Short Excerpts

“Bolt?” Silence answered her. Where was Bolt? Accustomed to having him around, an unexpected pang of disappointment hit her. The door into the communal hallway lay wide open. Venus popped her head out. The street door swung ajar, and although reluctant with an imminent storm brewing, she headed for it.

What Venus saw in the road halted her. A strangled cry wedged at the bottom of her throat, her breath shut off, her mouth hung agape. A swarm of repulsive decayed phantoms swirled above Bolt, who knelt on the pavement, slumped forward, helpless. While the creatures flicked him with remnants of tattered garments and scratched him with skeletal fingertips. Their raspy growls froze her blood, and terror, like an evil creeper plant, twisted around her spine.

“Bolt-on your feet,” Venus shouted, and sprinted the length of the path from the front door to the sidewalk. The sight of her strong protector down on his knees appalled Venus. The gruesome specters didn’t scare her as much as seeing this brave man look defeated.

“Bolt, please stand.” She grabbed him under his armpits.

Her attempts at heaving Bolt to his feet failed. He did not budge. She didn’t have the strength to drag him, either. He weighed a ton. The creatures brushed at her with their bony hands, as they whooshed, and flapped, and swarmed. Venus shivered at their icy touch and gagged at their decayed stench. She batted at them, forgot her distaste for profanity, and swore at the apparitions. “Sod off, you smelly bastards.”

Zaru’s maniacal laugh came at her from every direction. Panic squeezed her throat tight, and she couldn’t breathe. Oh, dear Lord, she didn’t know how to defend them from this horror attack. Venus filled her lungs with oxygen. The action pushed her terror down and kick-started her brain. She stopped pulling Bolt from behind and stooped at the front of him. Bolt’s glazed eyes bulged, and he gasped for breath as if fighting to reinflate his lungs. Venus waved a hand across his face. He showed not a glimmer of recognition. His ripped, red shirt hung off his shoulder. Venus adjusted it, covering him as best she could. She didn’t want the vile specters touching his skin with their dead flesh.

Bolt’s armor birthmark caught her attention, and a bright idea hit her. His activated body shield would protect him from the phantoms. With a grunt, Venus hauled up Bolt’s leaden arm. Inch by labored inch, she persevered until she pressed Bolt’s fingers against the arrow mark on his neck. The phantasms continued swarming. An invisible Zaru cackled nonstop.

Venus paid no attention and whispered over and over, “Please activate your armor. You must survive, even if I don’t.”

When did Bolt grow so dear to her? As the question ran across her mind, Bolt’s fingers moved. He pressed onto his birthmark, without

“No, you’ll make a mess of the nice clean road, and that’s too easy a death, half-breed. I will torture you in a myriad of ways before you die.” “Not happening, you git.” Venus wished she could gouge his merciless tawny eyes from their sockets.

“Yes, it will. We want the Glow extinguished, and Bolt can’t rescue you. He’s a weakling whom I can switch off as and when I please.” “Bet he can switch-on whenever he wants.” Venus aimed a kick toward Zaru’s crotch.

Zaru’s lower body floated backward as if he were boneless, and she struck air. Venus screamed and flailed, desperate to free herself of the evil Wizard’s stronghold. His touch made her skin crawl, and a frantic need to scrub herself clean overcame her. Then thunder rumbled. Oh no! The storm would soon hit, with her stuck in the middle of it with a maniac. The substance around her oozed and billowed. Venus’ phobia seized control, and her reasoning became irrational. Her parents died in a gale, and today she’d die, too. Her frame stiffened, awaiting her death.

Always fascinated by myths and magic Amara Dey writes paranormal romance featuring the Gods of Santeria, the Orishas.

With their passionate love affairs, distinct personalities, wide variety of strengths, weaknesses and interests they are the inspiration for Amara’s characters and the magical world where they live. While from the rich folklore of her native Guyana come the creatures they must defeat.

Amara lives in London and like her characters she loves dancing, and dance is a part of all of her stories. When not writing she enjoys Zumba, reading, supernatural TV shows and movies. Vacation time takes her to tropical shores. Find out more about Amara here: https://www.amazon.com/Amara-Dey/e/B07NDZ5KR4

When an expert Demonologist meets a Reality Show Producer on the Ghost Hunting Show Finders, sparks of true love fly so brightly even the Devil takes notice.

