EVIL EASTER THEME
These are the horror stories that
entertain us most.
* The Easter Hunt by Merrick Attus
* Confessions by Rod A. White
* The Egg Hunt by Nathan Poole Shannon
* The Cult by Ruth Robinson
* The Pale Blue Egg by Ricardo Rebelo
* The Eggs by James Fox
* Ostara's Judge by Kamran Connelly
* Eostre by M. Conant-Carr
* The Hatchling by Stephen R. Hunt
* What Came After by Kailum Graves
* Easter Surprise by Kayleigh Ficarra
* Blood-Stained Glass by Miriam Barnes
* The Easter Eggs by Zary Fekete
* Easter Dinner by K.G. Miceli
* The Last Easter by Aza Smith
* A Fun Day for All the Family by Tessa Were
* Hell in a Handbasket by Marisa McAdams
* The Hunt by Gabrielle Munslow
* The Hollow Egg by Argelia Salmon
* Last Easter Meal by Scott C. Holstad
The Easter Hunt by Merrick Attus
The hunt was on! Many kids preferred Christmas or Halloween, but they did not grasp the true magic of Easter. The other kids pumped their little legs like locomotives; they would be looking in knee-high grass, bending in the crisp April breeze. The scent of dandelions and sweat hung heavy on me as I surveyed the battlefield. Lila had already found a vibrant purple egg with yellow lines on it.
My eyes were on the biggest prize, the game changer, the showstopper. The golden egg.
The little green fingers tickled my legs as I rushed past, nearly vaulting over young Timothy. His mouth was agape, and the remnants of some form of chocolate dribbled down from his round, pinkish cheek to his chin. I barely offered him a wink as I hit the edge of the field. The sun was still anchored in the pale blue, shining its rays down like lemonade from Ms. Satterfeld’s Sunday pitchers. It pointed the way through the brush, which I whipped aside with as much strength as my young hands and arms could muster.
I am sure it seemed a silly sight, me in my Sunday Best, tearing through the forest like a crazed deer. I imagined what it would feel like, the cold metallic sting of the previous night’s air upon the shell, peeling back the cover to reveal the golden treasures hidden within.
The daydream made my eyes water, and I couldn’t help pepping my step. There was a strange sound in the wind, whispering through the pine needles. It hissed, snakelike, trying to trick me into veering towards a different path. That was last year, that was the old me. I would not lose this time. There was too much at stake!
That was when my eyes went wide, and I saw that there was another form in the woods with me. Shrouded by the dewed leaves of the blackjack oak, bouncing like a little rabbit to block my sight. Was it just my imagination, or had one of the hunters managed to overtake me? I smelled the sweet sweat emanating from my freshly pressed clothing. Mama would be upset, but I did not care. The golden egg would be mine to hatch.
The further the two of us moved in, the heavier the gloom hung in the air. The dense canopy of spring blocked the sunlit hope of the outside world. I thought of calling out to the creature to distract it, but maybe they had not noticed me yet, so I pressed onward. My feet pressed firmly into the soft, wet earth as I pushed through, but always in the wake of the other. I would not lose; I refused to lose. Not this year.
There was a break in the trees, and I knew.
Bounding through the narrow gap, weaving and bobbing like a heavyweight champion, I was through. The ground was freshly turned, an aroma of life wafting into my nose from the shivering winds. For a brief moment, the stench of the decaying surroundings was gone, and I was alone with the prize.
Where did the other one go? It did not matter; I had won.
My fingernails tore into the skin of the woods. There was a choking sound erupting in no particular direction, collapsing upon me as if I were stealing the lifeforce of the pines and oaks. I would not let that deter me, my eyes raged, spittle dripped with a viscous red from me biting my lower lip for grounding.
The branches swooped upon me, one last dull attempt to rid me of my strength and end this hunt for good. I heard voices. Was it other kids, or had the parents followed, knowing I had found the answer?
My fingers clenched harder, and I could feel the pressure and weight of what was in my hands give way. The cracking of the shell resonated through my skull, the golden yolk of life poured over the partitions in my hands, and I held up my prize!
I spun around, daring anyone to defy the winner of the hunt.
“What have you done!” One of the fathers squealed. Lila’s screams pierced through the field, and the smell of musky death and copper enveloped me. Someone’s mother swooned and fainted, her body thudding on the lush green grass with a precipitous thud.
I had killed the Easter Bunny.
Merrick Attus is an author and cosmic/folk historian based in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. When he isn't blogging about Lovecraft at oldoneskeeper.com he is likely spending time with his daughter or polishing his debut folk-horror thriller set deep within the Pines. His short story, "A Tree Named For Me" will appear in a 2026 Halloween Anthology with Nat1 Publishing.
Confessions by Rod A. White
By the time Miriam reached Whitlock Farm, traffic choked County Road 8 with minivans and church buses. Children ran through the fields with pastel baskets, laughing as they hunted hidden eggs.
The banner over the barn doors read: THE EASTER LAMB WILL HEAR YOUR CONFESSIONS
Inside, the air smelled sweet and rotten, like fruit fermenting in sunlight. The crowd pressed together, whispering reverently.
In the center pen stood the spectacle.
The lamb was enormous, its wool blooming in soft spirals of lavender, mint, and pale robin’s-egg blue. The colors shifted slowly, like bruises surfacing. Its hooves clicked softly as it paced.
Its eyes were round, wet, knowing…humanlike.
“You’re a reporter,” said a tall, gaunt man beside Miriam, a straw hat hanging low over his brow. “It’s been waiting for you.”
Miriam raised her badge. “That’s right. I’m here to report on the lamb.”
Whitlock smiled. “It knows.”
The lamb stopped pacing. Its head lifted toward a young father, holding a toddler wearing bunny ears.
“You left her in the car for ten minutes last July,” the lamb said.
The father’s eyes widened. “She was asleep.”
“You turned off the air to save fuel. She nearly died.”
The father’s face twisted, and he fell to his knees, sobbing apologies into his child’s hair. The crowd leaned forward, fascinated.
Miriam scribbled notes, her pulse quickening. “It reveals sins,” she said.
“Oh, it does more than that.”
The lamb’s wool quivered. Fine pastel strands loosened and drifted through the air, covering the man like fallen snow.
“It’s warm,” he whispered.
The fiber slipped beneath his skin, and he exhaled a pink cloud that streamed toward the lamb.
Its nostrils breathed it in.
The lamb turned toward an elderly woman clutching rosary beads. “You prayed for your sister’s cancer to worsen,” it said.
“No!” the woman gasped.
“You were tired of caring for her.”
The rosary clattered to the ground. The woman staggered forward, reaching through the boards.
“Forgive me,” she pleaded.
More threads drifted from the lamb, settling across her arm, her cheeks, her eyelids. They burrowed slowly into her.
She, like the man, released a pink cloud.
The lamb inhaled it.
Miriam swallowed hard. “It’s…it’s feeding.”
Whitlock’s smile widened. “Guilt is nourishment. But humans hide it. Deny it. So, the lamb helps them release it.”
The lamb’s gaze slid toward a teenage boy near the pen.
“You pushed your friend from the quarry cliff,” it murmured.
“I didn’t!” the boy shouted. “He slipped!”
“That’s what you tell yourself.”
The boy froze, and the crowd gasped.
The lamb emitted pastel fibers that rained down, covering his shoulders, filling his ears, his mouth. He didn’t resist. He just leaned into the pen, desperate for forgiveness.
“Tell me more,” the lamb whispered.
The boy sobbed, “I hated him! I hated him for being better!”
Threads tightened around his jaw. Thin. Precise. Stitching from one corner of his mouth to the other.
“But I didn’t push―” The boy tried to speak, his lips straining to open as the sutures drew them closed. His voice was silenced.
A dense cloud of shimmering pink vapor exited the boy’s nostrils, which the lamb inhaled. His body slumped, emptied.
Miriam stumbled backward.
“This isn’t revelation,” she whispered. “It’s manufacturing sin.”
Whitlock nodded approvingly. “The lamb doesn’t just uncover guilt. It plants it, fattening souls like livestock.”
The lamb turned toward Miriam.
Her chest tightened, as if invisible hands were squeezing her.
“Miriam Ellison,” it said, its voice layered now with overlapping whispers, like a choir singing slightly off-key. “You unplugged your mother’s oxygen monitor.”
“I didn’t,” she gasped, her breathing hitched.
“You thought about it.”
Her mind flashed to a hospital room, fluorescent lights, exhaustion, a sickly wheeze coming from her mother’s bed.
“You wondered how quiet the room would be.”
Her knees buckled.
The lamb stepped closer, wool dragging across the ground, shedding threads that floated toward her.
“You imagined her thanking you,” it continued.
“That wasn’t real,” Miriam whispered.
“It is now.”
The barn fell silent. Every face turned toward her with raw hunger, waiting for her confession to ripen.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
One new voicemail.
Mom―two years ago.
