The Dead Game: A Collection of Horror

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. All characters appearing in this work are the product of the individual author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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© 2020 Zimbell House Publishing, et al

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Trade Paper ISBN: 978-1-64390-168-8

.mobi ISBN: 978-1-64390-169-5

ePub ISBN: 978-1-64390-170-1

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020936552

First Edition: April 2020

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Zimbell House Publishing

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Acknowledgments

ZIMBELL HOUSE PUBLISHING would like to thank all those that contributed to this anthology. We chose to showcase twelve new voices that best represented our vision for this work.

We would also like to thank our Zimbell House team for all their hard work and dedication to these projects.

Cast the Dice

John Dewald

Jorge’s eyes shone bright with triumph as his spear ripped through my right flank. A searing wave of agony washed over me as the spear passed through my kidney and exploded out my back. The pain was so intense I could barely stay on my feet. I thought I was going to faint. I fought against the encroaching darkness, refusing to be swallowed up by the void. My sword fell from my hand, clattering onto the uneven cobblestones. I coughed. Blood pooled around my tongue, the coppery taste filling my mouth and throat. The spear’s wooden shaft felt alien in my body, pressing against my flesh. I felt it move and shift inside me. A stream of blood dribbled red down my chin, and I staggered forward, gasping as I was further impaled upon the spear. My head hung limp, and my eyelids fluttered shut.

What do you think, Renner? I told you the job was fun, boasted the oldest of the three guards. Sweat plastered his gray locks to his forehead, and stubble covered his sallow cheeks. He ran his fingers through his greasy hair, cursing the heat of the humid night.

Renner smiled nervously. He was young, eighteen years old at most. His light-brown eyes matched the color of his well-kempt hair, and his youthful face was bright with innocence. He was obviously a new recruit. Standing behind Jorge, both Renner and the older guard had their scimitars drawn. They let the tips of their swords sag, however, having relaxed since Jorge stuck me like a pig with his spear.

I told you Jorge could handle him. Tramps rarely put up much of a fight, the older guard told Renner, smiling. Half of the time, they don’t even realize what’s happening. He spoke like a teacher talking to a prized pupil, evidently enjoying the role of the seasoned veteran.

Next round of drinks is on me, assuming the bum has got any coins on him, laughed Jorge. His bearded face split into a crooked smile brimming with gold teeth. If not, we can sell his body to the butcher for a few silver pieces. Old Petey likes to feed tramps to the pigs. He says it makes them taste better. If my wife found out, she’d probably stop giving the kids bacon for breakfast. He paused. You’re not going to tell her now, are you, Renner? If so, I’d have to kill you.

Renner smiled uncomfortably while Jorge and the older guard erupted in laughter.

I let my dead weight push me forward, my body slowly sliding farther down the spear. I had let the guards have their laugh, and now it was time to have mine. Seizing the spear with my hands, I pulled myself down the shaft until I was barely inches away from Jorge, my breath hot on his face. Eyes wide with terror, he let go of the spear and turned to run, but it was too late.

Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to stay quiet about the pigs next time I see your wife. I’ll be paying her a visit after I drop you off with Old Petey, I said with a blood-covered smile, grabbing his chin with one bloody hand and a handful of hair with the other. Spitting in his face, I gave him a wink then snapped his neck. His body hit the ground hard.

Sorry for ruining Jorge’s invitation, I said to the remaining two guards, grinning at them with bloody teeth. It’s only right that I pay for the first pitcher. I hear the tavern around the corner has some of the prettiest barmaids in town.

I laughed as the guards turned and sprinted away, red beams of moonlight shining off the heels of their boots as they disappeared around the corner. Cowards. My laugh turned into a cough, and I spat up blood. I needed to get the spear out. Mentally preparing myself, I turned to face the wall that ran along the side of the street. Placing either hand on the two points where spear entered and exited my body, I braced the butt of the spear against the wall. Gritting my teeth, I slowly walked forward until my chest touched the wall, forcing the spear through me until I was able to pull it out my back.

