Mischiefmakers: Dark Macabre Read online

  MISCHIEFMAKERS

  Dark Macabre Edition

  By

  Maasi J. Smith

  Without limiting the right under copyright 1996, 2001, 2013, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. (Dr. Maasi J. Smith)

  Dark Macabre Edition of Mischiefmakers is meant to provide a visual perspective to the story line. I love the frightening aspects of the original Mischiefmakers, but I wanted to make it better, more intense. The new cover, author discussion and the visual format will allow the reader to have an experience not offered by many books.

  This book is a labor of love and is dedicated to my family and friends who have given their time and encouragement. I sincerely thank all of you.

  A Special thank you to the crew that made this second edition possible. Angela Bickham my first edition editor , Gracie Campbell second edition editor, Sam Severn creative consultant and MicroArts book cover artwork. Your efforts are greatly appreciated.

  — Maasi J. Smith —

  Praise for

  MISCHIEFMAKERS

  5 out of 5 stars Mischiefmakers — Suspense, Excitement & Chills!!

  If you’re looking for suspense, excitement and chills, then Mischiefmakers is the book for you!!

  5 out of 5 stars A Nightmare Novel & A Suspenseful Spiritual Tale

  I consumed “Mischiefmakers” as if it was a bottomless box of popcorn.

  4 out of 5 stars A Spine Tingling Tale

  Don’t let the small size of this novel fool you; Mischiefmakers is packed full of horror and spine tingling scenes that will make you read swiftly wanting to know who will die next, and whether good will win out over evil.

  5 out of 5 stars well written,

  I thought the book was well written. It was a pleasure to read. I hope to see more of the authors works, soon.

  5 out of 5 stars Sick!

  This one is hard to swallow. My group and I could not help to concede that even though the author is nuts he is extremely talented.

  5 out of 5 stars Mischiefmakers — Not for the faint of heart!!!,

  Eyes glowing in the dark and dreams that haunt the main charater, Melissa, when she is awake. So much so, that you cannot read it and go to sleep afterwards, (for me anyways).

  Contents

  Eschatological sacred text, origin and date unknown . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

  Harry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

  Unholy Conception . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

  Watchful Eyes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

  Asylum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35

  Six Beasts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47

  Seeing Demons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91

  A New Friend . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125

  Black Rain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153

  Nightmare . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191

  About the Author . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 227

  Author Interview . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 228

  Book Club Discussion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231

  credit to: www.tomituri.hu

  Eschatological sacred text, origin and date unknown

  The Souls shall rise from brutal chaos. Seas will overflow, the ocean will blacken. Tides will rest upon the shores, bringing death. The world will shatter as kingdoms fall. He with

  His begotten Son reached for an embrace, as demons cry tears of blood, soaking the land, desecrating the peace. Oh God, we miss your warm embrace. We are frozen motionless in the depths of Hell. For He who has promised salvation has lied. He has brought us pain and misery. God, may we pray for acceptance into your Kingdom, or have you forsaken us? We ask, for we have lost our way and are growing weary of death.

  You know us, Mischiefmakers. As Man weeps for loved ones, we stand beside him laughing at his pain. Hope is your weakness, despair is our power. Devouring your soul will leave you broken. Archangels descend to the Earth as their hoards of winged beasts scorch the world. You will burn until your ashes float in the turbu- lent winds. Asylum of Omen will open.

  Set aflame the wings of angels as their bodies fall from the clouds. This world shall overflow with Souls. At the end the land will have her fill. Soon Man will find himself struggling to breathe, as Souls require strength and will rip what they need from Man’s essence. The wind, souls passing, touching your flesh for the desire for life is powerful. Black rain, our tears of pain, and from the shattering of the land, we will rise.

  Do not sail in rays of the bright star, for it is the pathway to Hell.

  The child bore from a sinful soul will give us strength. We will kill everything and rule beside the dark one. His six beasts will come forth carrying horns of gold. With his emerald eyes, he will deceive you.

  Asylum of Omen will open.

  credit to: www.tomituri.hu

  HARRY

  Newark is no place to be homeless on a rainy night. Hell, any night in Newark can be bad, but in the middle of a thunderstorm with a box for cover is as bad as it gets.

  Electricity disperses throughout the dark clouds, choking the night sky, clearing city streets. The rugged raindrops only temporarily wash stubborn dirt and the stench of urine away. There will be no sleep tonight as the roar of Path trains from Penn Station and God’s own hands combine to produce thunderclaps fierce enough to wake Hell’s gatekeepers. Forceful winds move purpose- fully past, slowing New Jersey Transit to a careful crawl.

  The homeless cuddle within their makeshift homes erected from cardboard and last Sunday’s Star Ledger. Still bodies, wet and cold, pass bottles of Thunderbird down the row.