The lamb’s eyes gleamed. “Play it.”
Her hands moved without permission, unlocking the screen. The message opened.
Static crackled. Then her mother’s voice, thin and trembling. “Miriam, I know you’re tired. If you need to let me go…I’ve already forgiven you.”
Something inside Miriam split open like wet paper.
Pastel threads settled on her shoulders, sliding under her collar, stitching lightly into the skin of her throat. They didn’t hurt, but felt comforting, gentle.
The crowd dropped to the ground to give the lamb reverence.
“Confess,” Whitlock whispered.
Miriam tried to scream, but the first delicate stitch tugged at the corner of her mouth. Another followed. And another. Each one tightening, shaping her lips into a trembling grimace as her breath spilled from her nose in ragged, glowing pink ribbons the lamb devoured eagerly.
Outside, the barn doors creaked open, welcoming new families carrying baskets and children that were sticky with sugar.
The lamb’s wool darkened slightly, the colors deepening, richer with nourishment.
As Miriam’s final stitch pulled tight, the lamb leaned close enough that she felt its warm, damp breath against her cheeks.
“Don’t worry,” it said with words that echoed inside her skull.
“You will help me grow by writing and encouraging others to come.”
Her reflection shimmered in the lamb’s eyes: mouth sealed, eyes bulging with terror.
Then it released her to go home, the story already filling her head.
Rod A. White has operated a full-time writing/ghostwriting/editing business since 2010, providing articles, blog posts, ebooks, books, and other writing services to a global clientele. Rod entered semi-retirement in 2025, allowing him more time to pursue his passion of writing and art. He has self-published a novel titled Reflections of a Ruby Pendant, and has won several awards. Rod’s short stories have been accepted for publication by Flame Tree Publishing, Murderous Ink Press, Crimson Quill Press, Dragon Soul Press, Inkd Publishing, Wolfsinger Publications, and Plott Hound, among others.
The Egg Hunt by Nathan Poole Shannon
Minerva loved Easter. It was finally warm outside, and she could wear her new dress that Mother had bought; it came just to her knees, leaving only an inch of skin showing above her white socks. The frills around her neck were a soft pastel pink with touches of yellow, a perfect dress for Easter.
They went, of course, to the Easter Egg Hunt. The city sponsored the hunt and every year had a hundred children or more running around the park, carrying pastel baskets and digging around under benches and shrubs for eggs while parents watched. The winner this year, Minerva noticed, would win a ten-pound chocolate Easter Bunny! What a great prize!
Minerva had her eye on a clutch of cedar shrubs close to the west end of the park, away from most of the other hiding places. The other kids in the starting line, she was happy to see, were all looking at the closer things. The bandstand, the clot of bushes nearby, the craggy roots of the east-side apple trees. Let them have those, she reasoned, I’m going to the cedars.
The kids burst off the starting line like a scattered shotgun shell. A couple of boys were shoving, one of the girls tripped over another, and Minerva bolted for the cedars, leaving the other children well behind. She arrived at her goal, excited, and fell to her knees harder than she meant to. “Ouch!” She looked down and saw her white knee sock scuffed with the green of the grass, as well as a sprinkling of brown dirt from where the grass ended. A small dab of red began to show through the cotton sock, blood from her skinned knee. “Damn,” she said quietly, one of the Father words she wasn’t allowed to repeat; with no one nearby to overhear, she smiled at the swear.
Forgetting her bleeding knee, she saw a wealth of Easter eggs. Washed-out yellows, pinks, and blues sat in the dapples of sun that streaked through the branches, and she set her basket down and began to load the treasures into it. She leaned farther into the shade, grabbing the eggs as quickly as she could. They were too big to pick up more than one, but she was sure that she was going to win the ten-pound prize. There were no other kids close by, all struggling against each other in a pushing, yelling knot on the far side of the park.
Suddenly, there was motion under the cedars with Minerva. She paused and looked up, her open hand hovering over a pink egg, and saw a shadow under the cedars with her. Too big to be one of the other kids, not big enough to be one of the grownups.
“Hello?” she asked, a quiet sound in the warren of light and shadow. “Who’s there?” No answer came, save for the sound of snuffling and whispery movement. She was entirely underneath the cedars, she realized, and felt a twinge of fear peek into her mind.
Then the light did its job, and Minerva saw she was not alone. Coming closer to her was a rabbit. The Easter Bunny, she thought, even though she knew that there was no such thing. No Santa, no Tooth Fairy either, just a rabbit. Relief coursed through her, and she stretched a hand out to it, clicking her tongue like she did at the cat at home. “Here, bunny,” she said.
The animal reached its head out towards Minerva’s hand. Its fur was white, and its ears stretched out long behind its head. It sniffed at her hand briefly, nose twitching, and she could see its buck teeth at the front of its mouth. It moved its head down her arm, and she felt the soft brush of its fur against her arm. Sniff, sniff, it went.
She realized that the bunny was huge, easily as large as Minerva, and as it lumbered towards her, she felt that twang of fear returning. Had its fur around its mouth been stained red? she wondered as the rabbit moved down her body, scenting and hunting. The blood, she realized. My knee. It smells my blood.
The rabbit reached her knee, snuffling fiercely at the bloodied sock. It scratched at her knee with its claws - horrible and black, Minerva noticed - and more blood began to course out. The sock tore, ripping almost to her patent-leather shoetop, and she could feel the rabbit’s face burrowing into her wounded leg.
“Ouch!” she screamed, swatting at the enormous rabbit. “Stop! Hey!” She cast aside her basket, eggs spilling into the shadows, and tried to worm away from the creature. Suddenly, its mouth opened wider, and the buck teeth that had looked so cute sank into Minerva’s flesh. She screamed again, a wordless burst of pain. The rabbit sank its black claws into the soft flesh of her thigh and began fiercely yanking on her leg.
“Help!” Minerva screamed repeatedly as the rabbit bit and tore at her. She couldn’t see any of the other kids or the grownups, being completely under the cedars on the far side of the park from the rest of the hunt.
The rabbit’s back feet, tipped with the same vicious claws as its front, kicked at her. Minerva’s screams began to taper off as the pain overrode everything. She felt huge, ragged gashes tearing on the side of her neck and her face, warm blood coursing down and ruining her nice Easter dress.
Before everything went dark and all was lost, she heard a snap and a crunch and felt her lower leg sever off. Her last sight as her head thumped against the dark soil under the cedars was a scattering of pastel eggs in colors that matched her perfect Easter dress.
Nathan Poole Shannon is an emerging writer of the strange and macabre. Creepy and weird stories, whether they be modern or historically set, are his specialty. From crawling shadows to cryptic specters, he is only beginning to share with the world. He lives in Ottawa, Canada, with his spouse and a small menagerie of pets who are decidedly not creepy - but from time to time, inspire something that is.
The Cult by Ruth Robinson
It is Easter, so we only wear white. This is part of the creed that Father wrote. Easter is our favorite holiday. Father told us that this year, all the food must be white. My mother told me it's because white symbolizes purity. So, we are all preparing food that contains flour, sugar, and white bread. My friend, Laura, asked Father if we could make white cookies with marshmallows in them.
Father laughed and said ‘yes’. As long as the food was white, we could eat it on the holiday. We will also be drinking banana milkshakes. Again, Laura asked if this was okay, because bananas are yellow on the outside. Father rolled his eyes and agreed that bananas were yellow on the outside, but we could consume the white fruit on the inside. I don’t like Laura, because she is always trying to be Father’s favorite. Father often chooses her to share his bed. We all want to be our leader’s favorite, because then he will choose us to have sex with him. Once we have sex, he showers us with gifts like expensive perfume, designer bags, and new white dresses.
Today, my mother and I are organizing our outfits for Easter. We have identical silk panties and white bras. Next, we wash our dirty pantyhose and our party dresses. Before we go to bed, we lay out our satin slippers. Then, we lie down in our bed and go to sleep. In the morning, we drink banana smoothies and eat yogurt. I do not like plain yogurt, but Father insists that the food we consume must be white. He warns us that we will be punished if we break this rule. I have never been punished, but I have heard that if you break a rule, Father will drag you to the lake and hold you underwater. No one has ever drowned, but one woman told me that it is just a matter of time before someone dies.
Finally, Easter comes. In the morning, we gather around a small pine tree that we have decorated with white bows. Then, we sing the sacrifice song. The words are: “Father, father, you are great. Father, father, seal our fate.” He carries a bucket of blood and a small paintbrush. Father dips the paintbrush into the bucket and dabs a woman’s face with blood. This means she is a sacrifice. Everyone claps because it is a great honor to be chosen. When you die, you will go straight to heaven. In Father’s creed, heaven is a place filled with women. There is no fear, and there are no men. Fathers says there is a separate heaven for men. I do not want to be a sacrifice, because I don’t want to die. I think the other women are stupid. I stay silent because I do not want to be dragged to the lake. I hear a cry and see that my mother has been chosen.
