Horror Stories of 1,000 Words or Less
For the month of March 2025, these are the stories that entertain us most.
* Footrest by Keith Parker
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* Grocery List by Paul Watkins
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* Wednesday Matinee by Donovan Thiesson
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* Never Come at Night by Nicole Winchester
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* The Lonely Hearts Hunter by Charlie Williams
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* Any Minute by Ransom Wall
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* Here Lies Chocolate by Jerome Newsome
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* Club Drugs by Rachel Baker
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* A Stitch in Time by Kim Lawton
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* The Missing Part by Rick McQuiston
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* Familiar by Sarah Lewis
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* What Comes Back by Kayleigh Marinelli
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​* Don't Make Me Turn This Car Around by Christine N. Rifkin
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* The Truth is Coming to Maple Street by Zary Fekete
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* The Nocturnals by Aline Soules
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* Take Out the Trash by Matt Scott
Footrest by Keith Parker
Have you ever smelled a trench? No? The odor attacks your nostrils and sinuses with a barrage of poisonous gasses. The odors are an acrid and vomit-inducing combination of shit, shit-smelling mud, iron blood, black vomit, the barbequed pork odor of melted flesh, and, in the spring, irises and daffodils.
The man I was standing on top of had had his jaw blown off that morning by an egg grenade lobbed by one of the Kaiser’s new stormtroopers during the madness of Ludendorff's spring offensive, the one that was going to end the war and give the Hun whatever the goddamn hell they believed they wanted back in those heady, military parade days of 1914.
He — the faceless one — had asked to borrow my gasmask to climb a ladder and survey what was left of No Man’s Land. I had shaken my head.
He’d rolled his eyes. “C’mon, mate. The gas is bad up here.”
I shook my head again.
“Dear Jesus. You’re not going to get huffed in the next thirty seconds.”
I shook my head yet again while tears welled in my eyes and my arse cheeks clenched. I tightened the headband on the mask.
He sneered, spit, and climbed the ladder. “Goddamn, Nancy.”
The blast blew out my eardrums. He had survived for three hours after having his face ripped away. I watched him writhe in agony until he died, unable to scream, only gurgle.
After that, and until we were redeployed, his body became my footrest.
I kept thinking about how I could’ve given him my gas mask. Shared it. Just for a moment. Would it have helped save him from the grenade? I don’t know. I will never know. But it might have done. A little shielding would have been better than none at all. Instead, I had just watched through mud-stained goggles as he fell to his death.
###
That was seven years ago. I had logged the nightmare of the war in a diary that Mum had put in my pack before I left London. I had started writing in it when I arrived in Boulogne with the BEF. The journal was bound in leather from the finest Scottish cattle. And so, from then until Armistice Day, as I had seen flesh torn from men’s torsos and as I had done the same to strangers, I thought about that poor cow, now fertilizer, grazing in its tranquil fields in the Western Isles.
The journal now rests inside the bureau that sits in the corner of my flat on Tottenham Court Road. From the smeared window beside that bureau, I can see the Bolsheviks marching in their ranks and files below, flying the Union Jack next to the Hammer and Sickle. Some flags have the hammer/sickle sewn into the Union Jack itself. The mob tried to assault Winston Churchill one day but only got so far as molesting the taxi driver who, ironically, was a socialist with anarchist sympathies.
I sat back down, sighed, and took a sip of potato soup, my daily meal.
I returned to my typewriter. I am writing about the tragedy of the Great War at the behest of an editor friend at The New York Times. I’m not doing very well with American English. One of my mates, an American named Sam, had been teaching me proper American English right before he had his balls blown off by a Turk soldier who’d decided to join the fight on the Western Front rather than go to prison for perversion in Ankara.
I took another sip of my soup and had to pull a chunk of potato from my mouth. Not very polite but I was in the privacy of my own home. Even as tender as it was, I could not gum a hunk of potato.
I swallowed, scooted back to my desk, and smelled the irises I kept in a vase to the left of the Underwood. I put my fingers on the H and F keys and then stopped. To my right sat the Mason Jar full of my teeth. I had had each one extracted without anesthetic over the past year by a dentist on Charing Cross who had been released from prison by a corrupt magistrate. The dentist had actually offered me chloroform, but I had declined. I wanted to scream thirty-two times. And so, I screamed thirty-two times, passing out seventeen times during those surgeries. I had contracted a hideous infection after one extraction.
All that severe pain had been worth it, as was a daily diet of potato soup without potatoes because beside my Mason jar full of teeth was the jaw of my footrest from the trench.
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Keith is currently employed as a modeling and simulation analyst at a private space exploration company. He’s married to his college sweetheart, who is an ophthalmic technician. They met at Birmingham-Southern College, a small liberal arts college, where he studied physics and history. They have two kids in college, and a cat who’s not in college. Keith has been writing speculative fiction since the 1990s; this is his seventh traditionally published short story (i.e., not self-published). He’s also pretty zany, much more right-brain than one might think given his science background.
The Grocery List by Paul Watkins
DAIRY
Milk—100% more fat—her arteries are hardening as I write.
Ice cream—doesn’t deserve it!
Creole butter—with a voodoo curse, you know, one that melts her face.
Laxative—it’s not dairy, but the celebration’s the same if you're lactose.
A dozen cage-free eggs—I read that chickens roam free and happy, but with freedom comes NO responsibility. They peck each other bloody, which I don’t have problems with. Egg violence adds to the romance.
MEAT
Whole chicken—small bones, can catch those in your throat (Perdue on special this week, dollar a pound).
Shellfish—she’s got a ton of allergies.
Catfish—bones, again.
VEGGIES
Jalapenos
Lee Kum Kee Siracha Chili Sauce (extra hot)—when the police come, I’ll need tears (20% off coupon).
BAKERY
A loaf of black bread—color of her heart. The Russian kind (15% off coupon).
Keiser rolls—Germans are such gentle people. The Keiser saw to it millions died in his war; I only need one to die.
Anniversary Cake—ordered two days ago. How long’s it been,18 years? No 20. I don’t know. It’ll be on the cake.
Animal crackers and Ho Hos—our kids love these things. My secret? I do, too.
SMOOTHIE
Bananas
Mango
Pineapple
Berries
Strawberry yogurt, two cartons (10% coupon for ea.)
I’ll need some honey—sweeten the lethal taste.
CLEANING PRODUCTS
Two large sponges—I anticipate projectile vomiting, maybe shit herself. It’ll be ugly.
Jumbo toilet paper, Charmin, super soft kind (coupon 30% off).
Hydrogen peroxide
Vinegar—mix this with the hydrogen peroxide, and it’ll be lethal.
Clorox—I remember Trump saying this was an injectable that kills viruses. I can’t get that out of my head.
Latex gloves
MISCELLANEOUS
Antifreeze—be winter soon. I know, I know, I drive a Tesla, but maybe no one notices.
A large blue tarp, 7’ X 9’—should be loose-fitting.
