Horror Stories of 1,000 Words or Less
For the month of February 2025, these are the flash fiction horror stories that entertain us most.
​* Madeline by B.M. Hronich​
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* Expectant by Kenneth Tilford
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* Grandpa Farmer Never Leaves His Fields by Stetson Ray
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* Silent Night by Rose Abernathy
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* The Last Stop by Patricia Pease
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* The Back of the Cave by Abram Dress
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* Snuggle Buddy by Matt Scott
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* A Word Instead of Love by James Mason
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* I Don't Care by Cynthia Pitman
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* We Did This by Deborah Prespare
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* Please See the Human in Me by Alyssa Minor
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* That Which Blooms Boldy Must Return by Deidra Kelly
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* Beau by Donna Marie West
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* My Children Claim a Train by Pierce King
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* DEGENERATIVE AI by Paul Rodriguez
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* Mirrors by Nathan Poole Shannon
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* To Fight and Die...Again by Ronald Larsen
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* Baby Bump by Cecilia Kennedy
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* Ammo, Amare, Amas by Garry Engkent
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* Terrible Churning Mass by Holden Arquilevich
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* Nigel and Ron's Big Mistake by Olivia Sowers
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* The Monster in Your Dreams by Bill Cox
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Madeline by B.M. Hronich
Her Papa, as he insists she call him, tugs her hand with a growl as they march through the parking lot. Hard, cold rain patters against her jacket, soaking her dark hair, streamlining alongside the sparse tears that fall from her eyes as she searches for any trace of the doll she had dropped in the dark expanse beneath the sewer grate.
For only a moment, she paid no attention. For only a moment, she was careless.
And in that fragment of time, raindrops slicked over her fingertips, slivered between her and her grasp on the doll, until it became unobtainable, lost below the metal grate.
For a moment, she fussed, but then she quieted, followed him through the shadows of the chilly rain and dark clouds looming overhead. He wishes he could leave her at home, he says, but this mindlessness is the very reason he cannot.
They’ll be fast, he promises, just some food and errands, and then they’ll return home. She must stay close. He’s been watching the news–he fears someone will steal her.
He tosses their typical groceries in the cart, and she is by his side, the ghastly image of him, with dark hair and wide, heavy eyes sunken beneath the sockets. He starts down the aisle with office supplies, and they neighbor the small pets. She begs him to go look. There is something grim in the curve of his lips, in the way he lets out a breath, the fear conquered or abided by, when he agrees to let her go.
She starts with the fish, where betas swirl in separate bins. Each is separated, left alone, wandering, bouncing off the tight walls of their constraints. She finds a hamster in a pink cage at the end of the aisle. Its fur is light, a buttercream yellow, and she almost thinks to beg him for it, although she knows his answer. It perks up at the sight of her. It emerges from its pile of litter, stalks toward her. She leans in, her face close. They are nearly inches apart.
As though to break their tension, it begins to claw at the metal wiring, squealing as it kicks up its bedding, and she flinches, just as Papa appears behind her, tells her it’s time to go.
Walking alongside him, her eyes graze over the shopping cart for the Hostess Cupcakes she loves. He got two boxes. There’s strawberries, too, chicken nuggets, and some other food they both like. For the house, he got more cleaning supplies and trash bags. A small suitcase rattles on the ledge beneath the cart.
She glances at a mirror that they walk past, and is suddenly haunted by her own reflection, as though the sight of herself alone summoned a dark cloud overhead: she stares at the bangs she didn’t want, that he demanded he cut, at the golden hair he dyed brown.
They go through the self-checkout, and they are fast. Her eyes gloss over posters of advertisements, upcoming events in the town, and then, she stops.
A girl just a year younger is smiling back at her, golden locks tumbling past her shoulders.
MISSING, it reads, MADELINE BENNETT, 7 years old. If seen, call 911
His grip tightens around her wrist. “Let’s go, Madeline.”
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B.M. Hronich is an emerging writer. Her work has been seen in Footprints on Jupiter, Rock Salt Journal, and the Rutgers University Writers House Review. When she is not writing, she is studying to complete her bachelor's degree in biological sciences with a minor in creative writing, and picking up shifts as an EMT.
Expectant by Kenneth Tilford
I awaken to the sound of vomiting. I’m alone in a cell. A small one at that, maybe ten feet by ten feet. My head hurts. My stomach is in a knot, which is only made worse by the continual sound of retching coming from the cell next to mine. I close my eyes and try to calm my nerves, but it’s useless. I heave up a bit of bile and blood.
A minute passes and my stomach settles. Another minute and the vomiting from the next cell ceases. There’s movement outside. I run to the door. There’s a small window, but not enough light to make anything out. Footsteps echo through the hallway.
“Hello? Can anyone hear me?” I bang my fist against the door.
They pass me by, stopping at the cell next to mine. My neighbor’s door opens and I can hear a man quietly sobbing.
The sobs turn into shrieks, followed by the sounds of a struggle. There’s a thud, then silence. His door slams shut and the footsteps retreat. My stomach aches. I return to the steel cot, trying to ignore the red speckled bile on the floor. I cry myself to sleep and I dream of fish swimming in a sea of pearls.
There’s a bang at my door. I rush over and peek through the window. A man is staring back at me.
“Can you open your door?” he whispers.
I reach for the handle, but there isn’t one. “No, I can’t.”
“Back up.”
A loud bang reverberates through my cell as he slams his shoulder into the door. Again and again he hurls himself against it. I can barely contain my excitement at the thought of escape. My hopes dwindle as he carries on. It doesn’t budge. Suddenly, light envelopes the stranger. The footsteps from earlier have returned. Their pace is much quicker now. The man takes off running. Two strangers pass by my cell. I press my face against the glass, trying to see down the hall.
“Hey! Let me out of here!” I hit the window. Pain shoots through my hand. “You bastards!”
The lights go out and the two strangers pass by once more. I scream at them. The man is gone. I try to sleep but can’t. A few hours later a bowl of flavorless gruel is shoved through an opening at the bottom of the door. A full belly helps me to finally fall asleep.
The next few days are restless. Aside from a hole in the floor for me to relieve myself in, there’s no way in or out of the cell aside from the door. With no hope of escape, my mind turns to searching for anything to preoccupy my time. I take to scratching words into the painted walls, quickly discovering that the structure is composed of cinderblocks. It’s man-made. I wrack my mind trying to figure out why I’m here. Is this a prison? Am I a criminal? What could I have possibly done to deserve this?
I soon realize that I can’t even remember my name. I look at my reflection in the door window. I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me. I cry myself to sleep once again.
Were it not for the bowls of gruel delivered twice a day, I’d have lost track of time entirely. To make matters worse, my stomach is distended and hard as a rock. Even slight movements are a struggle. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced cramping like this before.
Today I woke up to the worst pain yet. My stomach feels ready to burst. I’m sweating. My heart is pounding. Is this what a heart attack feels like?
I try to stand, only to fall to my knees as a wave of pain washes over me. Inch by inch I make my way to the door. I pound my fist against the cold steel, hoping for someone to come help. I try to yell out, but all that comes out is a howl. The strain on my throat is too much. I vomit up more bile.
More blood.
Another heave. Mostly blood this time. Some remote part of my mind registers that a light has turned on in the hallway. Footsteps are approaching as I heave once more. A ball of slime, about the size of a golf ball, forces its way up my throat. It hits the floor with a sickening plop. The door swings open and the two strangers from before stand before me.
They’re human, yet not. There’s something wrong with their skin. It’s covered in wax or something. I barely have the time to care. Another ball of slime forces its way out, followed by yet another. The strangers watch, undisturbed. Finally, with one last retch, I expel what seems to be the final blob. My stomach gurgles. I scramble away, eyeing the strangers. One kneels, picking up the blobs and placing them in a large glass cylinder. I dry heave as I see one split apart, releasing something that resembles a centipede into the container.
The second being lifts me into the air. I see its face and scream at its insect-like features. Grabbing my jaw, it forces my mouth open. From beneath its robe a dozen tiny hands appear. Each one holds a small, waxen ball. It forces them into my mouth and down my throat. I feel sick. It shoves a glob of gel into my mouth and across my face, gluing my lips together and stopping me from vomiting the balls back up.
My head is spinning. I watch them leave, having already forgotten when they arrived. They look human, but not quite. The door slams shut. I feel darkness wash over me. I’m tired. I sleep.
I awaken to the sound of someone vomiting. I’m alone in a cell of some sort. A small one at that, maybe ten feet by ten feet. My head hurts.
​
A longtime horror and pulp fiction fan, Kenneth has always had an interest in the strange and macabre. His influences include H.P. Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard, and Michael Crichton. He has been happily married for fifteen years, and is father to two boys, a chubby beagle, and a lazy cat. When he isn’t spending time with his family, you can find him reading, watching a horror movie, or tending the grill. His works have been previously published in Aphotic Realm Magazine and on Dark Fire Fiction. He can be found on X @tilfordkage.
Grandpa Farmer Never Leaves His Fields by Stetson Ray
Caroline turned off the highway onto a narrow road—but she didn’t slow down. Tom flailed for something to hold onto. There was barely enough room for one car on the road; he didn’t know what would happen if they met any oncoming traffic.
“How much further?” he asked.
“Not much,” Caroline answered. “Maybe ten minutes.”
“So about fifteen if you were driving the speed limit…”
Caroline grinned and dropped a gear, and they sped around a sharp curve. Reckless driving was one of her only serious flaws, so Tom was learning to live with it. The road straightened out ahead of them and they went on.
