POUND OF FLESH

The following is an excerpt from SCARY MONDAYS, an anthology of flash fiction and poems available at www.amazon.com

Two years ago Jude Meade was voted one of the top thirty best guitarists by the readers of ERA magazine. The man was Rock n’ Roll God, one of the few known simply by one name, like Slash or Clapton. Meade. Up until thirty minutes ago, Tony Cass, music journalist, had been stoked about landing the first interview with Meade since he quit touring and dropped out of site. Now Tony sat in a darkened kitchen, lit only by dim sunlight that snuck around yellowed blinds drawn over dirty windows. The kitchen table was sticky. He didn’t dare wonder what the substance was. Flies buzzed around the remains of Meade’s last meal, curly fries and a roast beef sandwich. Judging by the smell and the green tinge of the meat, Tony guessed Meade had last eaten about two days ago.

A living legend, Jude Meade, or what was left of him, sat across the table. The man was only thirty-seven, yet he looked twice that age. His blonde hair lay matted and greasy against his scalp. His haggard face reminded Tony of wrinkled parchment. He wore black leather gloves on both hands, and in his right he held a tumbler, half full. At his elbow sat Johnny Walker. Meade grinned, took a drag from the cigarette in his left hand, then blew out smoke. Across the table, Tony grimaced, angled his face away the stench of sour breath mixed with body odor and tobacco.

Meade’s lips hitched up into a sneer as he crushed out his smoke. “So go on, ask. I know you’re dying to know.”

Tony glanced down at his notebook, at the pages scribbled with the ramblings of rock marvel turned “has been”. Disappointment, pity, and disgust lay coiled in his stomach. Up until a few minutes ago, he’d been a Jude Meade fan, one of the thousands who waited anxiously to hear that Meade was working on a new CD and that a tour was imminent. Tony looked at his idol, shook his head. “What happened to you?”

The guitarist chuckled; the sound bitter. “I went to the crossroads.”

Sitting back in his chair, Tony huffed. “You sold your soul?” He rolled his eyes. “Look everyone knows you’re an addict and alcoholic.”

Meade leaned forward, elbows on the table. “No, you don’t get it. I really sold my soul.” He grinned. “You think that’s a crock, don’t you? So did my shrink when I went into to rehab. He told me the Devil never came into my bedroom when I sixteen and promised me heaven on earth in return for my soul. He said that memory was just something I fabricated. That I had some deep seated insecurity issues, a lack of self-esteem.” He snorted. “So I walked out there believing I never made a deal and there was no such thing as the Devil.”

“And?”

Tony waited as Meade took another drink. He sat the glass aside, then began to tug the gloves from his hands. “The Big Red Dude doesn’t like it when you welsh on deal. He caught up with me after a show in Detroit, left me with a permanent reminder…there’s no escape clause in his contracts.”

Tony stared in horror as Meade held up his hands. The flesh stopped at the wrists. His hands and fingers were nothing but…bone. Bare Bone. No skin, no tendons, just the yellowed skeleton of his hands and fingers. Meade moved his skeletal hands as though plucking and fretting a guitar. As he did, the joints cracked and popped.

Meade stopped, held his hands up, palms facing Tony, and sneered. “I guess you could say he took his pound of flesh.”

The Devil May Care

The following post is a short story by KT Somerville

Riley set the tape recorder on the glass tabletop, and straightened his button-up shirt. “This is probably going to be the most…unique, the most unique interview I’ve ever done,” he mumbled to the recorder, running an unsteady hand through his slicked back hair. “These two twins are probably as far apart on the spectrum as they can get. They haven’t even spoken to each other in six years. Here’s hoping I can get them in the same room and discuss the most controversial topics, and make it out alive.” He chuckled to himself, though in the back of his mind he knew this would make or break his career.

There was a knock at the door. “Yes?”

A young woman walked into the room, slipping off her large framed, pink sunglasses. “Riley Grey?”

“Yes Miss Hart, and might I just say that it is such an honor to be able to interview you today.” He stood, and shook hands with the dainty, slim woman.