Duct Tape
Shovel
Diapers, the big box of Huggies, 170 count—can’t wait ‘til the twins are potty trained.
A string of condoms, lubricated—my girlfriend loves how they slide; so do I.
A fifth of Jack—a little courage.
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Paul Watkins has lived with his wife, Susan, in St. Louis, Missouri, for many years. He is a professor emeritus at Missouri State University and holds a doctorate and an MFA degree. He is an emerging author who writes primarily magical realism flash. He currently edits for two publications, The Clearing House Journal and The Consequence Forum.
Wednesday Matinee by Donovan Thiesson
Charon wheezes a weary sigh as he slumps into his seat. Condensation collects along the rim of a coke, fizzing in the cupholder to his side, and a heaping bag of popcorn rests upon his lap, staining his fingers amber. He closes his eyes and takes in the irresistible aroma of grease and salt.
He prefers Wednesdays because cinemas are usually devoid of chittering children and matinees because he is a workaholic. Nights are when his work picks up most, and the weekly Wednesday matinee at the Odeon is his treat to himself.
Arriving early is a must; he hates to miss the previews. If the feature film disappoints, as so often happens, he can daydream throughout the week of upcoming attractions. For Charon, these future possibilities represent hope during a hopeless time.
The theater doors beat twice from behind, and he jumps. A haggard man saunters past. The kid at the counter is bad for letting in drunks looking to sleep off a bender, yet Wednesday matinees are usually a safe bet. Charon’s shoulder blades slump. Christ, he hopes this man doesn’t snore, not after the week he’s had.
Charon flips the hood of his sweater up, concealing his pale face. Maybe this interloper won’t notice him, sit beside him, try to make uncomfortable small talk, or ask him for smokes. The man flashes Charon a smirk as he passes, but Charon catches no whiff of whiskey. The stranger sits two rows up and leans back in his chair. No issues so far. Charon exhales relief as the pools of light illuminating the aisles shrink and dim.
The screen flickers to life, and a familiar tingle of anticipation dances ballet up Charon’s vertebrae. An actor posing as a concession worker fills the screen, his sweaty, endearing face ten feet across.
“Please turn off your cell phones before the movie starts and keep your feet off the seats!” he exclaims to an empty cinema.
The man two rows up snorts and turns on his cell phone, raising it high above his head and blocking Charon’s view. He is not here to sleep off a hangover, nor is he here to enjoy the Wednesday matinee. This insufferable man is recording bootleg copies of the movie.
“Hey, buddy!” Charon calls.
“Piss off,” the man answers, not even turning around.
Charon sighs in annoyance. Rising upon spindly legs, he steps into the aisle. His right hand slips into the front pocket of his hoody and grips a leather-wrapped handle. On screen, a massive lion roars a triumphant shout of trumpets, masking his footsteps.
Charon folds his thin frame into the seat next to the man, who looks over in surprise. The color drains from his face as Charon pulls out the tool of his trade. Scythes are old-school and impractical; a sickle is concealed so much easier. Charon hates to work during the Wednesday matinee, but sometimes, it just cannot be helped.
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Donovan Douglas Thiesson resides just outside your bedroom window. In fact, he is watching you read this right now, and is disappointed that you have not read any of his other stories, some of which have been published through Fiction on the Web, Farthest Star Publishing, and Exquisite Deathzine. Donovan’s hobbies include collecting fossils, eating butter chicken, and going through your garbage at night. If you want Donovan to stop hiding in your closet, feel free to like and follow him on Facebook at ‘Donovan Douglas Thiesson Author.’
Never Come at NIght by Nicole Winchester
Samantha had been absolutely run ragged by the end of her twelve-hour shift. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to slow down but taking care of several non-verbal residents who couldn’t stand up to use the bathroom demanded every ounce of her attention.
She’d been an RN in different nursing homes for decades, but every year it seemed to get worse, and her current workplace, Shady Acres, took the cake. It lived up to its name. Shady administration refused to hire enough people to serve their nearly one hundred residents. Shady people dumped their parents there and never returned. Shady physical therapists and doctors neglected their patients so severely that she had to clean infected bedsores that could very well end their lives. No one seemed to care because all of the staff were run down and half-dead themselves, not just Samantha. At least Samantha would want to care if anyone gave her the slightest bit of encouragement. She’d never heard anyone say the phrase “Thank you” at Shady Acres.
Samantha attempted to get her chaotic mess of hair back into a bun before checking in on her quietest, sickest patient, Muncel Stanislaw. He’d been stuck in that hospital bed, nothing but a bag of bones, for longer than Samantha had worked there. Somehow, he got a little bit worse every day but was still alive, no matter how low his blood pressure got or how anemic he was. Another jaded nurse told her, “Just watch, he’ll go this week. You wanna bet?” Samantha had declined, appalled.
Some people just shouldn’t be here, she thought wearily and wasn’t sure if she was thinking of that nurse or Muncel.
As brightly as she could manage, she said, “How are we feeling today, Muncel?”
Muncel didn’t budge. He never did. His clouded blue eyes never looked at her unless she was right above him. Talking to him was a formality to keep her a little saner.
He wheezed out a few deep breaths, and Samantha pretended he’d said something.
“Great,” she replied.
As she put on gloves and prepared to give Muncel a sponge bath, her bleary eyes spotted something new in the room: a beautiful bouquet of roses and baby’s breath in a crystal vase with a little card attached. Samantha read the card out of curiosity.
“Thank you, my dear Samantha, for caring for Muncel so well for so long.
Samantha gasped a little and put her hand to her chest, feeling her nametag. Of course, that’s how someone had known her name… but she’d never seen anyone with Muncel, ever. Samantha read on.
If it hadn’t been for you, he would have passed long ago. Take these flowers as a token of appreciation. I ask only one thing of you: never allow anyone in his room at night.
Be well, Samantha.”
The strange instructions rattled around in her tired brain, barely making sense. Not to mention, she never worked nights, so it was impossible for her to make sure no one entered at night. What if he coded at three A.M.?
Samantha went home, put the flowers on her bed stand, and fell asleep instantly, forgetting all about the note.
The next morning, she came back to Muncel’s room first thing. His body shuddered when he entered like she’d awakened him from a deep sleep.
“Sorry, Muncel,” she said. “Just me. How are we feeling?”
She went over to check on him, his blue eyes wider than she’d ever seen, and saw two little red dots on his neck, just under his chin.
Samantha shuddered. Please don’t be bedbugs.
On the little table where the flowers had stood, now there lay a long, fat envelope with her name on it. Samantha, more than a little freaked out, opened it but nearly yelped when she saw what was inside.
Money. Thousands of dollars. And another note in the same handwriting.
“Samantha, I asked nicely before, but someone came at 1:15 last night and disturbed Muncel’s slumber. Is this enough for you to do as I ask? I won’t ask again.”
Samantha gripped the money until the envelope crackled. She had to tell someone. This wasn’t right, whatever was going on. But on the other hand, if anyone else at Shady Acres knew someone was handing out free money, there’d be a riot to get some, HIPAA violations be damned.
