The Fear County Chronicle #49

It seems that everyone is obsessed with A.I. these days. The big corporations and software companies talk it up big; a revolutionary tool that will relieve the burden of thinking too much and make your life infinitely simpler and better. Others — mostly in the writing, art, music, and teaching communities — see it as a parasitical scourge that feeds off the creativity of others to teach itself how to do everything a storyteller, artist, musician, and scholar spends decades nurturing and crafting using the human mind and soul. There is a great resentment and, even worse, a genuine fear from my fellow authors about artificial intelligence sapping away the uniqueness and special talent of writing novels and short stories and turning it into a commonplace and sterile exercise that requires no real mental effort or emotion. When A.I. can plot and create an entire book in a matter of minutes, where it takes weeks (or sometimes months or years) for a human writer to do it… well, that’s a scary thing. The same goes for artists. When paper and pen, paint and canvas, and the depth of vision and talent it takes to render a visual experience that pleases the eye, challenges the mind, and touches the very soul is made obsolete by simply typing in a description of what you want to see (because you have no true inspiration or imagination), it is a definite threat, not only to the concept of human creativity, but to people’s careers as well. Teachers are experiencing frustration in the classroom, too. A new generation of students are gravitating toward using A.I. to do their homework or write entire essays or thesis. Currently, it isn’t very difficult to detect an A.I.-created essay, book, or piece of art; there are tell-tale signs that differentiate computer-generated work from that conjured from an actual living brain. But as A.I. is fed more and more data and images (mostly stolen from creatives without their knowledge), it will gradually work out the kinks and begin to fool everyone, even those responsible for creating it in the first place.

Lately, in the horror community, A.I. has become such an overwhelming topic of concern that writers and artists are seeing it as some sentient evil that threatens their careers and their means of earning a living. I can’t deny that I’m concerned as well. Being retired, my main source of income is my Social Security and that’s not enough to pay bills and buy groceries, even with what Mrs. Joyce makes as a customer service rep with Cracker Barrel. My book sales and royalties serve to fill in the blanks financially, so the thought of extra competition in the book selling market — from entities other than real writers — reaching a point where my writing earnings suffer and gradually fade away is a grim prospect to consider.

I’ve also noticed that some writers (and artists) have become increasingly hostile toward those in the writing community who inquire about possibly using A.I. or incorporate it into their writing/artwork processes, particularly those new to the horror genre. Truthfully, I really feel for young writers who are caught in the middle of this whole A.I. debate. So many mixed messages and fiery opinions are flying around social media -- particularly from peers from their chosen genre -- that it could cause someone new to storytelling to feel confused, targeted, and overwhelmed. When someone makes a post on FB or X about considering using A.I. to make the cover for their first publication or to help write, edit, and polish their work, those who should be helping and guiding them often fly off the handle and brand them as idiots or traitors. New writers are evolving as storytellers at the same time A.I. is becoming more accessible and evolving at an alarm rate. The writing game isn’t as black & white, or cut and dried, as it once was. There are so many options to explore concerning publication — especially in the indie and self-publishing world — that some might innocently gravitate toward a quick cover or fast story edit without seeing the full ramifications in the long run.

My advice to those writers? Exercise patience and don’t jump the gun. A quality cover done by a genuine artist and a good editor for the work that lies within the book is a must these days. If you don’t have the resources to publish and list a book in the correct way, maybe you should just wait until you’re ready to do so. I know that’s not the creative or productive model in today’s writing scene, but a little patience, humility, and knowing when you’re fully prepared and ready are not bad disciplines to adhere to. Take it from someone who waited twelve years before he was good enough to make that first sale, nine times out of ten the wait is necessary and ultimately rewarding.

And for those veteran writers in the genre communities who instantly gravitate toward outrage and condemnation and cast blame at the mere mention of A.I. by a novice storyteller, think back. You were there once... unsure, but eager to entertain readers and make your mark. Show kindness and restraint. Don’t seek to cancel and ostracize a hopeful writer before they’ve even started. Guide, mentor, and give solid advice and counsel. Crippling doubt and imposter syndrome are hard enough for those just starting out in this crazy business, without having one of their favorite authors rake them across the coals and destroy their literary dreams and ambitions at the starting line.

