Jericho could still see the little man’s blackened teeth. Most had rotted to their cores, giving the impression of tiny pointed chisels. Looking into the man’s rotting pain cave, had been like peering into hell as the smoke from the Rothschild billowed out of it like a putrid chimney. Both the smoke from his cigar and the rotten stench that emanated from his mouth encircled the man’s head like a sarcophagus. The stench was not so much different then Jericho smelled at this moment, in this forest of darkness and seclusion. There had been four other patrons at the table besides the grimy little man and Jericho. No one chatted, it was considered in poor taste. Poker was a thinking man’s game and no one chattered unless they were bluffing… or bluffing of their intent to bluff and so on and so forth it went. The dealer declared that they all ante up. Anybody who expected the sophistication of chips was sorely disappointed. Anything of worth was fair game, the value at the sole discretion of the dealer. Such was their competence and tenure, under almost any circumstance, the dealer would know the value of any item presented. After all, there was only so much a man could get his hands on while in the bush. This day proved to be the anomaly. This day, a greasy little man rolled seven gold teeth, suffering from various stages of decay, onto the card table. If anyone wondered where the man had gotten them, they stayed silent regarding their inquisition. The horrified stares of the other players, at those macabre little pearly whites, was enough to tell anyone watching that fear kept their mouths zipped tight. The look in the little demon’s eyes assured anyone in doubt of this fact, that it was absolute truth. The eyes flashed like black beacons of death. Even in the melancholy of the sunless tundra, no one wanted to die over seven decomposed teeth.The dealer at first balked at the offering, staring at the little man as if sizing him up. Jericho also peered intently into those eyes, seeing nothing save bottomless black void. He swore that he could see the souls, to whom the teeth once belonged, thrash about in torment within the glossy chunks of coal. The man removed his cigar from his mouth long enough to hiss three words. His voice was like gravel, thick and rich like he was speaking through a mouth of tar. “Deal the cards!”The dealer tore his eyes from the man and seemed to ponder his dilemma. Everyone at the table knew the dealer wanted no trouble, yet they also knew that he didn’t want to accept the teeth. The dealer glanced at the stained chunk of plywood that served as a bar and yelled, “Charlie, come here! I got something for you to see!” Charlie, a large bear of a man, wiped his hands on a grimy bar rag and walked toward the game with purpose. The little man grunted his dark disapproval. Charlie approached the rickety card table, popping his knuckles as he sauntered. Charlie wore his hair in a buzz cut and the tattoo on his well toned bicep indicated that he killed indiscriminately and allowed God to sort things out from there. Not many dared cross paths with Charlie. Reaching the table, Charlie said evenly, “What’s the problem here?”The little goblin of a man would not be intimidated and spat on the floor disrespectfully, but otherwise remained silent. Charlie looked with distaste at the spittle that sat like a murky puddle on the floor. A deep scowl crossed his face, deepening the scar that ran across Charlie’s upper lip. Taking the small man’s nasty glare into account, Charlie chose to ignore the defiant act. He justified his non-action by convincing himself that he didn’t want a scene in front of the patrons. The truth was that Charlie had no problem believing the little man would use the knife that hung on his buckskin belt. Charlie chose his words carefully, “What’s going on Marco?”The dealer looked at Charlie suspiciously. It wasn’t everyday that he saw the man hold his tongue. Worse yet, Marco knew it was the imp across the table that had frozen it. “This guy here wants to bet these here rotting teeth.”Charlie considered it. He obviously agreed with Marco, his body language saying as much. The sickening tang of the rotted teeth could be smelled by all. Fear made the big man say, “Hell! They are gold filled… I say let em ride, one per ante.”Marco looked perplexed. He snarled, “I don’t want those stinking things at my table. Take them away little man!”Everyone at the table, who had been looking at Marco when he spoke, now turned to the little man. They clearly expected a confrontation. They were not disappointed. The little man hissed, “You may want to think twice before addressing me by my stature. I have a name and it is Murder! Accept my wager or I’ll just as soon slit your guts!”No one that sat at the poker table doubted the warning for a minute. Marco frowned. For one frightening moment, Jericho thought that perhaps Marco would call the man out, but slowly Marco dealt out two cards to everyone. The little man visibly relaxed.Charlie, happy the argument was over, pretended he had work to do behind the bar. He looked like a man happy enough to just keep his intestines where they belonged. Jericho looked at his cards. The ace of spades with an off-suit king as kicker stared back at him. Jericho was thrilled with the hand, the best he had seen in days. He was riding the large blind, so was particularly happy for it. Jericho called, as did everyone until the betting stopped abruptly at Murder. The greasy little fiend rubbed the stubble on his tiny chin until Jericho thought it might start bleeding. Finally, Murder—if that were even his real name—threw in all the remaining teeth.