  The air is tight and muggy as the rain slows. Its breaking makes the vast skyline of lower Manhattan clearer. The World Trade Center is only partially visible as a thick mist encircles its top floors. Strong humid odors lay heavy in the air with a tenseness unfamiliar even to this village of misfits.

  Roaring thunder startles pedestrians unlucky enough to be caught out on this night. They navigate seemingly deep puddles now formed along Broad and Market. The storm has killed all the corner lights. Only nature’s highlights dash and dance across the heavens.

  Rich with its Portuguese tradition and camaraderie, this Iron - bound section of Newark is reduced to a desolate place with quiet front porches. On this block, the rain falls faster, paying special attention to a building located on a lonely corner. The old firehouse has been abandoned for years. Shattered glass lies every- where. Support beams have long since outlived their usefulness. Filthy floors welcome rats and roaches. A rancid odor of unclean- ness, decaying material, and human waste overwhelm the senses. The sound of trickling raindrops echoes throughout the abandoned halls. A gray haze covers the floor and gravitates toward the stairway like a snake that has lost its way.

  Behind a dilapidated door, barren floors carpeted with filth and animated with vermin become a makeshift bed as playful sighs br
eak the darkness.

  “I want you so much,” he says.

  “The storm...I’m scared. It sounds bad out there,” she responds. “Why be scared of the rain? Only two things to do in this kind

  of weather, and I ain’t sleepy.” His hands grope her body. “You’re hurting me, please stop, Harry, please.” The dark haired

  man with a thin build and bad hygiene seems not to notice the

  faint request, continuing his pursuit for dominance. His face is

  pink as he thrusts with little haste. Her flushed face is filled with

  regret.

  She closes her eyes and tries to remember when things were

  different between them. A time when the lovemaking was not so

  rushed. Well, it was always a little rushed with Harry, but at least

  it was good. He used to remove her tattered garments with care.

  His hands always found clever hiding places only for his tongue

  to follow. Kisses used to linger until she thought she was going

  to explode. He knew her neck was a special place, and his lips

  would not disappoint. When neither could wait, her body damp

  with anticipation, she would pull him in to hurry him on his way. That was a long time ago, she remembers, as he hammers inside

  her. The memory of better times, however, gives her a strange

  peace as she attempts to hide the pain of this new relationship

  they now share. He gives no notice of the tears that crowd her

  eyes, overflowing onto her cheeks.

  His pumps come more fiercely just before his sinister smile

  deepens. Beads of sweat congregate along the folds in his forehead

  and embed within his left eyebrow. His hair, long and unkempt,

  brushes the sides of her face and partially wipes away her tears. “Harry, can we stop now?” she stutters in a low tone. “Stop? Baby, why you wanna stop now? It’s feelin’ so good.” “I wanna go to sleep, I’m tired,” she utters, maintaining an attitude of total submission since she is now terrified of angering

  him. He stops briefly as if to heed her request, just before a big

  grin opens.

  “Bitch, shut up!” His hands now wrap tightly around her neck. Panicked, she tightens her body to avoid further assault. In

  silence, she focuses her eyes on a crack in the wall, her eyes forcing out tears. Melissa must leave her body to dampen the pain that

  rips through her. Placing herself into a deep trance, she recalls her

  past so that she may forget her present.

  From what she can remember, her full name is Melissa Shelton

  from Erie, Pennsylvania, and her birth date is December 31, 1969.

  She has twin sisters, a Collie, and well-off parents, not rich folk,

  mind you, but comfortable. Before her father found God, he was a

  salesman of sorts. The first few years it was office supplies, paper,

  and the like. Then it was insurance and finally copiers for Kodak.

  He did alright, she figured. Good enough that her mother never

  did much more than light receptionist work two days a week for

  some law office downtown. Her sisters, two years her junior, were

  cheerleaders with brains and beauty even at 16; they were always

  the family favorites. Her father stood about six-three, a slender

  man with strong facial features and the brightest blond hair. He

  had piercing blue eyes that always frightened her, so she avoided

  looking directly into them. Her mother was a timid, sad woman.

  A sort of Edith Bunker on Prozac, only she didn’t have nearly as

  much sense or backbone. Whatever her father said was law; her

  mother never questioned. She was about five-five with dark, short hair, never a strand out of place. Pretty, and into scarves, bright ones with yellows and pinks, worn loosely around her neck, very

  fashionable for a fifty year old.

