Hell's Heart: 15 Twisted Tales of Love Run Amok

Hell's Heart: 15 Twisted Tales of Love Run Amok by Lafcadio Press at Smashwords

The fourteen authors in this anthology retain and hold their individual respective rights

to their stories.

Cover Art Copyright Dirk Strangely 2018

Introduction copyright 2018 April Grey.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. These stories remain the copyrighted property of the various authors, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer.

Thank you for your support.

Table of Contents

Introduction

The Reawakening of the Wolf

Reunion

Dark Reunion

Soul Music

By Your Own Free Will

Down and Out Under R’lyeh

Todd Nathaniel’s Last Case

The Perils of Being a Single Horror, Science Fiction and Fantasy Writer

Persistence

B Train Blues

The Ultimate Test

A Marked Man

Dream Lover

Graveheart: Under Lock and Key

Burning Love

Introduction

Welcome to another Hell’s Anthology. Past volumes have explored the topics of gardens, crones, beasts and music in stories of horror and dark fantasy, here we now have a dark take on love.

Mainstream romance with happy endings never captured my imagination as much as romance with a threatening twist. Growing up, I savored the dark stories of suspense by Daphne Du Maurier, Victoria Holt, Dorothy Eden, Phillis Whitney and of course their original inspiration, the Brontë Sisters with their tales of madwomen in attics and doomed loves on the Yorkshire Moors.

If a book's cover featured a woman in a nightgown running away from a haunted mansion, I had to read it. This colored my attitude towards men - dangerous creatures to approach with caution. Heathcliff seems swoon worthy, but a nightmare to live with.

My own first storytelling effort was for a magazine's romance writing contest. To my surprised disappointment, my story didn't win a runner-up prize. How could my spirited effort fail to enchant the judges? A few years on, an online zine editor enlightened me that there were rules for romance which must be followed.

The acquisitions editor for a publishing house that I used to work for revealed another insider secret. When preparing for a convention panel on editing, I asked her advice on what would sell. Tell your writers to send romances to me, she said. Any kind of romance. She explained that as long as the romantic element was uppermost you could write science fiction, fantasy, horror, steampunk, thrillers, and more. Give your readers a HEA (Happily Ever After) and you will have an instant audience.

Sigh. While romance elements feature strongly in my writing, it would be a struggle for me to make them the dominant element. That's why my novels aren't romance, but urban fantasy.

Two writers who inspire me are Charlaine Harris (the Southern Vampire Series) and Laurell K. Hamilton (Anita Blake and the Merry Gentry Series). They manage to keep that romantic ball in the air as they write book after book—and almost never soothe readers with an HEA. Hugely successful, both writers broke the shackling rules for romantic suspense, and have carved their own niches in the landscape of horror/paranormal/urban fantasy/romance.

For this edition of the Hell's series, I invited writers to give their take on romantic horror. Their offerings run the gambit of horror sub-genres: we have stories of amour fou, the Lovecraftian tale, werewolves, witches, ghosts searching for their lost loves and even a phantasmagorical character from a writer’s imagination. You'll find tales of revenge and reunification.... and even a few Happily Ever Afters.

Contributors write in American, British and even South African English, and I shall respect their writing styles. If you see color written as colour, it’s not a typo but rather the flavor of another continent.

Thank you for your support of this anthology. When you've finished reading, the writers and I would love it if you leave a review on Good Reads or your blog.

Enjoy the tales.

April Grey, NYC, September 2018

The Reawakening of the Wolf

by V Peter Collins

Matted leaves cling to dirt moistened by blood seeping from the wounded wolf. He lies still in an unconscious attempt to recover from the previous night’s battle, too drained to move. It had been a seemingly unceasing battle, and now that it was over, all that he wishes is for his own end.

A thought runs through his mind, unbidden, a thought of his beloved. He hears the howls of his enemies still nearby, but the thought of her pulls him back from his despair, smothering his wish for death like cold snow atop a grassy field, and covering him like the warmth of a summer rain.

Shivering through the cold night, he feels himself weakening as his life seeps away from him, out through his wounds, to quench the thirsty ground beneath. She comes to mind once more, a remembrance of the love that they share, and with that remembrance comes hunger. He must eat, he must survive.

He must survive.

Inky, sharply clawed fingers of blackness crowd in on the edges of his vision, but he forces them back, ignoring his own shivering body, ignoring the bays and howls of his enemies that sound and resound all around. Through sheer willpower, he forces blood into his limbs and commands his muscles to work. Shivering, legs quivering, he rises slowly, aware of the abounding enemies, aware of his seeping wounds. Motionless he remains as the sounds around him grow louder and nearer. He takes in the air, hoping to smell a morsel somewhere nearby. A small scrap, possibly a lucky mouse that’s lived longer than it should, is within pouncing distance, but achieving it would mean alerting his enemies to his whereabouts. At first, he thought it best to let slip the small meal, but he thinks of her again, and is ushered forth with the need to live.

Snap, and the rodent is his, and eaten. Howls of searching and taunting turn into a fury of battle cries, and the enemies of the wolf move in.

Fear suffocates him, drowning his senses, clouding his thoughts, and undoing his will. His prowling enemies move in close for the kill, and the wolf feels there is naught left to do but lie down and wait.

He thinks of her again, of the times they would not share together, the things they could not do together, should his enemies be granted victory. The wolf lifts his bowed and heavy head, and is stopped by a sight he had dared not hope for.