Samantha stuffed the money in her pocket and hatched a plan that very second.
After another grueling twelve-hour shift, she stuck around after clocking out, hiding in the lobby’s restroom. Fighting sleep, she waited until two A.M., then snuck out. The place was deserted. The only guard and the night nurses had taken their break together, even though they weren’t supposed to leave the floor without any nurses. The dimmed lights, deep quiet, and darkness from outside turned the pit of Samantha’s stomach. She snuck carefully up to Muncel’s room and creaked open the door.
In the night, an even darker shadow hung over Muncel’s body, like a dark scarf obscuring his neck, then whipped itself upward to reveal a head with two burning eyes and a mouth dripping with blood.
“Samantha!” it hissed.
There was no time to scream, no time to even open her mouth before the thing flew behind her and slammed the door shut.
###
The other nurses of Shady Acres never asked what had happened to Samantha. They figured she’d just finally up and quit, like everyone who worked there wanted to do. They noticed the extra blood in Muncel’s room, though, and argued over who would have to clean it up.
Muncel stared at each nurse who came in, blinking, quivering, moaning with a mouth frozen open in a silent scream.
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Nicole Winchester grew up in the rural Midwest decades ago, and has always been obsessed with the macabre, nature, and animals. She eventually moved, got a "real job," and is now attempting to become a "real author." Nicole's short stories have been published in Elegant Literature Magazine, The Expressionist Literary Magazine, and The Pink Hydra. website: winchesterfiction.com
The Lonely Hearts Hunter by Charlie Williams
I’ve always loved the line from the Scottish poet William Sharp’s poem, “The Lonely Hunter”, which says, “But my heart is a lonely hunter that
hunts on a lonely hill.” Carson McCullers borrowed part of that line for her novel, “The Heart is a Lonely Hunter”. I love that
title, too. I guess I’ve always been fascinated by the human heart. I remember making those red construction paper hearts in Mrs. Poletti’s first-
grade class at Murphy’s Landing Elementary School for Valentine’s Day. I saved mine long after my classmates had discarded the ones they
had made, keeping them in my desk until they became ragged and torn. I learned that the heart was considered the center of strong emotions,
the gateway to the soul. As I got older, I often wondered what a real heart looked like. Needless to say, the pet population in my neighborhood
experienced a mysterious decline during my formative years. It was my awakening to a new life. I was inspired to alter my favorite line to describe
my solitary current path. I am a lonely hunter of hearts.
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Another thing that has always interested me is religion. Most of us inherit our god from our parents, but that hardly seems fair. There are all kinds
of gods out there, so why can’t we just pick the one that we want to worship? For me, that deity is the Aztec god, Huitzilopochtli. I
discovered him in sixth-grade social studies. I know it’s a mouthful and, to be honest, I’m not even sure I’m pronouncing the name correctly. But
this sun god is in a constant battle with the darkness and that sounded pretty good to me. Of course, my choice was influenced by his need
for human sacrifice and the offering up of human hearts to ensure his goodwill. It turns out that The Aztecs, as well as the Olmecs and Toltecs,
were pretty good at this ritual sacrifice thing. Priests would remove the heart while the victim was still alive. The heart was then offered to th
gods. They decapitated the head and removed the flesh of the face to expose the skull. The skulls were then displayed on wooden posts. Sound
extreme? Not when you consider that many devout people believe it’s okay to consume the body and blood of their god and pray to the wooden
cross used to torture and kill him.
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You can get anything online. The Aztecs used obsidian blades to remove human hearts with surgical precision and placed them in a bowl called a
Chacmool. I was able to order both from Amazon for under sixty dollars. Not bad, huh? It does take a little stealth and planning to hunt
for hearts, though. Let’s just say people aren’t lining up to be sacrificed to an Aztec god, and it’s not culturally appropriate to use one’s enemies
as religious fodder. So, yeah, hunting hearts is a lonely pursuit.
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When I began my spiritual journey, I knew I would have to have some way to subdue my human prey. Ever watch “Dexter”? He used the animal
tranquilizer etorphine hydrochloride to take down his victims, so I got a job working at a local veterinarian's office. It’s a small town and
things are a bit lax at the clinic. Besides, I really don’t use all that much.
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Did I mention that The Aztecs practiced exocannibalism, the eating of human organs to gain the strength of their kill? I may have left that out on
purpose. But let me tell you, it works! I’m not sure if they ate them raw, but that would be a bit much, even for me. Not to worry, I did find
a great recipe for cooking a heart. Well, to be honest, it was a recipe for a cow heart, but meat is meat, right? Not that you asked, but I’ll share
the process anyway. First, you have to rinse the heart thoroughly with cold water. Next, trim away the fat and connective tissue. This isn’t
usually a problem with a younger person. Cut the heart open and remove the chambers and internal membranes. Finally, slice the meat into
strips or cubes and always cook slowly to ensure tenderness. And the most surprising part? It tastes delicious!​
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I know you can’t talk with that shrink wrap covering your mouth, but I wanted you to know that there is a purpose behind all this. Just think, your
sacrifice will be in the service of a god and provide me with nourishment for my soul and body. That’s certainly not a boring way to die, is
it? By the way, I’ve really enjoyed our little talk. Believe it or not, I really don’t socialize all that much. Now it’s time for the most exciting part. I’m
going to slice open your chest and remove your heart, and you’ll be able watch it beat, at least for a few seconds. You’d be surprised
how long a heart continues to beat after it’s removed from a body. My own personal record is three whole minutes! What do you think, buddy?​
One more game? How long do you think your heart will beat? I know you can’t speak, but you can blink! The number of times you blink will
be your guess when you feel the blade against your chest. I’m starting to cut now. Ready? Blink!
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One! Two! Three! Four!!!
Any Minute by Ransom Wall
I woke up covered in blood. Well, not just blood. I was also splattered with gore and chunks of brain, and little specks of skull littered my scalp like dandruff. And to top it off, about three feet of intestines were wrapped around my neck like a scarf.
I can’t remember what happened last night or where I got the pile of gore that I was snuggled up in. And although it absolutely horrified me, I have gotten over much of the original shock now.
A huge part of me wanted to call the police, but my more logical self knew that would be a bad idea. A very bad idea. What would I tell them? What explanation could I give? My mind keeps gravitating towards a certain one. An impossible one. I want so badly to just write it off as ridiculous, as I would have any day before today, but this one piece of information refuses to leave me alone.
Last night was a full moon.
This only dawned on me after I had taken care of the mess, mostly because I was rushing like hell to get it cleaned up before one o'clock. I have a small fireplace, and the sheets burned perfectly. I also burned my clothes and the larger pieces of gore, such as the intestine scarf. I showered off the rest and scrubbed my skin all over. I then bleached the tub and poured half a bottle of drain cleaner down it.
During that process I had a vague memory or thought of doing bath-salts. I don’t remember ever buying bath-salts, and I don’t remember ever wanting to use them. I smoke some weed every once in a while but that’s it. Why would I use bath-salts?
