{"id":342,"date":"2014-12-31T02:03:44","date_gmt":"2014-12-31T07:03:44","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/?page_id=342"},"modified":"2014-12-31T02:03:44","modified_gmt":"2014-12-31T07:03:44","slug":"whispers-in-darkness-edited-by-j-blackmore","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/?page_id=342","title":{"rendered":"Whispers In Darkness edited by J Blackmore"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a>ebook $6.99
\nISBN 9781613900345
\n48,460 words<\/p>\n

[wp_eStore_add_to_cart id=88]<\/p>\n

The ebook edition is also available at: Amazon<\/a>, Barnes & Noble<\/a>, Smashwords<\/a>, Kobo <\/a>& AllRomanceEbooks<\/a>.<\/p>\n

This cyclopean collection features eight new stories from Peter Tupper, Angela Caperton, Alex Picchetti, Monique Poirier, Elizabeth Reeve, Bernie Mojzes, Annabeth Leong, and Kannan Feng, each filled to the brim with insanity-inducing, orgasm-producing goodness. Have you always wondered what one of those Cthulhu-cult orgies would look like from the inside? Do you crave intellectual tentacle porn? Have you always felt that the only thing Lovecraft was missing was a really, really good lay now and again? If so, this book was made for you. Don\u2019t deny your curiosity! Just beware: what one has seen (and been aroused by) cannot be unseen\u2026<\/p>\n

Table of Contents:<\/strong>
\nInk by Bernie Mojzes
\nKoenigsberg\u2019s Model by Peter Tupper
\nA Reflection of Kindness by Kannan Feng
\nThe Artist\u2019s Retreat by Annabeth Leong
\nThe Dreams in the Laundromat by Elizabeth Reeve
\nSheik by Angela Caperton
\nThe Flower of Innsmouth by Monique Poirier
\nWhen the Stars Come by Alex Picchetti
\n
\nEnjoy this hot selection from the book!<\/em><\/p>\n

Excerpted from \u201cInk\u201d by Bernie Mojzes<\/strong><\/p>\n

The Eldritch Horror sat quietly at the end of the bar, smoking and staring at the olive in an otherwise empty martini glass. <\/span>One supple pseudopod held a Virginia Slim menthol to one set of lips. Another mouth drew on a Camel unfiltered, held in a withered claw of a hand. A third, hand-rolled (for want of a better term), smelled of cloves. With each exhale, smoke seeped from various orifices scattered around its amorphous body, both out of and under the cheap suit it had stuffed itself into.<\/p>\n

A pencil-thin tongue snaked out of one mouth and twisted sensuously around the olive at the bottom of the glass. The tip prodded the pimento out of the olive, then curled the olive up into its mouth.<\/p>\n

I wondered if it really disliked pimentos, or if this was the Eldritch Horror version of peeling labels off beer bottles.<\/p>\n

The barstool next to it remained empty, even though it was a Friday night and the college kids were out in force. I made my way through the sea of earnest, drunken faces. The fragments of conversation I caught were less about sports and relationships, and more about contextual framing of meaning, and Hegelian dialectic, and one particularly ill-advised comparison of Umberto Eco with Dan Brown. Not even English and Philosophy majors wanted anything to do with the Eldritch Horror.<\/p>\n

Or so it seemed.<\/p>\n

Still, it was a public place, and it seemed safe enough. I settled in next to the Horror and waved for the barkeeper.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll have one of what he\u2019s having,\u201d I said. I glanced at the Horror. \u201cOr she. Or it. But with a twist. And his next round\u2019s on me, too.\u201d<\/p>\n

Three of the Horror\u2019s eyes wandered over to regard me. \u201cThanks,\u201d it said, the word burbling through its body like a Paleolithic tar pit. Even so, it managed to evince a sense of suspicion.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo problem.\u201d I tipped my hat\u2013a battered and rain-stained fedora, but all I could afford\u2013and then stuck out my hand. \u201cName\u2019s Harry. Harry Levinson.\u201d<\/p>\n