“Please, call me Billie.” She smiled prettily, slipping into the chair at the desk. “What would you like to talk about? I hope you don’t mind, but I need to leave in about fifteen minutes.”

Riley looked at his watch uneasily. It was 5:45, and her sister would be there any minute. “No of course I don’t mind. Let’s discuss your career, where you’re headed, what influenced you?”

Billie smiled again, and the room seemed a little brighter. She crossed her legs, her denim mini slipping up slightly. She was a slim little thing, almost resembling a Barbie doll or angel. Her white blond hair was cascading down her shoulders in straight locks that reached longer than her pale pink crop top. Even her feet were pretty, in her delicate ballerina pumps. “Well I was definitely influenced by the classic pop stars, ya know, like Britney and Christina.” She shrugged her shoulders, and even that was pretty. “I’m a material girl, and I definitely try to stay up with the trends and things. It’s very important to me. As far as where I’m going now, I’m going to be taking a hiatus for a few months. I actually haven’t told anyone yet, not even my manager, so there’s your scoop.” She blushed slightly.

There was a knock and the door, and Riley about wet himself. “Yes?” Billie’s baby blue eyes were large as she stared down the woman who walked into the room. “Ah, Miss Graves, I’m so happy you could join us.” Riley hoped she wouldn’t drink him dry.

Owen Graves just strode into the room smoothly, like a ghost and sat down. “Please call me Owen,” she said like a mouse from beneath her raven curls. She angled herself so that she could see Billie easily.

“Did you invited her?” Billie’s voice became acidic.

“Yes I wanted to interview both of you, about your careers and your relationship.” Riley found himself sounding much braver than he’d expected.

“Well there is no relationship!” Billie hissed, glaring at her sister.

Owen frowned, her painted black lips turning down. Her bright green eyes peaked out from her shroud of hair shyly. Clad in black from head to toe, she was no slouch next to her sister. She was every bit as curvy and voluptuous as her sister was slim and cute. The large crucifix that hung around her cleavage glinted in the light of the room. “Go ahead, tell me about how I’m a Satanist and that my music promotes suicide, sex, drugs, alcohol, and murder.” There was no venom in her voice, just a quiet acceptance. “Graveyard is a shock rock band. I’m used to this shit.”

“Actually,” Riley looked at her surprised, “I was going to ask you about your new album, One foot in the Grave.” He handed her a copy of the album that had been sitting on his desk.

Owen smirked wryly. “What about it?” Billie was still glaring at her, fuming.

“One song in particular.”

“Yes, Devil May Care is about Billie.” Owen turned her head knowingly to Billie. “It’s about how people change and how images deceive.”

“What do you mean by that?” Billie’s eyes were boring through her sister now.

“I mean that blood isn’t thicker than vodka.” Owen flipped her black hair out of her face.

Billie stood, her face flushed with anger. “I’m leaving!”

Owen was on her feet. “Can I at least have a hug?” She embraced her sister quickly. Billie screamed and pulled herself away, fleeing the room in fury.

Owen sat back down, a sad but accepting look on her face. Riley looked at her, confused. “I really thought you’d be the scary one…” He glanced at his watch. It was 6:00.

————————————————————————————————————
Billie slammed the door behind her, stepping into the alley. She fished a cigarette, lighter from her shirt, and lit up. She sighed, taking a long drag. “Long day?” Billie turned around.

Oh, he was suave. Tall dark and handsome, he was leaning against the wall of the building. “I’m right on time, aren’t I?”

“Please I just want a break from this,” Billie moaned, backing away from him.

“Look at the scar your sister left, and tell me that I can let you quit.” He rolled his black eyes, stepping toward her.

Billie looked down at her chest, moving her long blond hair out of the way. There was a burn on her chest in the shape of a large crucifix. Billie gasped and looked up at Him. “No. Please. No.”

“Billie, Billie, Billie. You quit, and you know what happens.”

“I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take the long nights, the drugs, the booze….”

“You’ve tried to end it before and it didn’t work, did it?” He cackled.