I reckon we’ll just have to wait and see how far this new technology advances and how dominant it becomes in our daily lives. While we’re watching TikToks of raccoons jumping on trampolines, Bengal tigers attacking Grandma on the front porch, and dead celebrities with fluffy, feathery wings meeting their younger selves, we’d best keep a sharp eye open for the threat beneath all the silliness. It’s getting more and more difficult to tell what’s real and what’s false, both in entertainment and in news and current events. When we begin believing in and accepting the unreal as reality, that’s when this whole A.I. debate jumps the rails and becomes something much darker and dangerous.

There are several newly published books from some incredible horror authors that I’ve read lately that I thought I’d bring to your attention. All are unique and enjoyable, and would be a welcome addition to your horror to-be-read list:

HORSEFLY by Aron Beauregard / Zach and LeeAnn have agreed to an unorthodox adventure. They plan on meeting with some open-minded friends in an isolated forest and testing the foundation of their relationship. But unbeknownst to them, their romantic bond isn’t the only thing that will be challenged. The monstrosity lurking in the woods will test their courage, resilience, and will to survive. Fueled by steroids, infected with a lab-conjured disease, and hampered by bizarre side-effects, the horsefly roams. A fiery internal rage and insatiable lust for blood control her every move. But while the horsefly tries to work through her bodily changes, she is haunted by existential questions. Why was she chosen to usher forth the evolution of her species? And why does her addictive urge to slaughter and feast push her far beyond the spectrum of her appetite?

You can purchase Horsefly through Amazon or get signed copies at ABHorror.

THE DENIZENS by Brennan LaFaro / A small southern town surrounded by a living cemetery was the last place Sam Everett expected to find himself after the sudden death of his wife. Desperate to get away from the city and its memories, Sam flees to the tight-knit community of Maylene’s Hollow. Except the Hollow holds a secret. The town won’t allow its dead to rest. Forced to wander the earth for hundreds of years, the denizens of the woods have had enough. With the help of a mysterious widow who may also be a murderer, the town’s matriarch who seems to possess magical abilities, and an ornery giant who believes the dead may be right to rebel, Sam must learn to let go of the dead in order to truly live.

You can purchase The Denizens through Amazon or get signed copies at the author’s online store.

THE BARGAIN by Eric Butler / Seventeen years ago, Zeke made a deal with Mama Faye. A deal that provided his barren sister with the baby she always wanted.
In exchange, on the girl’s seventeenth birthday, she will be wed to Mama Faye’s beloved son.
Now desperate to save her daughter from a fate worse than death, Zelma strikes a new bargain ...
And all it will cost is her humanity.

You can purchase The Bargain through Amazon.

THE CURSE OF KATIE ELDER by Thomas R. (Tommy) Clark / In The Curse of Katie Elder, Thomas R Clark blends infamous historical figures from the Old West into a splatterfolk story unlike anything you've read before. A tabloid podcaster, a biker boss, and an undead outlaw ante up at a game of Texas Hold'em. A trail of mangled bodies has brought them together in a high-stakes contest of life and death. The ultimate prize-their immortal souls.

You can purchase The Curse of Katie Elder through Amazon or get signed copies at the author’s website.

Here’s a spooky New Orleans tale for you from my EC-inspired story collection, Tales From the Southern-Fried Crypt. Hope y’all enjoy it!

Mike McCullagh made his way from telephone pole to telephone pole… to store windows to the front of soda machines, and on to bus stop benches. He pulled a collapsible wagon, the kind you buy at Walmart or Costco. Its bed was half full of advertisements printed on ghostly blue paper. As he went from one intended point to another, the elderly man with the bushy gray beard juggled staplegun and tape dispenser, looking over his shoulder the entire time.

True, it was 3:30 AM and there was hardly anyone on the streets of New Orleans, and what he was doing wasn’t unethical – technically illegal, yes – but nothing that really hurt anyone. Even still, he wore black sweatpants, a black hoodie, and sunglasses, which made it difficult to see in the dark. He didn’t want to be recognized, though, in case one of NO’s finest cruised by and caught him in the act.

