Fear the Abyss: 22 Terrifying Tales of Cosmic Horror Read Online Free Page A
Author: Jack Ketchum, Tim Waggoner, Harlan Ellison, Jeyn Roberts, Post Mortem Press, Gary Braunbeck, Michael Arnzen, Lawrence Connolly
imagine her licking my ache with it. The thought makes my testicles feel like iron death.
"Sorry, gotta go," I exclaim, throwing the phone with no care to the cradle and flying from my seat.
I reach the bathroom with my hand already on my dick and vomit searing my tongue. I spit up a stream of brown liquid that appears to steam when it hits the toilet, but I'm too focused on beating away my screaming erection to care.
Dana Cully fills my mind. Her rat-nest hair. Her rotting chomper. The way one of her socks is always lower than the other, revealing a patch of bristly hair she's missed for the last twenty shaves.
I growl as I cum, spattering the toilet seat with something that looks too similar to my vomit to be normal. My stomach feels like a balloon at full capacity—as well as already lacerated latex. I've gone soft, but the pain continues. My dick is coated in brown goo that I try to wipe away with toilet paper, but the cheap stuff sticks to the tip. As I try to peel it off, my eyes well with burning tears.
I run my hands under the cold water and wash away the gummy patches of toilet paper. I cup my hands again, ready to splash water on my face, but my reflection makes me freeze. The water drains between my fingers as I lean in and watch a brown tear roll out of my eye. As it falls, it sears a ravine into my cheek, causing the surrounding flesh to peel back and curl into itself. Another tear falls, but I catch it with my fingertips. The droplet burns through both flesh and nail, giving me a glimpse of brown bone before I run my hand under the faucet. Under the pressure of the stream, the steaming hole in my finger widens before slowly fusing closed. After splashing water on my face, I try to wipe the tears away, but my fingernail catches on a tag of burnt flesh, causing a new rip from cheek to nose. I slap a paper towel over the wound, desperately trying not to cry despite my panic.
After a few steadying breaths, I gently pull back the paper towel. The wound directly below my eye has healed, and as I remove more of the towel, I realize the other wounds have too. Unfortunately, it gives me a bit of resistance at the end. In healing, my face has stitched some of the paper into the wound. It takes a tug, but it finally breaks free, leaning a small piece of towel protruding from my cheek.
My stomach still hurts and it's noticeably distended, but I'm able to leave the bathroom. My only hope is that Dana has vacated the lab, leaving me to cool off with my sweaty vodka. When I enter, Dana isn't there, but five other people are, staring at me like I have a piece of paper sticking out of my cheek—so I suppose their expressions are warranted. Their sleeves are hiked and safety glasses fogged by the 97 degree lab temperature. I immediately parch, but a man with a unibrow stands in the way of my liquor cabinet.
"There's something on your face, fella," he says. I grunt and ask him to move. "No can do. We need all the bench space we can get. We're assembling 6000 primer kits.
Nice "surprise," Regina.
The man's slick arm rubs against me, scraping me with its wiry fur. He apologizes, and I'm about to tell him it's fine when a familiar scent strikes my nostrils. It's Dana—but Dana isn't there. The smell is coming from the bristly man with sweat dripping between the whiteheads along his nose. My stomach tightens as the blood rushes south, making me stiffen with each scented surge. My balls swell and stretch, filling my jeans with aching flesh. I can't tell if the warm fluid rolling down my thigh is blood or semen, but either way, it's not good.
The amount of people in the room doubles, then triples. None of them seems to be doing any real work, just milling around and getting between me and my liquor.
"I just need to get to the cabinet. Just for a second," I say to the group of dripping women now clustered in front of the door, but when they turn, I am pummeled by their scent. More technicians spin to stare at me, blowing
"Sorry, gotta go," I exclaim, throwing the phone with no care to the cradle and flying from my seat.
I reach the bathroom with my hand already on my dick and vomit searing my tongue. I spit up a stream of brown liquid that appears to steam when it hits the toilet, but I'm too focused on beating away my screaming erection to care.
Dana Cully fills my mind. Her rat-nest hair. Her rotting chomper. The way one of her socks is always lower than the other, revealing a patch of bristly hair she's missed for the last twenty shaves.
I growl as I cum, spattering the toilet seat with something that looks too similar to my vomit to be normal. My stomach feels like a balloon at full capacity—as well as already lacerated latex. I've gone soft, but the pain continues. My dick is coated in brown goo that I try to wipe away with toilet paper, but the cheap stuff sticks to the tip. As I try to peel it off, my eyes well with burning tears.
I run my hands under the cold water and wash away the gummy patches of toilet paper. I cup my hands again, ready to splash water on my face, but my reflection makes me freeze. The water drains between my fingers as I lean in and watch a brown tear roll out of my eye. As it falls, it sears a ravine into my cheek, causing the surrounding flesh to peel back and curl into itself. Another tear falls, but I catch it with my fingertips. The droplet burns through both flesh and nail, giving me a glimpse of brown bone before I run my hand under the faucet. Under the pressure of the stream, the steaming hole in my finger widens before slowly fusing closed. After splashing water on my face, I try to wipe the tears away, but my fingernail catches on a tag of burnt flesh, causing a new rip from cheek to nose. I slap a paper towel over the wound, desperately trying not to cry despite my panic.
After a few steadying breaths, I gently pull back the paper towel. The wound directly below my eye has healed, and as I remove more of the towel, I realize the other wounds have too. Unfortunately, it gives me a bit of resistance at the end. In healing, my face has stitched some of the paper into the wound. It takes a tug, but it finally breaks free, leaning a small piece of towel protruding from my cheek.
My stomach still hurts and it's noticeably distended, but I'm able to leave the bathroom. My only hope is that Dana has vacated the lab, leaving me to cool off with my sweaty vodka. When I enter, Dana isn't there, but five other people are, staring at me like I have a piece of paper sticking out of my cheek—so I suppose their expressions are warranted. Their sleeves are hiked and safety glasses fogged by the 97 degree lab temperature. I immediately parch, but a man with a unibrow stands in the way of my liquor cabinet.
"There's something on your face, fella," he says. I grunt and ask him to move. "No can do. We need all the bench space we can get. We're assembling 6000 primer kits.
Nice "surprise," Regina.
The man's slick arm rubs against me, scraping me with its wiry fur. He apologizes, and I'm about to tell him it's fine when a familiar scent strikes my nostrils. It's Dana—but Dana isn't there. The smell is coming from the bristly man with sweat dripping between the whiteheads along his nose. My stomach tightens as the blood rushes south, making me stiffen with each scented surge. My balls swell and stretch, filling my jeans with aching flesh. I can't tell if the warm fluid rolling down my thigh is blood or semen, but either way, it's not good.
The amount of people in the room doubles, then triples. None of them seems to be doing any real work, just milling around and getting between me and my liquor.
"I just need to get to the cabinet. Just for a second," I say to the group of dripping women now clustered in front of the door, but when they turn, I am pummeled by their scent. More technicians spin to stare at me, blowing
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