Midnight Abyss: A Collection of Darklings

By Midnight Abyss

Horrifically Delightful !

Spooky tales by Anisa A. Claire • Shaun Adams • Theresa Briscoe Tschetter • Matthew X. Gomez • Doug Langille • Kelleigh Elizabeth Perry • Gregory K. Shipman • Raymond Tobaygo • Jennifer M. Zeiger

Step into the darkness of the Midnight Abyss, a collection of devilishly dark fantasy, hauntingly horrific short stories, and petrifying poetry that will keep you on the edge

• Language: English
• Publisher: Midnight Abyss
• Release date: Nov 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310472060

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

IT ALL STARTED in a bar one lonesome, stormy October night. Greg and Shaun compared battle wounds and old exes while nursing watery beer. Their blurry eyes were set on a pair of off-duty vixens. Kelleigh and Anisa played at a demure ignorance from across the stale, smoke-filled room. Reconsidering their chances, the ladies summoned them over with a bottle of rum and a few cheap cigars.

The boys struggled to stand, and it took a few moments for the world to right itself. With a shot of courage, they made their play.

Suddenly, there was a thwap-whump-whump of the saloon doors as Matt strode in. Is he here? he asked, furious and crazed. The scimitar he brandished was soiled with dried blood.

Who the hell are you looking for? grumbled Jennifer from underneath her dusty felt hat. She placed her six-shooter on the table with a deliberateness that only the foolish would fail to heed.

Me, said Doug from behind the bar. The maggot is here for me.

Everyone stared as he slowly finished wiping the last of the glasses, folded the cloth and reached for his trusty shotgun. It was show time.

A crash echoed through the building as a rent in the seedy joint’s roof opened up. A cloud of over-sized bats flew in followed by the monstrosity of a troll known as Ray. He landed squarely on the table, eager for a fight.

Bright lights shone from below as Theresa rose from her crypt, her angelic fire sparking from fingertip to fingertip in anticipation.

The assembled group looked at each other and someone said:

Let’s write a book.

To be continued…

* * *

No, not really. We all just met on WritersCarnival.ca, the best writing community on Earth.

D EBT COLLECTORS

Gregory K. Shipman

A native East Baltimorean, but now a Fairbanks, Alaska resident, Gregory K. Shipman has a day job which often extends into the evening hours. His passion is writing about the steamy, noir side of life… past, present and future. He has yet to earn a dime from his scribbles but has the satisfaction of knowing it’s all non-taxable. Greg is an active member of the on-line community, Writer’s Carnival, the Community Writer’s Group of Fairbanks, and a board member of The Fairbanks Drama Association. He lives a life of hardly quiet desperation with his pet laptop and unreliable Jeep. He enjoys Jazz, Blues, Theater and the occasional diabetic coma…

THE DIMLY LIT hallway seems to go on forever. The sound of a distant ringing phone echoes off the drab painted walls. An old man moves slowly towards a door at the far end with his head bent and back stooped. Carefully, he steps as though avoiding something at his feet. The hallway is empty save for him. Anyone else present would have heard a rhythmic clumping sound reminiscent of Captain Ahab walking the midnight deck of the Pequod.

* * *

Roberta watches her screen and picks up the next call when the computer signals. The name displayed is Louis Clayton Furr. She presses the pick-up icon on the monitor and her headphone signals with a hiss.

Good evening, she says, after hearing a pleasant-sounding ‘Hello?’ in her earpiece, may I speak to Mr. Furr please?

This is he. Or him, if you prefer.

Mr. Furr, I am required by law to inform you that this is an attempt to collect a debt.

Oh my. To whom do I owe money?

Roberta feels a chill from the penetrating voice. Although it is deep and melodic, she has the sense of someone running their nails across a blackboard.

Well Mr. Furr, you have an outstanding balance of ten thousand eight hundred dollars with Fallenhot Credit Services. Can we clear this up for your peace of mind?

Well young lady, my mind was peaceful until now. I don’t recall this bill. When was this?

We’re an agency sir, and I don’t have the records in front of me. It is, however, your bill, and we do want to keep this out of court.

Sounds serious, my dear. I’m an old man living on pension and the occasional can of cat food when times are especially lean. I haven’t had any credit in over ten years. Is this that old?

Mr. Furr, we should just work on your obligation. Our client seeks restitution. Please let’s settle this now. Send me a good faith check in the amount of one hundred dollars and then we’ll make payment arrangements.

Well, Roberta Gilchrist, seems like you have all the answers. Where are you calling from?

Roberta hesitates. I never gave my name. How do you know my name?

I must have heard it somewhere, my dear. Where are you calling from?