He jumped at the sound of someone snoring and looked over to see a man slumped in the shadows of a doorway, fast asleep. One of the city’s increasing population of homeless. You’ll end up like that, or worse, if something doesn’t change… and soon, he thought to himself.

He left State Street Drive, crossed Earhart Boulevard into Gert Town, and started down the sidewalk to Audubon Street. He paused at a phone pole, slapped a sheet of paper against the curved wood, and stapled it into place with four loud pops. Mike stepped back a few feet and was annoyed to discover that it was upside down. He considered ripping it off and putting up another. Who’s gonna give a shit? he thought. Then, shucking off the shades so he could see what he was actually doing, he rushed to the front of a Starbucks and taped a flyer to the front door.

A streetlight illuminated the sheet of paper and he nodded with approval.

MORTICIAN MIKE’S

N’AWLINS HAUNTED CRYPT TOUR!

SEE WHERE THE GHOSTS DWELL!

RIDE IN A REAL HEARSE!

LAFAYETTE – METAIRIE – SAINT LOUIS CEMETERY

Let’s see if she can top this after I wallpaper most of the Big Easy! he thought slyly. Then he set off with the wagon to finish his early morning mission.

#

Four hours later, Mike was sitting at the counter of a coffee shop called Beignets and Brews, when someone slid onto the stool next to him.

“You know if they catch you defacing city property, they’re going to make you take them down. All of them.”

Mike grunted, downed the dregs of his cup, and called for a refill. “My dear, that’s what was once called advertising. The oldest and purest form of the practice. Perfected by medicine show barkers and freak show carnivals. Good ol’ paper placards and word of mouth.”

He looked over at the woman sitting next to him. She was tall and willowy, and forty years his junior. Long black hair in a Bettie Page cut, face the color of creamed coffee, and lips as red as freshly let blood. She was dressed in tight black leggings, a white silk blouse with oversized bowtie, and a black, waist-length coat that was half circus ringleader and half funeral shroud. The thing that irked Mike the most was the thing on her head. A tall, black top hat with sparkly purple lace for a hatband and a real, honest-to-goodness taxidermied bat perched on the front of the brim, its tiny fangs bared menacingly.

Put them all together and you had his main competitor. The one who ground broken glass into his shattered ego, despite her sunny disposition. The harbinger of chaos and financial ruin… at least in his case. His cheerful, fresh-faced nemesis, the mysterious Miss Wysteria.

“Those were the days, weren’t they, Mike?” she said. She paid for a double caramel Frappuccino and took a long sip. “But times change. You’ve got to set the bar higher… explore all the options. That’s where the money is.”

“Yes,” said Mike sourly. “Your damn high bar. TV spots, viral Tik Tok videos, and a fleet of antique funeral wagons with teams of white horses. And those seven electronic billboard spots around New Orleans, flashing your pretty face every thirty-three-point-five seconds.”

Wysteria’s painted brows lifted in surprise. “You’ve actually timed them?” She reached out with a black-nailed hand and laid it sympathetically atop his. “You really are angsting over this, aren’t you?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” the old man muttered. “You’re running me out of business. How the hell am I supposed to compete with Wysteria’s Old Orleans Vampire Excursion? An elegant wagon ride through the city’s cemeteries with red wine and hors d’oeuvres, and hair-raising tales of the dreaded nosferatu? Everything Dracula, Lestat, and Salem’s Lot rolled into one frightful package… ending with a Mardi Gras-style celebration at midnight at the hallowed crypt of Anne Rice in Metairie.” He glared at her resentfully. “And if that isn’t bad enough, you stole my hat.”

The young woman laughed and ran a finger lovingly along the brim. “Haven’t you heard? Imitation is the greatest form of flattery. My success at this profession is all due to my hero, the OG of haunted graveyard tours, Mortician Mike!”

“Right.” Mike laughed bitterly. “Your illustrious hero… the one you’re slowly putting out to pasture. Making my brand of theatrics and entertainment seem dull and obsolete.”

