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  Praise for GRIND YOUR BONES TO DUST

  “The brilliance of it all is breathtaking; literally, the most masterful climax and conclusion—I have never read its equal.

  He writes like a man possessed. As if the very story you’re reading has somehow taken over Day’s being and poured itself out onto the page. I don’t know if Nicholas Day sold his soul at a crossroads to bring us Grind Your Bones to Dust but this book feels like a pact made with the Devil to bring us the finest horror has to offer.”

  -Cemetery Dance, Sadie Hartmann

  “Nicholas Day hooks you with a perfect trifecta of action, atmosphere, and character, setting you up like a pin in a bowling alley, only to mow you down with a perfect strike.

  Grind Your Bones to Dust is a symphony of violence rendered with a poet’s eloquent finesse and a madman’s ecstasy, a full frontal assault to the senses and a testament to the abilities of a master craftsman.”

  -InkHeist, Shane Douglas Keene

  "With Grind Your Bones to Dust, Day takes us on a tense journey down a dark, desolate road. And the lights are out. Veer too much to one side and we are rewarded with unapologetic violence, both natural and supernatural. Pull to the other side and we experience the full range of human emotion through the eyes of wonderfully vivid characters, including one man gripped by madness and another who is haunted by it. And it isn't our hands on the steering wheel. All we can do is sit back, put our faith in our guide, and enjoy the ride. The perfect blend of character, voice and setting, Grind Your Bones to Dust is cause for celebration; as is an author whose tremendous ability as a storyteller is only growing with every publication."

  -This Is Horror, Thomas Joyce

  “Grind Your Bones to Dust is very well-written and it is very, very dark. This book made me hurt for Nicholas Day, because it's so painfully raw in the truth it tells about the world and the chastisement it lays out for those who really believe God is listening. Day's writing etches his stories onto your mind in angry, bleeding strokes. Grind Your Bones to Dust might disgust you, will probably disturb you, and will burrow into the recesses of your mind. I loved it, but damned if I didn't need a drink afterwards.”

  -Sci-Fi & Scary, Lilyn George

  “Grind Your Bones to Dust is a visceral, unapologetic, and unforgettable beast of a book. Nicholas Day utilizes haunting, poetic prose between each vicious scene with impressive skill. The cast of characters are strange, wild, and emote a realm of pain that hooks you into their lives and refuses to let you go. Day spins us a world where the monstrous donkeys eat flesh and the characters embark on Godless quests, but the horrific sermon of human brutality is what will stay with you long after the book is closed. Say a prayer if you like, but no salvation or redemption will bother to save you from what Day has in store…”

  -Sara Tantlinger, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of The Devil’s Dreamland

  “Holy demon donkeys! Grind Your Bones to Dust reads like Tarantino's Hateful Eight if it had been written by William S. Burroughs on some modern-day synthetic...yet as much as it punches right into your guts, it manages to grab you by the heart with that same fist and twist. What makes Day distinctive among the bizarro tribe is that he manages to load up his amazingly bent imagination with emotional payoff, chapter after chapter. Quick-paced and nasty, this book bends genres as easy as rubber prison bars, proving beyond a doubt that Nicholas Day is a strong-arm writer to be reckoned with, and establishes him firmly among the ruling authors of contemporary Bizarro Horror.”

  -Michael Arnzen, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Grave Markings and Licker

  Praise for Nicholas Day

  NOBODY GETS HURT AND OTHER LIES

  “Nobody Gets Hurt and Other Lies is a fantastic collection. Nicholas Day is a writer with undeniable talent.”

  - Hellnotes, Elaine Pascal

  AT THE END OF THE DAY I BURST INTO FLAMES

  “Existential poetry in the form of a horror story—I mean, a love story. At the End of the Day I Burst into Flames is like a having a smoke—killing you, intoxicating you, connecting you to just how quickly it all burns away. Beautiful, sad, on fire.”