Completely unnerved the woman replies, From my office, sir.

Don’t that beat all? I’m thinking you’re sitting in that bedroom of yours on Pope Street, inside your little white house with the overdue mortgage payments. You’re wearing that tacky orange pull-over with those horrid red shorts. Your hair could stand a comb, and those Big Macs you eat are downright unkind to your hips.

The chill the woman feels now has to do with more than the deep voice. Who are you?

Louis Furr, young lady, just Louis Furr. This account you speak of is eleven-years-old. It’s been paid. I’m meticulous with things like that.

Sir?

I can’t be sued. You know that. The original company went bankrupt and sold this erroneous debt. There have been others like you. Your company bought the dead debt for one hundred dollars, and then falsified the dates to put it on my credit report. If I send you money, even a dollar, you know it would be a legal admission of a debt owed. There is no client, and you, my dear, are being a very naughty girl.

Roberta’s hands are shaking uncontrollably. She doesn’t speak.

Is this how you want to earn a living? Isn’t your life bad enough already? You are behind on your bills, your husband left you five years ago and your mother’s dying of cancer. Your fifteen-year-old daughter hates you. You haven’t had sex in two years unless you count that device in your bottom left dresser drawer.

The headset she wears feels as if it weighs a ton. She tries to speak, but only a squeak comes out.

This company you work for preys on the poor and unfortunate. You and they are bottom-feeders. You give honest collectors a bad name, and you participate in planting grief in others. For shame. I have, however, some good news and bad news for you.

Roberta can only listen.

Your seventeen-year-old son, Larry, is no longer a pothead, and that’s the good news. The bad news is he’s graduated to heroin.

A moan escapes her lips.

And speaking of seventeen-year-olds, Freddy Beaumont was that age two years ago when he was bagging at Safeway. You were, I believe, forty at the time. Wasn’t it the Wednesday night of your daughter’s school play that you propositioned him? She was only thirteen, and you skipped her important play so you could have sex with little Freddy in the school’s visitors lot. Quite an experience in that Ford Taurus rocking the way it was. More bad news, my dear. The young man was also a male prostitute. The Aids virus took him out last year. That might explain your night sweats, dry cough, and constant fatigue.

Roberta Gilchrist is now on her knees. Tears are flowing, and sobs replace the earlier moan. She can only think of razor blades and wrists.

Louis Clayton Furr glances casually at his exceptionally long fingernails and gently hangs up the phone.

* * *

Steven Taylor has attained business success. His office is chrome and glass. The suits he wears, somewhat dated but stylish, are Bill Blass originals. His dark hair is ‘Hollywood’ and his tanned skin the product of a salon. A private slot in the underground garage corrals his new Porsche Boxer.

Mr. Taylor is V.P. of Operations at Dam and Able. The letterhead suggests the company is a law firm. However, this is no law firm. It is a collection agency. It has no clients; nor does it represent any. It buys old debt for pennies on the dollar and then uses any and all methods to collect from the unsuspecting and unfortunate. Some of the debt is real, though up to fifteen years old. Some of the debtors are victims of identity theft. All are beyond the statute of limitations in most states, but that doesn’t stop collection agencies like this. Steven Taylor, husband of Mary, and father of little Ralphie and petite Lucy pulls a six figure yearly salary and impressive bonuses. The latter comes from the ‘green blood’ sucked from the financially depleted ‘near corpses’ who are the targets of the firm. Mr. Taylor is forty-five and a prince among the ‘collection vampires’.

This morning he has a difficult account programmed into his computer. The total receivable is ten thousand eight hundred dollars. The agency bought it for one hundred dollars. They expect to collect two thousand dollars on it while promising to write off the rest. But another ‘vampire agency’ will buy it and continue sucking. Steven typically handles ten to twenty of these accounts a week. His success rate is upwards of seventy percent.

The computer signals the call has been picked up, and the V.P.’s headset is activated.

Mr. Taylor hears a firm and resonant, Hello?

May I speak with Mr. Louis Furr?

You are speaking to him, says Mr. Furr. Who is this please?

I am calling from the law offices of Dam and Able. We represent a client with whom you have a debt… Fallenhot Credit Services. You have an outstanding balance of ten thousand eight hundred dollars. Our client has authorized settlement of four thousand dollars if you accept today. If not we will be forced to start legal proceedings immediately.

And if I pay the money today the debt is paid in full?

Absolutely. We can assure you of that.

And if I can’t pay you will sue me?

We will.

But I paid the initial debt years ago.

Our client says otherwise.

What if I haven’t the money?

Borrow it. Take out a second mortgage. Sell your car. Call your children. We are doing our part by offering this settlement.

