Read an Excerpt from The Earth Bleeds at Night, the Chilling New Anthology from Eerie River Publishing

We're kicking off the new year by welcoming some new members to the Ontario Book Publishing Organization, and one of those exciting presses is Eerie River Publishing, who specialize in high-quality anthologies. 

One of the latest releases from Eerie River is The Earth Bleeds At Night, a collected of tales that will plunge readers into the heart of darkness and have them wondering about all of the terrors "capable of making the very earth bleed." Amongst these pages are profoundly creepy tales from award-winning authors and new emerging talents. From literary horror to chilling campfire tales, this collection will thrill the most savvy horror readers. And it's edited by seasoned author, librarian, professor, and book reviewer, Holley Cornetto.

Batten down the hatches and check out this excerpt from the anthology, free for our readers on Open Book!

Read an Excerpt from The Earth Bleeds at Night, edited by Holley Cornetto

It Is the Night! by C.M. Forest

Kari Bowman checked the time. “C’mon.” She was technically early, but waiting never came easy to her. 

The phone call had been brief. “Mr. Fletcher has granted you an interview. A car will pick you up on the corner of Bay and Adelaide at 6pm sharp. Recording devices will be prohibited; your phone will be confiscated for the duration of the interview. A note pad and pen will be provided if required.”

Under different circumstances, Kari would have balked at such a demand. But for the chance to talk to Ronson Fletcher, the reclusive billionaire, she would have taken notes on an Etch A Sketch if requested.

A warm, dry front which had travelled up from the southwest had decided to take up temporary residence in Toronto. Whatever breeze might have existed was kept from reaching the streets thanks to the buildings lining the roads. Kari brushed her bangs aside, her fingers capped in sweat, as she peered up in time to see a flock of birds slip between skyscrapers; their number momentarily doubled in the mirrored windows of one of the buildings. Vapour trails criss-crossed the azure sky beyond.

She looked at her watch again. 5:58 PM. “Calm down, Kari,” she instructed herself. Her nerves were like a pack of wild dogs running unbidden through her body. She had spent the better part of five years making a name for herself as a journalist at the expense of Ronson Fletcher. And now she would have to sit across from him, look him in the eye. 

A soft jingle began to issue from her purse. Digging past the note pad and four pens—just in case one ran low on ink—she freed her cell phone. 

“Hey, Tony,” Kari said, answering the call.

“Are you there yet? Wherever there is?” Her publisher, Tony, was a tiny man with a huge caffeine addiction.

“No, not yet. Still waiting.” 

“You don’t think it’s bullshit, do you?”

“Hard to say. If Fletcher knows me well enough to ask for me by name, then he knows the stuff I’ve written about him. Which begs the question: why me?”

Tony sighed. “Yeah, it’s pretty suspect. Still, I hope like fuck this is legit. We could use the boost in traffic.”

“Who knows, maybe he wants to get me alone to kill me. At least you’d still get a helluva story out of it.” Kari laughed as her boss snorted. Tony had been very good to her over the years, had even stood up and fought when the cease-and-desist letters came from Fletcher’s attorneys. 

“Don’t even joke about that shit, Kari. Just let me know what happens, okay? If nobody shows up, still shoot me a message. My fucking ulcer is fit to burst over this whole thing. And if this is the real deal, you’re gonna be a goddamned superstar!”

“Fingers crossed.” Kari ended the call. She knew he was right. An interview with Ronson Fletcher was a golden ticket.

“Ms. Bowman?” The voice was deep, strong, it caused Kari to jump. 

Turning on her heel, she saw a black BMW with heavily tinted windows nestled against the curb. A man in a dark suit and short hair looked out at her from behind the wheel.

She cleared her throat, straightened her posture. “That’s me.”

The man stepped out of the car and opened the rear, driver’s-side door. “Mr. Fletcher’s flight has just arrived. He is waiting for you.”

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, as the BMW pulled into traffic. “Secret hideout? Black site? Illuminati sex dungeon?” She hoped the last would garner a laugh. It did not. 

“Mr. Fletcher is at the airport.”

“Yes, as you’ve said. But where is the interview being held?” 

“At the airport. His private jet, to be more precise.”