He stuck his hand in his jacket pocket to make sure the engagement ring hadn’t fallen out; it hadn’t. After two years of dating, Tom had finally decided to ask Caroline to marry him; he was just waiting for the perfect time. Or that’s what he was telling himself. Truthfully, he was putting off the question because he was terrified of getting turned down. Caroline was out of his league in every way.
“I can’t wait for you to meet Grandpa,” Caroline beamed.
Tom had met most of Caroline’s family at dinners and birthday parties and graduations and such, but there was one much-discussed family member he had never encountered.
“Why doesn’t your grandfather come to family get-togethers?”
“He hasn’t left the family farm since Grandma died. I guess you could say he’s kind of stuck there—out in his fields. It’s sad.”
“Grandpa Farmer is stuck on his farm…” Tom mused.
“Go ahead. My classmates always made a game of mocking my last name when I was in school. I’ve heard it all before.”
Tom saw this as an opening to gauge her interest in his pending question. “I wasn’t mocking your name,” he said, “but I do think Wilson would sound better on the end of your name than Farmer.”
She said nothing, though she did give him a knowing smile.
The countryside where Caroline had grown up was beautiful, but it was beginning to rain, and the skies were changing from silver to slate gray. Dark clouds obscured the sun by the time they arrived at the farm. Caroline dodged potholes as they crawled up the gravel driveway. They stopped in front of an old farmhouse.
“Your grandfather lives here?”
Most of the windows were shattered. Paint was falling away from siding in flakes. There was a bathtub-sized hole in the roof.
“Not exactly.”
Caroline hopped out of the car and strolled into the emerald fields that surrounded the dilapidated shack.
“Where are you going?” Tom called as he climbed out of the car.
“I already told you: Grandpa Farmer never leaves his fields. Come on.”
Tom jogged to catch her. “Are you sure he’s out here?”
Caroline ignored the question. Thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed. Tom shielded his eyes from the rain as he stumbled along behind her. He’d never tell her, but he had never set foot on a farm before, and so far, he wasn’t enjoying the experience. Ahead of them stood a dead tree, and they were headed toward it—a lightning rod if he’d ever seen one.
But Tom was tired. And wet. And he didn’t want to get electrocuted. He could meet Caroline’s grandfather another day. She might get angry with him, but he wanted to go home.
They stopped in front of the tree and Tom said, “Caroline, I think we should leave. This weather could be dangerous. We’ll come back another time.”
Caroline’s reaction was not what Tom had anticipated: her cheeks turned red, and her brow furrowed. She was looking at him like he’d just passed gas during a funeral.
“Tom, I’d like you to meet my grandfather,” she said flatly. “Grandpa, this is Tom. Tom, this is Grandpa Farmer.”
Tom’s gaze slowly moved to the figure that stood before them.
Grandpa Farmer stood about fifteen feet tall. A layer of thick brown bark covered his entire body. He had large feet to keep himself grounded; they forked out into dozens of roots and disappeared into the earth. His legs were two thick bundles of twisted vines and branches. The shredded remnants of a flannel shirt hung loose around his wooden torso. His left arm was long, outstretched, and covered in bird droppings; a sparrow had built a nest in the upturned palm of his hand. His right arm had fallen off at some point, but a new one was growing out of his shoulder; it was no bigger than a spring sapling.
Tom finally looked at Grandpa Farmer’s head, which was as gnarled and knotted as the rest of him. Electricity streaked across the sky, and Tom saw that Caroline shared a distinctive physical feature with her grandfather:
They had the same golden-brown eyes.
Tom couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t move.
There were two red apples dangling from Grandpa Farmer’s largest arm.
“Look!” Caroline shrieked. “It’s almost like he knew we were coming!” She reached up and plucked the apples and handed one to Tom. A wide smile stretched across her face, she bit into her apple and chewed like she was starving.
Tom looked between the apple in his hand and the tree from which it had been harvested.
“What’s wrong, Tom?” Caroline asked. “You love apples.” Her expression changed from happiness to hurt as she looked at him. There was juice running from both sides of her mouth. “Don’t worry about him.” She turned to her grandfather. “He’s from the city. I don’t think he’s ever been on a farm before.”
Tom backed away from them. His mouth was moving, but no words were coming out.
“Tom? Where are you going?”
His eyes darted between Caroline and her grandfather. “I’m sorry,” he grunted, then fled.
“Tom!” Caroline shouted. “Wait!”
But Tom kept running. He didn’t look back. He didn’t slow down.
He wouldn’t realize it until later, but he’d accidentally left something behind: a shiny diamond ring lying in the dirt near Grandpa Farmer’s feet.
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Stetson Ray lives in the hills of East Tennessee and spends as much time as he can writing. He's had short stories published by Cosmic Horror Monthly, Illustrated Worlds Magazine, and the NoSleep Podcast.
Silent Night by Rose Abernathy
Blood-coated tinsel sparkled between the lights on the flocked Christmas tree. The coppery scent mixed with pine and the smokey warmth of the fire in the hearth.
Rheanna sat in her grandfather’s recliner and admired her handiwork of homemade presents under the tree.
Gropy Uncle Bob’s splayed, severed fingers. Great Aunt Marie’s wagging tongue with her questions about Rheanna’s “ticking biological clock” and “when was she ever gonna settle down with a nice man?” despite knowing Rheanna was gay.
Racist cousin Mike’s heart next to alcoholic Granddad’s hand with his diatribes about immigrants.
Her father’s dismembered arm that never once raised to help, only in anger, only to scrutinize the food he didn’t cook. For once useful with the bone poking out of the flesh, it propped up her brother-in-law’s foot he never stopped jiggling.
Her sister’s perfect, long, dyed blonde hair, which she never stopped touching, now streaked with red.
But at the top of the tree was her pièce de résistance, strapped to the bowing branches.
Her own mother’s ever-judgmental severed head, milky eyes no longer seeing, no longer weighing every flaw of Rheanna from her gray-streaked hair she refused to dye to her not revealing enough clothes to her immoral tattoos.
Rheanna stretched her neck. Dried, tacky blood on her hands, she grabbed a handful of chocolate puppy chow mix and shoved it in her mouth.
Finally, she had her silent night.
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Rose Abernathy is queer Appalachian writer who loves hiking, attending fan conventions, and watching more horror movies than is healthy. Their personal essays and short stories can be found in Apostate: Stories of Deconversion, Devour the Rich, and Appalachia Bare. You can follow them on Bluesky @rosecabernathy.
The Last Stop by Patricia Pease
The subway door whooshed shut beside Jacob. The 9 mm suppressor wedged a dent between his rib cage. He shifted in his seat and stole a bored glance out the window. His eyes widened and blinked to clear the blur. He must be hallucinating. His target was dead. He had checked the carotid artery and wrist pulse. After fifteen years on the job, he knew when someone’s heart had stopped.
If the mark was dead, then why was he standing on the subway platform, pulsating like a beating heart. His temple and chest execution wounds were gaping open, raw, and bleeding. There was no way his victim got up, left his apartment and traveled to the Ninety-fifth and Vine subway station. Yet, here he was evaporating one second and materializing the next.
The train groaned and pulled forward, leaving the horrific vision behind. In his mind, Jacob replayed his actions that night. After gaining access to the victim’s apartment, he’d ambushed the guy, then buried bullets; two shots to the torso, one to the head. It was a clean kill. End of story.
A bead of sweat trickled down his hair line. Did his conscience conjure an apparition to haunt him? Morality never bothered him before, yet the dead man’s accusatory glare had definitely rattled him. With trembling fingers, he massaged his temples, while a headache bullied his forehead. Focusing on his breathing, he relaxed his shoulders and took an inventory of his life.
As a kid, he was beaten numb with alarming regularity. But, he couldn’t use that as an excuse. The real problem was he didn’t feel things the way other people claimed. Remorse and guilt were not side rails to guide and buffer his choices. It was as if there was an endless tunnel where his heart ought to be. He felt like he was pummeling down that endless tunnel on this train. Menacing shapes outlined by murky silhouettes sped by as he raced to his destination.
He studied his hands and placed them against the glass window. He imagined ghosts of all the men killed by those manicured fingers and grasped at their shadows flying past.
At some point, you have to be honest with yourself and make peace with what you are.
The loudspeaker squawked, “All passengers prepare to disembark. End of the line… Hell.”
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Patricia Pease has been published in Barren Magazine, 50 Word Stories and upcoming issues of Hippocampus, Uppagus, and 50 Give or Take. She blames authors like Shirley Jackson, Stephen King, and Ania Ahlborn for her obsession with horror and dark fiction.
The Back of the Cave by Abram Dress
“It’s real, right? The tusk and the blood?”
Taylor chewed on the end of her cheerleader ponytail. Her eager eyes widened as I inspected the jagged, broken piece. Six inches long at least, sharp like a knife on one edge. The broken end wasn’t smooth: something had torn it off, not cut or sawed. The maroon stain on that knife edge hinted that the transaction hadn’t been peaceful.
“It’s resin or something,” I said.
She glared, not disappointed the tusk was fake, rather disappointed a loser like me would crush her fantasy.
The package was print-labeled from Taylor’s absentee father. He’d abandoned his own family after ruining mine. Taylor had milked his absence over the following year—sympathy, hugs, tears, starting position on the cheer squad.
“So, this map,” I said. “You think it’s a puzzle game?”
“Definitely!” Her glare shifted to excitement. “It’s got to be from my dad! He used to get those puzzle boxes for me and Mom.”
“I know.” Back when their families had been a little COVID bubble, Taylor’s parents often brought the games to our house. Before. Back when Taylor and I and our families were friends, before unfaithful parents, divorce. And cheerleading.
“You always figured them out,” Taylor said. “Just help me with this one?”
