Killers and Demons II: They Return: Killers and Demons, #2

By A. F. Stewart

Evil is back, with a greater appetite for death.

Killers.

Demons.

They lurk forever in the shadows, smile at you in the morning, and haunt your dreams at night. You can't hide, you can't run, and there's no escape. You can only scream when they come for you.

Killers and Demons II: They Return is a collection of thirteen tales, blending short stories and flash fiction, tales where the blood lingers on your tongue or spurts quickly from the swift cut.

The Villainous Roster:

Wade, every parent's nightmare.

Hannah and Mr. Greeley. Who is the victim and who is the villain?

Simon and Zoe, a married couple who are dying to be single again.

Norman and his "cookie" of a wife, Mabel.

Millicent and Jane, a delightful duo you shouldn't invite to your Regency tea party.

Amanda, who literally has a skeleton in her closet.

Balthazar, the demon bounty hunter on the hunt once more.

Sarah, a young woman going through some changes and craving new tastes.

Emmeline, hanged as a witch, now back from the dead for revenge.

Gabrielle, a woman haunted by shadows.

The Dollmaker, she showers death, and an umbrella won't help.

Nightmare Demons bent on driving a town insane.

And then there's Alice, a little girl locked in the basement by her Daddy…

Together they form a spine-chilling cadre of predators. Who will survive and who will fall?

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. F. Stewart
• Release date: Sep 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393995104

A. F. Stewart

A steadfast and proud sci-fi and fantasy geek, A. F. Stewart was born and raised in Nova Scotia, Canada and still calls it home. The youngest in a family of seven children, she always had an overly creative mind and an active imagination. She favours the dark and deadly when writing—her genres of choice being dark fantasy and horror—but she has been known to venture into the light on occasion. As an indie author she’s published novellas and story collections, with a few side trips into poetry and non-fiction.

Book preview

Killers and Demons II

They Return

Skull.png

A. F. Stewart

Evil is Back...

Killers and Demons II: They Return

A. F. Stewart

Copyright © 2014 by A. F. Stewart.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Edited by The Eyes for Editing

Cover Art by A. F. Stewart

Original photos licensed by Adobe Stock Photos

A. F. Stewart Logo BW.jpg

Contents

The Killers

Hunting

One Night in London

Breakdown in Communication

Crumbs

How Do You Take Your Tea?

Alice in the Basement

The Demons

The Skeleton

Runner

Family Trait

Suffer a Witch

Up From the Ground

Shadows

The Dollmaker

The Killers

Hunting

WADE WALKED THROUGH the seedy parking lot, the shadows lengthening with the setting sun. Glass scattered the ground from broken streetlights, and he smiled; he liked the dark. Figures moved next to one of the cars, and he heard a man yelling for help. Not an uncommon occurrence in this neighbourhood, but Wade stopped, curious.

He watched two men punch and hit a third, then shove him to the asphalt. They kicked their victim repeatedly as he covered his head and begged them to stop. When they tired of their sport, they stole his wallet, cell phone, and watch, then ran off, laughing.

Wade moved to the injured man, and stood looking down at him. Wade saw the quality suit he wore, the nice haircut, the leather shoes. He hated people who dressed like that.

You get lost or something? The likes of you down in this neighbourhood?

The man reached out a bruised and broken hand.

Help me. Call 911.

Wade tilted his head. No. I don’t think I will.

He took a pair of leather gloves from his pocket, put them on, and strolled back to his parked car. He opened the trunk and took out a crowbar. Then he went back to the injured man.

This isn’t your night, fellow. Wade swung the crowbar and broke the man’s right kneecap. The smack and crunch of the metal hitting flesh and bone thrilled Wade.

The man screamed, and kept screaming as Wade continued to swing the metal bar. He smashed the bones in his legs first: the kneecaps, then the ankles and feet, the tibias and the femurs. Then Wade used the crowbar to pound on the man’s chest, breaking ribs, and then moved on to the arms, shattering more bones.

