Wesley Thomas's Blog

“I can’t wait for this!” Sady cheered, beyond stoked.
        “It’s gonna be awesome!” Toby responded with an equal measure of enthusiasm.        Their rusty coral pickup truck chuttered along the road, tossing crumbling asphalt into the air, landing into the utter desolation encompassing them.         The surroundings didn’t provide much in way of filling the twelve-hour journey. They relied on the static buzz of the radio, or conversation. But twelve hours was a long time. Fortunately, both Sady and Toby were drivers, giving them the advantage of swapping roles from passenger to driver every few hours. This kept the journey going whilst eliminating the risk of an exhaustion-fuelled car crash.         Not that there was anything to crash into. For the bulk of their ride, the scenery offered little more than cacti, sand, the occasional rock sunbathing under scorching heat, a restless tumbleweed, and bird soaring the blue sky with open wings and a puffed-out chest, eyeing out insects or other potential critters to munch on.         “Almost there,” Sady announced, throwing a finger to her phone’s GPS, which sat in a sleeve suctioned to the windshield.         Toby fist-bumped the air, tensing his muscular arms, visible through his off-white tank top. It wasn’t really off-white; the faded whiteness came from hours spent doing yard work.         Through the carpet of sand and backdrop of parched mountains off in the distance, dry and powdery, came the building.         As if a mirage, it came from nowhere. To the casual observer, it looked to be nothing more than a two-story structure made of poorly painted wood. Some windows held smears and chinks, while others were vacant completely, boards nailed across as an inexpensive alternative to having them repaired.         The focal point of the splintering construction, hung swinging from the upstairs, was a sign. Wax People. Not the most original name, but Sady nor Toby cared. Their only concern was the reconstructions of famous murders through artistry of wax.         “Kind of looks…” Sady’s words dangled in the air for a few seconds.         “Like shit?” Toby caught those words, turning them into a sentence with his blunt observation.         A defeated sigh left her mouth. “Yeah..”        Toby, keen to his friend’s disappointment, offered words of encouragement.   “Hey, that’s just the outside! The inside is the jackpot. And maybe the outside deliberately looks this way, to deter too many visitors?”        “I guess,” she wasn’t entirely convinced, doubt adding a drawl to her tone.         “OH!” Toby raised a finger, as if he were a member of a detective agency who’d had an amazing epiphany. “The guy at the gas station. Remember?”         She nodded, her brows furrowed, unsure where his point was headed.         “He said it doesn’t look like much, and that if you blink you could miss it. He said it’s not too big or anything fancy, but the wax sculptures are great.”        The first signs of a grin crawled onto her face as each corner of her mouth creased, dimples soon to form. “Yeah, you’re right. He did say that.” Her head fell back as she huffed, amazed she’d forgotten that morsel of information.         “See!” Toby replied, matter-of-factly.         A fully-fledged grin wormed across her face, bringing out her teeth and dimples. “Yeah, this adds to the effect. And that guy did say they don’t like too many visitors, just enough to stay in business.”         They came to a worn strip of sand, marked with tyre treads from the occasional visitor. The road’s breaking asphalt hadn’t been the smoothest of rides, but compared to the sudden bouncing of the car from the uneven sandy path, they’d gladly hop back on the road in a heartbeat, had they not been practically salivating at the mouth to enter this unsettling yet alluring abode.         Sady imagined the morbid reanimations of history’s most gruesome deaths from around the globe, brought to life by nothing more than wax, a carving tool, and exceptionally talented sculptor. Excitement bubbled in her stomach.         Toby was equally eager, impatiently tapping his feet and fidgeting with his fingers, a magical smile not abandoning his face for one second. At that moment, he resembled a child approaching a theme park for the first time, captivated by the looping tracks and aroma of donuts and ice cream.         Sady pulled up aside the building. With no car park to speak off, she assumed visitors placed their vehicles close by, among the acres and acres of barren desert land.         They exited the pickup, immediately using their arms as shields to battle the overwhelming brightness.         “Christ on a sun lounger!” Toby blurted out through a crinkled face.         “The sun?”         “No, shit for brains, the clown,” he responded, words dripping in sarcasm.         “Screw you,” she spat back, erupting into a chuckle.         The friends waged through the harsh sun’s rays, resting their heads carefully under the veil of shadows cast by their arms.         The occasional tuft of wind coursing through the horizon ravaged Sady’s blonde hair, whipping it every which way. With the hand not protecting her from the obnoxious sun, she scraped the strands of hair from her face.         Toby, having the same shade of dirty blonde hair but shaved, wasn’t afflicted with this problem. As well as being born with the same variation of a darker blonde despite not being related, they also wore similar attire: off-white tank tops – though Sady’s was off-white by intention, not by a general lack of hygiene or garment care – faded denim jeans, and sandals.         The two mounds formed by Sady’s round breasts pulled the upper part of the tank top taut. Toby, blessed with a muscular physique from curling iron at their local gym, had no trouble stuffing his tank top in a different but equally impressive manner.         “Come on shit for brains,” Sady teased, hopping onto the front porch.         Toby, hissing with laughter, followed his buddy into the shade. “God that feels good.”         Both took a few seconds, savouring the darkness beneath the chipped ground floor roof surrounding the porch. The alien buzzing caused by an abrasive heat scorching the parched land around then, chirped into the atmosphere.         “What now? We just walk in? This looks more like a home than any kind of museum,” Toby commented, bringing attention to the wooden door standing behind Sady. It wore layers of shedding paint, revealing a significantly damaged wood, cursed with fissures. The golden handle was discoloured in bronze rust.         “Wow. Far away it looked fake, you know? Just for effect.” She stroked the handle, watching specs of corrosion sprinkle the porch floor. “But this is……” She rolled a few shavings of rust between her fingertips. “Real.”         “It’s fucking nasty,” as usual, Toby boiled a complex analysis into a short expression, punctuated with a swear word.         “Well, there is the sign up there,” as if it heard them, its moistureless joints squeaked, swinging up above. “If it was closed down or abandoned, they’d have removed the sign, surely.”        Toby couldn’t decide if she meant that to be a statement or question. “But where’s the car though?”        “What?” Sady turned to him, the saturated background behind Toby gave him a heavenly aura. Yeah right, if he’s getting into heaven, anyone will. She stifled a laugh.         “There ain’t no cars here besides us. Isn’t that a bit odd?”         Sady had to admit, he raised a valid point. Though she easily swatted it away. “There could be cars on the other side of the building. We’ve only seen this side. Maybe most visitors and the owners parked their cars on the other side?”         He shrugged. “Could be.”         “So? We gonna wrestle with debate for an hour or get our asses inside. Because I don’t know about you, but the heat’s getting to me.” To reinforce her point, she raised each arm, revealing sweat stains soiling underneath each armpit.         “Gross dude,” Toby smirked.         “Yeah, because you’re the sweaty wrinkly vision of perfection ain’t ya?” She batted back.         “Wrinkly?” A tang of hurt clung to his response. He’d never admit it, but Toby was afraid of getting old. Saggy ball sack, shrivelled and limp dick, grey pubes, and dentures, terrified his conceited self.         “I meant your clothes dumbass,” she threw to him, with a head shake.         Toby looked down himself, scoffing at his own vanity-fuelled worry. “Okay, stinky pits, let’s get inside and stop standing here and drenching our clothes. Unless you wanna smell some of my ball sweat?”         “Eurgh! Gross! You’re nasty,” objecting with her words, her lips curved into a smile. “Come on stinky sack,” a laugh slipped out.              Sady closed her fingers around the handle and pulled. The hinges objected, resisting heavily. Toby’s shoulders hunched instinctively. One by one, they entered.         Drapes of blackness were flung over the furnishings, their outlines partly concealed by shadows. A wooden staircase stood before them. A hallway lay beside it, holding several doors, some ajar, others firmly closed. Thus far, everything in sight, was of wooden construction. Ruined, fractured, or splintering, but wood nonetheless.         Darkness waited above the stairs, revealing nothing. Tacky and nauseating lime wallpaper was attached to the walls, most of it crumpled, some rounding at corners, breaking free of the pitted plaster.         “Smells like library,” Toby turned up his nose, thudding the door shut.         “Library isn’t a smell stupid,” Sady reminded, letting her eyes idly wander the foyer in all its timber glory. If you could call neglected wood glory.         “You know what I mean.”         And she did. A musty stale dryness effervesced into the area, thriving around air particles like moss to dampness. Already she’d held in many coughs. For some reason, Sady didn’t feel entirely comfortable barking a fit of coughs into this place, or even a subtle one.         “Where do we go?” Toby asked, his sight also soaking everything in.         “Duh!” Sady swung around, tossing a stiff finger behind Toby.         Though she didn’t wear a face of fright or give him the slightest reason to be alarmed, shivers ran down his back. He immediately twisted to face the back corner, aside the entrance door. Besides which, was another door, beneath an embarrassingly appalling sign unevenly nailed to the wall. Wax People.         Again, Sady couldn’t help but mock their lack of imagination. Why not Wax Attack, Waxilicious, Wax World, World of Wax, or Workings of Wax? Or perhaps these were the type of people that shunned society and preferred solitude. It certainly would explain why anyone would choose to live miles from civilization, with tumbleweed and squawking birds as their only neighbours. Each to their own, I guess.         “We need to pay first? Or we pay when we go in?” Doubt twined his words together.         “Beats me. Let’s just go in and see,” Sady urged him to shuffle forwards with a nod.         “Is it me or is it hotter in here than outside?” Toby asked, almost choking on the hot air clogging his lungs.         “Yeah actually, it’s hotter than, well, balls in here.”         From a few steps ahead, Toby turned and flung a smirk her way, but she already had one creasing her face.         Toby grabbed the handle, which followed the continual theme of rusty doorknobs. Basically, anything that could rust, would. Clearly maintenance wasn’t the owner’s forte. It opened, with the same objection as the main door, letting a screech erupt from the hinges.         “Jeez, they heard of oil?” Toby muttered.         Though Sady didn’t respond, she agreed. She’d already grown tiresome of squeaky joints.         Under the music of squeaking hinges in dire need of lubrication, they crept into the room. Light spilled in from a window to their right, washing a wooden desk in yellow, which glimmered off an ageing register.         Beyond that singular desk holding an antique – or just plain old and time-abused – the space was scarce. They hadn’t even bothered to separate the entrance to Wax People with new décor. The same wallpaper with the same lack of care when it came to being glued to appalling plaster. The wooden beams at their feet held more scuffs, and with one wrong step, sprung an eerie creak into the atmosphere.         “Hello?” Sady asked to no one in particular. Some part of Toby didn’t want anyone to answer. He couldn’t ascertain why. “Hey? Hello? Customers?” Sady continued, frustration hiking from word to word. “How we supposed to pay?”         “Fuck knows,” Toby answered, looking to the window. The panes needed cleaning, holding smog. And the frames were beyond ruined, it surprised him they were even capable of holding the glass.         Breaking his critique of carpentry, Sady yelled. A bad yell. Dread drummed through Toby. While his gaze lingered on the window, apparently, someone had sprung from behind the desk. Without close analysis, a series of words came to Toby’s mind. Haggard. Creepy. Toothless. 
        “Ya ‘ere ‘or the ‘ax people?” Her stubborn southern drawl made it by on impossible to decipher her question, yet somehow Sady managed it.
        “Yes please,” she replied, hand pressed against her chest, getting her respiration under control after being caught off-guard.         The hag was essentially made of wrinkles and drooping skin, the sort that came from overexposure to the sun, and many a stiff drink whilst dining on TV dinners. Thinning grey straggles of hair made the shape of her skull easily visible. If that didn’t force pity or disgust, the tooth-free mouth would definitely get the job done. Sady struggled to see a single tooth in her crinkly-lipped mouth. She felt a look of disdain creeping onto her face, and not wanting to be rude to someone who hadn’t done anything to her, she quickly forced fake cheer onto her visage.         Her arthritis-lumped hands, bound in protruding veins, hovered above the buttons, while dirty nails wriggled like a row of worms as she prodded and poked buttons. “That’ll be twenty dollars,” now aware of the toothless thing she had going, plus the strong cowboy accent, Sady really had to focus on each word. Lip reading became essential. If Sady relied solely on hearing, the elderly lady could have said seventy dollars for all her lack of pronunciation suggested.         Sady reached into her jeans and retrieved a crinkly twenty-dollar bill, immediately but reluctantly passing it over to her. The guck beneath her overgrown nails made Sady stifle another gut-reaction of disgust making an appearance on her face. She abstained from this by running a tongue along her dry lips, in great need of moisture, not unlike the joints of this building.         She snatched the cash as the till flung open with a ding. The croakster tucked it under a spring, among a pile of twenty-dollar bills, and slammed it shut.         “Do we get a ticket or anything?” Sady asked, trying hard to remove any trace of rudeness or impatience from her question.         “Ticket?” Her face created even more lines and crevices than those that already heavily aged her face, pruning into a deep frown.         A sudden awkwardness tumbled into the room, from nowhere. Toby shuffled to his friend’s aid, also aware of the discomfiting vibe abruptly darkening the room, despite the eye-stinging brightness bursting through the smeared window. “Oh, I….” Sady struggled for words, flustered.         She felt Toby press against her side, comforted by his closeness.         “We ain’t got no fucking tickets. You just go on ahead,” she waved a hand to her right, indicating another door in similar shambles to both doors Sady and Toby had been exposed to this far.         Eager to leave this crone behind, they scuttled to the door. Darkness waited on the other side. They’d gone from one extreme to the other: overwhelming brightness to mysterious dimness.         Though orange spools did bring moderate light from below, which provided enough illumination to reveal a set of termite-infested stairs.         “What a creepy ass bitch,” Toby mumbled, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the drastic change in light.         “You’re telling me. Swearing at customers, classy and so professional,” Sady uttered sarcastically.         Toby planted one foot on the top step, exploding a creak into the gloom. “Shit man.”         “Can they even hold our weight?” Sady worried. In a usual place of business every section would have been approved by the health and safety organisation. For some reason, she didn’t picture Miss Crazy taking such legal steps as to guarantee safety for all visitors.         Testing her theory, Sady moved to Toby’s side, adding her weight to the top step. It cried like a baby. But so far, it held its own. For the time being.         “Guess we just take it easy?”         “Yeah,” Sady added a nod for emphasis, not that he saw it in such abysmal light. Step by step, creak by creak, breath by breath, they descended into what was presumably the basement. The musty aroma, or ‘library’ scent, as Toby had shrewdly observed, had dissipated. Replacing the staleness, came an odd plastic stench, as if the basement held a factory’s supply of dolls and figurines.         “Well, at least the library smell’s gone,” Sady commented.         “Yeah, replaced by a toy stink. Toys that have been through the mill a few times.”        Sady’s hand found a bannister, but quickly flinched from it. Not only did it shake with the slightest touch, it was spiked with splinters, as if running her hand over a hedgehog.         Toby on the other hand, smoothed his palm along the blemished plaster, free of any paper. It wore a sleeve of chill though, which he rather enjoyed. Come to think of it, he realized the lower they delved, the cooler the air became. Probably to keep the wax sculptures from melting, he assumed.         The fiery swaddles of light became clearer, flooding small portions of the wall in amber. Partitions separated sections of the basement, which upon closer inspection proved to be little more than cheap blocks of plaster board attached to the walls.         “Oh wow,” Sady found herself saying, without conscious thought to do so.         At first Toby furrowed his brow, perplexed. Until he too saw the re-envisioned murder scenes in each segment. Wax people attired in clothing appropriate to that era, posed in a multitude of positions, giving away what serial killer they were posed to be.         “Holy shit balls,” Toby mumbled.         They landed on the floor, leaving the creaky stairs behind, onto solid concrete. Their feet, only partly covered by sandals, soon became privy to the chilled carpet of concrete.         “Oh my Lord! These look great. So real.” Sady, after the desolate location of this place, and the extremely rude demeanour of the fossil owner, had been squirming with a shred of doubt that this place would be a joke, or worse.         But in this neglected building, were some of the finest, most realistic models she’d ever laid eyes on. And her and Toby had travelled to many strange attractions in their twenty years of friendship. Some of which had involved other wax museums and other flavours of art.         “I know,” Toby replied, enthralled, drawn closer to one display in particular.         “Oh, holy smokes! Look at this one.” He pointed with eagerness, towards a reimagining that lurked in the corner.         Sady found herself instantly captivated. “Wow, this is now officially worth the journey, heat and bitch upstairs.”         Before them, under the bath of a tangerine light, carved with perfection, was a murder scene. The artist had even gone to great lengths to cobble the floor of that piece, and brick the walls. Typical of London in the late 1800s.         A horse-drawn carriage. A woman sprawled on the cobbles, wearing a frilly dress, and buckets of blood. An open briefcase, boasting many tools of torture. And a man suited in a black cloak, wielding not only a huge bloody knife, but a lantern.         “Dang. That Ripper?” Sady enquired.         “Sure as shit looks like it,” Toby muttered, words tumbling without care, more focused on admiring every fine detail.         They edged towards it, eyes wide and mouths agape. The poor slain lady’s stomach was open, guts and intestines flopping out onto the cobbles, smearing crimson everywhere.         “This accurate? Like, what he actually did?” Toby questioned, crouching to the victim.         “Yeah, I think so. He killed a bunch of hookers like this. They may have made it more graphic for our benefit though.”         “Fair point.”         Toby found it astounding that they’d even achieved the correct gloss setting in each eye of the prostitute. The only part of wax pieces that gave away their waxy form, was the eyes. Eyes were wet. No matter how hard a sculptor tried, they struggled to achieve this damp sheen. Not this talented individual. He’d mastered it.         “Even the eyes look real.” Toby commented, bringing Sady’s attention to the whore.         She lowered to Toby, locking her eyes on those of the solicitor of sex. “Fuck, you’re right. That’s creepy.”         They backed up, letting their eyes trail the scene, taking in the briefcase, blood splashes, and finally landing on the killer himself: Jack the Ripper.         His face held age, lined and shadowy. Like his victim, Ripper’s eyes were also lifelike. Alarmingly so. The infamous killer held a smile, face speckled in blood. Even the clothing had spots and squirts of red, only visible by the crusty dryness marking the woollen cloak he wore.         “This is so cool….” Toby uttered, words drawn out in fascination.         Sady, spun into a web of curiosity, reached out.         “Wait, what you doin’?” Toby asked, voice breathy and quiet.         “I just wanna touch a little, that’s all.”         “We can’t afford to repair anything if you break it.”        “I ain’t gonna break it, cool your heels.”        Her fingers approached the face, trembling ever so slightly, as if she expected Ripper to come to life and chomp her fingers off. Toby, without realizing he did so, held his breath, also oddly nervous. It’s just like a life-sized doll, he told himself. Though this didn’t appease his nervousness. It’s as if she was willingly shoving her hand into the open trap of a hungry lion or crocodile.        Sady’s index finger finally made contact. She flinched away almost immediately.         “What? What is it?” Toby asked, face drawn into a look of confusion.         “He feels real.” She mumbled, tone not giving anything away.         Was she joking? Is this a prank?         “Give it a rest fuck-face,” he laughed.         He waited for Sady to also chuckle. But one never came. Her face contorted in part disorientation, part dread.         “You joking? Yeah?” Doubt sharpened each word, making them appear as statements and not inquiries.         “No,” Sady gulped.         Shivers ascended Toby’s upper arms. His stomach writhed with suspense. “That doesn’t mean anything. Of course it feels real. It’s meant to!”         Though try as he might to justify Sady’s reaction, he struggled to expel genuine worries. “What do you even mean it feels real?”         Without answering, Sady closed her fingers around Toby’s right hand, guiding it towards the face. He became crippled with the same bizarre fear that had dwelled in his friend. As if Ripper might snap off his fingers, or devour his entire hand.         “Oh shit,” the words fell out of his mouth as the tip of his finger smoothed along the remarkably realistic flesh-like texture. Smooth, yet not the usual perfect texture of wax. Stubble. Pores. Wrinkles. Skin. What the fuck? How’s that possible?        Uncomfortable, he pulled away. They stood, hovering between captivation and unsettling. How had this been achieved? What masterful technique had he used? Questions barged into their consciousness, born of this abnormality.         “Impressive,” Toby muttered, unable to cast off the shakes warbling his voice.         “Uh huh,” Sady replied, no longer caught in a maze of admiration, but approaching the edge of angst. She wanted out. If it hadn’t been for the twelve-hour trek here, she’d have gladly absconded. As it stood, she wasn’t wasting the twenty-dollar admission charge, or the long ride over. Still, they could move things along.        “So, onto the next display then,” Sady verbally nudged.         As she turned left, readying to wander to the next attraction, Toby gasped. “Fuck!” He yelled.         Sady whipped back to the Ripper display. “What is it?”         “He blinked.”         She shuddered. “What?” Sady heard clearly, though she prayed he had misspoken. Winked. Linked. Tinked. Clinked. A list of rhyming words spun in her mind, none of which quite fit.         “Ripper fucking blinked!” He uttered, backing up, eyes pulled open with distress.         “Seriously?” Sady tried mockery on for size. It didn’t fit. Mainly because she knew in the pit of her stomach that Toby wasn’t crazy. And there’d been something off about this place the second they’d plopped one foot inside.         “Do I sound like I am fucking joking?”         Sady marked the question as rhetorical. “Wanna go?”         Toby answered instantly. “Fuck yes!”         Sady grew more scared with each second. Her friend only swore this much during times of great anger, or fear. She’d hazard a guess that blinking wax people didn’t enrage him. More than likely, they tightened his chest with fright.         They swung around, ready to dash out. “You’re not leaving,” a voice grumbled.         Both Sady and Toby froze, blending in with the wax figures. “What was that?” Toby whispered, dread strangling each word.         “I don’t know,” she responded, equally quiet, voice also burdened with dread.         Against their better judgement, they turned to face the Ripper attraction. Their eyes landed on the vacant space before the carriage that he’d previously filled. He no longer stood there. Somewhere among the sculptures, a wax statue, rebelling both logic and science, lurked.         Was he dangerous? What the hell’s goin’ on? Are we safe? How is this possible? Questioned hinged on science poured into their grey matter, making the situation not only horrifying but perplexing.         Sady cried out. It rioted through the basement, flipping off walls. “We need to get the hell out of here.” Her hand found his, dragging him to the stairway.         As they turned and landed a foot on the bottom step, the door to the top of the stairs squeaked open. Unruly light swilled the steps, bringing attention to the dust swimming like fish in a bowl. Their assumptions about the termite-ravaged steps had been accurate. The wooden platforms held ridges, like the base of cliffs eroded by the vicious lashings of the sea.         Beyond the wearing wood, at the now-open door, suffused in sunlight, stood the senior lady. In such poor basement light, they struggled to see anything beyond her silhouette.         “What the fuck is going on down here?” She raged.         “The….the…. it blinked. Then moved…..” Toby stuttered, fear-stricken.         “What did?” She snapped.         “The god damn wax things!” Toby answered, irritation adding to the flavour of fret in his tone.         “Oh Jesus, you woke them up? You assholes!”         Sady quivered, her upper arms coated in goosebumps. What?        “They…they, as in people?” Toby grasped for comprehension, baffled beyond explanation.         “No, they ain’t people you retard.”         Sady hated that word, almost as much as the ‘N’ word. But she let it slide, given the unfolding strangeness.         “But they still have hearts, you monsters.”         We’re the monsters? Is she fucking high? Toby almost wanted to laugh, had it not been for the unravelling scene of bizarre fuckery.         Sady became dizzy, mind fogging with discombobulation. She quivered in fits of fear, suddenly aware her back faced the abundance of wax statues, that were apparently alive. The darkness grew horns. There wasn’t anything wonderful about this anymore. They wanted out.         “And appetites,” she uttered, anger no longer clenching every word.         “Appetites?” Sady mumbled.         “Well of course, how do you think they look and feel so life like?” She cackled.         Before the question set in, the hag slammed the door shut, letting darkness prevail once more. Shuffles, scuffles, and eerie moans played out. Toby turned, followed by Sady. Though the orangey globes of brightness appeared significantly dimmer. Then, in a beat, each light casting veils of amber over each display, cut out completely.         “Oh shit, oh shit,” Toby chanted, nestling into Sady.         “Wake up boys, it’s suppertime,” uttered a man with a refined British accent. Shame about the demonic growl that followed, met with an eardrum-shattering shriek from Sady and Toby.
'Waxy Nightmares' is a short horror story from 'Terrors That Tingle'. To download a copy for ONLY 99 CENTS, head over to Amazon.com today!

