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Black & Orange 2023

Edited by Sarah Marsh

Foreword

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Content warning: Some stories and poetry may contain content not suitable for all audiences. Some topics touched upon in previous editions include murder, nudity, cannibalism, abuse, sexual assault, & police brutality.

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Table of Contents

Click to jump to pieces

The Clock by Zachary Rozell [poetry]

Spooky Pals by Tessa Hilford [visual art]

Subject 237 by Linda Saad [short story]

Dripping Within Itself by Dan Silva [poetry]

The Icy Chill of Silence by Carrie D’Andrea [short story]

Untitled by Carla LaFlamme [visual art]

Astronomical Odds by Jade Christos [short story]

My Ophelia by Madison Guerrera [short story]

Halloween 45 Years Later by Madison Guerrera [nonfiction]

It Is Starting Again by Timothy Froessel [poetry]

The Man in the Void by N’yla Jones [short story]

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The Clock

By: Zachary Rozell

The clock is the natural enemy of us humans.
It preys on our children and even the elderly.
The beast with numbers for eyes doesn’t discriminate
it simply clicks its tongue and counts down from twelve.
It’s a fair creature as it sounds an alarm
before it digs its sharp minute and hour-hand claws
into whatever old man is close by, minding his business.
But it’s still scary,
regardless of how much you’re prepared for it.
Regardless of if you’ve
come to terms with death or not.
Once you see it, all the tattooed expiration dates
on its dirty, grimy, gear face.
Once you hear it, the ticks, and the tocks,
that don’t sound very threatening
but once that’s all you hear in this empty room,
you’ll run.

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Spooky Pals

By: Tessa Hilford

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Subject 237

By: Linda Saad

“Doctor Griffin?” Natasha chirped alongside her rhythmic knocking on his office door. “You’re being summoned.” 

“For?” 

She flipped a page on her clipboard and squinted at it. “Another termination evaluation. Subject 237.” 

Dr. Griffin rolled his eyes. 

“Doctor, you realize you’ve been assigned this task because you’re the most qualified person left to deal with this, right?” 

“That doesn’t mean I enjoy this. Killing off these creatures…it’s tedious.” 

“It’s important and it must be done.” 

“You don’t get it because you’re just a silly secretary,” Dr. Griffin retorted. “I sit down in front of the damn thing, ask it questions, get no response—because it can’t talk—and then I confirm that it’s ready for termination. Right after narrowly escaping being eaten.” 

“Your signature is important,” Natasha sighed. “We need approval from the council before we can do these things.” 

“To hell with the council. Tell them to do it. Let me get back to treating patients I actually care about.” 

“Doctor—” 

“Where’s the passion?” Griffin groaned, throwing his hands up. “Back when I worked in the hospital wing with humans, I made friends with the patients. Friends, Natasha. Not anomalous creatures that spit and gurgle and kill. How do you think that feels?” 

Natasha said nothing. She pushed her thin red glasses back onto her nose and hugged her clipboard close. “Robert—” 

“That’s Doctor to you.” 

“Sorry, Doctor,” Natasha muttered, clearing her throat.  

“Since when did you think you could call me Robert?” 

Natasha sighed and stared up at the ceiling. The light reflected gently in her crystal blue eyes. “Well, you know, we used to be…closer.” 

“Not anymore,” Griffin snapped. “I almost lost this job to your antics. Your…desires.” 

She visibly shifted in discomfort. “Sorry, sir. But, you have one of the most important jobs in the entire organization. You should care about these…procedures.” 

“These procedures shouldn’t be part of my job,” he said, scratching his mop of dirty blond hair. “I’m a physician. All I’m qualified to do is assist in my patients’ wellness. That’s what I went to school for. Since when did I have the credentials to assess whether or not they should be terminated?” 

“It’s hard to call them patients,” Natasha replied. “They’re ravenous creatures that our organization contains—or terminates if necessary—to allow humanity to prosper in peace. They are our subjects.” 

“I don’t want to have subjects,” Griffin said, clenching his fists. “I’m not a fucking scientist. I’m a doctor and I want to help patients. People.” 

“That’s not my decision, Doctor,” Natasha replied.  

“Yet you’re the reason I’m at this job.” 

Natasha bit her lip. “You must realize that being short-staffed must have to do with your removal from the hospital wing. This job is not for the faint of heart.” 

“You don’t need to tell me that. My heart is tired.” 

Natasha pressed her lips together and lowered her voice. “Maybe you should’ve actually read the contract before you mindlessly accepted such a big raise.” 

“What did you just say to me?” 

“Nothing, sir.” 

Griffin rose from his velvet office chair and straightened out his coat. He towered over Natasha’s petite stature, causing her to back away slowly. 

“Gimme that,” he hissed, peeling her tiny fingers off of the clipboard. “Go do your secretating. I have another creature to terminate.” 

“I’m sorry, Doctor.” 

“Let yourself out.” 

Without another word, Natasha slipped out of his office. He waited for the clinking of her heels to dissipate down the hallway, and then he heaved a great sigh. Here we go again. Another evaluation, another red slip, another signature, another termination. And I picked this over the hospital for what? A raise? 

Griffin stared up at the golden plaque that mocked him against the dull beige walls of his office. The bold letters printed on it screamed back at him: THE ANOMALY CONTAINMENT ORGANIZATION PROUDLY PRESENTS ROBERT GRIFFIN THE 2014 ANNUAL AWARD OF EXCELLENCE FOR OUTSTANDING PERFORMANCE. He remembered how he smiled when he received the award and accepted the promotion five months ago—being Head of Research and Evaluation gave him more authority in the organization as a whole, but with it came less interactions with his patients and more “intense” tasks that he thought he could handle. He longed to strut around in his burgundy scrubs instead of hiding them behind a large lab coat. He longed for the familiar faces of the patients in the hospital wing. They mostly consisted of tactical force members or regular civilians, who were involuntary test subjects recruited by the organization that often fell prey to attacks from the creatures. Part of him loathed the ACO for their inhumane practices in the name of science, but if it meant he could still commit to his passion in such a secure position, he wouldn’t turn away.  

Sometimes he wondered where he’d be if he never gave into her offer to work for ACO in the first place. He struggled to recall how most of it went down, but he knew it was her doing—he cringed whenever the thought of Natasha’s ability to swoon him that night burned in his brain. When he closed his eyes, he could see the flashing lights, the tiny straw swirling around in his drink, and then the stupid little piece of paper she slipped into his pocket while he slipped into unconsciousness. He didn’t even know her name at the time, but there he was, drunkenly submitting to anything she told him. There were so many things that could go wrong when he snuck out to drink—he could get in an accident, or he could throw up. But instead, he ended up with a new job in an organization practically underground. To his wife, Miranda, the opportunity was a miracle, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d tell her that it not only involved alcohol, which he said he’d quit, but also infidelity. 

Griffin sunk back down into the velvet chair. It wasn’t as comfortable as it was when he first moved into the office. He looked over the sheet on the clipboard once again. Almost any subject that had to be referred to him, now the highest position in research, was usually bad news. Many of the researchers below him could handle creatures that could be contained and left alone, but any that caused more trouble than that had to be evaluated on if termination was their best fate in order to protect humanity. 

SUBJECT 237 IS HEREBY APPROVED FOR A TERMINATION EVALUATION TO BE PERFORMED BY DR. ROBERT GRIFFIN, he read. NOTES: SUBJECT IS KNOWN TO UTILIZE PSYCHOLOGICAL MANIPULATION AND INFLICT EMOTIONAL DISTRESS. PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION.  

He rolled his eyes. “This job is giving me emotional distress.” He thought for a moment, and then squinted back down at the paper. Psychological manipulation? From a creature who can’t talk?  

Knocking echoed on the other side of his door. 

“I told you to get lost, did I not?” Griffin barked. 

“S-sorry, Doctor Griffin,” a small voice muttered on the other side. Griffin’s heart sank down to his stomach when he recognized the innocence in the voice of one of ACO’s youngest researchers. It was unfortunate that a kid fresh out of college got looped into the organization’s mess, and Griffin winced at the thought of mistreating him further. 

He snatched the clipboard off of his desk and slowly creaked his office door open. “Hey Brian, sorry about that. I thought you were someone else.” 

“It’s okay,” Brian said. “Who’d you think I was?” 

Griffin smacked his lips like he’d eaten a rotten fruit. “The secretary. Natasha.”  

“Oh,” Brian sighed. “She creeps me out a bit. But she’s the reason I have this job, so I won’t say more than that.” 

 Griffin furrowed his brow. “You too?” 

Brian nodded frantically. “I won’t say more. They just sent me ‘cause they’re waiting for you.” 

“For 237, right?” 

“Yeah. Good luck. I heard it’s a bad one, but I could be wrong.” 

Griffin raised his eyebrows. “What’d you hear?” 

Brian’s eyes nervously darted up and down the hallway. “Don’t tell anyone, okay? I may or may not have snuck around a bit. But I’ve seen it kill without even a single attack. Grown men collapsing onto the ground and disappearing! Crazy! I bet she eats them.” 

Griffin’s lungs tightened as patted his new colleague on the back. “Stay in your lane, alright? That shit’s hard to watch.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But we’re all researchers here, right?” Brian chirped with a toothy smile. He strutted down the hallway, leaving Griffin the same way Natasha did.  

Griffin entered the elevator at the end of the hallway and it dragged him down to the first floor. Even after all his time here, his veins still froze when he descended into the frosty darkness of the first floor. With creatures being its main inhabitants, keeping it toasty was not a necessity. 

Three rooms down on the left, a silver plate with 23-B carved into it sat against the heavily bolted metal door. Griffin fished his keycard out of his coat pocket and waved it at the sensor on the wall. It beeped and the bolts on the door groaned as they welcomed him in.  

Per every termination evaluation, he plopped down into a chair on one side of the room and peered at the ten-by-ten-meter case that took up the majority of the room. He never figured out what it was made of; it looked like opaque glass to him, but it was as solid as concrete. Typically, scratches or cracks would paint the case due to the creature’s aggression and strength. He referenced subject 237’s notes and recalled Brian’s words; everything about the evaluation suddenly felt real to him, and he found himself throwing his head left and right like a presence would just appear right next to him.  

