Dreams & Nightmares

By Ran Cartwright

A collection of horror, fantasy, science fiction, and classic childhood fears. These stories will take you from war torn London to deserted stretches of Nevada highways to the bayous of Louisiana to the dark corners of a bedroom closet where terrors wait to inhabit your dreams and nightmares.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ran Cartwright
• Release date: Dec 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466079557

Ran Cartwright

Ran was born in Salem, Ohio on a cold winter’s day. He doesn’t remember much of those early days, but he does remember watching Echo 1, a faint dot amongst the stars, cross the sky one dark and clear night in1961. That small event generated a lifelong interest in science and literature. The literature interest began with the science and science fiction works of Asimov and Clarke and exploded from there into just about anyone and everyone who wrote in the genre. Ran has a few particular favorites that still include Asimov and Clarke. Horror started with Saturday night double features that were aired on Chiller Theater out of Pittsburgh and hosted by Chilly Billy Cardille. That led to horror stories and novels, few at the time (more were available in films than in books), but Poe was a favorite. The early seventies brought H P Lovecraft into Ran’s dark nights (and days). After reading so much horror and science fiction, Ran thought it would be fun to try his hand at writing in the two genres. He had dabbled years earlier for a brief period of time with a little ditty he called “Journey to Messier 51.” Thankfully, that item has long been lost. But he never gave up, and, as they say, the rest is history. Ran has written in a variety of forms and formats for years. He prefers horror, of course, but has also written science fiction, fantasy, and historical drama. Two of his short horror stories were recommended for Bram Stoker awards in 2000. And Ran’s interest in science? Well, he’s a retired archaeologist. Interests? Ran’s a biker, makes Indian chokers, and travels around the country in an RV with his biker/writer wife, Christene, and their three cats, Rufus, Clyde, and Pixie. You never know where they might end up. Ran's books can also be found at: http://www.lulu.com http://www.rainfallsite.com As an added note, Ran has a single short story eBook also available at Smashwords. Entitled "A Criminal Portrait," it was written under Ran's pen name of Robert Tangiers, and published by Hellfire Publishing. http://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=ran+cartwright

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DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES

By Ran Cartwright

Revolving Nuclear Zoo Productions

in association with

Frogtown Press

DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES

Contents copyright © 2011 by Ran Cartwright

All rights reserved by the author. Published in the United States of America. No part of this eBook may be reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author.

Smashwords Edition, December 2011

Song lyrics in The Devil’s Whore by Christene Britton-Jones.

Author’s Note: The stories in this collection are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people (living, dead, or otherwise), places, and events is entirely coincidental.

CONTENTS

THAT HIDEOUS THING

THE DEVIL’S WHORE

THE VAMPIRE

THE HAUNTED

LILY

THE BAYOU

SCOTCH HILL

DARK HOLLOW

DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES

GHOSTIES AND GHOULIES AND LONG LEGGED BEASTIES…

IN THE CLOSET

UNDER THE BED

THE BOOGEYMAN’LL GETCHA!

THEY ONLY COME OUT AT NIGHT

TURNABOUT IS FAIR PREY

THE SCIENCE AND PHILOSOPHY OF AZATHOTH

MONEY BAGS MALONEY AND THE BANK TELLER

RESURRECTION ROAD

THUNDER’S EYES

DEVIL RIDERS

OPERATION SILVER RAIN

ZEROES AND ONES

AN AULD ACQUAINTANCE

ZOMBIFICTION

THE ETERNAL DARK

RAPTURED

THAT HIDEOUS THING

Whistling bombs fall; air raid sirens wail. Anti-aircraft guns fire. Buildings crumble; smoke and ash plume across the city.

Fear and pain, Marge Southern thinks absently. She stares in the dark with other refugees hiding in the London Underground.

There’s plenty of fear and pain to go around. The Blitz has everyone on edge.

The King’s Cross Station lights blink. Go out. Ceiling dust and plaster settle to the ground.

Yes, thanks to the Nazis, a lot of fear and pain to go around. A lot of fear and pain to feed on for the thing lurking in the city.

An ancient thing. Now in search of a special meal.

Marge sits in the dark.

The city is dark. Has been since the Blitz began.

Above, the bombs explode. High explosives, incendiary, flam bombs. A city in ruins. Rubble and fire and death.

The lights come on. Feeble yellow.

The station shakes; more ceiling plaster falls, clouds of dust roll through the underground, coating the refugees in a thin layer.

They brush it off, mumble. Has got to stop.

Soon.

Fear and Pain.

More bombs, more dust. More death.

