Spinetinglers Anthology 2008 Read online

  Extractor stood alone. In the space of a few hours, it had gone from being man’s saviour to something entirely different, something dark and monstrous, a thing of destruction and death, a thing capable of horrors beyond imagining.

  Extractor by Ash Jacob

  The Spinetinglers Anthology 2008

  An anthology from the depths of the darkest minds in horror

  Introduced and complied by Nolene-Patricia Dougan

  Stories by the

  Spinetinglers competition winners

  Niall McMahon, James Brooks, Paul Wilson, Matthew Batham, Theresa Curnow, Matt Bone, Charlotte Bond, Colin Doran, Tony Walsworth, Emily Gee, Matt Leyshon, Nolene-Patricia Dougan, Warren Farr, Geoff Ward, F. R. Jameson, Susan Shultz, Tracey Goodwin, Michael L. Garrard, Sean Jeffery, Tanya Murray, Natasha Oliver, Robert Walsh, Sarah K. Thompson, Ash Jacob, Steven Deighan

  Spinetinglers Elite Publishing

  22 Vestry Road, Co. Down

  BT23 6HJ, UK

  www.spinetinglerspublishing.com

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situations are the product of the imagination of the authors. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events is purely coincidental.

  © 2008 Spinetinglers. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or, transmitted by any means without the written permission of the authors.

  First published by Spinetinglers Elite Publishing 6th June 2008.

  ISBN: 978-1-906657-00-0 HB

  ISBN: 978-1-906657-01-7 PB

  Printed in the United Kingdom

  This anthology is dedicated to all the members of Spinetinglers.co.uk, without whom this anthology would never have been written. Whether you are a writer, or a reader, or even a critic, your voice has been heard in the pages of this book.

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  ProMem — Niall McMahon

  Dead Famous — James Brooks

  Night Vision — Paul Wilson

  The Tower — Matthew Batham

  Eyes in the Night — Theresa Curnow

  Park — Matt Bone

  The Wild Hunt — Charlotte Bond

  Playing Chase — Colin Doran

  Tiw’s Cup — Tony Walsworth

  The Film — Emily Gee

  Transmission — Matt Leyshon

  The Greatest Trick — Nolene-Patricia Dougan

  Dream Fear — Warren Farr

  The Country Gent — Geoff Ward

  Wilderness — F R Jameson

  Passed Away — Susan Shultz

  Christmas Spirit — Tracey Goodwin

  Trauma Court Live — Michael L. Garrard

  Keeping Your Head Up — Sean Jeffery

  Undying — Tanya Murray

  Crimson Candles — Natasha Oliver

  The Last Mile — Robert Walsh

  Star and Nine — Sarah K. Thompson

  Extractor — Ash Jacob

  John’s Story — Tony Walsworth

  A Taxing Journey to Hell — Steven Deighan

  Special Thanks

  The Spinetinglers Anthology 2008

  Introduced and Compiled

  by Nolene-Patricia Dougan

  Ever since I can remember, I have loved stories about ghoulish ghosts and villainous vampires. In my eyes, a movie or book that scared the life out of me was far better than one that made you cry. I saw Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining when I was still in single figures, and I read Dracula when I was twelve. The next year after that, I turned thirteen-years-old on Friday the thirteenth! That was it. I was obviously destined to become a dark fiction author. I pottered around, writing the odd story or the odd bit of poetry, but nothing was ever completed. I lacked inspiration. Then, when I turned fifteen, I found my inspiration. I went to see Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and I had the beginnings of an idea. James V. Hart, who penned the screenplay for Dracula, had added another dimension to the Dracula tale, and at long last, my mind was filled with a story.

  So ten years and 166,000 words later, I finished my book. I decided to start sending it off to agents. The first agent I sent it to offered to represent me. I was overjoyed. I was certain that fame and fortune would be quick to follow. Unfortunately, it didn’t quite work out like that!

  For new authors, the publishing world can be somewhat daunting. It is a world filled with rejection letters, endless waiting, total frustration, and then some more waiting. Even the most successful writers have gotten more than their fair share of rejection letters. And once a publisher has agreed to publish your book, you may wait two years or more before you actually see it in print.

  After you have written your book, most people believe that the hard part is over. It isn’t. Now you have to get an agent, because most publishers will not accept your work unless it is forwarded to them by a reputable agent. Whether or not you should listen to your agent once you have one is up to you. My advice would be, “Never listen to your agent!”

  After you have achieved the small miracle of getting a publisher, you will no doubt be completely elated. However, your elation may be slightly dampened, when your publisher tells you that you have to rewrite your book. Of course, your publisher will tell you, “We completely adored every single word, but there are several small things you have to change – we didn’t really like the plot, the main characters, or the ending. We loved what you wrote on page 52 – that was genius! Everything else will have to be rewritten!”

