Used Parts

By Erik Handy

Hungry witches. A neverending out-of-body experience. The best gift. In Used Parts, you'll experience these pieces of Hell and more!

 

Erik Handy, the author of The Mummy Kills The Brides and Macabre, brings you 13 previously-published stories that continue the chilling short fiction legacies of H.P. Lovecraft and Stephen King.

 

Are you ready to be scared to tears?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erik Handy
• Release date: Aug 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223932079

Erik Handy

Erik Handy grew up on a steady diet of professional wrestling, bad horror movies that went straight to video, and comic books. There were also a lot of video games thrown in the mix. He currently absorbs silence and fish tacos.

Book preview

Silver

The rain had stopped and the children were huddled together under their quilt. The floor was hard – the pallet of spare quilts didn’t help, but that didn’t keep the boy and girl from sleeping. They were grateful for four walls, a roof, and a fire.

Mama stayed up, fixing the holes in her son’s pants. One more patch and then she’d join them on the floor. Her eyes were tired and they burned. The only light was the fire on the other side of her children. Flickering orange light cascaded along each inch of the one-room cabin. Still, she needed better light, but there wouldn’t be any until dawn. She hoped to finish her chore well before then so she could be ready to work on the next day’s tasks. It was truly never-ending, but if it did end, then what? What else was there to do in life?

A step on the front porch.

Wood cracking.

Not from a boot heel.

From something . . . sharper.

A light knock on the door.

Then, a woman’s voice.

Sir, in a meek, British accent. Sir?

Mama kept the shotgun close at hand ever since Papa went away in the summer. He made her promise to keep it loaded and near. If the war hadn’t broken out between the states, then he would’ve been here protecting his family. This fell on Mama, too.

Mama set her boy’s pants on the floor.

The children were still asleep.

She slowly picked up the shotgun from behind her chair and went to the door.

Who is it? she said, not wanting to wake the children.

Madame, the visitor said, surprised. Madame, I apologize for intruding upon you at this late hour.

Mama unlatched the door and let it swing open on its own.

There was a woman in white – that is, if her dress wasn't wet and muddy all around the bottom. Her hair was a matted mess. In drier circumstances, she would have indeed been mighty beautiful. Now, she appeared pathetic, like a neglected hound.

My name is Ophelia Sherman, she said. I’m an actress. I was on my way to Dodge when my stagecoach got bogged down in some mud. The driver went on ahead to get some help. That could take hours. I am embarrassed to ask at this ungodly hour, but may I sit by your fire and warm my bones? Just long enough for me to regain my energy? She saw Mama’s shotgun. I can pay you.

No need for that, Mama said. All I ask is you keep your voice down.

Ophelia spotted the sleeping children. Of course, madame. I wouldn’t dare rile your children and cause you dismay. You need your relief.

Come in.

Ophelia went to the meager dining table and gently pulled out a chair.

Can I offer you some coffee? Mama said. I have leftover stew as well.

No, thank you. Just a seat in a warm home. For a few minutes.

Stay as long as you like, Miss Sherman.

Ophelia blushed. And your name, Madame?

Mama didn’t hear her.

The fire . . . through the woman at her supper table was the fire.

Mama thought it was a trick of the light and her ailing eyes. But the woman’s outline stood out against the shimmering translucence contained within her figure. She was solid against the night, but here she was ethereal.

Ignoring the woman – if she was a woman – Mama went back to her chair and the mending.

If you don’t mind, she said, we can talk while I work. I was nearly finished when you showed up.

I apologize for interrupting your work.

The woman’s sincerity rang true. She was so polite. If only she wasn’t see-through . . . .

Mama’s head swam with possibilities. They weren’t churchgoing folk, but she knew enough to wonder if this was the Devil in the half-flesh, here to take her and her children straight to Hell. Why? Because that was what the Devil did. Evil for evil’s sake.

Are you all right, madame?

Mama squinted at her handiwork. I don’t . . . mean to stare. That’s a . . . pretty dress.

This wet, dirty thing? I guess it is.

You’re an actress?

The woman’s smile disarmed Mama. One could imagine its effects on a man’s heart.

I am. Never far from home if there’s a stage nearby.

Dodge does have a theater. Though I don’t know if they’d be receptive to a lady of your caliber.

Ophelia chuckled, then slapped her hand on her mouth. My apologies, madame. That is funny. I haven’t been called a lady in quite some time.

Mama looked up when she noticed the woman had stopped talking.

Gazing at the fire, Ophelia eventually spoke, I’ve been called many names. Names I dare not repeat. But yes – I have been called a lady several times. She smiled again. Are you certain I cannot repay your hospitality?

Nonsense.

Well, if you and your family make it to Dodge, please see me. I would be delighted to have you as my guests.

Mama returned Ophelia’s smile and then returned to the pants she just finished mending. Pretending to work on them gave her time to think. She could not determine what manner of creature sat before her. A devil? A ghost? What other dark things lurked in the cold night?

She cursed herself for not being more educated. Her existence was this home and family. It wasn’t much, but caring for them filled her heart as well as the hours of every day. She was raised to believe that was the reason for living. Anything else – money, church, plays – wasn’t