Horror Stories of 1,000 Words or Less
For the month of January 2025, these are the flash fiction horror stories that entertain us the most.
* Sympathy for the Devil by Deborah Sale-Butler
* Cradle of Frau Perchta by Max Tackett
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​​* Just an Ordinary Day by Laura Stone
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* Marbled Bellies by Leah Scott-Kirby​
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* Click by Thias Zboichyk
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* Lucky Star by Pierce King
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* Slaughter at Lake Eucha by Michael Swaim
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* Banshee's Song by Vienna Folliard
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* Grave Consequences by Sommer Bianchi
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* The Room by Nicholas Amundson
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* Witness by Amita Basu
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* The Curse of Blue Silk by Aline Soules
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* Content Warning by Joshua Ginsberg
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* The Monster Inside by Thomas Misuraca
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* Gossamer Ruin by Natasha Mihell
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* Dead, Now What? by Ronald Larsen
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* Anniversary by Kris Green
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* The Crow by Zahra Fatimie
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* Stranger at the Station by Daniel Kipps
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* The Hovering by Kidron Grifter
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* The Door and the Thread by Erik Rosales
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* Look Who Goldi's Bringing for Dinner by Jonathan Worlde
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* What Makes Me So Special by Keller Agre
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* Under the Bed by Rebecca Klassen
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* Circles by Barlow Crassmont
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Sympathy for the Devil by Deborah Sale-Butler
Struggling to balance two grocery bags and unlock the back door, I almost missed the shaggy dog waiting on the stoop. He’d appeared out of nowhere, as he had before. The tan and black terrier mix looked just like the one I’d had when I was twelve.
The door swung open, and the little dog stared hopefully at the kitchen beyond.
“Fine. Go on in.”
The mutt’s face smiled in a grateful pant. He waited patiently for me to put away the groceries and finally give him a scratch behind the ear.
“Let me guess—Luci-fur?”
The dog barked and spun in happy circles.
“Cute. You can come out now.”
But the dog remained a dog.
The first time I met him, he’d been wandering in front of my office building, dressed in pajamas and a moth-eaten cardigan. He looked like my dad had towards the end.
He told me people called him “Bub.” I bought him a cup of coffee while he waited for his ride back to the nursing home. A good listener, like Dad, he’d opened the conversation with, “Tell me about your life." He smiled fondly as I recounted the parade of my all-too-repetitive days. I told him things I hadn’t told anyone since Dad, my life-long sounding board, had died.
“What about you?”
“Not much to tell. I’m all alone. This is the longest anyone has talked to me for a very long time.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Yes. People think burning for all eternity would be the worst thing. No. It’s the loneliness.”
He placed a hand on mine, hot as a sidewalk in summer. In a moment so fast I wondered if I’d imagined it, I saw him in his fallen angel glory. Then he vanished.
Bub—Beelze-Bub. Of course.
We met again in a park where I liked to eat my lunch. A little girl of seven or eight flew off a swing from the highest point of its arc, landing so hard she skinned her palms. I rushed to her.
“Are you OK?”
She examined the scrapes on her hands and grinned. “Did you see? I was flying!”
I suddenly realized my little girl would have been about her age. I had fantasized so many times about just this scenario, watching her grow and play. She only developed enough for us to know she was a she. But she never joined us in the world. And the end of her was the end of us.
The girl extended a hand for me to help her up. “I’m Lucy.” Her touch radiated the heat of a blazing campfire on a chilly autumn night.
“Lucy-fer?” I asked.
“She giggled, “I knew you’d remember.”
We swung side-by-side. Lucy peppered me with questions, and I told her all about what it
was like when I was her age. I showed her how to slow the swing with her feet before we both
jumped off. Her goodbye hug filled my whole body with a tingling glow before she revealed her dark angel wings and disappeared again.
Now Luci-fur lay at my feet with his nose between his paws. I knew who he was and
what he wanted.
I let him stay.
Because loneliness is the worst thing.
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Deborah Sale-Butler is a Portland Oregon based writer whose stories have appeared, or are forthcoming in numerous publications including the "Dead Girls Walking" anthology, “Underside Stories,” "Flash Fiction Magazine," and “Amazing Stories.” You can find links to all of her published work at https://deborah-sale-butler.com
Cradle of Frau Perchta by Max Tackett
Snow blanketed the small Austrian village, muffling the world as Emma wandered the streets, clutching a tattered list of missing names. The townsfolk whispered about Frau Perchta, the Christmas witch who punished the lazy and disobedient during Rauhnächte—the twelve nights of Christmas.
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Tradition says she slashed the bellies of her victims, stuffing them with straw and rocks. Emma thought it an old wives' tale, a scare tactic to keep children well-behaved. Until now.
The snow swirled gently around her as she reached the outskirts of the forest, where the footprints of the missing suddenly stopped. In the distance, the faint hum of a lullaby carried on the icy wind. She followed it, her breath clouding in the frigid air, until she came upon a clearing.
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There, a massive wooden cradle swayed, impossibly large, carved with intricate runes that seemed to writhe and dance in the dim moonlight. Inside, something shifted. A shadow rose, tall and gaunt, draped in tattered robes. Frau Perchta. Her face was veiled, but Emma could feel her piercing and unforgiving gaze.
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The cradle rocked faster as the witch whispered, her voice like cracking ice. Emma dared to peer inside. Her heart stopped. There lay the missing townsfolk, faces frozen in terror, their bodies stiff and stuffed with straw. They twitched, lifeless marionettes swaying to the cradle's rhythm.
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Before Emma could scream, the lullaby consumed her. Her name joined the list, the snow erasing her footprints. The cradle swayed on, waiting for the next.
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Born in 1992 in Orlando, Florida, Max spent his early childhood fascinated with all things weird and scary. His first experience with nightmares came from a Batman poster hanging up in his room when he was seven. Enlisting in the Marine Corps in 2011 Max continues to utilize his traumatic experiences for inspiration.
Just an Ordinary Day by Laura Stone
“Come outside, Sally.”
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I pulled the curtains shut, ignoring the words of the unwelcome visitor outside. It was always best to stick to a routine, with little to no variation. Barricade all points of entry, light the lamps, draw the curtains, change into sleepwear, hunker down for the night. If necessary, tether yourself to an immovable object.
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“Come outside, Sally.”
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I rolled onto my side, pressed my face into the sofa, and took a calming breath. The upholstery smelt musty and stale. Cocooning myself in a woolen blanket, I squeezed my eyes shut tight.
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“Come outside, Sally!”
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The slight inflection made me flinch. Was it eagerness? Did it sense some kind of crack in my resolve that I wasn’t aware of? Maybe it was anger. I hoped it was anger. I hoped it was as frustrated and disillusioned as I felt.
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I swallowed down the urge to respond with a string of curses. It would do me no good. Actually, it encouraged them, drew more in. One was bad enough.
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“Come outside, Sally!”
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Tears leaked from beneath my eyelids. Why won’t you leave me alone? I wanted to scream, every time. It wouldn’t help.
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I’d lost my earplugs in the last mad dash to safety. Perhaps I could fashion another pair, using the stuffing of the couch? Something in its tone made me reluctant to do so. It sounded...different. I needed to be ready. Just in case.
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But I also needed to sleep. It had been two whole days since I last rested. My routine was broken which left me feeling uneasy. Tiredness could lead to mistakes.
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​“Come outside, Sally.”
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It sounded normal again, positively bored. They usually did, right up until they were...
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​No. Lingering on such dark thoughts was completely unhelpful, destructive even. Instead, I let my mind drift back to brighter times. An attempt to lull myself to sleep.
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I thought of my mother on a normal day. No grand speeches or declarations of love. We went clothes shopping at the local outlet. She wanted a new coat. I was looking for a pair of boots to replace the ones I’d worn holes in. She called me a cheapskate for putting off this mundane task for so long. Truth is, I only wanted to go shopping with her. It was routine.
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We were triumphant with our purchases, ending the trip with coffee and gossip, setting the world to rights. She teased me about my ripped jeans (“It’s the fashion, Mum!”), but complimented my new haircut. “You look good, Sal.”
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The twin warmths of her compliment and the mug between my hands. The casualness of her words. Her slight smile. It was nothing to me at the time, merely pleasing. Such an ordinary day. Now the memory takes my breath away. Now all I get is—
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“Come outside, Sally!”
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The shift of footsteps. Someone pacing on the other side of the front door.
“Not tonight, Mum,” I whispered and sensed the thing prick up its borrowed ears.
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Laura Stone is a Gothic fiction writer with a BA Honours degree in English and Journalism. Her more recent pieces can be found in the Anansi Archives and Night Picnic Press. Her writing tends to lean towards the macabre, but she is actually quite a nice person! She currently resides in rural Somerset, England -- an area she finds quite inspirational.
Marbled Bellies by Leah Scott-Kirby
Red veins ran through the scrambled whites of her eyes. She tried not to glance at the vial resting beside her notepad, but its smoky glass glinted faintly, concealing the liquid inside. She’d picked it up at an estate sale earlier that week. The woman who sold it—cloudy-eyed and distant—leaned in close and whispered, Once opened, it cannot be closed. Her breath was hot, sour, unsettling. It was hard not to buy the vial under those circumstances.
“Wordwell” was scrawled in faded, smudged ink across a brittle strip of yellowed tape, edges curling like dry leaves. Beneath it: It’s mark, indelible.
Was it the warning that drew her in—or the promise buried within it? The promise that things might get better—even if worse, later?
Her fingers, slick with sweat, tightened around her pen. “I can do this,” she whispered. “Once won’t hurt.” She wrote a simple line, words crawling hesitantly across the page.
Marbles rolled along the base of a wooden box, like insects searching for an exit.
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With trembling fingers, she unscrewed the dropper from the vial. But wait, what do I do? she thought. A voice inside her responded. Without hesitation and with as much delicate precision as she could muster, she pinched the rubber bulb, drew up the transparent liquid, and let a single drop fall onto the page.
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What happened next was impossible to describe—so much so that if she tried, people would surely only stare back with pity. The paragraph shifted. With a deep breath and a hearty sigh, it grew. New words bled into existence, blurry at first, then sharpening on the page.
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The marbles in the box sprouted wings. The flightless rolled frantically, calling up to those that buzzed above them.
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“Don’t leave us,” they cried. “We can’t keep moving down here without you.”
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“Come with us,” the airborne marbles replied. Their wings stretched, their bodies elongating as if reforged in the fires that shaped them.
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She set the dropper back into the vial and leaned forward, chin pressed to her palm, elbow digging into the desk. She shifted. She squirmed. These are my words... aren’t they?
Out of the corner of her eye, the vial scooted toward the page. She pushed it away. “No, not yet. Let me think.”
The dropper sank deeper into the liquid. The vial sighed—an exasperated puff. But no, the damn thing couldn’t be sighing. It wasn’t alive. Was it?
She tapped her pen against the desk, glancing nervously at the vial. It teetered closer, nudging her knuckles.
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“Fine. But just one more,” she muttered, picking it up again. She withdrew another dropper and released it onto the page.
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Thin veins spread like roots through soil. The words twisted and braided, spiraled and zigzagged, waltzing across the paper in a shimmer. When the movement stopped, bubbles began to form. The page exhaled, and new words fizzled into view, crisp and sharp.
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Inside the box, the marbles began to melt. Their cries for help pierced the ears of the glass dragonflies hovering above. The dragonflies froze, wings trembling, before breaking into a frantic dart.
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The dragonflies collided, glass bodies clinking like shattering beads on a snapped string. Below, a molten orange puddle grew, emitting waves of heat. The dragonflies’ bellies swelled, bubbling from within, their fragile shells threatening to burst.
