Auld Franklin's Almanak of Doom

By Franklin Marsh

Twelve twisted tales to set your heartbeat racing, to open your sweat glands and to make your gorge rise. Oh yes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781326339173

Book preview

Auld Franklin's Almanak of Doom

AULD FRANKLIN’S ALMANAK OF DOOM Contents

January – Yukon

February – Le Jour De La Saint-Valentin

March – Fight The Good Fight

April – Brock’s Revenge

May – The Glans Of Orlak

June – Duet

July – A Delicate Undertaking

August – Nostalgia Ain’t What It Used To Be

September – Satan’s Snuffbox (Pendennis Alone)

October – Night Of The Pumpkins

November – Day Of The Pumpkins

December – From Beyond The Grate

Coda - Voodoo

Copyright

Copyright © 2015 FMarshEsq

January - Yukon

There’s something about snow. As it falls, slowly, haphazardly, it looks beautiful. Once it has built up, covering whatever it may fall upon, it looks beautiful. Pristine. Pure.

It’s a shame if anything should mar that beauty. Drops of red. You know, blood. If there’s not too much, it can enhance that aesthetic purity. It provides a bit of contrast.

I’ve fallen into the snow. I’m resting. I really can’t feel the cold too much now. The flakes are still drifting down, melting as they touch my still warm body.

If I look back I can see how I’ve spoiled that glorious white blanket. Footprints. Gaping slashes in the crust. The droplets of red are a conundrum. Some spoil the background, some bring out the….whiteness. I must move on.

I’ve made it to a log cabin. A light is shining from the window on the side. A lovely golden light. Makes it homely. I knock on the wooden door.

‘Who’s there?’

A gruff voice, underlaid with fear. I suspect the occupant is an elderly prospector, startled from his dreams of wealth by an outside agent.

‘Please open the door,’ I gasp.

The door is flung open much more quickly than I expected. I was supporting myself by leaning upon it, and collapse into the well-lit warmth. I shut my eyes on impact with the dirt floor, and open them to stare down the quivering twin barrels of a shotgun.

My gaze moves upwards and refocuses upon a grizzled, white-bearded face, black eyes darting in shock.

I smile at the old man.

His gun barrels shake, his eyes dart hither and thither. He doesn’t know what to do.

I roll over onto all fours. He backs away. I regain my feet and close the door quietly.

He must have noticed my wounds, but remains silent.

I smile again.

‘Shoot me,’ I say.

‘What happened to you?’ he asks, now more calm.

‘I was attacked,’ I reply.

‘By who?’ His gaze darts to the door, then back to me. ‘Who’s out there?’

‘Not so much who,’ I sigh, ‘As what.’

‘Talk sense, Mister,’ he snaps, gaining confidence every second, assuming I’m not a threat.

‘It wasn’t human,’ I say.

He waits for me to elaborate, shifting his sweaty grip on the gun when I don’t.

‘What was it, then?’ he barks in exasperation. ‘A bear? A wolf?’

I start to laugh. It turns into a cough, which brings some of the red stuff up my throat and out of my mouth, further discolouring the shirt and beaver skin coat. I have leaned back against the door of his cabin and am sliding down it, back towards that earthen floor.

‘What’s out there?’

His voice is louder, and higher. There’s a hint of desperation within it. It’s no fun living on your own, especially for a long time. You lose all sense of…reality, and have trouble interacting with your fellow human beings. I should know.

My eyes refocus again, and I study the old man. He’s weak, ill. He hasn’t even pulled back the hammers on his shotgun.

My right hand is a blur as it whips out and grabs the barrels of his gun. He tries to pull the triggers, and squeals as he realises his mistake. The gun is dropped behind me as I stand erect. I can see the fear and confusion in his face as I begin to change. It hurts more than the wounding. Drool pours from my elongating jaws. I feel as if my wounds are healing. The pain is disappearing and I’m aware of a hunger and a …blood lust. The old man has crumpled to the floor, an untidy heap of odourous clothing. The acid tang of urine permeates the cabin. My now-taloned fingers stroke his unbroken skin. A slight pressure and beautiful red lines appear. I lean forward to feast, and the door crashes open.

Cold wind and those ethereal snowflakes enter the enclosed, confined space, followed by that which attacked me. It bears no malice now. Its saliva-soaked jaws open in a welcoming grin, instead of the previous frenzied attack.

I feel my tail curl between my legs, protectively covering my genitalia, and back away from the food source. I’ll get the scraps. Then perhaps we will hunt together.

February - Le Jour De La Saint-Valentin

‘Come on, mate. Shift your arse.’

Ralph fed in his ticket, then grabbed it as it popped up the other side of the barrier. Struggling with his rucksack and a heavy plastic bag, he trotted up the long slope. The clock ticked. 19.40. Three minutes! The platform seemed deserted. Funny. He’d expected many others to be making this journey.

His finger jabbed at the door button. With a pneumatic hiss the door moved toward him, then to the side. He stepped onto the Eurostar, and heaved a massive sigh of relief. Made it! The door slammed shut behind him.

Ralph Nixon made his way into the compartment. It seemed empty. No, at the far end he could make out the white balloon of a bald head jutting above the front seat. A pair of long, thin black-clad legs ending in incredibly pointed black shoes poked out into the gangway.

An artist, mused Ralph as he dumped his luggage onto a back seat, on his way to the Left Bank. If only a black beret had been perched atop the pale dome!

As he sat down, Ralph realised that the train was moving. He marvelled at the silent smoothness of the outset of his journey. A couple of hours and he would finally meet…Marie-Claude!

A sigh escaped Nixon’s lips. And they said you were mad to get involved with people through the internet. Well, Marie-Claude was the best thing to have happened to him in years. Perhaps ever. Six months correspondence. That heart-stopping telephone call two days ago. And now he was on the way to meet the most beautiful girl….

Ralph pondered. He hadn’t been to France since the school trip. Bloody hell, he hadn’t been out of Leatherhead in five years. This was the start of something great. He knew it. A quick glance out of the window at the darkened countryside rushing by.

The last two days had been so hectic. At last, he could relax for a