“Mother!” I scream. Blood drips down her face.
“Quiet!” says Father.
I am silent, but tears run down my cheeks.
“Don’t worry, Elise,” says my mother. “Be a good girl, and I will see you in heaven.”
The rest of the women nod. After the sacrifice song ends, we go to our church for the Easter feast. I try not to cry as I drink a vanilla milkshake. My mother is sitting with the other women who have been marked with blood. They are enjoying angel food cake with whipped cream. I wave to my mother, and she waves back.
Father puts a hand on my shoulder. “You should be happy for your mother,” he says.
“Tonight, she will be in heaven.”
I bite into a marshmallow cookie, chew, and swallow. “Yes, Father,” I say.
“You are a good girl, Elise,” he says. “I might pick you to share my bed tonight.”
Laura hears this and frowns. “Father,” she says, “might I share your bed this evening?”
Father slaps her across the face. “Never ask,” he says. “Do I need to take you to the lake?”
Laura’s cheek is still red from where Father hit it. “No Father,” she says. “I am sorry.”
“You are forgiven,” says Father.
“Thank you,” says Laura.
“I must prepare the Easter sacrifices,” states Father. “I will see you both when the moon is full.” Before the women are sacrificed, they must be cleansed. By himself, Father washes each sacrifice, and then he blesses them. This means he has sex with the women.
When the moon is full, I don my white cloak and follow the others to the oak tree stump.
Father closes his eyes to pray and instructs the women to do the same. “Lord Catulu, we ask that you would find these sacrifices pleasing to you. Also, please welcome them, with open arms, into heaven.”
I sneak up behind Father. With all my strength, I lift an ax. Then, I hit him as hard as I can in the back of the head. His eyes cross, and he falls to the ground. Blood seeps out of the wound. All the women are stunned.
“You are free,” I say.
Ruth Robinson has been writing fiction stories for twenty years, and has enjoyed every moment of it. Her favorite stories to write are in the horror, romance, and humor genres. When not writing, Ruth can be found running, watching movies, or playing with her cat. In her day job, Ruth teaches English to children. Last, but not least, Ruth would like to thank you for reading her work.
The Pale Blue Egg by Ricardo Rebelo
I knew, just by looking at it, that this was a bad idea. How long had it been sitting back there, alone and neglected? The once-beautiful swirl pattern now faded.
Did Sally paint it blue, or did it turn blue?
My stomach broke the silence with a churn and a growl. Right. Food. I was here for food. The starvation had driven me to delirium. Why hungry? The divorce. Months ago. A year, maybe? Easter with Sally. The last one. Sally.
I shook my head until the stupor broke.
Food. Egg. Now.
I reached for it. The egg was cold as an ice cube, but I was undaunted. I could go out, get something fresh. I had a little money left after the bills and child support, but that would mean going out there. With people. People had demands and expectations. In here, I controlled those things.
Just need to eat the egg. The Easter egg. The last Easter egg.
I brought it to my mouth. I knew I should have peeled it first. That would have told the whole story—whether it was foul or fowl. But I just needed the hunger to stop so my head could clear. Just a little clarity.
I didn’t want to know what was under that shell. I just wanted to consume it and deal with the consequences later.
Always later. Later was better. Later was not now.
I closed my eyes and took the egg into my mouth. Nearly choked—it was large. Sally had come with me to the farm stand to pick it out. She wanted to make sure I got fresh eggs, real ones, not from some grocery store.
Fresh. Natural. Better.
We’d seen the stand on the side of the road. Shabby place, cedar shingles long gone gray, winter snow only melted a week or two before. Spring in New England always took its time.
We were looking through the eggs when the old woman came out of the farmhouse. She looked as weathered as the shingles.
“Can I help you?” Her accent was old Yankee, as old as Samuel Adams himself.
“I want the best Easter eggs,” Sally announced. I laughed at my daughter’s precociousness.
“Oh, you do, do yah? Well, lucky you—my eggs are prized by the Easter Bunny himself.”
Something lurked behind her gray, cataracted eyes. A darkness that betrayed her cheerful demeanor. Maybe it was just me. Too much Poe. Pale blue eyes and such. I shook the feeling away.
“How much for a dozen?”
The old woman was fixed entirely on Sally. My question hit her like a bee sting.
“What?”
“The eggs. How much?”
“Oh, I couldn’t imagine charging such a pretty little girl for eggs. In fact—wait just a minute. I have a special dozen inside. Fresh from this morning.”
“Please, don’t bother yourself.”
She snapped at me. “No bother.” Then, catching herself, she softened. “I just want the girl to have the best. You understand.”
Stunned, I nodded.
The old woman disappeared into the farmhouse, and the moment she did, my instincts screamed. Grab Sally. Get in the car. Drive. I put my hand on my daughter’s shoulder.
“Honey, maybe we should go.”
“But my eggs?”
“We can get some somewhere else—”
“Why would you do such a thing?” Her voice, right behind me. I startled.
“We’re just in a hurry.”
“On a Sunday afternoon in spring? Nonsense.” She produced a small paper crate. The eggs were the color of bone—all except one. One pale blue egg.
“Is that one okay?”
“Real fresh eggs aren’t always the same, you know.”
I wanted out of there. “Thank you,” I said.
“The pleasure is all mine.” My blood ran cold. I hurried Sally back to the car.
“Byeeeeee!” Sally called over her shoulder.
In the rearview mirror, the old woman stood in the middle of the road. Her hands moving through the air.
A prayer? An incantation?
That was why this egg was blue. It had always been blue. And why had Sally never eaten this one?
The egg was in my mouth now, and hunger had overruled logic. It was just an egg. I bit down. The shell didn’t give immediately—it was still on, still whole. Strange that it wasn’t wet. We must have hard-boiled it before the dye. The shell felt wrong in my mouth, but I needed this over.
Swallow. Let the stomach sort it out.
My throat fought the whole way down. The egg was dry—somehow feathery. I had to drink from the tap just to get it there.
When it settled, I collapsed to the floor.
Pain woke me. Something deep inside me was fighting to get out. I could feel it—pecking against my flesh from within.
My stomach tore open. My insides turning out.
The last thing I saw was the ebony feathers of the raven I had birthed.
Ricardo is a horror writer and member of the Horror Writers Association with over twenty-five short fiction publications. His work has appeared in a Shirley Jackson Award-nominated anthology, and he is a two-time contributor to Flash Phantoms.
The Eggs by James Fox
Jenny didn’t even try to find any of the real Easter eggs. Her passion was to seek out the plastic pop-open eggs. She delighted in discovering what prizes were hidden inside.
Jenny knew her parents were aware that she no longer believed in the Easter Bunny, but they still hid eggs in the backyard. This year, there were dozens of them. Some tucked under bushes, others behind the sandbox. She could see more sitting on the seat of the swing that hung from the oak tree.
Her parents must have been up most of the night filling, then hiding all of the eggs. That’s probably why they were sleeping so soundly that she hadn’t been able to wake them. Her dad was so tired he wasn’t even snoring. And her mom lay silent, not mumbling in her sleep as she usually did when Jenny called to her.
She had headed out the back door and had begun gathering up the first dozen plastic eggs. Opening one of the plastic eggs she had collected, Jenny was grossed out. Mom and Dad must have decided to end her Easter joy of gathering eggs, because they’d found a really gooey, candy eye, and extremely life-like.
Tasting the eyeball with the tip of her tongue, she shuddered. It was yucky and sickeningly salty. The next egg was just as bad! Opening it, she found a realistic-looking fingernail, covered in what looked like coagulated blood as if it had been ripped right off a finger!
Turning toward the house, she expected to see her parents grinning at her reaction to their morbid prank. “Mom! Dad! This is sick!” She shouted. But no one was at the window, where she now saw there was a splattering of blood across the curtain. “Not funny,” she complained loudly. “It’s Easter, NOT Halloween!”
Spotting another plastic egg, Jenny stomped on it and gagged at the bloodied ear that fell out of the shattered shell.
Angrily, she headed for the back door, her Easter ruined. “Oh gross,” she yipped, seeing the blotchy green-and-purple tentacle her dad must have stretched up from the cellar window, then draped across the back step. Odd that she hadn’t noticed it when she came out. The tip of the tentacle wrapped around a golden egg. “Finally,” Jenny chuckled, “they did give me something wonderful!”
As she reached for the egg, in shock, Jenny saw the tentacle flip up, wrap around her wrist, and jerk her toward the cellar window. Before she could scream, her forehead mercifully slammed into the window casement, and the world went black.
James Fox writes from Lodi, California. He is a husband, father, grandfather, retired credit manager of a steel supplier, and former volunteer canoe docent with a state recreation area. Several of his poems and more than a dozen of his short stories have been published in various periodicals and anthologies. Haiku Journal also has published several of his compositions. His one regret is that the late Andy Warhol only promised each of us a few minutes of fame. Fortune would have been so much better.
