13 Drops of Blood

  JAMES ROY DALEY’S

  13 DROPS OF BLOOD

  * * *

  - BOOKS of the DEAD -

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  13 DROPS OF BLOOD

  Collection copyright 2010 by James Roy Daley

  Copyedit by Cynthia Gould

  Book design by James Roy Daley

  Cover Design by Cynthia Gould

  FIRST EDITION

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  BOOKS of the DEAD

  For more information subscribe to: booksofthedead.blogspot.com

  For direct sales and inquiries contact: [email protected]

  * * *

  Table of Contents:

  Introduction

  The Exhibition

  The Confession

  Baby

  A Ghost in my Room

  Jonathan vs. the Perfect Ten

  The Hanging Tree

  Thoughts of the Dead

  Summer of 1816

  Fallen

  The Relation Ship

  Suffer Shirley Gunn

  Humpy and Shrivels

  Curse of the Blind Eel

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Preview: Gary Brandner’s - The Howling

  Preview: Gary Brandner’s - The Howling II

  Preview: Gary Brandner’s - The Howling III

  Preview: James Roy Daley’s - Terror Town

  Preview: Matt Hults’ - Husk

  Preview: James Roy Daley’s - Into Hell

  Preview: Paul Kane’s - Pain Cages

  * * *

  COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  “The Exhibition,” copyright 2009. First appeared in Brutality as Art, by Snuff Books.

  “The Confession,” copyright 2007. Original for this anthology.

  “Baby,” copyright 2010. Original for this anthology.

  “A Ghost in my Room,” copyright 2007. Original for this anthology.

  “Jonathan vs. the Perfect Ten,” copyright 2008. Original for this anthology.

  “The Hanging Tree,” copyright 2010. First appeared in The Zombist, by Library of the Living Dead Press.

  “Thoughts of the Dead,” copyright 2010. First appeared in Through the Eyes of the Undead, by Library of the Living Dead Press.

  “Summer of 1816,” copyright 2007. First appeared in History is Dead by Permuted Press.

  “Fallen,” copyright 2008. Original for this anthology.

  “The Relation Ship, ” copyright 2006. Original for this anthology.

  ‘‘Suffer Shirley Gunn,” copyright 2008. Original for this anthology.

  “Humpy and Shrivels,” copyright 2009. Original for this anthology.

  “Curse of the Blind Eel,” copyright 2009. First published in Dark Jesters by Novello Publishers.

  * * *

  Great books from:

  BOOKS of the DEAD

  BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 1)

  BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 2)

  BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 3)

  CLASSIC VAMPIRE TALES (VOL.1)

  BEST NEW VAMPIRE TALES (VOL. 1)

  MATT HULTS - HUSK

  MATT HULTS - ANYTHING CAN BE DANGEROUS

  JAMES ROY DALEY - TERROR TOWN

  JAMES ROY DALEY - 13 DROPS OF BLOOD

  JAMES ROY DALEY - INTO HELL

  JAMES ROY DALEY - THE DEAD PARADE

  GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING

  GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING II

  GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING III

  PAUL KANE - PAIN CAGES

  * * *

  Dear literate horror fan––

  When I started putting this collection together I figured everything would fall under a single, simple heading: horror. After all, I consider myself a horror writer at heart. Now, for those of you keeping score, I’m well aware that being labeled a ‘horror’ writer in today’s literary world is like being labeled a ‘porno’ director in the film world, but I, for one, don’t care. Horror is that thing I grew up on, that friend Mom says is a bad influence. Some of my earliest memories connected to the genre include me curled up in a ball, watching Jaws while my mother and father discussed whether or not I was old enough to be seeing such a thing. I remember being absolutely captivated by ‘Salem’s Lot late one evening, alone in my brother’s bedroom, the feeling of terror consuming me as Ben Mears and Mark Petrie made their into the basement of the Marsten house, weapons in hand, danger all around them. I could hear my family in the room below––safe, secure, acting as if everything was normal in the world. For me, it wasn’t. I had a pillow covering half my face, my knees were nailed to my chest, and my heart was pounding clean out of my body as the goosebumps on my arms tried to crawl from my skin and hide in the corner; I couldn’t believe the images on television could be so intolerably wrong. Who would create such a thing?

  And I loved it. Oh boy, did I ever.

  Strange, huh?

  Well, maybe not for you. Maybe not to the people that figure reading a book called 13 Drops of Blood is a good way to go.

  Horror. I can’t imagine myself hiding behind sub-labels such as Dark Fantasy, Dark Suspense, Visceral, Supernatural, Gothic, Noir, Dark Fiction, or my least favorite of all––at least when dealing with horror stories––Speculative Fiction. Ugh. This is where I shake my head.

  For me, a horror writer hiding behind a label that’s currently more accepted by the tea-sippers is a writer embracing the art of selling the reader lies. And why? Marketing? Is that the reason? Or is it to appease some eccentric echelon of self-value, to demonstrate the arc of personal growth?

