Black & Orange 2022
Lead Editor: Michelle Rochniak
Foreword
Written by Campbell Mitchell
Gaze upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal literary journal boundless and bare, the lone and level webpages stretch far away. Due to lack of funding and decline in volunteers, the Halloween edition of the literary journal can no longer stand on its two vast and trunkless legs of stone as a proper publication in itself.
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.
Table of Contents
Click to jump to pieces
Train to Nowhere by Meaghan Canavan
Linguini and Remy by Brenda Sanchez
Circumstances Have Changed by Dan Silva
The Black Mass by Dominic Henry
At Last, We Are Eternal by Pleasant M. Paschael
Untitled by Pleasant M. Paschael
Patient Instructions for Self-Management of Overnight Severe Hypoglycemia by Campbell Mitchell
Resurrection by Campbell Mitchell
Legend of the Aden Fleet by Tristan Akira Kawatsuma
A Brand-New Pet by James Richards
Let’s Look at the Party by Ana Bourque
Broken Promises by Jade Broadnax
Dr. Weylan’s Heart by Kait Waterman
Human Juice Box by Michelle Rochniak
Rotten Sheep
By: Hayden Pham
why do i dream of rotten sheep?
at night i close my eyes and keep
my secrets close to me.
when midnight strikes, i start to weep
and then i dream that fetid sleep.
their voices scream, their faces stretch,
sound waves distorted, visage next;
melting in each other’s planes
and slipping back, again again.
the room, it spins
around, around,
collapsing in
without a sound.
i try to eat,
tasting only flesh
of those rotten sheep
i count less and less.
did it exist at all?
their suffering? their pleas?
or was it fiction?
some ill disease?
i ponder of the rotten sheep
and what they’ve done to me;
they’ve spread their rot into my core:
fruit of mephistopheles.
i am the rot
and the decay
the cure is the poison
that keeps me awake.
Train to Nowhere
By: Meaghan Canavan
There’s a train station that sits in the middle of nowhere—a little to the left of everywhere and parallel to somewhere.
“Station” may be a bit of a generous term. An unspecified length of floor lays flat, unnaturally, in a location, held up by cinder blocks or pillars or nothing at all. Visitors must first buy their ticket at the booth, where a man — a dog — a small willow tree — will sit inside their little box and hand you your pass. Then you will wait. A day will go by, or half a second, or maybe you will wait forever. But then the train will come, and you’ll hear fellow train-goers get up to hop on, but you’ll never know how many. You will all pile inside, and there will be too much space but also never enough. You’ll squeeze together like teeth with taunt braces and split like hands before a thunderous clap, all unsure tidal waves being puppeted by an unpredictable moon.
You’ll be offered refreshments: a snack bar that turns into a soda fountain when you blink, buffet-style tables that shrink when you go to reach for them, and silverware that never stays solid in your hands, melting like liquid mercury and then reforming into something else.
The food will turn to ash on your tongue, solidify into concrete when you go to chew, and then bubble when you attempt to swallow. It crawls, not slides, down your throat. You will feel it swell in your chest and, for one brief moment, you think it will burst through in a mess of sparks, or smoke, or metal. It sinks to the lowest part of your gut and sits, patiently.
You’ll be provided with a living quarters. A private suite with your own kitchen — wait, no, that’s not right. An open room full of bunk-bedded cots and a communal bathroom — hold on, not that. One room for every four people, all sharing one king sized bed- that doesn’t seem right either. You will be given a closet — a house — an apartment — a place. You will be given a place to rest and not rest.
You can, but won’t, be alone. The walls have eyes but also hands and teeth, and they reach forward to snag onto your clothes as you brush past. They will grab you by the hand and invite you in but you must not, will not, join them. But their words are sweet as they whisper and promise, and their words are melodic as they call you in, and their words are rough as they say you are already all that you will ever be. You will join them—or you don’t.
You will know there are others on the train; you will see, or hear, or feel them rush around you as you board.
The conductor will reflect your own smile back at you. A baby, swaddled against its mother’s chest, shares its parents’ looks but also the slant of your nose, the width of your lips, and the roundness of your eyes. As you try and sleep, you see shadows of your own figure loom underneath the doorway of your residence. You will close the blinds of your window once you hear a voice—your voice—begin to wail from outside.
You will see yourself tucked into a wooden—or maybe plastic—plush, metal chair. There will be a sketchbook in your lap, and you watch yourself press a hand against the glass of the window. Your hand will phase through, your arm then shoulder then body following it until only the sketchbook sits in your place. You will be nowhere to be seen. You will walk over and look at the pages—it is full of sketches of you. You, shivering at a bus stop in nothing but a thin windbreaker. You, peering over the side of a fishboat and looking into the deep sea below. You, sneaking your first sip of beer from a relative’s unattended mug. You, waiting at a train station in the middle of anywhere.
The train starts and then stops. Hands push against your back as you go to leave, but there is no one there when you turn. You will go to the booth where a shaken bottle of soda hands you your ticket and you will wait, once again, to go nowhere.
Linguini and Remy
By: Brenda Sanchez
“Sheila, are you sure Victor said the Halloween party was at this house? It looks condemned!”
“You’re such a worrier, Rachel.” Sheila trotted up the rotting steps to the front door where a carved jack-o’-lantern blazed at her feet. She was about to knock when she leaned closer to a tattered swatch of paper taped on the black – painted door. “It says go around the back and use the basement entrance!”
“Are you out of your skull?” Rachel raced through knee-high weeds after her friend.
“Sheila, come back!”
It was obvious to Rachel that nobody had taken care of this yard in months. Leaves from the autumn trees were sprawled everywhere, and the grass desperately needed a good mowing. When Rachel finally caught up to Sheila, it was only because Sheila had arrived at the basement entrance. Orange lights gleamed through the half-open door, as did music, the screams of people singing along, and a nasty smelling drink spilt on the ground.
“See? I told you this was where it was. Don’t ever doubt Victor. He knows where all the best parties are.” The two of them walked in to see some familiar faces, a ton of terrible costumes, and a lot of people lying motionless on the couches, not really engaging with the party at all.
“Best parties? There’s not even a ton of people here, and the music is too loud.”
“What?” Sheila shouted in response. Rachel didn’t reply, instead rolling her eyes at this dump of a party. “Look, there’s Brad. He probably knows where Victor is.”
Brad turned in their direction before shouting, “What’s going on ladies? Welcome to the bash!” He started to walk towards Sheila and Rachel but stumbled and the chef’s hat he was wearing fell off his head, and so did the rat hiding from underneath that hat.
“He totally drops the hat on purpose. He’s probably done that to everyone,” Rachel groaned.
Sheila ignored Rachel as she started to talk to Brad. “Dude, where’s Victor? I thought he’d be here by now. He’s the one who told us to come.”
Brad looked around for a minute before responding, “Uh, maybe he went out for a minute. You can try to text him, but the service here sucks. Here, have a drink, and get comfortable!”
Both girls ignored his offer of a drink and checked their phones to confirm that the service there sucked. Neither of them had a text from Victor about his whereabouts.
“I think we should go home,” said Rachel. She made the biggest puppy eyes she could muster while looking at Sheila.
“No, I think we should go inside, get a drink, and wait for Victor to appear. We’ll have fun,” Sheila said with a big smile on her face as she grabbed Rachel’s shoulder.
Both girls scurried to the center of the room, where Brad was handing out drinks left and right.
“Everyone! Shots on me!” he shouted while standing on a table and holding up a bottle of Tito’s Vodka.
Everyone gathered around him and opened their mouths as he poured the alcohol into their mouths. Everyone got alcohol except for Sheila and Rachel.
Fifteen minutes went by without a sighting of Victor. People started to throw up in the kitchen sink, in flower vases, behind furniture and outside.
“Sheila! There you are! I’m not having fun at this party! Victor hasn’t shown up, and people are throwing up everywhere” Rachel shouted to Sheila.
“Yeah, I just came from the bathroom and saw people lying on the floor as if they were playing dead.”
“But what if they’re not playing dead? What if they actually are dead?”
“Rachel! That’s nothing to joke about! You’re just being a Debbie Downer. If you think someone is actually killing people at this fun Halloween party, then figure out who it is!”
The two girls turned to see another person stumbling, who then fell unconscious onto Rachel. That nasty smelling drink spilt onto the floor. Rachel screamed at the body, as Brad walked up to the two girls.
“Come on girls, care for a drink?”
Rachel gulped. “I might know who the killer is…”
Murder of Crows
By: Colby Cox
A loud caw echoed in the valley, startling us awake. The sun just started peeking over the distant mountains, but we jumped out of our sleeping bags. They were coming. My uncle Jack, cousin Reilly, and I were in a clearing not too far from the river’s edge. We were traveling downriver in a canoe filled with fresh supplies for the last three days and were at least a day’s travel away from any other source of civilization. The air was crisp, and falling red leaves cluttered the sides of the river, creating a bright, warm blanket on the forest floor. Our steps kicked up leaves as we quietly re-packed our supplies into the canoe.
“They’re coming!” my cousin hissed.
“Shush!” my uncle said, but he hurriedly picked up the pace, shoving the rest of our gear into the canoe. His back was as strong and taut as an anchored ship while he worked.
Our eyes darted side to side, searching the skies for any glimpse of black wings. We had heard the warnings and seen the signs telling us to stay away from the valley, but my uncle was convinced this was the fastest way through. My aunt was carrying her second pregnancy and was due soon, so we were rushing back as quickly as possible. We had left to fetch fresh towels and bandages when my cousin accidentally set them on fire and burnt down part of the barn. The cawing became louder. They were drawing nearer. I gulped to wet my Saharan-dry throat.
“What do we do?” my cousin whispered.
“Shush!” my uncle growled and clamped his hand over Reilly’s mouth. “Do not speak!”
“But Dad-”
“What did I just say?” he frantically breathed. My stomach felt like it was being tied and unraveled every other second, but I said nothing.
“Caw!” We whirled around at the sound. There, perched at the junction of several branches, was a giant crow. It was at least two feet tall, from its unnaturally smooth and groomed head feathers to its wet, stained-red talons that still held ripped pieces of flesh. It tilted its head to its left side inspecting us slowly before we blinked and its head was tilted to the right gazing just as intently. I watched its beady black eyes as they bore into my soul. It lifted a talon and scraped the remaining bits of dripping flesh in its beak. The clean talon gleamed a sparkling white as it descended back to the branch. The crow shifted forwards on its perch and we saw the talons sink into the dense oak wood like butter.
