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  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN Print: 978-1-64548-059-4

  ISBN Ebook: 978-1-64548-060-0

  Cover Design and Interior Formatting

  by Qamber Designs and Media

  Edited by Lindy Ryan

  Published by Black Spot Books

  An imprint of Vesuvian Media Group

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  Other Anthologies

  by Black Spot Books

  A Midnight Clear

  Edited by Lindy Ryan

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Foreword, Monique Snyman

  The Watchful Crow, Sam Hooker

  The Tinker’s Son, Cassondra Windwalker

  Frostbite, Dalena Storm

  The Face Inside The Christmas Ball, Daniel Buell

  Sad Little Lump Of Flesh, Alcy Leyva

  Glass House, Glass Teeth, Tiffany Meuret

  What Should Appear, N.J. Ember

  Jolly Old Saint Ryan, Laura Morrison

  Acknowledgements

  About the Authors

  Dedications

  For my sister, Mary, whose sense of humor is just depraved enough to appreciate what I’ve written.

  — Sam Hooker

  For every banished dragon who still misses the sky, every page-caged soul. — Cassondra Windwalker

  To anyone who needs it. There is hope.

  — Dalena Storm

  To my parents, who have supported me every

  step of the way. — Daniel Buell

  To all the dark spots in my mind and the people

  who live there. — Alcy Leyva

  For my boys, whom will be directed to this story when they inevitably ask, “Just how stressed were you during the quarantine?” — Tiffany Meuret

  In loving memory of Kianna Tubbs, Nathaniel Mosby, and Nathan Weller. Beautiful souls gone too soon.

  — N. J. Ember

  To Katie. — Laura Morrison

  FOREWORD

  Monique Snyman

  As the air turns crisp and the trees become barren, many look at the world through rose-tinted glasses. Oh, what wondrous magic awaits us all! Decorations and overflowing shelves filled with bright and shiny trinkets to buy and gift to those you love. Snowflakes drifting on the wind, a white blanket to cover the gray concrete we’ve all become so accustomed to throughout the year, cheery holiday greetings and time spent with family and friends. Yes, the Winter Spirit lives in most of us then.

  But what is the Winter Spirit if not merely an elemental idea brought to life by sentimental fools?

  We, as humans, have turned winter into the most glorious time of the year, when in truth it remains the most unforgiving season of all.

  We conveniently forget about the smog trapped in the cities as the cold descends, we forget about the lonely souls who have nobody to spend their holidays with, we forget about those left out as the weather rages. It simply doesn’t fit the picture perfect winter we’ve been sold by marketing companies. We forget, because we don’t want to remember how difficult things can be without the luxuries we’ve surrounded ourselves with to keep the long, dark nights at bay.

  Not too long ago, however, our views on winter were different. Oral traditions told of the hardships that came along with the heavy snowfall and a lingering winter. Folklore warned of demons lurking in the shadows, searching for disobedient children. There were more to fear back then, yes, but for the Winter Spirit, time has no meaning and our ignorance won’t save us.

  A darkness lingers at this time of year, cloaked by that sparkling white blanket and those shiny gift-wrapped presents. Sometimes, the darkness is invisible, born in one’s mind or lurking just on the edges of traditions, other times it is a menacing force that demands to be noticed.

  The type of darkness you’ll meet in your lifetime depends, I suppose, on whether you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time or not …

  In Dead of Winter, eight authors explore this darkness, these often-overlooked horrors that come along with the Winter Spirit. Some of these journeys may seem familiar, perhaps you’ve even come across a similar wintery experience in your travels, but others will be new. New and terrifying, no doubt. From Christmas cheer, which quickly turns into Christmas fear, to hearing and ignoring Death’s call. Get lost in tales of madness, brought on by what feels like an unending cold, and follow trails to find those lost and frightening things that should never have existed in the first place. Through mirrors we find new worlds and other selves, through time we hear agonizing screams that traveled through millennia to knock on your door. Vengeance and punishments, close calls and sacrifice. Dead of Winter has something for everyone!

  The Winter Spirit is here, dear reader, and with it comes these eight cautionary tales to help stave off the icy chill, for winter is intolerant to those who are unprepared and reckless, and the Winter Spirit has no mercy to spare.

  So heed these authors’ warnings, one and all: Take off those rose-tinted glasses and see what lies beneath the pretty lies. Scrape away at the veneer we’ve been sold and truly see what is watching you, just waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

  THE WATCHFUL CROW

  Sam Hooker

  Crime was easy. Teaching crows about pockets was the hard part.

  Orville had been out of the game for decades. He was older than he looked, and he didn’t look young.

  There was a clamor of black feathers at his shoulder followed by a clink. A quarter.

