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    Nocturnal Natures
    Nocturnal Natures
    Nocturnal Natures
    Ebook352 pages5 hours

    Nocturnal Natures

    By Zimbell House Publishing, Charles Brown, Lana Cooper and

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    About this ebook

    From whimsical to scary, this collection of short stories, by fifteen talented up-and-coming story-tellers, is sure to entertain you with their tales of what goes bump in the night.
    This collection is for the lovers of bite-sized paranormal tales.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherZimbell House Publishing
    Release dateFeb 26, 2018
    ISBN9781945967160
    Nocturnal Natures
    Author

    Zimbell House Publishing

    Zimbell House Publishing is dedicated to promoting new writers. To enable us to do this, we create themed anthologies and send out a call for submissions. These calls are updated monthly, typically we have at least four months worth on our website at any given time. To see what we are working on next, please paste this link into your browser and save it to your bookmarks: http://zimbellhousepublishing.com/contest-submissions/ All submissions are vetted by our acquisitions team. By developing these anthologies, we can promote new writers to readers across the globe. We hope we've helped you find a new favorite to follow! Are you interested in helping a particular writer's career? Write a review and mention them by name. You can post reviews on our website, or through any retailer you purchased from.  Interested in becoming a published author? Check out our website for a look behind the scenes of what it takes to bring a manuscript to a published book. http://zimbellhousepublishing.com/publishing-services/process-behind-scenes/ We hope to hear from you soon.

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      Nocturnal Natures - Zimbell House Publishing

      This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. All characters appearing in this work are the product of the individual author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the written permission of the publisher.

      For permission requests, write to the publisher:

      Attention: Permissions Coordinator

      Zimbell House Publishing

      PO Box 1172

      Union Lake, Michigan 48387

      mailto:info@zimbellhousepublishing.com

      © 2016 Zimbell House Publishing

      Published in the United States by Zimbell House Publishing

      http://www.ZimbellHousePublishing.com

      All Rights Reserved

      Print ISBN: 978-1942818939

      Digital ISBN: 978-1945967160

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2016913452

      First Edition: September/2016

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4

      Zimbell House Publishing

      Union Lake, Michigan

      Acknowledgements

      Zimbell House Publishing would like to thank all those that contributed to this anthology. We chose to showcase fifteen new voices that best represented our vision for this work.

      We would also like to thank our Zimbell House team for all their hard work and dedication to these projects.

      Finally, a special shout-out to The Book Planners for creating yet another great cover design!

      Adrenalin Rush

      Gary Wosk

      The tall, slightly stocky jogger was feeling somewhat disoriented after covering a distance of about five miles in the community of North Hills. He stood at the bottom of its steepest hill on this clear, cold Sunday evening in December waiting for the traffic signal to turn green so he could proceed home.

      After jogging for about an hour in this Los Angeles suburb of the San Fernando Valley, the memory of the newspaper reporter had suddenly gone blank. Perhaps he was in a state of nirvana. He wasn’t tired and felt as light as a feather. Airy. Revitalized.

      He touched his fleshy face to check for perspiration. It was as dry as could be, unlike previous jogs when he would be sweating from head to toe. However, it was cold tonight so maybe that explained it.

      The jogger had second thoughts about going home since he was feeling so well. Perhaps I can get in another two miles of jogging. No, I’ll have a nice late dinner and watch The Walking Dead.

      The hill, which paralleled the fenced off Veterans Administration Hospital, attracted those who wanted to stay in shape or get into shape. Even athletes from local high schools scrambled up and down its imposing angle. The jogger would occasionally try to keep up with these young athletes, but at thirty-eight, he’d quickly fall behind.

      If I were only... maybe... ten years younger... they’d be chasing me, he’d delude himself. The truth of the matter was that even in his prime, he was never as fast as the students. When he traversed the hill earlier in the evening, the jogger felt a sudden surge of energy that jolted him into a sprint. He felt like the Road Runner cartoon character, just wanting to take off and run with wild abandon.

      He was also in a state of denial about his fate; that’s what his professor friend would tell him over and over again.

      I’ll be okay, professor. There’s nothing to worry about whatsoever, the jogger would assure him.

      You cannot escape this, the professor would retort.

      As he waited for the traffic signal to turn green, the jogger observed what appeared to be bloody shoeprints on the sidewalk. They led back up the hill as far as he could see. Strange I didn’t spot them earlier when I passed this way.

