Feminine Wiles

Think that women are the softer sex? Well think again! These women will prove you wrong-dead wrong. Gathered in this volume are sixteen tales of ladies of darkness, women of horror, sisters of the night, witness as they turn the tables on their male counterparts with cunning, intelligence and beauty to blaze a hellish path through horror fiction.

From the fair maiden to the withered crone women have always had a place in supernatural and horror literature but never have they taken the spotlight as they do now. Read on as they prove that men aren’t the only villains to be reckoned with and that they can be every bit as lethal. Every story in this collection features a female villain in all her dark glory from the femme fatale to the wicked witch. You will find no damsels in distress or dim-witted victims in this book-only seductive, cunning, savage and strong villains to make your nightmares sweeter than you could ever imagine. Will you go willingly when they summon, will you succumb when they seduce you, will you fall prey to their Feminine Wiles?

Visit The Author’s Website for Purchase Information: www.shadowtales.com

Feminine Wiles

John Grover

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 by John Grover

All rights reserved

Cover Art Copyright © 2011 Christopher Zibelli

All characters, events and descriptions in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons living or dead are the product of the author’s imagination and are purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

• Introduction

• Shades Darker Than War

• Dark Song

• Dancer

• Seven Ways To Kill A Witch

• Blood Is Thicker Than Water

• The Well

• Mother Crandle

• Wishful Thinking

• Excavation

• Playing With Dolls

• No Man’s Land

• The Shimmering Web

• Masks

• Eden Revisited

• The Bride Wore Red

• The Sweetest of Songs

An Introduction:

For the man, be warned…for the woman…there is no hell like the one that is scorned…

I have read many books, and many short stories, even written a few of my own. I’ve left the lights on only to write, but not to worry, demons and monsters and bestial things the human soul likes to forget do exist. If there is a hell found in words, it is here in Feminine Wiles. If there is a hole in many hearts looking for great tales of torture, madness and brooding darkness to fill the absolution of character look no further, for what your eyes tell you will never gift you the same.

A thick gloom permeated the forest; with its ancient lightning-scarred trees growing huge and twisted, reaching to the heavens like skeletal arms. Snow-capped pines swayed all around them.

This is not just great writing. This is not a mere blood soaked page where an artist depicts his view on the feminine ways of hell. This is a unique collection of bones finding new flesh to wear, and new blood to drink. These are women finding their place in horror. In every man’s veins running with quickness. This is John Grover at his very best, where witches are to be murdered and evil men are nothing compared to what a woman’s vengeance has to portray.

Not convinced? Don’t worry; because by the time you read the first page, there will be nothing left but excitement and horror. The door Mr. Grover opens for us leads to many roads where cliché’s are left behind dying among the fading light, and what is born from Mr. Grover’s mind found here has never been instinctive before.

This book is a hidden child of darkness.

Hidden because very rarely, there is anyone in the literary field who can pull off a short story collection so vast with murder, bloodshed, and great storytelling and at the same time, giving the justice women deserve. I’ve always said the scariest thing in the world is not a man with a gun, but a woman with the bullets. In this blood soaked and horrifying collection, you will see that concurrence is only a page turn away. I like to read books that I will never forget. Books that stay with me long after the years dwindle. I like to watch human souls react to terrifying moments of tragedy and pain and then the recourse that follows define them. Those stories are the best stories. They are real stories. Here, in John Grover’s nightmarish collection, the stories are the very best, and never to be forgotten.

In great horror literature there is no begging. In Feminine Wiles, there is no mercy…

Eric Enck

Author of The Reckoning and Black Train Jack

Shades Darker Than War

The rattling of machine guns filled the air as the soldiers stormed onto the beach of Omaha. The June air was wet with blood and rain; the ocean waves ran red as soldiers toppled under the hail of bullets.

Mortars bellowed like thunder, hurling men to the ground in showers of sand and severed limbs. Cries of fear and pain echoed around the beach—grunts, curses, pleas to God mingled into a deafening cacophony.

Ben Hollander watched as his buddies, his comrades were cut down before they could even get their bearings. They tumbled from their boats headfirst, enemy fire crumbling faces, tearing chests apart, ripping throats out; ravaging the young men without mercy. The German troops pinned them down like rats under their boots, launching an onslaught so fierce the hope for victory seemed an impossible dream.

