Lockdown Phantom #5: Lockdown, #22

By LOCKDOWN FREE FICTION AUTHORS

Supernatural stories for LOCKDOWN.

 

A Haunted Necromancer by Sabetha Danes

Ahp by Patrick Winters

Brotherly Love by Diane Arrelle 

Diao Si Gui by Patrick Winters

Fallen Angel by Robert Walton

Forlorn Hope by R.J. Meldrum

Midnight Culprits by Olivia Arieti

Phi Tai Hong Tong Klom by Patrick Winters

Shinjitsu by Patrick Winters

Superstition by Patrick Winters

The Goodbye by Andrew Kurtz

The Reflection by Christopher T. Dabrowski

Unexpected Visitor by Andrew Kurtz

We're All Friends Here by Michelle Ann King

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Hare Press
• Release date: Dec 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223696230

Book preview

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from Black Hare Press

DARK DRABBLES ANTHOLOGIES

WORLDS

ANGELS

MONSTERS

BEYOND

UNRAVEL

APOCALYPSE

LOVE

HATE

OCEANS

ANCIENTS

HELL HARE HOUSE PRODUCTIONS

SEEING

RAINMAKER

THE DOUBLE HELIX CONUNDRUM

TESATO’S CODE

MACABRE MINIMA

THE INVITED

DEVELOPMENTAL

OTHER VOLUMES

WHAT IF?

DEEP SEA

AND MANY MORE...!

Twitter: @BlackHarePress

Facebook: BlackHarePress

Website: www.BlackHarePress.com

LOCKDOWN PHANTOM #5 title is

Copyright © 2023 Black Hare Press

First published in Australia in December 2023 by Black Hare Press

The authors of the individual stories retain the copyright of the works featured in this anthology

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this production may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

Cover Design ​Dawn Burdett ​www.dmburdett.com

Formatting ​Ben Thomas ​www.blackharepress.com

S. Jade Path ​linktr.ee/sjadepath

Editing ​D. Kershaw ​www.blackharepress.com

S. Jade Path ​linktr.ee/sjadepath

Special thanks to the Lockdown Read Team

Alice Lam • David Green • Holley Cornetto • Jennifer Hatfield

Jodi Jensen • Lyndsay Ellis-Holloway • Stacey Jaine McIntosh

TABLE OF CONTENTS

SUPERSTITION

MIDNIGHT CULPRITS

AHP

UNEXPECTED VISITOR

A HAUNTED NECROMANCER

PHI TAI HONG TONG KLOM

FALLEN ANGEL

WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE

THE GOODBYE

SHINJITSU

THE REFLECTION

BROTHERLY LOVE

DIAO SI GUI

FORLORN HOPE

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

SUPERSTITION

by Patrick Winters

It's only superstition to the foolish.

While my Grandma Bonnie had a compendium of sayings ranging from the wise to the downright strange, this one wound up sticking with me more than any other down through the years. It's what's kept me tossing salt over my left shoulder every time I stupidly spill it at restaurants. It's what's made me very wary of wandering black cats—aside from my allergies, of course. And, yes, I never hazard walking under ladders or dare to smash any mirrors I look into, all because of this phrase that repeats itself in my mind almost daily, and always in the voice of my dear old Scottish grandmother.

It's only superstition to the foolish She said it proudly and often back in my youth, in that single year when she lived with me and my parents, right before she passed in her increasing age. After she'd had her accident—falling down the stairs of her home one day, and landing with a broken hip—my father knew she couldn't live on her own any longer. So we gladly took her in. But she didn't come without her challenges.

My grandmother was...adamant...in her beliefs and her ways. The only thing was, to others, those beliefs, and ways were a little out there. In short, she was superstitious, taking stock in practically every obscure and odd wives’ tale and practice that had some supernatural bent to it, and which seemed best left to a century or two past. Of course, if you ever called her habits superstition to her face, she'd whip out that classic phrase on you. Her way of saying: I'm right, you're wrong—and you better start getting it right.

I loved my grandmother, but I never understood her eccentric ways any more than other people did. And like other people, I often came under her superstitious scrutiny. One time, I remember leaving for school in the midst of an early morning drizzle. I got out an umbrella and opened it up—inside the house. Before I could make it out the door, my Grandma Bonnie came out of the kitchen hollering her Scotch admonishments. Ye cannae open an umbrella indoors, boy! It's bad luck! she had carried on. I had rolled my eyes at her worries and promised to keep the rule in mind. Another time her brand of curious beliefs came to bear was on my eleventh birthday; her gift to me, of all things, had been a weird old rabbit's foot. Grandma Bonnie had insisted I always carry it with me, no matter where I go. More often than not, I just left it on my dresser.

As odd as all these rules, tokens, and ideas were, none were ever odder to me than the one she came up with that Halloween, when I finally got to go out trick-or-treating all by my lonesome.

It was the first time my parents had ever agreed to let me go out on my own during Halloween, and the only reason they had allowed it was because I'd begged and begged for the opportunity all October long. I wanted an adventure; to enjoy the night on my own, among the other pint-sized witches, ghouls, and assorted candy-seekers that would be darting through the streets. I was going to be too old for trick-or-treating soon enough and I wanted one All Hallows’ Eve to myself before it was said and done. I managed to sell my parents on the idea, so long as I kept close to the neighbourhood and was back before 10:00, at the absolute latest.

So, dressed as a classic ninja, and with a deep, soon-to-be-filled bucket, I got ready to leave the house and start my expedition for sweet sugar. As I started out the door, Grandma Bonnie stopped me, waving her arms about as she pleaded for me to wait. Her wrinkled face seemed to have extra wrinkles that night; it was scrunched up in genuine worry, and as she spoke, it was in a far more serious tone than I'd ever heard her muster up before. In her hand, she held a piece of baguette. She held it out for me to take.

If ye must go out tonight, she said, her eyes wide and stern, ye should have this. Keep it in yer pocket. It's an offering—in case ye see a ghost!

I remember looking from the bread in my hand, to my grandmother, and back to the bread. Uhm... thanks, Grandma, I'd said. What would a ghost want with bread? I thought. Dead people don't eat. This is just stupid...

But I wasn't about to say any of that to my grandmother, so I awkwardly stuffed the scrap of bread into the pocket of my costume and went out into the night.

The streets were filled with costumed kids going house to house, ringing doorbells and squealing with delight at the sights and sounds of Halloween. I was beside myself with glee, feeling some young, smug pride when I passed kids who had their parents in tow while I walked freely about. It was exhilarating, and soon I'd covered the block and more, my bucket filling up