Short Story Saturday: Only Could Be More Heartwarming Set in Philadelphia

Short Story Saturday: Only Could be More Heartwarming Set in Philadelphia - Photo by Pixabay from Pexels
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Hello everyone! As part of Short Story Saturday, I have posted another short story, this one entitled Only Could Be More Heartwarming Set in Philadelphia. Please enjoy.

With a loud bang, splinters flew across the room. A wave of armored men wearing helmets and masks flooded the room with the ferocity of water through a hole in a broken dam. Their assault rifles pointed at their intended target. The flashlights mounted onto the firearms provided the room its only illumination save the luminescent glow of a laptop that resided atop a crudely made wooden table.

In response, a swivel chair flew backward and hit an adjacent wall as the young who once sat on it immediately fell to his knees with his hands over his head. “I surrender!” he shouted.

The gunmen did not hear him. They were preoccupied with the unearthly screams and sounds reminiscent of metal rubbing against glass filling their ears. It was maddening. Half of the six fell to the floor and covered their ears while begging for the madness to stop.

“Ah, right, sorry about that.” The young man leaned forward and pressed a button on his laptop. “It’s the new industrial horror metal album from band Cruel Mercy. I’m guessing y’all aren’t fans.”

“Are you Will Whateley?” asked one of the men who had Dexter on his nameplate.

“Whateley? Oh no, not quite, my name is Will Watt Lee, though my friends call me Willy.” He paused for a moment. “Well, they would if I had any friends. Human friends, at least.”

“Right, James Watt Lee, just the man we’ve been ordered to investigate.” Dexter’s light then rested fully on the young man’s face. “Geez, buddy, are you all right?”

It took a second but Willy realized that he was referring to his jaundiced skin, thick goat-like lips protruding from his thick black beard, coarse crinkly jet-black hair, oddly elongated ears, his exceedingly large nose, and dark black seemingly iris-less eyes. “Look, I can’t help the way I look,” he snarled. “I was born this way.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it. I just wanted to make sure you were okay and that you weren’t hurt or sick.”

“Yeah, right. I’m sure you SWAT guys really care about my well-being.” He sighed. “I can’t believe you’re here. I knew xxxPikachu6969 had my dox, but I never expected him to get ‘SWAT’d’.”

Dexter scoffed. “Buddy, we aren’t the SWAT team. We make them look like Boy Scouts.”

“Then who are you?”

“We’re the 3PF, the Paranormal Paramilitary Police Force. I’m their leader, Captain Dexter.”

“You’re the Paranormal Paramilitary Police Force?” Willy scoffed and made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Geeze, talk about forcing an acronym.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Be honest. You just chose that name because ‘three’ rhymes with ‘P’, right?”

Dexter shook his head. “I assure you it was just a coincidence.”

Willy pointed at each of them in succession. “So what are you guys? Black Op operatives working for the Deep State?”

“Isn’t saying ‘Black Op operative’ a bit redundant?” asked a man whose nameplate said Murphy.

“Buddy,” Dexter said completely ignoring his companion, “The Deep State answers to us.”

“We work for the Deep State?” asked Murphy. “I thought we worked for Mr. Crowley.”

“Shut up, Murphy.” His attention suddenly turned towards a man lifting part of his mask. “And Jenkins, what are you doing? Keep your mask on and stop picking your nose!”

“I’m not picking my nose. I’m scratching it. And only part of the mask is removed.”

“We’re supposed to keep those masks on in case there is any paranormal activity! Or do you want a spirit entering your brains?”

“How is a standard issue CBRN Mask supposed to prevent that?” asked Murphy.

“Again, just shut up Murphy! It just works, okay?”

“Excuse me.”

Dexter turned and faced Willy. “What?”

“If you don’t mind me interrupting, you said you worked for Mr. Crowley.”

“Technically, I said that,” interjected Murphy.

“You’re not referring to Aleister, are you?”

