Keeper’s Creepshow: Little Black Book






Suggested Audio Candy


[1] Michal Michalski “I Have Mouth But I Can’t Scream”

[2] Jay-Z “99 Problems”

[3] Boney James “Seduction”

[4] Chaos Frequency “CF-4”

[5] Nox Arcana “Pandora’s Music Box”



Mason Foxworth was a thirty-seven year-old man-child. Where all his college buddies had long since settled down and got married, Mason had managed to evade their fate thus far and, instead, had no dependents and precious few responsibilities outside of tending for his Lotus Esprit which he polished religiously on a bi-daily basis. His current relationship was winding down; it had followed the normal template, he promised the moon on a stick, she moved into his bachelor pad, he became frightfully bored and began to see that green grass on the other side of the fence, she moved out. It was a familiar process to Mason, the moment they decided that they had had enough of his philandering ways, he would feel as though a great weight had been lifted and promptly celebrate by consulting his little black book for a suitable replacement. His mother and father had parted ways when he was twelve and this had had a profound effect on Mason. There was no such thing in his mind as a happy fulfilling relationship, invariably it would always come to an end so he didn’t sweat it.

Mary Beth was currently performing a final sweep on his condo, collecting her wares and preparing to leave his ass for not keeping his promises. He could hear her right now, mumbling to herself furiously, some shit about him being a piece of shit, whilst packing her belongings in the bedroom. This was par for the course and he wasn’t about to let it bother him. There were plenty more fish in the sea and, in truth, it had been over in his mind since the very first time he caught her clipping her toenails in his en suite. From that point onward, it was just a matter of time and Mason had gotten it down to a fine art making his significant other feel like any breakdown in communications was a two-way street just to take the sting off a little. Last night, when he bowled in the door at 5:15 am smelling of whiskey and sex, she had decided enough was enough and his protests of innocence lacked any sort of conviction so she had made the decision for him.

“You’re a real piece of work you know that?” she barked, grabbing her last few clothes from the lounge while he sat, sipping a smoothie with his feet up on the couch.

“It’s not my fault if you’re insecure” he replied “I told you nothing happened but you already had your mind-set.”

“Nothing happened? Nothing happened? So what do you call that lipstick on your collar then, is that nothing? Those scratch marks on your back must be scotch mist right? You are a very sad little man you know that?”

“Wonk wonk wonk. You sound exactly like Charlie Brown’s teacher” he remarked, knowing this would keep any potential resolution off the table.

“You think I don’t know about your little black book? I know how your mind works and it’s really quite pathetic Mason” she spat, with more than a hint of vitriol lacing her voice.

“I’m not the one moving out” he added.

“No you’re not. You never are. It’s my fault isn’t it? Woe betide me for believing your shit. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. Well it ends now you hypocritical, emotionally crippled, tiny dicked fuck.”

Mason didn’t take kindly to having his libido challenged. “Are you still here?” he quizzed.

“No I’m gone. You don’t have to worry, you’ve got your wish now Casanova. You can sit and wallow in your own dirty laundry from now on. Maybe you should consult your little black book and find another mug to exploit.”

“Maybe I will” was his acidic rejoinder.

She slammed her case shut, removed her apartment key from the chain, hurled it at him angrily and exited the room. As she reached the front door she fired one more insult his way.

“Go and play with some traffic” she hollered, before letting herself out.

As he heard her making her way down the stairwell; dropping her belongings and cursing, whilst clearly sobbing, a huge shit-eating grin spread across his face. As forecast by his want-away lover, his first action was to reach inside his trouser pocket and produce his little black book.

“Sticks and stones” he joked like the cat that got the creme and began thumbing through the A-Z in search of his next victim.





“So come on then, spill the beans” Mason’s best friend probed as he sat back down at the table, clutching a Whiskey short for his friend and Club Soda for himself.

