Thanks for all your support.

SYNOPSIS

Ritualistic murder is taking place in Portland, Maine. Each of the victims is a young female; all have slept with Danny Wolf.

Wolf, a gifted musician with alcohol problems is witnessing the murders in his dreams. Or so he believes. The nightmares intensify and Wolf begins to doubt his own sanity. Perhaps he really is a homicidal madman.

He has no memory of his early childhood but discovers that he spent his first eight years in a Catholic orphanage on a mysterious island off the coast of Maine.

Soon the killings become more bold and gruesome, as members of the church begin to die.

Enter Police Lieutenant Rick Jennings and his young assistant Laura Higgins. They discover a government conspiracy involving the Catholic Church, and a cold war CIA mind control program known as MK-Ultra.

Danny Wolf becomes the number one suspect in the murders, but no one, not even Wolf, is prepared for what they discover on Apocalypse Island, a mind blowing secret that was supposed to stay hidden forever.

Apocalypse Island is a fast-paced thriller that will keep you guessing until the shocking conclusion.

I have three legacy published books. The Lost Village, The Haunting of Sam Cabot, and The Holocaust Opera. Those who read my blog and keep up with my writing activities know by now that I’m sorry I ever went with a publisher. That’s not news but it is truer now and more relevant than ever. There is a post on this blog about how to make money publishing short stories on Amazon. If you haven’t read it you should. Here’s the link. http://www.markedwardhall.com/the-pros-of-publishing-short-stories-on-amazon There are other posts relevant to the independent author as well. And if you are an independent writer and you’re not familiar with Joe Konrath’s blog you need to be.

What I want to talk about today is a little novelette I wrote nearly fifteen years ago entitled The Hero of Elm Street. Now I’m primarily a horror writer. The Hero of Elm Street is not a horror story. It’s a light-hearted little ghost story about love, loss and the power of hope. Not generally my style, but because of my grandmother Luella, who meant a lot to me and was my greatest influence, the story has always been dear to my heart.

Back in the dark ages before kindle and nook and self-publishing (now known as independent publishing.) I sent that little story out to nearly every literary magazine in the country. I didn’t hear back from most of them. I did hear from Yankee. They said they liked it but felt it wasn’t right for them at the time. Yeah, we’ve all heard that before. So I buried the story and pretty much forgot about it.

Well, a year ago I decided to include The Hero of Elm Street in my collection, Servants of Darkness. I knew that it might get lost or overlooked in a collection of primarily dark tales. And I was right. Even though the collection has been selling reasonably well, I haven’t heard many people comment on that individual story.

So, on a whim I decided to put it out as a stand-alone story. I commissioned a cover and a little trailer and published it on Amazon. It sold some copies but nothing to write home about. So then I got the bright idea to include it as part of Amazon’s KDP Select Project and offer it for free for five days. KDP Select allows Prime members to borrow books, but the books also remain for sale. The only caveat: authors who sign up must agree to go exclusive with Amazon for a period of ninety days. I didn’t care. The story wasn’t doing much anyway. What did I have to lose?

250 copies were downloaded in the first three days of the promo and I thought, well, good try but that’s that. Then something amazing happened. Within the next twenty-four hours the story exploded as more than ten thousand copies were downloaded. I was stunned. I started receiving messages and mail and reviews, most saying how much they were moved by the story and thanking me for publishing it. I couldn’t believe it.

It was all very nice but I figured after the free promo ended that would be it. I was wrong. It continued to sell at an alarming rate. And some of my other titles started taking off. I don’t know what happened. I didn’t do anything different with this story. It’s a mystery to me, but a good mystery.

I see now, a week later that it’s slowing down some but still selling briskly. I couldn’t be happier. The point of this post is to encourage writers to never give up on a story. You don’t know what’s going to turn the reading audience on. And when you’re faced with an opportunity to put your work in front of a bigger audience, do it.

Don’t ever give up on a story.

UPDATE

The blog you just read was published on Jan 22nd of this year. As of this date, April 3rd,  my little story has sold nearly nine thousand copies. That’s quite a feat for a short story and at $1.99 a pop that’s a a considerable chunk of change. Some of my other short stories are doing good as well and I’m hoping my new novel Apocalypse Island will find readers.

Publishing short stories in magazines and anthologies is good for the writer’s spirit, but there isn’t much money in it. There hasn’t been in a very long time. Now with the advent of devices like kindle and nook it seems that readers are rediscovering short stories and this has got to be good for both writers and readers.

Mark Edward Hall

Here’s a teaser:

DARKNESS

It’s all yours now. You own it. . .

