Mischiefmakers: Dark Macabre

BOOK: Mischiefmakers: Dark Macabre
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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
T

he 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
N

ewark 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
break 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 other.
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
cannot be a part of this family,” he said in a quiet tone. He then
looked at Melissa’s mother. His eyes directed her back into the
house as she tried to catch a final glimpse of her daughter. Her
sisters’ faces were swollen and wet from crying. Although they
couldn’t hear much, they undoubtedly knew that Melissa was being
kicked out and she wasn’t coming back; she was 18 now and all on
her own. With as much grace as she could manage, she picked up
the suitcase, took a deep breath, and started walking away.

2
BOOK: Mischiefmakers: Dark Macabre
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