Fantastic Tales of Terror Read online

  Copyright 2018 Crystal Lake Publishing

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover and Interior Art:

  Luke Spooner—http://carrionhouse.com/home-page

  Interior Layout:

  Lori Michelle—www.theauthorsalley.com

  Proofread by:

  Paula Limbaugh

  Kat Nava

  Tere Fredericks

  Jessie Gulmire

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  WELCOME TO ANOTHER CRYSTAL LAKE PUBLISHING CREATION.

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  Welcome to Crystal Lake Publishing—Tales from the Darkest Depths.

  Dedicated to my partner in life Angela and my four wonderful children for standing by my side. My family. My grandparents, who raised me by nurturing my creativity. To God. My great friend Luke Styer, for always standing by me. To all the authors and artists for their belief in this great project and their support.

  Special thanks to my friends and mentors Scott, Paul, Taylor, Joe, Doug, Michael, Lisa, Jonathan, Elizabeth, and Angela for all the help and guidance working on this project and more.

  To my publisher, friend, mentor, Joe Mynhardt for believing in me, and this anthology.

  Eugene “Gene” Johnson, June 25, 2018

  COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  All stories are original to this anthology, except the following, used with permission:

  “Bubba Ho-Tep” by Joe R. Lansdale originally published in The King Is Dead: Tales of Elvis Post Mortem, edited by Paul M. Sammon (Delta: New York)—copyright 1994

  “On a Train Bound for Home” (c) 2014 by Christopher Golden first appeared in Madness on the Orient Express, published by Chaosium, Inc.

  “The Return of the Thin White Duke” by Neil Gaiman was originally published in Trigger Warning, 2015

  “Secret Engravings” by Lisa Morton was originally published in Danse Macabre, published by Edge Publishing in 2012.

  “The Washingtonians” was originally published in Cemetery Dance, Fall 1992.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  Tony Todd

  THE DEEP DELIGHT OF BLOOD

  Tim Waggoner

  UNPRETTY MONSTER

  Mercedes M. Yardley

  THE TELL-TALE MIND

  Kevin J. Anderson

  TOPSY-TURVY

  Elizabeth Massie

  RAY AND THE MARTIAN

  Bev Vincent

  THE GIRL WITH THE DEATH MASK

  Stephanie M. Wytovich

  ON A TRAIN BOUND FOR HOME

  Christopher Golden

  THE CUSTER FILES

  Richard Chizmar

  RED MOON

  Michael Paul Gonzalez

  THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS AND THE SHOWGIRL

  John Palisano

  THE SECRET ENGRAVINGS

  Lisa Morton

  MUTTER

  Jess Landry

  LA LLORONA

  Cullen Bunn

  THE LONDON ENCOUNTER

  Vince A. Liaguno

  BUBBA HO-TEP

  Joe R. Lansdale

  GORILLA MY DREAMS

  Jonathan Maberry

  ARTICLES OF TELEFORCE

  Michael Bailey

  SIC OLIM TYRANNIS

  David Wellington

  THE WASHINGTONIANS

  Bentley Little

  SCENT OF FLESH

  Jessica Marie Baumgartner

  ROTOSCOPING TOODIES

  Mort Castle

  LONE WOLVES

  Paul Moore

  THE GREAT STONE FACE VS. THE GARGOYLES

  Jeff Strand

  THE RETURN OF THE THIN WHITE DUKE

  Neil Gaiman

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  TALES FROM THE DARKEST DEPTHS

  INTRODUCTION

  When I was child, the internet did not exist. There were only three channels on TV. The local movie house had only two screens. During the long summer afternoons, there were only two havens for a boy with an active imagination.

  The drug store and the library.

  The drug store was tricky if you didn’t have any money. And believe me, I did not. I can’t begin to count the number of times I hunkered in the back aisle reading comic books and hoping the cashier was too busy or too lazy to notice. On a good day, I’d get through a few. On a bad day, I’d barely get through the door.

  That left the library. It didn’t have comic books, but it had two things no amount of money could replace. Air conditioning and books. For a poor kid living in an even poorer neighborhood in Hartford, Connecticut, it was paradise. Countless worlds to explore and countless thrilling adventures were at my fingertips and I accepted every challenge.

  Whether they were tales of soldiers going to war, astronauts discovering distant worlds, scientists battling sea monsters or simple stories of love lost and regained, I read them. So many aspects of life in Hartford were difficult and if it were not for my Aunt’s unconditional love and my love of tales and stories, my life would be quite different today.

  That is why I am writing this now. Fantastic Tales of Terror is an anthology steeped in unbridled imagination. An electric stew of fanciful what if scenarios. Historical figures thrust into the world of the supernatural. Speaking as an actor, these hypothetical situations are our manna.

  Actors thrive on reinterpretation and reinvention. It is the foundation of my first love, theater.

