Days of the Dead Presents Nevada Necromance

By Joe Moe

Horror fans are known to be an extremely well read, literate, creative and ambitious tribe. Fans have grown up to be mainstream icons with names like Steven Spielberg, Guillermo Del Toro, Tim Burton, Stephen King, Elvira, Peter Jackson, Anne Rice, Rick Baker and many more. These household names have one thing in common; Something inspired them to be more than just audience members. Something convinced them they could participate and contribute their own talents and stories to the inventive and exciting genres of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror that they love. Editor Joe Moe has partnered with Days of the Dead Horror convention promoter Bill Philputt, and Nicholas Grabowsky, publisher of Black Bed Sheet Books, to inspire that same spark of participation for a new generation of fans. This ongoing series of anthologies is designed to engage fans and to promote creativity and literacy by offering an opportunity for new writers to be published and read. They also hope readers of these books will be motivated to write their own stories and see themselves in print in upcoming editions. We all owe it to ourselves to find our voice. Once found, we owe it to the world to share it! Leave the fear to your readers. Write your story!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Bed Sheet Books
• Release date: Mar 14, 2020

Joe Moe

Joe Moe is an authentic renaissance artist: 3rd generation Polynesian entertainer, studio vocalist (solo CD: Mainland), screenwriter (Red Velvet), FX artist and designer of dark-rides for international theme parks. He’s edited retro-issues of FAMOUS MONSTERS OF FILMLAND magazine and is co-creator of Mad Monster Party horror cons! Joe sculpted a monster mask for Don Post Studios (“Schizoid”), once operated the front half of beloved Muppet, “Snuffleupagus,” and swam with a 7-foot Tiger Shark (not intentionally)! Joe lived for years caring for the late genre icon Forrest J Ackerman in his “Ackermansion” of Sci-Fi, Fantasy & Horror memorabilia. Joe is currently senior catalog editor at Profiles in History, premiere Hollywood collectibles auction house. Joe Moe is thrilled to be a horror host at Days of the Dead conventions across the country.

Book preview

Days of the Dead

presents

Nevada Necromance

A Horror Fanthology

Las Vegas, Nevada

March 20-22, 2020

Edited by

Joe Moe

Days of the Dead presents:

Nevada Necromance

A Horror Fanthology

Las Vegas, Nevada, March 20-22, 2020

A Black Bed Sheet/Diverse Media Book

March 2020

Copyright © 2020 by Black Bed Sheet Books/Days of the Dead/all respective authors & contributors

All rights reserved.

Days of the Dead conventions are brought to you by Bill Philputt

and sponsored by Big Bang Toys & Collectibles

Cover art by Shawn Langley Illustration

Design by Nicholas Grabowsky

and copyright © 2020 Black Bed Sheet Books

The selections in this book are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN-10: 1-946874-25-6

ISBN-13: 978-1-946874-25-2

Days of the Dead presents

Nevada Necromance

A Horror Fanthology

Las Vegas, Nevada

March 20-22, 2020

A Black Bed Sheet/Diverse Media Book

Antelope, CA

Short horror stories written by fans for fans

Dedicated to Ray Bradbury, author and visionary who inspired legions through his stories and personal accessibility. Sunning ourselves in the tonic of Ray’s laughter and the potency of his tears was purely magical.

Special thanks to

Bill Philputt

Contents

Forryword by Joe Moe

A Valentine for Timothy by Martin Aguilera

The Ghost of Ron Witman by Jace Witman

Oh, Susannah! by Jezibell Anat

13 Miles by Allan J.D. McNeill

Ghost Dance by Elizabeth Wynia

Dirty Pool by Richard A. Becker

The Purple Heart by Russell Carroll

The Costume Taylor by Spooky Boo Rhodes

My Property. Forever. by Megan Di Stefano

Road Rage and the Average Girl by J.D. Rabid

Helpful by David Klein

The Other Way of Stopping by Samuel Glass Jr.

Lioness by Joe Bitton

There Be Monsters by Michael Graveborn

Ante Up by Luke Jonavic

Papa by M. Donovan West

The Loneliest Road in America by Shawn O’Bannon

Susie Wins. Jimmy, Not So Much by Joe Moe

Forryword

The authors in this edition have embarked on a horror writer’s journey. One with triumphant stops along the way, but one that never ends. For those of you who’ve made it into the pages of this book, I hope it’s a landmark for you. Regardless of your level of accomplishment outside of this project, you’ll find that between these covers you’re in the company of writers possessing a wealth of knowledge and passion for horrors past, present, and future! This is good news for you readers too!

For those writers who didn’t make it into this edition, it doesn’t make your efforts or accomplishment any less monumental. We can’t all arrive at our desired destination at the exact same time. But if we set about starting the trip, we can all ultimately get there. A creative life is made up of a decision to live such a life and a willingness to pursue that life unconditionally. That means chasing the life we wish for even while conducting the life we must. We can’t know when we’ll be as good as we can be or when success will find us. However, we can be certain that exercising our imagination will make us better storytellers. And writing horror, our culture’s great morality tales, offers the grandest opportunity to move readers through boundless creativity.

Your writing is a living, breathing sculpture. Unfinished until you say so. Refine and perfect it - for as long as it takes. Here’s a challenge for those who didn’t end up in this anthology. Write another story. Set it aside. Now, revisit the story you originally wrote for this book. I’m confident you’ll find a couple of things. First, your second story will be stronger than the first, as it should be. Second, upon reading your first story, you’ll discover many ways to improve it. If you do this, I believe any lingering disappointment will evaporate as you realize just how good you are and how much better you can and will be! Keep writing!

