A clandestine collection of the most eclectic minds of horror. These anguished souls have stripped free their pretenses for your grotesque delight. The Pen of the Damned tread where you dare walk not. Breathe what you dare dream not. Share what you dare speak not.
Screaming….loud… the normal swimming pool sound, the splashing, leaping kids, the developmentally disabled, the laughing old men with hairy backs boiling red round the hot tub especially at mid-afternoon… but who is that average lean fellow feeling the jet fountain spray all over his bald head? Yes, some kind of officer of the law…looks like his compatriots are here already, laughing and joking with the differently abled children. Some kind of charity service. They do it once a month. A good gig on their 80 thousand a year salaries. Must be nice.
I’m forever nervous in the presence of the police. Ten years ago, I did something. Never caught. So, every time there’s aspects of the law in here it’s scary. Are they finally coming for me? I just act like all the others, nonchalantly enjoying myself.
I was the caretaker here, you see, ten years ago. There was an accident. Something to do with the chlorine. A pipe burst and the aroma escaped and burned a lot of people. Even the insides of their windpipes. Anyway, you should’ve heard the screaming then!
The investigation blamed a faulty valve. They gave the sufferers lots of financial compensation, including me. Of course, I know the reason for the fault. I’m much closer to pipes and chlorine and the pool surface than I am to anyone. The reason’s deep in my heart, now. I wanted them to know, to know who I was. That was my primary motive. To be recognized finally, in the greatest light, as a hero. So, to be a hero, I had to cause pain, chaos, even within myself, and then I had to right it.
What’s a wonder is that I’m still the caretaker, the custodian, the only one besides the lifeguard not moving or smiling, back here behind my office window regarding all the kids and parents. How they yell in ecstasy in the water! Splashing and thrashing, kicking arms and legs. Not unlike the throes of death sometimes. It’s a miracle to still be here, free and victorious, serving the public these many years.
The itching in my eyes all the time bothers me, and my skin, too, it’s always so dry, and I carry that pool smell. Even when I go to bed at night, the chlorine lingers, a constant reminder of where I’m from, who I am. It’s like I’ve become a Neptune creature over all these forty years. I now rather enjoy the daily chemical layering, and the memories from it, and hesitate to wash it away.
Yes, they still say hi to me, the ones who know me, and remember the accident. The others, the strangers, might turn their heads, or pretend not to notice my disfigurement. In the accident, my face burned and burned. What they don’t know is that I was very conscious of that faulty valve, and I purposely let it blow, I even tapped it a few times with my huge pipe wrench. Despite knowing the immediate pain that would follow, I looked forward to the long-term pleasure.
Life is so dull, so humdrum and low paid, that often the only way out is to tap at something. You don’t want to be caught; you just want things to change. And change they do. It takes a lot of will, but if you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything. At least, that’s what I discovered. So much sympathy that came my way. I rescued several children from the accident scene, despite my injuries, while fighting the noxious fumes. The parents still invite me over for visits and give me suppers. I saved an old man, and tended to the injuries of the young people, using my top notch first aid training, applying all the special breathing masks with consummate skill.
The city gave me accolades for that. My picture and story featured on the TV news, and a special medal made, presented by the mayor. For weeks, interviews and accolades, and visits to my hospital bed. So many flowers and gifts! And now I sit here behind my office glass, and watch, and listen to the joyful screamers. Wonderful to see the police helping too, heroes simply by default. I had to work for my victory, and I have paid the price, despite always, in a judicial sense, living free. My drooping mouth and misshapen face remind me of this. Every day I notice the mirrors, reflecting my scars, and more subtly and enjoyably, my deeds.
Opposites are sometimes compatible, overlapping. The bad and the good, the burning and the healing. I clean the pool, and it becomes dirty again. I release the gas, then rescue the victims. Screaming can mean pleasure, or suffering. The common sound has two opposing moods. As long as I’m here, I can decide, every day, which mood that the swimmers and bathers experience, and remember.
The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the air as the travelers approached the village. The dirt road was lined with golden fields, stretching endlessly into the horizon. In a world where crops had long withered and humanity teetered on the edge of starvation, the sight was almost miraculous.
Claire was the first to speak. “It’s…perfect.” Her voice was filled with awe and disbelief.
The villagers greeted them warmly. Their simple clothing and old-fashioned manners put the travelers at ease. They were invited to stay for a meal and offered beds in a large communal house. A stoic elder, his eyes as sharp as they were kind, introduced himself as Elias.
“Stay. Rest.” Elias said. “The road is cruel, but here, we are blessed.”
Over dinner, the travelers marveled at the abundance of food, fresh vegetables, a hearty stew and ripe fruit. Elias stood, his black robe billowed slightly in the breeze. He gave a cryptic toast. “To the harvest. To the Cycle.” The villagers echoed the words solemnly.
Afterward, as the group settled into their rooms, Dylan, the most curious of the group, couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling. The fields had been too perfect. The villagers’ eyes lingered a little too long when glancing their direction.
That night, Dylan woke to the sound of a faint whisper carried in the wind. At first he thought it was Claire or Mark talking in their sleep. But as he strained to listen, he realized the sound wasn’t coming from the house. It was outside, rising from the fields like a sighing breath.
Quietly, he slipped out of bed, careful not to wake the others. He stared out the window at the crops glowing faintly under the moonlight.
The cool, night air wrapped around him as he stepped outside. The village was still, the only movement was the gentle sway of the crops. The whispers grew louder as he approached the barn at the edge of the field.
The structure loomed in the darkness. Its warped wood twisted and bowed as if the building itself were struggling under some unseen weight. The surface was cracked and weathered with deep grooves that resembled claw marks. Dylan hesitated at the door, gripping the rough edge of the frame. The whispers were almost deafening now, a cacophony of voices overlapping and merging. His stomach churned as he realized that the voices were not those of the villagers. They were coming from beneath the barn.
He pushed the door open.
Inside, the air was suffocating and hot, thick with the scent of wet earth plus something metallic. The barn was empty except for rows of tools hanging from the far wall. Sickles, hooks and shears, none of them were rusty or worn. They gleamed, sharp and polished, as though freshly cleaned.
Beneath his feet, the floor seemed to pulse faintly, a rhythmic vibration that matched the cadence of the whispers, He stepped forward, cautiously. The heat rose with each step, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. When his foot pressed onto a loose plank, the sound beneath the floor changed. It wasn’t a vibration. Something was moving.
Dylan knelt and pulled at the loose plank. It came away easily, revealing a writhing network of roots. They looked organic but unnatural, slick and pulsating like veins. The whispers were louder now, emanating from the roots themselves. He stumbled backward. HIs heart was pounding. His foot caught on something and he fell. Looking down, he saw the outline of a face, a human face pressed into the ground beneath the roots. The face shifted, its eyes opened and it stared at him with unmistakable awareness. Its mouth moved silently, forming words he couldn’t hear.
Dylan screamed and stumbled backward. “This…this can’t be real.”
The barn door creaked open behind him, he spun around to see Claire and Mark standing there. Their faces were pale and drawn, “What is happening, we heard you calling our names.” Claire said, stepping closer. “What’s going on?”
Dylan frowned, “I never called for you guys.” He gestured wildly at the exposed roots, “this, this is what is going on! The crops, the barn, the whispers…it’s all connected. I dunno what the fuck is going on but it looks like they’re feeding people to the plants..”
