The Patreon Collection, Volume 8

By Stefon Mears

A dozen amazing short stories, from the twisted to the hilarious…

 

Every month Stefon Mears' Patreon supporters enjoy two new short stories. Stories never published anywhere before, but collected here for the first time. In this collection you'll find tales like…

 

"Strictly Monsters" -- monsters want to star in movies, and a poor human must wrangle them

 

"Haunt My House" -- a top psychic gets a strange request from a man with money to burn

 

"Abductors Anonymous" -- For the first step, Kzika-Hak must admit his problem, and attend a meeting

 

"When Floating Castles Don't" -- Jamon Greensky must solve a bizarre magical conundrum before it kills hundred

 

All these and eight more, ranging from mystery to science fiction to fantasy. All from the wild imagination of Stefon Mears, author of the popular Cavan Oltblood, Rise of Magic and Spells for Hire series.

 

The Patreon Collection presents those page-turners, whole and unabridged, along with introductions to each story written just for this collection. Volume 8 includes the stories from July-December 2020.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thousand Faces Publishing
• Release date: Aug 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201082147

Book preview

The Patreon Collection

THE PATREON COLLECTION

VOLUME 8

STEFON MEARS

Thousand Faces Publishing

THE PATREON COLLECTION

CONTENTS

Foreword

Burning for Art

Going Gate to Gate

That Auction Flutter

The Momentary Feast

The Cruel Infinity

Strictly Monsters

Haunt My House

Cookies and a Corpse

Abductors Anonymous

Shrinkage Problem

When Floating Castles Don’t

The Remote Jackass

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About the Author

Also by Stefon Mears

FOREWORD

It's always a little strange, looking over six months of stories posted to my Patreon patrons, and trying to find a common theme.

So often the assortment is pretty random. A reflection of the odd things that flit through my mind when I sit down to write.

But this time, I've realized that there's a theme to most of the stories in this collection.

Places I've been.

Now, in two cases, this is obviously not true. I've never been in space, so The Cruel Infinity is one of them. And despite rumors to the contrary, I haven't been into any other universes (that I know of, apart, of course, from dreams), which leaves out When Floating Castles Don't.

But the other stories have connections to places I’ve been.

For example, back when I was young and performing twice weekly in different Rocky Horror Picture Show casts (or shadow casts as they're now called), there was one house in Palo Alto where three different people I knew rented rooms.

I couldn't tell you how many evenings I passed in one room or another of that converted Victorian.

Now, to be clear, that building was not, to the best of my knowledge, haunted. Nor does its layout, location, or history match the house in the story Haunt My House.

But I absolutely used that house as a jumping off point when I wrote that story.

And something similar could be said for almost every story in this collection. Apartment buildings, offices, suburban streets, garage sales, old warehouses, hiking trails, even a Unitarian church.

None of these places are entirely places I've been in real life. But in each case, someplace I've been in real life informed the fiction.

Maybe it's just me, but I think that's cool. And I hope you enjoy the stories these places spawned.

Happy reading!

BURNING FOR ART

Paychic powers have always fascinated me. I suspect this is because I was a child of the 70's, when Uri Gellar was still considered a phenomenon, the military was actively pursuing remote viewing, and every week one television channel or other featured some look at psychic powers. Not to mention all the fiction about them.

So, I suppose it's inevitable that psychic powers would show up in my stories from time to time. And this story presents both the upsides and the downsides to a certain type of psychic power. I hope you enjoy it.

I shouldn’t have been here. And not just because the building was condemned.

The building started life as a little four-plex. The kind that sprouted up all around Santa Clara, California like weeds back in the 70s, trying to choke the life out of the individual housing market here in the southern Bay Area.

All right. Maybe not the life, but certainly the parking. My little Toyota was three freaking blocks away. Closest I could get, even on a Monday afternoon in the middle of January.

January was the problem. Or maybe it was the 70s construction. Either way, the cold snap last week brought temps down close to freezing, instead of the more typical fiftyish temps, like today. Cold, and still dry this winter. Bad combination.

Got the heaters cranked up.

Exposed a little faulty wiring.

Fire department was only three blocks away. Right across the street from where I parked today.

Great response time. Kept the fire from spreading beyond the one building. And with the buildings all packed in here like pencils in my sketch box, that was some pretty miraculous work.

Still a rough night for the people who’d lived here.

No deaths, thank God. If there’d been deaths, well, I wouldn’t have had the guts to risk it. Twenty years old, and still trying to get a handle on the gift that had made me, Franz Coleman, the hottest up-and-coming artist in the south bay.