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She couldn’t believe her eyes. The words on the page came faster now—bright, jagged, too loud, too much. She was so entranced that she hadn’t noticed the vial abandoning its dropper and sliding toward the paper all on its own.
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Tiny limbs extended from its glass sides: two toward the top, inscribed with will and power, and two more at the base; leg and day. It walked to the top of the page, tipped forward, and spilled its contents in a single, deliberate motion. Liquid flooded the sheet, sprouting tiny green shoots that blossomed into flowers. The petals fell, dissolving into pools of ink—words melting into nonsense.
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“These aren’t mine,” she whispered. “These can’t be my words.”
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She didn’t notice the vial moving still. She was glued to the performance on the page. All the while, the vial climbed her arm. It scuttled up her wrist, along her sleeve, and perched at her shoulder. Before she could react, it tipped, dripping tincture into her ears. Her body jolted as the vial tilted further, drops now falling into her open eyes. She blinked instinctively, her tongue catching a stray droplet on her lips.
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Then everything stopped.
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She was small, standing inside the hollow of a dark room. The silence around her wasn’t quiet; but rather a low, vibrating hum that seemed to pulse through the emptiness. She rubbed her eyes, desperate for something tangible. The darkness spun around her, her vision blurring in and out until, finally, two tiny screens came into focus in the distance.
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Barefoot, she walked toward them, the sound of her steps muted but heavy. The air chilled her skin—bare. Where are my clothes? The question struck like a blow, the words ricocheting inside her, sharp against the humming silence. A breeze swept past, cold and erratic, coming from all directions and none at once.
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Her pace quickened, then broke into a sprint. She ran toward the light of the screens, the only semblance of clarity in the void, desperate for an answer.
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A sudden, splitting pain shot through her head, slicing from the back to the front like an ax through wood. She stumbled but kept moving, slowing as she reached the screens. She stopped, her breath catching in her throat.
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They weren’t screens.
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They were sockets.
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She stood at the base of one, staring out, watching a scene unfold: her larger-than-life hands moving feverishly, her pen scratching across a page with relentless vigor.
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She couldn’t feel her hands. Couldn’t feel her body at all. The words flowed from her pen in an unstoppable torrent. They poured out, coming from her pen but not from her at all.
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Leah holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Southern Maine’s Stonecoast program, where she served as Editor-in-Chief of the Stonecoast Review. Her writing often probes the uncanny and the intimate, focusing on the blurred lines between fear and wonder. In addition to her creative work, she co-directs The Practice of Writing and collaborates with authors and artists as a marketing specialist.
Click by Taisia Medvedevna
My fingers graze the holes in my wall. One, two, three. Hooking onto the last hole, I stab my middle finger through the drywall and run my hand over the holes again. One, two, three, four. It’s been four days since it started. Or, I’ve fallen asleep and woken up four times since I stopped caring about my security deposit.
Click, click, click.
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Lucky’s nails tap loudly against the floor, accompanied by a gentle scraping as he pushes empty metal cans out of the way. Jesus, I can’t even begin to imagine how messy it must look in here. My fingers graze his fur as he walks past me before being rudely interrupted by some weird cloth material. Oh shit, his harness. I forgot to take that off before. I try to make a mental note as I pull out my phone, and it makes a loud BEEP.
“Call Mom.”
“Calling Mom, mobile.”
I try to pace the length of my apartment with each ring, marveling at how the phone lines have stayed operational for so long. The ringing, my slamming feet, Lucky’s nail clicks, and the rustling cans make a loud orchestra that stops the second I hear her voice.
“Hello? Hello, are you there? Are you okay? What happened?”
“Everything’s fine, Mom. Just wanted to see how you were doing. I’m sorry for not answering earlier.”
“Don’t do that again. I was really worried about you. I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you. You must be so scared.”
“I’m not.”
“And you’re all alone.”
“I’m not.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, Mom, I’m fine.”
“Are you sure you don’t need anything? Do you have enough food?”
“Mom. I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”
“Does Lucky have enough food?”
“He’s fine, too.”
“Are you sure? Have you been staying safe?”
“I dunno, it kind of seems like a hoax to me. Lucky and I just went for a walk, and I didn’t see anything out there.”
“Very funny. But I don’t want you going out anymore. It’s dangerous for you. I’m coming over and I’m gonna help take Lucky out on walks.”
“Mom. I’m fine. Lucky’s fine. We’re all fine. You don’t need to baby me. I’ll come visit in a few days once all this is over.”
“I’m coming over. See you in a few.”
“Mom!”
The phone beeps again. I set it down and imagine what a ruckus she’ll make about how dirty it is or how malnourished I look, or how dangerous it is. I sit for a moment, trying to remember what I was going to do when Lucky growls at the door. Oh God, she’s here.
“Mom?”
Lucky growls again, much closer to the door. His harness! That’s what I was going to do. I start walking towards the growl. Lucky’s nails click alongside me.
Something BANGS against the door before Lucky growls and barks cautiously at the door.
“Shut up, Lucky. It’s open. You don’t have to break the door down.”
Wood cracks and splinters as someone, something, erupts into the room. With each slow step, part of it taps on the floor.
Click. Click. Click.
“Lucky?”
I reach over and feel every tensed muscle in his back explode as he charges at the Thing. Barking. Growling. Snarling. Screaming. I don’t know what’s going on. I reach through the spot where Lucky used to be and grab a few empty cans, hurling them in the direction of the Thing until they hit their target, and it lets out an almost human-like screech.
I try to feel around for more cans as the growling and the whining creep toward me, then I attempt to take a step back, but something stabs me through the foot. Every nerve-ending scream as I can feel the Thing’s strength pull me towards it. My fists beat at its cold, fuzzy skin, but it won’t let me go until Lucky’s teeth, barely grazing my knuckle, dig into it. I start crawling towards my bedroom door, dragging my injured foot past the cans. The screaming and biting and the clicking seem to get louder and angrier before I find the door and slam it shut. There’s relative quiet behind the safety of the door. I feel around in my pockets for my phone, which makes a loud BEEP.
“Call Mom.”
“Calling Mom, mobile.”
The phone rings. I try to get up and pace the room, but pain shoots through my body as I try to put pressure on my foot. I sit there, counting each ring. One. Two. Three. A sudden BANG sounds against the door. The scurries and scratching and screaming and clicking, oh God, the clicking, drag me out of my trance. Four. The ringing stops for a second.
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“Please leave a message after the tone.”
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“Mom? Mom, are you on your way? Where are you?” Bang. “Mom, please help. Please help me.” Bang.
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I don’t know how much time has passed since I hung up. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting at my door, rocking and crying. I don’t even know how long it’s been since it’s gone quiet. I gently take my hands off my ears.
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“Lucky? Lucky, are you there?”
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Silence.
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“Mom?”
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There’s a faint sound outside the door. I press my ear against it.
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Click, click, click.
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My heart jumps as I open the door with a flash. Thank God.
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He walks into the room.
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Click. Click. Click.
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I reach down to pet his back, cold and a little slick.
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“I’m so sorry for leaving you out there, buddy. At least you’re fine now.”
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He growls at me, a little hoarsely.
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“Lucky?”
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Click. Click. Click.
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“Lucky, where’s your harness?”
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Taisia Medvedevna was raised in Cary, North Carolina as the youngest of four by two Belorusian parents. As a current student at Appalachian State University, she aims to create stories centering around a loss of ability or autonomy, inspired by a recent epilepsy diagnosis.
Lucky Star by Pierce King
Burnt coffee tugs at my nose hairs as Patrick dances from table to table, each overflowing with patrons. “You’ve done a great job with your place here, bud.” I pat Pat’s back.
“Thanks, Howie. I guess I got lucky, huh?”
I hide my frown behind my mug. Pat never gives himself credit for the things that he accomplishes. “Luck has nothing to do with it, pal,” I say, wiping the milky froth from under my nose.
“No. No. Luck has always been good to my family. It's not my success.”
Ugh. I can’t deal with superstitious people.
“Where’s your bathroom?” I spurt out.
“It’s right over there.” Patrick points toward the darkest corner of the diner.
I fast-walk to the corner but something Pat says traps me.
“Good luck in there.”
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Patrick’s nonsense morphs my face into smoldering coals.
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“Stop. Luck doesn’t exist. It's a stupid superstition we’ve made up to make us feel better when things don’t go our way. Ugh. I don’t understand why people believe this crap. There. Is. No. Luck.” I storm into the bathroom to prevent Patrick’s last word.
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If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that the last word wins.
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For such a nice diner, Patrick’s bathroom revolts its guests. All my hairs stand uneasy. A single flickering overhead light paints the tight walls a dingy gray. I swing the stall door open. Pat needed to learn at some point that success hinges on him. Not some mystical force.
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My pants unbutton and I taint the toilet bowl water. What if luck does exist? I mean, I work hard and haven’t had Pat's success.
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No. It’s nonsense.
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When I reach to flush, something deep under the yellow sea catches my eye. A quick movement. I crouch down to get a closer view of whatever I urinated on.
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Huh.
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A long snout peers from the siphon jet, hauling a starfish-like form. Am I lucky enough to be the first person to find this thing? No. Not luck. I reach into the golden pond.
Barbs tear into my scalp. The creature’s sewer-slimed arms wrap around my skull, pulling my face into my waste. I push against the toilet, bringing my lips above the water just enough to scream, before snapping the seat off. My head splashes down as tiny teeth drill into my brow.
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Patrick barges through the door. “It seems that Lady Luck is here to make a believer out of you. I’m sorry, friend, but I can’t interfere,” he says. “I tried to wish you luck. Lady Luck has never hurt patrons who accepted it.”
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Luck does exist because I’m the unluckiest bastard alive.
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“Good luck in the afterlife, friend.”
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Thank you, Pat. I suck the piss water into my lungs and disappear.
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#
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I awake to blinding overhead lights and my best friend sitting beside me.
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“You’re awake! Man, were you lucky.”
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Pierce King is a lover of all things weird and embodies that in his writing. 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.
Slaughter at Lake Eucha by Michael Swaim
I swore I would never go near the lake again after nearly drowning in a boating accident almost a year ago. Yet, here I am, out in the dark on the still waters of Lake Eucha, gigging with my two friends, Skipper and Billy Bob. His real name is Byron, but I call him Skipper because he was in the Navy. Anyway, I used to love being on the water before the accident. Not anymore. I have nightmares every night now that usually feature me being sucked down into the cold, murky waters of the lake. I hate it here. I want to go home.
“Hey guys, we gotta get to land. The motor keeps bogging down. I don’t want to get stuck out here.” Skipper yelled over the sound of the boat’s motor.
“So far from the ramp?” I asked, concerned.
“Don’t think we’ll make it that far. What are you afraid of, the Little People?”
I looked around sheepishly. “No,” I began, “everyone knows they aren’t real.”
He laughed, and I pretended to, but I was scared to death. What if they were real? They say they live around bodies of water, and this would be a perfect place for them. Maybe the Little People aren’t just stories.
I was getting nervous. We were so far from any civilization. Miles from the ramp, where other people would be camping nearby. I didn’t want to get stuck out here this late at night with no one around to help. Or hear us scream. I’m not afraid of the dark per se, but who knows what kind of things are out in the woods right now, watching us and hoping we will land. There could be a hungry bear out there, and what if we were in their territory? You know, the Little People. I heard if you make them angry or invade their space they will punish you somehow.
I looked at the forest beyond the shore as the boat stopped. The accident made me afraid of everything. It’s a curse.
