Roses, by Morgan Hyde

I will never forget the way they smelled: sickly sweet, like rotted roses. Mother was facedown on the ground, her neck ripped apart, her head barely still attached to her body. Baby John’s head had been crushed like an egg against the stove, and he lay tossed in the corner. Tamara lay still on the floor, facing me with serenity. But her pretty blue dress was now a dull brown. She had been stabbed, again and again, and now she lay dead in a pool of blood.

I couldn’t believe my eyes, but the smell was everywhere, shouting the truth I did not want to face. My family was dead, slaughtered while I was away. I had been shadowing my mentor, attending to a sickly lady on the other side of the valley. It was pure chance Mistress Slate had asked me to go along last night instead of another apprentice. Pure chance the case was tough, so we stayed the night, and pure chance it was far away, so I was arriving home at nearly noon. Pure chance that I also did not lie dead.

There was no sign of Father in the house, though he should have been home last night. Whoever had done this must have caught him in the forest, returning from his work or heading out this morning. If he had been there, he would not have let his family die without a fight. He would lie dead beside them, and since he did not, his body must lie somewhere in the forest. I would have to search for it later. His spirit wouldn’t settle until his body rested in the Earth by blood of his blood. And I was the only one left.

I didn’t have time to go to a neighbour’s for help. My family needed to be buried as soon as possible, and as blood kin, the brutal task fell to me. I tried not to see what I was doing as I worked. I tried not to hear, or feel, or smell. But I could not stop my thoughts from circling back again and again: who could have done this to them? They had been murdered by someone they had trusted, that I could tell. Someone who seemed harmless. Mother wouldn’t have turned her back otherwise. But who could it have been?

By the time I finished the burial, only an hour remained before sunset. I stared at the crude headstone, with the three names on it. How could I be the only one left? I prayed my father was still alive somewhere, unlikely though it was. Tomorrow morning, I decided, as soon as it was light, I would start my search. Until then, I would make the empty house my fortress for the long night. I washed myself at the well as best I could, not daring to go down to the stream to bathe. What if the monster who had done this came back?

Thankfully, I could do more than pray it did not. I went inside the house, locked the doors, latched the windows, and barred every entry with furniture. Only when I had thoroughly barricaded myself in did I realize I ought to have a weapon. I thought longingly of the many tools in the barn. I wanted a pitchfork, a shovel – something longer than a knife, something to keep a monster at bay. But the sun was setting, and I was not brave enough to venture outside again.

Instead, I pulled the legs off our kitchen table, sharpened them with the one knife we had indoors, and hardened them to points in the coals of our fire. I tucked one of my makeshift spears into my belt, lay the others within easy reach, and then settled in to wait out the coming darkness.

It was quite dim but not yet full dark when I heard a knock on the door. I waited.

“Lilian?”

Father’s voice. He was alive!

“Lilian, what happened? I spent the night in the forest, and worked again today, and I come home to find a grave…” He sounded broken, grieving, in shock – but he was alive! I pulled my barricade away from the front door and ran outside. Father was standing by the grave. He looked gaunt and empty. I ran to him, threw myself into his arms.

“Father!”

“Oh Lilian – I am so glad you’re alive!” He pulled me close and stroked my hair. I leaned into him and took a deep breath, finally able to relax. But something wasn’t right. No – it couldn’t be! But it was.

I gathered my nerve and grabbed my stake from my belt. In one strong thrust I drove it through my father’s heart. He fell to the ground, writhing in pain, but no blood came from his body.

“Lilian,” he cried, “Why? I am your father!”

I stood in silence and watched as the light faded from his eyes. Then I locked myself back into the house, though I knew the monster was dead. His hands had smelled like rotted roses.

Click here to vote for “Roses.”

“His hands smelled like rotted roses.”

Hunter and Trapp, by Larry Kollar

“Cleanup on aisle 400.”

She wore a cheap black summer dress. In January. The tat running down her leg identified her as “ALYSS.”

Perfect, thought Hunter. She wasn’t alone — the two girls with her were similarly dressed — but fortune favored the patient, and a Zaxby’s along GA400 made him one faceless nobody among hundreds of nobodies who came through the place every day. He looked her over while they placed their order: plain face, adequate tits, soft belly, round but lumpy ass, thin hair obviously dyed deep black. Redneck trying to look goth. Alyss caught him looking, and he gave her a brief nod. She turned back to her friends, dismissing him. Good for him, bad for her: Hunter was both his name and his calling. He worked the shallow end of the gene pool.