Even without any deaths, though, I was taking a great risk in coming here. I didn’t like painting fear, much less terror. And experiencing either was definitely on my top ten list of things to avoid in life.

If I ran into the wrong thing here, might take me a week or more just to get coherent again. Not to mention the nightmare fuel I’d have for God knew how long.

It had happened before.

Still. I had a hunch about this place. That maybe, just maybe, I could find something worth the risk.

Might have been why I had that good flutter going in my belly as I approached the burned-out house. Felt the urge to pee, but I always got that when I was going somewhere I wasn’t supposed to. Same as that little itch between my shoulder blades. As though the neighbors were all rushing to their windows, phones in hand, ready to call the cops on me for trespassing.

Typical for the design, the four-plex had the largest apartment in front, so it would look like a house from the street. Little postage stamp lawn, yellowed, but oddly unburnt by the fire.

Far more damage had been done to the lawn by the firehoses and the onrushing firemen. I could feel their tension. Their focus. Prickled up my spine, through my thighs and biceps.

Some fear, yes, but even their fear was a backdrop. The canvas on which they painted their training, procedures and goals.

I started the quick-pats on my cheek. Reminded myself where my body was. When my body was.

I was not a fireman. I was an artist. And their work was not what I was looking for.

I could feel my own heart pounding in my chest again. Good. It was slowing to a regular rate now, along with my deep breaths. The breeze didn’t get past my windbreaker, but it tousled my hair and felt good, if chilly, on my face.

I pulled a pack of mints from the pocket of my jeans. Thumbed one out. Held it under my nose and focused on the wintergreen scent. Comforting and mine. I’d been eating wintergreen mints since I was a kid.

My mouth watered at the thought of popping that mint in my mouth, but not yet. Not yet.

I kept the mint in my hand and looked over the front of the house as I crossed the concrete walkway at the side of the lawn, toward the brown fence with its broken gate.

The door to the front apartment didn’t face the street, like it would have for a house. It was around back. Gate must have been locked. The firemen broke it down in their haste to save lives.

The building itself reminded me of a time when I’d gone camping with my parents, maybe fifteen years before. We’d been roasting wieners on sticks, and mine had fallen into the fire.

By the time I’d freed my wiener and blown away the flames, it still looked kind of like a wiener. I mean, the structure was still there. It was charred and blackened, but unmistakably what it was.

The front apartment looked kind of like that. It had been painted a chocolate brown, and had a bit of brick façade, and still visibly like a house. But it was charred and blackened. It smelled of smoke and damp. Two front windows were broken. A section of the roof had burned away. The chimney had collapsed.

I wandered around back.

The rest of the four-plex held the traditional layout. One small apartment behind the big front house. Then a laundry room. One set of wrought iron stairs with concrete-slats led the way to the upstairs apartments.

All three were likely one-bedroom jobs. Had been, at least. The top front apartment had collapsed. Or rather, its roof and walls had collapsed. Bits of it lay strewn about on the concrete. The one behind it looked a little better, but that just meant that most of the walls stood.

The laundry room looked like it escaped unscathed. Even the machines inside were running, which likely meant their neighbors to my left were using it while their own machine was busy.

That seemed wrong to me somehow.

Smoke and damp smell was stronger back here. I brought my mint to my nose every few steps, to try to hold back the stench.

A little inner fence – also brown, to match the overall paint theme of the unimaginative – had once created a small courtyard for the front apartment. Two toppled aluminum chairs lay there now. The little round barbecue between them sat waiting.

Probably happy times here for a couple. Might not be too hard to…

No. Who was I kidding? The night of the fire would be the source of strongest impressions. Overwhelm almost everything else. Hunting down fun barbecue times in that mess would be like antiquing while a tsunami’s about to crash on my head.

No. I was here to find something stronger than fear. Something that would help me create my best painting yet.

I just had to find it.

The smell of smoke is everywhere. Flames roaring louder than the torrent of blood rushing past my ears.

Fire’s not even here yet, but the heat. Blistering. Parching. If I didn’t shave my chest, my chest hair might be crisping already.

Sweat stings my eyes. Panting for clean air, I duck low. Drop to all fours. Nothing but plaid pajama bottoms to cover me. Even that feels like too much. Too much for this heat.

No time for my books. No time for my discs, computers, nothing. All these shelves lining the walls around me, and none of it matters.

Nothing else matters but finding him.

Fear tastes like steel on my tongue. Have to find him. Have to find him.

Where is he?

(Who? Damn it. My heart pounds just as hard. The echo of his fear seizes my groin. Bends my knees. Dries my mouth. Trembles through me. I feel this man’s love, his fear, his need, but not the object.)