“What can I say? She couldn’t handle me being a free spirit” Mason replied, triggering a shake of the head from his lifetime associate.

“Doesn’t it get old son?” Patrick had long since given up trying to teach Mason the error in his ways but was genuinely intrigued as to what had caused this particular capitulation. “I mean it’s not as though you’re getting any younger. Sooner or later you have to settle down.”

“Thanks mom” Mason couldn’t resist a little sly dig.

“Seriously dude. Your winning streak has to come to an end sometime. At some point you have to man up like the rest of us.”

Mason chuckled “Like you, you mean?”

“Listen, I’ve been married for twelve years now and I’ve never been more content” Patrick defended.

“Come on Pat. It’s me you’re talking to here remember. You’re telling me that standing at the sink in a pair of pink marigolds while Christine calls the shots every day doesn’t get the slightest bit boring?” he asked.

“Yeah. Yeah it’s mind numbing. I hate washing up. But do you know what? I wouldn’t change it. You don’t see what I see, you just see the chores and obligation. You know we’ve only ever had one real argument?”

“Yeah that’s because she castrated you at the altar” Mason jested.

“Sonny boy, I do this of my own free will”

“Bullshit. You’re telling me that if a leggy brunette came waltzing through here now and propositioned you, you wouldn’t bang it?”

“First of all, she wouldn’t be an it. There’s a difference between a woman and a pet buddy. And no. I wouldn’t for your information. You see this?” Patrick raised his hand to show Mason his wedding ring.

“Yeah I see it. It’s a prison sentence. I could commit murder and I wouldn’t get your stretch” Mason replied.

“You really don’t get it do you. Mason, I love you. Known you since prep school and you’ve never changed in all those years.”

“That’s good right?”

“No it’s not. We’re not kids anymore. I’m a grown man with responsibilities and you? Well, you make Peter Pan seem past his prime.”

Mason wasn’t getting it “I get what you’re saying, really I do. But I’m not you am I? You’re happy to settle, always have been. Fidelity is a personal choice and it’s just one I have no interest in.”

Patrick smiled, knowing full well that he was banging his head against a brick wall here “I’ve got to hand it to you, you’re nothing if not consistent”

“Thanks for the pep talk coach. Now I need to know…Sabrina, Sandy or Sara?”

“I remember Sandy. She was militant. You can cross her straight off your list” said Patrick.

“Right. I remember now. She caught me out didn’t she?” Mason envisaged the scene, Sandy’s right hook was admittedly formidable.

“Yup. She ain’t gonna want to see you” he replied.

“Dodged a bullet there. Thanks” Mason scribbled her name from his maybe list.

“I don’t remember the other two. I’m not your secretary.”

“It’s got to be Sabrina first. She’s got a star by her name” Mason began dialing her number while his long-suffering friend shook his head in disbelief.

“Hi Sabrina? Yeah it’s Mason” The phone went instantly dead.

“Bitch hung up on me. Hold on, maybe the star isn’t a good thing. Lemme check the legend.”

Mason scrolled to the back and, as he suspected, the star was a symbol of a relationship which hadn’t ended well. There were quite a few of them within these pages.

“Looks like it’s Sara’s lucky day then” Patrick quipped, rolling his eyes as Mason tapped her digits into his cell.

“Sara. Mason. I was wondering whether you fancied meeting up for a drink?” Mason gave Patrick the thumb-up and his friend responded with a weak salute of his own. “How’s tonight? Uh-huh, seven thirty’s fine. One question, what’s your address again? 310 Belforth Avenue. Got it. Yeah I’ll pick you up then. Ciao.”

“Ciao? Seriously, how do you get away with that shit?” Patrick was dumbfounded that he hadn’t crashed and burned with that sign-off.

“You either have it or you don’t son. Now haven’t you got washing up to get back to. And don’t let the door hit you on the vagina on the way out.”

