Urban Horror Special Issue Preview

2

Urban Horror Special Issue Edited By Tommy B. Smith

Under the City Lights: An Introduction By Tommy B. Smith

Harm’s Way By Spencer Wendleton Page 3

The Threefold Man By David Turnbull Page 8

Hole In The Ground By Laurence Klavan Page 11

Shoot Out By Stanley Riiks Page 15

Preacher Man By Iain Paton Page 18

These Fears By Richard Farren Barber Page 23

The Twain By Jeffrey B. Burton Page 26

Noisy Neighbours By Trost Page 31

The Coming By Toni Nicolino Page 34

X x By Tom Johnstone Page 39

Unseen By Charles D. Romans Page 44

Cold Rain By Mike Chinn Page 48

The Mysteries Of Long Division By Tim Emswiler Page 52

Cover By Gareth Partington - www.garethpartington.com

Artwork By Lubi (Page 7), Wojciech Dziadosz (Page 14), Ewa Zydowicz (Page 51), Steve Upham

(Page 17), Shaysapir (Page 22), Justin Coons (Page 25), C.E.Zacherl (Page 30), M. Sabas (Page

38), Lacy Jae Slaunwhite (45), Dave Migman (Page 47), Matthew Freyer (Page 56).

Proofread By Samuel Diamond and Trevor Wright – www.morpheustales.com/the%20team.htm

All material contained within the pages of this magazine and associated websites is copyright of Morpheus Tales. All

Rights Reserved. No material contained herein can be copied or otherwise used without the express permission of the

copyright holders.

Under the city lights, the crowds push along each side of

faces, unremarkable amid the bustle of any other day, have a story, and today isn’t

just any other day: it’s the day their stories are told.

These people and the city streets they walk, and the smog of fuel exhaust,

cigarette smoke, and various industrial pollutants conceal a jagged patchwork of

urban nightmares.

Think of this as a glimpse into the deepest shadowy secrets of that city, a city

that, on the darker fringes between reality, dream, and imagination, you’ll soon fin

yourself passing through. It might be a place that seems distant and alien, or perhaps

you’ll find it strangely similar to your own city, if only for a moment. Perhaps it

your city.

The writers and artists herein have pushed through the illusion of civilization

into a place that lies hidden beneath its shroud. Among the city streets and the

building facades, the subways and the back alleyways, city lights and urban nights,

you’ll find a stark cityscape battleground, and you’ll witness its terrors. You’ll see

those predators of the city night, as well as those who will discover their city isn’t the

place they thought they knew, and you’ll even see those who would try to change it.

There remains only one direction from here, forward through the pages to

follow, straight into the urban horror. Read on

Tommy B. Smith

The Morpheus Tales Special Issues Collection

Limited availability! Visit our website to order you

www.morpheustales.comwww.morpheustales.comwww.morpheustales.comwww.morpheustales.com

Under the city lights, the crowds push along each side of the busy street. Some of the


just any other day: it’s the day their stories are told.


smoke, and various industrial pollutants conceal a jagged patchwork of


that, on the darker fringes between reality, dream, and imagination, you’ll soon fin


you’ll find it strangely similar to your own city, if only for a moment. Perhaps it




a stark cityscape battleground, and you’ll witness its terrors. You’ll see



e remains only one direction from here, forward through the pages to

follow, straight into the urban horror. Read on - and enjoy the ride!

The Morpheus Tales Special Issues Collection

Limited availability! Visit our website to order your copies now!

www.morpheustales.comwww.morpheustales.comwww.morpheustales.comwww.morpheustales.com

3

the busy street. Some of the



smoke, and various industrial pollutants conceal a jagged patchwork of


that, on the darker fringes between reality, dream, and imagination, you’ll soon find


you’ll find it strangely similar to your own city, if only for a moment. Perhaps it is




a stark cityscape battleground, and you’ll witness its terrors. You’ll see



e remains only one direction from here, forward through the pages to

and enjoy the ride!

r copies now!

4

“Whatever you do, don’t jump from that window!”

It’s the best I could throw at her, the woman being a complete stranger to me.

Poised at the edge of her apartment window,

evening, the other half in the apartment under the veil of nicotine

from letting herself plummet five stories onto the sidewalk below. Her face was crawling with

emotional confusion; it took all that was left of her to commit suicide, and here was this stranger

barking things at her to botch her plan.

“Let’s talk, okay?” I attempt to talk her down again. “I’m sure whatever it is, it’ll be fine.

Give me a chance. We can fix wha

She pivots another inch out the window, choosing not to talk, and once I see the foot

hanging inside the room jerk upwards, her body tipping toward the outside of the building, I rush

her, plunging myself through the window, shattering the glass and breaking my collar bone against

the wooden frame that’s half-rotted by poor upkeep. Falling after her, I catch her in my grip, turn

my body, and it’s me who breaks her fall, me who breaks every vertebrae of my

splits my skull.

It’s minutes after touchdown, and I come to. The woman is crab

and bashed up body. That could’ve been me. Thank God it wasn’t me,

nightgown stained in my blood whi

shocked is she at how close she came to dying. She sobers up after watching me suffer long enough

and then races to a payphone to call the police.

And by then, my wounds have healed, my vertebr

and re-hinges. Rising up from the street intact, I’m fleeing to the nearest garbage

alley to collect myself and my sore, aching body, to find out how much more time I have left to

live...

Up from the flesh of my forearm, the skin tightens like a snare, the muscles pressed so hard

against the tissue they threaten to break through. After thirty seconds of sharp constricting, up come

those tight purple veins that form into numbers, the numbers written i

Saving that woman’s life gave me another twenty

Enough time to sleep for awhile, and that’s what I do in the nearest garbage bin I can find.

“Terrill, wake up. You wanna coffee? I can smell it comi

brewed.”

I know it’s Donald who’s lifted up the lid of the garbage bin

eyes and acne-pocked skin and shaggy beard and shocks of long hair, all of it giving him the

appearance of a coot prophet. I w

gangly trench coat or the stained “Cardinals” ball cap. “I’ve got a few hours before work, how

about you? We should talk. I have important things to tell you. About our work, I mean.”

I check the faded impression on my forearm, and I’ve got fifteen hours to live.

“Yeah, coffee sound good. And a cigarette. But I’m not so sure about the talking about work

part.”

The Mission was a brick building where the homeless, drunks, burnouts, winos, and off

hookers came for their meals. But it was also for people like me, who had a job to do in the city.

Save the weak. Sacrifice yourself to extend another’s life. Throw oneself into harm’s way for the

sake of humanity. It was what Donald and hundreds of

committed to, though not voluntarily.

“Whatever you do, don’t jump from that window!”


Poised at the edge of her apartment window, half her body eclipsed by the shadows of late

evening, the other half in the apartment under the veil of nicotine-coloured curtains, she was inches


fusion; it took all that was left of her to commit suicide, and here was this stranger

barking things at her to botch her plan.


Give me a chance. We can fix whatever’s wrong. It’s not worth taking your own life.”



f through the window, shattering the glass and breaking my collar bone against

rotted by poor upkeep. Falling after her, I catch her in my grip, turn

my body, and it’s me who breaks her fall, me who breaks every vertebrae of my

# # #

It’s minutes after touchdown, and I come to. The woman is crab-walking from my bleeding

That could’ve been me. Thank God it wasn’t me, she thinks, her hands and

nightgown stained in my blood which quickly begins to evaporate, though she doesn’t notice, so

at how close she came to dying. She sobers up after watching me suffer long enough

and then races to a payphone to call the police.

And by then, my wounds have healed, my vertebrae connecting together with rough clinks

hinges. Rising up from the street intact, I’m fleeing to the nearest garbage


e flesh of my forearm, the skin tightens like a snare, the muscles pressed so hard


those tight purple veins that form into numbers, the numbers written in a strange circulatory scrawl.

Saving that woman’s life gave me another twenty-four hours to live.


# # #

“Terrill, wake up. You wanna coffee? I can smell it coming from the Mission. Fresh

I know it’s Donald who’s lifted up the lid of the garbage bin to peer in at me with his buggy

pocked skin and shaggy beard and shocks of long hair, all of it giving him the

appearance of a coot prophet. I was a thirty year old version of Donald, except I didn’t wear a



he faded impression on my forearm, and I’ve got fifteen hours to live.


The Mission was a brick building where the homeless, drunks, burnouts, winos, and off



sake of humanity. It was what Donald and hundreds of others throughout the country were

committed to, though not voluntarily.


half her body eclipsed by the shadows of late

red curtains, she was inches


fusion; it took all that was left of her to commit suicide, and here was this stranger


tever’s wrong. It’s not worth taking your own life.”



f through the window, shattering the glass and breaking my collar bone against

rotted by poor upkeep. Falling after her, I catch her in my grip, turn

my body, and it’s me who breaks her fall, me who breaks every vertebrae of my spinal column and

walking from my bleeding

she thinks, her hands and

ch quickly begins to evaporate, though she doesn’t notice, so

at how close she came to dying. She sobers up after watching me suffer long enough

ae connecting together with rough clinks

hinges. Rising up from the street intact, I’m fleeing to the nearest garbage-and-piss-reeking


e flesh of my forearm, the skin tightens like a snare, the muscles pressed so hard


n a strange circulatory scrawl.


ng from the Mission. Fresh

in at me with his buggy

pocked skin and shaggy beard and shocks of long hair, all of it giving him the

as a thirty year old version of Donald, except I didn’t wear a



he faded impression on my forearm, and I’ve got fifteen hours to live.


