Horror Stories of 1,000 Words or Less
For the month of October 2025, these are the stories that entertain us most.
* Spider Eggs by Ricardo Rebelo
* Mandolin's Last String by Stefan Sofiski
* Phobos Rising by Michael Castillo
* There I Remained by Tyler Dowey
* That Smile by Emerson Bell
* Sick or Treat by Joshua Peterson
* Layered by Susan E. Rogers
* The Reindeer Game by Matthew Rettino
* What a Find by Roger Bundridge
* Scratching in the Void by Gabrielle Munslow
* I Knew There Was a Reason by Greg Beatty
* The Lantern Keeper by Roy Hancock
* Old People Candy by Kevin Folliard
* The Ride Home by Benjamin Armstrong
* Not Me by Brad Robertson
* The Lantern's Gift by C.A. Larkin
* Tantalizing Tootsies by Jay Seate
* Halloween Love is Tentacles Intertwined by Paul Garson
* The Bar by Kathleen Zamora
* The Hollowing by M.D. Smith
* The Tezcat Apparatus by Alex Grass
* The Sweater by Mike Sherer
* The Interview of a Lifetime by M. Weigel
* Borrowed Masks by David Horn
* The Craven House by Avery Caddick
* Gloaming on a Suburban Trail by LM Maggio
* Carving Lessons by E Rathke
* What They Cannot See by JD Devine
* After the Wake by Jude Clee
* Trick and Treat by Tony Sapienza
* Cliches by C.S. Fuqua
* Fishing by Andrew Albritton
* The Invitation by Alice Baburek
* Dust Settlement by Zary Fekete
* Butterscotch Candy by N.V. Morris
* Speed Demon by Kathryn Riley
* Rearranged by Alan Meyrowitz
* When You Open the Door by Chukwuemeka Starlin
* The Smiling Girl by John Pitts
* Halloween R Us by Nathaniel Mumau
* Halloween Flight by Tara Tominaga
Spider Eggs by Ricardo Rebelo
It was November 1st, the day after Halloween, All Souls’ Day. Most of his town was still in bed. It was only 6 a.m. Ricky Putnam was up, though. He was up for a reason. He wanted that candy. That clearance discount candy. He knew the moment Wal-Mart opened its doors on the first of November that the real fun was about to begin.
It was good that hardly anybody was up. Nobody would be there to look at him. To judge. To call him fat under their breath. He was used to that, though. It had always been a part of his life. These days his doctor called his diabetes and high cholesterol co-morbidities.
Ricky always found that term amusing. When he was a kid watching slasher films and listening to Ozzy Osbourne, his mom told him he was being morbid.
Ricky chuckled about it as he passed through the sliding door into Wal-Mart. They were already carting away the vampires, ghouls, ghosts, goblins, and werewolves to make room for Santa and his reindeer.
Halloween was truly over.
He walked over to the display that still held the Reese’s Chocolate peanut butter pumpkins and grabbed the family-sized bag. Ricky didn’t see a sign displaying the discounts yet, so he shouted to a broccoli-haired boy who was bringing out Christmas stockings, “Hey, what is the discount on Halloween candy?”
“Nothing,” the kid shouted back.
“Did you say Nothing? But it’s November 1st?”
“Yeah, that’s what it said on the check-in clock,” The boy said.
“Halloween candy always goes on clearance on November 1st.”
“Not this year, some bullshit about tariffs and not liquidating the stock too early, I don’t fuckin’ know,” the boy said, grimacing in his despair.
“But I wanted candy,” Ricky said, and felt shame for saying it.
“We got some stuff on clearance, stuff that didn’t sell well,” said the boy.
Ricky thought that meant the candy must be absolute crap, Smarties, or worse, Candy Corn. Ricky had heard the Candy Corn Man legend growing up and steered clear of the waxy stuff as much as possible. He could get lucky, though. Some of it had decent chocolate.
“Hey, kid,” said Ricky, “Where is that clearance stuff?”
The young boy walked over without saying a word and gave Ricky the come-hither signal. They went around the corner of the aisle, and he pointed to a shelf with a red starburst sign that read, “Clearance.”
Ricky had been right. Most of the candy was of the powdered sugar compressed into wafer kind. Ricky didn’t do fruity sugar. He was a chocolate guy, plain and simple. He was about to turn and leave when he saw a purple bag with big brown eggs on it. He reached for it and brought it close.
The words: Oeufs d'araignée en chocolat, were at the top in an orange Halloween font. Below that the words: Fabriqué en Belgique.
“Oh, shit, this is some Belgian chocolate,” Ricky muttered.
He flipped the bag over to see the price tag; it was only a dollar. Ricky practically floated to the self-checkout line and drove home.
He was completely ignorant of what he purchased.
###
Later that night, it was time for Ricky’s post-Halloween party. He thought it would be fitting to pair his chocolate with the William Shatner classic Kingdom of Spiders. He had already eaten his Tony’s frozen pizza and was ready for dessert and a movie. Ricky poured himself a cordial of Allen’s Coffee Brandy, which he thought would pair great with the Belgian chocolate.
Once he had the Blu-ray in the player and his TV tray set with the chocolate and booze, Ricky sat back to enjoy. First, he toasted the movie by holding up the half-filled rocks glass of Allen’s and saying, “To Shatner!” He drank down about half of it in one shot. Luckily, Ricky kept the bottle at the ready for refills.
His dog Sparkle barked. It was an adorable Corgi.
“Not for you!” Ricky said.
Next, it was time for the chocolate. Ricky grabbed the large purple bag with the glee of a child. The bag didn’t tear open immediately. He yanked harder. The bag exploded in his hands. Black foil-wrapped eggs went everywhere.
“Dang it,” he barked. Ricky paused the movie and scrambled around picking up all the eggs…but he missed one.
He sat back down and unwrapped the first egg with the care of a surgeon. Ricky didn’t know if it was solid or filled, and if it were filled, he didn’t know with what? He took the tip of the egg into his mouth and bit gingerly. He could feel the layer of chocolate give way, revealing that it was semi-hollow; then he bit into something neither solid nor liquid. It was sticky but gave way to his teeth easily, then the tiniest little crunchy balls.
Ricky pulled the egg back to have a look. The inside was filled with tiny marshmallows, similar to those found in Lucky Charms, and they had little crunchy bits. Ricky marveled at how different the confection was.
He loved it!
So, he drank some more, and he ate a lot more, and drank and ate more than that, and when his sugar plateaued and then dropped like a rock, Ricky fell into a deep sleep. His snoring was interrupted only by a tickle in his throat.
Under the couch, unbeknownst to Ricky, the one lost egg rattled. It rattled so hard that it cracked. Then the black foil that had held it together tore as one long jointed spider leg stuck out, then two, then four, then eight.
The Spider broke free of the foil shell it had been trapped in and looked to begin its dark work. The spider needed food to grow.
Luckily, it had company under the couch…Sparkle.
The dog was also snoring. She never felt the spider creep up to her and weave the web that would smother the life out of the dog. When she was done weaving, the spider shot venom into Sparkle, causing the dog to melt and putrefy. When Sparkle was nothing more than a puddle, the spider drank and grew. It was the size of a dog now…even bigger.
The monster had finished the appetizer and was on to the main course. It wove a web from wall to wall in the living room. Over and under and through it went. But while crossing Ricky, a piece of web tickled his nose, and he sneezed himself awake.
“Holy Shit!” Ricky cried. On the television, William Shatner was still defending a diner from a spider horde. The webs crisscrossing Ricky felt very meta and like a twisted prank.
“Where are you bastards? This isn’t funny. How did you get into my apartment?” Ricky barked as he tore strands of webbing off him.
Ricky then heard a clicking sound as the spider's mandibles prepared for its meal. He turned and finally saw it sitting on his kitchen island.
The mandibles flew open and spewed a stream of venom that Ricky somehow sidestepped. The venom struck the television, melting William Shatner and the entire TV with him.
“Fuck,” Ricky yelled. The spider turned forty degrees to match Ricky’s dodge and leaped off the island. Ricky went to run and tripped over a swath of web. He landed next to his electric fireplace. Ricky could hear the spider’s legs thrumming against the floor, headed toward him. He reached behind him for anything to defend himself and found the iron fireplace kit he bought. The spider was now two yards ahead of Ricky. It leaped at Ricky, hoping to deliver the fatal blast of venom directly into his eye. Ricky took the fire poker from the kit, swung it as hard as he could, and caught the spider mid-air. It made a cracking sound, like a walnut, and fell to the ground.
Ricky slumped to the floor, chest heaving, legs tangled in a web. He laughed once. Then coughed.
Something crawled up his throat.
He spat into his palm.
A wriggling wad of translucent baby spiders clung to his saliva, twitching, alive.
Ricardo D. Rebelo (he/him) is a horror writer and filmmaker based in Fall River, Massachusetts. His fiction has appeared in dozens of magazines and anthologies, including Dracula: Beyond Stoker (Issue #6), 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. His short story “Kiss of Death” was featured in Monsters in the Mills, an anthology that was nominated for the 2024 Shirley Jackson Award and shortlisted for the 2024 Australasian Shadows Award for Best Edited Work. Ricardo is a member of the Horror Writers Association, Massachusetts Horror Writers, and We Are Providence. Website: https://ricdrebelo.wixsite.com/ricardo-d
Mandolin's Last String by Stefan Sofiski
You bend down and place the candle on the windowsill. Your sleeve squeaks on the misted surface of the glass as you wipe it.
Clamour from the street comes muffled into the room. The glass distorts the scene below—smears of brown and beige in the darkness. The light of torches makes dancing shadows on the wall behind you.
Maybe he won’t show this year.
You adjust the blanket over your shoulders and lift the sash to look down on Sycamore Street. The wood creaks as it goes up. The cool, damp air carries the sound of chatter and laughter—the candle’s flame dances in the draught.
You hear a distant melody. The familiar playful tune of an Irish mandolin. This year it sounds flat, like it’s played on one string. Your heart flutters, invisible pricks tingle your face.
You see people dressed in old rags, disguising themselves from evil spirits, having fun. Oblivious. Dublin bubbles and comes to life on the night of the dead in pubs and bonfire gatherings across the city.
You used to go out with them every year. Until you first spotted the man with the mandolin shuffling among the crowds. Black cloak with a hood, tall and hunched over the small instrument.
It had been eight years ago, on the morning after All Hallows’ Eve, when the first body turned up. A man floating in the ice-cold river Liffey—bloated, with a thin bruise on his neck.
It took you a few years to connect the dots. Every Halloween, a new corpse, strangled with a string, would show up somewhere in Dublin. Every year after, the melody would get flatter… one string less.
You contacted the police in the fourth year. Told them about the mandolin man, the melody you were hearing getting flatter as he went through the eight strings. They didn’t believe you.
You spent the last four Halloween nights awake, with your heart at your feet, at your window with a candle.
Tonight is the last night. You are locked up and safe. The last string will be used and then you’ll be free.
You feel a draught. The hairs on the back of your neck rise. The candle goes out with a thin waft of smoke that tickles your nostrils. Your breathing stops. You turn slowly.
There he is, standing inside your locked room. Tall, hunched, and dark. The string is tensioned between his hands and glitters in the flickers of the torches below. The mandolin hangs quietly on his shoulder.
He steps forward. Warmth trickles down the inside of your thighs.
Stefan Sofiski is the pen name of a Bulgarian writer living in the UK as an immigrant. Stefan makes a living as a structural engineer who uses gritty storytelling as a creative outlet.
Phobos Rising by Michael Castillo
The blaring sound of the alarm goes off like a shotgun in my ear. It’s bad, really bad. The only reason the alarm goes off is in case of a breach. We have safety protocols and precautions put in place to keep something like this from happening. One minute, I clock in for my shift, put my lab coat on, and the next minute, Jenkins is on the floor writhing in pain, screaming. Goddamn him. We’ve worked at the same facility for years. and he had to go and do something as clumsy as to have a heart attack while holding that vial.
The experimental serum in the vial is absorbed into Jenkins’ blood; his body soaks it up like a damn sponge. My assistant races over to help him, but I don’t… I know better. The serum travels through his veins, rushing in from his heart, vigorously pumping at a rapid pace. The change is quick, quicker than what we have seen in lab rats. His face contorts with agony as the blood vessels in his eyes burst. He snarls and lashes out at my assistant, tearing out a large chunk of flesh from his neck. His scream is muted into an ungodly gurgling gasp as blood sprays out like a crimson mist.
I rush out of the lab and join dozens of my panicked colleagues, just as armed security personnel arrive. Gunfire rings out, shortly muffled by the sounds of more screaming and flesh-tearing. On the loudspeaker, an automated voice comes on: Quarantine protocol in effect. Blast doors will soon be activated, and the decontamination process will commence. This is very bad indeed. My eyes frantically look around, searching for the damned exit sign. My heart is pounding out of my chest as distant gunfire, alarms, and screaming assault my senses. I can stand the blaring alarms and ear-piercing gunfire; it’s the tormenting screams of friends and coworkers getting ripped apart that really resonates with me.
My vision blurs, and I stumble in front of a guard, desperately trying to open a security door. The side door leads to a different part of the facility, closer to the exit. He doesn’t have the proper clearance, but I do. Everyone runs past us, stampeding over one another, some fall and get trampled, while others are attacked and eviscerated. I shove the guard out of the way while I attempt to type in the passcode. He fires off a couple of rounds before one of his newly infected teammates pounces on him. His guard comes crashing while the infected teammate goes to work on his body.
The guard’s bloodied rifle slides across the floor, coming to a halt at my feet. I turn to look in horror as the infected creature rips and tears at the guard like a rabid dog, sending intestines and flesh through the air. I reluctantly picked up the guard’s rifle in my trembling hands. My fingers grip the handle, and I take aim as the foul thing turns its attention to me. Gray and bloodshot eyes peer back at me, giving off no reflection of anything that resembles humanity anymore. It stands up and takes jagged strides towards me, moving like some grotesque marionette swaying to-and-fro.
My body tenses up like the strings of a bow as I aim the rifle. Just point and shoot, right? The shot deafens me, and the recoil from the burst sends a shockwave through my body. I miss, and the bullet goes flying past the creature’s head. I let out a scream, my war cry, from deep within the pit of my stomach. The bullet connects, causing an explosion of brain matter and bone fragments. He immediately comes crashing down in front of me, just as the infected guard’s body starts to twitch and contort itself back to life.
The guard bolts upright and makes a mad dash in my direction, raving like a crazed beast. In an adrenaline-fueled panic, I managed to squeeze off a few rounds. The bullets find their mark as his bullet-riddled body stumbles and falls on me. His mouth lashes out, trying to rip the flesh from my throat, and then… he just stops. I stare at his unhinged eyes and watch in horror as the light inside of them grows dim and expires. I spring to my feet, knees weak and body quivering with fear. Wasting no time, I sprint through the door and down a long hallway. Behind me, I hear anguished screaming; the infected horde is growing dangerously in numbers.
I navigate through the labyrinth of corridors in a maddening attempt to escape. My vision starts to blur, and my heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest. Every square inch of my body wants nothing more than to give up. My brain fires off every self-preservatory electron and neutron that it has. I push forward until I see a large group of people fighting to get through the exit doors.
I force my way through the battling crowd and reach the exit doors. I swipe my keycard and wait with unnerving anticipation for the doors to recognize my clearance. Suddenly, the doors open, and everyone rushes through them uncontrolled. A feeling of triumph courses through my body as I exit the facility. Seconds later, large steel doors descend, sealing off the rest of the building. The ungodly screams of those trapped inside send chills through my very core as the building is contained and cleansed.
A rescue team arrives, and we are hurried into large, unmarked vans. I breathe a sigh of relief as the doors close, and we drive away from the facility. I glance down and notice tiny drops of blood dripping from my arm, amassing in a small puddle.
My heart stops, and a new kind of fear swells up inside. I can feel my body changing.
I’ve been bitten.
Michael Castillo is a writer, musician, father and husband. Mike is passionate about writing content that is engaging and compelling. He grew up an avid lover of reading and watching horror fiction. Mike is a budding writer that loves the genre and hopes to make a memorable impression. His short fiction has appeared in Madness by Firelight Anthology (September 2024), Pawsitively Creepy Tales Vol.1 Anthology (October 2024), Strangest Fiction: Campfire Tales Vol.1 (July 2025), and has also had a guest story featured on podcasts like Creepypod. More of his work can be found on here: https://www.wattpad.com/user/micastillo81
There I Remained by Tyler Dowey
Despite an acute awareness of what was happening around me, physically I couldn’t feel a thing.
I’d been lying on the slab for what felt like hours now. I’d exasperated myself in trying to get up off the table. A herculean effort to wiggle my fingers or eyebrows. Some minor vocalizations to let the man and woman who hovered cruelly above me know that not only was I fully aware of their examination, but I was growing more terrified with each passing second.
I couldn’t recall how I got here or what was meant to happen to me, whether the operators working around me were my captors or saviours. Anonymous in medical masks and scrubs, they spoke only to each other. They snapped a long series of photographs, taking endless inventory of my unmoving body. They were clinical in their observations, taking notes and exchanging remarks. For them, the paralysis of my waking nightmare was a simple routine.
The woman, slim with a wisp of blonde hair poking out from under her surgical cap, spoke gently into a tape recorder just out of sight.
“External examination is complete. Moving on to the internals of the deceased.”
Deceased? Deceased!
Awash with icy clarity, I realized that this wasn’t an examination. It was an autopsy.
A silver scalpel gleamed across my vision as it was passed from man to woman. I attempted to track the malicious razor with my eyes, but found I couldn’t move them either. Like the rest of my body, my pupils were frozen, forced to stare exclusively at the mouldy ceiling tile directly above me and whatever else my uncaring examiners passed across my face.
I tried to stop them. I tried to scream. The man’s eyes suddenly narrowed. In my peripheral vision, I saw him lean in for a closer look at my chest. Perhaps tracking its rise and fall. Despite my lack of basic motor functions, surely I must’ve been breathing still. But he just sighed, stepped back, and returned to his work while I lay there like a stone.
“Preparing to make the first incision,” the woman warned casually.
I panicked, bracing myself for the inevitable pain that would accompany the lacerations across my chest and stomach. By the time they realized their error —that they’d carved up a living person —it would be too late.
I could do nothing to stop them. With sickening despair, I listened as they filleted and hollowed me, making callous and detached observations as they worked.
“Liver; fourteen hundred and twenty-one grams.”
“Lungs; minor signs of anthracosis.”
“Kidneys; slightly oversized but otherwise healthy.”
There was no pain. No feeling whatsoever. I questioned how I could lose so many vital organs and remain conscious. Still know that I was being gently murdered.
Dissected piece by precious piece.
Finally, they cut out my heart. “Myocardial infarction. Heart attack.” The woman spoke the words calmly. The man merely grunted as if he’d suspected it all along.
A new form of dread flooded what was left of my vacant body. I realized that this wasn’t some vicious misunderstanding. That the doctors taking me apart weren’t wrong at all.
I was dead. And this was my afterlife. No heaven or hell. No reincarnation or resurrection. Just a purgatory of unflinching nothingness. Unmoving but all-seeing.
Consciously aware and wholly unable to do a thing about it.
I wanted to cry. Or scream or laugh or pray. I wanted to do anything but just lie there. And yet there I remained.
The pathologists wrapped up their session and crudely stitched my torso back together. They wheeled me, table and all, over to a cabinet of body coolers.
Together they counted to three, then slid/lifted my cold corpse onto a waiting slab. The woman exited my view, and the man didn’t even bother glancing down at me again before pushing me into the pitch-black void of the drawer that was to serve as my temporary coffin.