Stars blinked before my eyes, and my vision went blurry. Overcome with pain, I nearly fell over. With the spear no longer plugging the wound, I started to bleed profusely. A dark stain spread across my shirt. I was lightheaded from blood loss, but I could not wait here for the rest of the city guard to arrive. It was doubtful they were going to be particularly kind to me; I had killed Jorge, and he seemed like the popular type.

A thick set of clouds rolled over the blood-red moon, flooding the streets with darkness. It was time to go. Leaning on the spear as if it were a staff, I limped down the street, putting as much distance between me and Jorge’s corpse as I could. I stuck to the foul-smelling puddles of the gutters as I went, hoping the dirty water would help conceal the trail of blood I was leaving behind me.

Luckily, I was in a bad part of town, so there were not many people in the street this late at night. Those whom I did happen across did not make eye contact. After ten minutes of zigzagging haphazardly through the streets, I stumbled across an alleyway that disappeared back into the shadows. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching, I slipped inside and ducked behind a pile of garbage. The alley reeked of putrid fish and stale urine, but I barely noticed. I slumped against the wall, the security of the bricks comforting against my back.

In most cities, the city guard was no better than a band of thieves. The only difference between the guards and a common street gang was that the guards were protected by the law. They could act with impunity, immune to repercussions. Despite many being no better than the common thief, murderer, or rapist, the insignia they wore on their chests gave them status and power. In Culsassiva, however, the guards were even worse.

Unlike the other major cities of the South, Culsassiva prided itself on being strictly human. Fifteen years before, the magistrate passed a decree banning anyone from the city who was not of pure human blood. The magistrate used the city guard to do the dirty work, having them imprison or execute any nonhuman who refused to leave the city. Since then, the guards steadily grew more corrupt, using the excuse that someone was not of pure human blood to slaughter whoever they wanted. They had tried to kill me to show off to a new recruit, and in the hope there would be enough money on my corpse to pay for a few rounds of drinks. I felt no remorse for snapping Jorge’s neck.

No, I felt no regret for killing Jorge. I only felt anger for being delayed. And pain. Being stabbed always hurt. It does not matter how many times it has happened before; the pain never fails to come, and it only becomes worse as your body grows accustomed to being wounded. Your adrenaline kicks in less each time, diminishing your natural shield against pain. It is often excruciating. Clutching my stomach, I felt that the bleeding had finally stopped. My flesh was starting to knit itself back together. A slight groan escaped my lips. It felt as if glass shards were worming their way through my entrails. The healing process was never pleasant. I gritted my teeth as the dark magic coursing through my veins came to life.

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled forth my pouch of amaopaula and papaolo, the mix of dried herbs that was the only possession I valued. Placing a particularly large pinch of the bitter powder on my tongue, I washed it down with a sip of water from my flask. My tongue went numb, and the relief in my side was almost instantaneous. While it did not disappear completely, the pain was now distant, as if it was no longer my own. As my suffering slowly melted away, a pleasant warmth took its place, enveloping me in a golden glow only I could see. The humid air felt gentle on my skin. Finally relaxed for the first time since I set foot in Culsassiva, I realized it was not a problem to be delayed. I would rest here for an hour or two, then be on my way. There was no need to worry; it was still early. I would be with Naymara soon.

My eyes closed peacefully, and my back melted back into the wall. My face relaxed. I had not realized how tired I was. I had needed to rest. Everything had worked out for the best. Now I would have time to gather my thoughts before I saw Naymara. It was important that everything went well. Failure was not an option.

A glass bottle shattered somewhere deeper inside the alleyway, interrupting my reverie. I heard someone stagger to his feet. The noises seemed to come from far away. As much as I wanted to keep them closed and block the world out, I opened my eyes and turned my head toward the sound. I could not help but smile foolishly.

