Horror Stories of 1,000 Words or Less
For the month of May 2025, these are the stories that entertain us most.
* Agnes and Gerald by Maris Catherine Tiller
* Juror #3 by Catherine Kelley
* Green Shape by R.M. Bundridge
* Feed by Kevin Morris
* The Hunger Beneath the Skin by Jason Benskin
* Beast of the Oaks by Jordan Catalano
* At the Edge of the Manor by Victor Roberts
* Dreams Come True by Anna Nasr
* Depraved, Deprived by Juliana Gutierrez Arango
* Some Would Stuff Them with Rags and Cotton by Francesco Levato
* The Unseen by Cynthia Pitman
* It Knocks by Nishant Verma
* Mr. Morton Needed a New Pair of Shoes by Melissa Behrend
* The Santa Setting by Joseph Stewart
* A Swallow in Winter by Marcelo Medone
* Threshold by Zary Fekete
* The Ghosts We Carry by Matt Eidson
* My Lover, the Tapeworm by Taylor Ward
* Welcome Home by Sarah Hayden
* The Pot Was Already Boiling by Sabrina Attari
Agnes and Gerald by Maris Catherine Tiller
Two vultures, shining black like a piece of darkness in the afternoon sun, sit picking at and hassling over a dead deer carcass on the side of the road. The one who pecks at the shredded leg muscle calls himself Gerald. The one that creeps over to the torso, tired of hassling and arguing over scraps, calls herself Agnes. They are a couple insofar as they are always together.
They decide not to scramble over particular bits and pieces of the dead deer flesh. They know it will not be long before they eat again. With every speeding car that flies by lies the potential for a good meal or a hearty snack. Even as their heads are bent towards the task at hand,
their ears are listening for that tell-tale thud that indicates something new and fresh, something they can share together.
And nearby, they know there is something in the bushes, something far more delectable to pick apart, but each waits for the other to cease their initial feasting. Agnes sensed it when they landed; Gerald discovered it on the downturn of wind between the ground and the highway’s
rushing traffic. But they ought to enjoy the deer first. It’s what they came for. The main course.
Gerald scratches at the deer hoof with his claw. Agnes raises her head and looks into his shining black eyes. They must leave and not be greedy. Others will soon arrive. With that hot, secret thing in the bushes, they can take their time.
Being closer to the green barrier than Gerald, Agnes begins towards it first. Gerald trails behind, trusting her instinct. It was as if some invisible, irresistible rope was pulling them through the gaps in the thin, tangled branches, under nests of their kin who hid from them --
because they were alike in species but not in temperament -- into the wide open space where a lake sat in the valley between two large mountains. They realize that, though they frequent this highway for meals, they have never seen this lake except from up above. It is utterly hidden by the thick bushes, kept safe from bothersome car noise and dirt. No people sat by its rocky, docked shores now; the air was only beginning to add sweetness to its chill.
It is for the newest addition to the setting that they have arrived. Lying on the shore, one half buried in the sand and the other half being lapped by infrequent lake waves is the body of a human man. No one has touched it except to kill it.
Gerald and Agnes hop over together, occasionally leaving the ground to swoop a few steps closer to the body. Neither arrives before the other out of courtesy; it is their discovery.
Agnes perches on the chin, speckled with sand and dried blood. She tilts her head and catches her reflection in the man’s dead green eyes, so different from her own. His eyes stare into the sun without discomfort. She would smile if she could. There is something enchanting about a flesh so dead.
Gerald, eager, has already begun tearing into the man’s bloated, gray thigh.
Maris Tiller is a fiction writer from Virginia and has been writing all her life. She is a recent graduate from the University of Mary Washington and has a B.A. in Creative Writing. Her poem, “Stranger,” has been published in the University of Mary Washington literary magazine, The Aubade. Her short story, “Makes You Feel Like a Bug” has been published in Haunted Portal Magazine. She is currently enrolled in the M.F.A. program for Fiction at George Mason University. She is primarily a writer of short fiction.
Juror #3 by Catherine Kelley
You probably don’t remember me, but I was a juror at your trial last year--first row, third seat from the left, next to the brunette with the big hair. I sounded objective and nonchalant to avoid getting dismissed when the defense attorney questioned me: “I like dogs as much as the next person,” I said. “But I’ll let the evidence guide me, and I won’t let emotions cloud my judgment.” It felt like cheating on a polygraph.
It wasn’t difficult to find you, thanks to a few friends of mine. (You’d be surprised how many dog lovers are in law enforcement.) But it was a friend of a friend who put me in touch with Karl here, who needs employment after being discharged from the Marines for picking too many fights.
(No, we’re not going to take your gag out and give you a drink of water.)
The handcuffs and chains you wear belong to him, but this cabin is mine. I inherited it from my Scotch and whiskey-loving parents. Just like an unlucky dog who winds up with you, I was the victim of life’s lottery. My parents and I spent many weekends here as I was growing up, and they sometimes got so obliviously drunk they left me outside all night. No blanket, no food or water. Shivering from cold and fright, I mistook pine and oak trees for monsters and the screech of owls for human screams. Luckily, I had Sadie, our Labrador, who curled around me like a security blanket and growled at anything that moved. I still sometimes peed my pants, but what can you expect from a six-year-old?
On the first day of your trial, I was reminded of a story I once heard about Descartes. In case you’ve never heard of him, he’s the philosopher who said, “I think therefore I am,” and bequeathed to the Western world the idea that the body and mind are completely separate. Did you know that Descartes used to vivisect rabbits, tying them up and performing experiments on them while they were still alive because he believed they were pure matter without any feeling? I quickly realized, however, that you weren’t that kind of psychopath. You and your cronies were more like the ancient Romans at gladiator games: thirsty for blood.
I was sure the photos alone would convict you: heaps of dogs, twenty or thirty, dead or barely alive. Wasted bodies, pools of blood, gnarled, deformed faces. I left the courthouse every day choking, nauseated, my head pounding, and when I got home, I held my dog, Princess, close and let her lick the tears off my face. What a shock it was during deliberations to hear jurors use the phrase mitigating factors: You’re from the South, and dogfighting has a long tradition there; your father did it before you and his father before him. There was also the circumstantial nature of some of the evidence to consider. How could we use such evidence to send a man to prison?
Easily, I thought. I fought for the felony charge, reminded the other jurors every hour of the photos, begged them to give the dogs justice. Day after day, I refused to give in. Then they reminded me I could cause a mistrial, that you could stroll out of the courtroom and head straight to a pit bull shelter. What could I do but betray the dogs in order not to betray them? I folded my arms, clenched my teeth, and said, “Not guilty” to the felony charge.
So . . . a misdemeanor. What a charmed life you live!
Your victims weren’t so lucky. Dogs that survive those fights are too dangerous to be adopted out, so while you got off with 90 days in jail and a $2,000 fine, they got the needle. And all because they were doing what dogs do—obeying, defending, pleasing their masters. Did it thrill you to warp what is best in them?
I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not warped. I’m a reasonable person who wants to see justice done and to send a message to you and your friends. The message would be less effective without your living testimony, so I’ve made Karl promise that you’ll survive. Yes, you’ll walk out of here today—well, perhaps “walk” isn’t the right word. When you’re back home, I want you to show your friends what happened to you today, but don’t even think of going to the police. I know all about your brother’s indiscretions and your little side business.
(If you keep kicking the chair like that, you’ll topple over.)
Well, I’ll be going now. I can’t stay and watch since I don’t have the stomach for it. I’m off to see my Princess. She’s part Mastiff—fawn-colored with floppy ears and deep brown eyes that I can get lost in. I rescued her from a man who fed her only once a day and kept her locked in a small kennel, lying in her own urine and excrement. As soon as she and I looked into each other’s eyes, I knew we understood each other.
I bought Princess some treats today made of peanut butter and sweet potato. They’re her favorite. I hope you think of Princess enjoying her treats while you spend time with Karl this afternoon. When he’s finished with you, he’ll blindfold you and dump you off a little closer to home. That’s when I want you to think of your victims—the pit bulls, the Dobermans, the Mastiffs, the bulldogs, the Boston terriers. Think of them long and hard as you crawl through the dark woods, what’s left of your face swollen, your body broken, and a long trail of blood behind you.
Catherine Kelley writes from Southern California. She practices Zen meditation, hoping it will someday help her forgive the people who dump garbage on her street.
Green Shape by R.M. Bundridge
Hours went by, and the sun lulled itself into a deep sleep. We ate dinner by the fire pit, drank half our alcohol, smoked two joints, and when we thought the night was beginning to weigh on all of us, Missy suggested the act.
“Why don’t we go swimming?! Doesn’t that sound fun?” Her words weren’t slurred, but they were high pitched–her high indicator. She always got a little squeaky when she smoked because it wasn’t something she did often. To get that neuroscience degree, she needed her brain mostly intact.
I was staring at Andrew when she spoke, who had his shirtless torso wrapped around Eric’s shoulders from behind on the other side of the fire. Eric looked at me through the flames, and I attempted to play it off as if I were getting caught looking in the fire. Layla had put her nose back in a book, but I put my hand gingerly on her thigh and stretched into a long, admirable stare at her beauty. All I could think about was Andrew’s muscles, which flickered a deep orange in the light of the fire.
“Only if we skinny dip!” Jimmy shouted at the stars, who watched us like parents.
Supervision. The whole galaxy is witness to our debauchery; I thought to myself as my fingers slowly slid in between Layla’s while she read.
“Let’s go!” I joined.
