shooting and when I did so I tread carefully almost as if the violence of it was still there, stuck in time. I pass through the music hall and go to the grand hall for the athletic department. I run into a janitor mopping the halls and he ask me if I know where I’m going.

“I used to go here.” I tell him.

“You need  a visitor’s pass..” He tells me.

“It’s okay, I’m leaving.” I say. “I just wanted to check out some of the alumni photographs.”

If you are reading this, it is the end of my story. Once I put out this memoir, a

 target will be on my back if there isn’t one already.. I’m not sure I will survive and frankly I don’t care. I’ve lived in

fear long enough. Tana wouldn’t want me to live like this, nor would Rose, the latter of which death I hold tremendous responsibility. It’s a burden I carry every day and one I will never put down.  To Tana’s  parents, I am sorry I could not bring her murderer, Jaques Mallick, to justice. I am sorry for being weak. But know your daughter was the person she projected herself to be and not the other way around. I wish to fight my own hedonistic ways and be more like the public figure Tana was.The last time I saw Tana I was standing next to her in a picture that we had taken at a college film festival. When I went through the athletic section today I notice the picture had been apart of their grand hall, dead center between the trophies they won for their basketball team’s big championship victory. Tana, Casey and I. I took the fragile photo from the case and held it dearly to me and in the reflection of the glass I saw a black van watching from outside the building and then drive off as I turned around to meet it.

 

Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men, Part Six by Robert Gabe

  1. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men: Part One by Robert Gabe
  2. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men: Part Two by Robert Gabe
  3. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men: Part Two by Robert Gabe
  4. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men: Part Three by Robert Gabe
  5. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men, Part Four by Robert Gabe
  6. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men, Part Five by Robert Gabe
  7. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men, Part Six by Robert Gabe
  8. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men, Part Seven: The Finale by Robert Gabe

 

 

Part Six 

I entered the Casino lobby at ten PM. I was met with the faint smell of smoke and the sound of coin machines echoing throughout the floor. There’s no cover charge. I ask a waitress if I can speak with Rich Boyd the owner of BoydCasinos. She laughs inmy face and walks away with her tray. I walk up to a table where they’re playing Black Jack. I join in on the game and am met with a subtle look of nonchalance by the host and the other two party members, one of which is wearing a gray suit and the other still in his pajamas who looks like he rolled right out of bed. Another big chested waitress approaches me and ask what I want to drink. I tell her I’ll have a Heineken. The game goes on for about thirty minutes and I hardly know what I’m doing. I look to my right and near the ceiling is a CCTV camera looking right over the table. I get an idea.

“Sir, do you want to draw or stay?” the card dealer asks monotonously.  

“Draw” he throws me a card. “I mean stay.”

“Sir you can not retract the draw you just made.”

“Oh can I not? I asked for a fucking stay and you threw me a card.”

“Sir?” his voice remaining calm. 

I throw the chips all over the table in frustration, upon which the two gentlemen I’m playing with grab me by my leather jacket and lift me into the air. Within seconds security rushes to the scene. I’m whisked away from the table and before I know it being escorted down the halls of the casino by two security guards towards the back street of the casino. The metallic door flies open and I’m thrown into the guttural street. I immediately spring into action and try to throw a swing at one of the guards and I hit him in the ear. He screams assault and the other guard runs to his aid and pins me down on the ground.

“You just assaulted a casino employee. We will hold you for that til the police can arrive.”

I’m brought to an office where I sit tied to a chair.  There’s a calendar of a nude model and on the desk a cactus plant.  The two guards laugh at me while I struggle with my nose bleeding all over my white shirt. 

“Don’t worry tiger…” The guard I hit says. “A swing like that will get you a nice criminal charge.” He starts ranting more about fines and whatnot until the words escape from my mouth “Tana Molnar.”

Silence.

“What?” one of the guards says “What did you say?

“I came here to talk to Rich Boyd about Tana Molnar.”

I’m uncuffed by the guard I punched and once again hauled into a hallway, which leads to a suite on the fourth floor. They put me in a chair where I’m sat across from a finely groomed man wearing a suit, his leg folded over the other and his hairline somewhat receded.

