《Curio of Cruelty: A Horror Anthology》 Introductions - the Mantlepiece A new patron approaches. A man can be seen hastily straightening towers of old books and knick-knacks. Junk, really. The true treasure of the Curio is the daily feature; a specially selected item or story fit for an audience of one. The man looks like a lunatic waving his hands around. He was tossing dust here and there and the metals all seemed to be developing a patina, tailoring every aspect of the experience for the next customer. They all want something different. Similar sometimes but each patron has unique tastes. And the feature finds the individual most suited to it. As does the Curio. In any encounter, the Curio and its Curator appear as if they''d always been there. Tucked away in some forgotten alley. A hidden gem. It was a world wide phenomenon, present on six continents. And though the store front and contents would change, the Curator was always the same. A spindly man with too long limbs. He had a very slight hunch to his back necessitating a crooked neck bending up to look new patrons in the eyes. His eyes were the color of rust and dried blood, flecks of dark red mixed into grave dirt. His skin was nearly translucent but you couldn''t see veins through the pallid complexion. But you could see bones in the right light with some patches of discolored grey skin blotted his features. His hair was black and slicked back. A pair of bronze circle spectacles hung from a washed out gold chain around his neck, complimenting the worn brown and tan suit he always wore. He tied the whole look together with an enormous copper and onyx ring on his right index finger. It was embossed with vines and the gem setting looked like thorns trapping the onyx. *ding-ding* The old door chime signaled the patron entry. The Curator smiled to himself, a vicious curl of the lips revealing striking white teeth. He turned to the new customer and shifted the smile from pleasure to business. "Welcome! Welcome! Is there anything I can help you find today?" The Curator''s mouth felt strange belting out in the features language. French, if he remembered correctly. The patron, a young man in his 20''s, looked around the shop. While he prided himself on the decor and set up, the Curator couldn''t take credit for the contents. The Curio itself provided the bobbles and bits that attracted its prey. It operated much like an anglerfish, flashing shiny bait before snapping its jaws closed. "I just noticed this place. I love antiquing. I don''t know how I ever missed your shop!" the excited young man replied. He was distracted by a display case of pocket watches. The Curator sniffed the air in anticipation. Settling himself down, he glided across the floor silent as a held breath. "Do you have any particular interests, young man?" The curator said right behind the patron. "Je suis choqu¨¦e!" The young man said and grabbed his chest in surprise. "Apologies." The Curator grinned, perhaps a little too wide. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The young man laughed. "No problem, I just didn''t hear you come up behind me." They stood silently until it became awkward. "These watches are amazing. They look so old but like they are new at the same time. Does that make any sense?" The Curator just nodded. The young man continued looking around the shop, expressing his amazement at the size and selection. The Curator just watched, following the patrons movements like a predator waiting for the time to strike with his infernal customer service grin plastered to his face. After a few minutes of perusal and questioning the young man finally noticed the feature. A truly magnificent Mantle clock. Adorned in gold all over, topped with a woman in a stola that only covered one breast, clutching laurels to her chest in one hand and wielding a spear pointed toward the base of the clock where the devil could be seen etched into the base. The young man stared in awe at it. "You have immaculate taste." The Curator told the patron. The young man flinched but didn''t take his gaze from the time piece. "I''ve never seen anything like it. The craftsmanship is so amazing!" He reached forward to trace his finger along the spear but stopped. "Go on, touch it." The Curator prompted. The patron obliged. He walked around it, looking with his hands at all the details. Inspecting all of the details down to brushing fleetingly over the statues chest. The Curator smiled. The Patron blushed. "Thank you for letting me handle it, but I can''t afford such an amazing piece." "Perhaps not, but I can''t let you leave without something to remember it by. Perhaps a picture?" The Curator offered, extending his hand to take the young man''s phone. The trap was set, and the bait was perfect. As always. The patron handed over his life line with a smile on his face. Not that it mattered. Not really. The moment they had entered the Curio they were no longer in France. And while the Curator could have snapped the jaws shut the moment he heard the clanging of the door chime, but there''s little fun in that. He wasn''t so desperate that he couldn''t play with his food. So he did. He took the picture. He handed the phone back. The patron turned to look at the clock again. It was time. The curator pulled at his necktie and opened the buttons on his shirt. His back was hunched with a bent neck over a gaping maw of teeth and void. The false head lolled back and fell on the ground. The patron turned to face the noise and saw the spiky fissure of teeth and spines before him and screamed. He tried to run but was caught fast in by the too long arms and hands of the Curator. A rushing noise began, like wind during a tornado. The young man strained against the grip. His shoulders suddenly popped out of socket. The Curator approached and the teeth dug into the soft, malleable flesh. He was being torn in half, ripped apart by preternatural strength and rending spikes The patron''s screams were swallowed by the void, as was the color of his skin and hair, his blood, his soul. His time. A dusty bit of bones collapsed on the floor when the Curator released the body. Sated, the lights of the Curio brightened. The Curator reattached his head, his cheeks had a little pink hue to them. He smiled the too white too wide smile. It had been a long time since their last meal. He forgot to eat sometimes, he so enjoyed his work. And now that he didn''t need to feed again, he could return to his passion: collecting stories and art and people for the Curio. Every patron was both definitions; a valued customer and donor to the Curio. The young Frenchman''s story wasn''t over, he and the Mantlepiece had unfinished business. As did the Curator, who set about readying the store for the next story. First record - Born on the Bayou Welcome! Welcome! Today''s feature is Alligator skin boots! Worn by mass murderer Charles Joseph Little in 1985, the ''Butcher of the Bayou'' killed some 11 souls in just 2 short hours! Before being gunned down in a hail of bullets by the local sheriff''s department, ol'' Chuck could be heard ranting about Voodoo Witches stealing his family. In a final stand local newspapers called ''a gruesome scene from Hell,'' He squared off in town square before breakfast. Let''s see what these boots have to share. *** Charlie Jo snorted at the witch in front of him. "Listen hear, you hoodoo doodoo bruja. I don''t want you talking to my kids no more! Just cause they take a shortcut that barely cuts through your property don''t mean you can talk to ''um. I don''t want you messin'' with their minds and making them think your hokum is real like you done with some the other folks in town." Madame Domengeaux regarded the bumpkin before her. He was trying to use his admittedly large frame to intimidate her. But the threat was offset by the man''s sizeable beer belly. "Dem in town knows right. It be you who don'' know. I is a Faith Healer, I just be ''elpin those who need ''elpin. Leave me now, for you say somet''ing you gon'' regret." She hoped her neighbor would leave her porch in peace. Her family and other like minded believers had been here for almost 50 years. There was pretty big network of oungan and manbo in rural Louisiana. She hoped that she wouldn''t have to call on them for help. The Little''s had moved in a few years prior and at first they had gotten along fine. She had even shared some of her excess from her garden. Then Mr. Little had gotten word that she was a traiteuse. Madame Domengeaux would accept visitors and lay her hands on them and perform little rituals to help with pain and ills, never asking for anything in return. Some would bring gifts for her but she would refuse unless pressed. Finally, the man huffed and puffed and just pointed at her through the screen. "I said my piece, just keep your mouth shut around my kids." Charlie Jo stormed off back to his house. Dumb witch. Faith healing? Sounded like devil worship. He knew that voodoo was regarded pretty pleasantly in the area, but he didn''t trust it. To him it was just one sacrificed chicken away from calling