“I can’t do this anymore!” Her mascara began to stream down her pretty face.

“Ok.” He smiled.

“Ok?” Billie hesitated, stepping forward. He reached out at patted her head, his hand singed her hair. Billie’s eyes widened as he loomed over her, and let out a scream that no one would hear.

The Raven Mocker

Kalanu Ahyeliski, the Raven Mocker, is the most feared of Cherokee witches. They steal life from dying men and women. When not in Raven Mocker form, these witches appear as elderly. But hunting for the sick, people near death, the Raven Mocker flies through the air as fire, arms spread like wings, looking a little like a low-flying comet. As he flies, the Raven Mocker cries out like a raven.

The Raven Mocker searches for patients who are critically ill. Invisible, he comes into their room to torment their minds and speed death. Once the victim is dead, the Raven Mocker pulls out their heart and eats it to prolong the Raven Mocker’s life.

If recognized in his natural form, as a withered old man or woman, by the truly observant or someone trained in Cherokee medicine, the Raven Mocker goes into mourning, knowing that he’ll die in seven days. There’s a legend about a young hunter who stayed out past dark one night. A long way from home, he decided to stop at the cabin of an older couple he knew lived just off the trail. When he arrived, he found the log house empty. Just as he stepped inside the door, he heard a raven’s call, then another. The old man walked out of the back bedroom followed by his wife.

Wary, and unsure how to leave without raising their suspicion, the young man accepted their invitation to stay the night. While he pretended to sleep in a corner of the kitchen, he watched through slitted eyes as the woman prepared a meal. The meat on the spit was a human heart.

When the hunter left the next day, he heard the old woman weeping. She knew the hunter had recognized she and her husband as Raven Mockers, thus she mourned their own impending death. Back at the settlement, the hunter told others what he’d seen. Seven days after the night the hunter had been in the cabin, a group of warriors returned. They found the Raven Mocker’s dead bodies inside, and set fire to the cabin to keep them from returning in another form.

Secrets

Dear Reader: If you visited Scary Mondays a time or two, you may have noticed comments from Marilyn. Marilyn Pappano has published over 70 novels, mostly romantic suspense, and has been a finalist and winner of RWA’s prestigious RITA. Her book, COPPER LAKE SECRETS, is ghost story set in Georgia. I know you’ll enjoy my guest blogger today, Marilyn Pappano

*************

There’s a quote along the lines of “No proof is possible for those who don’t believe; no proof is necessary for those who do.” It can apply to almost anything – justice, religion, etc. – but it defines paranormal phenomena so perfectly.

I’m one of those who believes.

A few years ago, two friends and I stayed at the Bourbon Orleans, a French Quarter hotel that’s said to be haunted. Its previous incarnations were an orphanage and a hospital, and a few former residents are still hanging around. Nothing scary happened to us there – believe me, I’m a huge weenie and would’ve been checking into Motel 6 in a heartbeat – but there were a few . . . shall we call them incidents?

The room telephones (plural, because maintenance changed them at our request every day) worked fine for the staff but not for us. I don’t believe any of us ever managed to make a single call on the landline while we were there. At times, particularly in certain corridors, we could sense a presence.

And things went missing. Boy, did they go missing. We’d put something here and find it there. We would look for something in the same place three times and find it there in plain view the fourth. Items purchased at one shop would wind up in the bag from another shop, even though that bag had been closed up and packed away days earlier.

It was all mischievous stuff. Nothing disappeared for good. Though we went home thinking we’d lost a few things, once we unpacked, we found it all – in weird places, granted (my tweezers were tucked into a pocket of my curling iron holder that I didn’t even know existed until I felt the bump in there), but found just the same.
It’s the shilrun, the maintenance guy told us when we chatted while he replaced our phone for the fourth or fifth time. He’d been with the hotel a long time, and he’d had plenty of experience with the spirits of children who’d lived in the orphanage. They weren’t mean or malevolent. They’s jus’ havin’ fun, like shilrun do.

