Dark Valentines Read online

  Praise for Christmas Ghost Stories

  "Mark Onspaugh's sixteen ghostly Christmas tales make the ideal read for filling cozy winter evenings with delectable shivers and chills. So pour your eggnog and settle in by the fire for a jolly haunted night!"

  Janet Fitch, author, White Oleander and Paint It Black

  "How do you know you’re reading a Mark Onspaugh short story? I’ll tell you. You’ll laugh. Your skin will chill and crawl. You’ll find yourself marveling that a writer can do so much so very well, all the while moving with a screenwriter’s sense of pace and economy of words. But most importantly, you’ll find yourself by turns surprised by love, warmed by the comforts of family, terrified by madness, and struck numb by sudden agony. Comparisons to Ray Bradbury will be, I think, inevitable…and far from out of place. Onspaugh is a gift to all lovers of the weird, and this book, a perfect sampling of his extensive range. Spend an evening this winter season with this collection and I know you’ll thrill to it just as I did."

  Joe McKinney, Bram Stoker Award-winning author, Flesh

  Eaters and Inheritance

  "Reading this book is like finding blood at the bottom of your glass of egg nog. You start off with something tasty and familiar and then everything goes to hell! Mark Onspaugh has taken all that is good and holy about Christmas and turned it into something terrifying -- the way it should be!"

  JW Schnarr, award-winning journalist and author, Alice & Dorothy

  "Whether you've been naughty or nice, these stories are a welcome holiday gift. Like snowflakes, they are uniquely individual adding up to a storm of pleasure that should jingle your bells!

  Harvey Jacobs, author, Side Effects and American Goliath

  "With Christmas Ghost Stories, Mark Onspaugh gives us stories full of longing, regret, and fear to while away those winter nights. There's even the occasional dash of whimsy, and the sudden hammer strike of horror waiting for when you least expect it. Onspaugh's collection runs the gamut of human emotions and will keep you enthralled until the last page is turned."

  L.L. Soares, author, Life Rage and Rock 'N' Roll

  Dark Valentines

  Mark Onspaugh

  Dark Ride Press ♦ California

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “Theridia” © 2011, first appeared in ONE BUCK HORROR VOLUME FOUR, edited by Christopher & Kris M. Hawkins for Coronis Publishing.

  “The Broken Hand Mirror of Venus” © 2010, first appeared in WAR OF THE WORLDS: FRONTLINES, edited by JW Schnarr for Northern Frights Publishing.

  “A Sweet Girl for Todd” © 2011, first appeared in BLOOD LITE II: OVERBITE, edited by Kevin J. Anderson for Pocket Books.

  “What Became of the Purse Snatcher” © 2011, first appeared in IT CAME FROM HER PURSE, edited by Karen L. Newman & Georgia Middleton for Sam’s Dot Publishing.

  “The Song of Absent Birds” © 2009, first appeared in THE WORLD IS DEAD, edited by Kim Paffenroth for Permuted Press.

  All other stories original to this volume and © 2013 by the author.

  Book editing, design and layout by Tobey Crockett at www.tobeycrockett.com for Dark Ride Press

  All Rights Reserved

  Dedication:

  For my beautiful Tobey,

  a box of kisses, dark and sweet.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  THERIDIA

  THE BROKEN HAND MIRROR OF VENUS

  A SWEET GIRL FOR TODD

  THE KNIGHT’S TALE

  WHAT BECAME OF THE PURSE SNATCHER

  LET MY LOVE CARRY ME HOME

  THE SCULLERY MAID’S TALE

  ROMANCE FINDS HENRI MOREAU, MD

  CUPID VS DRACULA

  SUITE FOR COLD HEARTS AND FLUTES OF BONE

  THE MILKMAID’S TALE

  THE SONG OF ABSENT BIRDS

  THE LAST VALENTINE

  * * *

  THERIDIA

  Bill Perry was fifteen miles from the town of Rusty Saw when his horse blundered into a ground squirrel burrow.