I lay in the inky oblivion, wondering how long it would take for my body to decay—hoping that then I might finally be released. If I got lucky, maybe I’d go mad first. I prayed that I would.
Tyler has been writing in the indie film scene for several years now. His previous productions include Salvage produced by Pisgarie in 2019 and The Sound of Waves produced by Close Call Entertainment in 2024. He lives just outside of Toronto with his wife and son and is putting the finishing touches on his first novel.
That Smile by Emerson Bell
Last night, I was window shopping at my desk. My mind finally drifted from the endless curated deals. I put my hands in my lap and stretched my neck. Closing my eyes, I wondered what I was looking for. When I stood up, I noticed that it was three in the morning. I sighed, disappointed with myself. I had been wasting my nights this way for weeks. With lips pursed, I rocked back and forth before moving to the kitchen. The warm lamp barely lit the main room. After chugging a glass of water, I looked at my dusty easel. My passion and drive had been gone for a while. I keep telling myself I'll finish it when I'm me again.
After wallowing in self-pity, I went back to my room and turned off my computer. It was always surprising how loud the fan was. I flicked off the light and fell into bed. Finding my way under the covers, I lay on my back. The stupidly bright streetlight peeked through the slits of my blinds. I rolled away from it and stared off, waiting for my eyes to feel heavy.
As they adjusted to the dark, a woman's thin, pale face greeted me from the closet with a toothy, wide-eyed smile. I sat up and recoiled toward the window. My heart was thumping as I blindly reached for my bookshelf. I blinked furiously at the darkness of the closet. With a hardback in hand, I slowly untangled my feet from the sheets and tried to control my breathing. I scooted forward to the foot of the bed.
My feet touched the cold floor, and I tiptoed to the switch. When the room was flooded with light, I shuffled to the closet. Nothing was there when I gazed into the black sliver. I yanked the door open, revealing only clothes. My arms lowered, and a nervous laugh escaped me. I fiddled with the white hoodie that may have scared me. Even though I thought it was my imagination, I slept with the light on and the closet wide open. I'm not sure how I fell asleep again.
###
After a lonely Friday at the office, I spent my afternoon lying in bed on my phone. I ate something frozen again for dinner and idled on my computer. I was in bed just before midnight and felt a little proud of the improvement. While I tossed and turned to find a good spot, I glanced at the closed closet door. I was still uncomfortable, but told myself that nothing was there. At least it was distracting me from my other thoughts. I turned to face the window and shut my eyes to think. I needed to leave the apartment this weekend; I couldn't spend another one shut inside again.
While fighting my wants and needs, I heard a quiet noise across the room. I froze and held my breath, not wanting to believe what I heard. My heart's aggressive pulse drowned out the slight squeak of the closet door. My hands were numb. The sound of bare feet sliding across the floor moved closer. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak and only softly whimpered as the shuffling reached the bed.
A weight sat behind me, and I slid into the dip but felt no one. A scream was trapped below my clogged throat until a soft, gentle hand squeezed my shoulder. I yelled while frantically swinging and kicking at whoever occupied my bed, but there was nothing. After the last of my yell faded, I jumped to turn the lights on. My harsh breathing filled the silence, and my eyes were watery. The closet door was closed.
A knock at the door startled me, and I ran to it when a man’s voice called out. I opened the door to see my neighbor.
"Hey, sorry," his tired face looked at me with worry before he took a step back, "you good? I heard you yelling."
"Hi, sorry," I spoke while suppressing my panting, "Yeah, I'm ok now. Just a really bad nightmare, I think."
"No, no, you're good. I just, y'know," he wrung his hands, "was worried.” He paused and shifted his weight for a second, “Well, glad you're ok!"
An awkward moment passed while we nodded before saying good night. The buzzing of the hallway lights was muted by the door again. I turned back to the apartment and shakily exhaled. My social façade wilted like a flower in the sun.
"Am I crazy?" I whispered to myself.
I moved to the kitchenette to get some water. After putting the glass in the sink, I laid my hands on the counter and breathed deeply.
“It’s just, a bad, fucking, week,” I muttered before a lengthy exhale.
As if it were possible, I turned back to my room to try to sleep. I left the lights in the living room on. I opened the closet again and carefully started shifting each item. When I was about done, the bedroom light turned off. My stomach clenched, and I began to shake. My jaw quivered as I turned toward the door.
A tall, bony figure stood backlit in the threshold of my room, one sharp finger resting on the switch. As I choked on my breath, her head jerked with a crackle to face me. Her strained, hungry eyes pierced mine, and a smile formed on her wet lips. Then she towered over me, hand plunged into my belly. Her head tilted like a dog as I convulsed and fell back. While death began dragging me away, her gentle, bloody hands grabbed my face, and jagged fingers pulled my lips into a smile.
Emerson Bell mainly writes short horror and sci-fi stories. On occasion they venture into different genres when the inspiration hits.They've previously been published with Dark Harbor Magazine. https://bsky.app/profile/emersonbellwriter.bsky.social
Sick or Treat by Joshua Peterson
In the ‘80s, Halloween was a time when costumed children roamed unsupervised, swinging their flashlights through the night—but tonight, something sinister was about to descend on their small town.
Screams erupted in the living room, but John remained slouched in his overstuffed armchair. He plucked a handful of popcorn from the bowl perched on a wooden stand beside him and shoved it into his mouth, grinding every kernel into bits. But the crunch wasn’t loud enough to block out the eerie music, piercing his ears. Reflected in his glasses, the 12-inch TV screen flickered as Michael Myers smashed through the closet door, closing in on a bleeding Laurie Strode.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
John’s body twitched, scattering a few scraps of popcorn across the floor as he snapped his head toward the door. “Damn kids—trick-or-treating,” he grumbled. “Right at the best scene of the movie.” John stood up, snatched a candy-filled bowl from the same stand, and walked towards the door without a word.
Two grinning boys–one tall, the other short–stood on John’s concrete porch as the door opened. Their skin was as pale as a ghost and covered in bumpy warts from head to toe. A sudden wind tore away the last strands of hair, clinging to their shiny scalps. Thick ooze gushed from their ears and noses, soaking their He-Man shirts in rich, deep red. The boys raised their bulging pillowcases and yelled in unison, “Trick or treat!”
John inspected their costumes and raised an eyebrow with curiosity. “What are you two kids supposed to be?”
“We’re two kids infected with a virus that escaped from a science lab,” The tall boy stated.
“But we’re not actually sick, sir.” The short kid confessed. “These are our Halloween costumes. We made them ourselves to look super contagious. Pretty cool, right?”
“I think you two should be in Hollywood someday,” John declared with a grin, “because your costumes look amazing! You boys look like you’re straight out of a horror movie.”
John’s fingers grazed a candy cigarette, and the short kid immediately sneezed, spraying saliva across his arm.
“Bless you,” said John. “Are you certain you boys are not sick? The way you sneezed at me sounded bad.”
The short kid sniffed as he rubbed under his nose with a finger, drenching it in crimson. “Sorry, mister, it’s my allergies.”
“Don’t worry about it.” John plucked two pieces of candy and tossed one to each bag. “Here you go.”
“Thank you!” The boys shouted with delight and then rushed down across the stone stairs.
John waved and shouted, “Happy Halloween,” as the two trick-or-treaters disappeared into the night. Once he closed the door behind him, he sighed with satisfaction. “All right, now to finish Halloween,” John muttered, heading towards the chair.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
John froze mid-step and turned towards the door. “Oh great, more trick or treaters.” He mumbled. “Can this night get any worse?” He yanked the door open, and his brows furrowed in confusion as two men in crinkly biohazard suits stood on the patio.
“Aren’t you men a little too old for Trick or Treating?” John mocked.
“We’re not here for treats, sir.” One clarified. “We’re from The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. We’ve received word that a virus escaped from a science lab earlier this evening. We fear that it may have spread to this town, infecting children who are trick-or-treating.”
“It might sound like a joke, but please know that this is serious,” the other added further information. “We’ve alerted residents to keep an eye out for kids who are pretending to be sick. Their costumes are symptoms of the disease children may experience. Extreme pale skin with wart outbreaks, severe hair loss, and bleeding from the nose and ears. Have you encountered any children who seemed to be ill?”
As John visualized the two boys he had met earlier, a stream of blood gushed from his nose. He touched his upper lip–warm and wet–stretched his eyes, staring at his blood-soaked fingers, and whispered, “Uh oh.”
Joshua Peterson is an emerging writer living in Normal, Illinois, with autism. His passion for writing began in January 2014 when he wrote an outline for a fairytale inspired by Disney animated movies he loved as a child. For nearly ten years, Joshua has written other stories and concept ideas for future stories as he improves his writing skills. Currently, he has written one previous short story accepted and published by War Monkey Publications for their horror anthology. Joshua Peterson hopes to continue submitting more short stories so that one day he feels confident writing and publishing his first novel.
Layered by Susan E. Rogers
The rubber Halloween mask smirked, its pasty complexion glowing in the darkness. Red eyes glared from the yellow sclera as the lips pulled back, baring their jagged teeth.
She was trapped in the back of the van, the only way out blocked by this madman who’d grabbed her from the parking lot when she left the party. He loomed over her, the tip of his tongue poking through a hole between the bloated rubber lips. He yanked the V-neck of her Ariel mermaid costume, ripping it down to her belly.
“Noooo!”
She snagged the neck of the mask and pulled it off his head.
The exposed cheeks were gashed and scarred, bulging around a bulbous nose and glassy eyes. A blackened tongue licked at crooked teeth and swollen gums.
“That wasn’t very nice.” His voice rasped as he wagged his gloved finger.
“Let me go,” she shrieked and kicked at his legs.
“Nope. No can do.”
He seized both her wrists, clenching them together in one hand. She struggled to escape but couldn’t break the inhuman grip. With his free hand, he grasped his nose and tugged. The rubber face fell to the floor, and she screamed. The same glowing white face, red eyes glaring, laughed back at her. His jaws clamped onto her neck, and dagger-like teeth pierced deep as he feasted.
Susan E. Rogers lives in sunny St. Pete Beach, Florida, USA transplanted from Massachusetts. Her move was the catalyst to focus on her life-long ambition to write. Her other interests include genealogy and psychic spirituality, and she often twists these into her writing. She’s published two speculative non-fiction books and a supernatural thriller. A horror novel and a second supernatural thriller are under contract for release in 2025. Her short fiction has been published in numerous anthologies, podcasts, and several literary and genre magazines, including, most recently, Shotgun Honey, The Lorelei Signal, and parABnormal Magazine. A complete listing of her work is found at www.susanerogers.com and she maintains pages on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/AuthorSusanERogers BlueSky @susanerogersauthor.bsky.social, Substack https://susanerogers.substack.comGoodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/dashboard?ref=nav_profile_authordash
The Reindeer Game by Matthew Rettino
In the Saturnalia market in front of the old, shuttered church, Grace stood arm-in-arm with Sam, sipping hot cocoa on Christmas Eve. A warm glow filled her heart. The village was all so perfect this year, shimmering with fairy lights and dripping with tinsel, an escape from her troublesome roommate and dead-end job in Montreal. Nothing bad ever happened here. And the people were always so nice.
Indeed, it was always winter and always Christmas in Saint-Rudolph, even in August. The mayor, Melanie Iver, told outsiders this was because of its microclimate, but Grace, like everyone who’d grown up in the strangely prosperous small town, knew it was because of The Reindeer Game.
The only trouble this year was the harried police officer who asked her about Cindy, the missing girl, who was four years old. Grace said she knew Cindy but hadn’t seen her among the children with puffy jackets, feeding kibble to reindeer at the petting zoo.
The police officer, clearly brought in from Sherbrooke, spat. “You heathens always tell me the same thing.”
Grace and Sam laughed behind his back.
The cop never bothered them again, and The Reindeer Game happened like it did every year. Just before midnight, a reindeer was wheeled in on Santa’s sleigh, very still, its nose blood-red. The whole town stood around it singing carols. Even Cindy, who wasn’t missing, who was never missing, sang with the other schoolgirls. She had a great big smile, proud of herself for playing her role. Like the girls before her, she’d acted convincingly as bait.
Mayor Iver, wearing a pair of antlers, stepped up to the taxidermized ungulate with a lit torch. If you listened carefully, you could even hear it curse and moan.
Rudolph, with your nose so bright
Won’t you light my sleigh tonight?
She touched the flame to the kindling, and as the fire engulfed the stitched-up reindeer, it began to scream. The town’s caroling drowned the cop’s cries, muffled within its roasting hide. While fat snapped and crackled over the bonfire, Grace and Sam sipped cider and looked forward to spending a whole year of Christmas together.
It was going to be so magical.
Matthew Rettino is a weird fiction author and poet from Montreal who gravitates towards the historical, the weird, and the fantastic. His fiction has appeared in NewMyths.com, 600 Second Saga, and is forthcoming in Unréal, an anthology with the AE: Canadian Science Fiction Review. His debut poetry chapbook Pilgrimages (Cactus Press, 2025) is a journey through Scottish folklore and family history. You can usually find him in Montreal reading at the Accent Open Mic. Follow him at matthewrettino.com. Bluesky: @matthewrettino.bsky.social Instagram: matthewrettino
What a Find by Roger Bundridge
Becky initially found them, but she claimed they weren’t her kind of jewelry. River claimed to love them, but once they were in their ears, they had two words: too colorful. Jakobi gave them a shot, but he said studs were the only earrings for him. When the shimmering stones made it to her, and the hooks grazed the punctured holes of her lobes, a desire to never ever take them off came over her.
The earrings fell to the point of her jaw; they glittered with a kinship to cracked sea-glass. It was her find of the yard sale season, and she couldn’t be happier. October was a time for mingling with the leaves, the wind, and the store's decor. She would wear them to the Halloween dance, coordinating them perfectly with her Princess Bride costume, despite the fact that they weren't featured in the film; it was called creative liberty. She tried on her costume that night, once the group had split up, and it wasn’t a mirror she was looking into, but the future. She saw herself on stage, taking in the admiration of her peers as her ears shone in the spotlight and the world bowed to her, but when Becky’s death was top story on the news—when River’s death was top story on the news—when Jakobi’s death was top story on the news—going at all… It didn’t feel right.
Becky died the Monday leading up to the dance, before school; River, on that Tuesday; Jakobi, that Wednesday. The state of their bodies—she heard this on the wind as it passed through the jingling of her sea-glass, of her precious, precious, sea-glass—was horrendously exquisite.
Becky was covered from head to toe in punctures so deep she bled out slowly; her mother and father could do nothing but scream with her as the blood ebbed and flowed, as her eyes spilled like yolk from the holes which appeared there—you could hang earrings from her pupils. River’s ears boiled and sank into pits. Their ear drums mixed with their brains like soup, but Jakobi... The jingling wasn’t kind to Jakobi’s preference. He was found stretched thin, like a lobe that had taken on too-heavy earrings for too long; the wind gave way to whispers of Jakobi being used as a sheet for a full-size bed. His insides were still trapped, sloshing around inside of him like a waterbed.
Perhaps, after all, she went to the dance. It would be wrong to keep a spectacle such as herself confined to her room. Perhaps she danced down her hallway in the wind, down to the street, no fear of her lovely lovelies harming her. Becky joined her, jovially, leaking; River’s head bobbled and bled, but they finished with a pirouette; Jakobi became a shawl around the shoulders, his eyes complimenting the gracious, jingling sea-glass. Leaves joined in, spinning at the feet of her dress. Happy Halloween, the wind jingled.
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 him 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. You can find his work on the Flash Phantoms website and the upcoming Flashes of Darkness Vol. 2 anthology.
Scratching in the Void by Gabrielle Munslow
She sits at the table, scrolling to the poetry section. The challenge: write a scary story.
So she begins to type.
It was a dark night.
The overhead light dies. Day vanishes in seconds. Must be a solar eclipse, she thinks, fumbling for the lamp. She types again.
A noise in the wall. A scratching.
And there it is—real, too real. Tsk. Cr-crack. Like a manicured talon on a chalkboard.
She types faster. The only sound is the blood-curdling yell of a thousand perjured souls escaping Hell.
The scream erupts around her. Glass rattles. A whoosh of breath brushes her skin. Whispers rise: Let me out. Let me out. Then they change: Let me in.
An icy finger grazes her neck. She freezes.
She types: Make it go back to normal.
But normal isn’t normal—the room warps, mirrored, fever-bright. Poetry is no longer safe; it is the doorway in and out.
Her hands fly. There he is—my rescuer.
Footsteps approach. A man appears. His eyelids are stitched shut. A thousand eyes bloom across his skin, blinking.
Then the stitches tear. His mouth stretches far too wide, curving in a grotesque mockery of a smile—rows of jagged teeth glint where laughter should live.
She stares. Recognition coils in her gut. Not her husband. Not herself. A twin—male, dead, a brother she never knew she had. The void spat him out, summoned by her words.
He steps closer. The smile widens, endless, as the eyes fix on her.
Her fingers freeze as his hands close over hers. The skin between them fuses.
The room dissolves—the void swallows.
She screams, but the sound belongs to him now. He sits in her chair, breathing her breath, typing with her hands.
And she is gone—except for the scratching in the void.
The words on the screen keep changing. New sentences form by themselves. The story writes itself.
Gabrielle Munslow is a UK-based poet and nurse practitioner whose work explores survival, ecological grief, and the intersections between human life and the natural world. Her poetry has appeared in Neon Origami, Bristol Noir, and The Ekphrastic Review. She is currently developing several themed collections, including What I Made from the Ruins and Phoenix-Souled, while actively submitting work to international journals and prizes. Drawing on both her clinical practice and lived experience, Gabrielle writes with a focus on resilience, myth, and the enduring bond between humanity and the natural world.
I Knew There Was a Reason by Greg Beatty
“—for inviting me in. I really appreciate it.” Dave scuffed his feet to make sure he hadn’t tracked any leaves in with him, then stood still and looked around the living room. His head swiveled back and forth and bobbed up and down, and all the while his face sported an anticipatory smile.
Candice followed him in and closed the front door. She gave one last shiver, then she just stood and watched for a moment. “What ARE you doing?”
“Well, you always do such a great job of decorating for all the holidays, so I wanted to see what you had done for Halloween.”
Candice put her keys in the bowl and sighed. “Well, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. I’ve been so busy this year, what with my dad, I haven’t really gotten started decorating.”
Dave pointed at the table. “What about those pumpkins and gourds?”
“Sure, those,” Candice said. “But they were an impulse buy. I was picking up milk and bread, and they were on sale. And they’re just sitting there.”
Dave turned and pointed at the hallway. “What about the big-ass, decorative spiderwebs?”
“Now that’s just mean!”
“What?”
“My dad was sick for a long time, and I haven’t had time to clean. You prick.”
Dave turned his head away. “Oh crap, I’m sorry. I just—Jesus Christ!”
“What is it?”
Candice barely got the question out: Dave was scrambling backwards so fast, she had to bail too. Candace jumped back and to the side, almost toppling into the couch.
“Tell me you can see it?”
“What?” Candace caught her balance and glared at Dave. “What!”
“The…ghost in the hall.” Dave whispered “ghost,” as if he were afraid it would hear him.
His eyes got bigger as the thing kept coming, drifting through the hallway at an angle, gliding with inhuman grace and seeming not to mind when it hit a wall. Then it shifted so it faced them directly, one eye staring unblinking.
“See what?” Candice asked.
