Don't Read This Book After Dark Vol. 3: Don't Read This Book After Dark, #3

By Alice J. Taylor, Bridget Eilis, Jude Mire and 6 more

Even more terrorizing tales from nine horror authors across the world, coming together for one deliciously dreadful anthology that will have you sleeping with the lights on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emily S Hurricane
• Release date: Apr 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223373599

Book preview

Don’t Read This Book After Dark Vol. 3

DON’T READ THIS BOOK AFTER DARK VOL. 3

A HORROR ANTHOLOGY

ALICE J. TAYLOR BRIDGET EILIS JUDE MIRE DEE RASHA BERENGARIA DI ROSSI JOEY HUFF ELAINE MARCH PAOLA F. CARAVASSO RICHARD SIMONDS

First Edition.

Copyright © 2024 by Alice J. Taylor, Bridget Eilis, Jude Mire, Dee Rasha, Berengaria Di Rossi, Joey Huff, Elaine March, Paola F. Caravasso, Richard Simonds

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

All images used in this book are licensed from Creative Fabrica.

No AI was used in the writing, editing, art, or any part of this publication.

Editing: Emily S Hurricane, Emerald Baynton, Connor James

Cover: Emily S Hurricane

the horror lovers

who crave the thrill of the dark

the cold sweat of fear

and the satisfaction of a full-body shudder

this is for you

Grinning skull in top hat

CONTENTS

Hot Dog Man

Jude Mire

Corn Worm

Berengaria Di Rossi

Succubus

Alice J. Taylor

Marshmallows

Dee Rasha

Lumberers

Jude Mire

Parted

Joey Huff

Monster

Bridget Eilis

Apartment 2A

Paola F. Caravasso

Zoom

Alice J. Taylor

Regarding Security

Jude Mire

The Book

Paola F. Caravasso

Eater of Dread

Alice J. Taylor

Room 696

Paola F. Caravasso

Into The Dark

Richard Simonds

The Oubliette

Elaine March

Margaret Street

Alice J. Taylor

Paralysis

Paola F. Caravasso

Milk and Cookies

Alice J. Taylor

Squishfoot Dummy

Jude Mire

About the Authors

HOT DOG MAN

JUDE MIRE

Dude, stop eating 'em. Save some for the hot dog man!

Jason shoved the last of the loaded Chicago dog into his mouth and answered around the bun. Buf theh so goo!

LaMorris snatched the bag from his friend and peered inside. There were still just over a half dozen left, wrapped in their wax-paper packs. No fries. They didn't need fries.

You're gonna wish you hadn't eaten that, said LaMorris. Trust me.

Jason wiped mustard off the corner of his mouth with his thumb and licked his fingers. This guy gets two chances. Then we’re eating those. Jason couldn’t believe he’d let LaMorris talk him into buying fifty bucks worth of food for a homeless man. It was bullshit. Had to be. No way it was true.

No, we won’t, said LaMorris. You’ll see. He left the sidewalk and headed for a chain-link fence with a tear in it.

They’d gotten the dogs from Byrons because LaMorris insisted they had to be authentic. None of those modern places with fancy bun flavors or topping options. Only a dive dog would do. The place was a white cube of a building no bigger than a shack with bright yellow signage and barely enough room for the two men to stand and order. Take-out mandatory.

From there, they hopped onto the Red Line and took it all the way from Wrigleyville, through half the city, down to Chinatown. They hoofed it across the open air mall and past the zodiac court until they came to a warehouse district. LaMorris wound them through it like a maze. Eventually, they arrived at a series of underpasses. Not the new city types built beneath the fast highways, with lots of space and smooth concrete.

No, these were the old, narrow ones, with low ceilings and nearly abandoned. The sort of tunnels holding up the heavy rail-yard spine of the city. Fat columns, painted flaking white with arches between them, filled the space so tightly that cars could barely manage the trip through. These passages went on for gloomy blocks, flickering with amber light filtered through dirty plastic housings. The new pavement wasn’t, and had disintegrated everywhere but along the curb, revealing the ancient brick cobblestones beneath. Rusty railings ran along the cracked sidewalk and the walls held generations of graffiti. It was like going back in time to several different eras all at once.

To Jason, it wasn’t special. It made him feel that their trip was taking forever. Once they’d emerged to the open streets, he’d started to eat their cargo. He’d still be eating it, if LaMorris hadn’t taken it away. He was about to complain about it, and see if he could wrangle another one from his friend, when LaMorris stopped at the entrance to a narrow alleyway.

There he is. His voice had the sort of reverence typically reserved for celebrities. Jason leaned around the corner and looked at the man.