Let them witness; now, they’re the only ones who know the veracity of events that occurred there.
Andrew and Eric didn’t take much convincing. They were practically naked already.
“What do you think?” I asked Layla, squeezing her hand just a few inches away from my growing hard-on.
“It’ll give your boyfriend a chance to see what a real man looks like. Come on.” Eric winked at me, and my body grew warm outside the fire.
“He knows already, but I’m in,” she said.
The trail was dark and dry against our shoes. Branches snapped, and animals chittered across our path. When the smell of the water hit our noses and the rickety boardwalk left the bottoms of our feet, the water consumed our flesh in whole and without resistance.
Sharp scraped itself against my calf. That's the only way I could describe it. Whatever it was tore through skin and muscle. My body vibrated beneath the water while I screamed. Air escaped through my teeth, and I tried to pull the bubbles back into my mouth so I could live, but they escaped and left me to die. Because of the dark water and the dark sky, the purgatory of airless elements made it impossible to see.
Andrew
I twisted my body and kept what I could when it came to direction: hope. I would figure it out. I would learn which way to go to free myself. My fingers grazed air, and my body broke itself in two. The hair on the back of my head tickled my Achilles tendon until it tickled the fronts of my toes, and I was propped upright once more. The speed at which I became a monster defied science.
Heat burned through my veins, and flesh tore on its own, but then there was air, and I could breathe, and I could see that my fingers had glued themselves together. When I peeled them apart, they didn’t quite leave one another. Same for my toes. The water held onto fresh scales that sprouted from my body hair.
With my new hands, I could hold the stars. When I put them back, they shined differently on the rest of us.
An obstructed witness.
A high-pitched scream erupted in my ear, and the world went dark.
I woke up in the cabin with the rest of them; well, most of them.
The sun was beginning to shine.
A slimy layer of gunk hung loose from my body like jowls, and I made eye contact with Jimmy first. His head was placed on the record player, tongue stabbed through with the tonearm; his singular pierced ears were placed on the record shelf like limited editions. I couldn’t see the rest of his body.
Andrew and Eric were impaled with a curtain rod, their skin melding together. I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
I started to cry, the slime burning my eyes as I thought about the first time he kissed me.
Layla, the sweet girl who gave me her number at a froyo shop–her hands were wrapped around a knife’s handle, the blade in her heart.
She did to herself what she couldn’t do to me. Did I watch her do this? Was I witness to her escape from me? I cried harder at the thought and tripped over Missy’s body on the way out the door.
Her face was broken and caved in like a patch of earth, like mud at the bottom of a pond.
“No. No, no, no. What the fuck, the FUCK!” I missed the top step and was sent tumbling to the earth. Nothing broken, I started to crawl.
Toward the mass of water.
I won’t, I thought to myself. I won’t do it. I won’t go back in there.
Sharp.
In a blubbering fit, I reached for my calf, where I felt the transition begin, and there was a mark there, multiple, actually: lined and sharp, two rows, infected and flaked with shimmering memories of last night.
A cloud covered the sun then, and I heard the still water move until its surface broke. Heaviness draped across my shoulder in fear, but I couldn’t turn around, so I screamed for summer to dry me out, for the stars to burn me away until I was ash. I begged for all I could: forgiveness. A rancid wind touched my ears. Appendages of mucus and fish covered my eyes and tugged at the seams of my body until it was a vicious yank. The water swallowed my screams.
R.M. Bundridge received his BA in English & Creative Writing from the University of Iowa. He is a writer of transgressive horror fiction. Oftentimes, you can find R.M. sitting at his desk in his apartment that he shares with his partner and his pitbull, writing, or reading or watching some kind of horror. This is R.M.'s first published story.
Feed by Kevin Morris
Feed. The word invades your thoughts. A whisper from that kinky lover, the one you swore you’d never call again. The one whose DMs you slid into at 2:00 AM, after a night of Tito’s and questionable decisions. It’s an easy glide, knowing and familiar, a sure thing. Feed. The word is a stowaway, riding the background noise in your apartment. Why are things the loudest when you’re alone? The cough of the coffee maker, the hum of the dishwasher, your cat glaring at you in his untrusting, judging way. Your mind grates as he stares you down. But you’re not the human he knows, not anymore. Not since that kinky lover slid into your apartment at 2:23 AM. They toted a bag of tricks, prizes from past and present victims, both willing and not. From this bag of tricks, you were cuffed to the Swedish coffee table. It groaned under your weight, in protest or delight? The blindfold reduced your world to touch, sound, and smell. The swish of leather racing through the air. The snap of impact, the shudder, the tingles, the pain-drenched ecstasy. Then, the sharp prick. They were against your neck, tongue searching, lips capturing, a hand reached down to remind you who was in charge. Draining, like the decrescendo of a climax, but pulling to a place unknown. A desire unexplored, a fantasy unspoken.
That was two days ago. Your DM’s are unanswered. Your cat hides in the corner. You can’t hold down food. Water makes you thirstier. What happened? Feed. But what? On what? The ache reminds you of a broken clock, accurate twice a day. TikTok videos on repeat, the influencers dancing across your phone, thirst traps. You see them, sense them. Want them. On day three, you know the answer. The Uber Eats driver arrives with your burrito. You don’t want a burrito. You open the door, show them your bag of tricks, not caring if they’re willing or not. You beckon them; they comply like a nectar-drunk hummingbird. Your cat flees through the door. They give in. You feed.
Kevin is a retired U.S. Marine, lived and traveled all over the world, and settled north of San Diego. He currently works in aerospace. Armed with an MFA in Creative Writing, he writes across multiple genres and dabbles in the second person. When not editing his forthcoming novel, he enjoys travel, local Comic Conventions, hanging with his cat Winston the Entitled Security Panther, and tortures his girlfriend with awesome jokes. His most current work appears in WestWord.
The Hunger Beneath the Skin by Jason Benskin
The storm did not whisper its arrival; it roared, a screaming entity born of darkness and malice. One moment, the road stretched before them—empty, silent, endless. The next, it was devoured by an abyss of rain, a liquid curtain drawn across reality.
Ben’s truck shuddered as the wind howled through the skeletal trees lining the road. The wipers flailed uselessly, clearing only fleeting glimpses of the suffocating void ahead. His hands tightened around the wheel, white-knuckled, the tendons in his arms rigid.
"We should’ve stopped at that last gas station," Maria muttered, hugging herself. Her breath came in rapid puffs, fogging the window. Cold seeped into the cabin, the heater struggling against the damp that crept in like fingers curling around their throats.
Ben exhaled sharply. "We’ll be fine. Just a little further."
The headlights carved feeble tunnels through the gloom. The forest lining the road loomed tall, their branches clawing at the sky like charred fingers. Then—movement.
A shadow. A flicker.
A body.
Ben sucked in a breath and slammed the brakes. Tires screamed against the pavement, skidding, hydroplaning. The truck shuddered, the steering wheel wrenching in his grip. When they finally screeched to a stop, they were inches from the sprawled figure.
A man—or what was left of one. His emaciated frame was mottled with bruises and festering sores, his ribs protruding like broken piano keys. His mouth hung open, lips blackened, revealing rotted gums and shattered teeth. His tongue was missing—a gaping hole where it should have been, writhing with maggots that pulsed and squirmed as if savoring their feast.
Maria clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with horror. "Jesus Christ…"
Ben swallowed hard and grabbed the flashlight. He threw open the door, stepping into the storm. Rain assaulted him instantly, seeping through his jacket, chilling him to the bone. His boots splashed against the flooded pavement as he approached. The flashlight’s beam quivered in his grip.
The thing twitched.
Then lunged.
It did not move like a man. Its bones snapped like dry twigs, folding in unnatural ways as it scrambled toward him on all fours. The eyes—hollow, sunken pits—oozed black sludge that mixed with the rain. Its breath was a wet gurgle, thick with the stench of carrion.
Ben staggered back, barely dodging its snapping jaws. "Get in the truck!" he bellowed.
Maria’s scream cut through the storm as she fumbled for the lock. The thing skittered across the wet pavement, its movements insectile, jerky. It launched onto the hood with a sickening crunch, its yellowed nails raking deep gouges into the glass. Something dark and pulsing oozed from its fingertips, leaving behind a trail that writhed as if alive.
It wasn’t a man. Not anymore.
Its stomach was caved in, concave, yet something inside moved. Shapes wriggled beneath the translucent skin, pushing outward, desperate to escape. Then, with a hideous, wet rip, the torso split.
From the gaping wound poured a nest of eel-like tendrils, glistening with mucus, each lined with rows of needle-like teeth. They writhed, searching, sensing.
Ben threw the truck into reverse, but the thing slammed against the windshield. The glass shattered.
Then—it was inside.
Maria barely had time to scream before the creature was upon her. Its jaw unhinged, opening too wide, and clamped down on her shoulder. Its teeth sank deep, peeling flesh from bone in thick, wet strips. Maria’s wail was raw and animalistic as blood burst forth in steaming torrents, splattering the dashboard.
Something slithered from the wound.
A slick, pulsing tendril burrowed beneath her skin, disappearing into the ragged meat of her shoulder. Her body jerked violently. Her fingers clawed at the air, her pupils dilating, swallowing the whites of her eyes until they were nothing but abyss.
Ben roared and grabbed the tire iron from beneath his seat. He swung, the impact crunching against the thing’s skull. Bone cracked, but it did not stop. It only turned, its lips stretching into something that wasn’t a grin—but a tear. Flesh split like wet paper, revealing gums black with rot and filled with squirming, writhing worms.