  -Laura Lee Bahr, Wonderland Award-winning author of Haunt and Angel Meat

  “He doesn’t shy away from the difficult moments and bares everything like a confession of sin or declaration of devotion; every page, passage, sentence, is musical.”

  -This Is Horror, Thomas Joyce

  NOW THAT WE’RE ALONE

  “Hauntings, psychosis, man-eating turtles and G.G. Allin in space, sign me up! Now That We’re Alone displays Nicholas Day’s ability to straddle multiple genres and make each story feel believable. He has an imagination that is as limitless as his talent. It’s dark, horrific and beautiful, with a blend of otherworldly terror and heartbreakingly human trauma that creates a must read collection.”

  -Michelle Garza, co-author of Bram Stoker Award-nominated novel, Mayan Blue

  “Often horrific, relentlessly stark, and truly unforgettable.”

  -Kirkus Reviews

  NECROSAURUS REX

  “Nicholas Day is a fantastic writer, he’s a thrilling, poetic, gruesome and balls to the wall in-your-face craftsman of twisted horror and bizarro.”

  - SCREAM Magazine, Jonathan Reitan

  “There is not a misplaced word in all of the book, everything is working together to tell this story. As long as a reader goes in with an open mind and a tolerance for the absolutely disgusting and the absolutely beautiful, Necrosaurus Rex delivers. With more content and character than a thousand pages of your average book, author Nicholas Day has achieved something amazing, something you have to experience to understand. “

  -Hellnotes, Tim Potter

  This book is dedicated to those who would reduce this world to a massive grave and create a Hell for the living.

  I hate you.

  GRIND YOUR BONES TO DUST

  Nicholas Day

  Smashwords edition published by Excession Press, 2019

  www.excessionpress.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Nicholas Day

  Cover art and illustrations copyright © 2019 by Daniele Serra

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means now known or hereafter devised without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and do not constitute assertions of fact. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 9780463698846

  PART ONE

  Louis ran through the dark because he did not want to die screaming while being torn apart and eaten alive. Not like dear Elliot, whose high-pitched terror roared through the night like a train on its way to Hell. And Louis wept when he realized it was his name Elliot shrieked into the pitch.

  But he didn’t dare stop running.

  The desert air chilled Louis. He wore no shirt, just a pair of long woolen underwear. Only one of the three milk glass buttons had been fastened. Sheer terror set hard and fast and made dressing a distant second to surviving. His labored breath the only sound heard over the rush of air as he kept his harried pace. Unseen flora, rock, and dry detritus pierced the bottoms of his feet. There’d been no time for putting on shoes. Not after what he’d seen.

  Or, what had seen him.

  Elliot had been screaming before Louis jolted awake. No moonlight. Lamplight blew out before they retired.

  Some kind of large beast had hold of Elliot’s shoulder and Elliot beat his fist against the creature. Louis reached out but fli
nched as something grunted just outside the hole torn in the side of their tent. A second animal lurched inside and snapped at Elliot’s hand, raking enough skin off the thumb and index finger to expose bone. He screamed and reached out to Louis but the two creatures yanked Elliot from the tent and dragged him into the nothing, no matter how hard he kicked, no matter how hard he yelled.

  As if sound and fury could stop what was coming.

  Louis fumbled in the dark for his clothes but only managed the long underwear when Elliot screamed in such a way that logic ceased. Louis acted no longer as one gearing up for a fight, but found himself reduced to one animal listening to the slaughter of its own. He scrambled out of the tent. Their horses were gone. He peered in the direction of Elliot’s panicked shrieking. Shadows spilled over themselves, like looking to the bottom of a deep lake and imagining the movement of strange creatures.

  Four dark shapes lumbered in the darkness and seemed to circle around a terrified Elliot. One of those shapes hunched over and Louis heard the unmistakable sound of meat pulling from bone. Elliot cried like a child. The other two shapes seemed to titter and sway, excited by Elliot’s distress, and then, to Louis’s utter mortification, someone in the dark whispered his name.

