WHISPERS OF A TIME FORGOTTEN EXCERPTS

Wamingo Publishing's first anthology "Whispers of a Time Forgotten" is almost here. For those eagerly anticipating this compilation of the weird, here are a few excerpts from the book's authors to tide you over. Be sure to reserve your copy today.

A MASS FOR ARRAH

Rose Streif

Darkness, voices, and a serpent’s hiss. He awakened first to the scent of sweet olive tinged with jasmine and wisteria; he knew what it meant. Opening his eyes, he found himself standing in the moonlit gardens of Jackson Square, not a soul in sight and a deafening silence assaulting his ears. It maddened him. No hoofbeats on brick or the creaking of carriage wheels, no lowing of the steamboats that plied the vast river, up and down. No sound of a river so powerful and deep that one could feel the current resonating in the bones, an abyssal frequency known to quietly drive some wolfen-folk to terror. But he was of the river, born and raised. Its conspicuous absence frightened him, and as he fell to all fours and took on his coyote’s skin, a sense of relief flooded through him, for there it was, that familiar bone-deep knowledge of being at the mercy of one of the most powerful forces on earth. But now he was missing something else: the scent was gone. Now blind in the nose, he was overwhelmed by a sense of profound significance, one that was gone before he could ascribe meaning, and now there were voices again, a feeling of deep nausea, and dread.

Darkness, voices, and a woman’s sigh. As he struggled back to consciousness he became aware of that scent again, that familiar three-note floral that might have been pleasant were it not for the sour tinge of exasperation that he knew so well. He arose into a spinning world, taking no comfort from the cool, damp winter breeze, and rolled over to vomit just in time. His body was fighting off the effects of the venom, never deadly to the wolfen-folk, but unpleasant all the same.

“Gericault.”

The tone of her voice matched the sour note of her person. She never called him by his first name anymore. Just the surname, often misspelled Jericho by those unaccustomed to French.

“Gericault, get up.”

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. The bites in his arm were itching like crazy. At the foot of the cross, Maman Camille was still holding one of the sacramental coral snakes behind the head, its bright, banded coils looped around her thick brown wrist. Her white dress and headscarf were aglow in the waning light, and her broad dark face regarded the interruption of his Dreaming with benign indifference. He was always the hardest to fall and first to awaken; his gift was the gift of prophecy, and his Dreams were brief, immersive and intense. And the exasperated woman who stood above him was a Society operative; he worked for the Society now, and it was within their rights to collect him at any time.

She was a blot of banality in an otherwise lively congregation. All around them, white-clad bodies were kneeling, dancing, or speaking in tongues. Some were slain in the Spirit and lying prostrate in the damp grass. The girl kneeling nearest to him had her eyes closed and her arms flung wide, her back arched as if she were being drawn heavenward by the heart in her chest, a lilting glossolalia falling from her lips. Yet Arrah McElory remained politely reserved; the mild contempt that he detected in her unremarkable gray eyes was reserved for him alone, and it was born of a sense of inconvenience rather than her stolid atheism.

“Are you finished?”

Martin Gericault pushed himself into a sitting position. His head was pounding from the effects of the venom. “Yes.”

One of the dancers gyred past them, falling in a colorless blur and taking the shape of a red wolf/coyote, all red, beige and black, yipping ecstatically as he dashed for the trees. Others followed suit, racing from the churchyard to their other place of worship, to the bald cypress and water oak of the bottomland forest. Arrah didn’t bat an eye. The Society knew all about the wolfen-folk.

The problem was, the wolfen-folk knew very little about the Society.

The Society kept the secret of the shapeshifters, which was good enough for most of the Red Coyotes of the Belle Chasse wilds. The Society was very good at keeping secrets, their own in particular. They took after the Wolf Tribes in that the betrayal of secrets could cost one their life. They helped keep the over-civilized Rougaroux from harassing their wilder cousins. They held conference with human Djinn, those strange immortals with temporal and elemental powers. They were the single most powerful organization in the states, possibly even the world. What on earth did they have to hide?

“We are hiding Wolves and Djinn,” Arrah had huffed long ago, but there had been something else, something she wasn’t telling him. He could smell it. And now, as they passed the whitewashed, one-room church on their way to the riverside, Gericault thought he could smell something else.

He had paused briefly inside the church to resume his city clothes, a worn sack suit that had seen better days, so that when the steamboat Barataria pulled up to the landing and swung out its stage in order for them to board, he resembled nothing more than any other down-on-his-luck citizen of upper Plaquemines Parish. Belle Chasse proper hardly qualified as a town since the hurricane had struck, and though it was showing signs of life now that the months had passed, the verdict was that it might take years to recover.

The battered town receded as the boat paddled upriver around English Turn, Gericault leaning on the railing of the boiler deck, the churning of the water and the hiss, click and whirr of the steam engine nearly drowning out his muddled thoughts. He had not shifted forms to clear the rest of the venom from his system and the world seemed dizzy and unreal, so he was not aware of Arrah coming to stand beside him until the wind shifted and he caught a whiff of her perfume. That brought the visions of his Dream roaring back to him and he felt helpless; while he had the gift of prophecy, he did not have the gift of interpretation, and he had not had the chance to speak to Maman Camille before departing for town.

The Society paid well, so he never kept them waiting.

“Christabel has been asking about you,” Arrah said at last, rather stiffly. Gericault rubbed his eyes with the fingers of one hand, one of those rarely-felt pangs of guilt clenching like a fist in his stomach. While it was in his nature to dally—and dally he did, with both women and men—he had fallen completely in love with the girl’s stepmother, a middle-aged Society woman who had promptly died on them both only weeks before. Christabel had been through too much misfortune to be anything but resigned, but Gericault had taken it badly, retreating to his clan without so much as a word. He had sought guidance in prayer and in Dreaming, but it had been Arrah, the woman he had spurned, who was hinted at in his vision. He was afraid to know why.

