Behind the Shadows

BEHIND THE SHADOWS

SARA JORDAN-HEINTZ

Inkd Publishing LLC

Copyright © 2023

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Potashe Preserve: Copyright © 2023 by CE Albanese

Familiar Monsters: Copyright © 2023 by Heidi Hunter

Give Me My World: Copyright © 2023 by Kellee R. Kranendonk

The Iron Sigh: Copyright © 2023 by j.e. pittman

All Wrapped Up in Poe: Copyright © 2023 by Robert Kostanczuk

Light and Shadow on a Screen: Copyright © 2023 by Meg Candelaria

Only One of Many: Copyright © 2023 by L. A. Selby

Life was a Dream: Copyright © 2023 by Tyler Clark

Case Notes: Copyright © 2023 by Jessie Ulmer

The Caretaker: Copyright © 2023 by Scott Brendel

One of Those Ladies: Copyright © 2023 by Andrea L. Staum

A Mother's Love: Copyright © 2023 by A.R.R. Ash

The Valraki Temple: Copyright © 2023 by Kevin A Davis

The Rooted: Copyright © 2023 by LMG Wilson

SamIam: Copyright © 2023 by Emily Carvelli

Cover by Cipriano

CONTENTS

Introduction

Familiar Monsters

Heidi Hunter

Potashe Preserve

CE Albanese

Give Me My World

Kellee R. Kranendonk

The Iron Sigh

j.e. Pittman

All Wrapped Up in Poe

Robert Kostanczuk

Only One of Many

L.A. SELBY

Light and Shadow on a Screen

Meg Candelaria

One of Those Ladies

Andrea L. Staum

Life Was a Dream

Tyler Clark

Case Notes

Jessie Ulmer

The Caretaker

Scott Brendel

The Rooted

LMG Wilson

A Mother’s Love

A.R.R. ASH

The Valraki Temple

Kevin A Davis

SamIam

Emily Carvelli

Tuckerizations

Acknowledgments

Also by Inkd Publishing

INTRODUCTION

It seems since the beginning of time, humankind has relished fear and the rush of adrenaline that accompanies it. We like to be scared by movies, games, amusement park rides, and, dear reader, let us not forget literary works, such as those by Edgar Allan Poe, Bram Stoker, Mary Shelley, Shirley Jackson, H.P. Lovecraft, Stephen King and so many others. Perhaps our primal fight or flight response is to blame for this natural inclination. And some, more than others, may even find comfort in what haunts us because it is familiar.

The fifteen stories in this anthology, penned by tremendously talented authors of varying backgrounds, all center on the theme of horror. These individuals have crafted stories of humanoid beings living (and plotting) among us, creatures of folklore lurking just beyond reach—some more familiar than others, and a few that are only one of many.

These stories, chosen through blind reads, were penned by a mixture of authors whose work has appeared in earlier Inkd Publishing anthologies, while others are not only new to the roster, but are cutting their teeth in the horror genre with this book. Eight of the fifteen writers identify as female, a positive thing in what can be a male-dominated genre.

You’ll witness the dead come back to life and meet the people who must round them up; learn the dangers of playing with magic; see the hunters become the hunted; take the road less traveled and see its disastrous consequences; and learn first-hand how there’s nothing more powerful than a mother’s love.

But these tales chill the bones not just because of their fantastical settings and plots; but because we know at an innate level that we’re never more than one phone call, one decision, one set back or one split second away from entering a world of fear.

Can you put the lid back on Pandora’s box once it’s been opened?

Will you see through a cultist’s trickery before it’s too late?

The storytelling ability of the authors in this book is impressive. You’ll accompany richly developed characters as they tempt fate, battle forces of evil, seek vigilante justice, grapple with loneliness, get bogged down by self-doubt, stir up trouble in the metaphorical pot, seek the wrong acquaintances and do anything to ensure survival.

Our protagonists can be impulsive; other times, cunning. Occasionally, when a lesson is learned (or not), it has eternal consequences. In other cases, when reality becomes too difficult, all you have to do is change the movie reel or take that first step through the vortex.

You’ll find between the covers of this book dystopian worlds, glimpses of the future, echoes of the past, monsters within us and those that lurk behind the shadows.

Sara Jordan-Heintz, editor

Sara Jordan-Heintz is an award-winning journalist, editor and historian. She is the author of the biographies Going Hollywood: Midwesterners in Movieland and The Incredible Life & Mysterious Death of Dorothy Kilgallen. She has written hundreds of articles for newspapers and magazines, many republished through the Associated Press and USA Today Network. 