But, Mr. Steven Taylor, you can’t sue me on an eleven-year-old debt. You can’t legally report me to a credit bureau. The statute of limitations is long gone. And you have no client, nor are you a law firm.

How do you know my name? asks Taylor.

Lucky guess. Sorry to hear about the unfortunate suicide of Roberta Gilchrist.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Of course you do, Mr. Taylor, of course you do. Just like you know you’re attempting to take advantage of me. Will you use the bonus from this to help buy another suit? You did notice the one you have on today has a small tear in the pants. That won’t help your image in the office. Your little girlfriend, Marie in accounting, should have mentioned it this morning when you stopped by to give her money for an abortion. You should have used protection.

What the hell are you talking about? Taylor looks around his office; sure there must be cameras there. Who the hell are you?

Louis Furr, the voice says, deeper now than a moment ago. I hope blood’s not getting on your shirt from that nosebleed you’ve got.

Taylor puts his hand to his face, What nose bleed?

I do apologize. I’m a bit premature. I mean the one starting now!

At that very instant blood squirts from Steven Taylor’s nose. He leaps from his seat in fear and shock. Oh My God! he shouts.

I don’t think so, Furr says quietly, I don’t think so. I imagine there’s blood all over your shirt now. You might want to think about going home to change, but that wouldn’t be a good idea.

The bloodied man is still quite shaken. Why not?

Right now your wife, Mary, is in bed with your father, George. Perhaps it would be less traumatic if you wait until this afternoon when she’s in bed with the exterminator.

I don’t believe a single word you’ve said. Tears are in Taylor’s eyes.

Oh yes you do. The nosebleed convinced you, my friend.

What do you want from me, Mr. Furr.

I have all I want, Mr. Taylor. There’s nothing I need from you. However, I have some good news and some bad news for you. The bad news is your embezzling has been discovered. When you took money to pay off your gambling debt, the boys you paid off are the same boys who own this collection agency. Small world. They’re sending a shooter over to meet you in the parking garage.

The V.P. of Operations at Dam and Able develops a massive headache. His heart is pounding, and his breathing is erratic.

The good news is the shooter will never reach you. You’ll never pay for your embezzlement. You’ll never have to think of your cheating wife or your pregnant girlfriend again. And you’ll not see little Ralphie go to jail in eight years. Need I mention you shall miss lovely Lucy becoming an alcoholic in five? Oh dear, I just did. Here’s the problem. You have two arteries about to burst. One at the base of the brain, and one near your heart. Both will go in thirty seconds. Technically your life will end from an aneurysm of the brain and an aortic aneurysm. Unlike the blood debt you’ve lived on, you will not be returning from the grave.

Who are you, he gasps with his last breath, who are you?

Just a debtor, my dead friend, just an ensnared debtor.

* * *

The office is small and neat. A rectangular oak desk, a matching oak chair, and a small red globe lamp are the only furnishings. The hardwood floor is spotless. The bare walls are painted off-white. Centered on the desk is a 1910 Bell telephone. It’s an original, and its black surface shows no wear. Neither the phone nor the lamp has wires or batteries. There are no windows, but there is a frosted glass panel in the only door. The name, ‘Fallenhot Enterprises’, is in bold black letters in the center.

The room is bathed in red light from the lamp. Dancing shadows on the wall suggest tormented figures. The phone rings on the desk. Mr. Furr suddenly appears from nowhere. He walks over to the desk and picks up the receiver. Hello?

A professional sounding female voice responds, May I speak with Mr. Louis Furr, please?

This is he.

Mr. Furr, I am required by law to inform you this is a legal attempt to collect a debt.

Oh my, he says, breaking into a feral grin, this sounds serious.

His fangs are pearly white, and sharp. As he stands, his long red tail swings rhythmically left to right and back again. His left hoof is stationary, his right hoof taps rhythmically. Just above the bottom of the frosted glass panel is his name, Lou C. Furr; and below that, Collector of Debts.

Please continue my dear, he says as he strokes his neatly trimmed Van Dyke, I’m all ears.

E

DDIE ZERO

Doug Langille

Doug Langille is a husband, father, and shameless technophile living the good life in Nova Scotia. He is also a grandfather, bird keeper, dog owner and cat butler. By day, Doug fights the good fight working in I.T. at the Nova Scotia Community College. When asked to describe his work, he says: I think stuff up and write it down. He does other stuff, too. Doug has recently rediscovered his passion for writing, drawing inspiration from his favorite authors, including: Stephen King, Clive Barker, Jack Whyte, Philip K. Dick and Robert W. Service. He doesn’t usually talk about himself in the third-person, but when he does he tends to bend the truth a little.