He had greasy hair, pushed back, and a scraggly beard. He was wearing the remnants of an old suit. A nice one, something you’d see a lawyer or a trading guy wear. But it was ripped to shit and dirty. He had a shopping cart, but there wasn’t much stuff in it, just a couple garbage bags and a ratty sleeping bag. The man was sitting on the ground, fiddling with something in his hands.

Jason didn’t like the look of him. Man, this is stupid. Just give him one and let’s go. I don’t wanna do this.

LaMorris raised his eyebrows at him. We came all this way. We doin’ this. He walked into the alley and Jason followed.

The homeless man didn’t look up from what he was doing as they approached. As Jason got close, he could see the filthy man was holding a fist-sized wad of wet hair and was trying to untangle it. LaMorris rustled the bag of hot dogs and pulled one out. This captured the guy’s attention immediately. He dropped the disgusting clump and stared at the bag, licking his lips.

LaMorris smiled. Alright, alright! Good to see you again, my man. I got somethin’ for ya, so long as we do the same deal. One for one, a’ight? Just like before.

The guy nodded, looking at the paper wrapped dog in LaMorris’ hand. He held up a finger and aimed it at the sky. He pointed another at the offering. One for one. That’s the rule. One for one.

Yeah, buddy. Here you go. LaMorris unwrapped the paper and revealed the loaded hot dog. There was no seeing the actual frankfurter beneath all the toppings: relish, pickle spear, hot peppers, diced onion, tomato slice, a for-real sized dose of mustard, all dusted with celery salt and wrapped in a soft poppy bun. No ketchup, of course. He extended the package and spoke clearly. Alright, now, here’s the question. Exactly what time and day was my buddy here, born? he asked, indicating Jason.

The hot dog man looked at Jason for the first time, squinted, and took the offering from LaMorris. Jason expected him to jam it into his mouth, but he threw it onto the ground instead, right next to the clump of hair. He opened up the bun and fished out the meat. Once he had it, he rubbed off all the toppings and even went so far as to slide it along the ground, cleaning away the condiments. After it was mostly done (and covered in dirt), he dangled it above his head, opened his mouth, and stuck out his tongue.

Slowly—so slowly—he lowered the dog to the back of his throat. With a strange neck spasm, he sucked it down and swallowed it whole. No chewing.

He snapped his head back, looked straight at LaMorris, and answered. 4:27am, December 4th, 1997.

Jason blinked. The man was right. Spot on. It had to be a joke. LaMorris must have told the guy the answer in advance. He shook his head. Naw, you’re fuckin’ with me.

LaMorris shook his head. Nope. I told you. He can answer anything, anything, if you feed him a hot dog. He offered Jason the bag. You try it.

Jason wasn’t buying it, but there was only one way to find out. He gave the guy a hot dog. What was the name of my third grade crush? It was the first thing that popped into his head that he could be sure there was no way for the man to know. He’d only moved to Chicago after college and LaMorris didn’t have a clue where he’d gone to grade school.

The hot dog man repeated the process, wiping the wiener toppings on the ground and then slurping it straight down his gullet with a sickening gulp. Kaylee Farley.

Even though it was right, Jason frowned. That’s not possible.

You say that, but he just fuggin’ did it! Gimmie another one. LaMorris jammed his hand into the bag and took one. Alright pal, what was the name of my grandma’s second to last dog?

He did it again. Wipe. Swipe. Suck. Matzoball. LaMorris snapped his fingers and nodded.

Yes! That’s what it was! Been driving me crazy trying to remember the name of that thing. Fattest chihuahua you ever saw. Mean too, said LaMorris.

Jason backed away and leaned on the opposite wall of the alley, staring at the man in stunned confusion. He had to be being punked. There was no way this was real. It must be some sort of prank show, where they’d researched his life, gotten some creepy actor and talked LaMorris into playing along. It had to be. He realized that if that were the case, there must be some kinda question he could ask that they wouldn’t know the answer to. Something no amount of sleuthing could tell them, to confirm.

LaMorris gave Jason another dog. He’d been right: Jason didn’t want to eat them anymore. He held it while the man watched him expectantly, trying to come up with a foolproof question. He rolled through the options, thinking about his life and dredging for details that only he could know, but in the end, the solution was much simpler. He pulled the food receipt from his front pocket and a pen from his back.. Carefully, hunched by the wall, he wrote something down on the back, where he was absolutely positive nobody could see it.

He gave the man a hot dog. What did I just write down on this piece of paper? he asked.

Out of the bun, into the dirt, and gone. Pineapple monkey 58b34g whatthehell ceiling, but you spelled it wrong, with an ie, and then a star followed by a hashtag. He waved his finger in the air, drawing out a tiny tic-tac-toe board. Jason looked at the scrap of paper. Fuck! He had spelled ceiling wrong.

LaMorris grinned. "I told you bro! This is where it gets fun. Check this. What’s the score gonna be for