The clouds covering the moon slid to the side, revealing a dark-red full moon that bathed the night in its blood-colored hue. Roughly every twenty-one years, the moon turns red for three nights in a row in a phenomenon called the Blood Moon. During this time, dark magic grows stronger as the breaches between the world and the Nine Hells open wider. When the moon turned red two nights before, I set off down the river to come to Culsassiva and find Naymara. Heightened by the Blood Moon, her powers should be able to break my curse.

The moon’s red rays spilled into the alleyway, illuminating the sprawling heaps of broken crates, rotting food, and shattered glass that littered the ground. The blade of his knife reflecting the moonlight, a man with clothes dirtier than the surrounding garbage staggered toward me. A scar ran down his left cheek, and a faded tattoo peeked out from under the torn collar of his shirt. His dark eyes were watery, and the strong smell of alcohol on his breath did nothing to mask the stench of someone who has lived in filth for months. The scent of urine and human feces clung to him like a cloud.

Gimme what you got, he slurred.

I tried to stand, but the effect of the herbs was still too strong. My legs would not listen. I gazed up at him blankly.

He waved his knife in front of my face. Don’t make me cut you. I’ve killed here before. He reached out shakily, grasping my shirt with his filthy fingers.

There was no way I was going to let the drunk rob me—I was not going to lose my herbs—but I was in no state to fight back. His hands were shaky, but his knife was crusted with dried blood. I did not doubt he would slit my throat without thinking twice. His bottle had broken; he needed money to buy a new one. I was not going to be able to resist, so I did the only thing I could.

Reaching up with my left hand, I placed my index finger in between my teeth. If you aim for the right spot, it is surprisingly easy to bite through a finger. Looking up into his bleary eyes, I bit down hard, my teeth shearing through my finger at the middle knuckle. A jet of red spurted out the stump, splattering his face with blood. I swallowed the severed fingertip with a grimace, then stuck out my tongue to show him I had eaten it. That didn’t taste as good as it normally does. Maybe yours will be better. I gave him a crazed look as I grabbed his hand, the moonlight turning my features red.

Shock written across his face, my would-be assailant tripped over his feet as he turned and staggered out of the alley. I sighed with relief. He would not be back anytime soon. I should finally have some peace. The herbs were so strong I barely felt it when I bit off my finger. How I loved my medicine. I ate another pinch from my bag with my uninjured hand. Wrapping the stub of my finger in my shirt to stem the bleeding, I took a deep breath and let myself sink into the beautiful oblivion of amaopaula and papaolo. I had nothing to worry about. The night was still young, and in an hour or two, I would be fully healed and ready to go. Then it would be time to find Naymara.

I WAS BORN IN THE NORTH, where it snows in the winter, and the scent of the pine trees fills the dry summer air. I grew up restless, and by my twentieth birthday, I had left home to travel, lured away by the promise of adventure. I wandered south, doing whatever work I could find to pay for a bite to eat and a place to sleep. Traveling was not easy. As incredible as it was, my life on the road was one of poverty. I dreamed of becoming rich. One day, I finally got my chance.

I won a map to the ruins of Choquekray off a pirate in a game of cards. Choquekray was the capital city of the Jacus, an ancient empire of humanoid creatures that mysteriously disappeared centuries ago, remembered for dark rituals and human sacrifice. They were said to have been swallowed alive by the very gods they worshiped after failing to pay an ancient debt. All that was left of the Jacus were ruins scattered throughout the jungle.

Hidden deep inside the rainforest, it took nearly three weeks of trekking through mud and thick undergrowth infested with poisonous spiders, winged snakes, and mosquitoes the size of a human heart to reach Choquekray. I barely made it. When I finally arrived, I was overcome with wonder at the twisted beauty of the ruins. Mottled sunlight filtered through the jungle canopy, illuminating the two enormous faces carved from black sandstone that marked the entrance to the lost city. Giant stone ruins rose among the towering trees, partially hidden by the overgrowth as the jungle worked to reclaim the land. The ruins were covered in ornate carvings and black and red lichens that made the rock appear to be dripping blood. The hot jungle air that normally hummed with life was heavy and quiet. It smelled of death.