It extruded a soft, smooth, feminine hand with manicured fingernails. They were coated with black polish; the ring finger\u2019s nail was slightly chipped, and it had been long enough since the polish had been applied that the nail was exposed near the cuticle. One of the eyes stared hard at me, bobbing to catch my attention. It blinked, and when I looked down, the feminine hand was gone, and a strongly muscled and tattooed man\u2019s hand was squeezing mine. I was surprised how real it felt.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe are pleased to make your acquaintance, Harry Levinson,\u201d it said. A disharmony of voices, raked over hot coals in unison. \u201cYou can call us Sam.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSam?\u201d It seemed incongruously normal.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s as good a name as any, and better than some. And sometimes we play piano.\u201d It waved a protuberance toward the back wall where, through the sea of college kids, I could see a dilapidated upright piano. Plastic cups and empty beer bottles littered the top.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you any good?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSsssometimes.\u201d The word hissed like steam from a ruptured pipe.<\/p>\n

The bartender returned with martini glasses and a large shaker. He dropped an olive in one glass, rubbed a twist of lemon rind along the rim of the other, and divided the contents of the shaker between them. The viscous liquid resembled bloody ink. I caught the bartender\u2019s eye.<\/p>\n

\u201cVodka, cranberry juice, and black sambuca,\u201d he said. \u201cWeird, but safe enough. That\u2019ll be sixteen fifty.\u201d<\/p>\n

I handed him a twenty.<\/p>\n

It was revolting. Sam chuckled through a dozen mouths, not all human.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust like mothers\u2019 milk,\u201d it said. \u201cTell us, Mr. Levinson, what is it you want?\u201d<\/p>\n

It had been too much to hope that I could just blend in with a crowd like this, that I could pass as just coming in for a drink after a long week. Men like me have our own bars, where we sit alone and try to find absolution for our sins in endless shots of bourbon. But there\u2019s no absolution for some sins, either in a bottle or anywhere else, and the best we can do is try to remember to shave at least once a week.<\/p>\n

This was a bar for kids with all their hopes and dreams ahead of them. I\u2019d buried mine many years ago.<\/p>\n

There was a photograph in my jacket pocket. A girl with fierce determination in her eyes, holding a lacrosse stick like she might take your head off with it. It had been almost six months since she\u2019d gone missing, just before midterms. I laid it on the table.<\/p>\n

\u201cHave you seen this girl?\u201d<\/p>\n

Several of the Eldritch Horror\u2019s eyes studied me, moving around to examine my face from all angles. \u201cYou are not with the police.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019ve given up looking. I\u2019m a PI. I\u2019ve been hired to find her.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho\u2013\u201d The voice cut off, and noises burbled under the thing\u2019s skin. I got the feeling it was conferring with itself. A tendril extruded from its flesh and tapped the picture. \u201cWe have seen this woman. She came to this bar on occasion. She sat and spoke with us.\u201d The tendril lifted the photograph gently, as eyes clustered to examine it. Abruptly, it crumpled the paper and dropped it in my lap.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou will not find her, if she does not wish to be found.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHer name is Angela.\u201d It sometimes helped humanize the victim if you used a name. Not that I was sure that any amount of humanizing would have an effect on a creature like this. \u201cShe\u2013\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe know her name.\u201d There was something akin to anger in its voice, and I waited for more, but it just turned its eyestalks away from me.<\/p>\n

I took another sip from my drink. It was still awful.<\/p>\n

In the sea of students, a murmur grew slowly into an encouraging cheer. There was a swirl of movement in the press of bodies, and a young woman, blushing and nervous, spilled out of it. She took a hesitant step toward the Eldritch Horror.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll excuse us,\u201d it said. Eyebrows distinct from eyes hinted its intention, and I slid off the stool and stepped back, against the wall next to the Horror.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course.\u201d<\/p>\n

