ALSO BY MARK McLAUGHLIN FROM WILDSIDE PRESS

      Beach Blanket Zombie

      Best Little Witch-House in Arkham

      To Michael Sheehan, Jr., for believing in me.

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2014 by Mark McLaughlin

      All rights reserved.

      *

      Published by Wildside Press LLC.

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

      Stories in this collection previously appeared in Gaslight, The Bone Marrow Review, Rictus, Slime After Slime, Freezer Burn, Not at Night, GothicNet, UnReality, Something Wicked, In Delirium, Darkness Rising, Ghosts & Scholars, You Shall Have This Delicacy, Naked Came the Plowman, Roadworks, Argonaut, Dark Tome, Bending the Landscape: Fantasy, Tekeli-li!, Black October, Carnage Hall, Raising Demons for Fun and Profit, The Book of More Flesh, The Dream Zone, Talebones, Horror Garage, Not One of Us, and At the Foothills of Frenzy.

      INTRODUCTION: Darkness, the Great Equalizer

      Most of our lives are spent in the light. Sunshine and artificial illumination surround us as we eat our meals, do our work, chat with friends, surf the Internet, and watch TV. When we go to bed, we at last surrender to the darkness. We spend that time asleep, wandering the well-lit corridors of our dreams.

      We may do our best to avoid the darkness, but it is still there, waiting to embrace us.

      Why should we go to such great lengths to drive back the darkness? Darkness is our friend. Darkness is the great equalizer.

      In today’s appearance-conscious society, we all wonder, “Am I attractive enough? Is my appearance somehow holding me back? Should I lose some weight? Should I get some plastic surgery?”

      In the dark, none of that matters. Beauty is no longer an advantage. Ugliness is no longer a shameful problem.

      My Greek grandmother, a very earthy and vivacious woman, used to tell a naughty joke about a young fellow’s first visit to a brothel. She told the tale in a coy fashion, euphemizing the saucy details. The fellow in the joke thinks he has procured the services of the brothel’s loveliest employee—but since the transaction took place with the lights out, he doesn’t realize until the end that in fact, he’d dallied with the plainest lady of the house.

      When he takes his complaint to the proprietress, she replies: “You got your money’s worth. All women are the same in the dark!”

      See how kind, how empowering darkness can be? In the dark, a wallflower can blossom into a luscious rose. In a tale of dark wonder, a monster can prove to be more seductive that any beauty queen.

      The darkness holds many surprises. In this collection of thirty stories of horror and the bizarre, we shall explore some of those surprises.

      Even though I’ve been extolling the virtues of darkness, I do encourage you to read this book with the lights on. Light does have its practical applications, you know.

      You have to see the words.

      ADROITLY WRAPPED

      “So what’s in the sack?” Anthony said, eyeing the bundle that pale, leatherclad Punkin dragged along the path. A full moon brought a greenish-silver glow to the pebbles in the path and the chains on Punkin’s jacket.

      “‘What’s in the Sack?’ Sounds like a game show.” Punkin’s nervous gait sped into a loping gallop, so that Anthony had to run to keep up with him. Odd slitherings and slappings issued from the burlap sack as it bounced in the dust. “I’ll give you three guesses,” the pale youth said.

      “Is it…” Anthony flipped his long black bangs out of his face. “Is it a baby pterodactyl, flapping its membranous wings in the throes of death?”

      “No…but you know, they taste just like chicken.” Punkin swung the sack over his shoulder. Startled, a flock of crystal birds flew out of the trees lining the path.

      “Is it…an oversized jungle slug? A miniature sea-squid?” Anthony listened closely to the wet whisperings inside the sack. “The lymph glands of a dead Cyclops? Munchkin roadkill from the Yellow Brick Highway?”

      “Wrong and wrong and wrong and wrong again, Contestant Number One.” Punkin flashed the gap-toothed Halloween smile that had earned him his nickname. “No new car, no trip to Tierra del Fuego. So sorry.”

      Anthony glimpsed yellow eyes glowing in a shadowed tree-top. Three…? Leaves rustled and the eyes disappeared. He stopped to peer into the shadows, searching for the dubious owner of the eyes. Then he noticed that Punkin, still running, was far ahead of him. He could hear the pale youth whistling a shrill, pointless tune. Anthony raced to catch up.

      He was out of breath by the time they reached the long, low house of Athena Moth. He ran his fingers through his bangs and static crackled…no doubt his hair was standing on end. He spit onto his fingers and slicked his bangs into place.

      Punkin rang the doorbell and a snippet of Verdi’s Un Bel Di echoed through the house. Athena answered the door wearing white face, a black wig, and a geisha costume.

      “Oh, why, hello.” She always seemed surprised to see them, even when the visit was scheduled. “Come in, come in…but please, forgive the mess.”

      With every visit, Anthony pondered the same riddle. Athena was a she…but was she a woman? Athena had a low voice and a large-boned build. She always wore heavy make-up—even on her hands. And of course, there were the costumes… Still, there were other factors that clouded the issue. The delicacy of the mouth, the hands, the ears. The lack of both an Adam’s apple and a crotch bulge. The exciting way that she gazed at him through half-closed purple eyes (men are taught to stare down their world).

      This time, Anthony decided to address the issue directly. “So, Athena. What’s under the kimono?”

      “My body. What else—a diesel engine?” She led them to an overstuffed couch in a parlor lined with shelves. These shelves were filled with books, jars of herbs and animal hair, lipsticks and stone statuettes.

      “He’s full of questions tonight,” Punkin said, plopping down onto the couch. “He also wanted to know what was in the sack.”

      Anthony sat by the pale youth’s side. His hips sank down between the soft cushions. He hated this couch, this wicked, butt-eating couch.

      “We have a surprise for you, Anthony,” Athena said, taking the sack from Punkin. “Did you think that we’d forget that tomorrow was your birthday?”

      Anthony glanced at his cheap digital wristwatch—9:30 PM—then pressed the button that brought the date to the screen. 10-12. “God, you’re right. I’d forgotten myself.” He sighed. “Twenty-one and still living with my parents. Still flipping burgers at Fry-Pappy’s. Still…” He didn’t care to go on.

      Athena nodded. “I understand.” She opened a door in a shadowed corner of the parlor. With one hand, she lifted a department store mannequin out of the closet and leaned it against a table in the center of the room. Was the mannequin quite light or was Athena quite strong?

      “You’re lonely,” she said. “Lonely in that special way.” She then opened Punkin’s sack and pulled out a length of pink ribbon. Soft. Thick. Moist. And really, far too pink.

      She proceeded to pull yards of ribbon from the sack. “Looks a bit like human skin, doesn’t it? Well, that’s just what it is. But don’t worry, Anthony, it doesn’t belong to anyone. Isn’t that right, Punkin?”

      Punkin grinned and nodded. “Athena gave me the recipe. Anybody can make it.”

      Anthony watched as Athena began to wrap the ribbon tightly around the left foot and ankle of the mannequin. “But—is it real skin? As real as mine or Punkin’s?”

      “Of course it is,”