The dark legacy of Choquekray resisted the passage of time, and the spirits of the dead haunted the ruins. I needed to keep a bonfire burning the entire night to keep them at bay. While the ruins were riddled with infernal traps and crawling with the undead, they were also home to valuable relics waiting to be recovered. After making camp inside the crumbling walls of what was once a palace, I quickly set to work. As I passed the skeletal remains of sacrifice victims, they often rose to their feet, trying to plunge their cold, bony fingers into my flesh and drag me off to join them in the afterlife. They almost succeeded. Being there was risking death, but the potential reward was worth the risk.

After two days of searching, I finally found what I was looking for. On an altar made of human skulls and obsidian deep inside Wanhinu, the Temple of Death, lay the fabled Amulet of Life, Kaoway. With two gold-encrusted rubies shaped like an hourglass, Kaoway was said to make the wearer immortal. A shiver shot down my spine as I took the amulet from the altar.

Returning from the jungle, I sold Kaoway for an obscene amount of money to a smuggler setting sail to the wealthy desert realm of Zababad. She offered me a bag so full of onyx and rubies that I did not even bother to ask how much they were worth. Having become rich overnight, it only made sense to celebrate. The party lasted for weeks, only coming to a stop after I was stabbed in the back while leaving a bar after the wrong person saw how much gold was in my pocket. Bleeding out in the gutter, I tried to make peace with my past and waited for the inevitable. But death never came. Instead, I lay in the street in pain until the bleeding finally stopped, and I was able to get up and walk away.

I had been cursed by an ancient magic for stealing Kaoway. I cannot die. Whenever I am wounded, no matter how severely, I always survive. As much of a blessing as it sounds, it is not. I am drowning in agony. The pain of my past wounds haunts me like a ghost. Every waking moment is filled with suffering, and I cannot sleep without being dragged into a fiendish world of night terrors. My existence has become a living hell. I wander the world in a sleep-deprived haze of eternal anguish. Taking amaopaula and papaolo is my only salvation. The herbs shield me from the pain and allow me to enter a dream-like state, but the reprieve is never enough. I used to spend my nights praying for the pain to stop, but my pleas fell upon deaf ears. For a while, I even tried to kill myself, but my suicide attempts failed so miserably it was as if fate itself was mocking me. I have come to accept that all I can do is endure the pain, but I will stop at nothing to make it go away.

THE FOUL ODOR OF TRASH was growing stronger. The herbs were wearing off. I opened my eyes to see that my finger had regrown. The new skin was soft and pink, gross in contrast to the rest of my weathered hand. My finger ached, but far less than a slit throat would have. I speak from experience. The spear wound in my side had closed as well. Rising to my feet, I headed out into the night, moving in the direction of the dock district. It was time to find Naymara.

Some described Naymara as a witch, while others called her a shaman. Many referred to her as a sorceress. I had even heard claims that she was a spirit tethered to a human form. Naymara was unique. Trying to define her with a single word seemed futile. I only ever referred to her as Naymara.

Aside from her arcane abilities, Naymara was famous for her beauty and capriciousness. Many men had fallen dangerously in love with her after a single glimpse. Depending on the day, it was either a blessing or a curse. Her mood changed faster than the wind, and she was even more unpredictable than she was beautiful. She was as likely to help a stranger on a whim as she was to lash out against an old friend for an imagined slight. The only time I met her, she had fixed me with a cryptic stare and told me to return when the time was right.

Two nights ago, when the Blood Moon had risen, I had known that the time was now. Naymara’s magic was different than any I had seen before. It seemed to be a living piece of her, bubbling out of her like blood spilling from a fresh wound. Her abilities, coupled with the power of the Blood Moon, stood a chance of breaking the curse. All I needed was to get lucky enough to convince her to help. I hoped she would be in a good mood.