  Melissa’s parents, Mr. & Mrs. Reverend George J. Shelton, could

  have been great parents if they didn’t always try to force feed the

  Bible every chance they got. Every Sunday at their church or any

  other church that would welcome them, they attended morning,

  afternoon, and evening services. Melissa got so tired of church

  she didn’t know what to do. She prayed she would die, rather than

  have to sit between her parents in another pew. She often found

  herself doing just the opposite of what her father preached. Her

  sisters grew up accepting their overly religious parents and their

  constant preaching. Melissa was determined not to and was willing to pay whatever price necessary. She begged her parents to

  leave her be, let her decide her religion later, let her grow up first.

  Melissa wanted to smoke, have sex, to try every drug she could

  swallow and party like her friends, but no, she had to be in at nine

  p.m. every evening, even weekends. So she would sneak out all

  the time. She would climb out her bedroom window and disappear into the night. She would come home at dawn, ragged and

  dirty, her clothes often ripped, but thrilled deep in her bones. Her

  sisters would even try to cover for her, but they almost always got

  caught. Plenty of times Melissa was caught stealing. As for school,

  she hardly ever went there. She had too much energy to be tied

  to a desk all day. Her teachers soon forgot her name. Too many

  times the school called her house, reporting her as absent. Then

  her father would pull out the leather belt from his trousers--the

  belt that was at least three inches wide, a belt with a huge metal

  buckle engraved with a verse from the Old Testament--and beat

  her senseless in the name of God, trying to rid the evil within her,

  trying to strike Satan down, as he would say. Melissa remembers

  the belt that would slam with a fierce slap onto her backside, with

  a slap she was sure everybody in the neighborhood must hear, carving deep wounds into her spine, slashing her flesh, creating breaks in her skin. Melissa wouldn’t cry out. She wouldn’t beg for mercy. When the next beating came, she would run and hide to no avail. Her father was on a mission from God. He would hunt her down and hurl God’s vengeance on her. Melissa figured God didn’t like her much or He wouldn’t send such a messenger. He would reach down and squash such a messenger with His mighty

  fist. He would save her.

  Trouble followed her on a daily basis; if she wasn’t being locked

  up for something she did, more than likely she was an accomplice.

  Her friends became druggies, liars, thieves, and criminals. The

  police were always dragging her in, locking her up, and calling her

  parents to come fetch her. Melissa’s father would drive her back,

  his hands strangling the steering wheel as he continued preaching

  to her, and constantly recanting that she was a total embarrassment to him and the family. “You cannot be my child, you have

  no values, no morals,” he would shout, steering like a madman

  through traffic. “I am ashamed we share the same name!” As Harry thrusts inside her, Melissa remembers the last fight

  with her father. It was spring, and she was just returning home

  from a party out at the dock, celebrating the end of her senior

  year at Academy High. She knew she was going to get it from old

  Reverend Dad. Melissa resolved that for the great time she had the

  night before, a good ass wippin’ was a small price to pay. As she

  walked up to the house, she saw him standing on the top stair in

  his preacher’s garb, Bible in one hand, a large crucifix in the oth
er.

  It seemed as if he had been in that position for hours in anticipation of her arrival. June Street was quiet, aside from the chirping

  birds reminding her that she should have been home hours ago. “Margaret!” He screamed for her mother with his eyes fixed

  on Melissa. Melissa stood at the bottom of the stairs, noticing her

  sisters staring out the window; they were holding each other and

  crying uncontrollably. Her mother came reluctantly to the screen door, staring at the ground. Melissa caught a glimpse of her mother’s face, and it seemed she had been crying for days, her eyes

  blood-shot.

  “Thou shall honor thy Mother and thy Father!” he screamed.

  Furiously, his eyes were fixed on Melissa as he flipped the pages

  of his Bible to Revelations. “For her sins are piled up to heaven

  and God has remembered her crimes. Give back to her as she

  has given; pay her back double for what she has done. Mix her a

  double portion from her own cup.”

  Still slightly high and hung over from the night’s activities,

  Melissa couldn’t hold back the years of frustration.

  “I hate you and that shit you’re saying, fuck you! Did you hear

  me, fuck you!”

  Her father continued his passage, ignoring her.

  “She will be consumed by fire, for mighty is the Lord God who

  judges her.”

  Her mother finally looked up, her eyes begging Melissa to stop

  her insurrection. Melissa was not to be stopped this day. She continued her screaming, “I don’t need you, you religious freak, asshole, you fuckin’ hypocrite! Your God ain’t done shit for me!” At

  this time, Melissa noticed the probing eyes of neighbors as they

  came to their respective doors to investigate the screaming. Nosy

  bastards, she thought. Her father, catching a glimpse of them also,

  ended as abruptly as he started. He looked at Melissa in disgust,

  closed the Bible, and placed it on the porch swing. Now calm, he

  reached down, picked up a tattered burgundy suitcase, and handed

  it to her.

  “If you do not walk with our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, you