Then silence. It’ll last a short while.

Marge shakes the dust from her notes. Turns her eyes back to what’s written. She pages, glances at names. Headings.

Nitocris.

Caesar.

Magdalene.

Red Jack.

Bovary.

De Sade.

Crowley.

She sits back, a blank stare, then glances at a bulletin board peppered with lost and found notes. Mostly people, relatives, and friends looking for people, relatives, and friends. Some notes are otherwise. Notes of information and requests. Like Marge’s note.

Marge’s note clings to a corner of the board. Looking for information about Ibn Schacabao. That strange man from the 8th Century. Still alive. A pact with the Old Ones, it’s rumored. So said Marge’s research.

And he’s here, in London.

Marge knows; she smiles.

* * *

A week passes.

Marge waits. Studies. Researches.

Bombs fall. More dust and plaster. Has to stop. Soon.

Marge glances at her note on the bulletin board. It’s gone. Just a bare spot where it was.

A man watches from the shadows.

Tall. Thin. London Fog coat drapes his shoulders. A Fedora tilts forward, rests on his brow. A thin hawkish face. Dark complexion. Black hair. He grins, shows yellow teeth. His dark eyes glitter. Speaks with an accent. Middle Eastern.

He steps into the feeble light.

Marge looks, knows, sets her notes aside and rises to her feet.

She approaches the man.

You posted the note, he says, holds it up between two fingers.

Marge nods. I did.

Come, we talk; I have a place in Islington.

They leave King’s Cross, glide through ruins and fire and dust and soot.

The night is dark and clouded in smoke. Search lights in the distance search for invaders.

Soon they reach the Islington flat. A basement flat. They enter.

Marge looks around. Her eyes big and round. She smiles at what she sees. Ancient books and candles and a skull decorated with strange symbols. There’s a black cloth that covers something on a wall. The man pulls the black cloth away, reveals a large painted, chipped, and faded image of a tentacled thing.

The place looks like the abode of a necromancer. Or the place of a man who knows things he shouldn’t. Terrible things. Hideous things.

Your research, he says, voice heavily accented. I know your claims.

Marge turns, smiles. You do?

Yes, I do, he replies, that Ibn Schacaboa, Red Jack, de Sade, and others are one and the same. But your claim is false.

Yes, it is false, she says. Ibn Schacabao is not de Sade nor Crowley nor Red Jack, nor any other the others. But it served to draw you out of the shadows…Ibn Schacabao.

His eyes go wide. How do you know?

Marge grins, then cackles as she approaches Schacabao, drapes her arms around his shoulders.

Because I have been with de Sade, and Red Jack, and Crowley, she says. I know them well.

You are what you seek, Schacabao whispers fearfully.

Marge’s grin widens. So much more than you know. I have slaughtered millions, and gave birth to a thousand.

Now you come for me, Schacaboa says.

Of course; why not? she says, flippant, suddenly playful and childish. But only a moment. Her eyes turn dark, her voice soft. A student of yours spoke highly of you before he died outside the city gates of Damascus. It was such a sight. So sorry you missed it. Will you squeal like he did? We shall see.

She suddenly licks his cheek, nips an earlobe with her teeth. A paralyzing poison passes to the Arab. Strange whispered words echo in his ear, and his clothing falls to ashes, caught up and carried away on a sudden whirlwind that spins across the room, and whistles beneath the door. Another whirlwind carries Marge’s clothing away.

Marge howls laughter as she lays the Arab on the floor and mounts him.

Bombs suddenly fall. An nearby explosion rattles the Islington flat; plaster falls, shadows dance on walls cast by burning buildings.

Searchlights claw at the sky in the distance, searching for beasts bringing fear and pain.

Marge howls madly as she rocks against Schacabao.

Searchlights flash, bombs fall, dust and plaster fall. Fire and pain and death.

A strange surreal light flashes in the room, a misty dim red. Schacabao gasps, tries to see about the room…strange shapes lurk, shadows on walls, gnarled tree limbs and stones and lurching shapes…

Marge grunts, growls, hisses. Her shape changing. Her expanding form looms over the terrified Arab.

He gets a final brief glance of Marge in her true form…that hideous thing from the Outside. A hideous thing of monstrous fertility that sends him to cackling madness and gathers him into the folds of her massive quivering body.

Schacabao clings to his madness.

The thing’s unborn child will find nourishment from the body of the cackling Arab until its birth.

