Ghosts, Monsters, and Men: Tales of the Supernatural

By C.B. Calsing

C.B. Calsing has compiled a collection of her supernatural short stories. They run the gambit from vengeful ghosts to Lovecraftian space creatures. Curl up in your favorite chair, pour yourself a glass of whiskey, and give yourself a good scare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CCE Publishing
• Release date: Jul 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301192250

C.B. Calsing

C.B. Calsing was born and grew up in the small Central Coast town of San Luis Obispo, California. As a child, she spent long hours composing stories and plays. Half-way through her junior year in high school, she left to attend Cuesta Community College, where, after a few years of study, she received her associate of arts degree with honors. Following that, she transferred to Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo. There, she completed her bachelor of arts in English. She took a year off, traveled to Indonesia and Ireland, and then decided to return to school to become a certified English teacher.In 2002, fresh out of her studies, Mrs. Calsing and her future husband moved to New Orleans. Mrs. Calsing has worked in the field of education throughout the Greater New Orleans Area for the last eight years. In 2004, she married. Following her evacuation from Hurricane Katrina, Mrs. Calsing returned to New Orleans and began her master of fine arts degree in creative writing, fiction, at the University of New Orleans. She completed that in 2009. Now, she teaches gifted students and writes when there is time.“To Wade Alone,” a story from her collection All Along the Pacific, took second place in the On the Premises “First” contest in June 2009. Her work has appeared in college literary journals, guerrilla zines, and on Web sites. Her work also appeared in anthologies such as An Honest Lie Volume One and Things We Are Not, a collection of queer science fiction.Her two favorite genres to write are historic and science fiction, probably because both allow her to visit worlds different from her own.

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Ghosts, Monsters, and Men

Tales of the Supernatural

By C.B. Calsing

Published by C.B. Calsing at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 C.B. Calsing

Discover other titles by C.B. Calsing at Smashwords.com.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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

The Consuming Abyss originally appeared in Poe Little Things: In Space, No One Can Hear You Scream

"The Curse of Son of Fenrir" originally appeared in Heavy Metal Horror from Rymfire Books

Martina Gets the Last Word originally appeared in An Honest Lie Volume Two: Delusions of Insignificance from Open Heart Press

Schrodinger’s Ghosts originally appeared in Thema: The Dean’s Cat, Volume 22, No. 2

The cover art is an original watercolor by California artist Diana Bittleston. See more of her work at www.dianabittleston.com.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Patrick Calsing, Gerry Brown, and Stephen Macie for being my beta readers.

Thanks to my mom for her great artwork. Again.

Table of Contents

The Consuming Abyss

The Curse of Son of Fenrir

In My Ear

The Dwining

The Oyster Lease

Schrödinger’s Ghosts

A Voice down the Hall

Henri’s Last Days

Ghosts of a Vacant World

Martin Gets the Last Word

The Consuming Abyss

We’ve searched everywhere, Thelson Greer told Sergeant Sayors. Whatever did this is not on the station.

Sayors examined the mess of a corpse before her, the blue-gray entrails glistening in the LEDs, the rent and torn flesh. Sayors knew the answer, but she had to ask it anyway. Maybe a weapon derived from an organic source? Meant to look like an animal did it?

Greer shook his head. Fluids—clearly not from the victim—track there. Greer pointed down the corridor. We think it’s some kind of… He swallowed. Saliva. Or mucus. He held up a palm-sized light. Splatters glowed under the UV. We already traced it.

Sayors detected doubt in the man’s voice. And?

Just…follow me.

They headed down the corridor, following the drips of saliva on the metal decking. Sayors skin broke out in goose bumps, her body telling her something her mind didn’t understand. She’d witnessed a lot of things in her time—some more gruesome—but never anything this…inexplicable.

An alien. Everyone thought that. But hadn’t humans scoured every corner of the galaxy? No one had discovered more than a microbe on any of the planets. Humans lived utterly alone out here in the cold dark.

The trail stopped. Sayors blinked. She glanced up to the door of an airlock. So the perp had jumped ship. She wondered who the victim had been. Security had not complete the headcount on the station. Why would someone go to the trouble of killing him like this? And to make the act resemble an animal attack?

What ship was docked here when the attack occurred?

Greer swallowed again. The instruments… Nothing was scheduled, but we can’t know for sure.

Sayors sighed. Something had been screwing with the electronics for a while now. Has anyone bothered opening the airlock to check if the perp is still onboard? Maybe the perp had expected a ride, and no one had shown up.

No, Greer said, his voice quiet. We were…afraid it might still be in there.

