Dark Horses: The Magazine of Weird Fiction No. 28 - May 2024: Dark Horses Magazine, #28

By Wayne Kyle Spitzer

dark horse
/ˈdärk ˈˌhôrs/
noun
1. a candidate or competitor about whom little is known but who unexpectedly wins or succeeds.
"a dark-horse candidate"

Join us for a monthly tour of writers who give as good as they get. From hard science-fiction to stark, melancholic apocalypses; from Lovecraftian horror to zombies and horror comedy; from whimsical interludes to tales of unlikely compassion--whatever it is, if it's weird, it's here. So grab a seat before the starting gun fires, pour yourself a glass of strange wine, and get ready for the running of the dark horses.

In this issue:

THE CHURCHYARD GRIM
Warren Benedetto

THE SEQUENCE
Eoghan McGrath

THE WARLORD'S SON
R. K. Olson

THE MONOLITH
Jason Van Luipen

A REIGN OF THUNDER (PART FOUR)
Wayne Kyle Spitzer

MY DAY STARTED OFF
Bob Gielow

NEVER IN ABSOLUTES
Kyle Brandon Lee

FROM NOWHERE
Anthony C. Ermi

DEATH BY MISADVENTURE
Thomas Kearnes

WHO WE ARE
Damir Salkovic

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hobb's End Press
• Release date: Apr 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224548491

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

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THE CHURCHYARD GRIM

Warren Benedetto

THE SEQUENCE

Eoghan McGrath

THE WARLORD’S SON

R. K. Olson

THE MONOLITH

Jason Van Luipen

A REIGN OF THUNDER (PART FOUR)

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

MY DAY STARTED OFF

Bob Gielow

NEVER IN ABSOLUTES

Kyle Brandon Lee

FROM NOWHERE

Anthony C. Ermi

DEATH BY MISADVENTURE

Thomas Kearnes

WHO WE ARE

Damir Salkovic

THE CHURCHYARD GRIM

Warren Benedetto

––––––––

We thought we would be safe in the church. We were wrong.

The icy stone floor dug painfully into my side as I cowered under the pew. My father’s calloused hand cradled the back of my head and pressed my face into the folds of his shirt. The strong scent of sweat and fear leeched from his pores and filled my nostrils. His lips moved against my hair as he spoke.

Don’t look, he whispered. Keep your eyes closed.

His arms tightened around me. I could hear the thoroughbred pace of his heart in his chest. It thudded against my cheek, pounding like a closed fist punching the inside of his ribs. His breathing was raspy, the sound of a broom sweeping a wooden floor.

A low growl reverberated through the church. The beast drew closer, the click of its claws echoing off the dull granite tiles. The acrid odor of brimstone attacked my senses, along with something else: the smell of rotting meat, of decaying corpses roiling with maggots and flies.

It was the smell of Death.

Ignoring my father’s warning, I edged one eye open. From my position under the pew, I could see along the floor of the church, across the central aisle, and down the opposite side to the base of the altar. Clusters of other parishioners huddled on the floor, just like us. I briefly made eye contact with Mrs. Haverford, an elderly woman I knew best for the fresh bread she baked after Mass on Sundays. Her gnarled hands were clasped to her lips in a prayerful pose. Her eyes were wide with terror.

Suddenly, an enormous black paw thudded to the ground only inches from my face. The paw was far too huge to be that of a dog’s or even a wolf’s. It was as big as a horse’s hoof—maybe bigger—with thick, damp fur the color of burnt wood and curved claws that looked like the sharp, wrought-iron tongs we kept by our fireplace.

With a wet snarl, the beast lowered its head and peered under the pew where we were hiding. It had a wolf-like snout ribboned with scars that marred its matted fur. Its black lips drew back to reveal a mouth full of sharp, yellowed teeth. A massive set of canine fangs protruded from its jaws, both top and bottom. Above its muzzle was a pair of giant ruby-colored eyes that seemed to be lit from within by the fires of Hell.

Another growl, deep and menacing, rumbled in the creature’s throat. Clear tendrils of drool dripped to the floor. Its hot, fetid breath washed across my face.

This is the thing that took the other children, I thought. And now, it has come for me.

Over a dozen children had disappeared from our village in the last few months, ranging in age from five to twelve years old. That included my best friend, Mary, and her sister, Eleanor, both of whom disappeared within a few weeks of each other last summer. The rumor was that they—and all the other children—had been taken by a hellhound, an evil black dog with red eyes that legend said had stalked the East Anglian woods since the 1100s. It was first seen in our village just over a year ago, dragging a small child into the forest as her mother picked wildflowers nearby. Dozens of men armed with weapons and torches swarmed the area looking for the child—and the evil beast that had abducted her—but to no avail. She was never seen again.

