“The three types of terror:

The Gross-out: the sight of a severed head tumbling down a flight of stairs; it’s when the lights go out and something green and slimy splatters against your arm.

The Horror: the unnatural, spiders the size of bears, the dead waking up and walking around; it’s when the lights go out and something with claws grabs you by the arm.

And the last and worst one: Terror, when you come home and notice everything you owned has been taken away and replaced by an exact substitute; it’s when the lights go out and you feel something behind you, you hear it, you feel its breath against your ear, but when you turn around, there’s nothing there …”

— Stephen King

Very simply, students wrote a horror fiction short story. Horror literature has as many types, sub-genres, and cross-genres as there are human fears. After all, fear is what defines horror. But what constitutes horror to one person may be a simple thriller to another.

Here are the top stories from this assignment. It was difficult choosing just one from each class so I chose one from each category. Please excuse formatting; the transferred documents do not necessarily reflect the final products.

WARNING-this page contains strong language and some scenes of gore and/or violence.

The Gross-out

The Auction

Cailen Brennan (2018)

Art had been an outlet for Christopher ever since the year he turned 13. Since the day his parents took their own lives for unknown reasons that haunted the young boy, Chris had been introduced to the foster care system and the never ending cycle of transportation from house to house. The torture continued until his 18th birthday when he gained adult status.

Christopher believed in his heart he deserved this right, since he had maintained his good behavior in every good and bad situation throughout each house. Within those five years of mistreatment, untreated depression, and an overwhelming sense of abandonment, he learned with experience to contain his emotions, since every set of caretakers that took him in were anything but ‘real’, ‘qualified’ parents. Some adults abused Christopher, making him feel small and worthless, with their words, sometimes even with their clamped fists.

Every injustice done to him was brushed metaphorically, and literally, by the tips of the bristles on a paintbrush. Christopher took matters into his own hands and found an outlet to express everything bottled up within him. Before his parent’s untimely death, Christopher’s mother had taught him everything she knew about painting. They had spent countless hours painting together. Art was sacred to him. The children he lived with had found this sense of release in drugs, violence, and other illegal activities which would lengthen Christopher’s time within the system. He decided to take a whole other route.

Every ounce of emotion exploding within had been graciously poured out in paint, displaying beauty in every aspect, proving hardships and adversity can be transformed into something breathtaking. From age 13 to 18, the only constant within his life, no matter where he was sleeping that night, was the paintbrush and small variety of paints he carried with him everywhere he went. The entirety of his life had been condensed into a brown, beaten, cardboard box which held only his art supplies and not even enough clothes for a full week. He’d frequently get himself into question by authorities when he’d instinctively paint anything in his sight: walls, sidewalks, and even the desk tops at school. Nonetheless, adults could see the importance art served for this young boy, so this was the one thing no one dared take from him.

On his 18th birthday, Christopher gathered the few belongings he possessed and packed them into a grocery bag, since the cardboard box had since withered away. Peering at the few things belonging to him, he smiled, feeling accomplished he had made it this far. As an adult, the plan was for Christopher to move into a cramped, one bedroom studio apartment in Boston. The foster care system had promised to help support Christopher as he grew up as an incentive to act appropriately. Clearly, the bribe had worked like a charm.

Although he was getting financial help, Christopher still had to contribute and was happy to. He planned to sell his work at auctions. Previously, that week, he had sold one painting to a woman named Brianna who fell in love with his work. Christopher enjoyed painting portraits of people the most.

For his final birthday, the foster parents he was currently staying with had actually purchased him a new canvas and a palette of fifty paints. This motivated the boy and made him feel positive about the life ahead of him. He could finally take actions into his own hands. Goodbye, he thought as he exited his last foster home and headed towards his new, permanent for now home to complete a piece for tonight's auction on his new canvas with brand new paints.

Passionately, the artist swept the bristles of a fraying paintbrush across the surface of a snow white canvas, while grasping the wooden handle gently. Across his face showed a sense of pride, while the corners of his mouth pointed upwards. His head tilted from one shoulder to the other examining the effects of each stroke. Every ounce of focus was shown through each detail. The tip of his tongue poked out the side of his closed lips, as if it allowed him to be more meticulous.

Christopher dipped his brush into a new shade of brown. The model sitting upright in front of him had the most break-taking, soft hair he’d ever seen on a woman. He tried to display each highlight in her beautiful hair. Christopher glanced back at her as he added another shade of blond to the tips of her hair. She was sitting silently, smiling with her teeth exposed. It had been nearly 20 minutes. He was amazed with her patience. Although he had only just met her briefly at an art auction, just staring into her beautiful blue eyes had made him fall in love with her.

The painting exposed every detail of her face. The artist continued painting as precisely as he could each freckle and the single dimple on her left cheek. Christopher smiled as he glanced at the painting as a whole. Finishing up adding the details of the blouse she was wearing, he put the brush down and looked at her. Still, she sat looking at him with her ocean eyes and sparkling smile. He pulled a pencil and piece of used paper out of his pocket. It had listed every model he had ever painted, with a check mark after it. He checked off her name, “Brianna”, and then returned to the painting. After the last detail was added and his work filled him with fulfillment, he turned the easel towards his muse. “Look at the final product,” he began smiling. “Look what we did.” There, she sat, in a pool of her own blood, as motionless as she was the second he jabbed the knife in her abdomen.

***

“Can I get fifty dollars? Fifty dollars?” yelled a man wearing a suit and tie in front of a crowd of twenty-something adults. Arms flew in the air as people started bidding on Christopher’s work. People were going crazy over Christopher’s portrait of Brianna. Whilst watching eagerly, interested women raised their money in the air, and Christopher felt pride and excitement.

“$300? Do I hear $300?”

“$325!” yelled an overweight woman holding a tacky purse.

“$375!” screamed back a man halfway across the room from the previous bidder. Christopher’s smile faded as the woman with the bright pink purse sat down. Simultaneously, another lady stood up with both arms in the air. She seemed to be the youngest person in the room, however, the most enthusiastic. Christopher regained his spirit with widened eyes, watching her persistence over his work.

“$400 for the painting of the woman!”

“$400?”

No one said anything, “Okay, $400 for this painting from-” he paused as the woman approached him, “What’s your name?”

“My name is Lisa.”

“$400 for this painting from Lisa!” and at this moment the auctioneer seemed so excited it became corny. But it distracted everyone in the room from wandering eyes. At that moment, Christopher pulled out the piece of paper he had previously added a name on and checked off and wrote ‘Lisa’.

Kindly and politely, Lisa shook Christopher’s hand. As she glanced into his eyes, she noticed something was off about his character. Unaware of what she was sensing, she took her painting, and headed straight for her car. A bead of sweat began racing down Christopher’s forehead. Before the kill, he always got so anxious, like maybe he should second guess what he was about to do. However, he always followed through. The demons inside him were stronger than his consciousness.

“Oh… hey,” Lisa said, again, politely, as she spotted Christopher walking slowly behind her in the dim, parking lot, “Thank you again for the beautiful painting. I am so excited to hang it inside my bedroom. It will look absolutely amazing, I am sure.” Nervously, Lisa began to ramble as Christopher walked towards her silently and determined. “You really are so talented,” she added.

Before she could finish speaking, Christopher grabbed her arm and pulled her in. With one hand over her mouth and another wrapped around her waist, he smothered her until her last breath. No one was in sight in that parking lot and that was lucky for Christopher, since he had not planned to kill her in that very spot, however, instinctively he had to. She sounded too much like his mother.

Later that night, Christopher began yet another portrait. With a grim smile upon his face, he painted the woman sitting in front of him. There sat Lisa, the woman who bought the painting from Christopher earlier that night. The painting conveyed her red, bright hair and scarce freckles across the bridge of her nose. As he finished, he picked up Lisa’s corpse and headed for a closet in his new apartment. Christopher tossed Lisa’s limp body on top of a pile of three other corpses. The odor was sickening, and the sight was morbid. Bodies were piled up with no intent in moving. These women had no hope of further life, as it had been wrongly taken from them for no apparent reason other than buying the right, but wrong, piece of art. With the black ballpoint pen lying on the floor, he crossed Lisa’s name off the list, leaving a blank spot for yet another victim’s name.

Closing the door behind him, Christopher walked towards his painting and a tear of joy ran down his left cheek.“It is beautiful,” he whispered to himself. Every ounce of feeling left within his body created adrenaline through his veins. To him, he felt as if his life had been complete. Christopher found an outlet for all the leftover feelings festering inside him all these years. During each killing, he pictured the face of his mother, who selfishly killed herself leaving him alone and abandoned. Although both his parents took their lives simultaneously, Christopher directed the blame towards his mother, who always promised herself to him. With a single glance towards the painting, he headed towards the next auction.

Thud

Hailey Robbins (2017)

It’s a rainy Saturday in November, cold and dismal, the kind where everyone stays inside and seeks warmth. The city is bustling as everyone hurriedly rushes from place to place under umbrellas, rain boots sloshing through dirty puddles. You’re sitting in your apartment, staring out over the mad rush outside. You sigh. You had hoped to go for a walk in the park this morning, but it looks like that’s not going to happen. You sit down in an armchair, annoyed but glad you’re not outside. The shrill ring of your cell phone pierces the quiet of your living room, making you jump. You pick it up. “Hello?” you say. It’s your friend Jessica. She asks if you’d like to go to the science museum today. She’s an environmental scientist, and they have a new exhibit on renewable energy she’s dying to see. That doesn’t sound too bad, you think. Better than sitting here alone all day.

“Sure!” you say. “Give me half an hour to get ready, and I’ll meet you there at 10:30.”

After getting your ticket, you spend the morning looking at models of windmills, water wheels, and solar panels, smiling and nodding and pretending to care about sustainability as Jessica pulls you eagerly through the exhibit. When you’ve finally reached the end, Jessica takes another half an hour to talk to a tour guide about the necessity of the Paris Climate Accord. You stand there, bored out of your mind, pacing back and forth. Finally, you step out the door of the exhibit and step into the spacious hallway outside. You see a sign advertising: “New Exhibit Today! Human Bodies: The Nature of Movement!” Hmm, you think. That actually sounds pretty interesting. You step back inside the renewable energy exhibit. “Hey Jessica,” you say. “Want to go see the Human Bodies exhibit?”

“Um . . . Is it okay if I stay here? I’m not really into medical stuff. It gives me the heebie-jeebies,” she says. “How about we meet in a little while and get lunch at the museum cafe?”

“Alright,” you say. “I’ll see you in a little bit.” You open the door and step out into the hallway. You follow the signs for the new exhibit down the hallway to a door, in front of which stands a woman wearing a white lab coat.

“Welcome to our new exhibit! Be careful inside. The exhibit is kept at a cold temperature and with dim lights to preserve it. Oh, by the way, are you an organ donor?” she asks. There must be a confused look on your face because she smiles and chuckles. “Don’t worry, we ask everyone.” That doesn’t make it any better, but you show her a picture of your driver’s license, complete with the little red heart that shows you’ve pledged. The woman grins and pats you on the back. “Wonderful, right this way,” she says. This is all a little odd, but you smile and nod as she opens the door.

She wasn’t kidding about the temperature. As you step inside, an icy blast of air assaults you and you recoil. The walls and floor are painted a grim black, and the lights are so dim you can barely see. Lining the room and in the center are brightly lit glass cases, each one with a model of the human body. You walk over to one and peer inside. The model is all sinewy muscles, bones, and organs, completely devoid of skin. It is positioned to look like it is dancing, with one leg outstretched behind it. The model has piercing green eyes that seem to bore holes through you. You shiver and step back, but something catches your eye. The bones and muscles are so lifelike. Each muscle is a red, stringy mass of flesh, each bone a yellowing, hardened mass of marrow. A sinking feeling settles in the pit of your stomach as you realize these bodies are, in fact, real.

Come on, breathe, you think. Stop being such a coward. It’s just an exhibit. If you think about it, that’s kind of cool. Besides, that explains why it’s so cold in here. You take a quick breath to compose yourself and move away from the case. In the next case over, a body is displayed in a seated position on a chair, its elbows resting on its legs and its hands propping up its head. You shiver. A piece of its skull has been removed, so there is a clear view of its brain. You take a step closer, and as you do, you swear you see the brain pulsate slightly. You jump back abruptly and shriek before clapping a hand over your mouth. Get a hold of yourself, you think. It’s just a museum exhibit. You turn around and begin to walk to the next case, but you can again feel the eyes of the model boring holes through your back. You glance quickly over your shoulder to see it sitting in the same position. You take a deep breath. You need to stop being so paranoid.