Sayors shook her head at the it. Sure, her hairs stood on end at the back of her neck, and the scrubbed air of the station brushed against them, causing her to tremble. But she’d discover a logical explanation for the attack. She had to.

Suit me up, she told him. I’ll go in.

Sayors turned on the transmitter, and her breath sounded loud in her ears. In one hand, she gripped a pulse pistol, just in case some space-sick, slobbering maniac with bear’s claws crouched within the doorway, hidden from the available line of sight the door’s small porthole offered. She inhaled, exhaled, pursed her lips behind her face screen.

Okay, she said.

Greer, standing to the side, slapped the button to open the airlock. The door slid aside. Sayors waited for a moment, trying to detect any movement or presence. She stepped forward, training her pistol into the corners of the chamber hidden from view, first one, then the other. Nothing occupied the room.

Any evidence the exterior hatch opened?

Greer shrugged. System was on the fritz.

Typical. Sayors took a deep breath. She’d have to go into the vacuum, see if any evidence…

She turned around and reached her empty hand out to Greer. Give me the light, she told him. He handed it to her. She switched it on and directed it to the floor. More drips of saliva or mucus glowed, creating a trail to the exterior hatch.Whatever it was left. Are you sure no ships docked?

We’re sure of nothing right now. Everything’s messed up.

Maybe it’s still out there. But she doubted it. That would be…ridiculous. Nothing survived out there.

A ship had to have come. Had to have picked up whoever had committed the murder in the other room. The saliva went right up to the door. The exterior hatch even bisected one fat drop.

Close the airlock.

She turned slightly; the hatch shut tightly behind her. She swiveled back to the exterior door and steeled her nerves. Logical explanation, she reassured herself. Completely logical.

She looked out through the small porthole in the doorway. On the other side, nothing but the black of space, not even any stars. She clipped the light to one of the utility straps on her spacesuit and readjusted her grip on her gun.

She reached out and punched the button to open the hatch. Magnets on her boots would keep her solidly in place when the pressure adjusted, but she still held fast to the grab bar next to the door.

The seals hissed. The door slid aside.

Nothing happened. No suck of air into the abyss. No harsh pull against her body. Despite the thorough insulation of her suit, Sayors shivered.

What the hell is this? she asked. She glanced back at the interior airlock door. The tiny sphere of Greer’s head peered at her through the glass. She glanced back at where space should be, saw black, but…

She stepped forward, reached out, and touched…

Gelatinous, taut, greasy—even through her gloves…

Organic.

She pulled back, stumbled toward the exit.

Something detached from the mass filling the doorway, large and black with sharp, claw-like protuberances glowing a dim ivory in the lights of the airlock. A pseudopodium pulled its rank weight across the decking toward her.

Sayors screamed into her suit; the being reached her, a trail of slime in its wake, but no one could hear her. No one would help her. Before she blacked out, the sharp cut of its claws breached her suit.

Nothing survives out there, she told herself with her last breath. Nothing.

The Curse of Son of Fenrir

Peeber found a new stall at the Jefferson Flea Market. Nothing had occupied the space in the warehouse last week or ever, as far as Peeber could remember. The new owner had erected black plywood walls, and a black beaded curtain hung over the entrance. A chalkboard proclaimed MEMORABILIA, VINYL, CEREMONIAL OBJECTS. The vinyl part caught Peeber’s attention. He examined the contents of his paper sack and decided to buy more.

Inside, neatly tiered displays showed off the LPs. Glass-fronted cases contained the memorabilia and ceremonial objects, mostly cheap blades with Tolkien-inspired motifs, bundles of sage, pewter trinkets.

Behind one of the counters stood a huge, bearded man. Peeber easily imagined a Viking helmet on the dude’s head.

Yah? Vat you vant? the Viking asked.

Peeber examined the LPs. Hall and Oates. Air Supply. Duran Duran. I was checking your vinyl.

Vat kind you vant?

Old death metal maybe? Peeber named a couple of bands only an aficionado would recognize. The other man’s eyes lit up.

Yah, sure. The Viking nodded and leaned over behind his counter. He came up with a stack of albums. He placed them on the counter reverently. Peeber stepped forward. He sifted through the stack, and the titles impressed him: Gorgoroth, Mayhem, Skepticism. He didn’t have these at his shop. The last album he didn’t recognize. Flat black dominated the sleeve with the writing and graphics, minimal as they were, in gloss.

Who’s this? Peeber asked.

"Son of Fenrir, the Viking said quietly. Hardcore shit."

More hardcore than Mayhem? Doubtful. "Is that the name of the band or the name of the