The Horror Emporium: A Horror Anthology Read online

  The Horror Emporium

  Kendra Moreno

  K.A KNIGHT

  Poppy Woods

  Contents

  Prologue

  Kendra Moreno

  Muerta

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  K.A KNIGHT

  Hidden Below

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Poppy Woods

  Misery Loves Co

  1. Atropos

  2. Misery

  3. Misery

  4. Atropos

  5. Misery

  6. Misery

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Also by Poppy:

  Also by Kendra:

  Also by K.A. Knight:

  The Horror Emporium

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to places, events or real people are entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Kendra Moreno, K.A Knight, & Poppy Woods, all rights reserved.

  Written by Kendra Moreno, K.A Knight, & Poppy Woods.

  Cover by Kendra of Rabbit Hole Graphics

  This one is for Mallory Kent.

  She knows what she did.

  Prologue

  Rain splashes against the cobbled alleyway, pinging from the stones and onto passerby’s clothing as they hurry through the darkened street to escape the weather. Up ahead, a sign smashes into a wall from the window. The creaking draws the gaze to the small storefront. A small candle’s light flickers through the window invitingly.

  The door opens, a bell announcing a new customer’s arrival and the floor creaks under the weight of the visitor. All sorts of wonders and curiosities fill the shop, from costumes to what looks like props. A little old man, the kind that makes you think of simpler times, shuffles from a curtain to behind an old wooden counter. A skull with a candle protruding from it throws light and shadows across his face as he braces his wrinkled hands against the wood and smiles. His glasses fog in the humidity, his wispy grey hair curling at the ends, his beard unkempt and wild.

  “Welcome to The Horror Emporium, where we fulfill your every horrible need. Obsessed with the macabre and evil? We have artifacts from serial killers and unsolved crimes alike. Want something spookier? We have cursed objects and spells for every occasion. Maybe you want something completely unique? We have that too. And you look the type,” he muses, reaching a wrinkled hand to tug on his beard and conceal his unsettling smile. “Yes, I think so. Follow me, won’t you?” He shuffles from behind the counter, his soft black shoes catching on the uneven floorboards as he makes his way across the shop to a door hidden before now.

  Dark wood, old, scratched, and probably forgotten with a large golden knob waits there as he reaches it. His hand grasps the handle as he looks back. “Are you ready for the experience of a lifetime? You better hold on tight, you won’t be the same after…” There’s a gleam in his eye, but it’s easy to ignore.

  “What—” Shoved from behind, the customer stumbles forward into darkness, falling down,

  down,

  down,

  into depths unknown . . .

  “Welcome to the Horror Emporium,” the old man repeats, grinning wide at the top of the stairs. “Be careful what you choose. There’s no going back.”

  Muerta

  Kendra Moreno

  Chapter 1

  The grave in front of me is elaborate, far more than I expected. I don’t know what I was really expecting honestly, but this intricate carving of stone above ground, the beautiful cross with the name “Gloriana Espinosa” carved into it standing tall above it, is not it. It’s a grave fit for the woman that Myrna’s grandmother was, from what I can tell of the stories she’d told me. Her grandmother had been a saint, but she’d also been a spitfire. Once, Myrna had told me that her grandmother had smacked one of her suitors over the head for daring to bring yellow roses instead of red.

  “Yellow is for friendship,” her grandmother had chided. “Red is for love.”

  She’d married that man though, and they’d shared nearly sixty years together before her husband has passed. Gloriana had been eighty-four when she passed suddenly two weeks prior. Myrna said there was no warning, that she’d been as healthy as an ox, and then suddenly, she was gone. Heart failure, the doctors had said. Myrna hasn’t taken it well.

  Today, for Día de los Muertos, we’re preparing for the festivals that will start at midnight and continue for twenty-four hours. When Myrna had invited me along, I’d agreed to go because I wanted to support my friend. We’re in college, getting close to graduating. We could always use time away from the fear of failing grades.

  The festival is about much more than death, though. Myrna had explained the tradition. It was about celebrating life. We celebrate the lives of those no longer with us and celebrate that we are still breathing. That’s what Myrna said, anyways.

  I’m not sure I believe in the actual tradition.

  I’m a small-town girl from Texas. I believe in sweet tea and never letting the flag touch the ground. Supernatural things, however, well, I never believed in the Chupacabra, either.

  That doesn’t mean that Día de los Muertos is pointless, not in my eyes. Already, as we begin to prepare the grave for the festival, I can see the weight lifted from my friend’s shoulders. Her grandmother might no longer be on this earth, but she’s out there, at least in Myrna’s eyes.

  Before we’d left her mom’s house, Myrna had made sure to paint my face like a sugar skull and force me into a pretty white dress. It isn’t what I would have normally picked but it makes me feel pretty. Plus, the painted face is pretty cool. Myrna wears a matching design in different colors, her own dress pale pink.