Her novella A Day Saved is a Day Earned was published in Rod Serling Books’ inaugural anthology Submitted For Your Approval edited by Anne Serling. 

Her fictional stories, heavily inspired by film noir, The Twilight Zone and everyday observations, have appeared in: 101 Words, Red Planet, 365 Tomorrows, Friday Flash Fiction, Blink Ink, The Mambo Academy of Kitty Wang, Better Than Starbucks, Potato Soup Journal and Shady Grove Literary.

Her work was published in the Brilliant Flash Fiction anthology Branching Out, in Inkd Publishing’s debut anthology Hidden Villains and in Savage Realms’ horror anthology Symphony of the Damned.

She most enjoys writing speculative fiction, human interest stories and pieces meant to provoke deep feelings and opinions in its readers. She lives in Iowa with her husband Andy Heintz, also a writer, their baby daughter Louisa and tuxedo cat Madeline.

FAMILIAR MONSTERS

HEIDI HUNTER

L ast call!

Care for another? 

No, thank you. Why can’t a girl have a drink in a bar without someone trying to pick her up? Shannon thought. 

Charles seemed to be a nice man, but they all seemed to be at first. Perched on the stool next to her, he made non-threatening small talk throughout the evening. Shannon looked him over. His suit fit tight as if he had recently put weight on a former athlete’s body. And sadly for Charles, he was losing the battle with the hair gods. Why had he chosen her? 

This pub dissatisfied Shannon, as did most of this Podunk little village miles from vibrant London. It was a dive but the only pub for miles, and she so needed those drinks after the dreary journey south on the train. British travel at its worst; the train was late and wheezed along like an old geezer on a golf course. 

Shannon was down from London for a job interview she hoped would be a fresh start. No more being followed home by someone she turned down for a date, texting friends to let them know where she was, walking home from the tube with keys interlaced between her fingers. All part of being a young woman in London, she thought. 

Lately, though, it seemed Shannon had one persistent admirer. The phone calls from an unknown number with threatening messages, disgusting notes slipped through the mail slot, and texted photos of her around town. Then a girl disappeared a few blocks from Shannon’s flat, found strangled later in a nearby park. 

And now Shannon was here. With Charles. Was there nowhere she could go to escape unwanted attention?

I should get back to my hotel. Suddenly weary, Shannon picked up her bright green peacoat from the stool on her other side. Charles helped her shrug it on.

Need a ride home? Shannon had feared this overture. She had done nothing to lead him into thinking they would continue their impromptu date at her hotel, had she? Was her responding to his chatter all the impetuous he needed? The dim shadows made his expression appear more leering sleaze than hopeful puppy dog. It’s not safe here on a night like this.

I’ll be ok. It’s not far. Just a couple of blocks. It was more than that, but she didn’t want him to know where she was staying.

Charles persisted. You don’t want to walk alone on a night like this. 

No, you don’t. The bartender agreed as he returned with another pint of Charles’s brew. 

Why not? Were they working together?

The Shalgaree comes out on a night like this, Charles said.

The what?

Shalgaree. Charles jerked his head to the left. Lives out on the marshes west of here. He only comes out when the conditions are right, like tonight—unseasonably cool, overcast, the darkest night of the moon. But it’s the wind changing direction, blowing in from the sea, carrying the smell of the salty air and human flesh toward the marshes that draws him into town to feed.

Shannon snorted. Seriously, this guy would say anything to take her home. Marsh monster?

Charles is right. The bartender, of course, supported his mate. There are stories of the Shalgaree going back to when this pub first opened several hundred years ago.

Who was the last that got snatched? Charles asked him.

The bartender scratched his head. Been a couple years since a night like this. Couple of people disappeared then. Never saw them again. 

Could they have gotten so plastered they fell into the sea and drowned? That seemed the most likely scenario, as there was nothing else to do in this town but drink.

I think the first was a seaman from one of the ships in port. Left here and never reached the docks. But the second was Esme Reynolds, the bartender continued. Walking home from her boyfriend Thomas’ flat after a date. Not far from here.

Charles nodded as if his memory had been refreshed.

Another missing woman, could Shannon not escape them anywhere? Well, what does this Shalgaree look like so I can avoid him?

No one knows. No one has ever seen it, leastwise anyone alive. And you won’t see it either ‘til it’s on ye.

Shannon had had enough. She didn’t want to hear about made-up monsters when her life was full of real ones. She was exhausted and just wanted a good night’s sleep. 

 Well, thanks for the drinks and the story, but I’ll be on my way now.