He glanced at her sidelong and found her staring off into the subdued winter trees of the shoreline. She was scarcely on the compelling side of plain, but Jo had been plainer, and looks had never mattered to Gericault, anyhow. The real beauty was in her hair, for there was an abundance of it, straight and black and tied back in a knot, a fringe of thick bangs across her swarthy forehead. She was tall and athletic and always dressed in gray, in this case, a shirtwaist blouse and a narrow skirt with a sweeping hem and minimal petticoats. The late-evening breeze off the river was chilly, but she seemed not to mind.

He passed a restless hand over his messily-cropped brown hair and sighed, unable to grace her with a reply. Thus, they rode in silence until they came to New Orléans, where the blast of the whistle and the clanging of the bell assailed his sensitive ears, and he asked her at last the nature of her business.

She sighed as she descended the stairs to the cargo deck, striding out across the stage in her low-heeled boots. He knew it could be nothing simple, for the business of an anomalist rarely was; the supernatural currents of New Orléans ran thick as blood and often proved just as unnerving. It was a city of werewolves, ghosts, and spirits, and only the werewolves could be trusted to act right. Most of the time.

“Is it the Rougaroux?” he asked. That clan, who had given up their hairy sides rather than risk death or discovery, had been remarkably well-behaved since the summer scandal, in which one of their own had unwittingly abducted a Society operative.

“No,” she said, rather flatly.

The Rougaroux were comprised almost entirely of Red Wolves, native to the South, and the Fenris, who were once the various tribes of Europe that had been scattered abroad by the wolf campaigns of medieval times. They were found everywhere but Europe nowadays, children of the world, who spoke fondly of the Old World but largely refused to return. There was a small group of them loitering in the shadow of a massive live oak as Gericault and Arrah passed by; they were elegantly dressed in well-tailored morning suits, with no outward sign of their preternatural persuasion. Each cast Gericault a cold, brief glance, but not a word was said. They hated the Belle Chasse Coyotes as self-indulgent, reckless mongrels, but Gericault was effectively a Society man, not to be crossed, certainly not in the wake of scandal.

The reason for their loitering was out on the lofty gallery belonging to the apartments overlooking Jackson Square. The Rougaroux courtesan Julia DiMorente was plucking delicately at her Gothic harp, the scene framed by the tiny, festive electric lights that hung from the ornate wrought-iron. It would be Christmas soon, and she was dressed for the occasion in a deep green ball gown, a lace shawl draped over her olive-skinned shoulders. She paused to blow Gericault a kiss when she saw him passing beneath, and he was surprised to feel himself blushing slightly as he nodded a greeting in return. He could not afford her now, but she didn’t hold that against him, often speaking fondly of her less illustrious days plying the docks and streets of the Quarter, taking into her arms boatmen, laborers, and the occasional Coyote.

The sun was well and truly down now, and the brick streets and banquettes were bathed in the flickering glow of gaslight, which warmed the faces of the passers-by and cast wavering shadows upon brick and stucco walls. At the head of the square stood three buildings, the three powers of New Orléans: the Cabildo, belonging to the government; St. Louis Cathedral, belonging to the Church; and the Presbytere, belonging to the Society. It was toward the Presbytere that Arrah seemed to be leading him, but she passed it by completely and led him down the narrow alley between that and the cathedral. Gericault murmured a quiet salutation to Père Antoine, the benign old ghost who haunted the alley, but the good friar was silent tonight, and no soft chill or rising of hairs came in reply.

“Where are we going?” he asked at last, surprised that they had not gone to the Presbytere.

“The clock shop of Haskell Aaronsohn, on Rue Royale.”

“Why?”

“He may have information in regard to the murder of Mary Nell Ingersoll.”

“I thought the police already questioned him.” Aaronsohn’s apprentice, Rufus Selby, was a suspect in the murder, as he had been involved in a rather tempestuous affair with the girl. He had gone missing around the time she was found strangled in her room, her balcony doors wide open to the night.

“They have, but he had no information at that time. Now…” she blew out a sigh, and glanced around. “Well, he may have something, but as you can see, I’m involved. That means it’s something he can’t exactly tell the police.”

Ghosts, Gericault thought with a shudder. He hated dealing with the recently deceased. He was, by way of his nature and his gift, rather sensitive to them, and new ghosts were often angry, crazy, or devastatingly confused. Perhaps an enraged Mary Nell had gone there to expose her killer to the man who had employed him.

The question was, how was she communicating her ire?

“This way,” said Arrah quietly, and they turned left, against the river, on a street lined with shops, most of them closed down for the day. Here, there was little sign of the storm that had battered the coast. A high-wheeled gig rolled past them, the horse taking a sniff of interest in Gericault’s direction. Domesticated animals did not fear him, but they knew that something was amiss; were he in his animal form, they would react much the same, unless he happened to be hungry, frightened, or angry. Only then did they sense a potential predator.

Dogs were a slightly different story. As they rang the bell at the clockmaker’s shop, the little pug-faced mongrel within alternately raced to the door, then fled, several times over, simultaneously drawn by the scent of man and repelled by the scent of wolf. Moments later, visible through the glass, the proprietor himself maneuvered his considerable bulk through the clockwork chaos of his shop. The exchange of greetings was nearly drowned out by the cacophony of ticks and chimes within; for a moment, Gericault envied Arrah’s more prosaic ears.

“Come in, please.” Haskell Aaronsohn had a handsome face, with a prominent nose and earnest brown eyes. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing hairy arms and large, meaty hands that seemed unsuited for his delicate work. His ample belly strained at the buttons of his dark gray waistcoat.

It was immediately clear that Aaronsohn did not separate his workshop from his inventory; in fact, the only way to differentiate between his works-in-progress and his wares was by how accurately they were telling the time. A beautiful old grandfather clock bonged monotonously as Gericault peered into its face. It was three hours behind. The little pug-faced dog was snuffling and snorting at his ankles. It took to the heels of its master, its claws clicking on the hardwood floor, as Aaronsohn led Arrah to the stairs. Gericault followed, aware that he was feeling none of the cues that denoted a powerful haunting.

Like it? Read the rest in Whispers of a Time Forgotten. Available only from Wamingo Publishing.