There wasn’t much blood on the floor, so that only took about a half-hour to clean up. Thank God I don’t have carpet. When I took off the intestine scarf, I noticed something. It wasn’t all one piece, instead it was two pieces that had gotten knotted together somehow. And one piece was not as thick as the other. It was thinner, much thinner, and seemed to be of a slightly different shade.
Now I sit here, watching the door. My ex-wife was supposed to bring my daughter over so she could stay for the weekend, like we do every week. Except they’re late. They’re never late. It’s one-thirty now. They probably got stuck in traffic, that’s all. They’ll be here any minute.
Any minute.
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Ransom Wall is a young writer who had his first short story published at the age of 15. Since then he has had multiple publications in numerous magazines and anthologies in paperback, hardcover, and digital format.
Here Lies Chocolate by Jerome Newsome
In the cavity of a pine tree, a nest of baby starlings trilled. Their mother held their sibling over the edge and opened her beak. The thin chick flailed his bony wings, shaking off the few feathers stuck to his pink flesh.
Cole closed his eyes. The thud, an earthy bang, splashed the insides of his eyelids with blood and guts. Those horrific images forced him to gaze upon the chick, a mangled mess stiller than the leafy foliage around it.
Why did the mother toss her child from the nest? How could she…
Cole wiped tears from his cheeks and gritted his teeth. He dug a hole with his hands, gently placed the chick inside, and then covered it up. After finding a stick, he wrote in the dirt: Here Lies Chocolate.
Not the best name for a bird. Though, Cole hoped it would suffice since chocolate was his favorite treat. Now, he glared at the mother, staring down from the cavity.
Time for vengeance.
Cole pulled out his slingshot. He never played outside without it. All he needed were some projectiles. While he searched for rocks, he strained his childish brain, pondering the absolute horror he witnessed.
Why did Chocolate deserve to die? Because he wasn’t as big as his siblings? That didn’t seem fair.
Twigs broke under Cole’s feet. He stuffed rocks, some jagged, some smooth, in the pockets of his denim shorts. Sunlight radiated through the small patch of trees in his backyard, which seemed like a miniature woodland.
Some days, Cole stood on his porch and watched deer eat grass. His father always shooed them away, which he didn’t understand. Why not let the deer eat the grass so his father wouldn’t have to cut it every week?
Pockets full of ammunition, Cole made his way back to the pine tree. A warm breeze flew by and washed over his burnished pecan skin, matching the color of the trunk, where a cavity contained the nest. And the mother stood in front as if protecting her nest.
Cole scoffed. How dare the mother play protector after abandoning her young? She reminded him of the bullies at his school. Always pretending to help him up only to knock him back down to the floor.
Cole’s bottom lip twitched. He shook his head in disgust at the starling. Her plumage resembled an oil puddle bathed in sunlight. White spots dotted every feather. The mother appeared as though sacrificing her baby rejuvenated her.
The augacity! Augasity?
Cole fingered his lip, then flicked it upward like he lit a match.
Audacity! That was the word.
Cole loaded a spiky rock and aimed. He squinted for maximum accuracy. Or at least that was what he told himself.
The pointed rock spun towards the mother and flew off course. That was odd. Maybe the wind did it?
Cole tried again and again. His rocks moved as though someone had a magnet, attracting them away from the mother. He scratched his chin.
Even though Cole was just twelve, he knew basic physics. According to Newton’s Law, an object in motion stays in motion with the same speed and same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.
What was the unbalanced force?
Cole paced back and forth beside Chocolate’s grave. Could it be aliens? No. They didn’t care about a crappy bird.
Cole snapped his fingers after getting a brilliant idea. He sprinted to the shed and opened the creaking doors. The scent of gasoline and grass blew into his face. A spider climbed farther up its web. He stepped over rakes and shovels to reach a toolbox. From the toolbox, he retrieved a cordless nail gun.
Cole laughed.
Let’s see the unbalanced force stop one of his father’s favorite tools.
Cole dragged the nail gun back to the pine tree. He breathed fast as his heartbeat under his striped shirt and aimed.
The mother mimicked her baby’s corpse, how she stayed perfectly still. Did she truly believe Cole would turn the other cheek?
Or maybe the mother doubted Cole could do it? Oh, she took him for a punk, a sissy, huh?
Stop crying like you soft. If those boys mess with you, you hit them back. The voice of Cole’s father haunted him. If you don’t stand up for yourself, people will pick with you for the rest of your life.
Cole bit his lip until he tasted blood. His finger coiled around the trigger.
“This is for Chocolate,” Cole said.
The nail cut through space and time. Then, by some miracle, stopped in mid-air, inches away from the mother’s eye.
What the fuck?
Cole blinked, then frowned.
“Stop these, you unbalanced force!”
A fusillade of nails floated in front of the mother. Not one penetrated her. Cole held the trigger, but nothing came out.
The nails fell and formed a circle around Chocolate’s grave. A translucent chick grew out of the dirt as if a spell was conjured.
Cole dropped the nail gun and turned paler than the clouds strolling across the azure sky. His stomach housed balloon animals, knotted and bloated, their squeaks surging up his throat and bouncing off his tongue.
“C-Chocolate?” Cole’s teeth chattered. “Is that you?”
The transparent baby starling nodded and walked through the circle of nails. Pine straws, leaves, and shrubs filled him. They colored his glassy body.
Chocolate returned to the nest, healthier in death than life. His head hid within his mother, how the nails, the rocks, should have. She showed no signs of feeling his presence.
Cole picked up the nail gun, sighed, and smiled. Of course, the unbalanced force was a ghost. It was the only explanation.
And, if Chocolate forgave his mother, then Cole could too.
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Jerome Newsome was born and raised in Portsmouth, Virginia. He has work in BULL, The Gateway Review, Vestal Review, and elsewhere.
Club Drugs by Rachel Baker
*Beep*
Hey, you’ve reached Graham Struthers. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’d like to leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
*Beep*
Graham, hey, it’s me, Lucas. Listen, where are you? You were supposed to meet us at the club ages ago, we’ve been waiting for you. Lindsey’s started doing shots; I think she might be about to do something truly crazy. Get down here, you bastard!
*Click*
*Beep*
Hey, you’ve reached Graham Struthers. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’d like to leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
*Beep*
Graham! Lucas. When are you coming? Things are getting seriously insane over here. Some guy showed up and started passing around…something. I don’t know what it was, but we are all floating now. You have to come experience this for yourself.
*Click*
*Beep*
Hey, you’ve reached Graham Struthers. I can’t answer my phone right now, but if you’d like to leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
*Beep*
Graham? ‘S me. I feel very strange. I don’t know where I am now. I think I’m still in the club. Everything’s going sort of dark. Whatever that guy gave us…it was weird shit, Graham. At first, it was just this insanely great high, but then…we started seeing things. Awful things. People are being tortured by these…monsters. And then the guy, the guy who gave us the stuff, he jumped up on the stage. and he started saying this weird shit. He was like chanting in some other language or something. And I got scared. I thought we might all…I don’t know. I don’t know. But then he just finished and jumped off the stage. So…false alarm, I guess?
