Nightmare Whispers: The Darkness Within: Nightmare Whispers, #1

By Fae Corps Publishing, Patricia Harris, Z.L. A. and 12 more

Fae Corps Publishing presents 9 tales of terror that answer the question: "What lies in the dark?" Featuring poetry, prose and art by new and established authors from around the world. Nightmare Whispers Volume 1: The Darkness Within is (152 pages of) terror that makes you think and melds magic, mystery and the mundane to create one sharp punch of horror.

Featuring Horror Themed poetry by:
LISA POFF
JOHN GREY
IVOR STEVEN

Art by:
ZLA

And 9 Spine Tingling Tales:
Number 99 By K.T. Seto: A Prison guard finds an alternate meaning to the word justice.  
Into the Graveyard By Charles Kelley: A bully's dare has consequences that rock a small town
It Pulls the Fibers From My Skin, It Says I'll Get the Knife Again by Raz T. Slasher: A not so imaginary playmate grants a child's fondest desires for a price.
Balancing the Scales by Vonnie Winslow Crist: A woman finds a note from her husband, and learns to embrace the darkness in her heart.
The Heartless Boy by Edward Ahern: an emotionally stunted man finds the perfect job.
The Long Night by Deedra Nichole: A girl remembers the moment that changed her life.
Scare Tactics by Gary Wosk: A retired couple learns the price of their obsessions.
VORVOLAKA by Stephen McQuiggan: One man learns to deal with his fear after learning that monsters are real.
Lyra's Visitation by Lily M. Snow: A woman is visited by the ghost of her friend.

 

Nightmare Whispers Volume 1: The Darkness Within
Anger Mirrors Pain

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fae Corps Publishing
• Release date: Oct 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393563020

Fae Corps Publishing

A relatively new Indie Publisher, Fae Corps is all about helping the Indie Author find the magic in their art.. We are the authors and the small storytellers. We are all about helping the new and struggling authors to be seen.

Book preview

Nightmare Whispers

By Patricia Harris

The darkness within

echoing the madness without,

fighting the urge to pretend

that the anger doesn't mirror

my own pain.

Check Volume II for a continuation of this poem...

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K.T. Seto

to poppy, for always encouraging me to think before I act.

Gary Wosk

To Vincent Price, Whose movies inspired my story.

Lily M. Snow

To those who have stood by and are standing by me through my darkness. I love you and thank you for loving me and pushing me towards the light.

Included in this volume

The Following Stories, Art, and Poetry

Bloody Heart A Drawing by ZLA

Vultures A poem By Lisa Poff

99 A story By K.T. Seto

Near Midnight A Poem by John Grey

Succubus A Poem by John Grey

Fear A Poem by John Grey

Into the Graveyard A Story By Charles Kelley

Renewal: Lost on the River A Poem by Ivor Steven

Smashed Pumpkin Brains A Poem by Ivor Steven

Who’s Rowing My Boat in the Dark A Poem by Ivor Steven

It Pulls the Fibers From My Skin, It Says I'll Get the Knife Again A Story by Raz T Slasher

Balancing the Scales A Story By Vonnie Winslow Crist

The Heartless Boy A Story By Edward Ahern

The Long Night A Story By Deedra Nichole

Scare Tactics A Story By Gary Wosk

Vorvolaka A Story By Stephen McQuiggan

Lyra's Visitation By Lily M Snow

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Rotten

by Lisa Poff

Vultures were flying overhead.

I began searching beneath their

dark and feathered rotunda,

seeing if I could possibly spot

the animal they were preying upon.

I scoured the ground

and couldn’t find a thing.

I even got on my knees,

and crawled through the brush,

scratching up my legs and hands

on hidden burrs and a cactus—

yet they wouldn’t leave.

I swear I smelled something rotting.

Maybe I was imagining things,

but I hoped to be closing in,

as I was hot and exhausted.

I tried to go on,

but collapsed instead.

As I was lying there,

it became clear to me,

it was I who was decaying.

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Number 99

By K.T. Seto

The letters came once a month three nights before the full moon. The man who delivered them always wore the same grey uniform- a long sleeved finely woven tunic and matching slacks, paired with shiny black soft soled shoes – the whole ensemble looked like they cost about what Marshall made in a month. When the delivery man appeared in the antechamber of the Warden’s office Marshall’s instructions were to let him in and leave- he never heard the man speak and never stayed more than a minute after the first time. He wasn’t one to need telling something twice. It was why he’d moved up so fast in the military- why the transition from enlisted to civilian had been seamless and why he’d only needed five years to make his current position as Deputy Warden.

A faint scratching sound alerted him to the man’s presence. Marshall looked up from his paperwork and over to the Administrative Assistant he shared with his superior. The young man rose and walked to open the heavy iron door rather than pressing the release as they did with other guests. Marshall rose, scooped up his jacket and slid his wallet into his pants pocket before walking to the door of the Warden’s office and opening it. A well-choreographed ballet of sorts. With the assistant standing eyes down and the door held open before him while he held open the door at the rear of the room- his eyes fixed on the crack in the plaster just above the head of the delivery man. Every month, three days before the full moon, for the past five years.

