Dear Mr. Smith,

Like I said before, I am sorry that Moose is still bringing you trouble even after I believe the devil or demons possessing him have been exorcized. I hate to see a cat in trouble with Satan like that, especially one as cute as your kitty is. That being said, please do not write any more open letters to me, the Vatican is really rather secretive of our little special exorcists. Now, please do not refer to me as being an Exorcist (I don’t do demonically possessed people) or a Petcorsist. Even an ordinary deacon can attend to such matters as a demonically possessed dog or cat. I am proud of the work I do for the church, defeating evil.

Dear Father Orwell,

I just wanted to thank you again for the great service that you provided in exorcising my cat Moose. He bit; he scratched and did unspeakable things to me and my family recently. You came in with your special tools of faith and did the job right.

What do you want me to say about that incredible letter you wrote to me? There are really no words to describe it. I had no idea that there were those who dealt with the exorcism of beasts as opposed to those who handled animals one might find at the local SPCA. You’ve really changed my world view.

The two women were conversing over a barrier made up of a small wooden gate, loose on its hinges and faulty in its catch. Even to the casual observer it was obvious who held the advantage here.

Carol, short, dark-haired and hung-over, was standing barefoot, wrapped in her towelling dressing gown and holding a pile of wet laundry, on the inside of the gate. Judy, conversely, was standing outside of the gate like a this-could-be-you mirror image. The taller of the two, she had managed to make her mousy brown hair look elegant in a loose bun; small strands escaping to fall and soften the hard outlines of her profile. She was smiling, a smile that stretched her tight mouth but couldn’t quite reach her eyes.

Today should have felt like something, but it didn’t. It was a spectacularly ordinary evening. At some point the sleek dark buildings in the center of the city gave way to homogenous brownstones and I lost the urge to watch anymore.

There was a flash of motion and for one insane second, I didn’t recognize myself in the cabbie’s rearview mirror. I had gotten thick-black rimmed sunglasses from a drug store some time ago, and I had grown a small patchy beard. It was the last part of my transformation and the easiest, and if any cameras happened to catch me it would make facial identification quite difficult.

Dear Mr. Smith,

I am truly sorry that Moose is still bringing you trouble even after I believe the devil or demons possessing him have been exorcized. I hate to see a cat in trouble with Satan like that, especially one as cute as your kitty is. That being said, please do not write any more open letters to me, the Vatican is really rather secretive of our little special exorcists. Now, please do not refer to me as being an Exorcist (I don’t do demonically possessed people) or a Petcorsist. Even an ordinary deacon can attend to such matters as a demonically possessed dog or cat. It won’t be long until any drunken idiot from the Knights of Columbus will be keeping ordinary human pets from demonic possession.

Dear Father George Orwell,

I just wanted to thank you for the great service that you provided in exorcising my cat Moose from his former demonic ways. He bit; he scratched and did unspeakable things to me and my family recently. You came in with your special tools of faith.

The twin caves protruded from the innocent Welsh earth like fathomless eye sockets from a dark skull. Liquid, black and viscous, shimmered in the depths of one as if weeping to rid itself of some irritant. Indeed the crest of a slow wave bore a sheep, dead, bloated and obscene, down upon the sharp cave walls, slicing it open and releasing the pent-up gases of mortem in the swollen body like the bursting of a tainted rain-cloud.

If this was a huge skull, the remains perhaps of some ancient giant, then the nose had long ago corroded, leaving only a deep murky pool in its place. On the surface mirror smooth and dark, beneath stirred a grim soup of torn tree limbs, pitiful strips of ragged, rough-sewn cloth, animal carcasses and ghostly, bloodless flesh.

The Real Witch.

Gnarled and grey, with eyes like pitch

An evil smile; a tight lip’s twitch

Whip-like hair, the sting of the switch

Foul smelling breath; the stench of a ditch

Truly a most repulsive bitch

“It’s hidden!”
“What?”
“The animatronics dragon that comes out of the dungeon is well hidden, that’s what makes it scary when it pops out. It comes about half way through the hayride.”
“Oh.”

“So you want to put a crew together?” asked the eager young man.
“Yes,” answered the middle aged man, who appeared a little rough around the edges.