up the devil and selling your soul. He stomped up his steps and ripped open his screen door. "Linnette! Get me a beer!" Charlie Jo slammed the door and sat down heavily in a ratty old recliner in front of a television. He switched it on an swore at the static on the screen. He got up and adjusted the bunny ears and when he had a mostly clear picture he flopped back into the chair. "I don''t have a beer in my hand, woman!" Linnette Little practically ran into the living room with the cold beer in her hand. She put it in Charlie Jo''s open hand. With surprising speed, he grabbed her wrist. "I went and talked to that bitch next door. I don''t want you or the kids talking to her anymore. She''s a witch and liar. Ain''t no good gonna come from that mix." "But she''s always been so good with the." Linnette winced as Charlie Jo squeezed her wrist harder. "You''re hurting me." He let her go and she stumble back a few steps. "You want another shiner for talking back? No. More." Charlie Jo sipped the beer and turned to the TV. He laughed at something, completely ignoring the tears on his wife''s cheeks. She walked back to the kitchen to check on the supper she was making. Her husband may be an asshole but he had given her two beautiful children, Charlotte and Charlie Junior, and made a decent living to provide for his family. He used to be so sweet. Then he hit her. The phone rang. "Linnette! Answer the phone!" Charlie Jo roared then laughed at the TV again. "Hello?" She answered. "Linnette, its me. Can you talk?" *** Charlie Jo woke up. It was just after four in the morning. He got up and went to the bathroom. When he turned to get back in bed he noticed Linnette wasn''t in bed. "Linnette! Come to bed, damnit!" When he didn''t hear her meek footsteps padding to their room he opened the bedroom door. "Linnette!" He turned the lights on and stepped out in the hall. He opened his daughter''s door. She wasn''t in bed either. Frantic, Charlie Jo stomped to his son''s room. Empty. He called 911. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Within a few minutes a Deputy Sheriff was in his house. Charlie Jo was pacing in his living room in his tighty whitey''s, swearing and hollering about his neighbor. "Let me get this straight, Charlie Jo. You say your neighbor cast a voodoo spell on your family because she was mad at you for threatening her to stay away from your kids?" Deputy Robicheaux read from a notepad. "Yeah!" Charlie Jo waved his hands exasperatedly. "You don''t think she just left with the kids? Did you check to see if anything was missing? Clothes, food, anything like that?" Deputy Robicheaux had been here before for a domestic disturbance. The wife looked a little shaken up, maybe hiding a bruise, but had refused to press charges or speak out against Charlie Jo so nothing had happened. "Why the fuck would she leave?" Charlie Jo yelled. I wonder, thought the deputy. "Right, I''m gonna go see if I can rouse Madame Domengeaux, you put some pants on and hold tight. Maybe wait by the phone in case she calls?" Charlie Jo blushed when he realized he was in his underwear and retreated up the stairs. Deputy Robicheaux walked across the lawns to Madame Domengeaux''s house. She was in a robe at the door. "Erryting alright, lawman?" "Miss Domengeaux, I''m Deputy Robicheaux. Your neighbor claims to have a grievance with you and that you cast a spell on his family." "Say what now?" the Madame put her hands on her hips. "I think he''s hungover, but I was wondering if you saw Miss Little and her two children at all this evening." He said holding his hands up in defense. "I ain''t seen dat man''s family. Dey probly run out on him, always yellin'' and hittin''." She said. "Its sad, dey use to be good people." "Thank you for your time, if you think of anything." There was a heavy ''chunk-chuk'' sound behind the deputy. He turned and saw Charlie Jo with a shotgun pointed at Madame Domengeaux. "Where are they?!" Charlie Jo shouted. Time seemed to slow. Deputy Robicheaux grabbed the barrel and reached for his holster. Madame Domengeaux tried to slam her door. Charlie Jo pulled the trigger. The buckshot ripped through the deputy''s hand and peppered the house. For a moment everyone just stood in stunned silence after the blast. Then in a moment of clarity, Deputy Robicheaux ran back to his car. "Shots fired, shots fired! Officer hit!" He called into his radio. "It was an accident. I didn''t mean to! You yanked on it!" Charlie Jo stammered. He sprinted back to his house. He needed to run. He grabbed the keys to his truck and stuffed his feet into his alligator skin boots. Back outside he heard sirens and jumped into his truck. It roared to life. As he pulled out of his driveway, he saw Madame Domengeaux on her porch, staring at him. She raised a hand in his direction. Panicking, Charlie Jo stomped on the gas pedal and squealed his tires as he made his getaway. It seemed like everywhere he looked, he saw Her. That voodoo bitch had cast a spell on him as he ran away. He passed a car and the driver looked exactly like Domengeaux. He yelped and jerked the steering wheel, slamming her off the road. The car crumpled around a tree and he breathed a sigh of relief. The sun was coming up. If he could only. "Fuck!" Charlie Jo swore as Madame Domengeaux appeared before him again. This time on a bicycle of all things. She raised her hand. There was something in it. He didn''t take any chances and flattened her before she could cast another spell. With a sickening thump-thump the truck drove over her. He was almost in town. Laughing and crying, he thought about how his life was over. He had shot a cop and his family was missing. He''d be in the loony bin or the slammer before the end of the day. He should pull over and give himself up. He didn''t see the truck pull out until too late. He t-boned the truck and together they went off the road into the sun room of a local eatery. Coughing and in pain, Charlie Jo staggered out of his mangled truck using his shotgun as a makeshift crutch. It was broken. Parts of him were definitely broken, too. He looked around to check for pedestrians and the other driver. Each body around him looked like Madame Domengeaux. He screamed and scuttled out of the diner. "Charles Joseph Little, put your hands up!" A voice boomed at him. Charlie Jo saw cops and deputies all around the crash and destroyed building. "I just want my family back! That witch took them!" Charlie Jo turned to look back into the diner, using his broken shotgun to point inside. "Gun!" The officers all fired. The pain Charlie Jo felt as their bullets tore through him was muted by confusion. The bodies in the diner were not Madame Domengeaux. Just normal people. *** So, not really a Butcher. Just a man out of his mind who, by collateral damage, killed some innocent people. They say Linnette Little came to identify his body. She had left him. Imagine that. And while Madame Domengeaux hadn''t put a spell on his family, she did use some black magic to turn a good man into an abuser. Why? Who knows. That''s not the story of the alligator skin boots. Maybe in the future we''ll see her featured in the Curio. I''ve been your Curator and you''ve been my Patron. Come back soon for the next story. For now though, I have work to do. Second Record - Popular Monster Ah, a new face! Take a look around, you are sure to find something just perfect for you. Today''s feature? This old thing? Its a rather recent submission from a repeat patron. We get so few returning customers. In the case today is a red letter jacket with blue accents and bright white leather sleeves, truly All-American. Worn by Hunter Stephens during his time in high school, it is positively dripping with history. Hunter was of course the Quarterback, Homecoming King, Student council President, blah blah blah. You get the picture. But what happened to this accomplished young man in the spring of his senior year is today''s tale. *** "Hunter, will you go to prom with me?" "No, me!" "I asked first!" The two blonde cheerleader twins almost squared up for a chance to go to the most important dance ever with the most popular boy ever. Buck Hunter Stephens, he''d never forgive his father for naming him something so bad, almost laughed. "Girls, girls! I''m sorry to say that of course I''m already going with my girlfriend." The dejection sobered the girls immediately. "But Hunter..." One girl whined. He shrugged, implying ''them''s the breaks'' and left them to their woes. He had to get to practice. Football season was over but baseball was in full swing, no pun intended. He was also pitcher of the schools All-state team. Another girl blocked his path ahead. The lone goth girl of their small town stood in the way. She cradled a text book to her chest and clicked her heels together. "Hunter." She squeaked out. "Hello, Priscilla." He moved to pass her. "I heard you''re going to prom with Brooke. I know she''s your girlfriend but I think you are making a mistake. We could go together." She looked down at her toes, embarrassed. "Listen P, you know that I think of