June Flash Fiction Horror | Flash Phantoms

Horror Stories of 1,000 Words or Less

For the month of June 2025, these are the stories that entertain us most.

* Letter from the Hill by Alan Keith Parker

* Prison of You by Hour Alkhayyal

* Hole in the Wall by Cameron Sauder

* Little Red Devil by Toro by Johnathan Alexander

* The Glade by E.D. Ambrose

* The Home Invader by Elizabeth Fink Munoz

* Wisp by Jordan Catalano

* Spores That Grow in Canvas and Bone by Patrick Malka

* Disbelief by Ennis Rook Bashe

* TGIZF by Cecilia Kennedy

* Tete-a-Tete by Sean Winkler

* A Desert Nightmare by Sarah Das Gupta

* Paw Prints by Matt Voitko

* What of Satan? by Ricardo D. Rebelo

* Mountain Man by Jacob Orlando

* Apparition by J. P. Egry

* Ledger of Sinew by Jason Benskin

* Champagne by Lorette C. Luzajic

* Crinoline by Nathan Poole Shannon

* Kind People by DS Levy

* Wendy's Episode by John Kuyat

Letter from the Hill by Alan Keith Parker

Listen to me, children, while you still have eyes.

My name is Theron, son of Marus, the boy the villagers remember as the lazy sheepherder, prankster, and liar, the one who cried wolf when there were no wolves, who laughed as the elders climbed the hill with knives and cudgels, only to turn away in disgust from my joke.

I thought they had no sense of humor. I was wrong.

They don’t go up the hill anymore. Not because of a wolf from that wet, blackened forest, but because of what happened to the sheep, my hound, the livestock, and the people.

It’s usually the dogs who sense things first. This time, it was the sheep. They froze in their grazing and turned in unison, like birds wheeling in the sky, then bowed their heads and began marching toward the tree line. Silent. Calm.

I rose slowly from my lounging spot beneath the Aleppo pine, cocked my head, chewed my lip in indecision. Then I followed.

That’s when I turned back and saw their eyes.

Gone. Not gouged, not torn. Just… taken. Empty sockets, smooth and red, yet still staring, as if the woods were looking through them. I turned and flinched. My hound had met the same fate.

Then the pain started low in the neck, erupted in my jaw, my skull. I bent over, moaning, hands on my knees, then vomiting hard into the soft grass. When the retching stopped, I collapsed.

When I woke up, the sheep and the dog were gone. In their place were slick, pulpy lumps of flesh and long, wet trails that dragged off into the tangled woods. There were no sounds. Not even crickets.

I rolled over, gathered what little strength I had, and screamed: “Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!”

But no one came.

I half-crawled, half-stumbled over rocky soil, tearing my palms and kneecaps raw. I reached the edge of the village as dusk fell. The smoke of dinner fires curled in the air, but no one tended to the flames. Smoked fish lay uneaten. Grapes were scattered along a stone path. An axe was half-buried in a log.

“Wolf,” I croaked again.

They turned toward me, smiling faintly.

And I saw it.

They had gone the way of the sheep and the dog. Their eyes were gone but they were moving like they still saw me. Smirking. Nodding. Clutching knives made of bone. Marus and my mother were among them, expressionless with lidless, blank eyeholes.

Despite their blindness, the villagers moved fast, wrestled me down, and pressed bone knife blades into my eye sockets.

I screamed until I couldn’t.

I awoke to my father's voice beside the bed. His voice was soft, rehearsed.

“Your mother won’t say this. She gave up on you long ago,” he said. “But I will: You don’t have anyone but yourself to blame.”

I can no longer see what comes from those sickly black woods, but I feel it breathing on me. And soon, on you. May the gods forgive me, assuming they still exist.

Keith Parker has been publishing flash fiction since the 1990s. His latest pieces will appear the June 2025 issue of Flash Phantoms; and in Issue 28 of 10x10 Flash. His work also appeared in the March 2025 edition of Flash Phantoms. He was a featured writer on science fiction and fantasy for JustUsGeeks.com in the 2010s, and won the Freshly Pressed Award from WordPress.com in 2012. His short fiction has also appeared in the Stories: One anthology, Aim Magazine, The Fifth Di--, Zone 9 and on WLRH public radio. He’s married to his college sweetheart, who works in eyecare. The couple met at Birmingham-Southern College, a small liberal arts college, where they studied physics, history and beer. They have two kids in graduate school and one cantankerous cat. To pay the bills, he is employed as a modeling and simulation analyst at NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center.

Prison of You by Hour Alkhayyal

Something is wrong; you feel imprisoned. Your body feels heavy and stiff, like it no longer belongs to you. You try to move, to stretch your arms, but nothing happens. Panic starts to rise, your thoughts racing. Your body does not follow your commands to raise your arms, move your head, or part your lips. It feels as if you are imprisoned within your own body, a prisoner within your flesh.

Then, the voices start. “She’s finally awake,” one whispers, echoing inside your skull. “I wonder how long she’ll last,” another chuckles. A cold shiver runs through you. Your mouth doesn't move when you try to scream. Your body moves without your permission. Your legs swing over the bed, feet touching the floor. Your head tilts, and your lips curl into a slight smile. You feel it all, but none of it is yours. “I think a walk sounds good,” your voice says. Your feet begin to move towards the front door. You step outside, and the roads are empty. You try screaming again. But your body ignores you.

You see it — a cemetery. The gates are rusted and twisted, barely standing after years of neglect. Inside, gravestones stand in crooked rows, some cracked, others sunken into the ground. A thick fog lingers between them.

Your panic turns into terror. “No, no, I don’t want to go in.” But your body steps forward. You try to scream. A desperate cry for help. However, it stays in your throat. You try to push against the invisible force controlling you, willing your legs to turn around and run. And they laugh, “She still thinks she has a choice.” The laughter grows, echoing through your mind. Your legs move on their own, carrying you past crumbling headstones. The world gets quieter as you go deeper into the cemetery.

You stop. You already know what’s coming. Your hands hold the wooden handle of a shovel. You try to resist, but your fingers grip tighter. The first scoop of dirt is tossed aside. Then another. You fight, screaming inside your head. “Please stop.” But your hands do not hesitate. The hole deepens, and the dirt piles up beside you. Even though your arms hurt and sweat drips down your forehead, you continue. The voices hum in satisfaction, “Almost there.”

Now the hole is wide enough. Deep enough. So, your hands let go of the shovel, and your feet step inside. “No,” you beg. Your body lies down, back against the damp soil. And then, your hands move again. But this time, they are shoveling the dirt back in. You try to fight, but it’s useless. The weight of the earth presses against your legs. You are burying yourself alive. Dirt starts suffocating you. It reaches your chest and your neck. You want to kick, but you can’t move. The soil presses against your lips, seeping into your mouth and nose. The voices whisper one last time, “This is where you belong.”

Hole in the Wall by Cameron Sauder

Dennis couldn’t hold it any longer.

There were only a few finishing touches to put on his final essay, but his stomach churned with discomfort. He jumped out of his seat, apologizing to his study buddy Ellie, and rushed out of the group study space. The building had everything a student could hope for – a games room, designated study spaces, an outdoor barbecue – but the basement was a maze of dark, grey corridors, poorly designed and eerily isolated. It’s a good thing Dennis had been to the bathroom here before, or things might have gotten messy.

Dennis entered the small, dimly lit room, goosebumps rippling across his bare arms. How could it be so warm outside and so cold down here? He ran to the stall, locked the door behind him, unbuttoned his cargo shorts, and forewent his usual public bathroom cleaning routine. It was spotless in here; either the building kept it clean, or nobody ever visited.

It was a sweet relief when his bowels emptied. He looked around the stall, having left his phone at the table, but froze when he noticed the hole in the wall.

It was toonie-sized, situated at his eye level as if he were standing, and impossibly dark.

A shiver tore its way through Dennis’ body as he realized just how exposed he was, pants around his ankles, dick out. He instinctively closed his legs and made himself small, trying to rationalize this hole. In a women’s bathroom, he might expect someone standing behind that wall, maybe with a camera. He’d seen it in enough movies, and its position was too perfect to be anything else, but this was the men’s room. Who wanted to watch him take a shit?

Still, a new knot formed in his gut, one that couldn’t be relieved like the last. He leaned over and squinted at the hole, trying to look through it. Small filaments of drywall bordered the tiny chasm, which was too dark to see inside of but almost certainly didn’t house anything frightening, Dennis reasoned. This was the real world, not a horror movie; these things didn’t happen to real people.

He tore his eyes from the hole to clean himself. The faster he was out of here, the better, but the moment he looked down, he felt it.

Something watching him.

His eyes zipped back up to the hole, from within which a single, milk-white orb peered with a constricted speck of a pupil staring right at him.

Dennis gasped and closed his legs again, frozen in place, not believing his eyes. How was this happening to him? What sort of twisted fuck did something like this? He knew he should stand up and get out of here as quickly as possible, but he couldn’t feel his body, couldn’t move. Within the statue he’d become, his heart hitched and shuddered.

Ragged breathing came from the wall, and Dennis could have sworn the drywall pulsed around the hole. The eye looked up and down his bare legs, as though it was undressing him even further, peeling the skin from his bones and watching the muscles quiver. He imagined a gaunt face behind the drywall, a tongue waggling from an open, grinning mouth.

Dennis tried to speak, to tell the thing to stop, to go away. Tears rimmed the bottoms of his eyes. Saliva drained from his mouth, and he could not swallow.

The panting behind the wall turned to whooping, animalistic grunts as the eye stared without blinking past his clothes, past his flesh, past his soul. The eye rolled backwards, leaving only an obscenely white orb, and the voice started moaning. Rivulets of what looked like milk dribbled from the eye, sliding down the wall. More and more of it oozed from the hole, and Dennis knew this wasn’t a person tormenting him. It was a nightmare.

He snapped out of his stupor, standing and pulling his pants back up, nearly tripping over them as he did. He shoved the stall door open and sprinted for the exit, yanking the steel handle.

It didn’t budge.

A hand gripped his shoulder, wet and cold through his thin t-shirt, and pulled him around. Dennis couldn’t help but scream.