The man did not know what that phrase meant any more than he had four days ago when he had come awake in the woods injured and afraid with it cycling through his head.

It’s all yours now. You own it. . .

He raised his head up and sniffed the air. For one brief moment of pure exaltation he thought he smelled smoke. He tried to scream into the forest but he was weak and the sound that it made choked in his throat and died there.

He sagged down onto the old railroad bed and sobbed. It had been too good to be true. The wonderfully sweet aroma of wood smoke was now gone, if it had ever been there in the first place.

The wind was moving in the trees and the sound it made was similar to that of a rushing stream. Another of nature’s tricks. The wilderness was rife with them. There was no reason to anything here. He was lost in a lost world where rationality had taken a permanent vacation. He would most likely die out here in this great chameleon forest where unspeakable shapes roamed, where the unimaginable could materialize at any moment and become tangible, where creatures of wickedness and dread would swiftly rip the flesh from ones bones, feast on it, and leave the rotted remains for vultures and worms. There was no discrimination out here, no distinction between man and beast, good and evil. It was the ultimate class system. The fit survived, the weak simply did not. It would be easier to put a gun to one’s own head and pull the trigger. Certainly more humane. If only he had a gun.

NEW YEARS EVE

A Short Story by Mark Edward Hall

“Honey,” Sally whispered, reaching across the seat and shaking him. “Honey?”

Kevin groaned as his head lolled first right and then left against the seat back. “Huh?”

“Did you see that?”

She knew he hadn’t seen it. He’d been sound asleep and snoring.

“See? Wha’?”

“I saw something run in front of the car and duck into the shed.” They’d just returned home from a New Years Eve party where Kevin had gotten totally drunk, it was late and cold and all Sally wanted to do was curl up under the covers of Kevin’s warm bed and get some sleep. But as she’d pulled into the driveway something had dashed through the beam of her headlights and run into the shed. She was so pissed. How many times had she honked on Kevin in the past few weeks to fix the latch on that door? Oh well, it was his house. He could do what he wanted. Now she could see the door blowing back and forth in the wind. She sat with the engine idling, headlights trained on the door.

Kevin groaned again. “What did you see? An animal?”

“I don’t know. Something. Maybe  . . . somebody.”

“What?”

“I said I don’t know.”

“You sleeping at the wheel?”

“No!”

“Probably . . . nothing.”

“It was something, Kevin . . . looked like somebody all hunched over. Damn it, wake up. This is serious.”

“I am awake.”

“What’ll we do?”

“Go in the house. Go to bed.”

“No way. I’m not getting out of this car until you go in the shed and make sure there’s no one there.”

“Damn.”

“I saw it, Kevin.”

“Okay . . . okay.”

“Do you know anyone all hunched over who might sneak around in the middle of the night?”

“Yeah, my demented uncle.”

“Very funny.”

“There’s nobody here but us,” he said. “Just you and me.”

“I’m still not getting out of the car.”

Kevin’s arm moved toward her. He put his hand on her breast.

“Lay off, buddy.” She lifted his hand away. “Are you going to do something?”

“I could think of lots of things.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Just a little.”

“I’m about two seconds away from dumping you out and driving home,” Sally said. “You can spend the rest of the night alone with your demented uncle.”

“There’s no one in the shed.”

“Okay. Fine. I’m out of here.” She put the car in reverse and stepped on the brake. The car lurched. “Are you getting out?”

“Hang on,” he said. “You can’t leave at this hour. We had plans.”

“That was before you decided to drink half the booze at the party.”

“Aw, come on, that’s not fair. It’s New Years Eve.” He opened his door. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I don’t want to leave either, sweetheart.” She put the car in park and turned the engine and the lights off. The house was not even visible in the darkness. “Why didn’t we leave an outside light on?”

“I thought we did.” He opened the glove compartment and was rummaging around inside.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think?” He came back with a flashlight, switched it on and shined it in Sally’s eyes.

“Hey.”

“Woops, sorry. He lowered the beam and zeroed in on her breasts.”

Smiling, she shook her head. “Letch.”

“Guilty.”

“Why don’t you use your cell phone and call the police.”

“Silly Sally. Why would the cops come all the way out here?”

“Because there’s something or someone in the shed, maybe in the house. You don’t have a gun, do you?”

“Just the forty-five caliber Johnson in my pants, baby.”

“Kevin! It’s cold.”

“Okay—okay. I’m on my way. Should be tracks.”

“The ground’s frozen and there’s no snow, dummy.”

“Oh yeah.”

He stepped out of the car on unsteady legs. Sally followed.

“Where are you going?”

“You don’t think I’m staying out here alone, do you? Just go. I’m hanging on to your coattails.”