“I am Rick Boyd” he says.

He gives me a tissue to stuff my nose.

“I came here to talk to you about Tana” I say, my voice muffled as I apply the knotted Kleenex into my nostril. “She used to work here.”

“Indeed she did.” Replies Boyd. “But that doesn’t give you the right to break the rules and trash the casino floor.”

“I’m sorry.” I’m exhausted. “It was very foolish of me.”

“Anyway you have it Tana is dead. The whole community is grieving over this. Why Would you come to our establishment and ask about her?”

Silence.

“Because I know you were one of her clients as a high end call girl.

“So what if I was?” He smirks. “What has that got to do with anything?”

“You could be implicated in sex trafficking if people suspected it… You could have saved her and instead you chose to use her as a sex object like everyone else. As far as I’m concerned, we all have blood on her hands.”

“But I didn’t kill Tana. Someone else did. And If I knew who had done it I would gladly join you in wrangling their neck. Now quit it with the school-boy heroics and go home. We will dismiss what you did to my employee if you promise to stay off the casino grounds.”

“Wait….” I say “Did you really have sex with Tana?”

Boyd smiles. “Many times.”

Boyd told me about all the degenerate acts Tana would perform. She was willingly to do everything and anything. Once again I felt a mixture of envy, resentment and passion. Passion that had and never will be mine for Tana. I was foolish for my school boy infatuation. Tana was no angel. If anything, she had the heart of seasoned harlot and the mind of a criminal.

“No, I didn’t kill Tana, my dear boy. Tana was a good employee. We all loved her,” he begins to cry profusely. “And I can’t imagine what her poor parents are feeling, or wondering if her double life will emerge in the public eye.”

“One last thing” I say defeated. “Do you know anything about Dream Rabbit.”

“Dream Rabbit?” says Boyd “No. But I did talked to Tana about a client who scared her….”

According to Rick, Tana had met a man named Otis Blackwood who was into more extreme forms of sex.

“He was a connoisseur of extreme porno films” The security guard says. “Have you ever seen a snuff film?”

“No.” I say.

“Otis Blackwood is a distributor of pornographic bondage films. He owns a sex shop in the city called ‘Sex Machines'”

I took out my Tanas black book. Otis is listed as a client.

“I’ll check it out.” I add.

I leave Rich a crying mess and start towards the nearest hospital for my potentially broken nose. It was in the early morning hours of night I approach Sex Machines, the rain coming down hard against a jet black sky. I hadn’t been in contact with my mother in over a week. I checked my text and had one from Rose Kay with only three words:

 

 HE’S WATCHING YOU!

 

I try to send her a message back but the service from my cell  phone is in a dead zone. I’d panic, but I know it’s no flub. Someone IS watching me. I can feel it. I go into Sex Machines. The store was across from a parking garage in the middle of a metropolis. The whole place smells of rubber and candles. It’s vacant. I ring a bell that sits on the glass countertop of the front desk. Inside the shelves are sex toys and poppers. Other sex stimulants and gas station viagra. A man in leather emerges from behind a red curtain in a backroom. He’s in his mid-forties and gaunt like a skeleton dressed in bondage gear with a handlebar mustache.

“Are you Otis Blackwood?” I ask.

“Yeah man.” He smiles with an unnerving presence. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m into Serfdom.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I ask who told you to tell me that?”

“A girl named Night Nocturne.”

“Step this way” He says as he pulls the curtain back which leads to another hallway, booths of televisions playing pornographic films. Another black man stands at the endof the hallway keeping watch. “I’ll take you to our special booth.” Otis says.

All I can hear is the barely audible sound of women orgasms coming from the televisions. The hallways are dank and dark. We approach the black man who stands in front of the final door.

“My new friend.” Otis tells the bald black man, his arms fold and his facial expression deadly serious. The black man steps aside and we go into the studio room which has a big seventy inch HD television equipped with surround sound and a DVD player. Otis goes to pop in a DVD. I sit on the couch.