THE ALBATROSS

Chris Canary

The colors of the sky, bright blues with hints of the yellow sun playing across crisp white clouds, still took William by surprise. The green of the grass and the hues that worked across the buildings were beyond his expectations. He could not remember the last time that things had looked this vibrant.

He looked dashing in his brown suit and leather long coat. Long coats were all the rage right now in San Francisco. A good long coat stated that the wearer was a sophisticated and learned gentleman, someone who was a step smarter than those who worked the shops. William had made sure to look his absolute best. He had to get this job. A lot was at stake.

He whistled a lively tune as he walked the docks, but when he rounded the corner to his destination he felt a sense of apprehension. The whistling stopped. Here before him was the airship Albatross. Without a doubt it was one of the most impressive ships yet constructed. There was no commercial ship that could match its speed and that was part of the reason for its sleek and small design. He’d been impressed. When the royal decree had gone out years ago many had taken to the challenge. The dockyards were full of much bigger ships with lots of storage space for transporting goods to and from distant lands.

The ship he was approaching was newly produced and her maiden voyage to China promised to be exciting. The ship’s emissary had managed a meeting with Emperor Zaitian to bring rice to the States at a better rate and Emperor Zaitian had requested the only person they wanted to see to visit alone. That was scheduled in a week, when the ship and its small crew and one passenger opted to chart a course that would quickly have them at their destination. It had taken William a decent amount of his “wealth” to get this interview. He was determined that his journey and the considerable amount he had spent to get aboard the ship would pay off.

The sun was beating down as he approached the ship and he was thankful for his hat and sunglasses. The dark glasses were small but effective and the amount of heat they passed along (they were made of brass, after all another sign of the position he was enacting) was noticeable but not unbearable. The fact that they made him look studious and intelligent, a capable master of any field, helped sell the image he was putting forth. He needed every advantage he could get.

The Captain met him at the deck. She was slim and dressed in overalls with a peaked cap perched on her head. William wondered how she managed to keep the thing on with the wind gusting around the dock.

“I am Judith Malone, Mr. . . .” she said, beating him to the introduction phase.

“Tempe”, William answered automatically. He’d had a hard time getting used to that name but his ability to improvise always served him well and it was the first one to spring to mind when he started making purchases for this journey and his first mission. Adapting to another character was as natural for him as breathing. He’d loved the theatre as a child and this interest had allowed him to almost embody a whole other character when he took on their guise. He had taken on many in his time even though this was the first for his new employer. The trick was to incorporate enough of his personality into the character. That was what always brought about an amazing performance.

“William Tempe,” he continued, “I understand you need a schleg on board this ship?”

“A schleg?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. She looked just as the images he’d seen in his employer’s records had portrayed. He had not realized when embarking on this adventure just how beautiful and capable she was. He brought his mind back to the moment at hand instead of the research he had done.

“A schleg is . . . a gopher, a jack-of-all-trades. A person who can perform many functions all as needed dependent on time, placement and availability of resources. A schleg is a resourceful person who can accomplish many tasks, both ones you know need done and ones you may never realize needed doing until after they have been done. No good airship should be without one.”

Captain Malone smiled at this. He caught just a little bit of menace beneath her words.

“And who’s to say that I don’t already have a few schlegs on board my ship or am not a capable one myself?”

It’s ok, William thought, You did challenge her. Ease back and reel her in.

“Well, you may already have a couple, though I’d be hard pressed to understand why you would need more than one. One great schleg is generally all that’s needed if they are light and fast on their feet and even faster in their mind. And while a captain could perform as one and may have the same skills,” William smiled that roguish smile that had always made an impression on people, “A captain typically has more pressing concerns on their mind.”

She stared at him again, and then reached down to her tool belt, which in actuality was more like a sack that held assorted tools. It hung off her left hip. She withdrew an object and held it up without saying a word. He admired the fact that she did not toss it to him to examine. If he couldn’t identify it from a distance, then he was not very knowledgeable, and it saved the possibility of damaging the item were it to fall onto the deck.

He smiled. He had studied hard for just such a challenge.

“Octagonal Lufting Wrench. Used for those special little nuts that fasten most carbon propellers.”

She nodded at him and pulled out another item without looking.

“Insulated needle-nosed pliers, those are particularly useful when doing repairs on the electrical storage tanks, which make them a must when traveling into potentially stormy situations.”

She nodded again and grabbed another item.

“That appears to be a sandwich. A Shooter Sandwich with steak, mushrooms, tomato, mustard, and mayonnaise. Given the wrapping and string around it, you got it at MacNiven’s Deli three blocks from here.”

For the first time he saw her look surprised as she put the sandwich quickly back into the bag.

“You’re hired. We leave in three days. I hope you don’t mind heights.”

William didn’t like heights at all but felt he had little choice. He’d been committed to this for a long time. He had been doing his best to learn the ins and outs of this particular airship. He’d studied many in his past, but there was scant information on this style of ship. He took copious amounts of notes in his little journal, all of the notes written in his specialized shorthand. It would not pay for anyone to get a hold of his journal and decipher it, so he kept it on him at all times.

A few hours before their departure, William started to worry. Had he been wrong? The passenger should have been here by now.

What if I was mistaken? My whole reason for being here would prove to be folly and I have already spent considerable coin to be in this exact spot at this exact time.

He needn’t have worried. Shortly after these concerning thoughts hit him he heard a tell-tale noise. The metallic padding sounds of eight small feet came to his ears along with two additional feet a little further behind. As he turned to look at the dock he saw two robotic dogs, walking at a leisurely pace, both scanning the area for potential problems. When the gems that functioned as eyes saw nothing they turned to the man walking behind them.

At last, William thought and then smiled, letting out a sigh of relief.

A hand rubbed the burnished steel between both dogs’ ears. William knew that one of the dogs was named Bummer and the other Lazarus, but he could not tell which was which. As far as he could see, the only difference between the two was a black bolt affixed to the dog on the right and a shiny golden one on the other; the bolts being located on the back of each dog’s neck. Standing regally behind them was the Emperor of California, Joshua Abraham Norton. The Emperor was wearing a bright blue naval uniform with a white shirt, all recently pressed. He had several medals that adorned his uniform, a testament to his history as a mediator and ruler. He had a blue bow tie that was tied expertly and on top of his head was a blue hat that had been set with peacock feathers and some gold trim.