The Mission was a brick building where the homeless, drunks, burnouts, winos, and off-duty



others throughout the country were

They say that all humans are threefold beings; mind, body and soul. When the mind ceases

to be sentient and the husk of the cadaver commences its descent into decay, the soul

the veil to whatever the afterlife holds. This is a notion common through generations of mankind’s

religions and philosophies. I for one believed that this was the way of things. And in holding this to

be true, I fully understood and accepted

I realise now that I had no real concept of damnation.

I was never what you might call a good person. I wasn’t minded to be kind to children or

animals. It would not have occurred to me to help an old lady across the street or bes

deed upon a neighbour. I gave nothing to charity and was entirely unmoved by television footage

depicting scenes of starvation in Africa or the aftermath of earthquakes in Asia. You could say that I

possessed the polar opposite of the mores whic

go so far as to say that I had no moral compass whatsoever.

I gained my pleasure from inflicting intolerable suffering upon my fellow beings, delighting

at the delicious crack of a bone, the crimson ejac

lesion, or the strangulated cry for mercy, which was music to my ears. But it was the actual moment

of death that brought me the greatest joy.

The instant of ending.

The inevitable division and separation of

whole.

I would watch in rapture as evidence of the soul’s departure reflected in the deadening eyes

of my victims. I would marvel at the instantaneous blinking out of their sentience. I would sigh in

wonder at the metamorphosis from the tense struggle put up by the animate body to the limp sack of

lifelessness slumped in my arms.

I had conducted a meticulous survey of this city. I knew how to navigate its darkest places;

the heaths and canals, the subways and d

shadowy spots beneath the bridges and the mazelike labyrinth of alleyways which snake through the

theatre district. Here I would prowl, awaiting the latest foolhardy citizen who misguidedly allowed

themselves to believe there would be no harm whatsoever in straying from the main thoroughfares

in order to achieve a quicker route from A to B.

I disposed of the earthly remains of my victims in hacked off hunks and chunks, secreting

them away in the veiled nooks and crannies I had charted and logged over the years. I knew that I

could rely on the efficiency of the feral creatures, the stray dogs, the urban foxes and the river rats,

to finish the job I had begun and leave no incriminating trace.

I was not a serial killer. I refuse to be labelled or pigeonholed in such a trite manner. My

career of slaughter followed no particular pattern. I had no modus operandi. No targeted population

type. No deep-rooted psychological imbalance egging me on. I could not b

guessed. I was a craftsman; each magnificent atrocity a separate and entirely individual work of art.

Besides, the city can be a cold and anonymous place. Each year hundreds of people simply

go missing. The police and the authorities s

each case the attention it deserves. Logging and filing of details is about as far as any investigation

goes.

And so, while discovery was always a distinct possibility, I felt, with considerable

justification, that I had carte blanche to simply carry on torturing and murdering for the sheer joy

that it brought me. Always, always, always I experienced an intense euphoria in the highly charged

aftermath of my sadistic deeds. Almost trancelike in its quality

of perception. This I considered to be my magnificence, my glory, my majesty.

This was ultimately my downfall.


to be sentient and the husk of the cadaver commences its descent into decay, the soul



be true, I fully understood and accepted that my soul was damned.

I realise now that I had no real concept of damnation.


animals. It would not have occurred to me to help an old lady across the street or bes



possessed the polar opposite of the mores which go to make up good person. In fact I myself would

go so far as to say that I had no moral compass whatsoever.


at the delicious crack of a bone, the crimson ejaculation of fresh warm blood from a newly sliced


of death that brought me the greatest joy.

The inevitable division and separation of the three equal parts that make the sum of the



the metamorphosis from the tense struggle put up by the animate body to the limp sack of


the heaths and canals, the subways and derelict buildings. My territorial hunting grounds were the




in order to achieve a quicker route from A to B.


led nooks and crannies I had charted and logged over the years. I knew that I


to finish the job I had begun and leave no incriminating trace.

a serial killer. I refuse to be labelled or pigeonholed in such a trite manner. My


rooted psychological imbalance egging me on. I could not b



go missing. The police and the authorities simply do not have the manpower or resources to give



ation, that I had carte blanche to simply carry on torturing and murdering for the sheer joy


aftermath of my sadistic deeds. Almost trancelike in its quality, tantalisingly close to a higher plane


This was ultimately my downfall.

5


to be sentient and the husk of the cadaver commences its descent into decay, the soul passes beyond




animals. It would not have occurred to me to help an old lady across the street or bestow a good



h go to make up good person. In fact I myself would


ulation of fresh warm blood from a newly sliced


the three equal parts that make the sum of the



the metamorphosis from the tense struggle put up by the animate body to the limp sack of


erelict buildings. My territorial hunting grounds were the





led nooks and crannies I had charted and logged over the years. I knew that I


a serial killer. I refuse to be labelled or pigeonholed in such a trite manner. My


rooted psychological imbalance egging me on. I could not be profiled or second-



imply do not have the manpower or resources to give



ation, that I had carte blanche to simply carry on torturing and murdering for the sheer joy


, tantalisingly close to a higher plane


6

“Closed for Renovations.” He had always thought it one of the great and unappreciated lies,

up there with putting things in the mail and not in your mouth. Was he alone in thinking it? Barry

Bumgardner felt alone, standing before the shuttered Steen’s, which had been his

for the past - how many, twenty?

recognizably Steen’s, the aisles never altered enough to look like any other store, the new owners

always too lazy to change the name, the identity of the original owner of no interest to the new

Asian, Latino, and now Albanian o

every day - “Break a leg!” “Down the hatch!”

This time, however, was different

windows, though not well enough to preven

interior, with paper boxes strewn about unassembled, and a few steel racks fallen over like robbery

victims, the Terra Chips and Pirate Booty and low

mail lay in a small pile near the front door

rush away.

“Closed for Renovations.” The sign would probably stay there until a new store showed up;

at some other places it had taken years, time definiti

believed in the first place, the way time caught people in lies nobody ever bought

visiting relatives” (for ten years)

Still, pondering the future didn’t ch

Steen’s was gone, and the organic kind, without the cow hormones or whatever

for you. He turned, his feet feeling heavy, and walked at the pace of a man twice his age (forty

- his age, not twice his age) to, well, he guessed Green Harbor was the nearest place now, though

the milk was hormonal, the bananas were always brown, and he saw a mouse in there once.

Barry’s head throbbed. The four

want to go. Steen’s had been just fine with him, and so his resistance increased time, and not in a

good way. (Other people might not mind as much, Barry thought, b

home. They only passed Steen’s on the way to

place three or four times a day,

What did he have, kids? - and went in for one item at a time: salt, a sponge, this morning milk.

Truth be told, he liked to leave his apartment, which sometimes seemed suffocating and where he

spent all day writing freelance brochures for U.S. stamps, and, besides, going up and down the

stairs was the only exercise he got, being somewhat plump and pasty, so

Then something cheered him on the way to Green Harbor and distracted him from the

endless length of the trip.

He realized he would be passing Elegamento’s, his usual newspaper store, and that today

was the second week of the month

bought magazines, preferred to just stand and read them right there in the store, but he always

bought something - usually a single small pack of tissues

irony, he thought that tissue packets represented free

from one end of town to the other ranged from twenty

sixty cents, was right in the comfortable middle

seemed to witness his behaviour

and that was all that mattered.

But when he reached it, he read the sign, dumbfounded: “Coming Soon: A New Dru


with putting things in the mail and not in your mouth. Was he alone in thinking it? Barry

Bumgardner felt alone, standing before the shuttered Steen’s, which had been his

twenty? - years. Sometimes it was “Under New Management” but always



Asian, Latino, and now Albanian owners, as unimportant as the meanings of expressions one used

“Break a leg!” “Down the hatch!” - and didn’t question.

This time, however, was different - brown wrapping paper was taped on all of Steen’s

windows, though not well enough to prevent his peeking through. Today he saw a dark, abandoned


victims, the Terra Chips and Pirate Booty and low-fat pretzels gone from their shelves. Unopened

lay in a small pile near the front door - bills, Barry figured, and the real reason for the owner’s


at some other places it had taken years, time definitively exposing the lie of the sign, which nobody

believed in the first place, the way time caught people in lies nobody ever bought

visiting relatives” (for ten years) - but were too polite to challenge.

