Mind of a Mad Man

By John E. Miller

Dive into the darkest recess of madness and experience the facets of fear reflected in the seven stories of Mind of a Mad Man.

The Dance is a modern day ghost story, a tale of possessive love and religious intolerance. When a young novelists' grandmother dies, she inherits the house. Her first night there, she is visited by a lady in an old-fashioned ballgown who invites her to dance.

In The Bar a young bartender weaves a tale about the night his life was changed forever.

Did you ever pick up the phone and there was only static? What if you heard a faint voice in the static? Reading Shadow Call will make you quiver when the phone rings.

In Avenging Angel a man has the chance to make things right. Or does he?

Amber is held prisoner, forced to dance, even to the point of injury. When the music plays, terror reigns. Will there ever be a Last Dance?

The book also includes stories from the Dime Store Novel series. Experience the genesis of Hanover Fist and Toledo Cats as they embark on their lifetime of adventure in From the Gator's Mouth and The Baptism.

To view an excerpt from each story, visit http://www.mindofamadman.me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rachelle Reese
• Release date: Oct 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465929938

John E. Miller

I am a long time game master for a number of different roleplaying games. In 2007 my wife and I worked together to write Bones of the Woods, a collection of short stories. In 2009, we published our second collection of stories, Mind of a Mad Man.

Book preview

Mind of a Mad Man

A collection of short stories

by John E. Miller and Rachelle Reese

Published 2010 at Smashwords

A Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The Dance by Rachelle Reese. Copyright © 2008 by Rachelle Reese

The Bar by John E. Miller. Copyright © 2008 by John E. Miller

Shadow Call by John E. Miller. Copyright © 2008 by John E. Miller

Avenging Angel by John E. Miller. Copyright © 2008 by John E. Miller

Last Dance by John E. Miller. Copyright © 2008 by John E. Miller

Cover art by Rodger Francis

Copyright © 2008 by Rodger Francis

All photographs except The Baptism and Last Dance by Tony Western Copyright © 2008 by Tony Western

The Baptism photograph by Rachelle Reese

Copyright © 2008 by Rachelle Reese

Last Dance photograph by John E. Miller

Copyright © 2006 by John E. Miller

Acknowledgements

Rachelle’s acknowledgements

I dedicate this book to John, my husband and coauthor, for encouraging (badgering) me to keep writing and finish this book. Without his inspiration, I would not be the mad woman I am.

John’s acknowledgements

I would like to thank my wife, Rachelle, for all the time and energy she has put into the book. Without her, there would be no book. And of course, as always, I’d like to thank the mad man.

About the cover artist

Rodger Francis is a freelance artist who spends his time between projects trying to ignore reality and waiting for the mother ship to return. To see more of his work, check out his Web site at jericodarkwynd.deviantart.com or e-mail him at [e-mail].

About the photographer

Tony Western is a professional photographer who specializes in natural setting and action photography. To see more of his work, visit his Web site at www.awesternphotography.com.

Forward

By John E. Miller

I would first like to thank everyone who is reading this book. One evening after our first book, Bones of the Woods, was published, Rachelle and I were sitting out on the porch one evening and I told her I think I have the nerve to write my own book. I told her I didn't think it would be a problem coming up with stories, since I was full of them. I think her reply was in the order of, Well you are full of something, that’s for sure. I'll take it as a compliment.

Now you may ask why we named the book Mind of a Mad Man. A few years before we wrote Bones of the Woods, my father passed away. I had a very hard time dealing with it. So much so that an aspect of me did become a mad man. It was Rachelle’s strength that got us through it, but the mad man never really left me. I’m listening. She worries and so do I that the mad man might come back.

The second thing that makes me a mad man is the fans from work constantly asking me if the next book is done yet. You have your bloody second book, quit asking for it.

We were not prepared for what was in store for us. This book had its ups and downs, but it is a labor of love for you, our fans. I think the first story I wrote was The Bar. You beat on the bars long enough, they finally bend. The idea for The Bar came when a dear friend of ours set out to open a bar. Unfortunately, it didn't happen, but in a way it did. When I wrote The Bar, I just knew Rachelle would hate the original ending. In fact when it came time to let her read it, I wrote an alternate ending. personally, I like the first one. When she read the story, to my surprise, she liked the original ending also, so it stayed.

We had some tight times as we worked on this book, tight enough that I gave up my store and got a real job. Working full time didn’t give me much time to write. My co-workers bought copies of Bones of the Woods. They really enjoyed it and asked if there was going to be another one. We had put the next book on the back burner, but the dream was still there. I said yes and it’s called Mind of a Mad Man. What an honor to have a book named after me. I told them it would show the dark side of human nature. Are you saying I’m dark?

So I started working on my stories again. A co-worker and friend was the first person at work to finish reading Bones of the Woods and had a lot of insight about the stories, so I promised her that I would write a story just for her. Thus, Last Dance was born. As always, I pitched the idea of the story to Rachelle. She liked the idea enough that she thought she might write a story based on the same concept, but she would publish it later or submit it to magazines because Mind of a Mad Man was my collection of work and she didn't want to get in the way. That’s when I told her that 'behind every mad man, there has to be a mad woman'. I couldn't see it any other way, so we worked on this book together, as it should be. You should see the things she made him take out.

