A collection of horror, mystery, and science fiction tales, with contributions from fellow writers, James Darko and Dexter Lynch. If you wish to contribute, I'd be happy to showcase your writing. Just send me a message. The stories are free to read and always will be. Some are better than others (I'm speaking only for myself), but I can't give all my best ideas away for free, ha ha. Feel free to share any stories, but please be sure to give credit where credit is due.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Genre: Horror (Werewolves)
Mall closed its doors that Thursday at nine o’clock sharp. Once the night guard,
Rory Callihan, set the alarms and made his final rounds, he retired to the
security room to start the first hour of his ten hour graveyard shift.
Rory Callihan was new to the job, assigned to the
position by his company, Blue Arrow Security. He had been stuck there every
night for three lousy weeks and he’d never been so bored in all his life.
Occasionally one of the stores security alarms would
trip, but the alarm systems were so sensitive that something as tiny as an ant
could set them off. Usually it was just a stray mouse that found its way in
from the food court.
Rory was the exact opposite of his brother, Eddie. Eddie
Callihan was a loner, an outsider, a misanthrope. Rory was soft spoken,
pleasant, congenial. He enjoyed a cold pint at the bar on his nights off and
mingling with all the single girls on Ladies Night. He was a talented dancer
and the girls always lined up to be his partner at weddings and parties.
Dancing was another interest that was not mutual with
Eddie. Not dancing came with being an outsider; always watching, observing, but
never interjecting. But dancing was a habit that Rory couldn’t break. He’d hear
the music and something inside of him he didn’t even know he had would just
come to life and take over for him.
And it was a hell of a way to dazzle and impress the
ladies. After a hot night of dancing at a club, Rory would always leave with
one or two girls under his arms. It wasn’t just a hobby or a skill; it was a
guaranteed way to get some action.
Action–the one thing his job was lacking. Eddie watched
the security monitors with bland interest. There was never anything to see, no
thieves to thwart, no action or excitement. The cameras just panned back and
forth, showing empty corridor after empty corridor.
Rory thought about the date: February, 14, 2013 A.K.A.
Valentine’s Day. He thought about all the action he was missing at the bar that
night. And he thought about his brother Eddie, the cab driver who was no doubt
spending the evening alone. February fourteenth was a day that Eddie Callihan was
accustomed to spending alone. But this was the first Valentine’s Day Rory had
spent without the company of a young lady in years.
He stared at the monitors, his eyes saying what his mouth
did not. He wanted something, anything
to happen. A fire, a robbery, a car to come barreling through the façade of the
And as luck would have it, he got his wish. Camera 17
caught a flash of something on the mezzanine floor and Rory zoomed in. He could
make someone out, hiding behind a dense support column, waiting for the camera
to rotate. And as soon as it did, he made his move.
The glass of the convenience store shattered, tripping
one of the alarms. Rory quickly entered his code to deactivate it. He didn’t
want the police to be notified. He wanted to handle this solo.
The thief–his face full of bumps and craters, like a
pothole–helped himself to chocolate, cigarettes, cash from the register, and
all the lotto tickets he could stuff into two brown paper bags. The cigarettes
and cash he stuffed into his pockets. Most of the chocolate was in his belly by
the time Rory’s blinding flashlight was being waved in his face.
Pothole’s eyes met Callihan’s and he dropped his loot and
froze, stymied with both hands at his sides.
“Put your hands up!” Rory shouted.
“You got a gun?” Pothole asked, one hand now drawn over
his face to shield his eyes from the light.
“I’ve got a flashlight,” was his retort.
“That’s it?” Pothole chuckled.
“I’ve also got two fists I’m not afraid to introduce to
your face, and two size ten boots to stomp your ass inside out with.”
The thief, Pothole, raised his arms high into the air and
Rory caught a glimpse of something quite alarming.
Pothole’s index and middle fingers were exactly the same
length, an indicative sign of lycanthropy.
you get in here?” Rory inquired.
“I went into one of the dressing rooms in Marcy’s and
waited until the place closed. I just locked myself in and never came out.
Nobody ever even bothered to check. Some staff they got working here.”