Dozens of doughy, inhuman figures filled the bathroom, smooth and naked. Their pale faces were the worst, with sunken eyes and gaping mouths lurking within the folds of their melted-wax flesh. They moaned with a lustful gluttony and groped him with soft, icy fingers.

“Get away from me!” Dennis cried, trying to swipe the hands away and open the door, both of which proved to be useless endeavours.

The beings pulled him backwards into their fleshy congregation, moaning and drooling as they tugged through his clothes at his skin. They converged on Dennis, undulating in a single form and pulling him inside themselves. He tried to scream, but their hands covered his mouth, fusing his lips together as his flesh melted into theirs.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Everything was cold and wet, and their eyes, milky-white with constricted pupils, watched him all the while as he was unmade—digested into the throbbing, gluttonous whole.

Cameron Sauder is an avid lover of stories, writing, and all things fantastic. Born and raised in Barrie, Ontario, he's studied English and Creative Writing at Brock University since 2021, where he co-led the school's creative writing club and co-launched a small literary journal: Phylum Press. He's received an honourable mention in L. Ron Hubbard's Writers of the Future Contest, and his short story “Isolation” was published in Blood Moon Rising magazine in October 2024.

Little Red Devil by Toro by Johnathan Alexander

There is a little red devil that lives in a dark cave not far from my house. Once a week, precisely at 5 O’clock and when the sacrifice has been prepared, I must go out and meet with him. I hate him, but I sold my soul to him long ago, and now I am bound to him. When I open the old wooden door, the sun floods in, and I can see it fall upon his red skin. I carefully creep into his lair, being sure not to trip over the rocks, wooden debris, and even some of the remains of his last victims scattered about the dirt floor. Although this demon is blind, I feel as if he knows that I am here. A cold chill makes the hairs on my neck stand up to attention. Before I can escort him to devour his sacrifice, I must appease him with a liquid offering. The small can next to him is stained crimson like his flesh. It is as if this chalice were made just for him. He doesn’t say a word as I pour the pitch-black juice into his mouth. There is no doubt that this liquid is as black as his heart. I must then pull the string to signify that it is time. Three rings are the required amount. I pull, One, Fuck, Two, Shit I don’t want to do this, Three, He awakens. A god-awful roar bellows out from him, and it won't stop until he has had his meal. I escort him to his altar. He, on all fours, crawling like a sun-burnt child; he senses when we are close to his feeding ground. The sacrifice, seeming to know that their end is near, says nothing but calmly sways back and forth, offering their souls to whatever god they pray to. He begins to feed, and I follow as he eats. He takes handfuls into his maw, and some of that black liquid drips from his fangs. The viscera and bones of his victims are left in his wake, and they cover my shoes in an opaque film, and I begin to sweat. For an hour, he carries on like this, never stopping, never full. When the last one is devoured, he falls into his weekly slumber, and I return him to his lair once more. I close the door to his chambers, pleased that I won’t have to see him for another week. I spend the rest of the evening cleaning up the remains. I hate that little red devil and having to mow the lawn.

Johnathan P Alexander is a former active-duty US Marine with two combat deployments. He is currently pursuing an MFA at Hood College in Frederick, MD.

The Glade by E.D. Ambrose

I felt cold and damp along my back, pressing into my shoulders. Eyes blinking open, I saw only greyness and shadows—blurry forms I couldn't make sense of. Hand twitching, I clenched my fingers tightly. Moving my hand in front of my face, I opened my hand. A bit of grass, leaves, and other detritus fell against my face. I was lying down.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to work out where I was. What was happening? Another breath. Petrichor. My brain supplied the word for what I smelled. Rain and damp earth. Pressing my hands into the grass and dirt, I sat up.

Looking around, my confusion grew. I found myself in a small glade, with weak light from a setting sun slanting through the surrounding trees. A carpet of flowers and clover stretched between me and a line of ancient trees, tall with gnarled limbs twisting and twining into an almost impenetrable wall.

I closed my eyes and shook my head. Opening them, nothing changed. It made no sense. I'd checked into the small lodge near Blairsville, made nice with the owners, and gave my sales pitch. It hadn't gone well, and the couple had grown increasingly hostile. I was welcome to stay the night, but they'd insisted I leave at first light. I'd gone to my room, and then... nothing. I don't remember closing the door. My mind was blank, I couldn't...

A laugh, sounding behind me, derailed my runaway thoughts. It was unnatural, and the wrongness sent a shiver down my spine.

As I turned, the light dimmed drastically, dusky sunlight fading away to the gloom of a full moon. A boulder rested at what I realized was the center of the glade. A slight figure stood atop the rock, no bigger than a young child. There was something off-putting in their shape, with proportions not quite right. The head, a bit too large, and the arms, too long. The faint moonlight and the shadow of a hood pulled low over the forehead hid any details. The hoodie had a logo, but I couldn't make it out.

A high-pitched whistle pierced the air, and another figure stepped out from behind the stone. The whistle trailed off as the second figure leaned against the boulder. A dark coat hung knee-length, and long hair obscured the figure's face. There was something feminine about this one, a slightness to the form.

I felt movement to my left, and turned my head as two more small figures passed me, moving to stand opposite the second being. As they passed, I was able to pick out details. Both wore ratty jeans, too short for their thin legs. Bony ankles protruded above bare feet. Short-sleeved t-shirts left their arms bare. Twins, I realized, though I had no clue about gender.

The first one - I felt more and more certain this one was male - took two steps forward and dropped from atop the boulder to the ground. The move was soundless, without even a rustle from the disturbed grass. I stepped back, terror swirling up from my gut, choking me. Silently, with no discernible signal, the four stepped towards me.

I retreated, and they matched me step by step. Goosebumps danced across my bare arms. It was only now that I distractedly noticed my clothes - the same casual outfit I had worn to my meeting. A sleeveless, V-neck top in a soft grey, with charcoal slacks. Like the four... people?... creatures?... before me, I was barefoot. In my distraction, I had stopped moving, and when I turned my attention back to them, they were closer, just a few feet away.

Reflexively, I took two quick steps back. I finally found my voice, faint and weak. "Who are you? Where am I?" They smiled, seemingly thrilled by the tremble in my voice. Smiles, too wide, stretched across four faces. I gasped at the hint of pointed teeth I saw behind thin lips. "What do you want?"

The first one, the clear leader, spoke. His voice rumbled, far deeper than it should be for his slight build. "We want you to run."

Three voices echoed...

"Run."

I spun away and fled, stumbling slightly as my toes dug into the loamy dirt. I crashed into the wall of trees with their low-hanging branches. My progress halted abruptly as I tried to find a way to the tenuous safety of the woods. Another sharp whistle cut through the air. They were coming.

With a burst of adrenaline, I shoved my way forward, pushing against the limbs that held me back. Feeling the sting of scratches against my bare skin, I finally pressed through. Past that initial tangle of branches, the trees opened up a little, making my panicked flight a little easier. I still staggered and stumbled as the weak moonlight filtering through the canopy blinded me to roots and rocks.

I ran and ran, pushing myself to my limits. An occasional whistle pierced the night, sometimes from behind me and sometimes from the left or right. I pressed on.

The sky seemed to lighten a little, and I had not heard a whistle for some time. I felt the faintest spark of hope. Veering left around one of the larger trees, I staggered to a halt. The four stood there, waiting for me. I collapsed to my knees, too tired for fight or flight, resigned to whatever came next.

E.D. Ambrose is a born-and-raised Southerner and grew up immersed in the rocket culture of North Alabama. Between that and a mom who watched Star Trek, she became a lifelong fan of science fiction from every genre - books, movies, art. She also enjoys shooting pool (it's how she met her husband) and playing with their rescue dog, Kennedy. She survives on chocolate (preferably dark) and sweet tea.

The Home Invader by Elizabeth Fink Munoz

You clear your sinuses while approaching the opening of the crusted hilltop to observe the underlying valley: it reveals a large cabin house underneath a blanket of snow. Pine trees sponge across the acreage, and a single crossover SUV is parked on the elongated driveway. The hollow coos of Mourning Doves echo, and the frozen ground crunches beneath as you approach the cabin home.

You begin debating with yourself how many people could be inside; maybe none, they could have another vehicle and could have left the night before the snow, or possibly one or two are inside… perhaps even more? You then decide to muster up to the doorway, moderately frostbitten so the chill no longer stings. You stand there and knock. You wait patiently and silently.

You hear a chair scrape against the floor, and faintly, you distinguish the voices of a man and a woman speaking in unison, “Hello, who is there?” A dog is tagging along the steps of the man approaching with a low growl, “Hush, Copper.”

The man hesitantly opens the door with slight concern, “Can I help you?” You smile nervously, “I’m so sorry to bother you, but my car broke down on the way, and I've just been looking for help or a phone to use by chance?”

The man responds kindly, leads you inside to use the phone, and announces this aloud to his assumed wife. You sigh with relief while following him inside closely. You notice the fireplace rods placed nearby as you toy with the phone in the living room. The cabin is warmed dimly like a chicken coop, and the scents of roast beef seep from the kitchen. You decide, at this moment, that this will make for a suitable home. The caramel-blotted dog, Copper, sniffs your boots while rubbing against you, desperate for your attention. You curiously glance across the living room illuminated with family portraits; given the couple's age, their children seem grown, evidently from photographs. It's an ideal situation to nest in. You’ve been wandering around lost and freezing since you couldn’t cut it in the city. You lost your job shortly after being evicted from your apartment, only after your fiancé left you.

Aside from the couple’s chatter in the next room, it's peaceful. You sit quietly in your thoughts, contemplating who to call, but then you realize the possibility of a new beginning; it's enticing. You feel the shell of yourself cracking apart while the man walks back in, “Well, were you able to get hold of anyone? Do you need a lift and, maybe, some help with your vehicle?” You respond as politely as possible by swiftly reaching for the metal coal rod beside the fireplace and bludgeoning him approximately six times, claiming, “I will be staying.” Warm blood splatters across your face, so you use your sleeve to wipe off the droplets. You adjust your shirt by pulling the bottom portion to flatten any wrinkles.

Copper cowardly ushers to the kitchen, where the woman wearily calls out, “Michael, sweetheart, is everything all right?” You approach the kitchen step by step, answering her, “Get out of my house,” raising your index finger toward the front door.