I DIDN’T KILL him. He was already dead.

The room was pitch black when I awoke. I fell asleep leaning against the back of the door. My shoulders tingled as my circulation returned. It didn’t help much. With my arms restrained like they were, it was nearly impossible to take a full breath. My head swam as my eyes adjusted to the dark. The sparks and flashes of dust motes disoriented me, awash in a sea of teaming life where darkness reigned.

The power had been out for a couple of days, from what I surmised from the dim glow ebbing and flowing through the wire-reinforced glass in the door. There was no real way to be sure though. Time was elastic for me at the best of times. These days? Well, let’s just say things were different.

The hot, stale air reeked of my own sweat and stink, and his as well, I suppose. My foot shot out to kick him, landing with a wet thud. In some ways, I was thankful for the dark. The air exchangers were out, but there must have been some venting somewhere. My breathing grew frantic again, so I closed my eyes against the murk and did the breathing exercises Doctor Goodwin taught me. She was my favorite. She always smiled at me. At least she did when she possessed a face. Bastards.

We were in group session when the arse fell out of the world. Doctors Goodwin and Meier were running the show with a stuffed bear as a talking stick. Barry, Emma and Hughie went first, leaving me and Haley. I grew bored with Hughie’s crying and Barry’s whimpering, as he rocked back and forth. Haley stood, walked around her chair clockwise, and then counter-clockwise, humming a nursery rhyme. Meier guided her back to her seat. Man, these people were nuts.

Goodwin cell buzzed. She glanced at the number and excused herself to take it. I watched her shapely legs swish away with approval. I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave, I mused. Hughie stuffed that damnable bear in my face, blocking my view, and shook it like a rattle. I wanted to punch him. That was probably why I was in restraints.

It’s your turn, Eddie, said Meier. Do you have anything to share this morning?

Fuck you.

Meier shook his head and bent forward to scribble in his chart. The bald spot looked like a tantalizing target. Goodwin came back, put her hand on her colleague’s arm, and handed him a note. His glasses fell from his face and dangled around his neck from the chain that later facilitated his untimely demise.

The security alarm clanged as the double-doors at the back of the ward burst open. A small crowd of dishevelled-looking people broke into the room. They were all bloody and torn, but moved with a swiftness I hadn’t thought possible. Immediate pandemonium erupted in a melee of gore and violence. Frozen in shock, I witnessed the escalation. Three assailants gnawed on Goodwin's pretty face after tackling her to the ground. Barry vomited all over his pajamas, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t make it out of the circle. None of them did.

Meier and I clambered over and around each other trying to get out the south door. I threw my body against the press bar and fell through. Still bound in the jacket, I panicked and yelled as I violently flopped around on the floor like a fish out of water. Meier, wide-eyed and bleeding, helped me stand and we bolted to the cell block to hide.

It wasn’t until later I realized he’d been bitten.

* * *

I kicked Meier again. Nothing. I didn’t mind hunger, but hated being thirsty. Drinking from the toilet had to be pretty much the lowest point of my miserable life.

The dark got to me. At first there was a lot of noise, but it’d been relatively quiet for some time. No screaming. No growling. With the power off, I faintly made out the sounds of the street below. Sirens. Gunfire. There was an explosion last night, but nothing in the ward.

Pacing around the cell helped me think. It wasn’t mine, but Marky’s. I can’t remember. We weren’t exactly reading room numbers, if you know what I mean. A lucky break in one hand and a dumb-ass move in the other, we hid in a cell that automatically sealed when closed. It needed to be unlocked from the outside. Nice.

Meier and I cowered like children, holding our breath. I begged him to take the jacket off, but he refused. Paranoid or just an asshole, who knows? Rotten fucker. Glad he’s dead. No, I won’t take it back.

The good doctor found Jesus, Allah and Buddha. He hedged his bets, I thought. Sometime after the first couple of long hours, he raved and babbled. The crowd of crazies on the other side of the door heard him and screamed incoherently, banging on the metal. The emergency lights were still on, and I worried they’d figure it out. They weren’t likely getting inside without a working brain cell to spare. It was Meier who drove me batty.

All at once, he got quiet and passed out. Eventually, the crazies begged off to find other faces to peel and limbs to eat. I bent over him to listen for breathing. It would’ve been much easier with hands, of course. Nothing.

He sprang forward and growled like the freaks outside. I’d seen enough zombie movies to guess where this was going. I didn’t get out of his way in time. He tripped over me, fell forward and slammed his head on the toilet with a dull thud. Not waiting to see if it slowed him down, I jumped on his back and dug my heels into his pudgy hips. Using my