Ben hit the ground as mortar shells broke on the ground around him. He crawled on his belly through the wet sand, clutching a rifle he had yet to fire. His stomach churned as he scanned the Normandy coast, watching men charge headlong into certain death.

He listened to the shrieks rise above the rage of the battle, heard the mindless cries in his ears. His hope began to fade; his hands trembled uncontrollably. He drew his attention back to the hills and bunkers ahead of him, aimed and fired without direction, without purpose.

How could he do any good? What did it matter, they were all as good as dead. It was pointless. It was all so pointless. What am I doing here? I shouldn’t even be here…I miss my parents…and my sisters. What kind of God would let this happen?

He pushed on, and was dragging himself over body parts when someone reached out and grabbed him by the elbow. He turned to see a young man calling out to him, trying to speak, but the blood drowned his words. He died a moment later.

Still Ben pushed on, wind spraying his face with sand, clogging up his nostrils. His ears rang, his heart fluttered and adrenaline set his body racing. He was soaked from head to toe from having plunged into the ocean when his boat was riddled with gunfire.

The lifeless body of Frank Danvers had hit him under the water, the dead weight making it nearly impossible to reach the surface. Five minutes into battle and he nearly drowned until Jimmy, his best friend since boot camp reached down and—

Ben! he heard the call despite the ungodly chaos that choked his senses. It was Jimmy calling to him. He needed him. Jimmy, my God Jimmy!

Ben looked around the beach, so many figures rushing toward and away from him at the same time, and searched frantically for Jimmy.

Ben help. Ben! The cry was louder now. Ben lifted himself onto his knees and turned.

Jimmy lay on his back, reaching out to him. Both of his legs were missing. Ben choked back a scream. He jumped to his feet and raced to his fallen friend.

Medic! Ben screamed but knew the medic would never come.

Buddy, Jimmy coughed. Hell of a ride, huh?

Ben took his hand. You know it, Jimmy boy. Don’t worry, you’re gonna be fine. Help’s coming.

Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Jimmy laughed. I’m done. I just wanted to say goodbye.

No goodbyes Jim. We’re gonna make it. We’re gonna beat the hell out these Nazi bastards. You wait, I’m—

Ben’s words were cut short by the bullet that ripped through his ribs. He buckled and groaned, falling onto his back to stare at the sky. He felt the rain pelting him in the face; an icy tingle capered up his spine as he listened to Jimmy’s voice fade into senseless babble. He tried to move. Couldn’t. Dull pain washed over him. He stared up at the sky, listened to something pierce the air, and watched a mortar shell shriek toward him.

The sky grew dark and everything went black as he was swept into merciful oblivion.

* * *

Ben opened his eyes and tasted blood in his mouth. The sky was bright and clear. He could no longer hear the sounds of war. Instead, there was a peculiar calm.

He was able to turn his head and move slightly and he could feel his legs. That was a good sign. He looked down—yep they were still there. He looked over to the side and Jimmy stared at him blankly. He was dead. Jimmy…

Ben sat up and glanced around. The beach was strewn with twitching, broken bodies, pieces of soldiers scattered everywhere. Men lay where they had fallen, some staring up at the sky others staring into the sand. The wounded cried out, begging for help, pleading for an end. Calls for the medic carried on the wind, as did the foul smell of death.

His heart was still beating; he could hear it thumping in his ears, which told him he was not yet dead. He assumed the battle was over but did not know who had won. He tried to pull himself up but grimaced in pain as his wounds protested. Only then did he realize how badly wounded he was. His entire body screamed with agony. Perhaps shock had dulled his senses before. Now he felt every bit of the hellish agony.

With the pain came a sudden cold. Ben shivered as icy fingers tickled the back of his neck. His face was soaked with sweat and as he wiped it from his eyes he saw something moving in the distance.

A black-clad figure scuttled down the face of the cliff. It crept along the beach, weaving its way through the multitude of bodies. Ben stared in disbelief. It was a woman, a beautiful woman dressed in black robes and a shawl. He watched her raven tresses dance in the wind, robes rippling as she made her way closer.