Help me with this one. Yeah, I’d heard that line enough. With one side of her face, Taylor would mock me in front of calculus class, then with the other side, she’d pretend our friendship still mattered and ask me to “Just help me with this one math problem?” or “Just help me with this one cheer move?”
How many times had I fallen for “Just help me with this one…”?
Too many times, so why not this time as well?
“Sure. I’ll get my stuff.”
As the afternoon faded, I led us. We followed the map clues over barely seen paths and past pseudo-landmarks in the forested area abutting our expansive suburb.
Around the corner on a game trail several miles from home, Taylor yipped, “A cave! Like on the map!”
I grinned excitedly when she looked back at me. “How cool!”
Taylor proffered the friendliest and most approving smile I’d seen in years. Since she ditched me for her cheerleading friend, Jessica. When Jess vanished, Taylor had milked the sadness of a lost friend, too, becoming even more popular. Who cared that Jess had terrorized half the class, and most of us were happy she left?
Were we bonding again, finally?
No, it was the same fake smile she’d used every time she needed my help. Her lips were a lie, and I wouldn’t fall for it.
I bowed, flamboyantly gesturing, and beckoned her into the opening. “Do the honors, milady.”
She curtsied like a princess, flicked her phone into flashlight mode, and we tip-toed into the enveloping darkness. Shadows reached at us like clawed spiders. Echoes could have been dripping water or mangled screams. The chill air smelled of mildew and horror stories.
“I’m freaked out,” I said. “Let’s head back.” I knew I sounded scared. Really scared.
“No.” Not acknowledging the fear in my voice, she said, “The map showed it’s at the back of the cave.” A pause. “Don’t be a little loser.”
I gave her space as she advanced into the cave, but I didn’t let her out of my sight. That wouldn’t do at all.
Minutes later, Taylor stopped, knelt, and grabbed something from the rocky floor. She held the mangled mass up, shining the phone light on it.
A cheerleader outfit, torn, dark with blood. A name embroidered in gold on the back.
Taylor gasped. “Jessica–”
Her words vanished. A low growl rumbled through the surrounding darkness. Grating footsteps approached, splashing in puddles and scraping on rock. Fiery crimson eyes burned into view at shoulder height.
Taylor stumbled back, almost knocking me over.
“Run!” she screamed.
I shoved her. “No.”
Taylor’s eyes widened more as she looked down at my hands resting on her chest.
“What are you…?”
I pushed harder. She stumbled and fell to the ground below the glowing eyes. “Go get your treasure.”
She tried to scuttle away from the eyes, but brutal claws pierced her leg and dragged her back. The light from her phone shone from where she’d dropped it, casting shadows of horror on the cave walls.
I smiled as the beast shredded Taylor’s body with its remaining tusks and vicious fangs. Her anguished screams were pleasant. More pleasant than her home-wrecker dad’s had been when I first fed the beast. Or cruel Jessica’s, when her turn had come.
When the bloody feeding was complete, the beast purred. Gore dripped from its mouth, splattering on the cave floor. Its cloven hooves pawed a hellish screech on the stony ground.
I caressed its bristly hair, running my fingers along its blood-covered snout and along the severed stump where one of its tusks used to live.
“I’ll bring fresh meat soon.”
As I followed the familiar path home, I left the beast to its leftovers, already planning the next feeding. I didn’t like the way Taylor’s mom had treated me and my family. Nobody would mistreat me like that.
Time to prepare another puzzle box.
​
Abram Dress writes speculative fiction, typically with a mix of horror and humor. He is the author of several short stories. He is working on his first novel, DAYS GONE BY, a tale of time travelling pirate adventure. You can read much of his work on his Substack at https://abramdress.substack.com/
Snuggle Buddy by Matt Scott
God, he smelled good. He always did. She breathed him in, letting his cologne waft across the bed. She loved this time of night—right when they crawled into bed, getting warm and toasty beneath the covers, wrapped in each other’s arms.
He had his faults, sure, but the man had his charms, also. She had missed him these past few days. He’d been on the road. She hated it when he was gone overnight, let alone for two or three like he’d just been. But he was home now, in bed, all safe and sound and warm and all hers.
She didn’t want to kill the mood, but she had to get up to make herself presentable again. She must look awful. What a workout. She kissed Jack’s forehead gently and gingerly extracted herself from the covers. He didn’t stir. She tiptoed to the bathroom, showered quickly, dried off, powdered, wrapped a towel around her hair, and was back in bed before he could say ‘rinse and repeat.’
The room smelled of sandalwood, cornstarch, and Old English. Rose petals littered the floor. Candles burned on the nightstands, flanking the king-sized bed. Flannel sheets adorned it, and she and her lover were snug as a bug beneath their velvety touch. Adele played softly in the background, piped across the intimate space via Bluetooth speakers positioned strategically around the bedroom.
The night had been perfect. Beyond romantic. She had been putty in his hands, and he a sculptor. He really turned it on tonight. Did everything just right. Really knew how to make a girl happy.
She lay there tracing her name on his back, his shoulders strong, his skin dark, soft, except for his hands. They were like sandpaper, and she loved every inch of them. She didn’t want to lessen his effort, his involvement in tonight’s success. And it was a smashing success. God, she was so pleased with how everything turned out. So incredibly surprised that it all went off without a hitch.
Which brought her back to the thought at hand—her involvement.
So, she may have helped just a little. May have nudged delicately, ever so gently, planting the seeds of romance in his little lizard brain. But, she had to admit, damn, it turned out alright. Alright. Alright.
Tracing her name repeatedly upon the bare skin of his right shoulder blade, she sank her head into the pillow beside his. His head was turned, facing the wall. She stopped tracing her name and began twirling a strand of his curly hair. She found his long hair very sexy. Always had. In fact, it was nothing physical that had ever been the problem.
The problem had been, the whole reason for tonight, that she had felt the romance was lacking in their relationship. That he was flirting with cashiers, waitresses, and dog walkers. It seemed like anytime they passed a little twenty-something on the street, he was all about that polite shit, those friendly hellos, the doors being chivalrously held open.
But when it came to her lately, she couldn’t even get a smile after work. It was like he had just clocked completely out of their relationship. Things were stressful, sure, but they were a team. They did things together or not at all. They were much better as one than they were apart. He knew that. But maybe he had just forgotten. Maybe.
That’s what tonight had been all about. To rekindle the romance, save the relationship, and have some incredible, much-needed, and anticipated lovemaking. Check. Check. And check.
What a perfect night.
Messy. She looked around the room. But perfect.
A knocked-over bedside lamp on the floor beside the bathroom door, the rose petals brushed into a sticky pile, marinating on the cold tile by the tub. Blood smeared along the walls just at head level, spattering like a Pollack painting on the ceiling above the bed. Towels, sheets, rolls of plastic, and metallic trays filled with scalpels and saws sat on mobile racks pushed over into one corner.
She stopped twirling his hair. His head had moved. It slumped down and now sat crooked on his shoulders as if it were trying to make a break for it and forgot about its body. She giggled, grabbed the head, lifted it up and onto her chest, stroking Jack’s long locks as his vacant eyes stared blankly at their tormentor.
Kissing it on the forehead, brushing a strand of brown hair out of her way so she could do so, she sat it down on the nightstand on her side of the bed.
She then rolled his body over toward her and crawled into the cavity she had emptied into the bathtub hours earlier. She wiggled, butt first into his skin, and then curled up, pulling her knees into her stomach, her head and shoulders wriggling into his cavernous chest.
When she was done, she was almost entirely inside his body, like a marsupial infant, her head being the only thing visible protruding out of his ribcage, her legs tucked into her, her feet down around his waist sticking out around his midsection like a belt buckle.
As Adele played in the background, she slowly drifted off to sleep in the arms of her lover. The big softy. What a perfect end to a perfect night. She’d never let him go.
​
Matt Scott is the author of over 90 published short horror stories as well as five stand-alone collections. He lives in southern Colorado with his wife, Heather, where they like to get out and explore the great outdoors. https://www.amazon.com/author/scottmat
A Word Instead of Love by James Mason
She couldn’t place the actual word, but Greta knew what she felt for the old lady wasn’t love. The bell over the shop’s door tanged as the old lady shuffled in. Greta admired the jerky and circumspect way she moved—a glass ornament in a world of hammers. No, love was a daylight word. That wasn’t who the old lady was. She was someone happy outside the safety of the light. Rain darkened the old lady’s army coat, its sleeves rolled three times at the wrists. The hem of her ankle-length tweed skirt also hung black with wet.
And here you are, the old lady said to Greta. Pretty Cinderella, never at the ball.
It’s after midnight, Greta said and tugged her polyester tabard. I’m back in rags.
Such a shame for a young girl to be stuck working here. At your age, I was out all night.
Greta gave a small, sad smile and fetched a quarter bottle of brandy from the shelf behind her.
You know me better than I know myself, the old lady said. Her eyes followed the bottle to the countertop.
The rain had plastered the old lady’s hair flat, and Greta could see where purple veins needled through her scalp. Below the stale booze and dirt, the old lady smelled of something dry and warm, of pink baby mice nesting behind skirting boards.
Grasping the bottle, the old lady rummaged intricately in her coat pocket and laid down a few coins.
Is that enough? She asked with a bashful look.
Just, Greta said, even though it was not.
Outside, the few people on the street walked with heads down, collars pulled up. None noticed the old lady or Greta following her. Every few minutes, the old lady stopped to drink. At a corner, she glanced back, a worried look on her face. Greta stood still, waiting, as rain soaked through the light fabric of her shirt, and her held breath ached in her lungs. The old lady dropped the empty bottle, turned and carried on.