“Aw, stop it! Everyone loves the N’awlins Haunted Crypt Tour!” she said excitedly. “It was my favorite thing in the whole city…hell, the entire world… when I was twelve. Back when I was little Julia Tisdell. That’s why I’ve devoted my life to this gig. It’s all because of you.”

“Remind me to wash my hair with gasoline and stick my head in the oven when I get home,” he said. Mike called for another coffee, wishing it was a stiff shot of bourbon whiskey instead.

“All you need to do is roll with the times,” she urged with a smile. “Update the Haunted Crypt Tour. Maybe rewrite your script, visit some out-of-the-way haunts, and breathe some fresh life into that tired, old spiel of yours. Junking that fossil of a Cadillac hearse would be a good start. You’ve been it driving since, when, 1982?”

1978, he thought, but didn’t tell her that. “Truthfully, I’ve been thinking about tricking it out… turning it into a stretch hearse to hold more customers.”

“There you go!” Wysteria said excitedly. “You have been thinking outside the box! Oh, and it’s guests, Mike. They like to be called guests.” She sipped on her drink. “So, when are you planning to do it?”

“You think I actually have the money? Hell, I can’t even pay the rent. You’re syphoning every bit of the tourist trade away from me. You’ve got more business savvy, more capital, and, on top of that, freaking vampires!”

“Vampires are where it’s at now,” said Wysteria with a shrug. “I can’t help that the out-of-towners are more allured to bloodsuckers than lost and sorrowful souls.”

“So, if I changed my tour to Mortician Mike’s N’awlins Haunted Vampire Tour…?”

“I’d sue your ass off,” she said solemnly. She held her frown of distaste for a long moment, then burst out laughing. “Lighten up, Mike! Really, if things don’t work out, you’ve always got a spot as one of my drivers. You can handle a team of horses, can’t you?”

“I’m allergic to horses!” Angrily, Mike McCullagh hopped off his stool and started for the door. Before he left, he turned and snapped “Oh, and Wisteria is spelled with an I, not a Y.”

“Y is more dramatic and mysterious,” the girl in the top hat said. “Just like me. I’m here to stay, Mike. No need to blame me for your misfortune and loss of clientele. If the Haunted Crypt Tour can’t cut it anymore, maybe you should consider retiring.”

Never! Mike thought as he headed for home a couple of miles away. As a kid, Wysteria had been his biggest fan. As an adult she was a pain in the ass and the one who was going to cause his forty year career to crash and burn.

And he knew there was no way he was going to allow that to happen. Even if it took devious and desperate measures on his part to turn it all around.

~*~

That afternoon, Mike drove to the French Quarter.

He parked his two-toned, black and gray hearse in a narrow alleyway off Dauphine Street, then approached the entrance to a storefront of black brick and a single, plate-glass window displaying a variety of voodoo and black magic supplies. The sign overhead simply read VOODOO JACK’S – POTIONS & CHARMS.

He looked around, saw that no one was paying him any attention, and ducked inside. A bell jangled overhead, signaling his entrance. The interior was dark and cluttered, with shelves and aisles of bottled powders, dried herbs and roots, and other paraphernalia of the Dark Arts. On shelving in a dark corner there were dusty jars bearing what looked to be human organs; a heart, kidneys, spleen, a few he couldn’t quite identify. There were also statuettes and totems of Papa Legba, Bondye, Maman Brigitte, and Baron Samedi, the Haitian god of death. On the wall, directly behind the cash register, was a portrait of Marie Laveau, the legendary voodoo queen of New Orleans.

An elderly black man with snow-white hair stepped from a back room. Curiously he eyed his potential customer. “May I help you?”

“Yes,” said Mike. He ran his tongue nervously across dry lips, then came right out and said it. “I need something to settle a score.”

Voodoo Jack nodded. “I may be able to assist you with such a task. I have a large selection of poisons and curse jujus to choose from.” He nodded to a rack of voodoo dolls near the counter. “And, of course, there’s always do-it-yourself.”