“Of course not,” said Dexter. “Hunter Crowley.”

“So you guys aren’t the police. I knew you were forcing an acronym.”

“Shut up.”

Hunter Crowley was one of the richest men in the world after having acquired his wealth through a wondrous streak of good luck almost half a decade before. It started with a Lottery win of almost twenty million dollars. Quite a windfall in of itself but the man was not satisfied. He flew to Las Vegas and in one of the richest casinos on the Strip, bet the entirety on a single number on a single spin of roulette. In one of the most dramatic spins ever, it landed on the number he had chosen, the lucky number “7”, in what most described as a miracle. The crowd cheered and there was a massive celebration until Hunter raised his hand and bade the crowd to cease.

To the near horror of everyone involved including the croupier, waitresses, and other staff, Hunter said he wanted to let it all ride on the exact same number. Sure, the casino wasn’t exactly anxious to pay him the over seven hundred million dollars they owed him. It was a sum that would hurt even the most affluent gambling parlors. However, allowing him to let it ride in such a manner lent itself to the risk of a massive lawsuit especially since it seemed, based on his actions, that he was mentally ill.

Many tried to dissuade him, especially those who worked for the casino. The croupier and a couple of members of security even tried to physically restrain him at one point. However, through sheer force of will and an almost supernatural charisma few possessed and even fewer understood, he managed to convince everyone he was of sound mind, or at least sound enough to make a bet, as foolish as it may have appeared to have been.

Everyone was still convinced the man was insane. “A fool and their money,” one said. “Easy come, easy go,” said another. “There’ll still probably be a lawsuit,” muttered one more. The last one did not realize how correct he would wind up being but not for the reasons he had anticipated.

The crowd went silent when the ball bounced around the 9 and the 30 as the wheel started to wind down. There was no way it was going to happen again. It was impossible. Yet the ball continued to bounce toward the eleven and then back and forth between the twenty and the thirty-two until it moved backward suddenly and decided to settle in the only place it possibly could.

Lucky number seven.

A jubilant celebration commenced. Not just at the casino or even the strip but throughout the entire world once the Internet got hold of the story. The odds of being exactly right on a roulette wheel is 1 and 37 despite the 35 to 1 payout when picking an exact number. Getting the same number twice in a row only had a 1 in 1369 chance of happening, approximately 0.07%.

Certainly not impossible but certainly improbable which was why there was a Federal Investigation that took nearly two years to resolve. Contrary to popular belief, there was no evidence of foul play and certainly no evidence of any conspiracy between Hunter and members within the casino as many supposed or alleged. It was eventually ruled that he won the money legitimately. Thus, the casino was forced to pay him the large sum of money they owed which they paid in installments to narrowly avoid bankruptcy. Most, then, attributed Hunter’s good fortune as nothing more than a really good streak of luck. The man himself, however, claimed that a so-called Good Luck Spirit helped him win his myriad of riches though that belief attained only a minimal amount of traction even amongst patrons of the World Wide Web.

“Now he believes this ‘Good Luck Spirit’ is actually a precursor of Earth’s impending doom,” Dexter explained. “It is up to us, the 3PF, to quell vengeful apparitions before they devour the planet.”

“A paramilitary group fighting vengeful spirits of a rich man that wants to consume the planet?” asked Willy rhetorically. “That sounds like a pretty badass premise to a novel.”

Dexter lowered his rifle with one hand as he rubbed his chin with the other. “Or a good one for a mini-series or at least a video game. We’d have to sand out some of the edges but it could work.” He nodded once. “It definitely could work.”

“Anyway, um, you haven’t actually explained why you are here,” Willy remarked.

“Oh. Right. We’re here because we’ve had reports of paranormal phenomena originating from this house.”

Willy sprung to his feet and feigned surprise. “What? No way, nothing of the sort is happening here.”

