Dark Corners

By John Manning

Theres something terrifying around every turn.

When the world as we know it has ended and all that remains of humanitys earthly ways are the stories that reside within the libraries of the space habitats, the view of humanity can be skewed. In these twenty-four stories is a sample of how the earthly mind worked, how it delighted in terrifying, how it indulged in the horrific. What must our future selves think of us?

This second volume in the Night Chills series offers tales from authors who joined us in Terror by Gaslight, as well as some new and delightful minds. Rie Sheridan Rose, Wayne Borean, R. E. Hinkle, Catherine Stovall, and John Manning himself are among those who have filled the pages of this volume with a sprinkling of humor and a large dose of chills.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524501778

John Manning

Author and editor John Manning was born in the Detroit suburb of Wyandotte, Michigan, on October 31, 1947. Although his early years were spent in the Midwest, he grew up all over the United States. Aside from his military postings (he spent nearly twelve years in the US Army), most of his adult life was in Texas. Although he discovered his love for writing at an early age, it was not until his first novel, Black Stump Ridge (cowritten with his longtime friend Forrest Hedrick), was released in January 2011 that his dream started to bear fruit. It went on to place tenth in the Editors & Preditors Readers’ Poll in the category of Best New Horror Novels for 2011. It was also considered for a Nebula Award but did not make the final ballot. Instead, it was placed on the 2011 Nebula Recommended Reading List. He followed with eight short stories and one poem published in various collections. “Disclaimer” (Lawyers in Hell, released in July 2011), “Showdown at Brimstone Arsenal” (Rogues in Hell, released in June 2012), and “Just Dessert” (Dreamers in Hell, released in July 2013) are part of the Heroes in Hell anthologies edited by Janet and Chris Morris and published by Perseid Press. John’s fourth short story, “Asylum,” appears in the third book of the Michael H. Hanson and Ed McKeown anthology, Sha’Daa: Pawns, released by Perseid Press in November 2012 and rereleased in June 2014 by Moon Dream Press. His fifth story, “Mr. Bass Man” will appear in the fourth book of the Sha’Daa series, Sha’Daa: Facets. “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do” appears in What Scares the Boogeyman? released by Perseid Press in February 2013. His last two stories, as well as a poem, are part of Klarissa Dreams, a collection of stories and artwork assembled by Elisha Fraser (artwork by Klarissa Kocsis). As editor-in-chief and owner of Fantom Enterprises, he edited What Scares the Boogeyman?, a collection of horror and dark fantasy. He is also working on nine more anthologies: Heroes All, Dark Corners, Discontinuum, Dark Love, Nightfangs, Shamblers, The Nameless, Unhallowed, and The Uninvited. Terror by Gaslight is his second anthology and the first in his Night Chills series. John now lives near Chattanooga with his wife, De Anna, and their Italian greyhound, Speedy.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by John Manning / Iron Clad Press.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016908104

ISBN:      Hardcover   978-1-5245-0176-1

                Softcover      978-1-5245-0178-5

                eBook            978-1-5245-0177-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 07/14/2016

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CONTENTS

Editor’s Comments

The Librarian’s Tale

The Man In The Window

Roadkill Recipe

Sudden Death

The Wish

Isaac Crane And The Ancient Hunger

Her

On The Tip Of Her Tongue

She

Cliché

Ombra Vita

I Love You

Garden Party

The Highway

The Ghost In The Hobnail Boots

The Weight Of The World

Crumbling Guilt

Fear Itself

Firelight

Foggy Pursuit

Echoes

The Lamp In The Darkness

A Stop On The Way

Conquerer Worms

About The Authors

This volume would not have been possible

without the vision and work of John Manning.

It is to him that we, the people who continue his dream,

dedicate this volume of the Night Chills series.

Rest well and we will meet again soon.

EDITOR’S COMMENTS

I can’t say that anyone knew exactly what John had in mind for this volume. Consequently, in finishing it for him after his death, I have worked with all of the people involved to preserve the flavor of the material given to me. I hope that wherever John is now, that he approves of what his work has become.

One thing John did not count on including are the tributes to him: accolades for a man who didn’t think he was anything special, but wanted to give something special to writers and readers of the horror genre.