Mark hesitated, then knelt by the roots. His expression hardened as he touched one. “It’s warm,” he said, pulling his hand back quickly.
The ground beneath them heaved suddenly, the roots twisting and tightening like muscles. The entire barn groaned as if in protest, and the whispers rose to a deafening roar.
“We need to get out of here,” Claire yelled, grabbing Dylan by the arm.
Before they could move the barn door slammed shut. The villagers stood outside, their faces serene but unyielding. Elias stepped forward, his hand clasped behind his back.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said calmly. “The harvest is not for the outsider to see.”
“What the hell is this?” Dylan demanded, his voice cracking.
“It is life,” Elias answered, his gaze unflinching. “The earth gives but it also takes. The Cycle must continue.”
The villagers surged forward, grabbing Dylan, Claire and Mark. Despite their struggles, the villager’s strength was unnatural, their grip like iron. The trio was dragged deeper into the barn, toward a gaping hole in the floor that hadn’t been there moments before.
The hole pulsed with light, and the roots writhed as if anticipating a meal. “Let us go!” Claire screamed, kicking at the villagers.
Elias knelt beside the opening, his calm demeanor unwavering. “You’ll become a part of something eternal. You’ll nourish the fields and live within the Cycle.”
Dylan managed to wrench himself free and grabbed a sickle from the wall. He swung it wildly, catching one villager in the arm. The man didn’t flinch, he didn’t even bleed. Mark broke free next, shoving another villager into the pit. The man fell with a sickening crunch and the roots wrapped around his body instantly, pulling him into the earth.
The barn shook violently, and the whispers turned into a high pitched wail. The villagers hesitated, their trance-like calm breaking for the first time.
“Run!” Dylan shouted, grabbing Claire by the arm.
Mark followed, swinging the sickle to keep the villagers at bay. They burst out of the barn into the cool, night air. The fields stretched endlessly before them. The whispers followed, now rising from the crops themselves.
“This way!” Dylan yelled, leading them toward the road.
But the road was gone. Where there should have been dirt and gravel, there was only more golden wheat, swaying gently in the breeze.
“We’re trapped,” Claire whispered, her voice trembling.
The crops around them began to shift, the stalks twisting and writhing like they were alive. Faces emerged, just like the ones that Dylan had seen earlier. Their mouths were open in silent screams.
Elias’ voice boomed from behind them. “The fields are endless. The Cycle cannot be escaped.”
Dylan turned to Mark and Claire, his face full of determination. “If we can’t escape. We destroy it.”
He lit a match, holding it against the dry stalks. The flames caught instantly, roaring to life and spreading faster than possible. The fields shrieked, a cacophony of human and inhuman cries. The villagers stumbled back, their serene expression breaking into panic.
Elias stood at the edge of the flames, his calm expression finally cracking. “What have you done? You have doomed us all.”
The fire consumed everything in its path, racing across the plain. They ran through the chaos dodging falling debris and choking on acrid smoke. Behind them the barn collapsed in a massive explosion of light and sound. The whispers were silenced at last. When they reached the end of the fields, they stumbled onto a road that hadn’t been there before. The night was eerily quiet, the air cool and still.
Dylan looked back, expecting to see the inferno, but the fields of gold wheat were gone. In their place was a barren stretch of land, blackened and lifeless.
Mark fell to his knees, gasping for air. “What in the hell was that?”
“The end of the Cycle,” Dylan said, staring at the familiar desolation.
They walked down the dirt road in silence, the weight of what they had escaped pressed heavily on their shoulders. Behind them, the whispers began again, soft, faint, distant.
When you’re dead, it’s forever. There’s nothing at all, and you won’t even know. You will know nada and be nada just like before you were born. Like every cockroach and worm and yes, human, that has ever lived. And there’s nothing you can do about it, except choose the time and place of your demise. I am here to facilitate that.
The forming of the Universe, the birth of the sun and the planets, the development of life on earth, were all unknown to you before your existence. For practically forever, for billions of years, you were nothing. The Buddhists say that to be in that state is Nirvana, the absence of thought and feeling and consciousness.
Now you’re aware of a tiny slice of that consciousness, and this experience isn’t even real. Consciousness is an evolutionary illusion, and according to scientific theory, formed to help you survive. Aliveness is purely a physical phenomenon. Even your awareness is a lie, to help your body avoid enemies. You may ask “but what about memory, isn’t that the story of the self?
Well, if you were only as old as what you could remember, you’d still be a child. These memories are not real either, because the time that they happened does not exist anymore. Your memories are all mind illusion, imagination. What I said three seconds ago has disappeared, except perhaps in your short-term recollections, which as I’ve said, are perpetually trying to grasp onto what no longer is.
I bring you these straight, true words to assist in the choices you must make today. I would advise making the right decision, because pain is all your mind is experiencing. You’re suffering from a terminal illness, causing you useless suffering, and a few more weeks of hurt is all you’ll know. I see you’re feeling the symptoms right now, even though you’re on an intravenous morphine drip. We have the liquids and the instruments right here, to offer you a way out, a way back to nothingness, where we all came from and where we’re all going. Even myself.
I fear too, the end of my life, but as it’s inevitable, my fear is useless. There’s no running away. I focus on other things, for instance the placing of morphine needles in ancient, diseased bodies, for which I am reasonably paid. My goal is to relieve suffering. I help others discover their true nature and the true meaning of existence.
Other people may briefly grieve your departure, but they’re living in illusion also. They’ll die too, and within a few years nobody will remember that you or they ever existed.
My words may seem stark, but they are merciful. Why not cut that suffering short?
Why not end it now? It’s the freest decision you’ll ever make.
Do I take pleasure in discussing this subject? Not at all, my smile is merely a reflection of my brain’s chemical processes. Everyone must capture some sense of the absurd, which we could call humour, in order that we not go completely mad. I want to stay sane. My chuckle is not personal.
What about God, you ask? Well, we all came from the womb, where all our needs were met. Food, touch, rest, we waited for birth, in the meantime we floated and grew. Memory feelings of that time and place underpin a longing to return, and we make up heaven and God as substitutes for our mother’s belly. Yes, we all want to go back to the heavenly womb. But that time will never occur again. The best times happened before we were even out of that place. No use in calling upon God because God was your Mom. She’s passed away, gone into the void. God is dead.
It’s time for me to leave, my shift ends in fifteen minutes. And it’s your time to go also. You’re not capable of helping anyone, or making the world better, all you can do is lie in bed. You need help rising to use the bathroom. It’s not your fault, but your life is useless.
There is no need to weep, but if you must, have a good cry. Tears are dripping with toxins, and it’s natural for our body to force those out. Even in our last moments, our bodies still want to keep going. They are hardworking machines, aren’t they? Indeed, I am smiling again. That statement tickled my funny bone.
Yes, I can make you a final appointment. Tomorrow morning. I commend you for making up your mind. So many people dither until they’re no longer capable.
At ten tomorrow, I’ll be here for the final time, and we’ll end all your worries and suffering forever. Your life will rise to enter Nirvana, the void where all your individual desires and sufferings disappear. That is as close to heaven as you will ever get. Into the emptiness of non-existence and disconnection, forever and forever and forever.
All things must pass, as now-deceased Beatle George Harrison wrote in his song of the same name. George is gone, too, as he predicted. And to quote another deceased Beatle, “there’s no hell below us, above us only sky.” Nothing to look forward to, literally he he.