  And, what happens if you don’t want to rewrite your book, or you don’t even get this far? What if you have a mountain of rejection letters and no publisher interested in your book? Should you self-publish? After all, wasn’t Roddy Doyle’s first book “self-published,” and didn’t The Bridges of Madison County start its life as a self-published book? Then, you decide, “Okay, that is what I will do, I will self-publish.” Now here comes the nice bit. Delivered through to your post box is a prepublication copy of your book! I don’t care who you are or whether you have self-published or not. There is no better feeling in the world than to see your name in print on a book that you have written.

  After your book has been published, then you have one final mountain to climb. You need to create a “buzz” about your book. Your agent/publisher may do a little to help with this, but unless your last book sold a million copies, most of the marketing is up to you. Are you depressed yet? I know I am!

  When I was faced with all these trials and tribulations, I really had no one who could give me reliable advice. I made more than a few mistakes along the way. The first edit of my book was, quite frankly, rubbish. And I was so completely naïve that I didn’t think to check the final edit. I believed that all I needed were a few good reviews, and I would be on my way. I started to promote my book tirelessly, as much as I could. I started to write reviews and short stories to get my writing out there. Some publicity ideas worked. For example, my book moved up to number nine on Amazon’s horror list, and I got some amazing reviews. But, I still didn’t quite make it. I wanted to be able to earn my living as a writer, but this career path had thus far eluded me.

  I was getting increasingly frustrated with the whole process. I thought about all the other writers out there who had faced the same problems. I longed for a place where I could chat with my peers, get feedback on my writing, and also send in unsolicited material that did not require any long “pitch” letters. I wanted a publisher who would only consider the quality of the stories, a publisher to whom it did not matter what my experience was or where I had been published before. I wanted to find a publisher who did not have ridiculous submission guidelines or a six-month wait to see whether they were
going to publish my short story or not. I struggled in vain to find such a publisher, and eventually, I decided that if I can’t find one, I will start one myself. So a few likeminded individuals and I thought up the idea for Spinetinglers. And on June 6, 2006, www.spinetinglers.co.uk came into being. It has been a great success, far greater than we could even have imagined. Hence, this year, we have decided to publish our first anthology.

  The stories within this anthology are the product of dedicated members of Spinetinglers. Each story was either voted the story of the month or the members of Spinetinglers voted them to be included in this anthology. The Spinetinglers Anthology 2008 is truly a product of their opinions and work. The stories themselves are as varied as stories can be in an anthology, and I have to admit I am quite proud of that. On one side of the spectrum, you have Niall McMahon’s gripping narrative in ProMem; on the other hand, you have the terrifically tacky Dead Famous by James Brooks. Colin Doran’s The Chase is nail-biting, edge-of-your-seat stuff, so if you like your stories to be spine-tingling, check out his tale. This anthology contains two very different tales from an up-and-coming horror writer, Tony Walsworth. His story, Tiw’s Cup, warns us against chasing the ultimate rush, and his other contribution, John’s Story, is a shockingly chilling tale of madness and inner demons. And, to round off the anthology, you have Steven Deighan’s A Taxing Journey to Hell. Steven Deighan was our first winner in the Spinetinglers short-story competition, and he set the standard for all future winners.

  I hope the members of Spinetinglers can forgive me, because I have also sneaked in one of my own stories. As I am one of the judges of the monthly short-story competition, I obviously can never enter any of my own work. However, I could not resist including one of my own compositions in such notable company.

  I have no doubt that this anthology hosts some of the great, dark-fiction writers of the future and I hope Spinetinglers, affectionately known by its members as “Spiney,” will help them on their way.

  Oh, by the way, if you don’t like some of the stories and think you can do better? Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is; visit www.spinetinglers.co.uk, and let us read your work. You never know, maybe you will be published in The Spinetinglers Anthology 2009.

  Good luck and keep writing!

  Nolene-Patricia Dougan

  June 6, 2008

  ProMem

  by Niall McMahon

  There’s a chemical in your head that hides memories. As time passes, it does its work – live long enough and you’d probably forget almost everything that you know right now. You can think of it as a kind of “mind fog” (It has a proper scientific name, but who the hell cares what us scientists call it?)

  Sounds terrible at first, doesn’t it? Think about it though. “Time is a healer,” and all that. What that actually means is forgetfulness is a healer. Time just gives that chemical a chance to do its job – to weaken a neural connection here, a synaptic pathway there.

  We recover from heartache, bereavement, and guilt not because we really come to terms with it, but because the mind fog takes away the immediacy of the grief. It clouds our recollection of those precious moments with our loved ones, the dearly departed. It throws the past into shadows, thus granting us a chance to reinvent it, to excuse our own wrongdoings.

  Don’t believe me? Don’t want to? Well, the proof comes every time you hear that certain tune, or smell that certain scent. It all comes rushing back with shocking clarity. You know exactly what I mean, I know you do. Everything’s there in your brain, you see, the supercomputer that stores all – but the mind fog hides just enough so that you can live a sane existence.

  It’s like God made us too smart (or evolution, if that is your wont), and He had to compensate for the fact that we were now clever enough, literally, to drive ourselves mad.