Dave glanced at her and laughed a sharp, desperate laugh. “I knew you could see it. I knew it. And I knew you wouldn’t not decorate, no matter what happened with your dad. This is one of those TikTok trends, right? Where you make your…what are they called? Robot vacuum cleaner into a ghost? What is it, a sheet on a wire frame?”
“Roomba,” Candice said absently. “And Dave?”
“Yeah?”
Candice only moved one finger, using it to guide his eyes toward the comfy chair in the corner where he saw her Roomba plugged in and charging.
“Jesus Christ!” Dave said again, and then he scrambled out the door, through it, and was gone, leaving it askew. The chilly October air filled the room.
Candice watched the ghost glide towards her and smiled. “I knew there was a reason I got a second Roomba when my dad was dying.”
The Lantern Keeper by Roy Hancock
In the crooked village of Dunsmere, nestled between fog-choked moors and ancient woods, Halloween wasn’t just a holiday; it was a reckoning.
Each year, as October waned and the veil between worlds thinned, the villagers lit their lanterns and whispered old prayers, hoping to keep the shadows at bay.
But this year, something was different.
The air had grown colder than usual, and the moon hung low and red, like a bloodshot eye watching from above. Children spoke of voices in the fields. Dogs refused to bark after sunset, and the old church bell, long rusted and silent, rang once at midnight—though no one had touched it.
At the heart of this unease was the legend of the Lantern Keeper.
THE LANTERN KEEPER
Long ago, when Dunsmere was just a scattering of huts and a lot of superstition, a man named Elias Thorn kept watch over the village. He was a lamplighter by trade, but on Halloween, he became something more.
He wandered the streets with a great iron lantern, its flame said to be stolen from the mouth of a dying star. With it, he could see the spirits that crept through the cracks of the world, those who sought revenge, remembrance, or ruin.
Elias would guide the lost souls back to the woods, whispering their names and stories until they faded like mist.
But one year, he vanished. His lantern was found shattered beside the old well, and the village suffered a night of horrors: homes burned, livestock vanished, and three children were never found.
Since then, every Halloween, a new Lantern Keeper was chosen. They wore a cloak of crow feathers and carried a replica lantern, hoping to fool the spirits into thinking Elias still walked among them.
This year, the role fell to a boy named Bram.
Bram was 17, quiet, and clever. He had a knack for fixing broken things—clocks, radios, even the mayor’s antique phonograph. But he didn’t believe in ghosts. He thought the Lantern Keeper tradition was quaint, a relic of fear dressed up as folklore.
Still, he accepted the role. His mother insisted it was an honour, and besides, the Keeper received a silver coin and a basket of honey cakes. Bram liked honey cakes.
On Halloween night, he put on the feathered cloak and took the lantern, its flame flickering with an odd blue hue. The mayor clapped him on the back, the villagers cheered, and Bram set off into the misty streets, his breath curling like smoke.
At first, it was peaceful enough. The lantern cast long shadows on the cobblestones, and Bram amused himself by imagining the ghosts he didn’t believe in: an old baker with flour on his nose, a pirate missing his leg, a girl with a fox mask and no eyes.
But then the flame turned green.
It began in the square. The fog thickened, swallowing the statues and benches. Bram’s lantern pulsed, and he heard footsteps behind him, soft, deliberate, like someone walking barefoot on wet leaves.
He turned. No one.
Then came the whispers.
“Keeper… Keeper…”
They echoed from alleyways and chimneys, from the mouths of jack-o’-lanterns and the cracks in the pavement. Bram’s heart thudded. He gripped the lantern tighter and walked faster.
The fog followed.
He passed the bakery, now shuttered and silent. The windows were frosted from the inside. He saw handprints—small, smeared, desperate.
“Keeper…”
He reached the old well, where Elias’s lantern had shattered. The ground was scorched, as if the earth had tried to burn away the memory. Bram knelt and touched the stones. They were warm.
Suddenly, the lantern flared. A figure stood across the well.
She was no older than Bram, wearing a tattered dress and a fox mask carved from bone. Her hair floated around her like seaweed, and her hands were stained with ink.
“You’re not Elias,” she said.
“No,” Bram replied, trying to sound braver than he felt. “I’m the Keeper now.”
She tilted her head. “Do you know what you’re keeping?”
Bram hesitated. “The peace. The tradition.”
She laughed—a sound like breaking glass. “You’re keeping the lie.”
The lantern dimmed. The fog thickened. Bram felt the ground shift beneath him.
“Elias didn’t guide us,” she whispered. “He trapped us. Bound us to this village. Every year, a new Keeper feeds the flame. Every year, we remain.”
Bram’s mind raced. “How do I stop it?”
She stepped forward. “Break the lantern. Free the flame.”
“But the spirits—”
“Will leave. Or stay. But they’ll choose. Not be chained.”
Bram looked at the lantern. Its flame danced wildly, casting shadows that didn’t match his movements. He thought of the children who vanished. The bell that rang. The warmth of the stones.
He raised the lantern high—and smashed it against the well.
The flame erupted, not in fire, but in light. Pure, blinding, and silent. The fog screamed. The girl vanished. The whispers turned to wails, then silence.
All across Dunsmere, lanterns flickered out. Jack-o’-lanterns melted. The air grew still.
Bram lay beside the well, eyes closed, the feathered cloak torn. When he awoke, it was morning. The villagers found him and wept—for joy, for fear, for something they couldn’t name.
The spirits were gone.
No more whispers. No more footsteps. Just wind and birds and the smell of fresh bread.
Bram never spoke of what he saw. But he never wore the cloak again. The lantern was never rebuilt. Instead, each Halloween, the villagers lit candles in their windows—not to ward off spirits, but to welcome them.
They told stories of those they’d lost. Sang songs. Shared honey cakes.
And in the woods, where the fog once ruled, a girl with a fox mask watched, smiling.
She had chosen to stay.
Roy was born and brought up in England, leaving school at 16. He worked in engineering throughout the 1980s. Roy was diagnosed with cancer in 2014. While convalescing, he started writing stories as a hobby. He now lives in Dorset with his partner and writes in his spare time.
Old People Candy by Kevin Folliard
Chains creaked on the old swing set, and the soles of Shayla’s ballet slippers swept through piles of gold autumn leaves. It was the only playground nearby, on the outskirts of her grandparents’ home in the Silver Creek Retirement Community—just a rusty seesaw and two swings. Shayla sat, head drooped, her puffy yellow coat tight over her frilly purple fairy princess costume. Her plastic pumpkin sat on the other swing, overflowing with candy.
“Hello.”
She glanced up to find a boy about her age, eight or nine, judging by the sound of his voice. A ghostly white bedsheet covered him, with perfect holes cut for his ice-blue eyes. One arm poked free, holding a green bucket with a snarling vampire face.
“Are you okay?” Ghost Boy asked.
Shayla shrugged.
“Mind if I sit here?” The boy put his Halloween bucket down.
“Sure, sorry.” She moved her own candy and set it aside.
Ghost Boy sat and swung gently. His black gym shoes kicked up tufts of leaves. “Why do you look so sad?”
“Just hasn’t been the happiest Halloween, I guess.”
“Looks like you got a lot of candy.” The boy raised his arm and pointed, revealing a pair of dark blue jeans beneath his sheet.
“I guess I did, but…” Shayla sighed.
“What?”
“I don’t want to sound ungrateful. My grandparents and all their neighbors are super nice.”
“But?”
Shayla whispered. “It’s old people candy. All of it!”
The boy skidded to a stop. “Old people candy?”
Shayla smiled. “You know. Icky stuff. Black licorice. Sugar-free suckers. Werther’s Originals. Those little foil-wrapped strawberries that taste like cough drops. Bit-O-Honey. Necca Wafers that taste like chalk.” She sighed. “Thirty apartments and not even one Snickers!”
Ghost boy shrugged. “It’s still free candy.”
“I know.” Shayla laughed and swung forward. “I’m being a brat. I love my grandparents. I’m glad they took me in. It’s just…”
“What?” Ghost Boy backed up and swung. They picked up speed and whooshed past each other in the cold October air.
“I miss home. Mom’s looking for a new house. Dad’s… got problems.”
“Problems?” Ghost Boy’s sheet fluttered behind him. Their swings creaked faster.
“Grown-up problems. Grams and Gramps are the best, but nothing beats Halloween back home. Everybody has the best candy. Skittles. Starburst. Twizzlers. Mr. and Mrs. Jones on the corner hand out full-size Snickers bars. You can even get a free small ice cream from the sweet shop if you go in costume.”
“That sounds nice.”
“There aren’t a lot of kids around here. You go to school nearby?”
“I work here,” the boy said.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, I don’t usually look like this. This is just for today.”
Shayla laughed. “Well, duh. It’s Halloween. I don’t normally dress like a princess either. What’s your job?”
“Pick-ups mostly, and sometimes deliveries. I know all these condominiums and communities around here.” Ghost Boy dug his shoes in the mud, and his swing halted. “Hey, if you want, we could trade candy.” He reached for his green vampire bucket and showed her the contents.
“Twizzlers, Snickers, Baby Ruth! Not bad!” Shayla hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yeah, I don’t mind. I actually like all that old people candy.”
Shayla made a disgusted face, shook her head, and shrugged. “If you say so, I guess.” They switched buckets, and Shayla unwrapped a fun-size Hershey bar from the boy’s candy stash. She let the chocolate melt on her tongue. “Mmm! You’re so nice. We should play sometime when you’re not doing pick-ups and deliveries.”
“Really?” Ghost Boy sorted through the old people candy. “Nobody ever wants to play games with me.”
“Well, I do.” Shayla unwrapped a Tootsie Pop. “Anytime you want. I’m here all week.”
Ghost Boy tore open an orange plastic wrapper. “Circus peanuts. Yum.” He slowly lifted and peeled back his sheet, revealing a striped blue and gray polo, a handsome face with flush cheeks, bright blue eyes, a button nose, and neatly cropped blond hair. He popped an orange peanut in his mouth.
“Those things taste like Styrofoam,” Shayla teased. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met under the age of fifty who likes any of that stuff.”
“I told you, I don’t normally look like this.” His sheet crumpled behind him, pinned beneath him on the swing. He gestured to his face. “This is just a costume. I’m actually super old.”
Shaya shivered. Her swing came to a rest. “How old are you?”
“Old as life itself. No wonder I love this old people candy, right?” He smiled. The boy gathered his sheet and stood. “I look forward to our game later this week. But I should warn you, the stakes are high. What’s your name?”
“Shayla.”
The boy fixed his ghost sheet back over his eyes and lifted Shayla’s pumpkin full of old people candy. “It was nice to meet you, Shayla, and thank you for the candy, but I have an appointment with one of your grandparents’ neighbors. My name is Death.”
Kevin M. Folliard hails from the western suburbs of Chicago, IL. He enjoys his day job in academia and membership in the La Grange Writers Group. You can find more of his horror writing in his anthology The Misery King’s Country and by visiting www.KevinFolliard.com.
The Ride Home by Benjamin Armstrong
The sky glows with countless stars, and the mouth of the Jack Daniel's bottle looks dreamily up at me. I sit on a wet street bench beneath a lone light pole; it glows its yellow face down on me. It’s the only light for miles. My phone then buzzes its presence. I look at it and see a message from Larry.
But I don’t wanna talk to Larry right now. Jane’s gone and dead, and Larry’s pissing me off. I forgot what he had said. I will admit it is partially by way of my friend Mr. Jack Daniel’s, who sits half empty. Half empty or half full? Life seems pretty half-empty right now.
I take another swig and turn off my phone. The whiskey goes down not like fire, but like sweet honey to a sore throat.
No time for Larry, not right now. Right now, I am waiting. Waiting. I look up at the light above me that flickers with the flight of so many night bugs. Waiting. But what am I waiting for? A light rain then starts to fall. As if the perspiration were to awaken me, I realize what I was waiting for: an Uber. An Uber I have not yet called. I laugh aloud to my own little miss step and open my phone. I ignore the message from Larry, who’s pleading something, and scroll straight to the little black Uber app. I open it and read the words Current Location, then Destination.
Destination? I ask myself. And where will my destination be? I click on my recent destinations, then on Jane and I’s house. No, not Jane’s remember. Jane is dead, the cancer took her. Took her away from me. And Larry’s pissing me off.
I click the destination, and a man's profile pops up, the black Accept Driver button awaiting my approval. I sigh and close my eyes, the rain trickling onto my bare skin. My breathing grows to a pattern, and I feel the edges of sleep grasp me. Oh, Jane, why'd you leave me? You left me, and now Larry won’t stop bugging me. Larry… Larry…
My phone buzzes again, and my eyes shoot open. Larry’s texting me again, I assume. I must stay awake, I thought. The Uber should be here any minute. I try to hold my heavy eyes open, but they won’t work on their own. I know just what will help though, and I take another gulp of Mr. Daniel’s.
The liquor splashes in my throat, burning it, and opens my eyes as well. Never disappoints. “You're the only one who doesn’t disappoint me,” I say to the bottle. “I think,” I blush. “I think I love you.” I kiss the number twelve on the bottle. The perspiration clings to my lips.
Twelve-year-old liquor, that's as long as Jane and I were married. It seems as if God had fermented and saved it all those years just for me today. God, of course, was the one who made it happen. None else but God could do this. None else but God could be so kind.
The Uber finally arrives. Its headlights are like two great eyes that come to me in the dark. It is a black car, and I can't make out the make or model. I stand up, stretch my stiff legs, and open the back door. It smells like a clean car; the seats are black, polished leather. And it’s dark, so very dark inside the car. I hesitate and look back at the golden lamp post. It glows down on the empty bench that is vandalized with graffiti and peeling paint. I breathe the last of the wet night air and climb into the car.
“You don’t mind, sir?” I ask, lifting my bottle. The driver, who wears a dark green fedora and a face that’s a shadow to my eyes, doesn't respond. I say, “Of course you don’t mind,” under my breath, and take another drink. The rain races across the tinted windows like horizontal tears. Through the tint, I can make out the procession of light posts that are vibrant in the night.
My phone buzzes. Another message from Larry. This time I read it. I’m trying to help you, it says. Help? I laugh and look at my bottle. This is all the help I need, and another drink, that is fire and warmth, fills me.
I look out the window. It is dry, and the light poles have stopped their progress. They have faded, but more so have disappeared entirely. “Driver,” I say. “Are you taking the long way home?”
My phone buzzes again. A rage fills me. This time, I will text Larry to quit his pestering. I open my phone and read the message. It says Hey, hun. I blink and look at the sender, it is Jane.
Must be a prank of some sort. I look at the bottle, then at my phone, another message, this time from Larry. Please, man.
I smile. No, Larry, you don’t understand. I put the bottle to my lips and tip the bottom to face the clean roof of the car. My eyes water with the burn, and the golden liquid bubbles as it drains into my mouth.
My breath feels hollow as I try to blink the tears away. But oh, I feel good. My phone rings. I put the empty bottle to the side and the phone to my ear. “Hello,” I think I say.
“Hey, hun,” Jane says.
“Jane,” I say with a laugh. “Hey, sweety, I’m headed home soon.”
”I know,” she says.
”Wait,” it dawns on me. “This can’t be Jane. Jane’s dead.”
“I know,” she says.
I hang up and look at my phone screen. It’s opened to the Uber app, and the black Accept Driver button is still waiting for my approval.
“Driver,” I say, eyes still on my phone. “Where are we headed?”
Benjamin Armstrong is 20 year old nursing student who enjoys writing in his free time. Ben has had three short stories published previously. He was published in a collection called “What Remains: An Inked in Gray Anthology”. He has also been published two other times in the online magazines “Blue Marble Review” and “Short-Story.Me”. Ben just recently moved to Montana with his wife. He spends his time off reading Tolkien lore.
Not Me by Brad Robertson
Janice heard the front door click and clack from her bed. The familiar sound of Roger fumbling with the locks. He was probably trying to be quiet. And failing miserably, same as always. He was supposed to be out late tonight, correcting a coworker’s mistakes. He’d complained about it on the phone for twenty minutes. Must’ve finished early despite himself.
She thought about getting up to welcome him, but she was comfortable. The light switch was too far away. He could get to it himself if he needed it. She listened quietly from her safe little pocket of darkness under the covers. Any minute now, he’d be taking a shower, using the restroom, washing his hands. He’d probably forget to close the door again. She hated it, but she was tired of fighting about it.
But something was a little off. Looking at the clock, she realized he’d never been early after saying he’d be late. Never. Not in fifteen years. But she was probably just being paranoid. Then she realized that they didn’t sound like his footsteps. Uneven, unsteady. Like one foot was heavier than the other. The footsteps didn’t stop at the bathroom. They stumbled straight towards the bedroom with a single-minded determination. Was he drunk? But he never drank.
She locked her eyes on the door. She was barely able to make it out by the dim moonlight. Her breathing had gone quiet. She was just paranoid again, right? It was just anxiety. He would open the door and comfort her, just like he always did.
The hand on the doorknob was sloppy and loud. It wasn’t the sound of someone who confidently knew how to find it. It was clumsy, apish. It wasn’t Roger. She was sure of it now. It wasn’t Roger. Her breathing was starting to become unstable. She wondered if they—if it—could hear her panting. The awkward slapping hand finally forced the door open.
The slow, ominous way the door started to open felt like a sick joke. Like the door was in on it, relishing in the grand reveal. It quietly carved a path inward, then the arm suddenly thrashed against it, forcibly swinging it out into the room.
The misshapen silhouette of something that was nearly human stood in the doorway, slumped ever so slightly to one side, its limbs in the wrong positions. Janice, sitting up in her bed, couldn’t scream. She didn’t dare call out to it. Its proportions were almost human. Almost. One arm was perhaps a bit too long. Its asymmetrical shoulders were wrong. The way it convulsed was sickening.
Ragged, painful breaths radiated from it, bouncing off the walls and into her ears. Like a starving dog. An injured cat. Something dying…or dead. Her hand slid around helplessly on her covers, searching desperately for the big, strong husband who wasn’t home. He would be late. Very late. Far too late.
It trembled and flexed and thumped its one regular arm against the wall indecisively, as if it were searching for the light switch. The longer, misshapen arm flopped and swayed beside it. She heard a raspy babbling. Like the sound of a baby mixed with a chain smoker. Almost words. Almost decipherable. It flailed and wiggled, still reaching out in vain.
It finally found the light switch. It flipped it up triumphantly, revealing its body all at once. Janice screamed in horror, then got out of her bed and ran towards it. It was Roger. One side of his face was drooping pathetically downward. He was babbling incoherently, staring at her with eyes that were half-begging, half-accusing. She realized immediately that it was a stroke.
Through teary eyes, she managed to call 911 while she lay him down on the bed. They talked her through it calmly, quietly, firmly. Roger managed to rest one arm on her leg. She could sense the message hidden deep behind his tired, terrified gaze. Even like this, he was instinctively trying to comfort her. The working hand squeezed gently while he babbled softly up at her.
First responders were there within minutes. Everything they did was so quick and efficient, but never quick enough. They instructed her to follow after to the hospital, but only if she felt safe to drive. She knew where the hospital was, so she sent them on ahead, staring at her husband’s weak body as he tried to smile at her with one corner of his mouth.
After they left, she rinsed her face and then tried to calm herself down as she slipped silently into her frayed jacket. She shook her hands in front of her and practiced the breathing exercises her therapist had taught her. She tried not to think. As she picked up her phone, she noticed a missed voicemail from Roger. She gathered her courage and clicked on it. She wanted to hear his voice right now.
