Coffin Hop

     To all that have participated in this great event, I am deeply moved by your kind words and well wishes towards my writings. Even the criticisms I received have helped me move forward as a writer, which is all I really want to be.

     As to my lack of updates these last few days, I'm wrapping up a few final projects I have that I am hoping to send to publishers in the near future. Apologies to those wishing to read more of my ongoing tales, but they will be seen to when the time is right.

     With my bones weary and my muscles aching, I think I shall retire for the next few days and try and let the stress just melt away. Perhaps put up a few movie reviews or previews, or merely relax in World Of Warcraft, fishing while listening to some nature sounds.

     Happy Halloween and Sweet Dreams,
     Nicholas Paschall

Zombie Games Coffin Hopper Edition Part Two!

The four-armed monstrosities were capable of taking an absurd amount of abuse, but in the end we downed them as much as they could be downed. One was torn to utter pieces, great swathes of hardened carapace torn free from it’s body, the tarry skin below ripped asunder by Tank’s frenzied rending.

The second one had been handled in a far smoother manner, with Soldier and Suit tackling the creature together, Suit using Tank’s discarded machete to parry away the creatures talons while sliding the blade skillfully between the segmented plating of the creatures body, all the while Soldier was merely breaking whatever limb she could get a hold of, dislocating joints and cracked the creatures shell whenever she could.

Now we had a much more difficult problem on our hands: Tank. The amphetamines I’d pumped into his system had kept him on his feet, but he had been bleeding out the entire time, finally collapsing on top of the twitching carcass of Doctor Dead’s little lab rat. Using what limited supplies I had, I had sewn him up as best I could, using a pair of makeshift tweezers and a needle with unwound steel wool for thread to stitch him back up. While I was patching him up, Geek and Scout were searching the rest of the laboratory, the earlier brawl having somehow made us not even notice the stairwell leading up to the second story and down to a basement. Soldier and Suit were now standing guard at the barricaded door, where the groans of the walking dead were still leaking through the walls.

As I was just finishing with the last hole that had been bored into Tank’s chest, Geek and Scout came down from the upper level, smiles on their faces.

“What’s the good news?” Suit asks casually, leaning against the rattling door as if this were any normal day.

“We found two places we could leave here from, plus a ton of supplies.” Scout squeals, hopping from foot to foot excitedly. “There’s a door that leads to a terrace up on the roof, where we could scale down the wall to the other side of the building and sneak away.”

“Problem is, there are a few of those fast zombies up there, and it looks like they have armor or something sewn into them.” Geek explains, rubbing the back of his head. “There’s a wide plate glass window that lets you look out onto the roof, and there’s like three or four of them just crouching up there, watching the door.”

“What about downstairs?” I ask, knowing Tank was in no condition to be climbing anywhere.

“A grate that leads to a sewer, some more supplies and a map of the island labeling other research facilities.” Geek says with a sigh. “If what I’m guessing is true, the grate should be like a sewer system, leading us straight to another building like this one. And one of them is near the waterfront where that boat is supposed to be.”

“What kind of supplies?” Soldier asks, stepping away from the barricade to begin walking towards the stairs leading up.

“Weird ones, a bunch of swords and knives, plus a lot of medical stuff.” Geek replies, nodding towards the mutilated corpses. “I think these things were supposed to wield weapons, because upstairs is essentially an armory.”

“I’m so there,” Suit says with a smile, moving to follow Soldier up the stairs.

“Where are the medical supplies?” I ask just as Scout hands me a first aid kit. “Perfect! Well, not perfect, but pretty close. Tank will need this for sure.”

Geek pulled a small metal handle from his pocket, handing it to me. “We snagged you this as well. A folding knife, just in case you get stuck too close to one of these fuckers out here.”

Looking at them, I could see that they’d both elected to grab a pair of swords that they’d strapped to their hips, Scout wearing a bandolier with a dozen stub handled knives.

