Vampires, Zombies and Ghosts, Volume 2

Table of Contents

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT NOTICES

INTRODUCTION

ELEVENSES: Liam Hogan

THE FINAL BITE: Laurie Axinn Gienapp

AT WIT’S END: Catherine Valenti

A GOOD BOY: Desmond Warzel

THE SPREE: Jessica Lévai

RUN FOR THE ROSES: Gerri Leen

SMITTEN: Ginny Swart

THE LAY OF THE LAND: Jude-Marie Green

DOWN THE ROAD: C. M. Saunders

ASPIRIN: Scott Savino

GHOMESTIC: Laird Long

THROUGH THE GLASS DARKLY: Margery Bayne

TRICK OR TREAT: Dianna Duncan

ALWAYS PARIS: R. J. Meldrum

THE HIT: Michael Penncavage

GIMLET: Gina Burgess

Other Titles Published by Smoking Pen Press

Vampires, Zombies and Ghosts

Volume Two

Read on the Run

Anthology

––––––––

Margery Bayne

Gina Burgess

Dianna Duncan

Laurie Axinn Gienapp

Jude-Marie Green

Liam Hogan

Gerri Leen

Jessica Lévai

Laird Long

R. J. Meldrum

Michael Penncavage

C. M. Saunders

Scott Savino

Ginny Swart

Catherine Valenti

Desmond Warzel

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Vampires, Zombies and Ghosts, Volume 2

Copyright © 2019 by Smoking Pen Press, LLC

Edited by Catherine Valenti and Laurie Gienapp

Cover design by Elle J. Rossi http://www.EvernightDesigns.com

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

Smoking Pen Press

PO Box 190835

Boise, ID 83719

www.smokingpenpress.com

ISBN-13:9781944289157

First Edition: August 2019

COPYRIGHT NOTICES

Elevenses by Liam Hogan. ©2010 Liam Hogan. First published/performed by Liars' League London, 2010.

The Final Bite by Laurie Axinn Gienapp. ©2019 Laurie Axinn Gienapp

At Wit’s End by Catherine Valenti. ©2019 Catherine Valenti

A Good Boy by Desmond Warzel. ©2009 Desmond Warzel. First appeared in Alternative Coordinates#3 (Fall 2009).

The Spree by Jessica Lévai. ©2019 Jessica Lévai

Run for the Roses by Gerri Leen. ©2012 Gerri Leen. First appeared in the Zombies for the Cure anthology (Elektrik Milkbath Press, 2012).

Smitten by Ginny Swart. ©2019 Ginny Swart

The Lay of the Land by Jude-Marie Green. ©2018 Jude-Marie Green. First appeared in Bards & Sages for 1st Quarter 2018 issue, January 2018.

Down the Road by C. M. Saunders. ©2019 C. M. Saunders

Aspirin by Scott Savino. ©2019 Scott Savino

Ghomestic by Laird Long. ©2019 Laird Long

Through the Glass Darkly by Margery Bayne. ©2019 Margery Bayne

Trick or Treat by Dianna Duncan. ©2019 Dianna Duncan

Always Paris by R. J. Meldrum. ©2019 R. J. Meldrum

The Hit by Michael Penncavage. ©2019 Michael Penncavage

Gimlet by Gina Burgess. ©2019 Gina Burgess

INTRODUCTION

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We asked for stories about vampires, zombies, ghosts and other supernatural creatures, and that’s what we received. In fact, we received so many—and so many that were so good, that we’ve had to divide them into two volumes in order to give you a Read on the Run.

As in Volume 1, this volume has a lot of ghost stories, as well as some vampire stories and zombie stories. Also just as in Volume 1, these are not your stereotypical ghosts, vampires, and zombies... they are unique, and have their own twist.

In addition to those stories, we have some extras. We offer you a demon, a cupid, a werewolf, and even a mermaid.

As always, each story in the Read on the Run series of anthologies is short, to suit your busy lifestyle.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COPYRIGHT NOTICES

INTRODUCTION

ELEVENSES: Liam Hogan

THE FINAL BITE: Laurie Axinn Gienapp

AT WIT'S END: Catherine Valenti

A GOOD BOY: Desmond Warzel

THE SPREE: Jessica Lévai

RUN FOR THE ROSES: Gerri Leen

SMITTEN: Ginny Swart

THE LAY OF THE LAND: Jude-Marie Green

DOWN THE ROAD: C. M. Saunders

ASPIRIN: Scott Savino

GHOMESTIC: Laird Long

THROUGH THE GLASS DARKLY: Margery Bayne

TRICK OR TREAT: Dianna Duncan

ALWAYS PARIS: R. J. Meldrum

THE HIT: Michael Penncavage

GIMLET: Gina Burgess

OTHER TITLES PUBLISHED BY SMOKING PEN PRESS

ELEVENSES

Liam Hogan

Editor’s Note: Elevenses is a British reference to a short break for light refreshments, usually with tea or coffee, taken about eleven o'clock in the morning.

Tick, tock; repetition, routine; the things we cling to at the bookends of our lives; from the toddler watching the same videos over and over until the parents pray, or perhaps arrange, for a malfunction, to the old age pensioner sitting in a retirement home fretting because her normally punctual eleven o'clock tea is a quarter-hour late.