The voice was gasping and heaving. The quality was terrible, like he’d been going through a tunnel. “Janice, listen to…not in the house…that thing…not me. Please…that…not me!”
Her back slammed against the wall as she slid to the floor. Her eyes widened, and her breathing destabilized, heavy and hard. She stared blankly at her reflection in the hallway mirror. Her fingers hovered over the touchscreen, as if she thought she could click on something to make it all go away.
The Lantern's Gift by C.A. Larkin
Nobody knew who lived in the house at the end of Birch Street, back then. I thought it was abandoned. In our eyes, the old Victorian was as good as any haunted mansion, all peeling paint and boarded-up windows and creaky wrought-iron gates. It was the kind of house the neighborhood kids made up stories about, the site of countless ding-dong ditch dares. So it didn’t take long for the rumors to spread that Halloween night—someone’s in the old Birch Street mansion, giving out gifts. Of course, we had to see for ourselves.
I trailed behind Mike and some of his friends from school. They’d complained about having to babysit, but Mom had the final say. Mostly, they ignored me. Mike had a new baseball card he wouldn't shut up about—“It’s Billy Ripken, and look, see what’s written on his bat?”—and his friends kept laughing. Maybe if I had a baseball card with a dirty word on it, I thought, I’d be popular too.
The mansion’s windows glowed orange, matched by the flicker of what must have been a hundred jack-o’-lanterns around the front porch. Each face was unique—grins and scowls, vampire teeth and slitted cat eyes. In a rocking chair on the porch sat what I mistook for a scarecrow, until he moved. The man—it had to be a man—was bone-thin and wore a bulbous jack-o’-lantern mask, one of those clever ones with a light inside to make his eyes glow. The pumpkin face grinned crookedly at us as the man lifted open the mouth of a misshapen burlap sack.
He terrified me. But it was Halloween, so I was delighted.
The man didn’t need to speak. The instructions seemed obvious: one at a time, reach into the bag without peeking. The first thing you touched was yours, but you could only take one. No trades, no takebacks. Lisa got a wind-up bird that soared in circles around her when she turned the key. Raj got a glass eye, vivid green and staring; Zoe got a silver coin with writing in a language none of us recognized. I pulled out a rabbit’s foot with black fur, delicate as silk, worn thin over brittle knobs of bone.
Then Mike reached into the bag and withdrew the stub of a beeswax candle, yellow and gnarled with rivulets of old wax. The pumpkin man tilted his head. His body creaked as he moved. He still didn’t speak, but I understood. This was a very special prize. Mike was a lucky boy. There was a muddled swelling of emotion in my chest—pride, jealousy, fear.
The man unfolded his limbs and loomed to full height, at least seven feet. He opened the door and gestured for Mike to follow. Through the doorway, I could see the flickering glow of even more jack-o’-lanterns inside the house, thousands of them. Their faces were all the same—gaping holes in a rough approximation of eyes and mouth, rimmed black with rot. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak as the door closed behind Mike.
Instantly, the flame in every jack-o’-lantern snuffed out, leaving us in darkness.
I would regret running for the rest of my life. I tore away from the house and down the street, past laughing groups of trick-or-treaters, and didn’t stop until I was home. I didn’t realize until later that the front of my Superman costume was soaked cold and stank of urine.
The police searched for months but never believed me when I told them what had happened. Mike’s friends denied everything. The doors and windows of the Birch Street mansion were boarded up as they had always been, and the thick dust on the floor showed no footprints. The jack-o’-lanterns were gone, save for one, sitting on the porch with empty eyes, the candle inside had burned down to a puddle of cold wax. I never saw my brother again.
###
Twenty years later, I walked down Birch Street with my daughter. I’d hated Halloween ever since that night, but pretended for Maya’s sake. Fought back the nausea, smiled at the costumed kids, stayed a step behind her as she twirled in a blue princess dress.
“Look, let’s go there next!” Maya pointed down the long driveway, and the bottom dropped out of my stomach. The old Birch Street mansion had been remodeled long ago and purchased by an elderly couple with grandkids and Pomeranians. Nice, normal people. Whoever—whatever—had been there when I was a child was long gone. But my mouth still went dry and my neck prickled with sweat when I saw the jack-o’-lanterns outside.
Before I could stop her, Maya was running up the driveway. I ran after her, pushing through the crowd of trick-or-treaters, until I stood face-to-face with the figure on the porch. Long limbs held a heavy burlap sack open invitingly. A carved jack-o’-lantern face that had been watching the children tilted up to regard me. This close, I could see that it wasn’t a mask. I could smell the sweet rot of pumpkin flesh, see the dangling slimy strands inside where a few seeds remained. Behind the crooked grin, a small stub of a beeswax candle flickered brightly.
I didn’t know how long I stared, but when I tore my gaze away, I realized Maya was already withdrawing her hand from the bag, something clutched in her small fingers. Heart racing, I grabbed her, pulled her away, and ran back to the street.
“Ow! Dad, put me down!”
I glanced back to make sure we weren’t followed, then finally forced myself to loosen my grip. “Sorry, sweetie,” I panted. “Sorry. What…what did he give you? Show me.”
She hesitated, wide-eyed. Not scared of the jack-o’-lantern man, I realized. Scared of me. “It’s just an old baseball card. See?” She held it out. Part of me already knew, but I had to be sure. I took it with trembling hands.
Billy Ripken, 1989.
C. A. Larkin is a queer horror writer, tea enthusiast, and alleged forest witch living in northern California. Their work has been featured in the Humboldt County Writers 2024 and 2025 anthologies, Water and Earth. When not writing, they enjoy long walks on foggy mornings, searching for cursed artifacts at thrift shops, and befriending the local corvids.
Tantalizing Tootsies by Jay Seate
Madeline loves her dainty, near-perfect feet. She constantly lifts her legs to admire them. “I possess the narrowest, smallest, most exquisite feet anyone has ever seen,” she says in a sing-song voice. Many comment on the beauty of her feet, and others adore them. Ten little piggies adorned with flaming red, vibrant toenail polish. The soles and arches of her feet soak in olive oil and are treated with Lanolin, resulting in the well-tended, terminal points of her body upon which she stands, appendages without calluses or blemishes.
For her Halloween party, Madeline plans on dressing to the nines, draping her body in black and orange silks, and applying her most provocative fright make-up, but nothing so spectacular as to distract from her feet to be revealed in frivolous pumps with small straps to show off as much of her feet as possible. People speak softly and reverently in her presence, marveling at her ever-present determination to showcase her assets.
No tricks, only treats after the party. When Madeline’s footwear is removed, only a few ghosts and goblins, the special ones who understand how important her feet are to her, will be allowed to caress them and make her painted toes wiggle in blissful anticipation. The adoration her wondrous feet draw is of the utmost importance.
It is no wonder Madeline takes such pride in her tantalizing tootsies. They are the blessing that accompanies the curse of being armless, her upper limbs having been sawed off at the shoulders by a deranged neighbor on an ill-fated Halloween night when she was still a child.
Troy stands on the side of the literary highway and thumbs down whatever genre comes roaring by. His storytelling runs the gamut from Horror Novel Review’s Best Short Fiction to the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. His memoirs and essays report fact while his fiction incorporates fantasy, suspense, or humor featuring the quirkiest of characters. His latest short-story collection, Gallery of Souls, is now available on Amazon.
Halloween Love is Tentacles Intertwined by Paul Garson
We first met on the FangandClaw dating site, exchanged contact info, then agreed to rendezvous at the Looney-Ruins Amusement Park just outside the City of Ghoulds. Masks were required, but considering it was Pre-Hallow's Eve Fright Night, not a problem, plus it was two for the price of one.
She stood out in the crowd of lurching nightmares, throngs of ravenous zombies, diaphanous ghosts, and screeching demons. She made me laugh in delirium. Why? Because I thought she was the most beautiful thing this side of the Mariana Trench Aquarium. How would I describe her? For starters, her own squidlicious tentacles were as svelte as a Kardashian sweater, her neck as tempting as a Chik-a-fil drumstick, her legs equal to any Olympic hurdle.
We were obviously a match made in Heaven knows where. You see, I came as a well-armed Kraken, one looking for a mate to tangle with if you catch my drift and the metaphor.
Lit by the full Moon, the night air perfumed with the scent of hot buttered entrails, we strolled tentacle to tentacle, distracted. We paused when hearing the Shivering Seaslugs performing from within the Spinning Anti-Gravity Gondola, which made their tunes come and go with a whiplash effect. They played Oldie Goldies like One-Eyed, One-Horned, Flying Purple Eater by Sheb Wooley and Monster Mash by Bobby “Boris” Pickett and the Crypt-Kickers. Who could resist? So, I asked her to dance, and in a flash, into my many arms she pretended to swoon, her barbs conscientiously retracted.
As the band played on, we swirled and twirled the night away with a frantic Tarantella, but at midnight, this fella did beg a restroom break badly. When I returned, she was gone. I searched for her high and low until they closed the park, the last gnome and goblin having squeezed through the exit gate. With my tentacles drooping sadly, I threw my several legs over my motorcycle and rode home very alone.
Drowning in love-struck and love-lost, all the rest of that night, penned I this epic poem, lacking rhyme but stoked with reason, the words inked on a roll of Pandemic-precious Charmin still in season. I squeezed and choked, linking all the letters wrung from my heart onto 400 double-sheets, each hung with the word “Love” spelt in a different tongue, as in “Let me count the ways” invoked by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Then, as the caustic sun rose, in my box of ancient mulch, I hunkered until that offending orb set. As darkness closed tight as my coffin lid, I once more climbed aboard my bike and did embark, that so-soft roll of Love safe in bubble-wrap, my trip well-mapped.
Upon arrival at the gabled house, found festively festooned with skeletons, humorous gravestones, and bats aflutter, bright lights flashing, I rang the doorbell. Hearing the pleasant dirge it played, I stepped back and held my well-baited breath. Would she answer? A moment later, I heard pitter-pattering as something approached the door. It opened and there she stood in mix-matched, zebra-striped leotards and leopard-spotted attire, her lovely eyes afire.
I handed the roll to her. Tears welled up as the first three sheets of my poem took their toll. Then she, in quiet pace with them, wiped her face. With 397 more words of Love to unroll, and nothing left to hide, she beckoned me inside, again her barbs retracted, ready for my warm embrace.
Later, as the Halloween costumers wandered to the door, dreaming they arrived at a Haunted House and calling out “Trick or Treat,” we required the latter. Both brought our buckets to the door and unfurled our tentacles. Before they could begin screaming, “What's the matter!” we divided up the most tasty ones streaming.
Now with tentacles intertwined, our buckets overflowing, and our love felt flowing, we send out Halloween Greetings to all and to all a good fright.
Previous works include 11 nonfiction books traditionally published (US) via Simon & Schuster, Chicago Review Press, McFarland & Co. and (UK) Amberley Media and Fonthill Press. His eclectic spectrum of feature articles, often with his own photography, appeared in some 80 US and international periodicals, both print and digital, again primarily nonfiction plus several short fiction pieces joined by two sci-fi screenplays produced by Cinetel and American Independent as well a sci-fi novel via Doubleday. He also created and co-hosted a live-streamed Internet interview series focusing on mysteries and the paranormal titled Aliens Ate My Motorcycle. More recently he appeared on a segment of the History Channel series The Proof is Out There. Professionally he served as Editor and Feature Writer at several national motorsport magazines including Easyriders and Hot Rod. He has taught composition and writing at USC and Cal State Fullerton, traveled 150,000 miles on motorcycles, visited some 20 countries including Russia, Germany and Japan and enjoyed many years as an amateur astronomer and student of martial arts. MA Johns Hopkins; MFA USC. He resides in a Los Angeles apartment with a bad rug and a good cat.
The Bar by Kathleen Zamora
Jo wiped the bar top, though there weren’t any spills. His customers were special that way, always tidy, never rowdy or a nuisance. Jo preferred it this way. He didn’t handle conflict well and had trouble making friends in the past. He didn’t always understand the means of standard social conventions and always felt a little lost because of it, until one day the world changed for him. He started working at the bar.
“You know, Dan,” he started, “I think you’re my best friend.”
Dan didn’t respond, well — not in words, anyway. He just cupped his glass of beer and gave Jo a blank stare. Jo didn’t care that Dan didn’t speak; he understood what it meant to be a reserved kind of man. Besides, Dan’s undivided attention was all that Jo needed. He didn’t need words to convey what Dan’s stare did. It was unbiased, but that type of understanding was what resonated with Jo.
“You’re always here for me,” Jo continued, slapping the rag across his shoulder and leaning on the counter. “No judgment, just company. I appreciate that. Before I started working here, I didn’t have many friends. No one really cared about what I had to say, always talked over me, or looked the other way. But you always give me your undivided attention. This bar really has been the greatest thing to happen to me.”
Jo checked the time on his watch, “Well, it’s time to close up now. Thanks for the talk, Dan.”
Jo took a moment, pried the still-full glass out of Dan’s stiff hand, took a swig, then poured the rest down the drain. He retrieved the other glasses and plates from around the bar and did the same, muttering a few excuse me-s and have a good night-s along the way. There were no responses from the customers, only the clinking of glass as Jo stacked them away and the chorus of a slow song playing from the jukebox in the corner.
When he finished clearing up, he grabbed Dan off the barstool and positioned him by the door, his plastic limbs creaked with movement as Jo lifted Dan’s arm in a wave. He rearranged some of the other customers too, and grabbed a dry-erase marker to change their expressions; a woman crying in the corner, a couple of men in suits around their favorite table, a couple mid-dance by the jukebox.
He looked around the bar, smiling at his found family, thinking about how lucky he was to find this place amidst the backtrack of a dying world. He shut off the lights as he left, prepared to sleep and return the next day.
Kathleen Zamora lives in the San Fernando Valley. She earned a B.A and M.A in English with a focus in Creative Writing from California State University, Northridge. Her work has appeared in Blue World Literary, Game's Room, and Mystic Owl Magazine. IG: @kathleeniswriting
The Hollowing by M.D. Smith
It was the night before Halloween when Claire turned off the county road and followed the dirt track into Barrow’s Hollow.
She hadn’t meant to come this far. Her GPS had gone haywire miles back, the screen freezing, then flickering before dying altogether. She drove on instinct until she saw the crooked wooden sign, half-rotted and strangled in vines:
BARROW’S HOLLOW — EST. 1792
By the time she thought of turning back, the road had narrowed to a corridor of black trees, branches scraping her windshield like claws. Her headlights caught lanterns ahead, flickering orange, dozens of them.
The road opened into a village that time had left behind. Crooked cabins sagged like rotting teeth. Windows glowed with candlelight. Figures crowded the dirt street, their faces pale, their eyes sharp and unblinking.
Children wore masks carved from wood, grotesque visages of beasts with gaping jaws and antlers. Adults draped themselves in garlands of dead corn husks and feathers caked with old blood.
Claire slowed. Her heart thudded. “Is this… some kind of reenactment?”
A tall man stepped forward, holding a lantern high. His skin was the gray of ash, his cheeks hollow, his eyes black and bottomless. He smiled, but it showed no warmth. “No one is lost on Hollowing Eve.”
A woman stepped out from the crowd and pressed something into Claire’s hand. A stubby candle, slick with wax. “Keep it burning,” she whispered. Her breath stank of rot. “Else the dead mistake you for one of theirs.”
Claire recoiled, fumbling with her car keys. But the villagers closed in, their lanterns hemming her like a noose of firelight. They led her to the village green.
A stone well squatted in the center, its mouth yawning wide, edges crumbled and slimy with moss. Around it stood scarecrows, twelve of them, arms outstretched, their burlap faces turned toward the black pit. Their straw guts hung loose, but they dripped dark stains, as if soaked in something thicker than rain.
The tall man pointed at the well. “The Hollow wakes. Tonight, it feeds.”
Claire backed away. “No. No, you’ve got the wrong person. I don’t want any part of this!”
But a circle of masked children closed around her, their small hands pushing, forcing her toward the well. The crowd began to chant, low, guttural, like the drone of hornets.
Women beat drums stretched with cracked hides. Men rattled bones strung like wind chimes. The air thickened with smoke from burning herbs, acrid and bitter.
The earth beneath her feet trembled.
From the well came a sound.
At first, a faint sigh, then a cavernous inhale, like lungs the size of mountains filling with air. The ground split. Roots surged upward, black and wet, glistening as if slick with blood. They slithered like eels, writhing toward Claire.
One coiled around her ankle. Cold. Pulsing. Alive.
She screamed and kicked, tearing free, but another root lashed her wrist, winding tight enough to bruise. Tiny suckers latched into her skin. She felt them drink.
The tall man’s voice rose above the chanting. “Once with our own, once with a stranger. The Hollow must eat both, or it devours all.”
The roots yanked Claire forward. Dirt scraped her palms bloody as she clawed the ground.
“No! Please! I’m not… ”
A root forced its way into her mouth. She gagged, choking on the taste of iron and rot, like rusted nails and spoiled meat. It slid down her throat, writhing deeper, rooting itself inside her.
Her scream became a wet gurgle.
The villagers howled, triumphant, as the Hollow fed.
Roots pierced her skin, puncturing arms and legs. Blood streamed into the soil. One root slithered beneath her flesh, bulging under her skin as it tunneled toward her heart. Her body spasmed, convulsing, pinned like a puppet.
Claire’s eyes rolled back as the root split her chest open. There was no blood spray, only a black ooze that hissed where it touched the earth. The Hollow drank.
The scarecrows leaned forward, burlap mouths opening in soundless screams, as if they too hungered.
With a final, sucking pull, the roots dragged her into the well. Her fingernails clawed furrows in the stone until they tore free. The earth swallowed her whole.
Silence fell. Only the faint sound of chewing lingered in the dark.
The ritual ended.
One by one, the villagers extinguished their lanterns. The scarecrows were turned outward, their dripping heads facing the night.
“The Hollow sleeps,” the tall man intoned. His words carried the weight of centuries.
The people dispersed, shadows slipping into crooked houses. The drums stilled. The chanting ceased.
The village fell silent again, as if nothing had ever happened.
But sometimes, travelers who stray too far off the highway whisper of strange things.
They say they’ve seen lanterns swaying deep among the pines, and children with wooden masks peering from the tree line.
They tell of a woman crawling from the soil, her body tangled with roots that twitch and pulse, her mouth torn wide in a scream that isn’t hers. Her eyes shine with yellow fire. When she opens her lips, only a wet, sucking noise comes out, like earth breathing through her.
And if you linger too long near Barrow’s Hollow, some swear you can hear her still, deep below the ground, begging in a shredded voice: “Please. Don’t let it take me again.”
No one listens.
The Hollow will wake next year. And it always hungers.
M.D. Smith of Huntsville, AL, writer of over 350 flash stories, has published digitally in Frontier Times, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bewilderingstories.com and many more. Retired from running a television station, he lives with his wife of 64 years and three cats. https://mdsmithiv.com/
The Tezcat Apparatus by Alex Grass
The device that the salesman had out on the coffee table in Zachary’s living room looked like someone had taken the mechanical movement from the guts of a music box and drilled it sideways into a miniature model of an old-fashioned phone booth. An LCD screen was mounted to the exterior housing.
“How does it keep birds and critters out of the garden?” Zachary asked.
The grandfatherly salesman wore a curious wardrobe: filthy sneakers below a Nehru suit, and black sunglasses too small to properly conceal cataracted eyes. He also wore a glove on his right hand, with the two middle sheaths sewn shut where those fingers were obviously missing.
