NightGaunts

By Hope Sullivan McMickle

A roving band of bloodthirsty nosferatu... a serial killer with a decidedly dark sense of humor... an unsolicited gift with a wicked surprise... hordes of shambling, ravenous undead... werewolves in corporate America... uninvited guests with an insatiable appetite... these and other twisted tales await in NightGaunts, ten stories of psychological suspense and paranormal horror.

This collection of chilling, eldritch horror shorts includes: We All Scream, Slug Bug, The Present, Stranger Than Fiction, Caller ID, Dark Cargo, One Drop Then Two, Expiration Date, The Evaluation, and A Life Less Vanilla.

Waltz with the denizens of the dark as you take on NightGaunts - but be sure to lock your door and check under the bed before turning out the lights!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hope Sullivan McMickle
• Release date: Oct 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301248810

Hope Sullivan McMickle

Hope Sullivan McMickle is a horror fiction writer and a musician with a penchant for the things that lurk in the darkness, and of course, for the shambling, insatiable undead. She resides in Indianapolis, Indiana.

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NightGaunts

By Hope Sullivan McMickle

Copyright 2012 by Hope Sullivan McMickle

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

We All Scream

Slug Bug

The Present

Stranger Than Fiction

Caller ID

Dark Cargo

One Drop, Then Two

Expiration Date

The Evaluation

A Life Less Vanilla

We All Scream

He took the corner a little too fast, and the van’s wheels seemed to lose contact with the pavement for what seemed like infinity but couldn’t have been more than a second or two before settling back down as he accelerated along Maple Lane. The music from the loudspeakers mounted on the roof blared in his ears, it was so loud that it drowned out the low growl of the old van’s motor and its bad muffler. He despised the song loop, especially The Farmer in the Dell and Three Blind Mice. He’d considered breaking with tradition and playing some pop or hip-hop instead, cranking out some tight, more modern tunes, but in the end opted to go with the music that drove the business to him.

Jarod glanced into his side view mirror and saw several children emerging from homes on the north and south sides of the street. A couple of the children were barefoot. Another struggled along in flip-flops, wearing a colorful one-piece bathing suit and goggles. The public pool must be nearby. That was good; it was late afternoon on a hot summer day. Perfect conditions, in his line of work.

The children ran toward him, mostly on sidewalks from long-ingrained habit, but others sprinted directly down the street. Jarod spotted several adults as well. It was reassuring to see that they still chaperoned their children in this community. He’d only been in town a day, but could tell he was going to really enjoy his time here. And make a killing. There were no other licensed ice cream trucks in business, and Indiana – the whole of the Midwest, really – was wilting under record-breaking temperatures and drought conditions. He’d move coolers full of frozen treats and icy delicacies like never before. It was going to be a banner year for his business.

Jarod slowed the truck to just under 10 miles per hour and let the children catch up. He knew from experience that the longer they were able to see the pictures of the various ice cream products painted on the sides and back of his van, the more items they were likely to purchase. In years past, the most popular items had been Bomb Pops, Push-Ups, Drumsticks, and Klondike Bars, but he had yet to determine this year’s favorites. He kept a spreadsheet at home, and tallied up his daily product distributions each evening, after the sun went down.

The back windows of his van were heavily tinted, but he could just make out the shape of a tall woman pushing a stroller, coming up fast behind the vehicle. It didn’t look safe, so Jarod slowed down even further and let her pull alongside his window. She looked hot, tired, and famished, and while Jarod knew that a good businessman never makes money by giving his goods away, sometimes it was better karma to give a gift or two here and there. She reached out a hand, and he slapped a frozen treat into it with a smile that lit up his eyes and made him look twenty years younger.

This one’s on me, he said, accelerating a bit to get closer to the end of the block before stopping for a larger-scale distribution of goodies. The children followed, little feet pounding the pavement, eyes fixed on the truck. Jarod pulled up at the four-way stop at the intersection of Maple and Walnut – apparently Franklin, Indiana, was into tree names for this residential area – and stopped the truck. The engine idled roughly as he handed treats out to as many grimy pairs of grasping, greedy hands as he could, until his cooler was empty. It was his fourth stop of the afternoon, and he had already given out more than a hundred treats.

Be a friend, be sure to share, he shouted, slamming the truck into first gear and driving off toward the other side of town. He had a second cooler in the back, fully stocked, and planned on putting a smile on a lot of kids’ faces before he was through for the day.

He was making a left-hand turn on Jefferson Street,