I'd ignored the morning's commotion, the usual noises of mayhem and distress. Berrylands is not the quietest of places at the best of times and if you'd been here as long as I had, you’d get used to the incoherent screams of frustration as Mrs Woods and her helper search once again for her missing upper dentures. Perhaps I'd been unwise to turn a deaf ear. Perhaps the noises—the thuds, the crashes, the animal howls—and my missing cup of under-brewed, over-milked lukewarm tea were somehow connected.

Still, it's quiet now. Even the usual car alarms and police sirens from the busy London street outside have fallen silent. I wonder if I've been forgotten. Or is this punishment for flipping Ms Prenderghast—the thickset and sullen manager of this mouldering nursing home—the bird? I can't even remember why I'd done so, but this, I am quite sure, is not a sign of senility. This is having too many reasons to recall which particular offence might have sent me over the edge.

And anyway, aren't we old folk allowed to misbehave? Doesn't my grey hair, wrinkled features and Zimmer frame give me free rein to say and do as I feel?

I don't think Ms Prenderghast would agree. I'm sure she'd be far happier if we were all permanently drugged to the eyeballs, and not on ecstasy, either.

Oh, that's really rather clever. Wasn't ecstasy originally invented as a cure for dementia? I must tell Muriel that. Unless it was LSD? Or something else altogether? I was born a little too early for all that stuff, though it pays, I think, to drop the odd comment into the conversation. Stops them thinking I'm some sort of fossil. Stops them forgetting about me.

The little mantel clock with its fat green arms shows twenty-five past, and still no tea. Definitely, incontrovertibly, late. Very well then, it is time to sally forth. I will make my own blasted cuppa! At least I'll get the colour right, and it will be scaldingly hot, just how I like it.

I creak as I push myself upright, click and pop as I pull the Zimmer towards me. I am serenaded by my very own orchestra of arthritic and aging joints. Such is old age. I shuffle my way to the door.

Which is locked.

They've never gone this far before, this is more than willful neglect. As I hover in my crouched forward position, I imagine smuggling a letter out to the local newspaper. I can see it now: social services raiding the home, finding me frail but stoic, the reporter breaking down in tears as I describe my distressing plight, Ms Prenderghast taken away in chains, a blanket thrown over her bovine features.

Though come to think of it, didn't the local paper close down fifteen years ago? Perhaps I should tweet it instead:

Hashtag SOS. Elderly lady imprisoned in Berrylands nursing home. May not survive the night. Send help, urgent! P.S. Bring a thermos of hot tea.

Like I said, I wouldn't want them to think I'm a fossil.

How many followers did I have last time I checked? Two, I think. Derek and some guy from Zimbabwe who claims I hold the key to our mutual fortune. I somehow doubt he will be coming to my rescue. But blast it, this daydreaming isn't getting me anywhere. I drag the Zimmer and my own protesting frame over to the patio door that leads onto the little courtyard and try the handle. NOT locked! This is one pensioner they can't keep down!

I exit my room, ignore the other curtained bedrooms and head straight for the double-doors to the day lounge. Stupid bloody name for a room, that. It's not as if we have a night lounge, though maybe we should. Soft lights, cocktails, maybe even a piano. Now that would be a way to run a home.

I slide the glass-paned door back and see my first glimpse of a human since Jennie brought me my breakfast at around eight. And Jennie hardly counts, she's not exactly the chatty sort and this morning she was even worse than usual; distracted, jittery, must have asked me at least three times if I'd taken my meds.

From the pink cardie it looks like it's Silvia. Though what she's doing on the floor, I can't imagine, she's probably dropped a Murray Mint or something. She looks up through bloodshot eyes as I call her name, her face contorted, a ragged, oozing wound reaching from one cheek all the way down to the little silver clasp at her throat, a glimpse of something white behind the red, and that's when I realise that she doesn't really count as human either. Not anymore.

She snarls, and starts towards me, and in an instant it's only the Zimmer keeping her false teeth and her nicotine stained hands at bay. I twist the frame sideways, spilling her to the floor, and as she tumbles I lift the Zimmer and bring it down sharpish on the hip that has been on the NHS waiting list for some eighteen months now. She howls and glares at me, but this time stays down, one hand clutching at her side as I totter past, sans Zimmer, into the hallway.

Truth is, I don't really need it—the Zimmer—not most days, anyway. But when you're the archetypal little old lady competing for corridor space with walking sticks, wheelchairs, and the occasional gurney, a Zimmer gives you a certain intransigence, an uncompromising width that demands and gets respect.

Though I do feel a little naked without it, especially as I turn the corner and come face to face with a similarly zombified Muriel. Which is a horrific shock to the system and a dirty rotten shame to boot, because at my age cribbage partners who still have their marbles intact are a rare breed indeed. I think she's as surprised to see me as I am her, and I dodge past before she manages more than a guttural groan. I don't tell her my quip about Ms Prenderghast feeding us ecstasy, I kind of think it would be wasted on Muriel as she seems to be missing both of her ears.

I'm beginning to fear the worst, and half think about returning to safety, but I'd have to go past Silvia and Muriel on my way back and by now I'm marginally closer to the kitchen than my room. I wish I had my cell phone with me though, much as the damn thing baffles the heck out of me. I'd call my nephew, Derek, and ask to speak to his nine-year-old son, Alfie. Last Christmas—the same Christmas Derek gifted me his reconditioned phone while trying to hide his brand-spanking-new one—Alfie shoved an Xbox controller into my hands and instructed me in the fine art of killing zombies. Shoot them in the head, Nan! he'd hollered as his parents had prepared dinner.

I wonder where the nearest