“Caw!” It sounded out a piercing call to its brethren and flared out its wings. A full six feet extension was required to lift its solid chest. I swear I could see its malignant smile as we turned to run.
“Go!” Uncle Jack yelled, pushing us forward to the river. I ran ahead and dove almost head first into the canoe and grabbed an oar ready to depart. Jack grabbed another oar and cast off with Reilly scrambling over the edge to safety with the ropes anchor as we pushed ourselves into the current. The rushing water ensnared the canoe immediately, and we forced the oars to plunge into the white foaming liquid paddling as hard as we could.
Wings were mightily flapping to maintain pace with our departure as dozens of crows flew in tandem. Their dark wings blotted out what light rays escaped through stone and cloud. A particularly impatient crow swooped down with its talons outstretched to pluck me out of the canoe. Uncle Jack raised his oar and swung it into the crow’s plunging beak. A crack echoed and the crow’s flight turned into a downward spiral into the surrounding rocks. It did not get back up.
“Dad!” Reilly screamed as she was carried into the air by two of the fiendish birds with our backs turned.
“Reilly! No! Reilly!” My uncle stood up in the canoe, his arm outstretched in a futile effort to bring my cousin back down.
“Watch out!” I shouted, seeing more of the crows approaching. Uncle Jack did nothing but watch as the birds stained their beaks with the sanguine fluid of my cousin.
He did nothing as more birds clawed into his back. He did nothing but stare at the tearful eyes of my cousin surrounded by crows, the tributary of red staining the once reflective river and creating an overwhelming stench of copper. He did nothing. He did nothing.
I’m alone. What am I going to tell my aunt? She was expecting the three of us.
“Caw,” the crow behind me sensed weakness and flew in a deadly arc aiming for my vitals. I grabbed the sides of the canoe and overturned it. Crows can’t swim, especially in this rushing water. My legs banged and scraped into rocks as the water carried the canoe into the path of least resistance. The bubble of air between the canoe and the rapids dwindled in my frantic breathing. Gouges were scratched into the underside of the canoe in the crow’s merciless attempts to catch their last fleeing prey. I prayed for something, anything, to impede them.
“Caw!” They were so close. They were going to tear me apart. A white pile of bones would be all that’s left.
“Caw!” Stop it!
“Caw!” Go away.
“CAW!”
“Leave me alone!” I shouted, grabbing a drifting branch from a fallen tree in the middle of the river. I thrust it like a spear in the torn holes of the canoe to fend away the dive-bombing birds. I felt numb. The water was cold, but my muscles burned in protest with each swing of my arms. It was a relief. It meant that I was still alive. I hurriedly kicked my legs to dodge a large stone I spotted through a tear in the canoe that parted the river. The canoe protested my attempts. It acted like a buoy while I kicked and swam with one arm. The canoe slammed into the right side of the rock, the smooth plastic vessel grating against the rough stone, temporarily equalling the crows in their volume before the current tore me away.
I tumbled out of the rapids. I relaxed my legs as the water pulled me forward. The white froth drifted in my wake as the crows circled above, waiting for another opportunity to plunge. Their black soulless eyes reflected a malignant light; they would never give up.
I saw it. The end of the valley. It was my way out, only another couple hundred meters in front of me. I gripped my shield from the crows tightly in my hands. The canoe was almost in pieces from their bombardment.
“Rooooar!” The enraged yell sent the demonic crows flying higher in the sky. They fled in a tight formation as they beat their wings against the wind.
“They’re leaving?” I whispered, letting out a shaky sigh. I floated out of the valley with my head facing the sun as it peaked through the grey morning clouds.
I was alive. I could make it home. It was only another day’s travel out of the woods before the plains where my aunt lived. It was then that I caught a glimpse of something black moving through the underbrush. Giant glowing green eyes stared at me through a gap in the bushes. White claws padded forwards as a feline exited the shadows of the forest to creep alongside me. It followed me with its head as it sat down on its haunches. Silver fangs extended out of its mouth as its lips pulled back into a snarl.
This is the beast that scared the crows. It bounded forward and jumped into the water with a large splash. Its powerful hind legs propelled it forward in the water reaching me in only a few seconds. Its large fangs clamped down on my shirt and dragged me through the water back to the shore. It jerked its neck and sent me sprawling. My head hit a rock and my vision turned hazy.
No. I escaped. I got out of the valley. I couldn’t have gone through all of that to die here. I looked around and saw weathered and discarded pieces of different brands of camping gear. This was a graveyard made from those lucky enough who managed to escape the crows only to meet their end from the beast.
Tears fell as I looked over my shoulder at the sauntering feline. It was so confident. It knew it was stronger. It knew I was weak. It pounced forward with its flashing fangs aimed at my throat. I grabbed a rock the size of my head and shoved it between us. Its teeth clamped on the rock and I punched its chin. It yelped as its front teeth broke.
I shouted as pain wracked my side. Its right claws had sunk into me. It sat on top of me as I scrambled to get away. My hands searched the ground for anything I could use. Its glowing eyes bore into my own. My hand clasped onto cold metal and I jerked it forward, impaling its head and the beast went still. Its full weight kept me pinned as blood leaked onto my face. I pushed the beast’s chest to the side, and I tumbled away with a hand clenched into my side as the steady ooze of liquid life drained out of my exhausted form.
I turned my head and saw a red cross. A sob escaped my lips. I crawled with my left hand leaving tracks of red behind me. I opened the first aid kit and found a roll of bandages. I removed my damp shirt and wrapped my side tight as a mummy. I found a bottle of painkillers and emptied a half dozen tablets in my mouth.
I knew it wouldn’t take away the pain though. Nothing would. After all, Uncle Jack and Reilly were-
“Wait. Where’s the beast?” The beast had disappeared. The metal stake and a pool of blood were all that remained. A stick cracked behind me. I slowly turned my head and saw the beast. Its fangs were regrown, and the head wound had closed up.
“How?” I cried. The beast’s glowing eyes were filled with cruel amusement.
“Haven’t you ever heard? Cats have nine lives,” it crooned before it lunged.
Circumstances Have Changed
By: Dan Silva
A body lays in a ditch. Its blood gives color to its snowy surroundings. A man stood above it, staring down at the sight. He wore all red on his top half, including his hat. He then moved closer, entering the ditch. The body was unfamiliar and half-iced after spending a day in the frozen wastelands of Brainerd, Minnesota.
The man then grabbed its legs and dragged the body out of the ditch. With corpse in hand, he crossed the snow-painted road. On the other side was a plain with a large tree by the road and a river, not yet frozen, about half a mile behind. Having reached the other side, he dove into the outstretched snowy plain tugging the corpse with him. When the man finally reached the water, he stopped to take in the scenery. He took the deepest breath of his life.
The man at last lowered the body into the water and the current took it somewhere. He then turned around, walking away from it all.
Bear
By: Kayla Bassingthwaite
I had no reason to suspect I didn’t bring my dog into the house. Bear was in the exact same spot I left him in, sniffing at some bushes by the tree line, presumably searching for the best pee spot or a small critter darting about. I only turned my back on him for a minute so I could set my empty mug of tea in the sink. Don’t get me wrong, I’d trade the entire ranch for this dog, but letting him out to use the bathroom at 10:30 at night was always risky with all the wild coyotes (and God only knew what else) roaming in the forest. Seeing Bear still aimlessly putzing, I called him inside; it was an unusually cold September evening and I couldn’t handle the chills any longer. His head turned in reflex at the sound of his name, and I thought it strange his eyes glowed red, but I figured they caught the moonlight reflection weird. They do that sometimes when I take photos with the flash on.
When he started to trot toward me, I crossed the threshold and stepped to my side so Bear could pass me as he always did. In my periphery, he was already next to me on the porch, despite me not hearing his heavy footsteps or the jingle of his collar. He’s a 150-pound Newfoundland, I always hear him coming; I must not have been paying attention.
Locking up the door behind me, I padded into the kitchen, humming a tune while cleaning up that mug and my dishes from dinner. When I finished and turned the water off, the humming echoed distantly and slightly off-tune. I snapped my attention to Bear crouched in the living room, all the hair on his back raised, flashing his canines at me. He glared at me with eyes I’d never seen before, more human than mine. If I hadn’t been too scared to blink, I may have missed him pushing off his front paws to stand on just his hind legs, only it was like as he rose his front legs extended and thinned, until they gangled unevenly just past what you could call his knees. His shoulders popped and crunched as he hunched forward and somehow elongated his spine at least six inches. Only maybe fifteen feet away, Bear now towered over me, almost as tall as the low cabin ceiling. If I thought it was cold outside, nothing compared to the icy tundra fear blasting through my veins at 40mph. As if he could feel my fear radiating off me, he laughed a guttural, feral laugh between exposed, yellowed teeth.
“Leah, this is our house,” Bear trilled like an adult trying to imitate a child. His words snapped me out of my frozen trance and the panicked adrenaline finally kicked in. The first enclosed space I could safely reach was a half bath, so I bolted for it. He’s clawing at the door now – not just at the bottom, but from the top down, stretching impossibly long claws. I don’t know how long this door will hold, but I needed someone to know that I didn’t let this demon into my house on purpose.
Ever since I bought the ranch six months ago, sure, I heard my fair share of unsettling nature and not-so-nature sounds, but nothing ever came of it, and you tend to adjust after a while. I wanted this, I needed to prove I could do this, so I wasn’t going to let a few spooky noises scare me off. I’ve been warned about, well, you’re not supposed to say their name. The shapeshifters, let’s go with that, often crept through the forests in poor imitations of animals. They usually favor coyotes, bears, foxes, and even dogs, but I never thought they could transform into my dog. I let my guard down, against everyone’s prior admonition.
If you are reading this, please find my dog. I hope you find me too, but if not, I know I deserved my fate. I knew better. Bear didn’t. Bear is black with long fur, he’s three years old, his eyes are brown, and he’s wearing a gray collar. Please find him, he’s all I have. I can’t be at peace until I know he’s—
Knock Knock
By: Alivia Stonier
The man had not been at this new house for very long. He tripped on the steps as he went downstairs in the dead of night just after he woke up. He passed through the living room and entered the newly renovated kitchen; the only light present was the illumination from a streetlamp outside his rainy window. It had been pouring since the evening. With a sigh, the man began to play music across Bluetooth speakers adorning various corners of the open space. It was music similar to that of a black and white flick, old and comfortable. He pulled out a kettle and put it on the stove.