Dexter reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a notebook. He shook it to flip pages until he turned to the one he wanted. It took only a minute or two but the motion and anticipation were so great that it felt like hours.

“We’ve had ten calls in the past week alone reporting strange groaning sounds not of this world. There have also been mysterious smells impossible to describe, nauseating gurgling noises, and a string of missing cats.”

“Well, the noise has already been accounted for.”

“Ah, right, Cruel Mercy, I believe.”

“Yep.” Willy sighed. “For the rest, um, well, how can I explain it?” He hunched over and tapped his forehead several times with his hand before continuing. “Look, you know how everyone thinks the entirety of Massachusetts is an enlightened mecca-?”

“I’ve never thought that.”

Willy ignored Dexter’s interjection. “But the reality is there are still some backwater burgs that are almost as bad as the flyover states. And I’m afraid Dunwich is one of them.”

“Really?” Murphy asked.

“Yep. Especially after a disaster, most likely a hurricane, swept through this fair town in the 1920s. That’s when an already superstitious town made up some absurd story about an invisible creature devouring the townsfolk.”

“That does sound vaguely familiar,” Murphy admitted.

“Yeah, so now I live in a house supposedly built on that cursed land. And this land supposedly spawned or summoned some demon or beast or whatever. So naturally the hicks here think I’m at the epicenter of supernatural activity.”


Willy raised a scaly finger. “It doesn’t help that my legs look like this.” He reached down and pulled up one of his thick pants-legs which revealed a thin, hairy limb. It looked so much like an animal’s and contrasted so greatly with the rest of him that several members of the team had to choke back their vomit.

The young man noted their displeasure. “Thanks, that really helps,” he grumbled. “So you can see how the townsfolk might react when they see my legs afflicted with what I imagine is hypertrichosis. The rest of me is afflicted with Cushing’s Syndrome. At least, I think that’s what I’ve got. The doctors here are well too primitive to give me a proper diagnosis.”

“If it’s so bad, why do you live here?”

Willy shrugged. “Well, I’d rather live in Arkham. But this was the cheapest property I could afford while still being a reasonable distance away from that fair city. Have you seen the prices of houses in Arkham? They’re insane!”

“Why do you want to live in Arkham so badly?” Dexter asked.

Willy raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Dexter shrugged. “Just curious.”

There was a slight pause. “Okay,” Willy eventually said. “Well, their library is exquisite. As are their bookstores. Come to think of it, most of my reading material has been purchased from one of their stores.” He pointed to a bookcase in the back of his room. “Take a look.”

“I think he’s right about the townsfolk being overly paranoid,” Murphy said. His rifle had been holstered so he could hold an oblong box with some antenna hanging from it. “According to the Spectral-o-Meter.” He paused to let out a deep groan. “I hate that you named it that.”

“No need for your commentary,” Dexter growled. “Just tell me what it says.”

“According to the, ugh, Spectral-o-Meter, nothing paranormal is going on here.”


Murphy sighed. “Then again, supposedly this thing can only measure whether there are any ghosts around. Supposedly. It doesn’t really into account any other type of paranormal activity. You know, assuming it really does sense ghosts.”

“Be that as it may,” Dexter growled. “I’m still suspicious.” He turned to Willy. “Do you mind if we take a look around?”

Willy shrugged. “Well, I mean, the real police, even SWAT, would either need a warrant or would need a cause such as someone’s life being endangered or an imminent danger to the populace. Otherwise, it’s a violation of the Fourth Amendment. And all I was doing was posting on some Internet Forums. But okay, sure, why not?”

The men of the 3PF then searched the Spartan room after first turning on the lights, an action that caused  Willy to hiss and cover his eyes. Dust and an indiscernible powder danced in the air with every step the armed men took as they sauntered through the room in search of clues. During this, Dexter was drawn to the decrepit bookcase as it was practically the only feature outside a few poorly constructed tables and chairs. He moved his fingers through the tomes. There were various books related to the macabre and the supernatural. One was of particular interest. A book bound in various types of leather and was forced shut with metal clasps.