“Come on,” he called, his voice chopped up with anxiety. “Show yourself. I know you’re in there.” Silence hung in the air for a moment, and he tightened his grip on his clipboard as a humanoid figure rose from its slumber within the case’s confinement. It stretched its lanky arms and its ribs protruded through its pale skin. Griffin raised his eyebrows in shock—many of the most dangerous creatures were large, bulky and scaly, but 237 stood at about 5-and-a-half feet tall with not a pound of fat to its name.  

“Subject two-thirty-seven,” he started slowly. The creature kept its head down and did not turn to face him. “My name is Doctor Robert Griffin and I’m the Head Researcher for the Anomaly Containment Organization. Now, I’m required to go through these formalities even though you, uh, probably can’t respond to me, but here I go: I will go through your file and put you through a test to determine if we can just keep you in here or if you should hit the hay. The Council only wants to kill creatures if necessary, even if they’re as hideous as you. They must be vegans or something.” He smirked at his remark, but it quickly faded when the creature moaned in response. It didn’t understand me, did it? 

“Now, two-thirty-seven,” he continued, taking a deep breath, “you don’t have a very good reputation. The ACO doesn’t want me to sentence you to death until they’re absolutely certain that you’re a major threat, even though you’ve killed already. Not sure why I’m even here right now if you’ve already got victims.” His eyes followed the creature’s rising and falling hunched back as it breathed steadily. It still did not move in any way to respond, and he exhaled in relief. I’ve got to control my nerves. Why am I even nervous? 

“Alright, well, now that that’s out of the way, we gotta run a little test to see how much of a threat you are to humanity. So I’m gonna give you a little treat.” Griffin reached into his pocket and pulled out a small blood bag. He stared at it for a second—the hospital wing flashed before his eyes. His thoughts were interrupted when a small compartment popped out of the bottom of the case, and he threw the bag right into it. He held his pen up to his clipboard as he observed his subject’s response to the blood bag. At first, 237 continued to stand still, and then inched toward the bag. It picked it up and emptied the contents down its throat. Griffin felt a lump grow in his stomach with each gargle and swallow. 

He clicked his pen and began to scribble. “Okay, so it’s obvious that you’ll feed on a human when given the opportunity. That’s already bad news, and the fact that you’ve done that even after killing means that you intend to kill again.” 

237 didn’t look at or acknowledge him; it licked the blood off of its cold, bony fingers in a strangely humane way that shook the doctor. 

“There are other things I’m interested in, though—it seems that you like to play mind games and cause ‘emotional distress,’ but I’ll have you know that doesn’t work on me,” he scoffed. “I have a degree, you know? So don’t think it’ll be a piece of cake to break me. You’d need a whole bakery!” 

For the first time, 237 tilted its head toward Griffin, and he felt his heart skip a beat. He straightened out his coat and thanked the lord for the case separating them. I’m fine. I’ve got nothing to worry about. 

“Uh,” he said awkwardly, trying to pierce the silence, “you’ve killed two members of the tactical force and one member of the test class. Each of them behaved oddly affectionate toward you before collapsing to their deaths. Pretty weird, but—” he checked his notes, “you’re known for making a stealthy escape. The victims were only traced back to you through DNA testing, and a researcher managed to get away after witnessing how you kill.” 

“Brian.” 

Griffin froze. He felt the blood seize to rush in his hands. “W-what?” 

“Brian got away.” 

He could have sworn the voice’s frigid nature dropped the room’s temperature. Out of his dozens of termination evaluations, this was the first where words had been spoken in the room and it wasn’t in his voice. “Are you talking to me?” 

“There’s no one else in here, is there?” 237 croaked, spinning its head unnaturally to look around. “Except for Mr. Scott. Well, his blood at least—I remember him. Not very kind to me. As are you.” 

Griffin felt a jab at his ego. “D-don’t speak to me like that. I’m a professional and so was Mr. Scott. I am honored to be his successor. You’re just a creature that’ll be sentenced to death as soon as my signature is on this paper.” 

“A creature,” 237 continued, “is that all I am to you?” 

Griffin shrugged, trying to maintain his composure. “Yeah. Well, you’re definitely not human, at least. You’re an anomaly. That’s why you’ve got your own fancy name—subject 237.” 

“An anomaly,” 237 echoed him, like it had just learned a new word. He now had a better view of its ghastly sunken eye sockets and hollow cheeks. “What does that mean?” 

“It means,” he gulped, holding the clipboard up to his face. I can’t even look at the damn thing. Why do I feel bad? “It means you’re not normal.” 

“Not…normal?” 237 repeated. “Listen, I know that I am ill, but surely that doesn’t make me that peculiar?” 

Griffin grimaced. “You sure look the part. I’d smash a mirror if I looked at my reflection and saw you staring back at me.” 

“A mirror!” 237 said in a higher pitch. Something lit up in its eyes. “Please, get me a mirror. I refuse to believe I look peculiar enough for you to call me a creature.” 

Griffin nervously shuffled around to look for a mirror, even though he knew he didn’t have one. “I mean, I’ve got my phone. Lemme open the camera.” He switched his phone on and opened up the camera app. He looked at himself for a moment and fluffed his hair. Even as the years ticked by, he was still irresistible. Before he could gawk at himself any longer, the compartment popped open below him and he slid the phone through. He backed away quickly, disgusted by the creature’s skin drained of color up close. It’s like a dead alien. 

The creature’s eyes welled up as soon as it saw its reflection. “I’m…I’m hideous!”  

The phone slid back through and Griffin stuffed it back into his pocket. 237 began to wail uncontrollably, and he wanted nothing more than to be done with it. His pen inched closer and closer to the signature line at the bottom of the termination sheet. 

“You know, the camera on phones aren’t that good,” he said, getting uncomfortable in his chair. Why am I consoling it? “People use filters and stuff nowadays.” 

“That’s not going to fix this!” 237 sobbed, gesturing at its deformed face. “No one told me I was this ill.” 

“You’re uh, not ill, you’re just a creature, you know,” Griffin muttered. 

“I’m not a creature!” 237 argued. “Even if I look like one. I am a human! A human who is ill! And I was sent here to recover.” 

Griffin sat in silence for about a minute as his mind swirled with questions. Why did the creature think it was here to recover? How was this creature intelligent enough to claim that it was human? And still, to his surprise, how could it even talk in the first place? 

Was it really a human? 

“I had a family, Griffin,” 237 continued. “A sister who loved me more than anybody. And when I fell ill, she came to my bedside every day with soup and Netflix while my parents kept their distance.” 

“I…” Griffin trailed off, “I’m sorry to hear that.” Stop comforting it. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, actually. “Are you just mimicking human speech or something? You’re doing a good job of it.”  

“You still don’t believe that I am a human?” 237 gasped with its dry, deathly tone.  

“We don’t capture humans.” 

“I went to school, I had friends, I had a sister! She wasn’t afraid to catch what I had. She wouldn’t care if she did if it meant she could make me happy.” 

237 sniffled and hugged itself. “Even when I see her now, my heart breaks. I can already see her skin growing grayer and her eyes growing paler when she comes to visit me.” 

What is it going on about? We don’t get visitors. We’re a secret organization. This is bullshit. 

“She’ll be as hideous as me soon, but she did it all for me and I’ll thank her in heaven one day if I don’t recover. She’ll always be beautiful to me, and everyone else who works here.” 

Griffin choked on the damp air of the room. “Wait wait wait, now you’re going too far. You’re telling me your sister is here, too? And she’s ill?” 

“She will be soon,” 237 sighed. “She’s not a subject yet. In fact, she loves her job here. She is not just a silly secretary.” 

Griffin felt the entire weight of the situation crash into him. Natasha. “How do you even know she said that? I was in my office. This is ridiculous.” 

“She told me of your arrival mere minutes before you got here,” 237 replied. “You’re my final hope.” He shut his eyes after making eye contact with its protruding collarbone.  

The creature looked up at him, and for the first time, he could make out the slightest bit of crystal blue in its irises. The same blue in Natasha’s eyes. “She still loves you. And she knows you can help me. I just need you not to kill me. Please.” 

“I…” Griffin swallowed. He knew what he needed to say, but for some reason it took double the brain power to form the words. “I’m sorry. My job comes first. I have to do what’s right for humanity.” 

“Your paycheck comes first,” the creature corrected him. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself. You would not have let her seduce you if that wasn’t true.” 

“You don’t know anything about me,” Griffin fired back, heat growing at his temples. “Her and I were just doing…business. No feelings involved.” 

The creature shook its head. “My business. Do you really think she approached you that night to simply give a hot guy a well-paying job? Everything she does is for me and my recovery.” 

He briefly pictured the figures in his bank account. “What are you talking about?” 

“She brings intelligent men like you here to help me recover. Find out what’s wrong with me. And if you refuse or you can’t figure it out, well—” 237 glared at him. “—I also happen to be very hungry, and the only thing that seems to slow down my illness is feeding on other humans. And this place is littered with them. You’ll help me either way.” 

“I don’t understand how this is my responsibility,” Griffin replied. “Why didn’t you just go to the hospital or something? Who told you this was a hospital?” 

“I couldn’t!” 237 cried. “My parents not only couldn’t afford it but also wanted nothing to do with me. I was a monster to everyone but my sister. And when my illness made me more hostile, I was taken in by this place and Natasha followed me here. She swore I’d be cured.” 

Griffin’s head pounded. He couldn’t find a shred of the confidence he had when going into this. His knees locked together and there wasn’t a single clever remark that could even formulate in his head. His fingers, once tightly grappling onto the pen, ready to sign 237’s life away, were now detached from his body and no command from his brain could lift them from their position. 

“I mean,” he said, closing his eyes. “If you really are a human, I could just transfer you to the hospital wing and see what they can do. I’m a doctor, too.” What am I saying? This thing’s killed people! I’ve got to sign this paper! 

“Would you do that for me?” 237 said, gazing at him. Its eyes were almost beautiful for a moment, and he longed for Natasha’s touch. 

“Of course,” he said. “For you and for Natasha.” 

The creature smiled with yellowed broken teeth, but he didn’t mind for some reason. “Please, Griffin! Give me a hug! We’re going to have an amazing future together.” 

“Yes, we are,” he said. He felt himself smile too, but he wasn’t trying to. “You are not a creature. Please tell me your name.” 