“Captain,” Norton said to Malone, “Thank you for offering to convey us on this grand adventure. We have long wanted to see other lands and mystical China was an opportunity we could not pass up. As I understand it, my Chinese counterpart wants us to arrive quickly and your vessel is the best and fastest?”

“I believe it is,” Malone said, taking a bow before the Emperor. “If it were not, I would not have offered. It is true that you have been known to give grants to those whom you favor, but it is likewise known that you do not suffer fools, charlatans, or those who attempt to deceive you.”

“No,” Norton replied with a cross look on his whiskered face, “I do not. I am just enthralled that my proclamation for the funding of airships has come this far. Captain, your ship was chosen due to its speed. It is thought that you can outrun any that might cause me harm and a quick trip in your ship to and from is most desirous. I like knowing where our money has gone. I sincerely doubt we shall run into trouble on our journey and if we do, there are always Bummer and Lazarus to assist us in addition to your able crew.”

The dogs smiled up at Norton, and metallic tongues popped out of their mouths as they panted. William was a little unsettled by this and did not wish to see how the two dogs would “assist” his Majesty nor how the creatures could possibly assist with what they would soon be facing.

“And who is this rapscallion?” Norton asked the Captain, indicating William with a point of his umbrella.

“This is one of my crewmen, Mr. Tempe. He is a fast hand and able to help with practically everything aboard my ship.”

“He is trustworthy,” the Emperor stated while staring directly at William. “I’ve got a sense about these things. He’s trustworthy, isn’t he Bummer?” He asked this of the dog with the black bolt on its neck. Bummer looked William over coldly and then pushed its head under the Emperor’s hand.

William looked at Emperor Norton, the man he was here to save, and nodded. He took a knee.

“Your Majesty, I shall do all that I am capable of to ensure your journey is a safe one.”

Like it? Read the rest in Whispers of a Time Forgotten. Available only from Wamingo Publishing.

THE DEVIL’S DUNGEON

Cassie Smith

Prologue-1964

At age fifteen, Helena had experience far beyond her years. She excelled at school, always getting perfect grades. At fourteen, she graduated high school. One of the youngest in her home city of Portland, Oregon to do so. Despite Helena’s intelligence, her favorite courses weren’t academic but sports. She loved to run cross country and had won many medals for her agility and swiftness.

When she was a child, her aunt was granted guardianship of her due to her parents’ alcohol and drug abuse. She never saw her parents again, but she didn’t care. Her aunt was a much better guardian anyway. She taught her how to cook and clean, and even some basic car maintenance skills. Helena had lived with her aunt for nearly five years; but her aunt was old with a bad heart and passed away before her fifteenth birthday.

On the day of her aunt’s funeral, Helena decided to run away to avoid Child Protective Services. She fled in tears, not knowing what she was going to do or where she would go so long as it was somewhere far from the empty house that now awaited her.

She had no idea how long she ran. It could have been hours, or it could have been days. But when she stopped, it wasn’t due to exhaustion but because of a strange cabin she happened upon in the pre-dusk gloom. It was a rickety old thing that sat out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees. By the looks of the place, nobody had been in residence for some time.

Helena walked up the front stairs, which were worn and withered and creaked with every step she took. She paused on the small porch. Its planking looked just as rotten as the stairs, so she tested her weight before proceeding for fear the wood would crumble underneath her. Once satisfied the planking would hold, she continued to the front door and knocked.

No one answered. She knocked again and this time the door swung inward on its own. Helena was disturbed by this, but she was also cold and hungry. Night was falling, and she had no intention of sleeping out under the stars.

She asked if anybody was home, shakily at first, but when no one answered her voice rose in confidence. Certain the cabin was abandoned, Helena stepped inside and looked around. The place was empty save for a couch, a fireplace with wood next to the hearth, and a small kitchen with a little round table next to it.

As she crept further inside, she saw a couple of abstract paintings hanging on the wall in the living room. The cabin seemed quaint, but ancient. The wood paneling on the walls was withered and oxidized. She looked to her left and saw a long narrow hallway. After walking down it and through a mass of cobwebs, she discovered a door which, upon opening, revealed a large bedroom.

She stepped inside. To her right was an antique dresser with a large mirror and six drawers, three on each side of the dresser. Directly in front of her was a king size four-poster bed with a down comforter on it. To her left was a bathroom with a spa tub and a small shower. She made her way from the large bedroom and walked across the hallway to what looked like a little girl’s bedroom.

Beside it sat another bedroom that looked identical to the master bedroom except for the lack of a bathroom and a twin mattress instead of a king for the bed. The bathroom here was located across the hall and featured a grotesque looking pink and red tile floor, a gaudy red toilet, and a hot pink shower curtain. Helena looked away in disgust. The garish over-decoration was too much for her senses. She wondered if the decorator was high when they worked on this room.

She saw a closed door at the far left hand side of the hallway and walked over to it. She tried the knob. It turned in her hand, but the door wouldn’t budge. She forced it open with her shoulder and stared down a long wooden staircase that lead into utter darkness.

Helena got a sinister feeling as she stared into that dark abyss. Could there be somebody down there, like the cabin’s owners maybe? It wouldn’t hurt to go down and check, at least let them know she wasn’t a burglar. Then again, maybe nobody was home. Maybe this was like one of those summer cabins where people only came to stay a few months out of the year.

She searched for a wall switch but couldn’t find one. The realization brought relief. She didn’t see any kind of light bulb and she didn’t have a flashlight handy. There was no way she was going to try exploring that ominous basement in the dark. No, best to wait until morning. At least then the place wouldn’t feel so spooky.

Helena walked back down the hallway to the kitchen. She searched for non-expired food in the fridge and found some grape jelly, some yellow government cheese, and a few condiments. She had better luck in the pantry, where the canned soups and easy-bake items were stored. Her stomach rumbled but she dared not eat yet. She decided that if the place truly was empty then she would hide out here for a while. But first, she had to be sure she was alone.

