Cindy dropped her chin to insulate her face from the bitter bite of Jack Frost. Her arms laden with tools, she ran into her workplace, Woodhaven Funeral Home. She opened the door and took a minute to bask in the strangely comforting atmosphere. The air was warm and the aroma of brewing coffee mingled with the fragrance of freshly cut flowers.

"Close the door," Mr. Robbins, the director of the funeral home, ordered. "We living folks still need to maintain a certain body temperature."

Cindy nodded apologetically and shut the door.

"Thanks, Doll, I have Ms. Baptist prepped and ready for her final make-over!"

Cindy gave a washed out smile to the quirky, little man while walking into the small room that served as her office.

A petite form lay hidden under a white sheet on the steel table. Cindy organized her make-up in preparation. She took her job very seriously, considering it a personal favor to the grieving and the dead. She took extra time in covering the blemishes death left behind and beautifying the features that birth bestowed. Her motto was ‘the beauty in make-up artistry is to make it look as though you aren’t wearing any’. She wanted to make sure the final memory left behind was one of beauty.

"Okay girl," Cindy gave herself an encouraging cheer. She pulled down the thin shroud to reveal a withered woman in her late seventies. Her frame appeared to be miniscule as if she were shrinking in modesty of her nude form. Her hands were clasped tightly and resting at her waist, each finger serving as a lock. A lock, that Cindy would have to open.

Cindy frowned as she attempted to separate her fragile hands. She pulled gingerly, so not to snap the fingers, but they seemed to be in a death grip. She exerted a little extra force and flinched as the digits parted. When the pruny palms separated a beautiful piece of Gossamer Silk fluttered to the floor. Cindy jumped back in surprise. She wondered why Mr. Robbins had not taken care of this during the embalming procedure.

Carefully she positioned Ms. Baptist’s arms across her chest and picked up the material. She noticed it wasn’t just a piece of silk, but a scarf, the most beautiful scarf she had ever seen. Among the dark and contrasting floral patterns were embedded golden threads. The intertwining threads shone brilliantly under the florescent lights. She could clearly see the illuminating symbol of a golden pentagram.

"Cindy, this is Ms. Baptist’s sister, Helena."

She dropped the scarf and turned to see Mr. Robbins standing inside the doorway with a woman, who had a commanding regal air. Her silver hair curled softly around her thin shoulders. Cindy quickly looked at the table then back to Helena. The resemblance to Ms. Baptist was striking.

She approached Cindy. "Where’s the scarf?" she spoke in a smooth, emotionless tone.

Cindy scooped the scarf from the concrete floor. "It’s right here."

Helena’s cold, dark eyes bulged as Cindy waved the silk cloth. "I don’t want to touch it! A touch of the scarf stains death on the soul." She shook her head in dismay as she studied the scarf from a safe distance. "It can’t be…it just cannot be. There’s no way that’s the same scarf, you ripped from my dead sister’s hands. Are you absolutely certain that’s the silk my sister was holding?"

"Yes," Cindy replied.

"That’s impossible, my sister’s scarf was," she paused to think, "dirty, and it was riddled with," again she paused trying to come up with a word, "holes!" she shouted as if she had the winning answer for a game show.

Her eyes sparkled in a forgotten misery as Cindy asked, "What would you have me do with it?"

"Burn it, burn every stitch. When you cremate Audrey’s corpse, you make certain that damned rag is in the flames with her."

Helena stormed out, leaving Mr. Robbins and Cindy scratching their heads.

"Let me see it." Mr. Robbins attempted to snatch the unwanted fabric.

She jerked back. "You’re not wearing rubber."

"Oh hell, Cindy, give it here, I’m not going to fuck it."

Cindy had a bad feeling that churned in the core of her gut and against her better judgment, she handed it over.

The undertaker folded the silky material into a triangle, placed it on his head, gave it a knot under his double chin, and danced about Cindy’s office. "Look at me, I’m a Russian immigrant." He batted his long eyelashes over his crystal blue eyes. "Do you like my new babushka?"

Cindy found this to be disturbing and demanded that he take it off. He laughed and tossed it down.