“Necker, Necra, Necker-me-con?”

“It’s the Necronom-” Willy paused. “I mean, it’s the Neko Nome Icon.”

“What the hell is that?” Dexter attempted to open the book. No matter how hard he tried, he could not undo the clasps. “And why the hell is it so difficult to open?”

Willy stroked his beard. “It’s a book about a singing cat named Nome who’s an icon in Japan. Neko means ‘cat’ in Japanese. And it’s hard to open, because, well, you know how weird Japanese books can get.”

The statement prompted Dexter to scan the volumes of books once more. It was then h noticed that amongst the various ancient manuscripts were Japanese comics. He had no idea who Junji Ito was, or for that matter Ken Akamatsu, nor did he care. He concluded that Willy was indeed a Japanophile. Considering how lewd that type of media could get, the metal clasps suddenly made sense. He returned the book. “Still odd that you have so many books regarding the paranormal,” the captain muttered.

“I assure you that my interests in such matters are purely academic.”

“Captain, you ought to take a look at this!” Murphy had called for Dexter from an adjacent room having separated from the rest of the party during their search. The captain and the rest of his squad swiftly moved to join him with Willy right behind. They spread out across the room as they entered.

Several beakers and tubes rested on several lab tables. Some beakers boiled a green fluid as many small and twisted straw-like tubes moved it around. Some of these ampules contained a milky white, sand-like mixture which seemed to be the end product of whatever admixture the young man wanted to create. Overhead fixtures that provided visibility rose a few feet above those mixing containers. A smell similar to chlorine, ammonia, and bleach wafted in the air. It reminded them of a chemist’s lab.

“What’s going on here?” Dexter asked.

Willy hesitated. “Look, you saw my collection of books, right? Some of them date back practically to when mankind learned to write. I mean, they are ancient. So, I make homemade concoctions to keep their pages preserved.”

Dexter raised an eyebrow though it was impossible to see within his mask. “Did you say ‘concussions’?”

Willy shrugged. “You know, mixtures.”

“Ah, why didn’t you just say that? So why can’t you just buy these concoction things online?”

Willy was momentarily silent once again. “And trust some product made by a soulless corporation? No way. My stuff is way more effective than their crap.”

Dexter remembered the various pieces of crude, “Do-It-Yourself” furniture in the previous room. He shrugged and nodded. “They do tend to water those types of products down or not sterilize them properly. As long as you don’t blow yourself up, what you’re doing seems like a good idea. Gathering all the ingredients can’t be cheap, though.”

“It’s not so bad if you purchase them in bulk and it saves money in the long run.” Willy smiled. “Come to think of it, seeing all those weird beakers and vials delivered to my doorstep probably didn’t help the whole ‘mad scientist’ vibe I’m giving off.”

The captain nodded. “I guess this is also the unearthly smell the townsfolk were talking about.”

Jenkins sheepishly raised his hand. “Uh, captain?”

“What Jenkins?” Dexter growled.

“Can I use the bathroom?”

“Didn’t I tell you to go before we left?”

“I didn’t have to go then.”

Dexter shook his head and sighed. “Can’t it wait?”

Jenkins danced in place. “If I don’t go soon, there might be a puddle on the floor.”

Dexter put his fingers under his mask so he could rub his eyes. He turned to Willy and gestured with his hands. “Would you mind if he used your bathroom?”

“Well, not exactly. But I must warn you-”

Jenkins cut him off. “Thanks, dude! Uh, where is it?”

“What? Oh yeah, third room to the right, through the bedroom, but I have to tell you-”

Jenkins was out the door before Willy could finish his sentence. The young man cringed internally as he anticipated what was about to occur.

“Captain!” cried Jenkins. “You really ought to take a look at this!”

Dexter dashed out the door. Willy followed but at a more casual pace as he had an idea of what had freaked Jenkins out.

