The Blood From A Tombstone Collection

By Tracy Allen, justin boote, N.M. Brown and 11 more

For your frightening pleasure, Tombstone Stories Publishing presents a collection of horror short stories that will be the reason you keep the lights on!

Check out these amazing stories by Tracy Allen, Justin Boote, N.M. Brown, Ashley M. Franklin, David Owain Hughes, Valkyrie Kerry, James Miles, Tom Over, Kim Plasket, Valerie Puri, D.L. Russell, Don Everett Smith Jr., Kimberly Wolkens and Linda Zimmermann with introductions by the famed Robert Damon Schneck and D.A. Roberts, the president of the Horror Author's Guild.

Pick up your copy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tracy Allen
• Release date: Nov 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463266304

Book preview

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

Besides the obvious friends and family, we would like to thank Mar Garcia and Toneye Eyenot of BoldMom.com. Their competition brought all of us together and we decided, Hey! Let's make an anthology from our entries! Their contribution to this book and to the horror genre in general (especially the community of independent, self-published and small-press writers) will forever be appreciated!

We would like to thank writer/graphic artist Don Noble and writer Kevin Candela for their formatting advice.

Special thanks to Allisha McAdoo.

We would like to also thank investigator turned novelist and all around awesome writer Linda Zimmermann. Metaphorically speaking, she was the nitrous oxide in our car that got us over the finish line!

We would also like to thank Robert Damon Schneck, author of The Bye Bye Man and Other Strange But True Tales. His book inspired the 2016 movie The Bye Bye Man with the amazing Doug Jones as the monster. Robert was kind enough to give us the introduction of part one.

We would like to thank our readers for their continued support as well as the rest of the members of the horror community!

We would also like to thank our new friends at the Horror Author's Guild! They have been amazing and supportive! Visit them at HAGuild.com.

Thanks to DA Roberts, the HAG president, for his introduction of part two! Visit him at DARoberts.net.

Also huge thank yous go to reader horror reviewer Kim Napolitano for her continued support of our stories; as well as podcasters Catt Dahman, host of Wicked Little Things, and Anthony Baamonde, host of The Horror Frequency, for allowing us to speak about Blood from a Tombstone!

We also want to thank Brett Dyer. He has worked with Valkyrie Kerry and has been an inspiration and a muse to her and this project has benefitted from his influence.

We also want to thank official friend to both Tombstone Stories Publishing and Pophorror.com – actor Bill Oberst Jr. He reminds us all the time that faith, creativity and horror can coexist and thrive.

Finally, a thank you goes out to Feind Gottes, who helped edit several stories in part one; thank you to Howard Carlyle, Cynthia Knoble, and Anna DaSuza for being part of the journey.

WHY I WRITE HORROR

By Ashley Franklin

When I think of horror, I think of all of the emotions it brings with it. Horror for myself fulfills me like the air that I breathe. It propagates life back into my soul when I feel spiritless and astray. I put pencil to paper and spew forth all of the horrors that reside inside. I unleash them so that my nightmares will not become the reality that has come before me.

We have monsters that live within us, but some are more profound than others. Now that I'm considered an adult, I realize I've always been a writer. Horror has always been a powerfully persuasive part of my life.

My childhood was more challenging than average. If I had a bad day at school or felt lonely at home, I knew I could escape into a choice book or watch my favorite horror movie to find comfort.

Writing is, now as it was then, a way to allay the affliction of everyday life, providing for me a sense of self-worth. It makes the impossible possible and the unknown known; anything you want can happen.

It's up to me, the author, to allow the pen to take me where it wants to go. Writing has ignited a spark inside me, it inspires my dreams, and in turn, my dreams inspire my writing. Reminding me that I am not the monster, I think I may be.

PART ONE:

NOT FOR THE NECROPHOBIC!