Then it spoke.
"You don’t understand," it gurgled, voice thick with phlegm, thick with something wet. "The hunger… the hunger is inside us all. It will grow. It will fester. And it will take you, too."
Maria’s breathing slowed. Her fingers twitched. Her head lolled forward, her mouth agape.
Then she moved.
Her arms snapped at impossible angles as she turned to face him. A slow, guttural sound rumbled from deep within her chest. Her lips peeled back, revealing teeth—too many teeth. Her stomach let out a deep, inhuman growl.
Then, her torso split wide.
Inside, something looked out.
Ben did not scream. He couldn’t. There was no air left in his lungs; no space left for fear—only the gnawing certainty that he was already dead.
Maria twitched, her body no longer her own. The thing inside her grinned.
"So hungry," she whispered.
Then she lunged.
Ben threw himself out of the truck, hitting the pavement hard. The world spun as he scrambled to his feet. Inside the truck, they writhed. The air filled with the wet sounds of flesh twisting, bones snapping, mouths tearing open where no mouths should be.
He ran.
The forest swallowed him whole.
Branches whipped at his face, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Behind him, he heard it—them—skittering, moving with inhuman speed. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. The sound was everywhere, closing in, pressing against his mind, a whispering chorus of hunger.
Then—the hissing began.
A wet, slithering noise, like eels squirming through viscera.
The trees around him moved. Shapes peeled away from the bark, stretching, elongating, revealing bodies inside the wood—twisted, hollow things with empty faces. Their mouths gaped, leaking thick, black ooze. Their fingers elongated, curling toward him.
Ben’s foot caught on a root. He tumbled, crashing to the forest floor. Pain lanced through his ribs, but he barely felt it over the sheer wrongness of the thing looming above him.
Maria—or what had once been Maria—stood at the edge of the clearing. Her body hung in unnatural angles, her arms split open, revealing writhing tendrils. The thing inside her had fully emerged now, stretching her skin like a discarded husk.
"We are hungry," she whispered.
The trees moved. The darkness breathed. And the forest fed.
Ben tried to scream. But the hunger was already inside him. It had been since the moment the storm arrived.
And now—it was his turn to feed.
Jason Benskin is a horror fiction author known for crafting psychologically intense and gruesomely vivid narratives that push the boundaries of fear. Currently pursuing a graduate degree in Creative Writing at Denver University, Jason combines his academic expertise with a passion for storytelling to create unsettling atmospheres, disturbing imagery, and deeply layered characters.
Beast of the Oaks by Jordan Catalano
The hunter shot up from his bed, steadied himself, and adjusted to the first light of the morning. He had awoken without the rooster's crow but rather to his wife’s shriek. His eyes shot to the window, where he saw a face, not his own, glaring back at him before it disappeared.
"Fucking bastard." He growled, throwing the blanket off him. He fumbled out of bed and reached for his overalls and coat, struggling to get them on properly. He grabbed his rifle and barreled out the door.
When he left the cabin that cold autumn morning, he did not think about anything. His mind retreated deep into itself or perhaps shut down altogether. He attempted to focus on the crunching of leaves beneath his boots, but the occasional caw of the raven would break his concentration.
Deep, guttural groans followed him and formed a rhythmic 'chant' around the usual songs of the forest. The snapping of the beast's jaw echoed through the trees. He could hear his wife's voice between the chants, shattering the rhythm by calling his name.
"Wilhelm! Please!"
Wilhelm flinched, shooting his hand to grab the white sage around his neck, ensuring it was still there. “I’m coming!” He shouted back. He glanced down at his rifle and slightly opened the bolt. His last four bullets lie in its magazine, coated in ash. He closed the bolt and scanned the tree line. He could see the entity tracking him from off in the distance, twitching, never breaking eye contact.
Wilhelm entered a clearing with a single, barren tree in the middle of it. He slowly approached it, dropping his coat at the base of the tree. He looked at the beast off in the distance as it peaked from behind the brush. Its mangled, gaunt face stood out. Its pale complexion highlighted itself, like a singular birch standing alone in a forest of oaks.
The hunter gripped his necklace. The beast's eyes ignited with a deep, amber-red hue. The ‘flames’ danced within its eyes. Wilhelm let out a deep sigh. He closed his eyes and ripped the necklace off, throwing it to the ground. A deafening, blood-curdling shriek pierced the air. When he opened his eyes, the beast was gone.
Wilhelm took a few steps forward, shouldering his rifle as he searched for it. The woods had fallen quiet. The birds stopped chirping, the winds halted, and the cicadas' buzz disappeared. The hunter held his breath. He could feel the thump of his heart in his ears.
A few small thuds manifested behind him. A single exhale huffed down from above; the condensation clouded his view. An unknown liquid dribbled down his forehead as the smell of rotten flesh filled his nostrils. It rested its 'paw' on the hunter’s shoulder. Its maw rested near his ear before shrieking.
"Wilhelm!"
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. Beast Of the Oaks is his first published piece. One, he hopes, of many.
At the Edge of the Manor by Victor Roberts
It’s hard for me to find peace in sleep sometimes. In particular, what made it difficult is the sleepwalking. Usually, these sleepwalking episodes only occur every few months, but every time, they are accompanied by horrific nightmares. The last one I had was a vision of me violently dragging my son down into a dark chamber, placing him in handcuffs, and locking him in a jail cell as he screamed and cried for me to let him out. I woke up in the middle of the night standing outside in the field before the trees, ragged and weary as if I hadn’t slept a wink, my clothes scuffed and covered in dust.
My somnambulic nightmares started around nine months ago when I turned 63 and bought this old manor next to the forest. The mansion on the manor had been built in 1890 and had all the architectural features typical of a Victorian-era building, particularly in the Gothic-revival style—it was three stories tall with lancet and clover-shaped windows, great pillars on the porch standing before two ornate wooden doors, decorative brackets under the roof’s edge, with towering battlements and turrets crowned with roof finials that pointed upward to the sky, making the whole building almost appear like a great castle. The manor was complete with a large field next to the forest. Although the mansion was gorgeous beyond belief, there would be times I would feel unsettled while living on that property, as though there was an ever-looming presence there with me. It could be that my age has been taking its toll on my mind, but I didn’t always feel in control of my own actions. There would be many times when I would step out the door and stare out into the woods, feeling as though something was beckoning me.
I had only one son who lived with me, 18 years old, but he disappeared and stopped talking to me months ago. Today is only one day short of nine months since I last heard from him, as well as since the night I received that terrible sleepwalking vision. I still do not know his whereabouts, and it pains me to think of how he left me without even a goodbye. Even still, I try to make do by enjoying every day in the few simple ways I can.
When I got into bed tonight, I simply did what I usually do to try and get to sleep—sitting in the dim light of my bedside lamp, silently reading a book, and basking in the calm of the quiet, snowy November evening until my mind began feeling foggy. It wasn’t before long that I felt the clutches of sleep begin to take me. I put the book down, turned off the lamp, and nestled into my blanket. Within minutes, I fell into a deep slumber.
However, my rest wasn’t peaceful at all. I was plagued with another nightmare, even worse than the last. I vividly remember dragging a starved, disheveled looking version of my son out of a jail cell and down a long, dark flight of stairs while he was in a pair of rusty handcuffs. He struggled in his restraints, crying in a rasping, strained voice that he had been locked up in that cell for so long, that he was sorry for whatever it was he did, and that he still loved me. I pulled him into a massive, cathedral-like chamber before a trapezoidal stone altar, illuminated only by candlelight. Looming over the altar was a massive religious idol of a half-man, half-beast entity, its head comprised of both draconic and caprine features and its feet and hands like that of a bird of prey’s cruel talons, with great bat-like wings unfurling from its back in a threatening posture. As if some horrible force of evil was compelling me, I threw my own son upon the altar before the great idol. I grabbed the sacrificial dagger next to me. I remember how the obsidian blade shone in the candlelight of the chamber. Without even a sliver of mercy, I slashed his throat in one clean slice. I remember the gurgling sound his throat made as it filled with blood. He tried to gasp in pain, his eyes bloodshot, wide, and teary as he stared up at me. Then, within half a minute, he went limp, a permanent expression of anguish etched on his face.
When I finally awoke from my nightmare, I found myself standing in the field again at the edge of the woods. I felt worse than usual, my muscles burning and a dull headache piercing my skull as the cold winter air embraced my skin. The sky was black as pitch, and the light of the full moon reflected off the snow, which covered the ground and trees in a thick, white blanket. I simply continued to stare into the woods, unblinking, as if possessed by something outside of my own consciousness. That’s when I noticed a stairwell at the edge of the forest leading underground. Leading back to me from the stairs were a few scant droplets of red staining the white snow.
I looked down. In my left hand, I was holding the sacrificial dagger, its obsidian blade still dripping with fresh blood.
Victor Julian-Henry Roberts is a writer & poet based in Maine, with his primary domains of interest lying in that of horror, weird fiction, and (queer) erotica. His works contain themes of the supernatural, the occult, and anything that inspires wonder, terror, and dark revelation. When he is not creating, he finds pleasure in exploring the untamed wilderness, caring for his pet tarantulas and hissing cockroaches, and practicing the black arts. You may learn more about him on his personal website at victorjulianhenryroberts.carrd.co, or follow him on Instagram at @aberrantvisions.