The shed door was banging in the wind. He stepped inside and shined the light around the interior. She stepped in behind him.

“See, no one here.” He turned and closed the door, locking it, tried the light switch. Nothing happened. “That’s funny?”

“What?”

“Must be why the outside light was off. Blown bulb.”

He went to the door, took his key and unlocked it. “That’s even funnier.”

“What?”

“The key turned too easily.”

“Damn it, Kevin, did you check to see if it was actually locked?”

“No.”

“Christ.”

“Don’t worry, my demented uncle must have made a copy.”

“Stop it, you’re freaking me out.”

“I’m kidding, silly.”

“Dick head.”

The kitchen was warm. He flipped the kitchen switch. Nothing. “Christ!”

“What now?”

“Power must be out.”

“But there’s no storm.”

“Wind. These old lines are sensitive. Here, I’ve got another flashlight.” He rummaged around in the cupboard drawer until he came back with it, handed it to her. “I’ll go look for candles. Wanna come?”

“No, I’ll stay here until I know the coast is clear.”

“There’s no one in the house, baby.”

“I wish you had a gun.”

“I told you—”

“Don’t even go there.”

“Not to worry. I won’t need one. If someone’s in the house I’ll run like hell.”

“Damn, this isn’t funny.” She picked her cell phone out of her purse. “I’m calling the cops.”

“Don’t be stupid.” At the dining room door he turned and shined his light on her. “You can call the cops if I’m not back in half an hour.”

“Cut it out, you asshole.”

He hurried through the doorway. She heard his quick footfalls receding. “Shit, I don’t like this. I’m coming with you.” She went into the dining room, shined the light around the interior. He wasn’t there.

“Kevin?” she called. No answer. “Kevin this isn’t funny.” Gooseflesh exploded on her skin making her shiver.

She heard more footfalls like someone climbing stairs.

“It’s all right,” Kevin called. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Aiming the flashlight Sally entered the hallway. By the time she reached the foot of the stairs Kevin was gone.

“Kevin?”

She didn’t know if he’d heard her but decided not to call out again. No point in acting too needy.

Sally stood motionless gazing up into the darkness. She could hear her own heart pounding in her ears. Sweat trickled down her back.

She turned off the light to see if she could see Kevin’s light flashing around upstairs.

Everything was dark.

She heard nothing but her own breathing, her own pulsing blood.

Silence was probably a good thing, she thought. If something goes wrong, I’ll know about it.

She gripped the flashlight with one hand, the cell phone with the other. They were both slippery against her skin. She looked at the phone’s dial. It was black.

She felt around until she found the on button, pushed it. The dial lit up and she could hear a dial tone. With another push of her thumb the light went out and the phone went silent. She sighed, dropped it back in her purse.

“Kevin, I’m coming up.” No answer.

I don’t really want to go up there, do I?

Sally began ascending the stairs, the beam from her flashlight trained at the top. When she reached the landing she heard a thump then a sound like a bowling ball rolling across the floor.

“Kevin?” she called. “Is everything all right?”

A voice that didn’t sound very much like Kevin answered, “Never better.”

She flinched and the flashlight slipped from her hand and crashed to the floor, the beam dying.

Oh dear God, what is going on?

“Kevin? Stop screwing around.”

She felt a scream about to break out of her throat.

She pulled the bedroom door open, leaned across the threshold and peered inside.

Kevin’s flashlight lay on the bed. Its beam backlit the hunched figure coming toward her. He was no one Sally had ever seen before—big and lumbering, impossibly bent, as though he’d suffered some terrible trauma. The tattered shirt that he wore was dripping with blood. In his hands he held a machete.

This isn’t real, Sally thought distantly. Kevin must be playing the world’s worst joke on me.

But Kevin’s head was perched on top of one of the bed-posts. It looked like a Halloween mask mounted on a broomstick. His eyes were open and staring. Blood ran down the post pooling on the floor. The lumbering figure moved toward her. This had to be a joke.

Screaming, Sally lurched backward and slammed the door shut, whirled and tried to run. Her foot came down on something that had to be the disabled flashlight. It rolled away and she went airborne. Her back slammed onto the floor. The breath pushed from her lungs.

As she tried to get up the door flew open and dim light poured into the corridor.

Quasimodo charged out. Seeing Sally lying on the floor he stopped abruptly.

“Who are you?” she screamed, scrabbling to get up.

He was raising the machete above his head. “Kevin didn’t tell you? I’m his uncle. His demented uncle. That’s what the family likes to call me anyway. They get a big laugh out of it. I’ll bet they won’t be laughing after this.”