you like a sister ever since I moved here when we were little, but I am going with Brooke. I know some of the guys on the team think you are cute though if you want me to introduce you." Hunter had avoided Priscilla''s advances for the last few years. She was a pretty enough girl to date, but she got into some weird stuff in the last few months and totally changed her look. Dyed her hair black and everything. Priscilla''s shoulders drooped and she turned away. "Wait, Priscilla, I''m sorry. If you don''t find a date before prom, I''ll talk to Brooke and you can come with us." Hunter walked past his childhood friend and into the gymnasium. He saw his girlfriend on a ladder across the floor, hanging a banner with direction from one of the teachers. He stopped to admire the decorations and let out a small, but manly, yip when he realized there was someone right next to him. "Holy moly, Samantha, you scared me!" Hunter laughed. "Sorry, I guess." Samantha was the schools resident genius, quiet and reserved but incredibly smart. She had a habit of just appearing next to people. He thought she must do it on purpose as a joke. She interrupted his train of thought. "I know you are already going with Brooke, but I would be remiss to not put my hat in the ring as an option for date to prom." Hunter was a little stunned. He didn''t know Samantha had any interest in dating. She was perpetually single. The had been a bad rumor that she reproduced asexually but Hunter quashed it. No need to bully people just because they didn''t get any. "Well, you guessed it. I am going with Brooke. To be honest, I didn''t know you had any interest in me." He tried to smile. Samantha just regarded him blankly. "I''m not interested, but my friend told me to ask you." The corner of her mouth quirked in the slightest hint of a smile. "Oh, ha ha. Very funny. I have to get to practice, but I''ll see you tomorrow in calculus." He started jogging to the locker rooms when the teacher overseeing the decoration stopped him. Alex Dailor, or now ''Miss'' Dailor, was the new anatomy teacher. She had been a senior when Hunter was a freshman. The joke around school was that of course she taught anatomy, her''s was perfect. She looked like a model or an actress but chose teaching instead. It was her first year as a teacher. "Hunter, a minute." He stopped and waited for the teacher to speak. "I understand that you and Brooke are going to prom. I just wanted to let you know, I will be chaperoning." Hunter thought Miss Dailor was warning him not to get too frisky. "If she stands you up, I''ll be around all night. I know you just turned 18." Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Hunter backed away slowly. What the heck was going on? It was like every girl was suddenly drawn to him. "Uh, thanks Miss Dailor, but I already have a back-up plan if Brook gets sick." Hunter meant Priscilla. "Of course you do." The older woman practically undressed him with his eyes. "I have to get to practice." Hunter said and ran away from the super awkward interaction. In the locker room, finally away from all the crazy girls, Hunter changed into his practice uniform. He was about to put his jersey on when his friend Chad walked in. "Hey, buddy!" Chad said. "You look confused. What''s up?" "Dude, I think Alex Dailor just tried to hit on me." Hunter said picking at a string at the end of the shirt. "It was weird. She''s a teacher now. Plus, like every other girl has asked me to go with them today." "Weird how? She''s bangin'' and with abs like that, I get it." Chad said and moved closer. Hunter flinched and backed into the lockers making a loud clang. "What the hell, man? What are you doing?" Hunter was getting uncomfortable. Chad was his best friend, why was he acting like this. "Screw those bitches. Go to prom with me. It will really shake up the school." He was serious. Hunter quickly put on his jersey. "One problem Chad, we aren''t gay." "Says you." Chad blew Hunter a kiss and walked out of the locker room. Hunter sat on a bench in stunned silence until his coach came looking for him. "Hunter! Get you ass out on the field! You''re gonna be running laps until dark if you''re still in here after I count to one!" He jumped up, grabbed his glove and ran out to the pitcher net to practice his curve ball. *** Hunter hadn''t noticed his team slowly filing off the field. Nor had he noticed the sun dipping past the horizon and the stadium lights come on. His curve was almost perfect. "Hunter, I''m ready." A familiar voice called out from behind him. He had forgotten he was Brooke''s ride home. He threw another pitch and was satisfied. "Hey, babe. Hope you weren''t waiting long." Hunter turned around to face his girlfriend. She stood before him in nothing but her underwear. "Brooke, what the hell?! We could get caught!" She closed the gap far too quickly and put her hand up his jersey and ran her nails down his chest. He winced in pain and pulled her hand away. "What the fuck? That hurt." Brooke lifted her hand into the light and he saw that her fingers were dripping blood. He looked down and saw his jersey with bloody streaks soaking through. She licked a finger clean and smiled at him. Her incisors slid down, elongating into fangs. Hunter recoiled and tried to run away but she caught him. She wrapped her clean hand around his throat and lifted him off his feet. She licked another finger. "Put him down, you bitch!" Priscilla came running out of nowhere, waving her hands in elaborate circles. With a snap and loud whoosh, a fiery hand swatted Brooke away. She dropped Hunter, who fell to his knees coughing. "Brooke is a vampire, Hunter!" Hunter looked Priscilla in confusion. "But you''re?" He coughed again. "A witch. Deal with it. I''m here to save you." She raised her hands to cast another spell at the imminent vampire threat then started screaming in agony. Hands erupted out of her chest and throat, tearing her apart. Chad stood in the gore of Priscilla, little horns on his forehead. "Hey there, lover boy." Chad turned his gaze to Brooke, who promptly exploded in a fountain of viscera. "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!" Hunter screamed. "Oh, baby, its a regular Ron Howard movie around here for us monsters. Think Ferris Bueller with a side of Better Off Dead. Oh, you are positively scrumptious. I can''t wait to watch you give birth to my little incu-babies." Chad gave Hunter a quick little pinch on the cheek. "In the name of God, I banish you to Hell for all eternity!" A new voice invoked. Chad burst into bright white flames and screamed in pain and fury. Miss Dailor walked out of the shadows in a weird mix of nun habit and dominatrix costume. She slammed her bible shut, pleased with the impromptu exorcism. She winked at Hunter. Before she could speak a massive hand grabbed her head and slammed her into the ground repeatedly. A gorilla with a man''s head and horse body crawled forward and began eating the remains of Miss Dailor. Hunter noticed movement to his right and Samantha jump scared him again. Wielding a laptop, she input a command and the monster stopped stuffing its face with the dead teacher''s shapely rear end. "What, my family''s name in the old country is Frankenstein. Isn''t it obvious?" She said matter of factly. Hunter threw up. He started weeping. He couldn''t believe what was happening. He couldn''t take much more. Samantha knelt next to him and shushed him while stroking his hair. "I know it''s a lot to take in. Small town''s are weird. You just happened to move to the weirdest small town in the world when you were a kid. This town is full of monsters." "Can you do something about your creature?" Hunter asked after a long while. Samantha tapped away at her keyboard and the monster''s eyes closed, entering sleep mode. "So, as you can probably gather, spring time is very intense here. All the monster''s come of age and with puberty and hormones... Well, you get the idea. I took out the twins before I even got to the stadium, it''s why I was late getting here. But, it looks like I win." Samantha lifted Hunter''s chin and kissed him. "Will that thing go crazy if we get caught up in the moment?" Hunter pulled away and asked shakily. "Nope, it''s just you and me." Samantha smiled devilishly. "Take the shot." Hunter called out. Samantha''s head exploded. A team in red fatigues rushed the baseball field. A man and a woman strode in behind them wearing high collared white lab coats. "Cutting it kind of close there, aren''t you son?" The male figure said. "Yeah, dad, I wanted to make sure that chimera didn''t have a kill switch before the snipers got her." Hunter got up lithely and dusted himself off as best he could. There were bits of intestine in his hair. "Oh, honey, it was perfect. Nothing ever quite compares to your first monster hunt. And with this town being such a big hive, its just so impressive. We''re so proud." *** A monster for the monsters, eh? Also, a monster hunter named Hunter is a little on the nose as well. Oh, well. Mister Stephens brings us so many good pieces to feature, and if left