Midnight in the graveyar.., p.1
Midnight in the Graveyard, page 1
MIDNIGHT
IN THE
GRAVEYARD
“One of the decade’s finest feasts of fiction.”—Matt Hayward, Bram Stoker Award-nominated author of What Do Monsters Fear?
“Midnight in the Graveyard is a collection of ghostly stories that will keep you awake at night long after you finish the last story. From vengeful spirits to sympathetic haunts, every one of these modern tales is a classic in its own right.”—JG Faherty, author of Hellrider, The Cure, and Carnival of Fear
“Midnight in The Graveyard is a tome packed with the best of the macabre, with a table of contents that will surely lure in horror fans of all tastes, with both heavy hitters and rising stars of the genre displaying some of the most original ghost stories penned. With tales of wandering spirits, those trapped here by the madness of their former deeds, and those doomed to walk the earth in limbo for atrocities they had no part in. Reading it is like a walk through a cemetery by the light of the moon, you can feel the souls reaching out to you from each grave, desperate to tell their stories, some will whisper to you of their sorrows while others scream for your blood and suffering. A wonderfully spooky read!”—Michelle Garza, co-author of Mayan Blue, Those Who Follow, Tapetum Lucidum, and Isolation
“Seriously creepy and deliciously disturbed, you can practically smell the moldering earth on your fingertips as you turn the page... or swipe the screen.”—Craig Spector, bestselling author of Underground and The Light At The End
“Midnight in the Graveyard gathers a collection of some of the most talented authors in the genre today, both well-known names and up-and-comers. The stories are spooky, creepy, emotional, and gripping. If you want a sampling of great horror, this anthology is for you.”—Mark Allan Gunnells, author of Daylight Will Not Save You and Book Haven and Other Curiosities
“Featuring work from a bevy of talented newcomers plus legends such as Beth Massie and Robert McCammon, Midnight in the Graveyard is the ghoulish grimoire of ghost stories you need to conjure scares this Halloween.”—Mark Steensland, co-author of In the Scrape, The Special, and Jimmy the Freak
“With stories ranging from macabre to melancholy to the downright frightening, this incredible mix of veterans and up-and-comers will surely give even the most jaded of horror fans something fresh and unique to discover. I absolutely adore this collection, and I think you will too. And keep this in mind: This is only their first anthology. With a book this good, the future is looking awfully bright for Silver Shamrock Publishing.”—Wesley Southard, author of One For The Road and Resisting Madness
“Silver Shamrock’s debut anthology features an all-star line-up of today’s best horror authors. These are not your father’s ghost stories.” —Tom Deady, Bram Stoker Award winning author of Haven
“Reading Midnight In The Graveyard is a haunting experience that will have you flipping on the lights and jumping at shadows. The book is full of ghosts, both real and imagined. Some are restless spirits from beyond the grave, others are failures and regrets that torment our mind. While each story offers a fresh look at a familiar theme, they combine to make you feel like something hungry is hovering right behind you, reading over your shoulder. I dare you to read this book alone at night. Just remember, when you hear whispers coming from the other room, run.”—Brian Kirk, author of We Are Monsters and Will Haunt You
"I can’t tell you the last time I read an anthology where every story grabbed my attention and wouldn’t let go. Not only does Midnight In The Graveyard start out strong, oh man, the stories just kept getting better and better. Silver Shamrock comes flying out of the gate with this collection of superlative ghost stories.”—Tony Tremblay, Bram Stoker Award nominated author of The Moore House.
" Midnight In The Graveyard gathers an outstanding mix of ghost stories running the gamut of the creepy subgenre. From legendary authors, to talented newcomers, this anthology will leave you unsettled and questioning that cold draft in the hallway in the middle of the night."—Glen Krisch, author of Where Darkness Dwells and Little Whispers
MIDNIGHT
IN THE
GRAVEYARD
Edited by Kenneth W. Cain
www.silvershamrockpublishing.com
Compilation Copyright © 2019 Silver Shamrock Publishing
Individual stories Copyright © 2019 to their authors
“The Ring of Truth,” copyright © 1989 by Thomas F. Monteleone, originally appeared in Post Mortem, edited by Paul F. Olson and David Silva, St Martin’s Press, 1989.
“Haunted World,” copyright © 1989 by Robert McCammon, originally appeared in Post Mortem, edited by Paul F. Olson and David Silva, St Martin’s Press, 1989.