Already yelled for Kris. His room’s farther. Safer. Cooler. Probably outside already.

(Not Kris he’s worried about. I can feel that. Kris is a roommate. Nothing more.)

I grab the edge of the twin bed. Hoist it high. Nothing underneath but men’s mags and dirty socks. Not here.

Pouncer! I call. Come on, baby, we need to go!

(Pouncer? Is this about a cat?)

Fear tunnels my vision. Where could he be? Where would he hide?

(Oh, God. I didn’t see anything in the reports about pets. If this guy’s cat died, I don’t want to experience that.)

My head whips back and forth. All these stupid shelves. Books, DVDs, magazines, stupid little science fiction models. Nothing but hiding places in this room.

At least the closet door is closed.

I call out again, but my voice sounds like static. Scratchy. Throat’s getting raw. Dry.

I need to get out of here myself. Heat’s getting worse.

Crap. Must be the apartment on the other side of that wall.

Shit! Fire’s coming through the wall!

(I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this. What the hell was I thinking? I should pull out. But I can’t. I can’t just pull out.)

(Damn it, I need to know if the cat makes it out.)

Desperation rips a keening cry out of my throat. Tears are flowing now. Where is my cat? I went to sleep tonight with him on my chest, and my door closed. He has to be—

(That. What was that? He reacted to something, but I couldn’t catch what.)

What?

My desk!

Triangular desk in the far corner, by the window. Got my gaming desktop set up. Underneath, the khaki duffle bag I stuff my laundry in.

I dive down there. Rasping throat trying to get Pouncer’s name out.

Movement!

Giddy relief makes me try to laugh, but nothing comes out. A flare of joy sings through my muscles and nerves. My face so hot I feel faint. My lips crack as I smile.

Pouncer. Goof. Must’ve crawled into my duffel bag for a nap or something.

I grab the little gray and white ball of fluff and tuck him close to my chest. His claws dig in, making sure I don’t let go as I turn for the door.

Taste of wintergreen on my tongue. Must’ve popped that mint in my mouth the moment he picked up the cat.

Good.

I’m on my back now, in the room where that scene happened just a few days ago. Started on my knees. Must have fallen. I’m shaking. My heart still racing. Sweat sticking my Monroe Academy tee shirt to my chest. Matting my hair too.

Not everything soaking my clothes came out of my body. Dogshit brown carpet still squishes underneath me, where I’m flopped on my back. At least my windbreaker is keeping the carpet water off my torso, if not my hair or pantlegs.

Fire was days ago, but the carpet’s not dry. Smell of smoke and mildew everywhere, but I focus on the taste of wintergreen.

My lips aren’t chapped or split. Those were his.

No claw marks on my arms or chest. Those were his too.

His fear lingers though. His panic that his beloved pet might not make it out alive. Got the cat’s name, but I never got the savior’s.

At least Pouncer had a good person.

I lie there for a time. Trying to get my body to relax again. The stench doesn’t help. Keeps triggering someone else’s memories. I force myself to look around. Pay attention to the present.

Boring white paint now in interesting patterns of fire, smoke and water damage.

Everything around me is ruined. The twin bed, burnt and sopping. The bookshelves, with their singed, burnt away or waterlogged books. His DVD collection’s shot too, to say nothing of what was probably a pretty sweet gaming setup.

The fire missed his bureau. How weird is that? Little four-drawer thing, painted primary colors like a child’s, and the fire must have jumped over it.

Hole in the wall by the bed where the fire came though.

That can wait. I need time to relax. To process.

The man and his cat. That was good. But was it good enough?

I drew a long, slow breath through my nose, despite the stench. Focused on the moment when the man found his cat.

Relief and joy mostly. Yes, the love was there, but hidden under the relief and joy. The frame of the canvas, when I needed the love to at least be part of a coherent background image.

Still, those were good emotions to work with. Strong. If I tucked the man’s feelings into a painting of that moment, the painting would do well.

But I suspected I could find something even better.

The next two rooms were dead ends. So to speak. In the room behind the front apartment, where the fire started, the guilt was overwhelming. A college student overloaded an outlet. Some kind of protest against the presence of only a single electrical outlet in the bedroom of a one-bedroom apartment.

Lamps, heaters, computers (yes, more than one), chargers, and even a minifridge. All coming out of a single outlet.

Yeah, this guy’s emotions would have made a sad, pathetic painting.

Next one I got to was up the stairs, in back. First apartment off the staircase. Belonged to a young couple, who spent most of their time in