The car turned onto Yonge St. and started south toward the Gardiner Expressway. 

“His jet? You’re joking, right?”

“I never joke while I’m working.” The answer was so ridiculous that it caused Kari to roll her eyes, until she realized he was serious.

“We’re staying on the ground, though, correct? We’re not flying anywhere?” The idea seemed absurd. But then again, she was meeting Ronson Fletcher. A man so erratic in his behaviour over the past half-decade that applying any logic to him was fruitless.

Kari caught the driver’s eyes in his rearview mirror. A small collection of lines creased from the edges revealing a smile, but he remained quiet.

The drive was uneventful. Traffic on the Gardiner was moving for a change, which made the trek to Pearson International Airport quicker than usual. 

“Don’t we need to go inside? Pass through security?” Kari asked as the driver directed the BMW through a gate at the far end of the airport and onto the tarmac.

The man snorted and shook his head.

“Here we are.” The driver put the car into park, near what she assumed was Fletcher’s jet, and opened her door. 

She took a step toward the aircraft before stopping. Looking over her shoulder, she asked, “Are… are you going to be here when the interview is over?”

The man smiled, but did not answer. He climbed into the car, put it into drive and slowly rolled away.

“Oh, that’s not ominous or anything,” she said with a sigh.

The artificial thunder of nearby planes taking to the sky caused the air around Kari to vibrate. She suddenly felt very small, which was not a sensation she was used to. Staring ahead, she took in Fletcher’s jet. It lacked any of the flourish she expected from a billionaire’s private aircraft. No giant corporate logos, no crazy paint job; Fletcher’s name was completely absent from the exterior. It was quite ordinary. As ordinary as a personal jet could be. Stairs had been affixed to the side of the craft; the door at the top was open. From her position, and due to the brightness of the day, the space beyond the door appeared black. A hole into nothingness.

The illusion was broken when a man appeared in the doorway. “You must be Ms. Bowman,” he called down. 

“Yes. I mean, I’m Bowman, er, Kari Bowman.” She cursed herself. She was already flummoxed and she hadn’t even laid eyes upon Fletcher yet.

“Excellent,” the man said. He hurried down the steps, his shoes clanging on the metal stairs as he did so. “My name is Aaron. I’m Mr. Fletcher’s personal assistant. Thank you for taking the interview.”

“I would be a fool to turn down such an offer.”

“Yes, well. Mr. Fletcher is a very private man.” Aaron stood impossibly straight. Kari wondered if it was his natural posture, or some tactic to make her uneasy. “And speaking of privacy, I will have to take your phone. Don’t worry,” he added quickly, when she opened her mouth to respond. “You will get it back after the interview.”

She grudgingly handed over the device. Aaron tucked it into his pocket.

“Please, follow me. Mr. Fletcher had to step out for a moment, to stretch his legs, but will be back shortly. In the meantime, he asked that you make yourself comfortable. We have drinks and hors d’oeuvres prepared.”

“Is this an interview or a date?” Kari laughed at her own joke.

Aaron, a man with a slightly better sense of humour than the driver, also chuckled. “Mr. Fletcher prides himself on being a good host.”

“In that case, lead away.”

As she followed him up the steps, Kari was hit with a sense of foreboding. The darkness resting inside the aircraft had yet to dissipate. She wondered if it ever would. As silly as it sounded in her head, she imagined the jet filled to the brim with darkness. Dense, unforgiving blackness. A void she would become lost in.

Aaron must have noticed her trepidation as he stopped on the top step, looked down at her and asked, “Everything okay, Ms. Bowman?”

“What? Oh, yes.” She took a breath. “Just excited for this opportunity.”

The darkness finally peeled back as she reached the topmost step. Kari shook her head and mentally chided herself for being a child.

“Please, this way.” Aaron guided her into the craft.

Kari was impressed. The interior walls of the jet were a mixture of rich wood paneling and gold trim. A section of shelves held a library of books that would have been impressive in a proper home. Housed within the tight confines of the aircraft, they looked downright excessive. Thin, silver bars held the books in place. “Wow.” Kari whistled.

“Ah, yes. Mr. Fletcher is a very well-read man.” The pride in Aaron’s voice made Kari want to gag.

