On Dread by Mike Rader

The most dread on this earth
exists exactly, precisely,
in that sliver of time
between day's death and
night's birth.
Within that heartbeat,
that half-breath of distance,
dwell forbidden lusts,
the tormented dead,
the eternally damned,
and the yawning abyss
yearning to consume your soul.

James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet. As Mike Rader, he writes horror and noir fiction and poetry. His work has twice appeared in Black Poppy Review, as well as Horror Tree (Trembling with Fear), Thriller, Akashic Books (Mondays are Murder) and many other magazines and anthologies.

Last Matinee by Mike Rader

No popcorn, no roof.
Water drips through
gaps in the tangled
corrugated iron,
pools on the stage.
No silver screen,
no Gable or Lombard.
Art deco plaster, rotting and weary,
clings to a solitary wall,
the proscenium arch wondering
when the sky will fall in.

James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet. As Mike Rader, he writes horror and noir fiction and poetry. His work has twice appeared in Black Poppy Review, as well as Horror Tree (Trembling with Fear), Thriller, Akashic Books (Mondays are Murder) and many other magazines and anthologies.

Too Many Bones by Mike Rader

The human body has too many bones. I discovered this after murdering my teacher. 

Cutting up his body with a battery-powered reciprocating saw was extremely difficult; the blade kept jamming on bones and the batteries took at least two hours to recharge. 

My parents were away for a fortnight so I had time to deal with Mr. Holmes. After ambushing him on his nightly walk, I carried his body home in our wheely bin. What surprised me was how muscular his body had been for a gray-haired history teacher in his fifties. Thanks to him, I failed my final year. 

Eventually I’d neatly butchered Mr. Holmes into chunks of meat in my father’s workshop and washed away his blood. Night after night, I dumped his flesh in the local creek for the fish and rats to consume. 

But his bones were another matter entirely. 

I sat and watched the summer repeats on television, a tray of bones on my knees, meticulously polishing them, ensuring no traces of tell-tale flesh remained. 

One by one, I placed the bones in a silver trunk. When I was finished, I buried it in the churchyard at midnight. To the best of my knowledge, it is still there.

James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet.  As Mike Rader, he writes horror and noir fiction and poetry.  His work has twice appeared in Black Poppy Review, as well as Horror Tree (Trembling with Fear), Thriller, Akashic Books (Mondays are Murder) and many other magazines and anthologies.

Summer Solstice by Mike Rader

The abbey bell tolls
soundlessly.
Who can hear its
solemn chimes?
In the ancient ruins,
mist seeps around broken walls,
and monks in cowls
arise from lost wintry graves,
wending their way to
midsummer chapel.
Faith still beats on these
blood-drenched stones.
“Forgive our oppressors,”
they chant,
“for the hounds of hell
will not.”

James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet.  As Mike Rader, he writes horror and noir fiction and poetry.  His work has twice appeared in Black Poppy Review, as well as Horror Tree (Trembling with Fear), Thriller, Akashic Books (Mondays are Murder) and many other magazines and anthologies.

The End by Mike Rader

First my roof, torn away, discarded,
leaving my exquisite plaster exposed.
It stormed that night.
Kelly didn’t sing in the rain.
They started at the front of house,
box office, foyer, candy bar,
my gorgeous staircase with
its art deco railings —
nothing!
The booth with eyeholes
wherein dwelt two huge monsters,
gone in a tumble of bricks.
My circle, bereft of seats,
crumbling onto my empty stalls,
shattering jackhammers
the only applause now.
One final Intermission. Before my
proscenium arch, a hollow cave
devoid of its silver screen, falls.
No, we won’t always have Paris. 

James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet.  As Mike Rader, he writes horror and noir fiction and poetry.  His work has twice appeared in Black Poppy Review, as well as Horror Tree (Trembling with Fear), Thriller, Akashic Books (Mondays are Murder) and many other magazines and anthologies.

Asylum Nights by Mike Rader

The moon finds the courtyard
Black in sleep,
Blind windows watch a man
Coarsely smocked,
Slanting into the shadows
Seeking escape,
Digging a precious knife
Into his fevered wrist,
Blooding the somber stones,
Where oft walks the superintendent
Beneath his umbrella
Lest moonbeams turn him
As crazed as his charges.

James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet.  As Mike Rader, he writes horror and noir fiction and poetry.  His work has twice appeared in Black Poppy Review, as well as Horror Tree (Trembling with Fear), Thriller, Akashic Books (Mondays are Murder) and many other magazines and anthologies.

Drainworld by Mike Rader

The first thing the rat did was slink back along the slippery ledge. The cat came toward it on the swollen tide of greasy water. The rat sniffed at the air. The cat’s body flowed past, its entrails bobbing like seaweed. 

Next came a head, severed at the neck, a look of disbelief permanently plastered onto its grim features. 

The rat stretched out a paw, scooping the gruesome head closer. It noted the strange symbol on the dead creature’s forehead, almost covered by congealed mud. 

Rats had seen such things before. They’d often discussed them in the drains beneath the city. They didn’t know they were called tattoos. Nor did they have any way of associating the symbols with gangs or tribes. 