Still, pondering the future didn’t change his present quandary: where to buy milk now that

Steen’s was gone, and the organic kind, without the cow hormones or whatever

. He turned, his feet feeling heavy, and walked at the pace of a man twice his age (forty

is age, not twice his age) to, well, he guessed Green Harbor was the nearest place now, though


Barry’s head throbbed. The four blocks seemed to take forever, because,

Steen’s had been just fine with him, and so his resistance increased time, and not in a

good way. (Other people might not mind as much, Barry thought, because they didn’t work at

hey only passed Steen’s on the way to and from their jobs, whereas he actually entered the

place three or four times a day, since he never shopped in bulk - where did he live, the suburbs?

and went in for one item at a time: salt, a sponge, this morning milk.

e told, he liked to leave his apartment, which sometimes seemed suffocating and where he


stairs was the only exercise he got, being somewhat plump and pasty, so why not spread it out?)



was the second week of the month and so the time for new magazines to come in. He rarely if ever


usually a single small pack of tissues - to pay Elegamento’s for its time. (W

irony, he thought that tissue packets represented free-market capitalism at its best, since their price

from one end of town to the other ranged from twenty-five cents to a dollar; and Elegamento’s, at

right in the comfortable middle - another reason he liked the store.) If the owners

behaviour with something less than pleasure, they always recognized him,

But when he reached it, he read the sign, dumbfounded: “Coming Soon: A New Dru


with putting things in the mail and not in your mouth. Was he alone in thinking it? Barry

Bumgardner felt alone, standing before the shuttered Steen’s, which had been his local greengrocer

New Management” but always



wners, as unimportant as the meanings of expressions one used

brown wrapping paper was taped on all of Steen’s

t his peeking through. Today he saw a dark, abandoned


fat pretzels gone from their shelves. Unopened

bills, Barry figured, and the real reason for the owner’s


vely exposing the lie of the sign, which nobody

believed in the first place, the way time caught people in lies nobody ever bought - “My wife is

ange his present quandary: where to buy milk now that

Steen’s was gone, and the organic kind, without the cow hormones or whatever it was that was bad

. He turned, his feet feeling heavy, and walked at the pace of a man twice his age (forty-five

is age, not twice his age) to, well, he guessed Green Harbor was the nearest place now, though


because, of course, he didn’t

Steen’s had been just fine with him, and so his resistance increased time, and not in a

ecause they didn’t work at

and from their jobs, whereas he actually entered the

here did he live, the suburbs?

and went in for one item at a time: salt, a sponge, this morning milk.

e told, he liked to leave his apartment, which sometimes seemed suffocating and where he


why not spread it out?)



and so the time for new magazines to come in. He rarely if ever


to pay Elegamento’s for its time. (With

market capitalism at its best, since their price

five cents to a dollar; and Elegamento’s, at

another reason he liked the store.) If the owners

with something less than pleasure, they always recognized him,

But when he reached it, he read the sign, dumbfounded: “Coming Soon: A New Drugall’s.”

“Shoot the fuckers,” yelled one of the gang members. Before the yell had finished echoing

around the interior of the old abandoned factory in Hackney, the two gangs drew their weapons and

started firing. It all seemed to happen in slow motion.

One of the four floodlights was knocked over. The darkness encroaching, sliced by the

bright lights.

An explosion smashed through them, a shotgun blast pounded round the large metallic

room. The scatter shots of an AK

nearly knocked a sixteen-year-old off his feet as others ducked behind rusting machinery. A well

muscled gang leader grabbed hold of a youngster, holding the youth in front of him like a shield.

The ticker-ticker of an Uzi blasted to the

ripped off, and his leg flew up into the air to splat down on the floor several feet away, setting off a

puff of dust.

The leader pulled his sawn

in front of him. His head exploded, splattering brains and face over a glass window behind him. A

hail of bullets. His chest ripped open, organs flying out in all directions before he hit the floor.

One of the other floodlights exploded in a his

room.

Someone else screamed.

An arm flew into the air heading towards the ceiling, the hand fixed in a claw, the forefinger

twitching as though still pulling a trigger. Where the arm was detached by force from

body, meat and blood dripped down from the air, tracing its path. The half

dismembered Superman arm. It punched into the wall and dropped to the ground, still leaking

blood.

There was more shouting, more screaming,

firing and sound of shooting was non

“Fuck-ers,” one shouted, poking his head over the top of a rusting injection

barrel. A bite tore a hole in his right trapezium between his shoulder and his neck. His head tilted,

drooping forward. He didn’t scream. He attempted to lift his pistol but couldn’t move his right arm.

He toppled over, blood pumping out of his neck onto the ground bene

cheap vampire film. He lay staring at the pool of blood, watching his life draining out of him.

A girl appeared from behind one of the other machines, her leather jacket flapping behind

her like wings, screeching at the top of h

moved twenty feet. Suddenly she was between the two gangs in a no

still, looked round and realised there was nowhere to go.

She was torn apart before she took another s

collapsed beneath her and still her entire body shook, ripped into pieces, her torso pocking, blood

ejecting from the random holes rapidly appearing in her.


round the interior of the old abandoned factory in Hackney, the two gangs drew their weapons and

started firing. It all seemed to happen in slow motion.



room. The scatter shots of an AK-47 sounded. Screams followed. The bo

old off his feet as others ducked behind rusting machinery. A well


ticker of an Uzi blasted to their left; they turned, but too late. The youth’s arm was

his leg flew up into the air to splat down on the floor several feet away, setting off a

The leader pulled his sawn-off shotgun up and fired into the darkness, dropping



One of the other floodlights exploded in a hiss and sizzle. Darkness swept deeper into the


twitching as though still pulling a trigger. Where the arm was detached by force from

body, meat and blood dripped down from the air, tracing its path. The half-limb looked like a flying


There was more shouting, more screaming, a shriek and the faint sound of sobbing. The

firing and sound of shooting was non-stop, almost deafening. Ratatat. Bang. Ticker

ers,” one shouted, poking his head over the top of a rusting injection

tore a hole in his right trapezium between his shoulder and his neck. His head tilted,


He toppled over, blood pumping out of his neck onto the ground beneath him, like a victim in a



her like wings, screeching at the top of her lungs as she ran. Five guns pointed at her before she’d

moved twenty feet. Suddenly she was between the two gangs in a no-man’s land. She stopped dead

still, looked round and realised there was nowhere to go.

She was torn apart before she took another step, flesh splattering in every direction


ejecting from the random holes rapidly appearing in her.

7


round the interior of the old abandoned factory in Hackney, the two gangs drew their weapons and



47 sounded. Screams followed. The boom of a .44 magnum

old off his feet as others ducked behind rusting machinery. A well-


ir left; they turned, but too late. The youth’s arm was

his leg flew up into the air to splat down on the floor several feet away, setting off a

off shotgun up and fired into the darkness, dropping a dead body



s and sizzle. Darkness swept deeper into the


twitching as though still pulling a trigger. Where the arm was detached by force from the rest of the

limb looked like a flying


a shriek and the faint sound of sobbing. The

stop, almost deafening. Ratatat. Bang. Ticker-ticker. Bang.

ers,” one shouted, poking his head over the top of a rusting injection-mould machine

tore a hole in his right trapezium between his shoulder and his neck. His head tilted,


ath him, like a victim in a



er lungs as she ran. Five guns pointed at her before she’d

man’s land. She stopped dead

tep, flesh splattering in every direction. Her legs


8

On a dreary Glasgow morning, she hears him long before she sees him. A deep voice, with a

hard edge, each word spat out into the air. A small crowd has gathered on Buchanan Street. Some

youths mock him, gangling apes clad in football shirts. He towers abov

narrow, bearded face framed by lank hair. He wears a round collared shirt underneath a waistcoat

and a long black coat. Like a gospel rocker or a wild w

Spittle flies from his lips as he

surreal.

“WHO WILL JESUS DAMN?

“The Book of Romans says Jesus will DAMN the HOMOSEXUALS, and the

FORNICATORS, and the WICKED, and the MALICIOUS. He will damn the DECEITFUL and the

PROUD and the COVENANT BREAKERS and the HATERS of GOD.”

He waves a worn Bible in one outstretched hand.

“The Book of Mark says THIS,” he shouts. “‘

it is better than having two hands to go into HELL, where the WORM dieth not, an

quenched.’”

His voice builds towards a climax.

for thee to enter halt into life, than having two feet to be cast into HELL, where the WORM dieth

not, and the FIRE is not quenched.

His scream reaches its crescendo. “‘

better for thee to enter into the KINGDOM of God with one eye, than having two eyes to be cast

into HELL, WHERE THE WORM DIETH NOT and the FIRE IS NOT QUENCHED!

He slumps forward, sweat pouring down his pallid face. She walks away, hardly hearing his

murmur.

“And these names shall be writ in the Book of the Damned…”

She pauses. The first names slip by, but the third one sounds familiar.

“David Smith, Hater of G

She shudders, but grins nervously and walks on towards work. Grand buildings overshadow

her as she heads toward the Council Chambers. Her pass gets her through the security door and to

her desk in the planning department. She walks across to David Smi

leans back in his chair, sipping coffee from a football mug.

