We had an amazing time recording an episode of Life After Midnight recently, where we discussed our upcoming anthology, ‘One Night in Salem’ with Kristin and Allison! We talked about the gothic literary connections to Salem, and about historical connections within the anthology. Listen at the link below, be sure to subscribe, especially if you’re a history buff!
The Things We Do For Love
He smells a bit funny tonight.
It doesn’t really matter as he is already taking off his torn t-shirt. Watching him undress makes me feel tingly between my legs. I move forward to help him unzip his jeans. He rips my t-shirt off in a desperate act of passion and it makes me moan in anticipation. He starts to kiss my neck and slips a hand up my skirt. He nibbles at my skin gently, licking and tasting, then he bites. Hard. I can feel my flesh tear and my own blood spill across my neck and shoulder. The pain is intense and I let out a warbled cry, my hands grasping his hair to pull him back. Tears prick my eyes and my breath quickens, but I resist the urge to move away from him. I love him. This is the only way we can be together.
I’m just glad that he doesn’t want to eat my brains.
He pushes me back onto the bed and then scrambles on top of me. I slide my hands up his chest, the skin mottled gray but mostly unblemished, and I look into his cloudy eyes, as he chews and swallows a piece of me. I wonder where he will bite next, how much I will have to endure before I can be with him. Be like him.
The door bursts open and a shotgun blast rings through the small room. I scream, as his head breaks apart and I am splattered in the gore and fragments of my beloved’s skull. I sit up, wiping the blood from my eyes, my face stinging from the shards of bone splintering my skin. I look down; he is still. Most of his skull is gone, his face torn away, leaving him unrecognizable. But, he smells so good. I pick up a limp arm and begin gnawing at his flesh.
I tear a piece off with my teeth and let it roll over my tongue before I begin to chew. It tastes better than the most succulent steak I have ever eaten, his blood sweeter than any red wine jus. I hear the click of the shotgun barrel as it’s reloaded and I look up, but my vision is blurry, everything has a yellow tinge. I put a hand to my chest and realize that my heart has stopped.
The man says, “I’m sorry pumpkin,” but it comes out in heavy sobs.
That’s when my slowing brain puts the pieces together and I realize who it is.
“Daddy, no,” I say as he raises the shotgun, aiming at my head. I put my hand up as though it can stop a bullet. I see it splatter in a thousand crimson pieces, in slow motion. And then everything is black.
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My Father’s Buick
by David Gilman-Frederick
Cyrus could scarcely believe his ears.
“You can’t seriously be saying,” he raised both eyebrows, “that you don’t make any decisions at all? That the Lord Jesus Christ does all your thinking for you? I mean, he chooses your outfits in the morning; they, like, magically appear, all laid out on your bed? Do you do your homework, Jeremy – or does your Heavenly Father? What kind of grades do you get?” he laughed without amusement, a friend without an r. “I mean, God what, God brushes your teeth for you . . . .” He mimed this and then laughed again.
Sitting opposite him on the stoop, Jeremy slumped forward, pale and shivering. His skin was a sallow, hypothermic blue, despite the warmth of the early May evening. He focused on a spot on the step between his generic tennis shoes. He didn’t answer, just trembled and tilted his head in a gesture somewhere between a nod and a shake. Continue reading
Autumn 2017, explore Halloween Night in Salem through a collection of short stories spanning four-hundred years. PRE-ORDER HERE.
From the cursed settlers to the Great Salem Fire of 1914, from the whispers of war in 1812 to the story of a bullet hole in an alley on Gedney Street. Bear witness to things both lost and forgotten in the passing of decades and remember tales of a city long gone, for Salem is different on every other day of the year. One night remains a celebration of the darkness wrapped up in the arms of specters still haunting the place in which they lived and died. Travel through time, glimpsing the Witch City on the most important night of the year, October 31st.
OFFICIAL RELEASE DATE TBA, EXPECTED LATE SEPTEMBER, 2017. Pre-order now to ensure your copy and a special pre-order bonus, TBA.
Featuring stories by:
Erin Crocker, Kathleen Halecki, Linette Kasper, Elizabeth Sweetman, Nancy Brewka-Clark, Jim Towns, E. D. Margay, L. W. Bellin, Jonathan Nichols, Jeremy Megargee, Samantha Lucero, Heddy Johannesen, Daniel LeFever, R. C. Mulhare, Steve Zisson, Chad McClendon, Kevin Lewis, Patrick Cooper, Charles Reis, Benjamin N. Thomas, Few More TBA
Souls long gone still wander among the living in Salem. The sound of gallows swinging lingers in the wind. Salem is a boneyard, and like its cemeteries, it mingles four centuries of history with buds of new life sprouting up between the crevices. History is carved into the gravestones, but the death throes of autumns and icy morgue of hundreds of winters have worn away the words, eroding fact into legend. Accusations and confessions have crumbled away into poetry, under the spring shade of new leaves, surrounded by wildflowers.
FunDead Publication’s first poetry anthology is in the final stages! You can pre-order your copy HERE, to be shipped on or before the release date of August 5th, 2017.
This anthology includes poems by:
Amber Newberry, Laurie Moran, Erin Crocker, Rie Sheridan Rose, Jon Bishop, Alec Firicano, Samantha Lucero, J.H. Crone, Cynthia Morrison, Destiny Eve Pifer, Conrad Audette, Cindy Veach, Joanna Costello, Anusha VR, L.J. Paxson, Heather Wagner, Chris Denmead, Marc Sorondo, Monika Bielecki, Jon Etter, Melissa Pleckham, Nancy Brewka-Clark, John Etter, Sebastion Herzfeld, Samantha Lucero, R.C. Mulhare, Ariella Ruth, G.E. Smith, Phil Storey, Hannah Jane Bones, Bret Valdez, Alec Anthony Firicano.
The Stranger in Your Bed
By Laura Beasley
Her answers didn’t add up.
She told him the wooden cage was for a large bird she’d caught. But only small and medium-sized birds lived in the woods. She let him chop up the cage to burn in the fireplace.
She let him scrape the candy off the outside of the cottage. It had been a failed decorating project she’d seen on Pinterest. Women do crazy things.
They met on a dating website. He liked her long, grey hair and flowing black dresses. She was interested in marriage and liked children. She owned her cottage in the middle of the woods.
Their relationship was clicking and he planned to pop the question. He was ready to bring his grandson to visit on weekends.
Everything changed one day. He was fixing dinner in her kitchen while she painted her nails blood-red. He needed more EVOO for the salad dressing. He found the pouch of bones in the pantry. They were children’s finger bones.
He never married her. He kept his grandson safe.
He called the cold case district attorney. The DA had been searching for the killer of a missing child. A little boy had been lost in the woods for more than a decade.
Hansel’s parents would find peace at last.
No-name could have been you and, for a brief moment, you were No-name. Everyone has been, at some point or another. Suspect and uneasy features assigned to an otherwise faceless being. A boogeyman. Someone’s nightmare. For a few moments, at least, you could have been a shadow that terrified or an unexpected voice that left your victim slack-jawed and pale. You might not have been my No-name, but you might have been somebody’s.
“You’ll keep quiet or…” Continue reading