It patted the barstool next to it with a human hand and took the cash that she held out to it. Using its bulky body to shield this from her view, it quickly rifled through the stack of bills with the full attention of one eye, while other parts of it exchanged meaningless pleasantries. Her name (Meghan), her major (education, with a concentration in literature), her favorite band (Radiohead), her favorite hentai artist (she didn\u2019t really like that stuff).<\/p>\n

And then it handed the money back to her. \u201cWe are very sorry. You are one hundred and fifteen dollars short.\u201d<\/p>\n

The news passed like a wave through the crowd, and soon, fives and tens and even twenties changed hands and were stacked on the bar in front of the Horror. It re-counted the money and handed Meghan three twenties change.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you ready?\u201d it said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think so.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou should be sure,\u201d it said in perfect dissonance. \u201cYou must desire this for yourself. Not for them.\u201d<\/p>\n

She managed a small smile. \u201cYes. Yes, I\u2019m ready.\u201d<\/p>\n

The Eldritch Horror gestured toward a door, next to the piano. The crowd opened a path to it. I reclaimed my seat.<\/p>\n

\u201cGo on, then. Remove any clothing you wish to remain undamaged, and then turn off the light. We\u2019ll be with you soon.\u201d<\/p>\n

The Horror watched her until she closed the door behind her, then waved some of the cash at the bartender. \u201cDoes this cover our tab?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, and then some.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood,\u201d it said, rising from its seat. \u201cMr. Levinson\u2019s next drink is on us.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks, Sam.\u201d The bartender turned to me. \u201cAnother inktini?\u201d<\/p>\n

I could feel my taste buds recoil. \u201cUh, maybe later. Whiskey\u2019ll do me just fine. Jameson, if you got it.\u201d I heard the door click shut behind me, and the bar erupted in a cheer. \u201cBetter make it a double.\u201d<\/p>\n

* * * *<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re gonna want to stick around for this,\u201d the bartender had said, what felt like an eternity ago. He wouldn\u2019t say why. The jukebox and the chatter of the patrons drowned out most of the noises from the other side of the door. Other than the occasional squeal that pierced the air, it was as if nothing unusual was happening at all.<\/p>\n

And it remained that way for over an hour.<\/p>\n

When the door opened again, and Meghan stood wet and naked in the doorway, the patrons stood back and made way for her. She staggered on wobbly legs to Sam\u2019s piece of the bar, which had remained empty the entire time.<\/p>\n

She sighed onto the bar stool and leaned back, arching her back until her head and shoulders lay on the bar. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, even breaths.<\/p>\n

The viscous fluids that covered her were pearly white, and clear, and deep sea fluorescent blue, and swirls of the blackest black. They pooled in the hollow of her throat, between her breasts, in her navel. They seeped down her legs, dripped from her toes and her limp fingers, and slicked her hair.<\/p>\n

The patrons in the bar gathered around, pressed close. One sucked fluids from Meghan\u2019s toes. Another knelt between Meghan\u2019s legs and delved deep with her tongue to receive what remained within. They licked her belly, her breasts, they tasted her lips, squeezed pearly rivulets from her hair. One woman perched on my lap and raised the limp fingers to her lips.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s so special about this?\u201d I asked. \u201cWhat does it do?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHallucinogenic,\u201d she said, catching a drop on her tongue. She wore a t-shirt cut to expose her midriff. It had the word Yale stretched tight enough across her breasts to show her piercings.<\/p>\n

Another of the patrons had climbed onto the bar and crawled over to clean Meghan\u2019s forehead. His thin face was accentuated by a wispy goatee, looking for all the world like an escapee from the Mystery Bus, but for the horn-rimmed glasses and the wide-lapelled polyester shirt.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot hallucinations, man,\u201d he said. \u201cVisions. It\u2019s like being touched by a god.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhatever,\u201d Yale said. \u201cIt\u2019s better than acid and less of a commitment.\u201d<\/p>\n

She scooped some of the stuff that had pooled over one of Meghan\u2019s clavicles and brought it to my lips.<\/p>\n