Demonologist Luke Melloy has seen the face of pure evil. He’s fought it and sent it back to hell. It’s what he does. To Claire Westin, ghosts and demons are just great television and good for ratings. When she’s faced with the truth Luke has seen, her reality is turned upside down as the two are swept into dire straits moments after they meet. Desire sparks between the unlikely pair, throwing their hearts into chaos with a love neither of them expected nor wanted.

When the Demon targets an unsuspecting Claire with his wrath, Luke finds his focus split between his oath to God and the awakening of his heart. Together, can they face the ancient evil and defeat it, or will they lose everything?

Despite Walt trying to get a few final words in, Claire disconnected the blue tooth, ending the call.

“I think the conversation went well. What do you think, Pip?” Claire asked the mid-sized Catahoula-boxer mix lying in the passenger seat.

Her faithful companion and best friend barked in response. She gave his scruff a scratch. He sat up, looking out the front window. The GPS directed her to make a right. Pip growled. The GPS disconnected. Claire pulled over to reset the phone, while Pip stood on the seat, looking tense.

“Now look at what you’ve done. You broke it.” The dog whimpered in response. “Just kidding. Calm down. I know we’re far from home, but it’s fresh air and gorgeous here. Lighten up, will you?” The phone reset, and still no GPS signal. “Looks like we’re going to have to find this place the oldfashioned way.”

Claire brought up a picture of the church on her phone before attaching the phone to the hands-free cradle. She followed the steep narrow treelined road, searching for any signs or indications of houses, buildings, or churches. Mailboxes or well-marked driveways seemed to be nonexistent. She drove a few more miles and was about to give up until Pip barked, bringing her attention to a small opening in the tree line. Claire slowed, debated, and went for it, making the tight right turn. The small opening widened. She drove through. A few miles later, the familiar caravan of four black SUVs and a large black van with the Finders logo plastered on the side brought a smile to her face.

Craig, the Finders’ tech producer, appeared from the corner of the van waving. Claire pulled up next to him and parked her truck. A bitter wind cut at her neck as she exited the vehicle. She pulled the collar of her coat up against the barrage.

“You found it. We were getting worried.” “No thanks to the GPS,” Claire replied, opening the passenger door and letting Pip out. He immediately ran to Craig, greeting him warmly before running off into the woods, she assumed to relieve himself. Speaking of which, she could use a bathroom break.

ventured to the wide-mouth doorway opening of the church. Piles of orange and yellow cords looked like snakes spilling out the open windows. The crunching of leaves beneath her feet and the whipping of the wind made her stride a little quicker. Hurrying up the plethora of steps, she lifted the red hot set tape barrier out of the way and pushed open the door.

As she stepped into the vestibule, the stale air stifled her lungs. The solid wooden door closed behind her, but sunlight continued to stream into the enclosed area via the large windows on either side. Thick darkness beyond the sun’s reach constricted the expanse. Even the doors were massive, at twice her height, at least. She guessed they were made from solid walnut, from the ancient trees surrounding the church.

A chilling wisp crept within her hair to the back of her neck, like fingers playing with her hair. Claire instinctively turned. Seeing nothing but feeling a shiver up her spine, she took in the surroundings and searched for the bathroom. Eying a promising door, she made a beeline and found salvation.

Thankfully the facilities were in working order. After washing her hands in cold water, Claire dried them on her jeans. Taking a quick look in the cracked mirror, she adjusted her long brown hair tied up in a ponytail, smoothing any unruly strands and bumps before walking back into the vestibule.

The intricately carved stone lining the archway into the nave caught her eye, and she stopped, inspecting it closer. A carved frame of tree limbs with gnarled and knotted extensions bent and twisted around the mouth of the doorway, amazingly delicate and detailed. She could feel the bark beneath her fingertips despite knowing it was carved in stone. Hearing Pip barking at the door, Claire moved away from the nave archway to the main entrance. Opening it, she saw no sign of her dog.