THE DEVIL’S WHORE

Club Purgatory, a nice little place up on West Argyle Street. It’s a booze slinging speakeasy where dames come to play, and they play hard and fast. It’s a joint where you can drink yourself into oblivion, pick up hookers for a sleazy flophouse rendezvous, and hear blues all night long. The pickings are good. Always a full house. The guys and dames of the Organization hang out at Club Purgatory.

The joint’s smoky and hot. Ceiling fans turn slow, shadows dance on walls. Dim lights in the haze. And drinks and dames and blues. Yeah, blues and jazz. Doc Murmur’s got it going, tickling the keys of his grand piano under that soft yellow hazy light. Doc’s a friend of ole Big Johnny Alastor, the Executioner. We go back a long way. Doc’s got some canary, name of Liz Thompson, singing soft and sultry for the Purgatory crowd. Doc does her in the off hours.

Ole Doc and that dame Liz were up there under the yellow lights on the stage, ‘bout ready to lay down some blues when I passed on the word to the doorman and went in. I nodded my Fedora to Doc, and saddled up to the bar. Ordered the House Special, and turned to watch the show. Wouldn’t be long before some poor bastard or dame would be doing The Devil’s Whore up there on top of Doc’s piano.

Lay ‘em down, tie ‘em up, and bang ‘em. Thumbs up or down for performance. They put on a good show, they live. Thumbs up. They put on a bad show, they get their chest autographed and go straight to Hell by way of Jontrille de Mazirat-Rofocale. Thumbs down.

The music started. A slow dark tease of a tune. Blues straight outta Hell. Doc’s piano lid was down, inviting a Devil’s Whore, while Liz stood out under the lights, singing lusty sorrows and screwing the mic stand. A sweet voice, that canary has; ain’t no wonder that Doc was doing her.

Time to play sweet songs and sing of sorrows.

Supping tonight’s the time to burn…

My Lamoure, yeah…yeah, my Lamoure.

Some poor bastard took the bait. Got himself stripped naked, stretched out, and tied down naked up there on top of Doc’s piano while Doc was playing and Liz was singing. Jahi got herself up there and rode that bastard like a bucking bronco in a rodeo. Her hair was flying, eyes flashing, nails tore his flesh.

The crowd was cheering and jeering. Liz got right up there, sang a few lines to him…

Diablo’s whore, the Demon Piano calls;

It promises more, more than Lamoure.

So much more…

Diablo’s whore, the Demon Piano calls;

But the cat just wasn’t giving the Club Purgatory crowd much sleazy entertainment. A thumbs downer for sure. Just what he got too, thumbs down. Jahi crawled like a snake over that cat, carved The Devil’s Whore into his chest with a long sharp nail, sent blood streaming across his shoulders and around his neck.

Untied and dragged off Doc’s piano, he was on his way to Rofocale’s for some added entertainment before he’d be shipped off to the Big Cheese. Served the sucker right. He should have given the folks a better show.

* * *

For a helluva good time, you just can’t beat Club Purgatory. But it ain’t the only joint in town. A block north, up on West Lawrence Avenue, is the Jack of Diamonds Club, another of ChiTown’s speakeasies. A lot of hoods go there; a lot of mobsters. And them mobsters bring in their dames. A good show in the Jack.

I’ve taken to hanging out there myself, see what new dames come in; who’s with ‘em. Same night that Jahi did up that poor bastard in the Purgatory, I slipped on up to the Jack to see what was happening. That’s when I seen this dame come in with Big Al Capone and a few of his cronies. They took up some space in a booth, the dame on Capone’s lap.

She was a real looker. A dame’s dame. All dressed out in glad rags with a feathered bonnet on her head, a feathered boa around her neck, squeezed into a dress two sizes too small. Made all the curves look just right. She sat there giggling into Capone’s ear and sucking on a gasper stuck out of a long black plastic tip.

I decided right there that I was gonna get a little piece of that action. And when Big Johnny Alastor decides he’s gonna get a piece of the action, he’s gonna get a piece of the action!

I just moseyed on over to Capone’s table, and told him I’d take the dame off his hands for a while. Me and Capone, we got us an understanding. Showed him a few things others don’t know. Now Capone knows, and knows not to mess with Big Johnny Alastor, the Executioner.

So I took that dame off his hands. Dragged her pretty little ass up to the bar. Sat her down on a barstool.

Hi doll, I said.

Her head kind of bobbed a little, eyes turned up. She grinned, lusty-like, like she was wanting to do it right there on the floor. Hi, she said. Buy me a drink?

Now I ain’t one to waste time when I got things to do. And this dame didn’t have nothing better to do, so I grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her right back off that barstool.