  “Not bad,” said Orville. He offered up a whole peanut in its shell. The bird snatched it with haste, flying away before the old man had a chance to change his mind. Not that he ever had. Orville paid his murder well, especially top earners like Mister Gleam. Coins were elusive to crows, always at the bottoms of pockets and purses, under keys and pocketknives. It was a rare crow like Mister Gleam who knew how to think like a kingfisher. Dart in fast and deep, get away with the shiny fish before it even knew it had a reason to be afraid. So quick the water didn’t have a chance to get him wet.

  Most crows were more like Mister Gumwrapper. Day-old breadcrumbs kept them fed, but still hungry. Orville made a show of giving peanuts to Mister Gleam. Earn for the boss, reap the rewards.

  A biting chill ripped through the clear blue sky. Orville gathered his scarf a little higher around his neck. He’d moved south to get away from the brutal winters, but they followed him. Either that or the ignominy of age was mocking him. It didn’t take much to chill his bones these days, especially in the short days of December.

  At least he didn’t have to deal with snow anymore. That was good. Crows flew south to get away from snow, and they were all the friends he had left. This was a lazy murder, found a sweet spot where they could hang around all year. Cold, but not freeze-you-solid cold.

  Another great flapping at his shoulder and a thunk in his lap. The sizzling sound of a silver chain coming to rest. Orville looked down at the pocket watch. Who carried pocket watches anymore?

  “Very nice,” said Orville. He opened the bag of peanuts wide, expecting Mister Gleam to dive in, but the bird simply
hopped onto the bench rail and watched him. That was odd. Orville was an expert on crows in his own estimation, but he’d be buggered if he could suss out what was happening behind that black stare.

  “Er, hi,” came a voice from behind him. Orville flinched. No one had snuck up on him in years. It was a woman walking a pit bull. Leggings, riding boots, scarf, and puffer vest—the woman, not the dog. She and Orville were wearing the same fedora. She looked like she’d just returned from a Starbucks safari.

  The dog had a name tag shaped like a bone. Orville thought “Popcorn” was a strange name for a dog made entirely of muscles.

  “Hello,” said Orville. The watch disappeared into his coat pocket like a magic trick. A single fluid movement he’d perfected over a lifetime of cons and grifts. Still, her eyes darted down at the motion. It was the smoothest way he could have possibly made the interaction more awkward.

  She nodded to Mister Gleam. “He a friend of yours?”

  “Business associate,” Orville admitted. He reluctantly drew the watch back from his pocket. “This was yours, I presume?”

  “Thanks,” she said, relief washing over her face. The watch disappeared back into Orville’s pocket as she reached for it, sending the tide of her relief washing back out.

  “I asked if it was yours,” said Orville. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law, you know.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “You really want to have a conversation about the law?”

  It wasn’t a threat. Not yet. Orville was a connoisseur of threats. This, at best, was an inquiry aspiring to warn. The next few moments would determine whether he got to keep the first pocket watch he’d lifted since “somebody lifted my pocket watch!” wasn’t a weird thing to say.

  His heart fluttered in his chest. This was the knife’s edge, where life happened. The air was crisp and sweet. One wrong step and she’d call the cops, or maybe she’d let Popcorn do the dirty work, though that seemed unlikely. As the moment wore on, the dog’s dopey smile seemed to make sense of his name.

  It was a tense situation, but not dangerous. For an old thief spending his winter years teaching birds the trade, manageable peril was a precious thing.

  “What’s a young gal doing with a pocket watch? Don’t you have an app for that on your phone?”

  “What’s it to an old codger and his thieving birds?” She was looking at Mister Gleam, who sat patiently, unlike the rest of his murder. They were stalking bugs on the lawn or making big, lazy circles overhead, looking for their next marks.

  “She’s right, you know,” Orville sang to Mister Gleam. “You just might be capable of proper thievery.” He turned back to the young woman. “If there’s one of these birds capable of the real deal, it’s Mister Gleam here.”

  “That’s great, I guess.” If she was trying to conceal her agitation, she was no good at it. “Can I please have my watch back?”

  “Please.” Orville smiled, letting the word swirl around on his tongue. “I wasn’t sure young people knew that word anymore.”

  “That’s a coincidence.”

  “What’s a coincidence?”

  “My word-of-the-day email was ‘sanctimony.’ I definitely won’t forget it now.”

  Orville scowled. He had no use for people who were smarter than him.

  Amber was starting to creep into the western horizon. The wind picked up. The days were short this time of year, and the night air cut right through old men. Orville knew his arthritis would punish him if he didn’t head home right then, but he decided to risk it. How often did pretty girls stop and talk to gnarled ex-cons? It was flattering, even if he had to steal her watch to get the ball rolling.

  “Ask me how I do it,” he said.

  “How you do what?”

  “The birds,” said Orville. What else would he have meant? A hundred years ago, a guy who taught a crow to lift someone’s watch would draw a crowd. Nowadays it wasn’t even good enough for a “wow!” These Millennials and their smart phones.