“You’re a sick puppy my friend” Patrick offered the customary fist bump as he prepared to vacate “but you know what? You’re my cross to bear and I love ya.”

Mason stayed behind to finish his drink, picked up his jacket and car keys, and headed off to prepare for his hot date.





Singing in the shower was a pastime Mason had gotten down to a fine art over the years. As he soaked down for any impending rendezvous, he would exercise his vocal chords to the sound of Pavarotti. He stepped out of the steam and wrapped his bath towel around his waist, before making his way to the bedroom to pick out a winning outfit and fragrance. Standing in front of the wardrobe he flexed his pectorals just to keep his circulation flowing.

“You really are a handsome devil aren’t you?” he informed himself, marveling at the man craftsmanship in his full-length mirror. The place was littered with them, including one strategically placed on the ceiling above his king size bed. “Listen, I really like you. We’re both adults and we both have needs. Let me see to some of yours.”

He held up his best Armani two-piece and decided it was the way to go “Of course I’ll call. We’ve really got something here, you can feel it and so can I. Let’s just start with some light petting and see where it leads us.”

He grabbed his pillow case and plunged his tongue into it, unfazed by the fact that he was a walking talking cliché.

“Right then Sara. All your Christmases are coming at once this evening. I’m sending the boys in to redecorate. You just lay back and enjoy the multiple orgasms.” He was blissfully unaware that every last one had been faked.





He pulled up outside the address bang on time. Punctuality was just one ruse he practiced at the start of any fresh engagement. He knew exactly how to act a gentleman, for as long as it was necessary at least. He had a vague recollection of the house but couldn’t place her actual face. Lucky dip was a game he was accustomed to playing and he took comfort in the fact that his tastes were impossibly high and she would invariably be an eight at the very least. Who cared if she had an ounce of intelligence inside that pretty head. This was all about the rebound sex, getting his dues, and then crossing her off his to-do-list. He took one last look at himself in the rear view mirror, blew himself a kiss, and grabbed the bottle of Shiraz from his passenger seat, before exiting the vehicle and making his way to her front door.

En route he decided to get a feel for the kind of place she inhabited. The garden was woefully overgrown so it was clear from the offset that green fingers weren’t in her repertoire. It mattered not as he had no intention of caring for her Geraniums, only to pound that pussy into swift submission and give her the best two and a half minutes of her life. But it helped him form a mental picture. Blonde, twenty-seven or eight, maybe a size ten or twelve at a push, great tits. That was his estimation so, when the door swung open to reveal exactly that, he couldn’t help but feel a little smug.

“Hi” Sara kissed him on both cheeks “I’ll just grab my coat”

“Actually I thought we might have a drink here before we head out?” Mason thrust the cheap bottle of red in her direction, hoping it would help to accelerate matters.

“Yeah why not. Come on in” she replied.

Mason handed her the plonk and made himself comfortable in her lounge while she retrieved two wine glasses from the kitchen cupboard.

He looked around at her cluttered living room “Nice place you got here” This was a blatant mistruth, he despised her crude wallpaper and lack of minimalist chic.

“Thanks. I’m in the middle of fixing it up” she called.

“No shit” he muttered under his breath.

“I got the place cheap in the property crash. It’s not much but it’s me” She returned to the room with two half-glasses of vino, handing him the more generously poured stem.

“It says a lot about you” said Mason “about your character.”

“Thank you” Sara took this as a compliment when, in fact, it was anything but “I think that your home should reflect your soul. I’m not interested in being overly tidy. Life’s for living right?”

“Sure is” Mason’s condo definitely reflected his soul. Cold and empty, lacking any sort of character whatsoever “I really hate these idiots that live in sparse studios, hardly a scrap of furniture or anything to tie the room together. It’s really rather sad.” That came out convincingly enough, he was sure she bought it.

“I know right. I like my place to feel lived-in, homely you know?”

“Mission accomplished. It sure is homely” he trailed off, desperately pushing the bile down in the back of his gullet.