A new environment would help him start fresh, he was certain, and yet the man couldn’t sleep. He blamed it on the creaking and settling that felt new in his ears. It was an adjustment, that was all. But if that was true, why did he lie awake every night? He was pulled out of his thoughts by a new sound, one unimagined and unshakeable, two knocks at the heavy oak door. A chill had settled over the foyer immediately; the doorstep was empty. All he saw was the sogginess from the rainy steps across the welcome mat. The man assumed someone must’ve needed something given the storm and thought better of it. After all, the house was near a main road. He stood for a moment looking out to the street only to see neighbors’ cars tucked in for the night. He went back to the warm kitchen and waited on the kettle to finish, convinced that tea would bring about rest. Yeah, that would do it. Soon enough, the whistle filled the room. As the man went to grab the kettle, he noticed the front door wide open even though it was shut moments ago. Distracted by this discovery, he grabbed the door, not caring about the stove, and locked it behind him, deadbolt and all.
The man then took the kettle off the stove, so the only sound he heard was, once again, soft music. He turned to grab a mug from the cabinet only to be hit over the head. The last thing he remembered was the ache. If someone had been listening, they would have heard the breaking of glass and the thud of his body on the hardwood floor. Did he deserve such a violent end? The killer, she seemed to have thought so, and if the man was asked, he might have even agreed.
NightinGale House
By: Shishi
“‘Go out,’ they said. ‘Have fun,’ they said. Yeah, right…it’s because of crap like this that I hate Halloween.” Tanya Reeds wasn’t sure what she was doing right now. “Oh, come on, Tan, it’s not that bad. I’ll be right there with you,” her friend Kiki said.
That was exactly what she was worried about. “I still hate you.” With a pout, Kiki wrapped her arms around her friend. “No, you don’t. You love me! Besides, you’re the one who said you wanted to do something different this Halloween.”
Rolling her eyes, Tanya moved away, rejecting her friend’s poor attempt to be comforting. “Yeah, I was thinking maybe heading down to a costume party. Hell, I would’ve jumped at the idea of giving kids candy at the doorstep and playing some cool, spooky tunes! Not going to a creepy old house in the middle of fucking nowhere!”
She shuddered as the wind ripped through her clothes. Her sigh came out in small, clouded puffs as she saw it come into view. “Why are you freaking out anyways? It’s just a house.” The NightinGale house…otherwise known by the locals as Nightmare Manor for how huge and ominous it was.
That was their target for this night of mischief. Built well over one-hundred years ago, it was considered the hot spot for all things scary. The go to place for rebellious teens eager to prove themselves to their friends.
“Don’t bullshit me, Kiki. With all the creepy rumors flying around, no one should go there.” Currently it was abandoned, and all who try buying and living in the house find themselves dealing with strange things happening.
“What kinda rumors are we talking about? They say the place is haunted. Mirrors breaking at random, the feelings of hands clutching onto your back, doors opening and closing without a single gust of wind. Demolition workers fell through floors. Renovators had rubble flung at them. Hell, even poor Old Man Willy got run over by a car just a few days after buying it. So, let’s forget about this whole thing and head back to my house.” Tanya winced as a strong grip held her shoulder as they arrived at the front gate.
Both of their eyes lingered through the little rusted gaps. Chipped, rotten black wood was barely held together to form the large structure. Huge gaping holes could be found spread out along the building, revealing nothing but darkness.
But before the house was a huge, open yard that was covered in dead brown weeds, They laid about like tossed corpses. Compared to their neighborhood that was filled with bright, warm lights full of people, it was like looking into another world. A lifeless world frozen in time.
The air felt colder by at least a few degrees which caused both of them to shiver. Their fingers gripped their light jackets. “Don’t be such a baby Tanya, Scott went in the other day and he was fine.” The sun had turned orange as it began to set. The dim light made the decrepit, decayed manor darker and unwelcoming.
Bewildered, Tanya turned to her. “Are you serious right now? He fell down the stairs and broke his arm! Scott, your boyfriend, let me repeat, broke his arm. And not too long after going and messing with that house!” With a huff Kiki placed her hands on the gate. She pushed, flinching as a harsh shriek escaped the metal bars.
“You know Scott is a klutz. He trips over his own two feet at least three times a day. Last week, he sprained his arm trying to be Mr. Cool while bowling. I would’ve been more surprised if he didn’t fall down the stairs. God, I can’t take you seriously when you still believe in those stupid ghost stories. We’re not kids anymore.” Kiki saw the brunette take a few deep breaths, and her eyes narrowed in anger.
“They’re not stories. History dates back to eighty years ago, when the supposedly first family that lived in the house was randomly found dead.
Each of the bodies that were discovered were cruelly mutilated without mercy, their murderer was never found, therefore the spirits were never able to find peace. There’s especially been sightings of a little girl in a blood stained gown smiling before vanishing into thin air. I just told you about all those rumors flying around. Think it’s just a coincidence that anyone who goes there finds themselves hurt?”
Tanya waited with arms crossed. “It’s an old ass house, of course people would fall through the floor. And all that stuff about things being thrown are just rumors. There’s no proof. You’re being ridiculous right now!” Without another word Kiki marched right into the decayed, jungle yard. Not even bothering to glance behind her.
“I don’t wanna be here right now. L-let’s go back.” Tanya’s words were ignored. Red two inch heeled boots stomped through the prickly grass. Lips curled in defiance as Kiki made her way to the porch. However, before her hands could grip on the old, dull doorknob, they both heard something creaking. The door opened.
Revealing a black portal to hell. “Dammit Kiki, listen to me! This place is bad news, get over here.” Once again, Tanya’s words were shrugged off. “It was probably just the wind or something. Stop freaking out. You can stand there all you want but I’m going in. Happy Halloween!” Kiki looked over her shoulder, her friend’s expression was pale. And she was still right in front of the gate.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts. They’re not real.” Without warning a strong gale of wind swirled around her. “Huh?!” Her hair twisted all around, covering her face. “Kiki!” She was blind, unable to make sense of what was going on as the windows, one by one, began to shut. “The hell is going on!? Tanya?” She tried to back away, but found herself unable to move, as if her feet were glued to the ground.
With wide eyes she saw something deep within the house. “Hello. I’m Lusia. Welcome to my house!” A young child, about seven years old with big green eyes and blonde hair in a braid approached wearing a sweet smile. “Oh God, Kiki, get out of there!” No response formed as Kiki struggled to move. “It’s been so long since we’ve had guests.” Luisa giggled as she clapped her hands.
Grunts bellowed from Kiki as she couldn’t move her arms or even jerk her head. Her pupils full of terror and regret. “Do you want to play with me?” Luisa’s blood soaked nightgown trailed gently behind her as she got closer and closer to the door.
“I’m sure mommy and daddy won’t mind.” Transparent hands gripped onto warm flesh. Green eyes were all that she saw. “Let’s go, Kiki.” Her screams echoed in Tanya’s ears as her body was pushed into the manor. The door slammed shut.
The Black Mass
By: Dominic Henry
They were not sure where it came from. You are not supposed to see such a deep black smoke in the never-ending green trees of the Adirondacks. But they did. George was a local to the area for most of his life. He was born in Manhattan, but his parents then had an abrupt realization that the never-ending honking, the shouting people, and the blazing lights were not for them. They decided that the unforgiving mountains, the wind chills that could freeze an outdoor sauna, and the potential of having Bertram the Black Bear as their next-door neighbor were more suitable.
George and his family lived in their $634,030 raised ranch with a mahogany two-story wooden library. George’s father was a horror flash fictionist. “How ironic,” George said to himself the day he first saw that rich, black smoke that seemed to reach the stratosphere.
“I can’t be the first person to see this!” exclaimed George. But he very much could have been. Where his home was situated, the next neighbor that wasn’t Bertram was over 300 acres away. The area of his massive yard was also dipped in a way similar to a valley with tall trees blocking the bottom view, so even if someone was close, the trees would have acted as a shield. In the 17 years George and his family had been in isolation, nothing interesting had ever happened in his yard. But this was more concerning than interesting. Where did it come from? Why is there no fire? And what is that smell? Maybe a dead animal?
George got closer to the blackness. It seemed like it was getting wider. And that smell. Man, was that getting unbearable. No words in George’s young vocabulary could describe how putrid and vile that smell got.
“NO!” shouted George as the smoke started to infiltrate his body and close up his throat. There was nothing around him but darkness, but what felt like the sun’s lips pressing on his body overtook him. Soaking with sweat, George attempted to find refuge somewhere.
“Why can’t I move?” he gasped before he looked down and noticed his feet had disappeared. His body was fused to the ground.
“This can’t be how it ends for me!” exclaimed George. As the sun began to set, George’s intrusive thoughts grew. He knew it was over for him. The one time he left his fully charged iPhone home was the day a paranormal black mass absorbed him.
In the fourth hour, George began to lose his valued senses. First went his 20/15 vision. Than his smell that would warn his family if he smelled smoke. After that, George began to forget. It was too far gone at that point. Where is George?
At Last, We Are Eternal
By: Pleasant M. Paschael
He jogs down the long, dark road. The colorful leaves crunch beneath his feet—rustling in the cool autumn night. He opens the door to his house and is greeted by silence.
He showers, makes a sandwich, and grabs his sketch pad, gazing at the drawing before him. It is a woman—young and beautiful, but there is something hidden behind her eyes that he cannot grasp. She is the woman he has never met, but has dreamed about every night for almost three months, not long after he moved in. He starts another sketch, this one in color. He grips the black pencil as he draws her long hair, drawing quickly, as if he is fearful that this particular image of her will evaporate.
It is just after 1 a.m. He awakes with a start, sketch pad still on his lap. He makes his way up to his bedroom. There is a chill in the room. The window has been left open, but he doesn’t remember opening it. It would be easy to recall because this window is the hardest to budge. He discards the mystery of the open window, closes it, and crawls under the soft blue sheets.
7 a.m. The alarm sounds with anger. In his half slumber, he rushes to find the source of his disturbance. Finally, there is silence again.
He removes the covers from his body, and the cool air washes over him like a sudden splash of frigid water. He looks around.
The window. It is open again.
He reaches for his robe and quickly makes his way to the window, closing it—locking it. He peers around the room, looking for something out of place. Nothing is disturbed.