  But imagine if the chemical stopped working. Every last instance of your existence is there in your mind’s eye, every nuance clear as day. The hurt, loss, resentment, chides, raw and never-healing despite the years. None of us could function. Our lives would be a continual, bitter nostalgia, spent embroiled in our own memories, whilst the present passed us by almost unnoticed. This, I believe, is what Alzheimer’s really is. The mind fog clears and we are rendered insane by a catalogue of traumatic experiences, struck dumb by the enormity of our emotions.

  Still seems like a tragedy to forget though, doesn’t it? I’ve always thought so. I used to read fictional tales of “Ancient Mariner” types, who fantastically lived for hundreds of years, and I would think it was pointless that they should survive so long. They would have forgotten ninety percent of their experiences, and the majority of the people they ever knew. They would have forgotten who they were.

  We mortals can forget who we are, too. Again, as an intelligent person, you know what I mean. Maybe you still want to remember your father’s face ’cause it ain’t there in the churchyard, and photos can’t smile back at you like he did. Maybe you want to be able to relive those precious memories of childhood and feel protected in a way that adults never really can again. The point is, none of us wants to forget everything. We want to know who we are, to remember the experiences that have made us what we are.

  When treating Alzheimer’s, those early twenty-first-century scientists saw old people who had forgotten their immediate families, who didn’t recognise their own faces, and assumed correctly that the problem was related to memory. Trouble was, they treated it in exactly the wrong way, as a loss of memory. In fact, the victims were suffering from overly vivid recollections. Events from decades before suddenly seemed as real to them, more real, than the present. They were remembering too well. Their mind fog had cleared.

  My tale begins here. I saw the drug they were (incorrectly) prescribing to old folks, and I realised its potential for the wider world, to unlock the mind. Forget hypnotism – a perfect stranger meddling with your head, possibly planting “memories” of events that never occurred at all. What if you could take a pill and remember whatever you chose to remember, such as those bittersweet memories that sculpt us, carve us into the individuals we are? It would be a cathartic experience in a tablet, one you could take whenever you needed to see the bigger picture, yet one that would spare you most of the pain those memories might elicit.

  Nice idea. ‘Tis a shame about the side effect.

  My drug (a tweaked version) was tested, endorsed, and released in 2032, eight years from formulation to dispatch (which is fast in this game). Until now, I’ve spared you medical terminology, but I think you’ll like the shelf name they devised – ProMem. I liked it anyway.

  ProMem was a slow starter. At first, I thought I’d have to cancel that order for the private yacht and the villa on the Gold Coast. After the first year, the company had made a huge loss, and I had to fight like hell to get them to keep manufacturing it. The second year was a little better, but only because a few doctors chose to use it to treat sufferers of amnesia.

  The third year, it took off, and I became a very wealthy man.

  The problems began almost at once. Such was my arrogance that I disregarded them initially. I remember the first case that came to light – the case of Robert Brand. He was a middle-aged office worker who had lived alone and had lost most of his family to cancer. He was the epitome of the ProMem core market – lonely, mid-life crisis in full swing, and anxious for a little comfort, if only from inside his own head.

  Within two months of starting ProMem, he had taken two lives – a neighbour’s and his own. Meanwhile, he had become a recluse, failing to turn up for work or to attend to the most basic aspects of personal hygiene. The only thing he had continued to do was to take his daily ProMem pill.

  What will a multitrillion-dollar-drug company do to avoid negative press about its hottest new product?

  Everything in its power.

  What’s within the power of such an organisation?

  Just about anything at all.

  The Robert Brand story vanished – never
even making the local news of his hometown. Neither did the case of Sally Reinman (killed herself, her mother, and her dog a month after Brand), nor that of Rahjid Tal (wife, brother, and himself).

  By the time I heard about Tal, I confess that I had lost some of my arrogance. I turned my thoughts, as you may have reading this, to the subject of drug trials. What, if anything, had we missed? Why were these ProMem-takers killing others and, invariably, themselves as well?

  From 2018, all new drugs had to pass the Sherwood/Burport simulation. (Testing on animals and humans was outlawed in the same year.) It was a computer program that perfectly modelled the physiology and neurology of a human being. The code was based on the collective DNA of millions of real people, correlated over three decades, and had been proven mathematically to be an utterly accurate representation of a human being. Actually, the simulation contained one thousand virtual human beings, each carefully crafted to represent every racial group and every pre-existing medical condition. The drug was administered in digital form to these virtual individuals. To pass, it had to be demonstrated that there were no long term (ten years) or short term side-effects that would cause permanent or debilitating injury to any of the virtual humans. Sounds complex? Actually, the test takes a few milliseconds-such is modern computing power.

  What took time was altering ProMem slightly each time it failed.

  Yes, there were some failures-weakening of the blood vessels around the heart, increased risk of miscarriage in pregnant women, greater susceptibility to various cancers. Why did this not spell “the end?” Well, just about anything can be proven to have such side-effects, if taken in high-enough quantities, from chewing gum to aspirin. The fact we eventually passed is a testament to the safety of the formula.

  Well – almost.

  There was one anomaly. We ignored it in the end, and the medical council allowed us to proceed, because they, like most of us, believed it was merely a coding error in the SB software.