Tank groaned, causing me to turn my attention back to him. I’d been sitting on the floor now with my back up against one of the broken containers, resting his head in my lap and monitoring him for a fever. He coughs and rolls over, spitting up a mouthful of blood as he pushes himself to his feet, wavering as he moved from the crash he’d suffered after the amphetamines had worn off.

“Damn,” he said, his voice dry and raspy, “What the fuck? Feel like I got hit by a truck and ate from a sand box.”

“Normal side effects of the stuff I gave you when you were dying,” I say quickly, grabbing his thick forearm as he teeters back and forth, his other hand rubbing at his eyes.

“Crank?” He asks, looking at me after a moment. “This feels like the crash from crank.”

“Yeah, what the monsters were being fed was a mixture of that,” I answer honestly. “When you got stabbed by the creature, you were about to go down and looked like you were going into shock, so I did what I thought was best.”

“Well I may feel like shit, but at least I’m alive.” He says after a moment, looking around the room. “We killed those fuckers I take it?”

“You killed one yourself, while we all took the other one.”

“Huh, well what’s the sitch now?” He asks, scratching at his stitches.

After I rely what Geek and Scout had told us all, he seemed far more excited as he slowly made his way downstairs with the two of them, asking if they’d seen any weapons for a “man of his size.”

Scout had merely giggled.

I’d just fought off the oncoming headache.

Trouble is, now we have to figure out where we can go without getting killed. Tank’s in better condition than I thought, though still vulnerable, but we’re all better armed now. The sewer system seems like a good idea, but who knows what kind of monsters our host has dropped down there? 

Authors Note: Just leave your vote in the comments below where you think they should head: out through the roof or down through the sewer.

Carver's Code

      After three hours with three dozen certified forensic scientists combing over the bodies, they had come up with the key, a letter folded neatly and wrapped in plastic, tucked into the throat of a younger woman, sixty-three silver-lined lead discs bearing the code J-6440. The following numbers were what was found. 

Codes Found Upon Corpses:

Upon the women: 1 1, 3 7, 4 7, 7 2, 5 5, 8 2, 9 6, 0 5, 2 9, 6 8

Upon the men: E 60, 5 A, NY, 1 1, 3 0, 4 6, 5 5, +, MH, 2 0

The letter itself was directed to "Chief Inspector Takeshi Sato". This had made the older man's stomach turn sour in mere seconds, especially when, upon opening it, his fears were confirmed.

The Organ-Snatcher was back.

"To Chief Inspector Takeshi Sato,

I know in our last correspondence, I swore we would never cross swords again, but I find myself in a situation just too delicious to pass up. With our seventh anniversary upon us, I felt that you needed to stretch your legs, so to speak, and have a chance to catch the one man that always eluded you.

Me.

Now sorry to say, I'll only be in town for the next few days. I have a specific little bar in mind where we could finally meet, face to face. The steps to finding out which one it is and when this will be are all up to you. I left you everything you need to know. Should you get so far, just be sure to ask for copy held in reserve for the past two months for a Mr. Sloan, in honor of your partners death.

Ciao,

S.S."

Authors Note: This is a special gift for the Coffin Hoppers who think themselves to be good at solving puzzles. All the clues are before you, just leave you answers, for those who dare to try, in the comments below. If a correct answer isn't provided in a day then the Carver must strike again, and Sato may never have a chance to close this last case.

Son of a Preacher Man: The Carver

“Gather ‘round children, gather round… I’ve a story to tell!” I say with a smile as I ease myself into my chintz chair, resting my cane next to my small table where I keep my pipe. My smile grows broader as my grandchildren and great-grandchildren all call to each other throughout the house, all giggling and shrieking at the thought of my stories.

I let them take their time as I pack my pipe and look about for a suitable match in my coat. By the time I’ve got my pipe lit and taken a few puffs, my living room has thirty pairs of eyes watching me hungrily, all chattering amongst them about what story I’ll tell tonight. It’s not often I visit anymore, after all.

I blame it on the distance, but my children know that my age is catching up to me.