“No!” she cried. “I didn’t do anything. Leave me alone.”

She rolled as the machete came down.

She heard him grunt.

Something struck her shoulder but there was no pain. She got to her feet and ran for the stairs.

She felt the pain now and the warm blood against her skin. Her left arm dangled, immobile.

Something heavy struck her in the back and she tumbled down the stairs.

At the bottom she opened her eyes. He was standing over her. She tried to push herself up but it was no use.

She knew this wasn’t happening. It had to be a joke. She and Kevin were supposed to make love, sleep-in tomorrow morning, have a languid and lazy New Years Day.

He raised the machete. She tried to move.

It was no use.

All she could do was scream.

Below is a description.

How many women did John Lennon bed in his lifetime? Does he still exist in a strange time warp where women are forced into his company by invisible men who drive skewed automobiles? Deb Stiles thinks so but she also believes that her soul is in jeopardy. She tells reporter Rick Sanchez about the strange East End Hotel known as Strawberry Fields and of the room with the number 9 on the door. Rick Sanchez doesn’t know it but he’s in for the ride of his life.
A story with a twist you won’t see coming.

Well, that was that, fuck you very much. I never sent another thing to that agency or any other agency for that matter. Maybe I’ve got a thin skin, but I was not interested in going through my writing life having to endure rejection after rejection. No way, no how. I was keenly aware of the statistics. One writer friend of mine had been rejected so many times he was on the verge of suicide.

So, this is what I did. Way back in the dark ages before kindle and nook and all those other reading devices we now take for granted were invented, I decided to self-publish my magnum opus. This was before Amazon or any of the other booksellers were selling e-books. If you wanted to self-publish a book you needed to go through one of those “vanity” presses that charged for services. That’s what I did. I brought The Lost Village out in hardcover and trade paperback and sold downloadable copies from my website to those who were willing to read an enormous book on their computer screens. The book actually came out pretty well. It was formatted nicely, had a good cover. I signed up with the New England Horror Writers, did some group signings, made some friends, and, to my amazement, the book began to sell. Before long I was receiving some nice reviews from fellow authors as well as readers, and low and behold I found out that several ‘respectable’ authors with ‘real’ published books had recommended to the HWA (the Horror Writer’s Association) that The Lost Village be nominated for a Bram Stoker Award. But of course it wasn’t nominated. Back then, and even now, the HWA has a very hard time recognizing anything self-published. They love their legacy publishers, and if your work isn’t sanctioned by one of them, well. They claim they consider all published works, and I believe they do, but it’s been my experience that very few independent books have ever been nominated, let alone won an award. No matter, they are for the most part, a good and beneficial organization and their current president Rocky Wood is a super nice guy. But I believe that if they continue on their present course they will soon become as irrelevant as bookstores and legacy publishers.

The Lost Village sold well without the benefit of being sanctioned by a legacy publisher, or being recognized by the Horror Writers Association.

In the meantime I wrote several other books and was doing okay publishing short stories in various magazines and anthologies.

Then two and a half years ago, on a whim, I sent my novella, The Haunting of Sam Cabot to the small press, Damnation Books. Now this is the important part. Are you listening? It was the first time in my writing life that I had ever sent a manuscript to a book publisher. You heard me right. The very first time. I really liked being independent. At the time, Kindle was a brand new concept and I had never heard of it. Damn my error. Well, I heard right back from Damnation Books that they wanted to publish my book. Wow! First time. Couldn’t believe it. They subsequently published two more of my books and re-issued The Lost Village. I signed five year contracts on each of those books. I wish I never had. It was just about the time Kindle exploded and I was suddenly tied down to a publisher who priced my books much too high to sell well on Kindle. Even so, The Haunting of Sam Cabot has done very well. It has been a consistently good seller for more than two years. The others are hit and miss. To my utter chagrin they priced The Lost Village at $9.95. Celebrity authors can get away with selling e-books at that price, unfortunately nobody else can. Try telling that to my publisher. Even so, The Lost Village sells consistently at that price, (usually managing to stay in the top 100,000 sales rank) but I know in my heart that if it had been priced at $2.99 where it should be, it would have been a Kindle bestseller by now. I’ve begged and pleaded with my publisher to just try it but they won’t budge. Too bad for them because they have lost me as an author. When my book contracts run out I will not be renewing with them. Not that they probably care much anyway, they have a stable of hundreds of authors now, most of which seem quite satisfied to earn 17.5% of the list price instead of the 70% they could earn as independents. Go figure. I guess the prestige of having a REAL publisher outweighs everything else including earnings.

