As I walked over this lonely stretch of road, I counted my steps and watched the moonlight flicker among the trees. A fog crept over the asphalt, stirred by the wind, making it hard to discern where I was going.
Where am I going? I don’t know. I’m just walking…
Maybe it was the night, but I felt adrift in the shadows with no direction, the smell of autumn’s decay around me, the hard gravel of the roadside under my feet. Nothing but a misty horizon of desolation as my destination.
Am I eternally doomed to walk this long road?
A sound. The humming motor of a car. I turned. Headlights illuminated the night.
They’re slowing down. Stopping.
The passenger side window whirred open, and a young man leaned over the seat and smiled at me. “You need a ride, pretty lady?”
I smiled back and nodded, so he popped open the car door. Slipping inside, I sank into the seat and closed the door. The car remained idling. The driver leaned in, too close, his hand on my leg.
“How did you get stranded out here? Not the place to be walking alone. Especially at night. It isn’t safe.” He smirked.
Scooting closer to the door, I replied, “I was left out here. Can we get going?”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” The car lurched forward, back on the road. “Good thing I came along, though.” He reached over and patted my knee, his fingers squeezing. “A sweet thing like you shouldn’t be neglected. You needed a big, strong man to rescue you.”
“From what?” I pushed his hand away. He moved it back to the steering wheel.
“Guess you’re not from around here. This is Applewood Road. Known for car crashes, disappearances, people wandering with no memory. Legend has it that a ghost haunts the area.” He chuckled. “Just superstition, of course, but this road isn’t always safe.”
I smiled again, this time with a hint of fang. “I’ve never seen a ghost.”
Grabbing the steering wheel, I yanked hard, simultaneously unlocking his seatbelt.
He screamed, “What the hell, bitch!” and cursed as the car careened into a ditch, crumpling the front end. The airbag prevented him from going through the shattered windshield, but he smashed his head against the driver’s door.
Unbuckling my seatbelt, I wriggled from underneath the deployed airbag and pulled his unconscious body closer. I sank my fangs deep into his neck and drank my fill, savouring the sweet nectar of his blood until his heartbeat slowed, then stopped. I shoved his corpse back into the driver’s seat and licked my lips. The final touch was collecting a shard of glass from the dash and shoving into his neck to cover my bite mark.
Clambering out of the ruined car, I dusted off my clothes and climbed back to the road. I glanced back at the wreck.
“You were right, this road is dangerous.”
I laughed and started the long walk back to town. I had to inform the sheriff the job was done, and he had another death to cover up.
And one less predator roaming Applewood Road.
Author: afstewart
A writer of speculative fiction (fantasy, sci-fi, horror) and an indie author of such books as the Saga of the Outer Islands series, the Killers and Demons series and Chronicles of the Undead. Also a contributor to various anthologies.
Let It In
Awake in my bed, I embrace the oppression of the silence, that moment, not at midnight, but before dawn when the night struggles to remain. It presses against your skin, tangibly scratching at the surface of my being. A smell engulfs me, not the stench of old houses, moldy, stale, but the bitter, smoky scent of lightning in summer.
I wait for it, an unearthly presence constraining at the edges of nothing, an impervious void lingering behind the smell. It murmurs cryptic words, weaves unfathomable visions, its existence liberating fear and solace, like the icy touch of death for a terminal patient.
Sometimes I fight against it; more often I concede, accepting its supremacy over my mind. I squirm as it wiggles inside my brain, excising parts of my existence with surgical precision. Yet, I feel free afterward, and my burdens of conscience, of benevolence, vanish.
With the light of day I function as I was, but I am changed.
Hour by hour, day by day, I become…detached.
Yesterday, my perception altered.
It granted me the gift to discern its reality.
It is here.
My home is its conduit.
Slime oozes through the wall cracks, past the floorboards, thick black goop painting my house in shades of the void. A physical manifestation of my entity, cold to the touch, and pulsing with a rhythmic heartbeat. It is my connection, my lifeline. Alive, subsuming, struggling to enter our world.
In response to the cadence, my blood roars, energy surging deep inside my veins, my thoughts explode in a kaleidoscope of radiance and colour, while a lullaby of starfire sings in my ears. And still no outward sign. I still smile and serve breakfast to my oblivious family.
They used to be my world. A husband and two children.
No longer.
I feel nothing…not as they die, not as I feed their blood and meat to the slime.
Not as I watch the black ooze grow, invading, slithering inside this empty house.
Not as it embraces me, unravels my flesh and drinks my blood.
I welcome the pain, the promise.