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            I can’t believe it, Brad thought. I’m finally here. It was true. All of it. All the chatter and rumours weren’t the delusions of bored housewives and gossipmongers fixin’ for a dollop of drama. It exists. It stands. It’s here. A bar so hazardous it doesn’t even have a name, where the guest list is incredibly exclusive. All I could do was hope I’d get in without triggering any alarms. Well, dip me in shit and roll me in breadcrumbs!
        Brad stood among trees and dirt, discreetly plotted on the outskirts of a forest, yet still in the thicket of greenery as to remain incognito while surveying his surroundings. His eyes were glued to the bar, situated in a clearing, yet off the beaten path, a good mile or so from the road.         In reality, it was nothing more than a barn. No attention would be paid, should it be seen by a traveller or hiker. The poorly painted wood wore chips and lines of negligence. There were no windows, for obvious reasons. A fair amount of roof shingles had shed, remnants of which littered the ground among grass and gravel, twined in pesky weeds, and dusted in muck.         “Fuck me sideways!” Brad whispered, feeling like a little kid sneaking out after bedtime. It felt naughty and mischievous, but oh so good.         Ever since Pam from the post office had caught him glugging a beer at the local pub, she’d rushed over, well technically waddled as Pam weighed in at over four hundred pounds, and informed him of the secret bar for those dark folk over yonder.         Brad expected nothing more than boring stories about alcohol-fuelled fights, theft, underage pregnancies, or other mundane indiscretions that played out in the many small towns of Texas. But Pam could have pushed him over with a feather when her words rolled out.         No sooner than Pam had filled him in, had Brad poured into research and checked on things. He wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box, in fact some days he couldn’t even bring himself to light, but when he applied himself, he was more capable than even he himself knew.         Days later, and here he stood, his neck chomped by the bitter wind. Better than the skeeters! Excitement coursed through his veins. Brad had never felt so alive, ironically, given the establishment he was minutes away from entering.         He leaned against a nearby tree, the moist bark rubbing against his denim jacket. He’d wanted to dress in darker clothing, but his wardrobe boasted nothing but denim jeans, oil-stained tank tops, stripy shirts, and cowboy boots. He didn’t exactly help the stereotype of all Texans being dumbass, bigoted, white trash folk with an unhealthy relationship with religion, by his limited closet. But Brad wasn’t religious, in fact, he didn’t care for it in the slightest. And as far as other quirks of society went, live and let love was his motto.         He had intelligent thoughts and a wise outlook on life, he just lacked the diction and vocabulary to accurately explain his philosophy. Not that anyone in his town would care. Small towns engender small minds. Ambition was the spawn of Satan. Simplicity and monotony were the purest scruples of which to live by.         Where had my funeral suit been? Gone Missin’. That really dills my pickle. Brad idly thought, his eyes unflexing, fixed on the door. There were no signs. No beating music. No drunken fools stumbling out. No one hunching over and sprinkling the ground in vomit. No violent interactions. No sexual encounters took place down any shadowy or hidden areas close by. No car parks.  Of course, why would they need car parks? Brad face-palmed his idiocy.         Then again, this was a first. How was he to prepare for this? This was beyond normal. He’d struggled to comprehend Pam’s words. He’d for sure thought she was madder than a mental patient. Though, after tucking into books and scrolling through blogs and various websites, turns out she wasn’t the only person that had heard these disturbing rumours.         I should be scared. I should run. I should call someone. But I was oddly drawn to this place, beyond any depiction or justification I can muster. Bat shit crazy, I must be! Never mind, every dog should have a few fleas.         Then two of them came, sending Brad’s pulse up a few notches. They came as if from nowhere, springing from the bushes. Each was decked out in leather, reflecting streaks of moonlight. Had Brad not known any better, he would have deemed this place a leather bar, s-and-m joint, or biker hangout. But nope. In this case, he knew better. I wonder why they wear leather, do they like the texture? Do they have a heightened sense of touch? They get off on it?         They moved with an odd yet alarming grace, swaying with every step. Long unruly hair spilled from each, whipping in the breeze. Yet by the difference in figures – one was burly and tall while the other was a streak of skin and bones – Brad assumed male and female. Do they have sexes? Are they all one species? All questions he could ask, if he had the balls once in the demon’s lair.         Was this stupid? Am I asking to die? Do I have a death wish? More disparaging thoughts piled into his grey matter, giving the concept of retreat serious consideration. All his life Brad had just toddled along. School. Construction. Bar on Saturdays. Fishing on Sundays. The same dull routine for the last decade. He needed something more, something exhilarating, dangerous even. And this certainly qualified. Even if he met his end tonight, he’d die happy and fulfilled.         “Come on Brad, quit being a pussy. Quit your piddlin’ around and get to work!” He whispered, but with sternness giving power to his words.         Put they’ll know you’re not one of them. They’ll no as soon as look at you! They’ll kill you before you even get inside.         “Quit it you whiney-ass little bitch!” Again, he muttered to himself, choking himself in encouragement, hoping it would start a fire in his heels.         And seconds after the words had been uttered, he crept from the bushes and strolled to the entrance. His heart thumped louder than 4th July fireworks. A miserable life of monotony had one benefit, he’d never die of a heart attack. Maybe high cholesterol, alcohol poising, gun shot, or drunk driver, but never the thundering of a heart that comes from true thrills of an exhilarating life.         He stifled chills. Denim didn’t stave off the prickly night air, it clung onto the cold. The chilly air slithered beneath his wife beater ribbed tank and tickled his chest, ruffling an embarrassing amount of body hair. Perhaps they’d mark me a werewolf? Don’t be a fucking fool. Werewolves don’t exist. Wait, do they? It’s possible. Hell, anything’s possible in this world.         “Jesus Christ, it’s as cold as balls in a freezer out here,” he mumbled, tucking each hand into his jacket pocket. Then again, I suppose temperature isn’t really an issue for them.         Come on, you gotta shake this off. These things don’t get cold, remember. You gotta fit in. You’re clothing ain’t working in your favour. So you gotta at least act the part numb-nuts!        With that in mind, Brad quickly brought one hand out from the jacket and messed his blonde hair, hoping it would give him a crazed appearance. Though some of these creatures dressed with style and grace, others looked fresh out of a pig farm. Guess it’s all about how you act. Just play the part. Confidence is key.         The two ahead of him tugged open the door and sank into a chasm of darkness. Makes sense, but I hope there is some light. I didn’t have superhuman night vision like these suckers.         Brad approached the door. Peeled ruby paint. Or was it blood? Up close, the wood’s shambles became even clearer. Planks of wood wore sleeves of furry mould, while others darkened with rot. The door had once upon a time been painted in order to stand out from the bulk of wood surrounding it. But that time had passed. Now the door was only noticeable by a rectangular line, and stray wisps of rosy paint hanging off. And of course, a golden door handle.         Not that I expected a silver handle, obviously. That would sizzle their flesh off, if that part of the legend was true. I should have worn silver. I should have at least prepared for an altercation. Ahh, fuck it in the ass. Too late now.         Already the scent of the night went from that of dirt and shrubbery, to leather and the distinct metallic tinge of blood. His throat became parched. If at all possible, the air seemed colder the closer he got to the bar, oddly enough. Then again, these monsters defied logic with their mere existence, rationality wouldn’t be the theme of this night, Brad knew that.         He wrapped his hand around the knob. Cold. Wet. Brad gulped. Grow some balls cocksucker!        Summoning all the white-trash macho bravado he could manage, Brad lightly pulled the door open. His expectations had been minimal, he’d thought less of what lay inside, and concentrated more on getting there. His beat-up navy truck had barely made the one hour journey, given that it usually only needed to get Brad from home to work, and back again. Everywhere else in town was within walking distance. And he seldom left town, to his disdain. He’d mentioned road trips and exploring the world, but none of his neighbours were fond of the idea. They were beyond homebodies, small minds that resisted change with every bone in their body.         Though thoughts of the inside had idly occurred to him. Dark. Coffins. A freaky-ass fucker singing bizarreness into the bar. Hungry fiends ravaging some poor soul’s neck. Or in some wacky part of his mind, the more comical lobe, he’d casually thought of biting competitions, and rather than keg stands, there’d be blood tank stands. Staring contests. Flying contests, after mutating into bats that is. If they could indeed turn into winged creatures, Brad was hazy on that part. This experience would be eye-opening to say the least. This wasn’t a cult movie or teen-catered vampire fiction where true love forms between human and fanged demon. This was reality, and with reality, comes consequences. Injury. Loss of limbs. Death.         Brad knew all this and still continued. On the outside, he’d portrayed confidence with just a hint of arrogance. Internally however, his fragile heart was fear-frazzled, banging against his rib cage. His hands, swinging freely at his sides, were clammy, slick from sweat. In fact, he practically bathed in perspiration. His torso was soaked in it, gluing the tank to his damp flesh, clumping his chest hair together.         Trickles trailed his forehead, sloping under his chin and running down his neck, working through an untidy growth of stubble. Even his ass perspired. He thanked his senses for foregoing underwear, right about now they’d be digging into his ass. Brad often skipped underwear. Real men don’t need those pansy-ass things, his father had once said in one of his drunken hazes. Just a way for greedy corporate companies to make money.         His dad felt the same way about hair product, mouth wash, cologne, socks, and dishwashers. Pretty much anything that challenged a simplistic, primitive way of living.         Brad had believed his father, until one fishing trip while changing, he’d caught a glimpse of his saggy-ass scrotum. His testes were only a few inches away from playing footsy with himself. They could crush a grasshopper! He’d thought. From then on, Brad tried to remember underpants. He didn’t want no droopy nuts. What pussy would he ever get with a sack resembling stringy putty? Probably a monstrous gash with pubes a plenty and a droopy hood of a clit, unclean and stinking of expired tuna.         They can’t see underneath my clothes. And even if they do see the sweat glazing me, who’s to say it wasn’t rain or something? Fuck, it wasn’t raining. Do vamps sweat? Knock it off fuckwit.         In he went, into the black abyss. The door slammed violently behind him, as if of its own accord. Did this bar have a mind of its own? Would it let me out? Was this a trap? Stop bein’ a lily-livered son-of-a-bitch!        For a moment, blackness engulfed Brad. Shivers ran up his arms. He blotted his hands against his jeans, before quickly backhanding sweat from his forehead. The cool and aloof vamp wouldn’t sweat this much, if at all. With their insides dead, I’d bet they couldn’t perspire if they made it their eternal life’s mission.         Then light came. If you could call it that. Dots of crimson hung from the badly plastered walls. Cheap lanterns emitted subtle red light. Red lights, go figure. As welcome as a skunk at a lawn party.        Dents and gaping holes were plotted around, as if the walls were the skin of an individual who’d suffered from severe acne at high school and whose flesh was now marked with several pits, letting shadows swim in the dents.         I fought the instinct to verbally express my shock. What in tarnation almost slipped for my mouth. Instead, I chewed my lips, as both a way to keep my words to myself, and elevate some nerves.         Brad’s cowboy boots clanked on the mahogany floor, that ran throughout the entire bar. Burgundy cushioned seats clustered around. Cherry candles weighed down tiny circular tables, flickering light into the ominous surroundings. Posters and paintings of vampire mythology were nailed to the walls, wearing coats of dust. Well, I guess not mythology, but a sort of demonic family tree.         Webs decorated most furnishings, as if this wasn’t a vampire’s joint, but an arachnid nest. The thought of creepy spiders scurrying from the abundant darkness compelled him to suppress a quiver.         As his eyes adapted, he became aware of a bar to his right. More mahogany wood. Shelves carrying liquor. To the naked eye, it resembled nothing more than a regular bar. A man with short jet-black hair moseyed over.         “What’ll it be?” He asked.         Brad struggled to understand his words. Was he eating? Then he caught sight of it: the fangs. Long. White. Sharp. He fought not to look at them, choosing to appear ignorant. If anything was a guarantee about tonight’s endeavour, it was fangs. It’d be fang-tastic! Yet seeing them up close proved to be much harder than he’d imagined, bunched among ordinary human-looking teeth.         What do I order? Do they have blood drinks, or just alcohol?         “Erm….” While he let his eyes travel the many shelves behind the barman, he also discreetly snatched a look at other patrons. Beer bottles. Cocktails. Tall glasses of what was presumably rum and soda. No steins of blood or milkshakes of human guts. No steaming pots of viscera. No bar snacks of hearts or livers. No self-serve fountain drinks of varying blood types from AB negative to AB positive, and temperatures from hot, iced or slushy.         Before letting fluster mutate to fear, Brad let words roll. “Beer. Any.”         It took everything to keep his words flat and emotionless, not letting the shakes vibrate through them with obvious nervousness. Cool as a cucumber, whatever the fuck that meant. It should be cool as a pair of shades, or as cool as a smoker aboard a motorbike. Not that he smoked, or ever cared too. The wealth of yellowing teeth in his town acted as a stern deterrent.         “Coming right up,” he replied, toneless, alarming normal. He wore all black. Shirt. Trousers. Shoes. Which contrasted greatly with the pale pallor of his flesh, as if he’d absorbed part of the moon’s lustre.         He reached into a fridge, retrieving a bottle, and in a blur, flicked the cap off. No need for a bottle opener when his nails were as pointed as daggers. The vampire barman thumped the beer onto the counter, sloshing foam over the neck. It dribbled down the green bottle, soaking the label. Brad would have brought this to his attention, had he not been scared shitless.         “Five dollars,” he uttered, offering his hand.         Brad dug into his jeans and brought out a five-dollar bill, passing it to the man. The tip of his index finger made contact with the bloodsucker’s palm. Brad held in a flinch. Ice cold. Again, shouldn’t be surprising, but the realness of everything proved disturbing. Wait, did he feel my body heat? Does he know I’m human? Guess I need to avoid physical contact.         He took the cash with a toothy “Thank you,” before turning into the bar, restocking the shelves.        Now what? Do I go take a load off and enjoy my beer as if I were in a normal establishment?         Brad pondered his next move. But time was key, too long would suggest unfamiliarity and thus give him away as a mortal. He needed to remain confident and calm, as if he belonged here. Treat it as nothing more than a bar, plain and simple. And what would he or anyone else do in a bar after purchasing a drink? Take a load off.         Brad let his eyes roam the place, seeking out a vacant slab of cushion for his rump. Preferably he wanted an isolated booth or stray single chair by a table shoved into a dark corner. But each seat came with a table, and each table glowed with the dancing flame of a candle.         He wandered through the blackness, passing tables without landing an eye on a single creature of the night. Act as if in prison, stand tall but avoid eye contact. It’s just a bar. Brad told himself, clinging to denial. Albeit, it’s much darker, with an air of danger, stink of blood, and little conversation. They seemed to enjoy solitude and silence, taking residence on a table entirely by themselves. Were social interactions frowned upon? Was it socially unacceptable? There were only a few tiny congregations wagging their tongues behind keen-edged fangs, somewhat discreetly.         The little chitter chatter Brad heard, mimicked the same effect as the barman’s vocalisations, as if the speakers held mouthfuls of food. After his brief encounter with the barman, he knew it was nothing more than the fangs prohibiting clear speech, which a vamp was no doubt familiar with.         From the gloom, Brad caught sight of an empty table. Only one chair. That’s all he needed. All he wanted. No company. Any average night at his town bar he’d drown the sad existence he called life by getting some Dutch courage inside him and hitting on the prettiest girl in the place. Brad was easy on the eyes: trim figure, blonde hair, baby face, even with a light coating of stubble. Especially when his neighbours and other townspeople looked as if they’d been beaten every which way by the ugly stick and with the dental work of a caveman. Compared to them, he was Adonis.         Brad slumped into his chair, his ass cushioned by the seat. He quietly tucked himself under the table, not wanting to provoke any chair-leg-screeching and bring undead attention to his neck, among other things. He cradled the beer, taking a sip. The cold bubbles felt good. His insides had been alight ever since stepping inside, boiling from anxiousness. Luckily the freezer temperature of the business helped him stave off the sweats. Only these sweats weren’t from a chronic hangover, but a fear-induced perspiration.         He took another sip before settling in, or attempting too. Again, he found himself thinking. What now? Drink and then leave? No way. That’d be a waste of gas. That would be no adventure he could tell his buddies on their next fishing trip. In all honesty, even stepping foot inside this venue would impress their tiny minds. But this wasn’t about them. Brad needed something to keep going, a reason to live. There has to be more than work, beer, and fishing. Otherwise he’d end his miserable, God-forsaken life right this second and offer himself to a blood-drainer.         Just chill. Take a look around. Following his own orders, Brad let his eyes do the walking and the few toothy mumblers do the talking. He followed the spots of candle light to fangers sat statue-like still. Some drank cocktails. Others teased liquor and soda through straws. And a few let beers sit at their table, more than likely giving them a reason to be here, not looking out of place. When it was Brad that would be considered unwelcome should they find out he had a beating heart.         Brad, barely given time to drink his surroundings, noticed a shuffling among the creepsters. Each shot their heads to the back of the bar, where a luminous glow came from. A stage light. A stage. Small. Under the sudden burst of illumination, came a ghost-white vamp, attired in a cloak, finished off with a hood that cast a veil of shadows over their face.         He slid across the floor, before throwing his hood back and off his head. Bald. Wrinkled. Brad had never seen an old one before. He’d never seen one in the flesh before in general, but he’d never heard of an ancient vampire. Everyone knew they stopped ageing the second they were turned by their sire. Thus halting the biological clock indefinitely, until a human had the luck and strength to jam a stake into their un-beating heart. Who’d turn a croakster? Their blood can’t be too fresh, tasting less of sweet syrup and more akin to expired tomato soup.          “Welcome to the first show of the night,” his arms waved around, as his eyes flirted with the crowd. Those few words were met with hisses and growls. Was that good or bad? Normal or abnormal? Fang-tastic or a fang shame? Tingles ran up his arms regardless. A sliver of sweat ran down his back. This abrupt outburst of vampiric excitement proved unsettling.         Brad faked a demonic hiss, hoping it would appease and blend into the deadliness. Though he didn’t care too much, given most monsters didn’t move their gaze from the cloaked entertainer.         Brad looked closer at him. What was all the fuss about? Old. Agreed. He had the crepey type of skin that came from complete croakster status. Circles ran around his eyes. Both lips were crinkly and dry. He continued to accept his applause through animalistic noises, as he held his palms out, modestly suggesting they suck in their encouragement for time being as to get on with the show.         Each hand, in keeping with his haggard face, wore lines on loose skin. Although one thing this senior teeth-sinker didn’t have that separated him from elderly humans, was the lack of brown spots or any other sun damage. And the nails stretched out inches from his hands, with pointed peaks. Guess he didn’t need to buy razors or blades for shaving. With nails and fangs, this vamp could flay a human skinless in seconds.         The bar man’s nails hadn’t been quite so long, if Brad recalled correctly. Were nails the only part of a vamp’s anatomy that continued to grow after being turned? And the closer to natural death you are before becoming a faction of the undead, the longer your nails grow? There was so much about the blood-seekers that was unknown, therein lay the mystery of this superhuman race. That’s probably how they liked it.         The sounds gurgling and leaking from fanged beings, simmered. All eyes remained on the showman. He rubbed a middle finger against his thumb, sending a click into the audience, striking focus in all of them, two cloaked fangsters came from behind a burgundy curtain that hung behind, towards the back of the stage. Much younger, both men, and each with a head of brunette hair. But they didn’t come alone. They dragged a struggling young lady onto the stage.         Brad gulped. Now his manliness and morals were in question. This woman needed help. Does he risk his backside and attempt to free her? Or stay seated and let guilt drag him into a pity party later?         The suffering lady didn’t wear a stitch of clothing. Brad liked chicks slim, but this was beyond his preference. Bones jutted from snowy flesh. Purple and blue veins snaked around her trembling limbs. Dots blemished her skin. Hold up.         Brad instantly noticed a pattern. Two dots, side by side, ran over her body. Bite marks. Crusty dry blood creased as she bucked wildly. Her scraggly auburn hair whipped around as she lashed out the best she could. Though the two vampires paid no heed.         They held her by the arms, tugging her along as her feet scraped against the stage floor. Neither held a trace of emotion in their sullen faces, neither annoyed or amused by her thrashing. Then came her cries, as she was brought to the master. Shrill. Loud. Blood-curdling. The girl was terrified, without a shadow of a doubt.         Brad squeezed his bottle; it was all he could do to stay his impulse to stop this madness. His gut told him to rush up there and save the damsel in distress. But the other saner and smarter portion of his brain ordered him to stay put and leave when the show was over, before he became an encore or tomorrow night’s entertainment.         Adding to his horror, the crowd laughed, finding the girl’s pleas for help highly comical. Yet their laughs weren’t chuckles or giggles like in a comedy club. They were demonic. These low-pitched chortles scratched the air. Though Brad was growing more disturbed by the second, he feigned laughter and amusement, rather than the emotions that exploded in him: terror and bowel-squirming dread.         Chains fell from the stage ceiling like a snake springing from a rainforest tree. Cuffs dangled free. The two cloaksters cuffed her in place with ease, despite her resistance. The instant she was fixed in place, the two helpers vanished behind the curtains, leaving the older vamp to take over.         “Show time,” he sniggered.         The primal roars and other vampiric exclamations of excitement were once again the music of the night. Again, Brad attempted to fit in by releasing a growl of his own. Fortunately, after many a meeting with stray dogs, he’d had experience throwing out an aggressive growl or two. Like before, it seemed to do the trick. It pulled the wool over their eyes, for now. If he was ordered to sink his teeth into someone and render them bloodless however, his fraudster status as a wannabe-vamp would be as clear as glass.         “Now, who is to take the first bite…” he pondered, squinting his eyes into even more wrinkles, perusing the onlookers.         Oh fuck. Not me. Not me. Brad’s pulse thrashed wildly in his chest. His hand quivered around the bottle, while his other trembled on the table. What if I don’t look, would that be rude? Would that draw attention to me rather than from me? Nervousness made an instrument of me.         He struggled to land on a decision, eyes darting madly from the ancient vamp to his bottle. Until eventually, despite being one among a couple dozen, swaddled in blackness, the elder vamp’s eyes landed on Brad, smiling.         Christ on a mother-fucking cracker! Please no. This was a right shit sandwich. It would be nothing for Brad to piss his pants, or worse, but he maintained control of his bladder, for the time being.         Flashes of horror-encouraged heat spiked his torso, running up and down his chest and stomach, before breaking out along his back.         Those lengthy, withered fingers unravelled towards Brad, before bending inwards, beckoning him onstage. Every last bloodsucker, including the barman, locked their eyes on Brad. His mouth dried, feeling like sandpaper against his tongue. It slipped out and smoothed along his lips, which also appeared drier than usual. Fear apparently chipped away at his moisture levels, sweeping a Sahara dryness throughout him.         “You, kind sir, come on up, taste the fluid of life,” he sang euphorically, as if the mere concept of Brad drinking would give the ageing fangster a bloody boner. An awful image of pre-blood seeping from the tip of his manhood leapt into Brad’s mind. He abstained from letting a look of disdain scrunch up his face. Do vamps even ejaculate? Do they shoot blanks? I have never heard of vampire babies, so I assume they fire empty loads, yet maybe they still receive the same satisfaction? That gratuitous sensation still alive, despite delivering no goods.         Brad uncurled his fingers from the bottle and stood, pulse so prominent it shook his vision, giving the already nightmarish setting a new level of surrealism.         Through his pulsing sight, pounding heart, and floppy legs, it took all he had to remain upright and appear unfazed. Then it hit him like an axe to the head. Appearing unaffected wasn’t enough. He needed to wear a convincing smile, one born of excitement and hunger.         The corners of his mouth sunk into his cheeks, which he knew would form dimples from Saturday night self-admiration in the mirror before heading to the bar to bone any willing female. Smile - check. Now he needed to add a sinister glaze to his eyes. From many scary flicks and serial killer documentaries, he knew how to play the more malicious role. Lower the head so shadows swim into slopes of the face, while adding an undeniable amount of evil to the eyes themselves. Think of Satan. Put yourself in the shoes of a merciless murderer who relishes each and every kill. Eyes – check.         Keep this going. You just gotta bite her. Bite her? With what? I ain’t got no fangs! Anxiety-laced reality hammered into Brad. Wait. I may have no fangs, but I have teeth. They should break skin. Right? Brad certainly hoped so.         They’ll know. They’ll figure it out. They’ll feed on her and me! I’d become nothing more than a sack of blood, which they’d pierce effortlessly and drain. Stop it, for Pete’s sake!         Brad deterred pending thoughts of pessimism and focused on the simplest of tasks: placing one foot in front of the other, as if learning to walk for the first time.         Strolling to the wrinkly vamp, Brad felt as if he’d time-travelled into the past. The round mahogany tables holding candles became square slabs of inexpensive wood, with open textbooks and stationery plonked on them. The bloodsuckers became nosey students, not watching with an appetite for death, but for something sweeter, the sight of humiliation. Brad wasn’t heading for a hot mouthful of blood, but a strict teacher commanding him to read some essay on a dead politician or a boring historical event.         As a school kid, he’d often reminded himself that school is just a few years of life, just the start of the journey, and that it’d be over in a tick. Though right now, under the glare of demonic entities and making way towards a stage to ravage and feed on some innocent woman, he begged to be back in a world of chalkboards and tasteless, chemical-laden, cafeteria food.         The growls intensified as Brad approached the stage. The stink of body odour hit him square in the face, almost compelling him to recoil in disgust. That poor lady, naked and stinking of sweat. Strings of perspiration-coated hair stretched down her forehead, wiggling like worms in a can with every try at escape she made. With each yank to free her wrists from the fierce clutches of the chains, her breasts jiggled. Brad however, found no eroticism in this motion. Those tits, perky and soft, swinging as she struggled, did nothing to put the led in his pencil. If anything, it stirred guilt. Remorse bloomed. This female had been rendered nothing more than a slab of meat, used for her blood.         By the thicket of pubic hair above and around her orifice, she’d clearly been in containment for a while. Hair even sprouted at her arm pits, as if she were some French lady taking a stand for feminism.         Brad, entire self throbbing with fear, crept to a couple of steps to the right of the stage, and took them steadily and reluctantly, until he became bathed in the flood of the stage light. One plus? He could hardly make out any audience members. If he didn’t let his eyes linger for too long, he could easily picture these monstrosities of the night, as human beings.         “Now then, what’s your name?” He asked, the words slithering from his mouth between two pricked fangs.         “Brad,” he forced out, not giving nervousness a chance to alter his stern tone.         “Well then Brad, it’s your lucky night,” he slapped her ass, provoking a squeal from her.         Her wailing had since dulled, less of a shriek and more of a defeated murmur. Even her once energetic convulsions had become the occasional twinge. She’d flopped, letting the burden of her weight fall entirely on the cuffs. She hung, a vision of hopelessness, a skeleton with a tight binding.         Under the unflattering fluorescence of the stage bulb, bruises, welts, scratches and bites became all the more visible. Lumps deformed her shape. Purple, green, and blueish tints coloured those various lumps that made a field out of her back, a field full of hills that at winter time under a rug of snow, would make for great sledding.         “Take as much as you require,” he offered, pulling her hair into a bundle and considerately shoving it aside, giving Brad easy access to her neck without having to pluck at a strand of her mane.         Brad psyched himself up, whilst retaining his insidious exterior. Fucking do it you pansy-ass bitch-tits!         He closed in, coming to a crossroads. Fake a feed, or run for his life. Though, in a room full of fiends, he’d make it one step – if that – before one or more leapt onto him and made a meal out of his flesh. No. He knew the only sane choice was to pose as a vampire. Despite his conscience blaring no. I’m so sorry. He thought, partly hoping she had telepathic abilities and could hear those words, thereby accepting his apology and understanding his motive. Here it goes.         Brad widened his mouth, fighting a rather stubborn gag reflex, determined to compromise his ability to see this though. As he was about to take a bite, a click resounded. A frown fell between his brows. His mouth rounded as the word ‘what’ almost slipped out. It didn’t, thankfully, but he did notice something odd.         The inside of his lips, in the pre-form of a word, felt an intrusion of teeth. He’d had these teeth close to twenty years, after losing his baby ones. Unlike most in his town, he regularly stroked his teeth with a heavily pasted brush, keeping in good dental health. He’d seen townsfolk toothless and rancid. Or being young and already having dentures. Nah, he didn’t fancy that at all. Plus, Brad imagined he wouldn’t get near as much pussy with a mouth full of rotting and / or missing teeth. Or the pussy wouldn’t be nearly as delicious. A fat bitch with an overgrown, unsanitary orifice.         But this, this felt different. His entire mouth became foreign. His tongue examined some more, sliding along his teeth, poking between each tooth, prodding gums. Ouch. Mother fucker!        Something pricked his tongue. Sharp. Jagged. Blood doused his mouth. “What the fuck?”         This time the words didn’t stay safely confined in his mind, but tumbled from his tongue. Shit. What now? The fanged monsters looked with furrowed brows and other expressions of confusion. A few wore looks of irritation, conjuring dread within Brad.        While some, to Brad’s dismay, had embarrassment written over their deadly pale visages. Not embarrassed for themselves, but for him. He wasn’t sure which was worse, having pissed of fangsters hissing at him, or ashamed vamps judging him.         Caught up in his own web of curiosity, Brad ran a finger along his teeth. Fuck. His finger suffered the same discomfort as his tongue. Pricked. Unlike his tongue, his fingers offered a much more thorough examination, feeling out the shape and location of these sharp teeth. Holy shit. What in the world? Christ on a crutch! Left. Right. Yeah. Holy shit-balls! I’m a mother-fuckin’ vampire!        “Do it,” a rather bold vamp sprang up, yelling with impatience, commanding Brad to feed.         Less by his own will and more by some primal instinct, he sank his teeth into the tender flesh of the woman. They slid in with enormous ease, piercing skin with a complete lack of effort on his part, almost as if she wanted it. As if the skin was a willing vagina, welcoming the intrusion of a trouser snake.         Brad waited for disgust. He prepared to swallow his own barf. He had a collection of images waiting in line, their jobs to invoke hunger in him by thinking of greasy cheeseburgers or well-filled pies, or delectable desserts, or thirst-quenching beer. But as it turns out, they weren’t needed.         They dissipated into the shadows of his mind. Instead, he found the taste of her rather pleasant. In fact, he found himself sucking harder, reaching around and fiddling with her breasts, as if to do so would let the blood flow freer. When all his fondle did was create a chorus of demonic laughter throughout the bar. Sneaking through the laughs, were cheers and hollers, and other sounds of encouragement.         Before he knew it, whilst draining the girl, the entire place exploded into chants.         “Brad. Brad. Brad. Brad.” And on and on and on.         More surprisingly, wood grew in his jeans. His stiff member pushed against the zipper, fortunately slipping past and twisting horizontally, forming a protrusion at his left pocket. This hadn’t gone unnoticed if the wolf whistles were any indication.         Mid-slurp, he eyed the crowd. They worshipped him. Once a human, a stranger to these parts, now a legend. But would it be short-lived, like a one-hit-popstar-wonder? If he hoped to keep the crowd satisfied, he’d have to think outside the coffin.         This drove him to fall to his knees and plant his mouth around her opening. Wet. Sweaty. Somewhat fish scented. He didn’t linger on the smell too much, before hacking into the femoral artery. He sighed with ecstasy, greedily slurping with gusto. He gripped her thighs, widening them as he continued to drain her, pussy first.         As expected, the crowd grew wild. They’d advanced from hoots and cheers, to foot stomping and thudding their beverages against the table. Despite his eyes being closed, Brad knew the bar tender even egged on the performance.         He knew nothing of this ability, of knowing something with all certainty without using either eyeball. Maybe a part of the vampire history that got left out of the books and webpages? Some form of psychic mind-reading?Whatever the case, he loved it. Who wouldn’t love a sixth sense?        Brad had no idea how he’d somehow been a vampire all along. Had he some form of fang-nesia? Short term fang-loss, or would it be long term? Or did the action of getting up with the intention to bite cause the change?        In a new world, of new questions with little answers of yet, he knew one thing for sure. His life would never be boring again. Fangs and thrills. Teeth and tits. Blood and boobs. Sinister snatch. Dark and delectable. Coffin and…well…you get the idea. 