Dreams Come True by Anna Nasr
The window creaked open, and with a swift jump, Maya landed in the dusty, cobweb-filled kitchen of what seemed to be an abandoned house. The perfect place to find hidden treasures. A throbbing pulsed at the back of her head, a telltale sign that another dream was invading her mind.
“Not now,” she cursed through clenched teeth.
Slowly, she moved toward the door. Each step echoed in her skull, making it feel like her head was about to burst. Then, a shape appeared near the window; at first, it was just a silhouette.
With each heartbeat, more details emerged: a boy around twelve with short-cropped hair, silently playing with a wooden horse.
More figures appeared: a man in soaked clothes and muddy boots and a woman in a beautiful dress, the kind Maya had only seen in picture books.
She was used to seeing dreams walk through each other, but not like this.
The bodies no longer overlapped. They merged into a grotesque, pulsating mass.
Lidless eyes opened within folds of flesh, staring at her.
Multijointed arms grew and shrank while hungry mouths with needle-like teeth mouthed unspoken words endlessly reverberating in Maya's head, creating a deafening cacophony only she could hear. In a futile attempt to silence them, she pressed her hands over her ears. The amalgamation began to move, clawed hands dragging its deformed body toward her. Cold dread gripped her as she realized the claws were leaving deep scratches in the wooden floor. She needed to get out. With the wall at her back and no other option, she willed her body to dash past the outstretched claws, stumbling into the hallway. Glancing back, she saw the amalgamation clawing at an invisible barrier, unable to cross the kitchen threshold. As she caught her breath, a cold, rasping voice came from behind her.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Rolling to the side, she saw a middle-aged man in filthy clothes, clutching his side, barely staunching the flow of blood from a nasty-looking wound.
“Who are you?” she asked.
Before he could answer, their gazes snapped to the kitchen as the door frame groaned and began bending under the being’s pressure.
“We don’t have much time to close the rift.” he rumbled, hobbling away.
“The rift?” Maya looked after him.
Without looking back, he said, “Rift, gate, call it whatever you want. If you want to keep those things from leaving the house, you’d better help me close it.”
With nowhere else to go, she followed him down the hallway.
“Down there.” he pointed to the door.
At first glance, the cellar door looked like ordinary wood. But on closer inspection, she saw the grain shifting, forming patterns that made her eyes tear. Faint rays of unlight bled through the gap beneath the door, bathing the floorboards in a sickly glow that made them look slick and raw—like exposed meat.
“Don’t look directly at it. Don’t let it touch you.”
After a pained breath, he added, “Fire. Fire can stop it.”
He stepped back from the door. Grunting, he pulled two dark vials from his coat pocket.
“It starts to burn when the glass breaks.” He handed one to Maya. With trembling hands, she accepted it.
In a single motion, he kicked the door off its hinges. Fleshy wood splinters flew down the stairs, and without a word, he went down.
The air shimmered, and a sickly sweet stench permeated it. Covering her nose with a sleeve brought only minor relief. At the bottom of the stairs lay the source of it all. It looked like something had torn out a chunk of reality, a festering wound in time and space. Its edges pulsed, oozing ichor that burst into screams as it touched the floor. From the center writhed worm-like tendrils, beckoning her closer.
A deep, gnawing curiosity gripped her. It urged her forward, coaxing her to reach out. What wonders might lie beyond the veil, waiting just for her? A hand clamped over her eyes. The old man’s strained voice said, “Don’t look at it. Look at the floor.”
The pull vanished, replaced by fear of what could have happened.
“I’m good now,” Maya said shakily.
Something slammed into her, throwing her across the room.
She landed on the stone floor, soft and warm in ways stone should never be. She forced herself not to dwell on it. Looking up, she saw the old man, skewered by two pincer-like limbs. Barbed wire-like appendages crawled up his arms, tearing his flesh into ribbons.
“Throw it!” he gurgled through bloody teeth. Without aiming, Maya hurled the vial toward the rift. The glass shattered, and a wave of heat exploded outward, washing over her and blistering her unprotected skin. In a scream of rage, the amalgamation tore the old man in half, spraying blood and guts all around it. All of its many eyes were now focused on her. Claws and teeth slick with fresh blood, it charged Maya. With nothing left between them and nowhere to go, Maya braced for death. But the creature passed through her, no longer tangible in this world.
It howled, claws slicing harmlessly through her as its form faded. Flames now rapidly spreading across the cellar, Maya bolted up the stairs. The hallway was choked with smoke. Each step forward was painful as flames licked through the floorboards. Using the last of her strength, she dove through the window she had once entered. Maya rolled across the dirt outside, coughing. Behind her, the house roared with fire. A gaping, howling inferno where something unnatural had once been. Maya stayed, watching until the last embers faded into nothingness. Only when the wind rose and swept the ash into the air did she turn to leave. But for a moment — just a moment —the swirling ash took the shape of an eye, wide and hungry, stared after her before it scattered into the wind.
Anna Nasr is a debut author with a lifelong love of storytelling. When not writing, she investigates the brain mechanisms that control how memories are consolidated. This is her first published story, and she’s thrilled (and a little terrified) to share it with the world. She hopes it will be the beginning of many more to come.
Depraved, Deprived by Juliana Gutierrez Arango
I’d been playing chicken with death for two days when I met the dead deer. It started ‘cause I was bored and piss-drunk and pissed off about being bored and bored of being pissed off. I’m like if an eagle dropped a rabid guard dog in the middle of a daycare, you know? I can’t help
but bite. That’s all I know how to do.
Anyway, I’d gotten this old-timey revolver at an online gun auction, and on Friday, I loaded one bullet into it, spun the cylinder, and put the nozzle in my mouth. I thought about the classic holding-it-against-the-temple position, sure—but if there’s one thing I have the balls to not lie to myself about, it's my oral fixation. I could feel the flakes of rust against my tongue. And I, I thought, pretty good last meal. That made me think of the Last Supper and Jesus, and then I pulled the trigger. Click. Again. Click. Stupid fucking bullshit game. I was half-hard in my jeans.
After that, I stopped eating, drinking, and sleeping. Another kind of roulette, I guess: which will kill me first? Let’s call it American Roulette.
I spent the first 24 hours just walking around Vegas, watching the clowns in this fucking circus of a city. I pretended in my head like I was a nature documentary narrator, you know, and my subject was the Strip. The plastic habitat of thousands of tiny pathetic parasites. And maybe I’m a voyeur or a masochist, but ogling the tourists gorging themselves and posing for their bullshit Instagram pictures with their hands all over each other made me feel fucking euphoric, and my self-imposed starvation only made it sweeter. My stomach felt like a knot of acid. I laughed every time it growled.
Around dawn, I made my way back to my shithole apartment and downed a Monster in a moment of weakness. I wasted a few hours going through my phone contacts and calling every single one, then hanging up after one ring. I turned off my phone when I finished. Then I got in
my car and drove, stopping only to fill up on gas before trying to get utterly lost in the backroads. I fell briefly asleep a few times but never crashed. I was thinking about crashing on purpose when I met the dead deer.
I didn’t kill it—it was already dead when I saw it. The night was the kind of black it only gets in the desert and my headlights were off, so it was a fucking miracle I saw this heap in the road ahead of me. Heap of something. I didn’t know it was a carcass, but I turned on my brights and slowed down as I got closer, and the headlights caught it and I—fuck. Deer in the headlights, yeah, I stopped the car a few feet away from the deer and just sat there. Looking at it. Its whole body—the heap—was one open wound staining the asphalt around it. Like a corruption, you know? And as I stared at this, this, this shattered pulp—no, heap—of ruptured muscle and yellowed bones, I started smelling rusted metal and rosemary, and I saw blood begin to flow from the deer’s mouth, past its too-bent neck and into the big gash on its side. Out of its mouth, into its open body. And not a trickle, not a—it was this dark red almost-black-in-the-moonlight cascade just pouring, pouring from its mouth and it raised its dead head to look at me with its dead eyes and then its FUCKING SKULL EXPLODED. Its fucking skull...
I blinked, and the deer was fine. I mean—not fine, it was still dead, but not a, you know. It was just a body. It was just a, a heap. And what’s funny is, there wasn’t even any blood. Just a dead deer on the road, probably got hit by a car. No blood, but its neck was broken. I think. I put my car in reverse and just backed up until I couldn’t see the deer anymore. Then I turned around
and struggled my way back onto the highway and took the next exit. I pulled into the nearest
McDonald’s and ordered a Happy Meal.
Juliana Gutiérrez Arango (she/they) is a writer and actor from Medellín, Colombia.
Some Would Stuff Them with Rags and Cotton by Francesco Levato
I no longer feel the pain. I should. My other senses still function, but something isn’t right. I know there’s someone in the room with me. I can hear his breathing, heavy as if struggling. And smell his breath, the meat of the burger he had for lunch, the cigarette afterward. Now and then, I catch a glimpse of him, a shadow falling across my vision, blocking out the fluorescent light above. I must be on my back.
Panic sets in, my mind racing. I have to get out. I try to sit up but can’t. I try to throw my arm out and grab him the next time he hovers over my face, but nothing. No movement—at least not of my own free will.
My body jerks as if something is tugging down from my sternum. Then a pulling, first on one side, then the other. And the sound of snipping, wet and thick, followed by a slow crack, crack, crack. Something crawls inside my body cavity—a hand? More tugging, the sound of something slick hitting the floor. My nostrils fill with the tang of blood. I want to gag, bend over, and vomit out the stench, the fear. I would, if I could.