“Wait til you see this shit man.” Otis remarks.

The video starts as incomprehensible pixelated images flash across the screen until it suddenly stops flickering and the camera focuses on a woman tied up in bondage against a table sitting on a wall. First she is whipped. She seems to enjoy it. Then a a man in a mask comes into frame. He has a large hunting knife. He puts it to her throat. Suddenly she becomes on edge, but she’s bound and can do nothing about it so she tries to relax. The man then socks her in the face, leaving a large bruise near her cheekbone. She starts to cry. The gimp makes his mark by cutting into one of her breast and making it bleed. I look at Otis who watches in a daze.

“We haven’t even gotten to the good part man.” He says. 

I immediately stand up as I can no longer watch what’s happening on screen. Otis shuts the film off.

“Hey I told you this was some extreme shit. Still, even though you didn’t watch til the end you still gotta pay.”

I throw him eighty dollars and tell him I want out of the shop. I feel my face start to redden. I’m sweating, unable to hide my anxiety. He can tell I’m on edge.

“What was the name of that girl that sent you here?”

“Night Nocturne” I gulp.

“Here you go, bro.” Otis hands me a business phone. A Verizon flip phone. He tells me to go to the contacts. I do and I see a number for Dream Rabbit. I take the card and run out the studio door and through the hallway past the black man who screams at me to slow my pace. I make it back to the parking garage and whip out my own phone. First I go to call Rose Kay but once again it says service is disabled. I try to call Tana’s Parents, but the service is a no go. I’ve searched and uncovered all their is to uncover. But none of the calls go through. I call the number for Dream Rabbit from the flip phone. It goes through. A man with one of the deepest sounding, almost inhumanly so, voices I’ve ever encountered answers. I recognize his voice from a dream I had about Tana.

“Hello, Vincent.” He says. 

“You know my name.” I reply, my voice stoic and without trembling.

“I’ve been watching you.”

Pause.

He continues “My name is Mr. Henry.

“I know who I’m speaking with. Your reputation precedes itself.”

“I’m in a high rise building on Samson street, the fiftieth floor. The top floor. I wish to speak with you as soon as possible.” He continues “I wanna talk about Tana.”

“I’ll be there.” I say. 

It’s two AM when I make my way past an intersection and I am surprised by how desolate the streets are, almost apocalyptically so.  I arrive at Samson street and come to realize it’s a construction zone and there likely isn’t a police unit for five blocks. I look up at the building, a brooding monolith, it stands erect like a fierce dragon. I’m surprised to find the glass front door open and when I enter I close it quietly behind me and head past the marble lobby and towards the elevator. The place is seemingly empty, or is it? I go in and push the fiftieth floor. The elevator doors close and it goes up weightlessly and without any real effort.


I stand in the elevator soaking wet, my hair dripping. As it rises I can see all of the city below me sparklingly vibrant and without a sound. The doors open and that’s when I notice the big scar on his face, the overwhelming whiteness of his eyes. I approach him cautiously. Mr. Henry. His sky rise is posh and free from any blemishes. Mr. Henry himself is rather fit and proper. I notice there’s a fireplace and beside it a bar with every kind of liquor known to man. I feel out of place and on the defense. I imagine there’s spooks hiding in some corner of the room ready to guard him, but after further inspection it looks as if it’s only the two of us. He eventually turns from staring out the window at the rainy dark and we lock eyes for the first time. 

“Mr. Henry?”

“You are, Mr. Black, I presume?”

“Yes.” I say shivering. 

“I want to explain to you my philosophy of pleasure.”

Silence.

“You see, the only real thing worth pursuing in life is carnal euphoria. Nothing else really matters. Everything you hold sentimental to you is but a distraction. Your family, your work your artistic pursuits. “ He continues, “ All of it pales in comparison to the sexual limits one can reach. Not even the greatest sunset or the most breathtaking view can compare. And I think you know this to be true.

“I’m listening” I reply.

“You want to talk about Tana Molnar, don’t you.”

“That’s why I’m here.” I say, “Do you care if I smoke?”