  “Can you pass me the paper flowers?” Myrna asks with a smile. I set the cardboard box I’d been carrying down on the dry grass and pull out the beautiful paper flowers we’d spent most of the day making. They’re made from tissue papers of every color, a rainbow of remembrance. Each one has a wire threaded through it so that we can attach them to Gloriana’s grave. A large picture of her sits on top of the large sarcophagus. We place some flowers around that, too. Gloriana deserves much more than we can give. Even I know that from the stories Myrna filled me with as we drove the eight hours from university to Matamoros. I’d purchased some red roses from a vendor on the way to add my own offering, a nod to the story that Myrna had told me.

  Red is for love. Not for friendship. I thought it appropriate that I bring something that showcases Myrna’s love for her abuelita.

  I’ve never seen so many people show up for a funeral. It hadn’t happened with—

  I shake the thoughts away and focus on our task at hand. Myrna’s mother brought a whole box of pictures to place on the grave around the large one, memories of Gloriana’s life, a celebration of a life well lived. Gently, I help stand each photograph around the grave. One of the tías—I can’t remember all their names—started setting small candles around the altar. Someone brought a small statue of the Virgin Mary and set her carefully by the cross. Gloriana was loved, that much was apparent just from the sheer number of family members around us preparing for the moment the sun fell beneath the horizon. I wish I could have
known her before her death. I had a feeling I would have liked her.

  Technically, today is still Día de los Innocents, or the Day of the Saints, but once midnight hits, the veils between the Land of the Living and the Land of the Dead will fall and loved ones will cross over to visit their families. Día de los Muertos is made up of many traditions, including the numerous offerings of plates around the grave. Pan de muerto sits on an intricate plate, along with Gloriana’s favorite dishes. The smells of the food makes my stomach grumble, but I resist snatching a piece of the food. Even if I don’t believe in the traditions, I respect the dead. Somehow, taking an offering from an altar feels like a good way to get myself haunted by an angry ghost.

  The sky bursts into brilliant colors of orange, yellow, and red, almost as if someone painted it with a brush. A hush falls in the graveyard, other families standing to watch the sight, everyone holding each other tight. I place my arm around my best friend, holding her close as the sun sinks completely beneath the horizon and the stars begin to dot the sky.

  “There won’t be any sleep tonight,” Myrna reminds me, her fingers clenching a little too tightly to my side, but I don’t complain. She needs this time to grieve, her guilt over not being home when Gloriana passed far surpassing anything else. I know the feeling of guilt all too well. Every day, I feel guilty my mom didn’t—

  I stop the thought before it can form. We’re there to mourn and celebrate Gloriana, not bring my own troubles to the forefront.

  “I’m okay with that.” I don’t expect to sleep until late tomorrow night. Tonight would be time to swap stories and tales, preparing for the moment the dead can cross over, and for the moment we can all feel Gloriana with us. That isn’t until midnight, however. We still have four hours to go.

  I watch Myrna’s mother light each candle. Those around the graveyard at other graves do the same, remembering their own family members. Not all are as decorated as Gloriana’s. Time tends to make us forget, make the loss not easier, but easier to bear. Over time, we start to let go. Some graves have only a single cempasúchile laying on top of the altar, the scent of the Mexican marigolds carrying on the wind, threatening to make me sneeze. I’m sad for those who don’t have family surrounding the graves. Perhaps, the traditions are starting to die, and what a sad thought that is. Even in death, we can die. Even in death, if no one says our name, we can perish.

  I blink the sudden tears in my eyes away, determined to be strong for Myrna. This is her time, not mine. I’ll be here to support her, and when her family needs some time to grieve without a stranger in their midst, I’ll walk to the other side of the graveyard and give that to them. They deserve it. It’s never easy losing a family member.

  “Mal, are you sure you don’t mind being here?” Myrna asks for the millionth time. Something inside of her worries I don’t want to be here, and I came out of pity.

  “I told you, girl. I’m here for you in any way you need me.”

  She looks away quickly, swiping the tear that drips from her eye before I can really see it, but I know what she’s doing. I pull her closer against me, before everyone takes a seat on the grass, clustering together so as not to take up space for another grave. There is almost too many of us, tías and tíos, children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. I only hope my death would be so celebrated, but my family is small and always angry. I have no siblings. The chances of my death being mourned are slim to none. Except for maybe by Myrna.

  Myrna will mourn my death, for sure.

  It takes us hours to decorate Gloriana’s grave. Before, I’d been worried that we would have too much time after we finished, but we end up only having an hour to spare afterwards, the grave so decorated, there’s no stone visible beneath the flowers, food, and offerings. Some of the family leaves to get food, but Myrna and I sit down at the foot of the grave and I hold Myrna’s hand as she begins to speak.