      I wonder who left these, he said to a group of three diminutive women who were walking rather briskly down the hill toward him. They were nervously speaking amongst themselves.

      What should we do?

      There’s nothing we can do.

      We sure left a mess.

      It’s time we went back.

      Ladies, I’d like to speak to you about these bloody shoe prints, said the jogger.

      They ignored him, crossed over to the eastern side of the street and began walking up the hill alongside the Veteran’s Hospital eight-foot high chain linked fence.

      Dinner could wait, and the TV show was insignificant when compared to solving the mystery before him. He decided to trudge back up the hill and see where the bloody shoeprints would lead him. Interestingly, they appeared to be spaced equally apart and followed in a near perfect line.

      It was not unusual for the jogger to go in search of something. He was always in search of a good story. He’d get in his car and follow fire engines and ambulances even in the middle of the night. It was in his blood. Whose blood was on the sidewalk, he wondered.

      Moving slowly to make sure he didn’t miss anything possibly lying in the bushes, he pondered whether this was someone’s actual blood or make believe blood left by a practical joker? He was convinced of the former when he spotted coagulated globs of the substance halfway up the incline on the concrete walkway leading to a home. That wasn’t all. There were also strewn pieces of cloth just a few feet away on the lawn. Whoever had attacked the victim initially probably caught up with him again to continue the onslaught.

      Another walker heading down the hill stopped to look at the disarray.

      I wonder if anyone’s called the police? the jogger asked the man, who apparently didn’t hear him.

      The jogger repeated the question.

      I wonder if anyone’s called the police?

      Again, there wasn’t a reply. Instead, he continued to stare at the blood and torn up cloth. He then turned away from the scene and looked across the street at the grounds of the VA Hospital for a few  moments and began the descent once more.

      What’s going on with people these days, the jogger thought.

      Strangely, he didn’t feel anger in the normal sense. It seemed to have transformed itself into an adrenalin rush, the wildness of being uninhibited. He wanted to yell out something defiant to the world, but couldn’t think of the words.

      Just before the jogger reached the top of the hill, he was astonished to see that the bloody shoeprints had evidently morphed into what appeared to be bloody paw prints. They wound around the corner of a side street.

      For another ten minutes, he went down one street and then another, finally spotting a group of people gathered at the end of a cul-de-sac. They were standing behind yellow police tape. As he inched his way closer, he could smell gun powder. Next to a body that was lying on the street covered in a white sheet were wisps of fur moved about by a gentle breeze, coagulated blood, pieces of claw and sharp, broken teeth.

      At the front of the crowd, he overheard a man talk about his close call with death. It was the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen. It was half-animal and half-man and wore ripped clothing. It towered over me. At first, it just stared at me, and then suddenly opened its mouth to reveal fangs. It looked up at the heavens and let out a howl like I’ve never heard before. Like this, ‘ahwhooooooo... ahwhoooooo.’ It started to go for me. I ran for my life. That’s when I heard the gunshot and whatever it was fell to the ground. Everything happened very quickly.

      What did you do then? asked the man’s friend. His eyes were bulging with fear.

      What do you mean, what did I do then? I ran for my damn life. I wasn’t going to take any chances that it would spring back to life and attack me.

      There was another conversation going on that the jogger was able to overhear. Just on the other side of yellow police tape that kept the crowd at bay, a police detective, a distinguished looking gentleman, and a police officer were having a conversation. He was in his early seventies, wore horned-rimmed glasses, a black suit, white shirt, tie and vest with an attached timepiece. He had a creviced face and short-cropped gray hair. There was an air of worldliness about him.

      About twenty feet away from them on the ground was the body covered by a white sheet. There was a blood stain on the part of the sheet covering the head.

      Yes, I am certain of this, Professor Arthur Van Helsing, a short man with a German accent, said to the detective.

      And you say the marks on the body are those of a wolf, not a coyote? asked Detective Mallory James of the Los Angeles Police Department’s Devonshire Division.

      There is no doubt, but let me correct you. A werewolf. The signs that are posted throughout the neighborhood warning the resident of coyotes are not correct. They should read werewolves. There may be more than one.

      The detective had a perplexed look on his face. And you witnessed that attack, sir?

      Yes.