--Ann Cathey

I met John Manning in the Fall of 2010 through collaborating on the Heroes in Hell series that Janet and Chris Morris were rebooting for the 21 st century. John was, like me, a big fan of the series that began in the 1980’s and we were both thrilled to be working with two iconic writers whose work we had admired for so many years. When we had written our stories for Lawyers in Hell we both incorporated the character of The Welcome Woman from the original series in an uncannily similar manner even though we did not compare ideas with each other before writing. This common train of thought would exhibit itself in other stories that we would write later on. We seemed to share much of the same creative mental wavelength and John had even said that our writing styles were sim ilar.

I first met John in person at a Steampunk convention in Fort Worth called The Difference Engine where he was in charge of the games being played at the event. We got along with each other immediately and subsequently John invited me to help him run the sales table at some other local area conventions. We had a blast talking about writing and all our favorite science fiction, fantasy, and horror books we had read over the years. We had similar tastes in music as well, and we would rattle off the lyrics to many classic rock songs together. John smiled and laughed a lot. He was smart, witty, charming, and fun to be around. There was no end to the things he could talk about.

Our biggest adventure together was when we drove from Dallas, Texas, to Chattanooga Tennessee with another Heroes in Hell writer, Sarah Huley. We were guest authors at LibertyCon in July of 2011 to promote the newly published Lawyers in Hell volume. It took us all day to get there and that night as we were getting near Chattanooga a storm buffeted the mountain we were driving over with high wind and heavy rain. I happened to be driving that leg of the trip and was inexperienced at driving the steep curvy roads in even the best conditions. Somehow we made it to the hotel that night through perseverance, prayers to various deities, and plain good luck. I swore that I would get The Texas Hellions as we were known, to the convention alive. It was this trip that bonded our friendship together even more. John became one of the best friends that I’ve ever had. Even though I knew him for only a few years I felt like I had known him forever.

The news of his terminal illness hit me hard, but he said he would fight and prove the doctors wrong, beat the odds. It was the inspiration for a poem I wrote about the subject of mortality and time well spent with friends. He fought the good fight for a long time, but inevitably the illness took his life. I was almost in disbelief when I heard that he had passed into that realm beyond the veil. I still find it hard to accept that he is gone from my life. His absence is a void that can never be filled. I lost a true and dear friend and the world lost an extremely talented writer, and a wonderful person with his passing. John’s ongoing project was his publishing company Fantom Enterprises and the imprint Ironclad Press especially to showcase the talents of new and underrated authors in a series of anthologies. He believed strongly in helping writers to have the opportunities that he had been fortunate enough to have to have his writing seen by many readers. He will always be remembered fondly, through his stories and by the memories of his friends, fans, and family. I hope to see him again on the other side someday.

Larry Atchley Jr.

THE LIBRARIAN’S TALE

by

Larry Atchley Jr.

W e don’t know what propagated the zombie apocalypse that caused the dead to rise and infect the living to join them in their mindless compulsion to consume human flesh. Some thought it was retribution from god against the sins and arrogance of humankind. Others speculate that our own scientists created it for the military to use as a weapon. It was also thought that maybe it was an experiment in creating immortality that went horribly wrong. We may never know that truth. No matter. What is done is done, and humanity will never be the same because of it.

Fortunately the human race had prepared for just such an event so that at least a tiny portion of the Earth’s population could be saved and the knowledge accumulated through our many millennia of existence preserved. Through the combined efforts of the world’s nations, The Exodus Project was established and over the course of many years four massive space stations were built within the Clark Orbit around the Earth. I was lucky to be the Head Librarian at the Library of Congress in the United States of America at the time, so when the very earliest news of the impending disaster was made known to those select few who would be saved, my family and I were evacuated to Space Station Alpha. We were spared the terror that awaited the majority of people still on Earth, though we barely made it out with our lives. The awful things that I saw that day still remain vivid in my memory. Part of the evacuation plan included that digital copies and many printed versions as well of all books, newspapers, music, movies, shows, art, and any other valuable information and creations were contained inside the stations. It was our goal to preserve as much of the creative works of humankind as possible and to save as many creative minds as we could as well. Among those brought to the stations were authors so that the saga of humanity could continue to be recorded and the craft of storytelling be preserved.