He hasn’t any time to dwell on this creepy occurrence. He has a meeting with the art director in about an hour, and she is a stickler for punctuality.
Coffee in hand, he breezes through the door of the meeting room with two minutes to spare.
*
“Good morning, everyone,” Gail, the art director, greets the room. “As you know, Riche Wines is disappointed in the images we brought to them, so we’re going to have to go back to the drawing board—pun intended, and this time, there isn’t any room for error.”
She goes on throwing ideas around and how the staff needed to do whatever it takes to get the inspiration that they need.
“This is an important client. We have to get this right.” She pauses. “Lucian, are you following me?”
He is pulled from his thoughts of the woman, the dream invader. “Yes, I’m on it.”
“I do hope so. We really need your creativity on this.” She glares at him before she continues.
Lucian musters enough attention to get through the meeting. Soon after, his phone rings.
It’s Rosaline. She is a woman he met shortly after moving to town. They have been trying to get together for the past few months, but the timing has always been off.
“Hey, Lucian! Hope you’re settling in nicely.”
“Hello, Rosaline. The house is great. Still trying to get things in order, but work has been keeping me pretty busy.”
“Well, I was hoping you’d finally have some free time this weekend. A friend of mine is having a shindig at her place. Thought you might want to stop by. It’s on Friday night.”
“I’m sorry, but this project has really got me up against the wall. Rain check?”
Rosaline laughs, “I haven’t been able to cash in on any of the other rain checks you’ve given me. Seems like some force is keeping us from getting together.”
Lucian apologizes again and promises that he will make good in another week after he has met his deadline.
*
On Friday night, Lucian is sitting in front of the computer, sketch pad in hand, trying to come up with something that Riche Wines will love. He sketches a few images, but they just don’t seem right.
His mind drifts to her. The woman in his dreams.
His pencil is moving once again over the sketch pad, almost unconsciously. He draws her—her long dark waves of hair cascading over and passed her décolletage, so distinct against the red dress draped around her curves. She sits, legs crossed, a glass to her lips as she drinks the red liquor it holds—her cognac-colored eyes gaze back at him.
I can’t keep doing this, he thinks to himself. He rolls away from the computer, puts the sketch pad down, and goes to bed—but not before closing the window.
*
A few days later, Lucian sits across from Gail in her office. “These are really good,” she smiles, admiring his artwork.
“Thank you.” He didn’t think they were the best for Riche Wines, but she likes them, so that’s something.
Gail turns to the next page in the pad. “What is this?”
“Um… I was just…”
“This is beautiful. This is the embodiment of Riche.”
Lucian had forgotten to remove the drawing of his dream invader. He couldn’t explain why, but it was really personal to him, she was so personal to him.
“I’m glad you really like it, but this is not one of my submissions.”
“But it should be. This is what we need, Lucian.”
Gail’s phone rings. It’s another one of the agency’s clients. She takes the call, but not before telling Lucian that they would continue the discussion later.
Lucian should be excited, but he leaves Gail’s office feeling somewhat violated. How did he forget to remove that damned drawing?
Lucian goes home and up to his room to undress, almost expecting to feel the draft from that open window. But there is none. It is closed.
He had grown used to finding one of his bedroom windows open. He couldn’t explain it. He believes in the supernatural, so perhaps it’s that. He figures as long as it’s a friendly ghost, an open window is tolerable.
He makes himself a nightcap and makes himself comfortable on the sofa.
He works on some images for another client as James Blake plays softly in the background.
“Lucian.”
Lucian swiftly turns his head, surveying the room. But he does not see anyone.
“Lucian.”
“Who’s there?”
Lucian slowly makes his way to the front door where there is a bag of golf clubs. He removes one and slowly walks around, not able to tell where the voice is coming from.
He rounds the corner, entering the kitchen, then the laundry room, but he sees no one.
He heads upstairs, continuing his search—finally making his way to his room.
The window, that window, is open, but there is no one in sight. He closes the window, turns around, and drops the golf club.
There, at the entrance of the bedroom, he sees a woman with dark, long hair.
It’s her.
Lucian backs up. “What the … it’s you!”
She smiles.
“How did you get in? What do you want?”
“You invited me, Lucian.”
“What? I don’t understand. How do you know…what do you want?” She is so beautiful that it is almost hard to be afraid of her.
“You.”
“But, why?”
“My love, you don’t remember. But, you will.”
“Remember? Just tell me what you want from me.”
The doorbell rings.
For a moment Lucian doesn’t move. He doesn’t comprehend what the ringing is until the door chimes again.
He turns in the direction of the sound and turns back. She is gone.
With zombie-like steps, Lucian makes his way to the door.
She’s gone, he thinks. Was she really here?
He opens the door without peering through the peep-hole.
He finds Rosaline on the other side.
“Hey, Lucian! I hope it’s not a bad time. I was a couple of streets over visiting a friend. Thought I’d stop by just to say hello.”
Lucian stares as her, almost as if he is trying to process who she is.
“Lucian? You ok?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t talk right now.”
“Oh, ok. Well, I, uh will call you.”
Lucian closes the door without thought.
“Hello?!” he calls out to the beautiful stranger, but there is no reply.
*
The following evening, Lucian comes home from work. His whole day was fog-like, and everything and everyone seemed to move in slow waves. He didn’t even see the email from Gail about how Riche Wines wanted the image of the beautiful brunette.
He immediately runs upstairs to his bedroom only to find that window closed.
He goes through the motions of showering and pouring a drink. He tries to concentrate on anything other than her.
Lucian opens his sketch pad but is compelled only to draw her.
He turns on the TV, clicking through the channels until he sees a familiar face flash across the flat screen, a pretty red head.
There is a news crew standing in a neighborhood across town. The reporter standing in front of an apartment complex.
He listens…
“34-year-old Rosaline Harlow was found in her apartment this morning with her throat slashed. She was discovered after a friend came by for their morning jog…”
Lucian is in disbelief. How could this happen? She was just here last night.
He pours another drink and begins to pace the living room. What the hell is going on?
“Lucian.”
Lucian climbs the stairs and walks into his bedroom where he sees her standing by that window.
“What is happening? Who are you?”
“I am Kara, your fate. And you are mine.”
“I don’t understand! Just tell me!”
“No, I’ll show you.”
Kara reaches at the tie at the nape of her neck. Her dress falls to the floor.
She reaches for Lucian, and he moves towards her. Their lips connect and images of years, so many years ago, flood his mind.
Kara disrobes him and takes him inside of her.
Their moans of pleasure are penetrated with sounds of pain as she pierces his neck with her fangs.
To be continued…
Untitled
By: Pleasant M. Paschael
It is not greed.
It is how we feed.
It is survival.
We hunt at dusk,
searching for what we love,
for what we crave,
searching for warm blood.
It is what we need.
We are the ones to heed.
We consume our prey until their souls are freed.
We pierce flesh with our sharp tusks
Draining plasma until we are appeased.
We are an ancient breed.
Sometimes noble, sometimes wicked in our deeds.
We are keen to the moon’s illuminous flux.
Nothing will disrupt or impede
as we suck
and bite as you bleed.
Patient Instructions for Self-Management of Overnight Severe Hypoglycemia
By: Campbell Mitchell
Please don’t now the sensor beep
Do not drag me from my sleep
I don’t want your alarms blaring
Or red numbers at me staring
Silence all devices wailing
No more sounds of fail safes failing
All alarms shall henceforth cease
Leave me to one night of peace
If my sugar’s truly low
Instead let me softly go
Into that gentle goodnight
For I have no more wish to fight
Resurrection
By: Campbell Mitchell
I died a death in roiling pain
Of acid blood and damaged brain
My lungs and stomach burned and torn
My heart tapped out and fully worn
That fateful day I ceased to be
A living thing in nature free
As closely crept the pale of death
Machines forced into me new breath
The doctors from the banks of Styx
Beyond the realm of crucifix
Plucked my soul from reaper’s grip
In hopes they might delay my trip
Machines to breathe and pump my blood
To filter and remove the flood
Of decomposing chemicals
Replaced with pharmaceuticals
To save my life doctors endeavored
To see my bonds to nature severed
No more a soft organic heart
But pace kept up by robot parts
In tissues subcutaneous
My living homeostasis
Not borne of biochem buffers
But from the hum of servo motors
By blessing of Asclepius
Reborn as ship of Theseus
So as my bio-parts degrade
New cybernetic parts inlaid
Hear now my new flesh whirr and click
That marvel by mechanic’s trick
Keeps balance on the edge of knife
Forever locked twixt death and life
No more a man of blood and flesh
But copper wire and iron mesh
No more a thing of sci-fi craze
A cyborg now for all my days
Legend of the Aden Fleet
By: Tristan Akira Kawatsuma
Now, most people have every right to question if what I’ve gathered, what I’m about to tell you all, is true. Perhaps it is simply the hallucinations of the poor souls involved in the incident. Or I’m just a twisted prankster trying to get in a few scares. But in case there are any of you who listen and believe my words, it’s up to you whether to spread the tale or not.
Starting in the year 2011, the Japanese Self-Defense Forces installed their only overseas base in the country known as Djibouti. But everything changed between 2025 and 2030. During this period, the already small Japanese involvement in the Horn of Africa was erased, with the base itself being closed by the end of this period.
To most citizens of Japan, the Japanese energy industry moving towards renewables was the reason for this, as there was no longer any need to keep getting fossil fuels from the Middle East and East Africa. What most people don’t realize, however, is that the slow pulling out from Djibouti had started before the Japanese government changed its energy policy to be more friendly to renewables. If people learned the real reason behind the JSDF pulling out of the country, they would scoff and think the government was being silly. Yet if you were to ask those who were a part of the secret event which ended the Japanese presence overseas, you would find people freeze up, as if they were holding a ticking bomb in their hands, seconds from hitting zero.
As with all stories, its origins begin long before the most impactful events. In the early 2000s, pirates running in the Gulf of Aden would return with faces so pale, most people assumed they were suffering from a new type of seasickness. Boats would come in with scratch marks along the side and the type of damage one would expect from a vicious battle to the death. These strange occurrences came to an end in 2009, just as the pirates of the region turned their focus from raiding cargo ships to dealing with the growing military presence mobilized against them.