INTRODUCTION TO PART ONE:

BY

ROBERT DAMON SCHNECK

Tombstones last for centuries. Future generations can learn the deceased’s name, when he lived, and that he is currently resting in the arms of the Lord. The doves, clasped hands, and other artistic embellishments, are traditional symbols of mourning and mortality, and the somber-faced granite angel perched on top, points at the sky, directing the passerby’s gaze, and thoughts, heavenward. A cemetery’s neat lawns and paths, its epitaphs, and rows of monuments, inspire a sense of tranquil permanence that contrasts with what’s happening underfoot, for fresh graves are busy places.

Bacteria are at work, generating gases that swell the body, then burst it open, releasing liquefied tissues. These soak into the cushion and coffin lining, with some bodies floating in a bath of their own putrefaction. Insects lay eggs that hatch into hungry larvae, and the departed are soon reduced to dirty jumbles of bones, hair, and the occasional titanium hip joint. Unlike cemetery angels, Blood from A Tombstone invites readers to contemplate horrors; not those hidden underground, but lurking in its nine original stories.

There is a dark birthday gift, an eccentric whose Halloween turns apocalyptic, the devil collects a debt, an unknown house, a couple struggles to survive in a city besieged by cannibals, necromancers raising the dead, necrophiles that prefer their corpses inert, and a necrophobe terrified of rotting bodies.

In short, part ones and part two of this book should be avoided by the squeamish or necrophobic. Readers who don’t mind brushing a few maggots off the page, however, will enjoy this anthology of contemporary horror short stories by rising authors.

R.D.S.

March 30, 2019

THE BRONNTANAS LA BREITH

BY

N.M. BROWN

My face was raw from tears and my hands shook for almost an hour.

Why did he do this to me? I don’t understand, I thought to myself.

I picked up my phone and dialed my boyfriend’s number again and prayed - with all my soul - for a different result. Once again, my hopes shattered as I heard the message that his number would not accept incoming calls.

Caught up in my heartache, I dialed star-six-seven before his number and called again.

It rang.

His phone continued to ring until I got a message that said his voicemail box was full.

I opened up the Facebook app on my phone, and typed in his name and no results popped up in the search engine.

What?

I switched over to an ancient profile of mine and searched again and there he was. All the pictures he posted, were the ones that he sent me.

Under the about section, it said engaged.

What the fuck?

He and I had talked about marriage for months though he never asked me officially.

Did I miss something here?

Then, I saw a post from someone that I didn’t recognize. A Rita Jacobs posted I love you so much! next to a picture of a three stoned engagement ring. This was the exact same kind of ring that I told him I had wanted.

I furthered my emotional path of self-destruction when I clicked on her profile. I saw her about section listed that she was engaged Eric Dodd.

No! Eric Dodd is my boyfriend.

It hadn’t been a week ago he blew up my phone with calls and text messages. Then one day, I got a text saying that he was arrested and will be in jail for a while.

Okay, well, if he had in fact been arrested, I would have found the police report and a mugshot, which I didn’t.

And if he had been in jail for an extended period, his phone would have died.

Also posted was a picture of the sweetest looking little boy with an all too familiar nose. The caption read, We miss you, Daddy!

A barren ache in my throat snapped me back to attention. I realized that my mouth had been hanging open for quite a while. My heart felt like an empty can that had been crushed in slow motion.

Eric doesn’t have any children. He told me that he wanted me to be the only one to carry his children. One of the reasons he said he fell in love with me was because I worked with children. There were countless times that I was helping a little one learn to share in class or attending a skinned knee, dreaming of being able to help our growing child someday.

She had posted a video and had tagged him in it and it was the YouTube video to the Chicago song You’re The Inspiration.

I ran to my sink and emptied the sparse contents of my formerly starving stomach.

That was the song that he had always sent to me to make up after a fight.

He told me that was our song.

My heaves gave way to fresh tears that burned my irritated eyes. My stomach ached; each piece of new information was a sucker punch to my heart and gut.