The head broke loose from the rat’s claw and vanished around a bend in the drain. It was heading into another rat’s territory. 

It was forbidden to breach the rules and follow. 

Whiskers twitching busily, the rat went back to picking on the body of a sodden pigeon. 

Suddenly, from the pitch-black outlet on its left, came heavy sounds — splashing, and an alien moaning noise. 

A huge shape was swept into sight. 

The rat had been trained to be cautious. Too many of its family had perished as a result of impatience or curiosity. It watched from the shadows, its nerves sharp, on full alert. 

The shape was wallowing in the foul tide. The rat knew at once it was another member of the race that dwelled above. Parts of the shape were moving and flailing. The words “arm” and “leg” were not part of a rat’s vocabulary. 

And when the creature’s head bobbed level with the rat, it boasted another symbol on its forehead. The same symbol the rat had seen on the first head. 

The rat’s heart leaped. Its tail swished. 

The huge mass of struggling food brushed against the ledge. A large chunk of flesh fell within the rat’s grasp. Its teeth sank into the warm target, just below a strange glowing dial that circled the alien’s wrist. The creature let out a loud cry as the rat tore flesh from flesh and began devouring it. 

As the body stopped struggling and surging water filled its lungs, the torrent whisked it around the next bend where so many more mouths awaited a feed. 

Rats knew nothing of street wars. All they knew was that food, marked with strange symbols, at times suddenly became more plentiful. 

James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet.  As Mike Rader, he writes horror and noir fiction and poetry.  His work has twice appeared in Black Poppy Review, as well as Horror Tree (Trembling with Fear), Thriller, Akashic Books (Mondays are Murder) and many other magazines and anthologies.

Deeply Lies the Body by Mike Rader

The midnight quarry flooded
to the brim hears a furtive
splash, an object once-human
slowly settles, snagging in
hidden branches, one shoe
already missing, before head-
first drifting down, wallowing,
deeper into the heavy water,
too silted to see that sinking
shape anymore, descending
into the depths where horses
drowned when the under-
ground river exploded through
the walls eighty-one years ago.

James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet.  As Mike Rader, he writes horror and noir fiction and poetry.  His work has twice appeared in Black Poppy Review, as well as Horror Tree (Trembling with Fear), Thriller, Akashic Books (Mondays are Murder) and many other magazines and anthologies.

The Sinister Shore by Mike Rader

The marshes steal sly to the bay.
Reedy grooves, drowning pools,
meandering among the mangroves
like lost souls on moonless nights.

        Closer to the surly shore
Water birds eke their living.
Houseboats with sluggish pomp
float fatly near the bridge.

A seagull stops,
                      is gone,
And leaves the darkening wash to its devices.

 

                                      

  

James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet. Writing as James Lee, his horror and mystery books for middle readers are bestsellers in Asia. Writing as Mike Rader and JJ Munro, his horror and noir fiction has appeared via Black Poppy Review, Akashic Books, Horror Tree (Trembling with Fear), Horror Magazine, Suspense, and many others.

The Other Side of the Door by Mike Rader

Instinctively I pushed myself deeper into the armchair. Something had moved outside in the hallway. Just a quick furtive footfall. 

I watched the slit of light below the door. A fleeting shadow appeared then retreated. 

I counted my heartbeats. One … two … three … 

The shadow was back. It hesitated. It seemed to be uncertain. Then it passed along the line of light. 

Right to left. 

And was gone. 

Tension clamped my throat. My gaze was locked on that steady strip of light. Did they know I was waiting inside? How could they? Had I left some clue out there? Impossible! 

This time the shadow moved left to right, retracing its steps. It stopped. As though they were listening for any sound from the apartment. I sealed my breath in my lungs, not stirring, absolutely rigid. 

The shadow moved again. Right out of sight. 

Had they believed the apartment was empty? Had the silence convinced them? 

The strip of light was unbroken. A nice neat innocent line of light. As though nobody were out there, as though it were just an ordinary night in the city. 

I wrestled my tension back to normal. I forced myself to focus. 

That was when the light vanished, when one black shadow filled the whole space. 

I heard a key scratch in the lock. 

I saw the doorknob slowly turn. 

I was poised, ready. 

I lifted myself noiselessly from the armchair. 

As the door inched open, I hovered. Then I struck. 

My wings flapped furiously, I hurtled through the air, my beak embedded itself in the man’s face, my talons digging deep into his throat. 

He let out a single terrified cry like a lamb’s bleat, a sound wrenched from the depths of his being. 

I plucked out one eye, then the other, felt his body sliding away beneath me. I fluttered, circled, swooped, my talons ripping at his shirt, deep into his flesh. I pecked wildly, hungrily. 

Whoever he was, he should have listened to his instincts. And he should never have left his window open. 

James Aitchison, writing under the pseudonym Mike Rader, is an Australian author and poet. As James Lee, his horror and mystery stories for middle readers are bestsellers in Asia. As Mike Rader and JJ Munro, his horror and noir fiction has appeared via Akashic Books, Horror Tree (Trembling with Fear), Suspense, Thriller, and many other publications.