“All right, you guys get out while I check this engine out, but don’t go far in case I need help,” Skipper said as he shut off the sputtering engine.
As I exited the boat, I noticed the cicadas and crickets and all the other forest creatures singing in full force, which was comforting. That means nothing bad is out there. I looked around at our surroundings as Billy Bob had a headlamp and flicked it on to light the way. There was a small strip of rocky land where we stood, just enough to sit comfortably and build a fire. The underbrush beyond behind us looked impassible, and the trees were thick in this forest. It would not be easy to get through if we needed to go that way. Great. This was getting uncomfortable.
“Billy Bob, come shine your light on this motor. My flashlight is messing up, and I can’t see what I’m doing.” Skipper said.
While they were working, I stood there listening to the orchestra of sounds permeating the forest and the lake. It would have been pleasant if I wasn’t so scared. I just wish they would hurry up and get that motor fixed soon. My anxiety was flaring up big time. I glanced over to see Skipper pull the cord, and the engine fired up but immediately died again.
I sighed and looked around. Something was different now. I realized the forest sounds were getting quieter. Soon, the noises stopped altogether, except for Skipper trying to get the motor to crank over. Oh, no. My eyes widened in terror.
“Guys!” I said frantically.
“What?” Skipper and Billy Bob both said at the same time.
“Do you hear that?”
“What? I don’t hear nothin’.”
“Exactly. The forest is silent.”
Skipper stopped what he was doing to listen and heard nothing. Not even crickets. Not even the wind. If someone farted right now, it would be hilarious. All of sudden, Billy Bob was violently sucked backward out of the boat, screaming, and disappeared into the forest.
Skipper looked at me. “Get in the boat, fast!”
We saw Billy Bob’s light bouncing around, going off into the trees. I heard a scuffling sound, followed by Skipper screaming and a splash. I didn’t know what to do. Something was out here with us, killing us off. I knew I was next. I stood in the boat frantically searching in the dark for an oar or something else to paddle with when I saw two sets of small eyes emerging from the forest. My eyes were adjusting to the dark finally, and I saw two small figures with blood dripping down their faces, coming from their mouths. They were both about knee-high and wore tatty clothing that looked like it was made from deer hide and had little feathers and bones adoring it. Oh my god, it's them. They came toward me, and I did the only thing I could think of.
I dove into the lake and began to swim away from the shore as fast as possible. As I got further away, the sounds of the forest slowly returned, and I felt relieved. I paused to tread water and get my bearings. After I calmed down, I began to swim toward the boat ramp, where Skippers’ Jeep would be. Suddenly, I felt several sets of tiny hands grabbing onto my feet and ankles. They began to pull me down. I tried to swim away, but their grip was too strong. I screamed for help and flailed my arms at the water, desperately trying to get away.
I really am going to drown this time, I thought as I went under.
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Michael Errol Swaim is a horror and fantasy author and proud citizen of the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma. His first horror publication can be found in issue three of the e-zine Carnage House, and his stories and poems also appear in many anthologies including: Nature Triumphs from Dark Moon Rising Publications and The Horror Zine Magazine Fall 2024 Issue.
Banshee's Song by Vienna Folliard
You still wear the dress—white as sun-bleached bones awash in moonlight. The dress Mam said cut a fine figure for your man to admire. The dress, so lovely in the morning, soon torn and caked with mud from the hedgerow. A wedding dress, more important to our parents than your voice. The very dress that wrenches screams from folk's throats when they glimpse the haunting lady in white emerging from the foggy moor.
There's the church you couldn't bring yourself to enter on the day you were meant to leave our home for his. Our home that was your comfort and your prison. The walls that keep us in and dangers out. Or so they told us.
Well, didn’t they let him in? And he greeted you with open arms. Arms that held so tight, your cheek grew damp from his kisses. Kisses stinking of wine and putrid flesh, silencing you with his lips. Lips that poured foul words into your ears until you burned crimson with shame and fear. Fear that made you flee to the bogs before he offered another taste of his desire and decay. Decay as pungent as the bog that swallowed you whole.
I see you there in my dreams, my gift and burden.
You forgot to heed the fairies’ warning, flashes like fireflies in the dark, then one misstep in the treacherous bog and down you went. No gravestone, no priest’s final blessing, no one to bear witness. Instead, with a snug embrace, the decomposing flora keeps your body for itself forevermore.
And what of him? The one who thought to keep you as his own, who left his mark upon your cheek, his purple grip around your wrists? He seeks me now to take your place—hot breath and eyes that strip me bare—but Mam asks for patience, so he shadows me, watching, waiting. But Death lurks in the shadows too, watching him. The smell of his decay grows stronger, as does his impatience to have me before his end.
Sing, my sister, my protector, that I might not be silenced, too.
Come for him now. Sing of his death. Poison his mind with fear. Make him hear your song, your voice.
He’ll cover his ears at your banshee wail, but should he flee in the hope of escape, may the headless Dullahan pursue him on a dark horse and raise a whip of dead man’s spin high in the air. May the whip's crack remind him of the lady in white who fled from his grasp. May he stumble in the dirt, tear his fine clothes, cry and plead and pray, as you once did. And may his cries and pleas and prayers fall upon deaf ears, too. May he perish on the road, hopelessly fleeing his fate.
Let your song be the last sound he hears—a keening call to pierce a loveless heart.
​
Vienna Folliard's story, "Ned's Tale," won The Letter Review Prize for Short Fiction 2024. Rooted in Irish myths and lore from her homeland, Vienna weaves tales of strength and resilience with myriad magical creatures.
Grave Consequences by Sommer Bianchi
No one ever said that reassembling a body would be so difficult. With a decent anatomy knowledge, it should be a piece of cake. I even had my old textbook provide a clear and concise description of the human nervous system, but I still can’t figure out which nerve goes where because not even God knows if I have the ulnar or musculocutaneous nerve in my tweezers. Please don’t ask which is which; I’m at the point of tears. I could say I didn’t know the time, but the grandfather clock in the hall just struck three, and I was left to stare down at my once clean, white, lacy tablecloth. My dining table is covered in an array of limbs, Maria’s left palm facing upwards as I worked through the nerves tracing up her served arm. I had been there for hours now, trying my best to assemble what was my best friend.
Don’t worry, Maria has been dead for some while now, 19 years to be precise. I was 105 years old when we met, so I’ve known her for quite a while. I was off to the park to grab some lunch, aka the security guard at the local mall whose blood smells like pulled pork, when I saw an unconscious Maria getting hauled into the back of a white van by two men in utility jumpsuits. Concerning, until I saw the Abra-Cadaver INC logo on the side, which is such a clever name for a zombie company. I would be a liar if I said I wasn’t nosey, so I stuck around. It was a relatively warm night so I sat on a bench and snacked on some ants while I waited. I expected it to have taken longer to “undead” someone. Everyone knows it took Victor Frankenstein two years to build the original monster, but times have changed, and most bodies don’t need to be tediously reconstructed from spare parts anymore. Even so, I didn’t expect the process to resemble a mobile dog groomer, but, 30 minutes later, the doors of the van popped open, and out came a green-tinted Maria.
Here’s the thing: Vampires and Zombies don’t typically get along. Rotting blood isn’t the most pleasant smell in the world, and the vampiric love for a torch-lit house doesn’t appeal to our undead neighbors. I’ll be honest: Maria, being so freshly dead, didn’t stink as bad as I had thought, so walking over and saying “hi” wasn’t an overly unpleasant experience. She hadn’t thought about my fire hazard of a home lighting system, and we got to chatting right away. Now 19 years later, we’re still the best buds. I installed an overhead lighting system for when she stops by, and she gets her blood re-pumped once a week, which helps the smell considerably.
Our hangouts usually don’t consist of her splayed out on my dining room table (ironic, I know). Our favorite activity is usually what we call “bleed and feed”, aka the closest thing we can get to brunch at 11 pm. Maria, the wonderful actress that she is, pretends to faint, and I’d be lying if I wasn’t convinced a couple of times. With such a performance, there’s usually a bystander rushing over to see if she’s ok, and when they bend over to check on her, I strike with a deep bite to the neck. I usually go until they're passed out because, while I love the thrill of the hunt, brunch is best served sitting down with a nice slice of juicy gossip. So, while Maria works on cracking their skull to put their brain into her signature Tupperware, I grab my Dies-on to vacuum out the last few liters of blood. Disposal has been easier since the Monsters United Northern Central Headquarters, aka MUNCH, instated a body pickup service, free of charge (if you count tax money as free of charge, which I do since I don’t actively see the money leaving my bank account). When we make it home, we put on The Real Housewolves of Northern Central, which is getting interesting with the way Tina messes around with Melanie’s alpha. Maria has her usual, Brains a la fromage, aka nacho cheese, and my blood pudding, vampire version. We spend all night gossiping until Maria heads out for the day while I go to bed.
That was today’s plan, except for one small problem: Bartholomew, my new Shih Tzu. Normally, dogs are very restricted within the monster community because they need to be trained in case they attack someone fragile, like a mummy. Putting bandages back on is almost as hard as putting a zombie back together with no experience. But when I saw my little Barty at the pound, he needed to be my fluffy prince. I did not expect him to think Maria smelled like the most delicious chew toy, nor did I expect the true ferocity at which this small fur ball ripped her into pieces.
So, here I am, watching The Real Housewolves of Northern Central, wondering how I am going to fix this. Sure, I could call MUNCH, but then I’d have to admit that my illegal Shih Tzu might be illegal for a reason. I already tried to wake up Maria, but sadly, she’s dead asleep (get it), leaving me to deal with this whole ordeal alone. Lucky for us, I was able to find out which nerve was which, and connecting muscles is much easier, considering striations flow the same way. Some needle and thread are all I need now, then presto! One arm is connected to a torso. Which is less impressive when you consider I have three more and a head left. It’s been three hours, and one more tick from that grandfather clock will have me smashing it. So ta ta for now, I’ve got to watch Tina get torn to shreds while trying to repeat all of this on the right arm; how bloody thrilling.
​
Sommer Bianchi is currently an undergraduate student at the University of Edinburgh. Along with writing short creative fiction, Sommer has been published for her academic writing, specifically in "Retrospect," the University's School of History, Classics, and Archaeology journal.
The Room by Nicholas Amundson
I've been in my new apartment for two weeks now. It's not on the best side of town, but it's a place to call my own. I think I've been having sleep paralysis each night since I moved in. I have no other way to describe it. I wake up and can only look around the room, my entire body locked in place. Everything looks normal, except I can hear whispering coming from the other room. Every time I try to strain and listen to it clearly, it just stops altogether.
I'm an artist by trade. I like to think that I'm a good one, but my bank account might tell you a different story. I get small commission work here and there, but deep down, I yearn to make something big. I think every artist does, wants to make something that leaves a lasting impression. Using the biggest canvas at my disposal, I set out to make a masterpiece.
Using themes from the bible and modern religion, I set out to create a piece that could rival Renaissance-era artists. Day by day, I could see the shape taking form, the outlines and colorings all coming together in my mind. All the while, my sleep paralysis got worse and worse. It was beyond me how I could make such divine artwork while being more and more tired each day. Along with the tired came a weakness akin to no other.
That was, until one night, when I was again sleep-deprived, locked into position, seemingly trapped in a jail of my own mind. My eyes were as familiar with the room layout in the dark as they were in the light. It was in between blinks when I first noticed the letters on the wall. I stared at the section of wall where they were. My eyes returned nothing, just plain wall. I tried blinking again and again, trying desperately to see them again.
It was just on the threshold, my eyes almost closed that I saw the letters again. I was practically looking through my eyelashes, but the letters were clear, and they spelled out
a sentence.