The next case holds a body with its arms extended up above its head with a flourish like an Olympic gymnast. Its face is in a glaring grin, its sharp teeth snarling in an open sneer. You’re starting to get a little nervous. Now that you think about it, it seems a little odd that there’s nobody else in this exhibit, especially since it’s new. In fact, it’s rather creepy. Maybe this exhibit wasn’t for you. You turn to walk to the next glass case when a loud noise tears through the silent room. Thud. Your entire body tenses as you whip around to see that the hand of the model that had been posed like a gymnast is now pressing against the glass. You scream, but quickly clap your hand over your mouth. This is irrational. This can’t be happening. You’re breathing heavily now, and you’re beginning to think that this might not have been such a good idea. You tell yourself to think logically. The body must have undergone rigor mortis or something, or you must’ve accidentally jostled the case as you walked away. All the same, you’re ready to go. You frantically scan the walls for any sign of an exit, but you can barely see in the darkened room.

Another noise erupts behind you. Thud. You turn and see that the seated figure is now standing, leaning against its glass case, its beady black eyes looking right at you. Another noise follows, and the leg of the dancing body is on the ground, seeming to take a step toward you. Thud. Each body begins to move in some manner, creating a chorus of thuds. These bodies are not dead. They are alive.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each body is moving now, their eyes all following you as you desperately search along the walls for any sign of a door. There is none. You tear through the exhibit, back to where you came from, but when you find the door, it is locked. You’re trapped. Your breath comes in short bursts as you turn every which way, looking for any way out. There is nothing. You scream a blood curdling scream, sinking to your knees and covering your ears with your hands as the chorus of thuds surrounds you. You shut your eyes tight, hoping you’ll wake up from this sick nightmare. You pinch yourself, hard, but nothing happens. You’re still stuck in the exhibit, the darkness enveloping you. Without warning, the thuds suddenly cease. A deathly silence descends on the room, and you feel a cold hand grab your shoulder.

An ear-shattering scream rips through your body and soul as you feel the long, cold fingers gripping your neck. Your entire body tenses and in one motion you whip your body around. Standing behind you is the woman in the white lab coat from the beginning of the exhibit. You gasp in disbelief as her face curls into an eerie smile.

“Sorry dear,” she says, “I didn’t mean to scare you.” You open your mouth to try to speak, but it feels like your tongue is weighed down with bricks. No words come out. The woman’s smile grows even larger and she takes a hold of your shivering arm. “Let’s get out of this exhibit,” she says. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You still cannot bring yourself to speak, and your body is quivering. What is real and what is not? You manage to nod silently and let the woman pull you across the room. She drags you to a wall behind one of the cases, her sharp fingernails tearing into your freezing skin. Set into the wall is a door, painted entirely in black, knob and all, that you could have sworn was not there before. Maybe you missed it in your panic? The woman lets go of your arm and reaches inside her lab coat to pull out an enormous ring of keys. She selects one and puts it inside the lock. She turns the key and swings the door open, holding it as you stand there, staring.

“Well come on, aren’t you going to go inside?” she asks. “You don’t want to stay in here, do you?” A million thoughts race through your head as you consider your options. This woman is odd, but she seems a lot less terrifying than staying alone in this frigid, dark room. You manage another nod and step through the door.

The room you are in seems to be the opposite of the one you were in before. It is all white, with lab tables and benches everywhere, illuminated with bright white fluorescent lights that burn your eyes. There is a row of chairs resembling that of a hospital waiting room, and you sit down to catch your breath. That couldn’t have been real. You must have just let your imagination run away from you. But as you look up, you realize that something is not quite right. You hadn’t noticed before, but on every surface there are tools, medical and otherwise, that look perfect for dissecting animals . . . or humans. Come on, really, you think. Seriously? This must be where they prepare the exhibits. It’s no big deal. But still, you can’t shake the feeling that something’s not right.

“I . . . I’m sorry, I should go,” you say, your voice finally returning. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Oh, no worries, honey, we love visitors. Here, come, you look terrible. Come here and have a drink of water,” the woman says. She turns her back to you and grabs a paper cup from a cabinet, filling it from a large jug.

“Oh . . . uh, thank you,” you say. You walk over, take the cup from her, and drink. Something’s still nagging you, but you can’t figure out what it is.

“My, what a beautiful set of muscles you have. I can tell,” the woman says.

This is getting weird. “Um, thank you, well, I, uh, best be going. Can you just tell me where the exit is and I’ll get out of your hair?” you say.

The woman smiles, showing her pearly, perfect white teeth. “Oh, no dear. We can’t have that,” she says. “Not when you’re so clearly agitated.”

“No, really, I’m fine. I feel great. I’ve actually got to meet a friend for lunch, so I’ll just be going.” You walk over and try to turn the knob of the door she came through, but it won’t budge.

The woman chuckles. “No, no, you can’t leave,” she says.

“Why not?” you ask.

“You can’t. You just can’t leave,” she says, her smile instantly flipping to a grimace.

You push and pull at the door now. You have to get out of here. But as you try the door, you realize you’re feeling very tired all of a sudden. Your eyelids begin to droop. Why should you bother to try to get out anyway? This is just an overzealous scientist. The woman smiles as she sees you pull away from the door.

“That’s a girl. Good girl. Good girl,” she says. She grabs your arm with a firm hand and leads you to one of the lab tables. “Here, why don’t you just take a nice nap,” she says. That sounds nice, you think. Just a nice little nap, just for a few minutes, and then I’ll go meet Jessica. You lie down on the table, and the woman smiles and covers you with a blue plastic blanket. “That’s a dear,” she says. As your eyes begin to slowly close, you see the room go dark as the woman shuts off the overhead lights. A blazing spotlight comes on overhead, glaring directly into your eyes. You’re disoriented and dizzy. The woman sees your confusion and comes to pat you on the head. “No worries honey,” she says. “Thank you for being an organ donor. You’re so kind and generous.” What is she talking about? With a sinking feeling in your stomach, you remember your conversation from earlier and the little red heart on your driver’s license. No . . . no . . . The water . . . your dazedness . . . You go to move your arms, but you realize they are stuck, strapped down to the table. You flail haphazardly, but your legs are bound too. And then there is a flash of silver above you as the woman raises a scalpel above your head.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “This won’t hurt a bit.”

***

Your eyes open to the dark gloom of a room, painted entirely in black. It is freezing, and the dark envelopes the walls and floor. There are four thick walls of glass around you. Your body is in agonizing pain. You don’t remember getting here. You look down to see a mass of sinewy muscles and bones, red and raw. You are completely devoid of skin. Your entire body thrums with an agony more unbearable than you’ve ever felt before. You hear the creak of a door and you see Jessica walk in. She is calling your name. She looks at her watch, clearly frustrated, and you realize that you were probably supposed to meet her for lunch a long time ago. You open your mouth to speak, but it is dry. Your tongue is weighed down by bricks again. The agony increases as you try to speak, and no sound comes out. Jessica peers around the cases, calling your name, but you cannot answer. In desperation you push your arm down hard so it slams against the glass. Thud.

The Horror

Motel Cyrus

Ava Georgopoulos (2022)

The blaring alarm woke me from my slumber. I hit the button, shutting off the head-splitting sound. The green glowing numbers read 4:30 A.M. I groggily sat up, rubbing my eyes. I walked into my bathroom, the cold tiles stinging my feet. I turned the shower on, steam filling the air. After I was done showering, I stood in front of the mirror. I’ve always hated the man I see staring back at me. The graying hair disappears from my head, leaving bald patches behind. My stomach continues to stretch outwards. I swear I’m getting shorter. No wonder I’ve always been alone; how could a woman ever love a man as ugly as me? My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on my door.

“Mr. Cyrus! Are you still in there?” Mary, my head cleaning lady, yelled.

“Yes Mary, I am!” I responded annoyed. She does this every morning. Why can’t I ever wallow in self pity without being heckled?

“She’s here, Mr. Cyrus,” I heard her say quietly. I threw on some clothes and rushed over to the door, whipping it open. Ignoring Mary, I stepped outside, heading to my lobby quickly.

I could see the outline of her through the door. Excitement flooded my senses. Alma Rick had been the only woman that made me feel loved. She always came back for me. Before heading inside, I checked my reflection in the window. I slid my hand over my still wet hair, slicking it down. I touched the stubble on my chin, wishing I had remembered to shave. Summoning all the courage I have, I turned the handle, and walked into the lobby. Time stopped as she turned around, flashing her perfect, shining smile. God, she’s stunning.

“Good morning Frank!” Alma said cheerfully. Her voice sounded like angels singing.

“Mornin’ Alma!”

“I’m back! Is my usual room still open?” she asked me, titling her adorable head slightly.

“What a silly question, of course it is!” I never put anyone else in her room. No one was worthy to sleep in the same room she was once in. I handed her the key, her soft skin brushing against mine. I felt a spark between us when we touched. I was snapped out of my trance when I heard the door close. I watched as Alma made her way into her room to set her bags down. She left the motel a few moments later, as she always did.

Alma had been visiting my motel for two years now. She even told me this was her favorite place to stay while on work trips. I could remember the first time I saw her. She was still just as beautiful as she was then.

I was busy for a while, with the tasks thrown my way. When things calmed down, I headed back to my room. I stopped at the door before mine. I couldn’t help myself; I grabbed my keys and unlocked the door. Alma’s bags sat on the bed. The smell of her sweet perfume still lingered in the air. I looked around her room for a moment. The wooden desk next to the door had a rocking chair to the side of it. The bed sat in front of a very large mirror, which reflected most of the room. Oh how I loved that mirror. As I walked around, I noticed a picture pulled halfway out of Alma’s bag. It was of her and a man. Doubt flooded my mind. Could she possibly be with another man? I brushed it off, telling myself it was her brother or something. I knew Alma. She would never do that to me. I heard a car pull into the lot. I looked through the curtains, and sure enough, it was Alma. I rushed out, hoping she didn’t see me. I didn’t want her to think I was a creep; it would ruin our love.

It was later that night when she undressed in front of me. Her red hair cascading down her back as the shirt lifted off her head. This sight will forever be my favorite. God, I loved two-way mirrors. She put on a show for me; it was almost like she knew I was watching. She looked adorable in her pajamas. I watched as she grabbed her phone and ordered food. This was our routine. I would watch her change and get food. Then we’d eat together. After dinner, she sat on her bed, a book in hand. I got in my bed and watched my beautiful girl until we fell asleep.

I woke up to the sound of knocking. I sat up, getting ready to open my door, but I soon realized the knocking wasn’t for me. I saw through the mirror that a man was inside Alma’s room. Fear washed over me. What if Alma was in danger? I rushed to get on my shoes and find something to use to protect her. As I was about to leave, baseball bat in my hand, I saw Alma and the man kiss. It was then when I realized it was the same man from the picture I had seen earlier. The fear throughout my body quickly turned to rage. How could she do this to me? I loved her! How could she throw everything we had away? My feet carried me to her door without thinking. My emotions taking hold. I unlocked her door and stepped inside.

“Frank? What are you doing? How did you get in here?” Alma asked, alarmed to see a bat in my hand.

“Where is he?” I replied, anger evident in my voice.

“Frank, what are you talking about?” I could see the anxiety prickle through her. I never wanted to cause her any bad feelings, but she left me no choice. My head whipped around at the sound of the bathroom door opening.

“What’s going on, love?” the man asked as he walked out of the bathroom. “Oh! Who’s this Alma?”

“I’m the owner of this motel,” I responded quickly, deepening my voice to be as intimidating as possible. “Who are you?” I questioned him.

“I’m Mick, Alma’s fiancé.”

“Fiancé?” My mind raced with thoughts. Alma’s mine! How could this be happening? Without thinking I swung the bat at him. One hit turned into two, three, four… I could hear Alma screaming behind me. I looked down to see his head bashed in, blood and brain matter covering the floor, and walls; my arms and clothes were drenched. I turned to see Alma curled up in a corner, too afraid to move. She cringed at the sight of me.

“You did this Alma! You made me do this!” She glared up at me. I could see anger overcome the fear in her eyes.

“You’re crazy! Oh my God!” Alma quickly broke down when she saw the sight of her fiancé beaten to death just a few feet away from her. She decided to get up and try to run. I grabbed her arm before she could make it out the door. With my hand over her mouth, I dragged her into my room. Her eyes widened when she looked into the mirror. She was expecting to see a reflection, but instead saw her own room. Her sobs became screams. I had no other choice. I hit her head with the bat, knocking her out. I ripped the sheets off my bed, tying up Alma’s arms and legs. I brought her into the basement of my motel. She’ll be safe here. I wiped the hair off her face after setting her on the floor. She’ll be with me forever now. .

When I walked up the basement stairs, I was greeted by Mary. She looked very unamused.

“Mr. Cyrus, you’ve made a mess… again.”

“I know Mary, I’m sorry. She’s the last one, I promise,” I responded, looking down at my feet timidly.

“You said that last time,” she sighed. “I’ll clean up the room. Let me know when she’s awake, I’ll bring her some bedding to get comfortable.”

“Thank you Mary,” I smiled at her. She always supported me and my ways. All the other women weren’t good, but I knew Alma was the one for me. She’d be mine forever, just how I planned.