The woman’s eyes enlarge to those of a horse. You impale her firmly as she attempts to run past you towards the door. After the sounds of gurgling dwindle, you are satisfied by the silence.

You later realize the mess the intruders made, so you roll the man up tightly with a living room rug. You drag him out the back door to the snowy field. This was surprisingly easy; you then carry the woman as a potato sack a few feet at a time, draped over your shoulder, and then dump her next to him. Copper ran outside while the door was open, and you realize he will only refuse to come near you again. You close the door behind you. You mop the floors, and the citrus from the cleaners marinate well with the roast’s aroma. You appreciatively cut up your supper and enjoy the homestyle meal on the wooden dining room table as a fire blazes in the fireplace and the snow falls again.

Elizabeth Fink-Munoz applies her writing voice through a genre that makes others scream. She has obtained a Bachelor of Arts in English for creative and professional writing from Colorado State University-Pueblo. Elizabeth is an aspiring writer for her first magazine publication. She finds comfort in writing flash fiction horror that captures an audience in shock and curiosity from uncomfortable situations, focusing on nature and human nature. She always misses the cold of winter the most in the summer.

Wisp by Jordan Catalano

I remember when I first noticed my "gift." I was nine, and my Nonna's health was rapidly declining. She had stopped going to her chemo appointments after years of fighting. "No point in fighting it. It’s my time," she told everyone. We didn’t believe her declaration at first. She was a tough woman. We thought she had at least a few months, hell, maybe another year or two.

As our family surrounded her bed, she reached for my hands and set hers on them. I can still feel how cold they were. She looked at me and must’ve seen the bewilderment in my eyes. She smiled her usual comforting smile, “You can see it too, can’t you?” I nodded. “Good.” She gently squeezed my hands and closed her eyes. I continued to watch it. The wisp. It danced above her head like a flickering candle flame, humming with a melody that always reminded me of the church hymns she would sing while cooking. The humming came to a decrescendo as the flame died, and so did she.

I chalked it up to an overactive imagination, until it happened again. A girl I had been crushing on and I got paired up together to play tennis in gym class. Everything was great. We had fun, laughed, and even tried my hand at some pitiful attempts at flirting. Then I saw it. It was above her head, dancing faintly as she hit the ball to me. I froze. The ball bounced past me. She just tilted her head and opened her mouth as if she was going to ask me something, but nothing came out. She dropped. An undiagnosed heart murmur stopped her heart. I never saw the wisp again.

But I see it again tonight. Not just one. Dozens.

I didn't notice at first. I was recording the band, lost in the music, mouthing every lyric of my favorite song. But when I lowered my phone, I saw them. Tiny flares igniting above these strangers' heads.

I’m surrounded. The humming is deafening, unignorable. Something is happening. I don’t know what yet. But the dread has already set in. My breathing's shallow. My hands are shaking. I try to move out of the crowd. No one lets me through. They all continue to laugh, sing, and dance.

"Are you okay? Do you need help?" a woman asks me. “You don’t look well.”

"I—"

Cracks. Sharp and Rapid. We all look to the sky to see the fireworks, but the air is empty. Screams fill it now. Bodies begin to drop. The hymns vanish beneath the shrieks. I don’t know where the noise is coming from. I don’t know where to run.

Someone grabs my arm, then disappears into the crowd, yanking me. I lose my sense of direction. I can feel the whizzing of the bullets. They are all around me. Warmth radiates down onto my head from above. I look up. I can see it now. My own wi—

Jordan Catalano is an aspiring writer who lives in Cheyenne, Wyoming. He spends majority of his free time in the gym but if he's not there, he is traversing the vast wilderness of the west. Jordan primarily writes fantasy, but uses flash horror as a creative outlet when he encounters writers block.

Spores That Grow in Canvas and Bone by Patrick Malka

“Wake up! There’s water leaking on your Goddamn bookshelves. Help me!”

Staring up into the waterlogged concavity of my living room ceiling and the damage all along the wall, dozens of books fanned out and drying at my feet, I felt sick to my stomach.

Anne spoke to me from the kitchen. I sat on my heels in the next room, surrounded by the detritus of renovations. Chalky dust turned to an invasive paste, threatening to coat whole sections of the floor. I hated the mess so much. Anne monologued about how great her father was at this kind of thing. His ability to take on any home improvement task and just know what to do. I wasn’t really paying attention. It didn’t matter. She just needed to talk. She once told me she hated listening to podcasts because she couldn’t participate in the conversation. She could not fathom the idea of simply listening.

Something unexpected.

Someone had hidden a heavy canvas behind the wall. It was spotted with expanding mold. If there had been an image on it at one time, it seemed gone now. I took down my mask and asked Anne to have a look. She asked what I was playing at with this. I didn’t understand. She asked me to come stand next to her, to see it from a few steps back. My breath caught, and a weight fell on my chest. I ran out of the room to get my inhaler.

Anne carefully removed the canvas while I rested. I was still lightheaded. She hung it with clothes pegs on an improvised line and ran a dehumidifier in the room for a day. I felt uneasy around what we’d found. There was no denying it since Anne and I could both see it clearly. The mold had grown in such a way that it looked like the lower half of a human jaw, blacked out teeth and all. I looked for some indication that the canvas had been prepared so that it would guarantee the mold would grow to make this exact piece of art. I found nothing.

Anne could not stop talking about it. It was such an appealing story. Without any original context, we could imbue this art with whatever lore appealed to us. We could be the origin of an urban legend. I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep it. Anne looked at me like I was insane. She promptly framed it and placed it over my novice and aesthetically imperfect attempts at drywall repair.

The mold kept growing.

I argued it wasn’t safe. My asthma was demonstrably worse. Anne wouldn’t hear it. She said I was exaggerating; it wasn’t that bad. She said it looked perfect where one of the bookshelves used to be. That I was just mad that I had to trash so many books. It wasn’t the first time she’d accused me of being selfish, exaggerating symptoms, or making things up to get my way. I said nothing more.

I woke up one night to find Anne wasn’t in bed. I got up to see where she could be. I was wearing a loose tank top and underwear. Windows were wide open, creating a cold crosswind down the hallway. I found Anne standing naked in front of the canvas, the only light in the room coming from a streetlamp. Her skin glistened. I approached her slowly. Her eyes were open but vacant. At first, I thought it was light and shadow, but no, her lips and chin were black with mold.

She laughed off my concerns as she washed her face the next morning. Wild right? she said, as though sleepwalking for the first time was like watching a violent storm from indoors. She threw the blackened face cloth in the sink, moving aside my shoulder-length hair, and kissing my neck as she passed by. Her mouth was still stained. I hated myself for flinching with disgust.

The canvas was evolving. The jaw now had layers and a glossy sheen; it was textured like eroded concrete. Some invisible hand was adding to the image, the artist pushing the boundaries of what their medium should be able to do.

Anne wasn’t well. I found her in front of the canvas most nights. Every time, the image on the canvas resolved a fraction more by morning light. I had every intention of taking it down. I don’t know why I didn’t.

I got home late from work. The door was open. It was still light out, but the house was dark. The air smelled wet with the aromas of salt, forest soil, and oxidized metal. I hesitated to enter the living room. I wasn’t afraid of what I might find. I was afraid that nothing would be the same once I found it.

Anne was lying on the floor in front of the canvas. Unconscious, barely recognizable. Her face was swollen and black. Her mouth overflowed with streams of blood from where she had removed all the teeth from her lower jaw. The needle-nose pliers were still in her hand. I searched for her teeth. I don’t know why. That irrational, panicked thought that no, no, no, we can fix this. I just need the pieces. I looked up at the canvas. She had pierced the roots of her own teeth right through the material to their corresponding locations on the moldy lower jaw. Several of the teeth had broken chunks from the effort of removal. I stood still, confused, in tears, on the verge of throwing up.

Then I looked back at the canvas.

Really looked.

Could not stop looking.

It was beautiful.

My breathing slowed.

Overwhelming warmth radiated from my chest.

I stepped over Anne to take it all in.

Patrick Malka (he/him) is a high school science teacher from Montreal, Quebec, where he lives with his partner and two kids. His recent fiction can be found in Black Glass Pages, 34 Orchard, Timber Ghost Press, Brave New Weird Volume 2, Hotel Macabre Volume 1 and most recently in Haunter Review. A full list of his published stories can be found at patrickmalkawriter.ca

Disbelief by Ennis Rook Bashe

“You need to stop picking at your feet,” the doctor scolded.

“But it’s so itchy, it feels like there’s something inside me.”

“That’s just the neuropathy. Put some ice on it. Doesn’t your scratching keep your boyfriend up at night? Your kids?”

The alcohol swab burned her foot. Her eyes burned, too. She blinked back humiliation. “Did you read up on my condition?”

When he blustered, she tuned him out. The most cursory Google would reveal it was genetic. Her friends posted joyful announcements and swaddled bassinets, but anything she created would die.

Lying uncomfortably awake that night, she tore the bandage off and scratched with a needle. She needed the wound’s sharp pain to touch her nerves instead of the crawling. Only when she broke skin could she sleep.

Segment by glossy segment, the bug pulled its body through her wounds. It stood for the first time on spindly legs. Blood-wet wings unfolded, and it sought the open window. The eggs inside its host would quicken while her skin regrew.

(One night, she’ll drink herself to sleep, then jolt awake. She’ll watch - first in shock, then in amazement - the new life she thought she could never birth.

She’ll make peace with the writhing within her. She’ll return to that office: men fleeing in terror, insurance forms scattering, the dark swarm of her children at her back.)

Ennis Rook Bashe is an Elgin and Rhysling Award finalist, TAP New York Writers’ Institute Poetry Prize winner, and HWA Dark Poetry Scholarship-winning poet, novelist, and game designer. Their chapbook Beautiful Malady includes work nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Find more writing and information at https://linktr.ee/ennisrookbashe.

TGIZF by Cecilia Kennedy

Municipal Building Number Five is actually a waiting room, with a revolving door set on “double-time.” You have to step into an opening at breakneck speed and get caught up in some physics-defying force before being thrown inside a room full of people. If you’re lucky, you’ll land in an empty chair. It’s what we do on Fridays. It’s the last thing we do before the weekend finally begins. We all shout, “It’s Friday! The weekend’s just a revolving door away.”