I have since self-published a collection of shorts for kindle Servants of Darkness that’s been doing very well for a collection (Collections aren’t supposed to be good sellers) and I’ve published several other novellas, and a bunch of short stories, and I have two new novels coming after the first of the year that I will most definitely self-publish.

So, here I am, right back to square one. I have always been a strong advocate of self-publishing. I fell down once and signed with a publisher, but unless I’m offered a huge amount of money and great e-book terms I will never ever do it again. I’m having too much fun on my own.

As I said in a previous post, this is just me. Each writer has to find his or her own path. I feel that my own writing journey is just beginning. The time has never been better for the independent author. Any way you do it takes time and patience. If you decide to self-publish, make sure you have a good book, a good cover and a great description. Hire a good editor and listen to what that person has to say. Once all that is done, put your book out there and promote it until you’re exhausted. With all of those things and a little luck maybe you will become the next Kindle bestseller.

All my novel-length works are 2.99 or above. On Amazon you receive 70% of anything priced above 2.99.  On a 2.99 Ebook I receive 2.05. Not too bad when you consider that the stuff I have with a publisher (three books to be exact) only nets me 17.5% of list. The publisher likes to word it as 40% of net, which doesn’t sound too bad when you sign the contract, but in reality it figures to just about 17.5% of the purchase price.

I’m not here to trumpet the virtues of independent publishing over legacy publishing, although I might do that in a future post. Writers have to make up their own minds about what’s best for them. I only know what works best for me. I have two new novels coming early next year and I can tell you this, they will both be independent books. I hire my own editor, commission the cover art from some very good artists, and I’m pretty good at doing the formatting. (Better than my publisher actually) So when you take into consideration the profit difference between doing it yourself and putting it in the hands of a publisher it seems like a no-brainer to me.  I wish I’d thought that way years ago.

By the way, I also offer some of those same .99 cent short stories as a collection entitled, Servants of Darkness, for $2.99. Readers who want to sample my work can buy a .99 cent short and if they like what they read they can buy an entire collection for 2.99. In this digital age I think writers are nuts if they don’t use every opportunity available to them.

Also, I am in the process of offering all of those same short stories on my website for free. Yes, you heard me right, FREE!  If someone wants to save the .99 cent kindle fee and doesn’t mind reading on the computer, they can read my short stories without paying anything. Maybe I’m nuts but I believe it’s the right thing to do.

But to answer the original question: How can you make money by publishing .99 cent Ebooks on Amazon? Just ask John Locke. If you’re a writer and you haven’t yet heard of John Locke, then you’ve been living under a rock. John Locke writes the Donovan Creed book series and he prices all his novel-length books at .99 cents. He sold a million of them in five months and they’re selling at the rate of one every seventeen seconds.

In summary I think the future is very bright for those writers who have the courage to be creative.

———

Mark Edward Hall has worked at a variety of professions including hunting and fishing guide, owner of a recording studio, singer/songwriter in a multitude of rock n’ roll bands. He has also worked in the aerospace industry on a variety of projects including the space shuttle and the Viking Project, the first Mars lander, of which the project manager was one of his idols: Carl Sagan. He went to grammar school in Durham, Maine with Stephen King, and in the 1990s decided to get serious with his own desire to write fiction. His first short story, Bug Shot was published in 1995. His critically acclaimed supernatural thriller, The Lost Village was published in 2003. Since then he has published five books and more than fifty short stories. His new novel, a thriller entitled Apocalypse Island is due out in early 2012.

The Nest

By

Mark Edward Hall

The day: cold. November, gray. Vagrant spears of melancholy light piercing heavy overcast, pressing down, stifling.

The house: bright white, an impressionist’s painting; skeletal swamp willows. The river: wide, smooth, reflective, below island’s eternal evergreens.

Obsidian eyes, watching.

The man: hunched, lurking, glasses trained, patient, waiting, moving forward a careful step at time; watching.

“Do you see them, Alden?”

A contemptuous flap of a hand. “Shush! You’ll scare them.”

“It’s not as if they can hear us from this distance, you know.”

He lowers the binoculars, shakes his head, sighs. “I’m not taking any chances.” His whisper is shrill, impatient. “Do you understand? Not before I have a chance to photograph them.”

“Why did you drag me out here then?”

“To observe, not to flap your gums.”

“I can observe perfectly well from the house, thank you very much, and at least in there I can talk if I so desire.”

He ignores her insolence, sorry he had dragged her along. “I just don’t understand it,” he says. “I’ve gone through that book a hundred times and I’m completely baffled. There isn’t a species that even closely resembles them. And I don’t know of one single example in the northern part of the United States that mate this time of year. Most birds migrate in the fall and the ones that don’t have all they can do to survive. They don’t mate in November. It’s insanity.”