Shhhh

Alexis Groulx (2019)

Leah’s phone vibrates as her friend texts her that she’s waiting outside. It's a chilly fall night. Leah grabs a jacket and runs outside. The cool breeze catches in her hair as she makes her way to the warm car filled with all her friends. She gets in and sits in the spot that they formed for her in the back. They make their way to the biggest Halloween event in their town.

The car pulls into the parking lot of the haunted corn maze. Barely being able to find a parking spot, the friends are aware that it will be crowded. Leah and her friends make their way to the entrance, already being creeped out by the men in costumes greeting them with their first scares of the night. They get their tickets and walk past all the side attractions, approaching the enormous corn maze that spreads across many acres. Inside, lurking actors await their arrival.

They start in and make a few turns, everyone disagreeing on which way to go. They’re met with a couple scarers, but nothing more than a jump scare. All of a sudden a large man emerges out of the section of corn right in front of them. He is in all black and they are unable to make out his face. The way he came out of the corn is more haunting then whatever he is wearing or will try to scare them with. He doesn't say anything, he just stands in the way, blocking the turn the girls were hoping to take next. Creeped out, they turn the other way. They pick up their pace and try to get away from him. He isn't following, and they're all calmed once they realize that he is only a man in costume, paid by the corn maze to scare them. They continue on until they are completely lost. They don't see any more families or groups of friends. They're confident they've made it pretty far and are almost near the end. They continue making random turns, trying to progress, when all of a sudden a group of three boys comes around the opposite corner. They greet the girls and ask if Leah and her friends have found the exit yet. Since the girls have not seen any other groups in a while, they decide to stick with the boys and try to find the end together. As they move through the maze, they're greeted by more scarers, but nothing that prevents them from moving on. A couple of them follow, but give up after a while and return to their original spots, awaiting the next group.

Suddenly, they're met with a dead end. They turn around and are greeted by the same man from earlier, all black, blocking their only way out. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't try to scare them, he just stands and stares at them.

“Move!” one of the boys yells. “You suck at your job,” he continues.

The man doesn't move. Suddenly, one of Leah’s friends has an unexpected fit. She realizes they have made no progress because why else would they be greeted by the same scarer twice. The group begins to push past the guy and move him so they can try and figure out their next plan. The man doesn't move, but allows the group to push by. All of a sudden, the man makes his first move and grabs the arm of one of the boys.

“Hey screw off! Your grip is way too hard,” he says to the man as he yanks his arm away.

The man looks at the boy, then backs away into the corn. Even more creeped out, the group decides unanimously that they’re over this night and just want to get out. Desperately, they start cutting through the corn. No light is shining through anymore because they’re surrounded by stalks of corn. At this point they're not even sure which direction they came from, or where the nearest path is. No one can see each other or who is talking. They try to all follow each other, but eventually they are split up. There are three groups; two of the boys and one of Leah’s friends, the other boy and Leah’s other friend, and Leah by herself. Leah makes her way through the corn stalks straying further and further from the other groups, everyone going in opposite directions. She tries to yell for her friends, but there is no response. She is by herself. Suddenly, she bumps into something, but she can not make out a single thing in her general vicinity. Everything is black except for the very faint light shining through open spots from the moon. She makes out that it is some person or structure, but definitely not corn.

“There you are,” the voice says.

“Who is it? I can’t see anything,” Leah says to the voice.

“It's one of the boys you met. I was with some of the others but I got split up from them. I heard your yells and came towards them so neither of us would be alone anymore,” the boy says.

“Oh, thank god. I was so scared. Have you seen any of the other groups?” Leah asks him.

“No, I was hoping you had,” he replies.

Leah and the boy continue through the corn trying to find any clues of people recently there or any paths. Nothing. Leah looks down at her phone and realizes that she has no service and her phone is at 1 percent.

“Great,” she mutters under her breath.

The boy continues to lead them to nothing. Defeated, Leah suggests they take a break and try to figure out a plan instead of aimlessly walking through the stalks, but the boy will not give up. He keeps walking ahead of her. Every so often stopping and standing, not saying anything.

“Leah!” a scream in the air vibrates through the corn maze.

“That’s my friend’s voice, maybe they all found each other,” Leah says, feeling more hopeful.

The boy doesn't acknowledge what she just said and keeps moving forward. Leah yanks at him and tells him that the sounds of her friend’s voice are coming from the opposite direction, and they should turn around.

Leah’s phone vibrates and she looks down at it. She has service now-they must be close to a path.

“We are all here, us and the three boys. Where are you?” Leah reads the texts on her screen over and over.

She looks up slowly from her phone and the light from the screen shows the man standing still right in front of her. It is not a boy; it's the man from earlier. The man in all black. The man who blocked the path. The man who yanked at the boy. The screen goes black again as the battery of her phone dies. Her heart is beating out of her chest; she has no idea where he is standing or what his intentions are. All of a sudden her arm is yanked at and she is pushed to the ground. The man sits on her and covers her mouth.

“Shhhhh,” he says.

She lays on the ground shaking as she hears his voice from all around her, not being able to see anything. She hears the screams of her friends. They're moving closer. Leah and the man remain in the corn as he covers her mouth and sits on her body. They hear the footsteps of her friends right next to them. The path is so close, all she would have to do is yell or get out of his grip. It's not a far distance. She tries to wiggle out and hit him but this only makes his grip harder, making it more painful and impossible for her. She hears the footsteps stop right next to where they are and more screams of her name roll out of their mouths. Seconds pass and it’s silent. All she can hear is the breathing of the man crouched over her. Then the footsteps of her friends walking away. She hears them getting further and further, and she becomes less hopeful. She tries to get a sound out before her friends are too far away. She is able to catch him off guard and wiggle out from under him. She runs to the path and screams her friend’s name, before she can scream again she is struck in the head with a rock.

She wakes up and struggles to her feet. She looks down and sees her clothes covered in her own blood. She looks around her and doesn’t see the man so she starts sprinting through the corn and screaming for help. She’s disoriented from the blood loss and is unable to makeout the turns she has already made. She recognizes a familiar structure in the distance, the building that her and her friends first entered through. Wearily, she runs back into the stalks of corn, pushing them out of her way. She sprints until she can’t breathe and pushes through the final stalks of corn. Out of the maze, she runs towards the building still screaming for someone to help her. As she gets closer, she notices flashing blue lights. She picks up speed and approaches all the commotion. She is able to make out a group of girls and realizes it’s her friends; she pushes past everyone and tries to get their attention. As she’s tugging at her friend’s shirt, she notices them looking at something and crying. Leah pushes her way closer and sees a body. She looks at the mangled corpse on the ground and is met with her own gaze looking lifelessly back at her.

The Purple Scar

Sierra Sessa (2019)

I’m jolted awake, by the sound of banging coming from the hatch of the spaceship. I sit there silently, waiting to hear it again. This is my fourth mission for NASA, collecting data from Earth’s orbit, and every single time something goes awry.

Last time, it was the clanging of the engine almost blowing out, and before that, the safety procedures were not up to code. They’re all relatively easy fixes; most times it’s simply a glitch involving the systems back home. But it always happens at night, as if they don’t want us to sleep. To them, being awake at all hours to collect new information is far more important than us getting some shut-eye.

I roll my eyes, and groggily sit up, positioning myself on my elbows. Captain Field, my co-pilot and space-partner-in-crime, is snoring, nicely tucked into bed, the sheets obscuring his face. I wasn’t going to wake him this time, especially for a silly issue. I woke him during the last mishap, and he returned home with a ‘souvenir’- a sizeable, purple lump above his left eye- from the window kicking back at him.

I haven’t heard the banging since; I’m beginning to think I imagined it. Between the lack of proper oxygen, gravity and sleep, my mind must be hallucinating at this point. I shut my eyes again and begin to drift off.

The muffled screams of “LET ME IN!” shoot me straight off of my bed. I look over next to me to see if Captain Field heard it, too. He’s still sound asleep, the sheet remaining in the same position. I can’t tell if he was woken up, or not.

I’m going fucking crazy. I’m fucking dreaming. It’s just us and a bunch of fucking floating rocks out here! I’d have to end my career if I suspected anything that couldn’t be scientifically proven. I slap my cheeks, trying to bring myself back to normality. There’s a reason they call you “Captain Morrison the Worrisome,” you idiot. You over think.

The clanging of the hatch door sends me tumbling off my bed, the zero-gravity seeming to stop time all around me.

"LET ME IN!! LET ME IN!!!!” The screams are muffled, and soft, but they seem to echo around me.

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?! There’s no way this is fucking real. There’s no way anything is trying to gain entrance to the ship. You need a passcode to get in from the outside! Only Field and I know that code, I’m being ridiculous. My heart jumped, knowing the only thing separating me from whatever-the-fuck, is the hatch door…

I facepalm and rattle my head, trying to shake this nasty feeling. Morrison, you idiot. There’s nothing out there. You’re a seasoned NASA explorer for fuck’s sake; there’s no such fucking thing as aliens.

The banging continues, and the feeling of butterflies in my stomach erupts. I walk over to the hatch, seeking answers. As I get closer, the sound crescendos. I hear a voice sobbing behind the door. “Please,” it whispers, “Please let me in.”

Goosebumps tingle down my entire body. I shudder at the fact that whatever is behind the door, is something unnatural. I sit there silently, listening to the sobbing. You’re dreaming, you’re dreaming.

I back away slowly, to the other side of the ship. Maybe if I get as far away as I can, it’ll all disappear. I sit there, counting my breath. The banging picks up again, and my heart is sent into my stomach, when I hear what’s said next.

“PLEASE. PLEASE! I DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME. MORRISON, PLEASE. IT’S FIELD, MORRISON! IT’S FIELD!”

Go the fuck to sleep. Something’s out there, something that isn’t normal. Go to sleep, go to sleep. Field is right there next to you.

“MORRISON! BE CAREFUL! I NEVER GOT ON THAT SHIP! THAT’S NOT ME! THAT’S NOT ME! OH, PLEASE HELP ME! I SWEAR, I SWEARRR!” The voice behind the door ferociously wails.

Something is trying to guilt me to open the hatch by imitating the person most important to me. This isn’t real. Nothing can get in… Nobody's really there…

I rock myself into a nearly delirious state, listening to the ceaseless screaming. I drift off slowly, slowly into somewhere.

***

I wake up sweating, unaware of my surroundings, and feeling nauseated. I stand up shakily,my heart beating in my chest. I listen. It’s silent. There’s no screaming.

It was only a fucking messed up dream. A sick fucking dream. But a dream nonetheless. I sigh with relief, and sleepily hobble over to the window overlooking the infinite universe.

It’s not until I look out, when I know it was never a dream. I rub my eyes in horrific disbelief. A body floats by outside, a rope tethered to the side of the ship around his torso. The skin is grayed and peeling off, the features of his face are sunken. The face is hollowed out into the shape of a scream, the features are contorted with fear. I look further, the blood rushing through my ears.

I clamp my hand over my mouth, when I see the distinct purple, egg-shaped scar, looming over the sunken left eye of the body.

I jerk back, a scream escaping from my mouth, my body convulsing with disgust. HOW! WHAT?! Was that Field really out there? All along? And I let him die!? My mind pieces together everything from last night- the screaming ‘creature’, the pleas of his ‘true identity’, and the fact that… the fucking fact I never saw Field’s face! Then what wa-is in the ship with me?!

My eyes fearfully dart over to the bed, where the spot once occupied by my supposed co-captain, is empty. I turn around and see him, or what I used to think was him, standing in the cockpit. He turns around, warping what I once thought to be Captain Field’s face into vile, ghoulish creature with a blood-thirsty grimace. It lets out a sickening wail, and my breath catches in my throat, as I come to a sickening realization-Whatever’s been in the ship with me, is not Captain Field.

The New Guy on Warlow Road

Nick Desrosiers (2018)

The last place one would expect to cover a breaking news story was Shepherds, West Virginia. It was home to a little over 2,000 people and only had three restaurants, two gas stations, and one small shopping joint. The town was comprised of three neighborhoods, two of which were made up of trailers, duplexes, and apartments. The third one was considered the “rich” neighborhood in town, having some of the largest and most elegant houses found in the state. This neighborhood was deceivingly large, as all of the houses fell on one long and twisted road. An independent bachelor named Cameron Erving lived alone in one of these houses.

Cameron was an only child born into a wealthy family. His father spent time overseas working as a drilling operator in the oil industry, an occupation that proved to be quite lucrative. Cameron could have followed his father's footsteps growing up, but instead he elected to go into the dental industry. After getting hired as an oral surgeon, Cameron decided to go all out and purchase a five bedroom estate. His house was one of the most impressive on the street, with pillars at the forefront of a wide farmers porch and a fruitful garden surrounded by a thick hedgerow. When one walks through the ten foot doors, the first thing that catches the eye is the jet black piano in the middle of the foyer. Behind the piano are two staircases leading to a beautiful balcony overlooking the first floor. There is a chandelier overhead and fish tanks built into the walls.

When he moved in a couple days ago, he had visitor named Ryan come to his door. He informed Cameron this neighborhood liked to get together on Friday nights for dinner. Not knowing anyone within a thirty mile radius, Cameron felt this would be a great opportunity to get out and meet some new people.