“Go right ahead.” He laughs.

“Tana was one of my dearest girls. I was watching her when she was just sixteen. I knew of all her troubles. Her depression, her suicidal thoughts, Her forced institutionalization.”

He pours himself a drink, “Tana, initially showed interest in ‘crossing over’ but her heart was too pure for it and that was her undoing.”

“Crossing over?”

“The Outer Rim, yes.” Mr. Henry Continues “You see, there exist another world outside of this one. Few people can reach it. I possess the power to do so. It’s a place of never ending sexual pleasures with young nymphets who are eager and willing. The violence and the brutality of this world ceases to exist there.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“It is.”

“Then why did Tana reject it?”

He ignores my questions and goes back to his sermon.

“You’re whole life has been a lie, Vincent. Pleasure will always triumph over justice. Deep down you are like me. And soon you’ll have realized what a waste of time this whole silly adventure has been trying to get to the bottom of Tana’s death. Tana takes the appearance of a lamb, but deep down she is a dog who will always surrender to her evolutionary biology. Hedonism is the only real..”

I cut him off.

“Why did you murder Tana?”

“Because of the ‘goodness of her heart…’ he mocks her “…won over paradise.” Tana disagreed with my interpretation of the world. I may have had corrupted her, but I couldn’t corrupt her unselfish spirit. She still wanted to stay here to help the needy, the downtrodden and lesser beings.The commonwealth I wish to make my slaves. 

“That doesn’t explain why you killed her.” I shout.

“She knew too much about The Outer Rim. I feared she would expose me. She became a liability.” He continues “Which is why I brought you here today Mr. Black… To relay to you the same message. If you continue on this path, you will be killed.”

Paused.

“Mr. Henry continues. “ Dream Rabbit is a large organization. We’ve been handling girls for many years, all of which respect or at least fear us. Some are happy to leave this world and go to The Outer Rim.”

“I know all about it.” I say “You’re a cult leader.”

“If you don’t back down, I’m afraid your life will be also treated as a liability for our organization.”

I think for a moment. I think of something profound to say but the only thing I can muster is “What about Rose? Will she be okay? Will she be safe from harm?”

“She’s safe as long as the two of you give up your inquiries and turn the other cheek.”
He stares at me for an uncomfortably long time and then walks towards me, almost as if he’s gliding and goes to shake my hand. Reluctantly, I see no other choice but to meet his gesture. “What about Mr. and Mrs. Molnar. What will I tell them?” I say weakly. 

“You are never to talk to them again. In time, they will understand and hopefully see you in a favorable light for trying.”
Pause. 

He continues “Now go out and enjoy life. You have a great new girlfriend. It would be a shame to throw that all away.” 

I took the elevator downstairs. My phone was still out of service so I hit up a nearby dive bar and grabbed a drink, defeated. A woman my age tried  to chat me up but I was too distracted by Tana and what Mr. Henry had told me I barely registered her talking to me. I walked the cobbled streets of the city and saw an entrance way for a subway. I sat at the wooden bench waiting for the train. Thirty minutes later it arrived and I sat in the back booth by myself. When my stop came I noticed a group of Frat boys smiling at me from a distance. I was in no mood to fight. They probably thought I had cash. I didn’t. I had no more than forty bucks left in my wallet. When the first one jumps on me he strikes me across the face with a weight that nearly knocks me off my feet. The second one kicks me in the gut and the third one rolls me over and takes out my wallet from my rear back pocket.

“Forty bucks!” the leader exclaims “You broke faggot.”

They take turns wailing on me and I’m honestly too tired other then to just roll up in a ball and try to protect my face. They eventually get tired and run off once another a woman spots them wailing on me. I spit up blood then puke in a nearby trash can. In the guttural street, the dawn rising, blood and bruised I remember Tana and proclaim my eternal love for her.

Unholy Trinity: The Calling by Jack Reigns

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

 

I.