“Can I ask you something?” Sara asked.

Yeah shoot. Anything?” he replied.

“Why has it taken seven years to pick up the phone. I remember us getting on really well and then nothing” Mason hated being put on the spot and cast his eyes around the room as he attempted to concoct a plausible explanation for his extended absence. Suddenly his eyes come across something which brought the whole thing flooding back. It was Toodles, Sara’s long-haired Friesian cat, he had hated that thing. After their first date he had accidentally reversed his car over the poor mog’s skull. He had never much cared for cats much so decided it better if he cut his losses and broke communication instantly, even though he could have pleaded ignorance and enjoyed the comforting sex as he rocked her to sleep with his penis. Toodles wasn’t looking too hot right now.

Mason swiftly changed the topic of conversation “So…taxidermy huh? That’s cool…that’s so cool” He wouldn’t have minded a hole emerging by this point and swallowing him whole.

“Yeah I was devastated when Toodles died. It only felt right to give him his favorite spot back by the fireplace. He loved it there. They tried their level best to reconstruct his face but that’s the closest they could get. He’s still Toodles to me. You remember him right? I think we knew one another when I had him.”

Mason was forced into staring once more at the pulp that represented its face. It looked gnarled, as though the little fella was still in considerable pain “Can’t say that I remember” he lied.

Anyway I have Tiddles now anyways” she stroked Toodles’ replacement as he tried to slide past her legs unnoticed. He never did answer her earlier question.





Within minutes they were upstairs in her water-bed and she had her palms pressed against the headboard as he mounted her masterfully, at least in his mind. With every thrust she faked the obligatory moan “Pound my pussy. Pound it, pound it good!” she pleaded, all the time wondering whether she’d left her curling tongs on in the other room. He granted her wish but couldn’t shake a feeling of unease which had been present ever since setting eyes on that infernal moggy. He had gone flaccid inside her after less than a minute.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this” he apologized, rolling onto his back as he contemplated spilling the beans about the truth behind Toodles’ unforeseen demise.

“What is it? Is it me?” she asked.

“No. You did just fine” he replied, unaware of how flippant his delivery really was “it’s not you, it’s me.”

“Tell me you didn’t just say that?” she said solemnly “you’ve got no intention of calling have you? Just like back then, nothing’s changed. You haven’t grown up have you?”

The tone changed completely now and Mason knew that this was all about damage limitation and a brisk exit “I’m feeling nauseous, think it may have been something I ate earlier. I had Quail eggs at D’Argento’s and they never agree with me” He gathered his belongings with haste and was halfway to the bedroom door by the time he finished his sentence “I’ll call you tomorrow. Promise”

She wasn’t convinced but figured she would give him the benefit of the doubt as she had no real claim to him after just one remarkably short evening…twice. “You better had mister and don’t let Tiddles out” she warned.

He made it down the stairs in three lengthy bounds and took one look to his right before exiting. Toodles was still in position, frozen death face glaring angrily as though to remind Mason that he hadn’t forgotten their dirty little secret. The cat’s successor ran past him into the garden undetected as he shuddered and turned his head in disgust and, no sooner had he slammed the door shut behind him, than he reached for his little black book, fumbled to S, and almost snapped the tip of his Staedtler carving across the name Sara.

As he clambered back into his Lotus and reclined the seat, he exhaled in great relief “I hate fucking cats” he remarked for his own benefit. With that he started his engine and began to reverse from Sara’s driveway, thankful of his escape and willing to chalk this one down to experience. At first he thought he had mounted a curb as the slight bump denoted such. However the sickening splat didn’t sound much like concrete, instead something far more brittle breaking wide open against tarmac. He gulped and climbed out to investigate.

“Oh Tiddles. You’ve got to be shitting me” he said, hand against his forehead in utter disbelief that lightning had indeed struck twice. “What is it, do my tires look like balls of wool or something. Jesus. Moths to the fucking flame”. He returned to his vehicle and sped off, leaving behind the crushed remains of cat number two.