Confused, she walked outside to the steps. “Pip? Pippy, come!” The flurry of activity when she’d arrived had ceased. The Finders crew had disappeared, and Claire remembered Craig mentioning dinner. Hearing another bark, she followed the sound. “Pippy, come!” Claire said, her patience waning. She wasn’t used to Pip not obeying her commands. They were going to need to talk. Finally, the dog appeared, sprinting out of the thick brush. She breathed an unconscious sigh of relief. “Claire?”

Her heart leaped as Pip barked. She spun toward the voice, seeing nothing but Pip taking off through the open door of the church. “Pippy!”

Claire chased after him, into the vestibule, but saw no sign of him. He barked again. The sound was muffled. He had to be on the other side of the large arched doors leading to the nave. Claire pulled on the slightly open door. It swept back with a whoosh of air and a loud thud, the sound echoing off the brittle walls, and a shower of dust rained down. “Fuck. Pip, come here!” she yelled, attempting to not choke within the cloud of decay from the ruin. Seriously?

Claire grabbed her phone, turning on the flashlight feature, utilizing it to explore. She shivered at the feel of invisible hands pulling her deeper into the darkness. Heart thudding and hands shaking, she struggled to remain calm, though her mind told her to run.

High cathedral ceilings jutted up to the heavens. Faded images of angels and cherubs adorned the beams. The pews remained, dust-covered and overrun by spiders. When the light flashed over the stone altar at the head of the room, Claire’s heart skipped.

The sound of metal clanked on the floor, and Claire panicked, thinking she’d dropped her keys. Checking her pocket, she found her keys intact. Using her flashlight, she searched the surrounding floor for the source of the noise. Her eyes focused on a large old-fashioned key a few inches from where she stood. Reaching down, she picked it up. The cold metal felt icy in her hand. She examined it closely.

Pip barked. Claire turned, putting the key in her pocket, and realized how far away from the opening she’d traveled. Pip’s fur brushed against her legs. She turned, glaring at him. “You and I are going to talk about this.” “Claire!”

She heard her name and turned. A scorched skull atop a body shrouded in black dominated her vision. Claire instinctively raised her arms, stepping back. The floor beneath her cracked before disappearing from beneath her feet. Her body fell. She screamed. The light above quickly faded, and wet darkness engulfed her senses. The impact rendered her immobile while agonizing pain from icy water shocked her entire body. With her arms flailing, her senses returned. She struggled to kick her legs despite the hardening of her muscles. Up, I need to go up!

Pushing her arms in front of her, willing the blackness away, she prayed for air.

Amy Romine has always wanted to be one of the good guys. From playing Charlie’s Angels in the backyard of her Macungie, PA home as a child to the pages of her unending projects, Amy has always dreamed of adventure and romance. Her need to make the characters truly deserve their happiness takes us on many a twisted journey. From serial killers to demons, Amy holds nothing back in the name of true enduring love. A mother of three, Amy has spent the past seventeen years working in Operations for Ricoh America’s Corporation. She is an avid movie fan and enjoys books, television, theater, her dog, Pip, and all things romance. Find out more about Amy here: https:// amyjromine.blogspot.com/

The Devil’s daughter, to be perfectly truthful, looks—more or less—like an ordinary little girl looks and the Devil’s daughter’s little doll, to be perfectly truthful about that, looks—more or less—about as ordinary as the Devil’s daughter looks. The Devil’s daughter’s doll’s diary looks very much like the book you would be holding might look right now if you were reading this story in bed instead of listening to me tell it to you. More or less.

If there is a certain amount of po-faced homeliness in what I’m about to tell you, it can be traced back to the Devil Himself, for no creature or entity in existence (or nonexistence) is as ordinary as is the Devil, nothing more boring and nothing more banal than Evil, and Evil—as is well-known—is the Devil’s meat and potatoes. The truth

is, the Devil just wants to have fun and feel satiated. When he tires of mischief, and he’s fully sated by his meat and potatoes, it’s his pleasure to yawn first and belch afterward, right in God’s face.

It so happens that this very same yawning, belching, evil-loving Devil has a daughter (adopted), who has a doll (adopted), who keeps a diary (adapted). Are you dying to know what’s in the diary? Who isn’t?

~~~ I once had the opportunity to meet the Devil. Lucky for me, it was on his day off, so he wasn’t shopping or doing business. We became moderately friendly and had some interesting chats—nothing more. I, being a devout Catholic, have confessed my innocent dealings with Satan, so I pray my final appointment will be with Saint Peter and not Old Scratch.

