Horror
Date Published: June 15, 2017
Publisher: Darkwater Syndicate, Inc.
Out of the shadows and meaner than ever, volume three of this award-winning horror series packs international star power. Featuring ten brand-new stories by the legendary Guy N. Smith, the prolific Adam Millard, master of horror Nicholas Paschall, and others, this collection is certain to keep you up at night. Take care as you reach into these dark places, for the things here bite, and you may withdraw a hand short of a few fingers.
Excerpt:
My body crumpled forward, my forehead resting on the floorboards.
I would have remained this way, if I had not been roused by a shout from behind
me. Rosario roared and shook his head like an enraged bull, stamping his feet
and frothing between gritted teeth. He clutched his temples and shook his head,
and when he had gathered enough clarity of mind, he leveled a penetrating stare
at the djinni and yelled, “Enough!”
All around Rosario, the peasant men stood frozen as though they
were statues, eyes on the djinni. Clenching his jaw, he staggered forward a
step, inadvertently brushing against one of the men. The man instantly spilled
to his knees in supplication, droning, “I adore thee, oh my lord!” in such
rapid succession that the words were hardly perceptible.
Scowling with rage at this irreverence, Rosario let fly an
uppercut swing with his hook. The metal flashed in the dim candlelight and
caught the man in the crook of his lower mandible. The man did not so much as
scream, so overawed was he by the djinni.
Rosario raised his arm aloft, lifting the man fully erect, looking
like a fisherman with a prize catch. Then he tore his dagger out of his belt
with his opposite hand and plunged it into the side of the man’s neck between
the skull and the shoulders. The skin at the peasant’s neck pulled apart,
opening his throat as though his shoulders were yawning wide, until at last the
weight of his collapsing body snapped his head off his neck. The body slumped
to its knees and spilled headlong, gushing blood in spurts from its severed
arteries.
Something like a sigh came from the djinni. Then it said, “Man is
a foolish child who calls many things gods. Man knows not the gods.”
Its skin seemed to dull, losing some of the magnificent radiance
it exuded, and I found that I was no longer overawed in its presence. Rosario
helped me to my feet and together we addressed the djinni. The remaining three
peasants all were unconscious, seemingly asleep on the floor.
“In the name of the most high, I command you to speak your name,
djinni!” I yelled, thinking it could be cowed in the same manner as a demon
might.
The djinni’s eyes widened. If it had eyebrows, they would surely
have bobbed at my effrontery. Its eyes narrowed into angry slits that contained
all the deadly chill of a winter snowstorm. “Hadst thou instead come to visit
me, I would have attended thee in the manner befitting of a guest. I would have
filled thy mouth with rotten pus until thy belly were full. Thou wouldst have
told me a great many wondrous things of thy life, and I, having learned such,
would have sent thee home with an anus so full of scorpions the trail of blood
behind thee would stretch for miles.”
The images each word represented, along with the concepts and
sensations those phrases conveyed, flashed in my mind as the djinni spoke. They
are as vivid now as then—by God, I still taste the pus! These images are always
in the forefront of my mind, constantly playing out before my eyes, and it is
hard to focus on anything else except through purposeful concentration.
“Wherefore hast thou brought me here?” it asked.
Seeing how my last attempt at communication had failed, I bowed my
head and spoke in lowered tones. “Djinni, we have called you to ask a favor.”
“Indeed,” it cut me short, “it is always so when mortals call upon
the djinn. Impudent humans! What boon seeketh ye? Be it pleasure? I shall show
ye such pain that the greatest pleasure would be anticipating its end! I ask
again: wherefore disturbest me thou?”
It was then I explained we sought to spare your daughter from the
ailment that would surely take her, and requested the djinni’s succor.
The djinni sighed, if otherworldly beings can be said to sigh.
“Alas, thy mortality is a concept thy limited intellect can only dimly grasp.”