“What makes you think they’re mating?”

“You have to see for yourself.”

Obsidian eyes, watching.

“I swear, Alden, you’re becoming a fanatic about this. They’re just birds.”

“No, they’re not just birds, Rachael! There’s something . . . different about them. Something . . . totally weird. Look for yourself.” He thrusts the binoculars at her. She takes them, albeit reluctantly, giving a small exasperated shake of the head. Stoically resigned, she puts them to her eyes and focuses.

“Another baby disappeared last night,” he says conversationally. Rachael stiffens. “This one on the south end. A little girl. She wasn’t in her crib this morning when her mother went in to get her.”

The glasses go askew and fall from Rachael’s eyes. “I’m having dreams,” she says. “That I’m alone. That you and Billy are gone. Jesus, Alden, what’s happening to us?”

“I don’t know, but I’m worried about Billy.”

“I don’t think I can take much more of this.” Her hands are shaking. She is having trouble holding the glasses. She tries to give them back but sees that he is busy forming thoughts.

“The FBI’s been called in and there’s a manhunt going on. They say if something doesn’t turn up soon they’ll do a house-to-house canvas.”

“Yeah, well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

He looks pensively back toward the island, staring at the huge nest at the top of the dead white pine.

“You are scaring the shit out of me, Alden.”

“I can’t believe you’re not concerned. Rachael, babies are disappearing from their cribs.”

“I know! Jesus, I am concerned! Just as much as you. But I will not buy into your obtuse theory.”

“It’s not obtuse. The problem is, you just don’t take me seriously. About anything!”

“Listen to me, you stupid man. I take you seriously when you make sense. You’re not making sense now. There’s some kind of nut on the loose and he’s the one taking those poor children. Not some . . . figment of your idiotic imagination. Don’t you think I’m scared for Billy? Just as scared as you are?”

He nods but she can tell he’s hurt.

He turns back to the nest. “How is this nut getting into these peoples’ locked houses, pray tell?”

“You’re taking about birds, Alden. Listen to yourself. How do you think they’re doing it? Down the chimney, like Santa Clause?”

He gives his head a rueful shake. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.”

Rachael shivers. “In any case, Billy’s sleeping with us again tonight.”

“You bet he is.”

She feels suddenly all weepy and weak. Puts the binoculars back to her eyes and scans, picking up the nest and holding for a long moment, trying to steady them. “It looks like a nest of ordinary eagles to me,” she says finally.

Alden grabs the binoculars away from her. “They’re not eagles! Jesus Christ, Rachael, don’t you think I know what eagles look like?”

“Ospreys then.”

He shakes his head, finding no words to convey his exasperation.

“You really are scaring me, Alden.”

“I know what I’m seeing, Rachael. For Christ’s sake, eagles don’t nest this time of year, and neither do ospreys. As a matter of fact, ospreys migrate. The nest is full of young birds. Didn’t you see their little bald heads in the binoculars?”

“No, I didn’t see! I didn’t see anything except a big empty nest at the top of that dead pine tree. I swear, mister, you are losing it, and you are scaring me.”

“I don’t believe you can’t see what I’m seeing.”

“You and I look at the world differently, Alden. We always have. You see flying saucers and I see weather balloons, you see ghosts, I see smoke, you see a pony, I see a stall full of horse shit. You’re a dreamer—”

“I’m a romantic.”

“Whatever. You should have been a writer, you know, with that imagination.”

“Say what you want, the disappearances didn’t start until that nest appeared.”

“Oh, Alden, grow up. I’m not going to listen to this garbage a moment longer.” Rachael turns and stomps toward the house.

Obsidian eyes, watching.

“I’m not suggesting anything,” he says later, trying to make amends. “It’s just odd, that’s all, don’t you think?”

She looks pensively at him. “What’s odd is that you’re making some kind of twisted connection between the disappearing children and that stupid nest.”

“There are five now, Rachael. Count them!” He thrusts his hand out, emphasizing his five fingers. “All from this town. No one else is losing children. I’m just looking for a logical explanation.”

“Logical?”

“I’m going over there, tonight.”

“You’re what?”

“I want to see for myself.”

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe, but at least we’ll know, won’t we?”

“You’re going to climb that tree at night.”

“It has to be done.”

“No it doesn’t, Alden!”

“Yes it does!”

Rachael runs an exasperated hand through her hair. “If you ever breathe a word of what you’re about to do to anyone, I swear, I’ll deny any knowledge of it. Do you know why? Because they’ll lock you up and throw away the key. And I never want Billie to know what a screwball his father is.”

“So, what do you believe, Rachael?”