Charles’ face fell. Guess he got his hopes up. Shannon’s heart clenched a little witnessing his dejection, and the politeness instilled in her since childhood took over. But thank you for the evening. I enjoyed myself. 

Charles flashed Shannon a troubled smile. Don’t let the Shalgaree get you! His voice held a note of warning, which caused Shannon to glance back at him. The low light of the pub bathed Charles’ face in shadows, making him appear slightly devilish. She bit her lip, a tad concerned, as she exited the pub.

Shannon halted as the pub door eased shut behind her, cutting off the murmur of voices and the odor of greasy fish and chips. Charles was a nice guy, but his persistence had irritated her. Shannon had been hoping for a quiet drink after a draining train ride south, not a pick-up. And that absurd story about a shal-what?

The street before her was desolate, the Victorian-style streetlamps distant and dim, barely casting a glow on the uneven stone sidewalk. Worse, the cobblestone street was deserted, all shops having shuttered long before last call. The soft bong of the church bell heralded the one o’clock hour. 

But Shannon should be safe to walk alone here. This wasn’t London. 

Cold wind tore through her, causing Shannon to shiver and pull her peacoat more tightly around her. She traversed the narrow sidewalk; the sharp uneven stones caused her to stumble like a drunk. She walked east toward the sea, the breeze blowing directly in her face, bringing with it the briny smell of the saltwater. Leaves scuttled around her feet. 

The town was silent but for the wind and the soft tap of her heels on the stone. When the gusts briefly abated, another faint noise took its place. Clop. Clop. Clop. A horse? Shannon glanced over her shoulder but couldn’t see one on the cobblestones behind her. Shrugging, she continued toward the inn. 

Clop. Clop. Clop. There it was again. Matching Shannon’s pace. A little louder, echoing off the limestone buildings on the narrow street. That’s what it was—just an echo of her own footsteps. Don’t start hearing things that aren’t there, she warned herself.

She walked on, shoulders back, trying to appear confident to anyone watching.

Clop. Clop. Clop. 

Shannon immediately halted. Another clop followed, then silence. Not an echo. Was Charles following her? To scare her into letting him escort her back to the inn? What a nutter.

Determined to give him a piece of her mind, Shannon spun around. 

Charles, is that you? Squinting into the shadows, she tried to spot her follower. But the night was too dark with no moon, no stars, the streetlamps too far apart. No one was there. 

The wind kicked up again, loosening several strands of hair from her tired up-do, which she tucked behind her ears with more force than necessary. Charles, if you’re there, show yourself. Tapping her toe, she waited for Charles to appear. The street remained deserted. This isn’t funny. Her voice trembled.

A door slammed behind her, causing Shannon to jump and spin around, nearly losing her footing on the uneven walkway. Hasty footsteps hurried off to the right, down an alley. A girlish giggle faded in the distance.

Well, at least she wasn’t alone out here. Had she gotten to where she saw danger around every corner? She cursed Charles and his stupid tale of the Shalgaree for igniting her imagination.

Stiff-legged and straight-backed, Shannon accelerated her pace. If Charles were behind her, she would not let him see how much he had scared her.

Her shoes clicked in haste but didn’t drown out the footsteps of her pursuer. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Clop-clop-clop-clop. Louder. Closer.

Other, darker thoughts began to fill her mind. Had her stalker followed her from London? Is that who was behind her? Shannon wracked her brain, trying to remember anyone suspicious on the train ride down. There was that guy who seemed to be staring at her every time she turned around...but she didn’t think they had gotten off at the same stop. Maybe he doubled back?

The persistent Clop-clop-clop-clop sounded closer. Louder.

A foghorn hailed her from the docks. Just what I need, to get lost in the fog and fall into the sea. 

Heart quickening, clutching her handbag tighter, Shannon hurried onward. How far could the inn be? Four more blocks? It was taking forever.

Could Charles be her London stalker? The thought rose unbidden in her mind. He had fixated on her at the pub almost from the time she arrived. If so, she’d never clapped eyes on him in her life. Where would they have ever crossed paths? Shannon shook her head as if to toss the thought from her brain. No, that can’t be right. He was from here. He knew the bartender and the legend of the Shalgaree.

Shannon’s head swiveled from left to right, alert for possible attackers leaping out from doorways and alleys. The bleak stone buildings with their dark, empty windows seemed hostile, as if blaming her for her own predicament.

And it was her fault; she should never have been out this late.

Not much farther.