“David,” she smiles, “you’ll never guess what I

“And what would that be then, Sarah?” He is too well

doesn’t think he is gay.

The telephone interrupts her. “Hello, planning department, Sarah Baxter speaking.”

The day passes quickly with a dozen applications to write up for decision by the councillors.

She’ll be blamed if it goes wrong and get little praise if it goes rig

final result, and finally hits the “send” button, dispatching the report to her manager.

She forgets about the preacher until the end of the day. She turns towards Buchanan Street,

to get her bus westwards, but pauses near

“No thanks,” she murmurs to herself, “I’ve had enough preaching for one day.”

So she walks past the railway station instead.



youths mock him, gangling apes clad in football shirts. He towers above their heads, dark eyes in a


Like a gospel rocker or a wild west preacher, she thinks with a smirk.

Spittle flies from his lips as he shouts, and the spectacle suddenly seems more sinister than

“WHO WILL JESUS DAMN?



VENANT BREAKERS and the HATERS of GOD.”

He waves a worn Bible in one outstretched hand.

“The Book of Mark says THIS,” he shouts. “‘And if thy hand offend thee, CUT IT OFF, for

it is better than having two hands to go into HELL, where the WORM dieth not, an

His voice builds towards a climax. “‘And if thy foot offend thee, CUT IT OFF, for it is better


d.’”

His scream reaches its crescendo. “‘And if thine EYE offend thee, PLUCK IT OUT, for it is


into HELL, WHERE THE WORM DIETH NOT and the FIRE IS NOT QUENCHED!


“And these names shall be writ in the Book of the Damned…”

She pauses. The first names slip by, but the third one sounds familiar.

“David Smith, Hater of God…”



her desk in the planning department. She walks across to David Smith’s paper

leans back in his chair, sipping coffee from a football mug.

“David,” she smiles, “you’ll never guess what I saw this morning…”

“And what would that be then, Sarah?” He is too well-groomed to be straight, but she



She’ll be blamed if it goes wrong and get little praise if it goes right, but she is pleased with the


about the preacher until the end of the day. She turns towards Buchanan Street,

to get her bus westwards, but pauses near the corner.


So she walks past the railway station instead.



e their heads, dark eyes in a


, she thinks with a smirk.

shouts, and the spectacle suddenly seems more sinister than



And if thy hand offend thee, CUT IT OFF, for

it is better than having two hands to go into HELL, where the WORM dieth not, and the FIRE is not

And if thy foot offend thee, CUT IT OFF, for it is better


And if thine EYE offend thee, PLUCK IT OUT, for it is


into HELL, WHERE THE WORM DIETH NOT and the FIRE IS NOT QUENCHED!’”




th’s paper-strewn desk. He

groomed to be straight, but she



ht, but she is pleased with the


about the preacher until the end of the day. She turns towards Buchanan Street,


As I stepped down from the bus

started to run, weaving between the straggled lines of passengers waiting at the bus stands.

Andrea’s warning had been stark

seconds - and it’s over”. I ran through the exit, a blast of cold November air splashed my face and

then I was out in the street.

The pavement was busy with people

balanced and stepped into the street

its horn. I didn’t have enough breath to curse myself. Andrea deserved better than this. She’d

serious when she warned me; there were too many previous convictions to be taken into account. I

didn’t want to lose her. It wasn’t my fault: the bus was l

I nearly passed the alley; the entrance was no larger than a doorway. I must have walked by

it hundreds of times before without noticing

barely penetrating ten metres. There was a stink of old drains, rotting cabbage, stale urine.

I plunged in.

The ground switched from concrete slabs to cobblestones. I took the opportunity to catch my

breath and slowed down to a walk. In a few seconds I’d be through the passage and into Andrea’s

arms.

A row of dark shop fronts crowded in on both sides of the passage. Flecks of yel

from a cast iron lamppost reflected in the glass. Shadows piled up in the corners like u

rubbish. It was hard to see anything clearly. A lace balcony hung over the street, bearing down on

the snakeskin cobblestones. I couldn’t make out the names of any of the shops

windows betrayed nothing of the interior.

I paused and from behind came the scuffling noise of feet on the rough stones. I looked back

but saw no one in the shadows. Even the narrow entrance was now hidden from view. The alley

simply disappeared, sucked up by the darkness.

I started walking again and then I sto

silence. I turned around, dreading what I might see.

“Hello?” My voice fell flat to the cobblestones.

Beside me, the windows of a shop, the

disturbing reflections of me, sightless eyes staring out at me from under balcony eyelids.

Time to get out of here. J

the McDonalds and HMV and Nottinghamshire Building Society. I turned my back against the da

(and did I expect to feel a blade cleave through my shoulder blade?)

sure that I could hear the steady echo of the person following me, r

lamppost, clung to it and looked back to see who was beh

The footsteps shuffled to a halt

The light above me flickered. Yellow light turned brown and then died completely.

Darkness rushed in to surround me. In my blindness I heard the quick tap of footsteps hurrying

towards me, and voices, whisper

language. A waft of stale air passed

coming.

I gripped the lamppost, something tangible and real amongst the choir

words in strange tongues. For a second, just a second but no less real because of its brevity,

something crossed the back of my hand. A hand upon mine. Soft. Wet. Cold.

The lamplight flickered back into life, but too late

echoing against the narrow walls of the passage. I whirle

there was nothing. No movement in the thin alleyway.

As I stepped down from the bus, I heard the clock chiming in Slab Square. Late again! I


Andrea’s warning had been stark: “If you’re late, you’re dumped. Anything more than a minute

I ran through the exit, a blast of cold November air splashed my face and

The pavement was busy with people, so I ran the kerbstone tightrope beside the road. I over

balanced and stepped into the street, and the truck that barely missed me blatted the night air with

its horn. I didn’t have enough breath to curse myself. Andrea deserved better than this. She’d

there were too many previous convictions to be taken into account. I

didn’t want to lose her. It wasn’t my fault: the bus was late, the traffic was awful, the


times before without noticing. I looked in, it was very dark, the street light beside me



a walk. In a few seconds I’d be through the passage and into Andrea’s

A row of dark shop fronts crowded in on both sides of the passage. Flecks of yel

post reflected in the glass. Shadows piled up in the corners like u


the snakeskin cobblestones. I couldn’t make out the names of any of the shops

windows betrayed nothing of the interior.

rom behind came the scuffling noise of feet on the rough stones. I looked back


simply disappeared, sucked up by the darkness.

I started walking again and then I stopped. The same scuffle and then that syrup

silence. I turned around, dreading what I might see.

“Hello?” My voice fell flat to the cobblestones.

Beside me, the windows of a shop, their panes melted and warped with age, threw back

ons of me, sightless eyes staring out at me from under balcony eyelids.

Time to get out of here. Just a couple of seconds until I was back amongst the city streets,

McDonalds and HMV and Nottinghamshire Building Society. I turned my back against the da

(and did I expect to feel a blade cleave through my shoulder blade?). I ran the next couple of steps,

sure that I could hear the steady echo of the person following me, ran and grabbed hold of the

post, clung to it and looked back to see who was behind me.

e footsteps shuffled to a halt just beyond my view.



whispered words I couldn’t understand, too low, too quiet, like a different

e. A waft of stale air passed, loaded with the stink of rot and disease. Something was

post, something tangible and real amongst the choir


something crossed the back of my hand. A hand upon mine. Soft. Wet. Cold.

The lamplight flickered back into life, but too late - I was already

echoing against the narrow walls of the passage. I whirled around, pole-dancing the lamp

there was nothing. No movement in the thin alleyway.

9

I heard the clock chiming in Slab Square. Late again! I


nything more than a minute - 60

I ran through the exit, a blast of cold November air splashed my face and

so I ran the kerbstone tightrope beside the road. I over-

the truck that barely missed me blatted the night air with

its horn. I didn’t have enough breath to curse myself. Andrea deserved better than this. She’d been

there were too many previous convictions to be taken into account. I

ate, the traffic was awful, the-


the street light beside me



a walk. In a few seconds I’d be through the passage and into Andrea’s

A row of dark shop fronts crowded in on both sides of the passage. Flecks of yellow light

post reflected in the glass. Shadows piled up in the corners like unattended


the snakeskin cobblestones. I couldn’t make out the names of any of the shops, and display

rom behind came the scuffling noise of feet on the rough stones. I looked back


pped. The same scuffle and then that syrup-thick

panes melted and warped with age, threw back

ons of me, sightless eyes staring out at me from under balcony eyelids.

amongst the city streets,

McDonalds and HMV and Nottinghamshire Building Society. I turned my back against the dark

I ran the next couple of steps,

an and grabbed hold of the



too low, too quiet, like a different

, loaded with the stink of rot and disease. Something was

post, something tangible and real amongst the choir of voices chanting


screaming, my voice

dancing the lamppost, but

10

Martin Vickers slowly opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling, lethargically won

where on earth he was, and then remembered his night’s stay at the HealthPlus Sleep Health

Martin tilted his head toward the natural light pouring in through the side window of his sleep

room. The sun had already risen.