Knowing the Blood Moon was coming, I had been biding my time in a small town in the jungle upriver from Culsassiva. I prefer to be in nature; it helps me distance myself from my pain. The night the moon had risen red, I set off downriver on a raft, paddling through the night and sleeping during the day to avoid trouble. Culsassiva and the surrounding area was notorious for impressment gangs who prey on lone males, kidnapping and forcing them to work on the ships that sail up and down the river. The electric eels and piranhas were also more active when the sun was up. Luckily, the days had been uneventful, and the only company I had at night was the eyes of hundreds of hungry crocodiles glinting red in the moonlight as I rowed past.

My journey had been free of problems until arriving in Culsassiva. Since then, I had been stabbed by the city guard and forced to bite my finger off in a back alley, all within the course of an hour. I hated this city. But I was back on my way to find Naymara, and now that I had gotten my bad luck out of the way, my fortune was bound to improve.

The clouds had moved back to cover the moon, and the night was dark once again. It was past midnight. Naymara lived in the dock district, and if I had not been forced to flee the area earlier after my run-in with the guards, I would have already been at her house. I wound my way through the city until I reached the river. The air smelled of wet rope and mud, and the dark river water swirled silently around the dock posts as it passed. I looked out over the massive river to the lights on the far bank where the occasional lantern burned in the night. I wondered which were the lights of the fishermen who lived on the banks, and which were the lights of the hogados. The hogados were little, stunted beasts who were said to be the souls of drowned children who now used their lanterns to lure unwary travelers to a watery grave. Hogados, drawn to human suffering, were incredibly common to encounter in the outskirts of Culsassiva.

Suddenly, I heard something moving in the dark in front of me. I dropped into a crouch, my hands blindly searching the ground for a weapon as I pressed myself against the wall. My fingers wrapped themselves around a loose brick. Barely breathing, I crept forward. The sound was coming from around the corner. It was getting louder.

I stood hidden just before the corner, the brick poised to strike. Nothing was going to stop me from getting to Naymara’s. Nothing. The sound was getting louder. I could sense something out there in the dark. I clutched the brick so tightly it cut my hand. Motion erupted around the corner, and I brought the brick down hard, ready to bash in the head of anyone who tried to get in my way. I barely managed to stop myself.

It was a child.

His bare feet slapped against the cobblestones as he ran shirtless around the corner and disappeared among the shadows of the docks. He had not seen me. I had almost killed him. My heart pounding in my chest, I let the brick fall to the ground.

FIVE MERCIFULLY UNEVENTFUL minutes later, I turned onto the road where Naymara lived. Despite being nestled in the heart of the slums, Naymara’s street had a beauty of its own. Tall trees covered with black and red flowers grew above the walls covered in broken glass that lined the garbage-strewn dirt road marked with potholes. Her house sat at the end of the road. It was made of dark wood and was the only house without bars on the windows. A sliver of moon peeked out from behind a dark curtain of clouds, the red light making everything appear to be stained with blood.

Instead of a front door, there was a sheet billowing softly in the light breeze. I stood before it, suddenly unsure of myself. My mind was reeling. This was the moment I had been waiting for. What if it went wrong? Before I could call out to let her know I was there, her soft, scratchy voice danced up into my ears.

Come in. I’ve been expecting you.

My stomach contracted, and my heart quickened its beat. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the curtain to the side and stepped inside.

Raven-black hair cascading down her exposed shoulders, Naymara stood waiting for me, the fullness of her lips accentuated by the dark. A red dress clung loosely to the contours of her body, and she smelled of rich amber with a hint of pepper. It was intoxicating. She was even more beautiful than I had remembered. She flashed me a perfect smile, but her dark eyes betrayed her inner fire. Beckoning me to follow, she glided down the hallway and passed through a doorway filled with strings of hanging shells. The shells gently clattered together as we passed through them, feeling cool and hard against my skin.