PAUSE

First off, no I was not completely stupid or blind.

There were no signs Eric had exhibited, that I ignored. We had been together in our late teens and, to my knowledge, were madly in love. He was forced to move away with his parents, so he left my life completely.

Thanks to the wonders of social media, we reconnected eleven years later.

He lived many states away, but he drove down to see me for a four-day weekend once a month. I had my own issues and situations here that didn’t permit me to visit him in his home state.

He never seemed to have a problem with always having to be the one to make the drive. I guess I know why now. That’s how I was able to be made such a fool.

The chump of all chumps.

PLAY

I threw open my dresser drawer and searched frantically for my medicine bottle. My doctor had prescribed me something a few months back for anxiety, but I had resisted to take it.

Until now.

I clenched my phone in my hand with a white-knuckle grip. I was consumed with the urge to dial his number with every heartbeat. I knew that if I started to call, I wasn’t likely to stop, and I felt like enough of an idiot already.

Why?

He said so many things to me. He shared so many heartfelt stories, made so many promises, envisioned so many things for our future.

Why? What was the point of any of it?

I thought about all the jewelry he bought me, the way he held me and whispered sweet sentiments in my ear as we slept, all the laughter that we shared, him begging me to let him be the shoulder that I cry on. He would call and ask about my day at school. I’d vent about problems I had with students to him. We shared our deepest secrets with each other, and for all I know every word he uttered was a lie.

I don’t trust that many people, and he knew that.

He knew that everyone I’d ever loved had either died or decided that they had a better life without me.

I’m not a perfect person, but I was always upfront about my bullshit. Hell, to be honest, if he was just straight with me from the beginning, I probably would have still been with him.

To just ghost me like that at our age? Go from talk of marriage and baby names, (Christopher for a boy; Brianne for a girl), to totally blocked without a word. There was no Hey, this isn’t working; no Yeah. I’m gonna have to pass; no Go fuck yourself!

Nothing!

I honestly thought he was dead after the first twenty-four hours of no contact. That very day was my thirty-third birthday and he told me he couldn’t come down because of work.

I’m not making this shit up! I wish to God that I was.

This is a fuck you! that’s messed up on a level that my soul can barely absorb, let alone fabricate.

FAST FORWARD: EIGHT HOURS

To try and break my cycle of rumination, I decided to go to a bar in town called Killian’s. There were enough people inside for the atmosphere to be welcoming, but not so many that I felt suffocated.

A stool groaned in protest as I hopped on it?

A man with shaggy dark hair that hangs in his face sits two stools over to my left.

There’s a brief nod of acknowledgment exchanged. I’m trying to be polite more than anything honestly. Not to say that I don’t notice how amazing he smells as I wait for my drink. Before long I’m wondering what color his eyes are. Not that it matters really, with all that hair in his face.

The ghost of Eric’s face fades from my mind more with every drink.

As things went well, and I had high hopes for a peaceful, blacked out sleep that night. My desire was just to be dead to the world, just like how I felt on the inside. I wanted to wake up when it didn’t hurt so much anymore.

The music player had clicked over to a new song. I barely believed my ears as the familiar notes started to play and Peter Cetera's voice belted out how our love was meant to be. Then he warbled about it being the type of love that lasts forever.

I stifled an involuntary moan of pure sorrow, but the sound escaped my lips all the same.

That’s our song…

...or is it their song?

Tears glistened on my cheeks like streaks of clear nail polish; my heartbreak was painted on my face for all to see.

There was a sudden heat and pressure on the back of my chair. The smell of musk, leather and the slightest hint of motor oil pleasantly invaded my senses. It was the man with the dark hair.

Hey, love? What’s this? What’s a nice bitta fluff like you up to ninety for?

My face melted at his Irish accent, but I had no idea what he was saying. He could tell by the look on my face.

Why are you crying? Don’t tell me it’s over some wagon? Any fella would be lucky to have you for a mot.