unchecked the monster population will just get out of control. Its the same basic principal as deer hunting. Human season is almost here. I am going to miss out again this year, do to work. I have so many more stories to tell. Until next time. Third Record - Aint No Sunshine You learn a lot when you have limited immortality. Today''s feature is another gift from a patron. A vampire who calls themself the Altermann. Always a joker, you can translate it to "Old Man" in German. Feast your eyes on these beautifully crafted, only slightly blood-stained, wooden stakes. Notice the silver inlay, the tiny carvings, the very fine craftsmanship. Altermann claims at least one of these stakes claimed their master''s unlife. So go ahead. Run your fingers along them. Let the story tempt you into giving up the Sun for the chance to live forever. *** Hallo! You can call me the Altermann. I am a six centuries old vampire. I traded my life for knowledge. I speak over 2000 languages, some of which are not even spoken anymore so maybe I do not speak them anymore. I have lived on all seven continents. I have studied the history of mankind for nearly the entirety of my extra time. I like to watch how we have evolved, even over the course of just a few hundred years. I suppose you could consider me a voyeur, just watching the world go by and never participating. I am okay with this. When we monsters try to live among humans, well lots of people die. You''ve probably noticed over the past few decades that the stories of monsters have dwindled to faerie tales and fiction. Part of that is by design. A design that I am proud to admit is heavily influenced by myself. Too much attention requires money and cover-ups and is just plain embarrassing sometimes. Before the internet a monster could terrorize the countryside to its whim, only being hunted if they got too greedy or gruesome. Our population is much smaller than it used to be, but that is okay. It means more for the smart monsters. The was a scientist that spoke of survival of the fittest. The fittest monsters are those who do not upset the balance. The internet has been devastating to us for two reasons specifically: People can share their stories to others much faster and somehow there are new monsters being created. Some much worse than we who already exist. These fledgling spawn go on rampages and either die out quickly or worm their way into the territory of older, more established monsters. Then your Slenderman''s replace your Bogeymen. Cryptids have taken the spotlight and run with it. And don''t even get me started on skinwalkers. So blatantly disregarding the rules in the past few years. Stories about them are everywhere now. Shameful. I could be jealous. I could be upset at how vampire''s are portrayed in the western world, all shiny and brooding. I''m not. Its all by design. I''m much older than most monsters. You don''t live as long as I have without without a plan, or being powerful enough to fend off the occasional would-be usurper. I enacted the first phase of my plan in the 1400''s, only a few short decades after I had been converted. It was a very bad time to be a monster in Europe. I spent a century or so locked in a library (figuratively) before realizing that the protestants had settled in America. Phase two of my plan involved dealing with my master. An ancient bastard, already over 1000 years old when he made me. It took so, so many vampire hunters to kill him, but, eventually they succeeded. Most of my peers had been dealt with by then as well. I was my own vampire and very nearly the oldest left of our kind at only 200 years, plus or minus a decade or two. I began phase three and part of that was leaving my old home. Hard to do when you have lived within a few hundred miles of your birthplace for so long. I bid my parents graves goodbye, set up trusts and accounts for my non-vampire business associates and friends, and boarded a boat for the new world. I''ll admit, probably not my smartest decision sitting on the open water for weeks without a good meal, but it had to be done. Big things were on the horizon for America, and I wanted to be a part in shaping them. Its a funny thing, immortality. I don''t age of course. So far, no wound has been able to keep me down. I''ve even exploded and while yes, that took some time to recover from, I''m still here. So when you can live and die violently, why not start a war? I missed out on signing the declaration due to extenuating circumstances. But let me tell you, there is something to be said about dying for a cause, it was the most freeing thing I did for the first few years of the American Revolution. The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. I had to slow down in 1777, as I had found a partner. My first outside of the master. I hadn''t had time outside of business, planning, and learning. While my time with my spouse was important and our adopted children meant the world to me, I had to call it quits on that life in the early 1800''s. There is something to be said about loss after love. I hadn''t experienced anything like it before. I almost gave in to the call of death. It nearly made me forget about my plan. So I consolidated my lost time and went back to work. Part of my plan was already working flawlessly. Men were forgetting about the monster under the bed to face the monster of human nature. It sounds pretentious, I know, but there is a truth to it. Nose to the grindstone, I missed a lot over next hundred years. I spent a lot of time traveling and catching up on the rest of the world. I was slowed down in 1914 and then again in 1939. A lot happened in such short time. My big break was soon after. The Space Race had begun and my influence was felt by some. Eventually, we put a man in space. Not a soul on Earth was more happy than me. My plan was so close to fruition. Maybe another century and I could trade this bright planet for a dark one. A lifetime for others, an extended wait for me. A problem arose in the 1980''s. I suddenly had the attention of monster hunters. While I was able to regenerate from many grievous wounds, I knew that a well placed stake could end my quest. Hell, I had spent the fortune of kings to find a way to kill my master so many years prior. Some sort of earthly magic to balance our cursed longevity. I was careful, I was prepared. I killed some and paid others. It seemed like the hunt was over. So imagine my surprise when I awoke one bright, sunny day to those splintery 12 inches of African blackwood piercing my chest. Absolute dumb luck and anatomy kept me from dying that day. It was 2012, and the damn internet had been tracking me for almost 20 years. The sounds of sheer terror and shock when I rose from the dead before the group of twenty or so hunters still lull me to sleep some mornings. I still watch the surveillance video for a good laugh from time to time. They had gotten past all of my defenses and exposed my resting place to sunlight by some elaborate means. I hovered burning and bleeding for a moment, processing. My nightgown fell away a smoldering mess. Maybe it was the sight of a blazing, naked woman, maybe it was the fact that I wasn''t dead. For some reason, the group of hunters did not react. Not until I tore the throat out of the one holding the hammer. With barely more than a flick of my wrist, I severed his head and tossed the body at the contraption that was burning me. Now, it was dark. Now, I was the hunter. I''m sorry to admit, I went a little feral. I usually don''t even kill humans while feeding. I leapt at the closest one and clamped my jaws around his neck, taking a deep drink of cigarette tinged blood before chewing through. I tore out the stake and let it clatter to the floor as I speared my hands through another hunter. He instinctively pulled the trigger and automatic fire tore through me. I grabbed his hand and redirected his weapon towards a group only a few feet away. I heard the clunk of a hand grenade and dropped to the floor. Using the hunter''s body as a shield against the brunt of the explosion, I couldn''t help but remember all the times I had fought during war. This was similar, but everyone was my enemy here and I didn''t have to hold back. No one was going to tell others about what they witnessed here. Pushing the shattered body off of me, I stood and took a machete out of a canvas sheath. It would help in the quick dismemberment of my prey. Their blood would go a long way into making me whole again. After I hunted down all of the hunting group''s contacts and associates, I considered changing my pseudonym. The Altermann was useless to me now. The internet knew I was a woman. I decided in the long run to keep my chosen name. After all, you can''t really believe everything you read on the internet. So here''s another lie for you: I was born in 1409 and ''died'' in 1442 when I became a vampire. My birth name was Elizabeth and my husband called me Betsy. I have been leading humans into space for hundreds of years. Let me help you, so I can leave you in relative peace with the other