Today, I’m lucky. I time the revolving door like a Double Dutch rope-jumping pro, waiting for the right beat, right drop of the rope, so I can jump in and get thrown into the room, right into an empty chair. It’s always stifling hot inside, and crowded—and slow. And today, it’s even slower because the machines are glitching, so it takes even longer for the receptionist to call out names. We don’t know what we’re waiting for. When your name is called, you’re led outside, and that’s it. You go home. It’s just something you have to do before the weekend, and you can’t skip.

The gentleman seated next to me seems nice enough, until I catch his eye, and he notices and inches over, and I start to feel very unlucky. His eyes run the length of my legs. I was feeling cute, so I wore a skirt, but I guess that was a bad idea.

“Come here often?” he says, with a twinkle in his eye. I know what to do, though. I grab my phone and flip through new messages, until I hear screaming—and realize I’m even more unlucky than I had thought. Today, the zombies are out, and they love revolving doors—can’t resist them.

One flies in, lands on a woman who brought her dog to the waiting room. The zombie eats both of them. The receptionist has no choice but to come out with a club and beat the zombie down. She shrugs her shoulders when she realizes she can’t dispose of the remains. The only way to leave the waiting room is for your name to be called—and it was never the zombie’s turn, and it never will be.

I go back to my phone. The man next to me points at my screen and shouts above the noise: “Since when do we not talk to each other? In my day, that’s what we did. I don’t mean any harm.” I turn my back to him.

Another zombie flies in through the doors, rips off a child’s head, and eats the ears first, before getting his head blown off by the receptionist, who is just having one of those days.

“Thank God it’s Friday,” she says.

The man next to me has the audacity to tap me on the back and demand that I turn around and talk to him. My stomach is in knots. I’d run. I’d scream if I could. I would explain to him that he’s being very rude, but I know he won’t understand. And the flood of zombies that has just flown into the room doesn’t help. There’s nowhere to go, as they eat through layers of screaming victims, while the receptionist fights them off with a club in one hand and a revolver in another. All the while, the man next to me insists I acknowledge him because that’s what proper women are supposed to do.

My hands shake, and I realize I’ve burned through all my calories from lunch, and I just want a pizza. I eat pizza on Fridays to reward myself for a week of work and a stint in the waiting room—and then, the receptionist... calls a number!

It’s not mine. It’s his, and I start to think I’ll survive, that everything will be okay, until a zombie soars in at lightning speed and lands in the chair where that man was sitting. It looks at me and bares its teeth—and I know the wait is over. My number is up. I’m leaving this place whether they call my name or not. And I’ve never felt more relieved. Thank God it’s Zombie Friday.

Cecilia Kennedy (she/her) taught Spanish and English composition and literature in Ohio for 20 years before moving to Washington state in 2016. Her works have been published in Maudlin House, Meadowlark Review, Vast Chasm Press, Tiny Molecules, Fiery Scribe Review, Kandisha Press, Ghost Orchid Press, DarkWinter Press, Flash Phantoms, and others. She also enjoys writing humorous essays and posts weekly on her humor DIY blog, Fixin’ Leaks and Leeks. She has two short-story collections: Twenty-Four-Hour Shift: Dark Tales from on and off the Clock (DarkWinter Press) and The Places We Haunt (Baxter House Editions).

Tete-a-Tete by Sean Winkler

For as long as I can remember, the one thing I had wished for more than anything on this earth was a conversation. And today, I awoke with the most resolute of tasks in mind: to set out and not return home until I’d managed to find one.

I welcomed the day with a warm bath and a shave, and because such an occasion could hardly admit of an empty stomach, I followed them up with a hearty breakfast of coffee (very black), two soft-boiled eggs, and a half slice of toast with a generous swipe of raspberry jam. With a napkin tucked firmly into my shirt collar, I dug into the feast.

After dusting off my finest suit, overcoat, and derby, out the door I went, down the stairway, and I ran it all through my thoughts: a conversation. Sure, I’d chatted my fair share to others, spoken with them at the odd convocation, luncheon, or gathering, and even talked about the old savoir-faire. But a conversation was something else altogether, or so I’d heard so many a rumor of the days past. Let words meet up and run off like mad.

As I stepped outdoors, though, to my chagrin, the streets were ghostly empty. The shops, the promenades, the cafés, the restaurants, even the newsstand; not a soul in any of them. I pulled out my pocket watch and was assured that I hadn’t made my move on the day too early. I then glanced up at the clock tower jutting up into the sky, with its ever-trustworthy, emerald green case, obsidian dial, and gold leaf numerals. Sure enough, it was right on time.

That was when it hit me: the train station! How could I have been so careless? Hah! It was the weekend; no one would be afoot here in the city center. They’d be arriving from and departing out of town. And, with so many people there caught up in the comings and goings of life, indeed, if there was anyone with whom I could have this prized tête-à-tête, that was where I would find them.

Imagine my delight at what I saw when I happened upon the square just before the train station. There, a fog slowly began to lift from around its cathedral-like façade to reveal the silhouettes of a large gathering of sorts; hundreds of people, it must have been. So many! Once my presence had announced itself, however, altogether at once, they paused momentarily, then turned and began approaching me. Their shoes squeaked louder against the cobblestone, still moist from the morning dew. And as their complexion broke through the mist, I realized how premature my delight had really been.

From the neck down, you see, the gathering was as human as you and I - if a bit uniform - with all of them dressed in black suits. From the shoulders up, however, where a human face might have been, was something the likes of which I can barely begin to describe. Atop the neck, sat a round, hairless mass of taut skin, with black eyeballs scattered all about, and looking in no particular direction. It was like marbles plugged into a wad of bubble gum.

“And what a morning it is!” I exclaimed, though perhaps too eruptive not to convey my growing unease. The only reply was that their heads tilted side to side as if they were in study. It occurred to me that I must look as strange to them as they did to me. Though the thought became a bit unwieldy when I was struck by the foulest of stenches; a putrid odor, like that of something diseased.

Finally, the one with the largest head spoke, and to my remark on the day, it took it upon itself to reply: “Why don’t you tell us all about it,” its voice sounding like a warped old record, playing at half speed. Before I could respond, though, the creatures began closing in, and a black limousine screeched nearby. I realized then what was about to happen. I protested to the top of my lungs, “You’ve got the wrong guy! YOU’VE GOT THE WRONG GUY!!!” But the world was deaf to my words. And before I had another chance to clamor for mercy, the creatures pounced, stuffed me into the trunk of the limo, and sped me away to my inevitable doom.

But so it goes; it could have been the start of such a lovely day, if only I had had the good sense to keep to myself.

Sean Winkler is a fiction writer from Southern California. He received his PhD in philosophy from KU Leuven in Belgium and is currently a Literature teacher and Speech and Debate coach at La Salle College Preparatory. Sean primarily writes short stories in the genres of horror and speculative fiction, with works appearing in The Great Ape (“Shark Therapy”), Locust Review (“Lenin, Alive!”), Mercurius (“Ode to Red Vienna”) and Tiny Molecules (“Oasis”, “The Nevada Desert Experience”). He is now working on his first novella, to be titled We Are Not Nu Metal.

A Desert Nightmare by Sarah Das Gupta

‘Damn car! I give up on it. We’ll just have to wait for a lift.’ Jim Kelly’s oil-streaked face emerged from under the bonnet.

‘We’ll be waiting for a hell of a long time. It’s one o’clock in the morning, local time.’ Tom Weeks’ voice had the tone of resignation typical of someone who had suffered similar desert misfortunes in his time as UK Military Attaché in Cairo. ‘We’d better make ourselves comfortable in the car. The temperature’s dropping rapidly. It can be cold in the Sahara at night.’

The full moon cast an eerie light on a line of dunes on one side of the road from Cairo to Tunis. On the other side, the sand stretched away into the darkness. Only a few thorn trees, sculptured into strangely contorted shapes by the wind, broke the endless desert scene. Far away, the eerie sound of jackals howling disturbed the silence.

Tom suddenly awoke. He glanced at his watch – three o’clock, he must have dropped off. A strange drumming noise on the car roof had awoken him. He switched on his small torch, pointing it forward to avoid waking Jim, in the back seat.

Tom’s heart missed several beats. Swarming over the car were hundreds of scorpions. They were a bright orange covering the bonnet and roof. In the torchlight, their multiple eyes gleamed menacingly from the tops and sides of their heads. A veritable forest of tails with venomous stings swarmed in the light beam. Tom had no doubt these were Deathstalkers, the most poisonous of the desert scorpions. But there was something odd about this invasion. Each was well over six inches long! Twice as large as the usual specimen.

He turned to wake Jim, ’Hi—' the words froze in his mouth. The back seat was empty!

Tom took a searchlight from under his seat and trained it through the window. Suddenly, the area a few yards from the car lit up to reveal a terrifying scene. In the circle of light, Tom could see nothing but hundreds of scorpions, crawling and scuttling. At the edge was a body, barely recognisable, covered with a heaving mass of orange, impregnated with the ever watchful, searching eyes. Tom covered his face. He saw again the figure of Serjeant Ben Brown, crawling back to the tank under German artillery fire, his hands clawing helplessly at the metal sides. Now, a figure, eyes, nose eaten away, was suddenly scratching at the window screen, scorpions crawling over skeletal hands. Tom tried to look away. He couldn’t recognise the face. Only the bone of the nose remained. The mouth had been reduced to a black, lipless hole. Yet the screams and crying undeniably sounded like Jim.

Then the wretched figure was scrabbling with his useless hands at the car doors. Just in time, Tom secured the lock on the back door. His hands were clasped tightly over his ears. Yet nothing could eliminate the animal-like yelping which broke the silence of the desert. At that moment, suddenly, the noise stopped. Tom raised his head, only to be confronted by the mutilated body, slumped over the bonnet of the car. Then Tom heard the sound of scratching. Paralysed with terror, he felt something crawling up his back, under his collar. . .

SARAH DAS GUPTA is a writer from Cambridge, UK who has also lived and worked in India and Tanzania. Her work has been published in over twenty countries from Australia to Kazakhstan.She has recently been nominated for the Best of the Net and a Dwarf Star. She began writing in 2022, aged eighty, after an accident which has severely limited her mobility.