By the third day of not calling as he pledged, everything should have moved on some, but Mason couldn’t get that stupid cat out of his mind. Not Tiddles, he didn’t give a fuck about that dozy lemming, irony had offered him no end of light relief ever since. It was Toodles who left a stain. Something about those contorted features really had him bothered, so much so, that he had actually called off his date with Serina and had decided the only course of action was an early night. He turned on his television from his bed and Two Evil Eyes was on a late-night horror marathon. It was the vignette titled The Black Cat and he figured there was nothing else on so settled in for the duration. Ten minutes in he was fast asleep.

Suddenly he awoke with a start as a loud door knock rung out from outside. “What the fuck?” he griped, looking at his digital clock to confirm that it was, in fact, almost four in the morning. He almost knocked the bottle of Bell’s from his bedside table as he slid his feet out of the bed and set them down on the cold floorboards. The knocking reconvened, this time with a tad more urgency.

“Alright. Alright. I’m coming. Patrick if that’s you, I’ve got one hell of a face slap waiting for you” he hollered. He replicated his friend’s likely sniveling newsflash “she’s kicked me out. I’ve got nowhere else to go. I think this time it’s over” before offering his rejoinder “Just like Thanksgiving right? Or…or last Christmas when she threw your clothes on the lawn after you came home twenty minutes past curfew.”

He slackened the deadbolt and opened wide, expecting to fire off a long line of told you so’s but instead was presented with a far more shapely visitor. He hadn’t performed coitus in 72 hours so the fact that Sara was stood there in a trench coat and evidently little else was far too tempting a proposition.

“Mind if I come in?” she asked, pushing past him and strolling suggestively toward his boudoir in her six-inch red heels.

“Er…yeah?” he replied, bowled over by her audacity but still fixated by the fish net stockings stretched across her calves.

He closed the door behind him and Sara had already made herself comfortable on the edge of his divan “I figured we have some unfinished business” she said in a sultry tone.

“How…how do you know where I live?” he quizzed, rubbing his eyes in a state of flux.

“A cat never forgets its way home Mason” she responded “Speaking of which…” She stood up and began to unfasten her overcoat “do you wanna see my pussy?”

Damn right he did. Mason prepared to cop an eyeful, momentarily disinterested in trying to make sense of her cat statement as it was clearly on like Pong. As the coat fell to her feet and he glanced his grateful eye over her wares he caught a sight which caused the blood to chill just shy of his member. It was Toodles, Tiddles too. More accurately, it was their splintered heads, animate and wailing from her abdomen just above the panty line.

“Watch out, they’ve been known to scratch” she remarked.

Mason let out a deafening scream.





With that Mason awoke once more, this time in a cold sweat. He glanced over at his alarm clock and it was almost four in the morning, just as it had been last time. He laid in a state of shock and relief for just a moment, before leaning over to switch on his bedside lamp. What a terrifying phantasm that had been, so realistic, he could almost smell their fur. He laid back against his pillow and caught something beside him out of the corner of his eye. As he sat up with a start, he plucked up the courage to give it his full divided attention.

“Hey buddy” It was Patrick, how the fucking hell did his friend end up in his bed “I was wondering…” Patrick started “when are you going to pound MY pussy.” Mason was utterly frozen in disbelief and, just then, something soft and furry began to make its way from beneath the bed sheets between them. It was a cat’s tail, totally unmistakable, and sliding around the pillow as it continued extending towards his throat.

“What the…” before Mason could insert his expletive, the tail had reached his neck and began wrapping itself around, while he struggled to break free. It constricted his throat and began throttling him where he laid. Desperately clawing for air, he began to cough as his airway slammed shut.

“It’s not me, IT’S YOU” Patrick retorted with a demonic smile stretched across his cheeks.