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The following is a short story from Wesley's upcoming collection 'Terrors That Tingle'. 

     Alfred was a peculiar man; society shunned him wherever he went. Childhood was difficult for such a character. He found no pleasure in regular pastimes such as reading, TV, or the internet. Serial killers, taxidermy, and hunting were the key to Alfred’s heart, not that he wanted a relationship. The sixty-year-old had never been a people person. The second he turned eighteen he left home and never looked back. He worked any job that didn’t require too much contact with people. A childhood therapist claimed he was simply an introvert, but the explanation was simpler still: he just didn’t like people. Then, around the age of forty, he surprised himself by opening a store.        This was no ordinary store. It was a doll store. Surprisingly, the shop became a success. People flocked to see the incredible work of one Mr Alfred Thompson. Doll fanatics were amazed and even passers-by couldn’t resist taking a peek inside. He was a hit. Alfred even learned to deal with people, regardless of his disdain for them.  However, despite initial success, people eventually grew tired of dolls. He became a one-hit wonder of wooden dolls.
        Alfred, never one to give up at the first hurdle, found a resolution. He travelled from country to country. He would rent store space for several months, then when the hype wore off, move on. This worked well for almost twenty years, but little did anyone know, his inspiration was drifting.        Alfred worried, until he rented store space in the quaint British village of Holmfirth. Mere days after his arrival, word had spread throughout the entire village. Nosey residents swung by to see the grey-haired man and his exquisite creations. There was nothing unusual about his first week in Holmfirth. No one knew the man was considering retiring, until a young girl came by his store one day after school and gave him the inspiration he needed.
***        Zoe was a young girl of thirteen, who had no friends and lived in a foster home. Nobody paid her any attention. With unkempt frizzy hair, huge glasses, and dishevelled clothing, people preferred to ignore her existence. Zoe’s foster parents only cared for her as they received financial benefits from the government. She knew this. So, the young girl kept her nose buried in a book and out of people’s business.        After overhearing two kids at school gossiping about a new doll store in the village, Zoe was uncharacteristically eager to check it out. As luck would have it, the new store stood only minutes from her house.         One Monday, after the school bells rang and the gates creaked open, Zoe scurried ahead of her classmates and headed for ‘A Doll’s World’. Not the most original name, but she hoped to be pleasantly surprised.         The typical British weather of rain and wind chilled Zoe’s bare calves, and ruffled her grey school skirt. She gripped the handles of her backpack tighter, as the afternoon chill grew colder. Her oversized yellow bubble coat warmed her torso, but didn’t stop the wind prickling her face and neck. By the time she reached the cobbled street, her face beamed red. Her eyes watered from the cold. Her nose ran.        Numb and shivering, Zoe found herself in front of ‘A Doll’s World.’ She pressed up against the smooth window pane and peered inside. What was normally bare brick walls and a cement floor, had been filled with wooden shelves and a table holding an outdated cash register.
        Zoe’s eyes fell on an ageing man working in the far corner. Holding a tiny knife, he carved a doll’s face. Wooden shavings sprinkled the now linoleum floor. The teenager questioned how he could work in such meagre light. Save for the receding daylight pooling the floor near the windows, darkness consumed the rest of the store. The many dolls formed shadows on the shelves.         “Eurgh!” Zoe found herself whispering. Dolls had always creeped her out yet simultaneously fascinated her. These were big. They were almost as big as her. There were boys and girls in various clothing and costumes. Expensive looking wigs sat atop their heads. Wow, he has gone all out.         Growing impatient, Zoe sidestepped to the entrance. Her icy hand met with the equally cold doorknob and twisted it. The rusty springs attached to the door resisted. Zoe cringed at the ruckus. The last thing she wanted was all eyes on her. As far as she could tell, however, she was the only customer. She was thankful for that. Despite the well-worn door springs, the second her hand fell from the knob, the door snapped shut. Squeak. Boom.         Zoe inhaled, shoulders hunching.         “Don’t be shy child, come on in,” Alfred muttered without turning to see her. How did he know I was a child?         Zoe coughed, partly out of awkwardness, partly from the dust the door had kicked up. “Thank you.”         “Do you like my dolls?” He asked, whittling the nose of a boy-doll.         Zoe took cautious steps towards him. “Yes. They are very pretty,” she replied, eyes darting and head turning.         “Thank you, I think so too,” he responded, still running the knife down the boy’s nose. Whispers poured into the store with every stroke of his knife. It sounded as though someone repeatedly said ‘shhhhh’ in sync with every precise etch. The man’s hands were wrinkled and splattered in age spots, sprouting an unusually large amount of hair. Zoe dreaded the day her hands would succumb to the ravages of age.         “Feel free to explore my child,” he offered.          His repetitive use of the word ‘child’ unnerved and annoyed Zoe.         Following his suggestion, she wandered around the store. She admired the various dolls, pausing at one in particular. She found herself running a hand across the smooth wood. Up close and personal, it became clear no expense was spared when it came to detail. From knuckles, kneecaps, veins, and even freckles, to the vividly painted eyes and finely chiselled facial features. Zoe noticed metal nails on the dolls, which didn’t make sense, but she wasn’t the expert.        Each doll burst with colour, each as unique as the next. An exploration of most time periods and fashion trends was told through dozens of dolls. Each doll had only one running theme: the look of nervousness in their eyes. Zoe wasn’t sure how he achieved this. It was unnerving yet simultaneously alluring.         “Oh, you like that one, do you?” Alfred asked, startling the young girl.         She jerked from the doll, immediately retracting her hand from the doll’s leg.         “That’s one of my favourites,” he whispered, as if his preference was a secret, or the other dolls could hear and would get jealous. A flash of rageful dolls attacking the old man ran through her mind. Eurgh. Zoe’s back fell victim to a deep chill.          “Yes…. It’s nice,” Zoe replied, admiring the doll attired in a white sailor’s uniform.         “Nice?” his voice rose.         “Oh… no…. I mean….” Zoe stuttered.        “Young lady, that doll took several months to carve!” he was yelling now, anger drenched his voice.         Alfred rose from his chair and approached Zoe, his nostrils flared. Each hand became a fist, one still wielding a knife.         “I’m sorry,” she blurted, hunching her shoulders. Underneath the yellow bubble coat her heart pounded.         Surprised by Zoe’s outburst, he stopped mid-stride. He relaxed, unclenching his tensed features.         “Oh, I am sorry child. I just spend a lot of time working on these. And I don’t get out much. Also, one loathes the word nice.” His face crinkled in disgust, as if the mere word was so sour it curdled in his mouth.          “I didn’t….k…know,” Zoe again, struggled with speech. Her lack of conversational skills from poor social interaction - if you don’t count being surrounded by kids but constantly ignored – didn’t help.         Alfred, wearing a discoloured white shirt and tatty tweed trousers, knelt by her side. His face softened as a hand gently cupped her shoulder.         “Of course you didn’t. Now let’s be done with that. Would you like some tea? And perhaps a chocolate biscuit or two?”         “Oh, yes please,” the tense atmosphere cleared at the mentioning of chocolate. It was one of Zoe’s guilty pleasures. Her salivary glands gushed as she imagined the creamy, sweet goodness melting on her tongue.         “Then come in the back,” he rose, guiding her forwards.         “What about the shop?”         “Oh, I am closing up now. I just need to lock the door and pull down the outside shutters.”        Alfred opened a red velvet curtain, exposing an outdated but charming living room. Wooden chairs upholstered in more red velvet, sat in the dark room. Several dirty mirrors were nailed to the walls. A mahogany coffee table was sandwiched between two of the larger chairs, resting on a fluffy purple rug.         “Now you make yourself comfortable and I’ll be right back,” Alfred suggested as he nudged her into the living room.         Zoe noticed one door at the back, beside one of the many mirrors. Its paint was peeling and the handle was bronzed from rust. It stood open by a sliver, enough for Zoe to see a tiny green kitchen. It was bare and a scent of mildew slithered through the crevice.        Zoe backed up to a chair. She unzipped her stuffy winter coat and folded it on the floor beside the chair. Her rucksack fell to the yellow coat, as she sat on the chair. It embraced her rump with surprising comfort. Scooting further into the chair, she took in more of her surroundings.         Cobwebs hung in the corners, the brick walls were chipped, and the rug’s seams were coming apart. Apparently, Alfred’s attention to detail was exclusive to his dolls, and nothing else. The longer her eyes stayed focused in one place, the more obvious flaws became. Give him a break, he only moved in a matter of days ago. Zoe thought, yet couldn’t help but judge the mess.         Screech. Bang. Click.         Alfred dashed by Zoe, bizarrely graceful. Was he one of those men who like men? Nah, from what I’ve read they are for the most part, trendy and normal. This man was peculiar, and in no way followed fashion trends. His trousers were stained, torn, and wrinkled. His shoes were scuffed.  Nope, this man definitely didn’t care about fashion.         “Tea and biscuits coming up,” he announced before vanishing into the kitchen.         Zoe sat patiently as the kettle cried out. Mugs and plates clattered, and cupboard doors clunked. In a jiffy, he returned, carting an oak tray. It held two mugs, four saucers, a plate of biscuits, and a tiny cup holding sugar sachets and two silver spoons. He placed the tray on the coffee table and took a seat opposite his new friend.         “By all means, go ahead,” Alfred smiled, his hands gesturing to the tray. “I took the liberty of adding milk to your tea, and one sugar. The one closest to you is yours.  If you would like any more sugar, go ahead.”         Zoe took a saucer holding a mug of tea, and dunked a biscuit into her milky brew. To avoid tea dripping from the biscuit, she yanked it out and shoved half of it in her mouth. Zoe worked on the crumbly biscuit and melted chocolate, savouring the taste before it slid down her throat.         “Good?” Alfred inquired, taking a sip from his own tea, smirking at her gusto. He sighed, “Ahhh, nothing beats a good old cuppa. It’s so British and proper. One of only a few things I actually enjoy about life.”         Zoe nodded, a mouth full of biscuit, pondering the strange comment. Alfred laughed at her biscuit-inflated mouth. “I’ll never understand those monsters who drink it without milk though.”         Once the biscuit had made its way down Zoe’s throat, she took a few sips of Earl Grey tea, overcome with an urge to be polite and ladylike. That won’t last, she thought.         “Don’t let it get cold sweetheart, go ahead,” he suggested, before taking a sip himself, his pinkie pointing to the ceiling.        At his suggestion, she took a couple of hearty gulps. What’s with the pet na…. Zoe’s eyes all of a sudden became warm and heavy. What’s with the… Abrupt exhaustion prevented her from even finishing a thought.         A mug and saucer plummeted to the concrete. Tea sloshed onto the legs of the coffee table and splashed the rug. The saucer was the first to break, exploding into several pieces and dispersing along the living room floor. Next, the cup broke. Chunks of it swam in the puddle of tea, while others flew every which way.         “Oh, dearie me,” Alfred tutted.         Zoe squinted at the old man. He became a Caucasian blur. “What…” was all Zoe managed to say before she slumped into the chair, limp and unconscious.
***        Damn it’s hot. Why is it so hot? Eww, what’s that smell? Sweat? Burning? Pee?         Clang. Clang. Clang. What’s that ruckus?         Zoe’s eyes peeled open to a dark, odd room. No windows. One single bulb swung above, squeaking rhythmically. Chipped wooden planks covered the walls and ceiling. The floor was cold concrete. Cold?! Zoe looked at her bare feet, flat on the concrete, bound to the legs of a chair. The rope itched. Her eyes shot up her bare legs and naked torso. She gulped. Both wrists were strapped to the arms of a chair with the same itchy rope. A scream left her lungs, but never made it out her mouth.         Huh? Her tongue poked at the back of her lips, prodding tiny sharp pieces. The tip of her tongue tingled with pain. Beads of sweat broke out on Zoe’s forehead. What’s going on? Panic churned in her stomach.         Another muffled scream could be heard, but it wasn’t Zoe. Her eyes darted across the darkness, searching for the noise.         She wept as her eyes came to a halt at a cage. Inside were several children wailing against the poles. Well, that explains the clanging. Shockingly, that resolve gave her no comfort. The children, draped in dirty white cloths, were stuffed inside like sardines in a tin can. That explains the smell.         Most were Zoe’s age, but some were younger. Some sobbed hysterically, while others sniffled quietly in the corners of their confinement. Most looked exhausted, sat or leant against the poles. However, a few were rambunctious, hitting the cage or rattling the door. Despite their suffering, not one of them screamed. That’s when Zoe saw the stitches at their lips. Shrieking would be pointless.         What the hell is going on? That thought was fast becoming the theme of her current situation.         Then, a muffled scream far louder than the rest, took centre stage. Zoe followed the sound to a corner of the room. A young boy sat in some kind of device. A seat with several straps held him firmly in place. Likely, the reason his scream was so loud was because his tongue was the only muscle he could move.         A golden glow washed his face. Tears trailed his cheeks, despite his face being oddly still. There were no creases of distress. It was as if he was sat on a beach in the tropics. His eyes however, told a different story. The rims were raw and enflamed, presumably from constant crying. Lashes were clumped together. But the clearest sign of fear was the widened eyes. What made him so terrified? Zoe didn’t want the answer, but was handed it anyway.         Alfred sat on a chair at the boy’s side. With hunched shoulders, he doodled on his arm by the looks of it. Zoe frowned. She wriggled to get a better view.        Behind Alfred, built into the wall, lay a furnace. Flames whipped violently behind a tiny glass window. Now Zoe noticed it, she heard the crackling. Holy hell, is he going to burn us alive?        Panicked, Zoe attempted to escape the rope. She pulled and twisted frantically, but it was too tight. She studied her surroundings, hoping to uncover something helpful. Save for the furnace, Alfred and the boy, and the cage chock-a-block full of children, everything was smothered in darkness.        “Don’t worry my dear, it’s your turn soon,” Alfred uttered.         Turn for what?! Zoe’s heart beat quickened, thumping hard. Her attention wandered to Alfred, turning in his seat. She watched as he peeled off the flesh from the boy’s forearm. Despite his lips being stitched together, the scream was unbelievably loud. Zoe cringed, looking at the stringy flesh being torn off.        He’s being flayed alive. Zoe had read about it in some of her spooky books, but never imagined she would see it first-hand. The ripping sounds were almost as bad as the boy’s muffled shrieks of agony. Her blood ran cold. His blood on the other hand, ran down the loose skin and dripped on the concrete.         Alfred yanked off the final inch, completely detaching the skin. Blood oozed from his upper forearm, trickling down the sides and adding to the growing pool at his feet. Bone peeked from underneath the gushing blood.         Zoe gagged. Don’t vomit, it has nowhere to go! You’ll choke to death. She warned herself.        Alfred rose from the chair and opened the furnace. He discarded the stringy flesh by tossing it into the hungry flames. It sizzled, blackening and shrinking in a matter of seconds. The smell stung Zoe’s nose, as she turned away from the sight, clamping her eyes shut. It’s just a dream, it’s just a dream, it’s just a – wake up! This is not a dream! Start thinking of a way out you idiot!          A creak pulled her focus. Alfred opened an upper compartment of the furnace and retrieved a small wooden plank. He returned to his seat and placed it on a metal table by his side, which also held small pieces of equipment Zoe couldn’t quite make out. A sizzle roared as Alfred planted the plank over the flayed forearm. Again, the boy’s shriek was riddled with unthinkable agony. Blood seeped from between the stitched lips.         “Bloody hell, you’ve got a right set of lungs on you!” Alfred chuckled, holding the plank down as the fizz faded.         Alfred reached for the table and clutched a hammer with one hand, and scooped up nails in the other. Surely not?! Zoe watched in morbid fascination, praying her predictions were wrong. Nail by nail, he hammered the wood to the boy’s arm. Crinkles lined his sweaty and tear-filled face. His cheeks reddened as he half-cried half-wailed. Whack. Whack. Whack. Alfred continued hammering as if this was a normal day at the office. The boy’s suffering did nothing to deter his strikes.         In what felt like a lifetime later, Alfred let the hammer clatter to the table and wiped sweat from his brows.         “Blimey, it is getting hot in here! I think I will go make myself some lemonade,” he casually muttered.         The boy’s head leant zombie-like to the side, exhausted from the pain. Alfred gently slapped the boy’s cheek, each eye opened a peep but his face remained expressionless. “Now don’t you go anywhere!” He warned, his unsettling giggle echoing off the walls.         Before he left, Alfred snatched a needle from the table and approached Zoe. Stay away from me you freak, she yearned to say. All she could do was attempt to resist by squirming in the seat. This didn’t benefit at all when he grasped her upper arm and sank the needle into it. From the corner of her eye, Zoe watched his thumb lower as the fluid entered her system. Within a few frantic heart beats, the medicine took effect as her body slumped in the chair.         “Don’t worry dear, I’ll spare you that suffering,” he whispered into her ear.
***        “Isn’t she pretty?”         “Oh, she’s adorable!”        “She’s so bloody cute!”        “What a charmer.”         “She’s lovely.”        Compliments came in waves at Alfred’s latest addition to his collection. She was propped at her own table, to the front of the store. Customers came by the dozen, barely fitting into the store, each drawn to the little girl doll at the table.        “Her hair looks so real.”        “Her eyes are so life-like.”         She had been stuffed into a red and white striped dress, complete with red shoes and a white bow neatly looped in her hair.         “The detail is incredible.”
***        The day blurred by. Flocks of people continued to pile into the store until closing. “Well, look at that. You’re famous!” he squealed.         Alfred stood by his latest creation. He smoothed his hand over the face, bringing his eyes to hers. Although underneath the wood, Zoe was paralyzed even to the eyeballs, he knew she understood him.         “I have already had several offers for you! But I like your company Zoe, you are a remarkable young girl. So, what do you say? How do you feel about being my inspiration and reminder that I truly have a gift? You can be my lure to bring in customers, but at night when I work on new dolls, you can be in the basement by my side, watching me work, acting as my muse. How does that sound?” Alfred laughed hysterically, his shrillness bouncing off the store windows.         Unbeknown to the naked eye, underneath the finely sculpted wood, Zoe screamed louder than she ever had before. Of course, nobody would ever hear her cries.  

