Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder No. 10: Black Sheep Magazine, #10

By Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Welcome to Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder, an extraordinary anthology magazine that transcends the boundaries of science-fiction, fantasy, and horror. Prepare to embark on a thrilling journey through the darkest corners of the human imagination, where the ordinary becomes extraordinary, and the mundane transforms into a realm of unspeakable terror and awe-inspiring wonder.

Within these pages, you'll discover a collection of captivating stories carefully curated to transport you to realms beyond the mundane. Each issue presents an array of unique tales crafted by talented visionaries, both established and emerging, who dare to defy conventions and push the boundaries of speculative fiction.

Whether you're a seasoned lover of the fantastic or just curious to explore new frontiers, Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder will be your guide through the realms of the extraordinary. Prepare to be enthralled, enchanted, haunted. So put on your dark sunglasses … and unleash your inner Black Sheep.

In this issue:

WALTER
Luis Paredes

MELISANDE WITH THE GOOD HAIR
Kate M Tyte

TRANSIT AUTHORITY
Josh Barbeau

THE HEADLESS BEAST
Marley Wilkinson

CLOUDS
Wayne Kyle Spitzer

PERIOD DRAMA.
Stephen McQuiggan

TAKE IT AWAY
Brittany Hague

DOUBLE BLIND
William M. McIntosh

THE POOL HOUSE
Justin Pepe

BENEATH THE VILLAGE MOON
J.M. Clark

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hobb's End Press
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224016631

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Wayne Kyle Spitzer (born July 15, 1966) is an American author and low-budget horror filmmaker from Spokane, Washington. He is the writer/director of the short horror film, Shadows in the Garden, as well as the author of Flashback, an SF/horror novel published in 1993. Spitzer's non-genre writing has appeared in subTerrain Magazine: Strong Words for a Polite Nation and Columbia: The Magazine of Northwest History. His recent fiction includes The Ferryman Pentalogy, consisting of Comes a Ferryman, The Tempter and the Taker, The Pierced Veil, Black Hole, White Fountain, and To the End of Ursathrax, as well as The X-Ray Rider Trilogy and a screen adaptation of Algernon Blackwood’s The Willows.

Book preview

CONTENTS

––––––––

WALTER

Luis Paredes

MELISANDE WITH THE GOOD HAIR

Kate M Tyte

TRANSIT AUTHORITY

Josh Barbeau

THE HEADLESS BEAST

Marley Wilkinson

CLOUDS

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

PERIOD DRAMA.

Stephen McQuiggan

TAKE IT AWAY

Brittany Hague

DOUBLE BLIND

William M. McIntosh

THE POOL HOUSE

Justin Pepe

BENEATH THE VILLAGE MOON

J.M. Clark

WALTER

Luis Paredes

––––––––

Shane Anthony Nichols dragged himself across the kitchen floor. The last few blades of a golden Florida sunset pierced through the kitchen windows, warming the porcelain tiles beneath his trembling palms.

Nauseous, angry, and disoriented, Shane didn’t understand why he couldn’t move his lower body or how he had ended up supine. The last thing he remembered was chopping onions and then a sharp pain in his right heel.

Did I blow out my ankle while cooking? Was it a heart attack? His heavy-lidded, blue eyes widened. Fuck! Was I drugged?

Shane shook his head, dappling the wood counters by his sides with sweat. It didn’t matter what happened, he decided. All he knew was that he needed help. His stomach tightened as another thought fluttered through his mind: What if I’m a cripple?

He imagined the looks he’d get at the gun range, rolling in on a wheelchair. Could he even get in? Guns and Gator Grits didn’t have ramp access. None of his friends would hang out with him again, that’s for sure.

Worst of all, he thought of Annie, his new AR-15 assault rifle. He’d have to return the gun and invest in a minivan with a lift ramp, one of those stair elevators old folks used, and. . .fuck!

Shane slapped a hand onto the tile, realizing that the life he knew was over. He patted his flanks, hoping to find his smartphone in one of his cargo short’s pockets, but it wasn’t there. He couldn’t even feel his legs, no matter how hard he swatted them.

Fuck me, Shane said, frowning. His lower lip protruded, glistening with sweat and saliva.

Even if he had his phone, who could he call? EMS? The ambulance crew could tip off the cops if they caught a glimpse of all the exotic—and illegal—animals roaming his sprawling property. Then he’d have to explain to officers from the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission why he owned a dozen baboons, two tigers, and a Komodo dragon. No, he needed to get a hold of someone he could trust.

He raised himself on quivering elbows and caught sight of the tips of his toes over the curve of a half-covered beer belly. His white, tank-top was soaked with sweat and bunched up around his midsection. Shane groaned and laid back down.