He paused, listening to the man’s moans and whimpers. "Please, no more, no more."

Wade smiled at the man. Don’t you worry. The pain will stop soon.

Wade brought the metal down on the man’s skull, once, twice, three times. Bone fragmented, and blood and brain matter splattered and oozed out onto the pavement. He gave the corpse a last kick before he sauntered back to his car with a little skip in his step and humming a tune.

Wade released the trunk lid, tossed the bloody crowbar inside, and picked up a rag. He wiped his face and clothes, scrubbing at the sweat, spatters, and stains before tossing the rag back where he found it. Then he shut the trunk and walked away, whistling.

He removed his gloves, stuffing them back into his pocket as he crossed the parking lot and continued down the street. His little diversion gratified him with a high, but not what he came out to do tonight.

He came to hunt. He picked out his quarry weeks ago, stalked him, learned his habits, his routine, and then decided on the time and location. Tonight he’d bag him. Tonight he’d get himself another trophy. He kept walking, thinking about all that awaited until he came to the house.

The residence was small—home to a man who worked at a factory and his family—with a dilapidated fence and the street on one side, and a neighbour who worked nights on the other. Unlikely anyone would see or hear. One of the reasons he chose the place.

Wade checked his watch and then put his gloves back on. He wasn’t worried about getting in; the house had no alarms and not much in the way of locks. He drew the lock picks from his pocket, cracked open the back door with simplicity, and entered. He pulled a gun from his waistband and crept upstairs, straight to the main bedroom.

He eased the door open and skulked into the room. He stood at the end of the bed and watched the sleeping couple. He noticed the empty whiskey bottle resting on the floor and sneered.

I’ll be doing the world a favour, getting rid of these drunks. Lord, I hate drunks.

He raised his gun and shot the man and his wife as they slept, leaving behind the slight smell of gunfire and blood as he moved to their son’s room.

Wade placed his gloved palm against the frame. He needed to savour this moment, the instant before the capture. No matter how many times he snatched a kid, he always felt the satisfying rush, the thrill. His heart beat rapidly, adrenaline sliced through his body, and he came alive.

I hope the kid is hiding. I love it when they hide.

Wade turned the doorknob and pushed through the doorway, brandishing his gun. He found the boy, all of ten years old, awake and sitting up in bed. The kid screamed when he saw Wade.

Shut up! No screaming! Wade backhanded the boy across the mouth, making him bleed. The child’s screams dissolved to whimpers. The kid curled into a ball and scrunched against his pillows.

Wade stared and sucked in his breath. The image of the trembling boy sent a shiver through his skin. Wade stared at the small, huddled mass of brown hair and blue eyes in superhero pajamas.

Oh God, look at him. He’s already terrified. Oh, he’s going to be a good one.

He knew he picked right. All those weeks of stalking, making sure the kid was submissive, not one to sass his elders. Just what he liked, obedient and fearful. Especially fearful. The terror in their young eyes got his juices flowing.

A soft moan from the boy broke his rapture. Wade grunted and waved his gun. Get dressed.

The kid scrambled off the bed. Where’s my mom and dad?

Dead. Now, get dressed or you’ll join them.

The kid trembled and cried quietly, his hands shaking as he pulled on jeans, a T-shirt and some sneakers. Wade grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the bedroom.

Where are we going? The boy’s hushed voice quivered.

No questions. Just keep moving or I’ll shoot you.

Wade forced the child downstairs, knocking his small body against the railing as they moved, smiling when the boy sobbed. The child stumbled and nearly fell as Wade dragged him out the back door. He could hear the faint sound of police sirens in the distance. Then Wade put the gun to the boy’s head and compelled him to march up the street to the parking lot. He dragged the kid past the broken corpse of the man he killed.

I did that. Do what I say or you end up like him.

They kept moving until they reached Wade’s car. He popped the trunk and stuffed the boy inside. Wade took a roll of duct