He told Zachary, “It’s a combination of sonic deterrence and pattern recognition. If the animal doesn’t bother with what you’re growing, the Tezcat Apparatus will leave the animal alone. But if the animal goes nosing for carrots in your furrows, the Apparatus will deter them from doing it again.”
“It looks expensive,” Zachary said, reaching toward the brassy gold hardware along the hinges. He was drawn to glittering appurtenance in the way of a magpie.
“Please don’t touch that,” the salesman said, though he didn’t seem to be looking at Zachary or the Apparatus—Zachary was almost certain that the man was blind. “We don’t recommend premature physical contact with the Apparatus.”
“Why? Is it dangerous?”
The salesman visibly restrained himself from frowning. “No, but it is a sensitive device. It’s been carefully calibrated. The Apparatus is a model of mechanical and computational durability, but fiddling with it before placement affects its pattern recognition. It’s best not to touch it until it’s been mounted and activated.”
“Does it work?”
“Most assuredly, sir,” the salesman said. “Our other test customers have reported a one-hundred percent reduction in invasive destruction. Most have elected to keep the Apparatus in place after the trial period.”
“Test customers? What does that mean?” Zachary raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, sir. I should have been clearer. You see, the Tezcat Apparatus is not readily available for purchase by the public. You have been selected as one of the domiciliary testing sites. If you’re interested, of course.”
Zachary nodded and clicked his teeth with his tongue. He took a sip of his coffee as he mulled it over. “Well, I’d sure like to keep those goddamn ground squirrels and jackrabbits out of my root veggies,” he said. “How much does it cost?”
The salesman knowingly smiled. “We provide it to you at no cost. Maintenance and repairs are free, as well. We just ask to be able to regularly check the Apparatus so we can make updates and log functionality, to improve the product before it’s available to the public-at-large.”
“Free, huh?” Zachary smiled.
“Yes, sir.”
“Can’t get no better than that.”
The salesman grinned; he was closing the deal. “No, sir, you cannot.”
“Shit,” Zachary said, “I’ll take it.”
###
Zachary sipped his morning coffee as he watched a jackrabbit lope and sniff around his patch of rutabagas. He kept looking back and forth between the Apparatus mounted on the wooden pole and the jackrabbit sniffing at the plants.
“Goddamnit,” he said in a grumbling complaint, “do something.”
An array of green dots suddenly projected from the Apparatus and swept down over the jackrabbit. As the jackrabbit stumbled and rolled onto its back, Zachary twitched a little and tucked his chin into his neck in surprise.
He went outside and looked at the varmint, nudging it with the tip of his shoe. The jackrabbit leapt up, startling Zachary back so he spilled coffee on himself and yelled. “Shit!” Then the fleet-footed hare took flight, bounding toward a wooded refuge of copses and brambles.
###
The same thing happened a few dozen more times—at least, that was the frequency with which Zachary witnessed, firsthand, the Apparatus bathe the bushy-tailed intruders in a shower of neon green light.
At the end of the week, Zachary’s doorbell rang. It was right around the time he’d scheduled the technician’s visit on the Tezcat app (and boy, wasn’t that convenient?). He opened the door and saw the old blind man in the Nehru suit and begrimed sneakers. The salesman was holding a large, empty duffel bag in one hand and a tablet in the other.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Yes, it’s me,” the salesman said, smiling. “I just wanted to make sure it’s okay to go around back and run diagnostics on the Apparatus.”
“Absolutely. You need me for anything?”
The salesman shook his head. “No, no, sir. Everything’s well in hand.”
Zachary went to his window and watched the salesman enter his backyard. The salesman took out his touchscreen tablet and plugged it into the Tezcat Apparatus. Zachary saw on the Apparatus’s LCD display, which faced his window, as computer images of jackrabbits, squirrels, voles, coons, skunks, and chipmunks ran in a sequence.
He watched in astonishment as a group of wild animals in a correspondingly exact species ratio gathered around the salesman. The salesman pressed a button on his tablet. All at once, the varmints keeled over, paws pointed heavenward. All of them, to a one, were surely dead.
The salesman walked around, picking up the dozens of animal carcasses and stuffing them in his duffel bag. It took him five minutes to finish cleaning up the dead bodies, at which point he departed Zachary’s backyard.
The doorbell rang again. Zachary went to his front door and opened it. The salesman was pulling off his right glove as Zachary opened the door—Zachary saw that the man was no longer missing his ring and middle finger.
“Alright, sir, that’s it for the week,” the salesman said as he took his sunglasses off his face and tucked them in his suit’s out breast pocket—his eyes were perfectly clear, no evidence there’d ever been cataracts. “Just one last thing.”
“Yes?” Zachary said.
“Would you be interested in trying out our new home security system?”
Alex Grass was born in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. He now writes and lives in Brooklyn with his wife and three kids.
The Sweater by Mike Sherer
It had been raining for hours. The old woman had known it would rain on this night. It always did the night of October 16th. She sat on the couch in the living room with one lamp on, listening to the rain. Normally, she would be asleep at this time of night. But not this night. She stared at the front door.
Until it opened. A young boy of about 10 walked in. His hair was dripping with water, and his clothes were soaked through. "Hello, Jim," the old woman said.
"Hi, Mom," he answered. "Dad dropped me off. I asked him to come in, but he wouldn't. He thinks you are still mad at him."
"I'm not mad at him at all."
The young boy took off a sodden sweater several sizes too big. "This sweater is his. He gave it to me because I was so wet. And it's so cold. Will you give this back to him?"
"I'll see he gets it back."
The young boy shivered. "I'm freezing. I'm going up to dry off and put my pajamas on."
"Of course. And Jim?" This stopped the young boy at the foot of the stairs. "It's so good to see you."
He smiled. "It's good to see you, too, Mom."
"When you see your dad, tell him I appreciate him bringing you home."
"Okay." The young boy dashed up the stairs.
The old woman stood and picked up the sweater, holding it to her nose to inhale the fresh scents of her son and her husband.
The next morning, the old woman folded the sweater and took it with her as she walked out the door. It was chilly and damp, and the sidewalk was covered with dead leaves the rain had brought down. She walked several blocks to the cemetery, then wound through the narrow lanes to a pair of graves. The headstones were incised with the names 'John Wagner' and 'Jim Wagner', and the identical date of October 16 from thirty years ago.
The old woman bowed her head as if to pray. "Thank you, John, for bringing our son to see me again. As you do every anniversary. I'm not mad at you. I know you didn't mean to cause his death. I know how much you loved him. The car wreck that killed you both was an accident. I'd like to see you again, too, one of these times. But if that can't happen, please continue bringing Jim by to see me. It's what I live for."
The old woman placed the sweater on John Wagner's grave. "This sweater still looks as good as the day I bought it for you. I hope to see it again next year. With my son wearing it." The old woman raised on creaking legs and walked away with a smile.
Mike Sherer lives in West Chester in southwest Ohio just north of Cincinnati. His screenplay ‘Hamal_18’ was produced and released direct to DVD and is currently available to stream on Tubi. 5 published novels: ‘A Cold Dish’ (James Ward Kirk Fiction), ‘Shadytown’ (INtense Publications), ‘Souls of Nod’ (Breaking Rules Publishing) ‘Flatlanders’ (WolfSinger), and ‘World Tour’ (Ink & Quill). Also published 7 novellas and 35 short stories. None of this was self-published. More info with links can be found at his author site: From the North Rim (mikesherer.org)
The Interview of a Lifetime by M. Weigel
Yes, Mr. Reporter, you finally noticed that I do not have a reflection and that I tend to be nocturnal. The current headlines are so fantastic that your story will never see print or whatever constitutes its equivalent these days. Since you cannot make a name for yourself by outing my species, why are you here? What do you actually want? I will give you three questions.
Before you use one, please don’t ask for anything boring. I cannot bestow immortality. I am terrible at the whole transformation stuff, and honestly, I find most fluid exchanges unnecessarily complicated and messy. I have zero interest in touching your blood. I have an aversion to the stuff. Think of me as a vegan for my kind.
Thank you for asking. I mostly live on fruit juice. Smoothies have been lovely since mortals invented the blender. Oh, pick up your jaw, sir. Our digestive systems don’t really work, and we must hydrate if we don’t want the sun to dry us into husks that burst into flames. That last California wildfire was caused by one of us who forgot to take hydration seriously.
I’ll give you a freebie. The myths are our writing and film nerds goofing off. Think about it. Would anyone who cannot fill an evening willingly choose immortality? Most of us enjoy our hobbies. I was a scribe in ages past, and I now collect fancy pens. Today, I work as a consultant for the local museum, and I spend my time reading books.
That noise? It was likely my housekeeper. She matches her hours to mine, and she likes having a quiet house to tend to. I suspect she is writing a novel. No, I would never eat her. That would be rude. Besides, she is a werewolf. Most of us do not like the tang of wolf fur in the blood.
Ugh. Those questions were free since you were distracted. Let me address the standard stuff before you waste your questions on something boring again. Everyone assumes that being immortal means watching everyone you love die, and yes, that often happens. What some of you refuse to acknowledge is how little you support the countless mortals who endure the same pain. I’ve lived long enough to know that I will see everyone in some form again, and on the day I fail to hydrate and get stranded in the wrong place at high noon, I will see my loved ones. I agreed to the change so I could tell them more stories, and I hope for more days ahead, if I am honest.
Ah. Yes, most people query us about history. No, most of us do not see empires fall. I live quietly and have become good at noting patterns. I noticed the quakes leading up to Vesuvius and was halfway to what was left of Gaul long before the explosion. I pulled my money out of Britain when Jamestown was founded, and I was in Los Angeles when France killed its aristocrats.
A question about technology. Good choice. I like watching the new tools you mortals invent. I had one of the first phones, and the earliest cars were so loud compared to today. Loving technology has its drawbacks, however. Do you know how often I have had to rebuy my favorite waltzes? I am terrified of the task of converting my library to eBooks.
You ask, “What now?” as you have finished your questions, and you have finally noticed the locked door. I gave you my word that I meant you no harm, and my sharp teeth will not pierce your flesh. As I said though, people tend to make assumptions about my kind. You assumed I was alone or with a host of psychotic wives, but my journey is not as lonely or as cinematic as you assumed.
I let myself be seen and discovered this week. My sister is to visit from London, and it appears she has arrived. That noise was not my housekeeper.
Hester, I assume you might be hungry. I have a snack for you. He is nice and fresh as you like them.
What? I said I was vegan. Hester drinks blood, and air travel dries her out. I cannot have her bursting into flame, and you were foolish enough to enter my home.
M. Weigel retells myths and fairy tales and explores science fiction, fantasy, and horror. When not writing, she researches stories in their oldest forms to see how they survive and transform into today’s tales. She can be found online: @Peronelle@mas.to on Mastodon and @peronelle.bsky.social at Bluesky.
Borrowed Masks by David Horn
The masks were brittle things; cheap plastic stamped in some factory overseas and haphazardly tossed into wire bins at the drugstore with bright orange stickers: HALLOWEEN SPECIAL — $1.99.
Sam chose a skeleton. Tessa, too old to trick-or-treat and too young to stay home, settled for a vampire. Two dollars to be someone else for a night, she thought, and clamped the sour-smelling grin across her face.
Neighborhood kids thronged the sidewalks—children in capes, paper bags brushing at their legs, porch lights strung in tidy rows. Sam scuttled ahead, his skeleton mask bobbing in the dark.
By the time the last porch light blinked off, their pillowcases sagged heavily with candy. Sam’s voice muffled through the mask. “Can I take mine off now?”
“Yeah,” Tessa said, tugging at hers—the elastic bit at her ears. But the mask wouldn’t budge.
Heat thrummed beneath it, hot and insistent. The plastic softened, warping, biting at her cheeks. Sam whimpered, clawing at his mask. The black paint seeped into his pores, thick as bruises. He dug red lines down his arms.
“Don’t—” Tessa said, but her voice was hollow now, low and rattling like the lid of a coffin.
They stared at strangers in the bathroom mirror. Tessa’s cheeks were sunken; her lips twisted into a rictus grin. Sam’s eye sockets were too hollow, his teeth too white against the shadows of his face.
Their mother burst in. One look, and the scissors were already in her hand. She hacked at Sam’s mask. The blades snagged on his brow, splitting skin. Blood welled bright red. Sam screamed, the pitch so high the mirror vibrated in its frame.
The scissors clattered to the tile. Their mother stumbled back, pressing herself into the corner. Her lips moved, but no sound came—only a tremor of prayer. Her eyes slid from them, as if she could not bear to claim what stood before her.
She did not touch them again.
Neighbors came the next morning. They did not ask questions. They only stared, faces pale behind screen doors. One woman crossed herself and spat onto the lawn. A man muttered, “Hundred years to the day,” before slamming his shutters.
Police came. Doctors.
Everywhere, the story was the same. The masks hadn’t come off. The faces beneath them had changed. Witches with crooked mouths. Wolves with too sharp teeth. Pumpkins with eyes that glowed faintly in the dark.
Parents begged. Doctors cut and burned. Tessa’s mother dragged her to the hospital, where white lights hummed overhead. On a table nearby, a boy with a pumpkin mask convulsed. The scalpel touched his brow, and his head caved like rotted rind. Seeds spilled across the tile. His mother collapsed with a howl that echoed down the corridor.
Tessa pressed her mask tighter across her face, as if holding herself together. Sam gripped her hand, his bones clicking beneath the skin.
That night, the priest came, a vial of holy water in his hand. He sprinkled it on Tessa’s cheek. Steam hissed where it touched. She hissed back, words bubbling in a tongue no one recognized. The priest staggered, dropping the vial to the ground.
“This is their due,” he murmured, retreating toward the door. His eyes never left hers.
Days blurred. Parents stopped calling doctors. Some prayed, but only in whispers. Some fled, cars packed and silent.
Tessa and Sam wandered the streets at night. Their pillowcases dragged behind them, dripping with something black that stained the sidewalks. Their reflections in the windowpanes no longer followed. Lamps dimmed when they passed.
One evening, drifting past the square, Tessa heard voices. Old men huddled at the base of the stone monument—the one child always ignored. Its engraving read: Dedicated All Hallows, 1825. To God’s Glory and Our Children’s Future.
Their whispers clung to the air. “Festival of Lights…the fields were failing…masks to fool the spirits…crops risen, children gone.” Their voices trembled with memory, not myth.
Tessa felt Sam’s bony fingers curl into hers. The stone seemed to pulse in rhythm with their hollow chests.
By the second week, the children no longer wept. Hunger gnawed, but not for candy. Their voices warped, guttural, carrying hymns in tones too old for their small lungs.
Dogs whimpered in backyards. Parents bolted shutters. The town pretended to sleep while the children gathered in the dark.
At first, it was twos and threes. Then dozens. Masks glowing faintly, pillowcases trailing wet stains across the pavement. Their voices rose in chorus, threads of a hymn the adults had not heard since the founding.
Tessa tried to remember her own face. She thought and thought, but the mirror showed only the vampire—lips torn wide, skin pale as candle wax. Sam tilted his skull grin toward her, jaw clicking like loose dice.
“We’re not wearing them anymore,” he whispered.
His teeth clicked together, sharp and steady.
“They’re wearing us.”
Halloween came and went, but the masks stayed.
The old stone in the square grew slick with rain. At its base, the children sang. Not nursery rhymes, not songs of play, but hymns carried on the wind, verses their throats should never have known.
The melody spread across rooftops, weaving through bolted doors and shuttered windows. Adults huddled in their houses, ears pressed to the floor, praying the hymn would fade.
But it did not fade.
And when the porch lights flickered out, one by one, the town went dark, waiting for the next hundred years.
David Horn is the author of the short story collection Signals from the Edge. His stories have appeared or will appear in the Pomona Valley Review, Neon Origami, AntipodeanSF, and several Beyond Words anthologies. He currently lives in Colorado, where he is at work on a series of speculative novellas and horror stories.
The Craven House by Avery Caddick
“Go on, Steven! Go up to the house!”
Little Steven stood there in his pirate costume, clutching his pumpkin basket and gazing worriedly at the wooden gate in front of him. He looked back at his brother, Louie, who was giving him a cocky grin through his zombie mask. Every year, children dare each other on Halloween night to visit the Craven House. It is said the crooked and aging house was home to an elderly ghost, named Maverick Craven, who spent most of his days in his decrepit home. Rumors said that the man hated children, and each time they stepped one foot upon his front porch, he would threaten them and chase them away. It is said he died alone on Halloween night at the age of sixty-five after he suffered a heart attack. Ever since, no one has set foot inside the Craven household, leaving the house to rot and for the weeds to grow. The vacant and rotting gate remained after all these years, waiting for the next child to open it and walk through the unkempt lawn. Whoever dared to knock upon the door of Maverick Craven never came back. Instead, a glowing, carved pumpkin would lie at the front door, its red and orange light containing the soul of Craven’s victim.
“Hurry! Knock on the door!” Louie persisted. Then, he teased his little brother with a false pout. “Or is little Steven too scared of Mister Craven?”
“I am not scared!” Steven protested, his round face blushing in embarrassment.
“Then, open the gate, already!” Louie challenged through his mocking laughter. “Just remember: if he gets you, you’ll never come back!”
Swallowing his fear, Steven unlatched the iron lock and pushed open the gate. It creaked, its rusted iron taking a toll on the old wood, and Steven hesitantly stared at the house. One of the windows was broken, and a torn curtain waved in the whispering wind. The paint, a faint blue, was peeling and revealing the weather-worn walls. The porch was damaged and dirty due to years of neglect and abandonment. The roof was dark gray, and its tiles were withering from the years of red and yellow leaves that had rested upon it.
Steven looked at the porch carefully. There were no jack-o'-lanterns. He looked up at the autumn moon, watching the leaves dance and twirl in the air. He did not want to knock on the door, utterly terrified of disturbing the ghost of Mavrick Craven. He wanted badly to return home with his basket of treats. But his older brother insisted they visit the Craven House. Or, rather, Louie dared him to disturb the rumored deadly spirit.
“Hurry up!” called Louie. “We don’t have all night!”
“I’m going! I’m going!” Steven shouted.
Shaking, the boy went up to the door. What was once a dark-blue door was now a pale blue hue with visible cracks. Tiny bugs and spiders skittered in and out of the cracks, making Steven squirm. He curled his small fist and knocked lightly. No answer. Hesitantly, he tried again, knocking louder. No one came to the door. Smiling and exhaling in relief, Steven turned around to tell his older brother he had done it—he had faced the Craven House! However, to his horror, his older brother was gone. He had left him alone. Hurt and frightened, Steven stammered, “Louie? This isn’t funny! Where are you?”
Steven froze as he heard a loud creak from behind. He looked down, afraid to face whatever was behind him. The little boy could not move, his dread paralyzing him, and he dropped his basket of treats onto the porch. He felt a cold hand touch his shoulder, and a raspy voice uttered as icy as the autumn breeze, “I told you to leave me be…”
No one heard the boy’s scream as he was dragged into the haunted Craven House, nor the door slamming shut as the crows cawed and flew into the starlit twilight. The spiders scattered across the porch and surrounded the pumpkin basket.
Louie returned five minutes later, feeling satisfied with himself. He did not believe in the tale of the Craven House, and it felt good to scare his little brother. It was Halloween, after all, and it was not a cruel prank. All he did was leave Steven alone for a few minutes. He was sure Steven would be fine the next morning. Louie lifted his zombie mask, seeing the gate squeak and sway. He called out to Steven, expecting to see his brother shaking and sniffling. Then, when Louie looked beyond the gate, a sudden terror made his heart sink. Without another word, Louie ran to get help. Lying on the porch was Steven’s pumpkin basket, his candy scattered across the cracked wood, and spiders crawling around them. At the front door, there was a lit jack-o’-lantern, greeting Halloween night with its warm flame and crooked smile.