\u201cLess of a commitment?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cHalf hour. Hour, tops.\u201d<\/p>\n

When she slipped her sticky fingers into my mouth, I did not resist.<\/p>\n

* * * *<\/p>\n

Visions.<\/p>\n

I floated in a warm sea. Around me, strange creatures. Jelly fish. Bony fish with blocky, armored heads. Shelled things with tentacles that swam with bursts of water forced through soft bodies. Some of them I caught in translucent tendrils and brought into my center to be crushed and stored until they had decomposed enough to be consumed. Attracted by the blood of my victims, something huge and razor-toothed approached quickly, and then veered away suddenly, disappearing into the darkness of the depths.<\/p>\n

The road wavered like moonlight filtering through the waves. Yellow lines to the horizon, and it would be an hour to the next stop. I shook my head and blinked my eyes until the lines straightened. Three days until I was home. The hands on the steering wheel in front of me were big. Strong hands with broken nails and rough calluses. I reached for my thermos. The coffee was cold, but I drank it anyway.<\/p>\n

My face burned. Terrifyingly large, the hand swung again. Tears stung my eyes. She loomed over me, her face twisted in rage, the omnipresent cigarette dangling from her lip.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Mom,\u201d I said. \u201cI didn\u2019t mean to\u2026.\u201d I was crying so hard the words wouldn\u2019t come, and then spilled out in a tangled rush.<\/p>\n

But there was no reasoning with her. And it didn\u2019t matter that I hadn\u2019t meant to be bad. It didn\u2019t matter, because I was bad, and I deserved anything I got. Still, I struggled, kicked and slapped and tried to bite as she pulled up my dress and yanked down my panties, and the cigarette\u2019s touch was worse than I\u2019d remembered.<\/p>\n

* * * *<\/p>\n

Something soft pillowed my head. Soft and sticky and warm, and moving under me like a placid sea.<\/p>\n

I peeled my face from the tacky skin of Meghan\u2019s breast and sat up. People were strewn around the room, either face down on the bar itself, or on one of the few tables, or sitting on the floor, leaning back against a wall. Some lay on the floor with their heads in someone else\u2019s lap.<\/p>\n

\u201cTwenty-five minutes,\u201d the bartender said. \u201cThat might be a record. You must not have taken a lot.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou didn\u2019t\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m working. And besides, someone\u2019s got to babysit. I lock the door and make sure nobody\u2019s taken advantage of.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMakes sense,\u201d I said. \u201cI should go. Can you let me out?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure. You find what you were looking for?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCould be,\u201d I said. \u201cCould very well be.\u201d<\/p>\n

* * * *<\/p>\n

I knew what had happened to Angela. At least in a vague sense. The question was, how to prove it? And could she be saved?<\/p>\n

Only the Eldritch Horror could answer those questions for me, but it wasn\u2019t at the bar the next evening, or the evening after.<\/p>\n

\u201cTakes him a while to recover,\u201d the bartender said. \u201cHe\u2019s not as young as he once was.\u201d<\/p>\n

I thought about the drug-induced vision I\u2019d had, floating in ancient seas. Some of the creatures I\u2019d seen had pre-dated the dinosaurs. I\u2019d looked them up. Ammonites. Trilobites. I hadn\u2019t found anything in my admittedly superficial review of the fossil record that resembled Sam. But that didn\u2019t necessarily mean anything.<\/p>\n

Sam didn\u2019t show the following night either, and nobody knew where it went when it wasn\u2019t at the bar. Maybe it had a house, a normal suburban house with vinyl siding and a manicured lawn, or maybe it lived in the river. It didn\u2019t matter. There were no other leads, so I just kept coming back.<\/p>\n

The week went by, and, when I fought a driving rain and flooded creeks to reach the bar on Saturday night, I found it almost as packed as it had been the night I had first met the Eldritch Horror. Sam was there, perched on its high stool at the bar, sipping a bloody-black martini.<\/p>\n