When Friday evening came along, Cameron decided he would attend the neighborhood party. The word on the street was that this week it was being held across the road at the Faller's house. He looked out his second-story window and didn’t see many cars there yet. He decided to walk over a little early, not wanting to be the last one to show up. When he arrived at their front door, he anxiously rang the bell. Ryan Faller was the first to come to the door.

“Hey, are you Cameron?”

“Yeah, nice to meet you,” Cameron said while gesturing for a handshake.

Ryan smirked, “I knew it was going to be you before I opened the door. Around here, everyone just lets themselves in.”

“Oh… don’t you ever worry about a break in?” Cameron subtly asked.

“Not really. Everyone leaves their doors unlocked around here. Come on in, Cam.”

As Cameron walked through the main hall, he saw several pictures. While most people would have pictures of their family decorating their walls, the majority of the Fallers' portraits were pictures of people from their neighborhood. Even though he was new to the neighborhood, he could tell these people weren’t family because each picture was labeled with the date and residency the party took place that week. They had even cleared off a spot for this week’s function.

He was then led into the Faller's “party room”. It was a large room that could comfortably hold over 50 people. One side was set up as a traditional dining room with a dark oak table and great lighting overhead, and the other was an extensive living room with five leather couches and two rocking chairs surrounding a massive flat screen TV. Cameron took a seat at the table along with his next-door neighbors Bethany and James. The three of them talked for a little while before the remainder of the neighborhood piled through the doors. Cameron was amazed by the diversity of people that came in through the doors. There was a redneck man from Tennessee, a feeble old lady from London, and a black couple from the heart of New York City. Even though everyone had a different background, it felt like a true family reunion was taking place.

Once everyone settled in, Ryan and his wife, Diane, started to bring out carts of food. Cameron was astonished by how much food was prepared for this party. There was everything from salads to pasta to barbecue chicken… and that was just the first cart. They also had multiple taps for drinks, which were manned by a confident young man named Trevor Brooks. Trevor seemed to be the life of the party, cracking jokes with the adults and doing secret handshakes with the younger kids. Cameron envied Trevor, and after dinner was done, he went over to the living room to introduce himself.

“Hey, it’s nice to finally meet you. I’m new to the neighborhood,” he said, holding out his hand. “Cameron.”

“Right back at you Cameron,” Trevor replied. “What brings you to the neighborhood?”

“To be honest, I was just looking for a place to live and this seemed nice from the pictures online,” Cameron said as he pointed through the window at his house.

“Wow, that is quite the place. My fiancé and I live five houses down,” Trevor said. “Well, I’ll see you later man-nice meeting you.”

The party was still roaring past 11 o'clock. The 50+ neighbors that came were still there and in great spirits. Cameron found himself yawning more and more frequently, so he thought he’d thank Ryan and Diane and head out for the night. When he went over to say goodbye, the house became completely silent. For the first time that night, he could hear a pin drop. Everyone dropped their conversations and stared at Cameron. Some people looked confused, other people looked upset, but everyone looked stunned.

“Alrighty then… have a great night… Cam,” Ryan creepily remarked.

On his way out, Cameron couldn’t help but check behind his back. When he reached the door, the house was still unusually silent. These were complete strangers to Cameron, and after this incident, he felt as if he had done something wrong. As soon as the door closed, Cameron heard everyone start to converse the way they had all night through a window around the side of the house.

He walked into his house feeling uncomfortable and confused. Throughout the night he had talked to many new faces, but he was only able to retain a few names. He grabbed his laptop off the counter and headed to his bedroom on the second floor. The first thing he did when he sat down was text his girlfriend who was supposed to be joining him in their house in a week after she returned from college. He told her he met a bunch of people from the neighborhood at a party across the street. She responded asking how it went, but he didn’t know how to answer that just yet. Still interested in these people, he decided to look up his new neighbors on the internet. He heard many stories about a third of the people at the function, but he wasn’t totally convinced what he heard was true. Everyone seemed to have a life that was just too perfect, and the fact that there had never been a break in or robbery on a road where everyone left their doors unlocked seemed impossible. Cameron plugged ‘Ryan Faller Shepards, WV’ into the search bar and no results popped up. He tried searching for Diane, thinking that it was just a malfunction, but she didn’t get a hit either. He went on to try Trevor, Bethany, James and a couple others, butnone of them were found.

Thinking it was an internet error or something, he checked the dusty phone book that was getting used to prop up one of his tablets on his desk. He couldn’t find a single name. While this seemed peculiar to Cameron, what was even more concerning was that when he looked for his own name, it was missing. He checked for his mother and father, and found them right where they had always been. He felt his heart start to beat fast.

It was well past midnight now. He could see the Faller’s house clearly through his window. The lights were off, but oddly enough there were still cars lined up in their driveway. Cameron whipped off his headphones and cracked open a window. All he could hear was a train in the distance. He closed his window and headed downstairs for an aspirin. He had a raging headache, and it wouldn’t let him sleep. When he reached the bottom of his stairs it was pitch black in his house. Stumbling to the kitchen, he flipped the light switch. As he looked up, his heart dropped to the floor. He was standing in the middle of a silent neighborhood party. Cameron rubbed his groggy eyes, praying he was dreaming. He looked around and saw every single neighbor. The closest to him was Ryan Faller.

“Since you had to leave the party early we thought we would bring the party to you,” Ryan muttered, a large grin on his face.

“I don’t get it… I locked my doors. How did you guys get in?” Cameron asked nervously. “Why are you here?!”

“No one locks their doors, silly,” Trevor replied. “You left too early, Cameron. We didn’t get to explain everything.”

“Explain what? What is going on?”

“Cam, everyone in this neighborhood is dead,” Ryan said. “We all died years and years ago.”

Things started to make sense. The internet searches, the phone book, and the togetherness this neighborhood had. When Cameron brought up a new movie at the party, no one understood what he was talking about. There was only one part Cameron couldn’t wrap his head around: if he was in fact dead, how was he able to connect to his girlfriend? Maybe he was imagining it or she was also dead but just in another place, but Cameron wasn’t convinced by any of this. As he stood in front of his neighbors, he felt he was safest going along with what they were telling him.

The neighbors stayed at Cameron’s house until morning helping him grieve. When they left, Cameron knew he needed to get out of the neighborhood as fast as he possibly could. He hadn’t left his house since he first arrived, so he wasn’t familiar with the area at all. He jumped in his car and immediately pulled out his laptop. He spent hours searching the people in his neighborhood, but he never thought to look up the actual community.

As soon as he typed “Wa” into the search bar, “Warlow Road” popped up. It gave him chills, knowing he might see something he didn’t want to see. It said that Warlow Road was “the home of the delusional”. Going further into the search, he found that everyone who lived on the road had some form of Cotard delusion, a rare mental illness where someone feels they have passed away. Some people in the comments section of an article about the street were sure that the street didn't exist, but to Cameron, this was as real as it got.

He flicked the key all the way to right and started up the engine. He nervously ripped out of his driveway and headed down the street. When he reached the intersection to the main road, he was met face to face with all of his neighbors some linking arms, others lined up shoulder to shoulder, and still others, holding stop signs high in the air. It was such a frightful scene as it looked like the whole community was ready to play red rover with a high-powered automobile. Cameron was furious and debated running over the allegedly dead group of people in front of him. Ryan walked over to his car and Cameron rolled down his window.

“Cameron I know this is hard to comprehend… but it’s over. You became sick and passed away just like many others here, and there is no shame in that. This is your eternal home now. Accept it.”

“I was NEVER sick,” Cameron barked back. “You’re delusional… you’re all delusional. I am not dead and don’t plan to be for a long time. Now please move your people so I can leave this messed up town!”

Ryan’s face turned from creepy to upset.

“I’m sorry Cameron; we could’ve done this the easy way. It was nice meeting you.”

With a slight head nod, Trevor arose from the backseat of his car and lifted a gun to Cameron’s head.

Daddy’s Little Man

Nate Gehris (2018)

February, the worst time to close at The Home Depot. No one shows up after 6 but that one guy shows up five minutes before we close at 9, every single time. Valentine’s day was no different. Of course I have a late shift today, but it doesn’t matter I’ll see my girl tomorrow.

Heading to my truck, a soft snow starts to fall. It is peaceful, and the dim lights in the lot flicker. I get in my car and head to the highway. Is it the first left or second left to head south towards home? It’s difficult when they keep switching the ramps around for the highway construction. The lights on my 1990 Chevy are too dim to see the signs. I guess it’s the first left. Merging on, I realize I’ve made the wrong choice when detour signs lead me north. I’ll turn around at the next exit. The warmth coming from my heat vents slowly overtakes me. A few yawns and my eyes grow heavy. Just need the next exit… turn around…

I’m jolted awake from my sleepy daze as a deer rolls over my hood and obliterates my windshield. I notice the snow has picked up, the chilling air blowing it onto my face. I’ve entered a skid. Weightless and helpless, I smash into and over the guardrail. When the truck settles, I’m covered in bruises, broken glass, and cold damp snow.

Where am I? How long did I doze off? How far north have I gone? I can’t find my phone, it was thrown from my console during the crash. It’s still dark outside, and I pause for my eyes to adjust to the dark setting. Checking myself for injury, I don’t feel any major cuts, but the warm liquid dripping down my arm suggests I’m bleeding. Getting out of the car, the forest is dark. I have no sense of direction. The highway isn’t visible. Searching desperately for anything, I see a small flickering yellow light in the distance. I begin to make my way through the trees for it. This light slowly grows into the light of a fireplace shining through the window of a lone cabin in the woods. Peculiar in appearance, there is no car, no driveway, no power lines, just a small log cabin. Peering through the window, I see a larger man, dressed in flannel and hunting attire, standing by a counter. Something is in his hands, but I can’t quite make it out. I knock at the door, and the man greets me, his hands covered in blood, as is an apron I hadn’t seen on him from outside. He looks surprised and invites me in.

“You must be very, very lost boy,” he murmurs.

Shakily, I reply, “I’ve just been in an accident. I wandered here from my car.”

“And you need my help?” Joy overtakes his face.

“Just a place to stay for the evening till I can find my way home.”

He walks away from the door, leaving it open, “Come in,” he says, back facing me.

I enter hesitantly. I notice he returns to the task at hand before I had interrupted him. He is gutting a deer. He must be a butcher, based on his skill with the blades. I look over to his fireplace which is roaring with the warmth of orange flames. Hanging in the fireplace is a cauldron, full of some sort of liquid. He must have noticed me staring at it, because he offers me some soup that I gladly down. I begin to drift off again, this time more forcefully than in the car. I fight to stay awake, but something is making it impossible to keep my eyes open. I drift into sleep, seeing the butcher move to stand over me as I close my eyes.

***

When I wake, I am in a drab children’s bedroom. The blue wallpaper decorated with sad looking ducks is falling off the walls. The windows are boarded up, but some light slips in between the planks. I look down and begin to panic. I’m wearing children’s clothes! A long sleeve shirt and overalls, nothing like what I had arrived in. I shudder wondering how I ended up in these. I get up and head for the door, but it is locked from the outside.

“Stay in bed, son; breakfast isn't ready yet!” The voice sounds like that of the butcher. I can feel my hairs stand on end and my palms sweat. The door won’t budge, so I sit quietly on the bed. Panic is settling itself in the pit of my stomach. What feels like hours later, the man finally opens the door. A wild grin lines his face, and he wears the bloody apron again. “Breakfast is ready my boy, eggs and venison. Just how you like it,” he says, facing me.

“Are you talking to me?” I question.

“Now son, remember what happens when you talk back,” his voice trails off as he reaches for his belt, brandishing the buckle as a show of force. I play along and follow him to the kitchen.

The island is set with juice, eggs, toast, and venison steaks. We each take seats at opposite heads of the table. Hungry again, I eat the food, which tastes bland. I try to be discrete spitting some untrimmed fat into my napkin, but he notices. He gets up, and without a word removes my chair from under me, and begins to choke me against the floor before I can react. Veins popping from his face, he growls, “Was that polite, boy?”

“No… Sorry,” I barely manage to say, gasping for air.

He releases the grip and stands up, “Don’t let it happen again.”

“Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?” I ask, desperate for information. He stops in his tracks, and turns toward me again.

“Why, I’m your father, silly,” his smile is that of an insane person. "I have to take care of you! I had another son, but I didn’t take good enough care of him, teach him good enough manners. He died right in front of me, maimed by a bear. I couldn’t save him, but I saved you from your car crash. I can do better this time. I will do better this time. Want to build a snowman, son?”

I am at a loss for words. Emotions are flying through me: fear, desperation, panic. I need to get out of here. It is evident I can’t overpower him, so I’ll have to play along until I can find a way out. “Sure um…. Dad.” Unsure of how he will respond, I brace for another assault.

A tear forms in his crazed eye, “Yes, son, let’s go.”