Now what?

As if in response, his left leg spasmed.

Shane cried and laughed at the same time. Hell, yeah! I’m not a gimp! He shouted. I can move my—

A grating sensation ripped into his right ankle. Shane imagined ringlets of razor wire tightening around his foot’s tanned, leathery skin.

Oh, God! Please make it stop! Shane screamed, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes. Bursts of purple light flared to life behind his lids. In that moment, he would have happily traded all his exotic animals for a handful of painkillers.

Shane’s mind suddenly conjured a wooden stage and a red velvet curtain. The backdrop parted, revealing a chorus line of giant pills and tablets with cartoon legs and arms dancing to a piano-led Vaudeville tune. 

Shane shook the image away and opened his eyes. The pain ebbed long enough for him to form a simple plan to get off the floor. He was done suffering on his back.

Better to die standing, he thought, focusing his gaze on the counter above. He reached for the rounded edge and pulled himself up, careful not to put pressure on his right leg.

Don’t look at it! Don’t look! Shane mumbled, wobbling to a standing position, but his eyes couldn’t resist. He blinked hard, trying to banish the sight, but all he managed to do was bring to focus the severity of his injury:

The skin around his ankle bulged, as if a gallon of water sloshed behind the taut, pale skin. Thin, purple veins spider-webbed across the bloated surface, and puss bubbled out from a small wound near his Achille’s heel.

Wh-what the fuck’s happened to me? he stammered.

The razor wire sensation suddenly returned. Shane rocked his head back and forth in rhythm with the throbbing ache and gripped the counter until his knuckles turned white.

The pain slowly faded.

Christ! Let that be the end of it! Shane thought himself, resting his elbows on the counter. Then he remembered what he was looking for. He snapped his head up and scanned the kitchen for his phone. His eyes settled on the charger plugged into the counter. The white USB cord snaked along the granite top, ending at the small, square connector. A few inches away, a fresh pot of coffee burbled and hissed. That’s weird, Shane thought to himself. He remembered turning the drip machine off before starting diner.

He caught the glimmer of a small puddle glistening on the floor at the edge of his vision. Several more dotted the tiles, disappearing at the living room’s carpeted edge. 

Could. . .could Walter have done this? Shane wondered.

Waking up with a gimp foot was the most disturbing thing to have happened to Shane since his new roommate arrived last month, but it wasn’t the weirdest.

That prize went to the bananas that magically appeared on the stairs every morning. The bright yellow fruits stood out against the dark wood treads. With no wife or kids, and Walter living in his own quarters far from the house, Shane wondered who would do such a thing. Sure, Genésis, Mia, or Heavenly occasionally stayed the night, but why would they want him to tumble to his death? He was a repeat customer!

Shane’s mind unspooled the other oddball events from the past few weeks, plucking the most dangerous incident from his memory—the tiger enclosures.

He kept his beloved big cats safely secured. But on some mornings, he found the padlock unhooked, hanging from the safety gate by its u-shaped shackle like a steel candy cane. Luckily, Tucker and Carlson were always too busy sunning themselves first thing in the AM to notice.

Most troubling of all were the nonsense messages— jumbles of letters, numbers, and emojis—sent to the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission he found on his phone’s text history. The screen was always wet for some reason.

Part of him wondered if he was stepping onto the path toward dementia like his father had traipsed and toppled over just a few years ago. That would explain how knives ended up in his bedsheets and between the couch cushions. Now the thought dawned on him that these weren’t random, unconnected events. They were assassination attempts!

Shane stared at the black spot on his Achille’s heel. It was a puncture wound. Walter was the only one with access to venom and—

The doorbell rang and Shane’s grip slipped. His inflamed foot slapped the tile, unleashing a jolt of pain that pushed its way into the meaty pulp of his teeth.

Shane, brotha. You home? A warbled voice asked through the intercom.

Shane hopped toward the security console on the wall and stared at the screen. Thank God! It was Phil, one of his fishing buddies. He pressed the speaker button. Get your ass in here, man! I need help!

––––––––

Shane eased onto his leather armchair.

With Phil’s shoulder as a crutch, he was able to wobble out from the kitchen and into his living room. A Duck Dynasty rerun played on the flat screen with the volume turned down. 

Phil wiped the sweat from his glistening brow. You’re helluva lot heavier than you look.

Shane patted his belly. Body by burger, my man. For the first time since waking up, he was pain-free enough to crack a joke.

Phil tucked his polarized Oakley sunglasses into his grey, sweat-stained tank top’s collar and jutted his chin toward Shane’s right foot. What the fuck happened? 