I followed Naymara into a room heavy with the same sweet scent of amber mixed with a hint of spice. It made me lightheaded. The floor was matted with straw, and the dark planks that formed the walls looked like they had been salvaged from a shipwreck. The walls were covered in masks of all shapes and sizes. Some portrayed the features of monstrous beasts, while others were human in figure. A few of the masks seemed to smile jovially from the wall, but others leered at me menacingly, and even more bore horrendous expressions of fear, anger, or hate. A cracked mirror with an ornate metal border hung near the doorway. The ceiling was stained black with soot.

A circular table made of dark oak sat in the center of the room. There were no chairs. A deck of half-overturned tarot cards was scattered across the uneven tabletop around a handful of wax-dripping candles and a half-finished bottle of wine. No larger than a chicken egg, a skull carved from a gleaming black stone seemed to watch me from where it rested on the table next to a dagger with a ruby-studded pommel carved from the same black stone.

Do you like my masks? asked Naymara coyly, gesturing to the walls. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?

I nodded my agreement.

They’re the souls of those who have betrayed me. It’s better to have them close by, so I can keep an eye on them, she explained with a raspy laugh.

I nodded again, watching her warily.

We stood in silence, her eyes working languidly up and down my body. I tried to stay calm, but I could not wait any longer. I suppose you know why I’m here.

It would be foolish to think I didn’t. Don’t underestimate me, she warned with a smile, walking over to the table and starting to flit through the tarot cards. Are you sure you want to give up your immortality?

You mean my curse. I struggled to keep my voice even. She knew how much pain I was in.

Many people would kill for the magic that runs through your veins.

And I would kill many more to rid myself of it.

Wine? She uncorked the bottle with her teeth.

I nodded to be polite, letting the sweet liquid run down my throat. It felt warm in my stomach, reminding me that I had not eaten in nearly a day. Are you going to help me? I asked, handing her back the bottle after taking another swig.

She set the wine on the table then looked up at me. I felt her eyes penetrating deep into my soul. That depends on if you can help me, she said, the hint of a smile playing slyly on her lips.

How?

Come closer. The words floated out from her perfect mouth.

My head spun as I walked around the edge of the table and stood before her. Her sweet smell was overwhelming.

Her lips centimeters from my neck, she tilted her head back and whispered up into my ear, Help me have a little bit of fun. It’s been boring waiting for you all alone. She stared at me invitingly.

What kind of fun?

I think you know what I’m talking about.

Her breath was hot on my skin, and the nape of my neck tingled with anticipation. I could feel my heart thumping in my chest. Just as I leaned in to kiss her, she put the tips of her fingers lightly on my chest, holding me in place as she took a step backward.

Close your eyes and hold out your hand.

Why?

Just listen. Don’t ruin the fun with silly questions.

I did what I was told. Half of my brain screamed for me to focus, but the other half was weak with longing. She snapped her fingers, and something dropped in my palm. Opening my eyes, I brought my hand up to examine the pair of dice that had appeared out of thin air. Carved from a dull black stone, their edges were nicked and worn. The dots marking the numbers were dark red, and the threes had been replaced with images of flames.

We’re going to play a game, she purred. If you roll a seven or eleven, you win. If you roll a two, three, or twelve, you lose. If you roll something else, it’s my turn. If you win, you can have whatever you like for the rest of the night. She stared at me, her eyes fierce with desire.

Wiping the sweat from my palm, I went to roll the dice.

Wait, she said, her voice suddenly devoid of the playful huskiness of before. You have to pay to play. Her eyes were frigid, and I feared the severity of her gaze. Make sure to roll a seven or eleven. When I roll, I never lose. Her voice was flirtatious once more.

She snapped her fingers again, and a cloth pouch appeared on the table. My stomach jumped into my chest as I recognized my bag of amaopaula and papaolo. If I lost, not only was I going to remain cursed, but I was also going to lose my only source of relief. The herbs could only be found in the jungles of a remote island chain hundreds of miles away. If I lost them, it would take me months to get more. They were my most prized possession, the only thing I feared losing, but I did not have a choice. I was going to play.

One last thing, added Naymara as she reached out, her slender fingers grasping the stone