Under the shawl that covered her head like a cowl was a pale face. She radiated cold beauty, with her full red lips. Ben was at once both captivated and frightened. He could not take his eyes off her. In one of her hands she carried a willow basket; in the other a blade, a dagger gleaming silver in the light. He watched her approach a still twitching soldier. She bent to him, then swiftly and methodically plunged the dagger into his chest until he stopped moving. She yanked his dog tags from his neck and dropped them into her basket.

Another soldier cried out for help and she turned her head, drawn by his desperate call. She hurried to him and as he begged her for help, she slashed the dagger across his throat.

Ben felt bile rise in his throat. Horrified, he watched her send the wounded to the next life before their time. His arms and legs trembled; the sweat poured down his face. His throat was dry. He struggled to rise but the pain kept him in place. He was much too weak.

He turned away from the young woman, hoping she was merely a product of the trauma, his delirious mind conjuring up fantasies that didn’t exist. In the distance, on the far side of the beach, he could see another dark figure working its way through the bodies.

Who the hell were they?

He looked back and she was closer, unleashing her blade upon more wounded and snatching their dog tags from them. The wind howled as she stood, the blood from her latest victim dripping from her blade. Ben gave a choked cry.

The dark maiden turned in his direction, glittering eyes fixed on new quarry. Nimble as a cat, she started toward him. Ben swore he could see right through her.

As she drew closer he saw how radiant she really was, a contrast of dark and pale beauty, perpetually young, and mysterious. Her black robe flowed around milk-white, curvaceous flesh.

What is she? Is this death, here to wrench us over to the other side? An angel or a devil? Slowly Ben realized that he no longer cared. He wanted to go to her. Something in her eyes called to him, summoned him. He sensed peace in her eyes, tranquility in her cold beauty.

She stood before him looking down, the dagger held aloft. Their eyes met and he saw that hers were, sensuous, alluring…blazing. He smiled and reached out to her, suddenly, inexplicably hungry for her sweet embrace, the eternal escape she promised from the pain and horror.

She’s so beautiful, so flawless, he thought. Maybe this is meant to be… Maybe I’m meant to go to her… I am supposed to die here; I feel it. Let her end the pain, the nightmare, end it all. Take me, please take me!

He began to succumb to her, felt his soul slipping away as she advanced.

Finally, she bent and stared into his face.

Ben looked into the eyes once more and basked in her unnatural energy, her malevolence…and suddenly he knew what she was.

She had existed for centuries, drawn by conflict and carnage, a malicious entity feeding on the wounded, a vulture of battlefields, pushing those trapped between life and death into the void, and taking their souls.

She had robbed ancient warriors and soldiers of insignia, family banners, family crests, heirlooms, signet rings, leaving behind anonymous, faceless things and tortured families.

He remembered watching Jimmy die, watching him give up and succumb to death. No goodbyes, Jim. He had wanted Jimmy to fight. So how could he do any less? This wasn’t right; it wasn’t time. He returned to himself in time to see the white face looming over him once again.

NO! He couldn’t let her take him. He would not die here on this beach; not at her hands. He was a soldier of honor, strength and faith. He could accept dying at the hands of his mortal enemy but not an inhuman, immortal one.

He would fight to live, to survive. It was not his time. This specter of war and discord, this malevolent weaver of shadow would have to seek another victim for he promised himself now that he was going to live to tell his children what he’d seen.Stay the hell away from me! He screamed. Stay away! With all of the strength he had left, he dragged himself away from her. She stood, with what might have been a shocked expression on her face. A feral look twisted her beauty and she stalked him, determined not to lose her prey.

No! Ben screamed again, pulling himself over Jimmy’s lifeless body, pain searing his back and legs.

She continued to follow, bloodstained dagger poised. Ben scrambled frantically, his hand alighting upon the fallen weapon of his friend. He picked up the gun with both hands and fired directly at the woman.

The bullets whistled through her as if she wasn’t there and it did not slow her advance. Ben fired again, wildly, full of rage and defiance, bullets rattling, skimming the air and hitting nothing. Her face remained expressionless. Ben shivered all over, icy cold slithering through his body.

"You’re not taking me! I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die!"

She stood before him, dagger raised high.

No, don’t…

The dagger fell.