“I don’t particularly wish to kill anyone,” Mike said. “Just incapacitate them for a long period of time.”

Jack frowned. “In what way?”

“Paralysis. Do you have a potion or talisman that could do that?”

“I do. In both forms.” The old man walked to the back wall and returned with a skull-headed locket on a silver chain. “Slip this around their neck and speak an incantation, and they will freeze in their tracks. Can’t move a muscle or speak. They will still breathe and see… but will be trapped in the trance of the living dead.”

“That should do,” agreed Mike. He grinned inwardly. It would be satisfying to see his enemy completely wordless for a change, without that sweet, infectious smile on her lovely face. “How much?”

“Three hundred for the gris-gris and two hundred for the words to trigger the spell.”

“But that’s every cent I’ve got left in the world!” protested Mike.

“If you want it bad enough, it is a fair price,” said Voodoo Jack. “Don’t worry. I won’t ask who you intend to paralyze or for what reason. That is your affair. Now, do you want it or not?”

Muttering beneath his breath, Mike McCullagh produced his wallet and shoved the money across the counter. Voodoo Jack pocketed the cash, took a pad and a pencil, and wrote down several words. He ripped the sheet from the pad and stuck it in the breast pocket of Mike’s shirt, then studied the man’s bearded face for a moment. “You seem familiar.”

Mike’s heart quickened. “Oh, I’m around. Here and there. Could’ve passed each other in the street or something.”

The shop owner nodded. “You may be right.”

Mike left the place and hurried to the alleyway where his hearse was parked. He looked down at the skull-headed amulet in his hand. Here’s to new beginnings, he thought, then slipped the necklace into the pocket that held the incantation.

#

“I appreciate you meeting me out here this evening,” Mike said. He was dressed up in his Mortician Mike get-up; black tux, burgundy vest, and, of course, the top hat with various tarot cards stuck in the hatband. “I apologize for being such a horse’s ass this morning. Must’ve got up on the wrong side of the bed.”

Wysteria smiled warmly. “Oh, don’t think anything of it. I’m just glad you called. I’m ready to help any way I can.”

Earlier that afternoon, Mike had called the young woman and asked if she would show him some of the “out-of-the-way haunts” she had mentioned at the coffee shop. She had seemed delighted to hear from him and enthusiastic about assisting him in updating the Haunted Crypt Tour.

It almost made him feel lousy about what he was about to do.

Around five-thirty that evening, they found themselves in the furthest reaches of the old Saint Louis Cemetery. There, rows upon rows of ancient family crypts stood, their marble and granite walls streaked and stained black with mold and mildew. Many had been there since the early 1800s; long forgotten and in dismal disrepair. Several of the crypt doors stood open, either broken in by transients seeking shelter or local teenagers looking for a secluded spot to party and make out.

The two had driven there in Mike’s hearse, then strolled among the catacombs for nearly an hour. Wysteria seemed well versed in the cemetery’s history, pointing out several unique crypts and expounding on the families who had entombed their dead within them. Mike had jotted all she had said on a pad of paper, as though eager for the wealth of information she was giving him.

It was nearly seven o’clock, when they reached a particularly desolate section of the cemetery. The sun was sinking low and deep shadows stretched between the rows of old mausoleums.

“How about one more before we go?” Mike asked. He indicated a tall marble vault with the name CORNWELL carved ornately over the open door. The sepulcher was stately and hinted of great wealth, with a winged angel standing watch on the peak of the roof. “This looks interesting. Shall we go in?”

Wysteria seemed doubtful. “It’s getting pretty dark. I’m not sure we could see once we got inside.”

“I brought a flashlight,” said Mike. “Just in case.” He took the flashlight from his pocket and snapped it on, then directed the circular beam inside.

The woman smiled and shrugged. “Okay. But this will have to be the last one.” She checked the time on her cell phone. “It’s almost showtime and my schedule is completely booked tonight.”

“I promise,” said Mike. “The very last one.”