He’d done it. Although it had taken weeks of ineffectual treatment, all culminating in an

overnight stay attached to a variety of sensors in the Sleep Health Centre, he’d finally gotten a full

night’s sleep without the convulsions, the fever

within minutes of dropping off.

Martin then did something he’d not done in months. He closed his eyes and went back to

sleep.

“The sleep hygiene’s not doing anything, doctor.” Martin was pale, his eyes bloodshot.

“Ditto the sleep diary.”

Dr. Kanner looked up from the chart before him. “No caffeine after lunch, right?”

“I haven’t touched caffeine since this living hell began.”

“No alcohol within six hours of bedtime?”

“We’ve already covered this. When it started in mid

before bed, hoping that would send me quietly off to la

miles on the stationary nightly, hoping exhaustion would do the trick. Didn’t help. Practically

OD’ed on Tylenol PM. Did nothing.

“We want to avoid sleep aids if at all possible,” the doctor replied, shaking his head. “I still

think your body is psychosomatically working through the stress of those lay

It was now Martin’s turn to shake his head. He managed a te

who worked on tunnel monitors for trains. “My area got off easy. We only took one hit and he was

able to choose early retirement. That was at the end of last year, way before these night terrors

began.”

“Night terrors?”

“That’s what Cindy, my wife, has begun calling them. Night terrors. This is driving her

apeshit, too. I’d switch rooms with the baby, but I need Cindy to be there. She wakes me when the

writhing starts, when I tangle up the sheets and sweat like a pig...

“What does your wife think is causing all this?”

Martin shrugged. “Like me, she has no idea. It came out of the blue. Latel

foetal in a corner of the bed. She says I’ve taken to breathing as though I’m in Lamaze or

something. I’m at the end of my rope, doc.”

“Do you remember anything?”

“Free-falling. A carnival ride in a swirl of darkness. But I get the sense that something is in

there with me - something not terribly pleasant

I’m scared shitless. Cindy wakes me up by this point and I live in fear of dropping off again.”

Martin opened his eyes again. The digital on the bedside table flipped to 7:20 A.M. Martin

couldn’t believe he’d slept in that long. He wanted to

The door to the sleep clinic’s hallway was wide open. Dr. Kanner, an early riser himself, had

promised to stop by at six o’clock to review Martin’s sleep patterns with the sleep centre’s

technologist. The physician must have glanced inside

baby, and decided to let the poor guy get some more rest. God bless the good doctor.

Martin pressed the clicker to alert the technologist that he had woken and to come remove

the sensors.

Martin Vickers slowly opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling, lethargically won

where on earth he was, and then remembered his night’s stay at the HealthPlus Sleep Health

Martin tilted his head toward the natural light pouring in through the side window of his sleep

lthough it had taken weeks of ineffectual treatment, all culminating in an


night’s sleep without the convulsions, the fever-like chills, the nightmares a


# # #



“I haven’t touched caffeine since this living hell began.”

“No alcohol within six hours of bedtime?”

“We’ve already covered this. When it started in mid-July, I tried drinking some Guinness

before bed, hoping that would send me quietly off to la-la land. No such luck. Then I did twenty


OD’ed on Tylenol PM. Did nothing.”


think your body is psychosomatically working through the stress of those lay-offs you mentioned.”

It was now Martin’s turn to shake his head. He managed a team of mechanical engineers



hat Cindy, my wife, has begun calling them. Night terrors. This is driving her


writhing starts, when I tangle up the sheets and sweat like a pig... when the screaming begins.”

“What does your wife think is causing all this?”

Martin shrugged. “Like me, she has no idea. It came out of the blue. Latel

in a corner of the bed. She says I’ve taken to breathing as though I’m in Lamaze or

thing. I’m at the end of my rope, doc.”

“Do you remember anything?”

falling. A carnival ride in a swirl of darkness. But I get the sense that something is in

something not terribly pleasant - watching from the shadows, biding its time


# # #


couldn’t believe he’d slept in that long. He wanted to stand and cheer.



technologist. The physician must have glanced inside, seen Martin sleeping like the proverbial



Martin Vickers slowly opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling, lethargically wondering

where on earth he was, and then remembered his night’s stay at the HealthPlus Sleep Health Centre.

Martin tilted his head toward the natural light pouring in through the side window of his sleep-study

lthough it had taken weeks of ineffectual treatment, all culminating in an


like chills, the nightmares and nausea he suffered




tried drinking some Guinness

la land. No such luck. Then I did twenty



offs you mentioned.”

am of mechanical engineers



hat Cindy, my wife, has begun calling them. Night terrors. This is driving her


creaming begins.”

Martin shrugged. “Like me, she has no idea. It came out of the blue. Lately, she finds me all

in a corner of the bed. She says I’ve taken to breathing as though I’m in Lamaze or

falling. A carnival ride in a swirl of darkness. But I get the sense that something is in

watching from the shadows, biding its time... and





, seen Martin sleeping like the proverbial



Mark Mansfield did not know his neighbours very well. He did not even know their names.

Every evening when he checked his letterbox, squeezed between so many others at the foot of the

creaking old staircase that led to his first floor flat, he could not help but see his neighbou

Some were scribbled illegibly, others were neatly printed, and all were inserted into the small

plastic window of the tenants’ respe

was simple enough, but matching them to his neighb

of them was Nguyen Van Quan, so Mark thought it a safe bet that this name belonged to the aging

Asian man he sometimes met on the staircase. The other names, like John Grant, Darren and Sally

Ingham or Vincent Franks and Felicity O’Callaghan didn’t so easily reveal the identities of their

owners.

Although Mark did not know his neighbours, there was one thing he knew about the couple

that lived upstairs from him on the second floor. They loved to dance; they we

about it. At least three times a week they would dance around for hours. Sometimes they danced the

tango, other times they danced to African music. The old building was so poorly insulated that

Mark could hear everything. It seemed as t

bongo drums while the other, his partner, spun around and shook her body. As far as he could tell it

was all some kind of kinky foreplay, and it was more than a little disruptive.

Mark wanted to complain t

their ritual he changed his mind. He could not do it. He did not want to make enemies with them,

and he was afraid that they would thi

had nobody to keep him company. It was silly of Mark to think like this, however. His neighbours

almost certainly did not know that he was single because he had not yet scratched his ex

name off his letterbox label.

Living alone did not bother Mark as much as he had feared it would the day he came home

and found Karen doing exactly what she had said she would eventually do; packing her bags. There

was no need for blame or anger. Their life together just wasn’t working out the way it shoul

and she had been the one mature enough to take the first and final step.

At first it had been difficult for Mark to suddenly find himself a bachelor again, but the

sadness was not deep and did not last long. He quickly realised that he had not bee

Karen and that they had been together for so long already simply because that was what a man and

a woman who fancied each other did. He had gone out to dinner and to the pictures with her for a

while, then they had started sleeping over at e

that it would be cheaper for them to pay one rent instead of two. So Karen moved in with him. It

just happened. It was a natural progression that eventually came to an equally natural end. They

were not meant for each other, they had never really been in love, at least not the way Fred Astaire

and Ginger Rogers upstairs seemed to be.

Mark did not feel bored or lonely living by himself. He found plenty of ways to occupy his

time. He often went to the family home to have dinner with his parents and little sister, and at least

twice a week he would meet up with his friends for a few too many pints. Although he refused to

admit so to himself, Mark quite liked single life.

know his neighbours very well. He did not even know their names.


creaking old staircase that led to his first floor flat, he could not help but see his neighbou


plastic window of the tenants’ respective letterboxes. Reading the names displayed in front of him

was simple enough, but matching them to his neighbours’ faces was another matter altogether. One



Franks and Felicity O’Callaghan didn’t so easily reveal the identities of their


that lived upstairs from him on the second floor. They loved to dance; they we



Mark could hear everything. It seemed as though one of them, presumably the man, played the


was all some kind of kinky foreplay, and it was more than a little disruptive.

Mark wanted to complain to them, but whenever it came to going up there and interrupting


and he was afraid that they would think that he was jealous because - since Karen had left him


almost certainly did not know that he was single because he had not yet scratched his ex

bother Mark as much as he had feared it would the day he came home


was no need for blame or anger. Their life together just wasn’t working out the way it shoul

and she had been the one mature enough to take the first and final step.


sadness was not deep and did not last long. He quickly realised that he had not bee



while, then they had started sleeping over at each other’s places and then, one day, Mark suggested



meant for each other, they had never really been in love, at least not the way Fred Astaire

and Ginger Rogers upstairs seemed to be.


family home to have dinner with his parents and little sister, and at least


admit so to himself, Mark quite liked single life.