“Oh my, so fast you’ve all come.” I say with mock-surprise. Over their heads I can see my daughter Ash smile at me, closing the door to the kitchen so that she and her brothers can have some time to themselves.

“We wanna hear your stories Grandpa!” One of my oldest grandchildren says, my dear little Holly. I brush my hand over her head, patting it gently before snuggling deeper into my chair.

“Well, for all of you I have a good tale to tell… a story of murder most foul!” I say with a dark whisper, causing a wave of cooing to come from my adolescent audience. “This… is the story of the Carver.”

***

“Found another one chief,” an officer calls from the upstairs bedroom, his voice a tad despondent. “Just like the others.”

Chief Detective Sato rubbed at his eyes as he stood in the middle of the third largest crime scene he’d ever had the misfortune of visiting during his long career as a, what the tabloids and papers referred to him as, the Serial Killer Catcher. One of the most decorated criminal profilers in the New York Police Departments history, his expertise had led to the capture and arrest of over thirty men and women that had somehow become the monsters that all serial killers were.

The only case he’d ever been unable to solve had been seven years ago to the very day. That left Sato… unsettled.

The Organ-Snatcher had been ritualistically killing every New Moon groups of people, either one at a time or en masse, and removing their organs with surgical precision. He did this for twelve months before he just… stopped. Sato had never mentioned it, but he had received a note from someone claiming to be the killer, apologizing to Sato for all the inconvenience he’d caused him over the years. The signature had been a simple pair of S’s, and three months with forensics had turned up nothing on the note worth, well, noting.

Now Chief Detective Takeshi Sato stood in the middle of an old three story home in Upper Manhattan, surrounded by over forty dead men and women, old and young. Hanging from the walls were flags bearing swastikas, copies of blood spattered copies of Hitler’s manifesto littering the house. While the whole situation was unsettling, what made Sato leery over the whole scenario was that most of the dead looked calm, as if they’d died suddenly, so suddenly in fact that they hadn’t even noticed.

That and they all had great holes in their chests, broken ribs and sternums abundant, with a total of forty-three missing hearts. It reminded him of a case his old partner had been assigned to just as the Organ Grinder stopped his killings. A young mother was found dead, her heart torn from her chest and her son missing. The husband had been ruled out due to the nature of the wound the mother had received, her chest opened with a single strike.

Just like all of these bodies. It was clear they were all in the middle of a meeting of some sort, a picture of Adolf Hitler hanging above the fireplace flanked by a pair of old German flags bearing the symbol that had become so synonymous with evil and hatred. The victims were all white supremacists, but they were still victims.

So far forensics had determined that a singular keg that they had all been drinking from had contained trace amounts of Rohypnol, better known as the date rape drug. Several small gas tanks had been found hidden throughout the house, slowly leaking trace amounts of Carbon Monoxide into the air. Not enough to be lethal, but enough to cause dry mouth and fatigue, enough to make a crowd of drunken racists grow weary and drop their guard.

“Another two up here, same as the rest!” Another officer called from another corner of the house. Sato rubbed at his eyes as he tried not to think of how this could quite easily be the same killer that had eluded him years ago.

Hours later, after sixty-seven heartless bodies had been discovered and transported to the coroner’s office, Sato now sat at his desk in his office, a cold cup of coffee at his side as he stared at a sheet of numbers, numbers that were still being sorted out.

Upon the delivery of the bodies, and the removal of their clothing, the officers had been horrified to find numbers and letters carved into each victim in their left forearm, with a single metal disk the size of a quarter inserted into their chest wounds bearing a number, all exactly the same.

J-6440

He had a few of his investigators looking into that number, but the answers weren’t as forthcoming as Sato would have liked. There were ten dead women with numbers carved into their arms, numbers that Sat believed were significant in two different ways. On one woman the number was 1 then a 1, while another one had a 2 and then a 9. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to it.

