The Devil Drives A 66

That’s when I really noticed it, the fact that the landscape immediately around the car had changed; that it had—reverted, somehow. I can only describe what I saw, which was that none of the vehicles at the light could have been newer than a ’66, and that the light itself looked decidedly retro, decidedly quaint, at least compared to the one only a block away. More, the storefronts alongside had changed, so that a Kinney Shoe Store now stood where a Taco Bell had just been, and a Woolworth had replaced an Indy Food Mart. Likewise, the pedestrians had changed—yoga pants giving way to miniskirts, athletic shoes giving way to go-go boots and winklepickers, short hair giving way to long. And it was as I observed these things that I noticed something else—the Stingray’s reflection in the Woolworth’s front windows, or rather, the reflection of something which was not the Stingray but which stood—hovered—in its place: a long, translucent, green-black thing, like an enormous wine decanter, only laid on its side, which glowed slightly from within its bulbous body and seemed to warp the very air around it, to bend it, to curl it like burnt paper.

Welcome to Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder, an extraordinary anthology magazine that transcends the boundaries of science-fiction, fantasy, and horror. Prepare to embark on a thrilling journey through the darkest corners of the human imagination, where the ordinary becomes extraordinary, and the mundane transforms into a realm of unspeakable terror and awe-inspiring wonder. Within these pages, you'll discover a collection of captivating stories carefully curated to transport you to realms beyond the mundane. Each issue presents an array of unique tales crafted by talented visionaries, both established and emerging, who dare to defy conventions and push the boundaries of speculative fiction. Whether you're a seasoned lover of the fantastic or just curious to explore new frontiers, Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder will be your guide through the realms of the extraordinary. Prepare to be enthralled, enchanted, haunted. So put on your dark sunglasses … and unleash your inner Black Sheep. In this issue: SHADOW AND SONG Andrew Brenza DOCTOR WEGMAN’S MIRACLE MIST Christian Green DUST TO DUST Anthony Ferguson ERROR_CODE: 1072 J. Paul Ross THE DEVIL DRIVES A ‘66 Wayne Kyle Spitzer POND MOUTH Keith LaFountaine TAKE IT AWAY Ryan Honaker CECIL, THE DEMON, AND THE TREE Michael Schulman TO TAKE WHAT IS BEST Paul Cesarini

A black Corvette which is not what it seems ... wind turbines standing sentinel between worlds ... a tower crane with a beastly inhabitant ... these are tales of the machines we live--and sometimes die--by: machines which transport, that build our roads and bridges. Machines which operate in our hands and penetrate the clouds--which can take us to the edge of the universe and beyond. Machines which sometimes break down--go wrong--become inhabited. Become possessed. From Demon and Machine: That’s when I saw them. The bugs. Three of them, to be precise, scrunched up in the storage area beneath the fastback, each about the size of a chimpanzee, and each a kind of hybrid between a locust and a mantid. It was all too much—the car that had been buried for 52 years yet started right up, the flashback to the 1960s and the ghostly girl, the bugs the size of dogs whose stench filled the cab and caused me to wretch. I gripped the door handle instantly—even as the little chrome knob dropped, locking me in. Then we were accelerating— abruptly, powerfully—whipping around the cars in front of us and blasting through the intersection: the girl vanishing, just winking out of existence, the bugs making a sound like crickets but magnified a hundred-fold—the V-8 (or whatever it was) roaring. Yes—yes, James. Want this, we do … Want it! Want it! Right there, James. The infestation. Do it! But I wasn’t driving— No, I could see that wasn’t true: my foot was on the peddle just as sure as my hands were on the wheel. And that foot dipped suddenly even as the skateboarder came into view—his eyes widening, his free leg kicking—so that he disappeared into an alley even as we exploded past—fishtailing to a halt in the middle of the road, where the high-compression engine sputtered and the glass packs rumbled—before my foot once again hit the gas and we tore after him, burning rubber. And then we were bearing down upon the kid, as he kicked and kicked furiously and glanced at us over his shoulder. As I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the bug-things leaning forward (as though in anticipation). As I fought whatever impulse had taken oven my limbs and partially succeeded—too late. There was a thud-crunch! as he vanished beneath the hood—and the car bucked violently, as though I’d driven over a curb. I ground the brakes, glancing in the mirror—saw him tumble after us like a bag of litter. Only then, after I’d come to a complete stop, did it occur to me: I could see out the back window. The bugs were gone. The kid, meanwhile, was still alive—good God!—and thus it wasn’t too late; I could still help him, still save him. Yes, yes, James. Save him. We’re not finished yet, James. Finish, finish! I felt the gearshift in my hand—saw that I’d already put it in reverse and was stepping on the gas, letting out the clutch. And then the car launched backward—reversing straight as an arrow—until it bucked and rolled up onto the kid; and stopped. “Please, mister,” came the kid’s voice—muffled, garbled—through my partially open window. “Please, God—” But then my hand was shifting and the engine was roaring—the wide tires were spinning—and I saw through my side-view mirror that his blood was fanning the nearby bricks and a window—spraying them like rifle shot, spattering them with entrails, hurling pieces of bone against, and through, the glass—until the posi-traction gripped bare asphalt and the car leapt forward: roaring down the alley, skidding back onto the road, releasing its control over me. At which moment Mia reappeared, like an apparition, and, rolling her milky eyes to face me, said, “Now will you listen? Now will you open the trunk?”