Cindy readied Ms. Baptist for her wake. As time passed, Cindy’s stomach grumbled, reminding her of lunch. She left her work of art, formally known as Ms. Baptist, and walked down the long corridor to Mr. Robbins’ office. "Hey, I’m going to 'Burger Barn'" There was no answer. She creaked open the office door and saw Mr. Robbins, reclined in his leather chair. His head drew forth the image of a rotten Jack-o-lantern; his facial features were disgustingly distorted, no longer human in appearance. She screamed and rushed to her office. She shoved her hands into a pair of latex gloves and picked up the frayed fragments of a filthy cloth. Bloody threads held it together. Cindy realized the importance of destroying the scarf. She knew the evil garment had been cursed, and it would leave a trail of innocent victims in its deadly wake.

That evening Cindy played funeral director for Audrey’s wake. When the last teary-eyed mourner left, she went to work. Cindy made sure the Devil’s hanky burned along with the body. She watched the scarf’s edges curl into the orange blaze as the red flames dined on the blackened flesh of Ms. Baptist. Their ashes mingled into one grey clump. When Cindy was satisfied every stitch had been desecrated, she closed the lid to the cremation chamber. She prayed the fire would kill the curse.

The days that unfolded were plagued by disturbing events at Woodhaven. The staff tried to conduct business as usual; however, the tension inside the funeral home had festered. In the absence of Mr. Robbins, the workers had become sloppy with the exception of Cindy. Later that week, a body was waiting for her with an un-removed toe tag, which read, 'Helena Ann Baptist'. Cindy felt her heart palpitate as she inched away the sheet. She unleashed a sigh of relief when she found Helena's hands unoccupied. No scarf, natural causes, Cindy thought, and with a lighter heart, she began her work. Laughing at herself for allowing the crazy notion, of a scarf surviving the scorching heat of the fire, to enter her troubled mind.

As she brushed and lined the contours of Mrs. Baptist, she noticed something in her mouth. Cindy reached into the toothless hole, in order to free the obstruction. To her horror, she pulled out an unscathed, shimmering Gossamer Scarf. In her panic, she threw the silk into the air. She observed, in slow motion and unable to move, as the Devil’s hanky softly danced down onto her sleeveless forearm. The golden pentagram glowed under the bright lights and Cindy knew her days were numbered. Helena’s tortured words clawed at her psyche, "A touch of the scarf stains death on the soul." The curse is spreading.

"The Corpse Painter and The Devil's Hanky"
Copyright: © 2010 Donna Jean Lyons and Stacy Bolli
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Stacy and Donna Jean were drawn together by the powers of darkness. This cosmic connection could not be explained. However, they knew, between their twisted minds, they could unite as one and together they weaved a macabre tapestry of depraved words and horrific mental images. Allow yourself to feast on their linguistic offspring.

Stacy is a married mother to three amazing children and hails from the sun-soaked state of Florida.

My nipples stiffen and my throat becomes desert dry. My heartbeat slows. I stagger to Rahmus, pushing my fingers through his angelic, blond hair, and leaning into his well-designed body. "I need you."

I slide the inner surface of my hand, up and over his life-giving firmness, while moving down his chiseled abs with my mouth. I stop and look up from between his bronze legs, blond waves of hair dangling over my Mustang Blue eyes speak to his soul. I turn and crawl inside the tent. With a heavy heart, Rahmus follows. His god-like body spreads my legs, his strong hands cradling my hips, and his hefty muscle threatening penetration. Our bodies merge and I feel whole. My bliss is short lived. "Rahmus, stop."

Rahmus doesn’t stop. He continues to force himself on me. The weight of his body buckles my arms. I crash forward. My stomach grows increasingly queasy and my mouth fills with hot water. "Please, wait."

I think he’s going to stop, but he’s only readjusting my body. I feel his hands squeezing my ankles as he twists me over onto my back. He mounts my flesh. I pound his upper body and kick my legs. Rahmus takes my arms and pens them over my head. He thrusts deeper and I become light headed. A soft tear falls from his denim blue eyes and moistens my dehydrated lips.

He lightly traces the thick scar, down the middle of my stomach, with his delicate finger. "All better, now?"

"Yes, of course."

Rahmus tightens up into a small ball and clutches his gut.

I smile while looking at Rahmus. He’s drenched in a cold perspiration and convulsing in the dirt. His summer tan fades to a dreary shade of winter. I drag him inside the tent and cover his perfectly formed body with a wool cloak. I gently brush his blond curls away from his forehead, leaving him with only a kiss and a promise.