“So you decided to stick around and help yourself to some
scratch-offs and candy bars?”
“Everyone’s gotta make their living,” Pothole shrugged,
his arms still in the air. “So are you gonna arrest me? Oh, wait, that’s right,
you’re just a security guard. You probably don’t even have handcuffs.”
“I can call the police and detain you until they arrive.”
“Can you?” Pothole asked, but it sounded more like he was
laying down a challenge. “You wanna see something you don’t see every day?”
went through a full body spasm. A horrible scream echoed through the mezzanine
as he collapsed to his knees, fingers digging into the granite tiled floor. The
flesh pulsed beneath his clothes, his chest swelling until his black shirt
ripped in half. Then the flesh began to strip away, the torso splitting down
the center to reveal a vest of thick brown fur. A snout emerged as the face
peeled back, and Pothole shed his old flesh like a snake shedding his skin to
reveal the true monster that lurked beneath.
“Impressive,” Rory nodded, wiggling his fingers at his
sides. Rory didn’t have much in common with his brother, Eddie. But he shared
one thing in common with Pothole. His middle and index fingers were identical
His body quivered as the transformation commenced. A cold
feeling rushed through his body, intense but brief. Layer by layer, he shed his
clothes and then his flesh. A hideous wet snout took shape and a thick grey tail
materialized, wagging beside the mound of abandoned skin. Its dense grey coat
didn’t detract from the sharp, prodigious claws that took the place of Rory’s
Pothole bolted from the mezzanine and headed for the
stairs. The chase was on.
Rory trailed him all the way to the third level and found
him wandering the food court, looking for an escape route. Cornered, Pothole
had no choice but to engage him.
The beast lunged at Rory, causing the granite tiles to
crack when he took a spill. The beast mounted him, strands of drool dangling
from its white jagged fangs. The grey wolf dug its claws into the beast’s
sides, producing a furious roar.
Wriggling free, the grey beast slashed at its adversary,
claws oscillating wildly in Pothole’s direction. Suddenly, the grey beast formerly
known as Rory Callihan realized he wasn’t the least bit bored. This was exactly
the kind of action he craved.
Dripping blood from various lacerations, the brown-furred
beast lunged forth again and collapsed atop Rory, a rectangular food court
table splintering under their weight. Other square-top tables and green plastic
chairs were scattered about the food court as they bowled across the granite
tiles, both creatures fighting to gain leverage.
kicked himself free and reached his feet, lunching himself like an oversized
dart towards Pothole, who was stumbling from the food court.
They both tumbled over the safety barrier, their bodies
spinning through the air as they plunged three stories to the ground level,
landing directly in the fountain.
Pothole had broken Rory’s fall, but he was filled with
sharp stinging sensations, as if his grey exterior was being jabbed by a swarm
of angry wasps. As he crawled from the fountain, it hit him. The water was
filled with coins, silver coins that
people had tossed in misguided attempts to give them their hearts desires.
What an odd tradition, Rory
thought. You donate your pocket change to
a stagnant pond and you make a wish. Only problem is half these people are
senseless enough to think it will come true.
right now, Rory’s only wish was to escape from the tainted water that was
slowly destroying him. You’ve heard the theory of werewolves and silver
bullets. Well, it works with all forms of silver. To even come into contact
with it could be fatal for a lycan. He crawled from the fountain, shaking
himself off like a dog that just scampered in soaked from a sudden downpour.
was thrashing in the water, his body feeling the effects of silver polluted water.
Rory did the righteous thing. He reeled Pothole in from the fountain. A
defeated Pothole gazed up at his savior, his white fangs gleaming.
When all was said and done, Rory returned to his post,
licking his lips. Not a scrap of Pothole remained.
His uniform was tattered and shredded beyond repair. But
luckily Rory carried a spare change of clothes with him for emergencies of this
kind. He’d make an excuse about his uniform being ruined. He could say the
dryer cleaner shrunk it. Or he could pull the old homework trick and say his
dog ate it, which wouldn’t be too far from the truth.
Rory leaned back and watched the security monitors,
Maybe this job’s
not too bad after all, he thought.