Another ten, all young adults no older than twenty, had similar carvings, though these carvings also were done with something far more narrow, thin slices as if done with paper. The cuts would have barely even been noticed if not for the scabbing they had formed over the wounds.

Which mean the killer had made these marks before ripping their hearts out, allowing the wounds to close themselves.

On the oldest male they’d found, one Patrick Henderson, the coroner had dug out of his throat a key, a key with the word Sato carved into the side of it.

Taking a sip of his cold coffee, Takeshi shook his head as his worst nightmare had come true: some sick fuck out there was trying to challenge him in a game of wits.

Authors note: Read the previous installments if you wish for this tale to make any sense. I'll be posting the numbers carved into the dead, as well as the 'Forensic File' so that the dear readers can try and solve the mystery for dear Takeshi. Should you solve it, than Takeshi may get to finally meet the man he's thought of for the last seven years. If not, than the story will progress.

Sinister

     As you all know by now I frequent horror movies at almost every opportunity I can get. Well, I wish I had the time wasted watching Sinister back, as the whole film was nothing but a box of re-hashed pop up horror tricks and a ridiculously stupid protagonist that had me rooting for his death within the first half hour of the film.
     I can think of a dozen films that this one has stolen bits and pieces from, creating a true Frankenstein of a horror film, which in my eyes, was about as terrifying as the original Frankenstein in the early thirties. The plot is one that I think every writer has at least partially created at one point or another. In fact, sitting on my hard drive is a story quite similar to Sinister that I've yet to post out of shame.
     Save yourself some money and just wait for this one to come out on Netflix. Just grab any five horror movies you own and watch them back to back and you'll essentially get the same effect. Except there might be some decent acting involved.

Coffin Hopper

     For those who enjoy this blog and wish to seek out others like it, may I recommend visiting Coffin Hop? An excellent source for those who wish to sample the different flavors of horror throughout the whole year, with an emphasis on Halloween of course.

     So go ahead and check them out!

Hitchcock

     A movie about one of the true founders of modern fear, a man who took the most ordinary and turned it into the extraordinary. He made use fear birds, he brought us spy thrillers and, most importantly, he brought us this:

     Every American, both young and old, know this movie. Even those who have never actually seen it know the plot. It's been made fun of in popular culture (South Park, the Simpsons, etc) while also shaping how thriller movies are made with it's highly irregular soundtrack, high shrieking string instruments during action scenes, dead silence during certain suspenseful moments.

     "Give them pleasure - the same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare." Perhaps the pivotal thought for all of those hoping to terrify their would-be audiences such as myself. The reason I bring this up, of course, is not only to highlight one of my favorite creative minds from the twentieth century, but to highlight the movie being made about him.

     I'll be there opening night.

     Won't you?

Ducks!

     As an Atheist/Buddhist, as well as a Historian and aspiring Horror novelist, I never pass up a chance to take a look at the more... esoteric fears that have come to bear in our society. While perusing my blogs and newsreels, I came across this:

     Not bashing upon the young girl's grammatical errors (we all make them), I am actually intrigued by her apparent fear that homosexuality, and the spread of it, will somehow put us at odds with waterfowl. Her apparent disbelief in evolution and lack of understanding in the most basic concepts of biology aside, I feel she was trying to be satirical... but she doesn't know how.
     This is why we need a better education system folks! She either truly believes the ducks (or perhaps some other water born avian) will overtake us because of the Gays or she doesn't know how to write satire. The only piece of this article I didn't find terrifying was the fact the she is homeschooled, something that was a major relief to me.
     It's not the school system that's failing her, it's her parents.
     Thank goodness!

Paranormal Activity Four

     So the wife and I got an invite to see a special screening of Paranormal Activity 4 for free, at the Silverado.

     The movie itself was pretty much the same exact thing as the first three, with a few added surprise! moments thrown in to jerk around with the audience. Whereas the first and arguably the second of the two movies had a decent amount of suspense and scare factor, this one fell flat on it's face in both regards.