  Every actor does their best to bring something new and unique to the beloved roles and productions people have been attending all of their lives. I had the honor and privilege of originating the title role in August Wilson’s play King Hedley II. It was one of most satisfying experiences of my professional life, but as much pleasure that experience brought me, I gain even greater satisfaction from watching other actors interpret the character. Art has an organic life of its own and creativity should have no limitations.

  Which brings me back to the book you are holding. This collection of wild what ifs takes the reader to the darkest sides of alternate histories and timelines. Ever wonder what would happen if Teddy Roosevelt decided to hunt werewolves? What if Annie Oakley squared off against Native American demons? Or perhaps Bela Lugosi was actually a vampire? And what reader could resist a tale of an elderly Elvis Presley doing battle with an ancient Egyptian mummy?

  All of these dark imaginings and many more await you. Each author brings their unique voice to these twisted, bloody and sometimes surprisingly humorous stories. Fro
m my roles in Night of the Living Dead to Candyman to Final Destination, I am no stranger to good horror and the horror stories in this anthology are a good as they get.

  So without further ado, the stage is set, the lights are low and the curtain is rising . . .

  I hope you’re not afraid of the dark.

  Love and peace,

  Tony Todd

  THE DEEP DELIGHT OF BLOOD

  TIM WAGGONER

  Mike Holland stood in the cramped gas station restroom. It had one toilet, one sink, and one very dead body lying on the floor. The body had blood all over it, and there was blood on the floor, the walls, and both the toilet and sink. The mirror above the sink was splattered red, and–somehow–the ceiling was stippled with it. And, of course, it was all over Mike. He was fucking drenched in the stuff. His face was a slick crimson mask, his hair a matted mess, and his clothes–army jacket, Lost Boys T-shirt, jeans, sneakers–were sodden with gore. He looked as if he’d just come in from a torrential downpour, except blood had been falling from the sky instead of rain. In his right hand he held a butcher knife, blade dripping red.

  The body belonged to Kari Owen, a barista in her early twenties that Mike had picked out when he’d stopped by Starbucks for a white chocolate mocha earlier that week. He’d staked out the Starbucks for three days, waiting for Kari–he knew her first name from the nametag she wore at work–to walk out of the store when her shift was over and head home. He’d followed her for three days, driving his piece of shit Chevy Malibu, hoping for an opportunity to approach her. It had finally come tonight when she’d stopped for gas on her way home. He’d stopped too, parked, and followed her inside. She paid and then had gone to the restroom. Knowing his chance had come, he’d followed her in, drew his blade from an inside coat pocket, grabbed her from behind, and slit her throat from ear to ear before she could make a sound.

  He had never cut anyone’s throat before, and he hadn’t expected so much goddamned blood to shoot from her wound like water from a fucking sprinkler. She’d pulled away from him and spun around and around, arms flailing, mouth gawping like a fish, eyes filled with terror and confusion. He’d been so surprised that he’d only stood and watched as she painted the bathroom–and him–crimson, finally collapsing to the floor when the blood jetting from her wound became a trickle and then stopped.

  She lay in a fetal position, like a bug that curls in on itself when it dies. He’d found her pretty. Brunette hair up in a bun, black-framed glasses that highlighted her blue-gray eyes. But now she looked like a drowned rat . . . if that rat had been drowned in a vat of blood, that is.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  The voice–heavily accented–came from directly behind Mike. He didn’t jump at the sound, and he didn’t immediately turn to face the speaker.

  “I did the best I could,” Mike said. “You know I don’t have fangs yet.”

  He hated how defensive and whiny he sounded, but he couldn’t help it.

  “Have you ever given thought to working in a slaughterhouse? I think you’d do quite well there.”

  Mike turned to face his companion. The man was tall and handsome in an old-world fashion, with a noble bearing beneath which lay a smoldering intensity. His midnight-black hair was short and swept back, each strand perfectly in place. It tapered to a light widow’s peak over his forehead, the style giving him a hint of satanic sinisterness. His eyes were arresting, almost mesmeric, and his lips were full and red-tinted. His skin was almost chalk-white, making him look as if he’d been carved from marble. He was dressed in old-fashioned formal evening wear, complete with a long, flare-collared black cape.

  Béla Ferenc Dezsö Blaskó–better known by his stage name of Bela Lugosi–looked at Mike as if he were a puppy that had just vomited, pissed, and shit all over an extremely expensive antique rug.

  “It’s only to be expected that you’d spill some blood during your first attempt. But that is no excuse for turning this lavatory into a fucking abattoir.”

  Bela didn’t have so much as a single drop of Kari’s blood on him. No surprise. His clothing was always immaculate, no matter the situation.

  Mike glanced over his shoulder at Kari’s body.

  “I didn’t expect there would be so much. Blood, I mean.”