Front Cover Design by Kealan Patrick Burke
Formatted by Kenneth W. Cain
Edited by Kenneth W. Cain
Stories selected by Kenneth McKinley
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Table of Contents
Introduction by Jonathan Janz
“Devil’s Dip” by Shannon Felton
“Tug O’ War” by Chad Lutzke
“Euphemia Christie” by Catherine Cavendish
“Justin’s Favorite” by Jeremy Hepler
“Holes in the Fabric” by Todd Keisling
“Dog Days” by Kenneth W. Cain
“Drown” by Hunter Shea
“Those Who Are Terrified” by Elizabeth Massie
“Cool for Cats” by William Meikle
“Russian Dollhouse” by Jason Parent
“Sawmill Road” by Ronald Kelly
“Bettor’s Edge” by Tim Meyer
“The Graveyard” by Lee Mountford
“Join My Club” by Somer Canon
“The Cemetery Man” by John Everson
“New Blood, Old Skin” by Glenn Rolfe
“The Glimmer Girls” by Kenneth McKinley
“Haunted World” by Robert McCammon
“Ghost Blood” by Kelli Owen
“Last Call at the Sudden Death Saloon” by Allan Leverone
“The Ring of Truth” by Thomas F. Monteleone
“The Gravedigger’s Story” by Kathryn Meyer Griffith
“The Putpocket” by Alan M. Clark
“Swamp Vengeance” by Brian Moreland
“Portrait” by Kealan Patrick Burke
Legends, Ghosts, and Predictions
An Introduction to Midnight in the Graveyard
by Jonathan Janz
I don’t have a crystal ball, I can’t read tea leaves, and I never catch flashes of future events a la Stephen King’s Johnny Smith in The Dead Zone. So if you’re looking for an accurate prediction, you best cruise on by.
I can, however, make educated guesses. One of those has to do with Silver Shamrock Publishing, and another involves the book you are now holding.
Speaking of Silver Shamrock, I’m guessing they’ll be around for a while. Horror publishers shut their doors every day because it’s a heck of a tough business. Some close up shop due to circumstances beyond their control; others simply aren’t in it for the right reasons.
The folks behind Silver Shamrock are unquestionably in this for the right reasons. What’s more, they love horror (which is one of the best “right reasons” I can list). I’ve interacted with Ken McKinley for years and can state with certainty that he loves the genre. Loving horror isn’t a guarantee of success, but it’s a damn good start.
That love for the genre shows in the writers he has included in this, Silver Shamrock’s first anthology. And that leads me to another prediction:
You’re gonna love these stories.
On what do I base this prediction?
Silver Shamrock has gathered for you a rogue’s gallery of legends and rising stars, an absolute embarrassment of fabulous writers. I’d like to talk about all of them, but to whet your appetite and prevent this introduction from overstaying its welcome, I’ll just mention a handful.
Robert McCammon is one of the best writers to pick up a pen or a keyboard in this or any other genre. He’s one of my primary influences and one of the few writers who deserves to be mentioned in the same breath with Stephen King, Richard Matheson, Shirley Jackson, and Edgar Allan Poe. Any anthology that includes a McCammon tale is an anthology you should have on your shelf. For a new publisher to score a story by McCammon is an absolute coup. And a McCammon ghost story? That’s worth the price of the book by itself.
Tom Monteleone is an award-winning author and editor who knows a thing or two about spinning an eerie yarn. A legendary editor and author, Tom has forgotten more about storytelling than most of us ever learn. The tale he has penned here is guaranteed to give you the shivers.
And then there’s Elizabeth Massie, the wickedly talented creator of the novel Sineater and the short story “Abed,” which is arguably the most disturbing zombie tale ever written. Elizabeth has
Kealan Patrick Burke is one of the best in the business, and saying he brought his A-game to this anthology is misleading because I’m not sure he possesses anything other than an A-game. His story is sure to electrify. I don’t recommend reading it before you attempt sleep.
Ronald Kelly’s voice is totally his own, and this story is vintage Kelly. Like all his work, it contains heart as well as goosebumps, and it’s all served up in his unmistakable voice, which is equal parts southern-fried fun and certified fright.
And I might as well say it now: I could talk at length about every one of these tales and every one of these outstanding writers. I have dear friends (and killer writers) in this book like Kelli Owen and Hunter Shea; there are rising stars on display like Somer Canon and Tim Meyer. As if that weren’t enough, Silver Shamrock has brought on board ace editor/author Kenneth W. Cain to give these stories the attention they deserve and to maximize their impact on you, the reader. Heck, even the cover is a stunner, a whispered promise of the hauntings to come.
I’ve kept this introduction brief so you could get to the good stuff. I told you in the beginning I stink at making predictions, and I stand by that. I have no idea if the Cubs will win another World Series, whether or not Glenn Close will win an Oscar, or what the odds are on that George Strait/Metallica collaboration for which I’ve always yearned.
What I do know is this: Silver Shamrock is doing this thing right. They’ve assembled a ferocious roster of talent for Midnight in the Graveyard and created an anthology certain to give you hours of pleasure and more than a few nightmares.
It’s time for you to go now, to venture into the cemetery on the cover with your lantern held aloft and your body stiff with fear. What’s waiting for you amongst these gravestones and moon-kissed oaks is getting impatient. And though you’re not wearing a wristwatch, the timepiece in your coat pocket reads one minute to midnight.
Enter, friend. I wish you well, but I’ve got to warn you.
These ghosts are hungry.
Devil’s Dip
by Shannon Felton
Allison would freak out if she caught me smoking in the garage. Yet there I was, lighting one after another, the place heavy with the smell of sweat and ash. One right after another, until a pile of butts spilled out of an overflowing ashtray onto the workbench and floor.