I made a mental note to Google Irish slang immediately when I got home.

He handed me a napkin to dry my eyes. I took it and smiled weakly at him, and I was finally composed enough to meet his eyes.

They were green!

Not just any green either, they were the most amazing shade; just like emeralds.

I had never seen eyes so beautiful. Mine took their time leaving his gaze.

Coyly, I replied that I didn’t want to burden anyone with my troubles. However, before the hour passed, I found myself verbally unloading my situation in its entirety. A look of pity mixed with concern washed over his face.

Oh, I bet that’s absolutely scarlet for you. You loved him for a donkey’s year and the whole time he was acting the maggot.

Somehow, this time I understood what he said. My sniffling slowed as I nodded in agreement.

I know you feel pure gabby right now, he continued. But you seem like a really nice gal -

Forgive my ignorance, I interrupted him. But you’re gonna have to dumb it down a bit for me here. I’m having trouble understanding you.

He laughed that brought out a twinkle in his eyes. The sound of it danced through the bar like wind chimes on a breezy day.

I’m trying to say that no lash deserves to be treated that way, especially not on a birthday. Did you even have a cake? No? Let me hit the jacks and I’ll be right witt’cha.

The charming stranger disappeared into the men’s room.

When he got back, I made sure to ask him what his name was.

Name’s Kevan. What do they call you? His accent was still apparent but at least I understood him now.

Call me Karen, I answered him reluctantly. I wasn’t letting my smile show just yet, but I knew my eyes give me away.

Kevan and Karen! he said as his chuckle boomed heartily throughout the bar.

A server came out from the kitchen with a large piece of cake and brought it up to the bar. She sat it down in front of me, smiled and walked away.

I turned to Kevan.

Red velvet is my absolute favorite! What’s this about? This time, a full smile bloomed on my face like the first flowers of spring.

Kevan took out a single candle from his breast jacket pocket. He looked dapper as hell in his brown suit, which was complimented by slight accents of green.

The color of the candle matched the green trim of his suit but with a silver swirl throughout it. It was the most beautifully detailed birthday candle I’ve ever seen.

In his other hand, he held a large stone that I somehow missed before.

Here, love, he said. Consider this your bronntanas la breithe. 

Taken aback, I pushed away from the bar a bit and hopped off the stool.

What is that? Why do you have it? I asked him warily. There were too many people here for him to attack me with it. I wanted to see where it went. I mean hell, it was such a shitty week and you couldn’t go wrong with free cake.

Karen, it means your birthday gift. Now, love, take the candle and push ‘tin to the cake. After I light it, close your eyes, grab the stone and concentrate. Think about how you want that bastard to suffer. Think of all the ways your life would be better if he had never been born. Dwell on all the empty promises he made. As you blow out your candle, turn the stone counter clockwise.

He thrusted the candle into my hand and I gladly took it.

I placed the candle into the soft red velvet, and I concentrated.

I wished Eric felt what I’ve felt for the past week. I wished that he was held to every single promise that he’s ever made a woman.

My heart and soul weren’t to be taken for granted; they deserved to be avenged. Eric must pay for what he did to me and how many other women. I blew out the candle and turned the stone in one fluid motion.

Though not within the realm of possibility for my current location, I swear I felt a slight breeze drift throughout the whole bar once the candle flame died. Other than that small and possibly fabricated detail, I felt no different.

Kevan and I continued talking throughout the evening. We both lost track of time. Before long, it was almost one in the morning.

This was the longest I had gone without thinking about Eric, and I wasn’t ready for it to end. I broke out my dancing bedroom eyes and turned on some charm of my own. Eric certainly didn’t give me a second thought while he fucked Rita night after night. It was time to stop worrying about him and start caring about me.

Kevan was only in town for a week and he was staying in a motel not too far from Killian’s.