~~~

Sitting in the park one afternoon, I saw the most hideous-looking dog in existence being walked by the most ordinary-looking man in existence. The dog had so much personality, and the man so little, it was possible to believe that the bulldog was doing the walking, and the man was at the wrong end of the leash. It turned out that this pair, tethered to each other by a chain, was the real, bible-certified seal-of-disapproval Devil and his grotesque mascot, taking a stroll. The dog came over and drooled on my shoes.

“What’s his name?” I asked, looking up from my shoes to the stranger’s pale, unreadable eyes. I had no idea who stood before me, and I was only attempting to be polite.

He smiled and petted his slobbering creature. “Dognapped,” he said. At once, having heard its name intoned, the dog raised its bulbous head. More drooling ensued. The man put his hand into a pocket of his trench coat and produced a dead mouse which he dangled by its tail. The dog lunged for it.

I said, “No judgments, but am I supposed to infer from his name that you’ve stolen your dog from its proper owner?”

The stranger nodded affirmatively and signaled for me to make room for him next to me, which I did. Meanwhile, the dog was chewing its prize underneath our bench. It was at this point that the Devil extended his hand—his left hand to be precise—and introduced himself.

“I am The Devil,” he said. “No doubt you’ve heard of me.” I said, “How would you like me to address you? Satan? Lucifer?” “You can call me ‘TD’ if you prefer it, as some of my other Wednesday afternoon acquaintances do.”

“So, Devil is your family name and The is your Christian name?” “Christian name?” He found my gaffe extremely amusing. “Today is my day off—Wednesday, the Devil’s Sabbath—so you’re safe to enjoy a nice conversation with the greatest raconteur of all time. Pick a topic— any topic at all—and I’ll help you discuss it to death.”

~~~

Some weeks later, the Devil and his bulldog came by again. This time he was holding the hand of a young girl with a wan, vacuous look. She wore old-fashioned pantaloons and a gingham dress. She looked like a Victorian daguerreotype come to life.

“What’s her name?” I asked. “Or, shall I guess? Is it ‘Kidnapped?’” “Kidnopted, if you will. I call her Kiddie for short.” “How old are you, Kiddie?” She stared at me with blank eyes. The Devil just laughed. “She’s shy,” he said. “But be careful. She bites worse than the dog.” “What’s that you have there, Kiddie?” I asked. She was clutching a rag doll. Its coat button eyes were equally expressionless. “Is that Little Miss Dollnapped you’re hugging?”

“Like father, like daughter,” the Devil chuckled. “We call her new baby Dollie. My granddaughter—in a manner of speaking.”

past me, trying to sneak a peek in the carriage. The few that managed to get a satisfactory glimpse were horrified to behold a rag doll with tape over its eyes tucked inside.

I was much more concerned about Kiddie’s absence after sixthirty. Anxiety overcame the fear of devilish reprisals. I pulled the book out of Dollie’s grasp and fled, walking briskly and purposefully, like a criminal.

~~~

My nervous exhaustion had reached such a peak that I had to lie down when I got home. I fell asleep clutching the book to my chest, much as Dollie had. When I woke, it was midnight. The first thing I did was switch on the reading lamp at my bedside. Opening the book to the last entry, I read the following:

“The Devil’s daughter, to be perfectly truthful, looks—more or less—like an ordinary little girl looks and the Devil’s daughter’s little doll, to be perfectly truthful about that, looks—more or less—about as ordinary as the Devil’s daughter looks. The Devil’s daughter’s doll’s diary looks like the book you happen to be holding if...”

~~~

My first stop the next morning was Heavenly Saints Church. I headed for the nearest confessional. Inside, enveloped in the shadowy silence, I roughly pulled the curtain closed, nearly ripping it in the process. My heart was pounding.

From behind the grille, a soothing voice spoke to me. “How can I help, my son?”

“Forgive me, Father, for I am out of breath.” “Excuse me?” “Sorry... Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“When was your last confession?” “Tuesday.” “Two days ago? How have you managed to sin again so soon, my son?” I heard a quasi-judgmental gasp issue from the other side of the grille. “Not Number Four, Heaven forbid...”

“I stole something,” I interrupted. I proceeded to tell him the whole devilish story. From time to time he emitted a compassionate sigh. I had only gotten to the part about Dollie when I heard what was unmistakably the sound of an unrestrained yawn. This was followed by a lengthy silence.

“Father? Father? Are you awake?” “Of course, my son. I wouldn’t miss a word of this for anything,” the voice said from the shadows that huddled behind the grille. His words were immediately superseded by an extremely prodigious belch.

Lawrence Jay Switzer, author of Sayville Tales and the upcoming Beacon City Confidential is also--when wearing a different hat--the designer of The Walt Whitman Series, and several biographies of world-renowned courtesans. The future, as it appears to the author from the safety of his observation post in the here-and-now, is a Grassy Knoll where anyone can say anything has happened, and where the line separating truth and fiction is--at best--fading at the same speed with which it is being drawn. His “novel” of travelers’ tales, Sayville Tales, is part of that oncoming fact-disputed future, endeavoring to depict the irregular shapes and sizes of modern-day Americans with the same cutting perception employed by Geoffrey Chaucer when he created his fellow Englishmen for The Canterbury Tales. Find out more about Lawrence here: https://lawrencejayswitzer.blogspot.com/

A TALE FROM THE CRIPT by George Tyrrell Orlarf, the sweeper, lumbered through his chores at the mortuary oblivious to the thundering storm outside. For him this was a happy place, a place where everyone --be they billionaire or bum –were finally equal, all of them finally inferior to him at last. No not one of them, not even the women could look down their noses at his deformities anymore. He stopped sweeping a moment to stare into a mirror and reflexively cursed his humped back, his shriveled leg, his deformed face. He spat at the mirror and moved on. But then no one cares about that here, he thought. He giggled to himself and hummed tunelessly as he went about his work.

Yes the women, he thought….. It was their rejection that always hurt him most even as a child. He thought of the ways they would ignore him or show their repugnance, some subtly with some quaint taunt or remark. But that was when he was young and still thought someone might accept him as a natural man. But here it’s the women who are repulsive now. Here even the beautiful ones have finally lost their haughtiness and pride as they lay mute, mindless, senseless, unable to resist the advances of even the rats and maggots… all doomed to rot into something far more disgusting than he. Why if he became amorous with them now, he would be doing them a favor.

As he worked his way to the room of the crypt a tingle of gleeful anticipation crept through him. For tonight’s new entry was a beautiful raven haired girl. She was tall, statuesque in life, finely bred, the kind he always craved most… but who would be most repulsed and rejecting of him were she alive. But now…. He giggled foolishly and lumbered into the room of the crypt. Here lay the bodies to be embalmed. They lay on separate tables each covered with a white sheet. Yes, he could have

his way with any of the women here, and they never protested when he did. He shuffled toward a white shrouded slab in the far corner of the room. With trembling hands he grasped the sheet and slowly, fervently pulled it back off the still form beneath. He stood for a time staring agape at the delicate, white figure lying naked before him. “Why, she’s like a fragile Venus sculpted in ivory!” Guttural utterances sounded deep in his throat; a string of saliva hung motionless from his slack lips… With trembling hands he hesitantly reached out and touched her body, at first cautiously in one spot, then all over with feverish abandon.

Finally he stepped back and with little, lusty squeals began removing his tattered clothing. Then naked, heedless of his deformities, he lumbered toward the corpse and with surprising agility leapt upon the slab where she lay. The lights of the mortuary blinked off, then on again as lightning flashed and thunder boomed outside.

A sudden chill of fear gripped the hunchback but for only a moment. “The very gods are angry at old Orlarf tonight, my lady,” he cackled. “For they never intended someone like you for the likes of me.” He threw back his shaggy head and laughed shaking his fist and wagging

