Nightmare Whispers: The Collection: Nightmare Whispers

By Fae Corps Publishing, Andrew McDowell, Arianna Sebo and 27 more

A Collection of all of the Nightmare Whispers Series:

 

Nightmare Whispers Volume 1: The Darkness Within
Anger Mirrors Pain

 

Nightmare Whispers Volume 2: Madness Echoes
Darkness can wear your face.

 

Nightmare Whispers Volume 3: What Remains
Peer into the shadows of doubt

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fae Corps Publishing
• Release date: Oct 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393979036

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.

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Fae Corps Inc

©2020 Fae Corps Publishing

Editors: Cyndi Pilcher/Patricia Harris

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form

or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage

and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the authors.

The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. This book is a work of Fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

This is a horror anthology. There are mature themes and situations. We here at Fae Corps hope that your experience is entertaining, and just a little spooky. Please enjoy with caution.

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 for his coffee. Using the walk to and from to clear his mind and release some of the tension.

At 11pm three days later the card was waiting face down on his desk. Marshall was thankful that the Warden rearranged his schedule so that his shift started at 9pm and ended just after sunrise. He hadn’t relished leaving and returning to do this. The card hadn’t been there when he’d gotten up to visit the head, he’d have noticed it. The surface was as neat as always—his papers and calendar on the right side of the large leather blotter that protected the surface, the left clear and dust free, the scarred wood polished to a faded luminescence. After a moment’s hesitation he scooped it up and turned it so he could read the face. The card was the thick kind of quality stock that reminded him of wedding invitations and graduation announcements. Fitting, there should be some sort of ceremony for this day. Normally, prisoners got last requests and special meals. Number 99 hadn’t had either. He’d checked, as he always checked. Every day for six months he made sure 99 was alive and locked away. Hoping he was suffering but not willing to go look and see. It wasn’t fear of the man but fear that his self-control might slip, and the anger would bleed through. Incarceration seemed a paltry punishment, but it was all he would get so he made sure that he was where he should be. Locked away in a cage like the monster he is. Monsters belong in cages.

The card had a fine line of gold around the edges and was hand lettered. The ink thick and looping, every curve having a weight that evinced deliberation. The only words on the card were the date and the address itself. He recognized the area at least. An older neighborhood that was undergoing another restoration. The houses were large and had been there for as long as anyone could remember. Some dated to the earliest days of the country itself. Hulking monstrosities that existed before electricity and indoor plumbing became commonplace. Pocketing it, he looked at his watch and then up at the antiquated clock that sat high on the wall over the hallway door. It would take twenty minutes to get to the hole and then another twenty to drive into town. To be safe he needed to leave now. He shrugged into his jacket and picked up his hat, holding it under his arm to keep his hands free as he walked. The sight that greeted him stopped him cold.

About time you showed up, Warden said not to move the body until you got here. The guard stood next to a gurney; a cloth draped form lay atop it.

But, he started, then shook his head, anger rising. Somehow. Somehow- he’d escaped whatever punishment awaited him at the address. A second guard joined the first and Marshall realized that it was the delivery man from before. Bedecked in a uniform so pristine it was barely recognizable. Obviously made of a much finer material than his own. An elegant copy, down to the bars of rank that put him just below Marshall in hierarchy. Mister Sídhe tilted his head and Marshall stepped back allowing them to precede him down the dimly lit hallway towards the exit, the assistant pushing the gurney as they went.

The guard slid it into the back of the van positioned just outside the exit, collapsing the legs, and slamming the door in one disinterested motion, the movements practiced and smooth. Then he knocked on the rear and walked over to Mister Sídhe who slid into the passenger seat and allowed the man to close the door for him. Marshall stood beside the car for a moment then got into the driver’s seat and shut the door, clipping his seatbelt in place, and adjusting the mirror before turning to look at the man seated next to him.

He was fine two hours ago. I checked. He said turning on the car and pulling into the lane that led to the exit.

He is still fine. Mister Sídhe replied and Marshall clenched the steering wheel tighter, turning into traffic and matching his speed to the flow.

He’s dead. Marshall replied incredulously and the man laughed softly.

Oh, not yet. But he will be before too long. Marshall took the exit and turned onto main street to drive through the centre of town. The reply loosened some of the tightness in Marshall’s gut, but the unease remained. The other guard said the man was dead, the delivery man had assured him he wasn’t but would be. Punishment was still coming for his crimes.

The house was obviously the oldest on the block. Large stone facade with a red tinted steeply sloped roof. The kind of structure popular with German immigrants in the Georgian era. It had more than one chimney and thin lines of smoke travelled up from several of them despite the heat of late summer in the air. Marshall parked the car at the entrance and then looked over at Mister Sídhe before going around to the passenger side and opening the door for him. As he did so the door to the house opened and a tall dark man exited.