monsters. *** Ol'' Lizzy sure is a hoot! What do you say? Do you want to spend eternity in space, never seeing the sun again? With the internet available to compile all available books and media, you would have plenty to do and read for a few hundred years. Alas, I cannot go. To much to do here at the Curio. Make sure you visit again. I''m sure I''ll something especially for you in the future. After all its like she said, you don''t live as long as a monster with out a certain amount of power and a plan. Fourth Record - Enjoy the Silence Round and round and round it goes. Where it stops, nobody knows! I have a special treat for you today! Feast your eyes upon this new zoetrope! One of the earliest forms of animation, you just spin the cylinder to watch a series of pictures create the illusion of motion. Whats special about today''s feature? Its a new submission for one person. So you can look, but don''t touch. Just sit back and watch as the semblance of life is created ad infinitum for our next patron. You''ll have to wait your turn. *** Chester Trace had a problem; he couldn''t sleep. He had tried pills, therapy, even bar fights to get knocked out. Every time he closed his eyes for rest, he "woke up" on the morning of September 25, 2024. The longest he had stayed awake was five days before exhaustion closed his eyes for him. Right back to that same day. No rest. He tried to remember what had been so special about that day. It was getting harder to piece everything together, he would get dizzy sometimes trying to remember. By his calculation, Chester had been awake for months. He had called his mother countless times to check to see if she knew what to do. "Chester, I don''t know what you had planned for today but its your father''s 60th birthday party this weekend. He''s getting on in years so make sure you make an appearance." Chester had heard her tell him about Dad''s birthday dozens of times now. He had picked out different gifts in hopes that maybe changing the gift would allow him to move ahead in time. It didn''t, of course. He had watched every movie about time travel and repeating timelines dozens of times. The main character always overcame some character flaw in the long run and that magically saved the day. The main characters also did some pretty heinous things, i.e. killing people and even suicide. Chester was worn thin and breaking down but he told himself he would never stoop to those lengths. What if that was what made time work again? Then he''d be in prison or dead, that''s what. At first, Chester thought having extra time had felt like a blessing. He could watch movies, play video games, read books, all to his heart''s content. He caught up on so much. After a while, the lack of sleep also caught up. Luckily he didn''t have a car, living in the city he could walk everywhere or call a cab. If he fell asleep at the wheel he could hurt someone. Cracks were forming in his mind, though. More than a few times Chester had been arrested for public intoxication, even though he was sober. He was ranting in the streets about sleep, barely holding on to consciousness. That had been one of the long stretches, almost 130 hours awake. Figuratively. September 25. Chester dragged himself out of bed and took a shower. Ate the same fucking cereal. Watched the same fucking news report. He was especially bitter today. Chester had a horrible headache, it felt like the world was spinning. He threw on some mismatched clothes, stuffed his feet into some rubber boots and took the elevator down. There, as always, was Mrs. Hamilton with her little fucking rat dog, Monty. She was a sweet widower who lived right below him. "Good morning, Chester!" The old bitch waved happily at him. Chester just grumbled and waved. "Are you okay, dear?" The little old lady adored Chester. He had been such a help after her husband had died. Chester walked out the front of their apartment building and hailed a cab. Mrs. Hamilton followed him slowly. Traffic flashed passed. No taxi''s were stopping. It was starting to look like he would have to have the same conversation about her dog, Monty, needing dog sitting. He had done it lots of times in the past. It was never a problem. But when you do the same thing dozens and dozens and hundreds of times, you develop hostility. Familiarity breeds contempt as they say. Chester was staring just past Mrs. Hamilton at an approaching bus. Before he knew what he was doing, he grabbed the annoying little shit and threw it in front of the bus. The tiny dog promptly popped like a balloon. Mrs. Hamilton''s shrieks pierced the air and Chester ran as fast as he could away from her. Tears streaming down his face, he would be happy to wake up on September 25 this time. Why had he done it? Did he finally snap? That poor little dog didn''t deserve to die. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. Chester ran and ran and ran. Very soon he found he had no idea where he was and found a secluded spot to hide out. He was there for hours and cried himself to sleep. September 25. "Oh, thank you God!" Chester quickly showered and stuff his face with the somehow great same cereal as always. He was a little dizzy but he ran down the flight of stairs and started knocking on Mrs. Hamilton''s door. "Coming!" Her sweet little voice called out. She opened the door and positively beamed with joy to see Chester. "Good morning, Chester!" She squealed and did a little wave. "What can I do for you this morning?" "Oh, Mrs. H! I came to get Monty to dog-sit for you today!" Her adorable wrinkly face screwed up in confusion. "Who''s Monty? I don''t have a dog. You know that silly." Chester''s shock and horror must have been plastered to his face as she asked "Are you okay, dear?" He just nodded and walked away. Mrs. Hamilton accepted it closed her door gently. No Monty. How? Chester reasoned it must have to do with the recurring timeline, that somehow, he had the power to remove people from it. Or, at least small dogs. Perhaps he should test this. Now, a normal, sane person would not have come to the conclusion of killing people to see if they disappear. A normal, sane person would also not be stuck in a time loop. Chester was no longer normal or sane. He took money out of his bank account and went to a pawn store. Looking around for a few minutes, Chester came to the decided which gun he wanted to buy. It was small, no bigger than his open hand. The tag on it said .38 Special. He had no idea what that meant and flagged down the clerk. "I''d like to buy this gun, please." Chester said pointing through the glass. "Alrighty, I''ll need you to fill out some paperwork and I''ll need a valid, New York ID." Chester filled out the forms and handed over his driver''s license. The clerk waved at another worker to come inspect the forms. With a nod, the other worker left. "Looks good, buddy. Now we''ll run a background check. If it comes back clean, it''ll be yours. Now, New York has some pretty strict laws and it''ll be at least 10 days before you can pick it up." Chester''s heart sank, his head was spinning. The experiment required a gun, today. He nodded and the procedure went forward. Chester left the pawn shop $400 dollars poorer without the revolver. How was he supposed to proceed? He couldn''t go after a gangster or drug dealer without a gun. A darkness descended on Chester''s mind and whispered "If there''s no one there to stop you, you can just take a gun tomorrow." Chester smiled maliciously. He went back inside the pawn store and purchased a knife, then left again and waited until the store closed. The worker pulled down a security door from the awning and locked it. Chester followed him. "Wait!" A voice screamed in his mind. "You said you''d never do this, no matter how hard it got!" Chester stopped in his tracks. He looked at the knife in his hand and a wave of disgust took the breath from him. The knife hit the ground with a clang and he dropped to his knees, retching his lunch into the street. "Hey, buddy, you alright?" It was the worker, coming to check on him. "No, I need to sleep!" Chester sobbed. The guy knelt near him and patted his back. "It''ll be okay, man. Here, let me help you up. Do you have someone you can call to pick you up?" Why was he being so fucking nice? Chester lunged for the knife and stabbed the worker in the chest. Then he ripped it free and nearly decapitated the man with a single slice. Chester stabbed his first victim over a hundred times. No one saw them. No one came to the worker''s aid. Whatever voice had tried to stop Chester was silent. September 25. Chester didn''t bother showering today. He walked to the pawn store and the man he killed was no where to be seen. When he asked about the other worker they confirmed there was no one else there and never had been. Forgetting why it mattered who he killed for the experiment, Chester left, laughing like a mad man. September 25. September 25. September 25. September 25. September 25. September 25. September 25. September 25. September 25. September 25. September 25. September 25. At first, Chester was careful