I remember reading about the Victorian obsession with death, about the coffin bells they devised to ring the alarm should one be buried alive, or the grave guns they installed to ward off body snatchers, fearing their corpses would be sold for dissection. None of this helps. No scream of alarm leaves my throat, not even a desperate whisper. If I had a gun, I’d jam it in the shadow of this man’s face, keep pulling the trigger until I ended him, ended whatever he was doing to me. But I can’t.
Francesco Levato is a poet, professor, and writer of speculative fiction. Recent books include SCARLET; Arsenal/Sin Documentos; Endless, Beautiful, Exact; and Elegy for Dead Languages. Recent speculative fiction appears in Savage Planets, Sci-Fi Shorts, and Tales to Terrify, among others. He holds an MFA in Poetry, a PhD in English Studies, and is an Associate Professor of Literature & Writing Studies at California State University San Marcos.
The Unseen by Cynthia Pitman
Even the birds are disturbed, stirring the air as they circle the field where the Unseen, neither form nor flesh but casting a shadow nonetheless, makes its way across to the forest. As it enters the thicket of trees and vines and underbrush, the birds scatter. The breeze holds its breath
in fear of being noticed. The shadow of the Unseen almost disappears in the shade of the forest, but there is enough of a ripple for the denizens to know that it walks among them. They cower high and low, crouching and curling themselves into trembling fetal balls.
A clearing appears. The shadow stops. Within sits a house made of felled forest trees. A child sits on the steps, her back to the forest, her long dark curls hanging down, as she rocks back and forth, gently cradling a doll. Sprinkled in the air is the sound of sweet singing. The Unseen is held rapt, mesmerized by the sight and sound of pure innocence.
The spell holds it captive, frozen in place by enchantment. The forest vines entwine the shadow, then grip the Unseen itself, twisting and turning, shaping and forging, until it takes root in the forest and the form of a tree takes shape. Thick branches spread from the vines. Leaves burst from the branches. The child turns her head to face the forest. She has no eyes. With now-flaming hair and fiery red eyes, with clawed hands clutching the child’s shoulders, the doll looks across the clearing, sees the Unseen, smiles, and continues singing.
The Unseen is now trapped, just one more tree tethered forever to the doll’s forest, a forest filled with all who dared approach the clearing, mistaking ethereal beauty for innocence.
Cynthia Pitman, author of poetry collections The White Room, Blood Orange, and Breathe, has been published in Flash Phantoms, Bright Flash Review, Amethyst, Third Wednesday (One Sentence Poem Contest finalist), Saw Palm (Pushcart Prize nominee), and others, and in anthologies Pain and Renewal, Brought to Sight, All This Sweet Work, and Nothing Divine Dies.
It Knocks by Nishant Verma
“Allison!”
Mud roared as he smashed the empty liquor bottle on the floor, shattering it into pieces. He always reacted this way whenever he didn’t get his morning shot right after waking up.
“Bring me my drink, child!”
Mud tried to get up, but stumbled and fell on the ground, taking the chair with him. He clutched his bloated side, groaned, and pushed himself upright.
“Allison! Where are ya, girl? Daddy needs his drink!”
Mud stopped and waited for a response or a sound confirming that someone else was in the house. Unfortunately, he met only disappointment in the form of utter silence.
“Come on, baby! I’ll be gentle today! Daddy’s Promise!”
At first, he heard nothing, but then his ears picked up a faint knocking sound.
“Gotcha, girl!”
He tottered his way to the adjacent room, in the direction of the sound, but found nothing, except Allison’s jacket. He picked up the jacket and pressed it against his nose, taking a deep breath. For a moment, he drifted into a trance, only to snap back with even greater fervour.
“Allison!”
Another knocking sound. This time, he heard it coming from the kitchen. He stormed in that direction, dragging his other foot with him.
“Allison! Come out now! Daddy wants you!”
Suddenly, Mud clutched his chest and doubled over.
“Al...”
The rest of Mud’s words turned into an agonizing groan. His breaths turned heavy. His fingers dug into his chest. He stayed like that for a few minutes, gathering his lost strength. Thereafter, with a loud cry, he straightened up and walked towards the sound.
“All...Allison! Come here. I promise, Daddy will be gentle.”
He waited, but found no response, yet again. Mumbling, he pulled out another bottle of half-finished whisky and gulped half of it in a breath.
“You bitch! Come out, right now! Come out, or I’m gonna eat you up! I...”
He turned around, and what he noticed killed the rest of the words in his mouth. Hastily, he moved backward, and in haste, he lost his balance and fell on the ground. In front of his eyes lay the battered corpse of his daughter with one hand missing from below her elbow.
The dread brought by the sight left Mud motionless for many seconds. Laboriously, he mustered his strength and pulled himself to his feet.
“Who’s here!? Answer me!”
In reply, came the same knocking sound. It only aggravated his situation. But he had no time to react—an explosive pain took him by surprise, sharp and excruciating. He fell on his knees and coughed so hard that he retched all that he drank and ate before his recreational blackout, and amongst the spewed matter, lay a chewed fingertip.
Its sight widened Mud’s eyes and dropped his jaw. He tried to drag himself away, but then came another knock; only this time, much closer. Mud let out a piercing howl as something hit his ribs from the inside. His chest spewed blood through a freshly formed fissure, and so did his mouth.
With terror-stricken desperation, Mud slithered towards the front door when something again crashed against his chest from the inside. Mud tried to scream as his last effort to call for help. However, instead of words, he puked blood on the floor. Next, he felt something pushing apart his broken ribs.
Mustering the last fragments of his remaining strength, Mud looked down to find a bony and half-digested hand with a missing fingertip crawling out of his chest. This was the last thing he saw before falling into the blackest void, forever.
Nishant Verma is an associate scriptwriter who has been active in the field for about seven years, working on various television serials and advertisements. Whenever he gets a hallucinogenic attack, he likes to spill his hallucinations on an unsuspecting paper.
Mr. Morton Needed a New Pair of Shoes by Melissa Behrend
Mr. Morton needed a new pair of shoes. His socks showed through the soles. “Ow!” he shouted, stepping on a rock as he walked down the sidewalk. Glancing up, he saw the fancy shoe store was having a sale. While typically a penny pincher, he did love a good sale. Who didn’t? And quality shoes lasted. That much he knew. He’d had this pair for…oh, how long had it been? They’d been good shoes. All except for one incident.
Tinkle, tinkle went the tiny bell above the door as he entered. You could always tell a quality establishment, he thought. The air smelled cleaner in here. There were mints next to the cash register.
“Welcome in,” a pair of smiling eyes greeted him. “Can I help you find anything special today?”
“Yes, actually. I need to replace my shoes,” he pointed to the pair on his feet. “They’ve been with me for years, but I’m afraid they’ve given up the ghost.”
She laughed. It wasn’t that funny, he thought, but she needed to make the sale. He understood.
“Same style?” she asked, looking down at his brown leather lace-ups. Genuine leather, not that cheap imitation stuff.
“Yes, I think so. Worked well this long. Something comfortable, real leather. Brown, with laces.”
“Size?”
“Oh, I’m a 12.”
“Well, let me go in back and grab a few options for you. I’ll be right back.”
“Thank you,” he said, and wandered around the store. He looked at and touched patent leather slip-ons, fancy dock shoes, and even some athletic trainers. Nothing he wanted, though. He hoped she’d have something in the back more to his style.
Mr. Morton found a spot to sit and waited. He didn’t have to wait long, though, as another woman came from the back with a pile of shoes. Dark-haired, pretty, but with a scar across her left cheek. Looking around the store with a quizzical look, her eyes finally landed on him, and she smiled, walking over.
“I’m Trish,” she said, by way of explanation. “Catherine got tied up in the back, a new shipment just came in, and she’s the only one who can sign for it. But she gathered these for you and asked me to take over. Hope that’s okay?”
“Of course, of course,” he said, smiling back at Trish. Her smile was contagious.
“Perfect!” She crouched, leaving the boxes next to him. Before he could do it himself, Trish was untying his shoes and slipping them from his feet. She placed the shoes on the floor next to his chair and then froze. Her eyes glazed over.
***
A Halloween mask, two beady eyes peering out at her. Hands grabbing, a pinprick in her arm. When she woke, she was lying on the floor somewhere dark, dank. Smelled of mildew. She could hear water dripping; her cat costume couldn’t do enough to keep her warm.
“Hello?” she called out, her voice scratchy, throat sore. She must have been yelling—probably at whoever brought her down here. Dizzy, she tried to get to her feet, had to grab onto the wall for support. Cinderblocks. Cold, damp.
“Hello?” she tried again. “Is anyone there? What do you want from me?”
A laugh crawled out from a shadowy corner, making her jump. “What do I want from you?” The man’s voice was humorless, yet he laughed again—his voice full of ice. Goosebumps crawled up her arms. “Oh, my dear,” he said. “You really don’t understand.”
She screamed as he stepped from the shadows, a Grim Reaper’s mask covering his face. In his hands, a scythe. She screamed again as he lashed at her, the blade slicing her cheek. Blood poured down her face. Unwilling to give up, she dropped to her knees and scrambled; her eyes had adjusted, and she saw a set of stairs leading up from the basement. Determined to get out of there alive, she crawled. As her body skittered across the floor, she noticed the man’s shoes. Brown leather lace-ups. What an odd choice, she thought, for a Grim Reaper costume. But a great choice for her; she reached out and untied one, then doubled her speed.
She made it to the stairs and ran up with all her might. The man behind her tripped over his shoelaces, landing face down on the stairs.