I settled in next to it, and the bartender met me there with my whiskey.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood day, Mr. Levinson,\u201d Sam said. \u201cWe trust you are well?\u201d<\/p>\n

I shook the rain out of my hat. \u201cJust a bit damp.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, it has been a long time since we\u2019ve had weather this good. The humidity does wonders for our complexion, don\u2019t you think?\u201d<\/p>\n

We chatted about the weather, about global warming, and the recent elections. It was surreal, discussing politics with an amorphous creature that was unimaginably old. We pretended that I wasn\u2019t there to find Angela and that it didn\u2019t have the answers I wanted.<\/p>\n

In the end, I almost lost my nerve, but I fished in my jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. There was a thousand dollars in there, the amount that Meghan had given it the week before. It was an advance on expenses, courtesy of Angela\u2019s mother.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d it asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause there\u2019s things you aren\u2019t telling me, and I need to know. It\u2019s the only way I know to get closer.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFor whom?\u201d A pseudopod took the envelope from my hand and slipped it back into my pocket. \u201cWe must decline.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs it that I\u2019m a man?\u201d<\/p>\n

It studied me. \u201cThat is of no concern. It is more often women, but that is their choice, not ours. Men are more restricted in their actions than women, in some ways, especially in front of their peers.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe it\u2019s just that the tentacle thing has a more direct appeal to women.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPerhaps,\u201d it said.<\/p>\n

Something slid across my foot and up my pants leg. It was cool and dry, like a silken snake, and its touch was so sinuous that I found myself getting aroused, even before it got past my knee. I almost pressed my hand against the lengthening molehill of my pants to stop it, but I\u2019d offered to buy this, and I couldn\u2019t see trust growing if I didn\u2019t follow through.<\/p>\n

It slid across my balls and down the length of my cock. And then, it opened. It took the head of my cock into it, first just the tip, and then a little more, until it closed on the shaft. I felt it stretch, like a snake swallowing an egg. Tough ridges of tissue gripped my skin, and the muscles rippled around my flesh, working me deeper and deeper inside, until it pressed against my pubic bone. Part of it began to stretch, then, across my scrotum. It began on the left, gradually encompassing my left testicle, and then\u2026<\/p>\n

And then it was gone, the thin tendril snaking down my leg, and I groaned out loud.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf you\u2019ll excuse us,\u201d the Eldritch Horror said, and it took everything I had to bring myself back to enough awareness to realize a young woman stood with us, holding a wad of cash.<\/p>\n

It was Yale, though today she was wearing a slinky black dress and stiletto heels.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course,\u201d I said, standing to make room. My arm brushed hers as we passed, and I could feel her shiver of anticipation, and not a little fear. I understood perfectly. \u201cHave fun.\u201d<\/p>\n

I watched them disappear into the back room, feeling\u2026 What? Jealousy? Rebuke? Anger? The weight of forty-six years of bad choices?<\/p>\n

The Eldritch Horror had chosen, and deemed me unworthy.<\/p>\n

I pushed my way through the crowd, trying not to let my erection brush up against anyone.<\/p>\n

Outside, it was still raining, and I stood in the middle of the parking lot, letting the wind gust waves of water across my body and watching the lightning.<\/p>\n

And then I turned around and walked back to the bar, and waited for Yale\u2019s return\u2026<\/p>\n

To read the rest, download the ebook today!<\/em><\/p>\n

[wp_eStore_fancy2 id=88]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

ebook $6.99 ISBN 9781613900345 48,460 words [wp_eStore_add_to_cart id=88] The ebook edition is also available at: Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, Kobo & AllRomanceEbooks. This cyclopean collection features eight new stories from Peter Tupper, Angela Caperton, Alex Picchetti, Monique Poirier, Elizabeth Reeve, Bernie Mojzes, Annabeth Leong, and Kannan Feng, each filled to the brim with insanity-inducing, … Continue reading Whispers In Darkness edited by J Blackmore<\/span> →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"parent":879,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-342","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/342","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=342"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/342\/revisions"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/879"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/circlet.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=342"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}