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  HELLHOLE

  An Anthology of Subterranean Terror

  Edited by Lee Murray

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Hellhole: An Anthology of Subterranean Terror

  ONE HELL OF A WHOLE

  ALL THE DEVILS ARE HERE

  THE DEVIL’S THROAT

  A PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS

  PIT OF GHOSTS

  WHERE THE SUN DOES NOT SHINE

  GUARD DUTY

  THE OFFSPRING

  BLACK LUNG

  GINORMOUS HELL SNAKE

  GHOSTS OF HYPERIA

  HE WHO FIGHTS...

  CONTRIBUTOR BIOGRAPHIES

  More Fantastic Fiction from Gryphonwood/Adrenaline Press

  A descent into terror.

  Legends tell of a hollow earth, a world beneath our own. A world filled with wonders... and danger. But what if the legends are true?

  Delve into dark worlds in HELLHOLE, where death lurks around every corner, and come face to face with creatures from your worst nightmares in this collection of dark thrillers. New York Times bestselling author Jonathan Maberry and Bram Stoker Award winner Rena Mason headline a cast of bestselling and award-winning authors.

  Praise for Hellhole!

  “Deliciously gory and enough monsters and mayhem in the depths to satisfy even the most jaded spelunker!”

  William Meikle, author of The Valley

  “A thrilling collection of underground terror from a cross-section of the best horror writers working today. It’ll shine a light on your deepest, darkest fears.”

  Alan Baxter, author of Devouring Dark

  “A collection of claustrophobic horror that drags readers into the darkness!”

  Paul Elard Cooley, author of The Derelict Saga

  This collection includes:

  Introduction by James A. Moore

  All the Devils are Here- A Joe Ledger/Lizzie Corbett Adventure by Jonathan Maberry

  The Devil's Throat by Rena Mason

  A Plague of Locusts by Michael McBride

  Pit of Ghosts by Kirsten Cross

  Where the Sun Does Not Shine by Paul Mannering

  Guard Duty by S.D. Perry

  Black Lung by Aaron Sterns

  The Offspring by J.H. Moncrieff

  Ginormous Hell Snake by Jake Bible

  Ghosts of Hyperia by Jessica McHugh

  He Who Fights by Sean Ellis

  Edited by Lee Murray

  HELLHOLE: An Anthology of Subterranean Terror

  Published 2018 by Adrenaline Press

  www.adrenaline.press

  Adrenaline Press is an imprint of Gryphonwood Press

  www.gryphonwoodpress.com

  Acquisitions editor: Lee Murray

  Cover designer: Christian Bentulan

  Copy editor: Melissa Bowersock

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All stories in this collection are the property of the respective authors.

  ALL THE DEVILS ARE HERE A Joe Ledger/Lizzie Corbett Adventure © 2018 by Jonathan Maberry Productions LLC

  THE DEVIL’S THROAT © 2018 by Rena Mason

  A PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS © 2018 by Michael McBride

  PIT OF GHOSTS by © 2018 Kirsten Cross

  WHERE THE SUN DOES NOT SHINE© 2018 by Paul Mannering

  GUARD DUTY © 2018 by S.D. Perry

  BLACK LUNG © 2018 by Aaron Sterns

  THE OFFSPRING © 2018 by J.H. Moncrieff

  GINORMOUS HELL SNAKE © 2018 by Jake Bible

  GHOSTS OF HYPERIA © 2018 by Jessica McHugh

  HE WHO FIGHTS © 2018 by Sean Ellis

  ONE HELL OF A WHOLE

  James A. Moore

  I love anthologies. I can’t stress that enough. I used to hate short stories and the very notion of an anthology was wasted breath, but I got over that around the same time I actually read an anthology of shared world stories ‒ the shared world was the Thieves’ World as edited by Robert Lynn Aspirin ‒ and realized that short stories could be as refreshing and exciting as a novel. The rub had been, apparently, that I hadn’t read any good short stories, or very few in any event. I thrilled over my pulp favorites, like Fritz Leiber, H.P. Lovecraft, and Robert E. Howard, but otherwise I found few tales were worth the telling as far as I was concerned.

