Whispers from the OUTER SHADOWS, Issue 4
Outer Shadows is Outland Entertainment’s horror imprint, featuring work created by and curated by Cullen Bunn.
Hey, folks! Welcome to another edition of WHISPERS FROM THE OUTER SHADOWS! I’m your host—Cullen Bunn—and I’m glad you’re here!
A couple of weeks back, Outland Entertainment head honcho Jeremy Mohler and I were both attending Tremendicon in Springfield, Missouri. We stole away from the convention floor for a few minutes to discuss our plans for the Outer Shadows line. And, let me tell you, we have some really exciting ideas for where we’re headed!
Since the convention, the team has done quite a bit of work to make those plans happen! While I can’t tell you much about what we’re going to be doing, I will say that I haven’t been so excited about work in a long time. Some of that is because of the projects I’m working on in the comic book front. Some of that is because of Outer Shadows.
I go to conventions to meet with readers and hang out with like-minded folks. I spend time talking shop with other creators. I might even sell a few books. But, for me, the very best conventions are the ones I leave feeling inspired for what’s ahead. Not every convention can boast that kind of benefit. If you could bottle it and sell it, you’d make a mint.
Anyhow, loads of horrible (in the best possible way) ideas are coming together! They’re ambitious and wild and fun! Trust me when I say… we’re just getting started!
And speaking of getting started… SWORDS IN THE SHADOWS and RAZE, the first two books in the Outer Shadows line, are now available in digital and print formats!
SWORDS IN THE SHADOWS features twenty-one stories with a bloody stake driven into the heart of both the horror and fantasy camps. Herein, you will find fantasy worlds, brave warriors, fabulous creatures, wondrous magic. But you will also uncover bloodcurdling chills, spine-tingling horror, and an examination of those things that truly terrify.
RAZE is a dark fantasy/horror novella, the first in a series. Through the haze of battle, two strangers arrive at the convent’s gates. One is a healer. The other is a warrior. They have treachery, thievery, and murder on their minds. But lies and betrayal and corruption are not unknown to the Sisterhood of Sacred Visitation. The secrets hidden in the depths of the convent have brought death to many who have sought to bring them into the light.
For the immediate future, we’re busily working on the release of CROOKED HILLS, my middle reader (and creepy kids at heart adult) horror novel. And I’ve got two dozen writers working on some amazing stories for the next anthology, I’LL KILL YOU LAST. Busy times ahead!
This weekend, Outland Entertainment will be setting up at Fountain City Con in New Century, KS. They will be at Table 509. I will also be attending the convention. I’ll be set up at Table AA9.
If you’re in the area, it would be a great time to come by, meet the Outland and Outer Shadows crew, and grab a few books!
But what awaits for the rest of this edition? Well, we have a new installment of Macabre Thoughts and new short fiction from my pal Michales Joy. I’ve known Michales for a looooooong time, from way back when I was publishing WHISPERS FROM THE SHATTERED FORUM and attending conventions in an attempt to peddle my wares. I’m thankful that we’ve reconnected in recent years, and he’s going to be writing a story for the upcoming I’LL KILL YOU LAST anthology.
So… on to more horror!
THAT AIN’T RUSTY by Michales Joy
Supper was mac and cheese, boiled hotdog pieces, and the last bits of a generic bag of chips, ketchup on the side. Brent and Lucas were already head down over their plates when the old man came out of the back bedroom of the trailer. He hobbled his wire-thin frame over to the table. He took a moment to aim his ass at the chair before plopping down.
“Hey, Dad,” Brent said.
“Hey, Gary,” Lucas said. “What’s up?”
Gary rubbed the back of his hand across his moist lips. “Rusty’s back.” He looked from one startled face to the other.
After a moment Brent said, “Rusty died.”
“A week ago, old man,” Lucas said, shifting in his chair. “We told you we buried the mutt.”
“I know that. But I found him anyways.”
“Your Dad’s losing it,” Lucas said.
“Come on, Dad. Rusty was really old and pissing all over the place. Didn’t have any teeth, for fuck’s sake. He was old and died.”
Gary gave a little shrug. “Found him anyways. Went looking for him down by the river. Under the train trestle. Found him and brought him home.”
Lucas put his fork down. “What do you mean you brought him here?”
“He’s under my bed. Kinda scared, but that’s natural. He’s been through a lot. Tough little piece of shit. Like me.”
“Bullshit,” Lucas said.
“Go check then, you fuckin halfwit.” Gary sneered, exposing his raw gums. “I dare ya to go check on Rusty. Go check then!”
Lucas stood up fast. He stomped off toward the back bedroom while cursing under his breath.
Brent took a long pull of his Bud Light. He jumped when Gary leaned almost to touching him.
"I know what you did," Gary hissed. “Rusty told me.”
“The dog Rusty?”
“I heard him, brat! He said you and Lucas shot him!”
Brent tried to face his Dad. “We didn’t do such a thing.”
