A Nightmare's Testimony: A Collection of Creepy Tales from the BisMan Writers Guild

By Justin Cancilliere, M.T. Thomas, Luke Ganje and 7 more

From the depths of the human mind lies more horror than anyone can imagine.  True terror can only come from nightmares. From serial killers stalking prey and cannibalism to witches and demons. Join the BisMan Writer's Guild as they tell A Nightmare's Testimony.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Justin Cancilliere
• Release date: Jan 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393338192

Justin Cancilliere

Justin Cancilliere loves telling stories. Led by mythical dreams and astounding visions that can only be describe through writing, he is in the business of scripting legends. His desire is to bring to life that which swarms in his mind and cascades into words. But it doesn't end there. ​ He takes his artistic verbiage to podcasting as well. A place where he can discuss the weird and unusual. This, along with avid research into the paranormal, help quench his interest in the mystical. He currently resides in Bismarck, North Dakota, where he enjoys the finer things in life with his beautiful wife, Shelly.

Book preview

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the members of the BisMan Writers Guild.

Acknowledgements

Book Cover Design and Construction by Bryan M. Bowden

www.BryanBowden.com

Table of Contents

Puppet by C. W. Snyder 1

Witches Brew and a Familiar Too by Justin Cancilliere 11

Finding Beauty in Negative Spaces by Lexxie Rae 17

My Monster Didn’t Come with the House by M. T. Thomas 18

Manna by Lexxie Rae 28

Stalking by Justin Cancilliere 29

One Missed Call by Daniel Engelke 33

Wijigo by Erik Scerbak 41

Red Riding Hood by Lexxie Rae 45

We Don’t Accept Returns by Luke Ganje 46

The Owl by M. T. Thomas 65

Chill by Lexxie Rae 89

Death is After Me by Justin Cancilliere 90

The Prisoner and The Watch by Jamie Glanville 95

The Highway by Orville Evjen 101

Songs for the Lonesome Nights by Lexxie Rae 107

Christmas with Krampus by Stephen James VonHaden 108

Rare Cuts by Luke Ganje 130

Puppet

Clayton Snyder

Someone threw away a perfectly good white boy, Stan said.

Max, Johnny, and Stan made a circle around the body, a crowd of the curious dead. They stood with arms crossed under power lines that echoed the sentiment above the alley and between tall brownstones blocking the sun and casting shadow into the narrow space. At the mouth of the narrow space, pedestrians passed, heads down or forward, but not looking in. Looking in would acknowledge something wasn’t right in the world of tree-lined streets and shining glass storefronts. Past that, cars rode by in twos and threes, colors blurring under the light. Stan looked around and then made a sound of exasperation.

"Really? Better off Dead? Blank looks. John Cusack?" Still no reaction. He threw his arms up and turned in a circle.

I was born in 1805, Stan, Max said.

So? You’ve never snuck into a movie theater? Shit, you don’t even have to sneak—just walk in and sit down.

Max shook his head, and Stan made a disgusted sound.

Not once in the last 100 years? Gah. He turned to Johnny, who he knew had been alive in the 50s. What about you, slick?

Johnny shrugged. I was a James Dean fan. He looked down and frowned. What do you think happened to him?

Stan pointed to the puddle outlining the body like a melted crayon on a leaf, the edges of the shirt soaking it up and turning the fabric a deep crimson. Probably stabbed. Not likely he was shot unless someone used a small caliber.

How do you know? Max asked.

No exit wound. Lots of blood. 

Why don’t they look? Johnny asked. 

What? Who?

Johnny gestured to the people passing the alley.

They don’t want to see, Max said. 

Why not?

You ever really want to see something ugly? Do you seek it out, make yourself uncomfortable? When you were still alive when you cut yourself, did you take your time and look at the wound, or did you cover it up fast and pinch it off?

Johnny fell quiet for a moment. 

You think he’s got family? He asked, changing the subject with the speed of someone who’s just stepped in dogshit and wishes to remove their shoes.

Probably, Max said.

Doesn’t matter. Lucky bastard got the A-train right away, Stan said. He knelt and dug his hand into the man’s back, the translucent blue of his skin passing into the body.

What the hell are you doing, boy? Max asked.

Stan looked up. Just making sure the lights are out. 

He pulled his arm out and stood.

So? Johnny asked.

Yeah, he’s a goner. So, you guys gonna stick around for the copstravaganza?

They shook their heads.

"I’m going to the library. There’s a guy comes in and reads The Windup Bird Chronicle, and if I don’t get there in time, I’ll miss a page or two," Max said.

"Yeah, the Strand is showing Rebel Without a Cause," Johnny chimed in.

They said their goodbyes. Max walked through the alley wall, probably giving some poor housewife a chill, and Johnny wandered out to the street and through traffic, where several cars passed through him before he got to the other side. Left alone, Stan looked around the alley and wondered what to do.