The trailing footsteps continued, louder, closer. Shannon dared to cast another peek over her shoulder, but the street was deserted.

Flinching when a garbage can clanged nearby, Shannon took off at a swifter pace, nearly jogging. Her stalker trotted behind her. Clop-clop-clop-clop. Catching up. How can that be when no one was there?

A dark form darted out of a doorway to her right, accompanied by the pounding of feet. Her stalker had come for her! Shannon froze, a scream welling up in her throat. Something brushed by her, knocking into her leg, panting. Her eyes tracked the shape as it raced to the other side of the street. Would he return for a second attack? The figure ran under a streetlight, revealing it to be a dog. Shannon exhaled a long, shaky breath. Just a dog. Get a grip.

She took one step, a phantom step echoing behind her. Shannon swung around, but still, the street was empty. Maybe this story of an invisible monster is true after all.

The sidewalk was so narrow Shannon’s wobbly leg accidentally stepped off the curb, turning an ankle. What else could go wrong? She rubbed her sore foot, using a streetlight for support. The streetlamp buzzed above her and flickered. She turned around, her face pale and shiny with sweat, her eyes wide. 

Who’s there? her shrill voice rang out.

A disembodied laugh came out of nowhere. Shannon screeched and clung to the streetlight, eyes squeezed shut against the impending attack.

When none came and no footsteps approached her, Shannon opened her eyes, darting them around. There, on the top floor of the building, two doors up. An open window with the soft light from a telly spilling out. Help was close at hand; the laugh probably came from up there. 

Shannon tentatively tested her ankle, found it tender but useable, and limped to the door. Help! she yelled, pounding on it.

She cupped her eyes and peered through the dark window, hoping to see movement inside of someone coming to her aid.

She pounded on the door again. Please, let me in! 

The lower level remained dark and silent. No one came. 

Above her, the window whooshed shut. The light also extinguished, leaving Shannon in the dark once again. 

Was this what that poor murdered girl in London felt like before she was caught? Alone, terrified, with no one coming to her aid?

Shannon sagged against the door, covering her face with her hands, willing herself not to cry. How she wished she had never gone to the pub at all!

The street remained hushed. Had her stalker given up? Feeling somewhat hidden in the doorway, Shannon forced herself to creep back onto the sidewalk. Immediately, an echoing step answered her from nearby. Nope, her pursuer was still there, in the shadows, waiting.

If I don’t move, will it just stay where it is? Maybe if she just waited there until morning, she’d survive.

A crash and screech from a nearby alley caused Shannon to scream and flee. 

Shannon gasped for air. Blood pounded in her ears but didn’t drown out the sounds of her pursuer, so close she almost felt its breath on the back of her neck. Her hair came loose from its restraint and tumbled around her shoulders. Bumping into a streetlight, the bag flew from her hand into the gutter. She hesitated, then left it behind and dashed on. 

Don’t look back.

The footsteps seemed to multiply and surround her. 

Faster. You’re almost there. 

The warm glow from the building’s windows up ahead, lighting up the sky, signaled the end of the chase. Her inn! Shannon sobbed and stumbled toward the safety of the lobby. 

Movement flashed in the corner of her left eye. Hair? Something sharp reaching toward her.

What—?

A hand seized her right arm. Shannon released a blood-chilling scream and struck out at her attacker with her free hand.

Whoa! Whoa! The man before her dropped her arm and held up a hand in supplication. 

The man looked threatening, stockily built, tweed flat cap pulled low over his eyes. However, his brow wrinkled in confusion rather than menace.

It took Shannon a second to realize it was Charles.

Charles! Why are you following me? Anger teemed from every pore in Shannon’s body, and her hands clenched, ready to do battle. Why didn’t you respond when I called out to you earlier? Were you deliberately trying to scare me because I wouldn’t let you bring me home? She practically vibrated with rage.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I told you it’s dangerous on a night like this. I wanted to make sure you got home safely. He held out her handbag. You dropped this. 

Shannon’s shoulders sagged. Had she overreacted? Was Charles just a Good Samaritan? She felt as if her judgment about men was failing her. Thanks. She took her bag from him.

Charles touched the brim of his tweed flat cap and turned toward the docks.

Hey! she called. Did you, um, see anyone else behind me just now?

He looked over her shoulder, frowning, then shook his head. No one else out here on a night like this. He whistled as he walked toward the docks.

Shannon hobbled up the steps into the inn, her ankle throbbing from her flight. The brightly-lit lobby blinded her after the murkiness of the street. She felt foolish about her fright and flight. Her stalker had not pursued her here, no invisible