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Engulfed in darkness again, Zuri pulled her knees to her chest, lowered her head, and sobbed. Anger and fear wrestled for dominance in her brain, and it wasn’t long before the combination of extreme emotions brought on her change. She let it come; no sense in fighting it now. And although her huge wolf body would take up most of the cage, her dense fur would keep her a lot warmer than the thin blanket Chad had given her. When her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, she noticed a tiny window level with the ground outside. Diluted moonlight filtered through the filthy glass. A dandelion huddled against the other side of the windowpane where it had taken root. Its spiky leaves trembled in the light breeze.To the right of the window, Zuri could just make out a deep, double sink. A drop of water, highlighted by moonlight, slipped from the faucet, hung suspended for a heartbeat, then fell into the sink with a faint plop. There was a table down here, too. Stainless steel, by the looks of it. A dirty curtain hung from a circular track in the ceiling, like the curtain around a hospital bed.That musty, earthy smell she had first noticed upstairs was stronger down here, as if mushrooms might actually be growing somewhere in a dank corner. Underneath that smell was a faint, strange odor, like chemicals mixed with spoiled meat.What the hell kind of place is this? she wondered, eyes darting. Some kind of science lab? And what is that STINK?She heard a hollow pock … pock … sound drifting through the floorboards of the room above, and after a while she recognized it as the sound of a large clock, probably a grandfather’s clock. The stately, dignified sound of a tall wooden clock counting the seconds had always soothed her. She let it do so now. I’ll get out of here somehow, she comforted herself. And Dean is looking for me. He has to be.Pock … pock …Plop … plop …The ticking clock and the dripping tap made odd music that lulled Zuri into a light, uneasy sleep. She dreamed of chasing small animals across the desert, and she dreamed of meat; rich, red, and bloody. Saliva oozed from her slack mouth and puddled under her muzzle.It was still dark outside when the sound of loud voices brought her to abrupt wakefulness. She lifted her head from her paws, an instinctive growl forming in her throat.“Ow! OW!” a man was yelling in a gravelly voice. “God damn it, you old fart! I’m gonna shove that damn thing up your withered ass one of these days!”Mr. Goddard’s voice, strident and authoritative: “Chad! Use the catch pole! Hold him!”Something sizzled, and the stranger let out a pain-filled roar. “Yeah, you’re a real bad-ass with that fucking silver-tipped cane, ain’t ya? Wanna try me without it? I’ll kick your … kick your …”A loud thump, like a body falling to the floor, then Goddard’s voice again: “There now, Mr. Riley, I knew you could be reasonable. Drag him back to the tower room with the others, Chad. Make sure he’s secure; I don’t want him escaping again. If he does, we’ll just put him in the solarium. That would certainly teach him a lesson, wouldn’t it?”There are others being held captive here! Zuri wondered if they were werewolves like herself and Chad, or if they were just ordinary humans that Goddard felt like tormenting. Now that her thin veil of sleep had been torn away, she lay awake and watched the tiny window fill with dawn.In the pinkish light of morning, she could see more of her surroundings. A double row of shelves lined the farthest wall. The bottom shelf held small bottles and jars, furry with dust and dirt; their labels were unreadable. The top shelf held a row of larger jars filled with clear liquid. Dark shapes floated inside.A laboratory of some type—with a cage in it. The thought prompted half-formed visions of vivisections and painful experiments. She wouldn’t let that happen. She would break her own rule and kill them before they even got the chance. Besides, Dean would find her soon; he always did.Kill them. Rip out their throats, and pull out their guts. Taste their blood. Eat their still-quivering flesh. The lurid thoughts and insistent urges were getting harder and harder to resist. Dancing would ease them. Running would make them go away for a while, but confined to a cage, she could obviously do neither.Despite the dampness and chill, she became human, wrapped her naked body in the blanket, and watched the yellow dandelion dance in the breeze outside the window. “Hope,” she whispered to it, “I will call you Hope.”
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C.L. Hernandez
Author of Horror, Dark Fiction, and Urban Fantasy
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Samson loved camping. The fresh air, trees, smores, hot dogs, swimming, and well spent time with family and friends whilst huddled around a stifling fire pit. It was his idea of heaven. Samson was only fifteen, but he loathed kids his age who wasted countless hours at computers playing pointless video games. All that energy and time wasted, fighting fictional monsters or building castles. There was an abundance of teens addicted to the box, whether it be computer or video gaming machines. Fortunately, all his family were hilarious and sociable, nobody was a game-obsessed social recluse. And it was that time of the year, again, to Samson's delight. Summertime with the Brassworth clan. Laughs, gossip, stories, and adventure were guaranteed.The six-hour car ride dragged by. Songs blared from his music player, he read a little, and then slept, eager for time to move the hell on. Before he knew it, their white truck was pulling into the camp ground, and it was packed. Tonnes of tents, camper vans, people gathered in crowds joking around, some folk sat in pull-up chairs, and others still in the process of building tents. A few were cooking up a storm, that delicious smell of barbecue food hung in the air. That burnt but pleasant aroma of well-cooked food. Kids ran around at a small park in the middle, so parents could keep an eye on their little ones. They screamed and ran, frolicking, free of worry that age brings. A few were headed to the beach, lugging bags full of sunscreen and snacks, and some had just got back, looking freckly and tanned. Some careless individuals had been lobstered, skin red and sore from a sunscreen negligence. Every year this happened, and it was usually the same people. "No, no my skin is older now, it isn't as sensitive to the sun!" They would insist, coming back hours later glowing an almost inhuman pink colour. But it was all part and parcel of the experience, which left them open for back slaps. Wasn't that what aloe vera gel was for?  Which Samson knew first hand. He sat with his equally excited sister, both staring out the window, admiring the atmosphere, both of their faces plastered with huge grins. Which is when Samson saw his family all gathered in the corner of the site. Their family was so huge they had to reserve three lots, which had to be reserved well in advance to get the lots together. There they were, his cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and friends of the family."Here we are kids," Samson's dad announced as they pulled up to their family's lot, full of bright tents, campers, tables, chairs and plenty of people waving them over.
Their truck swerved into the sandy parking space with a loud screech of the breaks. A second later and the kids ran from the truck and began hugging their family. They did the rounds and then asked if they could go to the beach with their cousins while their parents set up the five-man tent. Laughing at their enthusiasm and impatience, the parents agreed. But not before forcing them to stand there and lather themselves in sunscreen and spritz them with bug spray. The only downside to camping, in Samson's opinion, was the bugs. Mosquitoes were the bane of his existence. No matter how generously bug deterrent was applied, he would leave each and every time with huge red lumps. It was all worth it, and his mother had some incredible anti-itch cream that killed the bites in a matter of days. With an all too common "be safe" from Samson and Lily's folks, they galloped through the woods that surrounded the camp ground, following the path to the beach.
***The day had been filled with adrenaline, excitement, food, laughter and the new arrival of a baby. All in all, Samson thought it had been an awesome first night. And there was still six days of carefree bliss to go! He fell asleep, grinning dramatically, replaying the day's events in his subconscious. Until a few hours later, his bladder woke him like the aggravating drone of an alarm clock. He could play the game of 'forget about it and it will go away', or just go to the porta-potty bathrooms across the site and get it over and done with. Ugh! He moaned, unzipping the tent wearing his blue pyjamas, slipping into his flip-flops and rubbing his shoulders against the chilly breeze flowing through the herd of campers. Samson promptly zipped up the tent to stop any bugs getting in, laziness tempting him to pee amongst the nearby bushes. Which was frowned upon by the ground owners. So he briskly scurried by tents and campers, some people still awake, sat chatting by fires and drinking cans of beer. Mosquitoes and other pests were fluttering around, looking for some fresh carcass to feast on. Most people came armed with a colossal amount of bug spray to repel the world's most annoying bugs from leaving a smattering of red lumps covering their exposed flesh. Samson was soon out of the field of campers, and stepping onto the concrete slab with two porta-potties; one male, one female. Two small concrete sheds with green doors and fluorescent lights hung above each, bugs zapping against the bulbs, flying in swarms, surrounding the lighting. Samson tried the door, and luckily, it was unlocked. He entered the stale room, smelling of excrement and body odour. The harsh light that struck on hurt his eyes as he made for the toilet and sat on the cold seat. Bare ass against the seat made him flinch, eager to get this over with and get back to the warm tent under several layers of blankets. So he squeezed his bowels and emptied his stomach, listening to his crap hit the pile of shit below, going way down into the concrete underground room full of bodily waste.
Soon enough he had wiped and was washing his hands at the rust coated sink, bronze rings everywhere. However, there was still soap. It melted between his hands, frothing and freeing dirt from his nails and bacteria from his flesh under the tepid running water. As he yanked a blue sheet from the toilet paper dispenser, he heard whispering. Nosy, he tried to listen, figuring it was a bunch of loiterers outside, smoking weed away from the prying and disapproving eyes of their families. Yet as he focused, he realised it was coming from the toilet. Samson turned off the tap and wandered over, peering down and looking into the mountain of faeces. It was then the whispering came to an abrupt halt. Silence. The young boy leant over, convinced he saw something moving down below. Maybe someone had fallen down the toilet and was trapped. Or someone had lost something like a phone and it was ringing. As he peered further his feet slipped on the urine-coated floor and he fell head-first into the huge build-up of shit.
The mountain of turds came rushing into his sight as his head slopped then sank into the brown mass. He flailed helplessly on top, wiping crap from himself, spitting it out, smearing it from his sight. It was useless, the shit was everywhere, it consumed him. Samson was swimming in it. He figured the only way to get out of it was to roll down. So he did. He tumbled sideways from the heap of bodily waste and hit concrete. For a second he just lay there, gathering his racing thoughts and catching his breath. The stench was overpowering, and pulling focus from anything and everything else. Samson stood, brushing more crap from himself, and disgusted to realise that shit wasn't the only thing he was caked in. Used tampons with bloody tips were stuck to his now soiled pyjamas. That was it, he couldn't hold it in any longer. Right there and then, he tossed his cookies. The golden lumpy liquid splattered onto the faeces as he heaved his guts up with loud wrenches that echoed off the concrete walls. Eventually, he'd purged all that would come up. Hot dogs, bread buns, smores and juice. He was sticky and uncomfortable, but realising the only light was a tunnel of it coming from the toilet seat above, Samson was nervous. Although he would never admit it, the dark scared him, always had. The poop only made it worse. Then of course, there were the naked people stood looking at him.
Eurgh! People were fucking down here? Although Samson was only fifteen, he knew all about sex. And knew first-hand the effects that hormones have on teenage boys. The hormones that hold young males hostage to their inappropriately timed boners and perverted thoughts of all things sex. Almost everything was sexual, and the faintest touch could arouse a stirring. Yet coming down to this room of shit, literally, just to get laid, was too far beyond desperation for his liking. He would sooner knock one out in solitude than have sex down here for the first time. 'How did you lose your virginity?' 'Oh I fucked someone on a mountain of shit'.At closer observation, the people were indeed naked, but he couldn't see their faces. These people just stood, staring. As he took steady steps, cautious not to fall in more crap, he could see they had no faces. Then he yelled.
They weren't human. The monsters lingering around heaps of shit, were faceless. Smooth pale flesh, human-looking bodies with limbs in the right places. But no body hair, nipples or facial features. The lack of faces was unnerving, as if they had no identity, as if they were nothing but killing machines. Their faces were like an amputee's stump. They didn't even have sex organs. No tits, pussy or dicks could be seen, just pale flesh where reproductive organs should be. Samson was terrified. As they approached him, they slithered eerily, cracking their heads and somehow releasing clucking noises, without any apparent vocal chords. They were ghostly white, save for the specks of shit spotting their extraordinarily smooth skin. Samson was beyond frightened. He knew the only way out was to climb the abundance of faeces and try to jump and climb back through the toilet. In a hurry to get while the getting was good, he put aside his distaste for human waste and struggled up the turds, tampons and toilet paper. It proved difficult as his feet kept sinking into the bulk of brown. It was like attempting to climb sinking sand that was excreting paper towels and used tampons. Quick actions and a strong will were all that motivated him, using hands and feet to ascend the shit, scrambling frantically. The creatures were closing in on the tower of turds, still moving oddly, but thankfully, slowly. Samson was grateful for that little gem. What he wasn't thankful for was the fact that there were dozens of them. They must have been hibernating in various clumps of crap, waiting for their next meal. Now, at the announcement of a visitor, they were out in full force. Samson was helplessly trying to reach the top, only mere metres away. He realised how high the dome of doo-doo was as he neared the top, unable to fight the urge to look back, witnessing the chilling predators approaching. Also understanding that he wasn't too far from the toilet. He just needed an impressive vault. Hell, he played sports, he was young and in good shape. Samson was confident he could do this if he put his mind to it. So upon reaching the top, he crouched, raised his arms, back straight, just as Coach Martin had taught. Then launched from the accumulation of faeces. He shot through the air, rising high until his hand clutched the inside of the toilet. Samson almost screamed 'Yes!' but held it in until he was fully out of the woods. He could still fall back; his hand could become weak or slip. He tried not to dwell on those disparaging thoughts. The beings screeched down below, clearly not happy about the young boy evading their clutches. The ruckus almost deafened him in the wiggle up, using both arms, grunting dramatically. He was half way out, torso hanging back into the bathroom, only legs still dangling free, for them to pull him down with. When something wrapped around his ankle.
Something icy cold and with a silky texture grabbed his ankle, and he knew it was one of them. He glared down to see the featureless head yanking desperately, its fellow freaks watching in morbid hope. Samson hadn't come this far to let one of those bastards snatch him back down. So, gritting his teeth and tightening his grip on the toilet, he pulled himself up, thrashing his legs around. The nail-less hand clung on for a few seconds, then it fell away. Samson heaved himself, one final time, and rolled from the toilet, landing awkwardly on the chilly floor, covered in crap. The screeching could still be heard from below, echoing up. Samson panted for a few seconds, soaking his success. He eyed corners decorated with cobwebs, spiders crawling along the strings and knitting more web. Samson was disorientated, as if he'd just arisen from a vivid dream, putting everything into perspective. Yet by the throbbing in his chest and stench invading his nostrils, he knew it was no dream. The cold hard concrete felt good, cooling his horror-fuelled heat. It was the cries of escaped demons down below that scared him. So he brought himself up, exiting the bathroom anxiously.
The second he stepped outside, folk burning the midnight oil gawked at him in shock. Samson stood on the gravel path outside the restrooms, conversations came to an immediate halt at his presence. Heads turned, voices became even lower, some more bold individuals even pointed. This was worse than giving a presentation at school! Samson knew what he had to do: take a shower. However, caked in shit, there was no way his family would let him into the campers to use the showers. There were the hoses on the campers, although that water would be freezing, pneumonia a possibility. The lake! It just happened that Samson was only metres away from the largest fresh water lake in the world. With any luck, some of the intense heat from the day would still be lingering in the water. However, at this point he was so hot and bothered, a slight chill would be refreshing. So he galloped through the site, leaking globules of shit. Fellow campers weren't happy about his appearance by the outraged gossipers and alarmed faces. Fortunately, he soon left behind the judgement and loathsome glares, as Samson entered the thick of the woods. It was when he dashed across the path he realised somewhere in the madness he'd lost his flip flops. The critters now had them, leaving him barefoot. He could care less about footwear, he wanted to clean this crap off. So he sprinted, dodging trees and bushes, catching glimpses of adolescents fucking in the woods in the process. One girl was pushed up against a tree being ploughed by a young lad like there was no tomorrow. Two girls were experimenting under a bush, and there were even two guys going at it. What is this a fucking camp orgy? Samson idly thought as he neared the beach.
It came into sight, the satin sand dressed in seaweed and yellowing grass, dark sky looming above a magnificent lake. The waves were particularly rambunctious this evening, surging with energy, high and violently. Crickets chirped in the background, and bugs buzzed around searching for some exposed flesh to feast on. The waves continued to expand, becoming taller and thicker with each thrash. Sand darkened at its touch, driftwood rolled as it was bulldozed by the vicious waves. Samson knew he had to enter, despite the worrying velocity. He noticed amongst the gloomy sky was a small red cloud out in the distance, the moon directly above, as if it was bleeding into the fluffy cloud below. So, removing his shit-stained pyjamas he waded into the frothy kisses at the shore, underneath the intimidating waves. He was cautious to stay fairly shallow, crouching and wiping the crap from his body. The brown lumpy mess slid from his flesh, entering the lake. Some floated, others sank. Samson continued shedding the tampons, shit and toilet paper until he was fresh and clean. Most of the mess was soon consumed by the hungry waves. The smell of human waste was fading, and the much more pleasant scent of burning fire and bug spray once again thrived in the air. Yet Samson knew there was still poop in his hair, so he would have to venture out farther to wash his head as shallow water would do no good. When he got back to the camp he would be sure to wash his mouth as scraps of crap and remnants of chunder were stuck between teeth and poisoned his tongue. Samson delved a little deeper and lowered his head, strenuously scratching at his scalp, trying not to vomit again. All it took was for him to open his eyes for a second underwater, to see more of the faceless things at his feet. Dozens of them were facing him, reaching out with webbed hands. This time, they weren't as weak or gradual. Using group force, they grabbed the teenage boy and dragged him all the way under. People would have maybe heard the boy's cries for help if he wasn't just spouting bubbles in a noisy lake. Ever determined, Samson flailed his legs relentlessly, but this time the clutches didn't relent. Soon his lungs were aching and energy dwindling. All he could do was succumb as they pulled him into an underwater hell. Samson's last thought was, if they had no mouths, nails or sharp body parts, how would they eat him? As it turns out, they did have one hole. A mouth did appear at feeding time. As they each took it in turns to literally suck the shit from his anus. But in the process, with such a mighty force, they inhaled body organs, veins and anything else save for bones. The sensation was akin to having the world's strongest vacuum cleaner at his butt hole. It was a pain incomparable to anything else. Organs torn from their places, limbs being emptied, nothing left but bone. Large organs thrusting out his ass left a ring sting as Samson's lungs were drowning. Samson would rather them have chopped him to pieces. Because having his insides sucked out was a fate worse than death. It was an agony paramount to any other affliction.
***
The next morning campers found what they thought was a tiny deflated lifeboat. As it turned out, it was not.