“Take a look at this,” the man said when his captain arrived. He pointed at the bathtub. It contained a gurgling, effervescent green liquid with an odor almost powerful enough to blister the lungs.

Dexter gasped. “What the hell is this?”

“Ah, so you found it,” Willy said as he peered over the captain’s shoulder.

Dexter turned around. “Explain.”

“I have a confession to make.”

Dexter smirked though that was also impossible to tell under the mask. “I suspected that you were hiding something. Spill it.”

“That’s my moonshine. Selling my bathtub bourbon to the hillbillies of this town is how I make my money. I know it’s against the law but it is also very profitable. It was too tempting to resist.”

Dexter’s brow furrowed though again the mask obscured his facial tics. He pointed to the tub. “Then why is it green and bubbling and smells of formaldehyde and death?”

Willy scratched his oily skin. “I put in too much hops and fermented it for way too long.”

Dexter glared at him as silence befell the room. Willy’s mind raced with a possible alternative explanation or possibly a means to escape.

Then the captain sighed and shrugged. “Sorry. I know I wasn’t saying anything for a while. It’s just I was trying to remember whether it was illegal to brew beer or alcohol at home. I think you do need a permit.”

Willy grinned sheepishly. “Um. Sorry?”

“Nah, don’t be,” Dexter said with a dismissive wave. “I think it should be legal if it’s not. The government shouldn’t have the right to tell us what we can or cannot brew.”

“That’s right!” Willy said with triumph mixed with relief.

Dexter shrugged. “Besides, that’s beyond my jurisdiction. That’s a matter for the ATF.”

Willy raised an eyebrow. “Now that you mention it, what exactly is your jurisdiction?”

“That information is on a ‘need-to-know’ basis and you don’t need to know!”

Come to think of it, Willy thought to himself. Did they have any authority to arrest him at all? They aren’t exactly a police force. Why am I so afraid of them? He then tapped his chin and nodded. Oh, right, the assault rifles. Those are a very good reason to be afraid.

“Can I have a taste?” Jenkins reached his hand toward the solution.

“No!” Willy screamed as he pushed the man aside, “Don’t put your hand in there!” The two fell to the bathroom floor. Both Dexter and Jenkins stared at the young man who awkwardly peeled himself from the man he tackled before rising to his feet.

He forced a feeble laugh. “That batch has had enough problems that I don’t want to see it contaminated by whatever is on those gloves.”

“Hey Captain, check this out!” Murphy’s voice saved the young man from answering any further questions. The three men left the bathroom and headed to the source. They arrived at the recreation room equipped with a pool table and a fully-stocked bar.

“Can we have a drink?” Murphy asked when they arrived.

“Of course,” Willy said. Murphy thanked him and eagerly poured drinks for each of his compatriots including the trio who just arrived.

“Wait, you have a bar?” Dexter asked. “And you keep it fully stocked?

“Yeah, so what?” Willy growled. “It came with the house. And I like to drink. Besides, it’d be nice to offer friends. You know, if I ever get any, of course.”

“Of course,” Dexter said with a sigh and a nod. “And you’re right. Stupid of me to ask. Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine.”

“Anyway, I think we’ve got everything wrapped up,” Dexter said as he walked with Willy leisurely around the pool table. “The sounds, the smell, the noises, all of it has been accounted for, except, of course, the missing cats. But with the number of foxes we have in the area, it’s not surprising that a few runaways and strays go missing every once in a while.”

“Makes sense to me.” The young man took a sip of his drink and set it on the table.

Dexter played with the balls on the table with a free hand. “By the way, do you play often?”

“Every now and again,” Willy answered after a slight hesitation. “Why?”

“Oh, no need to get defensive. I’m just a big pool player myself. You know, once upon a time I was once a state champion.”