We will be reborn as one.
~ A. F. Stewart
© Copyright 2025 A. F. Stewart. All Rights Reserved.
The Echo of Desolation
As I entered the town, I saw a flash of pink and a little girl ran in front of me, swirls of dust following her. I stopped, every sense alert. She paused too, turned around to stare at me. She showed no fear, only curiosity, a gap-toothed grin stretching across her grimy face.
My hand went to my gun, but she vanished. Only the empty street remained, the wind blowing grit across the paving. A knot in my gut, I kept walking.
The rumours are true.
For once, I hoped the intel was wrong. My job was tough enough in a place of strangers; coming to the town where I grew up made it infinitely worse.
Striding down the street, shadows emerged at the windows, whispers drifted in the wind. I felt their presence, the taint of death clinging to the world of the living; a town of lingering ghosts. One more miserable consequence of the plague.
What I was here to eliminate.
The town square felt like the best place to assemble the machine. Central, the location would give good dispersal, not likely to miss stragglers. I unslung my bag and built the machine, piece by piece, the metal snapping together with a sharp clang. The noise attracted phantoms, watching me, never afraid, but surrounding me with murmurs. Voices I once knew, familiar, agonizing.
Remember, it’s just another job. Don’t look at faces.
Yet, how could I ignore them? Friends I went to school with, neighbours, family, all stared at me. I wanted to spare them, walk away, but I couldn’t.
They didn’t know, but I did.
Ghosts went through stages. Initially harmless, fresh and confused, but when they rotted, they turned malicious, violent. I witnessed the remains of what savage ghosts did to the living, the butchery and bloody corpses they left. No one should die that way.
When I finished, I straightened, said, “I’m sorry,” then activated the machine. The air sizzled, heavy with the stink of ozone, blue energy enveloping this town of ghosts, slicing through its former citizens. I closed my eyes, afraid to watch their forms dissipate. It didn’t help.
Countless anguished screams lodged in my head, reverberating in the aftermath of silence.
I stood for a moment and said a fruitless prayer to ease my guilt. Then I packed up my gear.
As I left the empty town, I looked back down the main street, watching a wayward breeze swirling the dust along the road like a carefree child. For a moment, I lost myself in that flow of unrestrained nature and my memories, hoping for a whisper, a giggle, a shadow of what used to be. But nothing.
With a sigh, I walked on, headed back to my vehicle, with one more scar across my heart.
~ A. F. Stewart
© Copyright 2025 A. F. Stewart. All Rights Reserved.
Shadow of Iniquity
“We are gathered here today to repent of our wicked ways. To free ourselves from our sins!” The booming voice from the pulpit reverberated around the small church. “We must pray! Pray for our salvation. We must cleanse our hearts and beg forgiveness. Only through prayer can we walk amongst the godly and the angels!”
Murmurs of assent circled around the pews, but one man cleared his throat.
“We’ve been doing that, preacher, and it hasn’t worked so far. We’ve been praying hard day and night and nothing has helped. I’m not sure God’s listening.”
The parishioners’ gasps slithered through the church.
The man ignored his neighbours and continued, “Maybe we aren’t worth saving, Preacher.”
“Repent, sinner, repent!”
The man sighed, and bowed his head, grumbling, “Prayer won’t save us, Preacher. I don’t think we’ll ever be free…”
The sun rose the next morning, casting its warm light over the burned-out, hollow shell of the church. Three years since the catastrophic fire, since the storm, when lightning flashed from the sky and ignited the blaze. And that fallen tree blocking the exit, well, it sealed the fate of those that died that day, that small gathering of the church elders.
A bizarre tragedy the papers called the fire, and the oddness of it started the rumours. Talk of the Almighty’s vengeance against the hypocrites and sinners of the congregation. No denying that the dead, even the preacher, were all sinners, indulgent in greed, lust, envy, pride. Adulterers, thieves, and liars, wrapped in the facade of faith. No denying very few were sorry to see them buried six feet under.
And of course, there were the stories of the ghostly voices coming from the ruins…
The spectral parishioners shuffled to their seats once again and the booming voice of the preacher shouted, “Repent!”
They all bow their heads in useless prayer, unaware they were already in hell…
~ A. F. Stewart
© Copyright 2025 A. F. Stewart. All Rights Reserved.
Wedding Day
Do you like my dress?
The fabric has seen better days, all tattered and faded, stained and yellowed with age, but it will suffice, I think. At least it’s still white. Well, mostly.
A bride should always wear white, don’t you think?
