Demonic Classics

Dedication

To all those reaching to get your work out into the world! The author’s journey is a long and arduous path, my friends. Celebrate the small victories and always keep climbing the mountain. We’re no strangers to love, you know the rules and so do I. A full commitment’s what I’m thinking of, you wouldn’t get this from any other guy., I just wanna tell you how I’m feeling, Gotta make you understand... Never gonna give you up, Never gonna let you down, Never gonna run around and d esert you!

Acknowledgments

As always, this anthology is a team effort. My part in this is small compared to the submission reviewers, the previewers, the authors who bravely submit to us, and the readers who just enjoy a simple, goofy and quirky read on ce a year.

Thank you to...

Karen for your tenacity!

Ryan for your insight!

Kim for your expertise in horror!

Erika for keeping me on task!

And...

Authors for dealing with a 2020 dumpster fire and still managed to submit and be patient as I ran late in getting replies back!

Readers Beware

Everyone knows the classics such as Peter Pan, Huckleberry Finn, and The Wizard of Oz. Have you ever thought about what would happen in those stories if they were written just a little differently... More w ickedly...

What if Tinkerbell defended her love for Peter Pan, at any costs including her soul?

What if Huck’s adventure took him down a more dangerous side of the river?

What if The Wizard of Oz was nothing more than a surreal nightmare?

The authors within this tome have brought your classic and timeless books back to life with a demonic twist only found in the Demonic Anthology collection. Expect a very different impression of the stories everyone grew up to love, written in such a way they just might be changed in unforgettable ways.

The Rip Van Winkle Paradox

Rip Van Winkle

Robert P. Ottone

Y es, I heard you, Rip said, pressing the receiver of the public telephone to his ear in the crowded bar. Truth be told, he couldn’t hear the person on the other end, his wife, and wasn’t particularly concerned about it. He imagined she was demanding he be home soon, or to pick up a chicken from the corner market or asking him for a separation, which was what he secretly prayed for every night before bed, after tucking in their terror of a five year old daughter, Audrey.Give a kiss to the Little Terror for me, love bug, he shouted into the phone. That’s what Rip liked to call Audrey, his littl e terror.

Darling, it’s been a banner day for the boys at the firm, and we’re just having a quick cocktail to celebrate. Who knew September in the year of our Lord nineteen-twenty-nine would be such a windfall for us?

He blew a kiss into the phone, and promptly hung up. He thought he heard his wife beginning to shout at him, and decided it best to apologize later than discuss anything further. It usually was, anyway.

Rip walked back to the bar, rejoining the boys from the office, and resumed downing his French 75, his preferred cocktail of choice. Since his company had moved upstate, Rip found himself enjoying the mountain air, spending time with the boys at the only bar in town, Crayon’s, and drinking himself to oblivion nearly every night. There wasn’t much else to do unless one was the hunting sort, which Rip, most certainly, was not.

Gentlemen, to industry! Rip shouted, as he and his finance-cronies downed their swill.

As Rip eyed Sophie, the bar’s resident waitress on the far side of the room, he realized that perhaps he was a kind of hunter after all. She was his type, or, at least his type before he got married, with dark hair, pale skin and pouty lips painted a slick red. He waited until she was done placing the table’s order down and turned back toward the bar before he toasted her. She smiled and shook her head. Rip had been in every night that week and found an opportunity to flirt with the young lady, who rejected him each time on the grounds of him being married. That didn’t stop him from some innocent flirtation, though.

My darling, when will you give me the time of day? Rip asked as Sophie returned to the bar, placing her tray down.

Rip, it is a quarter past ten at night, she said, pointing to the clock on the wall.

Sophie, angelic vision of my night’s dreams, that’s not the kind of time I’m talking about, you delicious bear-cat he said, leaning over to her.You’re drunk, Rip, and I must say, the gin does your breath no favors, she said, recoiling.

Rip furrowed his brow and checked his breath. Apologies my love, take thy beak from out my heart.

Are you quoting Shakespeare now? That’s a new low, even for you, Mr. Winkle, with that, a new order of drinks appeared on her tray and Sophie was off, into the crowd, to make another liquid delivery.

It’s Poe, Rip said softly. He turned, drunk and exhausted, and placed some money on the bar. Gentlemen, I good you bid evening.

Outside, Rip stumbled down the block, making his way toward the hills. He wasn’t far from home. In fact, he imagined that if his wife wanted to, she could easily storm into the bar in her night clothes and drag him out by his ear. She never did, though. He chalked that up to her watching over Audrey. The tree-lined streets of the town nestled at the base of the Catskills was picturesque, albeit, boring. Rip understood that he would never feel truly at home in the area, and often desired a return to the hustle and bustle of city life. But his job was here. And his family, too. So he was resigned to spend his days making trades on the market, flirting with waitresses, and spending as little time as humanly possible with his wife and daughter.