Paw Prints by Matt Voitko

The moment I saw the lifeless form sprawled out on the table, the pressure of a thousand-pound weight pummeled my stomach and chest. I found myself frozen in place. The thoughts were racing around in my head to the point of a dizzying nausea.

“If you aren’t ready for this, we can do it later,” the medical examiner assured me. “If you need to gather yourself a bit more.” I blinked my eyes a few times and swallowed hard. This had to be done, and it had to be now.

“No,” I finally told him. “I’m ready now.”

I approached the pale silver table in the center of the room. I could feel the coldness in the air and thought of just how many others had stood in these same footprints I stood now. How many had been forced to walk the same path in this drab and chilly room, its gray walls feeling claustrophobic and emotionless.

I reached a sweaty hand out toward the limb closest to me. My fingers contacted the black fur that now felt fragile and weightless like feathers. A chill ran up and down my spine. I noticed Tucker’s nails were longer than usual, but honestly, trimming them just hadn’t seemed necessary.

My eyes began to tear at the sight of the now-hollow carcass in front of me. His brown eyes were still visible and seemed frozen in peace and tranquility. Those open eyes reminded me of the reality that Tucker’s pain was now over. He would never again feel the debilitating agony that another day or night on this Earth could bring. The innocence of a life’s beginning had finally returned upon reaching its end.

The smell of burning hair and flesh washed over my senses as I reached the other side of Tucker’s head and neck. The bullet wounds were still relatively fresh, and the drips of blood had only just begun to thicken.

I closed my eyes and struggled to rifle through my memories of the life in front of me, I had cherished so much. I could finally see a vague but very real image of playing with our dad’s worn-down football in the backyard. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but it had only been weeks, maybe even months, since one of those wonderful spring afternoons in the sun.

Another image of a night, which seemed not so long ago, when we jammed both of our faces into our dinner, as if in some carnivorous pie-eating contest. Mom found it hilarious. Dad would just shake his head. That had been one of the final nights Tucker and I had been able to spend being the carefree souls we naturally were. Most of those wonderful memories of Tucker had been clouded over by the past several months.

The nights he’d run off into the darkness of our neighborhood, not knowing if he’d be there come morning. I miss the days when the only true worry we’d have was whether or not Mom would find ticks stuck to our bodies, or whether we’d get caught in a storm on the way home from the park and come into the house soaking wet. Mom would get so pissed.

“Is it him?” the examiner asked.

I swallowed hard again, almost choking.

“Yeah...it’s him.”

I took several steps back as the examiner picked up the sheet from one end of the table. As my feet trailed back over those same muddy footprints I had left earlier, the pale, bright light of the lamp above the table gently swung, giving a brief flash that reflected over the top of the silver bullets lodged into Tucker’s chest and neck.

A sigh escaped from my lips as the examiner grabbed my brother's hairless right arm and placed it back onto the table where it had fallen.

I chose to have that non-transformed arm be the final image I would take with me, as I left the chill of that lifeless morgue behind, the barrel of the gun still warm, and tucked tightly against my back. I couldn’t let it be the sight of those claws, that fur, or those crooked and sharpened teeth, still stained with our parents' blood. It couldn’t be the last image I took away from that moment. The final memory of my brother.

I chose to forget the price of that secret we had kept from our parents and the world around us. I had decided to protect our family from the pain of that never-ending nightmare.

The bond of a brother, such as with the curse of the moon, and the damning of the inevitable, could never be broken.

Matt Voitko is a previously unpublished author and musician currently residing in New Jersey. He grew up with a deep passion for the horror genre that he’s explored both through his story writing, music projects and various YouTube content for over 15 years. His childhood love for both art and storytelling carry over into his writing to this day.

What of Satan? by Ricardo D. Rebelo

“But what of Satan?” Chris Cook asked.

“Satan?” Connor Holt replied. “I don’t believe in that shit either.”

“Then, where do you think it all comes from? The intrusive thoughts? The urge to harm others—or ourselves? Cruelty, greed, all that dark shit?”

“The chaos of the universe,” Holt said.

“The chaos of the universe? Who’s being silly now?”

“C’mon, man. You know I’m an atheist.”

“Yeah, but I never understood atheism. Agnosticism, I get—but to believe in nothing?”

“Why is that so hard to believe? We’re just a random series of events. No God or Satan. Just… shit happening.”

“Seems too random to me. What about those kids they found last week? The ones that looked like a Satanic sacrifice in Freetown State Forest?”

“Shit luck for them.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. Look, man, you asked me to come check out the room you set up for our next campaign. What’s with the theology lecture?”

“Oh yeah. I’ve been busting my ass to get the vibe exactly right.”

“Awesome. Can’t wait. My friend Tim says you run the best Devils and Dungeons games.”

“Tim’s too kind. I try. It’s cool having the money and space to make it immersive. I started playing Devils and Dungeons at the local library as a kid.”

“Same here. Did your mom think you were going to follow Satan because of all that talk show panic?”

“Oh yeah. She was into all that crap. Threw out my Dio and Ozzy albums. Big on Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker. PTL Club fanatic.”

“PTL—‘People That Love.’ More like ‘People That Loathe.’ Fuck them. I hear he’s selling survivalists kits online now, prepping for the second coming.”

“Yeah, like Christ is gonna save them again.”

“What a bunch of fucking idiots.”

“I agree.”

Holt lit a white pillar candle and pointed down a hallway. “This way.”

“I like the tone you’re setting already,” Cook said.

Holt said nothing. They walked through the dim corridor. Sparse paintings hung from rusted nails: Eve Tempted by the Serpent by William Blake, a line drawing of Satan from Paradise Lost, and Satan in Hell by Antoniazzo Romano.

“Looks like you do your homework.”

“I try. Years of playing and backstory research. You can get lost in it.”

“Tell me about it.”

They reached a gothic, wood-paneled door—completely out of place in the mid-century ranch house. The hallway felt like a portal from suburbia into something older, darker.

“Nice. Must’ve set you back.”

“Yeah. Had it imported from Ingolstadt.”

“Ingolstadt? Fuck, that’s serious.”

Holt pulled back the iron bolt. It creaked like an old bone. When it gave, he pushed the door open. The hinges groaned. Candlelight revealed stone steps descending into darkness.

Holt led the way. Cook followed, smirking. “Woo, spooky.”

At the bottom, the scene revealed itself.

In the center of the cellar, an inverted pentagram had been drawn in salt. A red pillar candle burned at each point, casting twitching shadows across the stone. In the center, five smaller candles surrounded a mound of gore.

“Holy shit. This is awesome,” Cook said. “You really outdid yourself. Fucking Anton Lavey vibes.”

“Thanks,” Holt said simply.

Cook stepped closer. The mound looked disturbingly real. As he leaned in, the shape came into focus.

A human heart.

“Damn, that looks so fucking real. You didn’t get it at the Halloween Superstore? You must know someone in FX.”

“You could say that.”

Still assuming it was a gag, Cook returned to the heart and picked it up. It pulsed.

Warm.

Not latex.

The blood was thick, dark, and smelled like copper—not corn syrup.

Something shifted in Cook’s gut. He turned, starting to speak—

—and saw the dagger.

Holt plunged it into Cook’s belly.

He wanted to see it in Cook’s eyes—the instant the truth hit. He wanted to drown in it.

He pushed deeper. Then upward. Then right.

His fist disappeared into the man’s gut. So warm. So wet.

He reached for the core—the beating heart—and pierced it. Blood surged over Holt’s hand, down his arm, across the floor. It spread through the salt pentagram, staining it from white to pink to deep crimson.

The blood raced through each line. The rune began to glow—like burning coal.

A smell filled the room. Sulfur. Rotten and heavy.

Most would gag.

Holt inhaled it like perfume.

“You have brought me the blood of the non-believer,” said the voice.

It filled the cellar. It filled Holt.

“Yes, Father,” Holt whispered.

“I am not your father. I am the Prince of Evil. The all-consuming darkness.”

“…Yes, my Lord.”

“Better.”

A beat.

“You have done well. Last week, the blood of the innocent in the dark wood. This week, the unbeliever. What offering completes the trinity?”

Holt trembled. He knew the answer. He had studied for years to reach this point.

“…The Madonna.”

“Yes. Find me a queen in white. Defile her. Twist her into black hatred. She will bear my bloodline.”

Holt dropped Cook’s body. The pentagram drank the rest of the blood. Flesh collapsed inward. Minutes later, nothing remained but a husk.

Soon it will be ash.

The sacrifice was complete.

It was time.

Time to go upstairs.

Time to clean up.

Time for a new name.

A new face.

A mask charming enough to lure her in.

The Madonna.

The mother of what comes next.

Ricardo D. Rebelo (he/him) is a horror writer and filmmaker based in Fall River, Massachusetts. His fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies, including Monsters in the Mills (Glass House Books), Halloweenthology, Flash of the Un-Dead, Dead Girls Walking, Children of the Dead (Wicked Shadow Press), Monster Mag, The Chamber, and Scars Magazine. He is a member of the Horror Writers Association, the Massachusetts Horror Writers, and We Are Providence. In addition to fiction, Ricardo has written and directed several award-winning PBS documentaries, including Island of My Dreams, Dark New England, and Lizbeth, a Victorian Nightmare, the latter exploring the life and lore of Lizzie Borden.

Mountain Man by Jacob Orlando

You’re watching me from just beyond the firelight. I’m not sure how long you’ve been there. Was gazing up at the stars for a hot minute, thinking bitterly about my former life, heard a hoot, sat halfway up, and bam — we locked eyes.

There’s mace in my pack. To reach it, I’d have to turn away. Then, who knows what? You cut a strong figure out between the bare pine trunks, all thick, long, and solid, and not too much hair, really. You could close in on me in a few strides. You would easily overpower me.

Your fullness, your heft, your musk — against me? Just imagine. I wanna ask if you need something. Why else would you come to me like this? I wanna tell you to get lost. Didn’t come this far out to socialize.