“My name is Natalie.” 

“You’re beautiful, Natalie. Just like your sister,” Griffin said, standing up. His clipboard tumbled from the chair to the floor with a cling, and he felt like it should have startled him, but it didn’t. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if he could hear it. He only knew that he could hear Natalie’s voice. His legs dragged him toward a box against the wall on the opposite side of the room. His vision was blurry, but his hands knew what to do. He unlocked the box and his fingers traveled until they found a button labeled “OPEN CASE.” Rumbling rippled throughout the room as the walls around Natalie sank with a screech. 

“Come here,” she said immediately, stretching her arms toward Griffin. Without another thought, he stepped closer and closer to her, stretching out his arms. 

The commotion disturbed another researcher down the hall who barged into the room to see Griffin inches away from meeting his fate. 

“Doctor! Doctor!” Brian shrieked when he came in. “Don’t touch it! You’ll—” but the world around Griffin faded and Natalie fell into his arms. Coldness froze his veins upon contact, and she reached up to kiss him on the cheek.  

“Thank you, Griffin,” she said softly. Her eyes then darted and locked with Brian’s eyes. Immediately, she jumped from Griffin’s arms and threw herself toward the man, ready to lock in on her prey. Griffin stood still as Brian’s screams filled his eardrums between the splattering of blood and the chomping of Natalie’s teeth digging into his neck. 

“You weren’t going to get away again,” she hissed, licking the blood around her lips. “Neither of you.” 

She walked back toward Griffin and couldn’t help but chuckle. His once snotty, stuck-up attitude paled in comparison to the now passive minion that could only do what she said. 

“Rip up that paper,” she commanded him. Griffin sped back and picked up his clipboard. He flipped to the termination page with the signature line and tore it apart right away. Natalie smiled as she watched him. 

“Now,” she cooed, “flip to the very last page of the clipboard. Natasha left a little something there. That’s the one you’re going to sign.” 

Griffin nodded and obeyed. Again, without control of his hands, he picked up the pen and scribbled ROB GRIFFIN at the bottom of the page. From the corner of his eye, he could see Natalie’s smile growing. 

“Thank you!” she said happily. “You’re now out of my command.” She kissed him on the cheek, and the world around him seemed to regain its color. His heart lodged into his throat when he found himself face to face with 237. 

“Why are you out of your case? What’s going on here?” he asked frantically. She continued to smile at him, and then pointed a long, bony finger down at the bottom of the page. 

“That’s what’s going on.” 

His vision adjusted itself, and then he read: BY SIGNING THIS, I AGREE TO FREE SUBJECT 237 OF ITS CONTAINMENT AND PROMOTE NATASHA SOLARI TO HEAD RESEARCHER AS A SUCCESSOR TO DOCTOR ROBERT GRIFFIN. 

“What the hell?” he shrieked, throwing the clipboard on the floor. “What did you just make me sign?” 

Natalie giggled. 

“I’m going to kill you. I swear I’m going to kill you. That’s what I came here to do and I’m not leaving until it’s done.” He balled his hands into fists. “I can take you. I work out. You’re small. I can finish you right here, right now. You can’t take my job from me.” 

Natalie giggled again. “And you can’t kill me because it’s already inside you.” She darted out of the room before he could even process that she did so. 

It’s already inside me? 

Griffin opened up his phone camera. Oddly enough, his skin appeared slightly grayed and his eyes drained of color.

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Dripping Within Itself

By: Dan Silva

Dripping within itself,
Leaking through the sinewy spaces between flesh
Onto structures below
Wrapped, writhing, and pulsating,
Cushioned by connective areolar tissue, operating like gears;
The organs still commit to their functions
The outside a sheet metal patchwork
Painstakingly put together by screws and bolts,
Deeply sewn through all layers of dermis,
Reaching home in the meat and muscle underneath;
These plates don’t match in color
It all moves, slowly outwards slowly back,
Every is breath wet and dry with house-like creaking
Tearing through alveoli and tendons,
Hoping to stay whole; existing this way

Tormented,
Agonized,
Aching,
Bleeding from the inside
So the crimson won’t stain and rust its outside.

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The Icy Chill of Silence

By: Carrie D’Andrea

“Why am I so cold?”

I stretched a stiff arm out, but all I could feel was cool, loose dirt under my fingers. As I rolled over onto my back, I realized I was under a bench made of dirty, wooden planks and I could smell the smoke from a firepit close by. I turned my head to look for the fire, hoping it would still be ablaze, but all I saw were red and orange glowing embers.

“Not again,” I groaned, pulling my arms tight around me.

This wasn’t the first time I’d drunk too much and passed out by the fire, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. I tried to find a more comfortable position, but with a sigh of irritation, I gave up and turned back over to my side. As I began to fade, a chill ran down my back, and the woods became deadly silent. I tried to clear the fogginess, but my sleep-deprived, alcohol-addled brain just wasn’t letting me. I scooted until I was completely under the planks and held my breath in hopes that if there was something out there, it wouldn’t know I was here. As I lay there, I could hear the woods slowly come back to life. Once I heard the crickets chirp and an owl hoot, I berated myself for being a coward. Eventually, the sounds faded as I drifted off.

Out of nowhere, a strange sound jarred me awake. Confused and trying to reorient myself, it dawned on me where I was. Before I could fully put the pieces together, a cold chill shot down my spine again, causing my stomach to clench. My heart was pounding, and my breathing became ragged, almost hard to control. I had no idea why, but I knew I needed to remain calm and to be as quiet as possible. The lake was dead silent, and I could hear a strange soft shuffling sound move past the bench. My mouth went dry, and my body trembled. What is that? What should I do? I thought as I lay there trying to stay calm. I had nothing I could use to defend myself and no idea what I was facing. After a few minutes, the sound stopped, and the woods were once again eerily silent. When the birds began to sing and the crickets started chirping again, I laughed. I couldn’t help but think to myself, I really can let my imagination run wild! A little sleep deprivation mixed with some alcohol, and I become a paranoid lunatic! I chuckled as I let my body relax and allowed the sounds of the lake lull me back to sleep.

The next time I was woken up was by shards of sunshine shooting through my eyes. Pain surged through my head like lightning bolts, threatening to split my brain in half. I quickly shaded my eyes and laid there regretting every decision I’ve ever made. “I will never drink again,” I groaned, and gingerly tried to make my way out from under the bench.

As I stood up and attempted to brush off the dirt, bemoaning my aches and pains, I had a nagging feeling that something just wasn’t right. The lake was quiet – too quiet. The breeze off the water was cool and inviting with a hint of honeysuckle, and the sun beating down on me had started to ease my headache slightly. This was perfect lake weather, so where was everyone? Not to mention, this was supposed to be our “awesome lake weekend,” as Jason always put it, and no one was in the water. As I looked around, I realized it wasn’t just that there was no sound right around me, there were no sounds anywhere around the lake. No laughter of kids splashing and playing, no birds chirping, no buzzing of bugs, not even the barking of dogs. I turned toward the large cabin, ignoring the pain still in my head. The entire area, usually full of life on a day like this, was empty and silent. I pulled my phone from my pocket to see how late it was, and the screen read “11:20 am.” This both confused and worried me. We always started out our weekends with a trip to Joes Best Pancakes in town. Here it was almost 11:30, and no one had even tried to wake me up.

I tried to call one of my friends; but then I remembered that there was never any service here, so I shoved my phone back in my pocket. I used to love that no one could find me here, but in this type of situation, it wasn’t so comforting. The only phone that worked was the one landline inside, and thankfully I knew where it was. I made my way up to the house, taking the smooth pathway up to the front porch. As I got to the steps, I immediately froze. In front of me was a massive pool of blood, a large smear pulled out from it that led all the way up the steps. It looked as though something large had been drug through the blood, and there were strange prints all throughout it.

Unfortunately, it seemed my only good option was to go in the cabin, find my keys, and get the hell out of there! I tiptoed up the stairs as quietly as I could, trying my best not to step in the blood that was everywhere. And as I made my way up, I tried desperately to listen for anything, but the area remained disturbingly quiet. I could see that the front door was wide open, but in the silence, it felt cold and ominous. I stopped and strained my eyes, but all I could see was a strange shape on the ground in the shadow of the door. There, covered in flies, was a long clump of reddish-brown hair with pieces of bloody flesh attached. I froze as my mouth formed words, but nothing came out. I didn’t know what horrible thing was in the cabin, and I was not about to find out! I slowly backed toward the steps I’d just climbed, keeping my eyes fixed on the doorway, listening for any kind of sound. All I could hear was rustling leaves, and the occasional wave lapping at the shore. On any other day, this would have been perfect lake weather, but unfortunately, today was anything but normal. As afraid as I was to turn around, I was more frightened I might slip in blood all over the stairs. So as quickly and quietly as I could, I turned around and ran down the stairs. I made my way around the cabin, listening intently, but there was still nothing.

Once I reached the cars, I realized there were only two left – my tiny Akia and my ex-boyfriend’s old beat-up Charger. I was standing there numbly when I got that chill down my spine again. This time, though, it was so strong I thought my blood might turn to ice. As sheer panic threatened to choke me, I tried desperately to make my brain work. In my fog of panic, it dawned on me – Dean always put a key in a magnetic box under his car, maybe it was still there! I looked around but nothing caught my eye, so I decided to get to the car as quickly as possible. As I stepped, I could feel the gravel lightly crunch under my feet, and once I reached his car, I breathed a small sigh of relief. I tried the door but of course it was locked. I looked inside and to my surprise, Angela, his new girlfriend, was in the drivers’ seat curled up sleeping. As I contemplated what to do, the hair on my arms stood up, and something in the back of my head yelled “run!” So, I quickly dropped to the ground and rolled under the car. I lay there willing my heart to slow down, and trying to take control of my breathing, when I heard that same scraping, shuffling sound not far from me. I pressed my lips together as tightly as I could. I tried to remain calm but the air passing in out of my nose sounded like a freight train in my ears. My body was still, but my eyes were everywhere, trying to catch a glimpse of what it was. After a few seconds, I heard a soft, snorting sound that seemed harmless. However, the stench that followed the sound was unbearable, a week-old corpse couldn’t smell that bad. As I lay there trying not to retch, I finally saw movement out of the corner of my left eye. A scaly long green foot with thin pointed toes deftly passed the front tire and quietly set down onto the pavement. I could see four large claws that scraped gently as the other foot was set down next to it. It stood upright on two powerful hind legs and even though it was facing the passenger side of the car, its muscles flexed and turned like it was looking around. Its skin had a smooth yet slimy sheen like a snake, but also tough and durable like a crocodile. Its claws were long, at least the length of my fingers, and looked as sharp as razors. When my eyes focused on them, I realized the cause of the stench. They were caked in flesh and blood and some of it was fresh. And there were small chunks hanging off the more jagged edges along with a few red hairs.