Again Mason woke, only this time he was still struggling to clear his throat. He leaned over the side of the bed and let out an almighty splutter, vomiting a crude mixture of bile and fur balls onto his $700 rug. He decided better than to return to sleep and spent the remainder of the night drinking coffee to keep him alert.





“You haven’t told me why you called me out here. Is everything okay buddy? You’re acting kinda strange”

Patrick was supposed to be running errands for his wife but instead had been taken on a nature ramble to the depths of the local forest for his friend’s benefit.

“It will be soon” Mason replied, looking for the ideal clearing for them to perform the ritual he had in mind.

“I’ve got to say, you’ve never been what I would call my most balanced friend, but right now you have even me worried” Patrick continued.

Mason pulled him close “Listen Pat. I’ve got to destroy this and I want you to witness the whole thing.” He produced the little black book from one pocket and a box of cook’s matches from the other.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve had that stupid book since I’ve known you and never leave the house without it. You’re telling me you don’t mind losing…what…three hundred ladies’ digits? You’d never do that. I know you.”

Mason struck a clutch of matches and laid the blazing box down on dry leaves. He then held up his little black book and stated “watch me” before dropping it directly into the heart of the small fire.

“No more. I’m done Pat. I’m gonna find a nice nondescript woman , settle down, and have a whole bunch of kids like you did. No offense by the way.”

“None taken” Patrick replied, clearly lying through his teeth “so what you’re telling me is that there won’t be any more one night stands, meaningless sex, or treating women like objects?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you my friend” Mason prodded the flame with a twig to keep it burning, his little black book steadily smoldering as it turned into ash. Once satisfied, he stood to his feet and began to walk back to the car, leaving an utterly bamboozled Patrick to frantically stamp out the miniature forest fire he had augmented before it spread further.





Mason perked up considerably on the drive back to his apartment. He belted out Pavarotti the whole way, window wound down, and bursting with pride after finally growing the fuck up. Pulling into his driveway, he noticed the lights were on upstairs. He was sure he hadn’t left them on when he left although, admittedly, he had been in something of a rush. As he bounded up the stairs, it appeared as though there was some sort of party going on inside his pad. He could hear numerous voices, all getting along grand, and was sure as shit that he hadn’t arranged a soirée in honor of his voyage into manhood. He anxiously slid the key into his door and pushed it open.

“Hi Mason” The front room was wall to wall with blondes, brunettes, redheads, all of which were at least an eight “We were all wondering…” He noticed Sara at the hub of the festivities and couldn’t take his eyes off her as the girls continued in unison “WHY YOU NEVER CALLED?”

There had to be three hundred of them, some of their faces he recognized, others didn’t jolt his memory quite as readily, but every last one of them began to advance on his position at precisely the same moment. He yelped and fled the room, making the bottom of the stairwell in no steps this time as he tumbled the full flight and landed in a heap by the building’s door. The women were pouring out of his apartment and all reaching out as they all chanted “pound our pussy Mason.”

He attempted to stand but his splintered shin bone had burst right through his trousers, meaning all he could do was to drag himself outside, wincing in agony with each slide. He made it to the driveway and then a sudden burst of light to his right blinded him. It was his Lotus headlamps. As he squinted his eyes, he noticed something which depleted any remaining stamina. His car was running and was full to the brim with long-haired cats, each one looking as though they’d lost a fight with a garbage truck. Their weight became too much and the hand brake slid off, sending it steadily picking up speed as the driver’s side wheel trundled toward his terrified face. Mason let out one more blood-curdling scream as his head made contact with rubber and the tire stopped rotating as it ground to a halt on his crushed skull.

Three hundred beautiful women began filtering from the building at that point, all chatting and joking without a care in the world, whilst erasing his name from their little black books.




Click here to read Keeper’s next ghoulish tale




Truly, Clearly, Really, Sincerely,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill


Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014



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