You step forward. My muscles start, my head stalls like an old leaf blower, and I give a short groan. You hold a finger to your lips and shush. The gesture presses on something in me. You come closer. I take a wracking breath. You don’t stop. I haven’t even begun to get up before you’re right on top of me. I’m sweating, can’t swallow, palms clammy.

You pass over me and go to my pack. I should say something, but there’s this tense ripple down your shoulders, your back, your hips. You pick up my pack, look at me for a beat, then turn and take off into the trees.

I scramble to my feet, head spinning, already losing track of you. Shadows beneath the trees all run black. No point trying to holler after you. You’re making off with everything I need to survive. So, I dive into the dark. And already, I’m lost.

That’s you climbing up the boulders ahead, right? Or no, do I hear you down the way? Can’t see a thing. I trip, fall, and roll. A rock opens a gash in my thigh. Lucky it’s not my face. Roots catch me like a hammock. It’s nice. Here, I could just close my eyes and sleep.

Then, something with too many legs crawls up my neck toward my ear. I convulse and heave myself up, somehow keeping my feet, swiping at hell-knows-what on my hair and shirt. I’m throbbing, trying to stay calm, looking around for the fire. And you — where are you?

I shout, “fuck me.” Why not? Then, not too far off, a low shush. That’s you. It has to be. Through a thicket, I start to see the bones of a building, the most Blair Witch-ass cabin, moldy and crumbling, exactly the place nobody wants to stumble across at midnight, a hundred miles from anywhere, except apparently you, there in the doorway.

I don’t know. Maybe I could find a river, follow it to a road, and save myself. More likely, I’m screwed. You clearly could have taken me out any time. So why haven’t you? Watch me close the space between us. Let me settle a few fingers along your forearm. Touch down my thigh to the cut there. Fresh cravings howl through me. We share a sharp breath. Then, you turn heavily away.

Inside is all swirling ink. Your hand reaches for mine. Please, take me. You are my eyes, my feet, my world. Lead me over a pile of rubble, under a bulge of rotting roof, and to a narrow set of stone stairs yawning deep into darkness.

As we go down, my mind serves up mangled flashes of every dungeon scene imaginable, spliced with the sick weight of responsibility. I left it all behind. I came here. I chose this. Then, you open a door and show me the light.

Turns out, you don’t inhabit a den of depravity. You have a nice, lived-in space. There’s a kitchen around a fireplace in one corner by a bed. The rest is workshop, all shelves, cabinets, and a tool-laden workbench. And there, nestled among those sharp edges, a delicate wood carving of a cat brings her tongue gracefully to her uplifted leg. I pick it up. The unvarnished figure feels raw, each knife stroke still lingering.

You’re on the bed, going through my pack. You toss the canister of mace aside without interest. When you find the first aid kit, you throw the rest on the floor. As you’re pulling out the gauze roll, I notice the cat on the pillow beside you, an intense bandage around her head with a dark stain over the eye. She murmurs as you gather her up.

I watch as you unwrap her. I take in the wreckage of her face. I grimace at the idea of you taking care of her alone.

So, I help you, dressing the wound as you hold her, shushing gently, but there’s no need — she hardly winces. She purrs as I wrap her fresh. I scratch her tail. She rubs her head under my arm. Then she hops to the floor and goes to her water bowl by the fireplace. I can’t ask you what happened to her.

Now we’re on the bed together, so little left between us. Again, you trace the cut over my thigh. It’s really not so bad. Tend it gently.

Turns out, you have some real talent. A steady hand, a taste for texture, an eye for form. Your natural rhythm hums through us. Your touch seems impossible. So deft and so dexterous. You lift me so easily and hold me so firmly. You carve a curious bliss into me.

Lying back beside you in bed, I’m thinking this could work. You have me feeling things. Strangely, you’re a good soul. You have a very sweet cat. Maybe we’re meant to end up together.

It’s a compelling vision — us holed up here, riding it out.

Slowly, I reach for the mace. I think I’ve seen enough.

Jacob Orlando is a queer young man of letters from small-town Texas now based in Boston. His fiction debut won the New Millennium Writings Prize for Flash Fiction. His work has found homes in After Dinner Conversation, The Good Life Review and elsewhere. He works at a bookstore and writes away his free time.

Apparition by J. P. Egry

Red eyes stare back at me from the steamy mirror. They are not mine.

I open the medicine cabinet door. Nothing inside but aspirin, Band-Aids, toothpaste, a wiry brush filled with black hair, and the lingering smell of his cologne.

The sight of empty shelves on his side of the cabinet pierces me to the core of my being.

The skin on my whole body has reddened from the too-hot shower I turned on to wash away the hurt of his leaving. Yes, I cried in that shower. Yes, I cried for the last twenty-four hours. No relief has come. Yet, my eyes can’t be that red!

I close the cabinet door and once again peer into the mirror. The steam begins to evaporate. No red eyes appear in the clearing glass. I must have imagined them before—must have hallucinated from the heat.

Only my own bedraggled reflection appears before me—a pale and sallow face with turned down corners of a mouth and mournful green eyes that I hardly recognize. What a sad mess I am.

Why did he leave so suddenly, laughing as he hurried out? I thought he loved me. His terrible accusations had no basis in fact. Why didn’t he believe me after all these years?

I towel-dry my hair and gaze at my image. Behind the blond spikes of wet hair on my head, something moves.

Something close.

An image comes into focus through the foggy bathroom air. I freeze, gaping at the mirror. Those blood-red eyes, wide and unblinking, glow from within the outline of a face—a face with a grinning mouth but no other features. It slides closer to the reflection of my shoulders. A finger taps my back, lightly at first. Then harder. Harder.

* * *

I don’t know how I got into this hospital bed.

I try to ring a bell for help, for an explanation, but there is no bell. I cannot move.

I call out.

No one answers.

Through the glass door of my room, I see no movement in the hall. All is still, not even a distant clatter of feet coming to my rescue.

I yell louder.

I wait.

No one comes.

I hear no sound except the rattle of my panicked breathing.

My arms, my legs. They do not respond to my command. Why are my wrists and ankles tethered to the bed rails?

A mirror hangs on the wall beyond the foot of my bed. With widened eyes, I search every square inch of it, hoping to see myself. I cannot make out my reflection, not even the sight of my toes at the end of the mattress.

An apparition led by blazing eyes slips through the mirror’s dull gray surface and floats as if gliding on air toward me.

A laugh echoes in the distance. His laugh.

A graduate of Crane School of Music, Potsdam State University of New York, and a former special education teacher, J. P. Egry spends her retirement focusing on writing fiction and poetry. Her works include an unpublished novel, a novella, poems in Capper’s Magazine and several anthologies. A short story, “The Thing About Being Alone,” won first prize in a Fan Story horror contest. Another short story, “The White Envelope,” was published by On-The-Premises. A memoir piece, “Phantom Car Memory” was published in Good Old Days magazine. Her short story, “A Well-Urned Talent,” was a prizewinner at Ghost Story Magazine and is published in 21st Century Ghost Stories Anthology. She resides in Dutchess County, New York with a furry muse named Miss Kitty who purrs inspiration into the air.

Ledger of Sinew by Jason Benskin

(Not a legend. Not a curse. A debt. Paid in hide. Collected in screams.)

Jacob Marrs scoffed at evil. Not because he didn’t believe—it simply wasn’t profitable.

But his ledger was written in sinew and stained with marrow. And the forest had a way of remembering every line item.

Under the bleached moons of seven winters, he skinned wolves that still howled, slit open the bellies of cougars purring in death. He wore their hides like stock options and lined his cabin with trophies not to honor the fallen but to flaunt their fall.

It wasn’t survival. It wasn’t even sport.

It was curation.

The cabin was a cathedral of extinction.

Tusks like sacred scrolls.

Claws arranged in mandalas.

And behind glass—eyes that should’ve rotted but blinked when the fire dimmed.

He told himself it was nature’s economy. But he never asked what nature might want in return.

###

The interest began small.

A fox tail on his keyring curled tight, bone snapping in unseen heat.

His pelts began to sweat.

Mounted skulls wept a fluid that smelled like birth and ruin.

And in the night: screaming.

Something between antler and infant.

Something learning how to breathe.

Jacob followed tracks into the trees. Cloven prints. Human toes. Something dragged. Something upright and wrong. He didn’t find it. But he heard it licking.

The next morning, the trees were stripped bare—not of leaves, but of bark. Flesh-colored slivers flapped in the wind. One bore his initials, carved with a knife he hadn’t touched in weeks.

He tried to leave.

The truck wouldn’t start. His compass spun. The forest re-knitted behind him, trail vanishing like breath on a mirror.

###

On the third night, his wolf rug twitched beneath his boots and then deflated, as if exhaling.

Outside, trees dripped skin instead of sap.

Then the knocking began.

Not fists.

Faces.

Pressed against the glass, screaming through stitched lips. Hides he’d once cured now walked, sewn onto twisted forms. A bobcat’s pelt stretched across something child-sized, crawling backwards. A moose hide sagged from limbs too many and too thin.

They didn’t want entry.

They wanted recognition.

Jacob held his rifles close, flipping his Bible open to pages too blood-stuck to turn. He wept into verses he couldn’t remember, praying to gods that didn’t answer with light—but with mirrors.

He boarded the windows. Lit candles in every corner. Piled salt around the doors.

It laughed. The thing in the pine. The one wearing his first-ever kill.

“We remember every cut, Jacob.”

###

Because the worst came next.

He began to molt.

Skin flaked from his hands in veined sheets. His fingernails curled off like bark. Inside his own chest, something shifted. Rearranged. Like organs trading places. No pain. Only process.

He screamed. But no one heard. Except them.

And the cabin—once his sanctuary—changed.

Walls slithered, patchworked with hides sewn taut, breathing in rhythm with his heartbeat. A fox face blinked from his cupboard. A child’s jawbone clattered across the hearth like a wind-up toy.

Then the lights died.

And they stepped inside.

Not monsters. Not myths. But revenants—wearing his kills like ceremonial robes. The elk wore his father’s smile. The bear dragged a noose made from Jacob’s own nerves.

The leader stepped forward, wrapped in a stitched mosaic of everything Jacob had ever stolen: lynx, cougar, wolf, man.

And his own skin, peeled and sewn into the chest like a war medal.

It spoke with his voice, but too many mouths.