Pausing in front of the door at the top, she knew it would be locked, but she tried the knob anyway. The door gave way—she’d pushed so hard she nearly toppled onto the kitchen floor when the door opened. She didn’t stop to look around, afraid a group of co-conspirators might be nearby. Feeling manic, she ran through the house, noticing it was empty as she passed through the rooms, and out the front door. Didn’t stop running, or screaming, until a policeman grabbed her arm, a few blocks down.
The policeman took one look at her face and got on his radio. “I need an ambulance to the corner of Elm and State.”
“Who did this to you?” he asked.
“There! Back there!” She ranted. She turned back toward the house, and he followed. But there was no one in the house; it sat empty. For rent. No sign of the Grim Reaper.
At the hospital, they treated her wound. An ace plastic surgeon did his best, but she’d always have the scar. She could tell them nothing about the man who’d done this. Nothing but his style of shoe.
The same shoes she stared down at today. She risked a glance at his face. He grinned down at her. “I thought I recognized that scar. Meow.”
Melissa Behrend is a writer living in the PNW with her husband and her two dogs, Mayhem and Chaos. Several of her short stories and scripts have placed in competitions. When she's not writing, she's reading, bingeing the latest TV series, or doing yoga to destress.
The Santa Setting by Joseph Stewart
The old house creaked and moaned under the assault of the December wind. The house gave little resistance to the icy breath of winter that would run amok to the discomfort of the residents inside. It was an indescribable house, a miserable house. The exterior paint had long abandoned this relic of the past. No one seemed to remember what color the house originally was. It was relinquished to the very poor, a last option before homelessness.
It had been ages since its windows had shone a cheery beacon of amber warmth. The once flickering fire of the stocking-laden fireplace paid tribute to a Christmas lost in the long shadows of the past. All the cheer had been washed away to gray and cold. This was Charlie’s house.
It had been three years since Christmas cheer had touched Charlie. Now, at the age of nine, he had lost hope. His father told him that Santa Claus could not find the house because being poor meant becoming invisible to the world.
Charlie’s father had been out of work since his little confectionery shop had failed, which thrust the family into debt and discomfort. He had started to doubt his father’s answers. He was always told that Santa Claus watched all the world’s children and knew where they were at any given time. There had to be another reason why Santa Claus passed him by since they moved into that awful house.
Charlie decided he wanted to have a fire for Christmas Eve. His father told him he could have his fire if he cleaned up the fireplace, checked that the damper would open and fully close, and cut the firewood he needed. Charlie quickly started the cleaning process. He found the damper lever on the side of the fireplace, and next to it was a puzzling, short lever. It had an unreadable label that was thickly coated with dirt and grime.
He searched his mother's cleaning supplies. He used an abrasive cleanser and could finally read the selector's first choice. It read Normal. That made no sense to him. The other label was even more challenging to clean. He could see the letter S. It took over an hour before he uncovered the word Charlie read as Santa. He had to think about it for a while. Then he realized the selector adjusted the size of the chimney to allow Santa Claus to slide from the roof to the hearth.
Charlie tried to move the selector to Santa, but it was frozen on the Normal setting. He would have to find some of his father’s tools to see if he could loosen it. He found his father’s loosening oil, as his dad called it. He put a little dab at the base of the lever just like his dad would, letting it slowly sink in and hopefully allow the lever to be moved, but now he had to wait for it to do its job.
It was time for school. It was the last day before Christmas break. The bus never came as far as his house due to the road being seasonal. He had to cross the railroad tracks, where he was picked up at the general store. It was a mile walk down the rutted road, now covered in ice and polished smooth by the wind.
The day at school was full of cheer as the children talked of Santa Claus coming to their houses. They spoke of the presents from years past and were adamant they would get what they asked for this year.
Charlie couldn’t take much more of this kind of talk; it deepened his depression. Soon, school was over, and he crossed the plains of snow and ice to return home to the cold house. He felt a spark of excitement when wondering if the oil had loosened the lever. He closed his eyes and easily turned the lever clockwise to the next selection. Joyously, he quickly turned it back to the original setting, thinking, no, knowing it wasn’t time yet.
Christmas Eve had arrived, and his father inspected his work on the fireplace. He even had cut some extra firewood for Charlie to burn that night.
“It looks fine, son,” said his dad, helping him start the fire for the night.
The snowflakes softly kissed the window and perished in the warmth of the cheery fire that took hold. It was a wonderful amber warmth that animated the shadows on the walls. Charlie’s parents had gone to bed, leaving him to enjoy the warmth of the hearth.
The night marched on, nearing midnight. At that hour, he would move the lever to the Santa setting. He imagined the room full of gifts of Christmas past and present to make up for what he had to endure. In his mind, it was his due.
The clock chimed twelve times. With great reverence mixed with excitement that only a nine-year-old boy could experience, he moved the selector to the Santa setting. He went back to the old wooden chair near the fireplace. Nothing happened. He felt it was a cruel joke until strange embers left the fireplace like a swirling mist of fireflies, taking on the shape of a man in a red suit. It wasn’t the kind of suit he was expecting. He found the strange man’s face was clear of whiskers and had a facial expression beyond the comprehension of Charlie’s young years.
The next morning, the house was cold, and the fire was dead. Charlie was nowhere to be found. A search party looked for days, but he had disappeared with no trace. Eventually, all hope was abandoned. One day, Charlie’s father saw the extra lever on the side of the fireplace with its label partially visible. Charlie had misread Sata for Santa. With all the letters now visible from his father’s cleaning, he read the words aloud, “Satanic Sacrifice.”
Joseph C. Stewart is a retired I.T. professional with a B.S. in Computer Science. He has a keen interest in the paranormal and science since childhood. He has published one non-fiction book; a second will be released in the fall of 2025. Joseph has been a columnist for the Phenomena Magazine these past four years out of the U.K. He is honing his writing skills as a fiction writer and looking for the genre that best fits him. In the meantime, he is a guest teacher, mainly at the elementary level and middle schools of seven school districts, a source of fodder for…
A Swallow in Winter by Marcelo Medone
He stood up and began to walk with an awkward step among the crumbling buildings and abandoned flower beds. The place seemed strangely familiar and at the same time unknown, as if he were seeing it from another perspective. The cold of night chilled his bones. Memories came flooding back in confusion, and he struggled to reconstruct the last moments of his life.
In the distance, he heard the roar of waves breaking on the nearby cliffs, flooding the winter air with a salty drizzle. In the moonlight, he caught a glimpse of a lone swallow perching on a thorn bush. Perhaps spring was not so far away.
Then, the image of his beloved appeared to him, where the swallow was perched, smiling beatifically. He felt that his soul was flooded with the fullest joy.
“Follow me,” she said. “Follow me and I will be yours for eternity.”
When he wanted to approach her, the vision vanished in the blink of an eye. In its place, only the swallow remained, inviting him to follow her.
He looked up and saw coal-black clouds threatening to eclipse the moon. He headed toward the adjoining scrub forest, away from the ocean. The swallow took flight and wandered slowly into the darkening thicket, showing him the way to follow.
The breeze coming off the sea made him even colder. He rubbed his bony arms in search of warmth. His mouth was dry, and his heart was beating in uncontrolled pulses. Anxiety gnawed at his insides.
The air, heavy with moisture, became freezing rain, falling indolently on his miserable humanity. The chill in his bones and in his soul became unbearable.
He remembered that he had met his beloved right there, in the abandoned cemetery—a perfect place to seal a mortal pact, although his memories were still hazy and fragmented.
He went deeper into the grove, urged on by an unstoppable command from above.
Suddenly, in the distance, the spectral figure of his beloved emerged again, floating effortlessly in the air.
He advanced towards her, trembling with emotion.
He approached her, fearing that she would vanish like the first time. He stood for a few moments gazing at her, ecstatic. She was more beautiful than ever, sheathed in her light dress of raw cotton and a blue silk scarf that came down from her shoulders.
He didn't mind the freezing rain that kept falling. He was in a trance, beyond pain and suffering.
As he hesitated whether to come closer to his beloved, she came out to meet him, walking slowly, her arms hanging with clenched fists and an angry expression on her face.
Then he saw that an impressive wound with clotted blood intermingled with her beautiful blond hair disfigured her right temple.
“Why, why did you do it? Didn't you love me?” she said to him, in a voice from beyond the grave.
“I loved you and I still love you more than anything in the world. I wanted us to be together forever.”
“But why did you hesitate? Why didn't you keep your part? Didn't we get two twin pistols to consummate our pact and meet in the afterlife?”
“Seeing you dead, I didn't have the courage to kill myself. I beg your pardon for my weakness. I am ashamed of not being worthy of your eternal love.”
She smiled piteously and looked him in the eye.
“I was not dead,” she said. “My pulse failed, and the bullet grazed my skull without penetrating too deeply, causing me to faint. Surely you also fainted when you saw me bleeding on the floor.
She looked at him tenderly and caressed his face. He trembled with emotion, feeling his passion for his beloved reborn. He wanted to say more, but she shut his mouth with a delicate kiss.
“When I woke up,” she continued, “I saw you lying next to me, breathing like a helpless baby. I had the courage you lacked. I took your gun and shot you in the head, right between the eyes. You didn't even blink. Then, I shot myself in the heart. This time, my pulse did not fail me.”
Horrified, he brought his hand to the top of his head and found a void where his forehead should have been. He felt the splintered bones of skull interspersed with bits of brain tissue, unclotted blood, and the rain that kept falling. Fortunately, he felt no pain at all, despite the tremendous wound.