*Click*
*Beep*
Hey, you’ve reached Graham Struthers. I can’t answer my phone right now, Lucas, but if you’d like to leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
*Beep*
Graham? Graham, I really need you to call me back. I can’t see or hear anything. The whole world’s gone dark. The club’s just disappeared. I don’t know where Maddie or Lindsey or anyone is. I’m hoping that if you get this message, maybe you can call me, and at least I can hear another voice. I’m scared, Graham. I think maybe I was wrong about it being a false alarm. Maybe---oh, god, I see something.
Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?
It’s a light of some sort. It’s sort of…flickering. Some kind of fire, maybe?
Oh, god, it is; it’s a fire.
Call me back, Graham, okay?
*Click*
*Beep*
Hey, you’ve reached Graham Struthers. I can’t answer my phone right now, Lucas, but if you must leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
*Beep*
Screaming in the background.
Graham? Graham, everything’s wrong! I can’t explain how, but the world is just…wrong somehow. The angles are impossible, the shapes are…I don’t even know what to say. It just doesn’t make sense! It’s like my brain can’t fit it in my mind, I…I feel like I’m going crazy, Graham, I…I need help. I don’t think anyone can help. I just…I just want someone else to hear me. I want to know that I still exist. That someone else knows I’m here, that I’m still…alive. Because the thing is, I’m not sure I am alive anymore. Or—I’m not sure I’m on earth. On the same…I don’t know, plane of existence. I think that guy did something, and I’ve moved into another dimension, and now I’m all alone, and I’m scared, and I just…
God, I wish you could hear me, Graham. I wish someone could. Anyone. I’m so lonely. And—
Oh, Christ, my phone’s dying. Of course.
Please call me back, Graham. I need to know you’re still real, even if nothing else is.
*Click*
*Beep*
Hey, you’ve reached Graham Struthers. I can’t answer my phone right now, Lucas, but if you must leave a message, I won’t get back to you as soon as I can.
*Beep*
I only have two percent left. You’re probably not getting these messages anyway. They’re just for me. I can’t see anything anymore. Small mercy. My brain felt like it was going to explode, looking at all those insane angles. Now it’s all just dark. I’m okay with that. I don’t know if I’m dying or if I’m dead already. I’m cold. Everything is just…nothing. It’s awful. And terrifying. I think this is hell, Graham.
Wait, I think there’s something else here. Something—
*Click*
​
​
Rachel Baker is a queer, disabled writer who haunts the Pacific Northwest with her sister and their cat, Boo. Look for more of her work in her upcoming short story collection, All the Dark and Pretty Things. https://bsky.app/profile/dontcallmerach.bsky.social https://www.instagram.com/dont.call.me.rach
A Stitch in Time by Kim Lawton
This fabric is very hard to sew. Some fabrics are just like that. A silky fabric is like that; it slides too much and every pinhole shows too easily. I hate sewing with that kind of fabric, even though it is gorgeous and sexy.
I used to dream of sewing with something shiny and beautiful and impossibly intricate, but did you know that fabrics with beads and sequins have to be smashed at the seams to stitch panels together? Once pristine and perfect bits of glass and plastic are pummeled into shards of broken glittery bits so the needle can get through them. I really can’t bear the thought.
Stitching became a hobby once I realized I could weave my incantations into each stitch. The hum of the machine became the background music to my machinations, and many projects were released to an unsuspecting owner, but I was kind. I’ve sewn bags to hold herbs for the lovelorn and sachets of salt to cleanse a space; each with a suitable spell to move things along, as it were. I can’t tell you how many hundreds of bags I’ve sold at craft fairs for kitchen spells and the like. Pretending to be friendly to every customer is draining, but even a witch has to make a living.
I’ve thought about that word a lot: witch. I don’t use it in public spaces; too much judgment, and we all know what judgment has done to us in the past. Our sisters, our aunts, our mothers, and our friends were once burned at the stake, and some women who had nothing to do with our ventures were taken, too. They said it was for society’s protection, but history, as they say, is written by the victors. They were worried about us, scared even. They said we were dangerous and evil, maybe for good reason and maybe not. But what about the men lighting the fires at our feet? That seems pretty powerful and evil to me, wouldn’t you agree?
Oh, bollocks! I’ve just pricked myself on a needle. This material drives me insane. Some fabrics are given to stitching, but not this one. It’s thick like denim but worse. I’ve broken four needles so far, and it’s raising my ire. But I will do nothing with the anger. I could, but I won’t. Haven’t we learned that over time? Keep our tempers, mind our manners. There’s nothing more terrifying than an angry woman - and they always come for the angry women.
New needle in, keep the machine moving. The material still keeps jamming. I have to reckon with the idea that the issue might be my preparation. I was so quick to want to work with this fabric. It’s going to be the cover for my chair, and it was high time I replaced that old one. But now that I look at the underside, I realize I should have cleaned it better when I stripped it away from the muscle. Too many fatty deposits on it.
Maybe I should start with a fresh piece. Hmm, I wonder if he’s still alive. He was moaning not long ago, but the hum of the machine drowned him out after he lost the will to live. I think I measured incorrectly, after all. I will probably have to go grab more skin. You know, I think if he’d known what would become of him when he met me, he might’ve killed me first. That’s how they did it throughout history; they always killed us first. At the stake or in a lake, my grandmother used to warn me.
I suppose, in the end, you could say they missed one of us, and I guess I have to grudgingly admit they were a little right; maybe we are dangerous women.
​
​
Kimberly Lawton is an author from Surrey, BC. She writes short stories, screenplays, stage plays and poetry. She has been long-listed by the BC Federation of Writers for her short story, Anger. She is the winner of the 2024 Collector Con writing contest. Her work has been selected for a Best Scene Screenplay Reading by WildSound.
The Missing Part by Rick McQuiston
“It's nothing special,” Travis mumbled to his mother as he hunched over the odd little stick nestled in a thicket of brush.
“Travis, that's fine but I want you to come in for lunch now.”
Travis felt annoyance creep into his curiosity-fueled mind. He'd been poking and prodding around behind the house, a bored young boy's attempt at passing a lazy Sunday afternoon when he came across it. It was about as long as his arm but so thin it looked like it might snap if he touched it. Mottled with innumerable knots and flaking bark, it nevertheless had a certain aura about it, a uniqueness that he couldn't explain nor deny.
Travis heard the screen door swing shut as his mother went back into the house. He felt an uncontrollable desire to take the stick with him but thought better of it. His mom wouldn't want it inside.
But he couldn't leave it. It had some sort of strange pull on him, like an irresistible urge to slow down and gawk at the scene of an accident.
“Travis? Come in for lunch now please.”
His mother's words rolled through his head like a receptionist in a dentist's office calling out for the next patient.