11

know his neighbours very well. He did not even know their names.


creaking old staircase that led to his first floor flat, he could not help but see his neighbours’ names.


names displayed in front of him

ours’ faces was another matter altogether. One



Franks and Felicity O’Callaghan didn’t so easily reveal the identities of their


that lived upstairs from him on the second floor. They loved to dance; they were absolutely crazy



hough one of them, presumably the man, played the


o them, but whenever it came to going up there and interrupting


since Karen had left him - he


almost certainly did not know that he was single because he had not yet scratched his ex-girlfriend’s

bother Mark as much as he had feared it would the day he came home


was no need for blame or anger. Their life together just wasn’t working out the way it should have,


sadness was not deep and did not last long. He quickly realised that he had not been in love with



ach other’s places and then, one day, Mark suggested



meant for each other, they had never really been in love, at least not the way Fred Astaire


family home to have dinner with his parents and little sister, and at least


12

The sirens shouldn’t have frigh

alarms that drifted to the fourteenth floor apartment from the city streets below, yet something about

the reckless, urgent shrieks caused the hair on the back of her neck to dance. She made her

the open window in the living room and slammed it shut. The sirens continued despite her action.

Four minutes, eight minutes, seventeen minutes, twenty

abruptly silenced. The sudden quiet proved far more unse

trucks and police cars. Now, Asil was left with nothing to analyze but her own thoughts, and she

pictured her mother standing by the doorway, coat on, purse in hand.

When Carla Shaw left, she said she’d be back in a

mother’s ability to appear as if she was gazing at her daughter, when in actuality, she had been

staring just over Asil’s head.

She can’t even look at me

her chest, and she couldn’t suppress her aggression. “Don’t pretend to care about leaving me alone.

Just go already.”

Carla recoiled, as if her daughter’s words possessed the brute force of a thrown punch.

Surprise and disgust curled her face into an

twitched, pulling the right side of her mouth into a pseudo

when she stopped, turned back, and called out mockingly, “Don’t go anywhere.”

Asil had fantasized briefly

throwing it at her mother’s head, but she hadn’t the strength or mobility to enact such a cruel but

satisfying punishment, so she’d simply watched her mother walk away.

That had happened two day

Asil shook the memory away and turned her attention back to the window. The silence

outside was short-lived, replaced by a cacophony of typical city sounds: people shouting, radios

blaring, horns sounding. A native New Yorker, Asil considered the r

commonplace, but today was different. Like the sirens, the seemingly innocuous sounds of the city

mildly repulsed her.

She opened the window and the restlessness of the sidewalk invaded the room. Asil shoved

her face toward the windowpane,

window guards that clung like prison bars to the frame. Manhattan landlords required tenants living

with a child younger than seven to keep the metal contraptions over each window. Asil h

outgrown that stage of her life nine years ago, but her mother hadn’t noticed the progression.

A woman’s terrified scream caused Asil to jump. The mournful howl reminded her of the

stray cats in heat that gathered in the alleyway behind the apartment b

bestial, and caused a sick, hard cramp in Asil’s gut. Something was happening out there, and her

inability to understand the commotion taunted her. She studied the window guard. It could easily be

taken down with a Phillips-head

disquieting racket firsthand.

Below, glass shattered and the murmur of voices increased to a panicked roar. Asil backed

away and manoeuvred through the living room headed for the kitchen, where a

in a drawer next to the stove. Carla Shaw rarely touched such items. She left that duty to her

daughter, who, at an early age, learned how to hang curtain rods and shelving, how to assemble

small pieces of IKEA furniture, and most imp

when her mother barricaded herself inside with a bottle of OxyContin. Recalling the countless uses

for the Phillips-head in the past, Asil wondered why she hadn’t taken the bars down sooner; they’d

always made her feel like a prisoner.

The sirens shouldn’t have frightened Asil. The sound was no different tonight than the daily


the reckless, urgent shrieks caused the hair on the back of her neck to dance. She made her


Four minutes, eight minutes, seventeen minutes, twenty-two minutes passed before the sound was

abruptly silenced. The sudden quiet proved far more unsettling than the brash horns of the fire


pictured her mother standing by the doorway, coat on, purse in hand.

When Carla Shaw left, she said she’d be back in an hour. Asil recalled marvelling at her


She can’t even look at me, Asil remembered thinking. The idea had caused a hateful ache



Surprise and disgust curled her face into an ugly mask; sweat peppered her brow and one cheek

twitched, pulling the right side of her mouth into a pseudo-smile. Carla had one foot in the hallway


Asil had fantasized briefly of retrieving the glass paperweight from the foyer table and


satisfying punishment, so she’d simply watched her mother walk away.

That had happened two days ago.


lived, replaced by a cacophony of typical city sounds: people shouting, radios

blaring, horns sounding. A native New Yorker, Asil considered the r



her face toward the windowpane, hoping for a clear view of the street, but was stopped by the metal


with a child younger than seven to keep the metal contraptions over each window. Asil h



stray cats in heat that gathered in the alleyway behind the apartment building. It was primitive,



head screwdriver, and once she removed it, Asil could witness the


away and manoeuvred through the living room headed for the kitchen, where a



small pieces of IKEA furniture, and most importantly, how to disassemble the bathroom doorknob


head in the past, Asil wondered why she hadn’t taken the bars down sooner; they’d

made her feel like a prisoner.

tened Asil. The sound was no different tonight than the daily


the reckless, urgent shrieks caused the hair on the back of her neck to dance. She made her way to


two minutes passed before the sound was

ttling than the brash horns of the fire


n hour. Asil recalled marvelling at her


, Asil remembered thinking. The idea had caused a hateful ache in



ugly mask; sweat peppered her brow and one cheek

smile. Carla had one foot in the hallway


of retrieving the glass paperweight from the foyer table and



lived, replaced by a cacophony of typical city sounds: people shouting, radios

blaring, horns sounding. A native New Yorker, Asil considered the raucous symphony



hoping for a clear view of the street, but was stopped by the metal


with a child younger than seven to keep the metal contraptions over each window. Asil had



uilding. It was primitive,



screwdriver, and once she removed it, Asil could witness the


away and manoeuvred through the living room headed for the kitchen, where a box of tools resided



ortantly, how to disassemble the bathroom doorknob


head in the past, Asil wondered why she hadn’t taken the bars down sooner; they’d

There he is again, the man with the muslin veil that hangs limply over his wide

hat. Passersby ignore the table, with its Xeroxed leaflets weighted down with pebbles from the

beach, but still flapping in the wind l

“Please sign the petition, Councillor Mergrave,” calls the reedy, muffled voice, “against the

new mobile phone mast.”

Hilton Mergrave sighs.

“I shall take on board your concerns, and make representations

The veiled man offers his own dry, crackling laugh, making the gauzy material over his face

ripple. The material must have been white once, but Hilton notices a nasty yellowish tinge, darker

where the mouth must be.

“But you must remember that people need good mobile phone reception,” Hilton points out,

hiding his growing feeling of repulsion. “That’s why the mast is being built!”

“People also need food.”

“Yes, of course they do,” Hilton agrees, trying to keep his breakfast down. “But

what that’s got to do with mobile phones.”

“Bees,” the man continues in his grating monotone, “pollinate fruit trees and most other fruit

crops. Now their numbers are dwindling. Scientists are wondering why. One theory is that mobile

phone microwaves are interfering with the bees’ guidance systems.”

There are no gestures to illustrate the speech. The hands remain tucked under the paste table.

The feet however are visible, open

“So that’s why you’re wearing a bee

“No, I wear this veil to protect

“You see, they’ve been interfering with

Hilton nearly bursts out laughing.

“Oh, come on,” he says, “I accept that there has been an alarming decline in the bee

population. But I think the cause is more likely to be intensive agriculture than mobile phone masts,

don’t you? And,” glancing round pointedly at the

see many other people stopping to rally to your cause, do you?”

The man in the veil says nothing, just tilts his head. The pale muslin shrivels inward at the

mouth as the man sucks in a rasping breath. T

edges away from the table, feeling a purring vibration in his trouser pocket.

“Everyone uses them nowadays!” he says.

“I don’t,” the man says.

“Well, anyway, I must be off

When Hilton has put several metres between himself and the stall, he retrieves his phone and

checks the message:

Hi, Hil. When can we meet to discuss your donation? Edie x x

He stops in his tracks.

Edie?

Then he remembers: the chugger

softly touching his elbow, as she coaxed him to let her take his particulars. He joked that he would

be happy to offer her a donation, if she gave him her number. She laughed along, laughed it off, h

wasn’t sure which; you never can tell with these chuggers.

There he is again, the man with the muslin veil that hangs limply over his wide


beach, but still flapping in the wind like demented butterflies, pinned but still alive.


“I shall take on board your concerns, and make representations in today’s meeting.”



ember that people need good mobile phone reception,” Hilton points out,

hiding his growing feeling of repulsion. “That’s why the mast is being built!”

“Yes, of course they do,” Hilton agrees, trying to keep his breakfast down. “But

what that’s got to do with mobile phones.”



rowaves are interfering with the bees’ guidance systems.”