He found himself quickly confused in his inebriated state and wandered, blankly, off the road and into the nearby foothills. The town was nestled at the foot of the mountains, however; the town itself was little more than a few stores and a slew of large, beautiful homes. A company town in many ways, but a company town nonetheless. When Rip and his family arrived in town, he worried that the area was like an old western boomtown, where, as soon as the fun of making money wore off (mostly due to the money running out), the town itself would vanish and the enormous homes the company boys all built would be left to rot or be reclaimed by nature.

Rip stumbled into a large outcropping of trees, and looked around, confused as to how he ended up there. The last thing he remembered, he was on the streets in town, stumbling away from Crayon’s, and making his way home. Now, suddenly, he was in nature, the lights of the town visible beyond the branches and thicket of trees around him.

Feeling the effects of the gin and champagne coursing through his system, Rip stopped under one of the large trees and leaned against the scratchy bark. He yawned and felt an exquisite exhaustion unlike any he’d felt in ages. Slowly, he slumped to the ground, his hands resting in the cool, prickly grass, and his head slumped down, chin to his chest.

A moment later, everything went dark.

When his eyes opened, Rip was alone in the woods. It was daytime, so he realized he must’ve slept all night in the woods. His wife would be furious, and his daughter would probably laugh, but Rip was merely confused. The alcohol had left behind a headache so fierce and a throat so dry, Rip nearly vowed never to drink again. He rose on unsure legs, his entire body stiff and aching. He stretched, and noted for the first time, how itchy his face was. He scratched, and was met with great handfuls of hair. He had been clean-shaven just the day before, and now, a beard had sprouted on his face longer than any he’d ever seen. He turned, and made his way through the woods, the worst hangover in his entire life raging through his body. Every part of him ached. He was nearly through the woods, when he felt nature calling from his loins. Pausing, he turned, and unleashed a hellacious stream from his member that seemingly went on for twenty minutes. His body shaking, and drained of what he would imagine to be every drop of fluid in his body, his eyes began to tear and he exited the woods, the sun beaming on his face. He rubbed his eyes, and they adjusted slowly, the blurry town coming into view.

Holy cats … he said quietly.

The town was the town. But at the same time, it wasn’t. The once tiny, barely-existent boomtown Rip was used to had somehow erupted into a sprawling, gray and brown-building filled metropolis. It wasn’t Manhattan, but it also wasn’t the backwater he was used to.

Slowly, he made his way down the hill toward town, images of the night before returning to his mind slowly. He smoothed his suit, which was impossibly wrinkled, and walked slowly, noting how smooth the sidewalks and streets were. And the cars.My god … Rip said, eyes wide as cars of all kinds and sizes made their way down streets, pulled into parking spots, and sped around corners. He checked his watch, curious as to the time, but noted that it was seemingly broken. He took a few tentative steps down the sidewalk, noting the clothes and language of those around him. He was still in his suit, but that wasn’t what people were staring at. His beard bristled and flitted in the wind, and as he walked, he noted how long it actually was. It dragged a good three feet behind him as he made his way down the street.Hey man, nice suit, a voice called to Rip. Rip turned. He spotted a group of children. Thirteen or fourteen, Rip couldn’t tell. Any of you wiseacres know where I can get a haircut?

There’s a barbershop down that way, gramps, the tallest one said. He had a metal headband with a spiral-looking design on it.

Thanks, kid, Rip said, turning in the direction the teen was pointing. He spun back around, checking his pockets. He produced an empty pack of cigarettes and sighed. Hey, by any chance, can you fellas butt me?

The teens burst out laughing and took off on their bikes. Rip stood, confused, and continued down the street, heading for what he hoped was the barbershop.

A little bell jingled as Rip entered the barbershop, signaling his arrival. He jumped at the jingling, but was able to refocus when the barber, an old man with a snowy white beard much shorter than Rip’s, stepped out from the back of the shop.

Well, I can imagine why you’re here, the barber said, looking Rip up and down. Take a seat, son.

Rip’s beard snagged in the door as he entered the shop, and with a wince, Rip pulled it free. He was thankful there was no one else inside, as he didn’t know if he’d be able to handle seeing more strange outfits or being laughed at again by teenage boys on bikes. The barber at least looked the part, in his white short sleeve work shirt, a razor tucked in his sleeve.

When did you blow into town, stranger? The barber asked, throwing the cotton cape over Rip’s chest, and draping it over his body.

I’m not too sure, sir, Rip said, quietly. Last night is a blur.