  “I read an article about crows not too long ago,” she said. Her phone appeared in her hand as if it had been there the whole time.

  Some magic trick, Orville thought.

  “Yeah,” she said, reading something that confirmed her memory. “They can use primitive tools, remember faces—there was this one guy who watched crows putting nuts on crosswalks so the cars would crack them, then waiting for the walk light to collect their reward.”

  “I know how smart the crows are, honey.” Orville flashed her a decades-old charming smile. It hadn’t aged as well as he thought. She flashed back a smirk that told him how amused she wasn’t.

  “Ugh, Millennials.” Orville rolled his eyes.

  “Okay, Boomer,” she quipped. “I was born in 1998, so I’m Gen Z.”

  “And I was born before the Baby Boomers. No sense of humor, eh? Your dog’s smiling, maybe he’s the conversationalist?”

  “She’s not my dog. I’m just walking her. Or I would be, if some old man’s bird hadn’t stolen my watch.”

  “He’s not my bird,” said Orville. “He’s my business associate.”

  “If you say so.”

  “So, you’re a dog walker?”

  “Something like that.” She sighed with impatience. “Gig economy, you know how it is. Wait, no, you probably don’t.”

  “I might know more about it than you think,” said Orville. He knew he’d turn out to be the smart one. Maybe he had a use for her after all. “Doing whatever it takes to get by? Yeah, I know a thing or two about that. I robbed a bank six months after the Great Depression got underway.”

  She laughed out loud. “Pull the other one. That would have been 90 years ago! You’re old, but you’re not that old.”

  “Thanks.” He tried not to take it personally, but Orville was sensitive about his looks. Guys who grew up handsome usually are. He’d lost everyone he’d known over the years, including that Dapper Dan in the mirror.

  “Seriously, were you still in diapers?”

  “I was twenty-six,” Orville barked, louder than he’d intended. He regretted that. It didn’t do to shout at people unless you were sticking a gun in their face. Then it was expected. Only a real psychopath would stick a gun in your face, smile, and ask politely for everything in the register.

  Her eyes narrowed as she tried to make sense of the math. Orville thought she looked thinner, but dismissed the thought. They’d only just met. Not enough time for her to drop a few pounds.

  “You were born in 1904?” Her voice lilted in disbelief.

  “1903,” he corrected her. “The heist was a week before my birthday. What a party that was! Girls, booze—prohibition was all but dead by then, didn’t take someone as savvy as me to catch a crate of whiskey falling off a truck.”

  She was about to call bullshit when Mister Gleam interrupted. He cawed three times, his beady expression fixed on Orville.

  Popcorn barked. Maybe in surprise, or maybe it was a warning. Either way, it was a powerful reminder that there were teeth behind her carefree smile, and she knew how to use them.

  “Easy,” said the woman.

  Mister Gleam turned to lock eyes with her during the silence that fell. Crows were smart, though not great conversationalists. Still, he seemed to have something to say.

  “I should be going,” she said after a while. She held her hand out to Orville. “It’ll be dark soon.”

  “Don’t let me keep you,” he replied. He made no move to return the watch.

  She stood there, wearing a threadbare mask of patience.

  “Ugh,” she sighed. Her outstretched hand flashed near her purse, and her phone was in it. “This is ridiculous.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “CAW!” insisted Mister Gleam. He hopped across Orville’s lap to perch on the other arm of the bench, closer to the woman. They stared at
each other again, the moment dragging silence back over them. Pink crept across the first amber hues of the evening like a bloodstain on a brass doorknob.

  “You look tired,” said Orville, as though the silence were his to break. He knew it wasn’t. He knew he was being rude, and that was half the point. He wanted to keep her off balance, make her forget she was going to call the cops to report him, and for what? Accepting a gift from a crow? Sure, she said the watch was hers, but could she prove it?

  “You do, too,” she replied, not as mad as she should have been. She squinted at Orville as if seeing him for the first time. She did look thinner, he was sure of it.

  “Not me. I’m a night owl. Always have been. Goes with the trade.”

  “No, that’s hours tired. You’re years tired.” She looked to the west. The sun was setting on the horizon, partially obscured by a heavy, gray cloud. Her eyes shifted back to Orville for a moment, then back to the sun again, then back to Orville.

  “You’re not lying, are you?”

  Orville put one hand over his heart, raised the other next to his head. “Every word I’ve spoken has been true. From a certain perspective.”

  Her head leaned to one side. Her neck crackled like wolves chasing a rabbit over bubble wrap.

  “Would you be interested in a trade?” she asked.

  “What’ve you got?”

  “The watch,” said the woman. “You can keep it.”

  “I’ve already got the watch.” Orville gave her a wink that was entirely out-of-place outside of dive bars.

  “I said I’d let you keep it.”

  Popcorn gave a quiet woof. Orville understood what it meant. He was a connoisseur of threats, after all.