She smiled pitifully, pulled back the blue scarf, and revealed a hole in her chest at the level of her heart.
“Now we are both atrociously and beautifully imperfect, ready to love each other forever.”
Then he remembered the call from the forest that had commanded him to rise from his grave in the abandoned cemetery. He remembered the cold and the loneliness of death that kept invading him.
She smiled and reached forward with her fists closed. She turned them and opened her hands.
In her left hand were the spent casings of two bullets. In her right hand, between fingers dripping with water, was the lifeless body of a swallow.
Marcelo Medone (1961, Buenos Aires, Argentina) is a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions nominee, fiction writer, poet, essayist, journalist, playwright, and screenwriter. He received numerous awards and was published in multiple languages in more than 50 countries worldwide, including the US. He currently lives in Montevideo, Uruguay.
Threshold by Zary Fekete
The fire crackled low in the hearth, orange light crawling like slow fingers across the floor.
Three figures sat before it: the father upright with a fire poker across his knees, the mother silent and rigid beside him, the child half-curled at their feet with a blanket tucked beneath her chin. The room smelled of old smoke and dried sage. The windows were dark. The outside world, still.
A silence passed between them like a shadow.
The child stared into the fire, trying not to think of the things that moved in the dark, the ones spoken of in whispers after meals, in stories sharpened into warnings. Eyes like oil. Tongues that hissed through gaps in walls. Promises that felt like kindness but rotted the soul.
And then, as if summoned by thought alone, came the knock.
Three raps. Deliberate. Not loud. But not uncertain.
The mother flinched.
The father stood. “To the corner,” he said.
They obeyed. The mother pulled the child into the darkened back corner of the room. The father stepped toward the door, poker gripped in both hands.
No voice followed the knock. No footsteps retreated.
He unbolted the door in a single motion and yanked it wide.
A shape moved on the threshold. Tall. Hooded. No face visible.
The father surged forward with a grunt. There was a wet sound, flesh and metal, and the shape collapsed.
He dragged the body inside, slammed the door shut, and bolted it again. Then he turned to them.
“Another one.”
The mother said nothing. Her eyes flicked to the child, then back to the corpse.
The thing lay splayed on the floorboards, a dark smear trailing behind it. What little skin could be seen was strangely pale—not like stories of scales or burns. The child could see part of its face now: smooth, bearded, with lips parted slightly as if to speak.
But no words came.
Its clothing was unfamiliar: dark layers of fabric, a thick coat, and a worn leather bag with brass buckles slung across its chest.
The mother turned away. “Burn it. Before the smell settles.”
But the father hesitated, crouched beside the bag. “Wait.”
He opened it carefully, as though it might bite.
He withdrew something flat. Paper. Thick and folded.
The child reached out.
“No,” the father said. But the child had already touched it.
It was soft. Clean. Not like the brittle pages in the family’s old books.
The father tossed it onto the fire. But the child, quietly, later that night, retrieved it. Only singed at the corner.
***
Later, while the parents slept, the child crept beneath the table with a stub of candle and read the paper again.
The letters were strange but orderly. Nothing like the arcane symbols carved above the fireplace or inked into the family’s skin. These were plain. Precise.
Somehow, the child could read them.
“Dear Student,
You are invited to attend the Midyear Immersive Preparatory Program in association with the National Department of Education. This offer is extended to recognize your unique performance profile. Attendance is voluntary, though highly encouraged.
This is our third attempt to reach you.
Sincerely,
Mark Roberts
Principal, Greensdale Elementary”
Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete Bluesky:zaryfekete.bsky.social
The Ghosts We Carry by Matt Eidson
Raymond’s platoon kicked the front door off its hinges and began clearing the home. In the first room, they found a little boy and a woman in a burqa. Two marines peeled off, weapons up, and shouted commands. The woman and her little boy raised their hands and cowered in the corner.
Raymond moved on, second in line.
In the next room, they found a man reading on his bed. The man saw them and quickly turned to his right. The marine before Raymond shouted Stop! before squeezing off three rounds—one in the man’s head and two in his chest.
Raymond moved on, in the lead now.
He turned into the last room. At first, nothing. Then, a flash in the corner—something darting to the side. He reacted and squeezed off three rounds, hitting his target.
Then he saw what he’d done.
The little girl lay on her back, her tiny body twitching. If she wasn’t dead yet, she was close. Raymond stared at her, and his world went quiet. Other marines in his platoon came in and went wide-eyed. His buddy put a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s not your fault,” his voice cracking.
Raymond stared at the dying girl. She stared back. She looks like Amy. He blinked and looked down at his feet. There was a Little Mermaid doll between his boots. A tear rolled down his cheek as the girl gasped for the last time.
***
The house was part of a small town ghost story, now—the place where a grisly murder had taken place years before. It looked the part. It was a few miles down a gravel road just outside town. A long driveway snaked across a once meticulously mowed and maintained front yard. Now it could best be described as a prairie.
Raymond, newly discharged from the Marines, was home for the first time in eight years.
He parked and got out. The house was as big as he remembered, but now it was in such disrepair that you’d never have known a perfectly normal and happy family had lived here as early as two years ago. But that was before the night everything changed.
Raymond walked up to the house with his hands in his jacket pockets. As he got closer, he noticed the front door was one breeze away from snapping off the hinges. He stopped and sighed, running his fingers through his hair and scratching the stubble on his chin. The chipping paint, smashed windows, and vulgar graffiti mixed oddly with the vines and overgrown flower beds. It was like the house was caught somewhere between the present and the primordial.
Then Raymond saw something inside the house.
Two beady eyes flashed just inside the doorway. Raymond squinted to get a better look. The eyes blinked and disappeared. Was it a squatter? All the way out here? Couldn’t be. Folks with no place to go were better off finding empty houses in town—closer to kind strangers who might give them a few bucks. Out here, they were alone.
If not a squatter, then who?
Raymond went back to his car, grabbed the Glock out from under the front seat, and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Then he walked up to the front door and peeked inside. His old living room smelled musty and rotten. Water leaked from the ceiling down the walls, ruining the paint and collecting in little pools on the ground. He stepped inside.
“Hello? Anybody here?”
The walls creaked in response. Wind whipped through the windows. Raymond cleared the house room by room. He checked the kitchen—nothing. His old room—nothing. Then his parents’ room—nothing. Finally, he went to his sister’s room. He stepped inside and shivered.
The room was quiet like the morning after a fresh snowfall. The wallpaper was crinkled in the corners. A bedframe was turned on its side. A few toys lay on the floor. And in the corner farthest from the door, there were huge dark patches on the wall. In that same corner, sections of wallpaper had been cut out and removed, and the drywall underneath had been scraped down a few inches where someone had tried to get rid of the dark patches. Raymond cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes. He stepped closer. His skin prickled. He shivered. Toward the top of the dark patches were three little holes. Two were close together, one was about nine inches higher. A morbid memory flashed in Raymond’s mind, and a tear rolled down his cheek.
A creak in the closet caught his attention.
He flipped around. His eyes shot toward the closet doors. They were barely open, and it was dark inside. His heart beat faster. He pulled the Glock out of his jacket pocket and held it at the ready. He moved toward the closet door and slowly pushed it open. He checked the first corner—nothing. He checked the other corner. There was something tiny on the ground. He lowered the gun, stepped closer, and picked it up. Then he slowly backed out of the closet in stunned disbelief, holding the Little Mermaid doll.
There was a creak behind him, where he’d been standing moments before. He turned around quickly, hoping to catch the source of the noise.
His blood froze.
Amy lay on her back, her tiny body twitching. There were two gunshot wounds in her chest. She sucked in air and spat it out rapidly. Raymond stood in disbelief, staring at her. Suddenly, she locked eyes with him with a huge smile on her face. She began chanting your fault your fault your fault. Raymond held the Little Mermaid doll close and stepped back, crying, and wondered whether it was the house or he that was haunted.
“I’m so sorry.” He raised the Glock and, with a pull of the trigger, the evil in the room was gone.
Matt Eidson is a writer and Marine Corps veteran. He's been published in "The Wrath-Bearing Tree," "Bull," and "Collateral." He lives in Pittsburgh with his wife and son.
My Lover, the Tapeworm by Taylor Ward
She’s a romantic, my lover. Every moment with her is more intimate than the last, each touch more worthy of a squirm and a flush of the cheeks. There is never a dull moment with my lover, and never ever an instance of our love being vanilla. No, she is indulgent, as am I. She is fat with it, our love. Thick and plump with sex, a glutton for touch she is. Oh, how round she is, how well-fed my lover is. How completely gorged she is.
Our love is spontaneous, as how could something as rigid and cold as a schedule contain her? Some days she is quiet, an observer in our relationship; she likes to marinate in it on occasion, to simmer and soak. Plump like a roast is she, swimming in our juices, our quarrels, our back and forths. Other days, she is the owner of a scotty dog, while I, her sweet pooch, tug and pull at the lead with great fervor and enthusiasm, whining and spinning in my stupid little circles, looking up and begging just a little further, yes? Mother, my dearest, let us do another lap? Oh, do pet my sweet, sweet head and brush my soft coat with your perfect hands! But most days, she is none of these things. She is neither observer nor dog-mother. You see, my lover is a special case, and I mean that oh so lovingly, as lovingly as one could when referring to a dearest partner as a “special case.” My sweet, my heart, my everything, she is a parasite. A tapeworm, if you will.