It was certainly an experience – more for me than my friends. Both of them have a few psychic sensibilities, and one has shilrun on a regular basis around her house. My only up-close-and-personal event before that trip was seeing my grandfather a few years after he’d passed. You’d think something like that would be so momentous that I’d remember every detail, but I don’t. What I mostly recall is the wire-rimmed glasses he always wore. (Let me refer you back to the weenie comment. It’s a wonder I didn’t run screaming from the room before I even realized who it was.)

They say kids are more open to this sort of thing, and I’m guessing it’s true. One day my daughter-in-law heard the grandkiddo talking in the other room. “Who are you talking to?” she asked, and he very matter-of-factly answered, “Great-grandma Wanda.” (My mom had died a few weeks earlier.) He still says she comes to see him, and lately he’s also mentioned visits from a nice boy who plays the drums. He hasn’t offered a name yet, but my nephew, who died four years ago at the age of 17, was a talented drummer. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe Kevin, who was really great with little kids, is making his cousin’s acquaintance. I like to think that’s the case.

My grandmother loved my grandson, and I have no trouble believing she’s keeping an eye on him, because I fully intend to keep in touch with my loved ones after I pass!

My True Haunted House Story

The whispered sigh of a ghost doesn’t always come in the darkest of the night. Spirits are not confined by time or space, sunlight, or moonlight. They flit unseen when and where they will. When they choose to let the living know their presence, it can be with a gossamer brush across the back of the neck, or the thunderous slamming of doors.

I learned this one hot August day years ago. Afternoon sun lit the frilly Victorian gingerbread framing the front porch of my mother’s house. Tall oaks spread their limbs to shade the roof of the little white frame house with green shutters. My mother’s house began as a one-room log cabin built shortly after the Trail of Tears. Over the years, a parade of owners had left their mark on the house adding bedrooms, a kitchen, an indoor bathroom, and a second story.

When my mother bought the property, she decided to redecorate, starting first with the front room, which was the original structure. She’d always wanted an old home to redecorate, but one day into the project she discovered she was not a big fan of getting down and dirty in the dust and the muck of home restoration. I, however, loved to paint and wallpaper. I happily volunteered to strip the worn mauve wallpaper from the walls, amused to discover that beneath the floral wallpaper was another layer of cheap walnut paneling.

Working alone in the house one afternoon, I peeled off paneling and carted it out of the house. The day was hot. The window air conditioning unit hummed loudly as it worked to cool the room. My mother had taken my kids grocery shopping, so I had the house all to myself. The physical labor was relaxing. It offered me the chance to let my mind wander numbly and aimlessly, to think about nothing in particular.

As I pulled back one section of paneling, I was stunned to discover a walled-up doorway. Intrigued, I used a claw hammer to pry away the paneling, curious to see what was beyond the door. The paneling was old and brittle. It broke off in pieces and I tossed it over my shoulder in a hurry to see the other side of the door.

Finally, the opening was large enough to poke my head through. Just as I peered in, the front door opened on it’s own, then slammed shut. I jumped, and screamed like a little girl. The back door opened and closed sharply by itself. Then as if tugged by dozens of unseen hands, every kitchen cabinet, every bathroom cabinet, every bedroom door began to open and slam shut. The thunder seemed to go on for minutes. I stood, rooted to the floor, my heart thumping wildly, more awestruck than truly frightened. Then just as suddenly as it began, the slamming of the doors and cabinets stopped.

Years later, that incident became the inspiration for a short story, Always Follow Instructions.

A New Year, a New Look, and a Great Read

If you’re a follower of Scary Mondays, you’ve no doubt noticed a change in the site appearance. In the coming weeks, you’ll read new content as well. I’ve amassed a collection of research about the paranormal and supernatural including, demons, angels, demonic possession, and hauntings.

And the really scary part? Much it is reputed to be true. For example, there is an organization called the International Association of Exorcists. Created in 1990 by six priests, and now with over two hundred members, the goal of this group is to expand the number of official exorcists throughout the world and raise awareness of demonic works.