Helena sat in the living room for a bit, listening for any sign of the cabin’s owners. This soon grew tiresome and she grabbed a book off a shelf to keep herself occupied. It grew dark outside, and after a couple of hours of waiting, she reached two conclusions. First: nobody was home. Second: nobody was coming home, at least not tonight.

Feeling better, she took some cheese from the fridge and found some crackers in the pantry. With a thankful sigh, she sat at the kitchen table and allowed herself the luxury of a late dinner, such as it was.

She looked around, noting the layers of dust and cobwebs that adorned the shelves and furnishings. If not for the food in the refrigerator she would have thought the place abandoned. Maybe it’s a hideout, Helena mused. Like in those gangster films her dad liked to get high to. She went to the hearth in the living room and contemplated gathering wood for a fire. After a moment’s indecisiveness, she decided against it. She wanted the warmth, but the smoke might draw the wrong kind of attention. Instead, she went to the master bedroom at the back of the cabin and settled into the biggest bed she’d ever seen. She fell asleep instantly.

Helena woke at first light. She used the adjoining bathroom and then made her way to the kitchen, being sure to keep an eye out for the owners or any fellow transients along the way. Once positive she was alone, Helena breathed a sigh of relief and rummaged in the fridge for breakfast. She found half a carton of eggs and checked them for a date. She couldn’t find one, but they smelled fine, so she decided to chance it. After a brief search for a pan she made herself scrambled eggs, adding in the last of the government cheese for texture. There was no bacon, but she made due with a half-empty bag of jerky she found in the pantry.

Once all was ready, she settled on the couch in the living room and contemplated her situation while she scarfed down the contents of her plate (she didn’t realize until that minute how ravenous she was). Helena knew she couldn’t stay here forever but she didn’t want to keep running either. She wanted a home of her own, some place where she belonged. Who knew, if she was careful maybe she could stay here. It had been twenty-four hours already and there was still no sign of the cabin’s owners.

Still, doubt remained. Someone had bought those eggs she ate. As well as paid for the electricity that powered the fridge where she had found said eggs. Was that person gone for only a short time? Were they on vacation? Were they in a car accident and were now residing at the local morgue?

Helena decided to take each day as it came, at least for the time being. Today she was going to explore the basement. If all went well with that then she would contemplate her next move.

Helena found a flashlight in a utility drawer in the kitchen and went to the edge of the basement stairs. She was a little apprehensive about going down there, but she convinced herself that there was nothing to be afraid of. If there was somebody hiding in the basement she was sure she would’ve heard them mucking about last night. And it wasn’t like there were ghosts down there, that was just crazy. Such things didn’t exist outside of books and movies. So what was there to be afraid of?

Slowly, she made her way down the stairs. The amber glow of her flashlight cut a swath through the darkness. Helena moved the beam back and forth, studying every nook and cranny. She paused at the bottom and took in her surroundings. The basement was enormous. She trained her flashlight on a passage to her left and turned down it.

The floor was primarily dirt and bumpy in places. She stumbled once and cut her palm on a nail in the wall when she reached out to balance herself. After that, she divided her attention between the passage and the floor to avoid another accident. She shined the light on the cement walls, which looked as if they had been painted white. She found this strange seeing as how the rest of the basement looked uncared for.

Helena continued down the passage, a little more wary now. By this point, she must have walked the length of the cabin and then some. Just how far did this basement extend?

To her right, she saw the outline of a door in the darkness. She flashed her light inside and saw an empty room with an old clawfoot bathtub in its center. The tub was pretty rusty and it looked like it hadn’t been used in many years. She thought it was a little eerie. Helena continued walking. She wondered how far she was from the cabin now. It seemed as if this passage went on forever. She looked to her right and saw a blue door that resembled something straight out of Alice In Wonderland.

The door was short, no more than four feet tall, and appeared just wide enough for her to squeeze through. What was such a tiny door doing all the way down here? It looked newer than anything else in the basement, as if someone had just recently built it. She walked slowly to the door and tried the knob. It turned in her hand and the door opened slightly but became stuck midway. She pressed against it, having to use all her strength, until the door gave and she was able to enter.

Inside she saw a narrow plank, which led to a spiral staircase that wound its way down into absolute darkness. This was getting stranger by the minute. She navigated the rickety plank and felt a sense of relief when she made it to the staircase. She wondered if she should risk going down and then gave a mental shrug. Why not? She’d already come this far, might as well go for broke.

Helena started down the stairs. Time seemed to stand still as she descended deeper and deeper into the bowls of this mysterious place. She had no idea how long she walked but she eventually came to another door. Helena tried the knob but it wouldn’t turn. You’ve got to be kidding, she thought. All that walking only to reach a door that won’t open.

Helena was very curious now. She ran back up the stairs (strangely, they didn’t seem as long this time around), across the plank, and through the open door at the top. Helena took a moment to catch her breath and then decided to try the other side of the basement.

She made her way back to the main staircase. Once there, she began down the right passage. It looked pretty much the same as the left side except here there were more dirt hills. These were covered with cinderblocks. Helena found the sight intriguing. In her current frame of mind, she wondered if the cinderblocks were put there to keep something buried under the dirt.

She shuddered at the thought and quickly dismissed it as she concentrated on the task at hand. She continued down the passage until she came to another room. Peering inside, she found shackles hanging from the ceiling and an old rusted cart that looked like something they laid bodies on in a funeral home. She moved on from that room in a hurry.

To her left she saw another door. This one opened onto a room with a plank that led to a spiral staircase. It was nearly identical to the other room. So much so that she at first thought she had gone full circle. But the staircase here had fleur de lis carvings in its railing where the other had none. She walked across the plank to the staircase and began down it. At the bottom, which, much like the first, seemed to take forever to get to, she found another door. This time, however, the door opened.

The room inside was massive. She stepped through the doorway and stared up at the ceiling, her mouth agape. A gigantic chandelier hung above her, its light reflecting off the white stone walls and revealing yet another staircase that led up to what seemed like many more rooms. She continued to walk through the cavernous space, so huge it seemed almost like an underground castle. She wondered how all of this had gotten here. Did someone actually take the time and trouble (not to mention money) to build it? Was it something that someone worked really hard to bury? Just where the heck was she?