My lover, she is not a fan of metaphors or similes or anything of the sort—no, she likes things as they are, so I present her as she is. My sweet, she is a tapeworm. I could say she is a fiery lioness, a vixen, a cougar, but these are all lies, painting her as something she is not. I could say she is a beautiful woman with red hair and plump lips, but this is not her. She is long and cylindrical, molded perfectly to my insides, so intimately she is nestled in me. Oh, how I love being so close to her!
My doctor, the poor fool, has begged me to remove her at each appointment. He says it can’t be good for my health, that I look weak, sickly, dying. I am neither dead nor dying, and I always tell him I am simply in love! Oh, how love changes you! My love for her keeps her warm and fed, just as her love keeps me forever in her eyes. Yes, she is a dutiful lover, molding me to her liking. I am but clay, she my titaness molding me and breathing life into my worthless, once shapeless form. Oh, how I owe everything to you, my lover. I mustn’t refuse her wishes, her wants, her needs.
So, I do feed her, my love. I feed her all she wishes; she alone has access to my most delectable, delicious morsels. She can eat all she wishes, with her, I need not food or drink, all I need is her. Yes, all I want is her to grow fat with my love, my adoration, my groveling. She may eat my heart and my mind if it would allow her to grow just a bit bigger, I care not if I am left skin and bones. My love is fatty and rich, thick with the fruits I have borne for her. Eat, eat, eat, my lover.
Taylor Ward is an author and artist from the Midwest whose interests lie in queer, trans, and indigenous horror. Taylor serves as an assistant editor for Moon City Review.
Welcome Home by Sarah Hayden
This is my fucking house!
Liz, weighed down by multiple grocery bags, unlocked her back door that led into the kitchen. She attempted to kick the door shut behind her, the latch almost caught but didn’t. Not noticing the door, she swung the bags onto the counter and silently congratulated herself for making only one trip from the car. While putting the vodka in the freezer, she heard the dryer running in the laundry room down the hall. That’s weird. She thought. Why’s the dryer on? I haven’t done laundry in a week. Her heart pounded. Is someone in my house? Why would they start the dryer? That doesn’t even make sense.
Buying the house had been life-changing. Her first big adult purchase. She loved the house instantly. It was Craftsman style, built in 1928. The outside was a pale yellow with a red front door. The interior was pristine. Updates had been done to the kitchen and laundry room, and all the appliances were new. It upped the price, but she didn’t care. This house was a dream. It was a small house in a quiet neighborhood. And she adored it. She took immense pride in her home, keeping it clean and organized. She had sacrificed and worked so hard, and never once regretted the years of struggling. She finally owned her own home.
Did Jack come over to do laundry? That’s probably it. Her brother had “just swung by” the first week she moved in, with all his laundry. He ate a bunch of her food and left without even taking his clothes with him. She had to drop them off to his dorm. Shithead. He knows it’s a fire hazard to leave a dryer running when you’re not home. She shook her head and sighed. She pulled her phone from her back pocket and checked to see if she had missed a message from him. Nothing. Her fingers flew over the phone screen….
Jesus Christ, Jack, I told you to let me know if you were
going to come over and do laundry.
It's fine this time, but a heads-up would be nice.
What the hell are you talking about?
I’m in Florida, its spring break you fucking nerd.
Hey, don’t forget to lock your doors. I just saw the news about those dead ladies in your neighborhood!
Don’t get killed butthole!
Liz read the message, the memory of that news headline rushing back. Three women in the past seven months had been assaulted and killed not far from her home. She set her phone on the counter and tried to steady her trembling hands. She stared at the laundry room door. A trickle of sweat slid down her back. She could only take short, labored breaths, and the sudden need to vomit was making her mouth water. She put her hand on her chest, felt her heart trying to escape and took a deep breath, “This is my fucking house,” she whispered.
There was a rough metallic ‘whoosh’ as she pulled the largest knife from the wooden block on the counter. With the knife clutched tightly in her moist hand, she started down the hall. She had made it to the door and slowly reached for the door handle.
BZZTT!!!
The dryer’s timer. The sudden noise made her instinctively jerk back and gasp. Her ears were ringing. The vomit crawling back up her throat, she backed away from the door, stepping backwards as quietly as she could. The lever handle on the laundry room door slowly began to move. The pounding in her chest became more aggressive as she watched the handle turn and point to the floor, then suddenly swing back. The handle thumped when the catch went back into place.
A statue, Liz stared at the handle. The ringing in her ears growing louder by the second. The knife slipped out of her sweat-slicked hand, and the metal blade clanged loudly on the wooden floor. The sound broke her trance. Her body flooded with fire. “This is my fucking house,” Liz said to the door in front of her. She quickly bent down, scooped up the knife, and rushed the door. She grabbed the handle and threw it open. A dirty, wiry man sat on top of the dryer, staring hungrily at her. A large hunting knife rested on his filthy jeans. A smile slowly split his face, showing his rotten teeth. A breeze came from the broken window next to the dryer. The sheer curtain floated, grazing the man’s arm. The floor was covered in broken glass.
“Well, hello, beautiful, welcome home,” the man said, slowly wrapping his fingers around the handle of the knife as he slid off the dryer. His boots thumped on the floor. He slowly ambled towards her.
Liz looked into his dark, bloodshot eyes. Her fear dissolved into rage. “This is my fucking house,” she stepped through the door and kicked it shut behind her.
Horrified screams flooded the small house.
Then, silence.
***
Knock, knock, knock.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Ma’am, this is the Woodridge Police Department. We received a suspicious activity call. Elizabeth King, are you alright? Your neighbors heard screaming. Your door is open, we are entering your home.”
Officers Hicks and Miller entered the house into the kitchen, guns drawn. They cautiously walked down the hall. The door lever on the laundry room door rotated slowly. The door swung open.
“What the…?” both officers said in unison.
A blood-soaked woman stood before the officers. She raised her crimson-stained hands, dropped the gore-covered knife to the floor. The knife landed wetly into a large puddle of blood right next to the mutilated body of what looked to be a man. Officer Hicks stepped back from the severed fingers by the toe of his boot. After taking in the grisly scene, both officers looked at the woman, who smiled and said,
“I told him, this is my fucking house.”
Sarah Hayden is a writer, nontraditional student, and a mother of two grown children. She is obsessed with horror, comedy, and true crime. Her fiction writing usually shows that obsession. She has been published in The Gateway, her college's campus newspaper as well as having an upcoming story in the 13th Floor Magazine. She spends her free time watching Murder She Wrote and annoying her family and dogs.
The Pot Was Already Boiling by Sabrina Attari
The pot was already boiling when Tara realized they were in serious trouble.
Steam rose into the thick jungle air, carrying a gamy scent. Around them, the tribe gathered. Their faces painted with sharp lines and symbols. All eyes locked on the two outsiders sitting cross-legged in the dirt.
Tara glanced at Nia, who looked far too calm. They had been best friends since high school, but crashing their yacht onto a remote island and meeting cannibals was a new one.
A large man wearing a crown of bones stepped forward. His expression was unreadable. He pointed at the pot, then at the girls.
Nia sat up. “We’re not food,” she said quietly, then louder: “Honorable leader, thank you for your hospitality. We are peaceful visitors with no desire to offend your customs.”
Tara followed. “And we are…extremely chewy. Not ideal for eating.”
The man didn’t respond. He turned, muttered to a few others, and the group broke into discussion.
A group of children watched them from behind a wooden tree, toying with human jawbones.
Tara forced a smile at the kids. Through clenched teeth, she whispered to Nia, “We’re never being adventurous again.”
Nia didn’t respond. She was staring at the leader. Still as a statue, but louder than anyone else.
An older woman stepped forward and asked in broken English, “You dance?”
Tara blinked. “Sorry?”
“You dance. Now. Or stew.”
Nia stood slowly, bowing her head. "Honored elder, it would be a privilege to share a tradition from our people."
So they performed. Awkward and desperate.
In the background, the tribe kicked off a beat using drums, sticks, and what might’ve been a coconut xylophone.
Tara did something that vaguely resembled jumping jacks. Nia moved like someone trying to swat mosquitoes in rhythm, somehow still off-beat.
A few people started laughing. The tension cracked just enough for Tara to breathe again.
The leader smiled for the first time. “Funny meat, not good meat,” he said. He pointed at a small hut. “Rest there. Safe. No eat.”
They didn’t wait. They nodded, bowed too many times, and stumbled into a hut that smelled like dried blood trapped in the heat.
Inside, Nia collapsed. “This is officially the worst day ever.”
Tara forced a reply, though every word tasted like dust in her mouth. "Yeah, well...at least we’re not boiling in that pot."
A week later, breakfast was already waiting when Tara stepped outside.
The tribe had been taking good care of the girls, and slowly, the island was starting to feel less like a prison. They even left Tara a letter the night before, asking her to wake up early for her birthday.
Tara had actually grinned when she found it.
“They’re treating us like family now,” Nia had said, reading over her shoulder.
Maybe they were wrong about the tribe. Maybe there was hope here.
They had prepared something special, the note said. Fresh fruit. Island delicacy.
The children waved Tara over, giggling.
They handed her a plate.
Tara looked down.
Nia’s head was on it. Boiled and glazed.
The elder smirked. “Eat.”
Sabrina Attari is a 22-year-old engineering student who started writing short stories during a creative writing class and quickly realized it was the perfect outlet for her imagination. Writing gave her a way to explore odd ideas and unleash a side of her creativity that didn’t have many other places to go. This is her first published story.