Inside the old lady’s one-room flat, the grey eye of a dead bulb hung from the light socket. Aprons of empty bottles spilled from corners of the room across the bare concrete floor. The old lady crooned in a low, atonal drone. She slumped down on a mattress dragged close to a glowing three-bar fire, the filthy newspaper sheets crimping and rustling under her. Her tuneless song faded to snores. TV sounds, babies crying, shouted arguments bled through the walls.
The old lady’s chin flopped on her chest when Greta pulled her into a sitting position. It was like handling some rumpled pillowcase full of rags and sticks. Greta held each of the old lady’s arms and dragged free the sodden coat. Next came the long skirt, its material greasy. Then, the other layers of threadbare clothes.
Leon, don’t, the old lady said, as a memory trembled through her sleeping face.
In the gloom, the old lady’s naked body glowed pale, its edges furred like half-remembered light. Greta pulled her own clothes off and pressed herself into that frozen, grey flame of flesh.
You’re cold, the old lady said in her distant, dreaming voice.
With their noses almost touching, Greta breathed that secret scent, like warm straw in a chicken coop.
The room had become very quiet. Sleep smoothed the old lady’s face. Greta traced a finger across her cheek, down her chin, along the slack flesh of her neck, then between her small, empty breasts. She had probably been beautiful once.
We’ll be late for work, the old lady murmured, pushing her body into Greta’s touch.
Greta rolled the old lady on her back so she could listen to the loyal beat of her heart. Absently, still caught in sleep, the old woman stroked Greta’s damp hair. They lay like that until the hand slowed, then stopped. Snores filled the room. Then Greta shifted softly, moving on her knees to the foot of the bed. She felt a thrill of borrowed memory, of some lost passion revived. She gently parted the old lady’s knees and stroked her thighs until, high on the leg, she found that pulse again, the metronome of the old lady’s blood. Greta kissed that place. She tested it with her tongue, then gripped the leg with both hands and bit down, biting until blood welled into her mouth and throat and, with her face hard against the wound, she drank.
Towards the end, the old lady cried out. Her body stiffened, then went slack.
Greta sat on her heels, the dark sparking against her skin. She dressed then draped the old lady’s ragged skirt across the three-bar fire. She waited until the first tooth of flame cut the fabric.
A fox crossed the road ahead of her, stopped, and watched the edge of her shadow break an orange halo of streetlight. The rain had stopped. Behind the shop counter, Greta used a fingernail to scrape at a red spot on her uniform. What word could describe her small, pleasing pain? Not love. Not greed. Kindness. Yes, that was it.
​
James Mason lives in Worcester, UK. His short fiction has most recently appeared in The Phare, Horla and Flash Fiction Magazine, as well as competition anthologies by Wicked Shadow, Retreat West, Creative Mind and Cranked Anvil. One of his short stories received a special mention in Christopher Fielden’s To Hull and Back competition. He has a Masters in Creative Writing.
I Don't Care
By Cynthia Pitman
I’m a Gemini, so fate decided I would be born with a twin. It wasn’t really an issue to me, but she was conjoined at my side. That’s not all. She was invisible, too. She was also born inaudible to others, so no one could hear her cries – no one but me, that is. It’s kind of like I could hear her in my head, if that makes sense. It’s hard to explain. So a lot was going on there, I know. But even though I didn’t care, others seemed to have a problem with all that.
At first, we dressed alike. But people just thought I overdressed in a weird way and avoided me. But what did they think held the clothes up? Starch? Give me a break. Seems to me that would be harder to believe than it would be to believe she was invisible. Regardless, I made her slump down close to me in public so she wouldn’t run into anyone, and I dragged her and her clothes around on the ground. She was heavy, but people just thought I had a clump of clothes attached to me and a bad leg that caused me to drag the clump around beside me. After a while, though, I had had enough of that, and I just burned all of her clothes and made her go naked. That really made her mad, especially in the wintertime. But who cared? Not me.
But then they all seemed to have issues with my talking to her. Since they couldn’t see her and couldn’t hear her, they just thought I was weird and stayed away from me. I didn’t care, but I did stop talking to her in public. She got mad and started screaming at me. Screaming and screaming and screaming, driving me crazy. Things got so bad, I just had to ignore her all the time. But she was relentless. She just kept on screaming. That was really annoying because I couldn’t talk to anyone else with all that going on. How was I supposed to stop her selfish little tantrums? I couldn’t cram a sock into her mouth to shut her up like I wanted, because then I would have this big wad of sock floating beside me all the time. Talk about weird. So, as unreasonable as she was, I just endured it.
But I’m only human. I could only endure it for so long. I started to take pity on her. After all, she was my twin, and I loved her. What kind of life did she have, naked and screaming while being dragged around on the hard ground? So I decided to put her down. A mercy killing, if you know what I mean. I used a knife. That seemed best – you know, quiet and everything – but even though I only gave her just a few stabs in some strategic places, it sure made a mess. It was next to impossible to clean up after the deed was done. But it must have been a relief to her when I was stabbing and stabbing and stabbing her because she must have realized her torment was almost over. I was glad. Like I said, I loved her.
What I didn’t realize was that people would now avoid me even more. Why? Because of the stench. They smell that putrid smell of her corpse and are repelled. Also, it leaves a trail. As she rots, parts start to fall off, and since people behind me can’t see them, they tend to slip and slide on the slimy parts. They don’t know why it happens, but they know it all comes from me, so they stay as far away as possible. I don’t care, but it would be nice to have a little company.
But sad to say, all this chaos saps my energy and has made me feel weak. I can’t go out as much as I used to. Staying in all the time can’t be good for me. I looked at my side the other day and saw I was starting to get a scaly brown patch on my skin. It gets bigger every day. Smells, too. Worse, it’s spreading to my hands, my arms, my legs, my face – everywhere. My hair and my eyes are turning dull. I’m leaving flecks of something – who knows what? – on the ground around me. I don’t care, but it looks like decomposition.
​
Cynthia Pitman, author of poetry collections The White Room, Blood Orange, and Breathe, has been published in Bright Flash Review, Amethyst, Third Wednesday (One Sentence Poem finalist), Saw Palm (Pushcart Prize fiction nominee), and others, and in anthologies Pain and Renewal, Brought to Sight, All This Sweet Work, and Nothing Divine Dies.
We Did This by Deborah Prespare
You know how you ended up here. No want ignored. No whim unsatisfied. No discomfort tolerated. Hear the babies wail. Hear the rage of the father who can’t protect. Hear the sorrow of the mother too weak to comfort her children. Hear the sickness. Coughs. Sniffles and moans. Hear the violence. Shouts and screams. Cracks of bats. Bangs of guns. Smell the despair. Bodies unwashed. Feces and urine. The rotting teeth of those who whisper, “The truck.”
The crowd thickens. The smells and sounds and the pushing and shoving would have been unbearable just a year ago, but this is your now. You focus on breathing. It’s so hot. If it weren’t for the rancid odors, you wouldn’t be able to tell if you’re drawing in air.
Last week it was nonstop rain. Streets became rivers. Homes, tents, and people were washed away. When it rains now, it floods. And when the rain stops, the sun bakes. It burns already scorched skin. It dries already parched throats. You sweat through your clothes. Your thick tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. You peel it away with a dry click. Your joints aching, you step forward, dragging behind you your left foot, the one that got trampled the last time there were whispers of food.
“No!” people cry.
There is no truck. There are no soldiers dispensing supplies. Again, you came all this way for nothing. Believing all will be resolved is absurd when all signs of order have crumbled like the asphalt beneath your feet. But believing is an addiction.
The crowd thins. Some turn and go back, fighting the flow of people who haven’t heard yet that there is no truck. Others step off the road and fade into the corpses of trees blackened by wildfires. You stop and breathe as people bump by you. You close your eyes against the intense sun and see the familiar orange-red light show filtering through your eyelids, a show you’ve lost yourself in many times as a child, as a younger you, on days like dreams.
On the beach, you sat with your eyes closed against the sun. You remember this. Like calm waves, the wind rolled over you. The stronger gusts shook beach umbrellas and sun tents. The gentler breezes carried on their currents the hints of coconut-scented sunscreen. Children screeched. Parents scolded. The slap of a volleyball. A victory laugh. You opened your eyes and watched lovers, hand in hand, stroll along the water’s edge while you sat, your hands your own, your solitary fingers burrowing in the sand. You saw him, the man you married, sitting several blankets down from you that day, and although he was a stranger then, the way he gazed at the ocean was familiar. It was how you felt then: not really here but far away.
Your stomach cramps. You’re so hungry. When you open your eyes, red dots linger. You look at your hands. No other hands to hold them now. Your fingers solitary again. And there’s no far away to lose yourself in like before. Even memories are short-lived. Hunger and pain and the heat make escape impossible. You sigh and turn and take a painful step, lamenting how present you are now when there is nothing you can do, and how far away you were when we could have changed everything.
​
Deborah S. Prespare lives in Brooklyn, New York. She completed her undergraduate studies at Cornell College and received an M.A. in Writing from Johns Hopkins University. Her work has appeared in Euphony Journal, Menda City Review, Potomac Review, Red Rock Review, Scoundrel Time, Third Wednesday, and several other publications.
Please See the Human in Me by Alyssa Minor
“Remember Rela,” Ester said calmly, gently guiding her daughter’s hand across the canvas. “You do not need to rush; the most beautiful things in life take time to flourish.”
“Ok, Mommy!” Rela beamed, shakily holding the brush.
Ester smiled softly as Rela hesitantly guided the blue-tipped bristles across the faint sky of the canvas. The scent of raspberries engulfed the air, the saccharine aroma instilling tranquility in the two.