The number one question that is always asked, aside from when the new book is coming out, is Are any of the stories true? They are not. Not that you remember.

Let me get back to my train of thought for this forward. Last Dance and The Dance are very important in my eyes. You'll get the chance to read two stories conceived from the same basic concept and see how two different writers approached it.

Avenging Angel was inspired by research I was doing for a horror campaign I was getting ready to run. I found myself reading about some grisly unsolved and solved murders. I thought to myself, how can humans treat each other like that and, thus, the story was born. I found the research quite stimulating.

Shadow Call was conceived one day at work. Some of my co-workers suggested that I should write a story inspired by a call center. The title is based on a real term for a type of call that rings through without a caller or any information about the call.

From the Gator’s Mouth and The Baptism are previews of what is in store for you in our next book. Don't forget to ask when it’ll be done. They’re not letting me in on that one.

The main character in From the Gator’s Mouth was born in a horror campaign that Rachelle ran. I, of course, played Swampy. In these stories, we breathed life into a small portion of our fictional universe that will be expanded in Dime Store Novel. i still think it needs my artistic touch.

I would like to thank our friend Rodger Francis for the cover of the book. Do you like the cover? It was my concept. Rodger just drew it.

Also special thanks to our close friend Tony for the photographs.

Oh, by the way, so you don’t worry, the mad man is safely tucked away somewhere in the darkness of my mind, peering out with his red beady eyes. My eyes are not red and beady.

I dedicate my part of the book to the three women I cherish, my mother Margaret, my daughter Katie and the one I love so deeply, my wife Rachelle.

And to our readers

Love, Peace and Enjoy

Yours truly,

The Mad Man

The Dance

by Rachelle Reese

Crimson awoke to the smell of fresh earth and roses. The morning sun beat through her eyelids, washing her world in red, flooding the dreamscape of soft candlelight, silk and taffeta, ecru lace. She opened her eyes and realized she was alone outside, still wearing the flannel nightgown she’d borrowed from her grandmother’s closet. She’d hoped the sleepwalking would end when her grandmother’s body was in the ground.

Crimson rolled onto her side, shielding her eyes from the sun. A bouquet of pink roses tied with a piece of lace and a single emerald ribbon lay beside her. A long blonde hair clung to the ribbon. Some mourners from the funeral had most likely dropped the flowers in their rush to leave, she reasoned. She smiled and sat up, untangling strands of her bright pink bang from the three gems in her eyebrow. Garnet, lapis lazuli, sodalite. The neighbors would get used to her, she guessed. If not, oh well. She’d bring her own friends to stay with her. She picked up the roses, stood up, and headed to her house. HER house. Crimson could still hardly believe the house was hers. And it was almost as big as she remembered it.

The path to the house was edged in lilacs. Crimson breathed deeply, eager for their sweetness. Lilac was her grandmother’s scent, even after the blooms had withered. Today the blooms were purple and full. A hummingbird stopped to take a sip, not even noticing Crimson’s approach. She was glad her grandmother saw her lilacs bloom one last time, glad she wasn’t buried in the frozen ground. That had been her grandmother’s worse fear—to be buried under the winter snow as she had buried her husband many years before. Why had no one brought lilacs to the funeral? And after the burial, why had no one danced?

Her grandmother had always danced. When Crimson was a child, her grandmother would play her old records and whirl Crimson around the ballroom floor. You can make anything a dance, her grandmother had said.

Anything? Crimson had asked.

Even housework, her grandmother had grinned and handed her a broom. Let it be your partner while you sweep.

Crimson had moved the broom around the ballroom floor, sweeping up dust, dried rose petals, discarded hair ribbons. Her grandmother had beat time with her foot. Beautiful, Crimson. You make the waltz your own. Someday I’ll let you lead.

I thought the man was supposed to lead, Crimson had said.

Not in this house, her grandmother had grinned widely, showing her three gold capped teeth. She had pirouetted out onto the floor and grasped Crimson around the waist. The broom dropped and clattered. The two of them had glided around the floor, one-two-three, one-two-three, spinning the whirligig, rounding the corner then go for the kill. Her grandmother had dipped her backwards.

Crimson had bent her head back and laughed, watching the chandelier spin. I’m dizzy! she’d said.

Her grandmother had laughed and lifted her out of the dip, catching her when she stumbled, You need to learn to spot.

Spot? Crimson had asked.

Pick a point and keep your eye on it. That way you won’t get dizzy. Her grandmother’s tone had become stern. Never let the dance make you disoriented, no matter how delicious it feels.

Well Miss Crimson, what are you doing outside in your nightgown? the familiar voice of her grandmother’s gardener and handyman woke her from her reverie. You’re not still sleepwalking are you?