We decided that every year we would have a contest to see who can write the best stories throughout the stations, and we compile them into an anthology. A lot of us like the spine chilling horror stories the best in spite of what happened on Earth. What you are reading is the first of those volumes. There will be many more to follow. There are lots of tales yet to be told.

Sincerely,

Gasparian Silva

Chief Librarian, Space Station Alpha

There is not much that John has to say for himself in this volume, though many others have attempted to say it for him. They speak of his caring, his drive to bring new authors into the light (even though they write of the darkest subjects), his ability to spin a tale and tell the most horrendous jokes.

There had to have been other sides of John that he never showed to the rest of the world. Those are his alone, now.

After a long illness, through which he strove to produce as many volumes in this series as possible, John succumbed to leukemia on January 6, 2015.

There will never be another quite like him.

Ann Cathey

THE MAN IN THE WINDOW

by

John Manning

I ’m not certain when I first noticed him – the man in the window, I mean. I think it was the day Stella and I had that big fight; the day she left me. For good.

I mean, Stella was always breaking up with me. It was part of our game. I’d stay out drinking with Angelo or Louis or Mikey and forget I promised to go someplace with her or meet her somewhere. I’d come home and she’d be waiting, her arms across her chest, her foot tapping on the cracked linoleum. I’d tell her I was sorry. She’d start yelling at me. I’d yell back. Finally, she’d get super pissed off and break up with me – usually after throwing a glass or a cup at me. Then, she’d walk out the door, slamming it behind her. Two, three days later she’d come back, we’d make up, and the world would be back to normal. That’s just how we were.

How we used to be, anyway.

I remember that day like it was this morning. Stella didn’t wait until I came home. She came looking for me. She knew where I was, too. I think everyone knew about Connie Messina. Connie was – how do I want to say this? – very available. Sure enough, Stella caught me coming out of the old brownstone up at Eighty-first and Stephenson where Connie was living at the time. There was no arm crossing or toe tapping this time. She marched down that sidewalk like a woman on a mission. And, my ass was that mission.

It was a perfect spring day. I can still feel the warm air and sunshine on my skin as I came out of the door. I felt great. I’d just finished going a couple of rounds on the mattress with Connie.

Now, I have to say that I don’t understand why girls like Stella get jealous of the Connies of the world. It makes no sense. Stella is the girl you take to the movies, to dinner, to meet your folks. She’s the one you want to have your kids and help raise them and to take care of you.

Connie is your deepest, darkest, wettest fantasies. She’s the girl you see in the movies. You know the kind of movies I’m talking about. The ones you keep in the back of your closet, away from the ones by the TV. The ones they sell in the back rooms behind the big sign that says: YOU MUST BE 21 TO PASS BEYOND THIS POINT. She does the things you think about in the lonely darkness of your most secret mind.

Like I said, I was feeling great as I stepped outside and stretched in the late morning sun. Then, I heard the two things I will never forget because they came one right after the other: Stella’s voice yelling my name and the click of the lock as the door closed behind me. Those two sounds will always be linked in my brain: Danny! and click.

I looked up and there she was coming towards me on the sidewalk. Her brown hair was flying behind her like a flag. Even as far away as she was, I could see the red glints that always sparked in the sunlight. Her eyes were squinted almost shut. Her face was pale – all but her cheeks which always had red spots when she was angry. This time they almost glowed like stoplights. Her hands were clenched in fists as her arms swung at her sides like pendulums. She was wearing her pink tube top and faded Daisy Dukes. I loved that tube top because it was cut really low and the lower part was torn away. Stella was stacked and that blouse showed off both the upper and lower curves of her breasts as they jiggled to the impact of every step. And, combined with the way those tight little shorts showed off every line and crease in her crotch, well, I could feel old Chester starting to wake up again despite his earlier exertions with Connie.

Damn you, Danny! Suddenly she was standing at the bottom of the steps and glaring up at me, her fists planted on her hips. Old Chester figured out what was coming as soon as I did and did his best to crawl up inside of me and hide somewhere behind my navel.