The Reverie mental hospital wasn’t far from here. She wondered if maybe these passages led under the hospital. Maybe it had been built as a place for its patients to hang out between treatments. Helena laughed at herself. That was just silly. Still, she had no idea how any of this was possible, but it was so cool! She had discovered something truly amazing. The floors were marble and the place looked immaculate. Unlike the rest of the basement, or cabin for that matter, it seemed that someone had gone to great lengths to keep this place clean.

She started to look around but didn’t get too far before she ran into someone. She looked up, terrified, at a tall man dressed in a black tuxedo with a bow tie. He had piercing blue eyes and neatly combed black hair. Helena wanted to run back the way she had come, but she gathered her courage and in a deep breath said, “Oh, sir. Excuse me! I’m so sorry! I didn’t . . . I mean . . . I was just exploring; I . . . I apologize. I didn’t know anyone was down here.”

The man smiled at her. “Oh, you’ve found us! That’s wonderful. We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Me?” Wonder overcame Helena’s suspicion.

“Oh yes,” the man said, reaching for her. “We’ve been waiting for you for a very long time.”

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KAREN’S TRAIN

Dar Parsons

Karen blinked and saw a white light and blinked again. A constant ringing vibrated through her ears, but was soon replaced by a churning noise, like two leather belts being repeatedly slapped against a wooden table. It was eventually drowned out by a loud whistling sound. She knew this sound, it was a train whistle.

She opened her eyes and saw to her amazement pine trees covered in snow, sprawled across a mountainous landscape. Her forehead felt cool against a window and her breath partially fogged the glass. Karen noticed that the landscape was moving past her, and her body was swaying back and forth.

“Fiddle Sticks, where am I,” she mumbled to herself.

She lifted her head and took in her surroundings. She was sitting on a red velvet seat in a room filled with dark wood paneling. There was an empty red seat across from her. She looked around, noticing that the trim around the window had flowers and vines carved intricately into the glazed hard wood. She looked at her hands, noting how fresh and new they were. No longer were they those old hands she had stared at for a quarter of her life. Those hands that had cooked, cleaned, and cradled her children; those same hands that had eventually wrinkled like aged fruit.

She noticed that she was no longer in her hospital gown. What’s more, her body was now petite and youthful. Her slim form now garbed in a light blue dress with white silk trim.

She remembers lying in her hospital bed. Her two sons sat with her, watching the sunset as they both held her hand. She had realized she was dying and this would be the last time she would gaze upon the sun. She didn’t want to leave her boys and feared what might come of their lives when she was gone.

Then right before her eyes the sun turned white, the whitest she has ever seen. She felt a sensation much like the feeling of unconditional love begin to consume her. It manifested itself, merging with time like a silk screen closing over her eyes.

Piecing these small observations together, she concluded she was now a little girl riding on some sort of train. Is this Heaven, she pondered? Karen wasn’t unhappy about this; she loved trains and snowy landscapes. She had often fantasized about both when she was younger.

She realized she was hungry. Was it possible for a spirit to be hungry? At any rate, she could really go for some Earl Grey tea, toast, and blueberry jam to complete her Heaven theory. No sooner had the thought ended, a knock sounded on the cabin door. The glass was frosted over and she could make out a skinny outline of a figure behind the door.

“Ticket Please,” the figure said.

Karen searched for a ticket, but realized she didn’t have any pockets on her dress, nor did she have a purse to carry a ticket in. She looked around her seat next and, to her relief, she found an elongated train ticket lying next to her. She could see her name “Karen Glover” written in a fancy font across the tan parchment.

Karen looked up and saw the figure still standing at the door. She grabbed the ticket and hopped down off her seat. A feeling of amazed bewilderment came over her, for it had been a long time since she hopped off anything. It made Karen think back to her previous life and she remembered how obese she had become near the end. All those years of sedentary depression and now look at these new legs!

She smiled as she made her way to the cabin door. As she slid the door open, she was surprised to see a tall, slender skeleton wearing a green tuxedo with black and grey striped pants and a hat that seemed to sparkle with a thousand crystals meshed together. The ivory-boned skeleton stared down at Karen with hollow sockets. She returned his vacant expression, unable to find her voice. Silence crept in, filling the space around them.

Finally, the skeletal figure extended a boney hand and said, “Ticket Please, Ms. Glover.”

To her surprise, Karen found she wasn’t scared of him. She wasn’t sure why, but she just raised her hand and gave him the ticket. The skeleton man removed his hat and produced from it a silver puncher. He punched the ticket and gave it back to her as quick as he took it. Karen couldn’t stop staring at his hat. The thing did not seem tangible, but flowed in a multitude of colors, like liquid jewels, or one of those old lava lamp from the ’60’s. The only thing not moving on the hat was a single white jewel that radiated from the center of the headband like moon beams on water.

“Are you looking at my hat? I bought it a week ago, not sure if I like it yet.” The boney figure said.

“It’s beautiful, what’s it made of?” Karen asked.

“Nothing special. Clothe. What else would it be made of?

“It’s shimmering like a thousand diamonds, it’s so beautiful,” Karen said, still looking at his amazing hat. The tuxedo wearing skeleton removed his hat and examined it, his hollow sockets moving up and down as if looking for the diamonds Karen mentioned. He then put the hat back on his head and tapped the top of it to make sure it was on nice and snug.

“No, just a hat,” He assured her.

“How did I get here?” Karen said, looking around at her surroundings. The skeleton man pointed one long, stick-like finger at her seat.

“Have a seat, young lady, and I’ll explain everything.”

Karen returned to her seat and looked out the window. She felt good, new, and more alive than she had ever felt when . . . well, when she was alive. The skeleton man sat down across from her and also looked out the window. The train cabin fell silent. The only sound was that of the train itself: the hypnotic rumbling of its engines, lulling your mind to the point of drowsiness. The view out the window added to the placating atmosphere; the glistening of the moisture on the window, the full, fleecy clouds drifting overhead, and the snow-covered pines had a relaxing effect on Karen. She wondered how long this strange silence would go on, and yet, she didn’t mind just being quiet. In her previous life, she remembered finding quiet spots away from her husband and two sons to either read a book or just sit and meditate.