  Bill heard the crack as the animal broke its right foreleg, and then they were both going down. He managed to roll away before the big beast fell on him, suffering only some scrapes and bruises. Dusting himself off, Bill went over to his horse, hoping against all odds that what he feared was not so.

  There was a jagged shard of bone jutting out of its leg and the animal was clearly in agony. Cursing briefly, Bill apologized to his old friend and shot him through the left eye.

  His water skin was trapped under the animal, something he had not noticed before shooting it. Now it was impossible to retrieve. Some water had squirted out when the horse landed on it, but the dry soil absorbed it quickly.

  Bill found a small, round pebble and popped it in his mouth to keep his saliva flowing. He grabbed his rifle and bedroll and headed west. He figured that he and Miles could come back for the rest of the gear if it was still here. He memorized a landmark, a large rock to the east that looked like the head of a wolf or dog.

  Bill had never been to Nevada before and soon was of a mind that the whole goddamn grit and scrub of it could be swallowed up in a tornado bound for Hell and no one would be the sorrier for it.

  The intense light and heat was all-consuming, and he felt like a piece of iron in a blacksmith’s forged, being heated and hammered into something new and unrecognizable.

  He fell once, and in his exhaustion thought he was on the coast, feeling balmy breezes as gentle waves lapped near his cooled skin. He saw a ship in the distance, something like a frigate or a galleon.

  It was a woman, gliding across the sand under a parasol sail, and she smiled at him as she passed. Bill waved dreamily, happy to be away from the desert and all its pains.

  He awoke to find a scorpion scuttling across his hand, and his instinctive aversion gave him a much-needed rush of adrenaline. He flicked the thing away and stood on shaky legs.

  One more nap like that, he thought, and various critters would be fighting over his remains by dusk.

  For the hundredth time he cursed Miles and his part in this misadventure.

  The most aggravating thing about this whole excursion was that it was unnecessary. His younger brother Miles was supposed to have staked them a claim to a silver mine outside of Virginia City. Bill had known that the area would be filling up with every hoople-headed opportunist from Boston to the Barbary Coast. He had stayed behind to sell the family mercantile while Miles had gone on ahead.

  But Miles had never gotten to Virginia City. He had merely sent the cryptic note, “Am remaining in Rusty Saw, Nevada for now”.

  Bill would never have sold the family business, but for Miles. At twenty-five he wasn’t particularly disposed to starting over, but Miles had waxed eloquently on the fortune to be made and the exotic sights to be seen.

  Miles was eighteen and had always had a gift for being silver-tongued. Bill, ever the pragmatist, had taken nearly six months of Miles’s speechifying before he finally caved in. Their sisters, Alma, Prue and Sarah were all married and provided for. Their husbands were only too glad to get their share of the sale, and then Bill had packed up some cookware and such and waited to hear from his brother.

  Am remaining in Rusty Saw, Nevada for now

  What the hell for? If it was a better opportunity, Bill would certainly like to hear it.

  If this was his brother having him on then they just might come to blows.

  A rattlesnake burred out a warning from the darkness under a rock and Bill gave it a wide berth. He was very parched now, his lips chapped and raw, his skin feeling hot and tight under his clothes.

  He was going to give Miles the business end of his boot when he saw him.

  It was just getting dark when he saw the lights of town in t
he distance. He made for it, eager to drink a cold beer and have a massive steak or a plate of fried chicken. As he moved toward the town, he descended into a small gulley and the distant lights were lost.

  In that desert stillness, the darkness leavened only by starlight, he felt a presence, something or someone watching him.

  Bill was not given to superstition. He didn’t believe in h’aints or hobgoblins, he had never been frightened by stories of witches or spooks.

  But there were predators out in the wild, and he was wise enough to realize he didn’t know everything that might be wandering out here.