I wanted to scream but even the air froze in my chest. It felt like I was both breathing too fast and not fast enough, as my lungs threatened to burst. I panicked and had to mentally slap myself. You’re better than this! Freaking out won’t help you at all, get your shit together! I forced myself to inhale and exhale slowly until I was able to think a little more logically. I opened my eyes and looked all over the underside of the car. And when I finely caught sight of the magnetic box, I breathed a silent breath of relief. I reached up to pull it off, but of course it wouldn’t budge. Trying not to make any noise, I wiggled it back and forth until the cover came loose. I opened it little by little, and just as I saw a glint of silver, the key fell out and hit the ground, creating a little thud that was barely audible. The creature instantly tensed up, and I could see the massive muscles bulging in its hind legs even though it was still.

I lay there watching until it resumed any movement and began to make its way around the car. I grabbed the key and slid it into my pocket, but what now? I have nothing to protect myself, I have no way of getting in the car, and even if I did, I couldn’t do it without that thing catching me. Then it came to me, maybe if I could create a sound, it’ll distract it long enough that I can get in the car. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and of course there was still no service, not even an SOS signal. And unfortunately, there was only 2% juice left on the battery. Maybe if I set the timer to go off, I could throw it as far as I could, and keep the creature busy until I could at least get in the car. To my right was my car, to the left was the creature, and beyond it was the woods. I opened the timer, made sure the volume was all the way up, and set it for one minute. I quietly scooted over until I got to the right side of the car, and gently tapped the driver’s door with the phone. The creature started to quickly move to that side as I scooted to the opposite as fast as I could. I started the timer on the phone, pulled my arm back, and with a prayer, I flung it sideways as hard as I could into the forest.

The phone made a clattering sound that caused the creature to freeze and turn toward it, muscles tensing to jump. It stood there motionless while I mentally counted down the seconds on my timer, hoping it would go off soon. It then dropped to all fours and began to sniff the ground around the car, and I could see both upper limbs. They were almost as long and muscular as the back legs, and those claws were even longer. I could see bright blood splattered all over them and up its arms. It was then that it lowered its head enough for me to see, and panic started to take over. It was covered in the same tough, green scales, and its face tapered off into a narrow, flat snout like a cobra. Its mouth opened and I could see long, razor-sharp, blood-stained teeth lined up in rows. I then watched as a long, slimy tongue slipped out of its mouth, and began to coil around like a serpent. The tongue seemed to move closer as I counted down the seconds and prayed. Five, four, three, two, one…and nothing happened.

I lay there feeling the sobs start creeping up my throat. As a tear slipped from my eye and ran down my cheek, the phone launched into a loud version “Surfin’ Bird”. In mere seconds the creature was up, had jumped swiftly over the car, and was into the woods, all without making a sound. I knew I didn’t have time, so I rolled out from under the car, shakily pulled the key out of my pocket and after several attempts, I got the key in and opened the door. I jumped in and the sound on the phone died just as the door slammed shut.

My entire body clenched, and I held as still as possible, but nothing happened.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

Oh, that’s right, Angela is in the car. I turned to look at her, and she was glaring at me through messy hair and red-rimmed eyes.

“You going to answer me or not? Why are you in Deans’s car?”

Seeing her quickly changed my relief to irritation.

I put my finger over my lips as I motioned down with my hand “Be quieter!” I whispered harshly as I was looking around.

She looked me up and down and gave me a quizzical look with one eyebrow up.

“Why are you in here and why are you so scared?” She asked even louder.

I sighed and shook my head. “Too much to explain right now, but you have to stay quiet” I whispered again.

“Why should I sta…” Angela started as all the blood drained from her face.

I turned my head slightly to the right and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the creature walking close by, sniffing the air.

“Slowly…put…your…seat…back” I told her calmly through clenched teeth as I began to lower mine. She opened her mouth to say something, but quickly closed it as I glared at her. We both lowered our seats until they were resting on the back bench. And for a while, we just lay there listening to the muffled scraping sounds that circled the car. Eventually, the sounds stopped, and we could hear the birds chirping again.

“What the hell was that!?” Angela hissed.

“I have absolutely no idea! But I do know its mean and it has already killed someone. We need to get the hell out of here and come back with some serious reinforcements,” I whispered, staring out the side window.

“Who did it kill?” she whispered.

I shook my head sadly, “I don’t know.”

After a while I turned toward Angela, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah, what” she said, her tone flat.

“Why did you steal Dean from me? Don’t you believe in karma?” I asked.

She shrugged faintly, “Who knows, maybe this is my karma.”

“The creature, or sleeping in the car?”

“Maybe both, who knows.” She shrugged again, still staring out the window.

“Why are you in the car?” I asked, turning my head slightly to look at her.

“We got into a fight last night,” she said, and refused to make any eye contact. “Couples do that you know,” she added, as continued to stare out the window.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe it was you?” she snapped turning to look at me, “maybe it’s your fault, maybe you pushed him away.”

A flash of anger coursed through me like fire. Before I could even open my mouth to respond, I heard that familiar scraping sound and froze. As I put my fingers to my lips, I heard the unmistakable crunching of gravel in the distance. My heart leapt into my throat as I realized there was a car coming. I looked at Angela franticly, “Who’s in the car and where did they go!?”

“Everyone went to Joes in town. I think it’s Amanda, Jason, and Dean.”

With the last name she spoke, her eyes widened, and she began to panic. “It’s going to get them! It’s going to kill him! What can we do!?”

I looked toward the sound and wracked my brain for an idea. There’s nothing I can do to warn them, if I make a sound, that thing will know where we are, and even if I had my phone, I couldn’t call them. I heard a sound beside my door and risked a peek out the window. The creature was on all fours, claws dug into the ground, intensely staring in the same direction.

“I know it’s messed up, but I love him!” Angela sobbed quietly, but there was nothing either of us could do.

We sat there waiting for the car to appear out of the tree-lined road and it felt like seconds had turned into an eternity. I could see Angela silently begging as tears ran down her face, and my brain was spinning out of control. We sat there and helplessly watched the car move down the driveway and come to a full stop. My eyes were switching back and forth between the creature and the car, all while my chest felt like it was caving in. Who would be the first to get out? Maybe the others will see it and they’ll be able to get away! We sat there in agonizing silence until the passenger side door opened, and Jason got out.

“No! Not poor, sweet Jason!” I moaned, as we watched him.

He was laughing and gesturing like always as he unfolded his six-foot, quarterback frame out of Amanda’s tiny Prius. I had to clamp my hand over my own mouth to keep from screaming, while Angela was curled up in the fetal crying. Then the driver’s door opened, Amanda jumped out slamming the door behind her, and then proceeded to walk toward the cabin. Without a sound, the creature launched into the air and crashed into Amanda, pinning her to the ground. Only part of a scream escaped her lips before her body was slammed into the dirt. All too quickly, it bit down on her head and her skull shattered into tiny pieces. As the creature relaxed its jaw, her head fell out of its mouth and hit the ground with a thud. Her brain was scattered in pieces all around her and her face was frozen in a mask of horror. Jason just stood there with his mouth hanging open. It wasn’t until the creature turned to look at him that he finally tried to move. In a flash, it had him pinned up against the car, and was staring down into his eyes. It was then that I realized how massive it was. Jason is a sturdy 6’2″ football player, and the creature towered over him by at least two-to-three feet. It stood there staring at him coldly, its muscles flexing, preparing to tear him into pieces. It had one paw pinning him to the car, as the other slowly pulled back and slammed its claws into the right side of his chest, the ends sliced all the way through the metal behind him. Jason opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. The creature then pulled him up in the air on its claws, his blood pouring down its slimy, scaly arm. It then launched Jason as hard as it could at the closest tree, his body seemed to spin in midair as he flew and slammed into the trunk, impaling him on a branch. Jason hung there at least ten feet off the ground, blood running like a river down the branches. Our eyes met as he lifted one arm up toward me, his fingers stretched out in hopes that someone could save him. His mouth moved as he screamed for help, but only blood bubbled out, staining his teeth red. As his last breath escaped, his whole body shuddered, and then went limp. His eyes stared blankly at us as they turned dull and cold.

I couldn’t help it, I turned and vomited into the back seat until nothing came out. Dry heaves wracked my body for a while before I could stop. I sat up and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, I stopped right there. We were face-to-face with the creature, and it was looking right at me. It had blank, yellow, gleaming eyes that stared straight through me as if it was staring into my soul. Its mouth was partially open enough to see all the razor-sharp teeth that are now dripping with bright red blood.

Just as it began to tense up to jump, a car door slammed, and I saw Dean running toward the house. The creature whipped its head around, and once it spotted Dean, it headed straight for him. Knowing there was no way he could outrun it, he stopped to grab an ax off the woodpile, and turned to face the creature. Suddenly, they were standing there looking at each other, the creature showing no emotion, and Dean looking like he was about to faint. Before I could stop her, Angela opened her window and started yelling.

“You can do it Dean! Get it!!!!” The creature shifted its eyes slightly to look at her, and quickly went back to Dean. A dry slithery sound was heard saying, “Deeeeennnnn.”