When the nurse comes to check on you, give her your last breakfast order. I recommend decaffeinated coffee and maybe a slice of rye toast. Try and focus on the taste. Round ten, I’ll bring the needle and the death juice. Wipe away those tears, maybe try and count your heart beats, one way to pass the time.
Have a good night, my friend. Remember, we’re all living this illusion together, at least until tomorrow.
The village of Dunmore lay shrouded in a mist as Aoife stepped off the bus, her camera slung over her shoulder. She had come to document the local folklore, the chilling tale of the banshee, whose wail heralded death. The villagers’ fear hung in the air like a shroud, but Aoife was skeptical, considering the Banshee legend nothing more than superstition.
The first few days were uneventful. Aoife captured picturesque landscapes and interviewed wary villagers. Then, on the fourth night, she heard it: a mournful, piercing wail that seemed to freeze the very air. She bolted upright in bed, her heart pounding and her hair standing on end. Her skepticism wavered as the eerie sound reverberated through the village.
The next morning a body was found. Old Mrs.McConnell, her face twisted in a silent shriek of terror, lay cold and lifeless in her bed. The village was in an uproar, whispers of the banshee spread like wildfire. Determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, Aoife reviewed her photos from the previous days. One image, taken near the old cemetery, sent a shiver up her spine. In the background, partially obscured by the mist, stood a ghostly figure. The image was faint but unmistakable. It was of a woman with wild, streaming hair, hollow soulless eyes and her mouth opened in an unheard scream.
Intrigued and a bit unnerved, Aoife decided to investigate the cemetery that night. As she approached the crumbling gravestones, the temperature seemed to drop. Her breath became visible, mingling with the ever present mist in the graveyard. Unaware, she began to pant heavily as she heard the wail again, closer this time. She raised her shaking hands and began taking pictures frantically. Suddenly she saw her: the banshee.
The banshee stood before Aoife, a ghastly image of sorrow and rage. Her long, tattered dress, once white, now hung in shreds. It fluttered behind her in the cold night breeze. Her hair, wild and matted, streamed around her like a dark halo. Her eyes burned with an otherworldly light that seemed to pierce Aoife’s soul. The banshee’s mouth was twisted in an eternal scream. Her lips cracked and bloodless, emitting a wail that echoed with the anguish of centuries. She lunged at Aoife, who stumbled backward, barely escaping. In that brief encounter a vision flooded her mind: the brutal death of a woman accused of witchcraft and murdered by the villagers centuries ago. Her name was Bridgid.
Shaken by the encounter, Aoife sought out Liam, a local historian with a reputation for uncovering the village’s dark secrets. She found him in his cluttered study, surrounded by ancient tomes and dusty scrolls. Together, they pieced together Bridgid’s tragic story. She had been a respected healer, known for her kindness and wisdom. However, during a time of hysteria and fear, she was accused of witchcraft by envious villagers. Bridgid was dragged from her home, subjected to a sham trial and ultimately brutally killed by the villagers at the edge of the cemetery. A punishment befitting a witch. Her final moments were filled with unimaginable agony as the flames licked at her skin and the acrid smoke filled her lungs. Her screams of pain and pleas for mercy were drowned out by the crackling flames and the villager’s cold, unfeeling stares. Her vengeful spirit had been transformed into the banshee, her wail a curse upon the village.
The banshee’s attacks intensified, each night more terrifying than the last. Within a week, six villagers were found dead. One evening the village was shaken by the sound of a blood curdling scream. The next morning, a young farmer named Eamon was found dead in his barn. His face was frozen in a mask of terror. Deep, jagged scratches marred his chest as if something was trying to claw his heart out. The hay around him was scattered and bloodied, telling the tale of a violent struggle. Eamon’s death was more brutal than the previous attacks. It sent a wave of dread through the villagers. The attacks continued, each more violent than the last. The bodies were discovered twisted and contorted into grotesque poses, like macabre mannequins. The villagers were on the brink of hysteria. Aoife and Liam knew they had to act fast. They realized that confronting the banshee directly and laying Brigid’s tormented spirit to rest was their only hope in ending the carnage. They prepared a ritual, gathering relics of hope and love. They planned to summon the banshee at the spot of Brigid’s murder.
That night, under the blood red moon, they performed the ritual. An icy wind swept through the cemetery carrying with it the banshee’s wail. Emerging from the mist, her spectral form gilded towards them, The ground shook as she advanced, her fury evident. Aoife and Liam were terrified but resolute, they pleaded with Brigid’s spirit. They offered relics of peace and forgiveness, a silver locket containing a lock of Brigid’s hair, an old rosary blessed by the village priest, and a small handwoven doll that Brigid cherished in her childhood. All of these relics were inside of Liam’s safe collecting dust, he knew one day he would need them. These items imbued with love and memory were meant to convey their heartfelt apologies and to honor her unjustly taken life.
In a climactic, supernatural showdown, the banshee’s wail reached an ear splitting crescendo. A sound so intense it felt like it would shatter their very souls. The ground trembled and the air around them seemed to crackle with a dark energy. Aoife and Liam clung to their relics, their hands trembling as they faced the full fury of Brigid’s tormented spirit. The banshee lunged at them, her ghostly form flickering and distorting in the moonlight. Her hollow eyes blazed with a mixture of rage and sorrow. Her spectral hands reached out and clawed the air around them.
The wind whipped violently around them, and the temperature plummeted each breath turning to frost. Aiofe’s voice shook as she recited the words of the ritual. Her heart was pounding in her chest. Just as all seemed lost, she held up the locket, the rosary and the doll. She shouted their apologies and pleas for forgiveness over the deafening wail. The banshee hesitated, her form flickering in and out as if caught between worlds. The rage in her eyes quivered, replaced momentarily by a profound sadness.
With a final desperate plea, Aiofe offered the locket, a tangible symbol of Brigid’s lost innocence. The banshee let out one last heart wrenching cry, then slowly began to dissipate. Her form dissolved into the frigid night air. The wail faded into an eerie silence, and the oppressive darkness lifted. As the first light of dawn broke, the duo collapsed, exhausted but triumphant. Brigid’s spirit had found peace and the village of Dunmore could finally begin to heal from the centuries old curse.
Out clubbing, I meet a dreamy guy, you know the kind. My mother warned about deceptive men, but there he was –muscular, with topaz skin, thick lashes, all that goes with. The band is playing silver slipper music. Only one dance, all I ask is make it slow.
It’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”, my favorite. But as he tongues my ear, he spits a devil-worm inside. It makes passage through my cochlea, down my auditory nerve, straight into my brain, then powers on to reach my retina and ends at the lens. The last thing I see is the universe exploding under my skin.
Vast Lee Andrew Forman
With each particle of light, the ocular focus retains all—joy, pain, elation, agony. The mind recalls its past as it processes its present. But what the consciousness witnesses is beyond comprehension. It exists outside the realm of belief, on the outer reaches of the horizon of reality. Vessels burst, each from the strain of pure terror. Soft brain tissue shrivels at the sight of what cannot be unseen. Even as the last breath releases from this poor soul’s lungs and the heart ceases to function, in death, these memories are ingrained. Forever will its ghost see, in unendingly denied release, the vastness of eternal torment.
The Collector A.F. Stewart
Is it watching me? What does it see floating in that jar?
I stroke the glass jar and smile at my imaginings. The eye sees nothing anymore. It is only a specimen now.