“My name is Phil…”
“Oh! No last names, please.”
“Okay.”
“You can call me Kirk.”
“Okay.”

Mrs. Barnston slowly stood upright again, rubbing the small of her back with one hand and using the pew to her side for support with the other.

She allowed herself a moment to catch her breath, before reaching down for the tin of polish and the cloth she had left on the seat. The cloth, her hands and every visible piece of wood within her reach now gave off the reassuring smell of polish; not the frivolous spring-fresh scent or the cloying sweet perfume that seemed to be favoured these days, but an earthy, strong wooden fragrance. One that seemed to her suitable for the solid and serious business of a church.

Silence hangs like a storm-cloud over the sleeping occupants of Oakwood Close, watched over by the very tree that gave the cul-de-sac its name.

There should be sound here; small creatures that chirrup, snuffle and rustle, busy about their nocturnal business, engaged in the blood-hungry drama of eat or be eaten, that ensures life’s continuance.

Look closer.

The wind jangled the blank sign endlessly on its’ wrought iron post. The picture and wording had long since worn away and the wood within the iron frame was rotting, soft flakes of it crumbling to the frosted ground, even as Sean burrowed deeper under the covers in an effort to find sleep. He knew, from recent experience, that sleep would be impossible now.

As if to confirm this, the sign gave a sudden and prolonged rattling, as though in furious, helpless defence against the elements, like a prisoner in chains. Sean gave up; he sat upright, mindless of the chill on his bare shoulders, and searched for the time. It was there, glowing neon and smug in the gloom, waiting for him; 12:52.

Bruce O’Malley was a vampire who wrote fiction and now he had writer’s block. He wrote all kinds of books but he was primarily known and well known at that for his horror fiction. His publisher was Clive King and he was simply the most successful publisher in London. He could come all the way to Dublin to see him. That was an honor to anyone who knew how busy King was. This was the century that brought great stories to those inclined to read them. Stoker had written his masterpiece in this century. Bruce had mixed feeling about it. On one hand it was a delightful novel but it was full of inaccuracies about the life of a real vampire. Bruce had his eye on another type of book that he would like to try to write.

Some practical jokes are to die for. Unfortunately, most of the fine faculty at Connolly College was too traditional for that sort of thing. Alfred and Robert Grant simply had to play as many jokes as they could on the rest of the old stuffy bastards. A deeply serious southern institution once made the mistake of hiring two brothers to teach. One was an English professor and the other taught history. Robert loved literature and Alfred loved to teach young minds about the Second World War and such. The problem wasn’t their excellent qualifications since they both possessed them and other assets that make for academic excellence. So the problem wasn’t really their credentials or even their practical jokes per se. It was that they were identical twins!

“It’s hidden!”
“What?” asked the man tied to his desk.
“That damned thing inside his chest. They hide, you know.”
“No.”
It had been less than ten minutes since Tommy Grey had tied up the detective. The man being held in the jail was the last was Ridley Weaver. He was the assistant sheriff. The sheriff himself was gone. It was too late to save him. Grey had already cut open his stomach and found…nothing.

“I was almost as dead as a doornail,” said the thing. “Nothing else about your life’s story will make any sense without future generations knowing that!” He was right. I was a homeless man who lost his job as a social worker during the greatest depression the world had ever seen. It was surely the worst of times. The creature was frozen in ice for over two hundred years. Life became unbearable for most humans during this time. The creature wore a gray metallic space suit. His yellow eyes always stuck out in my mind. He came many years ago in his ship and had to be frozen to stay alive. The other creatures from his home planet Norne were scavengers like him. They had to freeze themselves whenever they needed to adjust to a new planet’s atmosphere. Norne’s inhabitants always relied on the kindness of other life forms to get them out of the ice. They were an immoral race in every way but one. They needed to repay the life debt to whoever rescued them from the terrible ice. The creatures could not be trusted for anything but in this they were completely trustworthy!

Check out Darrens websites at
www.freewebs.com/darrenrscothern
and
www.freewebs.com/darrenscothern

The last time I saw Amos Black alive was early in July 1920. To say I saw him alive, of course, suggests that he has since passed away, but this is not established fact, merely an assumption. Perhaps my friend has indeed been dead these last four years, but still some doubt vexes my mind. I am unable to resist the suspicion that even now Amos survives, although in what desperate condition I would hesitate to guess.