DO NOT FINISH WHAT THEY STARTED
It was all just in my head. I mean, it had to be, right? The sleep deprivation was making me hallucinate, and I finally had enough. That next day, I went to stay the night with my parents. I know they enjoyed the company, and it was certainly a relief when I slept through the night. It was all just in my head. That's what I told myself. I was feeling rested for once and my mind was clear.
I returned to the apartment, ready to finish my masterpiece and put it up for sale. I only made it about five feet inside before I was stopped in my tracks. There stood my easel, my masterpiece firm in its place, depicting the Heavens and the Earth. Behind it, the wall was aghast in flames. The detail looked all too real, all too horrendous. In stark contrast to my masterpiece, Hell had taken shape in my apartment. I would say that it was painted by an unknown hand, but the small, familiar signature in the corner proved otherwise.
I collapsed to the floor, weakness returning to my body. I wept into my hands, and as I drew them away from my face, they were covered in red. The smell of iron filled the air as blood poured freely from my eyes and nose. Just as I succumbed to the feeling of weakness, the whispering returned. It was much louder this time, and I could distinctly hear his voice.
"Thank you, my child. You have done Hell a great service, and you will not be forgotten in our history."
My last thoughts were of the potential chaos and destruction I had just unleashed and the horrors that awaited me in the beyond.
​​​​
Nicholas resides in Texas, where he was born and raised. He has been fascinated with horror for as long as he can remember and credits his grandfather 'Boss' for pushing him further into the genre. This is his first published work, "The Room."
Witness by Amita Basu
The news networks had become a tangle of rumors, conspiracy theories, and deep fakes impossible to tell from reality. Our pendulum swung from skepticism to panic, and we wondered whether we’d waited too long. We awoke the children in the dead of night. Down the street, the gas-masked vigilantes hammered on doors, smashed through windows, and dragged those suspected of harboring the plague out into the street. They opened the firehose and held their victims in place, fire-retardant gloves clutching fistfuls of singeing hair. Deep into the children’s ears, we drove silicone earplugs. These screams were not theirs to witness.
​
He still had his badge, so nobody stopped him as he drove the speeding school bus full of our children out of the city. I stayed back with our goats and turkeys, squirrels and dogs. Lamed and blinded, abused and abandoned, the animals in our sanctuary had kept their hearts and had helped our orphans find theirs again. Maybe in the morning, I could load them all into the truck.
​
I awoke to find the coops torn up, the kennels smashed to matchsticks, and the door to the pen swinging on its hinges. I felt guilty for feeling grateful that they’d been taken away before they were killed, that I hadn’t had to bear witness.
​
Then the news channels all suddenly flashed one image: the bomb, which we’d long been waiting for, had dropped. In a way, I thought, when I could think again, it was a relief. It was over. Now, surely, like in the movies, like in history, the nations would unite to sign a new peace treaty. Then I saw where the bomb had fallen: on the city to which he was driving our children.
I jumped into our sedan with its hacking-cough engine and jammed-shut backdoors and sped down the interstate, up the mountainside. On the mountain pass, I saw our school bus. I jumped out of the car with streaming eyes. Thank God they’d stopped just outside the ten-mile blast radius. They must’ve abandoned the bus and left a note telling me which way to walk.
​
A chill fell over me. My feet began to drag. Heart racing, eyes lowered from the windows, I climbed into the bus. The engine was still on, groaning amiably. The spring air, sun-warmed, kissed my neck as it ran in the door.
Facing the city he’d been driving towards, the city that had become ashes, he sat. The wrinkles in his skin had become the grooves in bark. His toes, sheathed in wood, grew down through the bus floor, branching into intricate roots. His arms – raised forwards to the city, pointing; raised upwards to God, beseeching – were almond branches flowering white-and-pink through the roof hatch.
​
Wood, too, were all our children. Their mouths were sealed in bark. Their butts, jumping off their seats at the moment of impact, were rounded humps in tree trunks. Their pointing fingers sprouted tender green. Only their eyes were still human, open and lidless, frozen from the horror of bearing witness.
​
Amita Basu is a Pushcart-nominated writer whose fiction appears in over seventy venues including The Penn Review, Bamboo Ridge, Jelly Bucket, Phoebe, and Funicular. She’s a reader at The Metaworker, sustainability columnist and interviews editor at Mean Pepper Vine, and contributing editor at Fairfield Scribes Micro. Her short story collection, At Play and Other Stories, is due out with Bridge House Press in 2025. She lives in Bangalore, works at a climate action thinktank, and blogs at http://amitabasu.com/
The Curse of Blue Silk by Aline Soules
As she took the first rasping pull on her saw to sever the arm from her latest cadaver, Mrs. Grant wondered if she should declare the cash she’d earned from the sales of her anatomy book. She hated tax time, how it distracted her from her work, how the long arm of the government reached out its grubby fingers, demanding she give up some of her meager earnings and forcing her to waste time doing it. Her blood pressure rose just thinking about it.
The saw didn’t quite go in the direction she intended. She considered trying to rip the arm from the socket, thinking about the government ripping her off. But that wasn’t a good move for the arm or the government.
She set aside her saw and picked up her amputation knife to slice the connective tissue holding the shoulder to the body. The fewer incisions, the better. Her supervisor, Dr. Thompson, wasn’t going to be pleased as it was. The kind of cadavers his research team needed weren’t plentiful. Blaming her mistake on the distraction of those damned taxes wouldn’t cut it. But it was hard to concentrate when she was sure she didn’t have enough money to pay what she owed. She lifted the cadaver’s arm over its head and twisted slowly to ease it out of the socket.
Dr. Thompson, unfortunately, arrived at that moment. One look and his face darkened. “What in hell are you doing?”
There was no answer to this as Dr. Thompson could clearly see what she was doing. Mrs. Grant damped down her irritation and laid her implements on the table in case she was tempted to use them again.
“This is your third screw-up this month.” Dr. Thompson leaned forward. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
This echoed a dreaded question from her childhood, standing before her father after an infraction, any infraction. Like the time she cut pieces from the blue silk lying on her mother’s sewing table to make clothes for her doll. She couldn’t answer the question then, and she
couldn’t answer it now. What was she supposed to say? That she didn’t know or she wouldn’t have done it? The silk was on the table, the scissors beside it, and the blame assigned before the question was asked.
She thought about Dr. Thompson as his lips moved and she tuned him out. He was the right gender, the right ethnicity, and carried the right bone structure. He met all the criteria for the cadavers the researchers needed. She eyed the knife, shimmering on the gleaming table, then considered Dr. Thompson’s shoulder, its clavicle and scapula articulating with the proximal humerus, the four joints, the many muscles and nerves of this complex part of his anatomy.
“Are you even listening to me?” Dr. Thompson’s raised voice intruded into her deliberations.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Thompson, I didn’t catch that.”
“Are you an imbecile?”
She remembered that question, too, her father towering over her, shaking in her face the pieces of blue silk she’d so wanted.
She picked up her saw.
​
Aline Soules’ work has appeared in such publications as the Kenyon Review, Houston Literary Review, Poetry Midwest, Galway Review, and Flash Fiction Magazine. Her book reviews have been published by Tupelo Quarterly, Colorado Review, Los Angeles Review, and others. She earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University Los Angeles. Online: https://alinesoules.com
Content Warning by Joshua Ginsberg
So, you want to know what to expect, huh? Do you want to be a little bit scared, but not too scared, too triggered? Well, look, I could tell you that this is a horror story, and that, of course, you’ll be upset by it, but let’s be honest, would that really deter you? No, of course not. I get it – I was the same way. Still, heaven forbid I should omit the warnings, so let’s just do this together then.
Drug Use. Suicide. Self-Harm.
That was the part that first got our attention, Loren and I. The bassist from an old punk rock band that he used to listen to was buried there, and the local legend was that on moonlit nights he would appear beside his tombstone, which was made to resemble a stack of amplifiers. When we did see him materialize out of a blueish mist, it was really more sad than scary. His skin was blue, lips purple, arms, legs and neck lined with black needle tracks, like he had turned his body into some mad railyard for transporting junk through collapsed veins, which he had. He was confused and shaking. He stumbled towards us, hands cupped, asking if we had any change. His wrists were a latticework of scars where he had attempted so many times to sever his mortal coil before ultimately succeeding. We left him there and moved deeper in among the tombstones.
Sexual Abuse.
I think we can safely assume so, though none of the spirits we encountered were in much of a talkative mood. And even if they were, some things are almost as taboo today as they were a hundred years ago. But there, in the section reserved for children under six years old, was a young woman trying to calm the crying bundle in her arms. As we drew closer, a tiny skeletal arm fell loose from the transparent swaddling. The woman there, with ligature marks on her wrists and ankles, according to the stories we heard, was a doula named Rachel. She had been raped and abused by one of the very same men she helped make into a father. A man with the kind of power and money to buy off judges, and live to a ripe old age, without ever having lost a wink of sleep to a troubled conscience. Loren was rattled and wanted to head back after Rachel, but we were here, I said. We might as well get the full experience.
Racism.
It’s an old pre-civil war cemetery in Florida with a section dedicated to the victims of a mass murder that took place in a small black neighborhood when a white woman wrongly accused someone of rape, so you can probably guess the answer to that one. Young men still wearing the nooses they were lynched with, courtesy of the local Klan. Women and children burned to cinders but somehow still there, smoke drifting off their charred bodies from the fires that they couldn’t escape. Eyes like hot coals smoldering with an accusatory anger generations in the making. Nearby, clusters of others hungry for justice denied them; a few Seminoles awaiting a signal that will not come; a rabbi in quiet consultation with a couple of members of his congregation; four friends, dressed in their best club-going apparel, who happened to be at a popular local gay bar on the wrong night. And under the shadow of a Banyan tree draped in Spanish moss, a neo-Nazi skinhead looked from one group to the other, his lips shaped into a sneer by the same violent contempt that he took to the grave but couldn’t leave there. Yes, racism and hate are part of this story.
Clowns.
Jesus, that clown, yes, I almost forgot. He was with one of the old circuses that wintered in the area, but a train car collision cut short his career. He just stood there, leering at us, all done up in his makeup and powder, but under that, the decay was still evident. His red balloon floating against the wind, and that demented, garish smile painted from ear to ear. Let’s move on; I really don’t want to think about that one any more than I have to.
Graphic Violence.
That’s how it ends, right? That’s how it was always going to end. The two arrogant, amateur ghost hunters who scaled the lichenous, crumbling stone wall at the northernmost corner, dismembered and devoured by the dead. Mangled at the hands of the former undertaker laid to rest there, who in death no longer just deterred but slaughtered those who disturbed the place. His ruined black cloak flapping like wings and him rising up, towering over us both like a statue of the Angel of Death itself. I can still see the slow-motion arc his shovel cut through the air as he swung it, the look on Loren’s face as it sliced across him, eyes bulging - more with shock than pain, clutching his stomach, trying desperately to keep his insides inside. All the while, so much blood spilling over his fingers. And what did I do? I turned tail and took off screaming, not even caring what rats and crawling limbs and other unimaginable things squelched and crunched under my boots as I ran hell for leather until I reached the car. God, Loren, I am so, so sorry. You were right – we never should have been there. I didn’t even call for help right away – I couldn’t get a signal. I had to drive six blocks and pull into a Publix parking lot before I could get through to 911.
Remorse. Shame. Guilt.
Do those qualify as triggers for you? They do for me. More than you can possibly imagine. Look, it’s like I said before: if you need a content warning, you probably shouldn’t be here to begin with. This is a horror story. A ghost story. And it just isn’t safe for anyone.