Ostara's Judge by Kamran Connelly
At the end of a long and arduous forty days, filled with darkness and persistent rain, little Danny, only six years old, who hadn’t even been able to play out on his bike, was eagerly anticipating the following morning, when he would finally be able to eat chocolate again.
He ran downstairs to the kitchen after getting into his racing-car pyjamas, with only one sleep left before the big day, to affirm his promise; a special breakfast.
“Mom, am I really allowed to have chocolate for breakfast in the morning?” he asked his mother, who sat at the centre island, nursing a cup of hot tea.
She looked to him, innocent in her eyes and sacred to her heart.
“Well, we said if you didn’t eat any for the whole of Lent, then you could have a breakfast of chocolate for Easter.” She answered.
“So, I can?” he asked again, salivating at the thought.
“Did you? Eat any.” She asked, shifting her knowing eyes towards the top kitchen cupboard where the colourful, foil-covered eggs were hidden.
“No, I promise.” He lied.
She smiled through the disappointment of his failed fidelity.
“Ok, I believe you. Go to bed now, sweetheart. It will be over tomorrow,” she said, and spent the rest of the night contemplating his future.
###
As Danny lay in his racing-car pyjamas, in his racing-car shaped bed, blissfully unaware of the world’s horrors in the silence of his safe home. A loud bang, like something being dropped on his bedroom floor, abruptly woke him from his slumber.
“Mom?” he said, hazy and scratching at his tired little eyes.
He roused himself up to a seated position. The room was dark, and only a small beam of light shone through his window from outside, illuminating a figure standing in the centre of the room. His chest tightened, and his breath ceased with fright.
“Mom?” He asked again, this time with terror trembling in his speech.
The obscure figure stepped forward into the beam of light. A white hare stood on its hind legs, as tall as Danny, in the centre of the dark room. In his right paw, a basket of metallic-coloured eggs.
Danny bolted backwards into his bed and against the wall for safety, as the cold grip of fear touched his foot, freezing him from his toes all the way up to his head. The horror overwhelmed his small body, and his throat refused to scream for help.
It edged forwards, revealing its tattered old face. Drool dripped from its mouth over its jagged little teeth, and its wet nose twitched at the air towards him. Its eyes, bloodshot red, bulged from their sockets. It raised its left paw and pointed a sharp claw at him.
“BAD!” it growled at him.
It reached its paw into the basket and maliciously threw one of the eggs at him, hitting him square in the chest.
The impact thawed him from his fear-filled inertia. He scrambled out of his racing-car bed, leaving the contents of his bladder behind. Falling over his panicked feet, still tied up in his sheets, he ran for the door, fleeing to the safety of his mother’s room down the short hallway.
“Mom! Mom! There’s a monster in my room,” he screamed as he entered the room at the speed of an emergency.
Mom bolted upright. Her instinct to protect her progeny kicked in at the sound of Danny’s screams.
“What? What’s wrong?” she asked, still re-entering the realm of awareness.
“There’s a monster in my room. A giant rabbit!” he claimed as he jumped onto the safety of his mom’s bed and dove under the protective sheets.
Mom calmed and rolled her eyes. “It’s just a nightmare, sweetheart. There aren’t any monsters,” she said to calm his panic as she yawned and rubbed at her eyes.
“I swear mom, I saw it,” Danny said from underneath the sheets.
Mom roused herself up to her tired feet and pulled back the sheets to expose him. “Come on, I’ll show you. There are no monsters.” She extended a confident hand to guide him past his fear.
He reluctantly took her hand and followed from behind her legs as she walked him back down the hallway to his room. Mom entered the dark room and flicked the light switch, vanishing the blackness to reveal nothing.
“See, no monsters.”
“It was here mom, I swear it. Can I sleep in your bed, Pleeease!” he begged.
Mom looked over to the abandoned racing-car bed and the wet patch.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
###
The morning after the nightmare, Mom sent Danny down to the kitchen and went to retrieve the soiled sheets. As she pulled back the top cover, a metallic green egg fell out from within a fold. And her eyes fell with disappointment.
She entered the kitchen with the dirty sheets in one hand and the dirty deed, the pilfered egg, in the other.
“I suppose the monster must have taken this out of the cupboard,” she said as she placed it in front of him.
“Is it for me? Can I have it now?” he asked, too excited by the sight of the long-sought-after treat to hear what his mother had said.
Mom nodded and turned to put the sheets in the washing machine. Danny tore at the green foil like a little savage to reveal the prize inside.
“Errrrr, mom. There’s goo all over it!” he said.
Mom looked at the chocolate egg, seeping a strange, clear, yolk-like fluid.
“Don’t touch it,” she said, and retrieved a meat mallet from the drawer. She banged it with the mallet, and the chocolate shell fell apart.
They screamed in unison. Mom yanked Danny violently by the arm and away from the grotesque contents spilled over the breakfast counter.
Inside the egg, the rotten foetus of a bird with broken wings. A fitting gift for a naughty child.
Kam’s short story BLOOD BANK due to be released by Baynam Books and DEATH BED INC accepted by Twisted Dreams Press, is published online at The Horror Tree, Trembling with Fear, WitCraft, and T. Saunders publishing for his works of fiction. Has poetry featured in three anthologies, a novella featured in the Paul Cave Prize for literature. And is shopping around his debut novel, The Extinction Process.
Eostre by M. Conant-Carr
It was that time of year, and Eostre’s beloved townsfolk were gathering for the hunt. She loved watching the crowds forage in the woods for seeds and hare eggs. They knew to be careful to avoid damaging the trees and animals, especially the hares. Eostre feels so alive as the sun rises, and she sees the hares sleeping in their hollows. Their eggs are sacred and will be painted before decorating her altar. A new god has descended on this land at sunrise, for the first time. He introduced himself as Rolf, a handsome fellow with thick, dark hair and dark eyes. Eostre was a goddess who seldom blushed, but when Rolf covered her with praise for her beauty, she was under his spell. “What is your purpose here, Rolf?” she asked, as she detected a low growl. “Please honor me with a place next to you for the hunt. That is all I ask.”
The hunt had begun, and the hunters fell silent as they moved through the woods. The hares knew to leave their hollows and allow their eggs to be taken. Birds perched on the highest branches as observers. Eostre watched with pride and imagined the beauty of the altar to be built in her honor.
All was well until Rolf began to change. It began with a slightly fuller beard and bushy brows, but within minutes, the full face of a wolf appeared, and then the coarse hair and long claws as Rolf stood on all fours. Before Eostre could protect them, Rolf had attacked and devoured the hares. She took vengeance with her spear, which pierced his wolf heart. Eostre delighted in his loud groan, followed by the death rattle and final expelled breath. His dead eyes stared up at her as she bid him farewell.
Esther awakened to find her husband, Ralph, slumped over the kitchen table, with the Easter eggs painted a blood red.
M. Conant-Carr is a writer and avid reader in Savannah, Georgia. Her writing focuses on humorous and psychological horror, allegory, low fantasy and historical fiction. She is currently working on a first novel and has completed several flash fictions and poems. She draws from her many years of experience as a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner in private practice.
The Hatchling by Stephen R. Hunt
Lilith fell silent and rigor-mortis still when Emily entered the coop. A black bead fixed Emily, warning her not to get any closer. Emily always understood.
“How’s she doing today, Kiddo?” Dad’s big hands were on her shoulders.
“Same as yesterday, I guess, Daddy.”
Lilith looked away, aloof, emitting a disgruntled cluck.
Emily studied her layers of coal-black feathers, streaked with mahogany, magenta, and a rare gold. “Will they hatch in time for Easter Sunday, Daddy?”
“Good Friday tomorrow, Kiddo. Watch this space.”
“She’s a special hen, isn’t she, Daddy?”
“She sure is….very special.”
Dad ushered Emily from the coop. “Let’s leave her in peace till tomorrow. Hopefully, you’ll have something to show your friends at the Easter Fayre on Sunday.”
“They’re not my friends, Daddy.”
Dad ruffled her curly blonde hair, smiling at her cherub face. “They just don’t understand you, Sweetheart. But they will come Sunday.”
Emily squinted up at Dad. “If they come in time, can we take the new hatchlings?”
“Well, I was thinking of taking one of last Easter's hatchlings, it’s coming on mighty fine.”
“Wow, when can I see it, Daddy?”
“All in good time, Kiddo. Let’s get some breakfast.”
Good Friday brought one of those special dawns only spring can bring. Excited, Emily was up early to greet the sun, already painting the rolling Iowa plains with a wash of gold.
The morning was still and shadowy, sunlight ricocheting off the outbuildings. Only the squeals of the hogs, rousing in their styes and the cock-a-doodle-do of Azazel, the rooster, strutting around the farmyard could be heard. Emily loved the farmyard, especially the chicken coop. She peered through the hatch, and then turned, sprinting back to the farmhouse.
“Daddy!…quick!…come see.”
Dad was already on his way, chomping on a slice of toast.