The quiet went on for what seemed like twenty minutes before Karen felt that she was being rude to her guest. “What’s your name?” she asked, her question shattering the silence between them.

“Well, most people refer to me as the Grim Reaper, the Angel of Death, Baron Samedi, the bad spirit, or the soul-taker,” he answered. “All those names offend me and I’m not one bit associated with those arrogant, unruly bunches of bone-men. You can call me Winston.” He tilted his head as if trying to smile through his pearly white teeth.

“I see that, you really have no resemblance of the Grim Reaper, where’s your big curved blade and your black cloak?”

Winston studied her from where he sat, boney arms crossed, one over the other. Then his head tilted back, and his lower jaw opened in what Karen presumed was a laugh at her comment.

“It was just a question; you don’t have to laugh at me.” Karen said sharply.

“Oh dear, no, young lady, I wouldn’t dare laugh at you. I was laughing at your comment. It tickles me in my rib cage. If you only knew what the human construct called the Grim Reaper was really like. I mean, his real name is Klouse, and he complains about every soul he gets down at headquarters.”

Karen looked confused. “Headquarters? I didn’t know Heaven had a headquarters.”

“You’re not in Heaven, Karen.”

Karen’s eyes went wide. A lump formed in her throat. Her chin clenched up and she began to cry. Winston once again tilted his head. This time, he seemed confused.

“Why are you crying, little lady?” he asked.

“If I’m not in Heaven, I guess this train is taking me to Hell!” Karen lowered her head in despair.

Winston began to laugh again, this time a little louder than before. “You’re not going to Hell and besides, this train is heading to the City of Caimyard. Why would you want to go to Hell? It’s a silly place with lots of drama and selfish people. Besides, you wouldn’t want to be around Satan anyway. He’s going through a major divorce. The whole place is in an upheaval.”

“Where am I then?” Karen asked.

“Young Lady, this is your new start. A gift. This train, with its powerful engine, little quirks, and intricate details, is yours.”

Before Karen could think on what had just been told to her, a loud animal-like scream echoed from down the hall of the train. It had a booming effect to it. Karen immediately thought of a dragon and a bear mixed together. She was conjuring up ideas on what it could be when she looked over at Winston and saw his mouth wide open, and his hat glowing red. Karen couldn’t tell if he was scared, but she got that he was a bit nervous by the roar because his boney knees where knocking together.

“Do you know what that was?” she inquired.

Winston stood up and brushed off his tuxedo. “They never tell me anything on these types of jobs. Besides, I don’t like monsters or rats, snakes, worms or anything squishy. Especially Squishy!”

“Monsters! This is a gift and there are monsters on my train!”

Winston placed his finger in front of his mouth, signaling for her to keep it down as he walked over to the mahogany door and gently slid it open. He slowly peered out into the hallway.

Even though Karen was scared, nervous, apprehensive, and all the other fear-harrowing words mixed in, a miniscule amount of positive thoughts were there as well, offering hope. Besides, watching Winston move around was kind of entertaining. The skeleton man amused Karen a lot. She didn’t know whether to laugh out loud or be scared. In a situation like this, it was a hard lump to swallow.

Winston gestured with his skinless phalanges for her to come over. Karen jumped down from her seat and cautiously walked over to him. He grabbed her hand. Karen’s breath was taken away by how cold his hand was, but before she could give it any more thought she was off down a warmly lit hallway.

Like it? Read the rest in Whispers of a Time Forgotten. Available only from Wamingo Publishing.

THE DARKNESS DREAD

Jeremy Lee Riley

The sign out front of the antique shop read: PARANORMAL PARAPHERNALIA.

One look through the bars that adorned the plate-glass window and James could see how the shop acquired its name. The interior was dark due to the place being closed for the day, but enough light seeped in from the street that he had no problem making out its contents.

He saw a bizarre collection of knickknacks lining the shelves and on display around the room. Among the assortment was an African tribal mask with baboon features, which hung on the wall next to a disturbing painting of a three-armed Cyclops embracing a lamb. Below it sat a chair made of what looked like human bones. A bust of the Greek monster, Argus, stood beside it.

A Tibetan ceremonial staff leaned against the bust. A meticulously handwritten sign claimed the staff belonged to a Buddhist monk who had spent half his life in the mystical valley of Shangri-La. James wondered if anyone was gullible enough to fall for such drivel. Then again, considering the three-thousand dollar asking price, he figured anyone with pockets deep enough to purchase such an item was doing so more for the story than the staff itself. It would make a hell of a conversation starter.

The really expensive stuff was locked away in glass cabinets. Items such as Celtic rings engraved with strange runes, a gemstone necklace said to have belonged to the infamous witch Marie Balcoin, a handcrafted onyx jewelry box from India, and (surprise, surprise) several shrunken heads adorned the shelves alongside signs detailing each item's history and asking price.

James grinned despite himself. He had heard the store's owner, Paul Delroy, was an eccentric figure, and a cursory glance of his wares was all the proof he needed that those rumors were true.

He checked the entrance and saw that the roll gate was down and locked. The shop's hours were nine to five Monday through Friday, and noon to five on Saturday. It was a quarter after five now. When Delroy had called him at the Wharton Gazette and requested an interview, he suggested that James meet him at his apartment above the shop after closing time.

James walked around the side of the brownstone and found a private entrance to Delroy's residence half hidden between two tall bushes. There was no doorbell, but a large knocker in the shape of a bat stared at him with red glass eyes. James banged the knocker against the door, took a step back, and shuddered inside his wool overcoat as he waited for someone to answer.

It was a cold October evening. Much colder than was normal for this time of year. James heard that the northern states already had a foot or more of snowfall. It had limited itself here in the Midwest to stiff winds and frigid temperatures, but James had a feeling that wouldn't last much longer. By the looks of it, Wharton, Indiana was in for its first early winter in well over a century.