​
Joshua Ginsberg is the author of five non-fiction books on the subjects of off-beat travel, local history and haunted locations, including Secret Tampa Bay: A Guide to the Weird, Wonderful and Obscure (2020) and of Haunted Orlando (2024). His work has appeared in numerous anthologies as well as print and online publications such as Apex Magazine, Crepuscular, Black Hare Press, Trembling with Fear, The Chamber Magazine, OddMag, and elsewhere. He lives in Tampa with his wife, Jen, and their Shih Tzu, Tinker Bell.
The Monster Inside by Thomas Misuraca
“There’s a monster inside me. Ripping away my insides. Hollowing me out.”
Her new therapist shifted in his seat. Had what she said disturbed him? The others told her she needed to talk to a professional.
Before he could comment, she added: “Now it’s trying to claw its way out of me.”
The man leaned forward, he was more animated than her former therapists. Did he have an explanation already? The others gave up trying to explain. “These are understandable feelings. People in your condition-”
“My... condition?”
His eyebrows raised. Shouldn’t he be able to conceal his reactions by now? She got enough strange looks from the others.
“Surely because you’re...” His hands moved to his stomach. Was he about to gesture... that? The others gestured...that. Until they no longer could.
She stops him: “I’m not...”
She didn’t think his eyebrows could rise any higher, but they did. Why would he make that assumption? Just like the others had. At first.
Before he could process this information, a tentacle wrapped around his neck. No time for surprise and shock as the sticky, elongated organ both suffocated him and broke his neck.
With unearthly velocity, the monster pulled his corpse inside her.
Would the others believe her now?
​
Over 160 of Tom Misuraca's short stories and two novels have been published. His story, Giving Up The Ghosts, was published in Constellations Journal, and nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021. His work recently appeared in Flint Hills Review, The Paradox and Southern Florida Poetry Journal. He is also a multi-award winning playwright with over 170 short plays and 14 full-lengths produced globally. His musical, Geeks!, was produced Off-Broadway in May 2019.
Gossamer Ruin by Natasha Mihell
He is immobilized. Only his mouth is free, lips parched in the dry air, rubbed raw from the smacking. Cold. He hears nothing but the sticky slick-slick of her steps, and now and then the hissing death of those who find their slow ends nearby. He can feel them thrashing, poor things. She wraps them up just as tight, but she is, at least, more merciful, letting them find peace within mere hours of their entrapment. He must lie here and stare into the silken nothing.
[It is cruel, but it is love. Yes, it must be, or he could not live with himself.]
She uses the corpses of her hapless casualties to keep him alive. She chews them up and drops their wet, half-dissolved carcasses into his mouth. They all have a crunch to them—their bodies’ last cry before the void swallows them up—gulp! And then they are in him. The smoothness of a carapace, the fuzz on a leg, the juice from an eyeball. The first dozen times she fed him this way, he vomited. Then, several tired evenings passed, and he realized she was keeping him alive. And so he does not allow death to claim him. He cannot. This is a promise he makes to himself.
[But oh, how the days pass and how his heart changes.]
He sublimates within, her poison plundering his veins. Then, inevitably, he wakes to his mouth stuffed with sticky string. He knew it was coming. He is suffocating. He hears her voice in his head, like a weeping thing, and then the wind tosses the web and the hours pass. He would thrash but he does not have the energy. He can make no sound. But he hears her—oh, yes. She weeps, weeps, weeps. There is no buzzing. No wind. Only the song of her tears within him.
And then there are tears on his cheeks, and they are his. Her song is beautiful, her venom a kiss.
He does not doubt the privilege of knowing her; this very privilege made his imprisonment an appropriate price. His promise is kept. He wastes away to nothing, but he was nothing before, only hers, and he will be hers in death. Consumed.
[He allows her the forgiveness he never received, and then he is gone.]
​
Natasha Mihell is an artist-at-heart living amidst the forests and urban decay of Canada’s West Coast. Her writing explores the reclamation of self-love, hope, and power, amidst systems and circumstances that threaten hearts and minds. Connect at natashamihell.com and @natashamihell.
Dead, Now What? by Ronald Larsen
"Damn good thing I didn't toss this old dog blanket after Rusty died, "Tony Hawkins grunted as he heaved a man’s body onto a ragged smelly blanket in the back of his old van. He rolled the blanket over the body, pulled a roll of duct tape from his toolbox and taped the macabre bundle up. "Got to keep you comfy, Jack old boy, while I haul you out to the...well let’s have it be a surprise."
Tony drove out to Murphy Woods and bumped the van along an old, disused logging trail to a small clearing. He heaved the bundle over his shoulder and pushed through thick underbrush a hundred yards or so into the woods. As he dropped the bundle, he panted, “Good thing you were a skinny guy, Jack. Damn near had a heart attack carrying you out here. I’m getting too old and out of shape for this shit.”
"Hey, the shovel I left from the last guy is still here." Tony dug a shallow grave, rolled the blanket-wrapped body into it, then shoveled the earth back onto the grave. After tossing the last shovelful, he jammed the shovel into the ground, pulled out a red handkerchief, and wiped the sweat off his brow. "That was a lot of work putting you in the ground, Jack. I hope you appreciate the nice, shady spot I picked out for you. Enjoy."
Picking up his shovel, Tony turned to leave, intending to push back through the heavy underbrush to his van, only to find a shimmering apparition blocking his way. "Jack! What the hell?"
"Why the devil did you shoot me?"
"I didn't mean to kill you, Jack. I was only trying to scare you with that pistol. But dammit all, you had to come at me with a knife, didn't you?"
"Yeah, I'm not some pansy. Now, what in hell am I supposed to do?"
"Stay right in the ground where I buried you."
"No way. It's unsanitary, dammit, dirty and dark, and damn smelly soon. You did this, now tell me what you expect me to do."
"What do I know? Whatever ghosts do, I suppose."
"Ok, no problem. I'm going to haunt your sorry ass for the rest of your life...and beyond."
"Bullshit! There's nothing you can do to me. Now get out of my way, or I’ll walk right through you.”
The apparition slowly disappeared, and Tony continued walking. A few steps later, he grasped a low-hanging tree branch, intending to move it out of his way. The branch slipped out of his hand and whacked him in the face. Blood from his nose dripped down his mustache. "Shit. Got a nosebleed now. That was an accident."
"Accident. Of course," he heard echoing from behind him.
A bit later, he tripped over an exposed tree root and slammed face-first onto a large rock. Stunned, bruised, and scratched, he lay on the ground for a few minutes, then gingerly stood up and brushed the dirt and leaves from his clothes. He wiped the blood from his scratched hands on his shirt. Dizzy and disoriented, he shook his head a couple of times to clear the strange sensation.
"Didn't see that, just tripped," he said with more conviction than he felt.
"Just tripped. Of course," he heard.
Tony reached his old van, slipped into the seat, and twisted the key. The starter made one feeble grinding attempt, then nothing. He tried again, several times. Still nothing. "I knew I needed to replace that damned battery. Now I've gotta walk down to the road and hitch a ride
into town."
Tony walked for about an hour. "I didn't think it would take this long. Should be at the highway about now." He turned a corner in the trail, and there was his old van!
As the wind sighed through the trees, Tony heard, "And beyond. Of course."
​
Ronald Larsen is a retired electrical engineer from Santa Rosa Beach, Florida. His fiction has appeared in Bewildering Stories, Flash Fiction Magazine, Every Day Fiction, 101 Words, Emerald Coast Magazine, Little Old Lady Comedy and others.
Anniversary by Kris Green
Tempted to pull his phone out to look for a delivery notification, Luis Ramon cannot help the pleading look toward the front door. It wasn’t a knock, more like a thud – like a package or.... Then another.
His anniversary dinner is canceled. His wife went right to bed. It was a bad day. Celebrating your anniversary with Sportscenter isn’t the same, but it is still pretty good with the bowl of nachos.
Who celebrates year 6 anyway?
The next thud is louder, causing Luis to jump to his feet, knocking the bowl of nachos to the floor. The bowl breaks in two. One of the large decorative petals on the side flops off onto the carpet spreading melted cheese.
Garage Sale: Marriage Year 2.
“I like it.” Sarah, his wife, said, holding up the large orange bowl. “It’s quirky.”
“I don’t know. It’s not a bowl really for eating.”
Shaped like an orange flower, the four corners rose higher, molded like large petals coming up the sides.
“Come on, let’s get it.” With a little giggle, Sarah said, “It can be your nacho bowl!”
The door shakes a little, causing Luis to stop and stare. We need a new front door, he reminds himself as he looks down at the broken orange bowl – maybe a new carpet, too.
Something about tonight, not making his anniversary dinner at Bern’s. Not even getting to sit peacefully in front of Sportscenter – seems like more than just a huge inconvenience. It feels life-threatening. Maybe it was a patient attacking his wife. Yes, maybe that’s it. A nurse is exposed to the worst of people. The vague feeling of helplessness floods his heart as he stares at the shaking door.
If this banging, thudding noise continues, it’ll wake his wife. Sarah is a lot of wonderful things as long as she isn’t woken in the middle of a deep sleep.
The thudding, repetitive as if looking for rhythm, finally serves its purpose. The door gives way, falling inward, taking the hinges out of the wall. Maybe as surprised as Luis, a man lies unmoving. He lets out a groan and begins to crawl.
Beach Trip. Anniversary: Year 3.
“Here’s another.” Sarah hands a seashell to Luis.
“What are we going to do with all these?”
“Just hold them!”
She wrote the date and occasion on a decorative wine bottle with a large cork. Then, ceremoniously placed it near the front door.
The man’s skin is gray. Luis thinks of alien reels he had spent an evening watching a few weeks ago. This isn’t an alien. The groan is too human, too primitive.
Luis grabs the wine bottle of sea shells and tries shouting a warning, but his words come out as mumbled as the man’s. He swings the wine bottle toward the man’s head. Seashells explode across the living room.
Pottery Class. Dating: Year 2.
“This isn’t sexy,” Sarah complains. “It isn’t like that movie at all.”
“No.” Luis laughs.
Sarah laughs, too, seeing the pottery bowl Luis is making.
Scrambling backward, Luis tries to grab anything to defend himself. How can he protect his wife if he can’t protect himself?
He grabs the ceramic bowl from the shelf and flings it at the man. Nothing. Then the lop-sided vase, noting Sarah’s fingerprint forever imprinted on the side before he smashes it over the back of the intruder.
The man, unable to stand, grabs Luis’ leg. The gun in the closet is too far away. Knives in the kitchen seem like the best option – still too far. Luis falls back.
Home. Christmas: Year 5.
“I can’t believe you bought the ottoman!” Sarah screamed.
December was the month the argument never settled. Like some things in marriage, it just faded into the background as fodder for any new fire threatening to rise.
“I want it. I’m tired of waiting for you to make up your mind!”
Luis kicks at him, grabbing the ottoman to pull forward. The lid comes off. “Ha!” he shouts, feeling the heavy wooded lid.
Swinging it at the man has little effect. Luis scrambles to his feet, but his assailant is doing the same. Luis charges using the lid of the ottoman as a shield between them.
He pushes the man against the wall where a large metal cross three feet by two swivels to the side.
The man groans, and Luis sees it’s his neighbor from down the street. What is his name? But this man no longer resembles the man who would wave as Luis drove past. That man is gone.
Home. Housewarming. Year 4.
“It’s a big cross. We’re not even that religious.” Luis looked down at the open box on the kitchen table.
“Shut up, it’s nice. You think she bought it from a garage sale?”