How the hell am I going to get out? We go outside, and the entire time I look for an opportunity to escape. The butcher turns his back to roll the body of the snowman, and I bolt. I don’t know where I am going, but it is not here. Weaving through trees, I think I’ve made it.

I rest against a tree, when a voice whispers in my ear, “Were you running away boy?”

Terror takes over me, and I can feel his meaty hands grasp both my shoulders, and throw me to the ground. I’m held down by his knees, which crush my chest. He removes his belt, rolls me over, and pulls down my overalls. The sting of the leather slapping against my bare skin is amplified by the cold morning air. I can feel each stroke getting stronger and stronger as he grows more angry. I let out a whimper, and the butcher screams out, “Don’t cry boy! Accept your punishment. You know what you did!”

More and more slashes follow, until blood stains the snow as it had the night before. We get up, proceed back to the cabin, and build the snowman. I silently weep the entire time, not letting my adoptive ‘father’ see, in fear of another beating.

***

Time becomes a blur as days fade into weeks. I manage to get through with less beatings everyday than the previous. We follow a similar routine everyday. Breakfast, playtime, lunch, learning, dinner, cuddles, bedtime. The feeling of the butcher stroking my now mangy hair sends chills down my spine. The repulsive scent of meat and beer on his breath while I am unwillingly held in his lap makes me want to hurl. I’ve learned to refrain from vomiting. The first and only time I made that mistake, I paid for it.

I was forced to clean it from his clothes, as they were still on him, with my mouth and tongue. The taste of my own stomach contents mixed with the deer blood and man sweat soaking the apron at all times was more repulsive than the cause of my vomiting. He did not sit still, and in order to get the stains out my tongue would have to press through the cloth against his body, and whatever parts may lie under a spot of bile.

I’m now debating which is worse, continuing life as it is now, or just ending it all. The butcher leaves his cleavers out in the open. A few chops of the blade through my flesh, tearing veins and arteries, would release the blood that sustains me in this terrible life. Or maybe force the butcher to do it. I could rebel and push him to his limits. The sweet revenge of it. He claimed me as the replacement to the son he had lost. Imagine him living with the pain of having killed his replacement. My wandering mind is like a bottomless pit of misery. Every second I am left alone to think, I fall deeper and deeper into terrible thoughts. Luckily, my pondering is interrupted by the sounds of helicopter blades in the distance, getting louder. Dogs can be heard barking.

I play it off, asking the butcher innocently, “What is that noise, Daddy?”

“Oh, nothing son. Go to your room.” I notice, as I walk towards my room, that he’s loading a double barrel shotgun. I close the door of my room, but not enough for the latch to close and lock me in. The blades of the helicopter and shaking the house now, and the voices of police officers can be heard. They call my name, and the dogs bark intensely. I hear the clicking of the shotgun being cocked. Knocking on the door. The dogs are quiet now, and I can hear the front door slowly creak. BAM BAM BAM! Several shots are fired.

“Fall back, he’s armed!” officers shout. I peer out a small crack in the boarded windows, and see a perimeter set. Officers, dogs, medical personnel. They came! They really came! I can’t even fathom how they found me. My car ditched in the woods? I thought they gave up on me but they are here. My joy is squashed by the sight of the butcher entering my room. He appears distraught. Face covered in sweat, bleeding from what can only be a gunshot wound; he motions for me to go to the living room. I do so, and he sits in the rocking chair. I move to sit across from him, but he latches onto my arm and pulls me into his lap once again. He moves his pudgy hands up and down my body, cooing and telling me, or himself, that everything will be alright.

This is it. If I am ever going to make a break for it, now is the time. The shotgun is lying on the floor positioned out of the butcher's immediate reach. I can see the door is unlocked for once. I jolt off of the butcher, landing a punch to his jaw as I move. The door is just across the room. I hop over the couch, and am yanked out of the air. The overalls, the damned overalls, catch on the couch. I can’t free myself. I look up to see the butcher standing over me, nearly foaming at the mouth.

“Do not. Ever. Hit your father,” he murmurs, barely uttering the words through his own rage. He picks me up, tearing my overalls off of the couch, and throws me to the ground by his chair. As he starts towards me, I remember the shotgun. I grab it and swing with my hands on the barrel, hitting the stock off of his face. He falls down, and I stand above him. I aim down the barrel, and pull the trigger. *Click*. Nothing comes out of the barrel. I check the weapon again, and realize there aren’t any loaded shells in the gun. I drop it as the butcher stands up, rising above me. He grabs me with both hands, and shoves me to the ground once again.

I feel the wrath as he immediately pounces on me. First, with his knees on my chest, he chokes nearly all the air out of me. Vision blurring, I can barely make out him reaching for his shotgun, and beating my abdomen with the butt end of it. Every strike sends a new level of pain through my body. I can no longer see, but can feel the blood pouring out of many cuts, and my insides turning to mush.

“If I can’t have you, neither can they…” the butcher whimpers.

I smell the gunpowder in the air as he reloads.

I taste the metal of the barrel in my mouth.

I hear the click of the shotgun cocking.

***

Damn this is a far drive. Almost three hours north from headquarters in Concord to Pittsburg. Being one of the best detectives in New Hampshire has its perks, but this is surely not one of them. I pull up to the side of the road where the mobile crime unit has been set up. I ask a deputy where the crime scene is.

“The cabin where the incident took place doesn’t have a driveway or driveable path to get to it. The property is completely isolated. We have to ATV in.”

For mid April, it is a cool day. The ride to the cabin is rough. I walk up to the cabin. Officers are taking pictures of all the evidence outside. I make my way through the crime scene and to the cabin doors. Creaking as it opens, the doorway reveals the grotesque image before me. Only hours old, two bodies lie tangled on the floor. The smaller of the two, a teenage boy, covered in blood, bruises, and grime. Wearing unwashed children’s clothes that are evidently too small for him; he looks like he hasn’t bathed in months. His skin is covered in not only fresh injuries, but scars from untreated wounds. His figure matches the description of the boy missing since February. It’s hard to identify the body with his brains splattered across the floor and walls around him. The large man’s corpse is coddling the remains of the teen. He’s wearing a bloodied apron, and his hands are still grasping the handle of a meat cleaver driven right into his own skull. Appalled by the scene, I walk out of the cabin, and light a cigarette.

I mutter to myself, “What the fuck happened here?”

The Terror

Empty

Michael Pitts (2022)

Darkness, silence. I open my eyes, but there is nothing to see; there is no light in this place. The air is dry, and the ground is impossibly cold. A chill runs up my spine, and I whip my head around.

I wake to the whirring sound of my ceiling fan, the artificial breeze becoming uncomfortable. It’s no brighter now than before; the shroud of night still hangs over the sky. Rolling over to the clock on my nightstand, I read it: 2:00 am. Sighing with exhaustion, I roll back and try to fall asleep but, still shaken by the nightmare, I can’t. The sheets cling to my clammy body, and my tongue feels like sandpaper in my mouth. I must be dehydrated, I think as I inch out of bed. Suddenly thirsty, I decide to get a glass of water. Maybe then I’ll be able to rest. As I walk to the door, I stop by the switch to turn on the light, and the brilliance stuns me for a moment. Shielding my eyes as I recover, I palm the switch to find the control for the fan and turn it off. The whirring slows, eventually stopping; the only sound left is my breathing. After giving my eyes a moment to readjust, I open them as I slowly uncover them with my hand.

Nothing. The bright light of my room is gone, replaced by an empty expanse. Panicked, I look around, only to be greeted with the same black void in every direction. Looking down at myself, I can’t even see my body. Although I can’t tell with my eyes, I can feel that the carpet I was standing on is no longer textured, but now a smooth, featureless surface—a familiar chill flows up from the surface and through my body. I squeeze my eyes shut and re-open them, hoping to cast off yet another dream, but the world is unchanged. I feel a tug at the back of my mind, and I sense someone—no, something—reaching, grasping. A presence, dark and powerful. Frantically, I repeat the exercise: eyes shut, eyes open, repeat. I remain in the darkness. Shut again, open again. The presence grows closer. Eyes shut. Eyes open.

I’m standing where I was before, the light just as blinding—this time, though, I suffer it to avoid that place. My feet find more comfortable purchase, the coarse carpet unusually soothing. I am not relieved, though; I still feel that terrifying presence, if only distantly. My senses, previously dulled by sleep, are now heightened by adrenaline. I step out into the hall, remembering my task: a glass of water. The corridor is short, passing only a couple rooms, but it feels three times as long. As I pass each room, I reach in and turn on the light. Light floods in from wall to wall and washes away the black. Darkness will find no respite here. I’m satisfied once I reach the end of the hall, and I turn into the kitchen. The gentle hum of the appliances is welcome, filling the void of sound and offering a distraction.

I find a mug sitting on the counter, and I take it to the fridge. At this point I don’t care how dirty it is—only that it holds water. Looking into it, I notice a film of dried coffee coating the bottom. I fill it anyway, and take a large gulp. My mouth is still dry, so I finish off the cup and refill, to no avail. Defeated, I contemplate returning to bed—no. It can reach you there. I sit on a bar stool at the island, resting but not sleeping. I’m not sure what to do. A hushed voice takes me by surprise, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. I panic; I can’t make out any meaning, but the malevolence is clear. I look up as the light flickers, threatening to push me into the darkness. Petrified, I sit still and wait for it to pass. A moment passes, and the light stabilizes. The voice disappears at the same time. I sigh with relief, closing my eyes.

Darkness. I open my eyes, and there is nothing. That same chill permeates the world, spreading through my body like a disease. I can’t move—whether out of fear or shock, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. The whispers are loud here, overlapping in a cacophony of one voice. The words are unfamiliar, but the intention is clear: a desire to control. That presence is close; I feel a great pressure against my body, my mind. I cannot fight it, only wait for the inevitable. The voice grows louder still, now deafening, unbearable. A new feeling, a sense of emptiness, envelops me. I am being hollowed out; the emptiness grows, matching the void around me. I struggle to think against the whispers, the voice now invading my mind. I can’t stop it, and yet I cannot bear to suffer it. I can do one thing: submit. My final thoughts unravel, and a single word cuts through the dissonance, sharp and cold.

“Mine.”

Trinity

Will Plante (2022)

I sat behind the wheel of the beaten up U-haul, wondering how much farther the wide expanse of nothingness could go. I would’ve given anything just to see one goddamn road sign. My oldest son TJ sat in the seat next to me, fidgeting with the cheap plastic G.I Joe knockoff I had bought him back at the rest stop coming out of Omaha.

“Dad?” he asked, setting the toy down on the seat and looking up. “How much longer?”

“Same answer as when you asked ten minutes ago, bud, I have no idea.” I tried the radio again, but all the major networks were still just spitting static. I looked in the rear view mirror to make sure Edna was still behind us. I don’t know where else she would have gone. We haven’t passed another road for the past hour and a half. We hadn’t taken a wrong turn somewhere, had we?

“See any signs?” I asked TJ.

“I don’t see shit, Dad.”

“Watch your mouth,” I snapped.“You know your mother would have a heart attack if she heard you say that.” TJ slumped down in his seat and made a pouty face, crossing his arms dramatically. We sat in silence for another twenty minutes before something finally did come into view.

“Whoa, hey would you look at that, TJ? There's finally a sign coming up.”

As we approached the sign, TJ craned his neck to see it over the cluttered U-haul dash. It was rusted and bent to one side. The faded green and white paint was cracked and peeling, and the post that it was attached to was bent at an angle no person would be able to make with their bare hands. The sign read :

Lucyville - 3 miles

“Hey Dad, check it out. We’re almost there!” TJ said, pointing across the dash at the sign as it whizzed by on the driver side.

“Yeah, bud. Just sit still for a little longer, it should only be another five minutes,” I said. In my head, however, I was thinking about how strange it was for there to be a three mile marker, but no five or ten mile marker. Hell, it even looked like someone or something had tried to remove it.

I rolled down the window and stuck a thumbs up sign out to Edna. I watched the side mirror as she waved. Behind her... wait, that can’t be right. There shouldn’t be anyone there. My daughter Mary should be on the passenger side, and Isaac should be in his baby carrier right behind her. A strange shadow sat in the seat behind her, and seemed to be reaching up to the front to grab her. I blinked my eyes a few times, and it was gone. All of a sudden my head seared with a burning pain, as if a white hot nail had been driven through my skull. I winced and tried to keep from swerving off the road.

“TJ, pass me the Aspirin, okay? It’s in the glove compartment.” TJ handed me the bottle and I downed three or four pills. I handed the bottle back to him, and motioned for a bottle of water. As I chugged down the water the pain subdued, but never quite went away.

In the mid-afternoon heat, we rolled into Lucyville. The town seemed almost abandoned. The sidewalks were cracked and in a state of disrepair. The houses seemed old and outdated. The lights in all the stores were off, too. Perhaps the strangest part of Lucyville, though, was that it was somehow surrounded by a thick forest that had sprouted up in the middle of the midwestern plains. The leaves on the trees were golden yellow, and just beginning to fall. TJ watched curiously out the window. He had never seen a tree losing its leaves like this before.