But if you looked in the right places, you would hear stories about how a pirate warlord had been celebrating his latest haul with his small fleet. When some members of this fleet arrived late for the celebrations, all they could find was the wreckage and corpses of their comrades. The haul they had brought in was gone along with all weapons and ammunition. Despite the survivors claiming that western forces had massacred their comrades and had covered it up, the few who heard this tale knew that nobody with the power to crush this fleet would be so vicious and merciless. Due to this fact, they dismissed the story as ridiculous.
It was just this thought that ran through the mind of a group of Japanese soldiers, sailors, and pilots when they heard the story while enjoying their R&R in the town called Ambouli. They all scoffed, a few even thinking that such an attack had never occurred in the first place. It didn’t stop them from spreading the story to their comrades, many of them using the story to show how the locals were ‘stupid’ and would believe in anything. They soon would regret spreading the story at all.
An hour later, the off-duty crew of a Japanese destroyer returned to their vessel, ready to resume patrolling of the Gulf of Aden. As the ship pulled out of the Port of Djibouti, the captain and his bridge crew laughed as a sailor recounted the tale. The XO asked if this was some local bedtime story meant to scare children off from becoming pirates.
“Next, we’ll be hearing about a giant ocean beast dragging ships into the sea. Man, I thought the stories from our country were wild,” joked one of the eight Coast Guard officers on the ship to her friends.
Eventually, such talk about the story died down as the destroyer sailed deep into the gulf. The patrol started out as all other patrols did. The occasional American or Chinese warship passing by or a cargo or cruise ship tooting a friendly greeting to them. Every now and then, a plane would fly over the ship.
The first one to notice the fog rolling in was an ensign on the bridge. Others across the ship also took notice, many later reporting that it had come in far quicker than a cloud of fog usually should. In just a minute after the first sighting, the fog engulfed the ship. The whole crew was perplexed at where the fog had come from. Then, they all began to hear something.
“Sounds like a motor—no, a bunch of them.”
“Must be dozens of them.”
“What, did a bunch of rich guys decide to take a joy ride with their yachts together?”
“Idiot, there aren’t enough privately owned rich ships in this part of the world.”
“It must be pirates. A whole fleet of them.”
“There’s never been a pirate fleet even close to the size of this noise, especially not nowadays.”
Some say it sounded like a hundred small boats were inside the fog. Others say that there were probably only a dozen boats running rings around the destroyer. The only consensus that could be reached is that they were surrounded by this fleet of ships. And that a poor crewman who was yakking on at the bow about how a fog just like this was in the story she had heard in town screamed her heart out as a harpoon tore through hers and pulled her overboard.
One would expect all hell to break loose, but military discipline won out at first. Officers quickly grabbed any crew members they could and armed them with assault rifles and had them shoot at all targets in sight. In seconds, there seemed to be dozens of targets, small boats filled with about a half dozen men armed to the teeth. As the crew quickly found out, their own weapons wouldn’t be of much help.
One sailor described how he had his pistol trained on the helmsman of one boat. He was sure he hadn’t missed when he saw the target still standing after the shot was fired. He only became more certain after he tried to put a round through the first boarders.
Horror was all one could see on the faces of the Japanese as the attackers crawled up onto the ship. They could see right through not just the pirates, but also their weapons and even the cables they used to climb onboard the ship. As a bridge officer would later point out, not a single target was registering on their radar. It was like the whole fleet wasn’t there. It was the same story for the fog. As crew members were cut down by pirates who never reacted to a shot and never flinched when a punch was thrown at them, the story the Japanese had heard earlier suddenly wasn’t so stupid anymore.
“We’re being overwhelmed! They’re everywhere! We can’t stop-no, no NO, GET AWAY!” were the last words a communication’s officer at the JSDF base heard from the ship.
A P-3C Orion ran off the tarmac, soaring toward the gulf to figure out what was happening. The fog stood out like a sore thumb to the pilots, but it was so large they couldn’t find anything in it until a flare nearly struck the cockpit. Nobody knows who fired off the shot. Some believed it was a complete accident. Whatever the case, the pilots knew the exact position of the destroyer and flew down closer to check out the situation. The co-pilot would go on to claim that it was the first time he had ever gotten sick in the cockpit as he witnessed the carnage below. The rest of the crew didn’t feel any better.
Somehow, the soldiers who knew about the ghost story convinced the base commander of what was going on and were given permission to return to the town and find the storyteller. It took a whole hour to find the shopkeeper who had entertained them. It took another hour to find the required spices for a ritual that would drive off the attackers. In all that time, the carnage finally came to an end. What few survivors there were on the destroyer were now hiding. And the raiders were searching the ship for anything of value, whether it be weapons or money.
Every now and then, an unlucky survivor would be discovered, and their shrieks would be heard throughout the ship. One sailor recalled how when the pirates were scouring the hallway connected to the air vent the sailor and a dying friend were hiding in, it took him a few minutes to force himself to push her comrade out as his moans were growing louder and louder. When she finally emerged from her hiding spot, all she could find was her friend’s arm.
The ritual that ended the whole debacle involved a priest uttering a phrase in a language never heard before. Soldiers who attempted to translate what was chanted were confused when they couldn’t find any language or dialect, past or present, that came close to resembling what they had heard. Whatever was said, it apparently worked. When the base’s two P-3C Orion planes flew over the destroyer dumping tons of spice over the ship, the shouts of pain no longer came from the Japanese crew. Any ghost struck by the spices just turned into dust, with some of the raiders trying to use their treasures to shield them from this attack.
As the aircraft had to return to base to refuel and rearm themselves, it took a few minutes for the crew to gather the courage and check the ship for any remaining hostiles. What they found first was that the fog, along with the fleet of small pirate crafts, was all gone. The sun now shone over the ship, already starting to make the casualties of the one-sided battle smell. There wasn’t a single part of the ship that a ghost pirate was hiding in, but there were always more bodies for the survivors to uncover.
A hundred dead, including everyone who was wounded. Something about the weapons the raiders had used ensured injuries could never be tended to by modern medicine. With such a high body count, it was impossible for the surviving personnel to stay quiet about their horrifying exploit. The story had already spread to half of the Japanese Self-Defense Force before a proper cover-up could be established. The higher-ups were more furious than ever before, as they had learned why the attack had happened at all. Anybody who speaks of the story about the Aden Ghost Fleet and travelled through their territory would receive a visit from them. This was why the story had died out before the Japanese incident. Most who had spread the tale had perished with those that were left being wise to stay quiet, for the most part.
So, with it now being impossible to send any ship down the Gulf of Aden without it being attacked, the government decided to shut down the base in Djibouti and pull out of the region. Some people wonder why the government continues to keep silent about the whole incident. There are those who say the Japanese secretly still maintain a presence in the region, just avoiding the gulf itself. Others think the government is just too embarrassed to admit a horde of ghosts nearly massacred a warship’s crew. But as for me, I’ve concluded that they simply don’t want to be responsible for any more victims. For if this tale were to get out to the general public, it would be circulated beyond the borders of Japan in less than a day. And then traffic in the Gulf of Aden would soon come to an end. For the tale would be spoken by mouth by everyone. And the Aden Ghost Fleet would be busy as ever.
Now, why am I telling you this tale? Why not just keep it to myself? To put it simply, one day I may grow tired of this world. It is not a certainty, but a possibility that I can’t ignore. I doubt I’ll have the will to go through with leaving this life. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m too weak or too strong to do so. Thus, when the time comes, I will simply have to sail into the Gulf of Aden to disappear. I’ll let the true rulers of the Gulf of Aden take care of me. Now, you will know why and how a middle-aged Japanese man hailing from the city of Hiroshima popped up as a corpse in a region far from his home.
THE END
A Brand-New Pet
By: James Richards
The scream startled me, causing my arm muscles to flex. It came from the room at the back of the lobby of the Humane Society, right after the workers dragged a puppy through the stark stainless steel double doors.
“She is so sweet; we just received her two days ago. Her name is Blaire, like her former mother,” the male worker at the front desk exclaimed while showing us a knee-high black dog, ignoring the other puppy’s cry in the backroom.
“She is, I love her fur. It reminds me of our new carpet!” Thomas was trying to be funny as we bought a black shag carpet two weeks ago.
“Yeah, hah…” I did not perform a full laugh; the dog’s striking blue eyes were distracting me from the conversation.
“I think she is a Labra-… you know, she was found in the woods; can you believe it? These lovely hikers wrapped her in a blanket and turned her in. She was a mess, covered in dirt and even some blood; can you imagine?” The clerk wanted to gain our sympathy by the way he was telling this story. He was like a car salesman, extremely happy to the point of seeming oblivious.
“Wow… that sucks,” I offered.
My fiancée pulled out five dollars in cash out of his brown leather wallet for a donation and handed it to the clerk who put the currency in an opaque tin jar. Thomas always falls for a sob story. While I was on my phone looking at Pinterest posts, he signed some papers, bought a green dog toy and some puppy kibble, and leashed Blaire. We walked out, Thomas trailing the dog behind him. Our grey car that was parked across the building seemed to excite the dog. It ran up to the backseat door, repeatedly jumping and yelping.
“Oh my god! She is so excited to have a family now!” Thomas happily exclaimed.
“Yeah,” I said. The dog was thrilled to be released. More thrilled than I was to take care of it.
Thomas opened the car door, allowing the dog to scurry onto one of the seats as it panted heavily. I got into the passenger seat and glanced at Blaire. Its smile was intense, its long snake-like pink tongue flapping wildly across its sharp incisors. Thomas made his way to the driver’s seat and turned to me.
“Hah, Blaire also matches you, Sarah,” Thomas noted since I have long black hair and blue eyes as well.
“Yeah, she kind of does,” I replied, raising my eyebrows.
“Maybe we should have gotten a golden retriever to match you.”
Our car sped off towards our house. I stared at the road while thinking to myself. I did not want a dog, Thomas was enough. I had four pets growing up: two dogs and two cats. I had had enough of animals, and it was already hard to take care of myself sometimes.
“This could be good for us. This is like a trial run. It could be fun!” He thinks that having a dog would prepare us for a family. I disagree; nothing could prepare me to have a family.
“I don’t know. Couldn’t we get one of those robot dogs instead or like a Tamagotchi?” I joked. His smile vanished. I stared out the window while I was fidgeting with a loose string on my burnt orange sweater during the rest of the car ride. Everything was reminding me of the fight we had three months ago. I denied his proposal to start a family. We started to argue, and things escalated. We refused to speak to each other for days until I finally said that I would consider it. He wants children, and I am hesitant.