Marco declared sullenly, “That will be six times the anti for anyone who cares to stay in the game.” Since everyone else had called, Grey’s invitation to gamble hooked few suitors. Everyone folded in turn until the game reached Jericho. Jericho had a decision to make. Did he really want the damn teeth anyway? He decided to go for it just out of principal. What the hell? Jericho shoved his entire pile of money into the middle of the table and stated boldly, “I’m all in!”Grey glared daggers across the table at Jericho. Jericho began to squirm, uncomfortable underneath the deadly leer. Slowly… so slowly that the other players had begun to think that nothing would happen at all, the imp reached into his tattered vest and pulled a yellowed business envelope out and handed it to Marco. He hissed, “I believe that I can cover that wager.”Marco took the envelope tentatively. He found himself praying to a God he hadn’t spoke to in quite some time that it wasn’t a contract for Jericho’s soul. Marco read the document and let out his breath in relief. He looked up at Murder. “This will do.” He turned to Jericho and said, “It’s a deed for some property in Ontario… it’ll cover your wager evenly.”Jericho nodded solemnly, trying to maintain his poker façade.Marco said, “Turn them over.” Jericho turned over his ace of spades and king of diamonds. Murder threw the jack and nine of hearts into play. Jericho let out the breath he had been holding. The way that the little bastard had bet, Jericho would have sworn that he had been riding at least a high pair. He wondered what the imp was thinking. It wasn’t a hand that Jericho would have even entertained under normal circumstances. Murder continued to stare at Jericho, as if daring him to take the pot.
Marco then dealt the flop and the other players gasped in horror. Three hearts appeared; ace, king, and queen. Jericho was devastated. How quickly the poker rollercoaster twisted and turned, unpredictable. Having just been dealt a flush, an evil grin cracked the little beast’s china mouth. His black, ice pick teeth flashed with pride and greed. Murder carried on and did everything save reach out and take the pot. Jericho looked away, defeated.Knowing the hand was all but over, Marco nonchalantly flipped the turn card over. It was the ace of diamonds. Jericho stared at it dumbly. It barely registered that the turn had given him three aces. It was still not enough to beat Murder’s hand, but at least he wouldn’t be drawing dead on the river.The imp grinned devilishly, knowing that the card meant hope for Jericho. Murder liked it. Jericho would come crashing down even harder when he lost and that was the sentiment that Murder lived for.Marco looked at each player in dramatic fashion before flipping the final card, the river card. The card seemed to dance in the air as if being carried on pixy dust. The odds of it being Jericho’s fourth ace were almost nil. The room was so silent that everyone in the pub heard the card hit the table. This was the biggest wager in almost a year and the whole room wanted in on it. They crowded the table as if watching a strip tease act, eyes bulging and tongues hanging in the throws of their heady lust—blood lust fueled by the promise of violence. The last time someone had lost this big they had found the man the next day, hanging by his belt. The room seemed to be trapped in a time warp. Everyone saw the card, but nobody believed. Twenty-five men stayed silent, too stunned to even breathe. They had just witnessed the impossible. The first sound anyone heard was a low whine coming from the direction of Murder. It started out almost inaudible, like air being forced through a small opening, and then gained momentum in a painful crescendo. The opening then broke open and a cascade of curses erupted from the little man’s rotting mouth like a perverse fountain. His already swarthy complexion had turned a hellish shade of hot red. Pulling his ivory handled dagger from its sheath, Murder swung his wiry arm and stabbed the fourth ace—the ace of clubs—to the table like a dead fish. He squealed, “Somebody cheated me! Give me that back!” Murder reached for the deed with his grubby stub fingers.Everyone heard the abrupt clack of the pump shotgun ramming a round into the breech. Murder’s hand stopped quickly before it picked up the document. All eyes turned to Charlie. Charlie peered down the barrel. The look on his face said that he would be overjoyed to send Murder