with those he chose to kill. Stalking them, hunting them. He had all the time to learn everything about his quarry. He no longer dreaded waking up. It meant he could continue his data collection. Soon, New York was empty. Where once there were 8 million people going about their daily lives, now it was only Chester. He was going to spare his mother and father. He really was. Something made him kill them. It made him sad so he decided to kill himself. It never worked. It was always September 25. He tried several times, each attempt breaking his mind more and more. Every morning right as he was waking, the world spun and he thought more than once there was a hint of a nightmare that held the keys to his problem. Some old antique shop. Some weird guy. An old cylinder with moving pictures he was going to buy for his dad''s birthday. September 25. No remembering anymore. It was time to sit back and enjoy the silence in New York City for the first time ever. Soon, he would feel the urge to kill again. There were still billions of people he could hunt. If Chester had more mental acuity, or if he cared enough to try to calculate his time spent on September 25, the tally would be approaching 10,000 years. Apparently, time doesn''t heal all wounds. Normally, I would tell you about how much work I have to do to prepare the next feature for you. The Curio does of course need its Curator. Tonight, however, it is September 25. For you, just once. For today''s patron, forever. Sleep well. Fifth Record - Head Games
Apologies good patrons. I forgot to open the Curio for new customers. I got distracted by returning clientele with demanding requests. Today''s feature is a set of 3 shadow boxes, arranged in triangular pattern. Inside each frame is a large stone, a paper airplane, and a set of wool sheers. Some of you may already recognize the contents for what they are; game pieces. I hope you are ready to play. I know the subject of the feature will be looking for a partner soon. *** John was just minding his own business after opening the convenience store at 5AM trying to do his job at the gas station. Filling automated coffee makers with water and pre-packaged coffee grounds, stuffing the hot case with frozen breakfast sandwiches. Trying to stay awake. He had arrived at 4:30 to do checks at the gas pumps and log the money in the safe. He was busy counting lottery tickets and didn''t notice that he was being watched. The door chime rang, an electric bell droning tiredly. John looked up to greet the first customer of the day and clamped his mouth shut. The guy looked rough. Ripped clothes, odd stains, dirty and exuding a very distinctive smell. There was a dark red stain on the sleeve of the torn up hoodie he was wearing that John hoped wasn''t blood. He looked all sorts of twekked out on who knows what, probably meth knowing this town, and just stares at John. The man was sweating and his mouth is twitching, scratching his head like he wanted to get inside. "Hey, man. Can I help you?" John asked to snap the guy out of his funk. The tweeker cocked his head like an inquisitive dog. "You looking for anything in particular?" The man started to shake and convulse, rattling from tip to toe. Then he stopped, standing stock still. John considered telling him to leave and started behind the counter to retrieve the store''s landline to call the cops if need be. "You know how to play Rock, Paper, Scissors?" The man asked John in a gravely, smoker voice. Shocked, John nods, very confused by the question. Shaking again, the man pulls his hands up, one open with the other resting in it balled in a fist ready to play. "Best two out of three. I win, you give me a pack of smokes. You win, and you don''t get the curse." John laughs. "Sorry dude, I''m not about to give you a pack of smokes for a game of rock, paper, scissors. I can sell you one, though." "No! I don''t have any money and I need to play!" he shouts. "Please, I haven''t played for too long and my time is running out!" Desperation lined the last words. The man sounded scared. John picked up the phone and started dialing. "I think its about time for you to go, dude. I''m calling the cops." John tells him. The man slams a rock on the countertop, right next to the glass lottery display. Then a wadded up piece of paper and a pair of rusty scissors. "Hey, man. I''ll just give you the smokes. Don''t do anything crazy, alright?" John finishes dialing the police and grabs the first pack of smokes his hand falls on and tosses it on the counter. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. "No, God damn it! I didn''t win yet! Play with me! Please?!" The guy looks like he might cry. Holding his hands up as if he had a gun on him, John humors the obviously drugged addled man and takes a step towards him, who nods yes vigorously and readies his hands. "ROCK!" "PAPER!" "SCISSOR!" We chant together. John wins with paper. The man curses and readies himself. "ROCK, PAPER, SCISSOR!" John loses to scissors. A black toothed smile breaks the man''s face looking so happy, hopeful even. John is trying not to look down at the rusty scissors, also hopeful that he doesn''t get stabbed. "ROCK, PAPER, SCISSOR!!!" The guy screams. John loses to rock. Tears start streaming down the dirty face. He starts happy crying and laughing. "Oh, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! It''s on you now kid. I''m sorry! You win some, you lose some!" He grabs the cigarettes off the counter and bolts outside, leaving the rock, paper, and scissors behind. John grabs the phone to send the call to the police, watching which way he''s running. He stops to light a cigarette. Taking a big drag off of it, the ragged man holds the hit in his chest for a second. He exhales in a big puff, actually jumping for joy, whooping his elation to the oncoming sun. The jump propels him forward a foot or so, but just enough to stumble into the highway and oncoming traffic. Right in front of an 18 wheeler. The truck screeches to a halt, leaving a trail of burnt rubber and crazy meth head smeared on the asphalt. John recoils, no hearing the dispatcher on the phone. He notices the branding on the trailer. R&S Paper Goods, LLC. Hadn''t John won his round with paper? John reports the accident to the dispatcher. The driver is in shock. The traffic slows to a crawl for a bit as they give their statements to the police and the Fire Department and EMTs mill about, not really needed for a skid mark. After the police and emergency services leave, John goes back to work. He walks into the store and sees the rock, paper, and scissors still on the counter. He had forgotten to tell the police about the strange incident that had incited the man running into the road. He grabs the big trashcan from the back room and sweeps them in. Small potatoes, John reckons. Especially since the guy got some very intense karma for stealing even just the pack of cigarettes. Halfway through the day, John is restocking cups and goes to the stockroom to get a new case. Unable to find a box knife to cut the tape, he grabs a pair of scissors. They glide across the tape and cut the box open, the scissors sliding a little too far. John stabs himself in the palm. Not too bad, just a deep gouge with a little blood. Swearing at himself for being so careless, he gets a band-aid and continues stocking. At the end of his shift around 2PM, John drags boxes to the dumpster and trips on a rock, skinning his elbows and knees. As he sits pondering how the tiny rock caused him to fall so hard, nursing his scrapes, he suddenly remembers; the man had won with scissors and rock. John had gotten hurt by scissors and a rock. The irony was not lost on him, hurt by scissors and rocks, crazy guy reamed by a paper truck. He got up and dusted himself off. He was off tomorrow and going to a party tonight. Maybe he would be able to convince his friends to play a couple rounds of rock, paper, scissors. He kind of felt like he needed to play, if only to test out his theory. *** Nothing like a mundane curse. Sometimes its the little things that get you. How many paper cuts do you think it would take to kill a man? Scissors and rocks already have pretty high scores and unless you count money, paper has a lot of catching up to do. Much like me! The Curio being closed due to my own absentmindedness. Not much of a Curator if I don''t display my collection. Stick around for more, we''re approaching a certain time of year where monsters and beasties like myself can really let loose. I hope you enjoy what''s to come. Sixth Record - Undercover Perhaps the most unassuming of vehicles, the minivan is shunned for its looks. Most see one and their first thoughts are family and safety. Today''s feature is a minivan in it''s entirety, from bumper to bumper the whole car has a story to tell. Now, usually I like to deliver more of a preamble but the layers of the monstrous are positively dying to show you themselves. *** Trevor''s brow was slick with a nervous sweat. He hadn''t noticed the sleeping passenger in the minivan as he slid into the driver''s seat to