Stella, I said as I came down two steps towards her, my arms spread, my hands open. Baby. I can explain. Inside I was cringing, bracing for the explosion.

It never happened.

Instead, she glared at me for a moment longer. Suddenly, she seemed to just go limp all over, like one of those puppets – marionettes – with all of the strings cut at once. All the fire just leaked from her eyes. A tear slowly fell from her left eye. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then shuddered as she let it out. She shook her head slowly, sadly.

That’s it, Danny, she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper, yet it carried to me across the street sounds like a megaphone. No more. I’m done with it. I’m finished with your lying, your drinking, and your cheating. Do whatever you want, just do it without me.

With that, she tossed the apartment key towards me and walked away. She didn’t throw it at me. She just kind of flipped it and turned away without even seeing if I caught it.

I didn’t. It tinkled almost merrily – mockingly – as it landed on the stone steps. I stared at her retreating form, paralyzed momentarily by her passive surrender. She was halfway to the corner when I finally snapped out of my shock. I looked down at the key lying on the step. I reached down and picked it up. I looked at it as I held it between thumb and forefinger. It was foreign to me, like some arcane artifact from a bygone era. I finally slipped it into my pocket and looked up, my eyes searching for Stella. She’d reached the end of the block and was waiting for the light to change.

I glanced to my right and there he was, the man in the window. It was hard to see any details for the screen was rusty and the window grimed with film and dust from the street, but I could see his silhouette quite well. He was facing me, a mute audience for this sordid morality play; a skit played by two for an audience of one. My bones shivered as I turned away and chased hopelessly after Stella’s rapidly retreating form.

*     *     *

The next time I saw him was later that night. Angelo and I were sitting on the step, just kicking back. Behind me the front door to the apartment building was wedged open because neither Angie nor I wanted to have to keep unlocking it just to go inside for a couple of more beers. I saw Mikey bouncing down the sidewalk with that funny way he walks. He was swinging a plastic bag from his right hand so I knew he’d been to Niedermeyer’s Deli. That meant pastrami sandwiches to go with the cold beer and that was good because my head was starting to buzz from drinking without eating.

Mikey effortlessly climbed the steps two at a time, his long skinny legs bending just enough to lift him to the next level like some kind of giant bug – like one of those big grasshoppers you see out in the country when you walk through the high weeds. You don’t see them in the city, but I used to go down to my grandfather’s place every summer when he was still alive. They were so big they used to scare the piss right out of me. They were big and they flew and they had these long legs with spikes on them and they would spit tobacco juice on you if you caught them. That’s what my grandpa said, anyway.

I could still see him, sometimes, and hear his gruff old man’s voice. Don’t let’em land on ya, Danny! They’ll spit tabaccy juice onya!

He was a crazy old man and I missed him a lot. But, he knew things, too. Country things that city people had mostly forgotten.

I pushed the thought away and looked into the bag that Mikey had dropped in my lap. The aromas washed over me in a gastronomical tsunami: the peppery smell of pastrami; the tangy, earthiness of horseradish and Bermuda onions and spicy brown mustard; the pungent bite of garlic from kosher dills; and the warm hominess of fresh-baked cracked rye bread. My stomach rumbled; my mouth filled with saliva.

Beer’s in the fridge. I nodded my head towards the open door.

Mikey looked at me, one eyebrow raised.

Don’t worry about it. She’s gone. Again. We had another fight this morning. She took off.

He nodded and went inside. I heard the apartment door open and close. I wasn’t paying attention, though, because that’s when I saw him. He was sitting in a window across the street. With shadows from the setting sun making deeper pools in front of the buildings I still couldn’t see any details. I remember thinking, though, that he didn’t look as old as I thought he did that morning. And, he looked thicker, more heavy-set, in the morning light. Seeing him in the evening shadows made him seem thinner, closer to my build. I still couldn’t make out more than a shadow, a general shape.

So, why did I have that shivery feeling like a goose had walked across my grave?