He grabbed the stick, tucked it under his shirt, and scooted into the house.
###
“You look like you've seen a ghost,” his mother commented as Travis sat at the kitchen table and poked at the food on his plate. “Do you feel okay?”
Travis ignored her, a sullen expression on his face.
“Travis?”
He speared a baby carrot with his fork and raised it to his mouth.
“Travis? I'm talking to you.”
He felt the itch first, followed by a light tingling sensation, like someone gently brushed a feather across his skin.
And then the worst one: the feeling of something growing in him, like thin, probing feelers snaking their way into his body, groping for purchase.
Travis froze in his chair, too afraid to move, too scared to make matters worse. His mother stared at him, desperately trying to understand what was happening.
“Mom... Mom,” he finally managed to blurt out. “Please help me.”
The appendage tore through the back of Travis's shirt, splitting the fabric with ease as it stretched out into the warm, musty air of the kitchen. His mother stood helpless, not more than a few feet from him, and as an added addition to her horror, she realized that despite her son needing help, she was backing away from him. Fear was overriding her love for her child.
“Mom! Help me!” Travis cried as a tentacle, still resembling the unusual branch he had found behind the house but now pulsating obscenely with life, wavered in the air for the briefest of seconds before whipping around with deadly force.
Travis's mom was cut down in an instant, her body sliced in two at the waist. Both halves remained connected for a second, perhaps two, before inevitably separating, surrendering to gravity, glossy red viscera spilling out over the kitchen floor.
Travis hardly had time to react to the crippling grief tearing at his heart. Before he knew it, his world was thrust into painful darkness.
The last thing he saw was his mom's blood-streaked face staring at him.
###
​
The thing slithered through the bushes, skirting the overgrown branches with relative ease. Its amorphous shape shifted between a thick pudding and a translucent slime.
It slid up toward the house, nudging the weathered brick and siding with its foul bulk. It sent out a few feelers to grope along the building, only to withdraw them when it found nothing organic, nothing tasty.
Moving along the house, it eventually reached the front door, and, wielding a stubby appendage, smashed through the wood like a razor blade through rice paper.
It flowed into the house, probing for clues as to the whereabouts of its desires, its purpose for visiting this barren lump of rock floating in the desolate black sea of space.
Leaving a greasy trail behind it, the thing undulated down the hallway like a snake before pausing at the entrance to the kitchen. It then formed into a cylindrical column, four feet tall, sprouting legs, arms, and finally a bulbous head, thus crudely resembling a bipedal creature.
It walked into the kitchen, soaking up the pools of blood and entrails littering the floor as it moved. It was hungry and briefly entertained the notion of scooping up the remains strewn about but thought better of it. It had come here for one purpose and one purpose only.
The thing stepped over to one of the bodies. There wasn't much left of it (a young boy who was of small size to begin with and was, in fact, hardly recognizable as a human anymore), but it did notice one thing mixed in a mess: a small stick protruding out from the gore.
A feeler slid out from its midsection and inched forward, gradually closing the distance to the corpse. It reached the stick, a thin, mottled thing with bits of what looked like bark flaking off, and it poked at the tip, gently, lovingly nudging it as if trying to awaken it.
The stick responded by spiraling itself free from its bloody seat. It spun in the air, twirling like a bizarre children's toy, and waited.
The thing reached out with a newly formed arm and snatched the stick, pulling it back into its mass. Satisfied it had found its missing part, it promptly turned and slithered out of the house.
Rick McQuiston is a horror fanatic who has over 400 publications so far, including three novels. He also reads at local schools and libraries. Currently, he's working on another anthology book, his eighth novel, and illustrations for his work
Familiar by Sarah Lewis
They came from the woods. No one was sure why or even how. Dolls can’t walk on their own.
It first happened about two months after little Lizzie Walker disappeared. She was playing near the edge of the forest on her way home from school. I remembered seeing her as I was unchaining my bike from the rack outside the school building. I know I did.
She was one of my brother’s friends and was over at our house almost every weekend. Our mothers were close as well, and my mother was the first person Janice Walker turned to for comfort when Lizzie went missing. It was a week after when the first doll appeared.
Mikey Cunningham and Jesse Miller found the doll lying against the base of a tree behind the Walker home. They dared each other to pick it up when I spotted them out the back window. I had accompanied my mother to visit Mrs. Walker in her distress. I walked out to the backyard, shooed the two young boys off, and picked up the doll. It was the size of a small child, and its features looked uncanny.
When I brought it inside to show the adults, Mrs. Walker screamed. Through her hysterics, I could make out something about how it looked just like Lizzie.
Two more dolls showed up the following week, resembling two young boys. One behind the Cunningham home, the other at the Miller home. By this point, the front page of the local paper read of nothing more than the disappearances and the dolls that followed. Many people began to write in with their conspiracies on what was happening. The general consensus was a serial killer was behind this. A few wrote about witches and sacrifices to the Devil. One really out-there theory spoke of aliens. The speculations did nothing to help the growing fear.
The day my brother disappeared was the worst of them all. We were playing catch in our backyard, and I turned my back for a second to pick up the ball, and he was just–
I ran into the house screaming for my parents. My mother stood frozen at the kitchen counter, the shock rendering her still. My father, with shaking hands, called the police department. I sank to my knees and remained there even as the police questioned me, occasionally rubbing my back as my body wracked with sobs.
When the doll showed up, I wasn’t surprised in the least.
My mother was on the phone when I spotted it, sitting up against a tree at the edge of our yard. I slipped out the back door without her noticing.
I reached for the doll and picked it up. Staring into the bright blue eyes, the same color as my brother’s, I threw my arms around the figure and hugged it tightly. I knew it wasn’t him, but for the moment, I could pretend my brother was really here. The doll had a comforting weight that imitated that of another body. Its blond hair was soft and silky, and the figure had a familiar smell to it.
I stiffened when I felt a faint heartbeat coming from the doll’s chest.
​
Sarah Lewis is a writer from Southwest Missouri with a strong love of speculative fiction. She currently teaches in the Department of English at Missouri State University and works at a local independent bookstore.
What Comes Back by Kayleigh Marinelli
The taxidermized butterfly on the wall was moving. Not in the, “Oh, hey, Sandy, you didn’t get enough sleep last night and you are hallucinating the impossible,” way of moving. It was moving in the, “This museum is haunted and this kinda thing actually happens all the time,” way of
moving.
Sandy was skeptical before coming here. She had never seen a ghost or heard something go bump in the night, had a dead loved one cross back over from the great beyond to tell her that she was doing alright, or felt cold spots.
She was not a believer in the paranormal.
Not until the very dead butterfly on the wall spread its wings and started to flutter like it was a normal spring day. Sandy felt her breath seize up in the back of her throat like a dry pill and knew. She knew the trip was worth it.
Sandy had read Pet Cemetery. She knew that “they didn’t come back the same” and all that shit. But that was fiction, and the museum was the real deal. The museum actually brought the dead back to life. And it wasn’t like the butterfly went on a homicidal rage earlier.
