The Wind Whispers My Name

by Jameson T. Caine

At night the wind calls to me, whispering my name. I lie in bed, eyes closed, desperate for the solace of sleep, but it eludes me. As I drift away into fitful slumber, the soft sound of the breeze brushing against my window stirs me from my repose, my name carried to me through the surrounding darkness.

It speaks with her voice.

I do not look, afraid of what I might see...or what I might not see. It couldn’t be her, not after all this time. Not after that last, horrible night. To find her standing there now beyond the frail glass would surely drive me insane, yet the thought of throwing aside the curtains and seeing nothing frightens me even more.

I recall her final words, spoken in anger, defiance and finally, hatred. The way her pleas and denials became an antagonistic admission of truth, her fury boiling over, transforming once beautiful features into the menacing snarl of a stranger. The elegant face I knew so well now a terrifying visage of rage and malevolence. Forever will I remember the look those icy eyes had cast my way seconds before the light within them was extinguished forever.

Or not.

Had she somehow survived? I took such care in disposing of the gun and locating a suitably remote place to bury her horrid remains. She was dead, I’d made sure of it. In all the intervening years, I have had no cause to doubt the outcome of that night. Still, after three sleepless nights haunted by the sound of her voice upon the wind, I had to be sure.

I came to the ancestral cabin in which we spent that fateful evening, high atop a bluff overlooking the restless sea. By day I searched the nearby woods, looking for her final resting place. But time wasn’t kind to the land or to my memories. I could not find her.

Can the vow made before her death be coming true? Could she even now be drawing upon dark, arcane forces to enact the promised revenge from somewhere beyond the realm of the living? I push aside such thoughts as fanciful imaginings, but when darkness engulfs the land and the wind rises, I think differently. I recall the unholy things she did and the lives ended through her deeds; all performed under the watchful eyes of the one whom she called Teacher. How could I not put an end to such evil when I finally learned of it?

Night has come again. I huddle inside, a fading fire my only source of warmth and illumination. The wind rises and falls outside, her voice a whisper and then a shattering scream. I dare not look through the window, for I know the only thing I will find is my end.

I cover my ears but the shrieking gale cannot be denied. I scream, desperate to drown out her mournful cry with the ragged sound of my own voice, but my tortured howls cannot overcome the intensity of that ghastly lamentation. The wind has become her voice, throwing my own name back at me in accusation and anger.

I hurl the door open, determined to heave myself from the cliff to the cold waters below. I stagger towards the edge, my fear of death at war with my desire for this madness to end. It’s then that I see her, standing a few feet from the ledge, waiting.

The one whom she’d called Teacher.

Teacher looks at me, eyes dark and penetrating. “You will replace the servant you took from me,” she says.

And I know that I will. Her voice is commanding, insidious. I must not disobey. I eye the nearby ledge, but the wind keeps me from jumping, blowing in off the sea and forcing me back, preventing my demise at my own hand. It pushes me forward into the embrace of the soulless thing before me and I scream with unbridled terror when I peer into those dark eyes, seeing the fate awaiting me.

Taunting and cruel, the wind laughs at me in her voice, the one I killed that night so many years ago. The one whose face I still see when I look in the mirror.

The one whom I called twin sister.

__________

Jameson T. Caine has at one time or another worked as a carpenter, meat cutter, shipping clerk, forklift operator, assembly line worker, long haul truck driver and minister. Currently he drives a tanker truck by day and calls himself a writer by night, the latter fueled by a steady diet of soda and salty snacks. He has numerous stories appearing online and in print. He lives in Northern California with his wife and two dogs. Visit him online at http://jamesontcaine.blogspot.com/

The Confession

by Jameson T. Caine

“You’re late,” Father Rivera called out from the confessional when he heard footsteps in the empty church.

“Couldn’t be helped,” replied a deep voice, echoing in the dark. “It isn’t like this place is easy to get to at night.”

“That’s what you said the last three times,” Rivera said, agitation evident in his words. “God’s patience may be infinite but mine is not. I suggest you try harder to be more punctual, Mr. Jonas.”

The door to the confessional eased open and closed. “Why? What else have ya got to do?” Jonas asked from within the adjoining booth. “It’s not like there’s a lot to do in this town.”

Rivera leaned closer to the screen that separated them. He spied the faint silhouette of the larger man and was suddenly aware of the stale smell of sweat that filled the air. Jonas had once again chosen to wear a T-shirt to his debriefing, despite the chill permeating the church this time of night, and was busy scratching his bare arms.

“Is there a problem?” Rivera asked.

“Nope.”

“Then I suggest you get on with your report.”

Jonas took a deep breath and was silent for a few seconds before speaking. “We followed up that intel you provided. Sure as hell, that town your boys scouted out was filled with bloodsuckers.

“We ran our usual game, acting out the parts of lost travelers and what not until we located their nest. Then we followed SOP and hit them midday.”

“How did that go?” Rivera asked.

“You’ll be glad to hear that I didn’t lose a single person to a vampire.”

“Well, that’s good news,” Rivera said. “I presume that as we speak, your crew is at the local watering hole imbibing themselves into unconsciousness?”

“Nope,” Jonas said. Again he began to scratch his arms.

“Then where are they?”

“They’re dead. All of them.”

Rivera frowned. “But you just said no one died.”

“I said that I didn’t lose anyone to a vampire, because what we found waiting for us in that nest wasn’t just a bunch of soulless undead.”

“I don’t understand,” Rivera said.

Jonas sighed. “Werewolves,” he spat. “Those bastards had a group of werewolves guarding their nest. We were taken by surprise and before I knew it, half my team was in pieces on the floor.”

“Preposterous,” Rivera scoffed. “Where is your team?” he asked again.