Crimson looked at the tall thin man who had stepped into the path. He had aged since she’d stayed with her grandmother. Once strong and straight, his back was hunched as if in pain. Just wanted to smell the lilacs, Lou.

Can’t miss that smell this time of year, even in the house. Lou ran has hand lightly across a purple cluster, a soft caress. Delilah loved her lilacs.

I know, Crimson said softly and took the old man’s hand. They walked back to the house in silence, each remembering the woman they had loved.

****

After the lawyer left that afternoon, Crimson and Lou sat at the kitchen table eating from the leftover casseroles and cakes the neighbors had brought to the funeral.

What do you plan to do with the house? Lou asked.

Live in it, Crimson answered.

Lou laughed a deep barrel laugh. You plan to stay here? In the middle of nowhere?

Crimson shrugged, Sure. It’s better than my apartment.

What will you do?

Same thing I did there, Crimson smiled. Except I won’t have to work to pay the rent.

What do you do, anyway?

Write, Crimson said. I write stories.

Plenty of stories in these walls, Lou shook his head, but none I’d want to get mixed up in.

What do you mean? Crimson asked.

Nearly drove your grandmother crazy toward the end. Lou picked up a piece of crumb cake, examined it, and put it on his plate. The things she said...I was afraid they’d put her away.

Dementia? Crimson asked. Her voice became quiet and sad. No one told me.

Kept going on about the dance. Lou took a bite of the cake.

Could she dance at the end?

That’s all she would do. All night long she swirled around the ballroom as if led by an invisible partner. All night her laughter rang out as if she was a girl your age instead of an old woman. But in daylight, she was tired and sad. Talking on and on about the murder of that boy—the one who delivered the paper so many years ago. Talking on and on about your grandpa and how she was sorry about his dance. She wouldn’t eat, would hardly drink. That’s what killed her. She starved to death. Lou had put down the forkful of cake and was staring past the table into the ballroom. I found her, you know. Dead in the center of the ballroom, a bouquet of Peace roses, stems wrapped in a lace handkerchief tied closed with a black hair ribbon, clutched in her hand.

Crimson touched the lapis lazuli on her eyebrow. I’m sorry, Lou. It must have been very hard to watch her die.

I tried my best. Brought her some of her favorites from town—lemon bars, roast duck, smoked salmon. Still, she wouldn’t eat.

I know you did, she started stacking plates. You still have a job and a place to stay if you want it.

What would you want me around for? I’m pretty useless these days.

Company, if nothing else, Crimson put her hand over Lou’s. I don’t think the neighbors like me much.

Lou put his other hand over hers, What’s not to like?

Crimson flipped her pink bang with her free hand.

So it’s pink, Lou smiled. They’ll get used to it.

****

Crimson sat in the garden swing and watched the setting sun cast an orange glow across the tall rose bushes. It was too early for the bushes to bloom. Leaves were just starting to hide the spikes of their merciless thorns. Who had given her grandmother the Peace roses? A visitor? A lover?

Crimson regretted that she knew so little of her grandmother’s life the last few years. She’d been very close to her grandmother as a little girl, and had even stayed with her one year when her parents were too busy to deal with a moping twelve-year-old. But as she’d grown older she’d become uncomfortable in her grandmother’s house. She had stopped visiting altogether after she turned sixteen. It had nothing to do with her grandmother. It was just the house...and the dreams. But now the house was hers, as her grandmother had promised so many years before.

It’s tradition that this house passes down through the women, her grandmother had explained, taking the pan of lemon bars out of the oven.

Crimson had sprinkled the lemon bars with powdered sugar, inhaling the delicious lemon and baked crust scent that rose off the pan. She’d drawn a big heart with her index finger in the center of the sugary pastry. What do you mean passes down?

When I die...

You can’t ever die, Grandma. If you die, who will make me lemon bars?

Everyone dies, Crimson. Her grandmother had pulled a chair up to the table and poured herself a cup of coffee. She’d patted the chair across from her.

Crimson had taken a seat and her grandmother had poured a little coffee in the cup, then watered it down with cream and sprinkled cinnamon on top. Crimson had sipped the rich, warm beverage and looked out the window at the falling snow.

Her grandmother’s eyes had followed hers, I just hope I don’t die on a day like today. I’d hate to be buried under all that snow. She’d shook her head and sipped her cup of coffee. The lines of her face deepened with grief and for the first time, Crimson had seen her grandmother as old. I buried your grandfather under snow. Worst blizzard we’d had in years and here we were, holed up in this house. Just him, me, and...never mind. You don’t want to hear about that. Why don’t we put on some music?

Crimson had gladly placed a record on the electric phonograph and moved its needle to the first song, a waltz by Chopin. Waltzes were her grandmother’s favorite and the sadness had soon fled from her face. Her cheeks had filled with color and she’d risen to her feet, holding out her hand to invite Crimson to dance. Crimson had accepted and the two of them had whirled around the kitchen, oblivious to the storm that raged outside. Only when the music ended could they hear the shutters banging against the house and the old oak