At least these were all the thoughts running through her head at 3 AM while she desecrated her brother’s grave.
She had to hop three fences, ripped her knee open on a headstone, and almost fell into a new plot, but she was nearly six feet deep, covered in dirt and panting from the shoveling. She wiped at her dirty brow and sighed before plunging the shovel into the earth and hitting the coffin.
When Sandy pried open the coffin, she was expecting a skeleton or even a zombie—not her actual brother. Maybe she had seen too many horror movies or read too many books, but she wasn’t expecting him to look so much like him.
It was like he was sleeping. Aside from the ashen color of his skin and the stillness of his body, Sandy really thought that they might’ve been five again and she was simply standing over his bed.
They were both supposed to be twenty-two and graduating college in three months. Not one of them committing a felony because the other committed suicide.
He didn’t even leave a note.
And that was why Sandy was here, risking grad school at Penn State—she needed to talk to him one more time. She needed to know why.
All 5’2” of her dragged her twin brother out of the grave and across the cemetery without shedding a single tear because she was determined to get the answers she had been looking for for the last six weeks.
Stumbling across the museum was fate. She knew it. A real “authentic” haunted museum with proven, documented occurrences of the paranormal. Specifically, the building's supernatural ability to bring the dead back to life every full moon.
It was painfully cliche—but it was fucking true. Sandy knew that now because she had seen it with her own eyes.
Sandy picked the lock at the back of the museum, not caring if she had set off any alarms or if some cameras were watching her. All she needed was five minutes to speak to her brother.
She dragged his body into the room with the butterfly from earlier in the day and watched as it continued to flutter. She rested him on the floor, sat cross-legged next to him, and waited.
She held her breath. She counted to one thousand. She chewed a nail down to the quick.
Nothing. Nothing was happening.
She stormed up and over to the butterfly, plucking it right by its wings to examine it closer. Here, she noticed that this wasn’t a real butterfly at all but a sick trick. A toy manipulated to look like a real, dead butterfly was coming back to life.
She crushed the thing under her foot and cried. How could people be so cruel? How could they allow you to believe something so impossible?
Sandy clawed at her face and let out deep sobs.
Fuck this place, she thought, fuck this museum.
She wiped her bleary eyes and saw her brother sitting up, staring at her. Sandy felt all the warmth leave her body in the shudder of a second.
He took a deep breath and spoke.
​
Kayleigh Marinelli is a writer, researcher, editor, and teacher. Marinelli’s debut novel, The Fantastic Fabricated Life of Lyle Farker, was published in 2021. Her work has been published in literary journals, short story collections, and poetry collections. She earned her MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts (VCFA) in 2019.
Don't Make Me Turn This Car Around by Christine N. Rifkin
The car bounced over a road stud just as the veil of sleep teased Donald’s eyes. He jerked the wheel and straightened the car on the long, empty highway. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, its pinkish hue shining through the windshield. They had been traveling all night and to Donald, the sun was just a reminder of how early it still was. His eyes hurt, and he was ready to get out of the car for that mid-drive break to stretch out his legs. But they still had hours and miles to go before that could happen. He turned to see Rachel’s bright blue eyes glaring his way. She was petite and like a child in the passenger bucket seat. Still…he knew what she was capable of.
“Do you need a break?” She asked, even though it seemed more like a demand.
“No. No, I’m good,” he avoided her eyes and glanced in the rearview, “You two okay?”
Eric and Catie looked up at him through the mirror, “Fine!” They said in unison.
Rachel placed her cold hand on his arm, “It’s a long drive. If you need me to take over…”
“I don’t,” he said sternly.
The car went quiet. Donald watched a semi-truck pass him on his left. There hadn’t been a single vehicle on the road for hours, traffic would be picking up soon.
“Don’t touch me!” Catie screamed.
“I’m not touching you!” Eric screamed back.
“MOM!!!” Catie cried.
Rachel inhaled deeply, her head leaning back with exhaustion, “Eric, stop teasing Catie.”
“Mom, he’s breathing my air!”
“I am not!”
“Are too!”
Eric took in a deep breath, “It’s my air too!”
“Mooooooom!” Catie screamed.
Rachel flipped around and pointed her finger at the kids, “Don’t make me come back there. You know what happened last time.”
Catie crossed her arms, “Tell him to stop breathing my air!”
“Eric, stop breathing her air.”
Eric smacked Catie’s arm, and she returned it with an even harder smack. They batted at each other like two rowdy cats, their hands only inches away from each other’s faces. Rachel frowned as they fought, her cold hand turning purple as she gripped the back of her seat. Donald reached over and caressed her cheek. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the warmth of his hand.
“Do what you have to do,” he whispered to her, his voice somehow louder than the children fighting.
Rachel opened her eyes and smiled at him. He knew her too well. She took a deep breath and leaned back. Her mouth opened wide, only the size of a baseball at first, but slowly it grew. Her bottom jaw stretched down to her belly button as it dislocated from her skull. Saliva dripped from her teeth as rows and rows of them burst through her bluish gums. The children continued fighting, not noticing their mother’s new appearance. She leaned over the seat and took Eric’s entire head into her mouth. Like a grape, Rachel popped his head off into her mouth and chewed it into a coagulated paste of skin and bone. Catie was next.
Slimy, cloudy spit dripped onto Catie’s shoulders and chest as her mother ingested her head in one gulp. Once her head was gone, the car went quiet again. Rachel returned her jaw to its normal position and turned the radio up just enough to give some background noise against the sound of her bones resetting.
“Finally, some peace,” Donald said with a satisfied sigh.
Rachel wiped a drop of blood from her lip, “They never learn, do they?”
“Maybe the next ones will be easier.”
Rachel glanced back to see something pulsing in the gaping hole where Eric’s head used to be, “We should find out soon,” she placed her hand on top of Donald’s on the wheel, “we only have a few more moments to ourselves…”
Donald brought her hand to his lips and kissed it, “We better make the best of it then.”
They smiled at each other as Donald pressed harder on the gas.
​
Christine N. Rifkin is a horror author and screenwriter whose short stories have appeared in the Black Hare Press anthology Eerie Christmas 3 and the Creepy Podcast. Her short script "Right Hand Man" was the winner of Best Short Screenplay at the 2023 Freak Show Film Festival and her short story “Alternates” was chosen as an honorable mention for Season 5 of the Killer Shorts Horror Short Screenplay competition.
The Truth is Coming to Maple Street by Zary Fekete
It was morning.
Mrs. Johnson walked down her driveway to where the rest of the neighbors had gathered by the curb. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson were standing next to each other. Mr. Jacobs, the widower from across the street, gestured angrily with the newspaper in his hands. Adam, the Andersons’ blond ten-year-old son, stood in his driveway with a half-eaten donut in his hand.
At that moment, an official-sounding female announcer spoke from the cul-de-sac loudspeaker, “At the tone, the time will be 7:59 and 30 seconds.” Her voice was followed by a sharp beep. In response to the tone, translucent screens appeared in the air directly above each person’s head. Each screen had an old-fashioned station identification graphic that flickered in the morning air.