“She was tapping on one of the eggs, Daddy.”
“Was she now….Must be about to hatch.”
Dad looked through the hatch and carefully opened the door, Emily under his armpit. Lilith jumped to the floor, wings spreading; her cluck, guttural, menacing. As she approached, Emily retreated. “Ooh! She’s mad with us, Daddy.”
“Yeah, she’ll be okay. Let’s just give her a minute.”
They kept their distance as Lilith paced the coop, mean and skittish.
Dad felt a pain in his calf, turning to see Azazel pecking at him. He eased the rooster away with a mud-clogged boot. “Alright, Dad, I know you're nervous,” he said.
Lilith began to settle, allowing encroachment. Dad and Emily inched forward, close enough to see the nest. Lilith watched them, her black beads harbouring ancient secrets.
Five eggs, and one was moving; just a gentle rock. Lilith clucked as a crack appeared and the egg became still. As Emily leaned closer, a tiny fist punched through the shell. Another fist followed, as crimson arms, already displaying a miniature muscularity, forced the egg apart. They heard an eerie grizzle, reminding Emily of her pull cord doll's cries when the batteries were running low. As another egg began to rock gently, the creature climbed out of the egg. It assumed an instant defensive position, squatting on thick-set haunches, but its eyes, alert with amber fire, held a terrifying belligerence.
“Ooh, he’s a strong one,” said Dad.
Emily stood, transfixed, as another emerged, stretching its lithesome torso, pectoral and abdominal definition accentuated by dawn sunlight, filtering through cracks in the coop.
The creature joined its sibling; serpentine tongues, hissing their defiance.
“Just like last Easter, Daddy.”
“Yes, Sweetheart. What a precious gift they are.”
Emily looked up at Dad. “Now I know why Lilith has her own coop. I don’t think the other hens would be too sure about these hatchlings.”
“You’re a real quick learner, Kiddo.”
As the other three hatchlings emerged, Azazel forced his way between Dad and Emily to join Lilith.
“Come on, Kiddo. Let’s leave Mom and Dad to it.”
“Will we keep any this year, Daddy?”
“Not this year, Sweetheart. Some special people want to buy these critters, and we need the money.”
“We’re luckier than the folks in town, aren’t we, Daddy? Living out here on fertile land.”
Dad smiled. “We sure are, kiddo.”
“You’re not so keen on the folks in town, are you, Daddy?”
Dad sighed. “Most of ‘em are okay. It’s just some of those highfalutin’ folks are just hypocrites.”
Emily’s tender forehead crinkled. “What’s a hypocrite?”
“Father Jacobs….He’s a hypocrite. Mayor Cosgrove, another hypocrite. And the principal of your school….”
“Mrs. Pennygood?” said Emily.
“That’s the lady.”
“Why are they hypocrites, Daddy?”
“Well, it seems they’re all pretty good at telling everybody what to do and what to think…. Which is fine, I guess. But I know things about those folks that would make your hair even curlier, Kiddo.”
“Father Jacobs is still missing, isn’t he, Daddy?”
“So, I hear, Sweetheart.”
Only the sun and Azazel were up before Dad on Easter Sunday. Emily found him hitching up the double horsebox, designed for transporting colossal Percherons.
“Morning, Kiddo. I’m just getting our exhibit ready to take to the fayre later.”
“Can I see, Daddy?”
“Sure. Now, he might be a little groggy and grumpy, on account of being tranquilised.”
Dad lifted Emily to look inside through the barred top-section doors. Sunlight striped the horsebox floor as Emily made out a dark mass in the corner. She twitched in Dad’s arms as two, burning, amber orbs appeared in the mass, and a taloned foot, crimson, scaled and massive, swept across the shafts of sunlight.
“He’s waking up,” said Dad.
A primordial rumble reverberated in the horsebox, the sound of something that should dwell fathoms below the fertile ground Dad and Emily adored.
“Daddy!….What have you been feeding him?”
“Different kinds of meat.”
“What if he eats the folks at the fayre, Daddy?”
“Don’t worry, Kiddo…He only eats hypocrites.”
Stephen is a 59-year-old injection moulding technician, who writes for fun and a creative outlet. Most of his work has a sci-fi, horror or speculative aspect, where he tries to create an otherworldly atmosphere. He has a self-published novel and has previously been published in Flash Phantoms. He also has a short story published by ELA Literary magazine.
What Came After by Kailum Graves
By the time the egg split on the church lawn, my mother was already crying.
It stood waist-high in the wet April grass, painted with primroses and gold crosses, dew shining on its shell. The women from Saint Jude’s had ringed it with daffodils in jam jars. Father Bell waited beside it in his white stole, his hands folded so tightly the knuckles showed through.
Nobody in Marrowfield came to Easter Mass anymore for God. They came for the egg.
My sister’s name passed through the crowd before the crack did. Lily. Not spoken aloud, exactly. Breathed from mouth to mouth, with the same hungry caution people used around hospital doors.
When the shell gave, it did not sound like porcelain. It sounded like a joint going the wrong way.
A seam opened. Something pale moved inside.
My mother made a noise I had only heard once before; the day Lily went missing from the church fete last spring, when they found her shoe by the river and nothing else.
Lily stepped out onto the grass in her yellow Easter dress.
The hem sat higher on her knees than it had a year ago. Bits of white membrane clung to her socks. Her hair was damp and braided the way Mum used to do it for school. She was smiling carefully, like a child copying a smile from a photograph.
Around me, people began to sob with gratitude.
Father Bell said, “A mercy.”
Nobody asked what a mercy was doing inside an egg.
Mum pushed through the crowd and dropped to her knees in the mud. “My baby,” she said.
Lily looked at her for a moment too long before stepping forward. “Mama,” she said, and her voice was right. High and soft and slightly breathless on the second syllable. “Don’t cry. We came back.”
Mum seized her so hard I thought she might crack her ribs.
I stood where I was.
Lily turned her head over Mum’s shoulder and looked at me. Her pupils were wide as coins.
“Sam,” she said.
At home, Mum made hot chocolate though the day had already turned warm. Lily sat at the kitchen table, blanket slipping from one shoulder, and watched the steam rise with grave concentration.
She knew where the chipped rabbit mugs were kept. She knew which board by the pantry gave a sharp squeal under a heel. Every answer landed true, but with the faintest pause, as if she were reaching into a drawer and feeling around before closing her hand on the thing she needed.
Mum didn’t see it. Grief had made her greedy.
“Drink,” she kept saying, pushing the mug closer. “You must be frozen.”
Lily wrapped both hands around it but didn’t sip. “It’s different,” she said.
“What is?”
“Inside,” Lily said, touching her chest lightly. “It’s louder now.”
Mum laughed too quickly. “You’ve had a fright, darling.”
Lily looked past her at the bowl of dyed eggs in the middle of the table. She tilted her head, the way birds do when they are listening underground.
“There are seven,” she said.
“There’ve always been seven,” Mum replied.
Lily smiled. “No. Before.”
That afternoon, while Mum telephoned every relative, Lily wandered the house touching things. The banister. The curtains. My school blazer hanging behind the door. She moved like someone following instructions only she could hear.
I found her in our old room after sunset.
She was kneeling on her bed in the dark, the yellow dress spread around her. In front of her lay the contents of the keepsake box Mum had made after the river search: Lily’s blue hair ribbons, her communion card, the plastic bracelet from the fete, the baby tooth she’d hidden under her pillow and forgotten to spend.
Lily had arranged them in a neat spiral.
At the centre, she’d placed a shard of eggshell.
Its inside was not smooth. It gleamed wetly, veined as an eyelid.
“Don’t do that,” I said.
She looked up, unsurprised. “We liked this room.”
My skin went cold. “Who?”
A small crease appeared between her brows. “After,” she said.
Downstairs, Mum laughed into the telephone with a brittle, breaking sound.
Lily lifted the shard and turned it in her fingers. Something pale was stuck to the inner membrane. Hair. Fine and brown. My sister’s exact shade.
“Where was she?” I asked.
Lily’s gaze lowered to the bracelet. “In here first.”
I crossed the room before I knew I’d moved. In my hand, the shard was warm. Not just hair. A crescent clipping of nail, painted with the cheap pink polish Mum had let Lily wear to the fete.
My stomach turned.
Lily watched me with naked curiosity. Not cruel. Worse than cruel. Attentive.
“That’s not her,” I said.
Lily’s smile came back carefully. “It is how we learned her.”
Down the hall, floorboards thudded. Mum was coming.
I held out the shell shard like proof, like something that could still matter. Mum filled the doorway in her cardigan and slippers, flushed from crying and happiness.
“Look,” I said.
She did.
I saw the moment she knew. Her eyes flicked from the hair to the nail to Lily kneeling on the bed in her yellow dress, and whatever truth rose in her stopped at the surface like a fish under ice.
Very softly, Mum said, “Give that here.”
“Mum—”
“Give it.”