  I wanted the depth, you see. I wanted characters that had life to them and had back stories and emotions and a history, with other characters that went beyond a sentence explaining that Bill and Bob did not get along very well and never had. To be fair, those stories probably existed, but I was addicted to comic books at a young age and was used to getting backstory by the bucket load. All I had to do was look over my previous issues to see all that had happened between the Fantastic Four and Doctor Doom. Short stories? Pfeh! Why bother?

  You live. You learn. Sometimes, what passes for wisdom takes a while.

  I don’t know if it was my impatience as a young reader or if it was simply that I ran across a lot of mediocre (in my mind) stories, but at any rate I didn’t used to like them very much.

  Happily, that changed as time went on, first, because I was convinced to give a few writers a chance and I listened to the suggestion that I just might like their short stories, even if I didn’t much care for their novel-length works. Honestly, if I’m telling the truth, there are several writers who, for me, cannot understand the form and function of a novel-length work, but who have mastered shorter fiction. No, I will not mention names, but meet me some time in person and maybe I can be convinced to discuss the matter.

  The second reason is that there really are some incredible stories out there. You just have to look for them, or find a good editor or editorial team. In the case of the book in your hands, it’s one editor and Lee Murray managed to knock this collection out of the proverbial park.

  I’m working under the assumption that you read what the anthology is about, so no surprises here when it comes to the concept, but it’s still a notion that fits perfectly in my wheelhouse, I heard about the anthology and was already excited. I read the list of contributors and was excited all over again. S.D. Perry has never disappointed me with a story. That’s a rare and precious treat. Guard Duty keeps the record of winners running at one hundred percent. Jessica McHugh was an unknown quantity and her story, Ghosts of Hyperia, blew me out of the water. I do so love reading new talents and being surprised by the writing. I had the pleasure of being on a panel with J.H. Moncrieff at the last Horror Writers Association annual meeting. She was delightful. That said, I was even more delighted by The Offspring. The lady is charming, lovely, and properly twisted.

  Remember how I said I love reading new authors and not being disappointed? You can add Aaron Sterns to the list with his novella Black Lung. I may well never look at criminal pursuits the same way again. Michael McBride’s works are well known to me and finding a new story is like finding twenty dollars in your coat when you haven’t worn it in months. A Plague of Locusts is more like finding a fifty, actually. A damned fine read by a damned fine author. Sean Ellis manages to keep the levels of what-the-hell-was-that high and fine. It’s always best to end an anthology with a strong story and I didn’t have to worry about Ms. Murray not understanding that notion. He Who Fights is a mighty fine way to w
rap things up.

  On the opposite end of that spectrum, you had best start an anthology with a hard hitter and few people know how to deliver a punch as well as Joe Ledger or his creator, Jonathan Maberry. The Devils Are Here is Maberry at his best, and his best is a very, very hard act to follow. Rena Mason carries it off, though. That’s not a surprise, really. If you’ve ever read the lady, you know she’s well beyond competent. She’s incredible. The Devil’s Throat lives up to the high standards I expect from Ms. Mason. Sometimes an author just throws a title out there that should be impossible to do justice to. I find the title Ginormous Hell Snake, is one of those titles for me. How the hell do you live up to the expectations that come with a title like that? Jake Bible, that’s who. The story was warped and fun and absolutely a pleasure to read.

  The biggest problem I usually have with reading a new author is being disappointed. Sometimes the biggest problem comes from wanting to read every last thing the author has ever written, which can get damned expensive if you’re not careful. Paul Mannering’s Where The Sun Does Not Shine has made a fan of me. Either the story is a fluke (doubtful) or my first glimpse at a serious talent. Looks like I’ll be ordering a few books from Amazon to find out which. Proving that she doesn’t like to be outdone Kirsten Cross added Pit of Ghosts to the blend. Again, a writer I have not read before and now one I must examine more carefully. There’s a lot of that going on here. I’m delighted by the notion.