  Bela sighed. “The amount of blood in the human body is approximately seven percent of body weight. The girl is short and thin, so I estimate she had a gallon of blood in her. Perhaps a bit less.” He glanced around the room. “And it looks like you got out every last goddamned drop.” He shook his head in disgust. “And have you given any thought as to how you will escape? It’s not as if you can assume the form of a bat and fly out of here or turn to mist and simply drift away.”

  The restroom was located inside the gas station, and there was no direct exit to the outside.

  “Maybe there’s a back door I can use?” Mike ventured.

  “Perhaps. But it will surely have a security camera keeping watch on it, just as other cameras observe the interior and exterior of the station. Bad enough that you were recorded when you entered. Far worse to be recorded leaving the scene of a murder drenched in your victim’s blood.”

  Fuck! He hadn’t thought about cameras!

  “But you can worry about that in a few moments,” Bela said. “First you must do what you came here for.”

  Mike nodded, feeling both excited and terrified, exactly as he had the first time he’d had sex, with Lucy Vargas during his junior year of high school. At least this time he didn’t have a partner to disappoint–not a living one, anyway–and that took off some of the pressure. But performing in front of his overly critical mentor just put that pressure right back.

  He turned away from Bela and started to crouch down next to Kari, but his foot slipped on the blood-slick floor and he landed on his ass with a wet smack.

  Bela rolled his eyes.

  “Fuck,” Mike whispered, his face burning with embarrassment. He raised his hands and saw the palms were coated with blood. He looked at them for a moment, then moved them toward his face, intending to lick them clean.

  “The neck for Christ’s sake. Don’t humiliate yourself further, boy.”

  Bela was right. If you were going to do something, you should do it properly. Mike wiped his hands on Kari’s jeans, then got on his knees and bent forward until his mouth pressed against the wide wound in her throat. He thought Bela would insist that he use his teeth to make new holes, but the man said nothing, so Mike went to work.

  He tried sucking, like the vampires in his beloved movies did, but he couldn’t latch onto an open vein or artery, so all he managed to do was make loud slurping sounds as he drew in the blood pooled in her wound. He’d prepared for this first by drinking the blood left over in packages of meat, and then by cutting himself and sipping from the wounds. He liked his steaks rare–when he could afford them–but he’d still expected drinking his victims’ blood would take some getting used to. But the metallic taste and sickening thick texture nauseated him from the start, and now as Kari’s still warm blood filled his mouth, coated his tongue and slid down his throat like copper-flavored mucus, his stomach cramped in rebellion.

  The restroom door opened then, and Mike drew back from Kari’s throat and turned to see who it was, gore dribbling down his chin.

  A heavy-set blond woman wearing a violet-colored sweater and blue slacks–in addition to far too much eyeshadow, Mike thought–took one look at the horrific scene before her, drew in a deep breath, and screamed like a banshee on fire.

  Bela sighed heavily. “You forgot to lock the fucking door, didn’t you?”

  Mike’s only response was to open his mouth wide and expel the contents of his stomach.

  ***

  It took three showers for Mike to get most of the blood off his body. His ruined clothes were stuffed into a plastic trash bag and hidden under his bed. He planned to dispose of them in a dumpster far away from his apartment. He wasn’t sure what to do about his car
, though. He’d gotten blood on the seat, the steering wheel, the door, and who knew where else. Maybe he could take it to one of those do-it-yourself car washes and see if he could scrub out the stains. Then again, the station’s security cameras had probably filmed his car. He wasn’t too worried about the police being able to identify him from the security footage, though. He didn’t have a police record, and Kari’s blood covering his face and matting down his hair had acted like a makeshift disguise. Still, he probably should do something about his car. Maybe he should drive it somewhere, remove the plates, and torch it.

  He’d never imagined that becoming a vampire would be so damn complicated. In the movies, vampires stalked their prey, attacked swiftly, fed, and then departed as quickly as they’d come, leaving nothing behind–except the slowly cooling corpses of their victims, of course. They didn’t have to worry about stupid things like evidence and witnesses and police.

  Getting out of the gas station had been a nightmare. He’d knocked down the blond woman–who screamed even louder when she hit the floor–and then made a dash for the front exit, too rattled to think about searching for a rear door. He left a trail of bloody footprints behind him, and once the clerk behind the counter got a look at the blood-covered lunatic running through his store, Mike was certain he called 911 immediately. Mike managed to reach his Chevy and get the hell out of there before any cops showed up, but he couldn’t decide whether to go straight home or drive around for a while to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Although precisely who he thought might be following him, he wasn’t sure. In the end, he’d parked at a McDonald’s–well away from any other cars–and sat shaking for twenty minutes before finally heading home to his apartment. At least Bela hadn’t ridden home with him. He didn’t think he could’ve taken listening to the man bitch about how badly he’d fucked up.

  Thankfully, he’d managed to hold onto the butcher knife as he’d fled the gas station. As soon as he was home, he’d tossed it in the sink, poured an entire bottle of bleach over it, and then put it in the garbage bag with the rest of the evidence he planned to dispose of.