His room had that same wonderful smell that he did. It was almost like he sweated pure testosterone, sex and cologne. Our tongues and lips danced in the most erotic but natural way. It all felt incredible. 

I’ll leave the rest of that night to your lurid imaginations, but I woke up a happy ‘bit o fluff’. I learned that that phrase was meant to describe attractive girls.

Stereotypical and offensive as that may be, I found myself humming Danny Boy the whole way home. Dropkick Murphy’s was instantly added to my playlist as I replayed the night I spent with an Irish God.

His touch still lingered on my skin.

***

My second week without Eric was blissful. I was refreshed by the memories of my exotic stranger.

Someone banged on my door and it startled me out of a peaceful sleep. I dragged my body out of bed and trudged towards the door, when I reached the peephole, I just stared. My heart plummeted at the sight of a very disheveled Eric as he stood on my porch.

A week ago, I would have traded anything to be in this situation, but I found myself barely wanting to answer the door. I did though; because there was no use in letting him stand out there.

Karen! Oh my god, baby! he said as he threw him arms around me and squeezed tightly. Honey, I’m so sorry. I messed up so bad! You have to help me! I should never have hurt you like I did.

Tears spilled over his cheeks and his voice was shrill with panic.

I killed her. I don’t know why I did it, but I killed her!

I interrupted him.

You mean Rita?

He winced at the sound of her name.

Oh. Jesus, Karen, I’m sorry. I never meant for you to find out. I blocked contact with you because I didn’t have the heart to tell you the truth. It’s always been you. My heart’s been torn between my obligations and what it wants. I tried to leave her, so many times.

He quickly changed the subject upon seeing the rage in my eyes.

No. it wasn’t her. When Rita was pregnant, there was another woman that I had slept with. Rita found out about it and made me promise never to speak to her again. She made me promise her repeatedly that the woman’s life never meant a thing to me. She asked me if I would care if the other woman died and I said no. That doesn’t mean I wanted her dead! I haven’t thought about her in years.

A sinister chuckle traveled through my soul, up into my throat, then out into the atmosphere.

So, I began. "You use me, sleep with me, lie to me, then expect me to aid and abet a crime by letting you stay here? You deserve what you get, dick. You’re not my problem anymore. You’re lucky I don’t all the cops right now. Just leave.

Then I saw it. The look I’d hoped for. It was one of pure hopelessness and shock at my refusal to help him.

I used to love his eyes; his nose was bigger than I remember.

Good god! It was inflamed by all the crying. Either way, it was a trait I’m thankful to have dodged passing down, nonetheless.

I gave him all the contents of my heart, so there was nothing left to heal or forgive. He had to deal with the consequences of his actions.

As he left, he walked out backwards for whatever reason.

In a fit of spiteful adrenaline, I dressed and headed to Kevan’s motel. Supposedly, he was there for four more days so I should be able to catch him.

The muscle memory of my legs took me right to his door - room 1014.

Even from outside the door, the smell inside turned me on instantly. I knocked and heard a shuffling from inside.

Kevan answered the door and somehow he was even more handsome in his half asleep and rugged state.

Hey Kevan. Can I come in? I’ve had a weird day and need someone to talk to. Have any Jameson left? I asked as I put on my widest doe eyes, hoping to further my chances.

He opened the door wider to let me inside. Putting pride aside, I sat down on his bed.

We need to talk. Eric came to see me all wigged out. He says he just killed some lady; not his wife by the way. I just needed to leave the house for a bit in case he tries to come back.

My body was trembling with attraction, but I let him think that it could be fear of Eric.

He let out that booming dark laugh that I loved so much.

Nothing to fear, Karen. ‘Tis only the beginning of this gobshite’s journey to hell, he said. He explained further once he saw the confusion on my face. Why is everyone so surprised when they make a wish and it actually comes true? Isn’t that the point of tings? What did you wish for when you turned the Bullan stone?

I answered him quickly, but only with a question with one of my own. What’s a Bullan stone?

