Free The Legend of Darklore Manor and Other Tales of Terror by Joseph Vargo, Joseph Iorillo Page A

His ears were ringing and his ragged breath sounded like a sluggish breeze passing over dead leaves. Some of the symbols were not entire words but strings of individual letters. A… R… R… I… L… O… N…
     Another match sizzled to life, and Logan jotted down a few more letters. Then he blinked. As the flame guttered and died, he realized he was staring at his own name. Harris Logan.
     What's going on?
     His fingers were cramping from lighting so many matches, but he forced himself to continue. His heart thundered in his chest. Flames burst to life and then died, and the words fell into place on the inside of the sweat-stained matchbook. And then suddenly it was over. He had translated the entire Secret.

Those who crave power the most deserve it the least. The coffin contains thirty cubic feet of air, enough for slightly more than sixty minutes of sustainable life. Every match consumes nearly a minute's worth of this air. May the Universal Power grant you deliverance from the bonds of this world. Here lies Harris Logan, Accomplished Master of the Sixteenth Degree.

     The light went out and Logan found himself in darkness again, lying amid more than thirty spent matches. With his shoulder, he strained against the sarcophagus' lid, but it refused to budge. He pounded on it, screaming. "Can anyone hear me? Hello? Let me out!" His voice ricocheted against the stone walls of the coffin.
     The Brotherhood never harms its Brothers, the Master had told him at the bridge. Of course they didn't—they just let the Brothers do it to themselves. Logan laughed miserably, finally dissolving into painful, gasping sobs. He began screaming again, screaming until he was hoarse, until he had no voice left.

Afraid of the Dark
    by Joseph Vargo
    T he hollow was deathly still as the three teens sat around the sinister glow of the Jack-o-lantern, telling ghost stories on Halloween night. The flickering candle cast eerie shadows from the middle of the fire pit, causing strange shapes to writhe and slither across the boys faces. Rob had just finished telling his story about the escaped serial killer with a hook for a hand. He ended the tale with a dramatic yell as he lunged toward Kevin, making him scream and topple backward off the log he was sitting on. The third boy, Greg, burst into laughter, then helped his friend up off the ground. As the three boys joked amongst themselves, another figure emerged from the forest path and stood in the shadows just beyond the Jack-o-lantern's flickering light. A bitter chill swept through the air, and the midnight tolling of the distant church bell seemed to announce the silent stranger's presence.
     The dark figure was tall and completely shrouded by a long black cloak that wavered in the cool autumn breeze. His face was covered by a ghoulish mask that resembled a crudely carved pumpkin. The black sockets of the mask's eyes could not be penetrated by the meager glow of the dim candlelight.
     "Who's there?" Greg asked, lowering his voice in an attempt to sound intimidating.
     The figure spoke in a deep whisper, "Telling ghost stories during the witching hour on Halloween night? How quaint. Would you mind if I rested these old bones and shared a tale of my own?"
     No one said a word in protest as the figure approached the fire pit and seated himself on a tree stump directly behind the Jack-o-lantern's leering face.
     "Some legends say that Jack-o-lanterns can ward off evil spirits," the masked stranger croaked, "while others say that it acts like a beacon for wayward souls, attracting restless ghosts with its glow." He paused to look around him, then said " The native Algonquin tribes named this place the Manitoa Forest. They believed that it was the hunting grounds for an ancient deity named Malsumis, the shadow god who put thorns on trees. There are those who believe these woods are filled with dark spirits that have roamed