  As he crested the arroyo the moon was coming up, and he caught sight of an enormous house on a hill overlooking the town. It was still too dark to make out much detail, except that it seemed very grand.

  It also seemed crouched up there, like any minute it might leap down and devour the town whole.

  Bill shook off these thoughts as the consequences of wandering through the desert, and of allowing the darkness to seem alive with sinister mysteries.

  There’s nothing in the dark that isn’t there in the light, he reassured himself. His orderly mind began to make a list of nocturnal predators, and Bill tried to ignore it.

  It was just after eight when he stumbled past the outlying homes of Rusty Saw, plain but sturdy houses hoping for a bright future. Then came the first of the town businesses, simple functional storefronts of livery stable, blacksmith and ice house closed for the night. He passed a bank, general store and an assay office. All were quiet and dark.

  The only lights in town came from the Red Dog Saloon, the Monte Vista Hotel and the sheriff’s office.

  Am remaining in Rusty Saw, Nevada for now

  Why? There were better saloons back home, for God’s sake. And Virginia City was sure to offer amusements superior to this rustic town.

  He looked around, trying to decide whether to try the saloon or hotel. But he was done in by the heat and lack of water, and couldn’t get his mind to work any better than just a mindless refrain of his brother’s telegram.

  Am remaining in Rusty Saw, Nevada for now

  Am remaining in Rusty Saw, Nevada for now

  Am remaining in Rusty Saw, Nevada for now

  Am remaining i—

  And then he was falling to the ground, all thought fading as he sprawled in the dusty main street of Rusty Saw.

  ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

  When he first awoke, Bill thought he was back home in his own bed, that he had suffered a particularly vivid dream. But his body ached and he could feel that his face and the back of his neck were painfully sunburned.

  The room was much smaller than his own back home, but was clean and comfortable.

  He desperately wanted some water.

  Being a merchant in the city had not lent itself to having many adventures, and Bill was not one for dime novels or the reading of sagas and classics. He was always pragmatic, and it had served him well these twenty-five years.

  Now he had had a brush with death, and he decided that the feeling of being painfully thirsty, of burning for a drink, well, that now was just about one of the worse things he could imagine.

  Whatever he might do from now on, he was going to make sure he had plenty of water and more exotic potables on hand.

  Like a curse, the course of such thoughts made him quite thirsty, and he eyed a jug and glass on a nearby bureau with feverish intensity. He was just about to throw off the covers and try to stand when an old fellow entered the room, followed by a younger man he recognized.

  “Bill!” Miles cried, rushing past the old man and bending low to examine him.

  “When I get my strength back I’m going to wring your neck,” Bill croaked. Miles grinned, but his grin faded when Bill did not smile in return.

  The old man placed himself between them like an ancient referee at a boxing match. “Mr. Perry, I’m Doctor Sanderson. How are you feeling?”

  “Like I got kicked in the head by a mule.”

  The doctor nodded. “You’re lucky you lost consciousness in our little town instead of the desert. Sun and the coyotes don’t leave much.”

  “Thirsty.”

  Miles hurried to the bureau and poured water into the glass, anxious to atone for his brother’s ordeal. He brought the glass to Bill but the doctor intercepted it.

  “Just a little, now, Mr. Perry. Your stomach is going to be a mite touchy for a couple of days.”

  Bill did as he was told. He had always been a good patient, a good student, a good son and merchant. But, Lord! That water did taste so fine coursing down his throat!

  It was two days before the doctor pronounced him healthy enough to leave. Now fully hydrated, well-fed and with ointment on his burned skin, he felt much better. Having seen most of Rusty Saw on the way in, he was anxious to collect their gear and be off.

  Miles had recovered their belongings using Bill’s landmark, an area the locals called Coyote Flats. The equipment, along with the wagon and other things Miles had brought, were out at the livery stable. Bill had asked Miles to inquire about a new horse and Miles had found him a good roan who was only a couple of years old.