We arrived at the house surrounded by dense woods. A dimming yellow glow of sunlight illuminated the grey siding of the home. Thomas parked on the driveway and re-leashed the dog, guiding it out as it stepped onto the gravel. We walked to the front door, following the cobble stone path. As we entered, Blaire made a beeline straight for the garbage bin in the kitchen. It pushed into the bin, toppling it over, releasing its waste. It rummaged through the trash like it had not eaten in days. Did they feed it?
“Oh my god, I’m getting the food.” Thomas ran eagerly back to the car to retrieve the kibble.
I ran over to Blaire and pulled it by the leash. As I did so, the dog released a deep growl, nothing like I heard before. The growl almost sounded like a phrase to which I could not decipher. I retreated, letting it eat the trash.
Thomas ran back inside with the box of kibble and poured some into a metallic bowl and set it down on the warm colored wood flooring.
The dog scurried away from the garbage pile and over to the bowl and began feasting. It was not stopping for air.
“Now that we fed her, I’ll make dinner. I got the fancy pasta sauce this time.” Thomas smirked. I could tell this dinner was a thank you for agreeing to this.
“Yeah, that’s great. I love when you splurge to get the good stuff.” I allowed myself to let out a small chuckle and Thomas smiled.
Once our plates were full of pasta bolognese, we made our way to the couch to watch a movie. We made ourselves comfortable on the plush beige cushions. I sat warmly nestled on the left side next to the armrest.
“I am gonna get a drink. Do you want one?” I asked.
“Uh, I’m good, thanks,” he responded as I got up.
I left for the kitchen and opened the stainless-steel refrigerator door. I grabbed the coldest feeling can of diet Coke and started my journey back to the couch, stopping midway to notice the scratches engraved in the wood flooring.
“Hey, look who decided to hang out with us!” Thomas excitedly said.
I finished my walk to living room and spotted the dog curled up on my side of the couch, right where my butt imprint was embedded.
“How cute,” I said, sarcastically.
I walked over and shoved the dog slightly to usher it out of my spot. The dog stared at the TV, not moving a muscle. I shoved a bit harder this time. The dog was still rested in the spot. Right as I motioned to push again, it oddly moved a single eye to stare right at me. Disturbed by this, I became increasingly angered.
“Oh my god, get the fuck off!” I shoved the dog even harder, causing it to dramatically fall onto the black shag carpet and let out a small yelp that made me feel guilty.
“Don’t do that, you’ll hurt her,” Thomas chided. His eyebrows furrowed in disappointment. He shifted more to the other side of the couch, nestling next to the other armrest.
I sighed harshly and sat down on my spot, which now felt cold.
Later that night at about nine, I fell asleep on the couch while watching the film. Thomas put the couch’s knitted throw blanket over me and left for the bedroom. I woke up startled shortly after to Thomas poking at me.
“What are you doing?” I groaned.
“Why would you say that?” he replied, his voice quivering.
“Say what?”
“That you hate me!” he shouted. I could tell by his voice that he did not get over the big fight we had in July. He was still insecure.
“What are you talking about?” I asked. I stood up, my shaking legs making it difficult.
“I was in the bedroom, I woke up, you were standing in the corner of the room and you yelled, ‘I fucking hate you.’” Chills traveled down my back like cold water.
“What the hell? I was asleep here the whole time.” We stared at each other in the darkness, trying to think of an explanation.
“Maybe I… had a dream.” He was not confident in his answer. “I swear I could…” His voice trailed off.
My knees weak, I sat back down on the couch. Thomas sat down with me. He stared blankly into empty space, unresponsive. I turned the TV on and played a baking show on Netflix to distract us. We stared at the television. The rest of the wakeful night felt uneasy, so uneasy that I barely noticed that I did not see the dog. I fell asleep for a couple more hours before the next morning.
I got up after Thomas went to work. I walked from the living room to the bedroom to change out of my pajamas. I walked up to the dresser and picked out a clean outfit. I sat down on the bed to change. As I was beginning to dress, I dropped the clean shirt on the floor and bent down to pick it up. As I did so, dread flooded my consciousness.
I saw a slender foot with long dirty toenails jutting out from the bottom of the bed. I pulled up the bed skirt in horror only to find Blaire laying there. I realized that it must have been Blaire’s paw poking from underneath the bed. How could I mistake a paw for a human foot? It made me feel uneasy. What is this dog? Where did they find it? These questions would not reveal any answers, nor did they seem worth pondering at the time.
Thomas arrived home later that afternoon. He found me on his usual side of the couch watching TV. He turned on the beige lamp on the side table and sat down beside me.
“Hey…did you feed the dog?” he asked.
“No, sorry.” I was hoping he would not ask me. I did not want to admit that Blaire made me unsettled and that I was avoiding it. Irrationality is not one of my traits.
I did not want Thomas to be the only one caring for Blaire. I wanted to show Thomas some investment in his “trial run” plan, so I bit the bullet. I got up, walked to the kitchen, and poured some kibble into the metal bowl. I did not have to wait long for Blaire to arrive. It almost flew into the kitchen, startling me. Its long claws drilled deep into the wood flooring, securing their place near the food bowl that I dropped. I tugged at Blaire’s collar to slow it down. As I did so, it released a deep roar that shook the house. It sounded like Bigfoot almost, a guttural deep roar with a rumble undertone. This time, it was unmistakably abnormal and unnatural. I thought I heard her say something, but she once again did not reveal a full word. Not responding felt strange. I rushed out of the kitchen, leaving the beast alone to tear at the food and the flooring. Thomas did not hear anything; he was still seated on the couch, eyes glued to the television. I sat down as if nothing happened.
About an hour later in the evening, Thomas heated up two burritos in the microwave which we shared. We ate on the couch as usual. While we were feasting, Blaire got up from the corner of the room and stepped toward us, making a sharp tapping noise with its claws. .
“We just fed her, why is she such a pig?” I asked rhetorically.
“I’ll give her a bite.” Thomas then tore a piece of his burrito, offering it over to Blaire. It excitedly took the piece of burrito, almost taking his hand as well. The dog bit down aggressively on his knuckles and fingers, causing Thomas to scream in pain and pull his hand away.
“You’re such a bitch!” I yelled and smacked the dog across its face in defense of Thomas. The dog let out a sympathetic whine and fled into the kitchen.
“You shouldn’t hit the dog,” Thomas stated as he was holding his injured hand. Blood began collecting under his freshly bruised purple and blue skin.
“I don’t care, she is barely a dog! Something is wrong with her, look at what she did!” I felt frustrated that he defended it.
“I don’t want that dog anymore. She’s dangerous.” I had had enough.
“We’ve only had her for a couple of days. She needs to adjust. This is for us,” Thomas said quietly as he got up to tend to his bruised hand. This dog meant something more to him than it meant to me. When me and Thomas decided to go to sleep, Blaire laid on the couch to rest, replacing the empty space of our presence. We walked down the hall near the left side of the living room and took a right into the bedroom. I changed into my favorite orange pajamas and settled under the covers of the king bed. Thomas slept beside me after taking his contact lenses out. I managed to get three hours of sleep before waking up dehydrated. My throat was coarse as well as my tongue. I got up from the mattress and headed to the kitchen with the goal of getting a cold bottle of orange flavored Vitamin Water.
The hallway was dark. The vibrantly decorated red runner was guiding my journey. When I reached the entrance of the living room, I heard what I comprehended to be a horse’s neigh. I stopped walking. I turned my head to find the source of the noise and gasped in horror. Through the dim room, I saw on the couch was the shadowy silhouette of a creature. There was a horse’s head on a small oval shaped body with four human legs protruding laying on the couch. Its miniscule blue eyes blinked, glowing brightly against the darkness of the room, staring at my contorted face. Extreme horror held me down, I could not move. In a severe state of panic and anguish, a tear traveled down my face into my gaped mouth. That is all I can remember of that moment.
I fled back to the bedroom, crying hysterically to Thomas. I was on the bed, clutching the white pillow, staining it with my snot and tears. I was trying to make words that made sense, but my brain was not focused on sentence structure. It was using all its effort to attempt to comprehend what I just witnessed. I finally managed to somewhat describe what I saw. Thomas’ solace did not help. Making the claim that it was all just a waking dream did not soothe my terror. I screamed at Thomas to get rid of the dog, warning him that it is evil. I remember that after some prying, he agreed to give it back, probably because he did not want a ruined relationship or a fiancée in hysterics. Relieved by his compromise, I eventually fell asleep from exhaustion.
Sunlight blinded my crusted eyes as I woke up. I pushed the stained pillow away from me. The recollection of last night made itself known and I rubbed my face. I looked for Thomas. He was missing from the bedroom. The clock next to my bed said it was 10:30 AM. He must be at work by now. I scooted to the side of the bed and stood up on the carpet. I made my way through the open concept of the house but stopped in the center of the living room. I then remembered that today is Saturday; Thomas is off from work. I sped quickly throughout the house, peering in every room, which there were only six, trying to find him. I did not see him anywhere, neither did I see the dog. Maybe he is returning it to the pound now, I rationalized. This thought was the solace I needed. Blaire was prying me and Thomas apart, whether that dog was conscious of it or not or even if a dog could comprehend the idea of sabotaging committed relationships. Relieved of Blaire’s tension, I rested on the couch. I pulled the knitted throw blanket over me and began watching IQ lowering TV. Not long after, I heard Thomas…
“Sarah!” His voice outside rattled the windows.
“Thomas?” Adrenaline spiked. I fled to the front door and swung it open. I did so just in time to see a tall, dark, shrouded figure with piercing blue eyes instantly pull Thomas, whose body bitten and bloody, up the front yard pathway and into the dense woods across the street, not to be seen again. If I blinked, I would have missed it. The only evidence of this event was the dark red path of blood and human pulp across the grass and cobblestone where his mangled body had been dragged.
Let’s Look at the Party
By: Ana Bourque
Let’s look at the party.
Let’s look at the first girl.
Her hair is pulled back. It looks like it hurts. She pulls it tighter.
Her shirt is buttoned. Barely. Her shorts cover her. Barely. She holds a cup and doesn’t spill. Barely. She stands in the middle of the room and talks loudly. The boys look. This is why she’s here. To laugh and talk and drink and collect attention. There’s nothing wrong with that. Everyone does it. She’s at the party having fun, and it’s just as simple as that.