She perused the titles of the books. “’Lore of the Ancients’, ‘Pre-History Civilization’, ‘The Nine Doors’. Jeez, and here I pegged old Ronson as a James Patterson kind of guy.” 

Any levity Aaron had showcased previously, dried up. “Some of these books are literally one-of-a-kind. Mr. Fletcher’s collection is priceless.”

“Maybe storing them on a jet isn’t the best place for them.” 

Aaron cleared his throat. “He likes to have them nearby.”

Kari’s reporter sense was tingling. This guy was keeping secrets.

“Now please, this way.”

Beyond the bookshelves, the jet opened up into a more familiar sight. Four plush seats, two on either side of the craft, awaited her. The seats on the right were positioned front to back, while the ones on the left were turned to face each other. A table with a silver platter sitting on the surface rested between them. A collection of finger foods adorned the platter. 

“Have a seat. Enjoy the hors d’oeuvres.” Aaron stood just beyond one of the facing chairs and held out a hand.

Kari had taken many flights in her lifetime. Some, even in first class. Nothing compared to the luxurious comfort the chair afforded. She couldn’t stop the sigh which blew past her lips as she sunk into the seat’s embrace.

“Would you like a refreshment?” Aaron nodded to a drink cart loaded with bottles, an ice box, and several glasses. 

She would love a drink. But thought better of it. “I’m good for now. Thanks.”

“Mr. Flecther will be arriving shortly. I have a few arrangements to make before take-off. Please, if you need me, press the call button.” 

“Just so we’re clear. When you say ‘take-off’, you mean after the interview, right?”

“Buzz if you need me.” Aaron bowed slightly and went through a narrow door at the front of the cabin.

“It’s like pulling teeth,” she groaned. 

In preparation for the interview, she removed a pen and the note pad from her purse. She placed them next to each other, with the pen on the right, on the table. Unsatisfied with the placement, she then shifted the pen to the left. Afterwards, she pulled a crab cake from the tray and popped it into her mouth. “My God,” she mumbled around the food. “Money can buy happiness.” She ate another.

Kari was surprised to notice that the most prominent feature in the jet was not the luxurious chairs, or even the library, it was the clocks. Two-dozen large, round clocks covered most of the walls. Beneath each timepiece, engraved into thin gold plaques were time zones. Somebody, Fletcher, she presumed, had drawn on the face of the clocks with a black marker. Two thick lines, all between five and ten, slashed across the glass.

“Weird,” Kari whispered to herself.

“Yes, I suppose it would seem odd, Ms. Bowman.” A voice wafted up from the rear of the jet.

Kari’s heart leapt. Leaving the clocks behind, she turned in her seat to see a man in his mid-fifties walk stiffly through the aircraft.

“Mr. Fletcher,” Kari said, hurrying to stand. She raised her hand. “It is nice to meet you.”

His handshake was frail, weak. Kari knew men like Fletcher. Rich, powerful men. They loved crushing her hand whenever they got the chance. She wondered if he was ill. He certainly looked it. Before his self-imposed exile, Ronson Fletcher was something of a playboy. His physique, his looks, that of a much younger man, was constant tabloid fodder.

“In person, don’t you mean?” Fletcher continued to grip her.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s nice to meet me in person. I feel we’ve become very well acquainted through your work.” His hand was hot. It trembled slightly.

Breaking the hold, Kari cleared her throat. “Yes, well. Articles don’t count.”

“Oh, I think they do. A story, say, like the ones you’ve written, go out to millions of people. They form untold opinions. People who don’t know me, don’t think about me, suddenly become aware of my existence.” 

Kari held her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She imagined Fletcher having her removed from his jet, the entire thing an elaborate joke. A chance to gain some payback against her.

“Please, sit.” There was no malice in his voice, only weariness.

“Nice jet you have here,” Kari said, returning to her seat.

Fletcher nodded, but remained quiet. He approached the seat opposite her, but did not sit right away. First, he stretched his back, eliciting a choir of pops and cracks. It sounded painful, and given the sudden grimace that came across his face, it must have been. 

