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.
The tendrils, that’s what Jimmy called ‘em. They got hold of his mind and reached in real far. Slithering, he called it. He said they pulled out something from deep inside, something he never could’ve reached on his own.
Oh, he fought it. That I know. Pills, powder, it didn’t matter. As long as it ‘altered his natural state’ he said, it was fine by him. But it was never enough. Reality was too bent for him to see straight, so crooked was the only way to be. That was the only thing that made sense to him. He said when reality became thought, and thought, reality, he couldn’t tell which was which. And when Jimmy’s mind was in a jumble, so was everything around him. I saw things fly off the shelves when he got upset, furniture jumped around the room when he was mad. Never saw nothing like it before. He just couldn’t control it.
When the walls closed in on poor old Jimmy, they really closed in. I think he lived his whole life in fear. I know I would if I had to live with that kind of…condition. Yes, I seen it myself. That run-down old trailer-home of his, crumpled up like a soda can. Poor bastard worried himself to death.
The bench is cold, the station deserted. She has no idea when the next train will arrive, or even if there are any trains left, still running. She knows she must get away from here, but she doesn’t remember why.
The floor is littered with refuse –used condoms, cigarette butts. All around her is a dark fantasy out of Dahlgren, a depraved city of fallen angels, where the roads that lead here have no exit. She begins to count the tiles on the floor. She feels inexplicably dirty, defiled.
Distant and low, then louder –the wail of a train horn. The floor quakes with the rumble of wheels on steel. She jumps up, rushes to the rattling doors in time to see it thundering by. Then silence.
She returns to the bench. She has no idea when the next train will arrive. With a sigh, she resumes counting the tiles on the floor. The bench is cold. Her skin itches. She begins to scratch her arms. Over and over, until the skin gives way and blood oozes to the surface. Another train and yet another rumble past, but none will be stopping here. She is too weak to stand, but she remembers now. They never do.
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…
It was a slow thing. A subtle thing. Almost imperceptible. If he had tried, or so they said, he could have pretend it wasn’t there. Just try. Try harder. And yet, there he was—and there it was. Almost close enough to touch, but only almost.
It was that dread that unraveled him. His unraveling was another slow yet inevitable thing. The moodiness. The sleepless nights. The pacing hunt for peace.
He never said what it would be, if it found him. He only spoke of escape. Away, away—but to where? No one had the answer.
That was the mystery of my father. The mystery of his hunted life. His tired, tired life of running from something no one could name, running to somewhere no one could find. He died scared. Terrified.
And now, I feel it. That slow, inevitable thing. And try as I might, I know there’s nowhere to go.
I’m an author. I specialize in ghost stories, but the ones I write aren’t very scary. My tales tend to be more of the cozy variety. Ghost pets, friendly specters and the like. I enjoy what I do, but there’s one thing missing. I’ve never achieved my biggest ambition of writing a truly terrifying tale. I wanted to write a story that will give my readers nightmares. Better still, I wanted to spin a tale that will stop them from sleeping altogether.
I realized the key was atmosphere. I needed to find somewhere away from the suburban streets where I live. Somewhere windswept and interesting. Somewhere on the moors. It had to be Dartmoor, the spookiest part of England. My job gave me four weeks of vacation every year. My wife allowed me two weeks, no more.
“If you can’t write a terrifying tale in two weeks, then you never will, especially surrounded by all that atmosphere. Me and kids need a break, that’s what the other two weeks are for.”
“Just you wait. I’ll bring back a story that will make me famous!”
I chose the remotest corner of the moor. I chose February, when there are no tourists and the weather was guaranteed to be lousy. I deliberately didn’t go through any websites to find a hotel; I didn’t want to choose a location known by anyone else. I simply drove the back roads until I found somewhere I could stay. It took a few hours, but then I turned a corner and there it was. An isolated inn, standing on the edge of a barren, wind-blasted stretch of heath. It was rundown, with faded, peeling timber and a mossy roof. The only clue it was open to the public was a sign hanging from a gibbet at the entrance. The Wolfshead. I parked and entered.
It was one of those old-fashioned places, so beloved by the British. Low ceilings, exposed beams and an array of agricultural equipment on display. An open fire warmed the room. The room was empty, except for a man standing behind the bar. I presumed this was the landlord. He sipped from a glass of amber liquid.
“I’d like a room for a few days.”
“Not a problem, we’re not exactly busy.”
He was clearly intoxicated.
I was shown to my room. It was small, with a low ceiling and a single bed. It was scruffy, but clean. There was a stained desk and chair by the window, which had a view across the moor. This was the atmosphere I craved.
My evening was spent in the awkward company of the landlord. He managed to assemble some bread and cheese for me to eat. I ate this meager meal and sipped a warm beer.
It reached midnight. The landlord, who was very drunk by this time, made a feeble attempt to tidy up a few glasses, but quickly gave up after he dropped one, the glass shattering over the stone floor. He clicked off the lights and stumbled out the main bar. I heard him wobbling up the stairs. It was obvious he’d forgotten I was there. By firelight, I finished my pint and went to bed.