“It wasn’t in this state and it wasn’t exactly a state championship as much as it was a recreational league that met every third Sunday. And I didn’t exactly win the whole thing but I should have had I not been screwed by lousy teammates.” There was a slight pause as people stared at Dexter. He grumbled, “The point is, I was pretty good. Pretty, pretty good.” He took a large swig of his drink. “Well, I think I’ll have one more before heading out.”

Dexter staggered around the table. His feet slipped and he fell to the floor.

“Holy cow! Are you all right?” Willy asked.

Dexter closed his eyes and laughed raucously. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

When he opened his eyes, though, the laughter stopped abruptly. His eyes and the rest of him had become transfixed on an object. It was silver, shiny, and metallic. He did not notice it from above as the pool table covered it. It was a padlock securing a trap door.

Dexter pointed to it while still lying on the ground. “Open that padlock. I want to see what’s underneath.”

Willy thought briefly. “It’s just my wine cellar.”

“Ooh, wine!” Jenkins said. The rest of his five companions set their drinks down and eagerly gathered around the pool table. Dexter ascended to his feet.

“No, you misunderstand. There’s nothing in there but empty shelves and caskets. I haven’t resupplied for a long time. There was no reason to do so.”

Dexter drew his gun and pointed it at the young man. “Open that lock, now. That’s an order.”

The young man sighed. “All right, if you insist. I warn you, though, you won’t like what you find inside.”

Willy placed his back against the table and pushed it aside, its rubber soles minimizing the damage on the wooden floor. He then pulled out a key from his shirt pocket, placed it into a padlock, and threw open the trap door. A stairway was revealed. Pushing Willy aside, Dexter led his men down.

Their collective breaths were taken with the mere sight. All of them struggled to breathe. It was as if a great weight had been placed against their chests. One of the more taciturn men fell to his knees and cradled his head with his hands as he moved into the fetal position. He rocked back and forth unable to speak.

In the middle of the room was a swirling vortex of a peculiar violet color. It produced a crackling noise not unlike a sputtering vacuum. Sparks emerged from the edges and moved toward the center. It emitted a strange noise similar to a human growl. The ground was vibrating. Each of the still upright men tried to speak but words did not escape their lips. They were mesmerized yet appalled.

“I knew you wouldn’t like it,” Willy said with a sigh.

“What is this?” Dexter rasped.

“It’s a vortex to another dimension.”

“Where the hell did it come from? And how?”

“Well, I suppose I’m responsible for it.”

“You created that damn thing?”

“Technically, I don’t think I created it. I think I just opened it as it was always there or something. I’m not sure. Some of the passages of the Necronomicon are still a little bit difficult for me to read.”

“Are you talking about that cat book?”

Willy offered his hands in a conciliatory manner. “Sorry. I lied. The Necronomicon is actually a book of great mystical power.”

Dexter gestured with his rifle toward the vortex. “So the Necro-whatever taught you how to create one of these things?”

“It taught me how to open it. I opened it. I didn’t create it.”



“Why did you ‘open’ it?”

After yet another pause, Willy said, “For garbage.”

“Oh yeah, like that one episode of The Simpsons,” Murphy said.

“That’s where I got the idea!” the young man concurred.

“You summoned a portal to Hell to use as a garbage can?”

“I don’t believe it leads to hell and I’m an environmentalist at heart. I was trying to find a solution to our nation’s growing waste problem.”

Murphy asked, “So, uh, what’s actually in there?”

“I wouldn’t look in there if I were you,” Willy warned.

Deep down Murphy knew that the young man was correct, yet something compelled him forward. It was as if he was entranced by the Siren’s call. Curiosity gripped him and refused to let him go. He sauntered toward the vortex before looking toward his mates as if he expected them to pull him back only to find them staring back at him. They were likely equally interested in what he could potentially find. After realizing there would be no effort to stop him, he sighed and then stuck his head inside.

He’d regret it for the remainder of his short life.