“You made us art. Now let us return the favor.”

###

They didn’t kill him. That would be mercy.

They emptied him.

Stripped his soul like sinew from bone. Left him as a walking tapestry of what he’d taken.
Each night, they redress him in different pieces. A new mask. A new shape. A new hunt.

Now he lingers at the tree line.

Campers whisper of a stitched man whimpering in every language. Hunters find their own faces missing, peeled away while they still breathe.

On cold nights, you might hear a low moan in the pine-sick wind:

Not pain.

Memory.

And in every forest from Oregon to Ontario, something waits by the fire, wearing something too familiar.

A hunter. A hiker. A child’s flannel pajamas.

It wears you.

###

Jacob Marrs’ last confession, scratched into birch bark with a tooth:

“They let me live in case you come looking.”
“I am the receipt.”
“The debt is still collecting.”
“And skin never forgets.”

###

EPILOGUE: ARCHIVAL ADDENDUM — FILE 47B “THE SINEW LEDGER”
Filed by Ranger Marla Cates – Department of Forestry, Undisclosed Region
[REDACTED — Internal Use Only | Clearance Level: 4 or Higher]

I’m submitting this document under protest.

Six months ago, I replaced the late Ranger Jacob Marrs. Officially, he disappeared. Unofficially? I’ve seen enough to make peace with worse.

While cataloging the Marrs property for reassignment, I found a box hidden beneath the floorboards. Inside: a journal bound in animal hide (possibly wolf), pages stitched with sinew, inked in what appears to be dried blood. Titled only:

“THE LEDGER OF SINEW”

The entries are inconsistent. Written in frantic bursts. Some in full paragraphs, others scratched single-line thoughts:

"The fox begged."
"They come from the pelts. I should’ve burned the first, not the last."
"The pine watches."
"Fire doesn't end the debt. It brands it."

The last page wasn’t written on paper. It’s bark. Birch. Scratched with what I believe was a tooth.

“I am the receipt.”
“The debt is still collecting.”
“Skin never forgets.”

My superiors told me to disregard the box, catalog the site as "unfit," and move on. But I couldn’t. Not after what I’ve seen.

Three nights ago, I heard something outside my new post. Footsteps dragging in snow. Not deer. Not man. Something…hinged wrong.

I didn’t open the door, but I smelled wet fur. Heard breathing I didn’t recognize as human.

This morning, I found fresh pelts nailed to the trees in a circle. One wore a park ranger badge. My name was etched into the leather in cursive too neat for a knife.

I don’t expect this report to make it through protocol. It’ll be buried, redacted, or rewritten as psychological fatigue.

But I’m leaving the Ledger in the drop vault. If you’re reading this, it means someone finally opened it.

Do not burn the journal.

Do not wear found pelts.

Do not investigate noises in the pine.

And above all:

Don’t look in the mirror after sundown.

That reflection isn’t always yours.

###

CASE STATUS: UNRESOLVED.
PROPERTY STATUS: SENTIENT.
LEDGER STATUS: ACTIVE.

Jason Benskin is a master of the macabre, conjuring nightmares from the deepest corners of the human psyche. With a pen dipped in dread, he crafts tales where the line between the living and the dead blurs, and every shadow holds a secret. When he's not scaring readers into sleepless nights, he finds peace in the quieter side of life—cooking, reading, and perfecting the art of ghostly storytelling. His work has been described as "terrifyingly immersive," blending the grotesque with the psychological to make every page a chilling journey. If you dare, follow him into the void—but be warned: something is always watching. And it might already be behind you. Yet, sometimes, he questions if it's he who is being watched.

Champagne by Lorette C. Luzajic

She can’t stand the way he looks at the girl, the manic glow of excitement, the raw desire. He hasn’t looked at her like that since before they were married. She’d felt that searing heat briefly, when she first unwrapped herself, all red ribbons and sky-high kinky boots and slinky little black
things, showing off curves any other man would kill for, promising him a dark paradise without boundaries in a goodie bag full of handcuffs and toys.

It was fun while it lasted.

Karla had insisted on an all-out wedding, gown drenched in Swarovski crystals and pearls, horse-drawn carriage, the whole nine yards. She deserved to get something out of the deal! What better way to show all the jealous tarts who wanted Paul?

Incredibly, her father had grumbled about the expenses. He thought they shouldn’t go ahead with the wedding at all, under the circumstances. Her sister Tammy had died on Christmas Eve. She’d been all eyes over Karla’s beau, nattering in a flirty, high-pitched voice. Karla knew Tammy was still a virgin, and Paul had a thing for virgins. So, while they were watching movies downstairs, Karla had crushed some Halcion she’d stolen from the vet clinic where she worked and dissolved them in Tammy’s drink. Merry Christmas, baby, surprise! she’d said, and they’d had a fun little
three-way together.

But things hadn’t gone according to plan. Tammy shouldn’t have had so many rum and cokes. She threw up and aspirated on her own vomit. There had been a big memorial and everything for Tammy at their school, with solemn talks on the dangers of teenage drinking. And Papa hadn’t worked a day since. Still, he constantly went on about how he should have bought that Porsche for Tammy, for her sweet sixteen. Well, whatever. The world didn’t revolve around Tammy or Dad. Life went on.

At the wedding, Karla had finally been queen for the day. But since then, she had been relegated to camera work. And to the clean-up crew. She was a goddamn fluffer.

The girl’s blindfold was coming loose, and Paul barked at Karla to tighten it. She did. She couldn’t risk them being seen. Her parents were coming for dinner tomorrow. The last time this happened, she’d bludgeoned the bleating bitch with a mallet until she stopped shrieking and then Paul threw the leftovers down the cellar stairs. Karla covered the girl with an old camping tarp. Paul was ready to dismember her with a power saw, but Karla insisted he wait until she was at work on Monday. She couldn’t stand the noise. And wouldn’t you know it, while they were
preparing the roast, her mother wanted to look in the basement for more potatoes. Another close call.

Paul is grunting and rutting away. She films and films. Paul grins at the camera and flexes his muscles. She pans the nubile young body, the shiny hair, the tiny little breasts newly bloomed. She feels her own desire stir. They’ll get that on film, too, automating the recorder on the tripod.

After a while, Paul asks her to open a bottle of Champagne. He takes down the crystal flutes from Paris. She hates that he uses their special things to entertain the guests. They have perfectly serviceable wine glasses from Canadian Tire. The French flutes should be for her alone.

Karla clinks glasses with Paul and the girl. Perrier-Jouët: the fizz is beautiful. More relaxed after a few glasses, she keeps filming. The tape will make a steamy edition for their library. Quite a few tapes are hidden behind the spare bathroom pot lights.

Karla knows enough from watching crime shows that they’ll be caught eventually, and that recording these videos at all is risky business. She would be happy with the memories alone, but Paul likes to watch them later and jerk off. She has a plan in place for when that day comes. She
will put golf balls into a sock and batter herself, knocking her limbs and face. She will claim her innocence, say that Paul made her do it. Say she lived in terror and fear. Paul’s a sadist, a dominant, and she’s helpless and submissive. He will rot in jail, and he’ll deserve it. After all, any man would be lucky to have her, and instead of gratitude and devotion, he keeps chasing any pretty young thing he sees. The whole world will finally see what she has been through, the pain she has endured. Her picture will be plastered over all the magazine covers and on the front page of every newspaper.

Lorette C. Luzajic has recently had dark fictions published in Ghost Parachute and Eclectica. Two of her stories have made Best Small Fictions anthologies. Her flash has been taught in Tennessee, Egypt, and Manitoulin Island. It has been translated into Urdu and Spanish. She teaches flash fiction and art appreciation. She is the founding editor of The Mackinaw and The Ekphrastic Review. https://www.mixedupmedia.ca/

Crinoline by Nathan Poole Shannon

Pulling away in her car, Bonnie glanced in the rearview and saw the shop sign falling away behind: Kelsey’s Bridal. She’d found the perfect wedding dress, sparkling white with lovely sequins on the bodice. The skirt of the dress was puffed out with crinoline that crinkled sweetly as she’d stood on the little stool in the shop, swishing back and forth, her face flushed, heart beating joyfully.

Now, heading homeward down Lydon Street, the dress sturdily packaged in a heavy cardboard box in the back seat. Bonnie tilted the mirror down slightly and saw the white box with the ribbony script of the shop on the side and smiled. She couldn’t wait to see Mark’s face on their wedding day!

A block later, Mark became unable to see Bonnie on their wedding day. A rust-colored pickup truck ran the stop sign and smashed into Bonnie’s car. She never saw him coming, and mercifully, felt only the most fleeting pain before she died. The heavier truck hit her square on the driver’s door, the impact shattering her pelvis and half of her spine, pushing the car into a grocery store parking lot. It came to rest against the base of a light standard, the fine white box with Bonnie’s perfect dress ejected through a shattered window, skidding across the lot.

Other cars screeched to stops, people jumping out to help. The pickup’s driver, Steve, suddenly sober after the crash, panicked. He threw the truck into reverse, tearing off his bumper that was melded into Bonnie’s door, and roared off down Lydon Street. People swore at him and tried to wave him down, but he swerved and fled.

Someone immediately called 911. Several other drivers and passersby ran to the shattered car. Hoping to help, they leaned through the crumpled window, offered their coats, tried to talk to Bonnie. Other people stood back, crying, some taking pictures on their phones. The manager of the grocery store rushed out, carrying a first aid kit, too late.

###

Several blocks down Lydon, Steve was panicking. His mind was racing and thundering, jumbled thoughts all scrambled together in his head- oh my god oh my god I gotta get out of here calm yourself man think! That damn car hadn’t even looked to see him coming! Just as he hit her, he saw the slightest turn of the blonde-haired woman’s head, but not enough to see her face. Didn’t even look her fault her fault oh my god is she dead?

Barely looking again, Steve whipped the rusted truck into the lot of a box store plaza, speeding around behind the looming building. He pulled up as close as he could to the edge of the parking lot, stopped, and threw his half-full beer bottle into the woods. Can’t have that if anyone’s looking for me, he reasoned. I gotta get some black coffee. A fast-food place was at the far end of the plaza, and he tried to compose himself, driving at a normal pace down the lot.