to hell. Everyone but Murder backed away from the table, not wanting to be shot. Murder stared back at Charlie in a standoff of sorts. After moments of silence, he finally growled, “I’ll be leaving! I’d sooner take the pipe than play with cheats!” He spat on the floor and walked hastily towards the exit. Then, Murder stopped abruptly at the door as if he had forgotten something. Saying nothing, but nodding to himself, he sauntered out into the darkness. The men in the bar let out their collective breath. Jericho smiled as he collected his winnings. That was the last anyone ever saw of Murder; he had been a walking anomaly, swallowed whole by the hinterland.The parcel had been hard to find even with the help of a GPS. Cracked tar roads had lead to barely maintained dirt roads that had lead to logging roads that were not maintained at all. The tires on his Land Cruiser had taken a beating and Jericho had been glad for the comfort of a spare. Jericho had arrived at the property praying that Murder wasn’t squatting on it. After a look about, it was apparent that no one had been there in a longtime. There were no buildings or campsites. There were not even game trails that Jericho could see. The only sign that there had ever been life were the old burlap bags hanging in the lower limbs of the dead pine trees like ornaments. They were not large bags, perhaps the size that could have contained bread. Jericho had cut one open. When decayed animal bones fell out he decided that he would look no further. The bags made him nervous and even then, the first wafts of the foul stench had begun teasing his nostrils. The only sound was the faint breeze in the dead pines that carried the aroma of death. After putting up his tent, Jericho had half-heartedly scouted a spot for his bow stand; not an easy task when there was no sign that anything alive had ever been around. He had settled on the old Jack Pine just because it was living. It also overlooked a depression in the pine needles on the forest floor, which if you used your imagination just right, may have passed for a game trail from days gone by.Now, Jericho sat in his deer stand on his acquired property. He couldn't help but think of Murder. At the time, Jericho had been glad to see the little man leave the pub without killing anyone. Jericho was especially glad that the little man hadn’t killed him.There is more than one way to kill someone. The thought made him shudder and Jericho stifled it. In retrospect, it occurred to Jericho that perhaps Murder had left a bit hastily if anything that day. After all, if he himself had lost such a piece of property, he may have felt inclined to close down the pub and drown his sorrow. Now, with the prodigious stench stinging his eyes and nasal passages, he wondered why he hadn’t questioned the property, perhaps running the acquisition through his lawyer. Just how one explains to his barrister that they had won the land and seven rotten teeth from a greasy little man named Murder had eluded Jericho.
Jericho looked into the teeth of the wind, his lungs nearly refusing to work with the foul air. It was then that he saw movement. The movement was subtle, but Jericho just knew that he had seen a flash of brown. Despite the smell, Jericho brought his bow up. He saw the movement again, this time closer. Then, even over the gusty wind, he heard hooves in the dry leaves under the scrub oak. Whatever was there was now coming in Jericho’s direction. He again saw a patch of brown, the patch of brown suddenly materializing. The sight of the buck made Jericho’s heart pound, the odor forgotten for the moment. Large antlers protruded around the beasts long ears. It was a marginal trophy, but Jericho prepared for the shot anyway. As the buck drew closer, Jericho started to notice some things that didn’t make sense. He almost dismissed them for tricks of the fading light, but years of experience told him it was no illusion. Jericho wondered if another party had shot at and wounded the buck. The beast faced Jericho and so he could only see it from that perspective. Jericho winced as he noticed that the jaw of the buck laid wide open, exposing decaying teeth. Even at thirty yards Jericho could see that the teeth were black with rot.Jericho also observed that the deer’s left ear had several holes in it, like the appendage had been nibbled on by moths. Its fur was falling out in tufts and patches of dried scaly skin were visible on the animals back.
