Bete Noire Issue #26

By A. W. & Jennifer Gifford

Bête Noire brings you the best in dark fiction. In this issue we bring you H. M. Pridemore, Stephanie Smith, Bill Thomas, John Kojak, Marge Simon, Seth Augenstein, Deborah L. Davitt, Kendall Evans, Steve Ross, Aaron Moskalik, Bruce Boston, David Cowen, and Margaret Karmazin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. W. & Jennifer Gifford
• Release date: May 24, 2018

A. W. & Jennifer Gifford

Many of A. W. Gifford’s story ideas come from the nightmares of his wife, Jennifer. Though she too is a writer of dark fiction, she will never write these stories herself, fearing that if she does, they will come true.He is the editor of the dark fiction magazine Bête Noire and his work has appeared in numerous magazines, webzines and anthologies.Though he grew up in the northern suburbs of Detroit, he now resides outside of Atlanta, Georgia with his wife, two dogs, Reagan and Riley, and a pride of cats.Jennifer Gifford has always had a fascination with the dark and humorous side of fiction. She hates creepy old dolls, spiders, and garden gnomes. The inspiration for her stories strikes her in the oddest of places from an elevator, walking in class, even in the shower. She loves to read, to cook, and loves horror movies. In turn, her nightmares are often the basis for her husband's stories, because she fears that writing her own nightmares will make them come true. Jennifer has been writing for almost two decades, and spends her time in three states: Georgia , Michigan , and panicked.

Book preview

BÊTE NOIRE

FEAR IS JUST A POINT OF VIEW

Editors:

A. W. Gifford

Jennifer L. Gifford



www.betenoiremagazine.com

Bête Noire is published by Dark Opus Press a division of Charm Noir

Omnimedia P.O Box 811, Ortonville, MI 48062

Smashwords Edition

This collection is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and scenarios are the products of the authors’ imagination. Any

resemblance to actual persons living or dead, places, or events is

purely coincidental.

Bête Noire Magazine © 2018 Charm Noir Omnimedia

Cover art © 2018 A. W. Gifford

All stories, poems, artwork and photos © 2018 of their respective

creators

Ghosts in the Machine by Aaron Moskalik, first appeared in Nature,

January 2016

In Noir Shadows by Bruce Boston and David Cowen, first appeared in Liquid Imaginations

All rights reserved. No portion of this publication can be reproduced by any means without the prior written permission from the authors of the work or Charm Noir Omnimedia

In This Issue

Collection Day – H. M. Pridemore

Revelation – Spephanie Smith

Aquarium – Bill Thomas

Happy Hands Cleaning Service – John Kojak

April Moon – Marge Simon

The Old Breed – Seth Augenstein

Their Eyes Face East – Deborah L. Davitt & Kendall Evans

Pharaoh – Steve Ross

Ghosts in the Machine – Aaron Moskalik

In Noir Shadows – Bruce Boston and David Cowen

The Ring – Margaret Karmazin

Collection Day

H. M. Pridemore

February 4, 1980

I said go away. Mrs. Cline pressed her ear against the door and caught its labored breathing. I know it’s you. Why don’t you go find some other old woman to bother? She took a step back and yelled at the door. I’m tired of you trying to scare me to death. I don’t care what kind of blasphemous deal we had. Mrs. Cline rested her hands on her stocky hips.

BANG. BANG.

I told you I’m not going out that way. No sir. She shook her head at the door. I’m going peacefully in my bed. And when I say I’m ready. And that’s not tonight. Now, you go on, and get out of here. I’m not letting you in.

Excuse me. Um, I just wanted to—see I live down the hall and my mother said maybe you’d buy a box of cookies from me, came the voice of a young girl.

Mrs. Cline took a step towards the door.

Um, hello is anyone home?

What’s your mother’s name?

Mrs. Morrison.

Mrs. Cline knew Mrs. Morrison and had heard her speak of a daughter. She stood on her tiptoes, shut one eye, and pressed the other one against the peephole. She spied a small girl about ten years old. She had on the traditional green uniform, with appropriate sash. Her deep brown hair hung in two limp pigtails on each side of her head. Mrs. Cline pulled away from the peephole and pressed her ear against the door. The breathing. It was still there. It could camouflage itself however it wanted to, but it couldn’t disguise the heavy wheeze of blackened lungs. Also, where were the cookies? She went back to the peephole. It was standing there, twirling the braids, looking impeccable in its new form, but it had forgotten the cookies.

Where are your cookies?

Oh, I’m just taking orders now. I’ll bring you the cookies in six weeks.

Fine. Put me down for two boxes of anything.

Okay, uh, well I kind of need you to pay for them now. Have to collect ahead of time you know.

The only thing I know is who you really are.

What do you mean Mrs. Cline? Its voice was iced with sweetness.

Go away! Mrs. Cline screamed.

Geez sorry, you old bitch, It said with its own raucous voice. She peeked out the peephole and saw the little girl’s eyes fill with blood.

I told you to go away. She backed away from the door and shivered as she pulled her shawl tight. Where was the breeze coming from? Her grey eyes drifted over to the open window by the fire escape. She hobbled over to the window, stuck her head out, and looked up and down the fire escape. The wind slapped at her face. Tom? Her orange tabby did not respond. She detected a trap and would not fall for it. This window was as far out of her apartment as she’d go. Tom had slipped out, but he’d come back, he always did. She slammed the window shut, locking it tight. She watched as powerful winds blew poorly discarded litter against the brick buildings that lined the streets. Heavy raindrops danced on the window. Poor Tommy out in the rain, her shoulders slumped; nothing she could do for him now. She pulled her curtains shut, and was making her way to the sleeping area, when the knocking started again.

BANG. BANG.

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