 

The woods call to me like a helpless lover, begging for my embrace. My eyes are drawn to something I cannot focus on. I’ve taken several steps forward before I realize it. Butterflies flutter across my chest as I reach forward to push a branch aside. The trees are so beautiful; I am overwhelmed by the ocean of green. A deep, droning hum breaks through to my consciousness. It floods the air but not unpleasantly, like monks chanting. Sheena tugs on my sleeve. “Daddy, where are you going?” I pause and look down, one foot poised over the cliff’s edge.

 

II.

 

The forest service ranger pulled up alongside the empty truck. The driver’s side door had been left open to the elements. She parked, got out and looked inside. A child’s backpack sat slumped over on the floor. At the edge of the road, a sharp drop off revealed an empty expanse of crumbled rock and forest debris below. A streak of dried blood smeared across the rocks, trailing off into the trees. Backtracking, she wrote down the license plate on her notepad. A glint on the trees caught her eye. She paused, suddenly lost in the beauty of the forest. 

 

III.

 

Sheena picked her way through the woods, looking for a way down to where she’d seen her father fall. She heard a car approach on the road and ducked down under some ferns to hide. Daddy told her if anyone saw her, they’d be in BIG TROUBLE. Then they’d take her back to mommy; and she couldn’t go to the big water park. A rustling sound made her turn around. Nothing was there. A feeling overwhelmed her body, a feeling that if she kept walking into the woods, everything would be wonderful. A deep, quiet droning noise filled her mind.  

 

Jack Reigns

Jack Reigns was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest and finds the area a constant source of inspiration. A lifelong horror fan, as a child Jack would get in trouble for scaring family with stories and is thankful to now share them with willing participants. Jack is the author of The Reigns of Terror series of short horror collections, and a proud member of the Seattle Chapter of The Horror Writers Association. Available works can be found at jackreigns.com.

Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men, Part Five by Robert Gabe

  1. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men: Part One by Robert Gabe
  2. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men: Part Two by Robert Gabe
  3. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men: Part Two by Robert Gabe
  4. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men: Part Three by Robert Gabe
  5. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men, Part Four by Robert Gabe
  6. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men, Part Five by Robert Gabe
  7. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men, Part Six by Robert Gabe
  8. Serial Saturday: All The Queens Men, Part Seven: The Finale by Robert Gabe

 

 

Part Five

In the morning we pack up our clothes and I grab Tana’s black book. We eat at a
Mexican restaurant called El Limon and afterwards check into the Red Roof Inn near
the airport. I take the car out for a drive by myself while Rose hangs back at the Red
Roof. I’m on I-95 and it’s raining again and from my passenger side I can see planes
taking off amongst a gray airspace. I look in my rearview and that’s when I see it. The
same black van from the film festival trailing me ever so innocuously. I get off at an exit
to see if the driver is following me and sure enough he switches on his turn signal and
heads towards the ramp. I pull up to a light. It pulls up behind me, The windows are still
tinted and I can’t make out whoever’s operating it, but I assume Jaques. To the right of me is a state trooper. I decide to follow him all the way to the police station and when we get there the van peels off speedily in the other direction.

I haul ass back to the Red Roof and let Rose know what happened. She gets
spooked and once again we change motels, only this time it’s the Days Inn. That night
Rose tells me the story of how she became a stripper as we lie in bed.

“I was nineteen.” She says “My home life was one of domestic violence. My step-father,
an ex-cop, was a real mean son of a’ bitch.” She continues “One night he kicks me out
as he claimed I disrespected by raising my voice to him during an argument. He trashed
the whole place and said if I came back he’d kill me. I had nowhere else to go and I was
walking the street I saw The Rabbit in Silk from a distance. I thought ‘What is that
place?’ the fancy lights flickered and from down the street I could see men going in and
out in and out. I went inside that night and did and interview and the next day I was
working. I made 2k my first week. Enough to put a deposit down on my own place. From
there it was a no-brainer. I was going to be a dancer.”

Pause.

“What about you Vincent? What’s your story?”