  Louis.

  And Louis trembled. His breathing seized.

  One of the shapes faced him. The obsidian glint of the beast’s eyes shone like a wet lacquer. A guttural snort preceded a shattering two-toned bray. Goosebumps flooded Louis’s arms and his legs. His body shook as a tremor before an earthquake.

  And in the next instant, Louis knew he ran for his life, though he did not yet know where he ran to, because instinct had taken over. He was a mind floating inside a machine programmed to survive. His body knew where to go even if his consciousness hadn’t quite figured it out.

  The previous day, Elliot and Louis had ridden horseback past a meager homestead while they surveyed a stretch of land that was to become part of a great highway, stretching from northern Nevada and across the southeast of Oregon, all the way to the sea. President Dwight D. Eisenhower had signed the Federal-Aid Highway Act not a few years prior, and communities off the beaten path felt the urge to tap into the black veins being laid across every U.S. state. Surveying was in high demand, and the job paid well, or at least well enough to support a family. It was also a position which kept one away from family for long stretches, which had its own merits.

  Louis ran to that meager homestead. A couple miles jaunt, for sure, but there were no other homes, nowhere to take shelter. In fact, that place had been the only residence in sight for the last two days. Otherwise, Louis would have to run all the way to Adel, some fifty-odd miles. And if he went that far, he may as well keep running until he got back home to Klamath Falls.

  He knew he would never make it to Adel. Making the distance to the homestead would be victory enough. He could only pray that he’d be able to see home again, to see sweet Ruth’s smile and hear young Danny’s laugh. Who would protect them if he were to die?

  The thought of either of them coming to harm hardened his resolve and he pushed through exhaustion into something like a trance. His arms and legs warmed and breathing eased. He ran to the homestead, yes, but in his mind he ran to them.

  Louis didn’t know what had attacked Elliot, but it couldn’t possibly be worse than what was looking for Ruth and Danny. A nightmare walked the earth, a monstrous being who only knew pain and how to inflict it. Louis had always been able to protect them, moving them when needed, taking jobs that allowed for a transient life.

  His brother, James, would kill them all if he found them.

  And so, Louis ran through the dark. Love gave him the strength. Fear showed him the way. No harm would come to them. He would never allow that, not as long as he lived.

  The desert remained a cold and scheming stillness, despite his rapid heartbeat and sharp breaths. Silence stalked the mind as surely as any nocturnal creature in this vast nothing. Louis remembered being a small boy in the bath and holding his head under the water. Eyes open, of course, then and now. The sensation identical, a detached calm washed over him. He imagined himself a creature at the bottom of murky water, and wondered who or what may be looking down upon him.

  Louis was not a believer. Those customs had not been part of his youth. And the birth of James undoubtedly begged the question of a loving God’s existence. All that, to say nothing of Louis’s own heart, itself an aberration to the church where Ruth and Danny prayed. Louis wondered if any members of the congregation suspected him, or if it even mattered at all.

  He could not bring himself to pray, though he would hope against hope that James would never find them, that he would forget them, that he would die.

  The smell of burning wood singed his nostrils and filled his lungs. In that familiar scent a promise of warmth endured. Fire burned, yet unseen, as a salvation. The homestead couldn’t be far. A glow, in the distance, but the relief quickly changed to renewed panic.

  Something ran—galloped—from behind. Whatever killed Elliot now raced toward Louis. The once-distant glow grew in brilliance. He could make it to the homestead. He had to make it.

  Louis tried to yell but choked on his own dry throat. He swallowed, hard, and took as deep a breath as he could muster. And his terror bellowed out of him.

  “Help me,” he screamed. “Please, help me!”

  The fire was not inside the home but at the edge of the property, a good-sized bonfire that lit up the immediate surroundings in a wash of deepest orange and streaks of white and yellow. Beyond the fire sat the home, and further yet stood the barn, like a black obelisk. The crackle and burn of wood, the soft rumble of consuming flame. He took another deep breath.