It looked down at the floor as it considered this, then raised its gaze to make
eye contact with me. “What wouldst thou have me do? The child is already dead.”
An image of her flashed in my mind’s eye. I was there, in the room
with Bernadette as she languished in her bed, delirious with fever. The eyes I
saw her with were not my physical eyes, as they saw more than human eyes could
ever hope to detect. Bernadette’s body was like a red-hot fireplace poker,
glowing orange from her core. The glow collapsed on itself, giving way to lifeless,
cold black, shriveling into her center like a bonfire shrunk to embers. I knew
she was dead when the light faltered and snuffed out, leaving nothing but a
dreadful stillness in its passing.
Brother, do not think for a moment that so terse an account of
your daughter’s death should mean I was hard-hearted about the matter. Nothing
could be further from the truth. She was my niece, and—by God!—my only living
relative; that is, save for you of course, if ever you should return to read
this.
Her passing crushed me. It opened wounds in me, wounds that weep
much as my eyes might weep. And while time has dried my tears, it has done
nothing to soothe the ache of missing her.
I was flashed back to my study with the djinni standing before me.
The realization that Bernadette was dead weighted my body; I crumpled to my
knees and collapsed to all fours.
All of this, for naught! Frustration churned the searing bile in
my stomach. “You must be able to do something,” I pleaded.
The djinni cocked its head to one side. “Thou hast misunderstood.
I can do a great many things.”
“You could not save her!”
“Thou didst not ask.”
My mouth went dry on realizing it was right—I had not asked it to
save her from the disease. “Save her!” I blurted, figuring this was as good a
time to ask as any.
“I cannot. She has died.”
I plunged my fingers into my hair and clawed at my scalp. “Quit
speaking in circles!”
“I speak as plainly as I can. Ye men possess little aptitude for
understanding.”
“If you cannot save her, then…” I stammered. At the time, I did
not know why I had broken off; I was only aware that I had stopped
mid-sentence. I had found that strange, especially since I had already
deliberated on what it was I wanted to say before saying it. In retrospect, I
think I know what halted my tongue—some combination of my conscience and divine
intervention giving me one last chance before I could commit a heinous sin.
“Then… bring her back,” I finished my sentence.
“It is already done.”
I blinked, and then again, looking upon the djinni in mute shock
as its words sunk into my mind. Was Bernadette alive? When had she been brought
back—when I asked, or sometime prior? Had she even died? It was not lost on me
that the djinni could be lying, but before I could ask any questions, it said,
“Thy niece lies upon her deathbed. Lay her body down in this circle before
moonrise tomorrow night, and thou shall have what thou seeketh.”
A thought occurred to me then that I wanted to give voice to, but
I stopped myself. To even reflect upon it sent shivers down my spine. What
might the djinni want of me in exchange?
As if it had sensed my thoughts, the djinni said, “Thou wonderest
what thou must offer to uphold the bargain. Rest assured, human, thy debt is
paid in advance.”
About the Author
Our award-winning horror series brings together the very best in international horror. Volume three features the UK’s legendary Guy N. Smith, the prolific Adam Millard, and master of horror Nicholas Paschall, among other established names in the genre.
Bio For Series Editor, Ramiro Perez:
Born in Cuba in 1941, Ramiro Perez de Pereda has seen it all. Growing up in a time when then-democratic Cuba was experiencing unprecedented foreign investment, he was exposed to the U.S. pop culture items of the day. Among them: pulp fiction magazines, which young Ramiro avidly read and collected. Far and away, his favorites were the Conan the Barbarian stories by Robert E. Howard. Ramiro, now retired from the corporate life, is a grandfather of five. He devotes himself to his family, his writing, and the occasional pen-and-ink sketch. He writes poetry and short fiction under the name R. Perez de Pereda. He serves Darkwater Syndicate as its Head Acquisitions Editor—he heads the department, he does not collect heads, which is a point he has grown quite fond of making. Indeed, it’s one reason he likes his job so much.
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