Avery Caddick is an emerging female writer with a passion for the horror and fantasy genres. Though this marks her first publication, Avery has long been drawn to crafting short atmospheric stories—particularly those inspired by the haunting magic of Halloween. To Avery, the season embodies the thrill of spooky tales shared beneath the moonlight, the scent of autumn leaves and caramel apples in the air, and the glow of carved pumpkins welcoming trick-or-treaters. Telling a tale of a rumored haunted house or a groaning spirit in the woods is a delightful tradition to her—even if it makes the listener’s skin crawl and their bones quiver.
Gloaming on a Suburban Trail by LM Maggio
The trees inch closer, bowing their heads and choking the path as they whisper news of stolen rumors in rustling leaves and swaying branches amongst themselves. The clear sight of the trail ahead occludes into a narrow tunnel as if the gossipy woodlands close the aperture of a camera.
I continue toward the darkness, clutching a mass bundled in a trash bag, fleeing the horror I have left behind.
Steady footsteps crunch the graveled path ahead as a ghostly glow appears in the gloom. The fae light bounces, growing stronger and approaching erratically.
A jogger donning a headlamp emerges. She’s a slight little thing with thick blonde hair pulled back. She rasps for air as we nod civilly in the gloaming as if we're old friends. As if I don't carry the force to destroy merely because I am stronger and hold the power to leave horror behind here, too, on this cheery mile of trail if I choose.
But, I continue on carrying the burden of my crime, as I must, to sanctuary just ahead in that enclosed darkness. The bundle is heavy and warm, as the polished amber of October's dusk bursts between the patchwork foliage of blacks and grays and camouflaged hues, deceiving my psyche into thinking all is well. That I am well.
Footsteps crunch once more in a harried pace - this time, from behind. An effigy of normalcy - a youthful jogger, ears plugged with music, shorts riding up his thighs - passes my lumbering form with deep, cadenced breaths and a radiant aura that warms this devoid suburban trail.
Clutching the bundle close, I continue my flight stolidly on the manicured path - once a canal, dredged by unwilling labor meant to carry riches west to east to make well-to-do men even fatter.
I scoff at this bit of history - at my fellow man: creatures who train for marathons and track steps trodden, staring at gadgets affixed to their flesh. They share this space with me as if I, too, were normal - not defective. As if the world is not full of monsters.
Crickets serenade the katydids, filling the night with an enthralling hum that crescendos with the shuddering coos of the evening dove. Footsteps crunch once more as a final jogger wheezes past, moaning like a phantom train.
Finally, the night’s darkness overpowers, and the path empties of all rational creatures who value life, knowing that darkness on a reclaimed barge trail is no place for any sort with want of self-preservation.
And at last the evening holds its breath - night song cut abruptly with a sharp inhalation and a stirring of a million small creatures I could crush in my hand, should I choose. I pause in the hallowed silence of night come at last, smiling, to begin my wretched task in solitude. I set my parcel on the earth and bend to unwrap it.
But in that moment, my ears perk at a distant crunch beyond - then another, rhythmically sounding now: faint but certain footsteps approaching from behind.
My head swivels back to will away the intrusion - the fool who dallies in the dark. I puff with rage, which once more threatens to overpower, because I hold the aggression, the strength, the weapon to dispatch this spirit who intrudes upon this sacred, silent moment.
Yet I see nothing upon the path that lies behind. Not a soul approaching - no faery light, no shadow bobbing along, no muscular thigh, gleaming with sweat. Simply emptiness - darkness.
Assuredly, the footsteps grow louder, approaching steadfastly.
And now I am shaken. I am menaced.
I gather the bundle and turn forward in retreat, quickening my pace. My task shall have to wait for another autumn eve.
The footfalls behind still follow, crunching amongst the night’s dread. As my prey often does, I whimper. Perhaps I finally feel what others do, for I cower at this dreadful feeling of helplessness before a demeaning dark force.
The footsteps persevere.
Panic paralyzes, halting my lungs and stunning my mind. But my body is stronger than panic, for adrenaline and force have always been my pure purpose. Without a conscious command from me, my feet begin to race from the ghastly footfalls of an unseen entity that grow ever insistent, urgent with relentless intent.
Looking back once more to confront what lay behind, I find only darkness - a void.
I sprint now as my unearthly pursuer thunders behind, crescendoing into a galloping gait.
The forest watches silently, with an unbearable smugness as the outraged trees – whispering more fervently now - echo shocking details of my offense eternally into the night.
The footfalls pound behind now, thundering like a locomotive and gaining ground, nearly upon me. I look back a final time, at last seeing The Shadow looming, larger than I - menacing.
I am adjudicated, overtaken, and sentenced.
LM Maggio is a writer, local history buff, and an 18th-century fifer. She lives with her husband and completely reasonable number of cats, all crammed into a 19th-century abode. Ms. Maggio, a librarian, has appeared in Corvus Review, Little Old Lady Comedy, The Ravens Quoth Press' Evermore 4 anthology, and more. Read more at LauraMaggioWrites.com.
Carving Lessons by E Rathke
Well, ain’t you just a peach, yeah? Ah, yes, master does have a type. That she does, and you fit it a bit too nicely for us to pass up. Yeah, we been watchin’ you for quite some time. Yes, ma’am, she do indeed like them young, but not too young.
There’s a tenderness to the flesh, though. You must understand that’s part of the appeal. Don’t mean nothin’ personal by it, mind you, but there it is. She needs y'all fresh and fleshy but not too fat. There’s a meatiness to athletic builds, and ma’am, you fit the bill oh so perfectly.
Ah, well, come on, now, don’t be like that. It’s nothin’ between me and you and all these caged ‘round here. Well, sure, I could take her or her, but you see, we got a calendar to follow. We’re comin’ up on mid-February, and you’re just right. That one, she’s for master’s anniversary. She takes that quite seriously, as you can imagine.
In truth, nothin’s been the same since master’s husband run off. Oh, it’s a whole thing. Not the kind of thing we’re meant to talk about or even acknowledge, but, seein’ as we’re here and I got my knife sharpened and you’re slab strapped, I guess it won’t matter. Probably you won’t even hear me anymore once I get started. Them neither.
The screamin’ and all that.
You know how it is.
Reckon it was about five or so years ago. Master’s man met himself a young woman. Well, woman might be pushin’ it. He was a teacher at the school, if you get me. Master treated it like a hobby because, well, look at this place, we got a fuckin’ dungeon down here, yeah? But her man, well, wasn’t so much a hobby for him, and he kidnapped or run off with one of his students.
Damn shame. Master didn’t take it well, and I guess you could say that all y'all down here now are on account of what he done back then. Hold still, or I’ll get the club. But, yeah, suppose that’s why she comes for those young like you, and maybe all y'all look like the girl her man took away.
Never saw her, but I suppose it must’ve been on the news, and master likes to stay up-to-date on current events and so on. She’s always goin’ on about the next election, but I don’t much mind or pay attention. She tells me who to vote for and when, and that works out fine enough for me. Better than sittin’ through the news to make up my mind for myself.
I said hold still, you hear me? I got half a mind to—
You can carry on all you like, but I was gonna leave your feet on. That’s on you, ma’am. You try and kick me again, and I’ll take your calves, too.
Now, I don’t like bein’ so stern with all y’all, but sometimes y’all give me a hell of a time for doin’ my job. You think this is what I dreamt of when I came in for my first interview a decade ago? You think I like carvin’ y'all up? Think Antoine up in the kitchen went to culinary school to figure out how to season a liver or kidney? Or, in this case, a heart.
We all got problems. We all doin’ shit we don’t like, all right? So, let’s at least make each other’s life easy.
Ah, girl, wish y'all could’ve seen this place back when I started. Gorgeous home. Lots of parties and all that. Used to be, I just kept up the grounds and so on. Took such pride in the hedges. Every summer, I’d carve a new shape. Maybe deer gallopin’ and playin’. Maybe rabbits nibblin’ across the lawn.
Guess master figured my skill with the blade would transfer. Ha! Don’t mind tellin’ you the mess I made of her first—
Hey, you listenin’? Hey, girl.
Well, it’s rude to just nod off when someone’s talkin’. I could’ve put on my headphones and ignored all your carryin’ on and fussin’, but I didn’t. Know why? For all that we find ourselves down here in this mess, I still treat y'all with common decency.
Respect.
Basic humanity is what it is, and treatin’ me like I ain’t even here or like I’m some kind of monster really pisses me off. And I’m sorry to use such language. Really, I am, but if you’re gonna behave so uncivil then, well, I don’t reckon you deserve civil language in return.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s all well and good for you, but if my master don’t eat your heart, she’s gonna eat somebody’s heart. And I like my heart where it is, thank you very much.
Now, hold still. Let’s make this easy on each other, yeah?
E rathke lives in Minneapolis and writes about books and games at radicaledward.substack.com. A finalist for the 2022 Baen Fantasy Adventure Award, his fiction has appeared in Queer Tales of Monumental Invention, Mysterion Magazine, Shoreline of Infinity, Cosmic Horror Monthly, and elsewhere.
What They Cannot See by JD Devine
Blood seeped through the rope binding Martha’s wrists. They dragged her past my garden, where everything had died from the drought—except my rosemary, blooming violently purple against the September wind. A crow landed on my shoulder as the cart passed, its black eyes reflecting something hollow.
The cart stuttered over cobblestone slick with spilled ale and something darker. Martha’s bare feet scraped against wood, her ankles raw from iron shackles. The crowd closed in like a living wall of righteous fury and morbid hunger.
“Witch! Witch! Witch!”
The chants built like thunder. I walked among them, invisible in my brown wool dress, hands folded in false piety, while power hummed beneath my skin. The iron pendant grew warm against my chest.
Salem stank of fear and rot—of unwashed bodies, chamber pots emptied into gutters, the sick stench of decay from Gallows Hill where other victims lay. Windows slammed shut as we passed, but faces peered through shutter cracks. Good Christian families watched while their suppers grew cold.
Martha’s grey hair came loose from her cap, silver strands against her bruised face. Her brown eyes locked with mine through the crowd. She had the same terror Grandmother had warned I’d see in innocent faces. She knew what I was. What I’d done to keep the ravens fed, the magistrate’s cattle struck with illness.
She’d never whispered a word about me.
Near the blacksmith’s forge, my hands began to tremble as thunder rumbled in the cloudless September sky. The reverend’s pale hands clutched his Bible, knuckles white—like another boy's hands once clawing at his chest behind the meeting house. I was fourteen then, palm pressed to flesh, one word stopping breath forever. They found him blue-faced at dawn and called it God’s judgment. The pendant burned hotter now, hungry and remembering.
Since then, I’d cursed livestock belonging to wife-beaters. I’d poisoned wells serving families who turned away the hungry. I’d called storms to destroy crops owned by those who’d let children starve while their barns burst with grain. Every death, every illness, every strange misfortune plaguing Salem these past twenty years had flowed from my hands.
The cartwheels creaked like breaking bones as we approached Gallows Hill. The ancient oak waited under a grey sky, ropes hanging ready from massive branches. The executioner checked his knots while the reverend opened his Bible.
“Confess!” someone screamed. “Confess and save your soul!”
Martha straightened despite the ropes, despite blood and bruises. Her voice cut through chaos like a blade.
“I am innocent.”
The crowd roared disapproval, but I heard something else beneath their rage—the first whisper of doubt. Deep in their bones, they knew she spoke truth. The pendant seared my flesh.
I knew Martha was innocent.
I was guilty of what they couldn’t imagine. Two girls had pushed this mania forward with lies and fits, but I was the reason their accusations found fertile ground. My real magic had worked in Salem for decades, giving shape to their fears, making nightmares real—twenty years of guilt-building pressure behind my ribs.
I could make these fools scatter, turn the ropes to ash. One word from me and every rope would crumble to dust. One gesture, and the ground would swallow the magistrates whole.
But they would see. They would know. Grandmother had warned me never to reveal myself.
Martha stumbled. Crashed to her knees. The noose jerked tight, and her face went blue, but she didn’t scream my name. Even choking, dying, she protected me.
The rope creaked. Her feet kicked once, twice. Still.
Hidden fury crystallized in that moment. I thought of every innocent I'd watched suffer while the real witch walked free. The pendant cracked from the heat of my rage. Grandmother’s voice whispered through me: Let them reap what they have sown.
This would be the last innocent abandoned to the crows.
I placed my hand on the oak’s ancient bark and felt the pain of every victim who’d died beneath its branches. The tree remembered them all, their final words, their terror, their desperate prayers. Through my palm, I felt magic humming in wood older than Salem, older than the Puritans who’d defiled this land.
More executions were planned. More innocents would die while the real witch walked free among their accusers.
“I curse all thee who aided this tragedy,” I spoke to the wind, calling forth a storm to match their crimes. My fury broke free at last.
The air screamed as my power exploded outward. Lightning split the September sky, not Christian lightning, but something older. The fury of earth itself, the rage of every woman burned, hanged, drowned for the crime of being inconvenient.
The first bolt struck the oak where I stood. The massive trunk split with a sound like the world breaking, ancient wood exploding into splinters that flew through the crowd like arrows. People screamed and scattered as the tree crashed down, its branches crushing two magistrates.
But I was just beginning.
The sky turned black as midnight. Wind howled through Salem’s streets, tearing thatch from roofs, shattering every window. Lightning struck the meetinghouse, the magistrate’s house, and the reverend’s home. Each bolt perfectly aimed, each strike a judgment rendered by forgotten powers.
The earth beneath Gallows Hill cracked open. From the fissures came voices of everyone who’d died here—generations of the executed, the murdered, the forgotten.
The reverend’s Bible burst into flames in his hands. The accusers found their tongues swollen shut, lying words trapped forever in their throats.
When the storm finally ended, when my rage was spent, Salem lay in ruins around me. But Martha hung dead, and I stood revealed at last, no longer hidden, no longer afraid.
Let them see what they cannot imagine.
Let them know what real witchcraft looks like.
JD Devine is currently a student in the MFA Creative Writing program with a focus on Speculative Fiction at Southern New Hampshire University and a member of Sigma Tau Delta English Honor Society. Their short story “Letting Go” received an Honorable Mention in the 2025 Short Story Contest at Gemini Magazine. When not writing dark tales, JD works as a professional photographer in Barbourville, Kentucky.
After the Wake by Jude Clee
It’s such a lovely service, everyone says. The sisters nod stoically, clasping hands and enduring cousin Jake’s godawful cologne and Aunt Anne’s slobbery kisses before the luncheon finally ends.
It’s dark by the time the last uncle—old geriatric Jin—leaves with the leftover macaroni salad he insists on taking. Daylight Saving Time has already butchered what little autumn light they had. The sisters stand in the nearly empty dining hall, having a hushed debate while the servers pack away the excess meatballs and wilting arugula salad. The youngest sister can’t, she has finals coming up. The middle says she’s been away from her breastfed baby long enough. The oldest sister finally agrees to go.
She expects the house to feel different without Dad, eerie or even haunted, but it’s the same as ever. Same 1970s-era wood paneling that Mom futilely spent her last years begging to update, same sports memorabilia, and hunting trophies. Dad could’ve just gone out for a cigarette run.
The cellar stairs creak as she goes down; her high heels pop off like little gunshots. She doesn’t linger. As a kid, she longed to go down here, to glimpse Dad’s mysterious mancave finally. But now she’s quick. She throws newspaper clippings in the trash bag. She doesn’t bother opening the toolbox, just chucks the whole thing in. She pries through the floorboards until she’s sure she’s gotten everything: jewelry, locks of hair, balled-up bloodstained clothes, and Polaroids. Into the bag they go, without a second look.
She heaves the bag up the stairs like Santa’s sack, panting and cramping and wishing she’d signed up for cardio after all. It’s a battle fitting it in the trunk, but once she does, she checks her phone. There’s a text from her son, asking about his soccer uniform, that she’d better answer.
Then she drives home.
Trick and Treat by Tony Sapienza
“Trick or treat?” came the familiar call. But from the sound of the voice, it came from a man rather than a child.
Agnes quivered and turned to Gossamer, giggles of excitement slipping out of her mouth along with a delicate thread of drool.
“Well, what will it be, Goss, a trick or a treat!”
Gossamer smiled and dragged himself closer, leaving his own thread of bodily fluids trailing behind.
Agnes peered into the rusty pail clutched in Gossamer’s pulsing appendages, cackled gleefully, and threw her arms and legs into the air.
“Oh, Gossamer, you devil, you did not!”
Gossamer grimaced (it was the closest he could come to smiling).
Agnes opened the door. Outside was a disheveled man who appeared to have been in a recent car accident. His clothes were torn to shreds, and dark splotches of blood soaked his pant leg. The left side of his face was severely burned, and what was left of his hair was splayed around his head like a gruesome halo. Not the least, he was missing a hand.
Gossamer held out the rusty pail with eager anticipation. The disheveled man glanced at it absently.
Inside was a severed hand holding a candy bar.
“Trith and treath,” said Gossamer proudly.
Agnes clapped her hands in delight. “A trick and a treat all in one, bravo Goss! Now, let’s get him back inside before anyone sees him and spoils our fun. I’m not done with this one yet, and maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll get a lone little one to add to the evening’s fun.”
Tony Sapienza is a long-time business writer who dreams darkly of the things that prefer not to be out in the light. Together with his diminutive minions Ruckus and Ernie, he documents the flora and fauna of things that might best stay unwritten.
Cliches by C.S. Fuqua
Panting. A faint blur.
The stench of urine and mold.
Gravel digging into flesh.
She groaned, a muddle of pain and confusion, her weight heavy on her hands bound behind.
Flashes: absent partner, the path, busted streetlight, a rustling from behind. So cliché, she thought. Pain shattering her head. And stupid. Darkness.
A moan.
She pivoted her head toward the sound and peeled open her eyes to a dank, stark room. Concrete floor. Small puddles. A body-sized lump not three feet away. It groaned.
She turned her head away. A door, dim light seeping through the gap underneath. She tried to move her hands, but the tape was thick, tight. She rolled onto her side, drew up her legs, tape bound around her jeans at the ankle.
She worked her legs, material sliding, tape stretching with each opposing tug. A rip, and her legs broke free.
Footsteps. Shadows moved through the light beneath the door.
She placed her ankles together, braced, eyes narrowed to slits. The door opened, shut.
Steps crossed toward the lump.
The lump whimpered, then screamed.
A loud tsk.
Another scream.
She groaned, eyes opening fully, settling on the figure that stopped abruptly at her feet, face sneering down in the dim light.
“About time you woke.”
She offered a whimper, a soft cry.
“Black, short, and stupid. The way I like it. Cry as loud as you want. No one’s gonna hear you.” A chuckle. A motion toward the whimpering lump. “You ain’t my first, darlin’.” The figure bowed toward her.
Her leg jutted straight, foot directed up, connecting squarely across the throat.
The figure flailed backward, fell, hands grasping at its neck.
She struggled onto her feet and glared down at the writhing figure.
“Gag as loud as you want. No one’s gonna hear you.” A chuckle.
The thrashing began to fade.
“You ain’t my first, darlin’.”
Fishing by Andrew Albritton
The crew heard a clattering out on the ship’s deck. John grunted and ran his hand over his beard. “Bloody loose cage.” He switched on his reading light and jumped down from his bunk. “Don’t everyone volunteer at once.”