We ended up in some old sleazy flophouse a few blocks over toward the lake, bottom floor, just a bed and a nightstand. Good enough. Fought off the bugs, climbed out of our rags, and laid that dame out long and hard. She come on to it fast and chippy. Easy’s a good word. The dame was as easy as they come. First rate duck soup.

Got done with the dame and talked a while. Found out her name was Harriet Beddard and she was married to some small time hood name of Sam Beddard. She took to hanging out with Capone and his cronies, said that Big Al could give her things that a small time hood couldn’t. She liked money. Lots of it. She’d do anything to get it. I knew she’d do anything on a dare. Kind of dame she was. Could see it in her eyes.

I smiled. On a whim I thought ‘bout Club Purgatory and The Devil’s Whore.

Ever been to Club Purgatory? I said.

She smiled, held up a gasper, smoke curling up like a horn. No, she said. I don’t have the password to get in.

Well, I think I can fix that, I said.

She grinned, butted the smoke, and went down on ole Big Johnny.

* * *

I slipped that dame a piece of paper with my name on it. Told her to give it to the doorman at Club Purgatory the next night. He’d let her though. I’d be there ‘bout eight. Any time after that.

Left her standing on a street corner, smoking a gasper. Middle of the night. Bad part of town. I knew she’d get herself roughed up before she got out of there. I laughed rounding the corner and walked away down an alley. Made you feel warm all inside.

Stumbled across Rofocale on my way across town. He was on his way to The Factory; he had a couple of dames, one on each arm. That Rofocale’s a smart one, he is. And a smart dresser too. All decked out in a nice three piece black suit, top hat, and walking stick. He wore himself a white mask over his face like that Phantom guy in the pictures with Lon Chaney a few years back. No wonder the dames go for him. Ah, but he has his way with dames. Makes ‘em scream real nice-like.

Rofocale nodded. Hello Big Johnny, he said through the mask.

Hey pal, I said, waved a hand. Got yourself fixed up for the night, I see, I added, and nodded at the two dames.

Rofocale smiled, Yeah, he said, they’ll be squirming and screaming before the night is over.

The two dames giggled.

They were the squirming and screaming kind of dames. But the squirming and screaming Rofocale had in mind wasn’t the same kind of squirming and screaming they were thinking ‘bout.

Some cat at Club Purgatory got the thumbs down earlier in the evening, I said.

Rofocale smiled and nodded. Yes, a petty hood named Sam Beddard; I’ve since directed him on to the Big Cheese.

Well, no doubt he’s having himself a real fine time of it, I laughed, irony of ironies. Here I had Beddard’s dish in a run-down sleazy flophouse, working the dame over while Rofocale was prepping Beddard for an extended stay with the Big Cheese. Some things just happened that way.

Rofocale laughed too, and so did the two dames. ‘Course they had no idea what they were laughing ‘bout. Just seemed the right thing to do.

I left Rofocale and the two dames to their own fun. Hell, I can hear Rofocale’s chains rattling even now.

Saw Chu Kwai Sen Chun in an alley, carving up some cat, making a freak outta him. Sen Chun’s got a special thing ‘bout freaks. Makes up some real nice ones, he does.

I entertained myself a little later in another alley. Found me an ugly streetwalking skirt that needed a quick exit. So, I gave her one. Put the old hex on her, turned her into a whining squirming slut that wanted to eat through my zipper to get at my jewels. Instead, I slit her up the front, gut to neck. Spilled it all out in the grimy alley down by the lakeshore. Hot and steamy stuff. Had to laugh and laugh.

Shiv’s crude; I ain’t used one in a long time, but I still got the touch!

Nice little diversion it was, spilling that dame’s guts, heart, and lungs, but I still found myself thinking ‘bout that classy dame.

That Harriet Beddard.

It ain’t like Big Johnny Alastor the Executioner to be distracted like that by the likes of some dame.

Yeah, that dame’s a piece of work; she could turn heads and ruffle beds; she could twist a man’s words and tongue with her own tongue.

She’s as rough and tough and tumble as they come for a dame. All smoke and drink and sleaze and cruel and treacherous. Would jump into bed with any man as long as it served her purpose. And sometimes just for the fun of it. She knew how to party and could party with the best of ‘em.

Yeah, that Harriet Beddard. I had to pay her another visit.

* * *

Was damn near morning when I chased Harriet down. Easy to zero in on a dame like that. Flicked a couple of fingers, gave her a call on the blower, then went by her place and picked her up. Shuffled the dame off to the nearest sleazy corner flophouse and rode her for hours.