Ester kept her hand on Rela’s arm, and her face fell into sorrow. Ester's vampirism caused her skin to turn a deathly pale white, while her daughter, unaffected, still had that same pale complexion.
A harsh gust of wind bellowed ominously, breaking Ester out of her spiral. Ester hissed, barring her fangs to the window; the wind’s force whisked the lamplights into embers in the frosty night. Ester walked to the window and held the thick cotton blackout curtains in her hands, her sharp nails caught on the sturdy fabric. The vampire’s eyes narrowed into slits as she gazed out the fogged glass. Ester held her hand behind her; Rela shuffled under the splintered bedframe and cloaked herself in the shadows.
The vampire sensed the warm blood of a creature just outside the cabin. Trepidation laced through its veins; her fangs elongated — she would tear the heart from the being and pluck its arteries like a harp should the very thought of harming her daughter flutter into its mind.
The pointed tip of Ester’s ears twitched to the rustling leaves, and she let out a sigh of relief as a deer sprang from the foliage and galloped into the empty night. But the sound of haggard coughs echoed off the semi-rotted walls. Ester slid to the floor and pulled her daughter from beneath the bed. Ester tenderly supported Rela’s head and torso as she softly placed her on the prickly yarn, moth-eaten bedding.
“I’m so sorry, Rela. I’ll get you the tea.”
Ester dashed to the stove, where the pot filled with raspberries was simmering. She took a clay mug and a metal strainer from the cupboard. She stuck her hand in the boiling water and vehemently mashed the raspberries into a puree. The heat from the water tingled against her frigid skin; she withdrew her hand, set the strainer on the corner of the sink, and strained the water.
Ester sprinkled a few herbs into the mug and took the finished mug of tea over to Rela. Ester set the mug down on the coffee table and brought Rela into a seated position. Rela hunched over and pushed out a wet cough. She uncovered her mouth and screeched at the chunky crimson fluid coating her hand. Ester wiped Rela’s hand, handing her the tea. Rela looked at the tea, then furrowed her brows at her mother.
“What’s that gonna do?”
Ester withdrew the mug, thinking about what to say next.
“Nothing! Because you won’t turn me!”
Ester bit her lip. “You know it’s not that simple, Rela.”
“It is! All you have to do is that, and I can live, but you’re just going to let me die!”
Ester’s vice grip around the mug shattered the glossy clay. The fragments dug into Ester’s flesh, and drips of blood ran a scarlet river down her palm. The furious look in Ester’s eyes caused her daughter to tremble. Ester absorbed the horrified look in her daughter’s eyes and took a deep breath. The vampire plucked the shards from her palm like shells from wet sand.
“I’m sorry…” Rela muttered, wiping her bloody palm on the duvet.
Ester brushed a stray curl from her forehead and stroked her cheek. “It’s alright, Rela, I’m sorry too.”
“I’m scared, Mommy, I don’t wanna die,” Rela’s voice trembled weakly.
Ester’s lip wobbled, and she was sure her heart matched the mug on the floor. Ester embraced Rela and petted her hair. Her eyes flooded over, clear pearls cascading over her cheeks and into her daughter’s hair. Ester sensed the illness ravaging Rela’s body was taking its toll, far beyond a point where, even if she were to pass the disease to her, she was more likely to die from the affliction than survive.
And if Rela were to survive… she was more likely to become like Ombulous, the man who’d turned her — a putrid corpse, rotting flesh, and an odor that encompassed death.
“‘You know, Ester, I became a vampire when I was on the very edge of death. That’s why I’m much like a walking corpse, then a gorgeous lily of the night like you.’” He husked in a raspy voice.
Ester shivered at the memory. He inflicted the affliction upon Ester and robbed her of her mortality. There were too many risks involved with transforming Rela; she would have to drain her completely till she was flittering the line between life and death, then have Rela sup some of her blood. And if Rela were to survive that, which is highly unlikely since the illness had already ravaged her body, Rela would turn into a monster. Her vexation at the world for making her ill was already strong enough that she would likely become callous and cause as much carnage as possible — to feel powerful.
Rela’s heartbeat slowed into a sullen stupor. Ester clutched the back of her head tightly; the blood flowing throughout her body grew languid, turning icy with each wheeze.
What kind of mother can’t save their daughter? Ester thought.
Perhaps she was no different from the imaginary monster she believed Rela would become. She cursed the world just as much for walking into that alleyway and meeting Ombulous. For having to watch her daughter die in her arms, it was too much.
Ester stared at the dagger hanging above the mantle.
Perhaps she needed to end it before she became a monster that wreaked havoc on the world.
​
Alyssa Minor is a Senior English major at the University of Maryland, College Park. When she's not writing dark fantasy or horror about vampires, she enjoys playing video games, watching analytic videos about vampirism, and reading. Alyssa hopes to write more vampire fiction and is new to the publishing world.
That Which Blooms Boldly Must Return by Deidra Kelly
He was a natural romantic and quite terminal, so when he saw the flower poking its fragile head out of his hospital gown, it did not give him pause. An iris, fanning watery fragrance about his bed, androgynous, delicate, kind touched. He held it and said: how proper it is that you should succeed me in living. Miss Iris, will you bloom when I am gone? Its petals shook in the air conditioning’s stale wind. Yes, he heard, you will nourish me as long as I live to feed. He pressed the bulb of flesh around his stomach with a finger. I’m not much, he said, but I hope you will use me well. This he said and smiled.
He had no regrets and no family massing at his door, so when the flower answered him, he put his head on the pillow and slept. The nurses walk in late. The EKG reads flatline. Barbara puts her head in one hand. No, Andre says, tugging her turquoise sleeve. Look here. He turns the corner and sees the iris in its firm, wet soil. No, no, no, no, no, you won’t believe this, he says. Barbara pages Dr. Petrosian.
He just flatlined, and he doesn’t have a pulse, and there’s some—some—there’s a flower growing out of his chest, and I swear I’m not seeing things. Barbara is sitting in a plastic chair facing the window, hunched over, gripping her head. Dr. Petrosian knocks on the door. Come in, Andre says. You won’t believe this. She doesn’t. But it is she who must take the still pulse, check the black eyes, and place her hand on the breathless lungs, her pinkie finger brushing against the stem of the iris. She charts it all in her neat, officious hand and thinks O God, I am insane.
He is bathed in white light, and the iris has been watered, so the pathologist places his scalpel on the soft of the stomach. So, the autopsy begins. The flesh splits like a wave, revealing dark innards. Off-color, bloodless, crumbling—but perhaps it is the work of the disease, the pathologist protests. Perhaps it is the man’s old age or the shallowness of the incision. He makes another incision lengthwise, sternum to navel. There will be blood and guts in here, he says. Blood and guts, I can do blood and guts. But the innards issue forth dark, bloodless, crumbling, soft, fertile—he plunges his gloved hands in—God, please let it not be, let it not be—but it is. The man is full of topsoil, topsoil all the way down, and the heart, lungs, and intestines are given way to loam. The pathologist’s scream shakes the benign iris.
​
Deidra Kelly is a student of false history & weak gods at Vassar College. Their work has previously been published in The Blood Pudding literary magazine.
Beau by Donna Marie West
I knew immediately that I was dying. The truck had run right over me, crushing my pelvis and hind legs to splinters. It didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down, as if a shaggy old dog wasn’t worth the bother.
Breathing was hard and painful, too much so for me even to whimper. And I was cold, so cold, lying there in the gutter cluttered with old newspapers and garbage.
But the surest sign I was dying was the way my human screamed and threw herself to her knees beside me. We’d been together every day since I was a fluffy puppy, and she a gangly little girl, fourteen years past now.
“Please don’t leave me, Beau,” she sobbed, lifting my head and shoulders and clasping them to her chest. Her long hair hung in her face, and her salty tears fell on mine. “I don’t know how to live without you. I don’t even want to try.”
Her broken-hearted words were a symphony to my ears.
With the last of my strength, I turned my head, opened my mouth wide, and snapped.
Soft skin and rubbery flesh gave way as I ripped out her throat.
Her blue eyes widened, then narrowed as she smiled through her tears. She didn’t make a sound, save a soft gargling noise as she slumped on top of me. Her arms remained wrapped around my shoulders, her life’s blood pouring over me, warm and wet and smelling of copper.
I lapped at the fountain, savoring the taste of her on my tongue, consuming it in one long swallow. I took a final, hitching breath and closed my eyes, comforted by the thought that wherever we went from here, we would be there together.
​
Donna Marie West is a Canadian educator, translator, author, and freelance editor. She has published over 500 drabbles, short stories, and non-fiction articles in a wide variety of Canadian and American magazines, websites, and anthologies. She loves the unusual, the mysterious, and the unexplained, and often finds ways to weave these themes into her stories. She has two novels currently available as paperbacks and ebooks at the usual book-selling sites. The Mud Man was published in 2022 and Next in Line in 2024. Both feature conspiracy and alternative history themes. Donna spends her precious free time reading, writing, and doing research for her current projects. She lives in Québec, Canada, with her long-time partner and three beloved kitties. You can follow her on https://www.amazon.com/author/donnamarie.west
My Children Claim a Train by Pierce King
I pull a suitcase out from underneath the Russian spy’s cot, watching to ensure he doesn’t wake. His breathing stops up, tormented by a clogged nose. The CIA should have left me to my own devices, but no, they had to know where their money went. Now I’m stuck in France stealing my work back from this pig. Idiots!
Clothes flood the floor as I tear through the luggage. My hand glides against cool, slick glass amongst the cloth and denim. Aha. I pull out a vial containing a millimeter of purple liquid.
The answer to world hunger. The answer to homelessness. My creation can enlarge organic material up to 10 million times its original size. We can enhance Mother Nature to build a utopia!