Cat, you just made it. You have problems with this one? The man said all but ignoring Marshall to walk swiftly to the rear of the car. Marshall walked behind him intent on opening the back when the man waved a hand and the door flew open. Marshall looked to the man and back at the van, staring at the latch – he was lucky it hadn’t opened on their drive over.

We had a leisurely drive, it’s his first time.

I apologize if I have thrown off your schedule. Marshall said stepping back to allow the man to pull the body from the gurney and sling it over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He stood there a moment watching the two men mount the porch stairs before shutting the rear of the van and following them to a large set of doors at the end of a hallway.

Pull the door shut behind you Deputy. Mister Sídhe said as the tall man—Jim he heard Sídhe call him – tossed the still unconscious prisoner onto the table that sat in front of a comically large armchair near the fireplace which served as lighting for one end of the room, the rest lit by several old-fashioned gas lamps mounted to the walls at odd intervals. The room itself was obviously an office or library of some sort based on the books lining the walls, the grandfather clock in the corner, and the giant desk at the rear. The whole scene was something out of a Dickens novel scaled up in size, only lacking a white-haired figure in a waistcoat sitting behind the desk. Instead, the desk’s enormous chair sat occupied facing away from them so just the tall seat back was visible in the shadows created by the flickering flames. Marshall closed the doors and stood just inside them looking from the two men, to the now lightly stirring prisoner and the occupied chair- waiting. For several long moments he watched, listening to the laboured breathing of the two men as they rearranged 99’s restraints so that he was spread eagle atop the table then pulled another larger set of restraints out of an ornate wooden chest next to the fireplace. Then the clock began to chime midnight.

At the sound of the first discordant notes the two men began to move faster, arranging the restraints by the chair behind the table where 99 lay splayed like some obscene offering. The desk chair creaked, and Marshall found his eyes drawn to it, holding his breath in anticipation. A dull roaring filled his ears and he realized it was his heart. The pace speeding in tandem with the movements of the men working silently before him. 99 let out a low sound, a disoriented moan. The kind of sound made by someone coming out of anesthesia or awakening after a long illness. Marshall’s eyes darted from 99 to the chair and back again, hardly noticing that the men now stood silently watching the turning chair with him.

Sir Sídhe! Is it that time again? The words came from the vicinity of the desk chair, a hissing sound that floated through the air in counterpoint to the sounds of the prisoner stirring on the table.

Aye. Mr. Sídhe said and then from one moment to the next he was gone. In his place was a figure unlike anything Marshall had ever seen before. He took an involuntary step backwards, his back hitting the door- hands frozen at his sides. It wasn’t possible. Yet somehow it was, and Marshall tore his eyes from the scene before him to check the walls, ceiling and floor for projectors or some other form of trickery that could have generated the sight before him. Finding nothing, he allowed for just a moment that what he was seeing was real and the thought had him clenching his fists tightly, wishing he had more than just his service weapon. Wishing he had the armor and fatigues he’d worn for so long in the military. The clothing that had pockets and layers that held the tools he needed to survive impossibly dangerous situations. Yet, he doubted any of the tools the government provided him for war would be sufficient to battle the beast he faced now.

There was no other word for what stood before him in the spot once occupied by Mister Sídhe. Its head now sat several meters higher than his own, maybe 2 meters below the ceiling. Quite impressive as the ceiling had to be 8 meters high which previously made the room seem cavernous despite the floor to ceiling bookshelves and hodgepodge mix of furnishings. Now he felt confined, trapped in the room with this thing. Its body sported a fine pelt of fur that matched the colour of the hair on Mr. Sídhe’s head and large black wings which lay folded against its back with deep red veins showing through whenever the light hit them. It had fangs to go with the large white teeth in its mouth, and claws on the tips of its paws that reminded him of some jungle Cat on an enormous scale. It was also wearing the same bloody uniform. So, there could be no doubt that this beast, whatever it turned out to be, was also supposed to be Mr. Sídhe.

The thing smiled, a sight made more frightening by the way it stepped fully into the light and gestured with one long claw in a parody of a salute. Then it turned and leapt upon the figure rising from the desk chair. The being gave no warning to its actions, and from the roar that sounded it was clear that it had used the distraction of its transformation and Marshall’s presence to take the chair’s occupant by surprise. An answering roar sounded and for a time there was only the sound of flesh meeting flesh and angry cries as the two battled in the shadows, the entwined combatants oblivious to everything but each other as the Sídhe beast inched them closer to the waiting chair and the bound criminal on the other side of the room. When the battle moved from the shadows into the flickering light Marshall gasped. The involuntary sound rousing 99 to full wakefulness. It couldn’t be helped, though god knew he didn’t want the attention of either of the beings wrestling before him.

