Anguish

By Jeremy Seals

Fear is a four letter word with a lot of punch. Fear keeps us up in the wee hours, prevents us from entering a dark room, and makes every little unknown sound something that's just waiting to rip you apart.

Does the thought of ghosts make you uneasy? How about the botched summoning of a demon? What about a six foot, six inch Satanic serial killer?

Do any of these make you scared, or are you just intrigued? Either way, come along into the darkness with ten short horror stories in Anguish. Make sure to leave the lights on....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeremy Seals
• Release date: Oct 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370055784

Jeremy Seals

Jeremy Seals was born, raised, and lives in Ohio. By day, he works a mundane office job, but by night...he's usually writing and watching Star Trek with his wife and three fur babies. Nothing too exciting, he likes to keep things low key.Jeremy is a life long fan of the horror genre across all media. He especially enjoys 1970's grindhouse cinema and Clive Barker's myriad works. He also has a long time fascination with serial killers, the paranormal, social panics, and urban legends. All of these influences have combined to create the horrific stories he writes.Recently, Jeremy was made aware of the true life horrors inflicted upon livestock by the meat and dairy industry. As a result, he is a passionate vegan. Don't worry, his writing is not non-stop preaching about being plant based.Jeremy is active on Instagram @TheVeganHorrorAuthor. See what he eats and the memes he posts about veganism. Also,he likes taking pictures of clouds and weather in general.

Book preview

Anguish

By

Jeremy Seals

All Stories Copyright Jeremy Seals 2016

Table of Contents

Revenge

Frenchie

Olivia

Defiler

Ouija

Fuckface

Hunted

Lust

Pastor

Chosen

Note from the Author

Revenge

Blue skies and warm May sunshine poured down on Clara. She was sitting by the neat duck pond at the small park near Marble State University. Idly, the young, petite brunette watched the plump birds paddle around. It should have been relaxing.

However, nothing about the scene could settle the tremor in her kneading hands. No waterfowl, despite being extremely cute, could erase the dark circles under Clara’s eyes. She was perched on the green and yellow bench’s edge. Should anything have startled her, she probably would have leapt off the seat and sprinted away.

Sergeant Billy Thompson had no intention of scaring the girl. Even from fifty yards away, he could see the grease in her sloppily tied back chestnut hair. Clara’s thin frame was pre-anorexic. The oversized man’s sweater she wore positively floated around her.

He sighed and started the walk back to his patrol car. She’d been coming here for about a month now, staying from noon until dusk. Billy wasn’t sure exactly what she was doing, but maybe being here eased her mind.

The girl had been badly assaulted at a frat party. Beaten up, violated, and dumped in the parking lot of a grocery store. All Clara would say is that she was hurt at an apartment house near the campus. She’d gone with friends, gotten separated. Next thing she’d known, the shop’s manager was checking her pulse.

To say the least, the investigation had gone nowhere. No, she didn’t know who hurt her. No, she couldn’t pick out the house or the car she’d been in. Frustrated and without a single viable lead, Thompson wasn’t able to build any kind of case. He had the feeling that she was withholding information. So did his superiors. Without cooperation from the victim, however, there wasn’t a whole lot they could do.

Thompson hadn’t given entirely up on the crime. He had leaned on several snitches, learning that the meatheads had videoed the incident and put it on several websites. A hard copy of the vile act was circulating among certain circles. Several scumbags trying to earn money off the video were jailed. It was probably a matter of time before they caught the bastards, since cases like this unraveled like a cheap sweater. Hard as hell to be patient though, even for the most seasoned cop.

Everything in him wanted to approach the girl and give comfort, yet something stopped Thompson from doing so. Facing Clara’s hopeless, withered gaze, sitting behind a smudged pair of jaunty red glasses that contradicted the dread hanging over her was simply too much. The officer continued on his way, calling himself a coward.

Silas Fenton waited until the cop was out of sight before approaching the girl. Due to the nature of his chosen profession, the less police noticed him, the better. Blending in was what made him the best. He was unremarkable in every way; build, height, and looks. He dressed well in high quality clothing that had no noticeable flash to it.

Nothing about him spoke to how dangerous Fenton really was.

Clara watched him approach with huge round eyes. She hadn’t dared to believe that the man would actually show up. The simple advertisement tacked to the strange book store’s bulletin board had seemed so phony, so plain; Need help with a unique problem? Call 904-555-6366.

She hadn’t even been looking for assistance that day. The tiny shop was the only place open when Clara had taken a stroll one sleepless night. It had smelled of incense and strong coffee. Everyone inside wore dark clothing, though their dispositions were friendly. She’d browsed through books and crystals before wandering to the message board.