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Sady
Buck sat guzzling coffee by the gallon, slouched in his large red box truck, blazing down the highway. Traffic blurred by as he drank from his novelty takeaway cup with a naked lady on. When it was cold the lady concealed her modesty with clothes, but as hot contents were poured in, the clothing vanished, which he enjoyed. The two brown areola rings around rigid nipples that lay on the perky breasts became clear. And a tight pussy with a neatly trimmed pubic mound above became visible. Buck was a total sleaze: sexist, unkempt, with bad personal hygiene and an out of shape body. To top it off he was bald, with bad teeth and a thick beard with crumbs of food constantly decorating it. He'd hadn't been laid in years, the only way he could bust a nut was by playing with himself. Even prostitutes ran for the hills when looking at him. He made good money, had no children or an ex-wife to pay alimony too, yet apparently no amount of cash was worth screwing him. He was in his thirties and hadn't blown a load into or onto a woman since he was in his early twenties. Men weren't supposed to go that long without sex, it wasn't natural or healthy; not that Buck had a choice.
A gas station sparked through the evening sky. Fellow truckers pulled in to fill tanks, travellers rushed in to grab coffee and snacks, while a few dashed to the restrooms. The station was isolated, plotted on a small piece of land just off the highway. Moths could be seen from afar, flying around blinking fluorescent lights at the entrance doors. Deciding he needed to fill up his novelty container he swerved to the parking lot and got out. Armed with his offensive cup, he wandered into the station and headed for the coffee aisle. The place was like every other gas station, streaming with snacks of all varieties, plus a freshly made section with sandwiches, burritos, and tacos. It was one of the more commercial chains of gas stations, owned by greedy corporations and money-grabbers. Usually, Buck would choose the smaller businesses, but those damn companies located stations everywhere. The trucker wouldn't put it past them to buy land to restrict other gas stations competing with them. Buck made for the ready-to-drink section, filled with slushies, soft drinks, coffee, iced tea and smoothies, all ready to flow by a lever into whichever size container you wanted. Buck filled up and headed over to the counter to pay, grabbing a bar of chocolate on the way, and a packet of salty nuts. The blonde girl at the counter was breathtakingly beautiful, with an innocence about her. The good girl routine turned Buck on more than anything. The 'oh I shouldn't, my husband will be home, no stop' act he'd witnessed in thousands of pornos, until they succumb to the ravages of handy men or construction workers with rippling pecs and chiselled abs. The trucker had considered going on a diet and working out in order to get a hot body. Because some of these male porn stars had butt-ugly faces, but women were hot for them due to their tight, ripped bodies. However, weighing in at well over morbidly obese, Buck disregarded the idea, loving food too much. He gave the breasts of the attendant a swift look, groin throbbing until quickly averting his gaze as she handed his change over. Just the touch of her hand gave him a semi. I am pathetic. He was like a sex-starved teen bursting with an overload of hormones and uncontrollable thoughts and desires of a crude nature. Buck left, now cradling a fully erect penis pushing against the denim of his jeans. Luckily his baggy stained white t-shirt hung low, concealing the lump between his legs. It pressed against his jeans, being mashed behind the zipper. He left, hopping into his truck and got back on the highway, gorging on his pack of nuts, washing them down with piping hot caffeine. The roads were quiet, just the way he liked it. A soothing breeze sneaking through a crack in the window kept Buck alert, fending off any premature urges to doze off. Trucks and campers occasionally passed by, other than that, the roads were clear. Stretches of greenery lay on either side, thick growths of forest with chunky trees and bushes with plenty of foliage. The moon rolled on the clouds above, its glow slinking through gaps in branches and flipping off the tarmac. With the radio on low, he noticed something by the side of the road. A pale object on the floor in a thicket of green. At first, he thought it was a deer or other road-kill. As he eased off the gas and approached the object, he identified it as that of a young woman. A naked young woman. He cautiously swerved to the side of the road, looking out front and checking behind in his mucky mirrors. A derelict highway, fortunately. Maybe she'll reward me for pulling over, maybe she'll take pity on me, maybe she'll do anything to warm herself up. These hopeful thoughts and more anchored Buck's mind, refusing to budge, as he opened the door and leapt onto the gravelled path aside the asphalt. He rubbed his hands together, his face controlled by a lecherous grin. Buck could see her perfect body bathed by the moonlight and distant linger of highway lighting. Even though any female would do at this point. He'd fuck a fellow fatty or old woman just to feel something clenching around his shaft; he was that desperate. The pervy trucker continued scamming on the woman as he strolled toward her, dreaming of how her pussy would taste, the sweet nectarine exploding in his mouth. He envisioned the sweet but salty cream erupting, after slobbering over the two perfect breasts and delicious darkness between her legs.
He crouched at her side, glaring at a seductive vagina. "Miss?" he asked. She didn't move a muscle."Miss, is everything okay?" he tried again, but nothing.The wind rustled through the trees as crickets chirped nearby. As luck would have it crickets were the only living creatures around. Buck worried some other trucker would come over and steal his potential lay, so he acted irrationally and insanely desperate. He pitied himself but justified his actions due to a sexless existence. Yet something startled him as he hoisted her from the ground: she was cold. The flesh was swarming in goosebumps, icy and stiff. Then again what was expected when discovering a woman laid on the path on a brisk night during winter? Giving the surroundings one brief but efficient look, he lugged the woman over to his truck, placing her gently on the passenger seat and delicately shutting the door behind her. He paced to the driver’s side, jumped in and sped off, heart racing. Was this such a good idea?
He drove hastily, the young girl was completely void of movement; he couldn't even see any subtle chest movements. Was she dead? Knowing the highway well, having driven it a thousand times, Buck found a secret place used for truck drivers to hook up. Otherwise known as the truck-fuck stop. It was a deserted forest with a long gravelled path with multiple clearings that were well hidden by overgrown trees and bushes, especially at night with the truck lights off. If on the off chance someone did drive into the opening, they wouldn't bother him and his lady. They would no doubt be getting some action and not want disturbing either. Another chunk of knowledge he knew in his search for sex. The tyres grind against gravel, spewing coffee coloured mists into the air. Darkness consumed the trees, eating the bark, but choking on the branches and twigs as the green was washed in moonlight. The moon hung above, providing just enough visibility without having to switch on a truck headlight. Buck turned off the engine and awkwardly shuffled over the gear stick and put a hand on the girl's chest. A minute passed and no pulse. Pathetically praying she was still alive, he clutched at her wrist, and there was the same lack of a pulse. It was official; she was dead.
Buck sat still and silent, but his mind was racing. Should he call the police? How would he explain the situation? He hoped she was alive so he could screw her? Yeah, that would sound great! More unnerving thoughts barricaded themselves in Buck's mind. Surely there was some crime in the situation. Buck wasn't a law expert but knew that there was something illegal about moving a body from a crime scene. So there he sat, contemplating his next move, lungs ablaze and head aching from a sudden overload of stress. Being single only had one upside, his anxiety levels were for the most part, low. So he was unequipped to deal with this level of stress. But an equally strong part of him was overtaking the worry: his hormones. Lack of sexual contact was actually forcing him to consider fucking the corpse. Now somewhere in his brain, he knew this was disgusting and unthinkably perverted, so revolting there was a term for it: necrophilia. He was also aware of his situation. What if I fuck her using a condom, to prevent any DNA tracing me to her, then throw her in the lake not far from here? His parents would be so disappointed that he even thought that, and was giving it serious consideration. Fortunately, he didn't give a rat's ass what they thought, both being raging alcoholics and work-shy couch-surfers. Fearful of being caught, Buck dragged the body into the back, where he kept a mattress for his longer haul journeys. There was also a small bucket for his non-containable dumps, a bag of smutty magazines with sticky pages, and a small television where he enjoyed bountiful amounts of pornography. She had grown increasingly cold, even stiffer than when he'd found her. Eager to feel the touch of a woman's pussy around his throbbing member, before she started rotting, he tore open a condom packet, quickly rolled it on, and swiftly inserted. As luck would have it, there was still some natural lubrication inside the woman's orifice. Buck wondered if it was possible to make a dead body orgasm. I guess I'll find out soon enough. When this sickening idea occurred to him, he worried he'd feel vulgar and be unable to perform the act. But the pussy was tight, wet, and there was no annoying moaning from the woman. Buck loathed women's moans for the most part. Most guys were aroused when girls panted and shrieked at being ploughed hard and fast, made them feel masculine, high on testosterone; not Buck. He liked his bitches to stay quiet. Not that he had any bitches, or had ploughed anything besides his hand in over a decade. But that wasn't a problem when shagging a lifeless carcass. The girl's tits still jiggled with every thrust, as the mattress released a squeaking every few seconds. The creaks and Buck's breathing were the only noises filling the back of his truck. If there were any nearby folk they wouldn't suspect foul play, or some guy fucking a dead body. They would make the assumption that two truckers were getting it on. Buck counted his blessing that there was no undead rankness coming off the corpse just yet. Then another foul idea sparked in Buck's brain. Why don't I buy a freezer or something? Keep my sex slave on ice? He sniggered, feeling disturbed and psychotic. He knew better if the body was ever to be found, that was definite jail time. No lay was worth that. So Buck enjoyed it while he could. To his disdain, an absent sex life was leading him to premature ejaculation. It had only been a few minutes, and the load was on its way. The tip of his manhood was burning in anticipation. Buck's face was warming as semen spurted from his shaft and unloaded into the rubber. He exhaled long and low, body spasming. The trucker had forgotten just how good sex was. Eyes closed, gasping for air, legs weak, sweat itching his thighs, as his dick was becoming limp. His clothes were glued to him with a thick coating of perspiration. He plucked segments of clothing from his sodden back and chest. He wiped sweat from his ass, then using his forearm, prevented any perspiration entering his eyes. He closed them, relishing the feel of his dick still inside the woman. When he opened his eyes he saw the woman was now awake. Or more accurately, had come back to life.
Bloodshot eyes, and a taut face that bore a look of confusion. She looked up at him as Buck squelched out of her, terrified, fumbling with his jeans and shoving his penis away by yanking his zip up frantically."kjbdmn..." Buck mumbled, in total shock, unable to form words."Who are you?" she asked, innocently. The same innocent way that Buck loved."I...I... Buck. My name's Buck," he stuttered, stumbling back, away from the undead girl."I'm Sady," she whispered, looking down at herself."What happened? Why am I naked?" she questioned, curiously.Buck didn't know how to handle this. He couldn't not tell the truth as she'd seen him fucking her."I was trying to wake you up...." he burst out, an idea coming to him."What do you mean?" she queried."I read something online, that if you fear a woman is going to die, the powerful energetic thrusts during sex are enough to arouse consciousness." Damn I'm good. Over a decade since sex or intimate contact with a woman, and lines still come to me."I found you at the side of the road, naked and cold. I worried you might be dead so I thought I would try this," he explained.Sady looked as if she was believing it."Oh and that is why I used a condom, I didn't wanna get you pregnant from a guy you didn't know, in case it did work," he continued, sliding his hand to his Johnson and unravelling the condom, retrieving it and showing it to Sady, before letting the cum-filled rubber sag to the floor.She smiled, "I can't believe you did that for me."Is this bitch for real? She is completely buying it! Dumbass!"Well any other guy would have done the same," Buck faked modesty."No, most guys would have driven by as soon as figuring I was dead or ignored me completely, so thank you," she sat up, a pool of cum leaking from between her legs as she did so.Buck couldn't help but notice, his groin throbbing again, member becoming rigid. Sady, catching his line of sight, shoved a finger into herself."What are you doing?" he asked, unable to pull his eyes from her moist opening, and the finger sliding inside it."You clearly got the job done. Want another try?" she spread her legs further, giving Buck a seductive glare at the darkness between her thighs."W-w-what?" Buck struggled to speak, taken aback by his luck."Fuck me again, but this time, don't wear a rubber," she ordered, falling onto her back.And shockingly her moan was subtle and sexual; Buck loved it. Eager to get his member in there again before she changed her mind he yanked off his trousers and tore his t-shirt off, frantically crawling toward her. His obese body, loose skin, and fat pouches didn't seem to bother Sady.