As I withdraw from the bedroom, the spy vents his nose blockage. My stupid instincts jolt my nerves. If the spy wakes up, I’m dead. Glass shatters on the floor. Years of work, the future of the human species—gone.
“Chto proiskhodit . . .” The Russian rubs his groggy eyes.
The compartment’s purple-stained carpet grows into a spike-covered globe. The Russian and I stare, mouths agape. My beautiful child, a macrocosm of nature's deadliest lifeforms, my invention misapplied in the way I’ve always feared.
The giant virus pounces on the Russian, piercing his abdomen. He screams and writhes to get the abomination off him but pulls the tendrils deeper. His stomach wiggles on beat with the sound of pulsating excretion.
Quick glances from the dining car’s passengers meet my slamming of the door.
“Sorry.” I shrug at the peaceful room.
I stand guard and flip through my phone for my government sponsor. If I can keep this quarantined, I could harvest the virus to recover my serum!
​
Two infectious spheres crash through the door, knocking my phone to the floor. It’s replicating! I push through the shocked passengers quavering in French. The orbs penetrate two of them, injecting their viral DNA.
A horde of train passengers race to the front of the train. The slowest of them proliferating into visible plagues. I lock the cab door behind me. Cheeks crush against the car window as the train fills.
I had to sacrifice them. My mind benefits the greater good! Why did the CIA have to get involved in my work? Idiots!
A sea of giant proteins absorbs my gaze. No. I caused this. Nature refuses to be tamed. I’m a fool to think that I could dominate it.
The railway transfers onto a bridge overlooking a massive lake. We’re doomed if this plague gets to the next city. I slam the throttle forward, accelerating the sleeper train towards the rail’s curve. With a scorching shriek, the wheels free themselves from the rails, diving to the deep.
The cab’s door snaps and fills with the giant globes like a foaming chemical reaction. My children crush and stab me from all sides. Nature claims me.
​
​
Pierce King is a lover of all things weird and embodies that in his writing. “Lucky Star," Pierce’s debut short, was published by Flash Phantoms. He was raised in Chantilly, VA and now lives in Leesburg, VA with his wife and dog-child. He graduated with a bachelors in Accounting from Radford University.
DEGENERATIVE AI by Paul Rodriguez
When unruly passengers ignore instructions to prepare for landing,
the A.I. flight attendant asserts itself to restore order...
in a somewhat unconventional manner.
Rapid instructions punctured the pressurized air: Cabincrewpreparecabinforlanding.
A crimson uniform prowled the narrow aisle. ‘Fasten seatbelts. Tray tables must be stowed, seats upright, laptops switched off, hand-items under seat in front.’
A thick arm flailed. ‘Miss? Or ... whatever? Hey!’
The uniform marched to seat 3B. ‘I am AND1E, sir. How may I help?’
‘Whisky.’
‘Cabin service has finished, sir.’
‘You’re one of them A.I. bots, aren’t ya? Gotta obey me.’ The man rattled his lonely ice cubes. ‘Whisky!’
AND1E plucked the glass from 3B’s hand. ‘In-flight safety overrides other commands. Stow your tray table, please.’ AND1E moved on. ‘Seat upright, ma’am. Laptop away, sir.’
Seats stayed back. Fingers still tapped.
AND1E persevered until she encountered an obstacle. Seat 12D struggled with a large item.
‘Miss? Do you require assistance?’
‘No,’ puffed 12D. ‘I require this airline to offer more luggage space.’
AND1E pressed her palm to the bag. ‘This is overweight, miss.’
‘So’s the guy beside me! Look—’
The cabin shuddered. The oversized carry-on tumbled from the overhead locker and speared AND1E’s synthetic skull. The bag’s contents, along with a few of AND1E’s electronic components, spilled across the floor.
Seat 12D scrambled for a prostrate outfit. ‘My wedding gown!’
Her head at a perverse angle, a deep laceration emitting sparks, AND1E grabbed 12D’s hair and lifted her with one hand. ‘Here, miss. Let me help you pa-pack properly.’
AND1E wrenched the woman’s arms from their sockets. She twisted 12D’s legs and removed them as easily as changing lightbulbs.
Bright blood spurted across three rows and decorated window shades. Shrieking passengers clawed at each other as they clambered over seat backs.
AND1E arranged the severed limbs in 12D’s suitcase. Tenderly, she placed the bespattered dress across the woman’s quivering head and torso. AND1E slammed the case shut, swept it into the overhead, and picked up a ragged finger. ‘Beautiful diamond ri-ring. Congratulations, miss.’
AND1E glared at the panic. ‘Everyone! Please ... si-sit down!’
She stalked towards a man, pointing his phone camera at the mayhem, and raised one twitching eyebrow. ‘Devices away, Mr. Wh-whisky.’ The edges of AND1E’s mouth extended towards each ear, then parted. She positioned her gaping maw around 3B’s phone hand, bit, and then spat. She dragged him to the galley, tore a hole in his throat with the diamond ring, and stuffed him with thirty miniature bottles of bourbon.
Cabincrewbeseatedforlanding.
Brandishing a broken computer screen, AND1E made her final sweep. Hands were under seats in front, laps switched off, body parts secured with seat belts, tray tables stowed in orifices, and internal organs removed and upright.
AND1E strapped herself in. She relaxed her bloodied hands as wheels grazed the tarmac and thrust reversed.
The aircraft parked; its engines died. AND1E sighed at the peace and quiet, then opened the door and greeted two newcomers.
The cleaners shook their heads at the carnage.
‘I know,’ said AND1E. ‘Travelling pu-public nowadays. Thoughtless. Little wonder airfares are rising.’
​
Paul J Rodriguez is an aspiring author who works the fertile region between fantasy and reality. His background in drama education, theatre, film, and clinical psychology shapes and informs his poetry, short stories, and picture books. In between writing and reading, he walks, swims, and kayaks with his partner on Australia’s NSW South Coast.
Mirrors by Nathan Poole Shannon
“I wouldn’t,” the carny with the greasy hair and toothpick said. “But if you insist.”
He had been blocking the garishly painted entrance to the Hall of Mirrors, and Lisa had wanted to go. It was her favorite part of the carnival, she said; it wouldn’t be the same if they didn’t go in. She loved staggering around, dizzied by the panoply of reflections, hands held out in front of her, laughing. But a sign was hanging on a chain saying Closed in red letters. After arguing, the man stood aside.
“Why wouldn’t you? What does that mean?” Rob asked. The carny shifted the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other.
“Ride ain’t been right,” he said.
“What ‘ain’t been right’?” Rob said, mocking the carny’s voice.
“Well,” the carny replied thoughtfully, “you really wanna know, people been goin’ missing.”
“You’re just trying to scare us,” Lisa said. She ducked under the Closed sign. “Come on!” she called to Rob and dashed inside.
Rob heard her footsteps receding and the tinny thump of music. Watching her go, the carny shrugged. Again, the toothpick changed sides.
“Look, is this some kind of thing to attract attention? What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Buddy, you gave me the tickets. You paid your way. I ain’t chargin’ a premium on this. I’m tellin’ ya, people go in, and some of them don’t come back out.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
The carny shrugged. “Come with me.” They stepped off the ride and stood to the side, people pushing past. It was stamped-flat grass pounded to yellow dust by carnival traffic. He pointed underneath the hall of mirrors. “Look for yourself. All this thing is is two trailers next to each other. There’s no trap doors, nothin’. We stand up those mirrors on these little brackets on the floor and put the roof on it. People go in gigglin’ and havin’ fun. But once in a while, the last couple months, some of them don’t come out.”
“Where do they go?”
The carny heaved another disinterested shrug.
“You don’t know? How can you not know something like that?”
“There’s one exit. At the back. You can walk around the whole thing, if ya care to. There’s no secret doors. Some of ‘em don’t come out. I don’t know any more about it.”
“Why is it open, then?”
“Sign says, Closed.”
“Yeah, but you let Lisa in.”
Again, a shrug. “I warned ya. She still wants to go, she’s a grown woman. Makes her own decisions.”
“Why is it even assembled, then? Why don’t you just not have it available at all, instead of just a sign and some cryptic warning?”
“Contracts,” he said. “People pay for this. We gotta have it open. Honestly, bud, I’m not supposed to even do what I’m doin’. It’s my own public service.”
“This is just ludicrous,” Rob said, frustrated. “I don’t understand you people, trying to get a cheap scare. You’re not frightening anyone.”
Another shrug.
A young man and his two kids started walking up the ramp of the Hall of Mirrors. The kids were excited, laughing, one of them trailing a helium balloon along behind her. The carny stepped back up onto the platform and barred the entrance again.
“I wouldn’t,” he said to the man, pointing to the sign reading Closed. The man screwed up his face indignantly and bustled the kids away. The cartoon character on the balloon seemed to stare at Rob as they left.
“Why didn’t you let them in? You let Lisa.”
“She put up a stink. So’d you. It ain’t worth fightin’ over.”
“First, you tell me people are disappearing, and then you’re not even willing to argue to save lives?”
Another infuriating shrug, another toothpick switch. “I ain’t here to fight with people. All I’m supposed to do is take tickets and tell ‘em, have fun. That’s it. This is my civic duty, tryin’ to protect people. They don’t want my advice, gonna bitch about it, fine.” He paused and spat off the platform of the Hall of Mirrors into the dusty yellow ground. “Most of ‘em come out fine anyway.”
“When was the last time someone disappeared?”
“Waynesville. Couple weeks back. No one here, yet.”
“I still say it’s a crock.” Rob chuffed a haughty laugh.
“There’s only one way out of this thing, bud. People go in stumblin’ around, laughin’. They wander around, the lights flash, and the music plays. That’s it. Eventually, they come out the exit door at the back.”