Father Joseph came forward as the sole witness to the attack. He said he immediately recognized the beast for what it was: a hellhound, a demon sent by Satan to punish us for our transgressions. We had strayed too far from God, weakening the divide between our world and the next. We had invited evil into our lives. The only way to restore balance was to repent, to atone for our sins. That meant returning to the church, glorifying the Lord with offerings until the collection plates overflowed with our generous bounty.

At first, the adults in the village scoffed at the idea. The child had been taken by a wolf, they thought, or some sort of wild dog. There was no such thing as a red-eyed hellhound sent to steal their kin. But as more children went missing, more people began to believe that Father Joseph might be right. Attendance at his Masses swelled. The church’s coffers did, too.

The parents of the missing children gathered at the church every day to pray. Some of them swore they could hear the children shouting for them, their faint voices calling from just beyond the thin veil that separated our world from the next. They surely were, Father Joseph agreed. The distance between here and the ever-after could be measured crosswise on a human hair. If the Gates of Hell had parted enough to allow the hellhound through, then it might still be possible to bring the children back in the other direction. Only through fervent prayer might they return.

But, despite the parishioners’ devotion, children continued to disappear, one after the other. There didn’t seem to be any pattern. They were boys and girls, younger and older. They disappeared from inside and outside their homes, from fields and forests, during the day and at night. None of their bodies were ever found.

My father had done everything in his power to protect me from the hellhound, confining me to the house most of the time, and keeping me close to his hip whenever we needed to venture out. He had lost my mother to consumption only two years prior. He didn’t want to lose me, too.

Father Joseph, too, had taken a special interest in me. He heard my confession twice a week, asking me about my impure thoughts and seeking to cleanse me of any sin that might attract the beast. But it seemed his efforts had failed. It had found me anyway. I was next.

As the creature’s noxious breath befouled the air around us, my father whispered to me again.

Stay here. Wait for my sign. When I say so, I want you to run. And don’t look back, understand?

What about you? I said, a solid lump of fear filling my throat.

Don’t worry about me. He planted a kiss on my forehead. I’ll be fine.

Before I could respond, he pulled his arms away from my body, drew them close to his chest, then barrel-rolled sideways under the pews, toward the front of the church.

Hey! he shouted as he moved. Hey! Over here! This way!

The creature raised its head, its long, pointed ears tilting upward like a pair of horns. Its scarred nose twitched in the air. Then, with a terrifying roar, it lunged in the direction of my father’s voice, crashing into the pews over his head. The wooden benches collapsed, splintering under the monster’s weight. I lost sight of my father. But I could still hear his voice.

Judith, run!

That was the sign. I scooted on my hip out from under the pew and into the center aisle, then scrambled to my feet. The hem of my dress caught on my shoe. I stumbled toward the back of the church, my arms pinwheeling for balance. Behind me, I could hear the enraged growls of the creature as it tore at the pews in search of my father. He continued to distract the beast with breathless taunts. His voice sounded wild, out-of-control.

Come on! That’s it! Come and get me, you mangy bitch!

As I sprinted for the exit, a bloodcurdling scream ripped through the air. I slid to a stop. My father had warned me not to look back, but I couldn’t help myself. I turned in time to see the creature dragging him out from under one of the pews, its powerful jaws clamped around his left leg. He kicked against the thing’s muzzle with his free limb, but to no avail. The beast lifted him from the ground, then flung him like a rag doll across the church. His body crashed sideways into a heavy stone pillar. He crumbled to the ground, motionless.

An agonizing cry escaped my lips. The creature’s head whipped around in my direction. It glared at me with its crimson eyes, my father’s blood dripping from its fangs. It took a step toward me, then stopped. Instead of coming closer, it turned and continued down the center aisle toward the altar.

With the creature’s attention focused elsewhere, I ducked down and ran along the back pew to the side of the church. Then, I sprinted to where my father’s body was sprawled, broken and bleeding on the floor. His face was ashen. His eyes were half-open. Blood pulsed from his mangled leg and pooled on the floor around him. I grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

Papa! I whispered. Tears streamed down my face. Papa, wake up! He didn’t respond.

No! Get away! another voice rang out. In the name of Christ, I compel you!

It was Father Joseph. From my angle at the side of the church, I could see him crouching behind the altar. He held aloft a gold crucifix that seemed to glow in the flicker of the candlelight. His white vestments pooled around him like a puddle of spilled milk. Moonlight streamed through the stained-glass window behind him, painting the dusty air with a kaleidoscope of colored light.

As the hellhound crept closer, Father Joseph leaped to his feet and fled, sprinting in my direction. The creature jumped at him, crashing into the wooden pulpit and shattering it into pieces. I could hear its jaws snap shut as it grabbed hold of Father Joseph’s flowing robe, jerking him to a stop. The crucifix flew from his fingers and slid across the floor, spinning toward me. It came to rest by my knees.