“Knowing my sister, she probably stole it.”
Luis grabs the cross and lifts it up. Flashing thoughts of vampires rush his mind as his neighbor grits his teeth. Blood dribbles out from the sides of his eyes as the man reaches for Luis. The ottoman lid bounces off their feet and tumbles to the side as Luis buries the cross into the man’s head.
The man keeps fighting. Luis pulls back, but keeping enough of his sense, he grabs the cross and uses it again to swing at the man, knocking him down. Using the cross, he stabs down again. Then again. And again. Until the man no longer moves. Blood is everywhere.
Luis is tempted to collapse. His mind races, seeing other people on the street like his neighbor. Should he lift the door to close it or call the cops first? Then Luis’ breath catches as he hears a groan, the same kind of groan as the man’s, coming from his bedroom.
​
Kris Green lives in Florida with his beautiful wife and two savage children. He’s been published over 70 times in the last few years by the wonderful people at Nifty Lit, The Haberdasher: Peddlers of Literary Art, In Parentheses Magazine, Route 7 Review, BarBar Magazine, and many more. He’s won the 2023 Barbe Best Short Story and Reader’s Choice Award for his short story, “Redemption”. Currently, he has regular nonfiction articles being published by Solid Food Press on fatherhood entitled: “On Raising Savages”.
The Crow by Zahra Fatimie
The bird screeches miserably. It twists and turns, unable to fly. The beady eyes quiver in fear, sending desperate cries for help. The Human stands over it; he reaches out slowly. He picks it up; the bird curls into a ball in his hand. The Human stares at it for a long second, then smirks and crushes it. The crunch of the bones, as well as the last pathetic cry of the creature, seem to echo for a long moment. Then it’s the blood, slowly seeping through his fingers.
The Human laughs.
He drops the corpse to the ground, still grinning. Slowly, he walks to a nearby stream, dipping his hands in and letting the blood wash away.
Once his hands are clean, he stands, inhaling deeply. Nature, the essence of the Earth, is filled with all sorts of wonders—all kinds of victims.
He looks up at the trees, then blinks. A crow stares down at him. The Human cocks his head to the side. The Crow lets out a cry and then flies off.
The Human sighs, he could have tried to knock it down with a rock. Reluctantly, he goes onto the dirt path that will guide him to his gilded cage. At least he can test the new rabbits the neighbors adopted.
###
His cage is the same as always: a large suburban house surrounded by suburban people who go about their daily lives with carefree smiles as they lie and lie and lie.
The Human kicks a rock in frustration. It flies away from him. The Human mumbles under his breath before jogging up the back door and pushing it open. Inside, the scene is the same as always.
The Mother is in the kitchen. She goes from counter to counter, occasionally glancing at the Youngest, who scribbles on white paper on the island. She sometimes opens the locked cabinet, sneaking a sip of her vodka.
The Dog and the Father sit in the living room, pretending to watch the game. The Father keeps his eye on his phone, waiting for a text from his business partner. The Dog stands watch for the Mother, knowing that the Mother mustn’t know of the partner.
The Human smiles, ruffles the prickly hair of the Youngest, and lets the Mother kiss him on the cheek, pretending not to notice the vodka reeking on her breath. He then goes to the living room, where the Dog barks. The Father turns, giving him a look.
“No practice today?”
“Coach’s sick.”
The Human then does what is expected of him by obediently going to his bedroom. In there, they expect him to study. Instead, he examines the bones of the animals he’d killed. It’s a routine he finds tiring but necessary.
Somewhere, the Crow caws.
###
When the Human comes down for dinner, he’s greeted by a new sight. The Mother is screaming; tears are streaming down her face as she shoves the phone in the face of the Father. The Youngest is in the kitchen with the Dog, oblivious to everything.
The Human frowns. What is he expected to do in this situation?
Glancing between the Mother and the Father, he quickly deduces that he is supposed to defend the Mother. Putting on a frown, he steps between the two.
“Your father is a liar!”
“It’s just a friend, I swear!”
The Human almost smiles; they sound like the evening drama with the dramatic screaming.
“You liar!”
“Your father has killed me! He’s killed me!”
The Human frowns. As much as he finds it hard to care, his Mother has still buried the bodies of the animals with him.
The Human glares at the father, pushing him out of the house. Amid the Father’s protests and his Mother’s sobs, the Human hears the caw of the Crow.
###
​
The Father sleeps in the car. The Human stands outside him, watching him snore. The human frowns. He killed Mother; therefore, the Human must kill him.
The Human begins to circle the car and pour gasoline on it. It doesn’t take long, only a few seconds. The Human then drops the jug and lights a match, dropping it on the gasoline. As the car slowly catches fire, the Human rushes back in.
He’s pretending to be sad in only a few minutes, with fake tears and the whole shebang. Suddenly, the Human stops and looks up. The Crow sits on the branch of a tree only a few feet away. The Human grins.
The Crow caws, slowly singing the symphony of a murder.
​
Zahra Fatimie was born and raised in Kabul, Afghanistan. She began writing at a young age but started sharing her work in 2021. She is now nineteen years old and no longer resides in Afghanistan. Zahra posts her poetry on her social media and has been published by Coffee and Conversations, an online magazine. You can find Zahra on Instagram as @zahrafatimie.
Stranger at the Station by Daniel Kipps
He’s still staring at me... It’s been nearly two hours, and he hasn’t moved from that bench. Arms crossed, black coat, long hair, massive black boots. He looks so damn creepy in this light. At least, I think he’s staring at me.
Geez, what’s wrong with my brain? Maybe he’s thinking I’m staring at him? Haha, it’s obviously just someone waiting for a train as well, and my mind is playing tricks on me. To be honest, the way the moonlight reflects off his glasses, who’s to say that he’s even got his eyes open?! He probably went to a Christmas party in town, had too many eggnogs and fell asleep waiting for his connecting train. Or maybe he’s dead. Shit, does that mean I need to wake him up? I’m not going over there. No way! It’ll be sod’s law that the second I cross the bridge, my train will come, and I’ll have to run back across, and I really don’t want to miss the last train. I just wanna get back to my bed. Anyway, I’d break my ankles trying to run in these things - gorgeous as they are, they are not built for a life-or-death survival situation.
I hate the forest. Why does Sean have to live so far out in the countryside, anyway? We’re city folk and always will be... at least, I thought we were. Still, Sean was so chuffed to hang out this evening. I think he’s finding it tough being out of the city now that Dad’s gone. Although, Dad would roll in his grave if he saw his only son living in the sticks. He’d probably call him a ‘country bumpkin.’ I miss ya, Dad. You’d sort this guy out for me.
Crap, he moved! He’s not asleep! That’s good, right? Well, I suppose it means he’s not dead, at least. But... that means his eyes are open. So, he is looking at me. Why?
“Elo luv, cold night, innit?” he called across the train tracks. I almost shat myself.
“Err, yeah, good evening,” I replied. Right, pleasantries done. Now leave me the fuck alone, please. I tried to convey that message without actually telling him to fuck off. If he is a crazy psycho killer, hell-bent on murdering me and dumping my body in the woods, the last thing I wanna do is upset him.
The Stranger leaned forward, and even though it was still a good ten meters away, it felt like he was invading my personal space. Like he was leaning in to give me a kiss or something. Why won’t he just fuck off already? I’m not interested.
I’m not gonna look at him anymore. I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. It’s like the setting for the world’s worst rom-com - an older gent locking eyes with an eighteen-year- old blonde, heading back to uni from visiting her brother, and they cuddle up on a bench for warmth before making love in the snow. Yuck. Thanks for that image, brain. Time to check my phone again... great, still zero bars. Why is there never any goddamn signal out here? You’d figure there are enough satellites and shit whizzing around up there to give enough coverage for the entire country. Wait... is he rubbing his leg? Oh god, he’s a pervert. Fuck off, old man. Get the hint already.
It’s only ten minutes until my train, but I don’t know if I can do this... he’s still rubbing the inside of his leg and staring. Stop fucking staring! Oh god, if he stands up, I’m out of here. Why can’t I just have a normal night? Why do creeps always come and find me? I mean, I guess he could have a sore leg from sitting on that metal bench... but what’s more likely? Sore leg, or super horny from looking at my gorgeous face? Definitely the latter. I have that effect on weirdos.
“This is a customer announcement. The 11:35 train from Southampton Central has been canceled. Please see the timetable for alternate connections. We are sorry for any inconvenience caused to your journey.”
He’s getting up! That must have been his train! He’s coming over here!! Oh god, oh god. No! He’s gonna kill me! He’s walking up the steps now. I need to move; I need to not be here. His hand is in his coat. Is he getting a knife? I bet he is! Nope. I’m not staying on this platform and getting stabbed. Five miles isn’t that far...I can walk. Fuck walking, I’m going to run. Sayonara, you creep! Peace out!
ARGH, fuck! My ankle. GODDAMN, IT! I don’t think it’s broken, but I’m not stopping to check... I’m too scared to look behind me. This country lane seems to go on forever. No, I need to check if he’s coming for me; I need to know. OK, here goes nothing.
I turn my head... is he following me?!
​
Based on England's south coast, Daniel Kipps, previously a game industry veteran (15 years as a game designer and director), lives with his family and pet dog. He's enjoyed a successful career in game design, but his passion for writing horror stories had lead him to become a full-time author. Daniel enjoys creating slow burn, Lovecraftian inspired stories, which build dread and make the reader feel uneasy before finishing with a large, action-filled, horrific climax. This story is Daniel's first published piece.
The Hovering by Kidron Grifter
Hilltop Estates was one of America’s best and safest neighborhoods—until the drones arrived.
Their arrival in mid-November marked the beginning of our nightmare. Every evening, dozens of drones swarmed the neighborhood, jerking in the air before locking into a rigid hover above the gabled peaks of our houses. At first, it was just a bizarre light show, but within days, the drones began spreading out, performing precise, grid-like sweeps across the neighborhood. They hovered over playgrounds, paused on rooftops, and dipped low into gardens. Their purpose was a complete mystery.
From a PR standpoint, it was a disaster. Coastal Living abruptly canceled their long-planned holiday feature about our community, while other news outlets swarmed in with sensational headlines calling us “The UFO Neighborhood.” Suddenly, we were on TV with 24/7 news
coverage—but not a single reporter even thought to mention our award-winning landscaping.
Then came the frightening incident with the Davises. On Monday evening, Mr. Davis stepped out to grab something from his shed and must have startled a lurking drone. The machine whirled to life, hitting him with a burst of blinding strobe lights. The entire backyard exploded in harsh, frantic shadows, the trees throwing jagged shapes across the lawn. Disoriented, Mr. Davis turned to flee but tripped over his trash can, his cry echoing in the eerie stillness.
It was time to fight back.
A few nights ago, Mr. Taylor—the man with the flawless neo-classical four-bedroom—called a meeting in the cul-de-sac. Pacing and wild-eyed, he launched into a tirade. “They’re coming for us, folks! Demons, witches, politicians—it’s all connected!” He waved his arms, his voice
cracking with emotion. “These drones are surveillance tools, engineered by reptilian elites to enforce the will of the New World Order! They’re recording us, cataloging us! This is bigger than 9/11. If we don’t act now, we’ll lose everything!”
Several neighbors nodded in agreement. He was making more sense than the mayor had at a press conference earlier that day.
By the end of the meeting, we’d elected him captain of the neighborhood watch. His energy was impossible to ignore.
Last night, Mr. Taylor led a small group of men he’d deputized out on patrol, their flashlights slicing jittery beams through the dark. He passed out makeshift weapons and was brandishing a long-handled pool skimmer like a sword. “I don’t know how this is all going to end, but if they want a fight, they better believe they got one!”