      Wolves living in the middle of the San Fernando Valley? Preposterous!

      Again, my dear Detective. There are wolves and perhaps more werewolves. There is a difference which I will explain to you shortly.

      And where is their den?

      They reside at the Veteran’s Hospital research laboratory, but of course not voluntarily. They’re used in experiments by researchers who are trying to develop better medical treatments for soldiers who have suffered brain injuries during wars. Evidently, the werewolf or werewolves picked up Creighton Talbot’s scent.

      Uh... who is this Creighton Talbot?

      Creighton Talbot is the name of the victim lying underneath the white sheet.

      The detective decided to at least hear Van Helsing out even though it was obvious he was dealing with a demented individual. At the very least, the professor’s comments could be repeated at social functions to break the ice.

      How do you know his name?

      I’ve been following Creighton Talbot for quite some time now, the professor explained. My family first became acquainted with his family back in the early 1890s. That’s when Larry Talbot was attacked in Wales by a werewolf. This werewolf was the husband of a gypsy who tried to warn him something terrible was about to happen. And it did. Every generation of Talbot has been cursed since then.

      The detective made believe he was writing everything down just to make the man feel important.

      Please tell me more about this curse.

      The men in the Talbot family become werewolves when they reach their late thirties or early forties. It has nothing to do with genetics. As I mentioned earlier, in order for this to happen they must be bitten by another werewolf. People can only become werewolves when there’s a full moon, as there is tonight.

      Detective James really needed to excuse himself now since there was serious investigative work to be done.

      Werewolves, ay? That’s very interesting. So you do this as a hobby? he asked mockingly.

      It’s not a hobby at all. I am performing a public service. It’s something we Van Helsings have dedicated our lives to. I am a world-renown scientist and metaphysicist. My specialty is lycanthropy.

      Lycan what?

      Lycanthropy. It’s a rare psychiatric syndrome that involves a delusion that the affected person can transform into, has transformed into, or is a non-human animal.

      You don’t say. And how about vampires? Are you passionate about those, too? he asked with a grin.

      Vampires are too messy for me. I’ll leave driving stakes through vampire’s hearts to my brothers who are scattered across the world. Firing a pistol with silver bullets at these half-human, half-animals is much cleaner. Only silver bullets can kill werewolves. Did you know that?

      The detective still thought the professor was a crackpot, but possibly now a deranged killer as well.

      Well... not exactly. Are you suggesting that you shot this Creighton?

      Yes, I did. You see, Detective, for over a century, my family has been dedicated to preventing the carnage from occurring... either from vampires or werewolves.

      That’s... how should I put it? Rather vague. What carnage?

      Well, not so much with vampires. They’re a little more discreet. They bite their victims and suck their blood. Their victims become vampires. Werewolves, on the other hand, are not as particular. They tear their victims apart, as would be expected, and this only happens when there’s a full moon, as tonight. Their victims become werewolves.

      Detective James was used to dealing with people with psychological disorders, but he thought that this was rather unique.

      Did you know this Creighton?

      "Of course, wherever Creighton traveled, I traveled, and the werewolves were never far behind either. I knew this day would arrive sooner or later, but Creighton seemed unconcerned. In fact, he acted agitated when I brought up the subject several days ago.

      Professor Van Helsing recounted having dinner with Creighton at Mimi’s Café in Northridge. As usual, he brought up the subject of werewolves which Creighton was quite tired of hearing about.

      "I told him, ‘It’s time you moved again, Creighton. They know you’re here. It’s just a matter of time before they find you.’

      ‘This is pure nonsense,’ said Creighton.

      ‘You cannot dismiss this as nonsense,’ I emphasized.

      ‘I’m thirty-eight years old. If something was going to happen, it would have happened by now. You are wasting your time. The curse has been broken I tell you,’ he insisted, very agitated with me. He was tired of talking about werewolves.

      ‘How can you be so sure?’ I asked him. ‘So many of your ancestors became victims.’

      ‘Listen, Professor’ he said to me, ‘I know you’re trying to protect me, but I’ll be okay. It’s time you went home to Germany and your family.’

      Creighton could be stubborn and foolish, Van Helsing said to Detective James.

      It doesn’t sound like he believed you at all.

      He was in a state of denial, as are all the Talbots. It must be in their genes.

      Why did he even allow you to be around him?

      Deep in his heart he knew what I said was true.