  My Spanish is rusty, but I know Myrna is telling her abuelita about school, about boys, about the ones she knows Gloriana would have hated. And when she runs out of boys to talk about, Myrna starts telling her about me and our adventures, and what our hopes are for the future. It isn’t until the rest of the family returns that I realize we’d used the entire hour.

  “Thank you,” Myrna whispers, hugging me close. “It makes it bearable when you’re with me.”

  “We’re best friends,” I remind her. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  One of Myrna’s tíos—Ramone, I think his name is—pours tequila into shot glasses, passing them around the group, before he fills one and sets it on the altar. A small glass is pressed into my hand and I hold it aloft with the rest of them as Ramone starts to speak. I can’t understand a word he says, his accent too thick compared to what I’m used to, but Myrna translates for me.

  “He’s talking about the time that abuelita caught him sneaking a girl in through the window,” she chuckles, holding her own glass up. “She called the girl’s mother and then made him stand on the corner with a sign that said, ‘Rompí el corazón de mi madre’.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I broke my mama’s heart.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “She sounds like a strong woman.”

  Myrna’s eyes grow sad again. “She was.”

  When Ramone finishes speaking, we all chant, “To Gloriana,” and toss the tequila to the back of our throats. The burn travels down as the night creatures begin to make noises. Crickets chirp around us and an owl hoots somewhere nearby. We hold the glasses out for a refill, and the next person starts to talk. Each time, another glass is added for Gloriana, and each time a story is finished, we all take the shot and hold the glass out for another.

  Five shots in, I’m swaying even though I’m sitting, holding Myrna close, before someone finally realizes we can’t keep going without passing out in the graveyard, so we switch to Gloriana’s famous horchata.

  I’m not sure if it’s the tequila talking, or the eerie feel of the night as midnight hits and passes, but I can feel eyes on me. Maybe it’s because I’m the only gringa in the graveyard, holding her friend close and participating in a tradition not part of my culture. Maybe it’s just because my bright blonde hair stands out in the dark. Either way, I crane my neck to look for the source. Maybe I’ll tell them to piss off. Maybe I’ll just glare. Maybe I’ll tell them Gloriana would be insulted by their rude manners.

  I search around, finding only other families, until my eyes dance over the street just outside the graveyard.

  Standing there is a man, one far more attractive than I’ve ever seen. Even in the darkness, his tanned skin glows as if crushed diamonds are embedded in his flesh. His dark hair curls around his nape and his ears, falling over his forehead in sexy disarray. I suck in a breath as I meet his eyes, eyes that flash in the night. Eyes shouldn’t flash, right? But I don’t focus on that detail too long because the mysterious handsome stranger grins when he sees me looking, his hand in his pocket as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. His clothing looks more like a costume, intricate, and not unusual for the night. His other hand holds a mask, painted in the Día de los Muertos tradition. For a moment, no one else exists. For a moment, all I can do is stare at him in awe, with desire, before he winks at me and slips away in the crowds of people walking the street.

  Finally, I can breathe again, and I turn back towards Myrna.

  “What’s wrong, Mal?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing.” I smile at her. “What’s this story about?” I ask, taking the shot glass of horchata and chanting with the rest of the family.

  “To Gloriana!”

  /-/-/-/

  I stare at the seemingly thousands of sheets of tissue paper in front of me in dismay. The bright colors stand out against the dingy colors of the worn table. We’d been working on the paper flowers for hours and it still felt like we hadn’t made a dent in the paper.

  “How many more of these do we have to make?” I asked.

  “Until mam�
� tells us we can stop.”

  “We’ve made like a hundred flowers.”

  “We need to make two hundred.” Myrna stared down at the tissue flower in her hands, the wire she held in her other waiting to be wrapped around the base so that it could be attached to the others.

  We were making the flowers that would decorate her grandmother’s grave, the ones that would make it stand out brightly in the night and lead her there.

  “So, tell me about the traditions again.”

  Myrna glanced up at me and smiled. “Día de los Muertos is all about the celebration of life, about remembering the lives of those who have passed on. Every year, during the celebration, they can cross between the veil of the Land of the Dead to the Land of the Living, and they can spend time with their families as they are remembered. If their photos aren’t displayed, they can’t cross over.”

  “It sounds like a lovely idea.”

  “It’s not just an idea. It’s tradition.”

  “Do you think it works for everyone?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the paper in my hand rather than Myrna.

  “I like to think so.”

  But no one could be sure if it would work for those who committed suicide. I understood. According to the local Christian church back home, suicide meant you went to Hell. But I didn’t bring that up, didn’t ask if Hell was the same here as it was back home.