The men cheered, drowning out the steady buzz of drones sailing low over the neighborhood.
​
As they patrolled, a drone dipped extremely low under a streetlight as if to intimidate them. “There!” Mr. Taylor shouted, pointing. “This is it, boys!”
​
With a primal roar, he swung the pool skimmer like a sword, striking the drone’s underbelly with a loud thud. For a moment, it wobbled, trailing smoke. “Freedom!” one of his deputies bellowed, brandishing a push broom. But the drone whined back to life, jerking skyward as Mr. Taylor, breathless, shook his fist. “We almost had it!”
This morning, his house was silent. His car sat in the driveway, but there was no sign of him, his wife, or their corgi, Piper. Only the pool skimmer lay on the porch, its edges charred as if dipped in fire.
By day, we pretended everything was normal. But at night, we stayed inside, curtains drawn, ignoring the glow of probing cameras that painted our walls red. It was easier that way.
But last night, the drones didn’t vanish at sunrise.
This morning, the cul-de-sac is empty. No children on bikes. No barking dogs. No neighbors. No more Homeowners’ Guild meetings.
There’s no one left but me.
​
Kidron Grifter is a collector, avid reader, and a man of steady habits. Based in Ohio, his writing has been featured both locally and online.
The Door and The Thread by Erik Rosales
In this house the walls walk. In the middle of the night, the walls get up and walk. How they move without ever letting me out, I don't know. Where they go, I can't tell. But they walk. The walls of this house stir, they watch me close when I wander the halls because I cannot sleep.
My mother tells me they follow me because they know I'm up to no good. But I've lived here all my life and I've never been "up" to anything. Daydreaming, maybe. Thinking of what I'll do outside when I get there. Only I step outside the front door and I'm inside once again.
Surrounded by walls. I get very tired of daydreaming.
I'm a very pale boy. Momma says I'm just fine, but I know better. The boys and girls in all my picture books and things are never as pale as I am. I'm convinced that this is because they may go outside, while I may not. Momma won't let me.
I was once very close to going outside. I mean for real, sun and wind on my face, the sweet smell of fresh spring drifting from the blossom-clad trees, settling on my clothes, seeping into my skin. It was just this last spring, and Momma and I had just finished breakfast. Momma wanted to go out. And this day, Momma said she'd be gone for a very long time. And.. well... I didn't want to be alone. In the house, I mean. To be alone in the house means you gotta play by house rules. I'd rather be lost out there than alone in here.
I knew the front door moved too, every day. I knew Momma never put on her shoes until she had to go somewhere. And I knew Momma's favorite shoes were her red leather, gum sole flats. So I crept into her room and crawled to the foot of her bed, where she always put her
shoes. I took a brass thumb tack from her drawer, wrapped around it a black thread thin as a spiderweb, and stuck it under her shoe heel. The spool I shoved in my pocket, and unwound it, lining it along the edges of the house, until I got to my bedroom. There, I pocketed everything in my chore-tally piggy bank, pulled my desk chair to the window, and just stared, thinking about my plan. To find the door, I'd just follow the thread.
After Momma washed the dishes she got dressed and came to my room to say goodbye. I fiddled with my wind-up robot and mumbled an answer.
"Don't have too much fun without me," she said, grinning. "There's a cold lunch in the fridge if you're hungry. Egg salad sandwiches." That made me blink. Momma knows I hate egg salad. But I wouldn't crack. Another moment and I could buy whatever I wanted! Burgers and fries, root beer, pizza, doughnuts, all mine! I said thank you, and she went downstairs. Trailing behind her that little black line.
As soon as I heard that door creak shut, I ran! Bounding down three steps at a time, I could see the walls following me, racing me to that front door. If Momma wouldn't let me out, they never would. Balling the thread in my fist, pulling it taught, throwing myself forward with every step, I ducked and turned and scrambled my way past wall after interloping wall. The door ran from me, but I was faster. Just when I thought it would turn another corner, I slammed right into it and pulled at the handle. Stuck! I looked at my hands and saw the black thread slipping. Palms clamming up, I cut myself again and again trying to grasp it. It pulled my hands to the door, Momma fighting me like some big fish. It got so close to slipping away forever that I wrapped it around my wrist. And then I pulled, my whole weight set just to keeping the door where I had it, walls crowding in behind me, laughing. And I was laughing, because I was almost there! I could be out there! I could smell spring! And then...
Momma tells me it was wrong, what I did. Serves me right, losing a hand. And now I'm not to leave my room till she says so. Where my door was, she put a wall. Because the walls have always been hers. House rules, her rules. But she forgot to take away my window, too. And with a window, I can do more than daydream, like she wants me to. What's a drop like that, compared to the sun on my face?
​​​
Erik Rosales is a creative writing graduate from San Francisco State University. He writes poetry and short fiction, and has been published in the SF State undergraduate literary magazine, Transfer, as well as with Poets Choice. He holds the Mark Lithenthal Poetry award for his poem, "weigh," in the fall 2022 Transfer Magazine issue. Erik lives in Antioch, California, with his twin brother, Raymond, and his German shepherd, Boudica. You can follow him on Instagram, via @redhead_mountain_man.
Look Who Goldi's Bringing for Dinner by Jonathan Worlde
Goldi brought her human beau home to meet the family, just prior to hibernation season. This was the third time she’d been serious enough about someone to want to show them off. As the Bear who wears the pants, I admonished the others to show some restraint and discipline this time, so a repeat of the last two disturbing outcomes could be avoided. After all, our adoptive daughter deserved a chance at happiness and the space to start her own family.
Mama-bear bustled around the house before their arrival, compulsively cleaning.
“Mama, leave it be. He’s just Goldi’s friend, not the Pope.”
“You don’t understand. First impressions are important if you want the boy to think about marrying your daughter.”
Daughter-bear Lucy tuned herself out of the conversation, as usual, listening to death metal on her headphones. Ever since her twelfth hibernation, I’ve barely recognized her, she’s always distant and cynical about life and quick to pick a fight. I’d almost prefer she tune out.
I took a bath in the freezing creek running past our house in preparation. I didn’t want to have too high expectations, but I at least wanted to show Goldi’s choice that we respect his kind and give him the chance to consider us as potential in-laws. It was the behavior of the other two I was most worried about – they didn’t have a good track record in dealing with outsiders, especially non-bears.
I went out to wait on the porch and anxiously lit a cigar, for I had rolled around on a desiccated rabbit carcass I’d found in the snow in the woods after my bath, and realized the boy might take offense at such a bold scent clinging to my fur.
And here they came, him driving a Mustang convertible, with Goldi’s lovely locks blowing in the breeze as the car slid to a stop on the gravel drive. They were sharing a joke and having a laugh about something. Insecure as I am around humans, I naturally assumed they must be laughing at me, or at the prospect of his meeting our family. Mama-bear peeked out the window at them, but Lucy continued to act as though she were indifferent to our visitor.
I stepped inside quickly for one last admonishment. “On good behavior, everyone. At least try to pretend you like him, okay?”
Mama-bear nodded, but Lucy didn’t respond, even though I knew she’d heard me.
The boy was barely older than Goldi’s fifteen years. He was delightfully plump, and I could immediately sense he was not a frequent bather, further aggravating the situation. I know we were all salivating, with obscene thoughts of tearing the flesh from his tender bones, but my word is golden.
Not ones for social conversation, we immediately invited the boy to have a seat at the table with us. Mama-bear served bowls of porridge, the only human meal she can prepare, accompanied by bowls of meticulously selected forest pond water, each bowl featuring an orange newt and just a touch of green algae. Goldi sat next to the boy protectively, but I noticed an anguished look on his face as he took in the sight of the delicious newt cavorting in the living sludge.
I started things off with a few words acknowledging the seriousness of the occasion.
“We’d like to welcome Goldi’s friend to our humble abode. Let us use this opportunity both to get to know one another, and to begin the season of fattening, as fall season is now upon us and time is short to build a healthy layer for the winter sleep.”
Mama-bear said, “Hear, hear,” but Lucy pretended like she didn’t hear or care and refused to make eye contact with the rest of us. Goldi whispered in the boy’s ear encouragingly, but he seemed too frightened to utter a word, instead continuously giving each of us the side-eye.
We all quickly scarfed down our porridge, except for the boy, who seemed practically catatonic, like a faun when you lumber across one in the woods and you know its mother won’t be able to do anything to protect it. I stood to reach for the pot of porridge to dole out another portion to everyone. That’s when Mama-bear knocked me over the head with a cast-iron skillet.
# # #
When I regained my senses, first thing I noticed was the dining area was a mess. The partially devoured carcass of the boy lay sprawled upon the table in the midst of overturned bowls of porridge. With horror, I realized it had happened again. Mama-bear and Lucy had satisfied looks on their bloodied faces, and I could tell they were both just about ready for their post-meal naps.
“Where’s Goldi?” I ventured.
Mama-bear: “She’s gone, took the boy’s car and all her clothes and things. Said she’s tired of trying to teach old dogs new tricks.”
I admit I was hurt by her choice of words, even though we had clearly let her down as a supportive family. Lucy had the last word.
“Serves her right. She’s lucky we didn’t gnaw on her bones while we were at it.”
She let out a loud wet burp and groaned. “I think I ate too much.”
​
Jonathan Worlde’s novel Latex Monkey with Banana was winner of the Hollywood Discovery Award. It has been banned by the North Carolina public school system. He has over thirty short stories published in various journals, including Trembling with Fear, Cirque Journal, Raven Review, Mystery Tribune, Stupefying Stories, Daily SF and Metastellar.
What Makes Me So Special by Keller Agre
It’s been there since birth. If it was caused by an angel kiss, then something about my right leg was popular in heaven. That thought never helped the teasing, though. My birthmark was ugly compared to most. It was only the size of a quarter, but to me, it was much bigger. Instead of a slightly darker shade of brown, as I’d seen on others, mine had moles in it, and each one grew darker and thicker hair than the rest of my leg. I learned how to use a razor before any of the other kids in my middle school class. Sometimes, Mom would show me baby pictures, but my birthmark ruined them all.
My brother said the fish would bite it if I swam in the lake, so I covered it with a band-aid before every swim. He also said that if I kept shaving it, the hairs would grow thicker and thicker until they were as big as spider legs, and they would scratch me when I slept. I thought if this were true, maybe my birthmark would crawl away one day. When that didn’t happen, I was determined to find another way of getting rid of the awful thing.
“Mom? Can doctors remove something from your skin?” I asked one day in the kitchen when she was making dinner.
“I suppose so. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering. Would it hurt?”
“I think they would make you numb, so it wouldn’t hurt,” Mom replied.
“Do you think it’d leave a mark?”
“It would leave a scar.”
Any mark would be better than what I had.
“Would it cost a lot?”
Mom stopped peeling the potatoes. “Jacob. Is this about your birthmark? I told you, it’s what makes you special.”
My parents loved to use that line. I didn’t want to be special in that way. I wanted to be noticed for something else.
“Yes,” I admitted. “I just don’t want to be made fun of anymore.”
“Oh, honey. You’ll grow up and appreciate what makes you different. Soon, no one will care. And neither will you.”
I seriously doubted this. With surgery no longer an option, I asked one of my classmates if they had any ideas.
“You could try Wite-Out,” Ryan said.
“Maybe toothpaste?” Danny asked after a drink of milk.
“Sometimes,” my friend, Lucas, said, “my mom uses an orange pen thing to get rid of stains on my jeans.”