  The only surprise I found in Hellhole is that not a single story slowed me down. I can bank on at least a few tales failing to catch my attention properly on an average day, but Lee Murray picked carefully, either when she chose the authors, or when she chose the stories. Either way, I am delighted to be included in this book. Best of all, I get to be included without actually having to write a story. I get to ride on the coattails of excellence and look like I did any of the hard work. Really, I can’t call this effort. I had far too much fun reading the stories.

  James A. Moore, 2018

  ALL THE DEVILS ARE HERE

  A Joe Ledger/Lizzie Corbett Adventure

  Jonathan Maberry

  1

  Darvaza Gas Crater, Karakum Desert, Turkmenistan

  “LOOK AT THE spiders,” said the guide.

  The American diplomat, James Mercer, did not look up. He stood staring out over the rim of the fiery pit.

  “It’s been burning for over forty years,” Mercer murmured, but the guide did not react. Both men were caught up in their own thoughts, as if they were in different movies playing at the same time.

  The guide, a thin young man named Çariýar, stood on a piece of rock and kept turning in a slow circle, looking down. “Look at them, sir,” he said in a mixture of fear and fascination. “There are so many spiders...”

  “Everyone thinks this was an accident,” said Mercer. “A mistake made by employees of a drilling company.” He smiled. His eyes were completely unfocused as if he wasn’t really seeing the tongues of flame licking at the sky.

  The hole had a diameter of seventy meters and plunged to a depth of twenty meters. Big, deep, ablaze. The stink of methane filled the air and soft columns of gray coiled upward like snakes coupling in an eternal and erotic dance. It fascinated the diplomat, riveting him to the spot.

  There was no one else at the site. Tourists did visit the pit, drawn by the lurid news stories or YouTube videos of the place known as the Gate of Hell or the Door to Hell. Turkmenistan did not see a lot of tourist dollars, and so encouraged the visitors. Today was an off day, though. Cold and cloudy, with a biting wind out of the northeast. The young guide shivered in his anorak, and the diplomat—a senior assistant to the American ambassador—wore a heavy coat, hat and gloves. He, however, was sweating. Not from the heat, which was considerable but from blood pressure that had risen steadily since coming here.

  A third man, the embassy driver, sat in the car with the heat on and the radio tuned to a station featuring dutar and anbur music. The late and very great musician, Abdurahim Hamidov, was currently working his way through a classic tune and the driver was lost in the melodies. He was not paying attention at all. He did not see the spiders and could not have cared less about a big pit of fire that was the result of a bunch of stupid decisions made by natural gas miners years before he was born.

  The wind blew past the car and past the two men near the pit, on into the deeper desert.

  The diplomat had a bulky briefcase with him. More of a small suitcase, really. Heavy with the burden of what was inside. It took real effort for Mercer to turn away from the flames. They were so beautiful and they spoke such lovely things to him, the smoky wind whispering in a language that Çariýar could never hope to understand. But Mercer managed to wrest his attention from the flames and down to the briefcase, which stood a few feet away. He felt a catch in his throat when he thought about what he was here to do. The honor of it was nearly too much to accept. To be chosen for this—for this—was incredible. It was the kind of thing the people in his group dreamed of, prayed for, ached for with every fiber of their being. There were older members, more important members, people of staggering importance, and yet this task had fallen to him. This undertaking. This gift.

  He lowered himself to his knees and carefully placed the case on its side. His fingers trembled so badly that it took five tries to spin the dials of the locks. The click was so soft that he knew only he heard it. He took a breath and then opened the case to reveal the book.

  The book.