  It’s sort of sad, really. Sad, unless of course, the writer in question believes the art falls under such a label. Then it’s a different thing: to each his own. But still, something doesn’t add up here. It’s disappointing to watch millions of people embrace horror on the big screen, knowing that if you crack open a book the same story will need to be toned down and slapped with a different label… a softer label.

  What are you reading, honey?

  Who me? Oh, I’m reading a fantastic Dark Suspense novel. It’s about this cannibal that owns a chainsaw store. He runs around town, chopping off people’s heads with the newest power tools. I think you’d like it. It’s called ‘Conscious Desires.’ What are you reading?

  I’m reading a very interesting Speculative Fiction book called ‘The Passion.’ You should totally check it out. It’s about a guy that gets buried alive and ends up chewing on a corpse to survive. It reminds me of that Viscerally Gothic novel about the family that lived in the sewers for so long they mutated into werewolves. You know the one… ‘Irresistible Amour.’

  That’s nice, dear. Sounds very literary.

  Yuck.

  I’m a horror man. I always have been, I suspect I always will be.

  That being said, I did notice that the stories in this anthology didn’t exactly fall under the same category. Some were slanted one way while some were slanted another.

  I considered pulling some of them from the book and putting together a different type of collection, one with an unfailing direction. I decided against it. The range of stories inside this book sits well with me.

  A writer compiling a collection of stories is, in many ways, like a musician assembling an album. Sometimes the music on the album will have a consistent flow, and each track will touch the listener in a similar manner. Sometimes an album will take the listener on a journey; each song will be distinctly different than the one before it. Either way, there is no right or wrong. There is only the art form, the artist, and those that ap
preciate what has been offered. In the end, the artist puts together a collection that feels right. Everything past that is fodder for public scrutiny.

  This collection is an excursion rooted in horror. It will take you, literate horror fan, along more than a few unexpected paths. Hope you enjoy the journey. Lord knows you’re in for an unconventional ride.

  * * *

  HORROR:

  THE EXHIBITION

  Scott and Penny Beach stood in line for a long time before they were admitted into the exhibition. And while they waited, they couldn’t help wondering if the show would be worth the bother. Penny didn’t think so. She didn’t think anything was worth a wait of longer than fifteen minutes. She suggested to Scott––not once, but several times––to forfeit their spot in line, toss the two hundred dollar tickets into the trash, and head to the nearest bar for cocktails, her treat. Each time she suggested this, Scott only smiled.

  Normally he would have gone for it; Scott hated waiting in line as much as she did, but he didn’t want to miss the exhibition or throw away money needlessly. It wasn’t in his nature.

  The exhibition was called The Horror Show, and Scott was a horror enthusiast. He had books, DVDs, posters, video games, and autographs. To say he was excited would be an understatement; he had never seen a horror exhibition before.

  The front door opened, the line inched ahead two spots and Penny dragged a finger through her hair, saying, “I forgot to ask… what are the reviews like? They any good? Is it gross… is it creepy?”

  “There are no reviews,” Scott said with a smug expression materializing on his face.

  “Is this opening night?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay Scott, I’ll bite. Why are there no reviews?”

  Scott nodded and grinned. “This is a one night only event.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “I thought I had.”

  “No. You said it was scary, but you didn’t tell me that.”

  Noise from a streetcar disrupted their conversation. The couple watched it move along the avenue. Scott’s eyes fell upon a three-story building that was shamefully vandalized. Two men stood near the building’s front door. One man––a tall fellow with thick eyebrows––kicked a dead pigeon with an oversized boot as the other man coughed and mumbled. Both were dressed the same: in tattered, unstylish clothing. Shaggy beards and scruffy hair seemed to be the look of the day.

  “By the way,” Scott said, “thanks for coming.”

  Penny shrugged. “No problem.”

  “Yeah, but this isn’t the greatest neighborhood in the world. I’m sure you’re not used to it, and I know you don’t like this type of thing.”

  “That’s not true. I like art shows quite a bit. I just don’t like those stupid movies you’re always watching. Most of them are terrible.”

  “It’s hard to argue, but I still love them.”

  “Yeah, I know. But… they’re so fake, Scott. They’re poorly written and the direction is awful.” Penny stopped herself from saying more, which she could easily do. She liked good movies. Scott liked shit. His fascination with that type of trash made her doubt his intelligence. Were all men enthralled in such foolish rubbish?

  She looked to her shoes––her sixteen-hundred-dollar peach gala shoes––the ones she wore to her sister’s wedding thirteen months earlier and hadn’t put on since. Without meaning to, she let out a sigh, holding her Prada handbag in her arms like a baby.

  Scott knew what she was thinking: she was bored and wanted to go home. “You know, Penny,” he said. “You’re really beautiful tonight. You look extra gorgeous, like a princess.”

  Penny’s eyes lit up like little suns. “Really?”

  “Oh yes. You look as lovely today as the day I married you.”

  The suns eclipsed. “That was only two years ago, jerk.”

  Scott laughed. “I know, and you still look good!”