Hunter ordered a Boneless Wings Meal and chose a table where he could keep an eye on Alyss’s back, playing with his phone and watching them over it. The girls were alternately loud and whispering, acting nowhere near their age. After a while, Alyss got up; Hunter counted eight seconds then took his drink to the fountain. She turned toward the bathrooms.

As Hunter refilled his cup, the two friends brushed past him and slipped outside, shrieking at cold air on too much bare skin. They jumped in their car and took off just as Alyss emerged. She squawked at the empty table and bolted for the door — too late.

“Heyyyyy!” she yelled at the departing Vibe, arms wrapped around herself.

Too easy, Hunter thought, snapping the lid on his drink. He set the alarm on his phone for eight minutes, and stepped outside. “They ditched you?”

Alyss turned to look at him. He worked hard to cultivate the “harmless” look: soft edges, nerdy glasses and hair, easily forgettable. That, and pitching his voice a little high, left an impression that girls might not be his thing.

“Yeah,” she said at last. “With my jacket and my phone.” Her voice held back tears, and she shivered.

“That sucks. You need a ride?”

She stood there for a moment, freezing as her rusty brain tried to think. “I dunno,” she said at last.

“Yeah. I understand. They’ll come back for you anyway. Won’t they?”

“Probably not.” She unwrapped her arms. “I knew those whorebags would take off. But I had to pee.”

“Come on. I’ll take you home.

“You sure?”

“I got nothing better to do tonight.” He hit the unlock button and the Volvo wagon chirped and flashed its headlights. He’d backed in to hide the stolen plate. “As long as you’re not all the way past Atlanta or something.”

She laughed, already walking toward the car. “No. I’m just two stoplights up from here. Thanks. Thanks a lot.” She got in, still shivering.

“These Swedish cars get warm fast,” he assured her. “But there’s a blanket behind the seats if you want it.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, I’m Hunter Greene.” The last name was fake.

“I’m Alyss Trapp.”

“Seat belt? This car gripes a lot if you don’t wear it.”

She snapped the belt, sealing her fate, and he took his time through the parking lot. “Hey, where’s the back seats?” she asked, retrieving the blanket.

“Flipped down. I bought a bookcase yesterday.” As he turned onto the four-lane, his phone alarm chimed and he talked to nothing as he drove. “Hey bro. Mercy mission. Yeah. Pizza? Yeah, if you call it in. I can pick it up —”

“Hey, you missed my turn.”

“Oh crap, I overshot. I’ll call you back, okay?” The turn he wanted came up, and he made the left, crossing the southbound lanes onto an empty side road.

Alyss shrank under the blanket. “You’re not taking me home.”

“Not right away.” He pulled off.

“What — what are you gonna do?” She tried the door, locked of course. The tears in her voice came back.

“That’s up to you,” he said. “I’m going to fuck you, but it doesn’t have to be violent or anything. Make it easy — I fuck you, then I drop you off a block from your house. You can keep the blanket to wrap up in. Make it hard, I still fuck you, but you’ll be in a lot of pain afterwards. Cuts, bruises, maybe a broken nose, and you’ll limp home from here with your clothes half torn apart. So how’s it gonna go?”

“I thought you were a nice guy.” Her voice went flat. “If you’d just asked, maybe I woulda gave you my number.”

“Maybe means no. Easy or hard?”

“Duh. Easy.”

“Good. There’s a pad behind your seat. Roll it out in back, then take your clothes off.”

He switched on the dome light and watched her undress, whimpering as she laid down with the blanket over her, then joined her. She watched the back window as he rolled a condom on.

Hunter pulled the blanket away and wrapped it around his shoulders. “Your tits are a lot nicer than I thought. You need to get a decent bra, though. Stop shopping at Wal-Mart, okay? Maybe have a tailor make your dress fit better.” He laid on her, pinning her arms. “Just close your eyes and think of England.”

“What — ow-uh!” as he pushed into her. The car was quiet for a while, the only sounds his movements and her quick shallow breathing. After a minute, he pushed up to watch her tits jiggle to the rhythm of his thrusts, which got him off sooner than expected. He finished, then rose.

“Are you done? Can I get dressed now?” Her voice was shaky.