He looked to his right and noticed that the man- Jim stood to one side of the room, his gaze fixed on the two combatants, one arm extended holding what appeared to be a gnarled wooden stick pointed in their direction. 99 let out a scream and the sound echoed through the room startling everyone and allowing the Sídhe beast to get the upper hand, pinning his foe beneath him. Marshall took that moment to get a good look at it, and immediately wished he hadn’t. As frightening as the Sídhe beast seemed it was nothing to what it fought. The chair’s occupant was larger in all respects and traded fur for scales and wings for horns. The red brown tinge of its flesh glistening in the firelight and giving off a faint but distinctive glow. Marshal stood frozen- his feet locked in place by some mad combination of fear and confusion. 99’s screams built in volume as he tugged at his restraints realizing his position and desperate to get away. Marshall looked at him dispassionately, the numbness he’d felt for months giving way to a combination of satisfaction and relief. If the two stopped fighting each other long enough to notice and attack the room’s other occupants- 99’s position so close to them increased the odds that Marshall could leave the room unscathed while they took the time to deal with him. A satisfying but grim thought. He moved his right hand to his side and unclipped his holster placing his hand on the hilt of his service weapon unsure if he could pull it free without the movement drawing the attention of the beings writhing on the floor.

Don’t Jim hissed at him and Marshall stilled, watching as the Sídhe beast swiped one large paw at the horned thing and the restraints on the chair began to rise and flew unassisted towards them. Marshall watched Jim mutter and wave his stick like a puppeteer, the shackles floating in tandem with his movements as if controlled by invisible strings. Marshall peered hard, wishing for more light but not daring to even breathe deeper, shutting out the sound of 99’s frantic screams and movements atop the table. The scent of urine filled the air and Marshall smelled his own sweat mingling with the scent of woodsmoke and 99’s involuntary release. A loud clicking sound filled the room just as the grandfather clock chimed its 12th and final chime, and the weight of it stunned the room’s occupants to silence.

The Sídhe beast leapt from its position atop the monster who now sported a single shackle on its right ankle. It turned in a circle and suddenly, in its place stood a large black Cat. Its size somewhere between a Jaguar and a Maine Coon complete with comically large ears and a very un-Catlike smile. The man Jim stood in place waving his stick frantically, directing the rest of the shackles into place so that the being lay bound at the ankle and wrist with a thick inscribed metal chain linked between them. The thing, whatever it was, seemed resigned, as if the will to fight left him the moment the shackle snapped closed and Marshall let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his heart still pounding a terrified staccato in his chest.

The monster stood and after taking a moment to smooth the trim navy suit it wore so that no hint of the preceding battle evidenced on his form, turned and walked accompanied by the clanking of his shackles to the chair behind the table where 99 struggled futilely against his own bonds and seated itself. Marshall took a deep breath, then another, and another, willing himself to push past his fear and incredulity to take in the scene before him properly. The thing tilted its head and glared down at 99, and then nodded and both the Cat and Jim seemed to relax, the Cat’s smile becoming wider and more disturbing at the sight. Marshall forced himself to take a step away from the door, anger rising in direct correlation to the fear that coated the back of his tongue leaving the bitter taste of terror to overwhelm his other senses. None of this was possible.

Oh yes, it is in fact possible Deputy. Very possible. Because the world isn’t what you think it is at all. Not even a little. The words came from the Cat, but his brain wouldn’t allow him to accept that as fact so he looked around to see if there were some other place or person the voice could have come from. 99 began to scream again, alternating between begging and babbling incoherently and the thing seated behind him seemed to be enjoying this. Poking at him with one long claw and smiling as a thin line of blood appeared where he’d touched. Like a bully with a magnifying glass watching ants turn crispy in the sunlight.

You wanted explanations; I have shown you. Do you not believe your eyes when you see something?

I believe things that are possible. What just happened, what is happening isn’t possible. The Cat tilted its head at this but didn’t respond choosing instead to allow the torment of the prisoner on the table be the only sounds in the room for the moment. Marshall’s eyes slid back to the writhing form. 99’s terror lay like a blanket over the room, tainting the air with the sounds and smells of his fear. The monster clearly enjoyed it and Marshall’s head cleared a bit more as his brain registered the suffering of the man on the table. How many of his victims had he kept alive and afraid, hoping for rescue? Had his sister been like this? Bound and scared and wondering what would happen to her and her child? Had he made her watch what he’d done to that innocent babe before he’d done the same to her? Or had he done her first letting her hope that her child would escape his perversions if she complied?

If this is real. What is going to happen? the man Jim walked over to him and handed him a glass of whiskey which Marshall drank thoughtlessly before holding the glass out for a refill.

This my dear deputy is justice. This is balance. This is the price we pay for the protection of the five. They can live here you see, but they have to eat. Marshall looked back at 99 as Cat said this, and the man began to scream again, tears leaking from his eyes as the Cat smiled up at him. Marshall walked to one of the three normal sized armchairs that flanked the fireplace adjacent to the monster and 99 and sat down heavily, allowing Jim to fill his glass without watching him, unable to tear his eyes from the pair. His mouth moved soundlessly several times before he could form the words.

You mean? he couldn’t finish and saw with some horror that the monster had shredded the uniform 99