He sat with the care of a man lowering himself onto broken glass. Once settled, he smiled thinly, his lips strained, and said, “It’s the best money can buy. Fast, too. It can circle the globe in less than twenty-four hours.”

“Are you okay, Mr. Fletcher?” 

“I’ve been better. It’s hard being cooped up all the time.”

Kari wasn’t sure what to make of the comment, but filed it away for later questioning. She had bigger inquiries in mind. “First, I would like to thank you for granting me this interview, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Please,” the man said, waving a hand through the air. “Call me Ronson.” 

“Okay, Ronson, then let me ask you, where have you been for the last five years?”

“Ah, always the eager beaver. I think that’s what makes you so popular; you don’t waste time.” Ronson leaned back, crossed his legs. The overhead lights created dark pools of his eyes.

“People don’t want small talk, Ronson. They don’t have time for it. This is the social media era. Information delivered in thirty seconds or less.”

Ronson Fletcher shook his head and sighed. “Of course. Nobody takes time to breathe. If you only knew how trivial this all is, you would never go online again.”

Kari ground her teeth. She had encountered such attitudes from the wealthy before. “Well, when you have billions of dollars, it makes it a bit easier to sit back and enjoy the sunshine.”

She expected a retort, but instead, the man sitting across from her laughed. A big, belly laugh. One that transitioned into coughing halfway through. “I’m sorry,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “You don’t know how close to home that comment hits, Ms. Bowman.”

The narrow door at the front of the cabin opened and Aaron stepped out. He appraised Fletcher for a moment, concern writ across his face. “We’re ready for departure, sir.”

“Thank you, Aaron.” 

Kari felt a moment between the two men, a sadness. But nothing was said. Ronson’s personal assistant simply bowed his head, and left. 

“So … we are flying? I wasn’t informed of this when I received the call.” Kari did nothing to hide the annoyance in her voice.

Ronson tilted his head, a mischievous grin on his face. “You’re not afraid of flying, are you Ms. Bowman?”

“Of course not. I just wasn’t expecting to do so today. Will you be bringing me home afterwards, or am I going to have to catch a flight from wherever we land.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be back at Pearson in a few hours. I have no destination in mind. I just need to keep moving. Once in the sky, you may ask me anything. For now, let’s enjoy the silence.”

Take-off was smooth. Kari watched from the nearest window as the pilot circled once over Toronto before heading west. Aaron returned shortly after the craft reached cruising altitude. He retrieved the drink cart from its place off to the side and deposited it next to Ronson’s seat.

The billionaire gripped the man’s hand. “Thank you, Aaron. That will be all.”

“Yes, sir.” Kari thought she saw tears in the personal assistant’s eyes as he scurried away.

“Let me pour you a drink,” Ronson said. His hands shaking as he reached for a bottle of scotch. 

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.” 

“Nonsense. I drink alone too often. I need the company.” 

“Fine. But no ice,” she quickly added when she saw the man reach for the ice box. 

“Ah, you like it neat. So do I.” 

Ronson half-filled the glass before handing it to her. He filled his own to the brim. Afterwards, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small pill bottle, liberated two yellow tabs and popped them into his mouth. “Cheers, Ms. Bowman,” he said.

Kari raised an eyebrow. “Mine isn’t poisoned, is it?”

“No, Ms. Bowman, yours is not poisoned.” 

“Salute.” She lifted her glass and took a drink. The scotch warmed her throat. It coated her stomach like honey. She had no doubt the bottle cost more than a month’s salary for her.

________________________________

Holley Cornetto is a writer, librarian, professor, book reviewer, and transplanted southerner who now calls New Jersey home. She is the author of They Are Cursed Like You published in 2023 by Eerie River Publishing and We Haunt These Woods in 2022 from Bleeding Edge Books. Her short fiction has appeared in magazines such as Daily Science Fiction, Flame Tree Press Newsletter, Dark Recesses Press, and anthologies from Cemetery Gates Media, Eerie River Publishing, Dark Ink, and several others. In 2020, she was awarded a grant from the Ladies of Horror Fiction. In addition to writing The Horror Tree’s weekly newsletter, she regularly reviews for Publisher's Weekly and The Horror Tree. She teaches creative writing in the online MFA program at Southern New Hampshire University.