  Penny punched Scott playfully and kissed him on the mouth. Scott ran his hand down the back of Penny’s dress and gave her rump a little squeeze. As Penny pushed him away, the front door opened. Two people stepped inside the exhibition and the door began to close.

  Before it did, Penny stepped free of the line and said, “Mister doorman?”

  The man at the door hesitated. “Yes?”

  “Can’t you let more than two people in at a time? We’ve been waiting for an hour!” Penny flashed her dimples and tilted her head. A curl of hair swooped across her thin eyebrows, bouncing up and down.

  The man at the door smiled. Long teeth sat deep within his mouth. He had cheekbones like elbows, and when he spoke there was a rumble in the back of his throat that sounded like someone digging gravel with a shovel. “I’m sorry Miss… two at a time, that’s the way we do. It makes for a better show.”

  Penny’s eyebrows lowered. “Oh.”

  “And for your information,” the man said, “I’m not a doorman. This is my family’s exhibition. My name is Denoté.”

  Before Penny considered a response Denoté closed the door with a BANG. The people in line, who had quieted down and listened to the exchange, began talking once again.

  Scott said, “Well… now we know. Two at a time.”

  After a while Penny opened a pack of cigarettes and lit a smoke. The guy waiting in front of them bummed one and shared it with his date. He was an older man with long hair and a tattoo of an eagle on his neck. The tattoo was well designed and inked with a skilled hand. Penny thought it made the man look dignified, not trashy. It was something she would never have admitted.

  The tattooed stranger introduced himself as Gary Somers. In time, he said that he worked in real estate.

  Scott laughed. “You don’t look like a real estate agent.”

  “I know.” Gary responded proudly. “But I’m a nice guy and pleasant to work with. I get a lot of referrals and repeat business. You’d be surprised. This city is loaded with people that prefer working with an agent they relate with. Most sales guys have no soul; it’s like they’re manufactured in a real estate factory where sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll never existed. Here’s your haircut, suitcase and nametag. Don’t forget to smile politely. How can you have faith in someone when you don’t trust them?”

  Scott nodded. Gary was a little over the top maybe, but he seemed honest and straightforward.

  The door opened and two more stepped inside, laughing as they entered. As the door closed, Gary’s date––a woman who had introduced herself as Angel––said, “Have you noticed that people go in and nobody comes out?”

  Penny dropped her smoke on the sidewalk and crushed it with her shoe. “No, but now that you say that… yeah.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t know. Backdoor?”

  “I guess.”

  Time crawled. Penny touched up her makeup in a dark window. More people entered the exhibition in pairs and nobody left through the front door.

  Finally it was Gary and Angel’s turn to go in.

  “See you on the other side,” Angel said.

  Scott smiled. “Have fun.”

  Thirteen minutes later the door opened and Denoté led them to a ticket wicket. The lady behind the glass said, “Ticket please.” Her name was Page.

  The tickets were big and gaudy and said THE HORROR SHOW – ONE NIGHT ONLY in giant bold letters. Below the letters, a mediocre drawing of an evil looking skull looked semi-daunting. In the bottom corner of each ticket was the price: $200.00, tax included.

  Scott handed both tickets over.

  Page said, “Names?”

  “Scott and Penny Beach.”

  Page typed the names into a computer.

  Scott and Penny were led to a door. Above it was a security camera.

  Before Denoté opened the door, he said, “Mind your step. The art isn’t merely on the walls. It’s on the floor and ceiling too. It’s in the air, the atmosphere. It’s everywhere; it’s alive. There’s only one exit, located at the far e
nd of the building. This show is a one-way street. You can’t leave through the front door unless you do it now. You won’t have a chance to revisit the exhibitions once you pass them, so enjoy the art while you can. I hope you’re not faint of heart. This exhibition is hardcore, designed to scare you to death.”

  “Sounds good,” Scott said. He noticed a smudge of blood on Denoté’s shirt; it looked like a handprint. Scott figured it was part of the show. “Looking forward to it.”

  “Thank you,” Penny replied. Her voice was hardly a whisper.

  Scare you to death. She didn’t like the sound of that.

  As Denoté opened a second door, Penny wondered why she had allowed Scott to bring her to such a place. This wasn’t a gala, this wasn’t the theater, this was… well… she didn’t know what this was, but it wasn’t for her. She knew that much.

  Scott and Penny stepped inside the next room. It was small: twelve feet by twelve feet. There was a single light hanging from a black ceiling. The walls were black; the floor had black tiles. On the far side of the room was a white door. There was no art inside the room, no furniture either. It was just an empty room that seemed very dark. The corners were only shadow.

  One corner was hiding something: a small camera.

  The door behind them closed; they heard the CLICK of the lock.

  Penny turned around, startled. She grabbed the doorknob and twisted it. The door wouldn’t open. She knocked on the door with her knuckles hard enough to make them red; then she slapped the door with her palm.

  Scott placed a hand on her shoulder. “Babe, what are you doing?”

  “I don’t like this,” she said flatly. “I don’t like being locked in.”