Part 1 of this story can be found by clicking Here

“You need to be more careful now. It’s October, Lydia.” Mama looked at her daughter with a stern look. She was such a strange little girl. Lydia knew she was being scolded. “Once we get past this unholy month, things should get better for the rest of the season.”

After ages of boring office work, I needed a break and wanted to have a vacation somewhere nice, to restore my physical and mental balance. I reckoned that I would need at least two weeks to recuperate from the taxing strain accumulated over past months, due to boredom and routines. I visited few travel agents, collected some brochures and studied those to find a suitable place for my vacations.

Fuck it’s cold, Byron thought as he clutched the puffy green jacket to his chest and attempted to blow some life into his frozen fingers. They had already gone purple and white and he couldn’t even feel the hot air as it hit his fingers, only the pain as they tried to dislodge the cold air.

The dead always make great listeners. Where have I heard that before? In fact, most of the time they don’t do any talking at all. There is a reason for the expression “silent as the grave.” My name is Edward Cleo. I talk to dead people all the time. It’s not only interesting to talk to them but it’s become a fairly profitable way to make a living. Yes, I am aware of the irony that I make my living from the deceased. I used to be a fraud but that was a while back. I was a phony psychic for many years. Hey, now I’m the real deal. I can really talk to the dead and boy do they have a lot of things to say to the living.

The dead always make great listeners. Everyone knows that. You can say anything you like to them. They won’t talk back. Not most of the time anyway. Whenever you begin to speak in front of someone’s tombstone, all you hear is you. It’s going to be a real one sided conversation.

A long-time friend of MastersOfHorror.co.uk, STEPHEN VOLK recently created and was lead writer on ITV’s multi-award-winning and highly-acclaimed paranormal series Afterlife, starring Lesley Sharp and Andrew Lincoln. He also wrote Gothic, the iconoclastic take on Byron and Shelley starring Gabriel Byrne and directed by Ken Russell, and The Guardian which he co-wrote with William Friedkin for Universal Pictures.

We are delighted to preview here this extract from his first, as yet unpublished, novel, THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO LAZARUS, which he describes as “Part Jacobean tragedy of epic proportions, part Grand Guignol spin on the Biblical myth, part heretical alternative history. For those who know my work, the story is clearly another exploration of the tension between belief and rationality. Not for the faint-hearted, I hope the novel raises questions about the ambiguous, some would say destructive, relationship between Man and God in any age...”

We travelled along tree-lined avenues of France as the bright sun threw dappled shade onto the country lanes. Our small group of seven anxiously scanned the hillside for our first glimpse of Chateau de Lerquet, our holiday home for the next two weeks. The journey had passed quickly with the aid of several bottles of champagne, always a prelude to our group’s annual vacation. Within minutes, we collectively fell silent as each of us gazed at the magnificent 12th century chateau with its pigeonnier standing tall and proud against the Aveyron summer sun.

Jack Hope was devastated by his mother’s death. His father had died just short of a year ago. They always said that when someone you love dies, half of you dies with them. That’s the way life is. It’s cruel and sad and it’s almost never fair. This was the part he hated almost as much as losing a loved one. This was the part he really despised. It seemed like there was nothing worse than choosing a coffin for your deceased parent. The whole experience of choosing his father’s coffin seemed surreal. If felt like a nightmare but it wasn’t. It was part of real life.

I don’t really know how it started but it did and although I loved her with all my heart, I could never give her the one thing she truly wanted. That was me, to be her lover full time and be totally committed to her and her alone.

The thin school hallways have always given me a restless feeling, even now, after school hours the feeling haunted me. I was torn between two impossibly strong urges, one willing me to run out to the freedom of outside and the other freezing me to the spot with unjustified fear.

They were always there! At least I know that they were the only ones that stood by me. They would always hate the ones I hate and love the ones I love! I know that they killed somebody but they were the only friends I ever had!

From his early years, the child showed multi talents. At the age of two he copied a painting hanging in the drawing room. The child had sketched the outline of the picture on a piece of paper with just a few simple pencil strokes and which pleased his parents a great deal for this brilliant piece of artwork, he was rewarded five rupees by his father.