his finger mockingly at the storm’s rumbling and flashing outside the window. Then, shaking with a desire intensified to delicious perversion, he kissed the lifeless, unresisting lips again and again. At first he thought he was imagining it in his excitement… But then his back hairs rose in frightful awareness. Each time he’d breathed into the lifeless mouth, he’d felt the cold bosom rise.

Slowly, he pushed himself up with arms trembling so badly he for a horrible moment thought he couldn’t separate himself from the corpse. Finally he forced himself to look down and saw the bosom slowly rising and falling. He stared for a long time, hypnotized, unable to move…. Then a cry of panic stifled in his throat as he saw its eyelids flutter, then slowly begin opening to finally reveal the veined whites of pupilless eyes. An eerie cry uttered from her bloodless lips, at first low, then highly pitched into an ear- piercing scream… Somehow overcoming his paralyses, Orlarf half slid, half fell to the marble floor. There he crouched on his haunches watching petrified….

Her hand jerked once. Her leg slowly, shakily slid from the slab, touching her foot to the floor. Then her body very slowly, disjointedly began to rise….

Whining sounds emitted from the hunchback’s throat as he tried to get his fearstiffened muscles to move him away. She began rising unsteadily to her feet. Her pupils, now no longer rolled back, tared crazily about the room, her face taking on a hideous expression.

Then she finally fixed her insane stare upon the crouching man. She extended her arms toward him uttering a long, mournful cry and started approaching him slowly…. outstretched arms jerking spastically as she approached him. The lights went out again. After a maddening moment of pitch blackness a series of lightning flashes lighted the room revealing the naked female—now tall, stark white, raven haired, eyes black sunken holes…. She seemed to dance crazily before him in flickering, stroboscopic madness…. Her shaking, silvery hand was about to touch him…. The room was in blackness once again….

He tried to cry out, but his voice came only in a shaky rasp. “Keep away! Damn you! Don’t you touch me, you cursed vampiress from Hell!” He arose on trembling legs in the blackness and slid along the wall in the direction of the door. But then he stumbled into something that blocked his way. He reached down to feel a metal table and something cold and pulpy beneath a sheet. The lightning flashes revealed the shroud actually rising in spastic jerks before him, then it was slowly sliding down off a gnarled hag sitting upright and convulsing rhythmically, guttural moans belching from putrid lips…. He could smell her fetid breath on his face…With a shriek of terror, he lurched wildly through the blackness toward the door; but his legs tangled in his mop and pail and he flew crashing into another shrouded table, and fell whimpering to his knees….

The room lighted up once more as a woman’s blue-white arm fell out from the shroud; its jagged fingernails sliced down through the man’s twitching face leaving chalky, bloody streaks before it came to rest on his throat…. The room was black once more…. Screeching and shrieking the man—now gone mad— scrambled on all fours in the direction lf the door. Finally, his trembling hand found the door, then the doorknob. He turned the knob and pulled. The door remained shut. He turned the knob and pulled again, and kept pulling. The door wouldn’t budge. He

pulled even harder—and the knob came off in his hand. With a wail that echoed throughout the mortuary, he collapsed against the unmoving door and crumbled babbling to the floor. “Mother of God, please help me!” were the last coherent words he said as the strobing lightning again revealed the tall dead woman gliding slowly toward him still emitting eerie cries as she gestured frantically with outstretched arms….

And with each strobing flash, a more ghastly horror revealed itself. Now the shrouded table was coming toward him, wheels creaking, the blueveined arm hanging out, swinging stiffly, its curved, claw-like hand pointing at him… moving ever closer…. Now the lightning lit up the next table revealing the old hag again sitting up in spasmodic jerks, guttural moans belching convulsively from rotting lips; her table also began rolling toward the naked hulk of terror cringing and babbling on the floor…. All the horrors approaching him danced eerily each time the lightning flickered crazily about the room. Now he was sure all the lifeless women he was good enough to service… actually doing them favors…were coming for their revenge. God! Even the dead were repulsed by him now. No! This could not be…

He threw back his head sending a howl of utter despair reverberating throughout the crypt…. Then all was silent at last, except for the distant thunder as the rain stopped falling and the first pale rays of daylight entered the morgue. Corpses on wheeled tables, one with shriveled arm pointing, seemed gaping at a lifeless hulk squatted in a corner, hair now snow white, staring in horror through eyes that no longer see. The door was now open. The white wraith of a woman now gone from the crypt…into what ghastly realm we do not know….

See the ending, and more stories and poems of horror and intrigue, in the book Ripples From the Darkness by George Tyrrell