In a land of wind and willows, two canoeists encounter some other-worldly wind turbines. From The Sentinels: Dunn: He said that he was taking the way of the wind and the sky, and that he was going in—to Them—by which I presume he meant going into the tower and scaling the ladder. And he said other things: That our thoughts made patterns in their world—left ‘prints,’ as it were—as did theirs in ours; and that that was how they’d found us, by listening to our thoughts, zeroing in on our patterns. And he said that Bobby was merely a bundle of sensory organs wrapped in a skin of decaying matter and so wasn’t important, wasn’t needed. That only they mattered—they, the beings attached to and inhabiting the turbines. And that … that … Detective Shaw: What, Mrs. Dunn? Say it. Dunn: But … don’t you see? It doesn’t matter what he said, because it wasn’t him speaking, not really. Bobby would never have described a human being as just a bundle of sensory organs; he truly believed, with every fiber of his being, that we were more than that—more than just the sum of our parts—it was what inspired him to become a doctor in the first place. And knowing what I knew, knowing what kind of man he was, I pressed him, telling him that Bobby did matter—that he mattered to his patients and that he mattered to me—more than I would ever be able to describe. And then I approached him and embraced him and told him I loved him—feeling, for the briefest of moments, the spirals beginning to close on his back—and he smiled, his eyes returning to normal, after which he said, or started to say, “I love …” (room tone) Detective Shaw: (inaudible) He—he told you he loved you? Dunn: No. He … his eyes rolled back … and then his face, it … it simply imploded. In a spiral. Like someone had flushed a toilet full of blood and brains.

dark horse /ˈdärk ˈˌhôrs/ noun 1. a candidate or competitor about whom little is known but who unexpectedly wins or succeeds. "a dark-horse candidate" Join us for a monthly tour of writers who give as good as they get. From hard science-fiction to stark, melancholic apocalypses; from Lovecraftian horror to zombies and horror comedy; from whimsical interludes to tales of unlikely compassion--whatever it is, if it's weird, it's here. So grab a seat before the starting gun fires, pour yourself a glass of strange wine, and get ready for the running of the dark horses. In this issue: THE DEAD WORLD Donald McCarthy THE WHEEL Sam Fletcher RED’S PLACE Douglas Young NIGHT OF THE TRELLIS Arthur Davis THE DEVIL DRIVES A ‘66 Wayne Kyle Spitzer THE SLIDE Michael Balletti DOORS BEST LEFT CLOSED Bill Link EXODUS John Andrew Karr A MIMICRY OF NIGHT Jon Michael Kelly DESCENT Nick Young