Together, they entered the crypt. It smelled wet and swampy. Several of the tomb lids had cracked and fallen apart, showing decayed caskets in the hollows within. The ceiling was heavy with old cobwebs and the walls was marred with graffiti from temporary occupants who didn’t give a damn about history, tradition, or respecting the dead.

As Wysteria made her way toward the back of the mausoleum, Mike knew the time had come. He stumbled forward, bumping into the woman and knocking the hat from her head. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry!”

“No worries,” she said, laughing. When she bent to retrieve the top hat, the old man acted. Swiftly, he slipped the skull-headed amulet over her head and around her neck. Wysteria seemed confused. “What are you -- ?”

In the glow of the flashlight, Mortician Mike fumbled with the slip of paper and read the incantation. Almost instantly, Wysteria’s muscles began to stiffen and freeze, and a look of dawning terror seized her pretty face.

It was Mike’s turn to laugh. He faced her and smiled sinisterly. “You really didn’t think I would allow you to tear down all that I’ve built during the past four decades, did you?” he asked. “I’ll not end up wandering the streets, eating out of dumpsters and sleeping on park benches, or, heaven forbid, in dark, dank places like this. But you’ll be here… if for only a while. Only long enough for me to get my business back up to par again. Then I’ll come back and remove the curse. And neither of us will be the worse for my trickery.”

The woman’s frightened eyes told him that she didn’t believe a word of his empty promise.

“Adieu, sweet Wysteria,” Mike told her. Then, leaving her standing within the deepening darkness of the old crypt, he pushed the heavy iron door shut and locked it with a rusty skeleton key he had purchased at an antique shop on Royal Street.

Mike whistled cheerfully as he made had his way through the maze of mausoleums to where his hearse was parked outside the vast iron gate of Saint Louis Cemetery. Then, with a sly smile on his bearded face, he left the lonely graveyard behind.

~*~

Days passed into weeks and weeks into months.

Gradually, Mortician Mike once again became the master of haunted tours in the grand, old city of New Orleans. As the Big Easy puzzled over the sudden disappearance of Miss Wysteria, he took full advantage of the situation. Before long, his nightly schedule – and his bank account – was so full that he quickly upgraded his business. Mike bought several stretch hearses and hired a full-time staff; a team of drivers well-versed in the ghost lore of the city’s cemeteries and office help for marketing and scheduling nightly tours. He even bought spots on television and twelve electronic billboards on the freeway and other high-traffic areas in New Orleans.

And, with each lucrative night of sold-out tours, the one he had left in the obscure tomb of CORNWELL drifted further and further from his mind. Until, eventually, she was completely forgotten, as though she had never even existed.

~*~

Three months had nearly passed before Voodoo Jack finally found her.

The old man broke the lock with the help of a pry bar and wrestled with the weight of the vault-sized door. Sunlight squeezed past the gap, revealing the awful crime that had been committed.

Jack knelt next to the withered and decayed form of the woman, who had stood stone-still like a statue, until she had starved and eventually perished. Tears filled his aged eyes as he tenderly ran his fingers through her long, black hair.

“I am so very sorry, my dear, sweet Julia,” he whispered. “I knew the man was up to no good when I sold him the juju, but I had no earthly idea that you were his intended victim!”

He stared into the face of the corpse; a face that had once been lovely and unblemished, but had been ravaged by the deterioration of death and eaten away, a little at a time by insects and rats. Jack wanted to look away, but he didn’t. He looked upon the horror of what his granddaughter had become, letting it sear into the depths of his grieving mind.

Voodoo Jack took a leather bag and began to remove items and place them around her prone form. “True, I cannot return you to the beauty of body and soul that you once were, but you shall return nevertheless… to exact revenge upon the wicked man who did this to you!”

The old man sprinkled a fine, gray powder in a circle around Wysteria’s lifeless body and lit six black candles. Then, taking an ancient book from the bag, he began to speak and pray to the voodoo gods of his elders.

#

Late the following afternoon, as Mortician Mike prepared for another lucrative evening, he walked out to his hearse and found a small slip of paper wedged beneath a windshield wiper.

It simply read: THE CRYPT IS EMPTY.

Mike’s heart raced with mounting panic. He looked around, but saw no one who might have placed the note there.