steal it. He had bumped into the lady at the grocery store and lifted her keys from her purse before she even got a cart. It wasn''t much of a car but he could still sell it for a couple hundred bucks and score tonight. The headlights from the passing cars temporarily blinded him as he approached an on ramp. He was merging onto the interstate to get out of the city when he heard grumbling from the back and an old man coughed. Trevor hadn''t thought to even look in the van after he heard the chirp from it as he thumbed the fob. "Who the hell are you?! Where''s Sheila?!" The old timer shouted. "Shut the fuck up old man!" Shit! Now there was a witness and he would have to drop the old man off somewhere. He flashed a fairly realistic looking replica pistol at his passenger. He couldn''t afford a real gun, not that he could get one anyway with his record. "Fine! Shoot me then!" The old man taunted. "No? Then tell me where my daughter is. Is she alright?" Trevor slammed his hands on the steering wheel. "Yeah, old man. She''s probably calling the cops right about now about her stolen minivan. Hey, shit! Give me your fuckin'' cell phone, man!" He turned a little in the seat. "Enough of that old man business. Call me Frank." Frank dug out his old flip phone his daughter made him carry ''in case of emergencies.'' It probably wasn''t even charged. Trevor took the little folding brick and almost laughed. "What is this boomer shit? You ain''t got a real phone, Frank?" "Don''t even want that one, but Sheila, that''s my daughter you robbed, insisted on it. Ever since my wife passed she''s worried I''ll fall and be unable to get help. I''m only 60 for pete''s sake!" Frank grumbled eyeballing his captor''s eyes in the rear view mirror. They stared daggers at each other in silence for a few minutes. "So?" "So, what, Frank?" "What are we going to do about me?" Trevor was trying to think about what to do with his geriatric passenger. So far he hadn''t been a problem other than being present in the stolen vehicle. "So?" "Shut up, man! I''m trying to think!" "You need money, son? Is that it? Why would you steal a soccer mom-mobile?" Frank laughed at the driver. "Why not go for something more flashy? I would." "Yeah I need money. And knocking off minivans is easier than grabbing a corvette. Next to no security and in general nobody cares." "So, motive and opportunity. Well how bout this. I''ll give you all the money I got on me if you pull over and get out. I''ll even tell the cops I was just joy riding, keep them off your back." Frank offered. "Why the hell would you do that for me?" Trevor''s nervous sweat came back. "I''ve been where you are, son. Figuratively. Never stole a car but I done some bad things 40 or so years ago trying to do right by my lady." Frank held up his left hand and pointed at his wedding band. "Did alright I guess, she married me. Tell me your name, son. I won''t tell the cops. Promise." "Trevor." He didn''t know why, but for some reason he actually trusted Frank at his word. Maybe it was his offer of help and understanding, maybe it was his age. He kind of reminded of him of his grandpa now that he thought of it. "Now that we aren''t strangers any more, what do think about my offer?" You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. "How much money you got?" Trevor asked. Frank laughed and started digging in his pocket for his wallet. "I got $542 dollars and a coupon for a free banana split. We can share the banana split to seal the deal if you can find a place that honors the coupon." Trevor''s heart jumped a bit. It was more money than he would get from the minivan and he didn''t want to threaten Frank to take it AND the van. "Where is the coupon for?" Trevor asked, the tension draining from him. Frank passed the money and the coupon up. "We got a deal?" Frank held his hand still for Trevor to shake. "A man shakes hands when he makes a deal." He paused. "And eats ice cream in this case." Trevor put the fake gun between his legs and twisted awkwardly to shake Frank''s hand. A sign on the highway indicated that the fast food place that offered the free banana split was on the next exit. They sat in silence again, but less awkwardly now. Trevor had caught a hell of a break. Frank was an alright dude. "Let''s eat inside." Frank said. Trevor must have looked nervous because Frank continued. "It''s cramped back here. Besides, I need to get the keys and my phone back from you." Trevor parked, not exactly happy with this, but it was a reasonable request. They got out and Frank stretched. He reached back into the van and produced a cane with an intricate handle. "You get us the ice cream, I''m gonna find us a table. I know I just complained about sitting, but I''m old and standing is worse." Frank said with a sly smile. Trevor went to the counter and ordered. He turned to face Frank while the clerk made the ice cream, who waved and smiled. Trevor really liked Frank and wished they had met under different circumstances. When it was ready, Trevor took the banana split to the table with two spoons and sat across from Frank. They ate and talked a bit. "So why are you stealing cars for money?" Frank asked between bites. Trevor was shocked by the sudden bluntness. "I haven''t been able to find work since I got out of prison." He admitted. Frank nodded. "Sorry to hear that. What were you in for? You kill someone or something?" Frank smiled. "No, no! Nothing like that! I got caught boosting cars and did a couple years. Nobody wants to hire a felon with a theft charge. Afraid I''m gonna steal from them, too." Trevor looked dejectedly at the dwindling ice cream. "And here I am stealing cars again, so I guess they were right." "This is temporary. You hear me? You''ll get sorted out soon and won''t have to steal cars ever again." "You really think so, Frank?" Trevor was beginning to really put a lot of weight in this stranger''s words. "Who knows, maybe in 40 years, you''ll be straightening out some other misguided punk kid who needs help." Frank said. "Now, I''ll drop you off where ever you need, but it''s time for me to face the music." They finished the ice cream and walked out to the minivan. Frank followed Trevor around to the passenger side and stopped. Trevor turned to face Frank who, veiled in shadow, looked very sinister suddenly. "I thought you were driving Frank?" A faint glint flashed on a blade and Frank slid the knife concealed in his can straight between Trevor''s ribs. Trevor tried to pull it out, but Frank was much stronger than he looked and wrenched the blade, twisting it and pushing deeper. He opened the sliding side door and eased Trevor down to the floor of the van shushing him. "Sorry kid, you were a happy bonus tonight. Normally I wouldn''t go for someone like you. I got a date with a single mom and I''m missing out." Frank was talking to a corpse. Trevor was dead already and his blood was beginning to drip onto the parking lot. Frank cleaned the knife and slid it back into the cane. He drove like a bat out of hell to get back to the city. He pulled up in front of a plain white house. It looked like a mirror image of ever other house on the block. This one was different, of course. Some one was waiting for him. He noted with glee that there were no police cars in the driveway and pulled in. Frank walked around the house and noted that he couldn''t see inside; most of the curtains and blinds were drawn closed, only the dining room showing a vague outline of someone sitting at the kitchen table through frosted glass. Frank looked up and down the dark street again, wanting to be sure no one had seen him. He made his way up the steps on the porch, cane thumping softly. He noted the front door was unlocked, checked over his shoulder again and walked inside. He walked with a smooth grace that he hid normally with his cane. For a man of his age, he moved with surprising agility. He approached the dining room and saw one woman at the head of the table and another tied to a chair across from her. "Daddy! How did the carjacking go? Why didn''t you call me, you know how I worry." The woman got up from her chair and hugged Frank. She had the barest hint of a baby bump starting to show. "Don''t worry about me, Sheila. I took care of the punk. Remind me that I have to get my money back from him when we leave." Frank slammed his cane on the table and the woman whimpered through layers of duct tape. "You chose a pretty one for the ritual. Next time, you get to chose one for yourself, pumpkin. We have to make sure that baby is strong, like his momma." Frank began to unbutton his shirt, revealing dozens of occult tattoos. Sheila, Frank''s daughter, excused herself as her father got to work on the sacrifice. She turned on the television and was please that the muffled screams were drowned out by the noise. She looked out the screen door for any witnesses and when she was happy she closed the door and locked it. *** Not all of the Curio''s features have real monsters, you know. Sometimes our prey can be just as monstrous as us. Sometimes, humans are more monstrous than the