“Sure. Unless you want to wait ten, fifteen minutes, then I’ll be ready for more —”

She threw her clothes on, then looked up to see a long leather strap in his hands. “You’re gonna kill me.” She scooted toward the back.

“Sorry. Leaving a witness is a bad idea.”

“I won’t tell! I promise!”

“I can’t take that chance.” He advanced, backing her into the corner.

“Please!” The tears flowed freely now.

“I wish I didn’t have to. But seriously. You won’t contribute anything positive in your life. Just some kids, just like you. Best to keep you from breeding in the first place —”

She tried to dive past him, fell, and Hunter was on her back. He slipped the strap around her neck and pulled it tight. It was over in a few minutes.

“Clean kill,” he said, flipping the blanket over Alyss’s still body. He clambered into the driver’s seat, thinking through his next moves: drive to the lake, maybe do her again, tie on the weights and toss —

Twin clamps seized his arms and jerked him over the seat, snapping the headrest and nearly dislocating his shoulders. Before he could scream, Alyss was straddling his chest.

“I trapped big game this time,” she snarled. “Rape and murder. Would you like to beg for your life now?”

She opened her mouth — he saw the fangs and screamed at last. But not for long.

Alyssa shed the glamour, revealing the elegant form of a vampire queen. Around her swirled the confused and hurting spirits of Hunter’s victims, the pain and terror of their final moments binding them to his car.

“Go, sisters,” she whispered. “You have been avenged. Find peace and rest.” As she climbed into the front seats, the spirits began to transcend. Some tried to hug her, others thanked her. One by one, they moved on to a place Alyssa would never see.

She pulled her phone from her boot, and punched a number.

“What’s up?”

“Cleanup on aisle 400.”

“What charges?”

“Serial rape and murder.”

“Wow, good one, Alyssa! I bet he tastes better than that spammer from week before last. Where are you?”

She gave directions, and the ghoul said, “Okay. Twenty minutes.”

“Hurry. I’m getting sleepy.”

Hunter’s blood had fed her. His flesh would soon feed the ghouls. His soul was already in Hell, and his car would go to a nearby chop shop. By the time she awoke tomorrow evening, all physical traces of Hunter “Greene” would be gone.

Trapp was both her name and her calling.

Her bait drew sociopaths.

Click here to vote for “Hunter and Trapp.”

Hell’s Gate, by Daniel Ritter

There’s always a bit of mopping up to do at Hell’s Gate.

The Six on Park and Twentieth is the be-all and the end-all, at least, it’s the place to be when a party is happening, which is usually most every night. Creative people can always find a reason to party.

The biggest party that happens at The Six is the Hell’s Gate pre-Halloween party. It’s made up of equal parts; half party and half calendar week. Hell’s Gate starts generally in mid-October and only really ends because a bit of mopping up needs to be done right before the annual Halloween Party begins.

Hell’s Gate is a drink-fest, let’s be honest, oh, and a costume party as well. There’s no real rules, per se, since there’s no real identities. The drinks are real. Real drunks, too, more than you can count. Some bats. Mostly real, the bats.

One real bat in particular loosed it’s grip from the crest of a filigree lamp post and fell. It back-flipped a parachute-like maneuver involving the cupping of the wingskin, and landed fully sized as a crouched woman on the pavement. She stood, glanced around for witnesses. None.

She walked around the corner, and filed into the line of costumed people waiting to gain admission to The Six. Another woman was at the end of the line with a long fake cat’s tail. She was laughing and screaming and spilling liquid from a red cup she was trying to carry with the three fingers she wasn’t using to hold a lit cigarette.

“WHAT ARE YOU?” The woman with faux-fur cat ears attached to a headband asked over the noise of the crowd.

“I’m a vampire,” she replied.

Cat-lady looked her over. She was dressed impeccably in black, with the pants and the form-fitting shirt, not a scrap of lint; but Vampires are supposed to have capes, or a talisman or something. She had no… shine… to her at all.

“YOU’RE A SHITTY VAMPIRE.” Cat-lady took a drink from her red plastic cup, spilling some on her face. She smudged her eyeliner-drawn whiskers while drying herself off with back of her wrist in a paw-like contortion.

“Ahh, but you, you are an excellent, fake, cat,” she replied.

She scrunched up her face, disapproving of her disapproval, and turned back around to be with the people in front of her instead.

The line paced inward and until she was stopped by the bouncer.

“Eh, what are you supposed to be? Costume party, miss.”

“Vampire.”