And such a wonderful specimen. So many beautiful memories attached to it. I stare for a moment, savouring its beauty. Blood still clings to the viscera and membranes, the veins snaking stark red across the white filmy pulp. The satisfaction I felt scooping it from its socket, wet and dripping, plopping it fresh into the preserving fluid.
It isn’t perfect though. I made mistakes.
The pretty hazel hue of the iris faded; no longer the sparkling bright colour I envied. A shame really, her eyes were the loveliest part of her. A pity my hand slipped when extracting the other one; I wanted a matched set. Her screams during the procedure were too distracting. I’ll remember to gag the next girl.
I slide a new specimen jar next to her eye. Such exquisitely tapered fingers and a pair this time. The axe made nice, clean cuts; no ragged edges. And cauterizing the wounds with the blowtorch kept her alive. I was so proud. She won’t last much longer, but I should be able to remove her lips before she dies. She has such a charming smile, and now it will be mine forever.
Once I’m done with her, then on to the next one. Perhaps that pretty brunette barista at the coffee shop or that teenager working shifts at the farmer’s market. They both have such gorgeous eyes…
Piecemeal Elaine Pascale
Exercise and diet hadn’t worked. She felt she had run the equivalent of marathons, consumed calories approximating that of fumes, yet the scale did not budge. Pharmaceuticals did not work, either. She experimented with prescription capsules, over-the-counter tablets, and illegally obtained powders. Swallowing, snorting, and injecting left her tired, angry, and the same weight as before.
Stapling her stomach in half heralded a margin of success. Her physician prescribed a healthy lifestyle to accompany the radical surgery and assure lasting results. In her imagination, the directions that were printed on the side of the “lasting results” bottle warned that they must be taken along with patience, and she had run out of that years before. She wanted instant gratification. If half a stomach meant pounds lost, what would removing a few organs no longer in use produce?
She crafted symptoms that led to a full hysterectomy. She forged a family history that led to a double mastectomy. She paid out of pocket for lipo. She flew to a country whose name she could never pronounce correctly to have some unnecessary bones removed along with fingernails, toenails, and teeth. The scale was still not where she needed it to be.
The final solution: eye removal. Not only would that eliminate 56 grams, she would no longer be able to see the scale.
Closing Time Charles Gramlich
She made eyes at him across the bar. He didn’t seem to notice. She smiled and flipped her hair when he finally glanced her way. His gaze passed over as if she were part of the pseudo-paneled and pseudo-velvet décor. Now, it was a challenge. She knew she was attractive enough. And surely that was why men came to such places, and why they stayed until closing time. He was mildly attractive himself, in a kind of college professor sort of way. She decided that he needed to make a pass at her, and then she’d turn him down cold for first ignoring her.
She slithered around the bar to be closer to him and ordered a fresh drink for last call. Tipping the good-looking bartender a little too heavily, she slurred her voice while she thanked him, leaning forward on the stool so the hem of her red dress slid well up her thigh. The mark had to be looking at her now; he had to be thinking about how he could take her home and do things to her. But when she glanced provocatively over her shoulder at him, he wasn’t even there. She turned on her stool to see where he’d gone. The bar was empty. She spun back toward the bartender. He wasn’t there either. Before she could gasp in surprise, a long-fingered hand covered her mouth from behind and a man’s voice crooned chillingly into her ear, “Now that you’ve caught my attention, I only have eyes for you.”
Something plopped into her drink. The golden-brown iris suggested it had once belonged to the bartender.
Hatchling Nina D’Arcangela
Pressure from within stretches the gelatenous casing, the soft shell begins to rupture. A tiny heart—so fragile, so young, quickens as the inner-spawn sees light for the first time. The taut opening widens. Its lasting wait in darkness has come to an end. With it, a cry of pain; the release of violent nature, of agonizing entry into existence. It sees its new domain with fresh eyes; it’s teeming with life. A grumble rises from its empty paunch as it tears free of its sack. Dripping in yolk, its unending feast begins.
Infected RJ Meldrum
I thought I’d been smart. I’m a prepper; my basement is full of freeze-dried food, bottled water and guns. I wasn’t getting ready for anything specific. I just wanted to be ready. When the end came, it wasn’t what I expected. I wasn’t ready. I was in the damn supermarket when it happened. There had been reports of a strange new infection, but nothing local. Just in the city, so I gave it little thought.
I wasn’t aware of how it happened, all I know was a crowd of the infected burst in the front door and started to bite and tear at customers and staff alike. I dropped everything and ran, like everyone else. I passed real close to a victim being torn apart by two of…well, whatever they’d become. Just as I passed, they must have hit an artery and I had to run through a spray of blood. I felt it on my face and had to wipe my eyes to clear my vision.
I got back to my basement safely and locked down. It wasn’t until the second day I realized something was wrong. My left eyeball had a huge inflamed lump on it. It didn’t take long to work out I was infected. I can feel it work its way through my body.
They say the eyes are the window to the soul. I suspect very soon I won’t have one.
The Eye Collector Kathleen McCluskey
Martha woke with a broken blood vessel in her eye. That night she vanished. Townspeople began to wake with bloodshot eyes. Each of them disappeared within twenty-four hours. Detective Sam Harris had seen strange cases. But this one was different. The connection was the bloodshot eyes. As Sam was pouring over the case files, Eliza knocked on his door. She spoke of a legend that had been whispered. The Eye Collector was a demon that fed on the eyeballs of its victims. It could only collect them if the victims offered them willingly. It manipulated their thoughts, driving them mad until they plucked out their eyes. Eliza had a book filled with descriptions for the rituals needed.
That night, Sam felt a presence in his room. A whisper in his ear. “Your eyes, give them to me.” He jolted upright. He ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. The burst blood vessel appeared in his eye. He sought out Eliza and told her of the demon’s whisper. They decided to confront the Eye Collector at his lair, a dilapidated house on the edge of town.
As they approached the house, the front door creaked open. The atmosphere was thick with stench. The walls were lined with jars each containing a single, bloodshot eye. The whispers surrounded Sam and grew louder. Eliza began the ritual, chanting the words while Sam tried to keep his sanity. The demon appeared. It was a shadowy figure with eyes that burned like embers. Sam’s hand lifted to his eyes as Eliza’s chanting had reached a crescendo. The jars shook violently. They toppled off the shelves, shattering. Silence. Two jars remained intact. In one of the eyes, the demon’s eyes flickered.
Penetrating the Ball Harrison Kim
C. and I open our tentacles to touch down and fasten on the red spot of the Black Ball, which resides in the alternative non-liquid Universe. We’re the front-line explorers for our teeming Swarm and will report back via pulse communication about what we find. We left our orbit shells in the swirling waters up front, then slipped under the edge of the Ball’s artificial protective covering, which forms a barrier between our liquid world and the air based world of the Ball. Our mission: to explore the region behind the black centre itself, with a view to its nutritive value. C’s hypothesis is that the ball is attached to the dark mass behind it, which is part of a gigantic alien superstructure. Some type of electrical phenomenon within the dark mass is causing that ball to twitch. That means the alien brain could be located somewhere nearby. We crawl across the red ridged surface of the Ball. Along the way, we hang onto the prominent folded lines of the red spot with our tentacle suckers to avoid being tossed off. Then, we let go, drop down towards the Ball’s centre. Our multiple arms are working hard, but we finally reach our destination. To our surprise, there appears to be a gaping hole. A delicious aroma wafts out. It’s obvious to myself and C. from our previous experiences with the alternative universe that this hole leads to the most nutritious and tasty meal, the living alien brain. We send pulse signals back to the thousands from the Swarm: “Begin the mass attack! First penetrate through the edges of the barrier, then tentacle down into the hole itself. Come and eat your fill for the glorious sustenance and survival of our kind!”