tales they tell. True crime has had such an uptick in the past few years that I wonder if humans will replace monsters in the food chain like they have everything else. Rumination will get me nowhere. Work to do, stories to tell. Come back again, I''m sure I will have a feature just for you soon. Seventh Record - The Summoning I have a special treat today. This tiny hospital gown belonged to little Jimmy Draper. He was in the hospital for a short time before being committed and sent to a local sanitarium. All before he turned eight years old. Reports say the boy could do things that shouldn''t be possible which may have led to his eventual escape just two short years later. That is a story for another time, another patron. Today''s feature follows the events surrounding his perceived sickness and the treatment administered. *** "I WANT CEREAL!" The room shook with the force of the deep growling boom emanating from Jimmy Draper. Almost all of the nursing staff refused to treat him, some wouldn''t even enter his room ever since he sent one of the orderlies out of his second story window. Dr. Anthony Green stood in the doorway, trying to project a calm face and demeanor. Jimmy Draper was standing on his bed, little breathing tube hanging off his ears and his small hospital gown billowing around him as he stomped a tiny foot. Dr. Green didn''t believe for a minute that anything supernatural was happening, unlike his parents. Nope, Cindy and James Draper were convinced Jimmy was possessed. They had tried (and failed) multiple times to get Jimmy exorcised, but they had been grifted and conned half a dozen times by charlatans and well-meaning fakers before their savings had dried up. They had state health insurance on their child and as a ''last resort'' brought Jimmy to the hospital so that hopefully doctors and science could do what faith and spiritualists had been unable to accomplish. Dr. Green put his hands on his hips waiting for Jimmy''s fit to wind down. A snot bubble popped in the boys little nose and he wiped at it absentmindedly. "Jimmy, what did we agree on when asking for something?" Dr. Green asked. Jimmy looked a little embarrassed and plopped down on the mess of sheets. "No yelling. Ask nicely." Jimmy sulked and crossed his arms. If he had stuck his nose up and turned away Dr. Green would have to stifle a laugh. He was reminded of his own boys when they were Jimmy''s age, all impulse, no control. "Did you try to ask nicely?" Jimmy opened his mouth but didn''t speak. He looked down and shook his head. "And now you''ve gone and scared everyone on the floor again. All the other patients need rest Jimmy, and when you yell and carry on it makes them uncomfortable and keeps them sick. You don''t want that now, do you?" "No, Dr. Green." Jimmy said and threw his head back, rolling his eyes to look at the ceiling. "Only, they brought me toast and jelly and I hate toast and jelly." He pointed at the tray on the little rolling table by his bed, somehow not overturned in the disturbance. Dr. Green picked up a piece of toast and took a bite, he hadn''t eaten since he came on at 10PM the night before and it tasted like the best thing he had ever eaten in the moment. "Seems pretty good to me. Tell you what, I''ll eat your toast and get you cereal if you apologize to the nurse and orderly who were only trying to help you." He took another big bite animatedly and watched a smile form on Jimmy''s face. "Okay, Dr. Green. Only that''s not toast. It''s dirty, bloody bandages." Jimmy covered his mouth and laughed. The taste turned putrid and metallic in Green''s mouth. He dropped the dressings and ran to the wastebasket where he wretched and vomited up the pieces of scab and clotted blood, still attached to the gauze. Horrified, he looked at the bandage and saw only toast, with a smear of strawberry jelly staining the floor. Jimmy dropped his gaze and looked at Dr. Green under a hooded brow. In an unnaturally low voice he said, "Now. Where. Is. My. Cereal. Bitch." Dr. Green scrambled to his feet and bumped into someone. He looked up and was astonished to see an aging man in a Priest''s habit adorned with a crimson sash over his shoulders, rosary dangling around his neck, bible in hand. A bowl of cereal with a spoon in the other. Green looked from the food wielding Father to the potentially cursed Child. "Right here, young man. Watch your mouth." The priest addressed Jimmy and put the cereal on the rolling table and wheeled it to him. He helped Dr. Green to his feet and said with a watered down Italian accent, "I am Father Giordano, and I am here to help. I need you to clear the room and lock it behind me. It will just be me, the boy, and his unwanted guests until it is done. Nod if you can leave and understand to lock the door." Green nodded and without really understanding much of anything, retreated. The door slammed a bit and a moment later the sound of the door locking meant the Father was alone with the boy. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. "IN NOMINE PATRIS, ET FILII, ET SPIRITUS SANCTI, AMEN." Father Giordano performed the sign of the cross and kissed the cross on his rosary. Jimmy pulled back and glared at the priest. "Let us begin. What is your name, il demonio?" "What are those funny words you said?" Jimmy asked. "They don''t mean anything." "They mean ''In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.'' Amen is how you end a prayer, for Christians at least." Father Giordano pulled up a chair to sit bedside with the young boy. "How old is the host?" "I''m 8 and half!" Jimmy said and puffed up his chest. He seemed to suddenly remember the bowl of cereal and pulled the table closer. He delighted when he saw it was his favorite, Lucky Charms. Jimmy ravenously tore into it, finishing it in seconds. "I want some more." He handed the bowl to the priest. "After you name yourself. Why have you targeted this boy?" Father Giordano took the bowl and set it on the floor. Jimmy twitched. "I want more. Now." The deep voice returned, wholly disturbing to be coming from such a small body. "I only brought the one bowl." Jimmy contorted, almost resembling a snake coiling up to strike. Father Giordano held up his rosary and began to pray. The small boy started to writhe and swing his limbs around wildly, angry at the prayer. "Name yourself and be driven from this child, Demon!" He produced a small vial of holy water from inside the sleeve of his habit and pushed the stopper off with his thumb. He splashed the consecrated liquid at the child who began to convulse. "NO! This is where we come to take respite! Leave us now!" Jimmy howled in a strange chorus of voices. "Leave this boy!" Jimmy suddenly stopped shaking and moving. He sat up rigidly, eyes closed with a rigor mortis smile plastered to his face. "The attendant has left, Priest. Now you have to contend with us." "Name yourself!" Father Giordano splashed more holy water and brandished a crucifix. "Gladly. My name is Ravana. There are others here. Would you like to meet them?" Jimmy''s tiny frame rattled and his head spun around backwards, little bones crunching. He stood on the bed again and leaned over backwards, sticking his upside down, backwards head through his legs. "I was called Pazuzu." "You can refer to me as Jiangshi." "Popo Bawa!" "Tzitzimitl" "Tuurngait." "Cernobog." "Koschei." Poor little Jimmy''s body wrenched itself at odd angles, snapping bones and squelching flesh around to give perverse adaptation to the multitude of demons inside the child. Demons who, it appeared, were unaffected somehow by Father Giordano''s ''One True God.'' The Father promptly pissed his pants. ''Jimmy'' opened his eyes, blood-red orbs flashing with dark energy. The first voice, Ravana, spoke. "You have our names, Father. What will you do with them?" It mocked. Father Giordano ran to the door and began pounding his fists, kicking and screaming to be let out. "The boy is dead, priest. Has been for a long time. Think of this tiny body as a weigh station and rest stop for us. It is ours and we do what we want with it. This isn''t the first time we have used a corpse as a conduit. The demon you drove out to fetch us, wanted cereal." Jimmy began to float above the bed and hovered closer to the priest. "Did you bring enough to share?!" The door exploded open and Father Giordano spilled out, rolled up in his habit crying and drooling like a mad man. A nurse rushed in and saw only Jimmy sitting in his bed looking very confused. "I''m sorry for yelling earlier, Nurse. Can I have cereal now, please? Lucky Charms!" Jimmy bounced on his legs on the sheets and thought for a moment. "Please?" *** Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Seems like Jimmy''s parents have some explaining to do. But this feature is finished. You will have to let your imagination run wild with the logistics of multi-national demonic possession and the true evil of time shares. Time for dinner soon. Perhaps some cereal, with a side of toast and jelly. Please continue checking in. Its almost time. The veil is thin. Your feature is approaching.