“Dad?” he asked. “How are the trees gonna get their leaves back?”

I laughed and patted his dirty blond hair. “Well TJ, in the spring someone goes around with a bottle of super glue, you see, and they glue all the leaves back on. And then in the summer the glue melts and when fall comes around the glue is so weak that the leaves fall right back off.”

“Huh,” he said. “That sounds boring.”

We turned onto Trinity Ave five minutes later. I pulled up to the front of the house with the mailbox labeled 6 and put it in park. The house was three stories tall, and painted a light cream color that reminded me of the curtains my mother had in our living room. The ones the moths loved to eat. Edna pulled into the driveway, and before the car was even parked, Mary opened the passenger door and ran out across the lawn.

“IT'S SO BIIIIIG!” she screamed and giggled as she cartwheeled across the grass. Edna got out of the car and began working on unstrapping Isaac from his car seat. I opened the truck’s door and hopped out.

“This place is a ghost town!” she exclaimed. “Wonder where everyone is.”

“It’s Sunday,” said TJ. “You think they could be at church, mum?”

I looked at my watch. “It’s almost three o’clock, buddy. If they’re at church now it must either be a wedding or a funeral. In a town this small, I’m sure everybody knows everybody and then some.”

TJ shrugged and began fidgeting with his G.I Joe again. I climbed onto the back bumper of the U-Haul and lifted it open. The back was crammed, and my head still ached with that searing pain as the aspirin began to wear off. That’s strange, only five minutes and it’s already wearing off.

TJ and I unloaded the U-haul while Edna took Mary and the baby inside to get the rooms clean. The sun was just about to dip behind the trees when a large crowd of people turned the corner at the end of our street and began walking down it. They laughed and talked and milled about in one another’s yards. Waving goodbye as they each retreated into their houses. I set the box I was carrying down on the lawn and straightened my back as best I could.

“Edna!” I shouted. “The neighbors are coming.” Edna hurried out of the house, her light pink cleaning apron billowing out as she took the front porch steps two at a time. Mary followed her with Isaac in her arms. An older couple approached us from the street. They were in their early sixties, and dressed in stereotypical southern attire. The man was tall with a thick grey mustache that hid his smile. He had a sunken, liver-spotted face like a hound dog. He adjusted his silver bolo tie as he sauntered off the street. His wife needed to take two extra steps just to keep pace with him. She was short, pudgy, and had her white hair done up in curls. She beamed a dark red lipstick smile.

“Howdy, neighbors. How’s yer evnin’ goin’?” the man asked in a thick yet warm voice.

“Oh hello there,” Edna said. “I’m Edna Booker and this is my husband Tom.”

“Glad to meetcha’ Bookers. I’m Clint Johnson, and this is ma wife Betty.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Betty said, her voice chirping like a bird. “We hope you’re not having any trouble moving in. We run the homeowner association here in Lucyville, and we just wanted to stop in and say hi. If there’s anything y’all need or you have any questions, feel free to ask.”

“Thanks,” I said. “We’re all set right now, but we’ll keep it in mind.”

“Oh, and one more thing I need to ask of you before we go,” Mr. Johnson’s brow furrowed, and his face seemed darker, as if a shadow had passed over it. “Are y’all religious folk?”

“I wouldn’t consider us so,” I said tentatively, taken aback by the weirdness of the question. “We don’t go to Sunday mass, but I do hang my father’s cross up in the house, why? Is this a super religious town?”

Mrs. Johnson shook her head, but she still was smiling, albeit less than before. “Oh no no no, dearie, we aren't talking about christianity. No, our lord isn’t the man above.” She giggled and brushed a curl of hair out of her face. “Here in Lucyville, why we’re the proudest Satanists this side of the Mississippi.” The statement caught me off guard. I looked at Edna, who looked pale and dizzy. She’d taken TJ’s hand in her own, and had backed a few steps away towards the house. The shock must have been apparent on my face, too, because Mr. and Mrs. Johnson laughed.

“Now I know how that sounds,” Mr. Johnson said. “Satanists have a certain… stigma shall we say. But don’t you worry, we aren’t bad people once you get to know us. We have cookouts every weekend and watch the Broncos. My son Henry makes a heck of a spit roast. Finger licking good. The kiddies run around and play tag, yours’d fit right in! I assure you there is nothing wrong with the way we here in Lucyville choose to worship.”

Mrs. Johnson cut in, her voice going an octave higher than what it already was, which made it almost a screech. “The question is, will you folks be converting?” She looked at me earnestly and curiously as I felt a bead of sweat run down the back of my neck. I scratched it nervously.

“I...um,” I stammered. “I don’t have a problem with how you people choose to… worship, but… I… I don’t think it’s for us.” Something flashed across Mrs. Johnson's face. Maybe it was annoyance, maybe anger, hell maybe even mild rage, but whatever it was, it was only there for an instant before the smile replaced it.

“But you folk hav-” she was cut off by her husband.

“Hush now, Betty; the man’s not feeling like it right now.” His eyes met mine, and I realized for the first time just how black and glassy they were. “I’m sure him ‘n his family are all mighty tired from the trip. Why don’t we let them get acquainted with the house, and check back in later.” His wife grunted, turned, and walked back up the street to what was presumably their house.

“Welp, I’ll be leavin’ you alone now. Sees you when I sees you, Mr. Booker,” Mr. Johnson said, and he extended his hand for a handshake. As he did, the cuff of his shirt sleeve pulled away to reveal a set of long, deep, red gashes on his forearm. One ran perpendicular to his veins all the way up under his cuff, while the shorter one ran parallel to his wrist to form a jagged upside down cross. The pain in my head flashed and an image appeared in the forefront of my mind. The shadow of some demonic… thing loomed over my inner consciousness, a dark, shadowy clawed hand reached out towards me. I started to back away from Mr. Johnson, but turned and ran when he made a motion to follow me.

“In the house now!” I shouted at Edna, TJ, and Mary who bolted up the front steps.

As I crossed the threshold of the house. I heard Mr. Johnson say from behind me, “We all get reborn, Mr. Booker, one way or another.”

The door slammed shut behind me. Edna was huddled in the corner. She had taken Isaac in her arms, and Mary clinging to the hem of her skirt. TJ was staring out the window at the man still standing on the front lawn. I grabbed his shoulder and yanked him away from the window. I then locked it and drew the blinds shut.

“These people are crazy,” Edna sobbed. “We can’t stay, we just can’t,” she wept, and this caused Mary to begin to cry, too. “We need to call the police.”

“Everyone upstairs,” I said. “If what he said was true, the cops won’t be of any help. They’ll be just as crazy as everyone else. We have food inside already. We’ll spend the night, and early in the morning, we’ll split.” I hoped I sounded calm when I said it. I was scared shitless. I went out into the garage to see if the previous owners had left anything at all behind for home defense. I found a dull bladed axe with a rusting handle. The rubber grip at the bottom was crusty with long-dried tree pitch. I went back into the house, pulled a rocking chair over to the window, and cracked the blinds.

I had been sitting at the window for a while, and had begun to doze off. The sun had just set and the milky purple of twilight had begun to spread across the sky. That’s when I first heard it.

DONG… DONG… DONG…

It came in threes starting at the end of our street.

DONG… DONG… DONG…

Through the blinds, I could make out two hooded figures turning down Trinity Ave. One was tall, the other was shorter, taking multiple steps to keep pace.

DONG… DONG… DONG…

Their dark black robes dragged along the ground as they walked methodically. The taller figure was ringing a bronze bell.

DONG… DONG… DONG…

A large group of people, all dressed in the same black hoods, followed the first two. As the bell tolled, the doors of the houses opened and more hooded figures emerged and joined the congregation.

DONG… DONG… DONG…

I held my breath as the crowd walked past our house. Some kept staring straight but most turned to look at our house. I caught a glimpse of the face under the hood of one of the smaller figures. It had to be a kid, no older than TJ.

DONG… DONG… DONG…

Hell there was even a hooded figure carrying an infant sized figure in its arms.

DONG… DONG… DONG…

Finally the group reached the end of our street and entered the woods via a small trailhead cut into the thick wall of foliage and tree trunks. That was the last I heard of the bell. My eyelids felt heavy.

“Tom, what was that noise?” Edna called from upstairs.

“Wind chime,” I lied, and I knew she knew I was lying.

“Come up here, please. I don’t want you down there looking out that window. Someone’ll see you.” Then she added “The kids are hungry, maybe grab some food, too.”

As I climbed the stairs with the axe in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other, the searing pain in my head flared worse than ever. I doubled over on the stairs and nearly lost my footing. I dropped the bag of groceries, and they went tumbling down the stairs, containers of peanut butter and applesauce falling out as it went. I sat down on the stairs and rested the cool metal head of the axe on my temple. It felt like a blowtorch was being lit inside my brain. When I pulled the axe away, a thin trail of smoke wafted up towards the ceiling. I needed an aspirin desperately, but they were still outside in the truck, and there was no way I was going outside tonight.

“Are you okay, Tom? I heard a thud,” Edna called.

“Just… dropped some groceries, that's all,” I grunted. I slid back down the stairs on my butt, and retrieved the fallen items. The pain in my head made it hard to focus. When I finally got upstairs, I handed the groceries to Edna, and then went into the bathroom and held my head under the running faucet till the numbness of the water removed all.

After the kids had eaten, I read them a story in the master bedroom while Edna showered and changed the baby. I laid them down on a twin air mattress in the smaller of the two bedrooms.

“Daddy, are those people gonna hurt us?” Mary asked. Her wide blue eyes were wet and her little lip was quivering.

“I don’t think so, honey,” I said reassuringly. “They might seem scary, but they can’t get us in here. And they won’t get through daddy.” I flexed and they both laughed.

“Yeah, dad, you’ll give them something real to believe in,” said TJ, cradling his fake G.I Joe.

“I love you, daddy,” Mary said. I leaned in and she kissed me on the cheek, I hugged her, then TJ, then I stood up and turned to leave.

“Remember, call for me if you need anything,” I said, and turned out the lights and shut the door with a dry thud.

I was fast asleep, one arm around my wife, the other gripping the cold hilt of the axe, when I heard it.

Knock-knock-knock

My eyes shot wide open. My forehead pulsed with waves of sharp heat. I listened silently.

Knock-knock-knock

There it was again. It wasn’t coming from downstairs though. It was…

Knock-knock-knock

...Inside my room. From the corner, next to the dresser the previous owners had left behind. I waited again.

Knock-knock-knock

It had moved. It was closer to the door now. It sounded like someone was inside the walls. I gripped the axe tight. I must have been squeezing Edna tight, too, because she stirred.

“Wha-” I cupped a hand over her mouth and shushed her. Her heart was beating rapidly now, and I felt her muscles tense as she tightened her hold on the baby cradled in her arms.

Knock-knock-knock

It was in the hallway now. I don’t know how but it was. It’s as if whatever was in the wall just… teleported.

Knock-knock-knock

The sound was different, more hollow. It was knocking on a door this time, but not ours.

Knock-knock-knock

It was muffled now. It was coming from inside another room: the kid’s room. I bolted upright, gripping the axe. I listened quietly. Waiting for the knocking and the burning in my head. My heart was beating wildly and I was drenched in sweat. All of the sound in the house seemed to be sucked into a vacuum, leaving an unbearable silence.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK

I heard a horrible shriek, followed by TJ screaming. Without any other thought I burst through the bedroom door shoulder first and slammed my way into the kid’s room. Edna was on my heels clutching Isaac.

Mary was crying, she was sitting in the corner of the room with a blanket wrapped around her face. TJ was gone. His air mattress slowly deflated as the air escaped through the three massive gashes left in its surface. The door slammed shut behind us, moved by an invisible force.

“TJ!” I shouted into the room. Edna rushed to comfort Mary, however, she was on the verge of hysteria herself. “TJ, WHERE ARE YOU?!” I shouted again. The house seemed to creak and shake all of it’s boards, and pipes, and hinges all at once, and like a boiler about to explode, the noise rose to a din so loud my wife and daughter’s screams became inaudible. The noise crescendoed with the accompaniment of the most terrifying thing a father could hear.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK

“DAAAAADDDDDDDDDYYYYYYYYY”

TJ’s voice came from every crack and scratch on every goddamn surface of the house. The room was blasted with air as if a giant had exhaled in my face.

“He’s in the walls! Save him, Tom! Do something!”

“DAAAAADDDDDDDDDYYYYYYYYY”

The voice came again. I screamed as I turned and slammed the axe into the wall, splitting the paper and shattering the drywall. I pulled away at the fragmented wall until there was nothing left. TJ wasn’t there.

“DAAAAADDDDDDDDDYYYYYYYYY”

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK

The other wall. It was coming from the other wall. With a grunt I threw myself across the room and began hacking at the wall again. A cloud of drywall dust plumed up and filled my lungs, causing me to double over coughing. That's when a new noise was added to the din. A ground shaking crash could be heard as the front door was broken down. Edna and Mary screamed. Then a cacophony of thuds as dozens of feet ascended the stairs.