  Bill found his younger brother sitting in front of the Monte Vista Hotel, watching the street.

  “I thought you were going to pack,” he said, startling the younger man.

  Miles smiled nervously. “I know you’re angry I didn’t head on to Virginia City,” he said.

  Bill nodded, letting the younger man talk.

  “I was rarin’ to go,” Miles said, “never been so excited about anything in my life. Then I come here and…” He looked at Bill, trying to explain. “Hell, Bill, it would be easier just to show you.”

  “Let’s take a look then, but my patience has about worn right through.”

  “Just wait,” Miles said.

  They sat there, the shade giving them some protection from the heat. Bill thought of being out in that desert and winced. Whatever they were waiting for, he couldn’t imagine anything worth braving this heat or the provincial “charm” of Rusty Saw.

  Five minutes passed, then fifteen. After a half hour of such nonsense Bill was ready to tell Miles he could stay in Rusty Saw until Gabriel blew his horn, that Bill Perry had better things to do.

  Then he saw her.

  She was tall and stately, and she didn’t so much walk as glide down the dirt street, her domed skirt whispering softly as she passed. She was dressed in midnight blue with lace of purest white, and her face was hidden behind a hat and veil, the hat remarkable for the white bird’s wing upraised like a sail. Her hair, gathered at the back in a tight bun, was black and shining.

  Bill felt an odd tingling down his spine and pelvis, coupled with a feeling he had seen her before.

  But that was impossible, wasn’t it?

  Miles tugged on his arm and then was striding boldly out into the street. Bill followed, more out of a perverse sense of curiosity than anything else. He couldn’t believe his brother had set his sights on someone so obviously out of his league.

  Miles stepped in front of her and she paused. He bowed low, obviously copying some Shakespearean maneuver he had seen on stage. Bill knew he thought the action conveyed worldliness and sophistication, but Bill thought it just made him look like a jackass.

  “Theridia… Miz Mullavey, it’s me, Miles Perry. May I present my brother William?” “Bill,” Bill said, a little embarrassed to be part of this farce.

  Mrs. Mullavey turned to regard Bill and he caught a glimpse of laughing dark eyes behind the veil. As he was about to conclude she thought him as big a fool as his brother, her scent came to him.

  When he had been fifteen he had lost his virginity to Maggie Coulson, the eighteen year old daughter of the local preacher. They had made love out in a field thick with spring grass and wildflowers, and he had reveled in the bouquet of her, of the scent of her perfume, the soap she used, the smell of her sweat and her sex, all comi
ngled with a vast field of sweet grass and clover. Maggie and all that verdant life had come to equal both love and lust in the memory of Bill Perry. Then Maggie had gone away and the memory of that aroma had slowly faded.

  That was the scent that was reaching him now. It nearly made him stagger, for he had clean forgotten it, and it now brought back not only those sweet memories, but the drives and urges of a younger man.

  She seemed to smile at him, and he could see smooth ivory skin and full pink lips obscured by the thick veil. It was all he could do not to pull her to him and wrap his arms around her. Her gaze turned very intense as she regarded him, then she inclined her head slightly and continued to drift up the street, as silent and elegant as cloud.

  Bill felt an elbow in his ribs and saw that Miles was nudging him. He realized that Miles was in love with Mrs. Mullavey and the realization brought a quick, hot flare of jealousy which he quickly extinguished.

  He had always been the practical one.

  “I’m gonna marry her,” Miles said, speaking low as if in a confessional.

  ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

  Bill and Miles had lunch at the hotel. At first Bill thought he might be too preoccupied to eat, then had discovered he was ravenous. He ate three large pork chops, a huge helping of potatoes with sawmill gravy, peas, rolls and butter, a huge slice of pie and an apple. While he ate, Miles told him what he had learned of the Widow Mullavey.

  At the word “widow” Bill had felt his heart quicken, then had tucked into his meal.