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Latest Stories

December 05, 2023
General Stories Michael Barlett

The Bringer Of Death

Tanganyika, 1922 The Maasai people call it The Serengeti, which means the endless plain. It looks much the same now as it did 50,000 years ago when our ancestors left the Rift Valley to populate the rest of the world. The Serengeti is still home to herds of…
December 05, 2023
Poetry Paweł Markiewicz

Dazzling Pyramid

Daphnaie becoming she-conjurer Thou – ethereal enlightenment You are a sunflower The elixir is tender poetry And You are longing for wisdom I wish, she had hope for destiny Rumination Epimelides bewitching she-seer Thou – bucolic romanticism You are a violet…
December 05, 2023
Science Fiction Stories Kiara C. McClary

Starforged Anthology : Reverly Of Flames Writing as "Moon Pie"

Kiara C.McClary 1 In the depths of the magmell sinkhole, time and climate seemed to flow & function differently than it did topside. While the top dwellers suffered through endless winters, Aceobal woke up every morning to the warm glow of the subterranean…
December 05, 2023
Fantasy Stories David Henson

Missing Hand

“Dorothy, your hand!” Josh Wyman says when his wife of 42 years enters the kitchen. He jumps up from his chair and bumps the table. “Josh, your coffee.” Dorothy blots the spill with a napkin. Her silver hair grazes her shoulders. A bit of a modern day hippie,…
December 02, 2023
General Stories Michael Barlett

The Sanctuary

CHAPTER ONE The Deputy Sheriff instructed her to stay in her own vehicle while he cautiously approached and knocked on the door. The old farmhouse was practically derelict with a sagging front porch, peeling paint and shutters askew. There was an ancient…
December 02, 2023
Flash Fiction Ben Davies

A Different Time

It was a different time, as the last embers of a shoddily rolled joint reached your fingers, passed to you by your favourite English teacher. A small bottle of Bacardi Breezer in your left hand as you pretended to indulge in both, when the reality was you…
December 02, 2023
Science Fiction Stories Nelly Shulman

The Awakening

Red Martian soil stained Mark’s fingers and he smiled. A terracotta pot, hosting his only companion, a prickly aloe, took water. His rough palms embraced the cold surface and he stood there for a while, drinking the silence of the Second Post. The concrete…
December 02, 2023
General Stories Michael Barlett

Final Destination

The Drake Passage The Drake Passage is a one-thousand kilometer bottleneck that lies between Cape Horn at the tip of South America and the frozen expanse of Antarctica. Notorious for its violent seas, it is a place where the cold water from the southern ocean…
December 02, 2023
Mystery Stories Michael Glennon

Janey’s Got A Club

“Is someone there?” Dick called as he lay stretched on the sofa watching soft porn on cable, a can of beer within easy reach on the coffee table. Dick was taking the afternoon off in the townhouse of a friend who lived not far from Dick’s office. His friend,…
November 27, 2023
Crime Stories William Kitcher

Encounter At The Albatross Club

I was sitting at the bar of the Albatross Club, chewing the fat with my friend, Danny the bartender, a 30-year-old with red hair like a fireball and a face that looked like it had fallen off the back of a radish truck, about current politics, when a punk I…
November 27, 2023
Romance Stories Gwyneth

Dream

Jennie has been having recurring dreams for years in which a man provides care for her, buys her favorite coffee, gives her affection, but the man's face is kind of hazy. She believed to herself that the man in her dreams is the one meant to be with her, like…
November 27, 2023
Science Fiction Stories MacLeod

M-I-C,K-AI

“I don’t know what all the hullabaloo is,” said Gene wearily as he sucked absently on his pencil. “They really can’t think on their own. They just synthesize data faster than we can. All they do is compile and mimic things we’ve already done, we humans I…

Whitechapel District, London ─ 1888

“Murder or no, I’m not going down that alley in the dark,” Constable Barnes insisted. “And you shouldn’t either.”

Inspector Cranford glared up at the man. “In-sub-ordin-ation,” he said, drawing out the word, rain running off the brim of his bowler. Having just returned from her Majesty’s service he’d been newly assigned to this latest in a series of brutal murders in White Chapel Alley.

“Begging your pardon, Inspector, no one who goes into that alley after dark has come out alive. You’ll not be getting anyone to go in there tonight. Best wait for daybreak.”

“I’ll have your pension, man!” He turned to Constable McBurn, who shrank back toward the street lamp.

“Inspector, I have four children,” McBurn begged. “We can go when it’s light and no harm done.”

“No harm done,” the inspector thundered. “Why, the rats will have been at the remains by then. This downpour will wash away evidence.”