The feet however are visible, open-toed flip flop sandals displaying their filthiness.

“So that’s why you’re wearing a bee-keeper’s hat, is it? As a gesture of solidarity?”

“No, I wear this veil to protect me from the microwaves,” the man replies quite seriously.

“You see, they’ve been interfering with my guidance systems.”

ursts out laughing.



don’t you? And,” glancing round pointedly at the various people hurrying indifferently by, “I don’t

see many other people stopping to rally to your cause, do you?”


mouth as the man sucks in a rasping breath. The material there seems even darker now. Hilton

edges away from the table, feeling a purring vibration in his trouser pocket.

“Everyone uses them nowadays!” he says.

“Well, anyway, I must be off - council meeting. I’ll try and plead your cause!”


Hi, Hil. When can we meet to discuss your donation? Edie x x

Then he remembers: the chugger - charity mugger. All eager smiles, golden limbs and hand


be happy to offer her a donation, if she gave him her number. She laughed along, laughed it off, h

wasn’t sure which; you never can tell with these chuggers.

13

There he is again, the man with the muslin veil that hangs limply over his wide-brimmed


ike demented butterflies, pinned but still alive.


in today’s meeting.”



ember that people need good mobile phone reception,” Hilton points out,

“Yes, of course they do,” Hilton agrees, trying to keep his breakfast down. “But I don’t see




toed flip flop sandals displaying their filthiness.

keeper’s hat, is it? As a gesture of solidarity?”

from the microwaves,” the man replies quite seriously.



various people hurrying indifferently by, “I don’t


he material there seems even darker now. Hilton

ead your cause!”


charity mugger. All eager smiles, golden limbs and hand


be happy to offer her a donation, if she gave him her number. She laughed along, laughed it off, he

14

The faint popping sound was almost swallowed by the soft music coming from the old

Buick’s speakers. The car’s single occupant reached over without looking and pulled the cigarette

lighter free, then covered the glow with his other hand as he lit the non

from his lips. The glow probably wouldn’t be enough to attract attention, but he wasn’t about to do

without heat and smokes, regardless. Still, he cupped the smoke

the passenger compartment instead of out the open window.

He glanced at the radio and it read eleven p.m. in soft, digital letters. Not many cars in the

parking lot of the big shopping mall at this time of night, so h

running. He had not been given enough warning, so he had not been able to collect his

the paranoia kicked in. The client had

worked out cleanly. That was just one of many things about this evening

the lone man; another was that late December was definitely not the time of year to be sitting in a

parking lot with no heat, while he waited for all of the holiday shoppers to

do his job.

Well, his other job, anyway. On a good day Matt Daniels was a heavy equipment operator

working out of the local union. On a bad day, and sometimes even after a good day, the little black

pager he always carried reminded him that it was still there. No vacation days away

bugger, or personal days off either. And the fact that he was freezing in the parking lot outside of a

stupid shopping mall on Christmas Eve proved that holidays were a myth. And all of this because

he had once been in the wrong place at t

it. Of course, along with that there was also the fact that his left eye had stubbornly insisting on

healing after one particularly nasty beasty had tried to claw through it

These days Matt’s vision was just a

wisdom of the “people” that should know was that the poison on the creature’s claws had damaged

his left eye in such a way that it perceived

perceived it. Matt Daniels could see the hard shadows when everyone else only noticed a blurring

on the edges of their vision, which was easy to ignore. His part

lucky he was to have kept the eye.

unique quality of vision. Matt believed them. He believed them every time he looked into the mirror

and saw the thin scars that started above the bridge of his nose and disappeared below his le

missing his eyelid, but cratering a small spot at the top of his cheek.

As quietly as possible, he left the vehicle and made his way across the abandoned lot. People

were so arrogant, he thought as he slipped up to the doorway. They were so confid

knew, and in their position in the grand scheme of things,

that Matt could see, they wouldn’t sleep so well at night. Or even in the day for that matter. But he

shrugged those thoughts aside and fis

jacket, and slowly passed it over the lock a few times until he was rewarded with

faint click. He spent several moments looking through the glass to assure himself that the securit

guard hadn’t doubled back, then slipped the device back into his jacket and replaced it with a large

revolver. Yeah, this one was bound to get messy, he thought

The paranoia was the real problem. N



e, then covered the glow with his other hand as he lit the non-filtered cigarette that hung


without heat and smokes, regardless. Still, he cupped the smoke in his left hand and

the passenger compartment instead of out the open window.


parking lot of the big shopping mall at this time of night, so he couldn’t risk leaving the engine

running. He had not been given enough warning, so he had not been able to collect his

client had run, and he’d had to pick up the trail on the fly, which seldom

. That was just one of many things about this evening’s activities that annoyed


while he waited for all of the holiday shoppers to clear out so that he could

job, anyway. On a good day Matt Daniels was a heavy equipment operator


pager he always carried reminded him that it was still there. No vacation days away



he had once been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had somehow lived to tell no


healing after one particularly nasty beasty had tried to claw through it and into his skull.

vision was just a bit more deliberate than it had been. The conventional

that should know was that the poison on the creature’s claws had damaged

his left eye in such a way that it perceived light in a manner different from the way normal humans


, which was easy to ignore. His part-time employers had told him how

s to have kept the eye. They insisted that he was even fortunate to have gained such a


and saw the thin scars that started above the bridge of his nose and disappeared below his le

missing his eyelid, but cratering a small spot at the top of his cheek.

he left the vehicle and made his way across the abandoned lot. People

were so arrogant, he thought as he slipped up to the doorway. They were so confid

n in the grand scheme of things, but if most of them could see the t

they wouldn’t sleep so well at night. Or even in the day for that matter. But he

shrugged those thoughts aside and fished a small device out of one pocket o

slowly passed it over the lock a few times until he was rewarded with

faint click. He spent several moments looking through the glass to assure himself that the securit


revolver. Yeah, this one was bound to get messy, he thought as he slipped inside.

The paranoia was the real problem. Not his own, but the clients’.



filtered cigarette that hung


in his left hand and blew it out into


e couldn’t risk leaving the engine

running. He had not been given enough warning, so he had not been able to collect his client before

, and he’d had to pick up the trail on the fly, which seldom

s activities that annoyed


clear out so that he could

job, anyway. On a good day Matt Daniels was a heavy equipment operator


pager he always carried reminded him that it was still there. No vacation days away from that little



had somehow lived to tell no one about


into his skull.

bit more deliberate than it had been. The conventional

that should know was that the poison on the creature’s claws had damaged

the way normal humans


time employers had told him how

insisted that he was even fortunate to have gained such a


and saw the thin scars that started above the bridge of his nose and disappeared below his left ear,

he left the vehicle and made his way across the abandoned lot. People

were so arrogant, he thought as he slipped up to the doorway. They were so confident in what they

but if most of them could see the things

they wouldn’t sleep so well at night. Or even in the day for that matter. But he

hed a small device out of one pocket of his heavy leather

slowly passed it over the lock a few times until he was rewarded with a soft buzz and a

faint click. He spent several moments looking through the glass to assure himself that the security


he slipped inside.

The empty Chinese takeaway had been firebombed. Some of the boards were ripped down

and now a hole yawned black and scorched in what was once a win

upended, dribbling a gray stream of garbage across the street. A slogan was daub

wood, but fire and the dull rain had smeared the sentiments. Adam couldn’t read whatever

justification the fire bombers had left.

Hunching against the weather, he limped along brown streets and gray structures. His

building was no different from any other:

out of the dank. After a week he was still finding it hard to identify. He groped in damp pockets for

his key, just about to unlock the peeling front doors

It was a tramp huddled against the narrow steps. His face w

dripped off his nose and long, ratty hair, his

impulse, Adam searched his pockets, producing a crushed pack

both cold and damp. There were only two cigarettes left; Adam had more up in his flat

He tossed pack and matches towards the tramp, opening the front door and blundering into the

comparative dryness. He slammed the door shut on any words of thanks.

Inside it was dark. The absentee landlord still hadn’t replaced any of the dead light bulbs

along the hallway, corridors or stairwell. Every day it grew dimmer, the uniformity of all six floors

augmented by the creeping darkness. The only light filtered in from the wet, gloomy street

like trying to see through a dirty mist. He had no idea how many others lived in the converted

house; he’d never seen anyone. In the intensifying gloom, it was unlikely he

Adam climbed the ancient stairs to the third floor. He was beginning to shiver

was always several degrees colder than outside. He hadn’t been able to dry out his coat properly

since he’d moved in. Outside his flat, he had to hold

right one. At least inside all of the lights worked; he’d bought plenty of bulbs himself when he’d

moved in. He flicked on several lights, revelling in the brightness, careless of the electricity bill.

The chaos it revealed was familiar:

He’d get round to sorting it all eventually.

Whilst the oven was heating up

cigarettes and lit up. He sat on an as

anonymous street, and flicked spent ash through the window, finally tossing the dog end outside to

dissolve in the gutter. He heated a tray of frozen lasagne and ate in silence, staring at the

television screen. It had died last night halfway through a commercial break, and he couldn’t afford

a new one.