It took a week for her to finally call the number. The secretary on the other end had taken some basic information before putting Clara on hold. She’d almost hung up, thinking this was going to be some new age bullshit help line. When the serious sounding man on the other end had picked up and began talking, it became very obvious that the assistance he offered was unique.

Have you gone to the police? Fenton asked after introducing himself and letting her stumble through her dilemma.

Yes. They were at the hospital when I woke up, Clara answered quietly. I didn’t tell them…everything I could have.

Why?

Because all the cops would have done is thrown them in jail. I want them…

Say it. Fenton demanded.

Punished.

Harshly?

Yes! Sudden anger burned in Clara’s breast. I want them tortured like they tortured me! I want them…hurt! Hurt so bad they can’t harm anyone else!

You’re sure about that?

Yes!

All right. Fenton said. She could hear him leafing through a calendar. I’ll meet you one day next week at the park near your college. Bring pictures and names for me.

Clara complied, pulling and printing the required information from various social media sites. It was difficult to look at the faces of the three men who’d hurt her. She’d actually vomited once while looking at a simple black and white photo. Knowing what was behind their smiling, All-American faces was a terrible burden. Growing obsession with people’s real faces made her afraid to leave her apartment. You never knew who people were until the masks fell off.

Fenton was just as businesslike in person as on the phone. You have the information I requested?

Silently, Clara handed over a manila envelope. Fenton tucked it into a jacket pocket. He regarded her curiously with his mild brown eyes.

Are you sure about this? He asked gently. This is your last chance to call it off.

I’m sure, Clara said softly. When do I pay?

When the job is done. You understand my price?

She lowered her head. My body.

Don’t look so sad, Fenton soothed. Some who offer the same services as I do require the soul. This is much cleaner, easier for you. Believe me.

He brushed pollen off one suit sleeve. That’s down the road, though. For now, let’s shake on it and I’ll get to the job.

A sharp pinprick stung Clara’s palm as their hands touched. She recoiled. He held on for a moment before releasing her. Bright blood pooled in her pale palm. What was that?

Sorry, he said. I need a little. That’s the most discreet way to do it. Here.

Incredibly, Fenton was handing her a bandage. Clara took it numbly. When will you begin?

Very soon, he was walking away. Wait a little bit before leaving. Please don’t try to follow me. Good-bye, Clara.

She obeyed, continuing to watch the ducks until the shadows in the park grew long. Scurrying back to home, she supposed someone else might’ve wondered if they were doing the right thing. The thought never crossed her mind. Maybe that made her a bad person.

Clara found she no longer gave a shit.

******

Fenton worked late into the night. He was stripped to the waist, painting runes onto the bleached white bones of a skeleton. Chants, rising and falling in intensity, issued from his lips. Gold teeth twinkled dimly in the candlelight from the bony sewn shut mouth.

The final sigil applied, he stood back from his project. Fenton double checked each brush stroke. Any symbol incorrectly applied wouldn’t provide the desired result. Lack of scrutiny during this stage would result in abomination. At best, this golem wouldn’t rise. Most failures he’d encountered ended with the creator, requestor, all intended targets, and about a dozen innocents mangled in horrible ways.

During his apprenticeship under an old warlock named Gish, Fenton watched an overeager fledgling necromancer raise an enormous, four-armed creature made from a mixture of manure and earthly clay. Rather than obey the bellowing young sorcerer, the monster began dismembering the boy. Listening to the incompetent fellow’s screams during the gory procedure was almost worse than watching it. Two more had died before an incantation from Gish reduced it to reeking ash.

He’d taken the lesson to heart. Fenton agonized over the accuracy of his runes, never once making a mistake. Decades of practice made him the foremost expert in reanimating the inanimate. His skill was such that the next step; painstakingly shaping the golem’s body by hand, could be skipped over. The advanced runic magic applied would raise the stony flesh in a rough, undetailed caricature of who the bones once belonged to.

In this case, the agent of destruction would be an approximate representation of one Leon Frye. A numbers runner for the Cleveland syndicate who’d sought Fenton out to wreak havoc on his bloodthirsty competitors. Unfortunately, Leon’s adversaries had already met with Fenton. After the golem did its work, he took the wannabe mobster’s bones for payment.

Now the criminal’s remains lay on Fenton’s table. The sorcerer used wire cutters to unseal the skeleton’s mouth. Into the now gaping jaws he shoved the pictures Clara had provided. A guttural incantation reduced them to ash. He spoke again, another deep throated phrase in a long-forgotten tongue. This spell was punctuated with three rings of his ancient iron bell.

"Time to wake