      The detective had heard enough. It was now time to consult with the coroner, who had just arrived.

      It’s been a pleasure speaking with you Professor. Perhaps we can talk again soon. I’ll have to ask you to move to the other side of the yellow tape.

      I see... you don’t believe me, but werewolves really do exist.

      Have a good day, Professor, said the detective. Just as he was going to lift the yellow police tape high enough for Van Helsing to pass under, came his challenge.

      If you don’t believe me, take a look at the victim’s right hand... his palm, Van Helsing said.

      The right hand?

      It’s a vital piece of evidence.

      Even though the detective thought Van Helsing was off-kilter, he figured it couldn’t hurt to take a peek. Then he could move on with his investigation.

      Okay, but this is it, Professor Van Helsing. After this, I need to speak with the other eyewitness.

      The detective walked over to the corpse with Van Helsing by his side. He reached down and pulled the white sheet to the side, but carelessly revealed the man’s face.

      What do you see? Van Helsing asked the detective.

      Some kind of a sign. There’s a star... and triangles.

      Yes, exactly. The sign of the pentagram, which all werewolves carry.

      And it’s really not in his hand but is rather ghostly. It fades in and fades out.

      I sense someone is waiting for me, Detective. Van Helsing turned away from the detective and began to approach the yellow police tape.

      Where are you going, Professor?

      To speak with a friend.

      At the yellow police tape, Van Helsing looked into the group of curious neighbors and began to speak without making eye contact with anyone in particular.

      Did you get a good look at the corpse’s face? asked Van Helsing.

      The jogger was still in a state of shock.

      Yes... it’s me.

      I am very sorry, said the Professor. You do understand then what has happened?

      Yes. It’s time I rejoined myself and went home.

      James, who had followed Van Helsing, realized that the Professor appeared to be talking to himself.

      Who are you talking to, Professor? asked the detective.

      As I just told you, I am speaking with a friend. Not seeing a friend.

      Where? Where?

      He’s in another dimension... a spiritual dimension. Invisible to us. He’s gone now.

      The detective’s attitude toward Van Helsing had taken an about face. After all, he had just seen a mysterious pentagram.

      What’s next, Professor?

      My job is complete, at least until another Talbot grows up, but I’ll probably be too old by then to follow him. If you need me, here’s is my business card.

      Not so fast, Professor. First of all, hand me your gun and then put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest.

      Of course. Of course. Do your job, Detective James. You will have my full cooperation but just know this. In a few hours you’ll release me on my own recognizance and then the crime will be classified as a cold case and forgotten about. After all, this is about werewolves and the officials don’t want to scare the public.

      You seem so confident of this.

      I’ve seen it happen time and time again.

      As Detective James and the Professor continued to talk, the soul of Creighton passed through the yellow tape, hovered over the corpse and became one with it. The journey to the eternal house was only moments away.

      One last question, Professor Van Helsing, said James.

      Yes.

      What happened to the werewolf who bit Creighton?

      There could have been more than one. I was told by a man who was walking on the hill that he saw three animals running across the grass at the Veterans Hospital. He couldn’t quite make out what they were.

      Ahwhooooooo... ahwhoooooo.

      What in the name of God was that, Professor?

      As I was telling you Detective James...

      Blue Moon

      Pamela Jeffs

      Ragged shadows stretch down from the small opening overhead. These, cast on the wall above me, and the thin slit of light from beneath the door are all that I can see. I can hear strains of music outside. They are sharp, beautiful and deadly, just like the angelic faces of the creatures that hold me prisoner here. Or perhaps they are devilish. I have been here so long, I can’t remember anymore.

      I sit as I always sit in my prison, cross-legged on the floor in front of the door, shoulders brushing the walls on each side. The door is the only way out, but it is sealed. I try to remember the feel of the moonlight on my skin, the wind at my back and something else; the face of a woman who’s name I cannot recall and something about a witch. But lately, recollections have started to slip. I despair at the loss, but what can I do? Time and this endless incarceration are stealing even the memory of my memories from me.

      I let my finger trace the slit of moonlight that seeps in along the bottom edge of the door. It is my nightly ritual, to sit and follow the line of light that joins the man-made cement floor to the pixie-wrought metal door. The silver alloyed into the metal burns my fingers, but the pain is a good pain. The pain reminds me I am alive. It gives me hope.