For the next few weeks, the girl known as Sady travelled with him, engaging in small talk, keeping him company, sleeping with him on lengthy journeys, but most importantly, being there as a sex slave. Whenever he wanted to fuck, she was ready. Every single time. Sady was young, slim, attractive and impressively flexible. Buck was living the dream. Until one night when he pulled into a gas station. The trucker, not seeing himself as in a relationship, just being blessed with a fuck buddy, still flirted on occasion that a woman actually found him visually pleasing given his several rolls of fat, man boobs, and quadruple chin. And he wasn't against fucking another woman if the opportunity presented itself. Which this particular night, it did. Some busty older lady wanted to get some behind the gas station. Classy gal! He smirked, not that Buck cared as he could screw this woman, then pound Sady later. So Sandra, the middle-aged predator, hauled him behind the Gas & Gulp station and rode him like a rodeo. She panted, ramming herself onto Buck's shaft, her vagina swallowing it whole, famished for cock. The woman was clearly as desperate as Buck had been prior to meeting Sady. Buck felt a warm explosion of her cum dribble down his cock, matting his pubic mound and glazing his balls in her salty white fluid.Afterwards, Buck strolled, wobbly legged, back to the Truck. The scent of her cheap perfume followed him. A tacky overly floral smell. He entered the truck, smiling like the lucky son of a bitch he was. His cock felt sticky, not having washed it, only having wiped his and Sandra's cum with his baggy t-shirt. The sensation of her hole still hummed on his dick. She hadn't been as tight as Sady, clearly more experienced and cock-savvy, but tight enough to get off. He'd driven for about an hour admiring his luck, thanking his good fortune, midnight approaching, when he realised Sady had been uncharacteristically quiet. So he called her name and no reply. A huge dread made his bowels squirm. Has she left me? That was a free ticket for sex whenever he pleased. So, concerned at losing sex on tap, Buck pulled into another scarce sex spot and entered the back. It was empty. Mattress, bucket, TV, magazines, food wrappers and other garbage strewn on the floor. Where the hell was she? She has no clothes! Then Buck felt a huge pain on his head, and consciousness drifted from him as he collapsed on the bed.
***Sometime later he awoke to utterly excruciating agony. Sady was straddling the trucker, holding a pair of scissors, a helpless flaccid prick between them. Buck screamed, scared to move, naked and vulnerable. As was she. When Sady abruptly snapped the scissors shut with his soft pecker in between them. Sady broke skin and a rush of blood exploded from the severed shaft. Buck was trembling, experiencing a level of pain he thought non-existent. Crimson continued to ooze, staining the mattress, pooling on the truck floor, rushing from the tiny broken hose. The clearly insane girl pried the penis from the scissors, strings of foreskin caught in the middle, and swallowed it whole. Buck was crying, in tremendous agony, looking at Sady, filled with repugnance and terror. "What? I thought you liked it when I deep throated you?" she mumbled, still forcing the floppy member down her throat. The bitter-sweet salty taste painted her tongue, along with a metallic tang of blood. Buck could see his detached modesty wiggling on her tongue, smearing redness on her teeth. Within seconds it vanished into the darkness at the back of her throat. As soon as it had left her gullet and was working its way through her digestive system, she cracked out laughing, blood seeping from her mouth. "Gonna shit that bad-boy out later!" she chuckled.
Barely giving Buck any time to recover Sady looped her arm around, followed by another unimaginably painful shock striking Buck, once again, between the legs. Sady had his balls in a vice. With one swift circle of the metal pole, she'd crushed them. A popping echoed in the truck, as blood and semen gushed from the torn scrotum. Sady fought laughter, finding the torn ball sack emptying various fluids, very amusing. It drooped like a deflated balloon, the testes no longer inhabiting inside, a chopped stump hanging above. Tubes poked out like torn cables, only they let out more blood, not electricity. Buck shrieked. "WHY?""What the fuck?" he asked between sobs, through a creased face and vein covered neck. He trembled, face turning a deadly white, sight blurring. Sady was an obscure vision of flesh, hair, and burgundy splashes in the faint light."You betrayed me my love, you put it to some hag behind a gas station, when I was in the fucking truck, waiting for you!" she raged."I....I...." Buck was becoming delirious, eyelids fluttering and speech slurring. Pain was taking hold of every motor function, leaving him a drooling infant."Guess you weren't the one after all. I must continue my search for true love." Sady pronounced like an army sergeant.What a fucking psycho! Was Buck's last thought as unconsciousness numbed his senses.Sady blared the radio from the front of the truck, ringing in Buck's ears as death was taking him. He heard the warning from the truck's speakers."This is an official police warning. If you see a naked woman lying on the side of the road, do not approach her, she is dangerous. From eye witness accounts and victims that escaped her clutches, she is apparently searching the globe for her 'true love'. She will become obsessed with you, but if you do something she doesn't like or approve of, she will harm you. If you see this woman, call the police immediately, but keep on driving. Repeat, do not approach her under any circumstances! She is very dangerous and mentally unstable." That's an understatement!  Buck huffed as death took his final breath.
***Sady grinned, hearing the warning report as she skipped through the forest. The wind was soothing, shaking leaves and dancing branches all around. The moon was gleaming bright overhead, the smell of camp fire rife in the air. From the bulk of trees, flickering in the distance, was a fire. A man was sat alone, outside a one-man tent, cooking something in a silver pan. The amber glow from the flames lit his rugged, manly face, dotted with stubble and thick brown hair atop an attractive head."This is perfect," Sady whispered.The mentally unhinged naked lady sped to the camp, starting to ask for help when she approached his tent. "Help me, I have been attacked by an animal, somebody please," she wept.The man chivalrously grabbed his gun and headed toward the voice, playing the hero, or so he thought."Miss?" he asked, lowering his gun as he approached her, trying not to ogle every inch of the insanely attractive nude lady bathed in blood.
"My hero," she grinned.

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Sady
Buck sat guzzling coffee by the gallon, slouched in his large red box truck, blazing down the highway. Traffic blurred by as he drank from his novelty takeaway cup with a naked lady on. When it was cold the lady concealed her modesty with clothes, but as hot contents were poured in, the clothing vanished, which he enjoyed. The two brown areola rings around rigid nipples that lay on the perky breasts became clear. And a tight pussy with a neatly trimmed pubic mound above became visible. Buck was a total sleaze: sexist, unkempt, with bad personal hygiene and an out of shape body. To top it off he was bald, with bad teeth and a thick beard with crumbs of food constantly decorating it. He'd hadn't been laid in years, the only way he could bust a nut was by playing with himself. Even prostitutes ran for the hills when looking at him. He made good money, had no children or an ex-wife to pay alimony too, yet apparently no amount of cash was worth screwing him. He was in his thirties and hadn't blown a load into or onto a woman since he was in his early twenties. Men weren't supposed to go that long without sex, it wasn't natural or healthy; not that Buck had a choice.
A gas station sparked through the evening sky. Fellow truckers pulled in to fill tanks, travellers rushed in to grab coffee and snacks, while a few dashed to the restrooms. The station was isolated, plotted on a small piece of land just off the highway. Moths could be seen from afar, flying around blinking fluorescent lights at the entrance doors. Deciding he needed to fill up his novelty container he swerved to the parking lot and got out. Armed with his offensive cup, he wandered into the station and headed for the coffee aisle. The place was like every other gas station, streaming with snacks of all varieties, plus a freshly made section with sandwiches, burritos, and tacos. It was one of the more commercial chains of gas stations, owned by greedy corporations and money-grabbers. Usually, Buck would choose the smaller businesses, but those damn companies located stations everywhere. The trucker wouldn't put it past them to buy land to restrict other gas stations competing with them. Buck made for the ready-to-drink section, filled with slushies, soft drinks, coffee, iced tea and smoothies, all ready to flow by a lever into whichever size container you wanted. Buck filled up and headed over to the counter to pay, grabbing a bar of chocolate on the way, and a packet of salty nuts. The blonde girl at the counter was breathtakingly beautiful, with an innocence about her. The good girl routine turned Buck on more than anything. The 'oh I shouldn't, my husband will be home, no stop' act he'd witnessed in thousands of pornos, until they succumb to the ravages of handy men or construction workers with rippling pecs and chiselled abs. The trucker had considered going on a diet and working out in order to get a hot body. Because some of these male porn stars had butt-ugly faces, but women were hot for them due to their tight, ripped bodies. However, weighing in at well over morbidly obese, Buck disregarded the idea, loving food too much. He gave the breasts of the attendant a swift look, groin throbbing until quickly averting his gaze as she handed his change over. Just the touch of her hand gave him a semi. I am pathetic. He was like a sex-starved teen bursting with an overload of hormones and uncontrollable thoughts and desires of a crude nature. Buck left, now cradling a fully erect penis pushing against the denim of his jeans. Luckily his baggy stained white t-shirt hung low, concealing the lump between his legs. It pressed against his jeans, being mashed behind the zipper. He left, hopping into his truck and got back on the highway, gorging on his pack of nuts, washing them down with piping hot caffeine. The roads were quiet, just the way he liked it. A soothing breeze sneaking through a crack in the window kept Buck alert, fending off any premature urges to doze off. Trucks and campers occasionally passed by, other than that, the roads were clear. Stretches of greenery lay on either side, thick growths of forest with chunky trees and bushes with plenty of foliage. The moon rolled on the clouds above, its glow slinking through gaps in branches and flipping off the tarmac. With the radio on low, he noticed something by the side of the road. A pale object on the floor in a thicket of green. At first, he thought it was a deer or other road-kill. As he eased off the gas and approached the object, he identified it as that of a young woman. A naked young woman. He cautiously swerved to the side of the road, looking out front and checking behind in his mucky mirrors. A derelict highway, fortunately. Maybe she'll reward me for pulling over, maybe she'll take pity on me, maybe she'll do anything to warm herself up. These hopeful thoughts and more anchored Buck's mind, refusing to budge, as he opened the door and leapt onto the gravelled path aside the asphalt. He rubbed his hands together, his face controlled by a lecherous grin. Buck could see her perfect body bathed by the moonlight and distant linger of highway lighting. Even though any female would do at this point. He'd fuck a fellow fatty or old woman just to feel something clenching around his shaft; he was that desperate. The pervy trucker continued scamming on the woman as he strolled toward her, dreaming of how her pussy would taste, the sweet nectarine exploding in his mouth. He envisioned the sweet but salty cream erupting, after slobbering over the two perfect breasts and delicious darkness between her legs.
He crouched at her side, glaring at a seductive vagina. "Miss?" he asked. She didn't move a muscle."Miss, is everything okay?" he tried again, but nothing.The wind rustled through the trees as crickets chirped nearby. As luck would have it crickets were the only living creatures around. Buck worried some other trucker would come over and steal his potential lay, so he acted irrationally and insanely desperate. He pitied himself but justified his actions due to a sexless existence. Yet something startled him as he hoisted her from the ground: she was cold. The flesh was swarming in goosebumps, icy and stiff. Then again what was expected when discovering a woman laid on the path on a brisk night during winter? Giving the surroundings one brief but efficient look, he lugged the woman over to his truck, placing her gently on the passenger seat and delicately shutting the door behind her. He paced to the driver’s side, jumped in and sped off, heart racing. Was this such a good idea?
He drove hastily, the young girl was completely void of movement; he couldn't even see any subtle chest movements. Was she dead? Knowing the highway well, having driven it a thousand times, Buck found a secret place used for truck drivers to hook up. Otherwise known as the truck-fuck stop. It was a deserted forest with a long gravelled path with multiple clearings that were well hidden by overgrown trees and bushes, especially at night with the truck lights off. If on the off chance someone did drive into the opening, they wouldn't bother him and his lady. They would no doubt be getting some action and not want disturbing either. Another chunk of knowledge he knew in his search for sex. The tyres grind against gravel, spewing coffee coloured mists into the air. Darkness consumed the trees, eating the bark, but choking on the branches and twigs as the green was washed in moonlight. The moon hung above, providing just enough visibility without having to switch on a truck headlight. Buck turned off the engine and awkwardly shuffled over the gear stick and put a hand on the girl's chest. A minute passed and no pulse. Pathetically praying she was still alive, he clutched at her wrist, and there was the same lack of a pulse. It was official; she was dead.
Buck sat still and silent, but his mind was racing. Should he call the police? How would he explain the situation? He hoped she was alive so he could screw her? Yeah, that would sound great! More unnerving thoughts barricaded themselves in Buck's mind. Surely there was some crime in the situation. Buck wasn't a law expert but knew that there was something illegal about moving a body from a crime scene. So there he sat, contemplating his next move, lungs ablaze and head aching from a sudden overload of stress. Being single only had one upside, his anxiety levels were for the most part, low. So he was unequipped to deal with this level of stress. But an equally strong part of him was overtaking the worry: his hormones. Lack of sexual contact was actually forcing him to consider fucking the corpse. Now somewhere in his brain, he knew this was disgusting and unthinkably perverted, so revolting there was a term for it: necrophilia. He was also aware of his situation. What if I fuck her using a condom, to prevent any DNA tracing me to her, then throw her in the lake not far from here? His parents would be so disappointed that he even thought that, and was giving it serious consideration. Fortunately, he didn't give a rat's ass what they thought, both being raging alcoholics and work-shy couch-surfers. Fearful of being caught, Buck dragged the body into the back, where he kept a mattress for his longer haul journeys. There was also a small bucket for his non-containable dumps, a bag of smutty magazines with sticky pages, and a small television where he enjoyed bountiful amounts of pornography. She had grown increasingly cold, even stiffer than when he'd found her. Eager to feel the touch of a woman's pussy around his throbbing member, before she started rotting, he tore open a condom packet, quickly rolled it on, and swiftly inserted. As luck would have it, there was still some natural lubrication inside the woman's orifice. Buck wondered if it was possible to make a dead body orgasm. I guess I'll find out soon enough. When this sickening idea occurred to him, he worried he'd feel vulgar and be unable to perform the act. But the pussy was tight, wet, and there was no annoying moaning from the woman. Buck loathed women's moans for the most part. Most guys were aroused when girls panted and shrieked at being ploughed hard and fast, made them feel masculine, high on testosterone; not Buck. He liked his bitches to stay quiet. Not that he had any bitches, or had ploughed anything besides his hand in over a decade. But that wasn't a problem when shagging a lifeless carcass. The girl's tits still jiggled with every thrust, as the mattress released a squeaking every few seconds. The creaks and Buck's breathing were the only noises filling the back of his truck. If there were any nearby folk they wouldn't suspect foul play, or some guy fucking a dead body. They would make the assumption that two truckers were getting it on. Buck counted his blessing that there was no undead rankness coming off the corpse just yet. Then another foul idea sparked in Buck's brain. Why don't I buy a freezer or something? Keep my sex slave on ice? He sniggered, feeling disturbed and psychotic. He knew better if the body was ever to be found, that was definite jail time. No lay was worth that. So Buck enjoyed it while he could. To his disdain, an absent sex life was leading him to premature ejaculation. It had only been a few minutes, and the load was on its way. The tip of his manhood was burning in anticipation. Buck's face was warming as semen spurted from his shaft and unloaded into the rubber. He exhaled long and low, body spasming. The trucker had forgotten just how good sex was. Eyes closed, gasping for air, legs weak, sweat itching his thighs, as his dick was becoming limp. His clothes were glued to him with a thick coating of perspiration. He plucked segments of clothing from his sodden back and chest. He wiped sweat from his ass, then using his forearm, prevented any perspiration entering his eyes. He closed them, relishing the feel of his dick still inside the woman. When he opened his eyes he saw the woman was now awake. Or more accurately, had come back to life.
Bloodshot eyes, and a taut face that bore a look of confusion. She looked up at him as Buck squelched out of her, terrified, fumbling with his jeans and shoving his penis away by yanking his zip up frantically."kjbdmn..." Buck mumbled, in total shock, unable to form words."Who are you?" she asked, innocently. The same innocent way that Buck loved."I...I... Buck. My name's Buck," he stuttered, stumbling back, away from the undead girl."I'm Sady," she whispered, looking down at herself."What happened? Why am I naked?" she questioned, curiously.Buck didn't know how to handle this. He couldn't not tell the truth as she'd seen him fucking her."I was trying to wake you up...." he burst out, an idea coming to him."What do you mean?" she queried."I read something online, that if you fear a woman is going to die, the powerful energetic thrusts during sex are enough to arouse consciousness." Damn I'm good. Over a decade since sex or intimate contact with a woman, and lines still come to me."I found you at the side of the road, naked and cold. I worried you might be dead so I thought I would try this," he explained.Sady looked as if she was believing it."Oh and that is why I used a condom, I didn't wanna get you pregnant from a guy you didn't know, in case it did work," he continued, sliding his hand to his Johnson and unravelling the condom, retrieving it and showing it to Sady, before letting the cum-filled rubber sag to the floor.She smiled, "I can't believe you did that for me."Is this bitch for real? She is completely buying it! Dumbass!"Well any other guy would have done the same," Buck faked modesty."No, most guys would have driven by as soon as figuring I was dead or ignored me completely, so thank you," she sat up, a pool of cum leaking from between her legs as she did so.Buck couldn't help but notice, his groin throbbing again, member becoming rigid. Sady, catching his line of sight, shoved a finger into herself."What are you doing?" he asked, unable to pull his eyes from her moist opening, and the finger sliding inside it."You clearly got the job done. Want another try?" she spread her legs further, giving Buck a seductive glare at the darkness between her thighs."W-w-what?" Buck struggled to speak, taken aback by his luck."Fuck me again, but this time, don't wear a rubber," she ordered, falling onto her back.And shockingly her moan was subtle and sexual; Buck loved it. Eager to get his member in there again before she changed her mind he yanked off his trousers and tore his t-shirt off, frantically crawling toward her. His obese body, loose skin, and fat pouches didn't seem to bother Sady.

For the next few weeks, the girl known as Sady travelled with him, engaging in small talk, keeping him company, sleeping with him on lengthy journeys, but most importantly, being there as a sex slave. Whenever he wanted to fuck, she was ready. Every single time. Sady was young, slim, attractive and impressively flexible. Buck was living the dream. Until one night when he pulled into a gas station. The trucker, not seeing himself as in a relationship, just being blessed with a fuck buddy, still flirted on occasion that a woman actually found him visually pleasing given his several rolls of fat, man boobs, and quadruple chin. And he wasn't against fucking another woman if the opportunity presented itself. Which this particular night, it did. Some busty older lady wanted to get some behind the gas station. Classy gal! He smirked, not that Buck cared as he could screw this woman, then pound Sady later. So Sandra, the middle-aged predator, hauled him behind the Gas & Gulp station and rode him like a rodeo. She panted, ramming herself onto Buck's shaft, her vagina swallowing it whole, famished for cock. The woman was clearly as desperate as Buck had been prior to meeting Sady. Buck felt a warm explosion of her cum dribble down his cock, matting his pubic mound and glazing his balls in her salty white fluid.Afterwards, Buck strolled, wobbly legged, back to the Truck. The scent of her cheap perfume followed him. A tacky overly floral smell. He entered the truck, smiling like the lucky son of a bitch he was. His cock felt sticky, not having washed it, only having wiped his and Sandra's cum with his baggy t-shirt. The sensation of her hole still hummed on his dick. She hadn't been as tight as Sady, clearly more experienced and cock-savvy, but tight enough to get off. He'd driven for about an hour admiring his luck, thanking his good fortune, midnight approaching, when he realised Sady had been uncharacteristically quiet. So he called her name and no reply. A huge dread made his bowels squirm. Has she left me? That was a free ticket for sex whenever he pleased. So, concerned at losing sex on tap, Buck pulled into another scarce sex spot and entered the back. It was empty. Mattress, bucket, TV, magazines, food wrappers and other garbage strewn on the floor. Where the hell was she? She has no clothes! Then Buck felt a huge pain on his head, and consciousness drifted from him as he collapsed on the bed.
***Sometime later he awoke to utterly excruciating agony. Sady was straddling the trucker, holding a pair of scissors, a helpless flaccid prick between them. Buck screamed, scared to move, naked and vulnerable. As was she. When Sady abruptly snapped the scissors shut with his soft pecker in between them. Sady broke skin and a rush of blood exploded from the severed shaft. Buck was trembling, experiencing a level of pain he thought non-existent. Crimson continued to ooze, staining the mattress, pooling on the truck floor, rushing from the tiny broken hose. The clearly insane girl pried the penis from the scissors, strings of foreskin caught in the middle, and swallowed it whole. Buck was crying, in tremendous agony, looking at Sady, filled with repugnance and terror. "What? I thought you liked it when I deep throated you?" she mumbled, still forcing the floppy member down her throat. The bitter-sweet salty taste painted her tongue, along with a metallic tang of blood. Buck could see his detached modesty wiggling on her tongue, smearing redness on her teeth. Within seconds it vanished into the darkness at the back of her throat. As soon as it had left her gullet and was working its way through her digestive system, she cracked out laughing, blood seeping from her mouth. "Gonna shit that bad-boy out later!" she chuckled.
Barely giving Buck any time to recover Sady looped her arm around, followed by another unimaginably painful shock striking Buck, once again, between the legs. Sady had his balls in a vice. With one swift circle of the metal pole, she'd crushed them. A popping echoed in the truck, as blood and semen gushed from the torn scrotum. Sady fought laughter, finding the torn ball sack emptying various fluids, very amusing. It drooped like a deflated balloon, the testes no longer inhabiting inside, a chopped stump hanging above. Tubes poked out like torn cables, only they let out more blood, not electricity. Buck shrieked. "WHY?""What the fuck?" he asked between sobs, through a creased face and vein covered neck. He trembled, face turning a deadly white, sight blurring. Sady was an obscure vision of flesh, hair, and burgundy splashes in the faint light."You betrayed me my love, you put it to some hag behind a gas station, when I was in the fucking truck, waiting for you!" she raged."I....I...." Buck was becoming delirious, eyelids fluttering and speech slurring. Pain was taking hold of every motor function, leaving him a drooling infant."Guess you weren't the one after all. I must continue my search for true love." Sady pronounced like an army sergeant.What a fucking psycho! Was Buck's last thought as unconsciousness numbed his senses.Sady blared the radio from the front of the truck, ringing in Buck's ears as death was taking him. He heard the warning from the truck's speakers."This is an official police warning. If you see a naked woman lying on the side of the road, do not approach her, she is dangerous. From eye witness accounts and victims that escaped her clutches, she is apparently searching the globe for her 'true love'. She will become obsessed with you, but if you do something she doesn't like or approve of, she will harm you. If you see this woman, call the police immediately, but keep on driving. Repeat, do not approach her under any circumstances! She is very dangerous and mentally unstable." That's an understatement!  Buck huffed as death took his final breath.
***Sady grinned, hearing the warning report as she skipped through the forest. The wind was soothing, shaking leaves and dancing branches all around. The moon was gleaming bright overhead, the smell of camp fire rife in the air. From the bulk of trees, flickering in the distance, was a fire. A man was sat alone, outside a one-man tent, cooking something in a silver pan. The amber glow from the flames lit his rugged, manly face, dotted with stubble and thick brown hair atop an attractive head."This is perfect," Sady whispered.The mentally unhinged naked lady sped to the camp, starting to ask for help when she approached his tent. "Help me, I have been attacked by an animal, somebody please," she wept.The man chivalrously grabbed his gun and headed toward the voice, playing the hero, or so he thought."Miss?" he asked, lowering his gun as he approached her, trying not to ogle every inch of the insanely attractive nude lady bathed in blood.
"My hero," she grinned.