BANG BANG BANG

Before I could say or do anything, the door was blown off its hinges, slamming violently against the far wall. The hooded figures of Mr. and Mrs. Johnson stepped into the room, flanked by at least a dozen more hooded figures.

“Howdy neighbor,” Mr. Johnson said smugly. I screamed and charged at him with the axe. He didn’t even need to raise a hand. An invisible force hit me like a freight train, pinning me to the wall. The axe fell to the floor with a loud thud.

“That’s no way to treat a guest, now, is it?” he chuckled. “Listen, do as I say, and you’ll see your son again. Got that?” The wind had been knocked out of me, and I could hear something else breathing in my ear. Something big and angry. Mr. Johnson stepped forward, pulling a long, curved blade from his robe.

“So neighbor, here’s whatcha gotta do for me. Now if you’re gonna be a part of this community, you gotta convert. And to convert, you gotta be reborn.”

“We’re all reborn again,” chanted the crowd of hooded figures.

“Now, rebirth is so easy I’m convinced anyone can do it, but it’s usually easiest if the father helps the wife and kids, before doing his own. All you gotta do is carve one of these, nice and deep, and that’s it! One easy step.” He extended his hand for me to shake it, but I refused, turning my head away.

“Remember,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Do this and you’ll get to see your sweet little son again. Such a waste to lose a pretty face like his.” The fire in my head burned and the thing in my ear growled and before I even knew it I was shaking his hand. It was cold and dead, as if there was no blood in his body what-so-ever.

“The wife first,” he said as I dropped to the floor. Two of the hooded figures grabbed Edna and dragged her kicking and screaming across the floor. A third stepped forward and wrestled Isaac from her hands. Mrs. Johnson stood her up and wrenched her right forearm out from her side.

“No!” she screamed and sobbed as Mr. Johnson laid the blade in my hand. I gripped it, but hesitated. In a voice, not of his own, Mr. Johnson spoke.

“DO IT!” he growled. I had no control over my muscles as I tore the blade through my wife's flesh, making quick cuts. Warm blood spilled over the floor as the hooded men dropped her and dragged her to the opposite corner. She was still gasping and sobbing when the next hooded figure stepped forward and grabbed Mary.

“Don’t touch her!” I gasped through tears.

“SILENCE!” Mrs. Johnson hissed, a decrepit, sinister grin on her face. The hooded figure dragged my crying daughter in front of me. She kicked at him as he grabbed her wrist and yanked her off the ground.

“Daddy… No…” she sobbed and pleaded. I closed my eyes as my muscles lost control again and I heard her scream as my arm made the same quick, brutal incision. The hooded figure tossed her limply to the corner.

“Halfway there, partner,” said Mr. Johnson, winking at me.

“GO TO HELL!” I screamed in his face. “GO TO HELL!”

“That’s the plan,” he laughed. “Alright, little guy’s turn.” The hooded figure holding Isaac stepped forward. He was crying shrilly.

“Please no, please don’t make me do it please no please no…” I sobbed as my arm raised above my infant son. I closed my eyes and screamed as the knife came down, quickly and efficiently cutting the wretched symbol.

The hooded figure tossed him onto Edna’s body, which had finally silenced.

“Great job, only one left, and that’s you.” Mr. Johnson said. He didn’t even need to force me to. I slipped the blade under my skin and cut deeply. Mr. Johnson grabbed me as I fell, and guided my hand to make the second cut.

“And now, we’re all reborn,” he said, and the hooded figures cheered and chanted as I fell to the floor and everything faded to white.

For a while I floated in nothingness. No sound, no sight, no feeling. Just existing in an empty void of light. It was nice, peaceful, and then a little warm. No, not warm, hot. Burning hot- too hot! Burning up, engulfed in flames. I tried to scream and no sound escaped. Something roared in my ear. And then everything was black.

As my vision faded back the first thing I heard was the copper bell.

DONG… DONG… DONG…

Mr. Johnson was standing over me ringing the bell as the first fuzzy images made their way to my brain. His hood was down, and he was smiling warmly at me. A fire crackled somewhere behind me. As I sat up I noticed we were in a painted circle of blood. Hooded figures surrounded the ring, and behind them, a thick wall of forest. I felt my wrist and the rough scab that covered the spot where the blade had cut.

“Ah… you're awake. Don’t worry, it’s gonna scar, that’s the goal anyway. Now, let me be the first to congratulate you and officially welcome you to the Lucyville community.” I looked to my right and saw that Mrs. Johnson was coaxing Edna awake. Isaac was cradled in her arms. On my other side Mary had awoken, and was turned towards the warmth of the fire, crawling slowly towards it. I felt my chest with my pale hand as my stomach rumbled, but kept it there when I realized that my heart wasn't beating.

“Hungry?” Mr. Johnson asked. “Most folks usually are. Rebirthing takes a lot out of you.” he stood up, and turned to face the crowd. “Who’s ready for a barbeque!” he shouted. Everyone clapped and cheered.

It was at this point that I sat up and turned to look at the fire behind me. It was massive and white hot. A large, bronze metal spit sat slowly turning on its own over the flame. TJ’s skin was a tender golden brown, and fat was dripping from the large open hole in his chest, exposing his ribs. He smelled… delicious. My stomach rumbled in agreement. Mary had already made her way to the fire and reached her hand through the flames casually. She broke off one of TJ’s fingers and began to gnaw on it. The circle of hooded figures had broken and they now moved in towards the fire to get something to eat, they mingled and chatted about normal, everyday stuff, while eating TJ’s ribs and thighs. My mouth watered and I turned to crawl towards the fire when Mr. Johnson put a hand on my shoulder and the other slipped something into my shirt pocket. It was TJ’s fake G.I Joe.

“I told you at the start, didn’t I,” he said as my head seared with pain again and my stomach growled, “We all get reborn, Mr. Booker, one way or another.”

The Good Samaritan

Danny Garrity (2021)

The snow falls hard on the dark, barren highway. Dense groups of dead trees surround the country road. After a 14 hour shift at the hospital, Katherine makes her way home. The young nurse’s body aches with exhaustion.

“My feet are killing me, Mom,” she says into her phone.

“Katherine, you’re eight months pregnant. You need to take it easy,” Katherine’s mother warns on the other end.

“I know, I know. But, I need all the money I can get.”

“Okay, just please be careful driv‒”

“Mom? Hello?” Katherine says into the phone. She looks at the screen to see a low battery signal before the screen goes black.

“Shhhh- great,” Katherine says as she throws her phone onto the passenger seat. She massages her bump and continues driving.

Suddenly, there is a loud popping noise and the car begins to shake erratically. Startled, Katherine pulls to the side of the road and gets out. Her breath floats in the air. She looks at her completely deflated back right tire. She’s confused for an instant, but then makes her way to the passenger seat. She grabs her phone and tries to turn it on only to be immediately reminded that it died just moments ago. Katherine angrily sighs while throwing her hands up and dropping them to her sides. She doesn’t know how to change a tire and even if she did, she doesn’t have a spare. She has no clue how she’s going to get help.

She looks up and down the black, empty road. Nothing. Suddenly, two headlights appear in the distance, and Katherine catches the driver’s attention by waving her arms in the air. The car eventually slows to a stop next to the driver’s side of Katherine’s car.

“Need a hand?” the shadowy man asks in a friendly tone.

“Yes! Yes! Can I borrow your phone?” she asks from the passenger side. Only her head is visible to the man in front of her as the rest of her body is hidden behind her station wagon.

“It died just a few moments ago, I’m sorry,” says the shadowy man, “I have no problem driving you to the rest stop, though. It’s just down the road.” Katherine hesitates for a moment, looking up and down the road while massaging her stomach. This is probably my only way of getting a tow truck, Katherine thinks.

She gathers her purse from the passenger seat, walks around her trunk, and then towards the man’s car. Katherine gets into the front seat and realizes the man is staring at her bump.

“Oh. You’re pregnant,” the man says in a cold tone.

“Is. . . is that a problem?” Katherine asks.

“No, no. Congrats!” the man says in his friendly voice once again. They begin to drive down the road in silence. Katherine observes the shadowy man, and the dark obscures most of his facial features. She can see he has circular glasses and shaggy hair. He’s wearing a large green jacket, but Katherine can tell he is very thin underneath. The silence makes Katherine uncomfortable, “Thank you, so much. I’m Katherine by the way,” she says, trying to make conversation.

“Katherine’s a pretty name,” the man says in a monotone voice while never taking his eyes off the road.

“Thank you,” Katherine doesn’t know what else to talk about. “We sure got a lot of snow, huh?” Katherine asks, but the man doesn’t respond. His eyes are trained on the road.

Eventually, Katherine sees the lights of the rest stop. Oh, thank God. Get me out of here. However, the man does not put on his blinker. He doesn’t merge onto the exit. He keeps driving and Katherine watches as the bright lights go by.

“Um, I. . . I think you missed the rest stop,” Katherine says.

“It was closed,” the man coldly responds. They continue driving.

The highway is completely empty and Katherine is growing more nervous with every second. She massages her stomach.

“I didn’t know you were pregnant,” the man says. Katherine doesn't know what to say to him. She just watches the man with wide eyes. They continue to drive until the man pulls the car to the side of the road. His headlights point a beam of light across a snow covered clearing followed by a line of trees. The man opens his door and gets out. Katherine watches the man slowly walk around the hood of the car to her door. She tries to think of a means of escape, but her mind is racing. She’s frozen. The man opens the door without saying a word and Katherine slowly gets out shaking with fear.

With one hand on Katherine’s back, the man guides her to the edge of the road in the beam of the headlights where they face the clearing and the treeline.

“Run,” the man says in his emotionless voice.

“W-What?” Katherine asks as her voice shakes and her breath shudders.

“You’re pregnant, so I’m going to give you a chance to get away. I’m going to give you a head start. If I catch you. . . I will cut your baby out,” the man says while looking straight ahead.

Katherine’s jaw drops with disgust and horror. She looks at the man and slowly steps forward. Her muscles are tight and each step feels like a thousand pounds. She starts to cry as she runs as fast as she can towards the treeline. She has no idea how much of a head start she has. She looks behind her and sees the man’s silhouette in the middle of the headlights. He’s watching her with his hands in his coat pockets.

Katherine makes it to the gray trees. She’s panicking and every horrible thought of what will happen to her rushes through her head. As she runs through the dead forest, she loses all sense of direction. She has no idea how far she’s travelled, but she knows she can’t run forever and she won’t be able to outrun the man if he finds her. Katherine sees a tree with half of its roots overhanging a small stream. She tucks her small frame underneath the base in hopes the man won’t find her.

She stares out from under the roots scanning the environment. Her eyes move frantically. Every little noise causes her imagination to run rampant. She waits in the darkness as the cold starts to get to her. Her feet and hands are numb. Something large grabs a hold of her and she starts to think that these are her final moments. She then realizes that it is a loose root that had been blown by the wind and wrapped around her. Her panic subsides only for an instant. She continues to shake with fear in the snow. She lays there waiting.

She waits until the sun comes up. Katherine hears slow footsteps approaching her. The steps are as quiet as can be, but to Katherine each one sounds like a roll of thunder. Her heart begins to race again and her eyes widen. The footsteps get closer and closer until Katherine looks out from her hiding spot to see two black boots. She covers her mouth in an attempt to control her loud breathing. A large hand grabs her shoulder and Katherine lets out a blood curdling scream.

“Ma’am, ma’am, it’s alright. I’m Officer Dunn with Highway Police. Are you okay?” the officer asks. Katherine runs into the officer’s arms.

“There was a man. . . he was. . . he was going to kill me!” Katherine says while sobbing.

“It’s okay. He’s gone,” the officer reassures her.

“How. . . how did you find me? I thought I was. . . I thought I was going to die.”

“Well. . .whoever this man is, ma’am, he taped this to the window of my vehicle. I found it this morning. He told us how to find you,” the officer explains while handing Katherine a yellow sheet of notebook paper. The letter was written crudely with the words going over the lines. Katherine begins to read:

Hello Mr. Police Man,

Go here. You will find a young woman named Katherine.

Underneath were the exact coordinates of Katherine’s hiding spot. He. . . He knew where I was? Why didn’t he kill me? Katherine asks herself. She continues to read.

Don’t worry, I let her live.

Katherine looks at the bottom of the letter and begins to sob again.

Sometimes I just like to watch them run.

The Car Accident

Rhiannon Black (2019)

It was like any other February morning. Just like the ground, the air seemed stiff and frozen. The temperature was set to reach its peak at 39 degrees. Snow had fallen the night before and created a white blanket over the town.