     Not to post too many spoilers, but the only time I truly, actually jumped was when the protagonist's boyfriend snuck into her house and yanked her off the bed while off screen, a play off of the numerous times the demon had thrown people physically. The rest of the movie was a pathetic, and rather blatant, attempt at shock scares with no guesswork, and unlike the advertisements are saying, no final answers.

     Spoiler Alert! 

     One of the main characters in the movie is the neighbor boy Robbie, who the family takes in after his mother (Katie, the possessed sister from the other movies) is taken away in an ambulance. The boy is silent and strange, possessing a "Fork of Truth" and a century old stuffed sloth/bear/thing. It is revealed later in the movie that this bizarre little boy is indeed not Hunter, the stolen child from the second film, but some other boy with no origin story whatsoever.

     Hunter is actually the protagonist's little brother, who was adopted as a baby. Never explained how Katie lost him, or what the Hell is going on with all of the spookiness. In the first film, it wanted Katie. In the second film, it wanted Hunter. In the prequel film, it wanted Katie (to marry?). In this film, it wants to just be a strange ghost-demon that tortures and kills, and is an all around dick.

     So in conclusion: no questions are answered, only more are added to the pile; a new creepy boy is added to the character roll with no explanation, and nobody is checking their goddamn cameras on a daily basis when strange shit is going on around them. If they did that, the movie would have probably had some damn answers!

The Many Misadventures of Master Mystery: Murderous Mohrgs from the Moors, Part Three

Previously...

Reginald rolled with the vicious strike, tumbling haphazardly into a bin of rubbish. The creature scuttled along the wall, hissing as it grew ever closer to his prone form. Another leaped from high above, jumping from the opposing wall to the one Reginald was propped up against, clambering down the wall with sinister intentions glimmering behind its twisted visage.

“Is there a reason you’re attacking me, or should I take this as a breach in the Treaty of Thames?” Reginald blearily asks aloud, rubbing at the side of his head where he’d been struck. Both creatures, their boneless arms stretched out with tentacles spread out to grasp at him. “So I assume this isn’t an attack?”

“Oui…” One of the creatures slowly exhales, pulling back its offensive limb to better perch itself upon the wall. “’Ow is eet dat ‘ou speak?”

“With my mouth for the most part, though I do know how to do so with my hands should the need arise.” Reginald replies as he pushes the accumulated garbage away from him, pulling himself to his feet with the aid of the wall. “Do I need to speak with my hands gentlemen, or shall you explain yourselves to me?”

The second of the creatures, these Chokers as they’re so well known, are the twisted forms of orphans that have been kidnapped and transformed under the full moon. All of them are generally considered male, though they are actually genderless; they breed through their twisted kidnappings and witchcraft. Servants to those that bend the universe to their will, they generally act as protectors ever since they made a pact nearly two centuries ago stating as such: they protect the practitioners of magic, and they don’t get hunted down for the abominations they are.

“We… we though you was a Dead ‘ead milord… thought we might make a bit ‘o coin off ya, heh heh…” The first one answers, chuckling nervously as he extends a snake-like arm, tentacle fingers spread wide. “Me names Abner, and ‘e be Francois... we guard the alley, we do.”

I shake his hand in greeting, dusting off my coat as I do. The rain is dripping from the awnings overhead, and the trash had been hiding a rather nasty puddle of water tainted with the stink of past meals and rot. Reginald grimaced as the dampness soaked through his coat to his sensitive frame, and made a sweeping gesture with his left hand, forcing the water out of his clothes drop by drop.

Both Chokers wince at the sight of Reginald using magic, confirming their fears over what they had just done. Reginald let go of the offered tentacle mass, stooped low to gather his pipe from the ground. “We be nothing but full of shame, dear sir… we never meant to put the hurt on one so distinguished as yerself! It’s just…”

“I look undead; yes I get that quite a bit.” Reginald finished for the Abner, relighting his pipe and taking a few puffs from the treated tobacco, sighing once more as the relaxing chemicals entered his bloodstream. “But no worries gentlemen, I see no need to mention this to anyone so long as you don’t need to either. The very notion of telling this tale… it sickens me, I daresay.”