“Please, Inspector,” coaxed the taller constable. “Sunup is in less than two hours. We can wait inside that tea shop, where it’s nice and dry, with an eye on the alley.”

By now the rain-soaked inspector was beginning to long for a hot cup of tea and allowed himself to be led through the puddles and into the shop.

The proprietress greeted them with a toothless grin. Without waiting for their order, she placed three steaming cups of strong tea on one of the small tables.

“Thought for a mo, you were actually goin’ down that alley,” she chortled.

“I fail to see the humor,” Cranford snapped.

“Oh, no one ever goes in there after dark. Not if they want to come out alive.”

The inspector grabbed her skinny wrist. “Tell me about it,” he demanded. “Who’s responsible for these deaths?” She twisted frantically, but he held her fast.

“All right,” she moaned. “Something in there. After dark. Like the Ripper it is, but not human.”

“What does this murderer look like?”

“Oh, sir, the only ones who’s seen it is dead.”

He released her. “Claptrap!” He started for the door. The constables blocked his path. The old woman began keening softly.

“What is the matter with all of you?” Cranford demanded.

“Begging your pardon, inspector,” Barnes said, “when you see the body . . . after the sun comes up . . .  you’ll understand.”

Cranford would have ordered them to stand down, but their eyes told him more than their lips ever could. Reluctantly, he took his seat and picked up his tea, wondering if the cup had been properly washed.

With the first rays of sun, the men ventured into the alley. They poked about amongst the garbage and human waste until they came to the corpse. It was a man, lying on his back. His eyes were staring, mouth wide open, as if he’d seen something horrible.

The Chief Coroner’s examination revealed no wounds other than the marks on the victim’s left wrist, as if Death itself had gripped him with one bony hand. The coroner announced all those found in White Chapel Alley had met the same fate. “As if these poor blokes had been frightened to death. Not like the Ripper at all.” And although the good inspector tried valiantly to uncover the person responsible, matters did not progress.

Then a royal summons came to this former colonel, a welcome diversion, asking him to take part in an affair of state, replete in dress uniform and sword. After the event, he departed for home. Despite the thick fog rolling in from the river, he decided not to hail a cab. Deep in thought, he walked without purpose, soon finding himself in the White Chapel section. And he felt compelled to visit the alley.

It was one in the morning as he hurried along in splendid dress, his sword at his side. His footsteps echoed in the empty streets as he located first the dirty, little tea shop and then the alley. Cranford unbuckled his sword and strode up to its mouth. Made confident by Scotch, he shouted to whatever might be lurking inside.

“I am Inspector Cranford and a colonel, late of her Majesty’s Service. Come out now! Let’s have a look at you!”

At first only silence greeted his shouts and he felt foolish. But then he heard it. A rustling. As if someone small and feeble, was shuffling towards him. He froze in fear, under the street lamp, waiting.

To his surprise, a tiny, old woman draped in a shawl crept closer in the dark, stopping just inside the alley and held out one hand. She wore a long dress, with an apron. Her head and face were covered by a ruffled, white-cotton bonnet. She didn’t speak, but Cranford thought she needed help. He took a step closer and still she didn’t move. She motioned for him to come to her. And so he did.

He had no sooner stepped inside the alley, when the creature’s hand lashed out. Just bones it was, without flesh, and it gripped his wrist. He gasped, but couldn’t break free. She began dragging him, into the alley, into the darkness. The darkness from which no one had ever returned.

With a mighty shout, he swung the sword, cleaving the bonnet free. She had no head, no face, and the bonnet fell limply, back into the alley. But still that skeletal hand gripped him, dragging him, step by step, into the darkness. In desperation, he lashed out again, severing her hand at the wrist. As her body reeled backward, Cranford took to his heels and didn’t stop until he reached the coroner’s office.

It took all the coroner’s skill and several trusty instruments to pry that dead hand from Cranford’s wrist. Within 24 hours, White Chapel Alley was ordered bricked solid and Cranford announced he was done forever with soldiering and criminal investigations. Inspired by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, he became an author. His first story for the Penny Dreadful was “The Curious Case of White Chapel Alley.”

 

AUTHOR'S BIO

LOUISE ANN BARTON is a master storyteller from a family of Cherokee master storytellers. She is an author, an award-winning poet, and lecturer, with an MA in business education, a minor in law, and a Master Gardener certification. She has taught at the college level and writes both fiction and non-fiction, including articles, novels, short stories, plays, and children's tales. She edits musical CD inserts and is a ghostwriter. Her works currently appear on Amazon, Kindle, Nook, smashwords.com, Everyday Weirdness, short-story.me, and in various magazines and newspapers. This story is an excerpt from TINY TALES OF TERROR (a short-story collection).

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