Lily climbed down from the bed and came to stand beside her. Mum’s hand shook once before settling on Lily’s hair.
“She came back to me,” she said.
“No,” I said. “Something did.”
Mum’s face changed then. Not with anger. With decision.
“A mother knows her child.”
Lily looked up at me from under her lashes.
Then she put one hand flat against her stomach.
Under her palm, something inside shifted and knocked, once, from within.
Mum flinched. I heard it. She heard it.
Lily’s smile widened, patient now, almost tender.
“Don’t be frightened,” she said. “Next Easter is for you.”
Kailum Graves is an Australian writer and artist whose work moves between literary, speculative, and unsettling fiction. They are interested in stories where the uncanny presses against ordinary life.
Easter Surprise by Kayleigh Ficarra
“What did you get, Lucy Rose?” asked Danny, a streak of mud on his cheek.
Lucy Rose, clad in her straw hat with its blue ribbon and her dress with yellow ducks on it, cracked open the pastel-pink plastic Easter egg. And screamed. She screamed at the top of her tiny little lungs. Danny and the other children recoiled. For Lucy Rose’s egg did not contain chocolate or the ever-coveted dollar bill, but a finger.
It was a human finger. Its nail was painted with chipped purple polish. Lucy Rose’s face was scrunched up as she bawled. She’d been hoping for a dollar bill to add to her piggy bank. Last week, she’d seen a doll in the window of a toy store. The doll’s dress was green with white trim and it could wave hello. But the surprise inside this Easter egg would not be going into Lucy Rose’s piggy bank.
The other children were all crying now, having hoped to trade with Lucy Rose for a Snickers bar or maybe some quarters. But a finger was no chocolate bar. It fell out of the pastel-pink plastic Easter egg with an awful plopping sound. The skin was pale, almost blue.
“Mommy!” Lucy Rose wailed.
Lucy Rose’s mother rushed in to see what all the fuss was about. When she saw the finger, her eyes went wide, and she gaped like the goldish Lucy Rose used to have before it had been sent away to the ocean. She grabbed the children and escorted them out of the room. The children left behind a trail of plastic Easter eggs in their wake, the candy and money having been forgotten in the chaos that was rocking their tiny worlds.
“Mommy, what’s happening?” Lucy Rose cried, snot running down her freckled face.
Lucy Rose’s mother didn’t say anything. She grabbed a paper towel and picked up the finger, cringing.
“I wanted a Milky Way,” Danny yelled, balling his little fists up.
And Lucy Rose had wanted that doll. But now, she knew the world was more complex than that.
Lucy Rose stared down at her own fingers. Perhaps she was lucky, after all.
At least, until she went to sleep that night. And her piggy bank shattered into pieces. When she bolted up from her bed, Lucy Rose saw it. The finger. And she screamed.
Kayleigh Ficarra was born and raised in New Jersey and has a BA in English from Moravian University. She loves horror, buying too many books at used bookstores, and writing her way through every genre.
Blood-Stained Glass by Miriam Barnes
"Sancta Maria, mater Dei, ora pro nobis, peccatoribus…"
Sweat slicked the priest's rosary as his fingers ran the beads. There was an uncoordinated beating emanating from the church doors on all sides. It sounded like when the drummer had a stroke last year in the middle of the communion hymn, only much louder.
An unusually hot spring sun shone through the stained-glass windows. It created a thick jewel-toned heat that permeated the air already stuffed with fear and incense. A small part of the priest's mind unoccupied by fervent prayer examined a sharp kernel of truth: At least they haven't found the windows yet.
"Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae…"
The priest's voice rose in volume from the altar, attempting to drown out the high, keening laughter that had started somewhere in the middle of the church after the first creature's attack.
The first creature - because what else did you call something that had rotting flesh dripping from its skeleton like candle wax - had stumbled through the church's front doors halfway through his sermon. It had limped forward on bowed and broken legs up the center aisle, not sneaking in the back like most latecomers. The bloody holes of what used to be eyes and a nose were turned up towards the vaulted ceiling as if in devotion.
Before the practiced words of salvation within the resurrection had died on the priest's lips, the creature had fallen upon old Mrs. Taylor in the third row. Her scream was cut short by blood gurgling out of the hole where her trachea used to be. The creature had then chewed blissfully on the cartilaginous tissue until Mrs. Taylor's son beat it to the ground with a hymnal.
An hour later, the first creature's misshapen corpse still twitched and writhed under the heavy pew Mrs. Taylor's son had dragged over it. A second pew had been dragged on top of Mrs. Taylor shortly after she succumbed to her wounds. Despite the fact that all her teeth had been replaced by dentures, no one wanted to get bitten by the undead granny's furiously gnashing mouth.
Immediately after the violence at the front, the priest had heard a voice at the back shout, "There's more of them coming!" And there, clearly visible through the half-open front doors that the first creature had come through, were dozens more of its ilk shuffling up the neatly kept pavers.
Some of the younger congregation men, several of them firefighters or first responders, had leapt into action, barricading the doors with flipped-over pews and herding people away from entrances and windows. They had then taken up guard positions in front of the large stained-glass windows, holding makeshift weapons of heavy candle stands and broken pew legs.
Throughout this chaos, the priest had thought longingly of the heavy locks that used to adorn the inner sanctuary doors hidden behind the pulpit, where priests would prepare for mass. They had been removed recently in the wake of a scandal set against the backdrop of an international Catholic pedophilia crisis. Several mothers had accused Father Rodrigo of inappropriate attention paid towards some of the altar boys.
At the time, the priest had supported the locks' removal for the sake of the church's image. But oh, how in this moment he wished Rodrigo hadn't been caught just yet. If the locks were still there, perhaps the monsters would never find him at all, instead growing sated on the bodies of his flock before departing in search of fresher meat. The priest was getting old, but he was not quite old enough to willingly commit himself into the arms of his lord. Not when there might be other options or sacrifices to be had instead.
But in the absence of extra physical security, the priest resorted back to spiritual measures, "Ave Maria, gratia plena…"
But that laughter still echoed in his head, and the rhythm of the Rosary couldn't drown it out. Those wheezings of twisted mirth penetrated deeper into his soul than any of the sniffles or sobs of his frightened parishioners. Half murmured prayers rose from the crowds of huddled sheep, but nothing could block out the laughter
The priest tripped over the hem of his long white vestments as he hurried down the altar steps. He couldn't take it anymore. His head pounded with the sound of bodies slamming against doors, the rush of blood in his temples, and that infernal giggling piercing his gray matter like an ice pick. At least he could remedy one of those things.
The priest brushed roughly past his parishioners, some he'd known their whole lives, not an ounce of comfort for them slipping from his lips so intent was he on his mission. Coming to a sudden stop, he gripped the shirt collar of an unfamiliar man, most likely a potential convert one of the other congregation members had brought on this holiest of holy days. The man had tears streaming down his young face, and a mouth stretched in a gruesome howl.
"Why. Won't. You. Stop. Fucking. Laughing." The priest punctuated each of his words with a hard shake. The stranger's head flopped around with each jerk as if his neck muscles had reverted to rubbery infancy in their shocked state.
Disgusted, the priest released the man with a shove. The potential convert lurched back and bent double, panting. His laughs seemed to have changed to gasps for the moment, at least, as he caught up on his air supply. After a few seconds of shocked silence, the stranger unbent himself and made eye contact with the priest.
"Oh, my god. Fucking zombies. On fucking Easter Sunday. The irony." The man pressed his hand to his mouth as if to stem the uncontrollable mirth bubbling back out like sewage spewing from a spigot broken somewhere deep inside of him.
From the priest's right, the acute sounds of breaking glass swiveled every head. They had finally found the windows.
Miriam is a human shaped amalgamation of stories who enjoys indulging in the many other variations of story the world has to offer. Her most recent fascinations with story have been the artist Small White Monster and the Kallmekris true crime podcast. Other important things to know are her camera roll is filled with pictures of a fat cat named Newton, and if she's not writing she's probably dancing. She's published several poems in her Alma mater's literary magazine in years past and recently had a story accepted for the Wicked Letters newsletter for the journal Last Girls Club. If you want to hear about her upcoming publications check out her Instagram @mim_writ.
The Easter Eggs by Zary Fekete
Mara arrived in Linden the week before Easter to visit her grandparents.
The town looked like someone had misunderstood the season. No pastel decorations, no paper bunnies in the windows. Instead, large pale eggs sat on porches and windowsills, each one cracked open just enough to show a dark interior. Some had candles inside, flickering behind thin, brittle shells. Others had softened in the damp spring air, their openings sagging slightly, as if something inside had pressed outward and then settled.
She pointed at one as Grandma parked the car. “Why do they look like that?”
Grandma didn’t look. “We’ve always done it. Keeps things right.”
The house smelled like vinegar and boiled eggs. Grandpa was already asleep in the armchair, a radio murmuring near his socked feet. Mara stood at the screen door, watching the egg on the porch glow faintly in the early evening.