“I told you, they’re dead. Some got torn to shreds right off the bat. The ones that made it out, well…” His voice trailed off.

“What became of them?” Rivera prompted.

“I shot them.”

“What? Why?”

“Because they had been bitten by werewolves and lived. They were doomed to become the same.”

“Mr. Jonas,” Rivera began harshly. “I will not accept this ridiculous tale. Werewolves do not exist. Don’t let the fact that Satan’s minions walk this earth in the guise of vampires lead you to believe that every mythological creature ever invented truly exists. They do not. Now, what happened to your team?!”

Jonas stopped scratching himself and was now very still. “I told you, I killed them,” he said solemnly, and for some strange reason Rivera believed him. His instinct told him that this man was responsible for the deaths of some, if not all, of his team.

Muttering now in a low voice, Jonas continued, oblivious to Rivera’s presence. “I killed them all. I should have seen it coming. I should have seen it. It’s all my fault.” There was no doubt that his days as a field agent were over.

“Pray for me, father,” Jonas whispered, almost to himself.

Feeling tired, Rivera simply nodded and said, “Of course I will pray for you, my son.” It was going to take a lot of hard work in order to help Jonas find redemption.

“Pray for me, father,” Jonas repeated, this time his voice sounding heavier. Rivera noticed that his breathing had changed as well, becoming more labored.

“Yes, Mr. Jonas. I will pray for as I just said.”

Jonas began to fidget. “No father!” He suddenly howled. “Prey for me! YOU ARE PREY FOR ME!”

Father Rivera looked up just in time to see two tremendous hands, taloned and bristling with dark hair, tear through the flimsy screen to grab him by the throat.

__________

Jameson T. Caine has at one time or another worked as a carpenter, meat cutter, shipping clerk, forklift operator, assembly line worker, long haul truck driver and ordained minister. Currently he drives a tanker truck by day and calls himself a writer by night, the latter fueled by a steady diet of soda and cheese puffs. He lives in Northern California with his wife and two dogs. Visit him online at http://jamesontcaine.blogspot.com/.

Nuts

by Jameson T. Caine

Looking my opponent directly in the eye, I slowly took another Barbados Nut seed from the bowl and, after the slightest pause for dramatic effect, placed it in my mouth. The crowd gathered in the old warehouse roared its approval. In my peripheral vision I saw wads of money exchanging hands.

“Wait!” roared Thorne. “He has to swallow!”

The referee—I have no idea what his name was—waved his hands, quieting the throng of onlookers, then looked at me and nodded.

I regarded Thorne from across the table and smirked as I bit down and began chewing. Seconds later I opened my mouth to prove that it was empty.

“Seven for DeSoto!” the referee announced. “They’re tied now, seven apiece.”

More money was exchanged in the stands. Thorne stared at me with smoldering eyes, his anger and hatred obvious. Few had ever dared go beyond five seeds before, and Thorne was accustomed to winning every match.

We both sat back to wait the five minutes until the next round. I could see Thorne fuming. I had matched him seed for seed at each round and now, just past the half hour mark, we were well into the time frame when their poison would begin to take effect. In fact, I already felt a sharp pain in my gut and fought the instinct to vomit.

I knew Thorne experienced the same. Soon enough the nausea would get worse. Then the flatulence, diarrhea, muscle cramps and dizziness would kick in. After that, a lingering death if neither of us chose to vomit. The longer one waited, the better the chance of dying. Hell, wait long enough and even puking your guts up was no guarantee of survival. That’s why a stomach pump was kept on standby.

Of course, the longer one waited, the more money there was to win. The rules stated that whoever threw up first was the loser. The other would get a cut of the House’s winnings, and with each seed eaten and the frenzied betting that ensued, that cut got bigger and bigger.

I needed this money, so there was no way I was going to call it quits. I’m sure Thorne was determined to hang in there out of pure spite.

Five minutes elapsed and the spectators hushed as the referee pointed at Thorne. A coin toss had determined that he’d go first in each round. Without hesitation, he grabbed a large seed from the bowl between us, then popped it in his mouth and dry swallowed it whole. The crowed went insane when he revealed his empty mouth.

“Eight for Thorne, Seven for DeSoto!” yelled the referee.

“Beat that, you bastard,” Thorne sneered at me. I could see from the pallor of his skin that the poison was working its mojo on him. I doubt I looked any better.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling like utter crap, but like I said, I needed this money. I took another seed and ate it, albeit a bit slower than the last one. Waves of nausea washed over me.

A foul smell suddenly cut through the air. I gazed at Thorne. He looked bad. His complexion was as pale as a ghost. He was grasping the table with both hands, no doubt feeling the affects of vertigo. The smell was originating from him, or more to the point, his pants. What had probably started out as just a fart had evidently become something much worse. The SOB had actually soiled himself.

“Need some tissue?” I mocked.

“Up yours,” he said. Well, he tried to say it. The last word elongated into a cough and then became a full blown retch when he proceeded to blast the contents of his stomach all over the table.

“DeSoto wins!” the referee exclaimed. The crowed erupted in a fanfare of shouting and swearing. Money moved between owners again.

I was too busy motioning to the guy holding the stomach pump to notice any of it. As he approached, I was dimly aware that I had won. I smiled. Yes, I needed this money.

Baby needs a new pair of shoes, after all.

__________

Jameson T. Caine has at one time or another worked as a carpenter, meat cutter, shipping clerk, forklift operator, assembly line worker, long haul truck driver and ordained minister. Currently he drives a tanker truck by day and calls himself a writer by night, the latter fueled by a steady diet of soda and cheese puffs. He has stories appearing in the forthcoming Devil's Food anthology and issue number five of Sand. He lives in Northern California with his wife and two dogs. Visit him online at http://jamesontcaine.blogspot.com/.