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 Anne's blonde hair clung to her pale, sweaty face with her tongue working on the window. Five years ago Anne had been diagnosed with a very uncommon mental disorder known as alcrucia. A disease that breaks down the brain cells until the person is nothing more than a drooling infant with the thoughts and feelings of a child, trapped in the body of an adult. Anne had suffered a serious injury due to a car accident shortly before the diagnosis, which had accelerated this illness with almost superhuman speed. First came the lack of speech, then the decline in motivation. Shortly followed by the dissolution of understanding and inability to act out a simple task without failure or distraction. Dr. Ambrosia had been the one to provide the original diagnosis, advising she be detained in a mental facility until her dying day. He very much doubted a recovery due to both the ailment and its rapid progression. But one thing that the well-educated Doctor did not know, was that Anne was hiding a deep-seated maliciousness in her psyche. But with the mind of a child, was clueless as to how to act on these impulses. She couldn't eat a meal without an orderly. So devising an intricate scheme to murder was far beyond her capabilities. That is until one day, something inside the brain of Anne Foster ignited. A passion and determination to kill Doctor Ambrosia.
Five years in a small white room, padded walls, plastic furniture, and mushy tasteless food had been the motivation for Anne to accomplish something other than eating a meal unassisted. To end a human life. But not just any, just the person that committed her to this wretched place. He came by once a month to check on any progress, but after five years saw it as a waste of time, but a part of his job nonetheless. He loathed her company. Anne would excrete in front of him, lick walls, expose her modesty, among other things. After years of personal meetings month after month, he came to learn that keeping a fair distance, and staying stood, stopped this insane behaviour. But today as he entered he witnessed something most unusual, she was sat drawing a picture that wasn't completely terrible. Normally the page would be filled with infantile scribblings, holes, and torn edges; not today. Anne sat, peaceful and content, focusing solely on one task. Doctor Ambrosia was astounded. Was she on her way to mental health? He had to approach with caution as to not hinder this miraculous event. The human mind was a delicate part of the body, temperamental and complicated. Too much stress or trauma and it shuts down. Too much change in a short period of time has the same effect. So he gently teetered over to Anne and sat opposite the table from her. Another unbelievable sight was the plate resting aside the crayons. The food had been eaten and wasn't spread on the walls. The cutlery hadn't been snapped but was neatly placed in the centre of the plate. What the hell was going on? In all his years he'd never seen such a fast advancement. There was no excrement piled on the linoleum, no rancid urine lingering in the air from a moist bed sheet, hair hadn't been yanked out, the white jumpsuit hadn't been removed, no spit was in globules on the window pane. Just when a smile spread taut across his clean shaven, but wrinkly face, he noticed something. He had initially believed the sketch to be that of a rose garden. But at second glance, he could see that wasn't the case. It was an illustration of a man laid on the ground, covered in blood. A woman was straddling him, wielding a pointed object coated in crimson. Doctor Ambrosia's heart skipped a beat when he saw the victim was wearing a medical coat, and in one hand held a wooden board with papers on. The other hand tightly gripped a pen. Both items he currently held. “W....w...what is that Anne?” Doctor Ambrosia stuttered nervously. He wasn't expecting an answer as she hadn't uttered a single coherent word in over five years. Anne did communicate through looks and facial expressions, though. Sometimes the expressions were difficult to read, but it was better than blankness. Today, Anne's expression was as clear as day. Her face was stiff and eyes were squinting hard. Doctor Ambrosia began to stand, maintaining eye contact. Anne's nostrils flared and teeth clenched as she leapt at him. The Doctor screamed like a banshee as Anne bashed into him, knocking him onto the floor. No sooner than his back hit the linoleum did a sting tingle at his neck. His eyes fell down upon a pen protruding from his gullet. Anne began to laugh hysterically, twisting the pen like a wrench. Red spurted from his neck as he gargled and choked on his own blood. “Son...”She yanked the pen out and let more blood flow freely.“Of....”Dark burgundy drizzled down and caught got in thick chest hairs. “A....”Anne lifted the pen behind her and grinned.“Bitch!”She brought it down and pierced his left eyeball. A squish bounced off the walls as it popped and let more redness drool down his face.
Blood dotted the walls, screams echoed and rebounded from every surface, insidious giggling resounded, squelching reverberated. Yet the yells of the Doctor went unnoticed, all sound absorbed into the padding, ironically. Even Anne could appreciate the irony. Which made her giggles mutate into witch-like cackles that terrified the fading consciousness of Doctor Ambrosia. His vision blurred, being that of Anne wearing an inhumane smile and vengeful eyes. His one functioning eye blacked out completely and now everything was gone. The pain tapered off. But the sounds, the horrid explosion of noises, continued even as his other senses became void.
Suddenly Anne decided it would be amusing to dress in the Doctor's clothing. So she peeled off his soiled attire covered in red stains and placed them over her patient clothes. “Judging by the hole in your throat and eyeball, I would declare you dead and I diagnose the treatment to be hell!” Anne laughed hysterically at her own joke, truly psychotic.
She played doctor for hours until a hoard of workers rushed in and dragged Anne from the wet corpse of Doctor Ambrosia. Even though she was strapped into the electric chair and pounded with hundreds of volts, she continued to chuckle. The electricity sizzled and smoke filled the air, all the while Anne's laughter prevailed. 


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 Trevor loved theme parks, ever since childhood. The roller coasters, gift shops, food, and energetic atmosphere thriving in the bustle of energetic people. But Pleasure Island was more than just a place of enjoyment to Trevor, it bore a greater significance than frivolous fun. Pleasure Island was where his parents went missing when he was only seven years of age. Whilst on a ride catered for the younger crowd, with his parents watching, full of pride. Trevor spun and spun, smiling and giggling until the ride came to an end. He wobbled from the ride and looked to the crowd of parents, to find his had vanished. He began shouting their names, then crying, but was ultimately taken away by the authorities. After a long battle, and the parents nowhere to be found, it was decided his aunt and uncle would be the legal guardians.Any sane person would avoid the park like a stalker, yet Trevor actually found happiness in his annual visits. As it was the last place he saw his parents. He could still visualise them taking him for candy floss, queuing for rides or swimming in one of the many pools. Trevor, now eighteen, made sure every year, around October, he could visit Pleasure Island. This year the theme park was holding a special event in celebration of Halloween. Visitors could explore the park in the early hours and even go on the rides in the cover of darkness. Trevor, having a fondness for horror movies, books and generally all things spooky, jumped at the opportunity. So one evening whilst browsing the net in his cramped bedroom, he booked one ticket for 'Spooktacular Scares at Pleasure Island'.
A week later, at one a.m. on October 31st no less, Trevor used a barcode from his smartphone to gain entry to the park. The weather was chilly, so fortunately he had attired in a dark, thick hoody with jeans and comfy skater shoes hugging his feet. The second he entered the park the air seemed to become even colder, giving Trevor a delightful chill. Full of excitement, he paid no attention to the decline in warmth. He was more interested in hopping on rides and slinking around in the gloom. The park was pretty quiet. A few people were scattered around, some queuing for rides, others waiting outside restrooms, and some teenagers fooling around. It was difficult to make much out as the only lights were jack-o-lanterns and other Halloween themed lighting fixtures draped throughout the park. Illuminated skeleton heads were nestled into darkened corners, glowing corpses were tossed onto haystacks, and evil, yellow eyes swarmed the woods just beyond the park, outside the tall sturdy fences. The thought of so many eyes carousing Trevor made him tingle. Spookiness at its greatest, which gave Trevor reason to smile as he strolled along, soaking up the scenery and observing fellow visitors in their pursuit of terror. There was no particular route in mind, he was absent-mindedly wandering along when he came to the children's ride where his parents had vanished all those years ago. Or technically, the new ride which had replaced it.
This stung like an aggravated bee sting. He stopped and fought for breath as that ride meant something to him, but Pleasure Island was clearly more interested in getting rid of kiddy rides and bringing in adult rides to attract more tourists and, of course, money. A tear escaped Trevor's eye, trailing rosy cheeks as he scrunched his lips feeling mournful, stifling sobs. That silly little ride was a way, the only way, to remember clearly what his parents looked like, besides photographs. But things change, he knew that. So he shrugged off his mournful attitude and embraced the new ride, giving it a gander. Crimson metal poles with a few people queuing inside, red painted wood, and a huge sign above reading 'Coaster To Hell' in large red font that looked as if it was oozing blood. A loud giggle from behind startled Trevor as a small group of teens brushed by and joined the queue. He wanted to see what the fuss was about, and if this new coaster was worth replacing the children's ride. Something rubbed him the wrong way about the coaster to hell. A strange, unidentifiable aura emanated from the ride, that gave Trevor goosebumps. Which was strange given his passion for all things horror, but this feeling was different. It was beyond anticipation and slight nerves, this was a bright beacon flashing relentlessly into his subconscious, blaring loud. Was it warning him? He couldn't distinguish this new found awareness. Either way, it wasn't going to stop him strolling to the herd of people. His hand smoothed along the metal poles as he crept towards the queuers. It felt cold and the paint smelled fresh. This wasn't anything unusual given it was a new ride. People had seemingly sprung from nowhere. At first only a short collection was within the poles; now the gathering had spawned around thirty people. From what Trevor could see, they were all youngsters, around his age if not younger. Which was not surprising given most adults would bring their very young children at a more reasonable hour than one a.m. Also, scariness wasn't exactly appropriate for infants. Trevor was looking forward to a quiet, creepy tour by himself. I guess not anymore. He tutted as the line shrunk and he scuttled closer to the darkness that was swallowing the guests one by one.
Trevor came to a dark space, behind an individual gate that told him he was next to sit in the coaster tram. People fell in their seats and eagerly yanked their harnesses overhead, safely securing them in place for sensible thrills. Trevor was still itching from an unknown anxiousness as to the possibility of something much more insidious than a ride lurking in the dusk. Ride attendants jogged by each person, checking the harnesses, some advising riders to hand their loose objects over for safe-keeping until the ride came to an end. The man collecting personal belongings was undeniably creepy, with shadowy eyes and pale skin, and a bald head that shined in the murk. He slinked along grinning as he took hats, sandals, jewellery, cameras and phones. Soon enough they were off; the rattling of the chain echoed amongst the cheers of eager thrill-seekers. One by one the ride vanished into darkness, their whoops also fading. The gate before Trevor then unlocked and creaked open, allowing him to sneak forwards and prepare to mount the next tram. With no one behind, it looked like Trevor would be riding alone. As he waited patiently, Trevor admired the freakish décor. Flashing signs telling people to leave instilling cowardice, red licks of paint giving the impression of blood splatters, more Halloween decorations hanging like bodies from nooses, and advisory health signs. Anyone pregnant, suffering from heart conditions or vertigo was to leave now."I heard that Vicky from school rode this ride and was never seen again," some girl from behind gossiped amongst friends, which caught the attention of Trevor."Shut up! No she didn't, that is such a pile of crap, you're just trying to scare us," another girl replied laughing."No I swear, honestly, have you seen Vicky? Think about it. She loved horror so came to the midnight opening event of this ride. No one has seen her since," the storyteller whispered.There was an unsettling pause that spread through the crowd of voices. Trevor turned sideways in an attempt to view the chatter boxes. All that could be made out were eyes and teeth in the dimness."Wait, you talking about that manic depressive chick who always skips class?" a guy butted into the conversation from another group, bluntly."Well yeah, but she came to school at least a few times a week. She has been gone for weeks, there are missing signs everywhere. Haven't you seen 'em?" she asked."That chick is probably doing it for attention or something," he scoffed.A screeching pulled Trevor's focus from the chitchat to the oncoming tram. Which was empty. But before becoming irrational he told himself that hundreds of coasters now had more than one actual coaster as to get the line moving faster. The conversation soon died down, but within seconds was replaced with more energetic whoops and roars of excitement."Please take your seat ladies and gentlemen, for your ride to hell!" the speaker system reverberated into the sombre.Trevor carefully stepped into the cart, falling into the embrace of warm, wet leather seats. He slumped inside and pulled over the safety harness until it clicked into place. Butterflies begun fluttering in his stomach as his head became hot. People jumped into the carts to his front and back, slamming down safety belts, laughing and joking. He often envied people who could smile through life, having no worries, completely satisfied with their existence. Trevor suffered from the occasional depression and anxiety, often finding it difficult to project a smile when he wasn't genuinely happy, which unfortunately, wasn't very often. The only time he was truly happy was at home reading a chilling tale or watching a horror flick. Being in a crowd of people made him uncomfortable. Even one-on-one with a close friend sometimes created anxiousness. Yet again the attendants came round checking the harnesses were firmly in place. Followed by the creepy bald dude taking even more items. Trevor noticed he scuttled with a hunch, like some creepy goblin. He had a nervous energy about him, and the ongoing creepy aura, which made Trevor on edge when the creeper came to his tram."Any loose items?" he breathed, a rancid odour blowing into Trevor's face. An unnaturally vile stench."No, thanks," Trevor responded, eager for him to slither along as he held his breath and stifled his gut reaction to crease his face in disgust. Luckily, he soon moved on.What was that smell? His breath was hellish! He grumbled to himself.The man holding a bag of valuables disappeared into blackness, sniggering. Relax, maybe his behaviour was all part of the show? To go that extra mile to unnerve people. The roller coaster then chutted to life, taking off."Please stay seated, assholes and elbows on the seats at all times," the speaker advised, receiving claps and chortles from the more rumbustious riders.Trevor's grip tightened on metal hand rails attached to the black leather harness. This is it. 
The coaster started, the pulley system rattling into the void they were being pulled into. The enthusiastic screams and shrieks only heightened, which made Trevor more apprehensive. He could tell they were being taken up, although visually all he could see was a bright light hovering in the distance. Trevor let his head sink back in preparation for what would no doubt be a rocket speed launch. Every roller coaster was in competition for the faster ride with the largest g-force, pushing the boundaries of safety. So he figured, best to be safe rather than sorry. The ride soon came to a halt, and a countdown began by a robotic voice echoing into the dimness. The light that Trevor had seen minutes ago was a black electronic board that was now showing numbers in a countdown from ten. Every rider, save for Trevor, joined in the countdown, bellowing into the blackness, added with howls from immature young men. Trevor's pulse increased as the countdown was nearing its completion. 3. He gulped. 2. He took a deep breath. 1. His face crinkled as air whipped into it with mighty force. Trevor could feel his skin being pulled back and attire whipping wildly. The ruckus of wheels on metal bounced from walls, as did everyone's shouting. But Trevor was pleasantly surprised; the ride was enjoyable, and his heart rate eased. A smile even found its way onto his face, dimples forming tiny dents in his cheeks. Not that he or anyone else could see them. His stomach performed somersaults as the tracks began to loop, swirling and spinning, sending his hair into a frenzy. Trevor released a laugh. It was the first time he had laughed in a very long time. Maybe this was just what he needed. Anxiety and depression had fled his mind; he was in the moment, enjoying life, as every older person often advised. That was until the ride came to a screeching halt, which felt premature. It wasn't over; they weren't back at the queue with eager people in the line waiting to hop onto the coaster. They were still in lightlessness.
"Hey, what gives?" a boy moaned, which everyone responded too with a collaboration of mutual boos and complaints, mixed in with crass language and crude remarks.Trevor's short lived joy had been replaced by distress, his skin twitching in anticipation of the unknown. Had the coaster broken down? Then something huge hit Trevor's cart. He screamed, expecting a bunch of laughter at his outburst, but even more shrieks dominoed through the abyss. He couldn't see a damn thing, but could hear an orchestra of screeches. From manly bellows to womanly yells. Which is when the ride started up again. Yet this time something felt different. The cries of fellow riders faded, and the dark became malignant. Trevor felt eyes watching him as the coaster delicately skidded along. Irrationally his head lashed back and forth, eyes darting into the gloom, searching for light. Perhaps a glowing exit sign or Halloween decoration. But it was pitch-black. What the fuck is going on? Trevor lost his breath after abruptly turning in his seat. His individual two-seater was apparently detached from the roller coaster and was deviating from the tracks. "Help!" He gave in, wailing hysterically. Nobody responded. "Please, anybody? Hello?" he continued, beckoning for assistance. There was nothing; he was alone. Until somebody giggled from behind. And this giggle didn't sound in the least bit friendly.
A wave of heat bloomed in Trevor as he squeezed onto the metal hand grips, praying that it was just his imagination, or part of the ride. There it was again: a high-pitched chuckle ricocheting in the abyss. He took deep breaths silently, eyes flickering. There was still no light. But illumination wasn't needed to identify his cart smashing into something again.Trevor jerked, word-vomit causing him to scream, which received more insidious laughter. Something more frightening followed the sinister amusement: a ripe stench that hit Trevor like a punch to the face. He fought back vomit as the repugnance wafted into his face. It was akin to the reek of death. Blood, mould, rot, and an unidentifiable rankness. That was it, Trevor wanted off this ride and out of here. For the first time in his life, he no longer wanted to be in Pleasure Island.
As he spasmed in his seat, fighting against the harness, he realised he was trapped. He was helpless, forced to go wherever the tram took him. The aroma only intensified as the ride strolled along an uneven track, sending painful vibrations through the seats. Perspiration leaked from his head and seeped into his eyes, stinging them. Trevor reached to rub away the sweat but his arms were held back by the safety restraints. So he squeezed his eyes shut and then blinked relentlessly, trying to eradicate the itchy burning. In the midst of his struggle, through blurred vision, a dim light broke through the dusk. This made Trevor pause, distracting him from his eyes, which were beginning to feel better as his focus was averted to the carnage that encompassed him. The ride was moving through the ultimate house of butchery. Bodies strewn across a gravelled ground, dismembered, severed and bloody. Trevor wanted to believe these were just very realistic props, all part of the experience, beating out competitors. But denial wasn't an option given the vile stink permeating into his pores, and smearing onto his tongue. Terrified, Trevor continued bashing against the leather-coated belt. He knew it was useless, but it was all he could do to not throw up. The air was completely polluted with the rankness, poisoning oxygen to the point where Trevor wished he was a vampire and didn't have to breathe. Also, the ongoing ride didn't help his sickness. Being stood and overlooking the manslaughter was bad enough, but moving in a roller coaster tram, in solitude, only with a dim light giving subtle illumination. The light! He never identified the actual light source. Trevor crossed his fingers in hope that it was an emergency exit. Not that it would do him any good as he was-The electronically activated harness abruptly flipped up after a click and ding. It flung overhead, allowing freedom. They clanged loudly, which received more chuckling. Trevor, not wanting to find out who or what was laughing like some deranged psychopath, fumbled with the small belt at his waist and unbuckled it, freeing himself. He vaulted from the ride, dripping in sweat, heart racing and lungs aching. The light was a small bulb swinging above, now with an eerie creak. Had it always been swaying? Or had someone pushed it? Then something tickled Trevor's neck.
He shrieked, crawling over the ride as it persevered through the bloody bodies. Trevor scrambled over the leather seats, holding the railings and jumping off the other side and racing into the blackness. Bones crunched underfoot, body organs were squeezing, some exploding and splashing onto Trevor's jeans. The mountain of bodies grew, as he realised he was literally climbing through corpses.
With the subtle light still moving back and forth, the giggling amplifying and the pile of dead folk thickening, Trevor was fearful of how it could get any worse. Which was when he fell, landing in the mess of victims. Limbs everywhere, blood slippery, and jelly-like guts and intestines squelching under his writhing petrified body. Cold flesh appeared to be all around, dipped in various body fluids, stinking beyond belief. Trevor crawled frantically, wriggling through the dead. When a pile of wallets and purses came into sight. Rucksacks, phones, jewellery, keys, and wallets were in a separate assortment near the bloody chopped up people. But it was one particular wallet, nestled into the bottom, that stood out. It was a blue, green and purple wallet, with a photo of an old rock band printed onto the worn and shredded cotton. Trevor waded through the mass of appendages and yanked it from the stash of belongings. A few wallets tumbled in the process, rolling amongst veins, eyeballs and peeled off flesh. He trembled opening the wallet, relying on the dim light washing the area in light every two seconds, still dangling overhead. Then Trevor saw it: a photo of his parents inside. This was his father's wallet. A tear escaped his eye as his lips began to wobble. They were somewhere amongst the bloodshed. As he gently sobbed, the light above was switched off. Which made the group of cackles all the clearer. Not just one, but a bunch of laughter surrounding him."Supper time boys," a southern accent hissed through the blackness, followed by tonnes of cackles.
Figuring he may as well try to prevail this nightmare, he held the wallet tight and stumbled through the disarray. The ruckus of crunching and squishing sounded from everywhere as he barged through the graveyard of bodies, attempting not to trip on cartilage or slip on blood. There had to be a way out. After all, the coaster came in through a door. The coaster! Trevor could still hear it jutting along in the despair. He followed the sound, changing course, hoping it would lead him from this decaying hell hole. Uneven ground transformed into a smoother surface with tiny hard boards running horizontally across the floor. The tracks! Running was now far easier, as the noise the coaster produced became louder. Trevor was nearing it, he swiftly placed the wallet into his pant pocket. The snickering and eager panting were fading, as the chuttering of the wheels on tracks sounded so close. Until Trevor tripped and flopped into the sweaty leather seat, banging his head and eventually slumping onto the floor of the cart.
Feeling more optimistic he brought his legs in and snuck under the seats, hiding from plain sight. In total darkness he questioned how these creatures were able to run so uninhibited. It hadn't appeared that they repeatedly fell or crashed into objects. How could they see? The cart then bashed into something, but continued on. Another set of doors? The way out? Have I escaped? Trevor allowed a smile to wriggle onto his face and hope to glow in his heart. He cautiously crept from under the seats and stood on the moving coaster, which abruptly came to a halt. Not expecting this, Trevor flipped over the seats in a blur of subtle blackness. He landed hard on what felt like concrete. Cold, sharp and crumbly. Trevor's mind whirling he began to stand, actually able to see in this room due to multiple bulbs suspended from black cables. These several lights exposed what looked like an underground cave. An abundance of shadows, hundreds more carcasses sprawled on the rock, blood splatters, insides on the outside, and a small lake. In the middle of the cave, several metres down, was a little pool of water. Bodies were floating at the surface, red mists circling each one, and a dark crimson tainted the lake's floor. It was a lake of more corpses. As Trevor toyed with the idea of vomiting, debating if it would make him feel better, someone breathed into his ear.
A hot rancid breath that compelled the hairs on his neck to stand on edge. "There's nowhere to run," someone spat, speckles of saliva spraying on Trevor.Just as Trevor was considering his next move the thing bulldozed him down into the water. Trevor spun, vision a blur of rock, blood and flesh. But in the descent he could make out a pack of the monsters through his compromised spinning vision. There was at least fifty of them stood watching him plunge into the bloody bath of the dead. It was as he splashed into the filthy water, landing on a body and falling underwater, that something hit him. He couldn't escape this. One or two maybe he could fight through, but fifty, no way. On the bright side, he would likely die near where his parents did. That was his last thought as the horde of cannibals surged into the water and began chomping into him. Flesh was ripped off, organs devoured, and muscle savagely consumed by ravenous flesh-eaters. Until the one thing that was left, was Trevor's fear-stricken face. Not forgetting his still-present odd feeling of satisfaction, and excitement that he would soon be reunited with his folks.