Had a few too many, eh, friend?

I definitely got zozzled last night, Rip said, smiling.Zozzled? What’s that mean?

Umm, ‘zozzled,’ you know … like I drank too much.

Drunk.

That’s the ticket, Rip said, settling into the chair.You’ve got an interesting way of talkin’, son. Now just relax, I’ll have you fixed up in no time at all.

No time at all, Rip repeated. As the barber worked, Rip listened to the radio in the corner of the shop. It played music he never heard before from artists he didn’t know. The announcer, a gravelly-voiced woman, talked about events that Rip didn’t understand, and places he’d never heard of. He didn’t recognize names like Trump, Seacrest or Obama. Were they places or people? Rip glanced out of the corner of his eye, people walking past the shop. Women in skirts so short that even Sophie would be shocked. Men with bulbous bellies, wearing sunglasses and walking around, bottles of clear fluid in their hands. When they were done, they threw the bottles in green containers, which were next to blue containers, which were next to brown containers.Why are there three different trash cans? Rip asked.

Oh. You’ve never seen that before? Where are you from?

Here. I mean, here, originally, this area, Rip said, slowly.

It’s a recycling initiative. Green is for plastic and glass, brown for regular trash, blue for paper.

Recycling?

The barber looked at Rip, confused. He continued trimming his beard. Soon, piles of salt and pepper hair littered the floor in clumps, like small cats sleeping all over the floor. When he was done, Rip stared into the mirror. He still had the beard, but it was trimmed and cleaned up, leaving him looking more presentable. Even his wrinkled suit didn’t stop him from looking handsome.

How’s that suit you, son? The barber asked.

Looks great, sir, thank you, Rip dug around his pockets, and pulled some money out, mostly coins. How much is it?

No charge, son, the barber said, smiling. We all need a little help sometimes.

With that, the barber patted Rip on the shoulder and walked toward the back of the shop. Rip smiled, turned, and headed out the door.

From the barbershop, Rip looked around at his surroundings. A few blocks down, he should be at or close to Crayon’s, so he made his way toward where the bar once stood, and in its place, found a yoga studio. Inside, women were sprawled on the floor, stretching and contorting their bodies in a variety of ways. Rip stood on the sidewalk, eyes transfixed on the women inside’s flexibility, and the clothes that more closely resembled a colorful second skin than any type of clothing he’d seen before.

Eventually, one of the women at the front of the room walked over to the window and closed the drapes, preventing him from seeing anything further. Confused, Rip turned and started back the opposite way, passing a variety of people, of all different ethnicities and backgrounds.

The town of the past was largely white, mostly Manhattan transplants, but now, Rip picked up accents he couldn’t recognize and languages that were impossible to pinpoint.

He found himself instinctively walking toward his home.

As he made his way down the street, turning toward the road his house was built on. The corner lot, where it was the only house, with the remaining lots around it ready to be built, he noted how the entire block had seemingly been turned into one large concrete and brick structure. Confused, he looked around, thinking maybe he had the wrong place, but in his bones, he knew that was wrong. The building was large, but it was divided into various storefronts. Where his home once was was what appeared to be a restaurant called Soup’r Crackers.Rip walked up the steps and into the store and was hit immediately with a variety of warm, delicious scents that recalled for a moment his wife’s cooking.

He looked around the restaurant. Where his living room once was, a cluster of tables sat, and people ate, ignoring his entry. Where the kitchen was, a vast expanse of soups in metallic containers sat behind glass. He looked for stairs that would lead to his and his wife’s bedroom, or his daughter’s bedroom, but couldn’t find them.

On a nearby table, he spotted a newspaper. Checking the date, he noted that eighty years had passed since he passed out under the tree. He sat down at the table and in a daze, his mind unable to fully comprehend his situation, began leafing through the paper. He was able to read most of the words, and silently thanked God that the English language remained largely untouched, however, he didn’t understand much of the news he read. He recognized the New York Yankees, but didn’t know the players’ names. He recognized some of the financial companies in the business section, but didn’t understand the technologies being talked about. The information was plentiful, but all of it was impossible to comprehend on anything but a cursory level.

Can I help you, sir? The girl behind the counter asked. There was something familiar about her, but Rip couldn’t put his finger on it.

This used to be my home, he said, softly, looking around, sliding the newspaper across the table

The girl behind the counter was cute. Dark hair. Pale skin. Pouty lips. Your home? When? The thirties?

Close, he said, with a smile. He rose and stepped toward the counter. He fumbled around in his pockets for the change he tried to give the barber, and placed it on the counter. Can this get me anything?

The girl behind the counter, the thin tag on her shirt reading Sophia, started counting the money. Rip’s eyes went wide when he connected the name