“I told you. I believe a sick, perverted human being is taking those children, period!”

The night: scudding clouds. Moon. Canoe on river; paddle rippling; calm water.

He climbs the familiar branches of the familiar tree, the mewing bundle strapped to his side.

The nest: tiny bleached skulls, bones, the new offering.

“I was trying to tell you, Rachael,” he whispers, as he places the child in the nest. “But you wouldn’t listen. Now it’s too late. He twists his body, falling forward, arms outstretched; a perfect swan dive toward the dark forest floor. Eagles pounce, shrieking.

Rachael exits the house on a run, screams echoing across calm water: “BILLY! Dear God, somebody help me! BILLLLLY . . . !”

The Resurrection Pit

by

Mark Edward Hall

I like peanut butter and maggot sandwiches.

Christian didn’t care if his little brother did like peanut butter and maggot sandwiches, as long as he came back to him.

The first time Christian was consciously aware of the resurrection pit he was twelve years old and it was three days after Stevie disappeared.

He knew folks died. He knew they went away. That was life in Somerville. Everybody went away eventually. And he knew about wakes and funerals and folks hanging out in Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes crying and eating bland food and toasting the dead with cheap wine and stale beer. Hell, he’d been to enough of them, too many to count.

What he didn’t understand was why they came back.

And why they were never quite the same after they did.

And nobody could ever give him a good answer about any of it.

Shhh, you’re not supposed to talk about these things.

And so he stopped talking about it, but he could never stop thinking about it. They could not make him do that.

His little brother Stevie was ten. They shared a room. They were close.

One night he heard footsteps and loud whispers out in the hallway and Stevie crying, and then it was silent and he knew.

And in the morning Stevie was gone.

Waylon, their father, was making a racket over breakfast, banging pots and pans together. Like he was angry.

Christian’s mother took off when he was five and Stevie was three. Nobody ever said why but Christian thought he knew. When she went away she wanted to stay gone.

Christian carefully searched the house but found no trace of his little brother. Returning finally to the kitchen he stood and watched his father.

“Where is he?”

“Gone,” Waylon said.

“Like Mama?”

“No.”

“Where then?”

Waylon did not answer him. He smiled at the boy but Christian saw that it was a false smile, that his eyes were somewhere else, like they had turned over in his head and only seemed to be looking inward, as if they had been forced to gaze upon something too terrible to confide. Waylon wobbled around the kitchen, whistling tunelessly to himself and making small talk, but Christian was no fool. He knew what had happened to his little brother and he hated his father for not telling him.

“When’s he coming back?”

“Oh, a day or two.”

Christian had friends whose mothers and fathers had died, and he knew kids who’d died in car crashes. They all came back eventually. He had a friend named Leroy Starks who had fallen off a tractor into the blades of a corn harvester.  He didn’t see Leroy’s body but those who did said it was a mess. Three days later Leroy was back at school. His skin looked different; yellow, like puss, and he talked slower, and he walked slower, like he had shit in his pants, and his eyes were dull, like they weren’t really seeing you, and he dug around in his nostrils all the time as if he was trying to scratch an itch in his brain. And he would say stupid things such as: I like peanut butter and maggot sandwiches?  Or: I’m gonna play with my dead puppy when I get home?

Christian supposed it was good to have Leroy back, even if he did say stupid things.

Three days passed and Stevie still hadn’t returned. When he asked his father about it Waylon said, “There must have been a problem. Be patient. Things will play out eventually.”

“What sort of things?” Christian asked.

Waylon looked long and hard at his son before answering. “I suppose it’s time you knew about it,” he said. “You’re old enough.”

“Knew about what?”

“The resurrection pit.”

Christian nodded in understanding. He knew. Somehow he’d always known.

“During the nineteenth century something happened in the woods out behind old man Doggett’s farm,” Waylon explained. “Something hit the ground, made a pretty big crater. Nobody knows what it was but it burned away part of the forest and it never grew back. Couple years later, Doggett’s wife died and he buried her out in the pit. No one knows why he did it and I guess it’s not important. The point is, two days later she came back. She wasn’t exactly the same but she was good enough for old Doggett. She cooked his meals and cleaned his house. So before Doggett died he left instructions to be buried in the pit.” Waylon paused, looking in his son’s eyes. “That was more than a hundred years ago and . . . well . . . you know . . .”

“Yeah,” Christian said, “The Doggett’s are still around.” Christian knew them from church; they both had puss-yellow skin, dull eyes, frozen smiles and blackened teeth. Just like half the people in Somerville. And at school more and more kids were going away and coming back changed. Some ate rotten apples for lunch. Still others dined on insects and dead frogs. Some wore their clothes horribly soiled, inside out; few handed in homework and the teachers seemed not to care.