“Do you think that’d work on my birthmark?” I asked in between bites of pizza.
“I don’t know,” Lucas said. “I’ll bring it to school tomorrow, and you can try it.”
“Do you think it’d hurt?” I asked.
Lucas shrugged, and then we moved on to talking about something different.
The next night, with Lucas’s stain remover in hand, I stared at my birthmark. It had more moles inside of it than I remembered. That’s not surprising because I rarely look at it for more than a few seconds while I change clothes. I’ve become an expert at hiding it. Any shorts I wear must go past it, even after a run or a jump. My great uncle has a birthmark on his leg too, but it doesn’t stand out as much on his splotchy old body.
I touched the spot with my finger, hoping this would be the last time I ever would. It was rougher than the skin around it. I twisted the long hairs so that they looked like a teepee.
After removing the stain pen’s cap, I held the tip close to my birthmark. Was Mom right? Did this mark make me special?
No. It was big and ugly. I touched the pen’s tip to my mark.
It moved.
The birthmark slid to the outside of my leg. I was frozen. How did it do that?
I tried to touch the pen’s tip to it again, but it moved again. This time, it shifted up to my waist.
This was better. At least it was easier to cover up. But I wanted to keep trying. Maybe it would eventually pop off my body.
Again, I brought the pen tip close, but it moved up to my chest. That wasn’t good. Now, every time I took my shirt off, it would be seen.
Maybe if I poked my birthmark with the pen really fast, I’d get it. I held the pen about a foot away, then jabbed my chest.
It was gone.
It worked! I couldn’t find my birthmark anywhere. I felt where it had been on my leg, now a smooth patch of skin. Two perfectly matching legs.
I went downstairs to get a drink of water. Mom and Dad were watching a movie. The whole house was dark except for the bright light of the TV. The house rumbled as something happened in the movie. It was a scary movie, and I wasn’t allowed to watch. I flipped on the kitchen light and my mom looked my way.
“Honey?” Mom said. “You have something on your face. Go wash it off.”
I put the glass down and went upstairs to my bathroom. I looked in the mirror.
My birthmark was there.
Right in the middle of my forehead.
This was the worst place possible. I grabbed the stain remover pen from my room and went back into the bathroom. Could I make it go to the top of my head and under my hair? That way, I wouldn’t need to worry about it until I was old. I touched the pen to my birthmark.
It got bigger.
I did it again.
It got bigger again. Now it was the size of a coaster. It had spread to my eyebrows.
Almost my whole forehead was covered in moles. Was I not pressing hard enough?
I gripped the pen tight and jabbed into my forehead.
Then, it was dark.
​
Keller Agre is a horror writer originally from Overland Park, Kansas whose work has appeared in various publications including Undertaker Books and Haunted Words Press. He is a member of the Atlanta Writers Club as well as various book clubs in the Atlanta area. He enjoys hiking the Appalachian Mountains, playing folk music on his guitar, and bothering his dog, Banjo.
Under the Bed by Rebecca Klassen
It’s January 1st, and Alana pulls closed the abyss-black wedge between her bedroom curtains. She doesn’t want to be seen by the things she’s imagined waiting in the bushes, calculating a wildcat pounce for when she succumbs to sleep. There’s nothing outside, though, except the neighbor’s stupid tabby, its stump of a tail twitching in the moonlight.
Alana is focusing on her New Year’s resolution – to stop checking under her bed before she goes to sleep. She tells herself that thirteen is way too old to believe in glowing eyes and snatching hands beneath the mattress. But, she still runs from the window and leaps onto her bed, holding her breath like when she runs down the pier at the lake every summer and launches into the golden water with the other kids.
On the bank, she always fishes with her dad at dawn for rainbow trout. He’s taught her how to gut and fillet the fish, slicing their bellies and severing their gills from their jaws. Alana pulls their innards away like peel from bananas, holding them up in the sunshine, admiring them as they glisten like Christmas decorations.
Around the campfire, belly full from a fish supper, Alana traps cockroaches in her tin mug, listening to their exoskeletons tinkling inside, half-drowning in a few milliliters of hot chocolate. The boys are telling stories about creatures that hunt campers in the woods. There’s no way she can let on that she’s scared, or she’ll become susceptible to midnight groans outside her tent as the boys shake the canvas to hear her squeal. So, she picks up a cockroach from her mug, clutches its abdomen, and squeezes so its tiny organs leak from her fist while its head and antennae continue to writhe and wriggle. The girls scream and run away, leaving the boys’ fictional creatures poised behind tree trunks without an audience.
​
In her room, Alana has made it under the duvet without a hand grabbing her ankle. She knew she would because thirteen-year-olds know things don’t hide under the bed. The curtains breathe from the breeze coming from the open window. As Alana settles onto her pillow and turns out the lamp, she hears the neighbor’s tabby wail outside, the one with the stump-tail. It’s different from the sound it made a few weeks ago. It was right after Alana opened the back door to bring in the washing, and the cat started figure-eighting round her legs in the doorway, its long tail flicking like a hostile snake. The tail’s erratic movement was so abstract from the sleekness of the cat’s body, that it boiled something inside Alana. She slammed the door and the tail dropped to the mat at her feet while the cat bulleted across the garden with a guttural roar.
The tabby goes quiet outside Alana’s window, but she can hear a shuffling sound. She holds her breath in the dark, hoping it’s just her dad’s slippers on the landing carpet as he goes to the bathroom, but she realizes the sound is in her bedroom. There’s a dragging quality to it, like a deadweight being dragged, brief pauses between efforts. It’s coming from below the bed. But she won’t look under there: she made a resolution not to. Thirteen-year-olds don’t believe in things hiding under the bed, and this Alana of the New Year doesn’t check for things crawling out when the light fades, so she stays marble still.
​
The noise emerges and rises at the bedside, standing tall. Its legs are thin, bent insect hind legs, supporting a hard metathorax that’s hourglass-shaped from being crushed in the middle. Its arms are the bones of pectoral fins, like skeletal wings. The lower jaw gapes loosely, ripped from sockets, displaying needle-thin teeth, and the orbits are empty of fisheyes. From its scaly face sprout whiskers.
A furry tail spasms from its rear, flecking blood from its severed end onto Alana’s floral bedspread. It scoots back towards the window as Alana peels back the duvet. Throwing open the curtains, the creature jumps out into the night, scared of the monster it left behind in the bedroom.
​
​
Rebecca Klassen is co-editor of The Phare and a Best of the Net 2025 nominee. She won the 2021 London Independent Story Prize, and was shortlisted for this year's Bridport Prize, Alpine Fellowship, and Laurie Lee Prize. Her work has featured in Mslexia, Fictive Dream, The Brussels Review, Toronto Journal, Amphibian, Ginosko, Gooseberry Pie, West Word, Riggwelter, and Ink, Sweat & Tears. Her stories have been performed at numerous literature festivals and on BBC Radio.
Circles by Barlow Crassmont
The rusty fence smelled like stale blood as Marnie and I climbed it in the middle of the night. My old watch beeped as the date shifted. She thought it was the onset of an oncoming alarm.
“Relax,” I said. “The power is off. No security system, no guards. We’re safe.”
I landed on the other side with barely a scratch, avoiding the jagged wire sticking out halfway. But ‘the Queen’ wasn’t as lucky, cutting her finger.
“Shit!” Marnie cried. “You said this would be easy.” Drops of her blood glistened on the dirty ground, arousing me in unknown ways.
She flinched when I took her hand to examine the wound. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Don’t worry,” I replied. “It’s barely bleeding.” I held eye contact until she looked away, capturing her trust. The prevalent darkness made my eyes’ temperature and the color of the water imperceptible when the moon snuck behind the clouds. I took off my shirt, pants, and shoes and embraced the breezy summer evening in my yellow swimsuit.
Marnie’s eyes narrowed as her nose met the awaiting aroma. “Ugh! Is that thing filled with mop water?” She waved her hand in front of her face.
“Who cares!? Come on.” I jumped in without hesitation. Water was cold, murky, and smelled of soiled laundry. I hid my discomfort from Marnie, for the last thing I wanted was for her to change her mind.
She unbuttoned her pants, but stopped short of taking them off.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“It looks nasty.” Marnie hesitated like an indecisive child. She seemed resentful of the gloom but particularly of the absence of additional eyeballs. Her attitude, as with most social media Queens, was if no one is watching, is it really worth doing?
“Relax”, I said. “It’s unpleasant, but think of all the views you’ll get.”
That’s all it took to get the diva to do what she’d rather not. She undressed quicker than it took me to turn my head. Her legs plunged in the water as if gradually devoured by the liquid putridity.
“Ugh! I can’t believe I’m doing this!” Her chin shivered as if in vibration mode. I took photos, then recorded her with the waterproof phone. Her countenance changed at the first sight of a lens; an uninformed bystander would scarcely have believed her current mood from the previous one. Marnie smiled, grinned from ear to ear, stuck her tongue out, splashed around, and strutted as if she were the empress of the underworld. After I handed her the phone back, she immediately posted on her page.
“Did all those kids really die here?” she asked. I nodded. “Did they drown...?”
“Who knows,” I said. “All that matters is when these photos go viral, you’ll be the envy of everyone who shits themselves at the mere thought of this place.”
“You really think it’s cursed? What if something happens to us?”
“Relax,” I said. “Nothing ever happens to me.”
“You say "relax" a lot. How come?”
I turned away, hoping my silence would make her ever so curious. The stars suddenly vanished from the sky, and night became blacker yet. Crickets chirped from nearby, their echoes like low-frequency murmurs.
“Are you scared?” I asked, my grin likely invisible to her.
“Should I be?”
I glided in the water, circling her until I was a few feet from her face. “Why did you delete me?”
“What are you talking about?” she said.
“You deleted me from HeadPage.”
“No, I didn’t.” Her intonation was non-existent. She avoided eye contact and paddled towards the deep end like a struggling puppy.
“Why?” I repeated. The silence accompanied the darkness like a bride does a groom. When the moon reappeared, Marnie’s hair shone as a dim lamp. I crept up behind her, the water expanding outwards. With her face away from mine, she uttered a barely audible, “I’m sorry.”
“But why?” I repeated. “That wasn’t nice.”
“Your photos... they’re dark. Too many dead animals and weird art. You creep people out.”
The queen’s honesty struck me as unexpected, poking my ego as an irritable thorn. “Do I creep you out?” I asked. If she had an ounce of integrity, she’d reply in the affirmative. If.
Marnie turned and smiled, the grin of which I could discern by the cheerful alignment of her eyes. At length, she shook her head. I extended my arm, initiating a hug. She accepted my embrace. For several moments, we remained united, like shy lovers. Gently, I began to push her head below, at first, gently, then more forcefully. Bubbles rose to the surface like a boiling cauldron.
Marnie kicked, tossed, and resisted with all her strength, but to little avail. I whispered, "relax," but she likely didn’t hear. Her frantic fingers scratched my neck in multiple places before she came to rest, like an unplugged machine, mid-cycle. The open wound on her hand continued to bleed until its color merged with the pungent water.
I took a final photo of Marnie’s floating body while putting my clothes back on. The concentric circles expanded no more under the night’s reign. In a few hours, the place would return to its wasteland status, and any sign of our presence would disintegrate with the dawn’s arrival, like dew under the warming sun.
​
Barlow Crassmont has lived in the USA, Eastern Europe, Middle East and China. When not teaching or writing, he dabbles in juggling, solving the Rubik’s Cube, and learning other languages.
He has been published by British Science Fiction Association, Wilderness House Literary Review, Sudo Journal, and in the upcoming 41st anthology of Writers of the Future.