'Icy Predator' is from my upcoming collection 'Gore Zone: 14 Tales Of Gore & Horror'
Due for release late 2015!
 Check out my latest release, 'Nightmare Fuel, The Ultimate Collection Of Short Horror Tales'. A bestseller in three categories, featuring award-winning tales.
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From atop his horse Roy looked out in every direction and saw only vast, lifeless desert. The type of land that can kill a man and swallow him up again like he never existed. Whatever was tracking him wasn’t far behind and he didn’t have time to waste. He had to keep pressing on, and since one direction was as good (or as bad) as the next, he chose west at random and kept his mount at a brisk trot. He was down to four shotgun shells. No food and no water. He supposed if things got really dire he could eat the horse. But he prayed his situation wouldn't become that desperate, as he'd become attached to the horse. They galloped along, Roy's eyes darting around the vast abundance of sand and the occasional cactus. He questioned if it was possible to eat a cactus. He should have watched more naturist survival shows before heading off on this trek instead of useless trashy TV. Not that the predator gave him much choice. The air was dry, with a stifling heat. Humidity choked him, but Roy persevered, stubborn. But it was mostly the fear that kept him moving. The thing that was chasing him was most certainly not human, that he knew. He'd come out to the desert to get some solitude and re-evaluate his life after an entourage of bad decisions. He knew the risks. A man could die out there by the heat or wildlife, and mother nature wouldn’t even bat an eye. But the entity that was stalking him was truly terrifying. It made him feel like a little boy again, fearful of the monster in the closet. Yet unlike his childhood worries, this creature was real. And it wanted him, that much he knew. The question was, would Roy survive long enough to escape the desert and get to the nearest town and seek out help?The sun burned hotly down on him like God's angry eye. By the time it set, the curtain of night was slowly closing around the earth. Roy was already deeply burnt along the back of his neck and face. He set about trying to make a fire with some twigs and little pieces of plants he scrounged from the hidden recesses of the endless tundra of rock and dirt. It took him hours of rolling a stick between his palms before he finally got his meager pile of kindling lit. With the patience of a monk he nurtured the little flame until he was sure it could handle some bigger sticks which he then stacked like little tepees, just like he had learned all those years ago while camping out there in the desert with his pa.It had grown cold in the night and the fire certainly helped, but it was its light that Roy needed. If he was going to be torn to shreds by that beast, he at least wanted to see it coming. He wanted to go down with a fight and not like some hen plucked from the pen by a coyote.His thirst became unbearable and there was only one option he could think of. He had been pondering it all day and with a wave of resolved sadness he had to finally conclude he had no choice. He undid his pants and pissed into his hand, clenched as best he could to stop mid stream and then lifted it to his mouth. He hesitated just before it touched his lips and as he did, he heard it. The creature screaming somewhere out there in the darkness.  He froze, petrified, and thankfully being distracted from licking his urine-drenched hands. Roy stood in his sweaty, moist clothing. Eyes darting and head whipping back and forth. It was here. Not only was the shriek of the monster loud enough to be heard, but a sixth sense detected something. A tingle ran down his spine at the roaring of the creature. He quickly tucked away his Johnson and mounted the horse, readying to run like the wind upon its arrival. As Roy looked around the bare desert, with nothing but cactus and plant-life decorating the sand, his eyes fell upon the rocks and boulders in the distance. And although he couldn't be sure, it was possibly a mirage. But he could have sworn there was a cave hidden within the rocky terrain out far into the horizon. It was roughly a mile away, or so he would have guessed. Could his horse make it? Could he make it? Exhaustion and dehydration were taking their toll on both him and his ride. But when the bellowing grew louder, he commanded the horse to gallop into the desert, headed for the potential cave. It would be a place to sleep away from the breeze that was becoming frighteningly chilly. And also he'd be out of sight, hidden in darkness, cloaked from the beast. Roy bounced on the horse, staring out front, praying for sanctuary. The cave was his only way out, his only chance at survival.He traveled across the vastness of sand and rock as fast as he thought the horse could manage. Like him the animal was dehydrated, hungry, exhausted and he had no idea which of them was going to outlive the other. Like ominous thunder announcing an approaching storm, every now and then he could hear the creature that pursued him crying out there in the wilderness. It was guttural, more vocalized than a common animal. Like a man who had never learned a language, screaming in intense agony. In endless darkness of open space, it was impossible to tell where the cry was coming from but he wasn't about to stop to find out. After some time, he and his weary mount reached the cave's entrance which yawned wide from the side of a mountain like Hell's mouth.  Roy steeled himself and coaxed his startled horse inside willing to take his chances with whatever wildlife may be in there as opposed to taking it with whatever was out here searching for him. He got off the horse and pulled it inside by the reigns. They ventured into the abyss, the darkness was absolute. Howls were the music of the night, blending with the primal screams of Roy's eager predator. He and his horse pushed through the blackness, wading through the lightlessness, relying on touch to guide their way further into the cave. Roy's heart racing, his mind reeling from the madness of it all. Some werewolf-like creation was hunting him down. He caught a glimpse of it the day before. It was at the base of a steep hill Roy had climbed to scout the area. He saw then at the base of the hill by a cluster of rocks. A dog-man with a huge muscular arms and a long face full of teeth. He looked up at him – right at him and howled like a starving wolf. Roy gathered his horse and his things and rode for his life. The chase hadn’t stopped since.The horse began to move slower, lacking speed. Which, given what was chasing him, worried Roy. And then the horse brayed and refused to move. “Come on girl,” he said pleadingly. “Just a little further.” But the horse continued to resist. He tried yanking hard on the reigns but it only caused her to buck. And catapult Roy into the air landing with a painful omph. The horse ran but his hand was still entangled in the reins and it pulled him for several painful meters until he finally fell loose.From the ground he heard the horse run, and then the sound like something colliding together followed by a wet sound like a gallon of water being poured in the dirt, and a sickening thud. Roy crawled on hands and knees towards the direction the horse had ran. It wasn’t long before he found it.His hands touched it first. She was laying on her side. He couldn’t see a thing and so he ran his fingers along her fur until he found her mouth. It was breathless and cold. And then his hands came across what must have been a horrendous slash across her throat. Roy’s hands were sopping with thick sticky blood. He crab walked away from the animal, wanted to scream, wanting to cry, knowing that neither would help.He had to keep moving. He had to get away from whatever just did that to his horse.He moved deeper in the cave, his safety continually diminishing. Never in his wildest nightmares could he dream up such terror. He felt meagre and insignificant, nothing more than a human waiting to be picked up by a superior race. From the stretches of mysterious dimness, came a sliver of light. A few metres in front, enthralling Roy, lulling him closer. A beam of light was breaking from above, and shining down into the sand-littered rocky ground. But what he saw next, under the pole of light, was far more terrifying than the beast chasing him. Now he had to make a crucial decision. Stay, or flee.At first Roy thought maybe God had taken pity on him. But if there was a God surely he wouldn't have subjected him to such terror in the first place. There was a hole in the roof of the cave too perfect and circular to have been made by nature. No, hands had fashioned that hole. The light of the full moon pointed down like a finger. Knowing he shouldn't but compelled by some force of will he couldn't attribute to himself, he moved towards the light. There was something like an altar there. Cattle horns blackened with old blood jutted menacingly. He saw its feet first, standing there on the alter. Two hooves attached to powerful hairy legs which bent backwards giving Roy the impression that its natural stance was on all fours. Its body was that of a man but covered in the hair of an animal, and its head- its head was the head of a pig-man. And not the creature that was stalking him. Large tusks which globs of drool hung from stuck out of its toothy mouth. When his beady black eyes trained down on Roy he could feel his legs go weak and he fell to his knees quivering. The creature opened his mouth and grunted. It took a moment for Roy to realized he was speaking. "Whay arve yo koom ta mya tempullle? It snarled in butchered English. Roy was flabbergasted, attempting to comprehend what the beast had just said. Although still slightly discomforted by the fact it spoke. It took a gathering of seconds, but eventually Roy absorbed and understood each word singularly, then as a sentence. His temple? This is his temple?"I've come to worship you," the words tumbled from Roy's mouth before he even realized it. He glared up at the beast, praying he would believe Roy's claims. The boar-like face didn't move, emotionally frozen in a terrifying stillness. But the eyes spoke volumes. Through the eyes the beast appeared to be tasting Roy's words, sucking the flavour to unravel the hidden meaning and determine whether or not Roy was being genuine. Beads of sweat bubbled on his forehead, waiting for the beast’s reaction, time appearing to halt. Then it spoke."Soe yuv cum tu wersheep mee?" it slurred, continuing to massacre the English language similar to how it was most likely about to butcher him.Roy instantly responded. "Yes, yes, yes your lord." "Thenn cum forr inisheashion," it demanded, hauling Roy to his feet with such ease it unnerved the poor man.As Roy was dragged he chewed on the word for a few seconds, unable to understand that last damn word. Until clarity came. Initiation. He could only hope the initiation to worship some hell-beast was pleasant, yet somehow he highly doubted it. The creature lurched ahead of him in the darkness, steam rising from its porous skin and snout. He could turn and run, if he could work up the balls to do so, but something told him there was no way he could outrun this creature. The sound of a drum could be heard. The steady primal beat getting louder and louder the farther the creature led them. They came to an area that opened up into a larger subterranean cavern. Torches had been lit along the walls, their fire flickering and swaying as if it the fire itself danced to the dark rhythm. In the center of the cavern was a circle of lit torches and inside them a circle of what looked like polished obsidian stone. The pig-man pointed down towards it. "Entar sokft waghn." It commanded. As Roy approached the circle of stone he could see a set of beady eyes just like his demonic host's gleaming in the shadows. And then another pair and another. They watched as he passed the ring of fire into the center of the stone circle. Standing there, not ten feet away was another creature. This one wasn't a pig-man. This was the monster that had chased him here. It too had the body of a man. It was covered in think matted fur that did little to conceal the dense muscle of its physique. Its face was the cross between a human's and a wolf, and when it saw Roy enter the ring of stones across from it, it threw back its head and howled. Roy's heart froze inside of him as an awful possibility started to form in his mind. Had this creature been herding me here all along? The drums suddenly stopped. All Roy could hear was the wolf creatures wheezy breathing and the sound the flames made as they flickered in the breeze. The Pig-man then stood in Roy's view and pointed a hoofed claw at him. "Wersheep mee wit blooghd," it commanded. Before comprehension or understanding came, Roy was stripped of his clothing. Frenzied creatures tore off every material and fabric that concealed his body. He was bare, vulnerable and conscious of his modesty on display. His balls had shriveled to the size of grapes, and his penis was retreating from the horror, seeking refuge in the foreskin. As a chill forced goosebumps to prickle his flesh, he finally understood what the creature had bellowed. 'Worship me with blood.' That didn't sound good. But he figured if they just cut him a little, and let a few drops of blood flow into the obsidian darkness below, then it wasn't too worrying. Which is when three beasts came with huge metal poles, one end thick and padded with wood, the other ends incredibly sharp. The naive possibility of being pricked by a pin was rapidly dissipating as the hefty shafts were brought closer. They began mumbling to a point where there was no chance Roy could decipher what was being chanted. Each was loud and appeared angry, rage echoing their voices. Some lingerers growled in the distance, observing the worship ritual. Then, with great ease but enormous pain, the keen-edged shafts were plunged into Roy. Each went deep. The agony was akin to nothing. He imagined no human had ever been in so much pain. An immense burning, enormous sting, and throbbing affliction. Roy screamed instinctively. Blood drooled from the three wounds in thick globules, painting his flesh crimson. How was this a worship if I am going to die? Roy thought among the chaos. The streams of burgundy trailed his quivering carcass and pooled onto the obsidian mass at his feet. In his painful haze, through a blurry vision and mind-numbing pain, he watched the obsidian stones begin to sizzle. Like bacon on a grill, it spat lava. Real lava. It singed his flesh; he could smell his own skin burning. Yet this was nothing compared to what happened next. The blackness, chunk by chunk, soon became a portal. A portal by which he was sinking into. He could fight, but it was useless. Some acidic liquid was swallowing him whole. It was taking him down below, to an amber explosion so bright he squinted through the blinding light. Humidity became unbearable as his lungs struggled to intake any air. In the utter pandemonium, he realized, the only thing preventing him from being consumed entirely, was the three poles. And as if each had heard his thoughts, they were ripped out of him.Roy fell to his knees, bloody, broken of mind and spirit, wounds hemorrhaging badly and each gash stinging mightily. It took a moment for the pain to ebb away enough for him to become aware of himself again and when it did he realized that something was very, very different. His head felt heavy, his body felt strong but strange. The liquid mass at his feet had hardened and he was no longer being sucked by burning lava. He lifted his hand and touched his arms and then his shoulders. They were sculpted in dense musculature. The skin felt rubbery and slick. The horrible truth hit him suddenly and he slowly raised his hands to his face praying to God what he knew in his heart was true, wasn't. Sticking out from his mouth he found two large tusks, and between those tucks clusters of sharp thick teeth. He then moved his trembling hands upwards and found a slimy snout, the breath from it warm and dank on his hands. Roy began to weep. Even his voice was different. It sounded like his now: the pig-man's. Through streams of hot tears Roy looked up and saw that the wolf creature was still there in the circle of stones with him, and it was approaching. White hot rage exploded inside of him as the wolf creature pounced on top of him, knocking him to the ground. Anger consumed his senses until that’s all that was left of him. A nebula of rage, confusion and sadness that manifested in the throbbing need for violence. He and the wolf creature tussled along the rocky floor of the cave, fighting for control, each getting the better of the other. Punches and kicks and slashing of claws. Blood droplets showered the surroundings. The creature was strong and frenzied but Roy was beyond fear now. His fury took control of him like demon possession. The creature hit him hard with the top of its head, nearly knocking him out. It then opened its mouth wide and sank its jaws into Roy's neck just above the collar bone. It was strong, so strong. Its teeth burrowed into Roy's new flesh. Blood flew in all directions soaking them both. This is how it happens, Roy thought. There in the mouth of madness, at the edge of all reason. Just before the world dimmed something stirred inside of Roy. Something primal, something beyond his control or comprehension.He reached up and grabbed the wolfman's hungry jaws and he pulled them away from each other. First it yelped then it howled as the bone cracked with a sickening sound and its skull broke apart in Roy's powerful hands. He let the creature fall beside him; dead. And then he slowly pulled himself to his feet. The pig-man stepped into the circle, its beady eyes focused intently on him. It moved towards Roy, it's chest puffed up proud. Roy didn't know what it was going to do but it didn't matter. He was done. It was all he could do just to remain on his feet. The creature then motioned with his hands and several pig-women approached. They looked exactly like him only smaller and with large exposed breasts. "Stroongh wuun," It said. "Yuuu mahke mee manee soughns." You make me many sons? Roy began to cry again but the creatures showed no sign of pity. He then motioned for the females to take him away. They scooped him up from under each arm and began to drag him back into the darkness. Roy stared at the Pig-king as he was pulled along, and just as he was losing sight of him he lifted his finger and pointed at Roy. "Weershipp mee wit seeeeeed!" it commanded form the shadows.

About the authors

                                          Wesley Thomas Website: wesleythomashorrorauthor.weebly.com Twitter: https://twitter.com/WesJThomasBlog: http://wesleythomasshorthorrorstories.blogspot.com/Facebook: Wesley Thomas Horror AuthorGoodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/dashboard

Wesley Thomas, author, freelance writer, marketer, and business owner. Raised in the UK, he developed an unhealthy obsession with all things horror from a young age. He started freelance, writing for various websites and blogs, then in 2012 wrote and published his début novella.After which, he published his first horror novel, 'The Darkness Waits'. He now has multiple publications, some of which are best sellers. His collection of short horrors 'What Goes Bump In The Night?' became a best seller in three categories (British horror fiction, werewolves and shifters suspense, and vampire suspense, along with 'Terror Train' that made two best seller lists). He has been interviewed on American radio shows, Twitter interviews, featured in local and national newspapers, and read his work at events. Several of Wesley's short horror stories have been published in various anthologies and featured on multiple horror websites.'There's Something In My House' – Found Fiction Journals, a horror anthology.'The Journey' - The Horror Zine, Summer 2015 issue, an award winning international horror website that showcases work from authors, as well publishing their work in a print magazine.'The Traveler' - Aphelion's well respected horror & sci-fi website.In addition, he writes for a website reviewing horror novels and movies, and is a keen blogger.Wesley's publications, services, short stories, and upcoming projects, can be found on his website.Website: wesleythomashorrorauthor.weebly.com

Oldrich Stibor

 Oldrich Stibor is a functioning lunatic From Toronto Canada. He has worn many hats and has had many varied experiences throughout his life. He lived China as an ESL teacher, was a member of a cult in his youth and spent six months in the forests of BC studying under a Peruvian shaman named Bob.
Writing has been the single greatest passion of his life and the only thing he's ever wanted to do since a very young age. Oldrich has fostered a life long obsession with the power words and imagery have in eliciting emotional response. His professional philosophy entails the pursuit of personal, creative and technical mastery.
Oldrich Stibor is currently offering two short horror stories per month when you sign up to his newsletter!
                  http://www.rrhpublishing.com/