The moon, previously covered by a thick veil of clouds, shines through the night air and scattered trees in full, silvery glory. It is the wolf’s source of strength, and he stands once again. Its power surges through his blood, knitting his wounds closed and restoring his will. At once, he recognizes what that power is and rejoices; it is her love for him that revives him for battle. She is the moon, she is his moon, and while she shines in his heart, he will always have fight in him.

The fire for life renewed once more, the wolf turns to face his enemies, fully intent on rending them as they come, fully intent on defying defeat with redoubled fury.

Growing up on a steady diet of Star Trek and after-school cartoons led V Peter Collins through the vibrant world of science fiction/fantasy writing, inevitably to become a member of the Horror Writer's Association. His short piece The Faery Queen of Lo Mein appears in the fantasy anthology Bad-Ass Faeries, and Sweet Spot appears in the horror anthology, Hell's Bells, the previous installment in this anthology series. Besides writing, he freelances as an editor of prose and script, and can be reached via email at vpetercollins@gmail.com.

Reunion

by Rick Poldark

Martin nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a knock at the door. He scanned the table one last time, making sure the place settings were just right. The sea asters and blue bells sat, arranged perfectly in the repurposed bell jar, and the fire was roaring in the hearth. It was near midnight on November’s Eve, and his wife, Mary, had arrived.

He bolted to the front door and opened it, finding her standing in the autumn chill. Hello, honeybun.

Mary looked up at him, her eyes blazing blue, like ice on fire. She wore a half smile, looking awkward. She opened her mouth to speak, but paused, looking unsure.

Do come in, Mary. Martin stepped aside and let her pass, closing the door behind her. She crossed the room to the table and took her place, wordless. As she passed him, his skin tingled. He missed her more than anything in the world.

Martin, not sure what to do first, was certain of one thing—he didn’t want a repeat of last year. When she had become angry and stormed out, his heart had nearly broke...again. This time, it’s going to be magic, he muttered to himself.

He hurried over to his stovetop and tasted the stew, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder. She was looking at the flowers, her glossy eyes reflecting the firelight. She looked as beautiful as the day they met at the church dance in Kinsale. He tasted the stew and decided it was ready.

Martin snapped his fingers, cursing himself for nearly forgetting. He had opened a bottle of red wine to allow it to breathe. He grabbed it and hurried over to his estranged bride. Mary, I’m so sorry. Would you like some wine?

She nodded. He still wasn’t used to the silent treatment. They had always talked, from the moment he returned from the peat bogs and she from the school house, all through dinner, and often late into the night. However, she was here now, which was what mattered.

He poured her a generous glass, and he returned to the stew. He pulled two clean bowls out of the cupboard and filled them using a ladle. He brought them over to the table, placing hers down first, and then his. He sat across from her, expectant, watching her face.

Mary looked down at the stew and then at him. She smiled.

Relieved, Martin, poured himself a glass of wine, but not too much like last time. Too much led to mistakes.

Mary curled her delicate fingers around the stem of her glass and took a sip, spilling a bit of wine down her chin. Then, she picked up her spoon and shoveled stew into her mouth, chomping on it.

Martin looked at that spot on her neck when she swallowed, watching it swell into a lump as food passed, and shrink again afterwards. I…I missed you, you know. Terribly. I’m so glad you’re here tonight.

Gravy dribbled down her chin and onto her dress, already yellow with age.

You ought to let me buy you a new dress, he offered. I want you to have it.

She looked at him, her eyes wet. Was she moved? The lump in her throat swelled as freshly chewed food passed, her eyes watering. It was a grotesque exaggeration, a reminder of his failure.

Does it hurt, Mary? Martin reached across the small wooden table and grabbed her napkin. He dabbed her chin, and she let him. He was overwhelmed with emotion, but he choked it down. He wouldn’t allow an outburst this year. He had come to terms with her condition since the night of the accident, but it was a bitter pill to swallow.

Mary regarded him with a look he interpreted as gratitude, and she continued to eat, punctuating mouthfuls of stew with sips of wine.

Martin smiled. There ya go, honeybun. I’m so glad you like the stew. It was always your favorite. It was also what she choked on the night of the accident. Yet, it was what she still wanted. She made that clear enough when she tossed his ham and mash across the room last year in her silent rage.

Martin ignored his stew, which was growing cold. He took a draught of his wine. I…I was wondering if you would stay.

Mary stopped, mid chew, gazing at him.

He leaned forward. You can have the bed, and I’ll sleep on the couch, for as long as you like.

She resumed her chewing, dribbling saliva and gravy.

He decided to push the point, this time calmly. You don’t have to go back to...that place. It’s unnecessary. Mary, I’m your husband. You belong with me, here.

She dropped her spoon, and it clanked loudly on her bowl. At first, he thought she was angry, but her thumb had snapped, brittle from her condition, and the spoon had slipped out of her grasp.

Martin sprung up from his chair. Oh, honeybun. Let me help you with that.

Mary sat there, wearing a goatee of carrots and gravy, as he raced to the kitchen, rummaging through drawers. He returned with a bandage. May I?

She nodded, her frosty blue eyes staring up at him.

His knees felt weak as he gazed back at her, into her eyes, those beautiful blue eyes. He gently lifted her hand off the table and held it aloft. Her skin was cold and clammy to the touch. He wrapped her thumb, straightening it, ignoring the fact there was no blood. When he finished, she reached up with her other hand and placed it on top of his.

It, too, was cold, but Martin didn’t notice. He was overwhelmed by her overture. "Oh,