*     *     *

The car pulled up to the curb. Although it had no markings, no special lights, I knew what it was: cops. You learn all about unmarked cop cars growing up in the city. That meant detectives. This wasn’t a social call. I kept my place on the steps, sitting with my back next to the open front door while I watched them get out of the car, adjust their suit coats over the guns they tried to hide that everyone knew were there. Such phony bull shit; had to be something they taught in cop school.

You Daniel Muscalotti? The one talking looked like some kind of poster boy for blond and blue All-American heroes.

That depends, I answered. You Bat Man?

I looked at his partners standing behind him and a little to the right. He wasn’t smiling, so I felt pretty sure neither one had much of a sense of humor. Trouble was, my mouth had a mind of its own most times. Once it got going, there was no telling what was going to go down.

Listen, Smart Ass. I’m the one asking the questions.

I shrugged. I just like to know who I’m talkin’ to. You can’t be too careful these days, what with all of the identity theft and all. You got a badge, Bat Man? Some kind of I.D.? And, what about Robin back there? Without your costumes, I got no idea who you are.

By then the inevitable was happening. The presence of two white dudes in suits was causing a crowd to gather. Mr. Blond and Blue looked around and saw what was going down. He glared at me but reached inside his coat and pulled out that flip wallet thing the cops use. He opened it and thrust it forward until it was touching my nose. I could smell his sweat in the stained leather but I didn’t move. I knew better. I’d baited him enough. He wanted an excuse to bust my head open right here on the steps. Although it made my eyes cross, I pretended to study the I.D.

Okay, how about Robin’s? I hissed through my clenched jaws.

Blondie snapped his wallet closed barely missing the tip of my nose and stepped back. His partner just held his I.D. case open so I could see it, then closed it and put it away.

Are you Daniel Muscalotti? Blondie repeated.

Yeah, that’s me. I’m Danny Muscalotti.

I looked past the cops at the windows in the building across the street. In one I could just make out a now-familiar silhouette.

Do you know this girl? Robin was holding a photo, but I didn’t need to look too closely to know it was a picture of Stella. Who else would they be asking me about?

It was just a matter of going through the motions. Yes, I knew her. No, I didn’t know where she was. We had a fight a couple of days ago, just like we always did. She left me, just like she always did.

Throughout the questions, though, I kept staring across the street at the man in the window. There was something eerily familiar about him, but try as I might, I could not make out the details. I just could not see his face.

*     *     *

Of course, the rest is – as they say in bad movies and pulp fiction – history. The trial went as it had to. It’s so much easier for the cops these days, what with forensics and DNA and all that other CSI shit you see on TV. My court appointed lawyer kept talking about appeals and all as the cops hauled me from the courthouse but I could see in his eyes that it was all pointless. They had me and I was going to either ride the lightning or feel the needle’s sting. Dead is dead, so it just didn’t matter.

My lawyer surprised me, though. Hopeless as it was, he gave it the old college try. Despite his earnest efforts, though, the wheels of justice turned inexorably as they carried me toward my appointed date with death.

*     *     *

And, tonight’s the night. It’s so dark outside my window. I can hear protestors as they sing songs trying to keep the reaper from collecting my soul. They don’t stand a chance, of course. There’s no race card to play. I’m not a celebrity. I’m just a poor sap who got mad one day and killed his girlfriend.

I hear them coming down the hall. I know it’s them because I know that squeak the warden’s shoes make on the linoleum. I heard it first when they came to find out what I wanted to eat for my last meal.

I stand. There is a loud, jarring buzz and then the door trundles open. The preacher enters first. He asks if I have anything I’d like to say. I shake my head. I know it looks stoic, but the plain truth is, my saliva’s dried up and my mouth is so dry I can’t talk. My stomach’s quivering and I’m beginning to wonder if my last meal is some kind of sick joke because I feel like I’m about to puke it all over the floor of my cell.

I stand there while the preacher mumbles his prayer. As the pastor says Amen, the guard steps forward and snaps the cuffs closed on my outstretched wrists. We start forward. Behind me I can hear the preacher reading from his Bible.

We reach the death room and I look inside as they open the door. It’s an eight-sided chamber with a cruciform table in the center. In the end, I chose the needle. Despite my mouth, I’m a coward. I’ve heard – and read – too many stories of things going wrong in the electric chair. Potassium chloride may or may not hurt, but it’s better than the chair.