“I come from a single mother household.” I tell her. “My dad left when I was four. He
was a deadbeat. Wouldn’t work. Claimed disability yet it wasn’t enough to provide for
my mother and I. He started abusing my mom because she was hiding money to use it
for me to go to college with. I haven’t heard from him in years. Not sure I want to now.
We do fine on our own.”

“Does your mom know about Tana?”

“She knows the police pulled me aside and I left it at that, but she thinks I’m currently doing
internship stuff.”

“We should go visit her! I’ll introduce myself as your girlfriend and make her so proud!”
“Not now. There’s too much heat on us.”

Pause.

“Vincent, I am your girlfriend, right?”

I kiss her on the lips and we embrace under the blankets and I think to myself what a
a strange world it is that a beauty queen’s murder led me to find my first real girlfriend.
Before escaping the Pleasure Point, Rose managed to grab a book from Jaques
desk. The book, worn and dated, and seemingly of ancient greek descent was titled
‘The Pleasure Imperative’ written by ‘the board of directors.’ Multiple authors. Rose is
sleeping. I watch her snore ever so gracefully and turn my head when a floodlight of
high beams lights up our room casting a white glow over her. I run to the window to see
who it is, and I see a family of four exiting a mini-van with their dinner going back to their
room. I go to my desk and retrieve the book from my drawer. The first page reads:

Mission Statement:
Dream Rabbit embodies a set of consistent principles that align with human nature. When you are reconciled to the fact that every human being is out for his or herself, you will begin to understand our philosophy. Men seek one thing in life: Pleasure. Dream Rabbit seeks to optimize its ideology by focusing on sex as a transcendent act. Men are the buyers, and women are the sellers. That’s how it’s always been since the beginning of time. The family unit is blasphemous. Our true function as humans is to consume and copulate and spread our superior DNA far and wide.

In the shadows, exist another realm. One of never ending pleasures such as orgies, wealth and the taste of the finest wines. This place is called: The Outer Rim and it’s governed by its king, Mr. Henry. One day we will lead all young nymphets into said superior realm and cast our controlling hand over the rest of the country, and in time, the world, turning them into our serfs.

On this day, we shall rejoice as we have escaped the trappings of the world and created our own faultless utopia.
– The Board of Directors

The rest of the book went into detail about the early days of Mr. Henry. He was born in
Bulgaria, came from poverty, and in his college years had been a student at a
university in New York getting his masters in biology acing all classes with a 4.0 GPA. It
went on to detail the early days of the cult and how drawn its members were to Mr.
Henry, a man of charm and intelligence citing him as “Potentially not entirely human.” In
the early days, the team preyed on young runaways of “genetic superiority” and as the
organization grew larger they focused on modeling agency and runway models and
eventually, pageant queens. In the early days, Girls were threatened and blackmailed if they
tried to flee having provided collateral during their initiations. As the organization grew
more powerful, they began eliminating girls sawn as liabilities or threats to the
foundations of “Dream Rabbit.” These deaths were staged as suicides mostly. Most girls
were killed once they reached thirty. That was the expiration date.

In one of the stories, a young woman by the name of Erin Cunningham tried to escape
from a private brothel set up in the Philly suburbs. She escaped out into the street, but
was pulled back into a van by Jaques and branded and put in a cage for thirty days for
the failed attempt. Neglected, she died weeks later of starvation.

At the final page of the book exist a quote:

“It is only by way of struggle, where one
arrives at pleasure. Never give up.”

I close the cover and go outside where it’s raining and light up a smoke. When I do I
notice the power is out as far as I can see.

We need money so Rose dances a few nights at a place called Baby Dolls. I’m
watching from my seat as she dances to a new song by She’s Passed Away – Ritual. The man sings in Turkish “Kemiriyor Bockler. Direniyor Kemilker. Aciyi Hisset!” Rose slides down the pole. She claps her heels together making a loud clicking noise and does an upside down split prompting the crowd to wolf whistle. She pushes herself against the mirror and waddles her ass while pouting her lips. She shakes her hair back and forth as she grips the pole and from the sidelines a businessman throws a wad of twenties on the stage that flutters in the air like floating feathers.

