World of Myth Magazine will feature a-story-a-month in anticipation of the Zombie Works Publications 2026 release of Once Upon a Time in Knob River Valley: A Collection of Grins & Grimaces—forged in the fires of Lisa H. Owens' unhinged imagination.

An excerpt from Chapter-One: Lurchers & Knuckleheads

Murphy Comes a Courtin'

Something in the way he moved initially caught my eye, and I began to watch him from the dormer window, suspecting he would steal my heart if I let him in. In his usual fashion, he swaggered up the driveway, disappearing beneath the front porch awning, and I carved a tick-mark in one of the pine walls in the dusty attic space.

Eighteen times, I thought.

It had been eighteen times in so many days that he'd approached my front door. He always left a gift on the welcome mat—little hints of the man he was… and is.

On the first visit, day-one, it was a sterling silver cufflink etched with a fancy letter "M."

"He is aloof, an elegant man of class from the wealthy side of town," said the cufflink, and I wondered how he came to be wandering around on the wrong side of the tracks, but then I thought, Hmmm, M for Mary, and wondered how he knew my name.

The following day, he lurched through my front yard, overgrown with weeds and crabgrass, and I admired the determination on his face. The way his jaw tensed, much like dearly departed Henry's did when he was lost in thought. He disappeared beneath the awning and I nearly ran downstairs to invite him in, but restrained myself and carved another tick-mark in the wall instead. I nearly stared a hole in the front porch's rusty over-hang waiting for him to emerge and leave before I lowered the rickety set of attic stairs. Then I tip-toed to the front door and peeked through the wide mail-slot. A rumpled swatch of fabric sat upon the letter "L" on the dry-rotted coir WELCOME mat. My scrawny arm snaked through the slot, landing upon soft fabric, and I reeled in a silk paisley tie, still damp in the area that had rested upon the nape of Mr. M's neck.

On day-three, his white oxford cloth shirt, stained and tattered, was left sprawled across the porch, the second "M" cufflink still hanging from a fraying eyelet in the barrel cuff. I snugged the putrid rag to my breast and cried. He'd literally given me the shirt off his back, in twenty-three years of marriage, something Henry had never done.

Day-after-day, navy swatches of his worsted wool suit and various accessories were added to my collection, until day-twelve, when he left his wallet behind. Genuine doeskin, so soft in the clean spots, that I rubbed it across my dusty cheek.

He loves me enough to bestow this precious gift—the gift of his true identity—upon me, I thought.

I heard grunts and groans as I withdrew my arm and scurried back to the attic, pulling the stairs up behind me. I dropped down on a sofa cushion positioned at the window to survey the neighborhood. A motley looking crew jostled their way down the center of Elm Street, their hunched shoulders and knobby elbows shirring off the side mirrors of the few cars parked along the curb as they looked inside.

A bunch of riled up lunatics, if you ask me, I thought.

I scoffed, shook my head and refocused my attention on the leather wallet in my hand. I opened it and there he was. Barely recognizable, with sandy blonde hair and baby blue eyes, his million-dollar smile grinning at me from behind the plastic ID window.

This is you, Murphy L. Martin, III. Your face is familiar. Have we met? I thought.

So handsome, beyond a shadow of a doubt, but not at all the scruffy character I'd come to love.

Over the next few days, Murphy's gifts grew increasingly more personal, and though they were garish and stank of death, I placed them in the cedar storage chest, alongside Henry's death certificate and David's baby blanket, school photos and football memorabilia, cherishing them all the same.

The morning of day-seventeen, I sat on the floor alongside the chest, running my fingers across Murphy's treasures. A nose so regal he must be a prince. An ear missing a portion of its lobe. A leather tasseled loafer still cradling the lower half of his foot. I lifted the shoe and stuck my hand deep inside, wiggling my fingers beneath the cold flesh. The foot slid out with ease when I withdrew my hand and I cast the crusty loafer aside.

"This little piggy went to market," I whispered as I gently tugged each toe, just like I did when David was a toddler.

Remember those days, my baby boy? I thought, then shifted to the confusing gift.

A gold wedding band captured within the bloated flesh of his left ring finger. I didn't know what to make of this. Was he happily married, stepping out on the wrong side of town for a cheap thrill—a tawdry fling?

Not my Murphy, I thought. He would never be so callous. Perhaps his wife had died in the same manner as my Henry. And that's when I remembered.

#

I tended to Henry as he writhed in excruciating pain for hours. Begged me to end his suffering as he lay dying, his gurney wedged in a corner of Mercy Hospital's hallway, teeming with the victims of Virus-Z. I didn't blame the physicians for the way it had ended. It was a kindness, really, the way the staff rushed through the corridors sawing off the heads of anyone beginning to turn.

When the death squad came for Henry, bone saw held high, I turned away and that's when I saw him—Murphy, kneeling alongside a woman fighting against restraints locking her to her gurney. Though she had already turned, Murphy consoled her. He took her distorted hand in his, murmuring soft words and she quieted. Her milky eyes cleared for a second and her lips moved. Murphy stood and leaned in to hear what she said and she lunged, locking onto his ear, but then a stream of Henry's hot blood hit me square in the face as the team sawed off his head, and I turned my attention to my headless husband. When I looked back, Murphy was gone.

#

This is Murphy's way of showing me his marriage is over, I thought, and fell into the first peaceful sleep I'd had since this all began, his gory left hand clasped in mine.

Day-Eighteen, I heard the dull thud of Murphy navigating two steps up to the front porch and I lowered the attic stairs. The metallic clink of the mailbox slot slamming shut resounded throughout my home, the entirety of interior walls and doors an impenetrable blockade, and I hustled down the increasingly rickety steps. I sprinted to the front door, my socks a whisper on ancient hardwood floors, praying to catch a glimpse of Murphy's retreating backside. I slid around the corner into the entryway, and there it was. The most perfect declaration of his love, a twisted black lump on the faded floral rug. Murphy's cold dead heart.

His heart is mine… mine. ALL MINE, I thought as I cast aside a dozen crossbar blockades and opened a series of complicated locks, my hands fumbling in their haste to catch him before he was out of reach. I heard a low moan beyond the security door and redoubled my pace, finally unlocking the last deadbolt. Using every ounce of strength my malnourished body could muster; I pulled on the door's wide handle until it gave way.

There he was, Murphy-in-the-flesh, and though that flesh was rotten and putrid, I loved him still. He lurched toward me, leading with two oozing arms, the left one missing its hand. I bumped into them in my exuberance, and the handless left one dropped like a stone, landing with a moist squelch.

Murphy didn't care. His milky eyes cleared and his ruptured vocal chords wailed something that sounded like I wuv yeew, as he leaned in for a kiss.

He wants to kiss me… me…ME, I thought, and met his bloated lips with mine.