She thought it was a church thing. Or maybe a town tradition that had gotten out of hand.
The next day, she walked into town.
Linden was small: a grocery store with a leaning sign, a library that smelled like paperbacks and polish, and a park where the swings moved slightly in the wind, but no one rode them.
She met Nate by the soda machine outside the hardware store. He had a scab on his elbow and a way of talking like he expected to be doubted.
“You’re staying at the Yoders’ place, right?”
“My grandparents.”
He nodded toward the street. “You prepare yours yet?”
“My what?”
“The egg.”
She shook her head.
“You should.”
“Why?”
He took a sip of soda. “It’s just what you do.”
That night, Mara noticed no one outside after sunset.
The town dimmed early, like something had been agreed upon without her. Windows shut. Porch lights off. Only the eggs remained, faintly lit, sitting in quiet rows along the street.
At the library, tucked in a drawer of old town papers, she found a clipping:
April 3, 1932: First Hatch. Town Wells Restored.
Nothing else. No article. Just the headline and a photograph of children holding large eggs, all of them barefoot and unsmiling.
Mara brought it to Nate the next day.
He didn’t read it. Just nodded like it confirmed something. “Everyone knows,” he said.
“Knows what?”
He shifted his weight. “That there’s a thing. Not a monster. Just… a rule.”
“A rule.”
“If you don’t prepare one,” he said, “something happens to you.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
She stared at him. “What if we don’t?”
He hesitated. Then, he whispered, “Let’s find out.”
They took the egg from his porch. It was heavier than she expected, warm in a way that didn’t feel like sunlight. They carried it behind the garage and tucked it into the low branches of a bush, covering it with loose leaves.
They stood there a moment, grinning.
That night, the town went quiet early.
Grandma locked the doors. Drew the curtains. Left the porch egg glowing.
Mara waited.
The house ticked softly as it cooled. Somewhere, a dog barked once and then stopped.
She slipped out the back door in her socks. Nate’s house was three blocks away. The porch was dark. She moved around the side, toward the bush behind the garage.
The branches had been disturbed.
The egg was gone.
The next morning, Grandma made toast and didn’t ask why Mara was already dressed. At Nate’s house, a new egg sat on the porch.
This one was open.
His parents stood in the doorway. Their smiles were careful, practiced.
“He went to stay with cousins,” his mother said.
“For Easter,” his father added.
Mara stepped closer.
The shell was thin, almost translucent, where it had been split. The opening was wider than the others she had seen. Inside, there was no candle.
Something moved.
At first, she thought it was just the light shifting. Then she saw it again: a small adjustment, as if something were settling into place.
Behind the pale membrane inside the egg, she saw a shape. Not smooth like a yolk. Not empty like a hollow shell.
A face.
Softened. Blurred. Pressed slightly against the inner curve.
Nate’s.
The features were not quite right. The eyes seemed too far apart, the mouth too still.
Then the eyes shifted.
Mara stepped back.
His parents’ smiles did not change.
That evening, Mara asked for a knife. Grandma handed it to her without question.
She sat on the porch as the light faded, the town settling once again into its quiet. The egg in front of her was smooth and whole, its surface cool beneath her hand.
She didn’t wait.
The knife slipped in more easily than she expected. A soft give, as if the shell had already begun to open from the inside. She worked quickly, widening the cut, careful to keep the edges clean.
Around her, the street was still.
Other porches glowed faintly, each egg lit from within.
She didn’t look inside right away.
Instead, she adjusted the opening, shaping it the way she had seen on the others…wide enough, even, deliberate. Something prepared. Something finished.
Only then did she lean closer.
The interior was dark, but not empty.
She set the knife down beside her and sat very still, watching the egg as the light inside it steadied.
After a while, she reached forward and lit the candle.
The glow settled into place behind the opening, soft and steady, like all the others.
From the street, it looked right.
Later, in the bathroom, she turned on the faucet and let the water run over her hands.
She watched it carefully, making sure it didn’t stop.
Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary and currently lives in Tokyo. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (The Written Path: A Journey Through Sobriety and Scripture) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete Bluesky:zaryfekete.bsky.social
Easter Dinner by K.G. Miceli
Easter morning felt weird – to say the least – with the twins gone off to college. The house was emptier than usual... quieter.
I wasn’t sure what my husband, Tom, and I had planned for the day. I figured we would probably just take the day for ourselves and relax, before having to return to work after the holiday.
“Morning, darling.” My husband’s voice broke the silence, as my stare broke from the nearby window. I fumbled with my warm coffee mug, turning it within my palms.
“Good morning,” I answered with a smile. “How did you sleep?”
Tom rubbed his eyes and studied me. “As well as I could I suppose, how about - ”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The knocks were so subtle that it was almost as if whoever it was didn’t expect us to hear them.
Tom and I exchanged glances. I couldn’t place my finger on exactly why, but I was feeling very uneasy about answering the door. He must have sensed something, too, because his next words were, “Wait here.”
I forced down the lump in my throat. I wanted to listen to him and wait, but something inside told me to follow. Tom swung the door open, and to our surprise, there was no one there.
“That’s weird. You would think pranksters would have better things to do on Easter morning.” Tom rolled his eyes as he turned to face me.
“Wait, what’s that?” I asked, glancing down at something just past his feet. I took a step closer. “An Easter basket?”
I examined the wicker basket that sat on the porch. Inside, there was a single, green plastic egg. Confused, I picked it up. There was a satisfying crack sound as I popped the container open. I had expected to see a small gift, maybe even candy. To my surprise, there was nothing like that.
Only a tiny piece of folded paper.
“Who do you think sent this?” Tom asked, scratching the back of his head. “What’s in it?”
I pulled the paper out and held it out between us. Without answering, I flipped it open. My eyes went wide as a sharp jolt of horror ran through my spine. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t stop my hands from trembling, I couldn’t stop the fear that was beginning to rise within me. I placed the small note in Tom’s hand, as my eyes darted to the area behind him. I found myself scanning the rooms of the
house, not fully convinced that we were alone anymore.
I’m right behind you. :)
“It’s some kind of joke, Chloe. Don’t take it too seriously. It’s obviously just these neighbourhood kids back at it again.”
Tom’s words were drowned out by the loud thoughts that swirled within my mind. I wanted to believe what he was saying, that it was some kind of sick joke. My nerves refused to settle.
“Come on, let’s go back inside,” I was pressed forward by Tom’s hands on my shoulders, ushering me back into the living room. “There’s no one in here but us.” The sound of the front door latching shut nearly made me jump out of my skin.
“Can we just check the house?” I pleaded, my voice unsteady. “It’ll make me feel a lot b -”
Creeeeak.
“Who’s there?” This time, Tom sounded concerned, maybe even frightened. “If someone is in here, show yourself!”
There was a long pause before we decided that it must have been the house settling.
I made my way toward the hallway where the sound had come from. I could feel my husband close behind me.
“Hello!?” I called out, not truly expecting an answer.
Shrrrrk.
“Tom, what is that?” I whispered, as we approached the bedroom door. “I think it came from our room.”
The room in front of me was dark, like the curtains had all been let down. My heart began thudding in my chest as I realized that I had – without a doubt – opened them as soon as I’d woken up.
“Tom, I think there’s somebody in there...” My voice shook with immense fear. I turned to look at my husband, but before I could see him completely, I was pushed into the dark bedroom, the door slamming shut behind me with an echoing bang. I let out a shriek. As I reached for the door handle, I could hear the click of a key locking the door from the other side. “What are you doing? What is this!?”
My voice echoed back into my ears.
“I’m sorry, Chloe. I don’t have a choice.” I could hear his voice just on the other side of the door. “He needs to eat.”
What? Eat? Nothing made any sense. “What are you talking about!? Have you lost your mind!?”
“I’m sorry. I really wish it didn’t have to be you.”
I could have argued with him through that door – I could have sat there asking him a million questions, and demanding answers.
It’s just a joke, I told myself as I fumbled for the light switch. It’s just a sick joke. My eyes had adjusted to the dark room enough that I could make out the outline of the window.
Creeeak.
My eyes darted to the darkest corner of the room, right beside the walk-in closet.
“Who’s there?” I demanded, staring into the blackness of the corner. There was no answer. “I said, who’s there!?”
Creak-thump. Thump. Creak-thump.
I watched as something of nightmares stepped into the only ounce of light in the room. It stood on hind legs, taller than me. Its fur was patchy and matted. Two, unusually long, razor-sharp teeth protruded from its whiskered mouth. Pointed, triangular ears were missing chunks of flesh.
“I’m sorry...” I knew that Tom’s words were nothing but lies.
I closed my eyes as the creature lunged for me.
Hoppy Easter... I guess.
K.G. Miceli is an award-winning author from the Windsor-Essex and Chatham-Kent region. She is best known for her Haunted Tales series, which includes; Tales of Texas Road and Tales of Sandwich Town, with Tales of the Screaming Tunnel being released this year.