Wade turned over in his bunk so that he faced John. “You’re the captain, Captain. You’re gonna have to give an order to get one of us out there.”
“Yeah,” said Gina. “Or maybe offer a bonus.”
“Scared of the legends?” John said, grinning.
“No,” Wade said. “I wouldn’t have come to these eerie seas if I were. But I’m quite warm and comfortable at the moment.”
“Same,” Gina said.
The youngest member of the crew, Chandler, slid out of his bunk. “I’ll go.”
Gina said, “Good for you, kiss ass.” She made kissing sounds.
“Gimme a break,” Chandler said. “Someone’s got to do it.”
“Let the kid prove himself, Gina,” Wade said.
John and Chandler started to pull on their coveralls. Chandler had a bit of trouble with the procedure, given the wild pitching of the ship.
“You’ll get your sea legs soon enough, lad,” John said, slipping on his yellow slicker. Once both men were dressed, they opened the door and went out into the blustery night.
After a few moments, a wild, terrified shriek sounded from the deck.
Wade shot up into a sitting position. “Was that…?”
Gina leapt from her bunk and opened the door. Chandler barreled into her, and they both fell to the deck.
Gina pushed Chandler off of her. “What’s wrong with you?!” she yelled.
Chandler staggered to his feet and pressed himself against the bulkhead opposite the door. “Sh-shut the door.”
Wade jumped out of his bunk and ran to the door. He peered out into the night but couldn’t see the bright slicker of the captain. “Did John go overboard?”
“N-no,” Chandler said, shaking his head. He pointed upward.
Wade started to dress himself. He yelled at Gina, “See if you can get some sense out of him!”
Gina grabbed Chandler by the shoulders. “What happened?”
“Shut. The. Door.”
Gina slapped Chandler. “Tell us what’s going on, kid!”
Wade, now dressed, started to go outside. Chandler shouldered past Gina and grabbed Wade.
“Don’t!” Chandler cried.
Wade turned and punched Chandler in the jaw. The younger man dropped to the deck.
Gina started to dress herself.
Wade went onto the deck and shut the door behind him. “John!” he hollered. “John!”
The captain was nowhere to be found. Wade ran to the boat’s starboard spotlight and turned it on. He swept the light over the dark and roiling waters, but saw no sign of the captain.
Wade remembered that Chandler had pointed up when he had been asked if John had gone overboard. In an act of desperation, Wade pointed the spotlight skyward – and cried out and fell to the deck. He clambered backward, staring into the sky with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.
Poised just over the ship was a gargantuan Portuguese man-o’-war. The beast undulated in the sky like a hideous blimp. Wade could just make out the forms of other man-o'-wars floating nearby. Tangled in the tentacles of one of them, he thought he saw, in a flash of lightning, a human form.
Feeling a sharp, burning pain in his right ankle, Wade looked down and saw that one of the man-o’-war’s tentacles was grasping him. He instinctively grabbed at the tentacle. Searing pain shot through his hands. He pulled them away and saw that his gloves were punctured with stingers. The tentacle began to lift his leg.
“No! No!” he cried. He clutched a nearby cage, causing the stingers to dig more deeply into his palms – but he gritted his teeth and groaned and held on.
Light suddenly poured out from the interior of the ship. Gina had opened the door. Wade saw her wide eyes as she viewed the nightmarish tableau on the deck. She staggered backward.
The pain in Wade’s hands was finally too much, and he lost his grip. His body rose off the deck. He closed his eyes and climbed into the rain-lashed skies.
Wade heard Gina yell and opened his eyes just in time to see her swing a hatchet at the tentacle encircling his leg. The tentacle broke in a spray of fluid, and Wade fell to the deck, smacking his skull on the rigid boards. Gina leaned down and helped Wade to his feet. Wade stumbled and fell. Gina leaned down to help him, but before she could, her body jolted backward. A tentacle was wrapped around her waist. She tried to turn herself around to swing the hatchet at the tentacle, but the limb held her fast, and she couldn’t turn. A gust of wind blew over the ship, and Gina flew off into the sky. The hatchet splashed into the sea.
Chandler appeared on the deck. He glanced at Wade, but turned away from him to run up the stairs to the ship’s bridge. Just as he reached the top of the stairs and put his hand on the door handle, a tentacle wrapped around his neck. He scratched frenziedly at the slimy appendage, the stingers digging into his fingertips and under his nails. He cried out, and the tip of the tentacle thrust itself into his mouth. He felt the sharp, burning stingers pierce his tongue and throat.
Chandler spasmed and went limp. The man-o’-war hoisted him into the sky.
Wade’s leg was so swollen that he couldn’t stand on his own. He could barely move his hands. The only hope that remained was that of drowning in the sea rather than being eaten by the monstrosities in the sky. He dragged himself to the bulwark and agonizingly pulled himself up and over. He fell into the frigid waters below. He was awash with relief.
But then he felt a sharp pain in his leg and a tug upward.
He was pulled, dripping, from the sea.
Andrew Albritton teaches thinking and communication skills to business students at Missouri State University. He has a PhD in English Applied Linguistics from the University of Nottingham. He has published peer-reviewed articles, a number of poems, and one short story.
The Invitation by Alice Baburek
Bart McFadden stared at the invitation. He knew the only way to keep his job was to go to a private Halloween party wearing a costume. And his boss made it clear. Bring back a front-page story or don’t bother coming in at all.
###
Bart walked down the hallway to the exquisite ballroom. The itchiness from his rented suit irritated his neck. He hoped the pirate getup was enough to mingle and generate a story. The carved wooden bar shone beneath the dimly lit gossamer chandelier. Music and laughter lingered in the air.
He headed straight to the bar. An attractive bartender made her way to Bart.
“Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum! I’ll have a whiskey on the rocks, please…and could you make it more whiskey than rocks?” The mustache and beard itched.
The leopard-skinned bartender poured a generous serving from the gold-labeled whiskey bottle into the thick-cut glass filled with several ice cubes.
“A few rocks…a lot of whiskey.” She slid the drink to Bart and turned away.
But before Bart could thank her, she had already moved on to serve a Romanian vampire. Bart lifted the drink to his lips. The expensive whisky burned as it slid down his dry throat. For a moment, Bart thought he might choke on the pureness of the smooth liquor.
Startled by the closeness of a warm body, Bart almost spilled the drink. The woman’s slim thigh rested against him. She stood so close; he could smell the mint in her breath.
Bart turned to face the female stranger. He outstretched his gloved hand. “Hello…I’m Bart…Bart McFadden.”
“Joy Vorseck.” The mystery woman’s beautiful blue eyes were mesmerizing. She tilted her head. The fine-lined, wired whiskers shimmied as she wiggled her round-covered nose. The intriguing woman turned about and wagged her long, bushy tail.
“Meow, Captain Bart,” she purred. Her fingers teasingly stroked his still outstretched hand.
Bart’s hand immediately began to sweat inside the imitation leather.
“I love your pirate costume, Bart. I’m delighted you took my advice…it’s so becoming of you!” The seductive cat woman playfully adjusted Bart’s weathered tricorn hat.
Bart cleared his throat. He shifted uneasily from one tight-fitted boot to the other. His left eye twitched under the black eye patch.
“I’m sorry. Do I know you?” He felt confused and excited. The elusive cat woman leaned heavily against him. Not sure what to do, he enjoyed the moment.
“Are you someone famous?” She placed her warm hands on his hips. Bart could not break the spell. It took all his will not to lean in and kiss her right there in front of all those attending the party.
“Are you?” he whispered, inching closer. She giggled.
“Why, Captain Bart, I’m whoever you want me to be,” she taunted softly. His heartbeat faster. “Follow me, Captain.” And without waiting for his reply, she eagerly grabbed his hand and led him to a spiraling staircase.
“Where are we going?” he asked as the music faded.
The mysterious woman anxiously tightened her grip. The impressive winding staircase emptied onto the second floor. For a moment, his head fogged from the small amount of whiskey.
Joy’s insistence beckoned him to continue. Finally, they stood in front of a large wooden door. A brass knob turned and led into a luxurious suite.
Bart glanced around. The strange décor was barely visible in the dim lighting. But the canopy bed beckoned for company.
Joy gently stroked the side of his face. His throat suddenly dry.
The mysterious woman drifted to the door and locked it.
“Captain Bart, you don’t want to weigh anchor before we even start, do you?” She seductively strolled back to him. His heart raced.
“Look, Joy…it is Joy, right? I don’t mean to be a scallywag, but…” Before he could finish his sentence, she leaned in and kissed his lips.
And as quickly as she kissed him, she peeled back away and giggled.
His leather pants felt snug. His palms were damp inside the pirate gloves.
“Do you want me?” Her words were thick and heavy. Why does she sound so strange?
Suddenly, the lights flickered. Joy had disappeared.
“Joy?” His voice lowered to a whisper. The lights wavered. A chill shimmied down his spine.
And then it came into view. His legs felt like lead. He could not move.
The once-beautiful woman had manifested into a terrifying, hideous creature. Unnatural lumps grossly protruded from her spine, breaking the thin, scaled skin that covered her back. A disfigured face twisted into a mass of raw tissue. The small, jagged hole in the middle could only be the creature’s mouth.
“Something wrong, Captain Bart?” The words dripped with thick saliva. Ragged fangs jutted from the gnarled hole in its face. Black slits like those of a reptile replaced her mesmerizing eyes. She raised a deadly, scaled claw, exposing sharp, misshapen nails.
“This can’t be happening...this isn’t real,” Bart whined. He stood paralyzed.
“Oh, but it is, Captain Bart.” The words clogged with mucus and muck.
Overwhelming panic seized him. “No!” Suddenly, a burning pain raged through him, and the darkness took him away.
###
The faint sound of a ticking clock faded in and out. Bart forced open his grainy eyes. He slowly lifted his shaky hand to his face. It was then that he realized he was on his couch in his apartment. It had all been just a stupid nightmare.
Gradually, he stood up. A T-shirt hung loosely over his faded blue jeans. His bare feet felt cold, his throat scratchy. It was then that he saw the strange box wrapped in plain brown paper. Beside it sat his invitation to the Halloween Gala.
With great reservation, Bart opened it. Stunned by its contents, he staggered backward.
“No…it can’t be,” he whispered. His body trembled. Bile rose into his mouth. Inside, a pirate costume. In the center lay a gold-embossed handwritten note – Can’t wait to see you, Captain Bart. Affectionately, Joy.
Alice Baburek is an avid reader, determined writer and animal lover. She lives with her wife and four canine companions. Retired, she challenges herself to become an unforgettable emerging voice.
Dust Settlement by Zary Fekete
The house was already dusty when Tom moved in. Rural rental. A mile from the nearest neighbor, two from town. No central air, no dishwasher. Just sun-bleached curtains, creaky floorboards, and a long-ago promise that there used to be love in these walls.
He’d asked for something temporary. The realtor nodded like she understood. “Just keep it swept,” she said. “The dust settles fast out here.”
She wasn’t wrong.
The first morning, a fine gray powder blanketed the kitchen counter. Too fine for dirt, too light for lint. It looked like ash, but there hadn’t been a fire.
He brushed it into the sink and made coffee.
The next morning, it was back.
Same counter. Same drift of gray. But this time it had shape. Not much…just a curve, like a fingerprint dragged through flour. He told himself it was nothing. Old insulation, maybe. Something blowing in through the chimney.
The third morning, it spelled her name.
Ellie
A soft, sloping script. Like she used to sign her school art projects. All bubble letters and looping e’s.
Tom stood with the dishrag in his hand, half-raised. He didn’t touch it. Just looked. Then he turned away and opened the fridge like it hadn’t happened.
He didn’t tell anyone. Not his sister, not the guy at the gas station who liked to talk about the weather. He just swept it up, slowly, carefully, like he was folding a note he wasn’t ready to read.
The following week, the dust began to appear in other rooms. On the windowsill: a spiral, like the whorls on Ellie’s thumb when she pressed it into fingerpaint. On the coffee table: five tiny dots. The freckle pattern across her cheek.
He stopped wiping them.
He started sleeping on the couch.
One night, he dreamed of her…not as she was at the end, thin and tired, but younger. Laughing, climbing onto the counter to reach the cereal box, feet dirty from the garden. When he woke up, the word "Daddy" was waiting for him in the fine gray layer on the television screen.
That day, he didn’t sweep anything. He opened every window. Turned off the fans. Sat cross-legged on the floor and let the dust gather on his shoulders, his hair, the backs of his hands. He let it spell and drift and settle.
Grief doesn’t end, he thought. It just finds new ways to speak.
The next morning, the kitchen table bore a single word:
Lay
So, he did.
The wind came through the windows like breath. The curtains swelled and sighed. The dust rose, circled, and came down with purpose. It covered the floors, the furniture, the photos still unpacked in boxes.
And it covered him.
He held his breath until it felt like the moment was right. Then he breathed in. Deep.
When the landlord eventually sent someone to check, the firefighters kicked in the warped door. They found him lying in the living room, his body dry, peaceful, untouched by violence. Covered in a pale film of ash.
On the wall above him, etched into the dust:
Together
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
Butterscotch Candy by N.V. Morris
Tom put me in charge of handing out candy. One per trick-or-treater, nothing more. He buys the worst stuff. Butterscotch, taffy, licorice: the stuff he likes. I told him Hershey’s would be better, but he sneered, said I, “Don’t know shit.”
I know plenty. The other kids in the neighborhood don’t like his candy. That the others started whispering more when he began handing out the weird candy. We only get trick-or-treaters ‘cause of dares.
But Tom won’t listen. Tom knows everything, and I don’t know shit. I know something for sure, though: she likes butterscotch.
At 10, I shut off the porch light. There’s half a bowl of candy left. Before leaving it for Tom, I pick out three butterscotch candies.
One for me, though I hate the taste.
One for the cat, who likes the crinkled wrapper.
One for the girl downstairs.
I open the basement door, struggling to unchain each lock in turn. The steps creak, as always. The girl is silent. She won’t believe me if I tell her Tom’s out for the night. She never has.
I know I’m not supposed to be down here. I know she won’t say a thing. I know she won’t touch me when I creep close. I know to take the candy wrapper with me: no evidence. I know she won’t take candy from me; onto the mattress it goes.
“Happy Halloween,” I tell her.
One candy per person, just as Tom said.
N.V. Morris is a queer author (he/they) working towards a career in wildlife conservation. They share their room with far too many creepy-crawly friends for their loved ones' comfort. You can find their work in Polymorphic, The Colored Lens, and narrated on Creepy Podcast.
Speed Demon by Kathryn Riley
Officer Quincey Jonathan Harker III started his patrol at 5:30 p.m. on Halloween. “Load up,” he directed K-9 Borgo in German, the language in which the very expensive Malinois had been trained in Eastern Europe. Now Borgo lived and worked with Harker in the Atlanta suburbs.
Borgo jumped readily into his kennel in the Ford Interceptor SUV. Harker hoped for a quiet shift, but anything could happen on Halloween, especially after dark.
They stopped briefly at a “trunk-or-treat” event at the local school. After scoring some hot cider and candy, Harker drove to a nearby mall. A group of teenagers stared at him as he slowly cruised the parking lot. He considered having Borgo sniff them out. But by the time he circled back after dinner at Chick-fil-A, they were gone.
He stopped at their dimly lit hangout and gave Borgo the German command to find drugs: “Such Rauschgift.” Sure enough, Borgo quickly “alerted” on a tiny square packet on the ground, which Harker sealed in an evidence bag.
Harker clipped a lead to Borgo and walked through the mall, alerting the rent-a-cop to watch out for the teens. Then he and Borgo headed out to patrol Georgia 400.
###
Drake loved cruising Georgia 400 at night—the later, the faster, the better. Lucy always delivered a suitable ride he could enjoy for a night or two, then abandon. She had a special knack for finding suckers with vintage models, seducing the owners before stealing their cars.
Tonight, Drake was behind the wheel of a sweet red 2008 Dodge Viper, whose owner Lucy had scouted at a recent car show. Lucy had easily befriended Albert, a rich, lonely dork who collected cars on his twenty-acre estate. She had “liberated” the Viper following a glass of wine at Albert’s home that evening. Lucy had long ago discovered that roofies knocked out men just as effectively as their usual female victims. The difference was that Lucy used roofies not to enable sex with her victims, but to avoid it.
With Albert unconscious, it had been child’s play for Lucy to find the Viper’s keys and deliver the red beauty to Drake.
“Care for a Halloween ride with me?” he invited.
She yawned. “Think I’ll stay here and wait up for any late-night trick-or-treaters.”
Drake smiled. “Won’t they be surprised?”
###
By midnight, Drake was cruising solo on Georgia 400. He notched the Viper up past ninety and into three digits. The cops ignored anything below ninety on 400. Grannies in SUVs routinely did ninety.
Approaching the McFarland exit, he finally spotted blue lights flashing in his rearview. Bingo, he thought. He downshifted, exiting carefully, as the cop followed. Easing across McFarland, Drake dutifully signaled left at Reagan Boulevard. The Viper rumbled sedately toward a dark, deserted office park a block away. Drake heard the siren’s “Whoop” as he parked on the secluded shoulder.
Bodycam activated, Harper stepped out of the Interceptor, approaching the Viper with Borgo. Harker aimed his flashlight at the driver, signaling him to lower his window. “License and registration, please.”
“Certainly, officer.” Smiling faintly, Drake handed over the items, keeping his hands in plain sight.
Harker inspected the documents. Drake Whitby, said the license. Albert Roth, said the registration. Suspicious, thought Harker, also noting the man’s foreign accent. “Sir, your license and registration don’t match. Do you have an explanation?”
“Yes, sir. It’s my friend Albert’s car. I dropped him off at his house after a costume party we went to. He had too much to drink. I was just driving myself home and was gonna return his car tomorrow. I like to be a responsible designated driver on nights like this,” he continued.
Harker gave him a stern look. “Well, you were doing over a hundred back on 400. You’ll need to take a Breathalyzer and coordination test.”
“Certainly, officer.” Drake stepped out of the Viper.
“I see you weren’t kidding about the costume party,” said Harker, surveying Drake’s black cape, oversized collar, and shadowed eyes. Harker indicated the yellow line edging the road. “Just take nine steps away from me, heel to toe, then walk back toward me the same way.” Harker did a demo walk of three steps.
Drake walked away from Harker for nine careful steps. He pirouetted gracefully, his cape swirling as he turned, and took four steps back toward Harker. Borgo whimpered and growled, clearly unsettled. “Easy, Borgo,” he heard Harker say.
Drake covered the last five steps in one easy glide, spreading his cape and grabbing Harker around the shoulders. He hated to drink and drive, but blue blood was way too tempting.
###
The next morning, Harker held his throbbing head as Sergeant Fowler reviewed the bodycam footage again.
“I just don’t get it, Harker. You’ve got a stolen car pulled over. Granted, it wasn’t reported stolen until this morning. However, you should have been alerted by the discrepancy between the license and the registration. And there’s no Drake Whitby in the DMV database. Not to mention the weird get-up you say he was wearing.”
Harker tried to focus. “I know. But Halloween . . . ”
Fowler droned on. “But even worse, there’s no driver in the footage—just an empty car! You’re talking to thin air during the demo walk! Then Borgo starts whimpering like he’s gonna wet himself, and everything goes black.”
Harker groaned quietly, absentmindedly rubbing the Band-Aid on his neck, as if it could restore his missing memories.