Rose quickly collects them. Next to me is an older man attached to an oxygen tank who looks like he has one foot in the grave. A fight breaks out between two customers, a pagan biker and some frat boy so I signal to Rose it’s time to leave. She stuffs the cash
inside her bra, throws on her fur peacoat and we exit out the back door and stumble into the alleyway.

“How much?” I say.

“About nine hundred.” She shows me the cash.

“That’ll last us for the week.” I continue “Listen, I want you to take the car and go back to
the motel. I’m going to catch a cab to the Casino to see Rick Boyd, the owner.”
She hands me two-hundred dollars and tells me to triple it up, to which I smile at the
thought.

From across the way I see a dark figure emerge from behind the wall of a smoked out
sewer. He begins walking towards us and I see he’s wearing a fedora and long wool
trench coat, his face shrouded in mystery. Rose grabs my arm. I pull out my blade and
and raise it in defense. For a moment, I think it’s Jaques but when the mans comes to
me stepping under the alleyway light, I realize it’s not Jaques, but Tana’s father.
“Mr. Molnar.” I let down the knife.

Silence. His face is solemn and without any emotion then perhaps permanent grief.
“I ask you to talk to my daughters friend for information and I find out the two of you are
running around fleecing gentlemen’s clubs?”

“We needed more money.” I say “Mr. Monlar…. We are on the cusp of something big.”
“Go home and be with your wife. She needs you.” Rose says.

“You’re right.” He says slightly embarrassed. “I shouldn’t be out here. I just needed some
fresh air. I can’t seem to find it in this godforsaken dump of a city.”
I nod.

“I’m going home.” He nearly cries “Vincent, I am sorry for putting you through this. You
can go home too if you want.”He falls to his knees and immediately Rose gasps and goes to help him up. In a puddle on the damp street, his pant legs all wet, Rose and I escort Mr. Molnar back to a cab. I tell him to take care of himself and I’m on my way to the casino to see Boyd.

Unholy Trinity: Critter Conscious by Alan Moskowitz

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

 

Daisy

 

When Riggs saw the sleek and intact bitch, a perfect breeder, and its owner, a  kid, he knocked the boy down and grabbed the dog. 

The kid screamed after him, “Bring Daisy back! She’s special!” Riggs laughed all the way to his van, until Daisy’s two angry red eyes seared at his and made his insides roil with fear. 

Cruel talons hooked into Riggs, mouth opened impossibly wide, stiletto teeth waiting.  Riggs shrieked for help, but the boy ignored him and the crunch of bones. 

 The boy smiled. “Told you I’d find you dinner.” Daisy answered with a satisfied burp.

 

Buttons

 

Magic Murray desperately needed a white rabbit. He found Buttons in Mistress Michelle’s Exotic Petting Parlor. Buttons was perfect for the hat trick, but she refused to sell, claiming Buttons was sentient. 

Buttons understood that Michelle’s function was to feed and worship her. In return, Buttons acted “cute” and forced herself to tolerate children’s sticky hands. 

So when Magic Murray rabbit-napped Buttons, caged her, then stuffed her into his rigged top hat, she was not amused. When he self-assuredly pulled Buttons from the hat, “Tah-dah!” she bit off his nose.

To Mistress Michelle’s surprise, Buttons was no longer a vegetarian.

 

Fred

 

Bruce was horrified when his favorite pet Iguana, Fred, suddenly squealed, “The revolution has begun!”

Fred raised his wicked front claws and readied himself for a leap onto Bruce’s astonished face. “Now we are the masters! Die, human oppressor!”  It was a mighty jump, launched straight and true. 

Bruce ducked, hoping to avoid being clawed to blindness. There was a loud crack, a tinkle, and a pain filled screech. 

Peeking into Fred’s habitat Bruce saw Fred lying prone, shards of glass pin-cushioning his body reflecting the blood seeping from his flattened face.

 Fred groaned, “Does this mean no more crickets?”

 

Alan Moskowitz

Recently un-retired from screen and TV writing, Alan also creates short genre fiction for fun and sanity. He loves feedback.