Marshall didn’t fidget as his assistant often did, a testament to his training but also because he lacked the curiosity of youth. Age and experience taught him that procedures such as these had reasons. Reasons it is often better not to know, because those lessons came with a large helping of pain and regret. His plate was already full enough. So, he held the door and stared at the crack in the plaster for 45 seconds, and then closed the door, grabbed his key-card and turned to go get coffee from the communal mess instead of their office foyer.

Marshall, come into my office. Warden Whittaker’s voice startled him. He turned to look at the intercom- the box sitting innocuously in its place on the corner of the cabinet behind his desk. He looked up and saw his assistant pause, catching the door to stop it from closing behind him. Marshall shook his head and the assistant nodded and left, the door shutting with a click that sounded loud in the emptiness of the shared space. Marshall took a moment to button his jacket and smoothed his hair before reaching for the door he’d just shut. His hand slipped a little, and he realized he’d begun to sweat. The door opened soundlessly, and he stepped into the room.

The delivery man stood facing the Warden across the scarred expanse of mahogany atop the antique desk. He kept his eyes on the Warden, his first name was Jason, but Marshall never called him that to his face. Warden, Sir, once or twice he’d laughingly called him boss man at their annual picnic. The Warden’s face was grim, which wasn’t unusual. The man seldom changed expression, the only hint that he felt anything at all was in the way he sometimes fiddled with the gold bracelet he always wore on his right wrist. Marshall saw him smile once- it was disturbing. Thankfully, he wasn’t smiling now so Marshall tried to relax, keeping his face blank and his eyes forward.

I’d thought to turn this over to you in a few years when I retire but given the circumstances, I felt you would appreciate being in on this one.

Marshall inclined his head, and the Warden waved him into the chair in front of the desk. The delivery man moved back and for the first time Marshall felt the urge to turn and look. He sat, then took a breath and waited for the Warden to finish speaking.

It’s about Number 99. He said and Marshall moved his hands from where they lay on the armrests of the chair into his lap, spreading his fingers to keep from balling them into fists. Mentally he counted to ten then back down again keeping his breathing slow and his face blank.

What about him sir. He said once he was sure he could speak without inflection.

He is going to die.

I wasn’t aware he’d lost his appeal. In fact, I thought they had only just started the process. The Warden waved a hand, and Marshall closed his mouth.

None of that matters now. I have read the request, and he is the only one that fits. That’s why I am bringing you in, I thought you’d like to take him.

I don’t understand.

If you agree to take him Mister Sídhe will explain. The question I am asking is if you would like to deliver him. He’s going to die, I just thought you’d like to see him off, considering.

Considering. Marshall nodded then frowned.

Their facility only had room for 100 prisoners on death row- or the House of Pain as the inmates called it, and they never seemed to hit that number for long. Not that their state executed anyone- the moratorium had lasted longer than he’d been in corrections. Yet they always seemed to lose a few, averaging one or two every quarter. No one cared, the residents of the house of pain were the demons of society. Some were worse than others, but 99- well he made most people look like girl scouts. Everyone wanted him dead. In the 6 months since he’d arrived, they’d had numerous people make attempts, but he’d always managed to get the better of his attackers. His kind always did. Did he want to see him off? Hell, he’d been dreaming of doing just that for the past six months.

I appreciate it. Marshall said, and turned to look at the delivery man before he lost his nerve.

The man stood about a head shorter than Marshall whose height stopped just shy of 2 meters. His build was the opposite of Marshall’s as well. Mister Sídhe- as the warden called him, reminded Marshall of a gymnast or martial artist. Whipcord slim and deadly. His features were sharp and almost feline- thin lips, slanted eyes, thick dark hair, and smooth pale skin. The kind of man women liked to look at and coo over. There was something about his eyes though. His stare was equal parts boredom and amusement. It reeked of the kind of smug superiority that came with knowing you are in complete control of a situation and everyone involved is at your mercy; an expression he’s familiar with. Half the guards had superiority complexes. They didn’t just want to see justice served; they wanted to mete it out. Deliver up a side of humiliation and pain to go with the sentence the judge handed down. Those types didn’t look at the inmates as human. Marshall saw a hint of that in the delivery man’s eyes. It opened a line of thought he hadn’t considered. The kind of thought that kept you up at night, wondering. What kind of person delivered messages that resulted in them sending a prisoner to his death? Marshall stared, waiting for the explanation the Warden said was forthcoming. Mister Sídhe inclined his head but didn’t speak.

Ok then, at midnight three days from now you’ll go scoop 99 from his pen and take him to the address on this card. The Warden tapped the card that lay face down on his desk but made no move to hand it over. The guards will have everything ready for you. Mister Sídhe will meet you and ride with you to your destination. Marshall opened his mouth to speak but the Warden cut him off.

Explanations will come then; you will have to wait. Marshall nodded.

I guess I should say thank you. The response sounded tentative, but it was the best Marshall could do with so much left unspoken.

Talk to me after, if you still feel like thanking me, I will accept your gratitude then. The Warden nodded, and Marshall recognized it as a dismissal. Unsure if he should go to his desk or give them the normal half hour to complete their meeting he decided to err on the side of caution and go to the mess