You look dismayed. Am I not appealing enough? Perhaps, my appearance isn’t ideal, with rotting flesh and bones sticking out from withered skin, but use your imagination. Try to picture me as I was on my first wedding day. Walking down the aisle in my pristine dress, so crisply white, all lace and flowing silk. Waves of dark hair under my gossamer veil that almost floated in the air.
I was beautiful.
Everything about that day was beautiful.
Except for the ending, that was horrible. I can’t say I cared for being murdered. Slashed and stabbed, bleeding out in what was supposed to be my marriage bed. That’s what ruined my dress, so blame that lying husband of mine.
Although, I supposed I deserved it.
After all, I had planned to kill him in the morning until he beat me to murder. He would have been my fifth victim. A shame, really. I made a lovely widow. Even prettier than as a bride.
Oh, don’t look so shocked. You’re not innocent. That’s why I’m here and you’re stuck with me now.
Oh, don’t protest, and please stop screaming. That hurts my ears. Don’t blame me, you’re the one that summoned me from hell. The wedding must commence.
No, you don’t. No running off! There, got you. Stop struggling, I might accidentally break your arm. You can’t escape. You’re as bound to me as I am to you.
Begging now? Tacky. Don’t debase yourself. It won’t help, and it’s disgusting. Accept what will happen, give in. I mean, I do like it when my grooms fight; it lends a sweet excitement to the proceedings, but that option is never painless for you. If you fight, I’ll make it hurt.
That’s good. Nice and calm, resigned to your fate. I’ll be gentle; a few seconds to eat your soul and you’ll be a hollow corpse, all your cares forgotten.
Now, come give your bride a kiss.
~ A. F. Stewart
© Copyright 2025 A. F. Stewart. All Rights Reserved.
Bleak
They huddled together under tattered blankets, a mother and daughter hidden in the shadows of the abandoned building. Outside, the wind rattled against the walls and howled through the cracked windows; the noise drowned the rumblings of their hungry bellies. Weeks of running left them exhausted, yet neither slept. Fear kept them awake.
The girl whispered, “Was there ever a better world than this one, Mama? Grandma said there was. A place where we didn’t always run, didn’t hide. Where daddies and raiders never hunted and hurt us.”
Her mother squirmed. “Perhaps, sweetie. Once. I have vague memories, but they might be only dreams. If it existed, it was a long time ago and it’s never coming back.”
“Like Grandma?”
An intake of breath, a pause, and then, “Yes. Like Grandma.” There was a soft sigh. “What happened to Grandma is why we run, why I teach you. Now tell me the three rules.” She patted her daughter’s hand.
“Yes, Mama. Rule 1: Never trust anyone, not even if they’re nice to you. Rule 2: Try to be kind, but be cruel if you have to.” Her lip quivered. “Like we were with Grandma when we left her?”
“Exactly. She couldn’t keep up and leaving her behind distracted those raiders. Now what’s rule 3?”
“Rule 3: Don’t be weak. The strong live. The strong make it to the Promised Land. The strong dodge the raiders. The strong will be free. No masters, no daddies. No one to hurt us.”
“Good.” She tousled her daughter’s hair. “Never forget those rules. Never break them. If we’re smart, we’ll escape. Now get some sleep. We move out with the sunrise.”
“Tell me about the Promised Land, Mama. It helps me sleep.” The girl snuggled against her mother, burrowing into the blankets.
Words drifted on the darkness. “The Promised Land is a safe place, a place without raiders, or masters, or cruelty, where the fear of engines doesn’t exist. Women don’t have to worry there, don’t fear being hurt, or killed, or enslaved. We won’t have to run, or hide, or go hungry. It’s where we can be happy. Where we don’t have to live by the rules of men.”
The girl closed her eyes, dreaming of a beautiful land as she fell asleep. Her mother kept watch over her, listening for the sound of the raiders’ engines…
Weeks later, their long journey behind them, they left the wasteland and found a place of grassy scrub and a cracked road leading north. Taking her daughter’s hand, the mother squeezed and murmured, “We’re almost there, sweetie. Almost to the Promised Land, to safety.”
Two more days found them outside a neglected settlement, overgrown with vegetation and vacant of life. A broken fence surrounded rustic, disused houses and buildings. As they drew closer, they noticed an open gate crookedly swinging on rusting hinges. Walking inside, a faded sign greeted the pair, mocking them with the ruined, peeling letters: P R O I S M E D A N D.
The girl looked around and tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Is this it, Mama?”
“Yes.” The word cut cold in the air and held despair in its depths.