  Good god, how beautiful. He mouthed the words but did not say anything aloud. It was bound with heavy wood covers wrapped in skin. There was no writing on the cover, no title or author given. Instead it was engraved with spiders of every kind, including some Mercer had only seen in dreams. Vast, ponderous monsters with three legs instead of eight. Most, though, were kinds he knew well; like the kind that held the guide in such horrified awe. Jumping spiders and orb weavers and cellar spiders and wolf spiders. Beautiful animals. Perfect in their clever cruelty and wise in endless patience.

  Mercer bent and kissed the book, making sure first that Çariýar and the driver were not looking. The kiss lingered and to him it was like kissing the thigh of a beautiful woman. Warm and yielding, as if the skin was alive. He felt himself grow hard. Ending that kiss was so difficult. It hurt him, but this was not his to linger over and he knew it. After all, they were watching. They were waiting.

  He took off his gloves and then removed a small sheathed knife from his coat pocket. It was not much larger than a steak knife, and the silver metal with its razor edge had been properly blessed and seasoned, tasting only the blood of infants before now. He murmured a prayer in a language not spoken in this place in thousands of years. Then he gripped the handle in his left hand and drew the blade across his right palm, making three long cuts that formed a bloody star. Then he switched the knife to his right and repeated the action on his left hand. He placed the knife carefully in the open lid of the case and pressed both hands to the front cover of the book. He winced as the book drank his blood.

  It took a lot but not too much because he had so much work still to do.

  Mercer opened the book to a page marked with a lock of hair he had cut that morning from his little daughter’s scalp. She would not need the hair any longer. A small part of his mind idly wondered if they had found the bodies yet. Daughter and wife, maid and cook. They were there to be found. He didn’t care when or by whom.

  Then he shook the thought from his mind and concentrated on his sacred task. The page was written in a dead language, but it wasn’t dead to him. It was so completely and thoroughly alive. Each word burned in his mind, flooding him with love and hope and purpose. Tears ran down his cheeks and his mouth curled upward in a smile of the purest joy.

  The next action took the greatest effort and actually caused him pain despite being absolutely necessary. It felt like sacrilege as he took the corner of the exposed page and tore it from the book. The page did not cry out, but Me
rcer did. A guttural gasp of agony as real as if he had cut off his own hand.

  “Bless me,” he said. “Forgive me.”

  The torn edge of the page glowed as if somehow fire burned in its fibers. The page was not consumed, though, and he rose with it in his hand. He did not forget to take the knife, too.

  Çariýar was still staring in fascination at the dozens of spiders that wandered out of the desert and crawled along the edge of the pit. Some scuttled over the edge and fell; others attached webs and lowered themselves into the hellish heat.

  “I don’t understand,” said the young guide for maybe the tenth time. “Mr. Mercer, you should really see this.”

  “I can see it,” said Mercer. Çariýar jumped and turned, surprised that the diplomat was there, and that he’d come up so silently. It took the young man a moment longer to register all of the things about Mercer that were wrong.

  The spiders that climbed up the older man’s clothes, and inside trouser cuffs and beneath his coat. One crawled across Mercer’s smiling face. That smile was wrong, too. The guide frowned at the torn book page and the small knife, unable to process all of these strange things at once. Worse still was the blood that was so bright it seemed to scream. Mercer’s hands were soaked with it, and there were spatters on the man’s brown topcoat and shoes.

  “Mr. Mercer, sir,” gasped Çariýar, “have you cut yourself?”

  “Yes,” said Mercer. “I have. Here. Take this.”

  He reached out quickly, slapping the page against Çariýar’s chest and, before the guide could properly react, pinned it there by driving the knife to the hilt in the young man’s chest. The angle of thrust was something Mercer had practiced for years and despite his trembling hands, he did it exactly right. The blade punched between ribs and muscle and into Çariýar’s heart.

  “I love you for this,” said Mercer as the guide coughed once and dropped to his knees. Çariýar looked at him with a confusion that was profound, and then his eyes rolled up and he fell sideways, one arm flopping over the edge of the pit. Several spiders immediately crawled over him and raced to the ends of his fingers, stood for a moment, and then dropped off into the fires below.