I want him out of the way, Big Johnny, Harriet said, sitting there on the edge of the filthy bed, naked as a jaybird, smoking a gasper. She wasn’t winded at all.

The him she was talking ‘bout was her old man, Sam Beddard. Sam was a bum, no good for nothing. Two-bit hood that got himself into Club Purgatory the night before, played The Devil’s Whore, and lost. Thumbs down. A trip to Rofocale and on to the Big Cheese. ‘Course, Harriet didn’t know ‘bout that.

How you propose we get him out of the way, doll? I said, playing her game.

Kill him, Big Johnny, she said through a cloud of gasper smoke, then turned on the whiny charm, You’ll do that for me, won’t you, Big Johnny? Please?

I grinned at her.

Yeah, she’s a cruel dame alright.

Well, sweetheart, don’t think you’re going to have to worry ‘bout that cat. He got himself sent to Hell last night.

He what? she said.

He checked out last night, I said, He’s gone to Hell.

How do you know that?

I got my sources, doll.

Well, Hell’s where he belongs, she said with a devilish grin, and stamped out her gasper on the flophouse room floor. Now you come back over here. I ain’t done with you yet.

What a dame.

* * *

Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre.

Word got out on the street fast. Said Capone’s Chicago Outfit did it. Tried to take down Moran’s North Side gang. Got the mob lying low for now. Not much business at the Jack of Diamonds Club.

Business as usual at Club Purgatory. ‘Course, the Purgatory had a different clientele.

Smoky and hot and loud, filled with folks willing to take a gamble and go straight to Hell if need be. My kind of joint. Kept flashing my eyes to the clock on the wall. Moving slow, but wouldn’t be long ‘til that sweet dame Harriet showed up. Meanwhile I just sat back, drank a few of the house drinks, and watched Olisha take it to a few cats on Doc’s piano. Working her fourth one. Only the first cat got a thumbs up. The others got carved, and sent on to Rofocale for a new brand of entertainment.

Before that it was Asag. Hadn’t seen Asag in a month of heretical Sundays. A big and dangerous cat, some fool whore decided to take him on, got herself stripped naked, and tied down on Doc’s piano. Liz hadn’t sung half a bar before Asag clawed his way up onto that dame and split her right up the middle; blood just poured onto the floor. A little premature. No thumbs up or down.

Got the joint mopped up, threw the body into the alley. I’m sure Sen Chun’ll make something right nice out of the parts. That’s when Olisha took over and Asag sat in a corner and watched the crowd. That Olisha, all wild and crazy, hair flying everywhere, eyes glowing. That cat tied down on Doc’s piano ain’t never had nothing like her.

Hey Big Johnny, came a voice. I looked up, saw a doorman leaning over my table. Got a dame at the door, has your name on a note.

Well well well.

The dame finally got there.

And right on time I noted, checking my pocket watch.

Let her pass, and direct her my way, I said.

Consider it done, the doorman grinned, and added, That’s some fancy dame, Big Johnny.

He was gone, disappeared into the smoke and haze. The crowd cheered, a thumb’s up for some lucky bastard. Olisha was on a roll, another cat, naked and waiting his turned, climbed atop the piano, laid back, got tied down. Olisha was off and banging in rhythm to Doc and the canary.

Hi Big Johnny, Harriet said.

I took a sharp look. Yeah, the doorman was right. A fancy dame. She stood there, smoking a gasper on that black plastic tip. She was dressed out in her glad rags, a tight fitting light yellow dress with tassels. High heels and a feathered hat and boa completed the ensemble. Flapper all the way, baby.

Hi doll, I said and tapped the empty barstool next to mine. You just park your pretty little ass right here.

She parked. Turned, elbow on the bar, gasper smoke curling into the gloom, and smiled.

Gonna buy me a drink, Johnny? she said.

That’s Big Johnny to you, doll, I said.

Alright Big Johnny, you gonna buy me a drink?

Coming right up. I turned, whistled, motioned for the bartender. Hey you! Come here!

The bartender came over, lent an ear.

Get the lady a drink, I said. The House Special; on my tab.

The bartender nodded, turned away. He was back in a flash with the drink. Handed it to the flashy dame sitting there.

A cheer went up. Liz was still singing bluesy lust, Doc hammering away at those keys. Olisha was pounding away on some poor bastard strung down on the piano. Number six, maybe. I’d lost count when Harriet showed up.

They doing The Devil’s Whore thing over there? Harriet nodded toward the stage.

Yeah, how you know about that? I said.

Sam talked about it before, she replied. She sipped her drink, narrowed