Checking the palm of my hand, all those lines leading where? If I stretch back the skin, I can open things up, peer between the cracks. I perceive nothing but a white screen. There’s pros and cons with every addiction. Mine keeps me alive. I need new parasites every seven days. I’m weak and shaky now, and if I don’t find and absorb more, I’ll fade and die. I need to shock and rejuvenate my body. Sure, it’s in exchange for absolute dependency, but I make my own choices.
I close my palm line opening, drop my hand to my lap, then fiddle with my computer as my first client enters, a tiny wrinkled up woman wearing several layers of ragged clothing, pulling a cart filled with garbage bags. She leans to one side as she limps into the room, lowering herself to the chair using an intricately cut wood cane. I can only hope she’s infected.
“I was pushed into the road by a crazy woman. She spat my face, and I hurt my hip and back,” her voice quavers.
I look up from the computer screen.
“Ms. Bonella, tell me about the pusher.”
“She came running and screaming towards me. A blur. She spat in my face. I know I was her target.”
I nod and write something on a piece of paper. The clients always like that.
She adjusts the various kerchiefs draped round her neck and head, multicoloured cloths of blue and white. “The bank echelons sent her. It was a warning.”
“Yes, she’s their agent,” I reassure. “She was carrying infective parasite cells in her body like so many maggots and passed them on to you with her spittle.”
I take a kleenex and wipe drool off my mouth. I smell the high already, but I’ve got to play the counsellor game. Ms. Bonella wipes off the edges of her own mouth too, using a filthy brown tissue and eyes me up and down. “Are you a witch?”
“No, Ms. Bonella. Like my card and website say, I’m a palm reader who helps individuals with their difficulties.”
“I am an old woman,” she continues. “What am I going to do?”
“You are already infected,” I tell her. “From that pusher sent by the bank echelons. You must obtain treatment.” Mrs. Bonella pulls her topcoat layer around her, then leans forward some more. She pauses before speaking. “Mistress Cindy, the infections are rolling around inside me. Giving me random electric shocks.” She rubs her side “Those evil bankers are stealing from me. I am a good person. In my will, I want to give everything to my grand nieces, for their university education.”
“That is very generous of you,” I say, and I mean it.
“Hold up the palms of your hands,” I tell Ms. Bonella.
I walk round my desk and kneel before the client.
“Look at the ceiling,” I tell her.
I trace along one palm and proceed to open a riverline of skin with thumb and forefinger. As I suspected, one milky blue eye shows in the line gap. It passes by slowly. Then I see another. Mrs. Bonella winces. I wipe my mouth off again, for I’m drooling with want. The echelons are in her system, those so-called electric shocks are their liquid forms pulsing through her veins. They’re keeping her decrepit body alive by circulating, but she doesn’t know that.
She holds her side tighter. “They’re prodding me right now, Mistress Cindy.”
“It’ll be okay,” I reassure her again. “I want you to place your palms in my palms.”
She sits and I kneel, and her tiny hands push into mine. I close my eyes and feel the bulbs of the parasites through her skin. I move my knuckles along Ms. Bonella’s fingertips, making note of every whorl and line.
“Don’t be alarmed, Ms. Bonella,” I say. “I’m going to suck out these invaders.”
I put my lips on her left palm and prise open the central palm line with my teeth and jaws.
My tongue slips between that line. I stick the tip, then the rest of it into Mrs. Bonella’s palm, deep and deeper. As they parasite eyeballs go by, I grab them, lick them up into my mouth and swallow. It’s a warm, satisfying drink.
“What are you doing?” asks Ms. Bonella, “I feel so weak.”
“You are being drained of the echelon energy,” I tell her. “It’s natural to feel that way.”
I go back in with my teeth and jaw, this time for the other palm, prising it open and sticking my tongue in the opening.
Ms. Bonella slumps back in her chair. “You can move your fingers now,” I say as I devour the last of the parasites.
Ms. Bonella tries to stand. She holds onto the chair for a moment
“That was very strange treatment, Mistress Cindy.”
“Go home and rest,” I say. “Tomorrow you’ll throw away that cane.”
“I feel so weak.”
“No charge for the treatment,” I say, as I experience a few seconds of guilt.
She’ll never throw away that cane, without the energy from the parasites. When she sleeps, she will never wake up.
As she totters out the door, I feel my strength rising. The parasite electric impulses whirl within me, merge into my brain. I lift my palm and pull back the skin. No white space now. An eye stares back, then rolls by, and another one peeps out. I whirl my arms around so fast they blur.
I’m alive again, in full strength and vitality, resurrected by the very parasites that consume my soul, even as they crank my body high.
“I’m sorry Mrs…,”
I pause and then flail my arms again. My legs kick out. I’m wild and high. All I remember of the old woman are the lines on her palms, widening, opening, showing me inside.
Jerry had always been drawn to the mysterious and the unknown. So when he found himself lost in the dense forest, he couldn’t help but feel the thrill of excitement. Amidst the serene embrace of nature, Jerry found tranquility in the solace of the forest. As he trudged through the underbrush, his senses heightened for hidden dangers, he came across a concealed path. It led deeper into the woods. With a casual shrug, Jerry stepped onto the path. His sense of adventure rose louder, smothering the doubts screaming in his mind.
Jerry followed the path and emerged into a small clearing. His laid eyes upon a village unlike any he had ever seen. The buildings were quaint yet eerie, their windows dark and devoid of life. What struck him the most was the absence of sound. No birds, no bugs, not even the rustling of leaves. It was an oppressive silence that hung like a wet blanket in the air.
Intrigued, Jerry cautiously made his way into the village. His footsteps echoed loudly on the cobblestone street. The few villagers he encountered glanced at him with wary eyes before averting their gaze. Their faces displayed a silent concern for the outsider that had stumbled into their silent domain. Jerry observed with curiosity as the villagers communicated through intricate gestures. Their hands weaving a silent tapestry of meaning in the air. A shared language born of necessity. They exchanged knowing glances as they looked at hastily scrawled notes passed between them. They refused to speak a single word.
As night fell, Jerry’s unease only deepened. The silence seemed to intensify, pressing down on him like a weight. As his nerves began to frazzle, he sought refuge in a small inn. A grizzled innkeeper offered him a room for the night. As he led him to his room, their eyes met in a moment of silent understanding. The unspoken tension hung heavy in the air. The absence of words between them spoke volumes, the oppressive silence wrapped around them like a spider’s web.
Alone in his room, Jerry couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong with the village. He tossed and turned in his bed. Unable to sleep, he began to pace the floor. He paused. He thought he heard a faint scratching sound coming from beneath the floorboards.
His curiosity piqued, he tore up the loose floorboards revealing an open, hidden trap door leading down into the darkness. Jerry leaned on the hanging door, its ancient hinges gave a grumbled whine. The stairs descending into the blackened void were weathered and worn. Jerry retrieved the flashlight from the night table. He illuminated the shadowy corridor, and he stepped down. The ancient stone steps creaked softly with each cautious footfall. His flashlight caused the shadows to dance across the dusty walls creating eerie phantoms that beckoned him to venture deeper. As he dared to go further into the underground tunnels, Jerry discovered ancient runes etched into the walls, their meanings lost to time. He gently caressed the outlines. He began to sweat as adrenaline coursed through his body. He was unnerved by the sudden rush of anxiety. However, it was more the sense of dread hanging in the air that chilled him to the bone.