“But it’s empty, Mama. Where are the people? Where’s the Promised Land?” She stared at her mother, watching the woman’s expression harden. “Are we safe yet?”
“No.” The sound almost choked in her throat. “It’s gone. It’s all gone. There is no Promised Land, no safety. They destroyed it too.” She looked at her daughter as the sound of engines roared in the distance. “It was all a false dream. It was all for nothing.”
She bent down and tilted her daughter’s chin, staring into her eyes. “There’s one more thing to learn, sweetie.” Her other hand reached into her travelling bag. “Rule 4: Everyone lies. Even me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know, sweetie.” She brushed her daughter’s hair with her fingers and straightened. “I’m sorry, but there’s nowhere to run and hide anymore and I can’t go back.” She smiled at the confused child. “I’m so sorry.”
From her bag, she pulled out a pistol and shot herself in the head, blood spraying her daughter’s upturned face. The nearing sound of engines mixed with the girl’s screams.
~ A. F. Stewart
© Copyright 2024 A. F. Stewart. All Rights Reserved.
Inhale, Exhale
She sat on the steel-framed bed, the texture of the rough linen sheets under her fingertips and her legs dangling off the edge, toes touching the floor. Inhale, exhale, and then she whispered, “Four walls, a ceiling, a locked door. Good.”
It’s a box. Trapped in a box. Doubting words slithered around her mind.
Inhale, exhale. “Stay in the box. A box is safe. ”
Is it? What’s that sound?
She stiffened, straining her ears. Footsteps. Her fingers tightened into the mattress.
“Don’t come in. Don’t come in. Stay out of my box.” Yanking her legs up, she curled into a ball, listening until the thump, thump noise faded away. Inhale, exhale, and her breath softened.
“They’re gone now. Alone the in box. Safe.”
For now.
She closed her eyes, pain creeping past her temples. “No one will come.”
Laying down on the bed, knees still pressed against her chest, she focused on the quiet and the dark. Inhale, exhale, don’t remember…It’s secure in the room, no one would come, the door would never open. She concentrated on the lies to avoid screaming.
Until the itch scrabbled at the back of her thoughts like scratching claws, thrashing through her mind and growling at her consciousness.
Wake up, wake up, wake up.
“Shush. Leave me alone. I need to be alone, alone, alone.”
Laughter echoed in her head. That’s the biggest lie of all. You can’t hide, you can’t stop it.
Her eyes fluttered open, and her stomach churned. “Why?”
More laughter.
“I’m never going to be free, am I?”
No.
Sitting now, she dangled her legs off the edge of the bed, toes touching the floor. The texture of the rough linen sheets under her fingertips grounded her thoughts, but she stared at the door, waiting.
Inhale, exhale. Every moment savoured, knowing it wouldn’t last. When the footsteps returned, she braced herself, whimpering as the lock turned and the door swung open. Scratching claws ripped through her self-control and consumed her will. The demon that shared her mind and body had control.
It whispered in her ear. Told you. The prey is here, and it’s time for my fun.
She closed her eyes as the creature sped her body across the room and leapt on the orderly. Trapped inside her own flesh, she hummed to herself, ignoring the taste of copper blood in her mouth and the screams in her ears…
Inhale, exhale. Try to forget that no one is safe from me…
~ A. F. Stewart
© Copyright 2024 A. F. Stewart. All Rights Reserved.
The Whisper of a Lady
I dream of her, my phantom, her haunting face stretched taut with pale skin, wispy white hair falling limp around her red-rimmed eyes. She stares, blind and bleeding, her lips mouthing silent whispers against the aether. Somehow I know she is pleading, screaming, her words drowning inside whatever hell has claimed her. I tremble when she reaches out to me, her fingers inches from my cheek…
That is when I awake from my nightmare, drenched in sweat. I should be relieved, the night terrors banished by the sun. Yet, my torment continues throughout the daylight hours, for she never leaves me.
She is my shadow in the light, the ghost that haunts my waking hours and bleeds me dry for peace. A manifestation of primal fear and my eternal pity, my personal apparition. Her existence instills both the desire to flee and the need to save her.
Am I mad? I have no answer to that question.
Perhaps I might welcome insanity.
The waking world now threads around me unfinished in shades of grey and gloom, with no vibrancy of colour save red; it taints everything, everywhere. I long for sleep and my nightmares. I long for her pale face and crimson eyes. Each night I sink deeper beneath the surface of my dreams and she draws closer to me; my skin craves her touch now, and it is harder to wake in the morning. I never leave the house and barely eat, often staring at my bed, forcing myself to stay awake.