Even the late Pope John Paul II acknowledged the battle against Satan. In 1987, during a trip to the Sanctuary of Saint Michael the Archangel, he said, “The battle against the devil, which is the principal task of Saint Michael the archangel, is still being fought today, because the devil is still alive and active in the world. The evil that surrounds us today, the disorders that plague our society, man’s inconsistency and brokenness, are not only the results of original sin, but also the result of Satan’s pervasive and dark action.”

Just a little something put a tingle down your spine on this cold second day of January 2012. As an added bonus, here’s excerpt from Scary Mondays Volume One available now at www.amazon.com

A New Year and a New Resolution

Mac stepped on the scale. The dial stopped just short of two-fifty. For a man of his height, that was pushing the limits. He wasn’t as fast or as agile as he used to be. He wheezed when he took the stairs or walked a few blocks. That didn’t do much for his social life or his self-esteem. And his weight made hunting more difficult.

Leaving the bathroom, Mac strode resolute to the kitchen. It was time to change his habits, start eating healthier. He opened the freezer, examined the meat wrapped in butcher paper. Food was his profession, and his obsession. It’d be a shame to waste all these well-marbled cuts. He withdrew one package, then another, and another. Shoulder of Paul, Don Butt, ah, leg of Lonny. Mac closed the freezer door, opened the refrigerator, and took out a slab of bacon he’d made at his shop from a guy named John.

Tomorrow he’d get started on his New Year’s resolution, adding more fruits and vegetables to his diet, choosing leaner cuts of meat.

The Vampire

Today’s post is KT’s tribute to Anne Rice’s Interview with a Vampire.

The house was deadly quiet as he slept
No light, no sound, no smell but death, no taste
Along his satin bed the spider crept

all of the world that man would lay to waste
T’were not for his new found victim Louis.
Louis, who longs for death with so much haste

Perhaps a new child could make this one see,
a child with fanged grin like a ferile cat
Could keep his beloved in New Orleans

the Child who in immortal life’s face spat
in her anger, killed him, her creator,
he lives, oh woe is the vampire Lestat

Scary Mondays Volume One available now at www.amazon.com

email your comments to lynnsomervillefiction@gmail.com

A Home-Cooked Meal

Evan dropped his heavy laundry bag at the front door. He turned the knob, and knit his brow, surprised to find the door locked. His parents wouldn’t forget he was coming home for Thanksgiving break. He turned, walked down the sidewalk to the garage. He cupped his hands around his eyes to ward of the glare, peered in. One Ford pick-up. One Nissan Sentra. Yep, both cars were there.

Retracing his steps, Evan tried the door again. “Duh,” he muttered, remembering his key to the house. He dragged the chain from his jeans pocket. Before he could insert the key into the lock, the door opened.

“Evan! I thought I heard someone at the front door. You’re early.”

“Yeah, my econ professor rescheduled our quiz, so I decided to head home.” He sniffed, caught the fragrant aroma of a home-cooked meal wafting out to the front porch. Cloves. Pineapple? A hint of honey glaze? A welcome home Ham? Evan’s stomach growled. His mouth watered. “I sent Mom a text. Didn’t she tell you?”

Dad blocked the doorway. Evan shifted right, to enter, but Dad stepped left, barring the way. “Your mother and I….”

“Is something wrong? Is she okay?”

Dad’s eyes were a little too wide, the pupils a little too dark. Evan craned his neck, trying to look over Dad’s shoulder. He saw the family room decorated as it had been all his life. Well-worn furniture, that stood the test of crayons, spilled milk, and feet on the coffee table. If the wallpaper was a little dated and the drapes faded, who cared? It was home. “Dad?”

“No. No. You’re mother’s fine. She’s been cooking all afternoon.” Dad stepped out, lowered his voice. “Listen, I told her not to say anything. I didn’t want you to worry. But, ah, we hit a rough patch after you left. It happens to couples sometimes.” Dad cast a glance toward the open door, dropped his tone even lower. “Your mother had this crazy notion she and I had grown apart. But everything is fine now.”

“Can I come in?” Evan grinned, trying to mask a growing sense of unease. He knew a few of guys in his college dorm whose parents were divorcing. It happened, he knew. But he hoped not to his parents.