  “They’re coming! They’re after me!”

  Louis ran past the fire and towards the house. He collapsed onto the porch and rolled to his back. The front door wrenched open and the iron hinges sang into the night. Light crept across the porch where he lay.

  “Thank you,” Louis said. “Thank you, Jesus.”

  Louis looked up to see his savior, but all that stared back were the two deep, dark eyes of a double-barreled shotgun. Louis reached out weakly. He smiled.

  “Thank you,” he said through delirium.

  Then, Louis drifted into unconsciousness and the shotgun went back inside the house. What roamed through the dark, beyond the fire, stayed in the dark. The bonfire kept vigil till sunrise, and it began to smolder as cool air burned away and shadows retreated.

  A rooster crowed from atop the home.

  Louis woke. He rose to his feet and vomited over the porch railing, then fell back to his knees. He kept hold of the rail, hung his head, and sobbed. Elliot’s last words had been his name. And Louis ran away. The sound of meat tearing from bone crept out of the darkest recesses of his memory.

  He cried harder than before, shattering the silence of the desert like a rock through glass. His chest ached. He could no longer breathe. Someone placed a hand against his back but exhaustion robbed Louis of any proper reaction.

  “Breathe,” the homesteader said. “Use this. Get ahold of yourself.”

  The old man held out a tattered shirt. Louis took it, held it to his face and breathed deep. In a few minutes, he managed to regain his composure. He then used the shirt to wipe his eyes. Another minute or two passed before he could face the man with any kind of dignity. Louis had spent his whole life hiding his emotions. Crying in front of anyone, let alone a stranger, was worth a whipping from his old man. A belt and a fist were persuasive teachers. Indignation swelled in that memory and Louis directed his ire at the man before him.

  “You left me out here?”

  “Goddamned right I did. Half-naked and screaming like a banshee.” The homesteader hitched a thumb towards the front door. “I got a woman and a child in there.”

  “I could’ve been killed.”

  The old man stepped off the porch. “Well, you weren’t.” He gazed at the smoking debris at the edge of the p
roperty. “Besides, they don’t care much for the fire. Keeps ‘em away, most nights.”

  “What the hell are they?”

  “I know what they look like, but I can’t rightly say what they are.”

  “Couldn’t see anything last night. Thought they might be bears.”

  “Nah.” The old man spit. “Buncha feral ass.”

  A loud bark of a laugh escaped Louis.

  The homesteader looked over his shoulder. “I didn’t say nothing funny.”

  “You mean to tell me that I—that my partner, my friend—that we were attacked by donkeys? That he was killed by damned donkeys?”

  “Ayup.”

  “Pardon me, mister, but that’s the craziest sonofabitchin’ thing I ever heard.”

  “It surely ain’t, feller, I promise you that.”

  Nothing steadied a man like the resolve that he could not be wrong. Louis found his footing and his balance. He stepped off the porch and joined the old farmer, though he kept a respectable distance.

  “Not possible. I grew up around horses. Hell, my old man kept a donkey for years. They don’t . . . those animals don’t do that kind of thing. Bears do. Or maybe a couple big cats, like cougars or some kind of mountain lion.”

  The farmer turned, eyebrows raised and mouth curled into a smirk, clearly annoyed with the man before him. “Your daddy kept some horses. Well, good for you, son. But you ain’t hearing me. I’m telling you I’ve seen them.” The homesteader looked Louis up and down. He took in a deep breath and nodded as one does when the other party is set to disagree. “Look, you’ve had a helluva night. Let’s get you cleaned up, get you some clothes, some food. After that, I’m gonna tell you a story. You’ll either believe it or you won’t. Makes no difference no how. They’ll be back, tonight, just as sure as the sun. Me and the missus got chores. You help out, you can stay. Otherwise, Adel is that ways a spell.”