I like peanut butter and maggot sandwiches.

Waylon hung his head.

“Well why hasn’t anybody come here from away, see why it’s happening?” Christian asked.

“Oh they have,” Waylon said. “You bet they have.”

“Well?”

“They go away and never come back.”

“But what about Stevie?” Christian insisted. “Stevie didn’t just die, did he?”

“No, son, he didn’t. But he’s gone and there are rules.”

“What rules?”

“We’re living longer these days,” Waylon explained. “There’s better medicine, safer cars. If natural attrition doesn’t accomplish the goal then we have to be . . . creative.”

“I hate you,” Christian said.  He got up and left the room, knowing what his father had done.

Six days and nights passed and Stevie still hadn’t returned. And Christian began having dreams; Stevie sidling up to his bed, whispering in his ear, his breath dank, like grave dirt. “I need you, Christian,” his brother implored. “I can’t come home without your help.” But Christian knew that wasn’t the way it worked. Something was wrong.

The dreams continued for nearly a month and when Christian mentioned them to his father, Waylon would just stare blankly at him. When he tried to stay awake, Stevie’s voice went silent.  It was only on those nights where, bested by exhaustion, he would fall into bed only to awaken at the sound of creaking floorboards as something crawled toward his room.  A shape would slither past the doorway and the smell of grave dirt would assault his senses.

“Please, Christian.”

I don’t know what to do, Stevie.

“Yes you do.”

Dad should do it.

“Dad can’t”

Why not?

“Because Mama says you have to.”

Mama? Christian thought.

In a near-trance state, Christian climbed out of bed and, barefoot, followed the dark shape through the fields of autumn-dry corn stalks to the woods behind Doggett’s farm. It wasn’t until Christian reached the crater did he realize his brother had disappeared.

The pit was just as his father had described, a deep bowl-shaped indentation in the earth where vegetation refused to grow. Christian stood on the rim looking down into it. With the harvest moon clear and bright he had no trouble seeing the hundreds of holes where citizens had been buried and resurrected. But why had Stevie been denied? And what did Mama have to do with it?

Christian moved down into the pit until he came to an untouched mound. Something about the look of it troubled him.

He went to his knees and started to dig, thinking of his brother and Waylon’s blank stare, thinking of the kids at school.

I like peanut butter and maggot sandwiches.

He dug in the ground until his fingers bled. In the end, he found only an empty hole in the earth. And in the morning, despite the filth on his feet and the blood on his hands, he wondered if it had all been a dream.

That night the dark shape was back, slithering across the floorboards, beckoning, pleading.

“I need you, Christian.”

I tried last night, Stevie.

“Mama wasn’t ready.”

No! Mama went away a long time ago and didn’t come back. She went away because she didn’t want to come back.

“She’s been waiting a long time, Christian. You’re the only one who can help her.”

Christian left his bed and followed the slithering shape across the dark fields to the resurrection pit.

The hole he’d dug the night before was filled. And he realized why he’d been bothered by it. It couldn’t be Stevie’s grave. It was too big for a kid.

He got down on his knees and, with raw and bleeding hands, proceeded to dig.

When he hit something moist and soft he was careful to dig around it, throwing handfuls of soil up over the rim. He saw the mounds of her breasts first, then a partially decomposed face and thick mats of hair.

“Mama?”

But Mama was already in the process of changing, the decomposition coming loose and sliding away. Beneath, another face was revealing itself, scaly, lizard-like.

Christian gave an abhorrent shudder and crawled out of the grave. Waylon and Stevie both stood at the edge peering in.

The creature in the hole pushed out its dirt-caked snout, its lizard-like eyes opening with moist sounds. The legs scrabbled and broke free. Thick braids of exposed sinew coiled up each of its legs, like cables that bunched and flexed as years of encrusted soil fell away.

The alien came up out of the hole as if on springs. The knobs of her spine were connected to strong plates of muscle. Her arms and legs were stretching even as they twitched with spasms, elongating, the fingers and toes now claws, lizard eyes scanning, landing on Christian.

Christian backed away. “No,” he said.

Waylon and Stevie moved toward him. “Your mother didn’t just go away, Christian. She was chosen.”

Christian continued to back away. “Chosen? What do you mean?”

“She needed a longer gestation period than the rest of us.”

Waylon made a gesture, taking in the entire crater. “You don’t think this was an accident, do you?”

Christian followed his hand and saw that the residents of Somerville had come out to watch. They lined the rim of the crater like guardians staring down at the birth of their queen.

THE END