To those of you in print here: we hope this is a beginning for you too. One horror story can spawn two more. Perhaps there’s a screenplay or novel in your future? Your name in this book signifies your evolution from passenger to phantom carriage driver, urging a team of black steeds along the winding, ominous roads of the Carpathian Mountains. We don’t seek back pats for any part we may play in encouraging you. Just your pledge to share your personal discoveries for success and fulfillment with the next generation of horror lovers and budding writers.

To our valued readers: perhaps when you finish this book, you’ll be inspired to set it down and write your own terrifying tale. We can’t wait to read you!

Thank you for allowing me, Days of the Dead horror conventions and Black Bed Sheet Books the privilege of being your launching pad to fantastic new worlds, epic journeys, harrowing horrors, and the magnificent monsters that make us shudder with glee.

Your grateful pal and editor, 

Joe Moe

●

Martin Aguilera is a writer, filmmaker, and bibliophile (reads 100+ books annually!) living in Los Angeles. Since 2017, horror-loving Aguilera has contributed articles to the GrandMonster of them all, considered the Big Bang of genre fandom since 1958, Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine! Martin has been a commissioned writer on a variety of independent film and TV projects as well as story consultant on movies for Blumhouse, Sony, and Paramount Pictures. Martin is currently writing and developing his feature film directorial debut, a horror movie (surprise!) to be produced by Escape Room and Insidious: The Last Key director Adam Robitel.

●

A Valentine for Timothy 

by Martin Aguilera

I don’t often look to the past, but the lonely hours between midnight and four A.M. have a way of uncoupling the earth from the sinister terrain of memories long left dead and buried.

This happened to me a long time ago.

It was late summer the year I turned seventeen when we took Timothy in as a boarder. As it played out, he was to be the last. Our home in Reno, Nevada saw a lot of tenant traffic in those days, most of them graduate and doctoral students attending UNR where my father had been an Associate Professor in the Engineering Department. After his sudden death mom had decided to rent out our two spare bedrooms. It’s a way to give back, she said. Your father always liked to help young people starting out.

I suspected it was to ward off the emptiness which befell us after the car wreck that claimed his life.

I don’t know if Timothy answered Mom’s Craigslist ad online or if he found us from the flyers she’d had me post on the campus quad, but when I biked home from the library one afternoon there he was at the kitchen table signing the lease, all six feet of him, thin frame but well-defined with toned arms, tousled dark hair, and sharp blue eyes.

Elliot, this is Timothy. Timothy, my son Elliot.

He looked up and lit the room up with his smile. Nice to meet you, he said. His eyes were piercing and I could feel my face flush. They darted to the books under my arm. Ah, a fellow bookworm.

I nodded. Got ‘em at the library.

What did you pick up? Timothy asked, genuinely interested.

"Ray Bradbury, E.M Forster, and Lord of the Flies."

You’re a man of good taste, he said. That beaming smile again.

Perhaps because it was obvious how intrigued I was, mom chimed in with: If you’d like, Elliott can show you where the library is. All the good coffee shops for studying, too. He practically grew up on campus.

I’d like that, Timothy said. Yes, please.

I returned the smile, and bit my lip.

* * *

We were kindred spirits, our friendship solidifying quickly as I learned the basics of his life. Timothy was twenty-three and from El Paso, Texas, the only son of a single mother and with an aptitude for math and science which had earned him a scholarship to his local university. While there he’d traveled to Reno for summer research internships at UNR and was accepted into their graduate program in Engineering.

That was fascinating, but other things excited me more. His passion for all things horror and science fiction, for instance, which I shared in equal measure—especially old movies that we’d stay up to watch whenever he had some down time. I introduced Timothy to The Mole People and he showed me Night of the Demon. We loved many of the same books, too, and were constantly trading novels and short story collections to discuss. On occasion we’d even read them out loud to each other on the living room couch.

There were so many magical days and nights between us that late summer and fall. Walks to Video Paradise and Pizza Hut and The Paperback Exchange, hikes to Babbitt Peak, bike rides to North Virginia Street to observe drunks and gamblers coming in and out of the casinos while we shared a blooming onion or fried Oreos and laughed at the silly tourists.

I never wanted it to end.

I really love your company, man, Timothy told me one evening when we were headed back to the house from Video Paradise with VHS rentals. His pick: Nightbreed. My pick: Deep Rising. He was so open and unabashed—among the many things I came to love about Timothy. There was a natural ease to how gregarious he was; simple, honest, expressive, not shy with a compliment, heart on his sleeve. Always needing to connect, to make sure there was nothing left unsaid. It elated, at times overwhelmed me, but it was never not welcome.

There was something wholly intoxicating about how Timothy was in the world, I could only hope to inhabit the spaces he conjured with bonhomie.

I was embarrassed in the moment, not because of what he’d said, but because of how it made me feel. I’m happy you moved in, I managed to blurt out. You’re really cool. Then I changed the subject by challenging him to a race: first one back to the house got to pick the screening order of the double feature!

He knocked the VHS tape out of my hand and took off running.

* * *

Mom often joined us for game night. She had a competitive streak, and sessions of Scrabble or Monopoly would get vicious, our asses handed back to us with spirited laughter by her acumen. It was nice to see her be vivacious and carefree. For too long I’d only seen her cry. Timothy made mom feel special, too. But I think she sensed what was happening between us before we did and left us alone, instead choosing to observe from a distance. I’d sometimes catch her smirking at an overheard jab or not-so-subtle flirtation. There was a lot of that.

It was inevitable.

The silent glances following a laugh, lingering stares when we’d walk down the hall to our rooms after a shower in thin underwear, casual thigh squeezes when either of us would get excited over something and simply had to touch for emphasis. Affection was natural between us, but I couldn’t be sure if it meant more only