      But while the door burns me, the concrete is always ice-cold. The touch of it is soothing against my scalded fingertips, the random pattern of its surface comfortingly familiar. Bump, dip, a crack, rock...

      The rock moves beneath my fingers.

      The rock being loose is new.

      I shift closer. It’s wedged against the bottom corner of the door. I wiggle at it, wincing as my knuckles graze the door. The stone gives way and with it a handful of powdery cement. Suddenly the line of light below the door is irregular. I crouch down and press my cheek against the floor. With one eye, I peer out. I see a patch of grass etched in moonlight.

      My breath quickens. I use my nails and scratch again at the cement. It chips away and beneath it, I smell fresh earth. Bless the decay that eats at concrete. My heart starts to race. I dig faster. Clumps of earth and cement crumble beneath my fingers. The silver particles that had been cast into the cement burn in my throat and sting my eyes but it isn’t enough to stop me.

      I dig. I cough. I dig. I cough. I dig.

      The hole widens beneath the door. Just a little larger, there is a tree root in the way. It’s ironbark, too strong for me to break but I can move it. Then I slip through. I stand upright. I let out a shuddering breath. I am free.

      It is midnight, and the bush is quiet around me. Behind me, the ironbark tree that has imprisoned me for the last thousand years suddenly creaks loudly. It is calling to the pixies, letting them know I am free. I turn and spit at it. My saliva sizzles as it hits the hidden door sealing the prison from this side. My gaolers had artfully forged the surface to resemble the tree’s rugged bark cloak.

      They didn’t want anyone finding me and no one ever has.

      A breeze stirs and parts the leaves overhead. A sliver of night sky is revealed. With it comes the moon. I tremble as her light glides over me. The human part of me recognizes what is about to happen and wants me to run away, but I know it is too late. The wolf is already awakening. Pain replaces my fear as I begin to change. My muscles lengthen; my skin sprouts hair; my fingernails sharpen into claws; a white hot, irrational rage rises up inside of me...

      I hear the music again. I fall to my haunches. The pixies are close by. They will want to put me back in the tree. But that is not an option.

      I look up at the moon and howl to Her, the Goddess whom we werewolves worship. She responds, strengthening me, fortifying me. I roll my shoulders back, testing my muscles, and they are powerful now. I stretch my jaw, it is good to feel my teeth extending.

      I am ready.

      Here they come, the pixies, their devilish faces leering at me.

      HE’S BEEN SCRATCHING at the door for a thousand years. Once he was human, and still in the times that he can take that form, he is not an evil creature. But now that the moon has waxed full, it is an entirely different story. He will be savagery incarnate. In being immortal, we are unable to kill him. We imprisoned him in the tree long ago, in order to protect the natural world. We pixies had felt regret for the fate of the man in him, but the sacrifice was deemed acceptable. The animal within him needed to be contained.

      But now that animal is free. On this night of all nights—the night of the Blue Moon. The only night the moon can lend her strength to him two-fold.

      I twist and turn, my wings clipping at the edges of tree branches and leaves in my haste. The Ironbark Tree has called out its warning, and we are coming. My brethren flit beside me, their beating wingtips trailing golden strains of pixie music in their wake. They are prepared to do what must be done. The beast will not give up his freedom without a fight. But we cannot fail.

      I fly beneath a fallen branch, over an anthill, and into the clearing. The clouds and moon overhead paint the scene into a patchwork of silver and gray. I see him crouching, a black shadow cast against the moonlit grass. His dark muzzle raises and a long drawn out howl pierces the night. He calls to his mistress, the moon. I peel back my lips into a grimace, praying her attention is elsewhere this night.

      I zip forward, my wings clicking against each other as I increase speed. The air flows over and around me and then I am within the creature’s reach.

      He is covered in gray fur and his teeth glitter, a row of yellow points in his jaw. Long-clawed fingers rake towards me, trying to tear me from the sky. I cartwheel midflight, too fast for his clumsy attempt. I glance left. The others have the chain ready. It is a fine thing, a thread of pixie-wrought silver the consistency of spider silk. But it is strong. My friends fly upwards in circles dragging the chain with them. It bellows out in growing rings, clinging to the air like a string of dewdrops. I need to keep the beast busy so the others can encircle him.

      I fly at his eyes, and he grabs at me again. I bite at

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