Jerry explored the tunnels. Deep within, the air grew stale as a warm silent breeze wafted over him. He stumbled upon a chamber unlike any he had seen. A vast cavern with a gaping chasm in the center. In the dim light of his flashlight, Jerry beheld a grotesque sight. It was a writhing mass of tentacles coiling and undulating in the blackness. The slimy appendages reached out hungrily towards him. Glowing eyes peered out from amidst the squirming mass, their malevolent gaze fixated on Jerry. The creature seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy. Its form shifting and contorting in a nightmarish dance as if to defy reality itself.
As Jerry stood on the precipice of the chasm, a chilling realization washed over him like a wave of icy dread. In that moment, he realized that the absence of sound was not just an eerie aspect of the village but a haunting reminder of the looming threat lurking beneath. He realized that it wasn’t merely a choice but a necessity born from the need to keep the creature at bay. As he faced the creature, its own silence seemed to scream louder than any sound he had ever heard. It was a deafening void that echoed with the weight of centuries, old fear and desperation.The villagers were bound by an ancient pact to keep the creature below at constant rest. For even the slightest sound would awaken it from its slumber.
But it was too late, Jerry’s presence had disturbed the being, and now it hungered for sound. As it surged towards him, he scrambled for freedom. He realized that sound was both his enemy and his salvation.
Jerry’s heart pounded in his chest as he stumbled backward. His mind raced with primal panic. Before he could react, the creature’s slimy tentacles shot out at lightning speed, wrapping around his limbs and pulling him closer with an inexorable force. Despite his terror, Jerry’s throat constricted in fear. It rendered him speechless as he struggled against the creature’s grasp. His scream was trapped inside of him like a caged beast yearning to be free.
With the creature’s tentacles tightening around him like a vice, Jerry’s fear reached its breaking point. In a burst of desperation, he unleashed a deafening scream that echoed through the cavernous chamber.
As Jerry’s scream tore through the silence, the creature recoiled, lifting Jerry higher into the air. It howled as its form contorted and twisted as if assaulted by an unseen force. With a guttural roar, it released its grip on Jerry who was tossed onto the floor. He watched, gasping for breath. As if in response to the creature’s rising, the very ground beneath them began to rumble. The walls of the cavern began to groan and crack under the strain.
The ground under the village started to split apart, fissures snaked their way through the cobblestone streets. With an explosion of dirt and rubble, the creature burst forth from the ground with an ear splitting roar. Its massive form towering over the village like a wrathful titan. Homes crumbled in its wake, reduced to splinters and dust as the villagers ran for cover. Their silent world was shattered by the unleashed fury of the being below. Its massive tentacles lashed out indiscriminately, reducing buildings to rubble. With each step, the ground trembled beneath its monstrous form.
Even as the village lay in ruins and the creature’s hunger sated, there was no sign of it returning to its peaceful slumber. Instead it continued its relentless march. Its glowing eyes fixed on the horizon with an insatiable thirst for destruction. As it disappeared into the depths of the forest, a sense of dread fell over Jerry and the villagers. They knew that the true horror had only just begun.
She was always the last child to leave the school.
At first, she would beg to stay and help the teachers, but something about her didn’t sit right. Her dirty, tangled hair and taped up glasses made her ugly. She had a desperate quality about her, like a starving puppy. She always stood a little too close for comfort and talked a little more than was necessary. The teachers found excuses to send her home.
In later years, she began to misbehave. She would start fights on the playground, vandalize the bathrooms and smart off in class. Whatever she did, she always got caught. The teachers gossiped about how stupid and troublesome she was as they sipped tea in their lounge.
It’s like she wants to stay for detention, they’d say. Then they would move on to her dirty clothes and her broken tooth. She used to be such a good student, someone would reminisce. What happened to her?
They were right, of course. She did used to be a good student, and she did want to stay for detention. She arrived before the custodian unlocked the doors in the morning, every morning. She stayed until he shooed her home. She never missed a day in 4 and a half grades—and then she missed the rest of them.
She would have been pleased to know that she became every teacher’s favorite student after the fact. They named the gymnasium for her and celebrated her birthday every year with a pep rally. She used to be such a good student, someone would reminisce. How could that have happened to her?
But something about her still didn’t sit right. With no place else to go, she of course came back to wander the only safe place she knew. She would stand a little too close for comfort, creating cold spots and shivers. She tried to help after class, but again, no one appreciated her efforts. The teachers found excuses to go home.
Eventually, the school closed. No one wanted to teach there. No one wanted to be students there. Rumors grew faster than children and turned just as vicious. Tales were spread about a murderous custodian, a sadistic principal, a teacher who practiced the dark arts… seeking answers, they buried the truth.
The truth is she stays there still, alone. There is no custodian, principal or teacher—evil or otherwise—to keep her company. She trails down the empty halls, humming to herself and making minute dust devils spin on the cracked tile. She doesn’t notice the emptiness because for her it has always been that way. She stays at school, not because anything holds her there, but because she has no where else she wants to be.
She was always the last child to leave the school.
No one lives in the house, though it’s had many owners. People come and go. They move in despite the stories. Oh, quite a few potential buyers are scared off by the tales of evil. But this is the modern world. Most people don’t believe ghost stories. They explain any deaths they’re aware of away as “coincidence,” or say it’s due to the age of the occupants, or that it’s mere statistics. They pay their money and move in. Then one day they move on—not away, not to another place. They move on! No one lives in the house. Everyone dies there.
Storm Warning Marge Simon
On this day, the sky is a clear cobalt, completely cloudless, yet the weatherman predicts a storm.
The crazy homeless man in your back yard ghost dances barefoot in the rye grass until his flesh parts. You find his inarticulate moans mildly amusing. Keeping an eye on the window, you saunter into your studio, a storage place for pens, brushes, palette knives. It has been so long since you’ve touched them, the paints are drying in their tubes. What happened to the passion? Listlessly, you begin to sketch the silly nut as he wheels and turns on and on around the yard.
Ions gather in the atmosphere. You feel the pressure rising in your blood. A needle jet tears into the strato, Nine Inch Nails on a jagged rift, a soundwave that spreads like an injunction of rolling thunder and suddenly that ghastly human wreck from the yard is stepping from your canvas, skeletal arms outstretched, hands with gigantic claws coming at your terrified face.
The storm breaks. Passion has returned.
Home Invasion Elaine Pascale
The house made her believe many things.
She was too fat, too ugly, too old to leave. Stepping outside the house would cause her harm.
She attempted to coax the house.
The scale heralded pounds shed; the house attributed it to water loss.
Makeup was applied expertly; the house perceived painted women as unsightly.
Finally, the younger, homeless woman was invited in; the house was intrigued.
While the house toyed with her replacement, she stepped across the threshold and onto the weakened stairs. She turned to take in her former place of residence. It surprised her to find that it was the house that was old and ugly. It was the house that was forlorn and unkempt. She contemplated that the house needed her and not the other way around.
She bounded back onto the porch and tried the door. It was locked. She pounded, but it remained sealed.
The house would not let her back in.
She stayed on the porch. She stayed longer than was rational as emotion defied reason.