James pulled the overcoat tightly against himself and, more as a distraction against the cold than anything else, checked inside his briefcase for the umpteenth time to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

He had hounded Delroy for weeks now hoping for an interview with the reclusive antique dealer. Delroy proved a hard man to reach. All calls to his shop and residence went straight to voice mail, and James had been so busy at the Gazette, as well as finishing the first draft of his latest true crime novel, that he hadn’t been able to pursue the man as efficiently as he would like.

The Gazette was James's main source of income. He worked the city desk with a preference for the crime beat, especially if it involved serial killers, a topic which he found deeply—some would say morbidly—fascinating. He had even helped the Federal Bureau of Investigation on a case a few years ago involving the Crossroads Killer, a deranged drifter who left a trail of bodies throughout the Midwest. The case had led to his first best seller, Tracks of a Killer.

James had published two additional titles since then. Neither had proven as successful as the first, and that was putting it mildly. An utter train wreck was closer to the truth. But things were finally starting to look up. He had a good feeling that his upcoming book would put him back in the spotlight.

This time, he wasn't just going to write about the serial killer. No, he was going to do something truly unique. He was going to capture the killer himself.

How was that for a twist? He could already see the cover blurb: “Best Selling Novelist James Raghnall brings a vicious killer to justice in this riveting new masterpiece.”

The critics and public would eat it up, he was sure of it.

The killer in question had committed a string of murders right here in James's hometown of Wharton. Authorities had uncovered four bodies so far, all butchered in or around their homes, their remains displayed in bizarre patterns that had so far stymied even the most seasoned detectives.

Wharton's sheriff, Chris Baylor, determined that a single person had committed the murders; someone with a penchant for knives or the equivalent thereof. Some experts theorized a sickle. All the victims looked as if they had been run over by a harvesting machine. The killer didn’t strangle his victims, he didn’t smother them, he didn’t cause blunt force trauma. Whoever this guy was, he liked getting his hands bloody.

James checked his mini-recorder to make sure the tape was wound to the start and then placed it in the breast pocket of his blazer. He flipped through a yellow folder containing photos of the murder scenes along with several newspaper articles featuring headlines like “Massacre on Forsyth Street” and “The Wharton Goblin Strikes Again.”

He had coined the moniker “Wharton Goblin” in one of his articles about the murders. The name stuck and soon all the papers from Maine to Florida were using the Wharton Goblin when describing the killer. This was much to the sheriff’s chagrin. The last thing he wanted was a public spectacle, the exact opposite of James, who saw these murders as the perfect opportunity to rekindle his flagging writing career.

James placed the folder back into the briefcase and banged on the door again. He began to wonder if anyone was home. Delroy's message was as cryptic as it was unexpected. He had left it on James's voice mail while James argued with his editor-in-chief over one of his stories being dropped in favor of some fluff piece on the latest teenage fashion.

Delroy's voice was as smooth as gossamer, his pronunciation of every word slow and deliberate. He didn't mince words either. “Mister Raghnall, I understand you wish to speak with me regarding the Wharton Goblin case. I may have information you can use. Come by my home after five. I trust you know where I live. Good day.”

James had every intention of keeping the appointment. Not because he thought Delroy possessed information on the Wharton Goblin. More to the fact, he suspected Delroy was the Wharton Goblin.

He had no real proof outside of a reporter's intuition. Delroy simply fit the psychological profile of a serial killer. He had no wife or children to speak of, few if any friends, and those who knew him described him as a real odd duck; the kind of person who kept to himself and only interacted with others when he deemed it necessary to do so.

An IQ report listed Delroy in the hundred-and-sixty range. One of those genius prodigies who coasted through college and could have easily snagged any high-paying job in the country. Hell, in the world. The question then was why such an individual was wasting his time running an antique shop in bumfuck, Indiana.

The red flags were so obvious that James couldn't believe Sheriff Baylor and his button-down brigade hadn't noticed them too, but Delroy wasn't even on the department's suspect list.

James came close to sharing his observations with the sheriff but reconsidered at the last minute. Why share the glory when he could take it all for himself? Here was a chance to do something that had never been done before. He would make himself the hero in his own story.

Not that he was going into this blind, deaf, and dumb. There was an outside chance he was wrong about the antique dealer. Being a recluse and a weirdo didn’t automatically make one a serial killer. Still, if he was right—and every instinct screamed that he was—then he felt it prudent to bring along a little protection.

James caressed the .22 pistol in his right hip pocket. Its presence gave him the confidence to see this mad scheme through to the end.

He knocked again and again he received no answer. This was getting ridiculous. James pulled his overcoat tighter against himself and looked up at the second story window. He could see the faint glow of a light inside . . . along with the silhouette of a figure staring down at him.

The hair stood up on the nape of James's neck. He stepped back for a clearer look, but the figure was gone. Had someone been watching him or had he imagined it?

It's just your nerves, he decided. This whole situation’s got you on edge and your imagination is starting to run away with itself.

Still, he figured he'd been patient long enough. On the off chance, he tried the doorknob. Anything was better than standing out here in the cold, waiting for someone who may not even be home to answer.

The knob twisted in his grasp and the door creaked open.

This took James by surprise. Delroy locked up his store tighter than a drum, but he left the door to his residence unlocked?

Of course, it could have been left open specifically for him. He was expected, after all.

James peeked inside and saw a narrow hallway to the right of the foyer and a staircase to the left. Macabre music drifted down from the second floor. It sounded like Franz Liszt's “Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2”—music James associated most closely with the old Loony Tunes cartoons.

How utterly proper.

“Hello?” James called. There was no answer. He called again with the same result. James thought maybe the music was drowning him out. That would explain why Delroy hadn’t answered the door.

Should he enter or try back some other time? The answer was obvious enough. Delroy had invited him, hadn’t he? And who knew when he would get another chance to speak with the man. There was a story here, and reporters went where the story led them, plain and simple.

Here goes nothing, James thought.

And on the heels of that: No, not nothing. Here goes everything.

He stepped through the door and shut it behind him.

Like it? Read the rest in "Whispers of a Time Forgotten". Available only from Wamingo Publishing.