Last Dance

A new story has been published by Pif Magazine, with awesome art from J.D. Doria.  Check it out here:  http://www.pifmagazine.com/2014/11/last-dance/.

The Ruin of Richard Slade

By Sebastian Tolhurst

At last he begins to stir beneath me.

“Wake up Richard Slade.”

A moan fills the dark.

“WAKE UP RICHARD SLADE.”

A startled gasp brings a grin from ear to ear.

“Who are you?  Where am I?” Richard Slade asks.

“Feel around you.  Feel that rough pine?  You’re in your grave Richard Slade.”

“I ain’t dead?”

“Sometimes the hangman misses his mark.”

“Hey mister, you get me out of here and I’ll make it worth your while.  Got a ton of loot hidden just outside town.  You get me free and half’s yours.”

“I can’t get you out Richard Slade, I’m in the grave with you.”

“Ain’t nobody in here but me, so quit lying and get digging.”

“You misunderstand me. I’m not a rescuer; I’m the devil come to claim you for my own.”

“So I am dead after all.”

“Not yet Richard Slade, but soon. I shall just have to wait patiently for you to waste away in this box.”

He starts hammering on the lid of his coffin, yelling for someone to dig him out.  I let him go hoarse before I interject.

“There’s nobody up there Richard Slade.  Nobody weeps over you; there is no graveyard shift for your kind.  Nothing stirs in the cemetery but ghosts.”

“You’ve got no claim over me devil.  I recanted; the father absolved me of my sins.”

“Nothing, not even holy water, can ever wash the blood off those hands Richard Slade.  You are mine for eternity.  In the meantime I’ll watch to see what happens first; do you run out of air or starve?  But that is some time off.  To pass the time shall I describe what I have in store for you in hell?”

I begin to list every torture that awaits him below.  I go into ever gory detail I can think of.  I drone on and on until I’m sure there’s no way he can hear my voice over his desperate screams.

I sit up and cut a slice off the ham beside me, tearing a chunk off a loaf of bread to go with it.  I’ve more than enough provisions to see me through the next few days.

Around me the graveyard is silent.  The headstones cast long dark shadows in the moonlight; but I am immune to the gloom.

I lean back against Richard Slade’s headstone again, tucking the tube that snakes into the ground under my ear.  I light my pipe, listening to his screams.  The sound of him scratching wildly at his coffin lid brings a smile to me.  I imagine splinters piercing flesh, finger nails flying off.  I wonder what torture to inflict upon his mind next.

Those who aren’t good enough for hanging should think twice before they lay a finger on the hangman’s daughter.

The Hunt

By Sebastian Tolhurst

Humans are unique, living the life of the omnivore among our kind, being at times predator, at others prey. Most of the time I am prey. I walk down the street with my head bowed. My eyes furtively glance down dark allies, looking for movement beyond the light. I move as my reptilian brain tells me too, never making eye contact. Now and then I see one of the herd pulled down. I never react; I just keep my head down and keep moving, glad it wasn’t me.

Once a month though, I become the predator, my transformation usually fueled by drink. Then I stalk the streets, head high, chest puffed out. I'm looking for my prey. I know it well; the small men walking with their eyes on the sidewalk, brain screaming danger at every turn. So I will walk until one gives me an excuse. The prey will bump into me by accident. They always apologize profusely, but their efforts are wasted. I use the excuse to pounce, battering them until my blood lust is sated. Then like a snake who has gorged, I retreat, my appetite for blood satisfied until next month.