In my room, I glanced out the window. There was nothing but darkness, with only the occasional light in the distance to show the location of an isolated farm. It was quite the contrast to my home in the city. I slid into bed. It was very comfortable and I was tired, so I dropped off almost immediately.
I was woken a few hours later by the smell of smoke. I leapt from the bed and switched on the bedside light. Smoke was seeping under the door. I placed my hand against the wood. It was hot. There was fire on the other side. I dared not open it, I knew the room would be engulfed. My only option was the window. I grabbed my phone, wallet and car keys. I opened the window and looked down. It was a drop of perhaps ten feet to the ground. I eased myself out, hung onto the frame and lowered myself. I let go and dropped the few remaining feet onto soft grass.
I ran to the front of the building, but I could already see that it was engulfed in flames. There was nothing I could do. I tried my phone, but there was no reception. I decided to head over the moors to the nearest lights. Since I didn’t know the roads, I decided to head straight across the heath on foot. It wasn’t the best option, but it was my only choice.
It took me about thirty minutes to reach the nearest farm. I was exhausted, scratched and covered in mud. I stumbled into the farm’s kitchen. Despite the hour there was a man sitting by the fire, drinking from a mug. I was gasping from my exertions.
“The Wolfshead! It’s burning to the ground. I can’t find the landlord!”
He remained sitting by the fire, and rubbed the stubble on his chin; not quite the reaction I expected.
“The Wolfshead, you say? Can’t be. That place burnt down years back. Just a ruin now. Landlord got drunk every night. One night he was killed.”
“It’s in flames right now! Even if you don’t believe me, can I least use your phone?”
“Don’t have one.”
Clearly, there would be no help here. I decided to head back to the inn, hoping the emergency services had been notified. I expected to see ominous red glow of the fire to help guide me, but there was nothing but darkness. I stumbled my way across the moor, wondering what on earth was happening. I found the inn after getting lost twice. I stared in amazement at the ruin I found. It was the Wolfshead, the sign was still there, but the windows were all boarded-up and it was surrounded by metal fencing, with stark No Entry signs posted. A forlorn For Sale sign had been attached to the wall near the entrance. The farmer had been correct, this place had been a ruin for years. My car sat in the car park, a very welcome sight. I jumped in, thankful for the chance to go home, to escape that bleak, haunted place. I tried not to think about what had just happened to me.
My wife was pleased to see me back so early, but disguised her emotions with a display of annoyance, complaining that I’d disturbed her ‘me’ time. I was bitterly disappointed, not just because of my traumatic experience, but because I hadn’t written my story. But every cloud has a silver lining. It was my wife who gave me the idea.
“Not that I believe you about what happened, but if it’s true, it all sounds pretty terrifying. Why don’t you just write that?”
Hugo watched from his bedroom window as his wife stuffed something into the garbage receptacle he had dragged to the curb hours before. It was 3:15am and she had done this on four subsequent trash nights.
The following morning he decided to ask her about her jaunt to the trash can. Having lived with her for nearly 30 years, he knew he could not speak to her before her first sip of coffee. She had a superstition about it. “Have you been having trouble sleeping? I woke to go to the bathroom and you weren’t in bed.”
She pretended to be concerned with cracking the shells on their eggs. “Hmm? What was that, honey?”
“Sleep. Are you sleeping well?”
“You know I’m going through the change. It complicates everything. It’s hard to sleep, eat, or find a comfortable temperature.”
That didn’t satisfy his curiosity about her weekly pilgrimage to the trash cans.
“Maybe we switch sides? I sleep closer to the door and you sleep next to the window…for the breeze.”
“Oh no, it’s bad luck for a couple to swap sides after so many years. We were just talking about that at book club.”
He stirred his coffee thoughtfully before responding. “I thought you talked about books at book club.”
She laughed. “We talk about all sorts of things.”
“Mostly complaints about husbands?”
“Of course not.” She appeared focused on flipping the eggs with precision. “We are supportive of each other’s marriages; we don’t want to promote negativity.”
He saw her spoon a powder onto the skillet. “That’s not salt…”
“Nope. Remember, I told you that Jody Hunter came back from the Amazon. She had an amazing trip.”
“And she brought you back seasoning?”
“Not just seasoning, this is a type of mushroom that is good for women of our age. It helps with mood and clarity.” Her eyes narrowed. “I am adding some to your eggs, too, as you seem to need a brain boost…you don’t remember us talking about this at all? About how she brought back some powders and tinctures and…spiritual icons.”
“Spiritual icons?” Hugo snorted. “She is filling you with nonsense.”
She didn’t answer but stared out the window at the utilities truck that had come to receive their collection.
***
The following week Hugo got up at 5:00 AM and went to the garbage bin as his wife snored soundly in bed. He pulled out several large bags; one had a pinhole leak that dribbled onto his slippers like a dotted line.
At the bottom of the bin was a small blue marble.
Is that what she has been hiding? Where did the marble come from and why did she need to throw it away in the dark of the night?
He took the marble and planned to question her over breakfast.