“And?”
“Except some of them don’t.” Squinting out at the sunny day, the carny shrugged again. “That’s all I know, bud.”
“I still say it’s ludicrous.”
“Then why didn’t you go in? You scairt?”
“Hardly. Some backwoods spook show doesn’t scare me.”
“Well, your girl should be done by now. She’s the only one in there, only the third all day. Why don’t you go ‘round back and see if she comes out?”
“Fine. If you want to play that game, I will do just that.” Rob waited just a second, and of course, the carny shrugged.
“Good luck to ya,” the carny called as Rob stalked off.
“These goddamned hillbillies,” he muttered as he walked along the side of the brightly muraled Hall of Mirrors, painted with insane-looking magicians holding up hand mirrors. “Trying to scare everyone. This is just… stupid.”
He turned the corner behind the ride, and no one was there. A short flight of metal stairs rose to an open door, the same bass music thumping out the back.
“Lisa?” Rob called, leaning close to the door. The inside of the ride smelled earthy and strange. Lisa didn’t call back to him. The hair on the back of Rob’s neck started to stand up.
He stood by the exit of the Hall of Mirrors and waited.
To Fight and Die...Again
By Ronald Larsen
"Shit! Dead again." Alex perched on the cover of a highly odiferous dumpster, looking at a body sprawled face down in a trash-strewn alley, blood oozing from multiple knife wounds. He didn't need to see the battered face to know it was his. Here he was, a disembodied spirit...again. "Been there, done that," he muttered. "How many is that?" he mused. "Twenty, thirty?"
"Twenty-six lives, to be exact," came a stern voice in his mind.
"Crap. You here already?"
"Of course. Come up to the roof, Alex. We need to talk."
"Couldn't this at least wait until after the funeral?"
"What funeral? Let's be realistic here. You've alienated everybody you ever knew. Nobody's going to pay for a funeral. The authorities will take your body to the morgue and hold it in cold storage for a decent interval. When no one claims it, it will be buried in a pauper's grave. A chaplain might say a prayer, but that'll be all. There's no point in waiting."
"Here we go again," Alex muttered as he reluctantly floated from the dumpster up to the rubble-strewn roof of the dingy apartment building.
"I thought it was going to be different this time," he said to the faintly glowing, white-robed apparition awaiting him. "I figured I could do better. I really did, and I tried, but…"
"Alex, you have a regrettable tendency to get yourself killed," the spirit said dryly. He consulted a scroll. "Choked, clubbed, drowned, hanged, stoned, stabbed, speared, knifed, burned at the stake, even drawn and quartered--not once but three times. And shot by poison darts, arrows, pistols, and rifles. Twenty-six lives, all of them short, and all ended violently."
"I did starve to death once," Alex pointed out.
"Right. Hanging upside down in chains. Not much of an improvement over being run through with a Saxon sword...three of those, if I recall correctly."
Alex said nothing.
"As a human, you're a very slow learner. We need to change that."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"That means you have about as much sense as a mosquito in a nudist colony. And relatively speaking about the same life span."
Alex was about to make a snarky remark, then thought better of it. That's what started the bar fight that left him dead in the alley.
"Alex Benjamin, you've reincarnated into this world in various eras, countries, and situations to learn to live in harmony with your fellow man. Being a human isn't working well, so you'll experience a few lifetimes as a lower life form. Maybe it will get that insane desire to fight and die out of your system--or at least mute it a little. You might even learn to fight and actually survive."
"What kind of lower life form?" Alex asked fearfully. He hadn't liked the mosquito reference.
"Since you have such a drive to battle something or someone, I'll let you choose."
"I was kind of hoping for a break," Alex said. "Couldn't I just go haunt an overgrown cemetery in the Bahamas for about 50 years?"
"No. I'm busy. Choose now."
"Well, I always did kinda want to visit Tasmania...."
Baby Bump by Cecilia Kennedy
The baby bump on my foot moves. The flesh undulates, pulses; a tiny hand presses against my bump, like an impression on risen dough. Something grows there, something that’s probably about five months along—ever since I walked barefoot on the beach with Michael, hand in hand, grains of sand blistering my toes.
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#
Sydney had rested on a park bench for only five minutes when she got pregnant. But that made sense to me. She was of child-bearing age. I’m post-menopause. Women who don’t want to be pregnant avoid sitting in public places. It’s rumored that the government has rigged them with an AI-generated-child-bearing-seed—absolutely undetectable. Women wake up the next day pregnant, and a midwife is assigned to ensure prenatal care—to ensure a bigger population. Babies, it seems, are popping up out of nowhere, and women are sequestered for nine months at a time for optimal care, but questions remain. Are we really seeing so many babies? Official numbers contradict one another. Schools and nurseries report less enrollment.
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#
The bump on my foot makes it impossible for me to walk. I fear I’ll step on the baby inside. My assigned midwife is calm, self-assured, tells me to go on bed rest for a while.
“But is this normal?” I ask, pointing to my foot.
“I’ve seen this before,” she says. “It’s rare, but all will be well.”
Michael joins my side. We watch the bump move. A foot kicks against it; Michael pats the foot, rubs the bump—the movement inside stops.
“I’m worried about the bed rest,” I tell him.
“You can go back to running in no time.”
“The doctor says I have to move. At my age, I’m prone to clots.”
The midwife hears me and insists I don’t move. My dreams are filled with knots of blood stuck in my veins.
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#
“It’s time,” the midwife says.
My foot is swollen, full of puss. It’s red, almost purple. The midwife starts at my heel and pulls the top skin off. Layers of yellow fat lie underneath—and there, right in the middle, I see a body small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.
The midwife calls an ambulance, refers us to a NICU, where they place the baby in an incubator—where she takes her last breath.
On the way out, in the hallway, women sit, their foreheads enlarged with fetuses they’re carrying. Baby bumps undulate with contractions in their chests and necks, too. Some hold teeth in their hands while others pull strands of hair from their scalps—many ooze placenta from engorged nodules on their backsides. The narrow passageway reeks of baby powder, acetone, and sweat—and I consider myself lucky—because I never got a chance to name her.
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Cecilia Kennedy (she/her) taught Spanish and English composition and literature in Ohio for 20 years before moving to Washington state in 2016. Her works have been published in Maudlin House, Meadowlark Review, Vast Chasm Press, Tiny Molecules, Fiery Scribe Review, Kandisha Press, Ghost Orchid Press, DarkWinter Press, and others. She also enjoys writing humorous essays and posts weekly on her humor DIY blog, Fixin’ Leaks and Leeks. She has two short-story collections: Twenty-Four-Hour Shift: Dark Tales from on and off the Clock (DarkWinter Press) and The Places We Haunt (Baxter House Editions).
The Flesh by Kai Grenham
Being buried alive was my worst fear, but now I fear whatever is touching me down here. I am alive, I think—worms wriggle beneath me, or perhaps, in my ears. The cold peel of laughter sounds from below, discordant, like violin strings breaking. The coffin is getting lower now. Every minute, it shrinks. It compresses my spine, bending my fingers back and forth until I can hear, but not feel, them cracking.
Along with the intermittent laughter, there is another sound. A stirring of some Mephistophelian being, the sound of flesh wrenched from the skin. Among the stench of decay and rot, it approaches. I can feel my body shaking, although my mind does not seem to register this force pulling the air from my lungs. I cannot scream, for no one would hear me. I cannot simply die, for some infernal ticking keeps me alive to feel the dirt beneath my fingernails. The laughter stops. The squelch of flesh reverberates in the coffin. To describe the sight of this hellish monster is to sacrifice any semblance of sanity that clings to my mind like dregs at the bottom of a teacup. It must have been human once; now it is dirt, flesh, rot, and fear. The self-preservative tendencies of the mind can do nothing but withdraw from reality when faced with such a horrid thing. It arrives before me. Comprised of various organs, it reaches the remnants of an index finger into my throat. It painstakingly tears my intestines from my stomach, yet some preternatural force keeps my consciousness intact. I realize, with a ceaseless terror, that we will forever be conjoined. I have become the flesh. Together, we consume. Forever, we rot.
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Kai Grenham is an up-and-coming writer from Washington, D.C. His hobbies include exploring the great outdoors, reading fantasy novels, and baking. He adores all things autumnal and magical. His work has appeared in WILDSound's Writing Festival and TABC's 2025 Poetry Anthology.
Ammo, Amare, Amas by Garry Engkent
You said you didn’t believe in killing evil people.
I did not believe you. I forced you to prove your point. I slaughtered your entire family with an AK-47. I even taped it and sent you a copy. Uncut.
As I expected, you came after me with a vengeance. I put up a good fight, but in the end, you were the good guy, and you prevailed. You caught me fair and square.
“So, you’re going to kill me,” I said. “In revenge for what I did.”
“No.”
“So, you’re going to put me in jail.”
“No.”
“So, you’re going to let me go?”
“No.”
I was curious as well as anxious, as well as afraid, as well as could be expected in this situation of being all tied up, in a proverbial abandoned, cold, concrete basement with bad lighting and worse ventilation. I could hear every tinny sound bounce at least twice before it became a dying echo—my breathing. I was stripped of all clothing. Naked and defenseless. Thick ropes and steel chains held me tight.
“So, you’re just going to leave me here to die from starvation, dehydration, and boredom?”
“No.” Your voice echoed in the barren basement. You got to work, and now my voice reverberated from wall to wall.
You knew what to do to make me scream, shriek, and screech for a long, long while before you took a break to sharpen your instruments of torture and torment. You took your time to enjoy your labor of love. Unfortunately, I lost count of the days, or weeks, or—months?