That familiar chill started to work its way down my back again, but this time I ignored it. With no time to waste, I yanked Angela over into the passenger side as I scooted into the drivers’ seat. I pulled the key out of my pocket and jammed it into the ignition. I looked back at Dean, but they were both nowhere in sight. I quickly scanned all around, but it was like they had vanished. Out of nowhere, Dean’s body landed on the hood of the car with a smash, ax still in hand, and the creature landed right in front of us with Dean’s head in its mouth. With the horrible sound of crunching, it chewed his head, and it disappeared down its throat in one gulp. The creature once again stood there, staring at us with that evil gleam. At that moment, all my shock and all of my fear turned to pure rage! I wanted to kill it! Even if I had to die in the process. I turned the key into the ignition and for a moment, there was only the sound of clicking. “Dammit Dean! Your cars never worked right” I cried. With a burst of adrenaline, I cranked the ignition with all my might, and the car’s motor rumbled to life. I looked the creature straight in the eye and screamed “Fuck you!” As I put the car into drive and smashed right into it. It didn’t have a chance to respond as the four-thousand-pound muscle car ran right over it. There were glorious crunching sounds as each wheel rolled over different parts of its body and I drove a few more feet before coming to a halt. Dean’s lifeless body tumbled off the front, leaving a river of blood behind it. I looked in the rearview mirror, and even though the creature was hurt, it was still very much alive.

“Why did you stop” Angela screeched, looking wildly around her.

“I forgot to do something,” I said.

Leaning over, I opened the door, and pushed her out. I then slammed my foot as hard as I could on the gas pedal, causing the car to jolt forward, the door swinging shut in the process. As I drove away, I could hear her screaming incoherently, and I happily watched through the side mirror as the creature jumped on her and began to slash her to pieces with its razor-sharp claws. I chuckled to myself as I sped away, after all, I’m not one to break up a happy couple.

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Untitled

By: Carla LaFlemme

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Astronomical Odds

By: Jade Christos

3/9/[SYNTAX ERROR]

Hello. My name is Dr. Cassandra Pierce. I’m… I was an astronomer at NASA. If you find this tape… who am I kidding. No one will find this.

Sigh

The apocalypse isn’t what I thought it would be. Everyone thought we were going out with a bang but it was more of a record scratch. Time stopped. There’s no better way I can put that. My team and I were running around in a panic trying to find something, anything we could do to stop the impending disaster. Then they all stopped moving. I didn’t notice at first. Then I bumped into Francine, our intern. She froze. I waved my hand in front of her eyes. Nothing. I tried to move her. She wouldn’t budge, as if she was rooted to the spot. Nobody would. I tried pushing them, pulling them, lifting them up from underneath. They didn’t move. Nothing else moved either. I tried picking up a clipboard to throw it at something but it was stuck to the desk.

At first it didn’t even register that I wasn’t frozen. That unlike the rest of this building, this city, this planet, I could still move. I still don’t know why. What makes me different from everyone else? Is there a reason? Or is it just a random chance?

Jerry would call it a “cosmic coincidence”. Hah…

I miss him.

There’s a suffocating silence. No birds chirping, no city bustling, not even the wind. Sometimes I hear a scream and I think, just for a moment, that there might be another person out there, before I realize the scream came from my own mouth. There’s no more people on this planet. Just statues. Statues in their last moments. Some embracing their loved ones, some resting peacefully in bed, some falling to a death that will never come. They wanted to take their own life before the end of the world.

Jupiter’s moon Io flew wildly off course on a trajectory right into Earth. My team and I were the first and only people to report it. We told our findings to everyone, the government, news outlets, and the masses. They did nothing. The government told us not to let this get out. Oops! The news outlets barely covered it. The public didn’t take it seriously. It was trending on social media for a while, but it soon became old news. Only when the moon was visible in the sky did people start to panic.

At that point it was too late.

Now Io and Earth are one. The point of impact was somewhere in Southern India and the Indian ocean. The other side of the world. I walked all the way there to see it. It’s horrifying. A massive sphere looms on the horizon. Smoke engulfs the surrounding area. Rocks falling from the moon are stuck in midair. People caught in the shockwave are dying. Skin is melting off of their face.

Bones are sticking out of their bodies. Their faces are stuck in silent screams. I didn’t stay there for very long.

I don’t know why I’m not frozen like everyone else. I don’t know what makes me different. I don’t even know if any of this is real. This could all be a big pre-death hallucination. Or a dream! What does this dream mean! Aren’t dreams supposed to mean something! I don’t know!

8/26/[SYNTAX ERROR]

I found him. Jerry. Before the end he flew back to New York to be with his fiance and child.

I don’t remember how long it’s been. There’s no way to tell days apart from years. The planet no longer spins, nor revolves around the sun. I tried counting to sixty, that would be one minute. Count to sixty, sixty times that was an hour, mark the wall. Count to sixty, sixty times, twenty four times, circle the marks, a day. When I ran out of space on the wall, I moved to the next. I covered the entire interior of the building in marks and circles then the exterior, then the surrounding scenery. The parks, the roads, the neighboring buildings, all covered with twenty four lines in a circle.

Four hundred thousand circles. Four hundred thousand circles before I gave up.

It took me a while to realize I wasn’t hungry. I haven’t eaten anything since the incident started. But I’m not hungry. I just… I don’t need to eat anymore. I can’t even remember the last time I felt physical pain.

I wanted to further test my lack of pain. I found a pile of broken glass left over from the apocalypse. I took off my shoes and walked across it barefoot. Nothing. No pain. None of the glass shards so much as penetrated my skin. I thought I was invincible. But when I tried to put my discarded shoes back on, I couldn’t move them. They were frozen to the spot where I casually tossed them aside. Frozen like everything else. Almost as if once they lost their connection to me, they became just as insignificant as the rest of the world. Or maybe I was the insignificant one. I couldn’t even move a pile of glass. It has to mean something right?

Right?

For my next test, I jumped off a building. I fell about eight hundred thirty meters. Nothing. The wind whistled in my ears and then I was lying down on the ground. I climbed back up to the top and jumped off again. And again. And again. I didn’t feel anything.

I’ve never been very religious. I used to go to church every Sunday with my family. I always hated it. Standing for long periods of time while this old man chants nonsense. It was like a government sanctioned cult. When I was about thirteen, I had a revelation. If Santa Claus wasn’t real, why would god be?

I bring this up now because I’d be happy to be proven wrong.

6/21/[SYNTAX ERROR]

I felt it before I saw it. A drop in temperature despite the sun’s rays beating down on this planet. They were beating this whole time. The sun, like me, moving in frozen time. Continuing to burn. Until the bitter end.

I have lived for eons, but this is going to be the longest eight minutes of my life.

[SYNTAX ERROR]

It’s so hot. It doesn’t hurt but it’s so hot.

Earth is gone. Io is gone. The only things that remain are …. recorder.

Is this punishment? Is this purgatory? Is God real? Is this His wrath?

Was I …..

I tried to warn people but they never listened. Even if they did listen, is there anything we could have done?

It’s just me and the Sun. Alone in a frozen universe.

Me and the Sun

Are we ………

I think I know what I have to do.

??/??/????

I just wanted to look at the stars. That’s why I became an astronomer. I wanted to look at the stars. I didn’t want to …..

??/??/????

The Father the Sun and the Father the Sun and the Father the Sun and the Father the Sun and the Father the Sun and the Father the Sun and the Father the Sun and the Father the Sun and the Mother the Sun and the Mother the Sun and the Mother the Sun and the Mother the Sun and the Mother the Sun and the Mother the Sun and the Mother the Sun and the Mother the Sun and the Mother

??/??/????

Dash dot dash dot, dash dash dash, dash dot, dash dot, dot, dash dot dash dot, dash, dot, dash dot dot.

–/–/—-

I am the oracle I am the oracle I am the oracle I am the oracle I am the oracle I am the ora- aro eht ma i elcaro eht ma I elcaro eht ma I elcaro eht ma I elcaro eht ma I elcaro eht ma I elcaro eht ma I

krad enog sah nus ehT

krad enog evah I

nus eht ma I

0/0/0000

Documenter’s note:

What you just read were transcripts of audio files found in a damaged tape recorder outside of NASA’s Glenn Research Center in March of 2006. The dates on the recordings do not show up on any computer they are displayed on. Taking the recorder apart shows it no different from any other tape recorder of this time.

When these audio files were played for the real Cassandra Pierce, she appeared horrified and denied recording these tapes. The origins of the tape are still unknown.

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My Ophelia

By: Madison Guerrera

 I was awake at the ungodly hour of midnight, struggling to keep my eyes open while reading Tales of Mystery & Imagination by what was left of a wax pile and wick in the servants’ quarters. Before I could sink into slumber, a low moan arose from the walls and trailed up the creaky stairs to the second floor of the manor, a relic from, at the least, forty years, and had only recently been modernised with the addition of a telephone and electric lamps upstairs. I would not be so quick to leap out of bed were it not for the literature that filled the trunk beneath my bed. I crept out of the back hallways, concealed for the upper class’s pleasure, and tiptoed up the grand, spiraling staircase. Not three steps past the master bedroom, I saw, just outside of Dolores’ room, a masculine figure, the source of the moaning. 

  His rounded face and dreamy eyes at half-mast made him seem like he had stepped out of a film, though his clothing seemed ancient. He was more fit to play Romeo onstage than come close to starring alongside a tuxedo-clad silver screen star. I took a small step towards the thin man, holding out the small flame to grab his attention. He crossed the threshold with a wide step. 

  “Sir?” I whispered. “Who are you?” 

  I was so focused on him, his sudden, disgusted gaze towards me, and what business he had being in a woman’s room that I forgot about the end table under my twitching nose. During the fall, I tried to keep the candle from setting the carpet ablaze. I let out a shrill cry of pain as the flame brushed against my left palm, and the table collapsed along with me. 

  “What is going on?” Master Wakefield roared, standing above me with sunken, grey eyes.  

  I looked behind me but found the figure gone. In his place was Dolores, leaning out of the doorframe with a blanket draped across her shoulders and sleep in her eyes. She was likely regretting her return from Europe. She had traded the Seine and Barcelona for murky skies that hide the sun or a view of a bleak, mysterious forest surrounding her home. 

  I could not begin to try and explain the man without rattling like a madwoman, yet I tried. 

  “Are you trying to wreck the house, Mallory? You clumsy idiot.” Mistress Wakefield chided from behind her husband. “You will clean this up at morning before breakfast. Perhaps all that mindless reading of yours is ruining your eyes, and your head while you are at it. If you start seeing talking ravens, then you may very well be committed.” 

  She turned her attention to my hand and scrunched her nose up at my oafishness. 

  “Go find Hattie and let her bandage you up.” 