Through the pane-free windows, she watched her replacement grow fat. She watched as smile-based wrinkles etched the woman’s skin. She watched as her replacement experienced the love she had lost.
Whispers of Madness Kathleen McCluskey
In the middle of the American heartland, there stood a house bathed in mystery and forgotten by time. Its once grand facade now lay in ruin; ivy crept up its crumbling walls like the fingers of a witch. The windows, missing or shattered, resembled wounds that stared out onto the dusty plain.
Legends of the insane family that once called this cursed abode their home circulated with the locals. It was said that their laughter could be heard echoing through the night. The sound of the mournful wind coupled with the family’s cackling sent shivers down the spines of all who dared to venture near.
As the sun began to set, a daring local, fueled by a reckless dare from his friends, ventured closer. Determined to prove his bravery he began to climb the stairs to the front door. Little did he know that his foolhardy decision would lead him straight into the clutches of the house of horrors.
Inside, the air was thick with the stench of decay, creaking floorboards seemed to echo with laughter. Shadows danced upon the walls, twisting and bending into grotesque shapes that seemed to watch his every move. In the darkness, he stumbled upon a photograph. A faded portrait of the family that once called this place home. Their faces were contorted in sinister grins. Their eyes gleaming with madness that seemed to seep from the fabric of the picture.
Suddenly he felt a presence behind him. A cold breath on the back of his neck. Whispers filled the air urging him to join them, to become part of their psychotic legacy. With trembling hands and a heart pounding in his chest, he fled into the night. The echoes of their laughter followed him through the darkness.
Mourning Home Lee Andrew Forman
Lost, desperate, and dehydrated, I come across a house. Elation floods my thoughts. But the euphoria fades once I realize it’s abandoned. Hope still lingers, as where one house rests, more must be near. If I don’t find my way out of the forest soon, I may not at all…
I search the perimeter until my legs tire and the sun has beaten me into submission. Within the structure I seek shelter. As bright as the light outside is, it doesn’t reach the interior. I can’t see much more than the vague shapes of left-behind furniture and the layout of the walls.
My eyelids grow heavy and I lay down for some rest, dreaming away the hours.
A husband, wife, two children, and a beloved cat once lived in a home out in the country, away from the bothers of the world. Their bliss lasted many years, but one day, tragedy gazed at the husband with cruel eyes. While his wife and kids were away to see family, he’d remained home. On one of his many walks in the woods, he never expected to fall and break his leg. Or that the scavengers of the forest would take him for an easy meal so quickly.
I think about that dream for a while, then wait for the sun to rise. I’ll roam the woods, to find my home, and again remember why I’m here.
Reputation RJ Meldrum
It sat by itself on the end of a shabby street. It had been empty and derelict for years. No-one in town remembered exactly how long. Of course the kids all thought it was haunted, some of the adults did too. Every empty, derelict house was haunted. They made up stories and they were passed from generation to generation. The ghost was a widower, shut in after his wife died under mysterious circumstances. It was a spinster. It was a kid, murdered. In each case, the spirits, some vengeful some just sorrowful, still roamed.
The kid entered. It had been a dare and he couldn’t refuse. Spend an hour in the house and bring out a souvenir.
He stood in the abandoned lounge. There wasn’t much of anything left in terms of souvenirs. He guessed he’d have to explore further. He decided to head to the first floor.
There were two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. He turned left. No furniture as expected. One window. He was about to leave when he spotted something odd. In the far corner, just under the window, some of the drywall had newly collapsed, revealing a small cavity. A dirt covered doll lay on the floor. It looked as if it had fallen from the hole. It was perfect and he grabbed for it. Memories, not his, flashed through his mind. He fainted.
Later, much later, when he was able to articulate what he saw, he told them. The cops dug a little deeper into the cavity and found her, or at least what was left of her. After that, the house was demolished and since it been proven to be really haunted no-one in town ever spoke of it again.
Forever Home A.F. Stewart
Not the most inviting house. Shabby, peeling paint, a missing step; it had definitely seen better days. But for better or worse, this was my home, and I was stuck in this backwoods of nowhere location. Stuck in the place my family lived for generations and where I died.
I think there’s irony in that.
It’s funny how fate takes a twist with your life, how you expect one thing but get served something else. I always felt different, I suppose. Bigger than this place. As soon as I hit my teenage years, I wanted to leave. I dreamed of exploring the world, making my mark. My brother felt the same way, but our parents refused to let us go. No money for college, no money for anything but survival. Go get jobs in town and help support us.
How we resented them. We dreamed of being free, anyway we could. Sometimes my brother would talk about using his gun. I guess that’s how it happened. All I know is I found him one morning, a bullet in his brain, the gun in his hand.
I didn’t give it much thought. I simply grabbed the weapon and shot two more bullets in my parents, and saved a third for myself. It was over in a few minutes.
I’m not sorry for what I did, just disappointed.
Everyone else got to leave, but I’m still here.
Under These Beautiful Elms Harrison Kim
I lived my whole life in this house with Mom and Dad. They passed on to the spirit world and I remained. I had my routine, in the days caring for the roses, and the fruit trees, tending to the house and its hurts and breakdowns. In the nights, Mom and Dad would join me, on the front porch as I sat in the old armchair. I spoke with them for years, through those open windows. Yes, their physical forms were dead, but their soul forms kept me alive, as I had nobody else in this world. They couldn’t leave me, and I couldn’t leave them. I was always their precious son. And they were my only parents. We communicated every night, laughing and singing the old songs from my childhood, as the stars rose and the moon circled round the sky. Always so much to sing, all the stories and memories. We’d walk round the garden, calling out memories. The hedge wall by the road kept people away, and when kids would come to explore, a little howling would scare them away. Yes, I passed as well, in this house, more than a year ago. Now the place is sold and will be demolished and subdivided very soon. Our family bones will be disinterred and taken for cremation. My cousin’s family, who now own the place, will see to that. Ghosts need a place to be, a place to call home, and this home will be gone. All three of us will die a second time, and I do not know what comes after, but until that time I will rise every night as I always have, to be with the spirits of my loving Mom and Dad under these beautiful elms.
Home Nina D’Arcangela
It stares as you approach. The small hairs on your body begin to rise, an uneasy feeling overtakes you. It’s quiet, too quiet, but you don’t realize this until you’re right on top of it. Black eyes deep as tourmaline stare as you approach, the mouth a strange gaping slash in its façade. You sense it breathing; a swell on intake, a soundless cripple as it exhales. The pull is almost irresistible as you stand agape. It beckons, inviting you in, though you don’t feel particularly welcome. There is no ease to be found here. A hand slams into your back sending you stumbling forward, your hand touches the rail. You turn to look, but no one is there. You wonder if you imagined it, but the sting between your shoulder blades assures you the phantom is not in your head. A breeze stirs the dead brush, you hear a creak, then another, and another.
You’re standing on the porch, fingers still tipping the rail. You have no recollection of the climb. You hear humming, off-tune yet familiar. The scent of baking pie wafts just a hint. You abandon the now pristine stairs and inch toward its center opening. The smell is stronger, the humming louder. As your eyes pierce the darkness, a figure scuttles past the kitchen doorway. As your vision adjusts, swing music is playing, the interior is now bright and airy. Old fashioned wallpaper sheaths the hallway, bric-a-brac that you’ve seen on your mother’s dresser sit atop a sideboard running the length of the corridor. The kitchen has taken on an otherworldly glow, and the scent of brewing cider melds with the mouthwatering aroma of molasses and brown sugar… Grandma?