Once he’d finished he grabbed his damp coat and left the flat. The unpacking could wait

another night - he fancied a drink down

tray in one of the bins lining the entrance hall.

The George was a dismal place, as f

from Adam and the barman, there were only three others

emptied glasses, staring into space. They weren’t talking. Adam bought a pint of bitter and made for

a corner of his own. The plastic bench felt sticky and smelled of stale beer. The brown walls were

dotted by faded prints of boxers and football teams Adam didn’t recognize. He sipped at his drink

It tasted watered down.

He went back to the bar and bought a whisky

scotch into his pint and took another taste. Better.


and now a hole yawned black and scorched in what was once a window. The recycling bins were

ended, dribbling a gray stream of garbage across the street. A slogan was daub

but fire and the dull rain had smeared the sentiments. Adam couldn’t read whatever

justification the fire bombers had left.


nt from any other: just another many-storied, decaying behemoth looming


unlock the peeling front doors when he heard a muffled soun

It was a tramp huddled against the narrow steps. His face was streaked with grime,

f his nose and long, ratty hair, his ragged clothes glistened with absorbed rain. On

impulse, Adam searched his pockets, producing a crushed pack of cigarettes and book of matches,

both cold and damp. There were only two cigarettes left; Adam had more up in his flat


slammed the door shut on any words of thanks.

he absentee landlord still hadn’t replaced any of the dead light bulbs


creeping darkness. The only light filtered in from the wet, gloomy street


house; he’d never seen anyone. In the intensifying gloom, it was unlikely he ever would.

Adam climbed the ancient stairs to the third floor. He was beginning to shiver


since he’d moved in. Outside his flat, he had to hold his keys inches from his face to identify the



os it revealed was familiar: a miniature cityscape of crates, boxes and crazily

He’d get round to sorting it all eventually.

Whilst the oven was heating up, Adam raised the sash window, dug out the fresh pack of

n an as-yet unpacked tea chest, watched the rain falling in the

flicked spent ash through the window, finally tossing the dog end outside to

dissolve in the gutter. He heated a tray of frozen lasagne and ate in silence, staring at the



he fancied a drink down at the pub. On the way out he dumped his empty lasagne

tray in one of the bins lining the entrance hall.

# # #

was a dismal place, as forlorn outside as it was inside, and all but deserted. Apart

from Adam and the barman, there were only three others - all huddled in a dim corner, nursing half



d prints of boxers and football teams Adam didn’t recognize. He sipped at his drink

He went back to the bar and bought a whisky - a double. Back in his corner he emptied the

scotch into his pint and took another taste. Better.

15


dow. The recycling bins were

ended, dribbling a gray stream of garbage across the street. A slogan was daubed on the filthy

but fire and the dull rain had smeared the sentiments. Adam couldn’t read whatever


, decaying behemoth looming


when he heard a muffled sound close by.

as streaked with grime, water

ragged clothes glistened with absorbed rain. On

cigarettes and book of matches,

both cold and damp. There were only two cigarettes left; Adam had more up in his flat - dry ones.


he absentee landlord still hadn’t replaced any of the dead light bulbs


creeping darkness. The only light filtered in from the wet, gloomy street - it was


ever would.

Adam climbed the ancient stairs to the third floor. He was beginning to shiver - the building


his keys inches from his face to identify the



of crates, boxes and crazily-piled books.

Adam raised the sash window, dug out the fresh pack of

, watched the rain falling in the

flicked spent ash through the window, finally tossing the dog end outside to

dissolve in the gutter. He heated a tray of frozen lasagne and ate in silence, staring at the blind



b. On the way out he dumped his empty lasagne

and all but deserted. Apart

all huddled in a dim corner, nursing half-



d prints of boxers and football teams Adam didn’t recognize. He sipped at his drink.

a double. Back in his corner he emptied the

16

The window was open. He had escaped again.

Saraya hurried to look out over the sill, but she knew that he was long gone, down the fire

escape and into the shadows of the courtyard far below. She called his name, and was answered by

the angry voices of neighbours telling her to shut up, and by the echo of her voice from the identical

building opposite her own. Her son did not answer. A chill breeze came through the open window,

not fresh enough to cut the odour of the overflowing dumpsters scattered around th

She sat on his bed and cried, and tried to imagine how many tears she had shed for that boy

in the course of the fifteen years of his life. The number was beyond estimation. This, she thought

as she wiped a sleeve across her eyes, is the life

No, not all mothers. Some mothers had enough money to make ends meet, had a husband,

had children who obeyed and respected. But how could she expect her son to obey and respect her,

when he had no respect for anything else? He was well aware

knew that this was a game of stud; no tossing in the bad cards and waiting for the dealer to throw

down some new ones, crisp with the hope of better fortune. At least that was the way he saw the

world through his adolescent-approaching

sweatshirt.

Saraya, of course, knew better. Life had provided her with two fine teachers

own mother. And she had tried

understanding as her mother had been. But things were different then. Rebellion was less lethal

then.

She opened his closet, took the gym bag down from the shelf, and could tell just from the

weight that the gun was still inside. She br

pursed - if he didn’t have the gun with him, he couldn’t shoot anybody. But then the thought burst

upon her that her son was also defenceless against someone else who did have a gun.

She opened the bag, saw the gun without allowing herself to focus on it, and then realized

that the knife was missing. The big, brutal switchblade must be tucked inside her son’s jacket,

ensuring that he would not be caught unarmed, and that she would get no rest until

come back home.

She had taken so many weapons away from him already, and he always managed to replace

them. She had stopped trying. Confining him to his room was worse than ludicrous, but she had not

stopped trying that.

She went back to her own room, sat heavily on the sagging mattress, and began to do what

she did best.

She began to wish.

They were nothing but faceless shapes in the darkened basement storage room, until one of

them thumbed the lighter to life and brought the flame to the bowl of the pipe.

The crack hissed as the flame touched it, an unearthly sound, as soft as barely

laughter. Lew liked that sound, and he was not at all happy when a voice from the darkness

drowned it out.

“Come on, Kareem,” Serious said, a subtle note of derision clinging to his pronunciation of

the name. “I didn’t come down here so’s I could wa

Lew’s hand went reflexively to his pocket, his fingertips tracing the outline of the folded

knife.

“How many times I got to tell you, motherfucker,

made it clear that he was not just talking tough. Serious remained silent, unwilling to make a verbal

retreat, but just as unwilling to advance on an unpredictable enemy.

e window was open. He had escaped again.



bours telling her to shut up, and by the echo of her voice from the identical


not fresh enough to cut the odour of the overflowing dumpsters scattered around th



as she wiped a sleeve across her eyes, is the life of a mother.

mothers. Some mothers had enough money to make ends meet, had a husband,


when he had no respect for anything else? He was well aware of the cards life had dealt him, and he



approaching-ancient eyes, perpetually shaded beneath the hood of his

Saraya, of course, knew better. Life had provided her with two fine teachers

own mother. And she had tried - Good Lord, how she had tried - to be as w



weight that the gun was still inside. She breathed slight relief between lips that seemed permanently

if he didn’t have the gun with him, he couldn’t shoot anybody. But then the thought burst


bag, saw the gun without allowing herself to focus on it, and then realized


ensuring that he would not be caught unarmed, and that she would get no rest until



r own room, sat heavily on the sagging mattress, and began to do what

# # #



The crack hissed as the flame touched it, an unearthly sound, as soft as barely



the name. “I didn’t come down here so’s I could watch you smoke. Pass the fuckin’ pipe.”


“How many times I got to tell you, motherfucker, don’t be callin’ me that.” Lew’s voice

t just talking tough. Serious remained silent, unwilling to make a verbal

but just as unwilling to advance on an unpredictable enemy.



bours telling her to shut up, and by the echo of her voice from the identical


not fresh enough to cut the odour of the overflowing dumpsters scattered around the courtyard.



mothers. Some mothers had enough money to make ends meet, had a husband,


of the cards life had dealt him, and he



ancient eyes, perpetually shaded beneath the hood of his

Saraya, of course, knew better. Life had provided her with two fine teachers: time, and her

to be as wise and caring and



eathed slight relief between lips that seemed permanently

if he didn’t have the gun with him, he couldn’t shoot anybody. But then the thought burst


bag, saw the gun without allowing herself to focus on it, and then realized


ensuring that he would not be caught unarmed, and that she would get no rest until he decided to



r own room, sat heavily on the sagging mattress, and began to do what



The crack hissed as the flame touched it, an unearthly sound, as soft as barely-suppressed



tch you smoke. Pass the fuckin’ pipe.”


be callin’ me that.” Lew’s voice

t just talking tough. Serious remained silent, unwilling to make a verbal

17

Morpheus Tales Publishing proudly presents the Urban Horror Special

Issue, edited By Tommy B. Smith.

A truly dark and dangerous special issue from the UK’s hottest and most

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