  Just as quickly as the commotion arose, the Wakefields returned to their room, leaving me to tremble through the halls, defenceless and wide-eyed. 

  “Your parents are expecting you in the dining room, miss.” I hollered through the door until her narrowed, kohl-lined eyes glared straight at me. A jazz record blared behind her. 

  “Tell my folks to keep their socks on.” 

  Refusing to go back downstairs simply to be sent back up, I marched in, trying not to let my brown eyes flash green at her evening gown sparkling against the sunset and the pale arms contrasting against deep violet. She adjusted stray hairs on a wig matching her own blonde bob, recreating waves she claimed she saw women have abroad. All morning, she had chatted about her trip as though she were reciting a travel log. 

  “I know you don’t go out to the pictures much, but as soon as I got back to New York from France, I saw this one about a phantom stalking the woman he desperately loves,” she started, lost in a world she only retreated to on the telephone. A time or two, I would wait at the top of the stairs and tried to picture myself with other young women my age, finding a gown for myself, rather than sewing on new buttons or cleaning fabrics that I could have only conjured up in a dream. 

  Her voice drifted as I noticed her blankets tossed haphazardly across the bed; I reached out my good hand towards the wrinkly, white mass if I would rather not be subject to her mother’s barking about her impossible standards. 

  “It certainly put me off seeing operas any time soon.” She snorted before turning to me. “Don’t mess around with those. You can at least wait until I leave, can’t you?” 

  She pushed past me on her way out of the door, attempting to close it gently behind without me seeing it. 

  “Can we at the very least discuss last night, Dolores?” 

  “Not this nonsense again,” she sighed, sauntering down the stairs. “I’ll tell you the same thing Mother said to me: you were delusional.” 

  “Why would I hallucinate seeing a man leering outside your bedroom door?” 

  “How did he look?” She asked, pausing amid her curiosity. 

  “Like a prowler in a great costume, miss,” I hissed through my teeth just as Master Wakefield passed with a cloud of smoke circling his hawkish face. 

  He glared at her rouged knees and grunted at what his daughter called “the modern world.” She slipped into her Poiret coat and declared with a devilish grin that she was off to Lottie’s. 

  “Fetch me some whiskey from downstairs,” he grumbled at me before disappearing into the dining room with his wife. 

  I could still smell the Oysters Rockefeller as I descended into the cellar, coughing all the way down. I squinted at what light seeped in from the small window above and searched through a shelfful of secret, liquid bliss. I picked up the bottle with my good hand, nodding when I could make out the word “Whiskey,” and jumped at the sound of the door above me shut with an aggravated slam.  

  “Stay away from Ophelia,” a low voice swore. “You oughtn’t call me a ‘prowler,’ frail liar. Her lover am I.” 

  I turned to see the man from last night leaning against the grimy bricks. The words froze in my throat as he took a step towards me. His worn, black stockings were torn in some places, exposing his pale legs. His face looked thinner than when I saw him last. His cheekbones jutted out from his head, as though he were a decaying corpse whose skin gave way to the bones beneath. 

  “Who are you?” I managed to whisper. 

  “The Prince, and you, a lowly servant, who shall serve only Death.” He smashed a bottle onto the floor and sent me dashing towards the stairs. 

  I screeched and pounded against the door, picturing the man armed with a jagged bottle. Hattie swung the door open, taking the whiskey from my shaking hands. She scrunched her nose, adding another wrinkle to a face with plenty, up at me and my sweaty expression. 

  “What are you screaming about? I could hear you from the kitchen.” 

  “A man! He came at me downstairs. He was going to kill me.” 

  Hattie stuck her head through the door, letting the hall’s light seep down the steps. 

  “From what I can tell, you’ve gone and dropped something. I can smell the wine from here,” she tsked as though I had taken some for myself. “You’ll be the one to clean that mess, I’m sure.” 

  I looked down into the cellar one last time before she closed it, standing before it as if to keep me out. I took the bottle and rushed towards the dining room and an expectant Master Wakefield. If I was a good enough actress, I could hopefully get away with spill downstairs. 

  Throughout the next day. I looked behind me for every few steps I took. I shut every door and looked out the windows. When I slept, my experience in the cellar would reoccur to torture me. Dolores was simply content to sleep in until ten o’clock in the morning, looking over my anxiety most of the time. She made a point of reassuring me that I was crazy near her mother—given the moniker “Lady Bluenose,” to Mistress Wakefield’s chagrin. 

  All I could do was ignore that nagging voice warning me that something is wrong and the occasional pain from my bandaged hand. My most recent order was to mend the hem of one of Dolores’ dresses. As long as they rose, she was happy. I worked sitting on her bed with the sewing kit by my feet, putting my efforts into cutting, threading, and sewing to the cool breeze outside. The sky was still miserable, unfortunately. 

  I reached down for a spool of thread and noticed something sticking out from beneath the bed ever so slightly. It looked like one of her fashion magazines. 

     “Mallory,” Master Wakefield’s voice called. “Do not dillydally. Continue your work.” 

     “Sir?” I turned to look behind me. The door was still open a jar to keep the room from growing stuffy. 

     “There is no need for you to be looking through a young lady’s things. Did she not tell you to mind your own business?” 

     “I was only trying to keep things neat.” I nudged the magazine back under the bed with my foot. 

     “Do you dare try to argue with me?” His voice lowered to a rumble. 

     I took a few steps towards the window, wondering how far down the drop would be if I decided to scale along the lower roof. 

     Master Wakefield had left an hour ago for a luncheon with his high society friends; my chest tightened as I waited by the windowsill, watching in case the door would open slowly to reveal the sight I dreaded to see. 

     After a while of continuing work on the dress, I put away it away in the closet and slipped out the door, hoping to reach where Mistress Wakefield was downstairs. The distant warmth from the fireplace drifted towards the staircase. Perhaps she would ask me to attend the flame, just for a comforting moment.  

     The warmth from my daydreams was interrupted when my left hand was crushed in a sharp, cold grip, and I was pulled away from the stairs. 

     The thin man, whose eyelids now sank towards his cheeks, grinned down at me. I refused to look him in the eyes for fear of which demon I would find lurking behind them. He stuck his head close to me and squawked, “Stay away from my Ophelia.” 

  Just like the Raven. 

  “I may have been gone, but she shall run back to me in time. You, however, are a hindrance.” 

  I wriggled my hand free from his grasp, abandoning the sewing kit and ducking behind the couch on which Mistress Wakefield sat. 

“What are you doing back there?” She asked, raising an eyebrow. 

  I looked down at my hand, pink from the pressure and throbbing rhythmically. Help. Help. Help. 

  “Was your hand bothering you?” She took a sip of tea. 

  “Yes, ma’am. It was being crushed.” 

  “Do not tell me, was it the man that supposedly scared you in the cellar yesterday?” 

   I sighed, “Yes.” 

  “Well, tell Hattie if it bothers you.” 

  Dolores returned a few minutes later, tossing her coat towards the couch and kicking off her heels. 

  “I’m just home in between parties, Mother. I won’t be staying for dinner.” Her eyes trailed down to me. “What is it? You look as though you haven’t any daylights left.” She snorted, rubbing the back of her neck suddenly and looking towards the stairs. “Were you looking through my bedroom?” 

  “No, miss. I thought I just saw something upstairs.” I lowered my head. 

  “Mallory,” I heard her begin to follow, but pause after a few steps.  

  I wanted to look back. 

  I was awake again at my usual hour that night, though the candle was not burning. Instead, I sat with my blanket bunched in my hands, gripping tighter with any minor rattling sound. Each time I tried to cover my head, I’d make out his familiar silhouette and scream for the other maids and butlers sleeping around me to take notice. Each time I pulled the blanket away, I was greeted with darkness. I was surely going mad after only forty-eight hours. 

  I tried one last time to sleep, feeling my body relax as I drifted away from the dark cellar. 

  “Mallory,” a voice whispered in my ear, dragging me back. 

  Slowly, I turned to face him and his wide, sunken eyes and skin even paler than before. One  eye was nearly shut. He stood clutching a book at the foot of a butler’s bed. He hobbled a few steps toward me and hurtled The Turn of the Screw at my face. I winced low but felt anger pulsating its tempting, violent rhythm through my body. He vanished before I could lunge for his throat. 

  Hattie was the first to spring out of bed, eyeing me on the floor with exhausted dread. 

  “What have you done now, child?” She whispered, running her bony hands across her drooping face. 

  “He appeared again. He was standing by Roger’s bed; I saw him.” 

  “How many times must we tell you to stop reading so late?” She groaned. “You are only bringing about your own night terrors through those books. You fell out of bed and hit the floor. That is the end of it. Now put away your book and let us sleep.” 

  I pulled the covers of my head and swore that I would not open my eyes until I was awoken by Hattie for having overslept. I lay with my heartbeat slowing, wondering if Dolores was wide awake, carefree beneath a crystal chandelier somewhere. 

  By the afternoon, my mind was set on investigating the mystery that was Miss Wakefield, if for nothing else than to give my paranoia a well-deserved rest while it was still light out. My task of dusting the manor from the parlor to the attic would have to be interrupted. I waited until I was sure that she was gone, out to lunch with her fellow rouged and rebellious friends, before entering her room. Outside the afternoon began to fight its way through the clouds, which I took as a sign of fortune. 

  A yellowing postcard rested against her vanity across from a photo of herself, both of which I had only just taken notice of. 

  “No surprises there, Dolores,” I smirked. 

  On the postcard was a snapshot of a pair of actors conversing, deep in a discussion that seemed to have a police constable puzzled. Below them read, “MR. JOHN HOLLINGS as ‘DR. JEKYLL’ & MR. LEWIS BALFOUR as ‘INSPECTOR NEWCOME.’” It sat amidst a shrine of perfume, lipstick, rouge, and gold necklaces strewn about like she expected me to put them away for her as I would freshly darned socks.    

  The more I searched through the drawers, the number of photos and newspaper clippings I uncovered related to John. One article marked an opening night at the New Lyceum Theatre, dated 12 May 1904, and another, a more personal piece three years later. 