Back at the scene, an ambulance had arrived with the scream of a fire truck’s siren close behind. The ambulance zoomed right up to the wrecked car, the passersby staying clear. As it approached, one of its tires hit the box from Kelsey’s Bridal, skidding it further across the pavement. The box opened, and the hem of the dress fluttered in the breeze as the paramedics raced to help Bonnie.

Steve picked up a steaming cup of coffee in the drive-thru, thrust a fistful of coins at the cashier, and raced off. People were staring at the truck with the crumpled hood and missing bumper, steam leaking out from the engine as he drove. I gotta get off the road, he thought to himself. He pulled into the next plaza and parked facing a steep ravine at the edge of the lot.

###

The firemen at the crash pulled out the huge saw of the Jaws of Life, cutting into Bonnie’s door. Horrified onlookers watched, covering their ears against the harsh scream of metal on metal. One of the grocery stock boys wandered over with a big white cardboard box.

“This fell out of the car,” he said. “It belongs to her, I think.” The hem of the white dress was muddy and darkened by the ground.

“It’s a wedding dress,” a man said. “Brand new, by the look. Oh, that poor woman.”

“Most of a wedding dress,” another onlooker said. “This is just the outside of it. There should be crinoline inside. It’s like this mesh stuff that makes the dress puffy.” She looked around. “Does anyone see it? Did it blow somewhere in the wind?” A few of them looked around but found nothing.

###

Further up Lydon Street, Officer Peterson noticed the rusted truck in the parking lot. There had been a call out to be on the lookout for a truck matching this description. He flipped his lights on and turned in, pulling up behind so the truck could not back out. There was no one inside, he noticed as he called in his location to HQ. He got out and looked around the truck, heavily damaged in the front end. Glancing inside, he saw a full cup of coffee in the cupholder, freshly steaming.

Peterson went around the front of the truck and gasped in horror. There was a white mesh material knotted around the exposed front frame of the pickup, braided into a rope. He remembered the material from his wife’s wedding dress. It looks like crinoline, he thought. At the far end, dangling into the ravine below, was the suspected driver of the truck. Around his neck, the mesh was formed meticulously into a noose. He didn’t move, dead at the end of the crinoline rope.

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 oozing monsters to cryptic curses, 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.

Kind People by DS Levy

Sipping coffee, she watches birds flitting between the feeders and trees in her backyard. Chipmunks and squirrels skitter, taking turns cleaning up fallen seed.

Somewhere—she hopes—the bird is safe. She found it last night hobbling in the grass and offered it a small box with paper shreds. But the fledgling wouldn’t stay, kept hopping out. She worried about foxes and coyotes in the field beyond.

She is listening to a public radio station, a call-in program she enjoys each Saturday morning. It’s been a long, hard week: Where’s this? Where’s that? But you advertised it at this price! The classical music melts her stress, her body as calm as a leaf floating down a cool, meandering stream.

The morning host says, “And now, our next caller …”

“Yes, hello.” The man—she can tell he’s older, his voice gravelly, timid—pauses. “I’m calling from Grand Rapids, well, north of, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear Camille Saint-Saën’s ‘Danse Macabre’ … for the women in my life.”

Louise hears a catch in his throat and wonders if he means his wife, perhaps deceased. Thinks: There are some kind people in this world, her faith restored.

###

Hundreds of miles away, in a dark basement not in Grand Rapids, but in Charleston, South Carolina, the caller turns up the volume. The padded rafters absorb the sound. “Danse Macabre” is his ritual. He brandishes his knife as the harp plays a single D note twelve times, the twelve strokes of midnight. Then the violin chimes in with a discordant tritone, “The Devil’s Chord.”

The girl’s eyes are wide and teary. A lost, trembling thing. Hands tied behind her back, feet duct-taped. A plastic tarp beneath.

“I love this piece,” he says, holding his knife at her throat. “When it was first performed, people absolutely hated it. Can you imagine? Made them quite anxious. Especially the violin. Does it bother you?”

Her lips tremble.

“Well, does it?”

She shakes her head slowly. Such a pretty thing. He saw her sitting on a bench in the park. It’s where he finds most of them.

He raises the knife as the notes swell, and when the piece comes to its climax, he brings it down again and again and again.

###

Soaking in the sun, she startles as the full orchestra builds to a frenetic pinnacle—deep percussion is a beating heart, tremulous violins stir fraught nerves, the clashing cymbals strike terror into the audience. Her eyes snap open. She is no longer floating down a placid stream. Again, she worries about the fledgling. A gut feeling.

Across the pond, a satisfied hawk circles overhead.

DS Levy lives in the Midwest. Her fiction has appeared in many journals and has received Pushcart and Best Microfiction nominations. She has had work included in Wigleaf's Top 50 2021, and Long List 2022. She was a finalist in the 2022 Jeanne Leiby Memorial Chapbook Award at The Florida Review.

Wendy's Episode by John Kuyat

Loud music sputters and crashes. It sounds like a car tumbling from a cliff. It wakes Wendy.

“Hey, buttercup,” she hears. She looks over. It’s a man. He has thick black eyebrows. His hair is dark and slicked back. His face is tan with only early traces of wrinkles and a five o’clock shadow. It's a stern-looking face, but for his light-brown eyes, their glint, and his smile, which he now shows, revealing an imperfect set of small, white teeth. The bottom row, especially, is a bit wonky. But it’s all forgivable, the smile is kind enough.

Wendy’s just come out of a heavy sleep, the kind that withholds your brain a moment too long. For a second, she can’t gather her name, who’s beside her, or where she is. It’s a strange room in a strange house. But, of course, she does know. She’s Wendy, that’s her father, and this is their house—their new house. She can’t fault her memory for that last uncertainty. They’d only moved in yesterday. The rooms are crammed with stacks of hefty cardboard boxes—more than they are with furniture—and she and her father are sleeping on opposite sides of the sectional until the new beds come. Wendy can’t wait for hers. Apparently, it’s even bigger than the twin.

“What time is it?” she asks.

“It’s…” Her father consults his wristwatch. “…a little after ten. I was going to wake you in a bit. Don’t want to sleep through the ball drop, do you?”

“What is this?” Wendy’s still coming to, but her attention is fixed on the television. On screen, a sweaty man in dark coveralls is spinning racks of pulpy paperbacks with gaudy and artful covers. One of the racks screeches to a halt. It’s lined with infinite copies of the same book, titled The Last Man on Earth.

“This,” her father begins, “is the dimension of imagination.” He deepens and darkens his voice to set the tone; he over-enunciates to stir up drama. “It is an area which we call…The Twilight Zone.” His voice normalizes, and he laughs. “It’s an old show we used to watch. Look, they’re running a marathon.”

“It’s scary?”

“Sometimes. But it’s also old, so…not too bad.” He shrugs. “And sometimes it’s just cute.” The sweaty man on TV is playing a game of tic-tac-toe with himself, tracing the shapes in the dirt with a stick. He wins on a diagonal row of Xs. “I hate the cute ones.”

Wendy sits up, and, together, they watch the episode play out.

“So, he was in like a dream?” Wendy asks.

“Yeah, or a hallucination, I guess. They were preparing him to go into space. Alone.” The next episode comes on. An older man in church clothes is peddling wind-up toys and neckties to passersby. “We can turn back to Dick Clark if you want. This is one of the cute ones anyway.”

“Can we watch until midnight?”

“Sure. I’m just going to scrounge up some coffee,” her father says, lighting a smoke and grunting as he gets up from the couch.

###

At ten of twelve, Wendy and her father switch to New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. They watch as the large, glowing ball drops, a shirtless man blows a vuvuzela, and the message “Happy New Year 1990” spells across the screen in funky blue and pink letters before Wendy asks her father to turn back to The Twilight Zone.

“You like it, huh?” Her father smiles. “That’s fine. I’m going to turn in, though.” He rolls onto his side and drags a blanket over himself. Wendy sits up, enraptured by the program. “You can stay up a little longer, but not too late, okay?” he says, craning his neck over his shoulder.

“Okay, Dad. Thanks.”

“Alright. Just turn it a little lower, would you?”

Wendy complies but moves closer to the set, leaning back on the sectional’s ottoman for lumbar support. The next episode she watches is the scariest yet. Toward the end, the protagonist attempts to outrun a puppet. She sees this only through the small gaps between her fingers. The puppet giggles, its shadow appears on the concrete wall of an alleyway, then it laughs maniacally. Wendy gasps. She almost screams.

Soon after this scene, the episode ends. The screen goes black. Wendy sees her reflection in it, but then the color lifts and fills in the dim outline of her face with a sharper white. It can’t be but, somehow, it is. She’s on the screen, black and white and grainy, but it’s her without a doubt. Wendy’s eyes widen; her on-screen doppelgänger’s do the same. Their pupils dilate together, black with terror. A scream catches in her throat. The screen shows her father behind her, and he isn’t sleeping but sitting up and smiling.

“Wowee,” he says. Wendy jumps, then turns to face him. “I didn’t think our episode was going to air tonight, buttercup.”

“Dad?” Wendy holds back tears. “What do you mean? Why are we on there?” she screams, jutting a finger at the television.

“Oh, excuse me, Wendy, would you?” Her father stands up, and his blanket falls to the floor. He lights a cigarette. Wendy looks back at the screen, and her father’s eyes look straight back at her, straight into the eyes of the viewer. He begins to monologue in that dark, deep, and dramatic voice.

“Meet Wendy. An eleven-year-old girl living in a strange house, watching a strange show. Wendy’s just discovered a terrible truth. The terrible truth that someone very close to her isn’t who she thought he was. The terrible truth that her strange, new house in her strange, new neighborhood isn’t what she thought it was either. No, this strange house might just be Wendy’s undoing, the last stop in Willoughby, perhaps, or on Maple Street, where the monsters were due, a strange house you could only find in The Twilight Zone.”

John Kuyat is a NYC-based horror and speculative fiction writer. His work has appeared in Horror Tree's Trembling With Fear,, Graveside Press's Howl: A Shapeshifting Anthology, and Dug Up Magazine. He works full-time at the American Museum of Natural History, walking past a video on vampire bats every day on his way to the office. His brain is a clock, continually counting the days till Halloween.