Does she know she’s being watched?
Let’s look at the second girl.
She’s standing in the corner. Alone. Quiet.
She’s holding a water bottle. She’s taken three sips, and she unscrews the top to take another. She doesn’t want to be here. She finds it too loud, the people too crass, the air too warm. She stands in the corner and looks at her shoes. She takes another sip of water.
She drops the cap. Bends down. Picks it up. When she straightens, she looks over her shoulder at the corner.
Does she know she’s being watched?
Let’s look at the first boy.
Where is his shirt?
Over there, on the floor. It’s too warm to keep a shirt on. The bottle in his hand is cold, the room is loud, and he’s having fun. He shouts something at the first girl and pretends his face doesn’t go red when she winks at him. It’s hot in here. Too hot for a shirt, too hot for an unflushed face.
He throws the bottle up and back and drops it next to the couch. Takes another. It’s too hot to not have a cold drink in his hand.
Does he know he’s being watched?
Let’s look at the second boy.
He stands behind the table.
He has control over the bottles, the tall ones that started half empty and now are almost dry. The others offer him their cups. He smiles, laughs, pours more than he knows he should, but it’s a party. They’re here to have fun. It’s simple. More to drink, more to laugh at, more fun to have.
Nobody is looking at him, right? He tilts one of the bottles upside down into his mouth. He doesn’t need a cup. He just needs to drink.
Does he know he’s being watched?
Let’s look at you.
Where are you?
You’re not at the party, are you?
I can’t see you.
Let’s look at the party.
Let’s look at the crowd.
They’re dancing. Drinking. Talking. Laughing. It’s a party. It’s fun.
Do they know they’re being watched?
Let’s look at the first girl. Again.
Her hair has come loose. The hair tie? Oh, it’s over there. On the floor. She’ll never pick it up again. She’s spilling her drink, but that’s okay. The second boy will fill her cup up as soon as it’s empty. There’s no such thing as a dry cup at the party.
She doesn’t worry about anything. There’s nothing to worry about. This is a party, she’s having fun.
She doesn’t know she’s being watched.
Let’s look at the second girl.
Oh, she left. She felt herself being watched. I watched her go. Did you miss it? She left her water bottle on the table. Maybe she’ll be back to get it tomorrow. Maybe not.
She didn’t know who was watching her. Now she’s home, though. Does that bother you?
Are you bothered that she walked away?
Let’s look at the first boy.
He’s still missing his shirt. It’s still over there in the corner. Somebody used it to wipe up a spill, before. He’ll wrinkle his nose and throw it in a hamper as soon as he gets home, but it doesn’t matter now. It’s still too warm in here to care about his shirt.
He finishes his second bottle. He laughs at what the second boy says and takes a red cup of his own. This party is so much fun. This music is so loud. These jokes are so funny. These people are so friendly.
He has no idea he’s being watched.
Let’s look at the second boy.
Is this the last drink he’ll pour? Oh no, probably not. People are still here, still asking for drinks, and he likes being in charge of the big bottles. People talk to him more, laugh with him more. He’s having more fun behind this table than he does when he joins the dancing.
He drinks the end of another bottle. He doesn’t bother with a cup. He still doesn’t see the point of wasting one when he can throw this bottle away as soon as he drinks.
He still hasn’t realized he’s being watched.
Let’s look at you.
I know you’re here. I know it all. But I still can’t see you.
Why can’t I see you?
Is it because you know you’re being watched?
No, that can’t be it.
I can see a little bit now. You’re hiding in the corner. Not where the second girl was, and not where the shirt is. No, the other corner. The dark one. You’re there, aren’t you? In the shadow.
I can see your teeth.
You have sharp teeth.
And I can see your eyes.
You don’t see as much as me, do you? But you see enough.
You see the first girl. She giggles when she sits down, and she spills her drink some more. You see the first boy. He picks up his shirt and mops up the spill. You see the second boy. He fills a new cup to take to her.
You don’t see me, though. Nobody sees me.
You don’t know you’re being watched.
But I’m watching anyway.
I watch you move. Why are you moving? You’re so hard to see.
I see your teeth. The light makes them look sharper. Whiter. Meaner.
I see the shadow move with you.
Where are you going?
Don’t you know you’re being watched?
Broken Promises
By:Jade Broadnax
“We stand together, always. Okay?” His lies would have made me smile back then.
The way his hands promised to only touch mine.
The way his lips promised to only moan my name.
The way he promised his soul would only be mine.
But now, through my blurry eyes and wet cheeks, through flashes of blue and red, I grimace at the thought that I was so damn naïve to believe him. I believed everything he said to me.
Every promise.
Every kiss.
Every touch.
Who would have thought I loved him more than he loved me?
No one thought I loved him more when his eyes rolled back.
No one thought I loved him more when his skin turned cold on the floor of the home we shared.
No one thought I loved him more when I was able to make his love pour out of him into a perfect heart.
No one thought I loved him more when his blood danced across my body.
But I swear I love him to death. He’s the one breaking promises.
Vampire
By: Ash Muzzillo
Blood. Though it is a simple word, it can have many meanings to different individuals. For instance, it may mean family to a tribe of people. Or it might mean violence to a war veteran. To an esoteric pagan, it may mean life. To my people, it means food.
Of course, just like any other food, there are ways it is to be procured, prepared, and enjoyed. This is all subjective. My uncle Fesnik will take it any way he can get it from almost any source. He is the epitome of barbarianism. My cousin Petunia is much more pretentious – the blood must come from revolting, prejudiced men who show now respect for life or, namely, women. Like a patron goddess in ancient Greek times (which she lived through). My father on the other hand… he takes it in the most brutal, despicable ways imaginable. A first-born son to a struggling couple, a young and impressionable girl who just got her heart demolished, an old blind man stumbling along looking for a beverage to quench his undying thirst. An entire family of demons, seasoned through centuries of experience, yet each individual consumes their blood in different ways from different sources. None of these people expect to be food – in fact, none of them ever dare ponder the thought that they may not be at the very top of the food chain. They’ve lived their entire lives thinking that nothing but God stands above them.
Little do they know; God died a long time ago.
Skin
By: Maria Zegarelli
She was 12. Porcelain skin, long straight hair, a quiet, youthful brilliance. I loved her kind features. A petite nose, full pink lips, and dark brown eyes. Mesmerizing.
Her skin was soft. Smooth. Untouched. Her skin was my favorite part. I always thought it radiated when she wore red. A dark crimson red. Sometimes, I fantasized about her skin. I often wondered what it would feel to drag a blade along her arm, her thigh, the line of her throat. A perfect puncture to her perfect skin.
She is the only thing that is going on in my mind today. They have me strapped down to a chair; cold leather sticks to the sweat on my back. My wrists are locked up to its arms, encompassed by two tight steel cuffs. Wires appear from my head, my wrists and my ankles. I am bound.
No one understands what I did. I’m not what they call me. I’m repulsed by those dirty terms. No one understands the relationship we had. I needed her. I wanted her all to myself. I needed her under my skin. There is still blood around the corner of my mouth. Strawberries. I don’t think I’ve tasted such an intoxicating flavor.
I’m unsure of how I got myself into this position. I have no excuse for my actions. I was overcome with love, and the world does not approve. I continue to think about my little girl. How deserving she is of the freedom she now has, the freedom that I accorded.
I shift my gaze to the left. A bright light shining from the window outside my cell. Perhaps this light is to represent a new chapter to embark. The beginning of an ending. All it reminds me of is her porcelain skin.
Dr. Weylan’s Heart
By: Kait Waterman
Letters found in Dr Adler Weylan’s office mailbox on the fifth of July:
Mother, June 20
This afternoon I received a phone call from Paula Jenkins telling me that father had an accident at work. I met her at the hospital room where each of his right limbs were wrapped either incredibly poorly or not well enough to keep up with the wounds failing to clot. He was conscious but unresponsive. He is expected to make a recovery, but far from a full one.
I’m ashamed to say that Paula seemed more distraught than I was at the sight of him, perhaps a testament to his time spent at the office rather than home since you’ve passed. She wept at the sight of the molting bandages, and I wondered if Paula ever saw the work father did. I had only ever seen his diagrams and drawings of muscles with the skin peeled back like a curtain. He left them on the kitchen island and in the back seat of the car on the way to school. It is hard to not see the stringy tissue behind every smile and furrowing brow. I doubt Paula knows this burden; I had never seen her out from behind her desk guarding father’s office door.
Accidents don’t come in his line of work, not on his end. When I was younger, the blow of a lost patient or a botched operation would prompt him to shut himself in his room for days, only releasing himself from his own prison when you would coax him down the stairs with the smell of your huntsman pies. I cannot make huntsman pies.
I hate to admit that I worry about what will happen if he doesn’t recover well. I run the risk of sounding dramatic, but I like staying with him since your passing last year. I know we argue more than we don’t, but I worry where I’d end up if he wasn’t there to offer a bed and clothes. Seeing him tube-tied the same way you were with Paula weeping made me realize I want to be there through his recovery. Maybe this could be our bonding moment you were always looking for.
I slept in his hospital room last night, something I always regretted not doing when you fell ill and the stress must have gotten to me because I dreamt that when I woke in the very early hours of morning the bed was empty with Paula gone as well. It was cold and I was alone with the moon casting slender shadows to possess the emptiness.
Paula told me that he was found in front of his hospital building in the city. A good Samaritan told the doorman and Paula brought him inside. I asked her if he said anything on the way here: “I heard nothing but groans and the sound of my own panic.” I asked her what happened to him, and I got a similar non-answer. No one seemed to know what crushed his right arm and leg so thoroughly.
Mother, June 23
It’s nothing short of a miracle, the doctor says. Father is up, out of bed, a few scratches like he fell on pavement at recess. Two days ago, Paula gagged at how ghastly his bandages were with shades of brown and green seeping through them and now he laughs at the small finger bandages covering his forearm and shoulder.
Mrs. Hanover asked me this morning what doctor father had and if he had time to look at Mr. Hanover’s knee. Mrs. Clark laughed and said maybe father cooked up some new potion in his lab when two days ago she made a lasagna and left it with the doorman with a note saying Call if you need anything! with a heart drawn next to her script.
I asked him what happened when Paula finally left him to use the bathroom. He says that he fell out of Dr Johnson’s office window during after-work drinks. If someone asked, I would have guessed his arm and leg were run over by a car.