JOHN HOLLINGS RETURNS TO THE STAGE 

      Known for his tragic, heroic portrayals, the thirty-three-year-old actor once known around the country has once again taken up the acting mantle after a considerable absence, including a recent marriage to one Miss Amelia Young. Mr. Hollings hopes to revive his career with his role as the eponymous prince in William Shakespeare’s “Hamlet.” 

     With this new venture for the seasoned actor, there rise rumors of Mr. Hollings’ peculiar acting methods. Some reported witnessing explosive outbursts towards his fellow actors during rehearsals. 

  “’No one may disturb the Prince of Denmark,’” he once remarked, according to his wife. 

  Included was a photograph of Amelia, no older than eighteen, a lace veil pinned to the back of her pompadour. 

  I almost mistook her for Dolores when I spotted her, noting the peroxide blonde hair and upturned nose. Even her dark grey eyes, likely brown when not in black and white, stared up at me with a familiar, albeit softer sense of confidence and poise. My focus bounced between the pieces of newspaper and the nearest photograph of Dolores. It just had to be an illusion. 

  Next, I discovered a headline from January of the next year declaring, “HOLLINGS DEAD!” 

  At 12:10 this morning, Mrs. John Hollings, wife of the complicated, beloved stage actor, suffered a great bereavement. She was alerted while staying at a friend’s home to her husband’s sudden fall from the roof of their manor upstate in Belford. One neighbor claimed to have heard an anguished cry at the time of the incident. 

  “I heard him rambling about death or silence,” he recalled. “Or something akin to that, and down he came.” 

“He was still reciting his lines in his final days,” the couple’s loyal butler said. “Despite the production having disbanded months ago. He even began referring to me as the fool Polonius, declaring that his ‘final act’ was upon him. It would come together once he took the bow.” 

  While Mrs. Hollings refused to speak to the press, her whereabouts unknown, their butler denied any claims of Mr. Hollings threatening the staff or his wife. 

  I briefly looked up to rest my eyes, staring into the reflection of the bedroom behind me when I spotted a blue book sticking out from beneath the unkempt blankets. I gingerly picked it up and examined its cover, which read, “Communicating with Regions Beyond by Arthur Linderhoff” in gold print. I flipped through the dog-eared pages on séances and the existence of an afterlife as though every word was part of a McCall’s article. 

  With my interest sparked, I squinted beneath the bed and saw more books tucked away on the dusty floor. I reached my hand as far back as it would go and thrust her secrets out into the faint glow of the electric lamp overhead. Among a second book on the subject and some issues of Ghost Stories magazine, I dragged out a worn spirit board and a flat, heart-shaped piece of wood. 

  I was cursed to even be looking at the damned thing, and I tossed it across the room, fearing it may somehow sprout spider legs and crawl back towards me. But what did I have to fear in that moment? I was not the one playing around with the spiritual realm. 

  “Belford gals can’t you come out tonight / Can’t you come out tonight?” A lilting lady’s voice echoed down the hall. 

  As Dolores stepped through the door and gawked at me, down on the floor by her bed with the books laid out before me. 

  “Get away from there,” she growled, hiding the contents beneath a blanket. 

  “Not until you explain why you have these, and hid them no less,” I pushed her guilty hands away. 

  Her smoky eyes looked everywhere but at me, keeping me on edge as she repeatedly opened her mouth and pursed her lips. 

  “I wanted to meet him,” she finally admitted. “Speak to him even. He just seemed so elegant and charming, not like all the thugs and so-called ‘sheiks’ I’ve met around here.” 

  “You never went to Europe, did you?” 

  She shook her head slowly, “I went out to Chicago to meet a spiritualist I heard about on the radio. I was hooked, see? All the ghost stories and pamphlets started piling up as I made my way across half of the country. By the time I returned home, I was certain that, outside of a brief conversation via the spirit board, that it had been a ruse, but a part of me still believed. I have not used that board in quite a while, though.” 

  “Your beau has been stalking us. He believes that you are his wife and tortures me by night.” 

  “But I heard that she left after the death,” she sighed, standing on the brink of understanding and confusion. She paused to consider a thought and looked back at me. “Can I share something with you? I’ve had this feeling of being watched ever since I came back home. I couldn’t say anything or else my folks would think I’d gone crazy, but then I started hearing about what you’ve been seeing…” 

  I pointed her towards the newspaper articles and held up a photo of Amelia. Her eyes squinted at the bride’s face and looked at her own in the mirror. She handed me back the photo and sucked in a breath at the bruise on my cheek. 

  “He did that?” She said in a gasp. She stepped back into her mind, looking to the postcard in disgust. 

  “Now that you have explained yourself, how will you get us out of this?” 

  “Me?” 

  I bore an irritated hole in her pretty skull, and she contemplated her impromptu plan by staring at her inward-facing feet. A flash later, she perked her head up, mouth forming a proud smile. 

  “I know an expert in Saratoga not too far from here.” She fished from one of her spiritualism books a small advertisement for George Schoeffler, New York’s famed spiritualist and expert on the hereafter. “I will call him and have him come by immediately.” 

  I swallowed the anxiety rising in my throat and let my body collapse onto the bed the moment she disappeared. 

  Mr. Schoeffler arrived just as the sky burst with fiery tones behind him and his flushed, bright pink cheeks.  

“I apologise for being late, Dolly. I missed the two o’clock train, and then I could hardly find someone to give me directions and-“ 

  His eyes quickly analysed my features behind pince-nez glasses and realised that I was not the woman he was hoping to meet at the door. 

 “Is Ms. Wakefield in, girl?” He asked in a nasally, blaring voice. 

  He kept his wiry frame stiff like a wooden ironing board, expression solemn despite the splash of color on his face. He carried with him a leather briefcase monogrammed with his initials and marched into the foyer. Master and Mistress Wakefield sat in the parlour, stern in the face, yet pressed close to one another by the crackling fireplace. 

  “Oh, George!” Dolores cooed from the stairs. “I am so glad that you could come in my hour of need.” 

  He straightened his bowtie and adjusted his glasses as she fluttered down the steps. I gave the wolf a sideways glance as he began howling about the spiritual realm and opening doorways to the world beyond. I signalled for him to be brief. 

  “Upstairs, dear. We do not have much time.” He announced.  

  I followed the two towards her bedroom and, for the first time, felt no shame in being in there without some sort of cleaning job to do. 

  “Do we have to go onto the roof?” She asked while bending her fingers back as far as they would go. 

  “No, but it is dramatic and morbidly ironic given the dearly departed, wouldn’t you say?” 

   I stood by and watched him stick his hand through the handle and slide the briefcase up his arm. With a groan, he climbed out her window and began scaling the short climb upwards. Before he disappeared, he nodded his head towards Dolores, ushering her to speak. She looked over her shoulder at me and grabbed a pile of clothes off her bed. Apparently, I was to join in on the plan. 

  “Alright, this is where you come in, Mallory.” 

  I was staring down at a taffy-colored nightgown and a blonde bundle for a wig. Goerge tapped his foot and stuffed the wig atop my head, pulling the sides down to cover my mark. 

  “To assure that the ritual can be performed uninterrupted, we need something else for the spirit to focus on, lest he try to attack me.” 

  “And he will attack me instead?”  

  “The hope is that he will not. Lure him away from the home or hide among the trees. You will know when we have succeeded. We just need him to think you are Dolores for the time being.” 

  I stamped my foot to protest and looked to Dolores and the pleading in her welled-up eyes. A pang struck my heart as I sighed and changed into my disguise in the empty room next door. I forced myself towards the stairs and out the front door, not before she handed me a fan to aid in disguising my face. 

On the porch, just for a moment, I took in the vast darkness above and uttered a soft prayer that I may not have to visit it soon. Beneath the stars beginning to shine, a rarity I had no time to truly enjoy, I took the first shaky steps towards the light’s edge, protecting me from the chill November night.  

  Not a moment later, I spotted John’s figure lumbering around the home, back hunched. I tried to imitate Dolores’ lighter-than-air walk and upper-class lilt, hoping that I stood far enough away to bear a decent resemblance. I began to hum a lovesick tune; “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” was the first to come to my mind. One merciful part of my imagination tried to paint the scene differently. I was simply back in Cork, wandering through the lush fields of my family’s farmhouse. I could only imagine for so long, however. 

  I hid behind a tree and saw John begin to enter the forest, craning his neck in every direction to find the source of the music. I stood on tiptoes to keep my nightgown’s hem from getting soiled, though I would still have to clean the slippers gathering dirt and moss. 

  “Ophelia,” John called in a manner trying to imitate my sing-song tone. He limped towards the trees, right leg dragging along behind him. 

  I knew where he was based upon the rotten stench coming off him. The flies would surely be circling him at any moment. I could then hear their buzzing as another horrid marker of the impending horror. My body jerked forward, away from the house until the only light I could see was from the crescent moon beginning to peek through the trees. I tossed glances over my shoulder every ten seconds just to make sure he had heard the branches snapping and my weak attempt at singing. I fluttered the fan against my nose. 

  Please, Mr. Schoeffler, if nothing else, keep Dolores safe. 

  “Ophelia!” His voice startled the leaves. “My darling, sweet, fair Ophelia. Flutter now into mine arms.” 

  For a moment, I considered running to the end of the woods and straight on until I reached town. The ritual would still work, and Dolores could hedonistically live on peacefully without me. 

  I shook the scheme out of my head as a tree root gripped my ankle, catching itself on the nightgown’s hem. John’s footsteps stumbled close until he towered above me. 

  “There you are, my dear!” He sighed in a low tone. “At last, heart is mended, thou hast been brought to me. A fennel wreath I shall place upon your head, fair maiden, as we walk arm-in-arm across the threshold to an eternal elopement.” 

  His skin no longer seemed clear and porcelain but instead white with deep, dark circles beneath his eyes—or rather, his right eye. The left socket was simply a chasm that sucked in my gaze and refused to let it roam. Through his remaining teeth, he salivated wildly, letting the liquid drip down his chin like he was about to feast upon a helpless rabbit. His not-quite-toothy grin was discoloured, resembling the victim of a cruel punch to the jaw. He pressed his face towards mine, words reeking fouler than the meat George had on his breath. 

  “You are not my Ophelia.” 

  He reached for my throat; his bony fingers dug into my skin as he tried to lift me off the ground. I refused to look at the shambling corpse and kept my eyes shut. I attempted to cry out for help in the bizarre hope that Mr. Schoeffler and Dolores would appear with Master and Mistress Wakefield in tow. 