Well, we’ll just see about this! he told himself. Then he fired up the hearse’s engine and headed west across town for Saint Louis Cemetery.

Traffic was heavy and it was nearly dark by the time he reached the necropolis. He parked his vehicle, then descended into the labyrinth of ancient granite and marble tombs.

When he reached the crypt of CORNWELL, he was shocked to find the door standing wide open. Mike breathed deeply and attempted to settle his nerves. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a snub-nosed revolver. If someone had discovered the body of the missing woman and intended to blackmail him, he intended to gun them down and leave them in the catacombs to rot.

Cautiously, he entered the shadowy interior of the crypt. At first, he saw nothing. The burial chamber looked to be completely empty. Then, from the shadows at the rear of the vault, movement caught his attention and he watched, mortified, as someone – or something—stepped into view.

It was a gaunt, skeletal form dressed in a moldy coat and stained silk shirt. It wore a familiar top hat upon its grizzled head; black with violet lace around the crown and a preserved bat perched upon the brim.

“Good Lord in Heaven!” cried Mortician Mike. “It can’t be!”

“Oh, but it is I!” assured the corpse. Its vocal cords were as coarse and dry as rotten twine. “The one you condemned by your treacherous hand and left here to hopelessly await your return.”

Mike stared in terror at the loathsome face of Wysteria. Her life’s juices had dried up, leaving only sunken, withered flesh and exposed patches of stark, white bone. Rodents had fed upon her, stripping away the meat of her lips, nose, and ears, and he could see roaches and spiders skittering through her hair and the folds of her clothing.

And, in her bony hand, she held the skull-headed amulet on the silver chain.

“No!” he screamed, backing away.

“You cursed me with the living death!” Wysteria rasped. “Made me starve and suffer in this crypt!” Slowly, she shambled toward him. “Now it’s your turn!”

“NO!” screamed Mike. “Stay away from me! Stay away!”

But, before he could turn to leave, Wysteria’s left hand lashed out and closed around the column of his throat. Fingernails, jagged and long in death, burrowed into his flesh, refusing to let go. As Mike thrashed and squirmed, yearning for escape, the chain of the skull juju was slipped around his neck and the eldritch words were spoken.

Instantly, he grew silent and still. Deep within his chest his heart pounded wildly, but that was the only motion that he was allowed.

She’s going to do the same to me as I did to her! his thoughts wailed. She’s going to lock me in this tomb, to waste away and die!

Wysteria laughed coarsely. “I know what you are thinking, but that shall not be your destiny. You are deserving of something much more horrifying and lingering!” And, with that, she lifted the old man effortlessly in her arms and departed the open crypt.

The zombie carried him between the rows of silent mausoleums until they reached their intended destination. Mike was shocked to find one of Wysteria’s finest, glass-paned funeral hearses waiting in the shadows. But the horses tethered to the wagon weren’t snow white in color, but as black as Death itself.

Where are we going? he wondered as she opened the door at the rear of the wagon and gently deposited him in a rosewood casket that waited inside. Where the hell is she taking me?

“As I said before, true death will not befall you,” she told him, as though reading his thoughts. “No, you shall endure the living death, condemned to the cellar of Voodoo Jack’s shop. There, my grandfather shall slowly and meticulously harvest your flesh, bone, and organs for his various potions and gris-gris. It may take months, perhaps even years to completely use you up. During that time, you will not be able to move a muscle or utter a single scream, Mortician Mike. But you shall surely feel every moment of the terror and agony that will be slowly inflicted upon you!”

As the dread and shock of his predicament began to sink in, Mike heard Wysteria climb into the driver’s seat and, with a flick of the reigns, begin to drive the funeral wagon across town, in darkness, toward his torturous fate.

Through May 31st, get 15% off your order of signed books and t-shirts at the RKHORROR online store! Just enter promo code MAYMADNESS at checkout!

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Well, that’s it for this 49th issue of The Fear County Chronicle. I hope you enjoyed it. Until issue #50 rolls around, be kind, be weird, and Many Happy Nightmares, y’all!