Mother, June 24
I decided to make huntsman pies this morning. The cookbooks in the cabinet I’m sure were happy to see the light of day again. The stout red one held my mother’s huntsman pie recipe. For a very large kitchen for two, the cabinets were barren of ingredients and if a trip to the store was necessary, I thought I’d invite father so he could get out of the house and maybe thank Mrs. Clark for the lasagna he never got to enjoy.
I knocked on his bedroom door first, but he wasn’t there. I checked his study and then the garage and found his car but could not locate him.
The doctor warned me father may be confused following the accident, especially since he didn’t seem to think the fall from Dr Johnson’s window would have caused the injuries and subsequent miracle recovery. He said his head would be cloudy in the coming days and I worry that he may have wandered out of the house while I slept. I finally get the second chance I wasn’t granted when you fell ill, and I can’t find him.
I worry that he’s completely fine and that I’m this upset over nothing. It’s not uncommon for him to disappear at work for days at a time but surely not so soon after the accident? There was never any discussion on it; maybe he did simply go into the office today.
I thought about calling Paula; she could tell me what time he got in and what time he planned on leaving but if he wasn’t there that would alert Paula that he escaped on my watch. What if he is there and I am worrying for nothing? Father will have good laugh with Paula about my misplaced concern. He’d laugh with a drink in his hand, “as if a fall from a low-story window could disrupt the best plastic surgeon in the city!” and they’d toast to the newest collaborative work with Dr Johnson, the prosthetist on the hospital’s first floor.
Mother, June 27
My father definitely went out but I’m not clear where. I worried most of the night and awoke early this morning to try and locate him but all I had to do was make my way downstairs where he was deeply sleeping on our couch.
Father worked many odd hours and nights, and it was not uncommon for him to be away; but I have never even seen my father fall asleep on the couch watching a movie because that would require him spending time in the living room to do so. His time is spent strictly at the hospital except for the few hours he sleeps in his room before returning to his office.
His presence on the couch wasn’t nearly the strangest part of his reappearance, rather he looked like he decided to take a midnight hike in the woods, with his pants grayed with crusted mud and rips on the sleeve and chest of his shirt. I chastised myself for not watching him closer after the doctor’s warning and moved closer to see if he was injured. He lay face-down with a leg hanging off the couch, the deep bags under his eyes aged him years in a matter of days.
What if he hurt himself wandering out there? I needed to wake him to ensure he was not injured. I proceeded to the couch cautiously, not wanting to startle him while in his roughened state.
Through the tear in his sleeve, I saw the black threads of deeply sewn stitches which looked old but had to have been new; when I drove him home with small finger bandages on his arm and leg there were no stitches. His doctor had remarked on this, saying it added to the curious nature of his miraculous recovery.
I had barely grazed the collar of his shirt when he bolted upright, hair drenched in sweat and his face a sickly yellow pale.
“Why would you do that?”
“I’m sorry Sir, you look unwell—”
“Because I feel unwell!”
The anger was evident in his voice, and I thought it best to leave him. But then I saw the same deep black grooves in the skin of his left calf, pulled up to reveal a very bloody left leg. Left? Hadn’t it been the right leg he had injured?
“Dad, are you alright?”
“No, Silas, I am not as a matter a fact ‘alright’ when I have my disappointment of a son waking me up after a hard night at the office.”
He then did something I don’t think I could adequately explain. He kicked the table in a way that should have stubbed his toe. I expected him to turn on me after and continue his tirade. I looked away, not wanting to see his injured left leg hurt itself more but I turned back when I felt the shake of the house before hearing the crash. When I looked, I saw the table flipped and leaning into the wall, clear dents and cracks in the drywall where the two made contact. He turned and made his way back out the front door.
How could he have done such a thing with an injured leg when I could not have done close the same amount of distance with my healthy limbs?
Mother, July 3
I cannot locate father again. It has been three days and I worry he is out in the woods with his injured leg.
I’ve called Paula, I needed to know that he is working in his office during these times he is sneaking out of the house. She assures me that he’s been going into the hospital in the late evenings and leaving before the sun breaks. While she did ease my anxieties somewhat, knowing that he is at least being checked on by Paula, this did not explain where he went during the day or where he has gained his strength from so suddenly or why he came home so distressed and filthy on the couch. I tried to pry more; I asked her what surgeries he had this week, what projects he’s been working on, independently or with Dr Johnson, all to no avail.
“He’s quite busy with projects this week, no surgeries. He’s been all shut up in his office that I’ve barely seen him, and I’m perched at the door! I can let him know you called—”
“Please do not let him know I called.”
I’m beginning to truly worry about what he’s getting up to. Maybe Mrs. Clark had it closest – did he concoct some magic potion in his office that healed him right up? A far stray from the normal facial reconstruction and cosmetic surgeries. Suddenly learning how to make huntsman pies doesn’t seem quite as important.
Tomorrow I will trek down to the hospital, during the day when Paula says he’s not around. I don’t expect to find much but I hope that my arrival will startle Paula enough to tell me his current projects. She’s never quite been the Great Wall she thinks of herself as.
P.S.
Father walked through the front door in the early hours of the morning while it was still dark out. He walked in dripping and shaking like he had walked in the cold rain for hours, but it has not rained.
Mother, July 4
I write to you from within father’s office and there is urgency to this letter.
Upon arriving at the hospital, I told Paula I had come to take father to lunch. Despite father not being at home, she said he was not in his office and ran off to ask Johnson if he knew his whereabouts. It was in that moment I saw that the light in his office was on, and the door was ajar. I wondered then if Paula did tell father of my phone call.
I pushed the door wider to see if he was sitting at his desk, which might have been the greatest insult of them all, but I would have shouldered it.
Alas he was not there.
I crept in and replaced the door behind me. There were files among files upon his desk in no order. You used to tease him for it, I remember. “How can a man make it through medical school with the organizational methods of a kindergartener?” While charts and studies and statistic would litter the kitchen island. It was much less amusing as an outsider trying to find his top priority. I diverted my attention to his filing cabinets, deciding if there was anything to find it had to be a project big enough for a cabinet drawer. Three drawers down, a pink sticky note stuck out from the seal of the drawer.
Lazarus of Bethany
I apologize that what was in this drawer I can only relay in laymen’s terms. They were drawings of facial muscle from childhood but nightmarish. Thick black markers were taken to most of them detailing what it would take to replace each one. The papers progressed from there, discussing the transplant of older organs for more youthful ones. Did a young heart beat younger in a decaying body?
Deeper in the drawer are patient files. Mora Ellington, Channing Fulton, Fredrick Brigette, Annabelle Bent and more discussing the health and strength of each of them. The black marker wrote over the more important notes like medical history and instead circled certain parts of their files, clearly deemed more important. Mora’s heart was as strong as a horse’s, Fulton was a marathon runner, Brigette won top marks in last year’s shotput event and Annabelle had never had a drink in her life.
Mainly Mr. Fulton’s file led me to my suspicions. A marathon runner with two perfect and strong legs. Legs strong enough to kick a coffee table across the room, a leg that could replace a crushed right one if needed and an extra left for a matching set.
The rest astounded me. Were the transplanted legs not his first attempt? If he has Mr. Fulton’s legs, does he have Mora’s heart? Does he plan to build himself like an Olympian with Brigette’s arms and cure cirrhosis with Annabelle’s liver? Where are these patients now? Did grief drive him to this? Does he plan to replace himself piece by piece until nothing remains of what I know as my father is walking our large hollow home centuries from now? How did facial reconstruction become a copy-and-paste of organs?
I will need to confront him. Tell him I know of this project and plead with him to remain his own vessel until he agrees lest our house become possessed with the lives of others.
I fear that he will return at any moment, and I will be sitting at his desk writing on his stationery with Lazarus of Bethany out of its drawer. I worry that too little of my father remains to understand any pleas of humanity. For this reason, I am hiding this letter safely in my boot and when I return to the house shall lock it in the safe. If this letter never makes it there, know that I am not safe. Trust no further correspondence.
Dr. Adler Weylan, M.D., M.S., F.A.C.S.
5555 Fort Washington St., New York, NY 10032
Tel: 555-0129 Fax: 555-4000
Hello, July 4
I think this is going to be my last letter for a while. I’ve decided that the countryside is getting to my head and that I just need to stay in the city, closer to where Dad works. The patient files are just that – patient files with notes. It was wrong of me to search dad’s office and I realize now that my paranoia had gotten the best of me.
I will no longer be available for further correspondence. Do not look for me; grief is a monster that spares no one. Pray for my recovery.
Untitled
By: Kieran Doolabh
Human Juice Box
By: Michelle Rochniak
In the Austrian countryside, there lived two girls, Elisabeth and Laura. Elisabeth always wore her hair in braids and received silk dresses from her English grandparents. Laura’s hair stayed down and frizzy, and her dresses had rusty dirt stains that were impossible to remove. Laura also had some kind of odd, sharp smell to her that Elisabeth could never place.
One day, Elisabeth convinced Laura to go for a walk in a nearby forest at dusk. Their dresses swished in the evening wind as wildflowers grazed their skirts. As the sun set, the trees’ shadows lengthened until they consumed the whole forest. Laura begged Elisabeth to return home when a woman appeared out of the dark.
She winked at Laura, who was a few steps back down the path, and walked over to Elisabeth. “That’s a pretty dress you’ve got there,” said the woman. “Would you mind if I inspected the bodice?”
Elisabeth felt obedience wash over her as she shook her head no. The woman brushed her hand along the corset and up to Elisabeth’s collarbone. “This must be Venetian! I must have a closer look,” the woman continued.
As she leaned in towards Elisabeth’s neck, Laura gasped. Two little fangs poked down from the woman’s top set of teeth. Laura ran, but she wasn’t fast enough. Elisabeth screamed, clutching her neck, as she fell to the dirt.
The vampire then gazed at Laura, who thought for a moment and then held out her neck. The woman approached, but when her lips touched Laura’s flesh, she burned. The vampire fled, screeching, and Laura approached her hurt friend. As Elisabeth drifted into unconsciousness, she finally realized what Laura smelled like: garlic. Laura picked up Elisabeth, and as she carried her home, she whispered, “Always be ready for a vampire attack.”
Author’s Notes:
This is inspired by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu’s and KindaTV’s Carmilla (a book and a web series respectively). The title is from a quote in Ep. 21 of the web series Carmilla.