Eternity could be boring sometimes. Sure, you got the chance to watch people all you wanted, and the cop show was always entertaining, but you could only watch women get into showers so many times before it got to be old hat. He did get free passes to all the movies—being dead would do that—and all the TV he could watch, but that tended to suck when you couldn’t turn the channel. There were always books, but much like TV, you had to wait for someone else to start reading. There was other entertainment as well—war, rape, murder—but you had to be a sick fuck in life to enjoy those.

He eyed the corpse in the alley and wondered what it would be like to be alive again. To feel, to breathe, to eat a cheeseburger. An idea popped into his head and fluttered around, like a moth getting too close to a candle flame. Like a really dumb moth. It was hard to understate how bad an idea it was, but like most things, Stan thought, he did his best to ignore it.

That won’t work. Will it?

He thought maybe he should wander off, find something else to do before he had any other ideas. When you were dead, too many ideas were dangerous. Sometimes they made you sad or frustrated. More often than not, though, they gave you hope, and hope was a blade even the dead could feel. He thought of Max, a specter for all those years, and wondered if the old man still had ideas, or if he brushed them off like houseflies. He started to walk away and found himself at the corpse’s feet. The idea fluttered again.

Stan knelt, placing his knees on the dead man’s. He felt a tingle, like what he felt when he would walk through solid objects. He knelt there for a moment, feeling the buzz, and then closed his eyes. He fell forward, and his entire body took on the tingle, like licking a 9-volt, or several taped together. It was comforting, like one of those vibrating chairs at the mall. He didn’t want to open his eyes, just wanted to feel that soothing tingle until the world faded into black. He pushed himself up and found it took some effort. He opened borrowed eyes.

Stan was surprised to see hands, flesh, and blood, pressed into the concrete. He felt stones pressing into them, and the weight of the body he wore pressing down. His arms trembled a bit, and he shoved himself back until he sat on borrowed heels. Pain flashed through the stolen body, and he looked down at the soiled shirt. He made out the tear in the fabric where the blade had gone in, pressed a hand to his side. Pain spiked from the wound, sending a flare into the brain he was using, and his new fingers came away sticky and carmine.

A moment later, the pain faded, and like a light being switched on, euphoria flooded in. He was in a body. He could breathe—he did just then, took a deep breath, and ignored the pain in his side. Air rushed into his lungs, and he felt light-headed, like the first time he’d had a cigarette. Which reminded him of cigarettes—he missed the harsh burn of smoke and the frisson from that first drag. He missed the taste of red meat, hot and juicy and savory, and the feel of a woman. 

The sound of traffic outside the alley pulled him back into the real world, and he looked down. The shirt was torn and bloody and ruined, and he didn’t think he wanted to stagger out of the alley in that shape. He couldn’t afford attention from doctors or police. He’d need something fresh to start. He looked around and saw luck continued to smile on him. He supposed it had to smile on someone. The guy he was in wasn’t having any, after all. Someone’s laundry hung from a nearby clothesline spanning the alley, in the middle, a big red and black flannel. 

Fuck it, I’ll be a lumberjack today, he thought, and lurched to his feet, the feel of muscle working under him unfamiliar. He teetered for a moment fell forward, managing to get his hands out just in time before he smashed his face into a pulp, but his palms ended up skinned, and his knees a wracked mess. He took a breath, though he suspected he still didn’t need to, and pushed himself up again, then crab-walked to the brownstone wall, and pressed his back against it. Then, with careful deliberation, levered his new body up until he was standing. 

He cheered to himself, an internal victory dance, and then took a hesitant step. When he didn’t fall down, he had another celebration—go, Stan, it’s your birthday—and took another. Before long, he was at the clothesline.

The clothing presented a new challenge. He found his hands weren’t ready to operate a clothespin or buttons, and he ended up ripping the shirt from the line, which came easily, and off his torso, which did not. The tearing of the fabric left lines and welts where the seams wouldn’t part easily. After some cursing and no small amount of frustration, he managed to get the flannel on and buttoned just enough to not show his nipples when he walked down the street. Always a good idea, hiding the nipples, he thought. He looked down, clean as he would be for some time, and felt satisfied enough to leave the alley. A few more practice steps and courage, and he joined pedestrians as though he belonged.

What. Will. You. Have? 

The cashier couldn’t have been more than 16, and Stan was trying not to wring his neck. He stared up at the menu, the high-def photos making his stomach rumble. He thought he wanted the Uber-Stack, six patties alternated with cheese and bacon and sandwiched between two glistening buns, but the Reichsburger sounded delicious as well.

Sir?

Stan forced his face to frown, and the kid behind the counter stepped back. Shit. He was doing it wrong. He tried to remember what a normal face looked like and smiled. He was sure all of his teeth were showing, but damn if he wasn’t trying. 

Gimme the Uber-Stack.

Mezzerschmidt fries or Panzer Rings?

Rings, please.

The kid pressed some buttons on his register, which beeped and booped at him. 

Eight oh five.

Panic stitched its way across Stan’s chest. He thrust a hand into his pocket,