Jericho hated to watch an animal suffer, so he drew his bow. Perhaps it wasn’t the trophy he had come for, but he would show the creature some compassion. He let the bolt fly and watched it disappear into the beast’s chest cavity. Jericho looked on intently, waiting for some sign that the animal was hit… that sign never came.He knocked another arrow and took his time. Letting out his breath into the stale air, Jericho released the arrow. He watched the bolt once again enter the animal. The buck gave no sign that it was hit and continued sauntering down the old game trail. Jericho watched in wonder as the animal walked under him, the stench growing stronger with every passing moment. His eyes now stung so badly that Jericho could barely keep them open. Despite the pain, Jericho wouldn’t allow himself to lose sight of the deer. At that moment, the buck turned slightly thus changing Jericho’s perspective.Then he saw it clear as day. Without a doubt, this was what caused the horrible stench that now suffocated him. The rear end of the dear was a mass of gore, the tail bone and spine visible in the last evening light. How can it still be alive? Jericho thought. Then, in the midst of that horrific stench, the horrible truth hit him like a ton of mortar.Jericho’s bow fell first. His initial instinct, even in this situation, was to reach for it. The platform of his stand wasn’t large, so by the time he realized that he had overextended himself it was too late. Jericho fell. Jericho thought the deer would break his fall, but it was like landing on a bag of bones. The decayed beast crumbled beneath his weight like a dead pine branch, dust choking the air. The stench now lived within Jericho such was its potency. Jericho tried to roll off the corpse, but his body wouldn’t work, something was wrong with it, broken. Then he heard the footsteps. Jericho didn’t want to look, but he had to. Glancing toward the sound, the last vestiges of air left Jericho’s lungs. He flailed his arms wildly, the only things on his body still mobile. I must be hallucinating! Murder planted a blood red shoe in the middle of Jericho’s chest. Jericho felt his ribs break, but strangely there was no pain. Jericho could smell the putrid odor of the man’s breath, the same odor he had smelled all day. The grimy little man grinned like a fiend and pulled a tool from his greasy tan Dickies. Jericho new immediately what it was for, but no longer possessed the ability to fight, his maimed body refusing to work. Murder waved the dental forceps wildly in his grubby little hand. He hissed, “You have some things that belong to me! Oh…and welcome to my special little zoo.” The imp laughed maniacally. 