It’s an Irish cursing stone that was used in conjunction with an Irish wishing candle. It grants your birthday wish.

I was shocked at the level of bullshit he spat out. I shook my head and chuckled in disbelief.

So… what? You’re like some kind of leprechaun?

His eyes narrowed and it was the closest thing to anger that he had shown so far.

Leprechaun? Come now, mot. Am I half-sized with flaming hair and a pipe? Haven’t you ever heard of the Black Irish? It’s not all freckles and red hair y’know!

He then shook his head at me; clearly offended.

Unfortunately for me, it appeared I would not be charming his snake that night. I quickly apologized, and gathered myself and left. I thanked him for everything on my way out.

***

A month went by that was completely uneventful.

I started to put this all behind me one day at a time. Dating was definitely off the table for a good while.

Painting was always cathartic for me, so I picked it up again. I was in the middle of a black and red sunflower when there was an odd sound at my door. It sounded like someone had knocked from the bottom of the door.

There was no one visible through the peephole.

I slowly opened the door to see what was going on. A trail of red consumed the middle of the porch and ended at Eric's feet! The bottoms of his jeans were caked in brown and red, a bit of bone stuck out from the bottom of his left pant leg.

I don't see any shoes…

...or feet.

Eric laid there sobbing and his face was a sickly shade of purplish gray.

Help me in. I walked all the way here from home. I couldn't stop walking...so much...walking. My feet!

He sobbed louder.

I need an ambulance, but I can't call because I’m wanted. They might call the police. Help me! Please!

I quickly dragged him inside, and did my best to clean the floor so the trail didn’t lead to my door. He settled uncomfortably on the couch and I ran in my bathroom to get towels and water.

As I was reaching for a towel, I heard a gut-wrenching scream and ran back into the living room.

I knew we had our differences, but my blood couldn’t help but run cold when I saw him.

His face was a mess of gore.

Where his two, perfect hazel eyes used to be, were now two bleeding sockets. He held his arms out towards me with a bloody white orb clutched within each hand.

I always said I only had eyes for you.

It made sense now.

Eric had always promised me that he would walk to the ends of the earth to get to me; though it wasn't that extreme of a distance.

He also promised he’d never turn his back on me, hence the walking backwards.

He promised Rita that girl's life meant nothing to him and he promised me that he only had eyes for me.

Then I realized there was just one thing left....

I sat on my living room floor, and I cut with a surgical precision that surprised me. This was messier than I had wanted it to be, and I severely hated to share. We know I'm not the only one he's hurt though.

I decided to keep the biggest piece for myself and give the girls the other pieces, because the first promise he ever made to me was this: .

You will always have a piece of my heart.

Shhh, I said to him. Let’s just say, this gives meaning to my life. Dear Eric, you were the inspiration.

And I plunged in with a sick thwack!

END

NO ONE KNOWS WE'RE HERE

BY

ROMA GRAY

Here we are. Danny announced.

He skidded his bike to a stop and in one fluid motion leapt off, allowing the bike to fall with a clatter to the dying, yellow grass. He could hardly wait to see the expressions on his friends’ faces. He knew they’d be thrilled.

What? I don’t get it. Kerry asked stopping his own bike but remaining firmly planted on the seat. His freckled face scrunched up in displeasure while his icy-blue eyes reproached Danny. A clump of trees and blackberry bushes? We rode our bikes for nearly an hour for this?

Danny grunted, expressing his disappointment. It’s a thicket. He retorted sharply. My uncle and I spotted it when we were driving around last weekend. He wouldn’t let me go in there, but I knew—well, I thought I knew—you guys would want to check it out.

Vince rode his bike toward the other two, still huffing and puffing from the long ride, his extra pounds, as always, tiring him out quickly. Trying to hide how far he had fallen behind, Vince pedaled hard at the end and came in fast. Then, in an overly dramatic gesture, he slid his bike sideways at Kerry,