Now they’re strapping me down on the table. I can smell the sweetness of alcohol and feel the cold on my arm and I smile. They’re about to kill me, but they’re concerned that I might get an infection from the needle. The sting of the IV needle on the inside of my left elbow drives the humor from my mind.

‘I don’t want to die!’ my mind screams, but of course, it’s a thought and no one can hear it. The doctor steps back and nods to the others. The guard takes his post next to the door. The warden and the preacher leave. The doctor enters a little room behind a window where he can supervise the proceedings and administer the deadly cocktail.

Next to the door is another window. This one has curtains on the other side, so I assume that this is the gallery of witnesses gathered to verify that I was properly executed. I try to see them as vultures, but cannot. In the end, they are just people, no different than me in any meaningful way.

I see one more window on the other side of the door. As I watch a silhouette takes form. It’s a familiar shape although I’ve not seen it in a long time. It is the same one I saw on the day of the argument with Stella and in the days between before my arrest.

There is a burning pain in my left arm but I try to ignore its progress as I stare at the man in the window. As the sensation progresses up my arm, I can make out details that I couldn’t see before. And, as the sensation reaches my chest, as my heart spasms in a crushing agony, I see clearly.

I am the man in the window.

ROADKILL RECIPE

by

Robert M. Price

J ack and Andrea were headed home from a dinner date at a barbecue joint near the universi ty campus where Jack taught part-time. They had left the college town and were quickly surrounded by farm fields, some of them owned by the university and used for student research (it was one of those agricultural and mechanical schools). As Jack was pontificating about what he should have said to his friend who, with his own wife, were their company for the meal, the car ran over something with a teeth-clacking thud, implying it was some big kind of animal. Jack couldn’t tell what he had hit, or whether he had hit it while it was moving, or whether someone else already had that honor, and Jack had just added insult to injury. Anyway, it did not speak particularly well of him that his first articulate thought was to gauge how much of an inconvenience this was all going to be. You hit a deer, you could total your car, to hell with the deer. This was his thought as he backed the car up, ignoring some panicky admonitions by his wife.

He found the flashlight, batteries low but still a candle in the darkness. He retrieved it from the glove compartment and told Andrea to wait for him. But, no sooner was he crouching over the considerable pool of blood than she joined him, clutching her cloth coat against the chill. Both were very puzzled. Nothing lay there in the blood or the flashlight’s weak glow. There were discernible signs of recent motion, but not the telltale marks of the thing having dragged itself off to the side of the road. No time for that anyway.

I don’t get it, Andrea mused, not sure yet whether to be relieved or not. "Where’d he go?"

He? Jack replied, his gaze transferred to her. "It was a man? Did you see him?"

For a second, yes, I did. You weren’t looking at the road at the moment. I remember seeing you turn toward me and wishing you’d keep your eyes on the road. You know how I say that all the time. And then, I got a split-second glimpse of a red flannel shirt. Then we hit him.

Jack stood to his feet, suddenly feeling colder. "Great. I wonder what he was. Derelict. Hitchhiker. Maybe a farmer. But, we couldn’t have killed him, right? Or he’d still be here, wouldn’t he?"

But there’s no marks, no time. No footprints of anyone else who might have been with him and picked up the body.

Headed back to the car door, Jack said, Well, I’m ready to feel guilty if somebody can explain what I did. But for now, it’s too much of a mystery. C’mon, honey, let’s go.

As they resumed their way home, their tires traced some of the blood onto the lonely road surface for a while. The whole time they didn’t see any other lights. Until a cop pulled them over to ask about the blood they were trailing, but Jack told him pretty much what had happened: why not? He shrugged and let them go their way.

*     *     *

Andrea stood in the kitchen, leaning against the wall, propped on one elbow as she paged back and forth on the Boris Vallejo calendar. She was counting days. She had the wick from a pregnancy test she had picked up at the drug store. She hadn’t told Jack about it. The chemical stain told the tale loud and clear. She wasn’t real sure she wanted to be pregnant right now, though it wasn’t out of the question, and they had talked about kids often enough the past couple of years. What had her