Copyright © 2007-2009 Writers Together
www.writerstogether.com
DARK FOREST
(Horror)
By Justin Holley
The woods were dark and quiet, laced in thick stillness like death. There were no leaves except for the few dead souls that clung to the scrub oak as if it was their last act of defiance, soon to be banished. They rattled their raspy displeasure in the light breeze that only brought the stench more quickly to the man’s nostrils. He had smelled the heinous stench since the moment he entered the woods. He had chalked it up to a dead varmint at first, but in the hour that he had now sat in his deer stand, high in one of the only Jack Pines that managed to stave off the bud worm demise, it had become much worse. To say the pong was merely overpowering was like saying Absinthe was just a drink; bitter as gall, but twice as mordant. It was palpable and all consuming. Every cell in the man’s body seemed to be wrapped in the reek’s dankness, so thick that he could feel its grit on his tongue and between his teeth. The experience was like sitting directly behind a manure pile in a stiff wind. Jericho uncomfortably pulled at his face mask, covering his nose in hopes of a reprieve. It didn’t help.The forest was eerily new to Jericho—large, dank, and unknown. A black spruce swamp ran the eastern edge of his new property, the only landmark he knew to avoid being thrust into the great void of the Canadian wilderness. The feeling was eerily similar to bobbing about in a rubber raft on the edge of the ocean with no land in site, only precariously moored to a lonely pylon that every stray gust sent straining towards the open seas. In the eeriness of the unfamiliar, it seemed as if every hoarse croak from unidentified creatures, within the inky wooded blackness, called Jericho’s name. He imagined that they beckoned him to his doom like so many harpies. Jericho had never felt so alone, past the point of regretting coming solo when his hunting partner backed out at the last moment. His mouse of a wife had warned him not to come and it might not be the first time that her warnings rang prudential. Jericho tightened the grip on his bow and baseless fear alike, trying to settle in, trying desperately to ignore the wicked stink that clogged his nostrils and mouth like plugs of raw meat.
The facts that had played themselves out ominously, now made the swirling mists of solitude all the more stifling to Jericho. The little man, not a midget… perhaps more an impish sort, indeed had been shrouded in mystery like a veil. Not a soul had ever seen him before or since. Only in Jericho’s mind did the little man live on.
In the eye of it, Jericho could still see the man’s salt and pepper goatee, his black eyes, and his swarthy complexion. His hair pulled back in a tight pony tail matched the goatee’s fragile coloration, pulling his aging skin tight over hollow cheeks. The red shoes glistened like crystal in the sun, like gleaming pools of blood.Eight long months ago now, the little bastard had sat at the poker table smugly enough, a Rothschild firmly planted and smoking in his tiny rosebud mouth. The black eyes had welcomed Jericho’s money to the table. The goblin shook his half empty glass of whisky as the busty waitress pushed by. She brought him another and received a greasy wink as reward. She scurried away rapidly like a mouse after the light comes on. The tiny man laughed at her haste. He then ingested the malt slowly in one long, drawn out pull, letting the liquid burn its way down his throat, never letting his black eyes leave Jericho’s. It had been a silent challenge of mass proportions to Jericho, but now he realized that perhaps it is where the set up had begun. And these dark woods are where it will end! Jericho stifled the vicious thought, but it still poked at him from his subconscious like a needle.Poker had been a respite for them all, an escape that the pipeline workers relished above all else. What else was there to spend money on near the top of the world? Jericho also enjoyed the Aurora Borealis that, in northern Alaska, drew redden from a more sophisticated color pallet than its more southern brethren. It had seemed almost alive at times, shifting like a multi-colored serpent that coiled its way across the northern horizon… and then shot like a rocket over his head to explode in a blossom of ethereal color. Besides that lone figment of beauty, poker was all that these lonely men had to keep them sharp; to let them feel like men. The occasional fist fight elicited by an angry loser far outweighed the consequences of idol hands. Idle hands did the devil’s work after all. Justin is the author of BROKEN MIRROR and SPIRIT ASYLUM and is currently penning the third book in the “Eli Ross” series: NO INNOCENT VICTIM. In addition, Justin is currently working on a novella entitled, JEWEL, an expansion of one of his terrifying short stories, many of which are currently under consideration for award. His short fiction can be read within the pages of SNM Horror Magazine, TREI Literary Magazine, and the anthology: Atrum Tempestas (coming soon).
Hailing from the Midwest where he lives with his wife, Justin enjoys many activities outside of his literary endeavors: volunteering for Make-A-Wish, athletics, and outdoor activities comprise a few.
Justin welcomes you to visit his website for excerpts of his writing and other macabre delights.
This adventure had started some months ago for Jericho, property he had won in a poker game from a man with very little in the way of anonymity, so it seemed to Jericho at the time. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Some of the shrewdest men in the world had been bested by underestimation and Jericho wasn’t getting cheated, not by a long shot. 