Both Chokers faces broke into horrid grins as they looked at each other in glee, before turning back to Reginald. “No, no need at’all! Go right on in, and tell Lucy the Abner says ‘ello. She’ll grant ye a spot of spirits, she will.”

“Lovely,” Reginald replies, stalking up to the door, knocking on it three times, “I’ll be certain to pass on your regards.”

A small window slides open on the door, revealing a pair of beady eyes beneath a heavily wrinkled brow. “And you are?”

“A man positively giddy upon hearing the Queen’s English spoken as it should be,” Reginald muttered before clearing his throat, “A fellow walking from the East, hoping to meet a fellow from the West. And you?”

“A fellow from the West well met.” The man replies from behind the door, sliding the window shut as a series of locks could be heard being lifted from the other side, the door finally opening after a minute of work, revealing the door to be heavy and thick, with numerous dangling locks and chains hanging from the side. The man was stooped and old, wearing a green cardigan and a thick woolen sweater. “Come on in then, out of the rain.”

Reginald stepped through the doorway, tingling as a wave of magical barriers and protections passed over him, making his way into the brightly lit pub full of men and women of all stripes and sizes. The entire room was kept warm by a central hearth, over which several spit pigs slowly turned on their own, filling the room with a delicious aroma that made Reginald smile a rare smile. The bar, low and set along the far wall, was bustling with patrons and servers alike, all laughing and drinking from great glass steins.

Taking off his coat as he moved into the light, he sighed as he heard a collective gasp come from those around him. “How in the world did one of them get in?” He heard someone ask from the gathered crowd.

“I assure you, I’m in no way one of them, whoever they are.” He said allowed, annoyed at being forced to defend himself once again. “And I must say, I don’t think I like the attitude I’m receiving from you lot. I thought the English were polite?”

“And I thought the Americans to be handsome!” A voice called out, creating a great stir of laughter throughout the entire pub. A large man, heavy set with a broad jaw and even broader shoulders sidled up to Reginald, throwing an arm around him to pull him closer to the fire. “We’re just playing around is all, no harm innit. Now, what’ll ya have?”

“Abner told me Lucy would provide me with some spirits on his behalf, and to send her his regards.” Reginald replied a bit stiffly, lowering himself into a seat at a table with the large man, along with two others. “Now who might you be?”

“Oh, so sorry then! The names Charles Clooney,” The gigantic man said with a gap-toothed grin. “And this ‘ere be Bill O’Donahue and Mickey McNully. We all work as porters down on the docks for Lucy o’er there.”

“Well my name is Master Mystery,” Reginald replied, ignoring the stifled laughter coming from O’Donahue, “And I am a detective, of sorts.”

“A detective are you now?” Charles said with a wide grin, slapping the table with his hand as his two friends both break out laughing. “And wot brings a Yank detective to the sunny side o’ England, praytell?

“The Whitechapel murders, actually.”

That brought silence over the three, as well as the surrounding tables that had apparently been listening in. An older woman with a long blond braid and a wide midsection marched up to the table with a tray of drinks, three glass tankards full of a dark frothy beer and one small bottle of green liquid, cork firmly stuck in place.

“Here ya go gents, one bottle of Absinthe for the stranger and three drinks for my own boys,” the waitress said with a smile, passing the drinks out. “I hope Abner didn’t do anythin’ too embarrassing sir. ‘E only offers to buy someone a drink if’n he does something embarrassing.”

“No Lucy, he was a perfect gentlemen.” Reginald replied, picking up the bottle. Snapping his fingers to shrink the cork, he took a long sniff from the rising air of the bottle as it let out its first breath, savoring the sickly sweet smell as if it were a fine wine. “Ah, a fine bottle. My thanks to you and your pub.”

Perhaps this wasn’t such a terrible day after all…
Next Time