Yellow Mama Archives II

DJ Tyrer

Acuff, Gale
Allen, R. A.
Alleyne, Chris
Andes, Tom
Arnold, Sandra
Baber, Bill
Baird, Meg
Baker, J. D.
Balaz, Joe
Barker, Adelaide
Barker, Tom
Barnett, Brian
Bartlett, Daniel C.
Bayly, Karen
Beckman, Paul
Berriozabal, Luis Cuauhtemoc
Beveridge, Robert
Blakey, James
Burke, Wayne F.
Campbell, J. J.
Cancel, Charlie
Capshaw, Ron
Carr, Steve
Centorbi, David Calogero
Christensen, Jan
Clifton, Gary
Cody, Bethany
Costello, Bruce
Coverly, Harris
Crist, Kenneth James
Cumming, Scott
Davie, Andrew
Davis, Michael D.
Degani, Gay
De Neve, M. A.
Dillon, John J.
Dorman, Roy
Doyle, John
Dunham, T. Fox
Ebel, Pamela
Fillion, Tom
Fortier, M. L.
Garnet, George
Graysol, Jacob
Grech, Amy
Greenberg, KJ Hannah
Grey, John
Hardin, Scott
Held, Shari
Hicks, Darryl
Hivner, Christopher
Hohmann, Kurt
Holtzman, Bernice
Jabaut, Mark
Jermin, Wayne
Jeschonek, Robert
Johns. Roger
Kanner, Mike
Kennedy, Cecilia
Keshigian, Michael
Kitcher, William
Kompany, James
Koperwas, Tom
Larsen, Ted R.
Le Due, Richard
Leotta, Joan
Lubaczewski, Paul
Lucas, Gregory E.
Luer, Ken
Lyon, Hillary
Mannone, John C.
Martinez, Richard
McConnell, Logan
McQuiston, Rick
Middleton, Bradford
Mladinic, Peter
Mobili, Juan
Mullins, Ian
Nielsen, Ayaz Daryl
Nielsen, Judith
Onken, Bernard
Owen, Deidre J.
Park, Jon
Parker, Becky
Pettus, Robert
Prusky, Steve
Reddick, Niles M.
Robson, Merrilee
Rollins, Janna
Rose, Brad
Rosmus, Cindy
Scharhag, Lauren
Schauber, Karen
Schmitt, Di
Short, John
Slota, Richelle Lee
Smith, Elena E.
Snethen, Daniel G.
Steven, Michael
Stoler, Cathi
Stoll, Don
Surkiewicz, Joe
Swartz, Justin
Taylor, J. M.
Temples. Phillip
Traverso Jr., Dionisio "Don"
Turner, Lamont A.
Tustin, John
Tyrer, DJ
Verlaine, Rp
Viola, Saira
Waldman, Dr. Mel
Weibezahl, Robert
Weil, Lester L.
White, Robb
Wilhide, Zachary
Williams, K. A.
Woods, Jonathan
Young, Mark
Zelvin, Elizabeth
Zimmerman, Thomas



by DJ Tyrer



The weight of the soil seemed to constrict his lungs, despite the lid of the box that lay between him and it. Was he running out of air? How long had he been down here? How much oxygen could a coffin contain?

His fists slapped uselessly against the casket lid. It was nailed down tight. And the soil. . . .

The soil! He began to panic again, his screams echoing around him as the narrow space seemed to shrink in on him. Desperate, he lashed out, his feet striking the far end of the coffin. Was that movement?

He kicked again. Yes, it was loose!

The box was only simply constructed and, as he kicked, the end tore free. His feet touched nothing but air.

In the pitch blackness, he couldn’t see where it led, but he slowly wriggled his way down the length of the coffin and out into what had to be some sort of crawlspace beneath the cellar. He sobbed with relief: The idiot had buried him right up against it. There was a way out.

He rolled over onto his belly and began to crawl backwards along the low passage, feeling about himself for any way out. Then, his hands touched on a square of metal above him. He pushed up at it and it shifted free.

Slowly, awkwardly, he pulled himself up.

It was still dark, the merest hint of light diffused about him, but he recognised the smell of mould: he was in the madman’s cellar. He felt a surge of hope at the thought he’d soon make it out; he just needed to be careful, quiet. He didn’t want the man to hear him moving about below him.

Like a life-or-death game of blind-man’s bluff, he slowly fumbled his way forward in the direction he hoped the stairs lay.

Silently, he prayed he’d make it out alive.

If I do, I’ll never accept a stranger’s offer to see the John Wayne memorabilia they keep in their cellar again. Hell, not even that they keep in their front parlour.




In the darkness, his host watched and smiled, night-vision goggles enabling him to see his victim’s every move clearly. This one was smart, or maybe just lucky, having found his escape route. He liked to offer them that chance, allow them to feel that surge of hope before the end.

They never had a chance of winning the game; the cards were stacked against them from the start.

It was nearly time to act, bring the charade to its brutal end. He unhooked the knife from his belt and readied it for use.




He gave a sigh of relief. He’d found the stairs, could feel the rough wood of the steps beneath his fingers. All he had to do was climb them and slip out the rear door of the house and he was free.

He started to climb, looking forward to setting the police on the psycho.




DJ Tyrer is the person behind Atlantean Publishing and has been widely published in anthologies and magazines around the world, such as Chilling Horror Short Stories (Flame Tree), All the Petty Myths (18th Wall), and EOM: Equal Opportunity Madness (Otter Libris), and issues of Sirens CallHypnosparABnormal, and Weirdbook, and in addition, has a novella available in paperback and on the Kindle, The Yellow House (Dunhams Manor).

DJ Tyrer's website is at

DJ Tyrer's Facebook page is at

The Atlantean Publishing website is at

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