  “Oh, Mallory, you foolish excuse for a woman. Your cowardly eyes cannot deceive me any longer.” 

  I slowly opened my eyes and believed that a flash of my fate burned itself into my vision. My shaking hands reached for John’s as I thrashed myself against the tree. With whatever strength I had left, I kicked John in the stomach, sending us both to the ground. He reached for me again but clutched his chest and writhed on the ground. He wasted away as the life was sucked out of him into the dirt and his home below.  

  He searched the area for any other sign that someone, a certain someone, would be out there. 

  “Ophelia,” he coughed. “’The rest is silence.’” 

  His right arm shriveled to ash as did the rest of his body. He let out a final screech of pain, a cry more fit for a devil, staring at me with his eye, the last remnant of his corpse to disappear into the ground. I watched it all in morbid awe. 

  Clinging to nearby tree, I pulled myself up off the ground and gawked at the patch of dirt where he once lay. I needed to assure myself and Dolores that he would not reach through the ground to torment us or drag me down with him. 

  “Mallory!” A feminine voice shouted from the manor. “Are you out there?” 

  Spitting at the dirt and the maggots, worms, and other bugs crawling about his earthy grave, I scurried back towards the grey warmth. Hopefully, the night could be shirked and left to lurk in the forest, only to be mentioned through a chilled, impromptu slip of memory. 

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Halloween 45 Years Later

By: Madison Guerrera

45 years ago, John Carpenter’s Halloween was released in theaters and popularized a horror subgenre known as the “slasher,” in which hulking, masked killers chase after, and slaughter, teenagers. It also birthed a horror icon in the form of Michael Myers, also eerily known as the Shape. To celebrate the film’s anniversary, I spoke with fans across generations and various fan websites and communities for their thoughts on the film, its main antagonist, and legacy after almost 50 years. 

When did you first see Halloween? 

OSCAR: I saw the preview a week or two before at the Woodlawn Theatre in Corpus Christi, TX. I thought, “what a cool movie.” A friend of mine and I went back to see it, chock-a-block full, on opening night.  

BOBBY: In 1981, when I was 7-years-old. I believe it was its network television premiere. 

ANDREW: In 2002. I was 13. 

What was your initial reaction to the film? Has it changed since? 

OSCAR: It was such a terrifying film that, when we walked out, it had a visceral effect on me. We raced to the car, and then I suddenly realized that I was cold, but not that cold. My teeth were actually chattering. I’ve never had that experience before. 

BOBBY: I thought it was nice and creepy. The perfect suspenseful horror film. I always have, and still do, view that as the Immortal Classic. 

ANDREW: I loved it! I found it scary and suspenseful. 

What was it about the film that drew you to it? 

OSCAR: I was already obsessed with horror films, but the idea of a ‘body count’ film was new. That’s what drew me to it. It was so visceral and in the moment, like it was really happening to Laurie Strode. 

BOBBY: The Shape… the mask. John Carpenter’s music. 

ANDREW: I wanted to watch horror films, and I figured that this would be a good one to watch first. I knew Michael because of the pop culture references and wanted to watch it. 

How does Michael Myers fare in comparison to other popular slasher villains? 

OSCAR: There’s only one. He’s the king as far as I’m concerned. We’ve had so many serial killer films and whatnot, but Michael stands alone. 

BOBBY: He seems more focused than Jason. Freddy Krueger and Leatherface became almost comical as their franchises developed, but Michael always seemed consistent. However, I do think that Dick Warlock was the best version of the Shape [in 1981’s Halloween II]. 

ANDREW: He’s in my top favorites. I love the insight Dr. Loomis gives to build up this evil character with no motives but to kill. Other slasher villains are a different breed, in my opinion. 

Unlike other slasher films, Halloween is tame in terms of gore. What are your thoughts on that approach? 

OSCAR: I think it’s good. You don’t need it. I’m more into subtlety and implication. All you need is the Shape sitting up in the background. 

BOBBY: That’s the best kind of horror. Sometimes, gore is unnecessary. Your mind fills in the gaps. Ultimately, that’s more scary. 

ANDREW: Some movies rely too much on gore, and I could understand that people were killed without blood. Blood isn’t entirely important to the plot. 

What makes Michael Myers a memorable horror icon? 

OSCAR: There’s nothing human about him. He’s a blank slate with the mask on. There is no explaining who he is or the crimes that he commits. 

BOBBY: The mask. The fact that he stalks slowly, and he never speaks. He’s never referred to as “Michael Myers” either. Only when his parents show up in the beginning and say, “Michael?” 

ANDREW: The little head title of amusement when he kills, the unstoppable evil force within the Shape, and the mask. 

What is the film’s lasting legacy? 

OSCAR: The lasting ability to scare everyone with the idea that evil sometimes has no explanation. It’s out there in the shadows. Try as we might, we might fall prey to it. 

BOBBY: It’s a product of John Carpenter. It introduced to us the scariest face of Halloween and some iconic music. 

ANDREW: It’s an iconic film in and outside of the genre. Michael Myers is a household name, whether or not you have seen the film or not. Bottom line: it’s a great horror and suspense film.

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It Is Starting Again

By: Timothy Froessel

It is starting again
Day breaks, rooster crows
Red rising, then orange and yellow
No one else is home
No one else has been home for a spell
A ghost town all around my sheets, no eyeholes cut out
How naïve and scared I’ve been in my single room abode

It is starting again
The river overflows towards the little red farm
With the little heedless animals in the little rusty shed out back
If not for the gusts, the gales,
I may be able to hear their whimpers from beyond the grand oaks and sweet maples
The little bellowful rooster’s final crow

It is starting again
The last time it started again,
It was me on my roof with a baguette and a guitar
Admiring the swamp of the sorrowful and the monsters underneath
I ate some bread and sang some tune
But this time the hymns begin to shut themselves up
Where do the melodies go when there’s no one left to sing?

It is starting again
I have finally begun to sympathize with the Romans
Vesuvius, eruptus, destruction undreamt of
Until we don’t have to dream to see it anymore

It is starting again
My grandfather once taught me where to see Jupiter in the night sky
I see it now, alongside Orion and Ursa and Andromeda and all my friends up above
But bigger than the galaxies, bigger than the break in my soul
Are the cracks in the dirt with the limbs launching out
A movie scene, scored by my mind’s own projection of fear

It is starting over and over again
I plead, beg, pray, ask, and then pray again for it to stop
I pray to wake up in my childhood bed
Race cars and mom’s meals and laughter from the party downstairs

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The Man in the Void

By: N’yla Jones

“I’m so sick of taking care of kids! I don’t even know why I had more! ”Mom used to scream these kinds of things in my face all of the time. At those times I couldn’t help but cry. They always made me want to curl up in my bed and let the tears stream down my face. Those comments started around the time I turned seven. After that, whenever she was angry, upset, or drunk those words were the only things she could seem to mutter. I would run up to my room, trying to figure out what I did. I always wondered why she hated me so much. All I wanted was something to eat for dinner, she got angry and told me that I was ungrateful. Lying in bed for hours, the thoughts flooded my mind, swirling in circles on an endless loop that I couldn’t answer. Thoughts of, what if I wasn’t here? Would her life be better? I knew that if I moved Mom would get mad at me. So instead I lay there in the silence of my own dejection. As my running tears started to fade, and my body grew tired I shut my eyes and drifted off to what I believed was sleep. 

I woke up in my room, and the darkness engulfed me. A feeling of grief and sorrow seemed as though it was being wrapped around my throat. Dim red lights shone from the window. Although usually, the lights were only white and blue. My feet started to slide off the bed while curiosity immersed my every sense of being. I walked up to the window and the wood floors started to creak. With every step I took, the off-white walls seemed to move closer to me. The faces on my posters began to change with every step. I looked down and I saw fog gathering around my feet. My heart began to pound and my throat closed slowly until it became hard to breathe. The window was right in front of me then. The air was cool as my breath began to come back to me, but the feeling of sorrow didn’t fade. The green house across the street looked frightening. The lights were off, which was unusual, and the shadows from the swaying tree created an eerie feeling that made my stomach churn. The flowers that mom had planted 1 last spring were in full bloom. They were supposed to be yellow, but the red light turned them orange. 

A shadow started slowly moving in the corner of my eyes. I couldn’t turn my head, I tried, but my body wouldn’t allow me too. As the shadow made its way down the street, I started to notice what the creature looked like. It was tall and dark and as the figure kept moving closer the shadow grew smaller. The overwhelming feeling of regret and concern weighed more on my chest than when I first left my bed. When the tall being finally came into eyesight the gate in front of the house started creaking and swaying as the wind blew. The bushes began to shake, and the flowers mom planted last spring began to wilt. All I could think about was how much I wanted it to be over. I repeated the words, It’s just a dream, in my mind as though it was my life’s only purpose. The creature was now at the end of the gate and when I saw what was now in my eyesight my body began to tense as shiver ran down my spine. The black figure stopped in front of the gate entrance. The linky body was taller than I anticipated and the pitch black figure made my heart race so much that it hurt. 

He stood there for a couple of minutes not uttering a word or moving an inch. A smell of cinnamon and charcoal filled the air, and the strange figure began to turn his head. Slow and steady, with each passing second my heart felt like it would jump out of my chest. Nothing else but his head moved. When I could finally see its eyes they made me feel light, my body began shaking, and the light that was once dim grew brighter. As the night began to grow blood red my heart started to hurt again. I felt like I was dying. The world began to go dark as my body went limp and cool air sped up around my body. I was falling, and everything was peaceful. I opened my eyes and I was back in my bed. The sun began to peek through my windows as I started to wipe the sweat that was now on my forehead. The night seemed to be gone, and so had the monster. 

Although every day of my life when I feel doubt or trouble I feel that figure peeking out from over my shoulder and the feeling that he brought that night swallows me whole. I always wonder whether it would ever leave. It veers in the darkness of all my thoughts and actions as if every move I make will be the last one. My therapist says that I am afraid of being alone. In my mind, I realize that I am never truly by myself, not when he’s behind every breakup, big decision, or job interview. It’s become a part of me in a way. There is no freedom. At least, not for me.