I’ve been poisoned, Shane said, rubbing the sides of his temples with his fingertips.

Who would want to do that?

Shane stared at his bald-headed friend. You would! he thought. Phil’s the one who pointed out Walter’s profile on POAChR, the matchmaking app they both used. Maybe Phil still held a grudge against him for swiping right a microsecond faster. 

Shane! Phil cocked his head to the side. Why are you looking at me like that?

"When exactly did you get here?"

Brother, just now. You buzzed me in, remember?

You just happened to be in the neighborhood? Shane asked, leaning forward.

Phil’s jaw dropped. You’re the one who asked me to drop off that boat motor. He jabbed a finger toward the living room window. It’s in the back of my truck. Jesus H. Christ! Did you hit your head too?

Shane craned his neck around and looked outside. Phil was telling the truth. He could see the rusty propeller poking out from the cargo bed.

Damn, dude. I’m sorry. It’s just been a few weird weeks. Shane exhaled, slumping back into the chair. I think someone’s gunning for me.

Your neighbors?

No. Someone closer.

Phil arched an eyebrow. Who?

Walter, Shane said.

Your Australian BFF?

I’m serious, man. You have no idea what’s been happening here the past few weeks.

Trouble in paradise? Phil asked, blowing mock kisses.

Come on, man. Stop being a dick, Shane said.

Well, you did bring him over here against his will and locked him up out in your swampy backyard, Phil said.

Shane scoffed. I wanted Walter to feel comfortable. I spent a shit-ton of money on landscaping to make his pad look and feel just like Exford.

That’s near Melbourne, right?

Shane nodded his head. It’s a replica of his hometown by the river.

Listen, if we’re going to keep this conversation going, I’m going to need some coffee. Phil turned toward the kitchen. You still have that bottle of Wild Turkey in the cupboard above the sink?

Yeah, man. Pour me a cup too, Shane said, shifting his rear on the leather chair. Outside, peacocks squawked their shrill calls. One of the tigers moaned and the wind hissed through the palm fronds around the property. Perfect time for a nap, he thought to himself. 

Phil handed him a cup just as his eyes were about to close.

Gave you a double shot.

Shane’s nose wrinkled. The aroma of liquor and coffee curdled his stomach. God, that smell!

I’ll drink it if you won’t, Phil said, sipping on his own cup. He whistled. Good ol’ Wild Turkey. Did you know that Hunter S. Thompson drank the stuff?

Shane rolled his eyes.

Phil was always talking about the books he read like they were some big accomplishment. He glanced at his friend’s diamond stud earring. Didn’t Phil say he lived in Brooklyn for a year?

Well? Phil asked, snapping Shane’s attention back. You going to tell me what’s going on?

Shane started with the bananas. To Phil’s credit, he kept the chuckles and smirks to a minimum.

I know it sounds crazy, but I think Walter’s behind all of it, Shane said, finishing the tally of strange events. He narrowed his eyes. What do you think?

Phil ran a hand over his smooth head.

Brother, I’ll admit that Walter’s a strange duck, but the guy doesn’t even have—

Phil gagged.

Ugh, I’m sorry. . .something went down the wrong—

Shane flinched as coffee and blood sputtered from his friend’s mouth. Phil grasped his neck, fell to his knees, and pitched forward. His nose cracked against the floor with a muffled crunch.

Shane glanced at his cup and tossed it against the wall. Fuck me! The coffee’s poisoned!

Phil’s body convulsed and curled into a fetal position. Red-tinged bubbles pooled around his flared nostrils and gaping mouth. Then his friend’s body stopped moving.

Oh, fuck! Fuck! FUCK! Shane shouted, lurching out of the chair. He Army-crawled toward Phil, wincing as his right foot dragged against the carpet like an anchor.

Shane pressed two fingers against Phil’s neck. He was dead.

Squelch!

Shane turned toward the wet sound. A shadow fluttered across the kitchen’s threshold.

Who’s there? Shane asked.

A pan clattered on the tiled floor. 

You better get the fuck out of my house! I’ve got a gun and—

Shane yelped like a kicked dog. What felt like a drill bit made of ice burrowed into his left heel. The last thing he heard before passing out was a shrill hiss.

––––––––

Shane’s eyes fluttered open.

What the fuck? What the fuck? He screamed, pressing himself off from Phil’s body. Shane’s trembling elbows buckled and he landed back on his friend’s chest. A gust of noxious air bellowed from Phil’s blood-encrusted mouth. Shane gagged as the smell of rotted pork pressed itself into his mouth and nostrils.

Unable to move his