Without hesitation, Father Joseph twisted away from the beast’s grip and stumbled backward, drawing his body out of the vestments like a snake shedding its skin. He ran past me, striding over the fallen crucifix, then circled behind me. I felt his arms tighten around my ribs as he lifted me off the ground.

Take her! he yelled at the creature. Take the girl!

I gasped for breath, unable to scream in his crushing embrace. Instead, I thrashed, swinging my elbows into his gut and kicking my heels against his knees. He clutched me even tighter. I felt like my ribs might break.

Let! Me! Go! I managed to grunt. I pounded at his hands with my fists.

The beast’s eyes narrowed. Its lips pared back, revealing its fangs. A growl resonated deep in its chest, the sound of distant thunder rolling through the hills. Its muscles tensed as it leaned back, seemingly ready to pounce.

Suddenly, Father Joseph made a strangled sound. He let go of my writhing body, dropping me to the cold stone floor. I landed hard on my side. Something inside my torso snapped like a twig. My senses were flooded with bright-white pain. I cried out, then rolled over. A spiked band of agony tightened around my ribs.

Father Joseph’s face was red. Thick veins bulged from his neck as his lips twisted with incomprehensible curses. His hands reached for his back, where the shaft of the gold crucifix protruded between his shoulder blades. My eyes went wide as I saw who was standing behind him.

It was my father.

His hand was wrapped around the short end of the crucifix, gripping it like the hilt of a sword. He twisted it further into Father Joseph’s spine. Then, he looked down at me. His skin was a ghastly gray color. His lips were blue. He whispered weakly.

Run ...

His fingers loosened, dropping away from the crucifix as he collapsed in a heap next to me. His eyelids closed.

Papa! I yelled. I crawled on my knees over to his body and shook him. Get up! Please! I grasped his shirt in my hands and pulled with all my might, drawing his torso up from the floor. His head lolled back, his damp hair dangling like moss hanging from a tree. The weight of his limp body was too much for me. It fell back to the ground, pulling me down on top of him.

As I tumbled, a flash of darkness shot through my peripheral vision. It was accompanied by a rush of hot wind like a blast of fire from the mouth of a furnace. That death-and-brimstone smell overwhelmed my senses, burning my nose and throat with superheated sulfur and ash.

Father Joseph cried out in surprise and pain.

I couldn’t see the attack—the beast had knocked the priest back into the shadows, out of my view—but I could hear it. I could hear Father Joseph’s screams followed by the wet tearing sound of his limbs being ripped from his body. I heard the liquid squelch of his organs spilling from his eviscerated torso. I heard the crunch of his skull as the creature crushed his head between its powerful jaws.

That was enough. I covered my ears, buried my face in my father’s shirt, and waited for death to come. I didn’t bother to run. There was no escape. The creature was too big, too fast. I would never make it out alive. Besides, why would I want to? The only person I loved, the only person I had left, was right here.

My father’s heartbeat was a mere flutter; his breath was a ghost. His chest barely moved under my cheek. He was weak, but he was still alive. With my eyes closed, I reached down and grabbed his limp arm, drawing it up until his hand was on my face. I held it there and waited.

A moment later, a searing gust of heat warmed my face. I squeezed my eyes tighter. I could sense the creature lurking over me like the shadow of death, blocking out whatever light was visible from above. The darkness was absolute. Hot saliva dripped from the beast’s lips, burning like molten glass as it slid down my cheek. I could smell my skin cooking. The creature growled. Sickening waves of dread twisted my stomach like a cloth being wrung out by the river.

I felt the hellhound’s muzzle press into my back. It poked hard—once, then twice—as if checking whether I was still alive. The force was incredible, like being kicked in the back by a mule. It forced the wind from my lungs, again leaving me struggling for breath. The pain in my ribs was unbearable. I moaned in agony, unable to contain the sound.

Suddenly, I was being lifted into the air by the back of my dress. I scrambled to hold onto my father’s body, grasping desperately for his shirt, but the creature was too strong. It easily drew me away, dangling me facedown at least six feet above the floor. As it carried me through the church, I had a memory of the local village stray carrying a puppy that had wandered too far from its litter. The mama dog had grabbed the tiny pup by the scruff of its neck, dangling it above the ground until it was back in its proper place. That’s what it felt like the hellhound was doing with me.

No, I said. My voice was thin and weak with fear. Please. Don’t take me.

The creature, of course, ignored my pleas. It carried me across the front of the church, past the altar, then turned down the center aisle and headed toward the back of the building. Toward the exit. It was going to steal me, just like it had stolen the other children, taking me beyond the veil, just a hair’s breadth away—audible, yet unreachable—to cry and beg and scream to be saved, suffering along with the others in a pit of eternal damnation.

The