The bouncer looked her over. “Where’s your necklace and cape, Vampirella?”

“I have neither, but I do drink blood. Would you like proof?”

“Listen. I’ll let you in, but I know your face now, yeah? So don’t come back tomorrow without putting in a little effort. Some glitter or something, at least. Go on in.”

As she entered, the cool night air was engulfed by a sweaty cloud of cigarette smoke, colognes, and perfumes of every funk. The thick smelly haze flashed with the house lights and lasers in beat with the music, if one could call it that. It was certainly structured noise, without qualification. Seemed to fit the crowd, though, as if they bled off this fog from their skin directly into the air.

She chewed on the air as she swam into the crowd. She wanted to spit it out or choke it back with something more, fresh, less dead.

Through a parting of the crowd, she found herself at a waist-high railing, overlooking the pit portion of the dance floor. She watched as super heroes and lycanthropes paired and tripled up with mummies and zombies and at least one young couple dressed in nothing but colored paint.

“We’ve, come. So far.” she thought to herself.

At that point, any normal person of her stature would have been thrown head-first over the railing and into the pit as a very large, very inebriated, drunk man, dressed like a priest, plowed into her back. She was, however, able to maintain her position and balance with remarkable skill.

They both turned to face each other.

“WHAT’S YOUR GODDAMN PROBLEM?” barked the priest. Cheap whiskey stink dripped off the cloud of his exhalation.

“You, sir, fell into me.”

“‘S’NOT MY FAULT. SH’YOURS. SHORE. IS.”

“I blame your drink, sir, for challenging your self control.”

“YEAH THAT’S RIGHT… HEY THAT STILL BLAMING ME! YOU KNOW WHAT I THINK. I THINK YOU’RE BEING A …WHAT ARE YOU?”

“Vampire.”

“…SHITTY VAMPIRE.”

Another large, very drunk, man, wearing saffron robes and costume bald cap wandered over, followed closely behind by another man looking much like the Pope. The Pope, it appeared, had been drinking.

“WHERE YOU ALL BEEN I FOUND A VAMPIRE.”

“Shitty looking vampire,” said the Pope. The Pope’s arm swung around as if carrying a heavy bag. His hand came around into view, latched onto another hand, which was attached to the cat-lady.

“Heyyyyy…” she slobbered, her whiskers had long since smudged beyond recognition. Her nose was still eyeshadowed brown, though. “I fink I know you. You’re that shitty vampire arencha.” She cleanly dropped her red cup while not releasing her cigarette butt, which had long since extinguished itself. Her hand remained shaped, as if holding the cup.

“Then, Father, the fault, must be mine, to have, and to hold.” She lifted her hands and opened her fingers to reveal the palms of her hands. Her palms rippled and split and bled, forming open stigmata wounds, “Forgive me.”

“WHOAH HEY I’M NOT A REAL PRIEST.”

“Your blood will be just as warm.” In an instant, the vampire leapt up onto the cat-lady in a weirdly awkward mount. With one foot on the back of her catty waist and the other on her shoulder, she folded downward and clamped her jaws into the scruff of her neck, sucking hard to get to vein to pop open.

Her eyes went wide and frenzied, and her fingertip bones, the distal phalanges, elongated and pierced through the skin forming curved claws. The palms of her hands split open wider to reveal an esophagus within each hand, nestled between the middle finger and ring finger metacarpals.

The drunken Pope stumbled over to knock her off his date’s back, but the vampire clamped around his neck with one of her sucker hands and began a concurrent feeding.

The monk departed in haste.

She surfed the wilting cat-lady’s body to the floor as she fed. Presently, she released the white Pope, who crumpled downward, and she then looked at the drunken priest.

“Evolution is a bitch,” she said, and slapped her other sucker hand onto his neck and gripped her fingerbone claws deeply.

The panic had taken hold from wall to wall. People were running in every direction, stumbling over high heels and loose costume fabric. Screaming, quite a bit of screaming. The DJ had abandoned post, but it didn’t matter, since the playlist had more or less taken over. Have you ever heard the house-trance version of “Born Free”?

As you might expect, there was a miss-step made at the front entrance, causing a pile-up of patrons, which led to a complete blockage of the exit. Typical.

Mellificious Petronica Gik stood at the pit railing, sucking at her teeth to dislodge a clot, while the screams reverberated.

“Oh, calm down, food,” she said.