It responds to your thought with a booming retort. Only if you want me to be.
Our Side of the Story Angela Yuriko Smith
Oh, if we boards could speak, the secrets we could share. In the basement, we might whisper to pry us up and peek. You might find a few surprises: a tin box of bouillon and paste jewels, a stack of molding newspapers and the boy who was in the headlines. The third stair squeaks to let you know that this is where the third missus hit her head on the final bounce when the maid tripped her. The maid was pregnant by the master of the house and wanted to claim the position of wife, but the poor man felt so guilty he went on a long trip and was lost at sea. If you pinch your finger in the sash at the top of the landing, take care. That sash is hungry for blood after it got a taste of the maid who fell out of this window in a faint, or so the police were told by her jealous lover. A bitter man ever after, he stayed on alone for years until he was somehow locked in the pantry and starved to death in spite of all the canned goods he was trapped with. He broke a tooth trying to gnaw open the cans. Pity the family has left us to ruin. They have the oddest notion our house might be cursed.
The Good Neighbours Miriam H. Harrison
They were the good neighbours. Never much noise. Never hosting the rowdy parties. Never doing much at all to draw attention.
Mr. McCready could still find fault, of course. He didn’t care for their lawn, said it was an overgrown disgrace. But Mr. McCready didn’t seem to like anyone, and no one much liked him. Not that we would have wished that on him. But still, it was only a lawn. Not much trouble there, unless you go looking for trouble.
As far as I’ve heard, he wasn’t the only one to end up there, in the lawn. Just the only one I knew. The others were strangers, passersby. I don’t know if anyone noticed them come. Certainly no one noticed when they disappeared. I think we all were surprised.
After all, they were the good neighbours—until they weren’t.
The light turns red at the exact second I’m about to step out onto the crosswalk, forcing me to retract my foot as the stream of vehicles starts moving. A sigh escapes my lips.
It’s a mild inconvenience at best, but today, I can’t help but feel a strange sense of frustration simmering inside my mind as I stand and wait for the light to turn green. A half-remembered nightmare about being stalked leading to a lack of sleep would make even the most patient man grumpy. My mood’s been foul since I woke up on the hard floor instead of my soft bed. Not to mention the weather in the city at present, which makes me wish I were already in the classroom snoozing for a bit before the first class begins.
My body shivers against my will as a sudden chill creeps down my spine, partly due to the biting wind that sweeps through the air and partly due to the weight of an intense gaze coming from the park behind me, poking at the back of my head.
Hesitantly, I turn around to locate the source, and there it is. Standing at the same spot it’s occupied for the past year, the black dog is no longer the skinny, jumpy thing that would scurry away whenever I approached it to offer a treat. Now, its larger, darker frame is upright and stiff, looking like a shadow that blends into the shade beneath its usual canopy. I can’t clearly see its eyes beneath all the fur and thick shade, but I can feel its distinct gaze upon me, focused and unflinching even when challenged. There are a few people exercising or sitting around in the park, but nobody seems to care about it beside me, and it appears to care about no-one except for me.
The dog’s gaze intensifies into a glare as it sees me watching, and I almost take a step back as though being closer to oncoming traffic is better than being near this unusual creature. The only break from the blackness of its being is a small strip of red that decorates its collar, whose ember-like design seems to wave and shift each time I blink.
I must be seeing things, I muse to myself. It’s barely a quarter past six in the morning, and I haven’t even eaten yet. I need a break from life for a while.
Shaking my head, I once again take in the sight of the dog in its entirety, still standing, still staring, still invisible to everyone else. What breed is that, I wonder? Whatever it is, it sure looks impressive, but who in their right mind would leave such an expensive dog unattended in public like this?
Say what you will about how beautiful this city is or how cultured its residents are, there are always dark spots around, not just in the hidden corners or in the snaking alleyways. For two years I’ve lived here, and many times, I’ve caught glimpses of the shadow lurking behind the alluring glamour, at the deeds done to the creatures struggling to survive in this sprawling concrete jungle. I’ve seen my fair share of roadkills’ carcasses left alone until the remains, dismembered or flattened, merged into the street, of strays being kicked round by some rowdy kids or disgruntled adults chancing upon a convenient outlet for their emotions, and of multiple pets being kidnapped in broad daylight, cameras be damned, which ultimately became yet another dish on some old drunkards’ dining tables. Only the missing posters haphazardly glued to some random utility poles proved that they once existed.
Another wave of shiver wrecks my being as a memory resurfaces, unbidden. I was forced to eat dog meat a year ago by my relatives back home, and I’ve sworn to never go near it again for as long as I live. I know how city people dote on their pets these days, so I find it hard to believe that the owner of this particular dog would be so careless with such a pricey pet.
Maybe the owner’s sitting in the park somewhere? I ponder, locked in a restarted staring contest with the silent creature until a wayward gust of wind blows my hair into my eyes, and I blink. The shape of the collar seemingly changes again. Did it just grow smaller? I squint, uncertainty and curiosity clashing with one another in my mind until I’m dragged back to reality by my own growling stomach.
Right, hunger and sleepiness. I need to have breakfast before the first class starts. Otherwise, I won’t be able to stay awake, and the exams are coming up. I can’t afford to ask my parents for more money to retake the failed subjects. I can’t handle any more of their quiet gazes and lengthened sighs. A yawn tears through my restraint, and I let my gaze travel back to the traffic light.
Three. Two. One. Green.
I step forward. The street is still empty, and the few pedestrians behind me don’t seem to be in any hurry, content to immerse themselves in their own worlds and phones. The upbeat music in my earphones continues to play as I walk, more than halfway across the crossroad, heedless of the happenings around me. I can feel the cold wind blowing against my face. I can taste the fresh air filling my lungs. I can lose myself in the beats of my favorite song as I think about what to eat.
And all of a sudden, my body explodes into blinding agony.
My little world shatters as my body becomes weightless, flying through the air for a brief moment before crashing back down to the ground. All at once, my limbs grow heavy, and every attempt to wriggle them causes the pain to double. Black spots gradually invade my vision as I try to speak, only for some meaningless noises to trickle out of my constricted throat. A short distance away, I can spot the outline of a car, its misshapen front stuck to the deformed guardrails.
Buzzing noises surround me as my vision narrows to pinpricks. The black spots fuse into a wave of darkness, swiftly encroaching from the edges. And within that fleeting juncture of clarity, I see the black dog again, materializing from the shadow shrouding my eyes, its blood-red orbs blazing like an unstoppable wildfire. The beast advances through the gathered crowd, unobstructed, and glares down at me. The ember-like collar around its neck is no more.
Lying there, I can do nothing except let out a single choked moan before the looming creature, either snarling hungrily or grinning grotesquely with its fiery fangs exposed, sinks its teeth into my flesh, from which my shackled soul is ripped out.
I’m only afforded a few seconds to watch as my crumpled body stops twitching, a discarded puppet with all its strings cut, and becomes a bloody stain on the street for people to point at and record. The anguished screams floating through the hissing wind fall on deaf ears as the growling monster drags my thrashing spirit toward its shadowed den beneath its canopy in the park. I flail and wail, claw and beg, curse and cry, all in vain as the pool of shadow expands around my soul, its tendrils clinging onto me and slowly devouring me, bit by bit, until everything’s at last drowned in a void of pure black, beyond sight, beyond sound, and beyond all hope for salvation.
Pen of the Damned 