The Last Easter by Aza Smith
c. 1975 Pink Rose Tribune-Herald
Thirty-three civilians were left dead in Pink Rose, TX, on Easter Sunday. All of the bodies had industrial nails driven through the palms, wrists, and feet in a manner resembling crucifixion. Numerous injuries, including cuts and lacerations, bruises, broken bones, even traces of plant fertilizer and laundry detergent in the stomach lining of three of these bodies, were confirmed in an autopsy report to have been inflicted on them before death.
Survivors of the massacre claimed that this was the result of mob lynching, with each named suspect being a parishioner of the local religious institution, Our Lady of Redemptive Woe, led by Father Rudolph Gold. The situation began at 9:00 in the morning, after the church was let out of Easter Mass, and continued until 2:33 PM, when outside law enforcement arrived to pacify the situation.
One survivor, who asked to be kept anonymous, described the event as “an invasion from within. I knew these people, but now I’m not sure if I did. Like they’d been replaced on the inside. They were firing in the streets. …yankin’ people out of their cars, tying them up, and throwing them into their pickups like they were huntin’ fer rabbits.”
Rudolph Gold was discovered in his church, the wooden figure of Jesus Christ was removed and replaced by the bled-out remains of the priest, and hung on the center wall. Signs of bruising confirmed that he had fought back and was overpowered.
Investigation of the sight revealed that the church’s storm cellar had been repurposed into a storage bunker. Guns, homemade bombs, knives, farming tools, tax documents, and photographs authorities believed were meant to be used as blackmail material were discovered therein. Receipts for the firearms were found in a safe kept in Gold’s personal office.
One of the perpetrators, Marvel “Marv” Grand-Saline, had been discovered by SWAT in his home, conversing with his mother, Marveline Grand-Saline, found dead and crucified on an improvised cross fashioned from the remains of two wooden dining chairs. Under police interrogation, Marvel admitted that Rudolph Gold planned the event with his followers in an “end of days” prophecy, convincing them that the only way they could save loved ones who didn’t follow his teachings was for them to emulate “the redemptive suffering of The Lord,” confirming that the murders were both premeditated and ideologically motivated.
Marvel further admitted to having participated in the murder of Rudolph Gold, he and three other collaborators believed that Gold wanted them to commit the act via coded language in one of his sermons.
“He was a Saint,” said Marvel. “A martyr. He will receive judgment and resurrection, and you will all believe when he returns with Jesus to scour the Earth,” confirming Lead Investigator John Wilder’s theory that while Gold had willingly convinced his followers to commit the murders, he lost control of the narrative, and had become an unwilling casualty of the spree-killing.
Marvel Grand-Saline is currently undergoing a psychological evaluation to determine whether he is fit to stand trial. His wife and three daughters are still missing and are to be considered accomplices, and thus should be approached with caution.
When asked how the spree killing could have gone on for as long as it did before proper authorities could pacify the situation, Inspector Wilder said: “We discovered that nine officers in the Pink Rose Police Department, including Sheriff Joseph Smith and Interim Chief Mark Hiesenberg, were either members of the congregation or had relatives involved in the incident and were willing to jeopardize the safety of this community on behalf of Rudolph Gold. We have taken five of these collaborators into custody and are currently awaiting trial.”
A manhunt for the other suspects in the massacre is still ongoing.
Aza Smith returned to writing in January 2024 after burning out in fine art, and has since been published in Flash Fiction Magazine, The Molotov Cocktail, Curious Curls Publishing (where he won First Place in their 2024 Short Story Contest and Third Place in the 2025 one), Jokes Literary Review, and this site. He enjoys street tacos, matcha lattes, breakfast cereal mascots, Collect-A-Thon Platformers, erotic graphic novels, the complete works of A. Lee Martinez, and whatever you call relationships where you do stuff as friends that happens to involve consequence-free sex.
A Fun Day for All the Family
by
Tessa Were
The sun’s put on an Easter show. I watch the hunt from the shade of the porch, fanning myself, thankful I don’t have to worry about melting chocolate as well as dirt stains. Kids can be so messy.
“Mum! Mum!” Scott dashes over from the churned-up garden bed. “Look what I found!”
He holds up a skull.
“Well done, darling.” Oh yes, whose is that, again? Never mind. I smile. “Did you remember to thank the Easter Bunny?”
Scott cuddles the skull to his chest, the two wearing matching grins. Of course. That’s whose it is. “Thanks, Mr. Easter Bunny!”
Tessa Were spends her days lost in stories, whether writing her own or editing the work of other authors. She lives in Naarm/Melbourne with her family and three quarrelsome cats.
Hell in a Handbasket
by
Marisa McAdams
A risk, perhaps, hosting the party at the nature reserve, but the weatherman foretold robin’s-egg skies and cottontail clouds; watching the children frolic among the lush greenery is a rare spectacle.
“Thanks for hiding the eggs, ‘bunny,’” Edith whispers.
A strange expression creases her husband’s features. “I thought you hid them.”
“They’re hatching!” Edith’s youngest barrels into her legs with a squeal, yanking Edith’s attention towards the eggs bulging from the basket like rheumy eyes.
Slick with a mucus-yellow sheen. Mottled in the visceral shades of offal.
Pulsing. Crackling.
Screams shatter the robin’s-egg skies. Some are human. Most are not.
Marisa McAdams is a writer and nonprofit worker from California. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in English with a Creative Writing emphasis from Cal Poly San Luis Obispo. Her writing has previously appeared in Byzantium.
The Hunt
by
Gabrielle Munslow
The eggs were hidden before dawn, each one whispering a different name.
The Easter bunny, red-eyed, held his wicker basket, caressing his treasure.
Each egg was warm—too warm—something shifting inside.
Each child was given a bag and a stopwatch.
“Find them all,” he said, smiling, “before they find you.”
The red-haired girl dug and found a bone.
The boy unwrapped foil—teeth.
The twins held one between them. It screamed: RUN.
The children ran, blinded by tears.
They weren’t eggs—just smaller versions of themselves.
The timer stopped.
The children and eggs switched places.
By morning, the garden was still.
No one remembered the children.
Gabrielle Munslow is a UK-based poet and nurse practitioner. Her work has appeared in journals including Strange Horizons, Neon Origami, The Ekphrastic Review, and Bristol Noir. She writes at the intersection of the clinical and the lyrical, often exploring dark, mythic, and psychological themes.
The Hollow Egg
by
Argelia Salmon
Mama said the Easter Bunny only visits good children. I found that out the hard way last spring when I stole my sister's chocolate.
This year, I left carrots on the porch. Extra large ones. Fresh from the garden, still bleeding dirt. I heard him come—heavy thumping, something dragging. Not hopping. Never hopping.
My window shattered at 3 AM. He filled the doorway, all wrong angles and fur matted with rust-colored stains. His basket wasn't wicker. It was bone.
He smiled with too many teeth. "You've been very good this year," he whispered. "Good children get special treats."
Argelia Salmon's, writing explores themes of resilience and the human condition. Their work has been featured in IHRAM Press's literary magazines, including the Q3 2025 edition, "Enduring Voices," on life with disabilities and neurodivergence, and the Q2 edition, "Invisible Chains: Contemporary Slavery and Forced Migration." They are also the author of Ink and Eternity: Reflections on the Writer's Path, available on Amazon.
Last Easter Meal
by
Scott C. Holstad
Easter meal. Ham?
Fuck that.
I watched the steaming entrails spill out onto my hands, relishing the warmth, thick and pulsing, lush crimson, humming to her shrieks.
I raised my face to her closed eyes, wanting to see a trapped soul or at least a struggle for life as it was released to Jesus, but then looked back down and lowered my face, ripping and shredding, satisfying my hunger with the blood that really redeems.
Finally, red-smeared and satiated, I pointed my dagger at my abdomen and thrust forward to the waiting floor beneath me.
It was a good day.
Scott C. Holstad is a disabled Pulitzer & BOTN-nominated poet & author with 75+ books & work in 850+ magazines, including the Minnesota Review, Exquisite Corpse, Pacific Review, Santa Clara Review, Chiron Review, Comstock Review, Mad Swirl, PULP, Libre, Horror Sleaze Trash, miniMAG, Bristol Noir & Blood+Honey. Horror credits include Premonitions, Midnight Zoo, Dark Planet, Realm Whispers, A Taste for Flesh, Wicked Mystic, Blood Moon Rising, Nocturnal Lyric, Virgin Meat & Dark Regions. He’s profiled in ISFDB & Horror Fiction Wiki & his books The Napalmed Soul & Shadows Before the Maiming are ranked 14th & 15th on the Grafiati bibliography service’s top 50 books on “Psychological Harm.” His newest book of poems, SURVIVING IMMORTALITY AGAIN, was released in 2025 by Alien Buddha Press. He lives in Pennsylvania. https://hankrules2011.com X: @tangledscott IG: @scottsmusicshak