HORROR #6: Lockdown Horror: Lockdown, #25

By D. Kershaw

Horror short stories

 

A Hair's Breadth by Steven Holding

A Sense of the Silence of the Dead by M.M. Montelione

An Accident by Christopher T. Dabrowski

Chirp by Patrick Winters

Deadlocked by R.A. Goli

Family Dollar Lockdown by Brooke Reynolds

Imperfect by Daniel Purcell

Kill My Darling by D.M. Burdett

Lightfall Hill by Kimberly Rei

The Red Devil's Quill by M.M. Montelione

Worst Boys by Fulvio Gatti

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Hare Press
• Release date: Apr 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224570010

Book preview

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE DEVIL’S RED QUILL by M.M. Montelione

FAMILY DOLLAR LOCKDOWN by Brooke Reynolds

KILL MY DARLING by D.M. Burdett

WORST BOYS by Fulvio Gatti

A HAIR’S BREADTH by Steven Holding

AN ACCIDENT by Christopher T. Dabrowski

LIGHTFALL HILL by Kimberly Rei

A SENSE OF THE SILENCE OF THE DEAD by M.M. Montelione

CHIRP  by Patrick Winters

IMPERFECT  by Daniel Purcell

DEADLOCKED  by R.A. Goli

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

THE DEVIL’S RED QUILL

by M. M. Montelione

Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour. 1 Peter 5:8

11 January 1771.

Riverhead, New York.

The Reverend Zachariah Fanning stared out his back window in his banyan, grinning at the rapidly falling snow against the pitch-black night. He figured there had to be an accumulation of at least three feet or more outside, stretching as far as the eye could see in all directions. The snowstorm had been raging for three days straight; freezing cold winds ripped all over Long Island, chilling people to the bone. In such white-out conditions, not a soul dared to venture outside unless at the utmost of necessity. A comfortable feeling came over the holy man as his old, dark house creaked and sighed. He was content and warm in his manor house, complete with five acres. The back windows exposed a tranquil bay which split eastern Long Island into two forks. Zachariah did not have a neighbour for miles as the church owned most of the surrounding land. He enjoyed the quiet of the quaint maritime town.

The reverend thought of those less fortunate than him, who might have lacked shelter, sustenance, and wood. Their situations would be life-threatening. Luckily for Zachariah, his flock had supplied him with plenty of food and more than enough wood to stay warm for weeks, if need be. Given his cosy situation, the priest did not fear the superstorm. On the contrary, he was invigorated by the blustery weather; he felt somewhat guilty for thinking it, but he preferred winter out of all the seasons, because of the possibility of a snowstorm strong enough to arrest the chaos of his daily life for a while. With such a storm as that rampaging outside, Zachariah knew there would be no sacraments to administer and no flock to preach to. The heavy snow put a dead stop to all of it.

A loner by nature, Zachariah lived on his own, with no servants or slaves. He thought of himself as a humble man, who worked his own land, mostly prepared his own food, and, overall, lived more simply than most other well-bred colonists. At forty-one years old, he excelled in his vocation and was proud of the Anglican church that he helped build on Long Island. His Masses had one of the highest attendance rates on the east end of the island, and he often boasted of it. He was a talented orator, known for being both courteous and sensible in his sermons. Yet deep sorrow and uncertainty struck his heart whenever he was asked about death.

The priest feared death, that silent presence which lurked in the dark corners of his mind. He knew, deep down, despite all that his religion had taught him, he still loathed death and did not accept it. Indeed, the mere thought of dying—of ceasing to be a living creature in the flesh—terrified him, regardless of what he believed happened to his soul afterwards. Lately, he suffered from morbid, incessant thoughts. Would time, violence, or some illness be his demise? Would his death be grotesque? How long after his burial would it take for the earth to consume his corpse? He kept his personal dilemma private and did not tell a soul about it. What would his flock think of him, if he admitted to them that he could not adequately quell their very normal fears of dying, because he himself had not conquered his own horrors? Zachariah worried that his condition was worsening by the day.

At least the snow falls, and all is quiet, the reverend said aloud to himself as he sat down in his cosy chair next to the roaring fireplace. Just as he relaxed, closing his eyes, he heard the slow creaking of the dining room door behind him. He turned and looked, but, finding no cause for alarm, blamed it on a draft.

***

The devil stepped out of the shadows and sat down on a chair behind Zachariah.

Good evening, Reverend, the creature said.

Zachariah let out a shout and turned around to see the intruder.

The devil did not move, his deep, charcoal grey eyes locked on the holy man.

My Lord, redeem me of my sins! Save me! Terrified, Zachariah put his face in his hands, rocked, and fiercely invoked the name of Jesus Christ.

Oh, come now, the devil said, relaxing his posture, folding his hands together and making himself comfortable. I did not come here to kill you. If that were my intention, I would have sent one of my minions. You see me here, in plain sight, do you not? I wish to offer you a deal.

Zachariah shuddered at the creature’s voice, noticing a resemblance to humanity in its tone. He stopped praying and analysed the being before him. The red demon had a long face and pointed ears, eyes set behind black lids, and one small horn protruding from the centre of his forehead. His fingers were slender and tipped with black, his wings were tucked under his ragged brown robes. For all of this, he was not altogether inhuman, nor was he as vile in appearance as Zachariah assumed the devil incarnate would be. After all,