She watched them scurry about, then, laughed and yelled, “I’M THE ONLY ONE HERE NOT IN COSTUME!”

She stooped to pick up the cat-lady with one hand, and threw her body across the room. It went up and through a cluster of windows. An inky blackness of bats poured in through the opening. They each took their turn doing the backflip/transform maneuver, landing in the pit, then, picking out their dinner from the throngs.

They each fed, one, two, even three at a time, when they could get both suckerhands free.

“WHY!” Melli mocked the crowd, “Why, why, whyyy! Because, you, are food. Because we, need to eat. It’s no different than lions and zebras, spiders and flies. It’s gone on forever, and forever it shall go. It’s not like any among you is happy. I’d wager none! Who among you is NOT going to die anyway? None! Anyone here without sin? Anyone? No? Very well.”

Hell’s Gate. There was, in fact, a bit of mopping up to do before Halloween.

Click here to vote for “Hell’s Gate.”

Readers Poll

Need to test this voting mechanism thingamabob before the Blood Vengeance: Vampyre contest. Please vote for what you’d like to see as upcoming Were-Traveler story themes. If you have a suggestion, please comment. I’m always looking for great, fresh ideas.

Thank you!

Announcing: CONTEST for Blood Vengeance: Vampyre Issue

We’re going to have our first contest here at The Were-Traveler with the Blood Vengeance: Vampyre issue.

First prize: $25 US dollars worth of eBooks from Amazon. If you live in the US, and you want it, I’ll get you a $25 Starbucks card, if you’d prefer a cuppa at your local cafe while you write.

Second prize: Up to $15 in eBooks on Amazon. Or Starbucks (exchange for US residents).

Third prize: E-book of your choice from Amazon. $10 max.

Contest is open to anyone. Free coffee and books. Who doesn’t love this?

How the contest will work: You send in your best Vampire Blood Revenge stories. I’d like to see something different with these. Click here for the guidelines. Play around with the theme and have some fun. I’d totally love to see some alternate history where there are historical figures who were vamps, like, oh say…Lizzie Borden. That would really turn my crank! Different is good. There’s not too much that hasn’t been done. Strong characters are also a big, big plus. And don’t forget, the plot has to be revenge motivated: hunter becomes the hunted, vamp vs. vamp, etc. I wasn’t kidding about Lizzie, either. I have the perfect image to use for it!

So, first, your story has to get by me. After that, the issue gets released and readers will have a chance to vote (via Poll Daddy) for their favorite stories.

And by the way, due to fairness, I won’t be writing any stories for this one.

May the most vengeful bloodsucker win!

Issue 3: Deadly Love

“Love me…or else…Die!”

That’s the theme of this special issue for Valentine’s Day. The stories in this issue are about love. The kind that lasts forever. ‘Til DEATH do us part, and maybe not even then!

So here are some stories the cynic and the sick creep in us will love.

I have a special place in my twisted heart for all these tales, but my favorite was Helen Howell’s “S.W.A.L.K.” I had trouble sleeping after reading it.

I hope you enjoy these drabbles and micro-fiction stories, and be sure to read stay tuned for the upcoming post about the contest I’m having for the Blood Vengeance: Vampyre issue. And no, I won’t be writing a story for that issue.

Happy Valentine’s Day from The Were-Traveler.

Issue 3: Deadly Love

S.W.A.L.K. (Sealed with a loving kiss), by Helen Howell (drabble)

Carnal Nature, by Catherine Russell (micro-fiction)

Sleeping, by Quinn Smythwood (drabble)

Breaking, by Quinn Smythwood (drabble)

Snapped, by Ramsey Lyons (micro-fiction)

No Regrets, by Emily Wheeler (drabble)

Damned If You Don’t, by Larry Kollar (drabble)

tick…tock, by Maria Kelly (micro-fiction)

I Gave You My Heart, by Jim Bronyaur (drabble)

S.W.A.L.K. (Sealed with a loving kiss), by Helen Howell

Maya grasped hold of the white envelope. No stamp. She turned it over and saw the initials S.W.A.L.K. scribbled across the flap and what looked like a smudge of blood. They must have cut themselves. She carried it into the kitchen, grabbed a knife and slit it open.

‘Be My Valentine’ the words shouted from the front of the card. She opened it. A lock of hair lay inside—her hair; same colour, same red flecks shining amongst the gold strands. She moved it and gasped. The message written in blood said;

‘So near and yet so far—but not for long!’