The man propelled himself backward after but a mere glimpse. It was enough to damage him permanently. His skin instantly became wrinkled and pallid. He shook uncontrollably. His hair became brittle and broke off in fragile clumps. Both lips turned sheet white as they quivered. Murphy seconds later furiously removed his mask and goggles in a vain attempt to claw out his eyes.

His frenzied, incoherent screams drowned out the rest of the voices that beckoned him to cease his behavior. The attempts from his allies to subdue him were met with great resistance. He was not a particularly strong man naturally, at least no more so than his squad mates. Nor was he granted any supernatural strength from the mysterious dimension. All he had was pure, unadulterated terror. It was enough to allow him to resist his squadmate’s efforts to subdue him. Not that it mattered for long.

They did not know how they sensed that the creature was about to arrive. It emitted no sound but a slight hum that was hidden by the man’s terrified shrieks. Nor was the smell particularly pungent. Nor did its movements cause the ground to vibrate. It was not even visible to the human eye.

Something deeper alerted them to its presence. Something more primordial, more instinctive. A natural urge for self-preservation. A natural fear toward those that threatened one’s life. By the time these feelings washed upon them, it was too late to even panic.

Murphy was first dragged to the portal. In an instant, his screams ceased and his body disappeared seemingly to the ether.

“Stop this!” Willy shouted toward the vortex. He turned to the terrified men “Don’t worry. I know just what to do. So if you could excuse me for a moment, I need to get a couple of things. I’ll be back in a second.” He turned and somehow managed to escape the room with ease.

Had they heard him, the young man’s words would have done little to reassure the men of the 3PF. Instead, expletives and various blasphemies flew from their lips as they hastily attempted to draw their rifles to fire at the portal.

A moment later, Dexter was bifurcated. His upper and lower bodies were seemingly collected and disappeared as they moved toward the vortex.

Immediately afterward, Jenkins had his foot wrapped around an invisible appendage. His hands left bloody claw prints on the floor before he disappeared into the vortex.

The remaining men managed to fire a few shots but their resistance was futile. One’s head was popped off. Another lost his arms while another lost his legs. None suffered for long. Their bodies were quickly devoured by whatever creature performed their impromptu decapitations and amputations.

Willy arrived shortly after with a pouch of white powder in one hand and the Necronomicon in the other. His brisk gait turned into an abrupt pause as his mouth gaped as he gazed into the now empty room newly decorated with blood. He then placed his hands on his hips. A frown furrowed on his brow. He undid the clasps with ease, opened the book, turned to a specific page, and spoke in an unfamiliar language. His words could roughly be translated as, “What did I tell you about eating my guests?”

The young man read another passage, spoke a few more words of enchantment, made some signs with his hands, walked over toward the vortex, and poured some sand on what seemed to be an empty part of the room A revolting creature whose head with multiple eyes, a large protrusion that served as its nose, and giant fanged teeth rested upon a bed of slimy, purple tentacles.

Willy read more passages from the cursed grimoire to scold the creature, chastising him for what he had done. The creature kowtowed in remorse. He peered into the creature’s eyes. A smile curled on his lips. The young man said what could roughly be translated as, “Oh, how could I stay mad at you? I know you don’t know any better. Just behave next time, all right?”

The creature let out a horrific, screeching noise that would have driven lesser men insane. Willy wrapped his arms around one of the creature’s tentacles. The creature rested his head carefully on the young man’s shoulders.

“Oh, I know. I love you too, younger brother.”

If you enjoyed this story, then perhaps you’d be interested in reading more by pressing the “short story” tag below or clicking this(short story) link or this(genre and tags) link or this(story list) link. I would also urge you to share this story with others and comment below. Please check out my books page as well by pressing here. Thank you for reading my story.


One thought on “Short Story Saturday: Only Could Be More Heartwarming Set in Philadelphia

  • Actually, I really liked this story. It was very interesting and an overall fun read. Thank you for the great entertainment.

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