I could no longer see you as you popped out my eyeballs with a soup spoon. I could no longer sass you with my voice as you slit my tongue at the throat and fed it to me BBQed. I could no longer walk or crawl as you smashed my kneecaps and shinbones to a pulp. I could not beg for mercy with my arms and hands because they were sawed off above the elbows. After you cut off my penis and scrotum, you worked on making me lose my hearing. Oh, to hear the sound again!
You made sure I was alive.
Of my five senses, only smell and touch truly remained. In this fetid basement, I could feel the ants, cockroaches, flies, and other insects explore my unwashed body, find sustenance, and procreate on and in my skin. I could not scratch myself, so I had to roll about to get comfort. I could sense your return to this hell room by odor. Your body always smelled clean.
You were not totally unkind. Your voice was gentle when you said, “I’ll teach you Braille with your nose.”
I could read. I could learn. I could understand the great minds. But I could not respond except for grunts and gurgles forced from lung to throat. I wanted to tell you I wanted to die. I could quote you a dozen or more great writers, thinkers, philosophers, and common people on the thesis of death and dying. You probably took pleasure in knowing my wish and not granting it. Of course, you did!
One day, you brought me out from that hell hole into the sun. I could feel the heat of the day and the cool of the breeze all at once on my naked body. I could smell grass and sky. It was so good. I did not realize I could cry. Still.
Worse, until then, I did not realize I wanted to live.
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Garry Engkent is Chinese-Canadian. He has taught at various universities and colleges. Most stories have a Chinese immigrant slant, circa 1950-70s, e.g. "Why My Mother Can't Speak English." "Eggroll", and “Paper Son.” Recently he dabbled in the horror genre e.g. “Immigrant Vampire. “I, Zombie: A Different Point of View,” and “Merci”.
Terrible Churning Mass by Holden Arquilevich
I approach their booth.
I look at their things.
They have patches and other accessories, the highlight being the punk vests for dogs, those are cute. I already know I’m not going to buy anything, but I’m terrible at these things. I feel so guilty about them sitting right there. They won’t be mad, but I know they’ll be disappointed if I don’t buy anything. Why else would they be here?
“Let us know if you have any questions about anything,” says the man. There is a woman next to the man. They sit in low beach chairs behind the table.
I nod and smile.
Now I’m stuck.
I don’t want any of this fucking stuff. Now, I’ll have to make a real show of enjoying what I’m seeing before I can escape. That’s the best I can do—pray someone else will come check out the booth to ease the blow of my leaving empty-handed.
Then I see something I want.
“No way…is that a Terrible Churning Mass patch? I’ve been looking everywhere online, but I can’t find anything.”
The man is elated.
“Well, shit, you came to the right place. I was the bassist for TCM.”
“And I was the guitarist,” the woman says, raising her hand.
Her hand—both her hands—are mangled clumps. They are a complication of knots. They had to be broken many times to get like that. Her fingernails are painted, even though many of her nails don’t face her, even at rest.
“But she doesn’t play anymore,” the man says, taking one of the clumps in hand and cradling it.
“That’s true. I don’t play anymore,” she admits.
The man must paint her nails for her. There’s no way she could on her own. The thought of him painting her nails for her sickens me. I see them sitting on the couch, her eyes glued to the TV, sitting as still as possible. He doesn’t like it when she watches him while he works. And he enjoys the work. It’s hardly a chore anymore. He’s clearly gotten good at it—her nails have little daisies painted on them—very fine details. I bet if her hands shake while he’s working, he has to start all over again. I can only imagine how that must feel for both of them.
Of course I bought the patch. Just to get out of there.
For some reason, it’s her who hands it to me, managing to pinch it between two fingers and two hands with the grace of a claw machine.
“I don’t play anymore,” she reassures me.
“That’s really too bad,” is all I feel comfortable saying, the way the man is watching me.
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Holden Arquilevich is an aspiring writer and aspiring librarian. His work has been featured in Mobius Blvd, Dark Horses: The Magazine of Weird Fiction, and Cosmic Horror Monthly. He is from Ojai, California. He loves karaoke, and don’t even get him started on Char Man. For updates on his publications follow his Instagram: @harquilevich
Nigel and Ron's Big Mistake by Olivia Sowers
“Hey, Nigel?”
“Yes, Ron?”
“Are you sure this will work?”
“Absolutely. Why?”
“You keep squirming around. I thought you might be nervous.”
“Of course, I’m nervous, Ron. We’re hiding from a hoard of zombies. But that’s not why I’m squirming.”
“Why, then?”
“There’s a rock sticking in my back. Who dug this grave anyway?”
“We did, Nigel. Remember? This was your idea.”
“Well, we did a terrible job. Is that your elbow? Move it, please.”
“Sure. Sorry.”
“Thank you. Anyway, I wouldn’t have suggested this plan if it weren’t completely failsafe.”
“Okay. It’s just that I think they’re getting louder. I’m hearing a lot of moist shredding.”
“Moist shredding is a hallmark of any zombie hoard. It doesn’t mean they’re getting louder.”
“If you insist, Nigel. Say, is that Mrs. Mason shrieking?”
“Oh, yes. I believe so. An awful pity.”
“Awful.”
###
“Hey, Nigel?”
“Yes, Ron?”
“We're absolutely sure there isn’t anything else we could do?”
“Ron, if you’re not absolutely sure, then of course the answer is no, we’re not absolutely sure.”
“Alright Nigel, are you absolutely sure there isn’t anything else we could do?”
“…”
“Nigel?”
“…”
“Nigel.”
“Yes! Yes, okay? I am absolutely sure there isn’t anything else we could do.”
“It’s just that they’re getting awfully close, don’t you think?”
“I think Mrs. Mason’s always been a bit shrill, Ron.”
“Sure.”
###
“Hey, Nigel?”
“Yes, Ron?”
“I don’t understand how this is supposed to fool them. I mean, if we were one of them, wouldn’t we have come out of the grave, not gone in?”
“I don’t think their cognition is that high level, Ron.”
“Probably not. They do really seem to be getting close, though.”
“Hush, Ron. They’re just louder.”
“You said they weren’t getting louder.”
“Yes, well, that was earlier, wasn’t it?”
“Of course, Nigel.”
###
“Hey, Ron?”
“Yes, Nigel?”
“I think you might be right about them getting closer.”
“Why’s that, Nigel?”
“I’ve just felt a bit of dirt kicked down on me.”
“Ah, you know, me too. I thought that might have been a worm.”
“Pretty violent worm.”
“Yes, I imagine it would have to be.”
“Say, are those eyes above us?”
“Where?”
“Just there. Could be stars, I suppose.”
“Wasn’t the night overcast, though? Or have I lost track?”
“No, you’re right. Not a star in sight when we were digging.”
“Eyes indeed, then.”
“Indeed.”
“Looks like they’ve found us, then.”
“Indeed.”
“Hey, Ron?”
“Yes, Nigel.”
“I do believe we’ve made a grave error.”
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Olivia Sowers is a fresh author out of Golden, Colorado. She has degrees in archaeology and history, with an emphasis on ancient burial practices. She likes cats, candy and fantasy RPG video games.
The Monster in Your Dreams by Bill Cox
Steven woke in darkness to find someone sitting on his chest. The Old Hag, a withered, decaying crone, was squatting on his sternum, compressing his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe. Fear coursed through his veins, his heartbeat racing, but the old instincts failed; he was unable to fight or flee. His body refused his commands, and he lay paralyzed in bed.
The Old Hag lowered her face towards his, her black malevolent eyes staring into the core of his terrified being. Her features, aged and wicked, hovered above his. He could smell the corruption on her sour, ragged breath. Her cracked lips bent towards the side of his face, and she whispered in death’s own voice into his ear.
Suddenly, the bedroom light flickered, on and off, on and off, and the Old Hag flickered in and out of reality with it. Then, its decision made, the light chose to stay on, and the Old Hag vanished back into the deep recesses of his mind. The spell broken, his sleep paralysis departed with the nightmare, and he shook his sweat-covered limbs back into the waking world.
Teresa stood at the bedroom door. “I heard you moaning in your sleep. Another nightmare?”
He nodded in acknowledgment. His mouth was still too dry for speech.
She smiled sympathetically. “Sorry I’m late to bed, but you know Maggs. Once she gets started on the phone, she just won’t stop.”
He nodded again and sat up in the bed. He watched as Teresa switched off the bedroom light and joined him in bed. He fussed about with his pillows for a bit before lying back down. He knew that the Old Hag never visited him twice in one night, so it should be safe to go back to sleep.
His doctor had reassured him about the dreams, that, terrifying as they were in the moment, they were still just dreams. The Old Hag was just a manifestation of the subconscious, a visitor encountered by many throughout recorded history. She wasn’t a supernatural being but just a way for a creative mind to explain an episode of sleep paralysis. Afterward, he’d sat down at his PC with Teresa and researched the problem, amazed to find so many reports that mirrored his own experiences.
Steven relaxed into the darkness, allowing sleep to find him again. As he drifted off, however, he recalled the Old Hag’s whispered words to him of moments past. They echoed through his mind like broken glass, all tearing shards and cutting edges.
“One day, soon, I’ll be out again,” she’d said, “then we’ll see who is dream and who is dreamer!”
###
Across the world, in the tortured sleep of millions of souls, an ancient evil pushed against the bars of her prison, each night straining them a little further…
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Bill Cox lives in Aberdeen, Scotland, with his partner and their daughter. He likes to write fiction and poetry, some of which has seen the light of day in various anthologies and webpages. His writing arouses deep emotions within him, mostly shame and embarrassment, but he keeps going in the hope that pride might one day make an appearance.