Borgo glanced up as Harker groaned, then rested his muzzle on his front paws. He remembered how the man last night had burrowed his face into Borgo’s ruff; remembered the soothing Slavic accent he hadn’t heard since he was a puppy. The sore spot under Borgo’s collar hardly bothered him this morning. He nuzzled his tug toy, blending the scents of Harker and the man from last night, and sighed contentedly.
Now the three of them would all be together.
Forever.
Kathryn Riley has taught linguistics and writing at several universities and has published research in both areas. Her fiction has appeared in Unseen Agreements. She currently lives near Atlanta, Georgia and is at work on a novel and a story collection.
Rearranged by Alan Meyrowitz
Frank woke up a little after three in the morning and realized his genitals were gone.
A light was on in the kitchen. He slid out of bed and headed there. Along the way, he kept his right hand over his crotch as if he still had something to protect.
His roommate, Charlie, was sitting at the kitchen table, slumped over it with three empty beer bottles in front of him and a sheet of parchment under his elbow. Frank had lived in New Orleans long enough to recognize the sheet as having a printed spell. Every weird item shop in the city sold them, all fake, of course, as curiosities for tourists.
The implication was clear. Frank grabbed Charlie by the shoulder and shook him. Still groggy, Charlie opened his eyes a bit. He heard Frank yelling, “You found a real one, you bastard!”
Charlie was quickly totally awake, seeing the terror in Frank’s eyes.
Frank grabbed a carving knife from the kitchen counter and pressed the point against Charlie’s neck.
“Wasn’t easy,” Charlie said, talking rapidly. “Took some asking around, but I found maybe the only legit shop, down an alley off Bourbon Street. The old guy there wasn’t much of a talker. Just took my money and gave me the spell. I asked him what it would do. He said, ‘Rearranged.’ Kept repeating that word.”
Frank put the knife down and lowered his pajamas. “I’ve been rearranged, that’s for sure.” He had only unbroken, smooth skin throughout his crotch.
Charlie glanced at it, then had to look away. “Believe me, I didn’t know.”
“You know now. Can you reverse it?”
“I had only enough money for a spell that could be used once and couldn’t be reversed. I’m not sure what I really wanted, but it wasn’t this. After the first beer, I was thinking I might just throw the spell away. After the third, I had the courage to use it.”
“But why?”
“Because of Anna. I thought we really had a thing going. Then Anna met you, and she was done with me.”
Knife in hand again, Frank moved it toward Charlie’s head.
“I suppose I could slice an ear, then work downward.” He poked the knife at Charlie’s crotch. “Or just start here and get it over with.”
“I’ve got to pee,” Charlie replied. “The beers."
“Do you think I don’t have to pee?”
“Wasn’t thinking about it. But how? Your junk is gone.”
Frank grimaced. “Truth is, since I got out of bed, I’ve had this weird feeling. Seems I’ve been rearranged on the inside, too.”
He suddenly leaned down in front of Charlie. Startled, Charlie sat up straight and hard against the back of his chair. He and Frank were almost nose to nose.
Frank’s mouth opened wide. He moved his tongue aside, out of the way.
Charlie’s question was answered by the stream that burst from Frank’s mouth.
Alan Meyrowitz retired in 2005 after a career in computer research. His writing has appeared in Black Fox Literary Magazine, The Literary Hatchet, Poetry Pacific, Poetry Quarterly, and others.
When You Open the Door by Chukwuemeka Starlin
It began with a dream.
People drowned yet smiled. One floated past me, eyes open, lips parted as if whispering secrets to the tide. The moon bled orange, carved like a jack-o’-lantern. Music played backward, slow and broken.
Then her.
Silk hair dark as ink, barefoot in the flood. She didn’t speak, just pointed to a black door rising from the water.
I turned. Behind me, everything I knew was a flame.
Then she whispered:
“Open the door.”
I woke choking.
Morning. Monday. College loomed. But first, Halloween at Kiotta High. No teachers. No parents. The gym had been transformed into a labyrinth of shadows: fake cobwebs strung like veins across the ceiling, jack-o’-lanterns flickering like tiny suns, mirrors angled to reflect too much—or nothing. The bass throbbed like a heartbeat you could feel in your bones.
I leaned against a cooler, trying to remember how to feel young.
Then her. Barefoot. Silk hair. Grinning like she’d found something lost.
She handed me a black-and-orange popsicle.
“I stole it,” she said. “But I only give to those who open.”
“Open what?”
She tapped her temple. “The night. Before it shuts you out.”
I took it. That was my yes.
We moved along the edges of the gym. Lights flickered—not broken, but deliberate, like Morse code. The smell of burnt sugar and melting plastic filled the air. Costumes that had seemed normal twisted grotesque. Masks slid over faces that weren’t there.
“Your name?” she asked.
“Jeremy.”
She stopped. The air thickened, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
“Jeremy… right?”
My stomach sank. “Yeah.”
She stared at the music and laughter.
“Get out,” she said.
“What?”
“This night is closing. Only one leaves.”
I blinked. “That’s not funny.”
Then the floor shivered.
Then cracked.
Then chaos.
A speaker exploded. A bleacher folded like paper bats. Jack-o’-lanterns splintered into flames. Mirrors shattered, reflecting screaming faces over and over. Smoke swirled like living shadows.
I turned to grab her—gone.
Hallways warped. Doors led nowhere. One boy tried to escape outside, swallowed whole by the night.
Then I saw it.
The door. The black one.
I ran through it.
The news said landslide. No survivors.
79 students. Gone.
Except me.
Not a bruise. Not a scratch. Just a popsicle stick in my pocket.
Doctors said shock. Police said collapse. My parents called it a miracle.
I called it unfinished.
Two weeks later, I returned. The gym was ash. The school a skeleton. Fog lingered like it remembered every scream.
A janitor swept burnt paper down a silent hall. No surprise in his eyes when he saw me.
“Sir?” I asked. “Do you know a girl? Pale. Barefoot. Long hair.”
He paused. Leaned on his broom.
“You met her. Popsicle. Ailyah Mary.”
My throat tightened. “Who was she?”
“Senior. Class of 2010. Their Halloween ended the same.”
“She died?”
“She survived. Like you.”
I blinked.
“She came back a week later, too. Asked about someone before her time.”
He swept again. “Said someone warned her. Maybe she opened the wrong door.”
The wind shifted.
Then he added:
“Ghosts don’t just haunt. They pass things on.”
I whispered, “What do you mean?”
He smiled. Not kindly. Then vanished.
Behind him, taped to the wall:
One popsicle stick. Broken clean in two.
My first night in college, the lights flickered as I walked in.
Sometimes, in the moment between sleep and waking, I see her again.
But she’s not Ailyah now.
She’s me.
And I wonder:
Was my yes really a no? Did I escape or inherit? Did she save me—or replace me?
And someday, when someone hears my voice in a dream and I whisper,
“Open the door…”
What will I be?
A warning?
Or the curse passed on?
Chukwuemeka is an emerging writer of flash fiction with a focus on suspense, atmosphere, and the uncanny. His work explores the edges of reality and the haunting spaces in between.
The Smiling Girl by John Pitts
The floorboards groaned like a warning as the gang filed into the abandoned house. Dust swirled thick as fog, and every breath tasted of mildew and rot.
Jojo pressed a rag against his bleeding thigh. Tank swept his flashlight across the walls, muttering, “This place is haunted.”
“Haunted by broke realtors,” Mouse said, clutching the duffel bag of still-warm bills like a life preserver.
Rico ignored them. “We lay low here. Couple days, then we’re gone. Nobody’s looking for us in this dump.”
The house disagreed.
In the living room, peeling wallpaper sagged like skin. A fireplace reeked of soot. Above it hung a family portrait: five figures, though four had their faces clawed away.
Only the girl in the middle remained, her painted smile bright as dawn.
“Okay, I don’t like that,” Mouse whispered.
“What?” Rico snapped.
“The painting. The girl. She’s smiling at me. And I don’t think she was a second ago.”
Jojo raised a trembling finger. “I said this place was bad news when we pulled up. But no—you called me a pansy.”
Tank grunted. “Still do.”
The flashlight flickered. Died.
Darkness pressed in.
A floorboard creaked upstairs. Then came a whisper, close enough to brush their ears.
Jojo stiffened. “Did someone just say my name?”
Mouse edged toward the door. “Nope. Nope. I’m out.”
“Don’t you dare,” Rico hissed. “You really think you stand a better chance with the cops than with one pissed-off ghost?”
“Yes,” Mouse said. “Yes, I do. Absolutely.”
The front door slammed. Hard enough to rattle the bones of the house.
Tank’s flashlight flicked back on by itself, the beam quivering across the wall.
The portrait stared back.
The smiling girl was gone.
The men stood frozen, lungs locked.
Then the whisper came again, softer, childlike. “She remembers now…”
The air turned icy. Their breath billowed like smoke.
Something moved in the corner.
A figure peeled itself from the shadows—black suit, thin mustache, hat tipped low.
Old-fashioned. Elegant. Angry.
It raised one finger.
Pointed at Rico.
And smiled—cold and deliberate, like a blade pressed to the throat.
John Pitts writes dark fiction that blends suspense with atmosphere. When he’s not writing, he spends time with his family and plays blues guitar.
Halloween R Us by Nathaniel Mumau
Halloween R Us is in town, and it isn’t even August yet. The bright orange poster draped over the old store’s sign beckons us into the building. No one is inside, not even the cashier. Maybe he’s hot-boxing a broom closet somewhere.
“This place is so lame,” Pierce groans.
“You’re the one who wanted to come in!”
“Yeah, to laugh at it. Duh.”
I used to come by this store when they sold toys. I thought the building was huge when I was a kid. All grown up, the inside still feels enormous. The shelves run floor-to-ceiling, and they’re filled with Halloween costumes. Witches, werewolves, mummies … All the basic stuff. I fight back a yawn. “Ha ha. There, I laughed. Can we leave now?”
“Nah, I wanna see the decorations. The up-front merch is for the normies. They keep the sick stuff toward the back. So kids don’t see it by accident and pee their pants.”
We stalk between rows of costumes. The aisle we trot down stops suddenly, forcing us to take a left turn. Then that aisle ends in a T-junction. Everywhere we look, limp ghoul skins dangle from hooks.
“This place is a maze.”
“Yeah, that’s on purpose. Kids that think they’re brave enough to see the scary stuff walk a few aisles, then give up and turn around … And don’t pee their pants.”
We round another corner, then another. It’s getting darker. The fluorescent lights in the ceiling are fighting to stay lit. The AC isn’t up to snuff, either. Beads of sweat rest on my eyebrows. I wrinkle my nose. “Ugh! Do they mop back here?” It smells like some kid actually did have an accident. Pierce and I commit to breathing through our mouths.
More turns, more aisles. The further we go, the cruddier the costumes are. The walls are covered with discolored, flaking body suits: leering apes with bald patches; latex clowns with moldy faces. As I blink sweat from my eyes, I realize the only sounds I hear are our breaths and our footsteps. No other people. A store this large shouldn’t be so quiet. Maybe we’ve walked far enough.
Before I can pipe up, we turn our final corner. Pierce smirks. “Jackpot!”
For a half-second, I think we’ve interrupted some secret gathering at the back of the store. But the lights here are a lot brighter, so there’s no mistaking what we see: dozens of life-sized mannequins—dressed in costumes, posing with props.
A mannequin dressed in a suit stands on a stool beneath a plastic tree. A noose connects the mannequin’s neck to a branch. There’s a red ‘X’ stuck to the floor near the display. “Watch this.” Pierce steps on the X. The stool tips over, sending the mannequin plunging. Its rubber eyes bulge in their sockets.
“Gnarly.” Another mannequin sports boxers and a wife-beater, sitting at a desk. Its hand jams the barrel of a prop gun in its mouth. This display has an X, too. I stand on it. Bang! A cartoony sound effect plays from a speaker. Thin, red streamers blow from the mannequin’s head. Its plastic eyelids fall closed.
“That one looks like Lazarian,” Pierce says.
“Who?”
“The guy who opened the old toy store. He was in the news a few years ago. Killed himself, I think.”
“Weird.” I glance around at the other displays. No zombies, no cauldrons—none of the usual, cheesy Halloween stuff. Instead: a lady walks down steps in high heels; a guy sits at a dinner table, slicing into a steak; an old woman lies on the floor, her hand clutching a pill bottle. All with big, red Xs before them.
But one display is the strangest of all.
Five mannequins sit in a circle. Five small mannequins. “They’re kids,” I gasp. Beside the circle rests a jagged X. I gingerly step on it. From between the overhead lights, a pipe falls. No, not falls—it’s lowered by wires. The pipe looks heavy, like it’s made of steel. It lands directly on the kids. Limbs bend at odd angles. Heads are crushed. No survivors.
“People put this stuff in their yards?” I turn to Pierce for an answer, but his mouth gapes silently. His face has gone pale.
“Do you know what that is?” Pierce murmurs. “That’s the reason they closed the toy store.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some kids were playing back here, and the roof caved in over their heads. They all got squashed, man!”
I spin to the crushed mannequins. One juts out from beneath the pipe. His plastic cheeks glisten with tears.
“I don’t like this. I think we need to leave.” I turn back to Pierce, but he has disappeared. His footfalls echo down the aisle. He’s leaving me behind! “Wait up!”
I race back into the costumes, beneath the dying bulbs. I try to catch Pierce, but he’s sprinting. The sound of his slamming feet fades into the winding aisles. My strides widen. Costumes blur past. Which way did we come from? I barrel through an intersection of shelves. The lines of dangling monster skins close in.
I squint as I run. The lights are so dim. Too dim. I take a corner too sharply. My shin slams into a rack. Rubber goblins cascade around me. I hurtle toward the floor, hands grasping at air. I land on my arm. A bone snaps beneath me. My head glances off the steel corner of a shelf. My vision doubles. I go limp.
I know my arm is broken, but the pain feels dull. I hear shallow, far-off breathing. Has Pierce come back for me? The breathing grows shaky. I realize it’s my own. Darkness creeps at the edge of my eyeballs. Are the lights going out? My pupils roll to the ceiling. The bulbs flicker above. My eyes fall to the floor. The ring of darkness strangles my sight. As my vision fades, I realize I am sprawled across a dark red X.
Nathaniel Mumau is an aspiring writer based in southwest Michigan. His short stories have been featured in Variant Literature and 101 Words.
Halloween Flight by Tara Tominaga
Strange things happen in morgues beyond the stink of flesh.
Things get misplaced, and lights flicker—drawers full of bodies open and close, jostling the meat they carry like Jello.
A morgue is one of those in-between places, where life and death intermingle, and I think that in itself is strange, but the strangest thing accompanied an otherwise routine autopsy.
John Doe, gone too soon and too nameless, lay on my autopsy table.
It was Halloween night, but the allegedly thinning veil between the living and the dead brought little interest when my entire working life was spent elbow-deep in corpses.
I wasn’t much for ghost stories. In my line of work, the dead stayed dead, and the monsters were human. All I wanted was a bubble bath and a glass of wine.
Instead, I was cracking open John Doe and yanking out his soft parts.
“Happy Halloween, handsome,” I told him.
My scalpel slipped through skin bruised purple with violence and lividity. My saw ground through bone, unlocking the cage that once stood for protection, and I unleashed John Doe’s heart.
With a sickening squelch, ventricles and aortas started to flap.
Blood splattered.
Fascia tore.
The heart took flight, fluttering under harsh fluorescent—like a moth made of human flesh.
I gasped, and the heart swooped at me, buzzing the top of my head with its aortic wings—a territorial hummingbird, a kamikaze.
With a wet slap, it landed on the wall.
I cursed beneath John’s table and inched closer to my wheeled tool tray.
The heart’s pulmonary veins twitched in my direction, and my own heart was incessant, screaming at me to run.
Memories of my high school gym teacher bubbled to the surface.
I shouldn’t have faked all those periods, shouldn’t have skipped those classes. I had never been a good runner, but really, when was the last time I had run at all? Months? Years? I had really let myself go, and now—
The door.
The door was so far away—a mile away.
I’d walked this room a thousand times, and I’d never noticed just how big it was.
Maybe everything was bigger with the weight of a human heart looming overhead, or maybe it was the same size it had always been, and the terror in my veins was squeezing me down to the size of an ant–
The tray! There was a scalpel on the tray.
I swallowed and lunged for it.
Flap. Flap.
I grasped my scalpel like a sword.
Flap.
I swung my scalpel at John’s heart, missing it with my blade but snagging it with a knuckle. The brief, wet contact was enough.
It stumbled through the air, and I screamed, pushing my legs as fast as they’d go.
Run faster. Push harder.
I cried instead and slammed against the door, fumbling its handle.
I threw myself into it until it gave way, and my coworker stood on the other side in shock.
“Elizabeth,” he said, “What’s wrong?”
He looked down at the scalpel in my hands. He asked again, “What is it?”
He glanced into the room.
“The heart,” I tried to explain, “It flew! It came right at me. It—”
“I thought you were going to get started on that John Doe report,” he said, drawing his gaze back to mine.
“W-what?” I looked over my shoulder. My exam room was empty but prepped. The table where John once lay was pristine, glistening with a metallic sheen.
“Are you alright? Look. Maybe you should just go home. You seem… stressed.”
I shook my head. “You don’t understand. The heart! John—”
“I’m serious, Lizzy. You’ve been working too much lately. I’ll take care of John.” He looked down at the scalpel again.
“O-okay,” I said, “Maybe, you’re right.” I nodded and passed the scalpel over.
Home. Bubble bath. Wine.
I changed and headed in that direction, driving slowly to avoid splattering trick-or-treaters. It wouldn’t be my first time seeing a dead one, but it would be my first time killing one.
A tiny zombie darted out into the street, and I had to slam my feet down into the floorboard of my car to stop in time. Everything in my back seat shot to the floor. Zombie’s mom gave me a grateful wave, and I nodded, exhaling shakily.
My coworker was right. I needed rest.
Tomorrow, I would dust off the old coat rack of a treadmill that hid in the shadowed corner of my apartment, but tonight had a bubble bath and a bottle of wine written all over it.
Flap.
I sat straight up in my bath, spilling my wine.
Binaural beats drifted from my phone, otherworldly. Naked light bulbs shone over the mirror. The door hinge creaked like the lid of a coffin.
“H-hullo?” I called out.
I pushed up onto my knees, and my heart slammed against my ears. I swear it sounded like the flap of wings.
“Trick-or-treat,” was the whispered response.
“W-who was that?” I demanded, sloshing in my bath. The hiss of blood-scented bubbles surrounded me.
“My name isn’t John,” he rasped like wind. An intruder.
“Please, stop,” I said, “I’ll shoot you! The cops! I’ll call the cops!”
My phone!
I reached for it, and the door slammed open, rattling the walls.
I screamed, dropping my phone.
It sank into a bloodbath, and a human heart darted from behind the vanity, flapping into the light.
John Doe looked at me, a cold corpse with a smile.
“You’re not real,” I said, shaking my head, “You’re not real. You can’t be real!” I glanced at the heart.
His smile only grew. He said, “Happy Halloween, beautiful.”
“How?” I asked, “Why?”
“You have my heart,” he said, gesturing mildly to my bare bulbs and the human heart that fluttered against them, “I came for it. I came for you.”
“Please, no,” I begged, sinking into the bubbles.
I’d seen this movie, done this autopsy.
It wouldn’t end well for the twenty-something-year-old in the tub.
Tara Watkins is an aspiring writer living in Kingman, Arizona, with her husband, son, and two dogs. She is the author of the Daisy and Otto children’s book series and is currently expanding her portfolio into science fiction and horror genres.