I leave Rahmus alone and dying inside the gloomy tent. I cruise the campgrounds looking for a friendly face. I quickly locate one and we make our way, through the heavily wooded trails, back to the campsite. Once there, I don’t waste any time. I plunge my lips to hers while darting my tongue across her taste buds. I rush my hand up her bikini top, groping her breast. I untie her top, setting her large breasts free to roam. She lets go of a soft sigh as I drop my hand lower. "Do you like that?"

She grabs my hair and spins my back to her front. Her hand storms down the top of my shorts. I widen my stance, allowing her fingers to erupt. Heat ushers through my body, as she asks, "The question is. Do you like it?"

Rahmus wails out in pain from inside his canvas tomb. I realize the time for foreplay is over.

She jerks her hand free. "Who’s that?"

"Rahmus," his name tastes sweet on my lips.

She slaps her hands to my hips, tightening her grip, while giving a playful shake. "Listen, I’m just as kinky as the next girl, but if you’re looking for a three-way, I’m gonna have to pass."

I remove my clothes and pull back the canvas flap. "Don’t you, at least, want to look?"

I let the fold fall shut and wait for her by his side. I knew she’d follow me, they always do. Curious has killed a lot more than stray cats in the backwoods of Grayson’s Lake.

I expose Rahmus’ naked body and straddle the dense lesion on his abdomen. However, I do not risk taking him inside me. Instead, I set about traveling his scared trail of pleasure. Sweet sounds of gratification journey from my parted lips and find the inquisitive ears of our pretty, young friend, compelling her to peak inside, if only for a minute.

Her head appears and I reach for her hand. "It’s not a threesome if you’re only watching."

I reluctantly remove myself from Rahmus and venture to her back, pressing my hard nipples between her shoulder blades. Rahmus watches as I run my hand down along her tone midsection and spout kisses, like a fountain, over her collarbone. My hand disappears inside her bikini bottoms. I relax my pace and tug at the elastic waistband. "Why don’t you take these off for us?"

She unstrings the bikini while staring at my lover’s appendage. She inches to Rahmus. I watch while she enjoys the satisfaction of his body, my body, our body.

I approach her, working her hips faster. "Rahmus, take what you need from her."

Her body grows cold inside my hands as she gives into her desires. His breathing increases as his skin glows with a passion pink hue. I position myself on Rahumus’ thighs, behind her, and wrap my arms around her waist. I keep her body moving with mine.

Her body goes limp and I toss her lifeless corpse to the side. "All better, now?"

Rahmus smiles and says, "Yes, of course."

He digs a shallow grave for the mummified body then joins me in summer’s last, blaze orange sunset. I stare into his beautiful face; realizing I won’t see it again, until winter dies. Knowing life and death are one in the same and both are cruel to the grave. People come into this world alone, and they must leave it the same way. Rahmus and I are the only deviations to this wicked law.

~*~

Rahmus and I stand, as one, inside the cave. The morning songbirds prepare their spring nests, the tulips are in bloom, and a warm breeze pushes our hair to one side. We step out of the cavern and, once again, we enter the world as two.

My nipples stiffen and my throat becomes desert dry. My heartbeat slows. I stagger to Rahmus, pushing my fingers through his angelic, blond hair, and leaning into his well-designed body. "I need you."

"Wicked Deviations"
Copyright: © 2010 Donna Jean Lyons
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Donna Jean Lyons recently escaped a maximum-security women’s prison for the criminally insane. She was last spotted fleeing the secluded mountains of West Virginia, dragging behind her a freshly acquired girlfriend and being followed by her two tick-infested Hell Hounds. Her true whereabouts remain a mystery.

I return home not to find my woman but, instead, cruel words scratched out on a single sheet of rosy stationery…

Dear Tabatha,

I’ve had fun but now the time has come to explore other alternatives. I’ve met a man and fallen in love with his large penis. I’ll admit you weren’t bad, when you slung the rubber, but there’s just nothing like the real thing, baby. Your suspicions were right about me all along. I did like ‘it’ a little too much. I missed the bawdy feel of a man’s hands and the brush of thick, sweaty hair during rough sex. You were just too soft and tender for me. In addition, your sex gear didn’t come with any extras, if you know what I mean. I don’t know how else to explain it. Other than, you just aren’t man enough for me. I’ll miss your seasoned tongue play, though. There were good times with you, and no one could ever replace the memories that we shared. However, a memory is like a double-edged sword. It’s a memory that has led me back down this path. I’m also into drugs and I’m pregnant with his baby.