“Oh, sure. Sure,” Dad said absently, as if just realizing he still blocked the entryway. He turned, led the way into the kitchen.

“Is that a mince meat?” Evan asked, pointing to the pie on the dining room table. “Is Mom trying a new recipe?” He couldn’t recall anyone in his family caring for that flavor of pie. Pumpkin yes. Pecan, oh yeah. Mince meat? Evan scrunched his nose, made a face.

“No. It’s my own recipe.” Something in Dad’s tone, eerie, disconnected, and distant, made Evan swivel his head.

He nearly retched.

Mom, at least parts of her lay on the bloodied cutting board. He watched in horror, as Dad opened the oven, stuck a fork in the “ham” inside. “She’s nearly done.”

Odd One

“Diana, darling, how many times do I have to tell you, I can’t stand odd numbers,” Frank said to his dead wife. Winded, he drew in a breath. Scattered on the kitchen floor around her bloodied body were the remains of five shattered coffee mugs.

“We had six cups, but you broke one, so now there’s only five.” He crunched across the shards of china to the pantry to retrieve the broom and waste pan. “You really shouldn’t have been so dismissive. It’s just a coffee mug, you said.” He stood over her for a moment, her last words echoing in his head. Not the same since the accident. Obsessive. Compulsive. Moody. Violent.

“No my dear, I haven’t become a monster. You’ve become sloppy. Careless. We can’t have that, now can we?”

He swept the mess into a pile, bent to scoop the liter into the pan. That’s when he noticed something odd. He put the pan down, lifted Diana’s shirt, counting the stab wounds. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine….” He counted again. His left eye began to twitch. His hand started to shake.

“Oh, this will never do,” Frank said, as he reached for the butcher knife near Diana’s head. He plunged the blade deep into her abdomen. “Ten.” He sighed. “That’s better.”

Satisfied, he finished cleaning. Calmly, he dragged his cell phone from his pocket, dialed 911. As he waited for the call to connect, he frowned, glanced down, and said to Diana, “I hate odd numbers.”

And So It Begins

“Damn me! I bow to no man!” Heaven still echoed with Lucifer’s howl just before he fell. The air still rang with the clash and clang, the groans of war, the scent of sweat, the coppery taste of blood. The field churned up around him, littered with the choirs of angels, bloodied, and broken, the Archangel Michael dragged his sword behind him. Exhausted from battle, he limped toward his brothers.

He watched Gabriel swipe at the gash above his eye. His hair matted to his head, his face dirtied with mud and blood, the messenger sat on the ground with his legs drawn up, his arms resting on his knees. His sword and shield lay next to him. His left wing drooped, busted, and useless. The feathers on Michael’s own span were shredded. Raphael lay flat on his back, wings crumpled, his armor battered, shield in his left hand, sword in his right. His chest rose and fell rapidly, while he labored to catch his breath. This had been no brotherly wrestling match. Nor was it a fight to the death.

“You look like hell,” Gabriel announced.

Michael summoned enough strength to grin. “You should see the other guy.” He glanced down. “It’s not the fall….”

“It’s the landing,” Gabriel supplied.

“How many did we lose?” Raphael asked as Michael eased down next to his brother angels. He winced as his bruised ribs screamed in protest.

“I’m not certain. A third, at least.” Michael removed his filthy gauntlets, tossed them aside.

“One third!” Raphael sat up, flinched, grunted in pain.

His heart heavy, Michael sat with his brother archangels in mournful silence for several moments.

“Did you see how he changed?” Raphael asked, his voice filled with wonder, not the kind Michael or any angel wanted to inspire.

“Lucifer? He became a monster,” Gabriel said. He hung his head.

“He was beautiful once. The best of us,” Michael lamented. He ran a hand through his grimy hair. He felt something tangled in a strand, pulled until it was free. He looked down at the black dragon’s scale in his hand.

A tear beaded, fell over the rim of his eye, slid down his cheek. With a sigh he asked, “Ah Lucifer, what have you done?”