Knowing her, she’d come in screaming about my health, the baby’s health, about what a fire hazard I had created. And she wouldn’t be wrong. With all the wood chips and shavings scattered across the floor, it was a wonder the place hadn’t already gone up like a tinderbox.
But then again, she was the one who was screwing her boss, so fuck her, right?
Which was probably why she was staying upstairs in the guest room; she was giving me space. How considerate. I guess it was the least she could do after nuking our marriage.
Fifteen years. Right down the drain.
I grabbed another smoke from the pack, lit up, and started digging through some old boxes. Talk about a trip. And by ‘trip’ I mean ‘heartbreaking’. I popped an old cassette tape into the stereo and wondered where the fuck I had gone wrong in my life. What had happened to that kid who sneered at the suburban sheeple, who laughed at the old losers who mowed their lawns on Saturday so that they could grill on Sunday? Who had I become?
You know what the funny thing was, though? I’d actually grown up and wanted all that shit. I’d gotten out of that craphole town, conquered my demons, and had done everything right. I worked hard. I didn’t mess around. And the truth was, I really loved her. Somehow, it still hadn’t been enough.
It made me feel like a goddamn fool; that was the worst part. No, that was a lie. The worst part was that she had finally gotten pregnant and now I wondered if the baby was even mine.
To think, we’d just gone halfway across the country so our families could meet Evelynn and there was a chance I wasn’t even her father. It was embarrassing how proud and stupid I’d been, driving through my hometown for the first time in a decade, looking down on it all like I was king of the world. I’d been relieved, believing my childhood in Stewartville was nothing more than a dream, a toothless nightmare made of the sort of stuff and nonsense that gave you a good laugh in the morning. And all the while, my wife sat in the seat beside me, sexting with Alan Fuckhead, potential sperm donor of my baby girl.
I hadn’t even bothered to visit Mike, that’s how good I was feeling. Who needed him anymore, I thought. Certainly not me, not Mr. Bigshot with his gorgeous wife and beautiful baby.
Could you blame me, though? It’s not like I hadn’t tried my best to stay in contact with him. Even after I moved, even after twenty years had passed, I still called him, still checked in, still tried to hang on to some of that friendship we had back in the good old days.
He’d stayed in Stewartville, married some girl I’d never met (she was older than us, a waitress at the one good Italian place in town), and worked for a living at his dad’s auto body shop.
He hardly ever answered when I called, and when he did, he’d let me go within minutes, promising to keep in touch, talking down to me like I was some needy loser. Almost had me believing it, too, though most times I convinced myself he was just jealous and bitter. To be honest, he’d always been kind of a dick, even back in high school, even to me. Now he was a full-blown asshole. But he was the best friend I ever had. One of the only friends.
I wished I could call him, what with all that was going on with Allison and that old cassette tape bringing back a bunch of memories. Maybe I’d give him a ring in the morning just to check in. Remember a bit of who I was before Allison had destroyed me.
So imagine my surprise—sitting there in the garage with my head in my hands—when my phone chimed and Mike’s picture popped up on the screen.
I took a drag from the cigarette held tight between my lips, squinted against the streaming smoke, and read the message.
“Awake?” he’d texted. It was 11:00 p.m.
I picked up the phone and leaned back in my chair, flicking ash onto the floor, down onto all that wood.
“Yeah, man,” I typed. “What’s up?”
I watched the text bubbles stream across the screen, thinking how it was kind of nice he was reaching out to me for a change. And maybe he hadn’t been so wrong after all, maybe I had been needy. Hadn’t Allison said the same thing every night for the last five years I’d asked her for sex, said it every time she’d beg off or give me a half-hearted hand job that I wound up having to finish off for myself anyway?
“Joanne’s dead,” he wrote.
Joanne was his wife. I’d heard the news on Facebook, so this wasn’t some big shocker. I probably should have written, should have said something and stepped in when he’d started babbling incoherently in his status updates. But after twenty odd years, you eventually take the hint that you aren’t wanted.
Thing was, I couldn’t even remember how it had come to that anymore, but it was a damn shame considering how close we’d been. He’d been there for me when my dad died. I was the only one who understood his home life and why everything had to be a joke.
Ash fell from the end of my cigarette as I took a drag. I wrote back: “I was sorry to hear the news. How you holding up? Anything I can do for you?”
“Thanks. I’m good. Staying up at my dad’s place.”
Mike’s dad lived up on Poplar Hill in an old ranch home. It had a cactus garden out front, which had become a hulking mass of tumbleweeds and litter over the years.
I’d been inside exactly once. His mom was sick, her brain was unhealthy, and try as he might, Mike’s dad just couldn’t care for her the way she needed. She’d woken up that day and had decided to smear her shit on the walls. Mike and I had walked right in on it, the smell hitting us as soon as we stepped through the door. But it wasn’t just that. Sometimes she’d get a hankering to cut her face up with a razor blade. One time, she had tried to pour a bottle of bleach down her throat. Mike grabbed it from her just in time and had thrown the bottle across the room. The bleach sprayed out and splashed right into his younger brother’s eyes, who’d been watching the whole thing in frozen horror. That was the end. Protective Services showed up then, had taken control where Mike’s dad couldn’t.