“Shot my dog and threw him in that damn hole filled with spiders and maggots and what not. We used to call that Hell’s Maw back in my day. Boy, you got a whipping coming.”
The back bedroom door slammed open so hard the knob stuck in the particle board paneling that covered the walls. Lucas came running and fell as soon as his foot touched the linoleum of the kitchen. His shirt was splashed with blood.
Brent was over to his best friend in a heartbeat, grabbing and pulling him up, but Lucas was a slippery, loose bag of bones.
“That ain’t Rusty!” Brent cried.
Lucas had his eyes fixed at the open doorway of the back bedroom. Something was filling the door frame. Something big was coming.
Brent couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t lift Lucas up. He was grabbing and touching shredded shirt sleeves. Bloody, ragged ends coiling through his fingers, oozing red as Brent squeezed harder. But that couldn’t be. Lucas had been wearing a comic book hero t-shirt with the sleeves torn off.
The fabric Brent was grasping was strips of flayed flesh and stringy muscle.
Lucas didn’t have any arms.
Brent dropped his best friend.
“Run,” Lucas said like he was making a polite suggestion.
There was a wet sound from the hallway, bringing Brent’s head up. Rusty had left the back bedroom. And holy hell if it wasn’t Rusty. Parts of Rusty anyway. A cataract filled eye or a line of canine teeth thrust through tight skin or a stripe of that unmistakable black and grey fur Brent had grown up with or that tongue that dangled down from a hole in the thing’s torso. The other parts were never pieces of a family dog.
“Run,” Lucas said again, starting to choke on his own blood.
Brent stayed. He stared. He trembled.
Some insidious power had mashed the pieces of Rusty onto a nightmare of decaying animal corpses. It had hooves and claws and snouts. Antlers and tusks and clacking jaws. The body was a pear-shaped mass that was so low it dragged, leaving a smear of brown on the carpet. And above the mishappen body, looking down at Brent, the wrathful glare of a fleshless horse head.
Impossibly, the mass moved with grace on crooked legs, coming to Brent. He could smell it now, the stink of forgotten decay, of rotting meat, mold from under thick leaves, air pumping from desecrated lungs.
Below Brent, Lucas was seized. He was jerked under the body and it settled down on him, a mother hen on her egg. The chewing sound began and so did the muffled screams.
The skeletal horse head loomed over Brent, bony crest scraping the ceiling of the trailer.
The jaw opened. Against his will, Brent leaned forward. Tears streamed down his face. His lips shivered, words trying to form: excuses, apologies, promises, threats. Meaningless. Useless.
Brent’s face touched the dry teeth, his skin flinching away, his body pushing farther in, arms twitching at his sides.
The jaw closed. Not quickly. Blood splashed and fountained. Flesh tore away and bones cracked under the unbearable pressure. When one eye popped, Brent finally started to flail. His blows landed and did nothing. Too late, his efforts and shrieks were doomed from the start. And then he sagged with a final crunch, a limp and cooling thing. Limbs unfolded from the horror’s body to grab and pinch and hook Brent. He was pulled close and then absorbed. Consumed whole. Added to the mass of many dead things.
Slowly, the empty sockets of the horse skull turned to Gary.
There was a smile on the old man’s wrinkled face. But as he stared at the bony sockets the smile faded. He took a long, thin breath.
“Yeah. I guess I was a dummy to think this would end any other way.” He tried to stand up and had no strength. “I want – ”
The thing pounced on him like a trap door spider and he was gone in an instant.
Michales Joy writes horror and fantasy from a loft in Joplin, Missouri. First published in 1995, he has written novels, short stories, screenplays, comics, and background settings for games. He has self-published and been published by mainstream companies. He loves to talk and teach anything to do with writing. The rest of his life is unimportant and mostly boring. But he is learning to play the sax.
Here’s what OUTER SHADOWS has in store for you… SO FAR!
CROOKED HILLS, a middle grade horror novel written by Cullen Bunn
I’LL KILL YOU LAST, a horror anthology fusing 80s action movies with pure terror, edited by Cullen Bunn
CROOKED HILLS II, a middle grade horror novel written by Cullen Bunn
And much, much more… Weren’t you reading up above?
The time is upon us once again. A time for celebration, a time for entertainment, a time for learning about chum. That’s right! I’m talking about SHARK WEEK! Now you could watch Jason Momoa host the annual event. But you don’t really need eye candy for Shark Week. What you need is… a bigger boat. Or no boat at all. Let’s face it folks, the apex predator is no longer confined to the ocean. There could easily be a Sharknado near you. It’s also tornado season, you know. So keep an eye the horizon both at sea and dry land. Lest ye be food for for the beast! (Theme song to Jaws plays while reading this.)
Mr. Macabre is a freelance boogeyman, Kansas City’s Worst Horror Host, hack comedian, novice writer, semi professional race car driver, and amateur tattoo artist.
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