Before, telling you the true nature of this dear Joan letter. I’ve taken your Bloodhound, Elvis, to the local pound. I didn’t want to leave him here with you. Elvis, like me, gets lonely. You never spent time with him. Dogs need lots of attention, and you spend your ‘down time’ working out or with that damn 1967 Chevy. You’ve clocked more hours under ‘her’ hood than mine. What person in their right mind chooses to tinker around with scraps of metal over a beautiful woman, ready for some serious loving? Let me ask you something. Has your precious car ever satisfied your womanly needs in the dead of night or early in the morning?

I couldn’t read anymore. I reckon when it rains; it tries to fucking strangle you. A man, I’d rather she’d left me for Elvis. The thought of a man touching her, twisted my heart until it was wrung bone dry of love. I wanted to kill her. However, why go for the kill when you can bring on the pain? Daniela didn’t know who she was fucking with, not yet. It was magick that brought her to me, and it’ll be magick that makes her pay for breaking my heart.

I rip her photograph from the gold frame and shove the letter inside the pocket of my worn Levis. Snatching the Urn of Delogus, I send a dozen of fresh cut roses sailing across the room. I make my way to the back of our bedroom closet. I pop out the hidden panel. Cobwebs finger my raven hair as I step across the threshold of my occult lair. Once inside, I encircle her picture with the silver and crimson Cord of Saturn, while reciting the binding chant of Delogus.

I light the Black Heart Candle, smoke smolders from the wick as a foul stench dances through the dimly lit room. I pick up the Urn of Delogus, detaching the lid, and elevate it high up into the nocturnal air. “I call forth Delogus, the bringer of corruption and hate. I ask that you fill your urn with the blood of evil and condemn her fate. Seal her heart and turn it cold, make her to never love again and grow lonely and old.”

I set the picture ablaze and pitch it inside the Urn of Delogus. “Now let’s just see, how much you love dick or anything else, for that matter. You’ll hate him and you’ll hate his child. You’ll hate everything and everyone for all eternity, once I burn this handwritten letter.” The scorching hate, I felt in the pit of my gut, sizzled down to a dying amber of disgust. If I’m going to go through with this, I’ll have to finish reading her letter to kindle my wrath before burning it.

By now, you’re probably pretty pissed. I hope you’ll, find it in your heart to, forgive me for what I have done. First, let me start by saying, I love you more than life its self. No one has ever made me feel the way that you do in the bedroom, the shower, outside in the garden, or…I think you get my point.

I do not love dick. I actually hate dick, unless you’re the driving force behind it. There’s no man, I don’t do drugs, and I’m not pregnant. I’d never take Elvis to the pound. I love your car. Not because it is a classic, but because it is the first place, we made love. Now with all that said. I don’t think the real purpose of this letter will be as bad as I’d thought that it would be. Then again, maybe it will.

Here goes, today when I was cleaning the garage, I accidentally knocked a can of paint onto the hood of your car. It put a pretty, mean ding in it. I didn’t know how to tell you. I may be wrong, but I don’t think it’s that big of a deal now. Especially, after you just found out, I haven’t done any of the things that you thought I did. I just wanted you to see that there were worse things that I could’ve done than, accidentally, denting the hood of your car. I'm at Judy’s, her number is on the frig, and your dinner is in the oven. When you cool down, give me a call.

All of my love forever,
Daniela

The Urn of Delgous quivers, the Black Heart Candle flickers and sparks spring forth from a lake of darkness. The stink of destruction swipes its finger under my nose. Fire licks at the flesh of my fingertips. Daniela’s words are reduced to ashes. Tears escape from my eyes as I realize, once ignited, the flames of vengeance aren’t so easily controlled.

"Heartless"

Copyright: © 2009 Donna Jean Lyons
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Donna Jean Lyons is a retired steelworker, who recently escaped a maximum-security women’s prison for the criminally insane. She was last spotted fleeing the secluded mountains of West Virginia, dragging behind her a freshly acquired girlfriend and being followed by her two tick-infested Hell Hounds. Her true whereabouts remain a mystery. Donna Jean’s uncensored stories have shown up in House of Horror, as well as a bloody tale in the anthology Creature Features. Her writing is forthcoming in issue #10 of The Monster Next Door.