He waited for her to finish her morning affirmations; she had a strong belief that saying them influenced the outcome of her day. He noticed that she read from a notebook while reciting quietly to herself. She had been adding many new rituals to her routine.
“You know when I was a boy I collected the darndest things.” He began, watching her sip her coffee.
She nodded. “I know you had those matchbox cars. And the coins from when your dad travelled.”
“And marbles. Did I ever tell you about my marble collection?”
She raised an eyebrow. “No. That’s funny, I can’t remember you talking about a marble collection.”
He slapped his knee as if this were all a good joke. “Really? All these years and I never mentioned it?”
“Mustn’t have been a very good collection.”
“Au contraire! It was really something. I had marbles everywhere. Stashed away in jars and bottles. My favorite were the blue.” He pulled a marble from his pocket. “Like this.”
Her jaw dropped. “Where did you get that?’
“Why did you throw it away?”
“You can’t have that.” She snatched the marble from his hand and raced to the door. From the window he could see her looking down the street at the utility truck that had just taken their garbage and was driving away.
She was frantic, pacing in the street and rolling the marble between her hands.
When Hugo went to the door to tell her to come back inside, she rushed past him into the house and grabbed the car keys. Moments later, she pulled out of the driveway, with no concern for the fact that he needed to get to work and they shared a car.
Thirty minutes later, she returned.
“Don’t ever do that,” she snarled as she threw the keys to him. He had lived with her long enough to recognize when she was furious.
***
The next week, as he tried to fall asleep on trash night, he found her staring at him. “You did something very bad,” she said in a voice that was completely unfamiliar. “You need to learn a lesson.” She showed him a red marble. She then left the room. From the window, he could see her burying it in the trash.
The following morning they consumed a silent breakfast. Hugo went to work as usual, but by late afternoon, he felt sick, feverish. He took to his bed for days.
When he was finally able to leave his bed and go to the breakfast table, it was trash collection day again. He could not believe that he had lost an entire week. He scolded himself for being nearly as superstitious as his wife.
“I hope you’re happy,” he told her. “You planted that idea in my head of the red marble having meaning.”
She peered at him over her half-consumed cup of coffee. “Count your blessings. It could have been a black marble.”
“You’re crazy. I am not listening to any more of this.”
She shrugged. “Marjorie Baker put a black marble in her trash last night.”
He lifted a piece of toast, noting that the trash had already been picked up. “I give. What does black—”
His question was both cut off and answered by the sound of sirens racing to the Baker house.
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!”
Sam slowly paddled the canoe down the river, carefully negotiating the rocks that were dotted along the way. Mosquitoes nipped at his neck and face with such regularity that he didn’t even bother to swipe at them anymore. At least they were eating well. In this jungle food was virtually non-existent. He wondered how the local tribes managed to survive out here. The plant life was mainly poisonous and what was edible had little to no nutritional value. The wildlife mainly consisted of snakes and spiders, all highly venomous, any monkeys that he occasionally saw jumping from tree to tree were impossible to catch without the use of a firearm and he had long since run out of powder and shot.
It was 1748 and Sam’s second attempt to reach the San Quito outpost deep within the Amazon rain forest. His first attempt ended in failure due to bad weather. This time he had succeeded and was trying to return to where he called home, a small village populated by traders and explorers. His canoe was packed with rare plants. They were completely inedible, but in the right hands they could be turned into medicine. In the wrong hands they became the basis for a very powerful narcotic. He could make decent money selling to those with the right hands, but even more selling to those with the wrong ones. His haul was worth its weight in gold and had cost him very little.
It was now a race against time to get back down the river, a race that he was losing. If disease didn’t get him then starvation certainly would. He was weeks away from his destination and weeks since his last good meal. He had lost what meagre rations he had whilst negotiating some rapids. His stomach was empty and rumbled continuously. He wretched over the side of the boat. Stomach acid burned his throat as it poured from his mouth into the river. He wiped his mouth and took a sip of water from his canteen.
A few days later he heard a voice calling. At first he thought he had imagined it. But then he heard it again.
“Hello, friend.”
Sam could see a man on the riverbank waving to him. He paddled over and they exchanged greetings.
The stranger’s name was Nathaniel. He had also intended to trade at San Quito, but his canoe had been dashed against the rocks during a sudden surge in the river due to heavy rains a few weeks back. He had lost everything to the river and looked in even worse shape than Sam. His eyes and cheeks were sunken and his skin had a sickly grey hue to it.
“I had given up hope of finding anyone,” he blubbered, tears streaming down his face.
“Calm yourself sir,” Sam replied. “If we reorganise my cargo I’m sure I have room for you.”
With the sacks of medicinal plants moved to the centre of the canoe, Nathaniel sat himself at the front with Sam seated at its rear.
“I must admit, walking through that cursed jungle I’ve lost all track of time and no idea how far we are from civilisation. How long will it take to make it down river?” Nathaniel asked.
“At least three weeks by my reckoning.” Sam replied.
“My god, that long? I had hoped I’d made more progress on foot, but it was heavy going. I’m starving, I don’t suppose you have any food?”
“I do now,” Sam said, picking up the machete from the floor of the canoe.
Pen of the Damned 