Mr. Anderson looked at his wife’s screen and slowly backed away. Mrs. Anderson reached up, trying to wave it off like she would a cloud of gnats. Her hands passed through the screen harmlessly. Mrs. Johnson stumbled as she backed away toward her front door, glancing up at her own screen with wide eyes. Mr. Jacobs dropped his newspaper and ran, his floating screen following above him in the air. Adam was too surprised to notice his own screen. Then his parents started to scream.
A claxon blared from the loudspeaker. Several houses over, a young man burst out of his front door and jumped into his car, his screen flying above him as he ran. He backed out of his driveway, striking Mr. Jacobs and crushing the old man’s head with the back tires before roaring off down the street in a cloud of exhaust. Mr. Jacob’s screen disappeared as he died. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson ran back into their house, not noticing Adam.
The claxon from the loudspeaker paused, and the female announcer said, “The time is 7:59 and 50 seconds. You have ten seconds to secure personal autonomy.” Another loud beep followed.
The street was now deserted except for Adam. He looked around, and his eyes caught on Mr. Jacob’s dropped newspaper. He stepped toward it, his eyes falling on the front-page headline: MIND READING ALGORITHM LAUNCHES. Smaller text followed: "At precisely 8 AM EST, the thought screens will be activated. Scientists and politicians believe this will foster a new era of human communication and international trust…”
Adam looked back at his house. Black words appeared on the screen above his head.
The words said, “MOM? DAD?”
The Nocturnals by Aline Soules
I wake to a Nocturnal staring through my window, his magnetic eyes black and intense, piercing the darkness. Black Eyes draws a paw down the windowpane with a high-pitched scree, like fingernails on a blackboard. He’s insistent, wants closer, wants in.
Rule 1: Diurnals are not required to accede to Nocturnals’ demands for entry.
I worry he might break the glass and enter anyway.
Rule 2: Diurnals are forbidden from denying Nocturnals their viewing rights.
No matter how scared I am, I must do nothing.
I usually sleep through the dark. When I can’t, I’ve learned to keep my eyes closed and my body still until I sleep again. We called it Playing Possum when I was a child. But Black Eyes gets to me, his gleaming eyes, his scratching paw, and I can no longer sleep or be still.
I rise and turn on the light. My reflection leaps onto the windowpane, and Black Eyes’ body recedes, reduced to his glistening eyes.
I feel naked in my nightgown, knowing he’s hidden behind my reflection. I put on my robe and tie the ends of the belt into a knot at my waist. A low rumble gurgles from his throat as he watches my fingers do this simple task he cannot do with his paws.
I turn out the light, and Black Eyes leaps back into view. He extends one paw to me, his rumble deep and loud. Nocturnals are bored when we simply lie in our beds and sleep. Our involuntary tosses and turns are all they see, our snores replicating their growls to their amusement. If we act consciously, purposely, they’re fascinated. Black Eyes waves his paw, extending and retracting his claws. He wants me to wiggle my fingers, but I pretend I don’t see him.
Rule 3: Diurnals are forbidden curtains, shades, blinds, or drapes of any kind.
The worst rule of all. My skin prickles when I think about it, and I pray Black Eyes will go away.
Rule 4: Diurnals are further forbidden to cover windows with a makeshift sheet or cloth.
The corollary to the worst rule of all. I begged for an exemption. They said, “Don’t ask again.”
I walk to the kitchen at the other end of my enclosure to escape Black Eyes. I refuse to call this place a house or a home, as they do. I saw a glow-in-the-dark map of the enclosures once. A Nocturnal had it in his hand and pressed it against the window when he braced himself to see better. The enclosures were labeled. Mine is Diurnal #7, the same number as the number on the box that’s put through the one-way pet door in the kitchen with my food and supplies for the week. Sometimes, I find a hidden note that hints at what’s happening outside. But I fear it might be a Nocturnal ruse, not from a Diurnal, and I burn it on the stove.
It’s still dark, but I’m up, and it might as well be morning. I brew coffee. Caffeine’s the last thing I need in my jittery state, but I won’t sleep again tonight.
I’ve endured the Nocturnals since we lost the war three years ago. We fought to keep our independence, thinking they wanted our land and riches, but we were wrong. They wanted us. They wanted our hands and fingers to do the work they can’t do with their paws. If only we’d known, perhaps we could have done something different. One note said I was lucky to be here, that it was worse outside. I remember being captured and led here past a dark cave. Winds whirled from the depths, bringing cries and moans that echoed in my nightmares for weeks.
Rule 5: Diurnals are free to enjoy their homes during the day.
But we’re not free, I want to shout. If only I dared.
Rule 6: Diurnals may not leave their homes without permission, which may be applied for by filling out Form 2732 and submitting it to the Nocturnal Tribunal.
My neighbor submitted Form 2732. She was taken away in chains and has not returned.
Rule 7: Diurnals are forbidden to attempt to open the sealed windows for any reason.
I can’t feel the sun warm my face or smell a daffodil growing in our tended beds. Nocturnals have developed fragrance sprays for daffodils and roses and lilacs and any other flower we request, but the scent is not the same.
I raise my eyes from my coffee cup. Black Eyes gazes in the kitchen window. He’s brought his family. They’re out for a night’s entertainment, something fun to do with the cubs. He points me out with his claw, and his wife follows the line of his limb to focus on me. His two cubs stand on the window ledge, built wide enough for them to climb and see inside my enclosure better.
Eight eyes are more than I can bear. They follow me as I lower to the floor and crawl into the hall without windows.
Rule 8: At night, Diurnals are forbidden to hide where there are no windows.
The night is for the Nocturnals who’ve put me here to watch what I do and lure me into pleasing them.
Rule 9: Nocturnals’ recreation must never be curtailed.
Nothing I do must cause a Nocturnal to complain to their Tribunal.
Rule 10: Any Diurnal who interferes with a Nocturnal’s enjoyment will be punished.
The punishment isn’t stated.
I sit, curled, cradling my cup, shivering, waiting.
Take Out the Trash by Matt Scott
Clay stood frozen in the darkened kitchen, his left hand on the refrigerator door.
It was late. After midnight.
He stared to his right.
What a day. Busy. Hectic more like it. Family. A few friends. A few frenemies.
It was a good get-together.
But now.
He just stared over at the counter to his right and the range built into it.
He wondered why Dorothy had left a bag of garbage on the stove. It was just heaped up there, a black shimmering mound of trash. Must have been full, he guessed.
It hung partially off the stovetop, its left corner sagging down like syrup almost to the floor. Funny. The bag stretching out like that. Odd really. What kind of trash bag stretches like that?
Then it moved.
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Matt Scott is the author of over 100 published horror shorts and has five stand-alone collections of short horror. He lives and writes in southern Colorado.
@mattscott75
https://www.amazon.com/author/scottmat
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