What if I close my eyes and never wake up? Would I finally be with her?
The uncertainty of it all anchors me to this world. Will she bring my oblivion or will I be her deliverance? I don’t know. The not knowing drives me, swirls my mind in frantic visions and terrors. Yet, I feel I will understand soon, for her siren’s song becomes harder to resist. When her fingers caress my face, I will have my answer.
Only then will my nightmare end.
At least I pray it will.
~ A. F. Stewart
© Copyright 2024 A. F. Stewart. All Rights Reserved.
Alone Again
She ambled along the path to the lake, soaking in the lovely spring day, walking alone, but enjoying the tranquillity of the gentle breeze and the smell of pine from the trees. She needed some peaceful reflection after the break-up.
Brad never wanted to reflect on anything, always engrossed in work, work, work. She felt ignored, especially lately, like he barely noticed her. That’s why she planned this getaway, but it fell apart from the beginning…
The fuss he made coming to the cabin. She barely got him into the car. At least he was quiet on the drive. From the start, he spoiled the whole weekend retreat.
And now he was gone. It had only been a couple of hours, but she missed him already.
Oh, Brad, why did you have to treat me like that?
She loved him from the moment she saw him, with that wonderful smile, those kind eyes. Being near him made her feel so safe. Yet, he turned out like all the rest.
Men were so mean.
Denying he knew her. Or that he loved her. Yelling for her to untie him. Brad even pretended not to know her name.
After all she did for him, all he meant to her.
She showed him her journals, where she detailed all their encounters. The day he casually brushed past her in the street, touching her sleeve. The numerous times they stood together in line at his favourite coffee shop. All those nights she watched him through his windows. She reminded him of other things, too. Hadn’t she arranged that accident for his work rival? Scared off that slut who flirted with him? She bared her heart and declared her love.
He looked at her as if she was insane. That hurt.
Why couldn’t he see it?
They were meant to be together. They had a connection. The cabin was supposed to be the start of their future. He was supposed to be the one. Yet Brad rejected her, after all the weeks they spent together. Men always rejected her, no matter how hard she tried to please them.
I never want to hurt them, but I get so angry… She sighed. They’re the ones that make me do the awful things.
She chose a knife this time. Brad sneered when she picked it up and threatened him. Sneered until she slashed him. Then he cursed at her, called her awful names, and threatened to go to the police. She couldn’t let him do that, so she started stabbing.
That’s when he screamed, and I saw the fear in his eyes. I always see the fear at the end.
She sighed. She never enjoyed remembering the break-ups. Always so messy.
I suppose I better head back. There’s still a lot of work to do. Bodies don’t dispose of themselves.
~ A. F. Stewart
© Copyright 2023 A. F. Stewart. All Rights Reserved.
Surviving Winter
Entombed in the embrace of the soot-black night, the frigid snow caught the eternal edge of the waning moonlight. Pristine, yet jagged, its frozen surface shimmered in an iridescent sheen, poised like the steel jaws of a trap waiting for the unwary; its beauty was undeniable but deadly.
For the mortals that lived in its grip, winter ruled the world and waited.
A northern gale rustled down from the high mountains, bouncing against the village; layers of ice cracked, flexing the cold’s wicked bite throughout the empty streets. Not a breathing soul stirred in the night air; the living huddled inside around meagre fires. Those fated few trapped outside had long since perished, left as the offerings.
Sacrifices were necessary.
For Winter took its price. Better the chosen, than the innocent.
And always the question remained: How many days this year? Last season the village barely survived. Only a change in the weather, a surprise thaw, saved them all. That year the weather lingered longer.
What would happen this season? Would more die before spring? Would they all die?
It wasn’t something they could fight.
They could only prepare for what was coming…
Claws skittered against the glacial snow. Heaving pants of breath threaded white vapours on the wind. A soft whine wormed its way through miniscule cracks and people shivered. Louder noises followed; the crunch of ice, bone and frozen flesh. Some villagers silently wept. Here and there, a looming shadow passed the shuttered windows, breaking the warm light of the fires. Sometimes, when the children whimpered, they heard scratching at the doors.
No one could leave, and no one spoke, save in whispers.
Huddling, trembling, afraid.
How many days?
Fearful another sacrifice would be necessary.
Praying the doors could stay shut.
Praying they wouldn’t starve.
Praying they could outlast the beast of winter.
~ A. F. Stewart
© Copyright 2023 A. F. Stewart. All Rights Reserved.
Pen of the Damned 