When my car died that morning, I should have taken it as a sign. I ignored it, jumped the engine, and said everything was fine. The car was from Florida-it was bound to happen. A car that lived in Florida wasn’t used to navigating icy roads or snow bumps no matter how well was supposedly equipped. “Four minutes,” I told myself, “it’s only a four minute drive to school.” Sitting in the car, my giant, white puffy coat wouldn’t allow for the seatbelt to sit comfortably and so, I chose not to wear it. Pulling out of the driveway was the easy part. Two left hand turns and I found myself sliding to a stop at the bottom of a hill. My anti-locking brake system went into effect and I knew there was no way I could stop and so, I ran a red light. Looking back that should have been my second sign. I made that left hand turn and I was halfway to my destination. That’s when it started.

They teach you in drivers’ education not to over-compensate the turn of the wheel when you start to lose control, and that’s exactly what I didn’t account for that morning. As I made my last turn, I took a quick glance at the clock and back at the road, and that’s when I saw her. Within a few feet, directly in front of my car stood a woman, her face was covered with the same color hair as mine, her head hung low by her chest. As I stared at her, I recognized the white puffy coat, I fixated on her, every part of her, only to see myself. I caught myself and I acted quickly, my tire had lost its grip and I began the turn of the wheel to stay on the road. The worst that could happen is I hit a snowbank, I thought to myself in an attempt to clutch the last of my sanity in that moment. The next thing I knew, the car began to spin out of control. Within moments, I was upside down over a small stream of water staring at the radio. I looked back to where the woman was standing and with the wind, she was gone. Everything in that moment felt like hell. My legs were holding me by the steering wheel. My forearm appeared as if a snowstorm of glass had left a quick dusting. The last thing I could remember from that moment was how bad my head was pounding. I closed my eyes when I heard the sirens. There was nothing I could do.

Needless to say I was rushed to the local hospital instead of the local high school. Nothing quite clear from that point forward, but the doctors told me I went directly into surgery, and it was a miracle I lived.

In a five hour surgery, I went into sudden cardiac arrest. I’ve been told 95 percent of people who enter sudden cardiac arrest, die in minutes. Given I’m 16, my heart is supposed to be stronger. They say I should have died. The truth is, I might have died, maybe not all of me, but parts of me did. I can recall lying on that table, but not the way one would think. I’m the one on the table and yet I’m standing in the corner of the operating room watching frantic doctors and assistants make an attempt to resuscitate me. Doctors rushed and yelled with a shake in their voice as I just stood there, blank faced. No one seemed to notice. After that, everything went black and I woke up in the ICU.

When I got home they told me I didn’t have to go to school. They told me I wouldn’t be strong enough. They were wrong. Never had I felt stronger, and yet I stayed home alone and everyone else when about their lives. I couldn’t tell anyone that I had swerved to avoid a person in the road. They’d ask questions that I didn’t have the answers to. How could I explain she was there one second and gone the next? That’s when I met them. Not them as in doctors or parents or friends; them as in the people only I can see. One of them in particular, who looks like me and told me she was my guardian. She’s the reason I’m still breathing. She told me I owed her my life otherwise I would reach a worse fate than burning in hell. In that moment, I realized my worst fear, a fear I didn’t even know were possible. I was their ticket.

The Footsteps

Cailin Borovicka (2019)

Timmy jumped off the bus at his stop and ran all the way home. It was summer vacation at last. He was going to a pool party later that night at his friend Luke’s house, and everyone in his class would be there. When he got inside, he threw down his backpack, and got a snack. He walked into the living room where his brother Evan, who was way too old to still be living at home, was watching TV.

Timmy’s parents were on a business trip, so Evan was supposed to watch him. It’s not like he had any other responsibilities. He didn’t even have a job. Evan was always either mean to Timmy or paid no attention to him at all‒ there was no in between. Timmy was relatively nice to Evan, despite how mean Evan was. He genuinely cared about Evan, but was unsure that Evan felt the same way about him. Their parents saw Evan as an angel, so Timmy never bothered complaining about him to them.

Timmy needed a ride to Luke’s party. He didn’t want to have to ask Evan to drive him, but he didn’t really have a choice.“Hey, Evan, can you drive me to Luke’s house? You won’t even have to pick me up tonight because I’m sleeping over” said Timmy.

“Why can’t you walk there?” Evan asked, not taking his eyes off the TV.

“It’s almost four miles! I’ll be too tired and it’ll take me forever to get there,” Timmy complained.

“I really don’t care. I have to leave soon anyway; I have more important places to be than driving to your dumb ten year old party,” Evan snapped. After a few minutes, Evan got up and went upstairs. Timmy knew he was going to get some of his parents’ money before he went out. Evan came back downstairs, stuffing cash into his pocket. He walked out without saying anything to Timmy and drove away. It didn’t surprise Timmy he left so spontaneously; Evan was always going out using their parents money, and not coming back until late at night.

Timmy was upset. All his classmates were having fun and swimming, and he had to sit at home. He didn’t feel like playing outside, so he played video games for hours. It was getting late, and the house was lonely and dark. Timmy was exhausted and didn’t like how quiet and empty the house was, so he decided to go to bed. He fell asleep right away.

In the middle of the night, Timmy woke up to the sound of a car door closing in his driveway. Evan was home. Timmy couldn’t fall back asleep after that. He walked downstairs to get a glass of water. When he walked into the kitchen, he was confronted by a rush of cool air that gave him goosebumps instantly. For some reason, the kitchen window was wide open, with the curtains blowing in the breeze. He thought that was strange; he didn’t remember opening the window. There was no screen in the window either. Timmy stared out the window, trying to see if maybe Evan was outside. He couldn’t see anything but the darkness of his backyard.

He heard Evan walking down the hallway upstairs. He entered Timmy’s room. Timmy knew it was his room because of the distinct squeaks his door made when it opened.

“Hey! Why are you in my room?” Timmy yelled.

Evan didn’t answer. The house was silent except for the sound of the footsteps. Then, he heard heavy breathing, a gasp, and a loud thud. Then, more footsteps. Timmy walked up the stairs slowly, to his room.

“What did you steal, Evan? Why’d you go in my room?” Timmy asked once more.

Silence again. It wasn’t like Evan. He would’ve told Timmy to shut up by now. Timmy cautiously entered his dark room with the creaking of the door echoing through the house. His room was very unsettling. He could feel something was off, and it was making him nervous. His heart was beating fast. He noticed his closet opened slightly. It wasn’t opened before; he always closed it before going to bed. He opened the closet to investigate, and out fell the pale, lifeless body of his brother. Timmy let out an audible gasp. Evan’s eyes were still wide open and he had fingernail marks on his arms. Timmy shook his brother hoping he was just unconscious, but he already knew he was dead. His heart rate sped up even more, and he felt lightheaded. He heard the footsteps again, but this time he knew they weren’t Evan’s.

Panicked, he hid underneath his bed, shaking violently with fear. Timmy hoped the murderer would not find him because he had nowhere to run. All he could see from the floor was his brother’s body still lying there, and the doorway that was illuminated from the hallway light. The footsteps were approaching. They kept a steady cadence, but were increasing in volume. Then, Timmy saw the shadow around the corner, accompanied by heavy breathing. Then, he saw the bare, wrinkly feet in the doorway.

Timmy buried his face in his arms, bracing for the worst. The feet approached the bed, then went silent. Timmy let out a sigh of relief; he assumed the murderer was gone. Facing the empty doorway and hearing no footsteps, Timmy crawled out.

A cold hand grasped his ankle. It dragged him out from underneath the bed. Timmy’s body went limp with fear. He felt helpless. He couldn’t see the face of the killer. He could only feel their icy hands attempting to strangle him and the sharp fingernails digging into his skin.

He decided to fight back. The killer almost managed to drag Timmy out of his room. As their struggle continued past the mirror, Timmy looked up to see something that would haunt the last few seconds of his life. He saw that the killer was not a human. It was something he had never seen before. It had the shape of a man, but its skin was gray and wrinkly. Its eyes were solid black and it had fangs. Its eyes showed no emotion, just intention of harm. It was the last thing Timmy saw before being suffocated by the cold, shriveled hands.

The creature released Timmy’s body on top of his brother’s. It walked with the same steady cadence down to the kitchen, where it crawled out the window it had originally entered through. It walked away with that haunting cadence until it disappeared into the darkness.

Imaginary Friends

Nicole Sarno (2018)

Her legs, concealed in nylon stockings and nicely polished flats, dangled limply over the entrance hall below her. She kicked them back and forth, trying to match the rhythm of the wind chimes sounding from outside the open window. She clicked the toes of her shoes together, watching them bounce away and back from the other side of the metal railings she leaned on. She thought maybe the harsh texture of the spokes would leave an impression on her cheek, but she couldn’t care enough to move. Her hands hung motionless on the railing to her side, grabbing them like the chains of a swing.

Up here, on the second floor balcony, she could see through several of the open windows, and if she turned her head just a little bit she would be able to see the playground. That’s all she could ever do with it: look at it. She could never play on it or climb on it because the other kids never let her. They shoved her off the side of the slide before she could even sit down or pushed her too high on the swings until she cried. So she just sat inside, watching the other kids play through the windows and waving to Mrs. Acton when she passed through the hall.

As Evianna sat, slumped against the railing, she clicked her tongue along with the ticks of the clock. The ticks echoed in the empty room and sometimes she had a hard time not counting them. She clicked her tongue once, twice, and up to ten times before Mrs. Acton scuttled over to the door to shout to the kids. Right on time, as always. “Kids! It’s time for dinner. Come inside now, hurry up! Let’s go!” Evianna didn’t even bother moving her head to see the front door until she heard the sounds of a dozen kids running inside all at once. Every one of them was outside playing in the nice weather, except her.

“Mrs. Acton, wait!” a little boy shouted, grabbing tightly onto her arm as she moved to close the door. Evianna recognized him immediately as Teddy, the new kid. Usually Mrs. Acton never wasted time with the kids’ wasteful demands and cries, but she seemed to pause in her act of closing the door for him. Evianna was far away, but she thought maybe the sound of him crying echoed through the room just a bit. “Mrs. Acton! Jeremy is still out there!”

“Jeremy? Who is Jeremy? There’s no Jeremy here, now stop your whining and-”

“But Mrs. Acton, please! He’s afraid of the dark!” Teddy was holding the door open now with all his 6-year-old strength as tears streamed down his face. It was easier now, with him here, for Evianna to picture why the rest of the kids disliked her. Did she look like him, whining and crying all the time like some baby? He was only two years younger than her, and yet he seemed so far away from her in terms of maturity. Evianna never cried without reason, she never whined when she didn’t need to, and she certainly didn’t complain to Mrs. Acton. She sighed, dropping her hands from the railing to the floor as she pulled her legs back in through the gaps.

“There is no Jeremy here, Teddy. Who in the bloody hell are you talking about?!”

Once Evianna was able to push herself up without tripping over her lacy, white dress, she slowly made her way over to the staircase to her left, one step at a time. She was hoping to maybe get down to the dining room without Mrs. Acton turning to her and having some sort of emotional outburst. Meanwhile, Teddy was crying, sobbing in between breaths as he tried to convince Mrs. Acton to keep the door open which, at this point, was just inches away from being closed. Evianna placed her hands on the railing next to her, having to lift her arm to hold onto it correctly as she made her way down the last five steps.

“Who the hell is Jeremy?” Jack stood in the hallway entrance to the dining room, arms crossed and a sinister grin on his stupid face. Jack was the oldest kid in the house, and he certainly acted like it. He bossed all the kids around and got away with everything because he could always put the blame on the youngest of them. Evianna took the chance, as Mrs. Acton focused her attention on him, to run down the last few steps and into the other room. She could hear her shoes clicking and clacking on the hard floor beneath her as she sprinted for the last open chair at the table and climbed into it like she had been there the whole time.

“He’s my friend!” Teddy cried as the sound of a door slamming shut echoed into the room. The conversation between all the other children had quieted down at his statement, all eyes turning to him in interest as Mrs. Acton dragged him in by his wrist, red faced, and covered in his own tears.

“He isn’t real! You’re just dumb!” one of the girls spoke up, pointing a finger at the little boy rudely.

“It’s not polite to point,” Evianna whispered under her breath, but nobody seemed to hear her.

“Why not?!” Teddy cried in reply. Evianna just sunk lower in her chair, hoping this would be over fast so she could eat quickly and find refuge from the other children in another part of the house.

“Jeremy was probably just an old friend or something,” Jack commented with a shrug of his shoulders.“Everyone has breakdowns after their family gives them up for adoption.”

“That’s rude,” somebody from across the table commented quietly. Evianna hated how cocky he always made himself seem. He had the look in his eyes that said he knew he had the most influence in the house, and he was proud of it. Evianna knew his influence only lasted until he was 18, until he was old enough to leave the orphanage.

“What if Jeremy is his imaginary friend, though?” another girl asked. The thought sent a chill throughout most kids in the room.

“He’s not imaginary!” Teddy cried out. “He’s real! And he’s my friend!”

Evianna managed to block out the rest of the conversation, staring at her plate of food once it was served. Everyone had shut the topic down quickly to eat, but as people finished, the conversation slowly started again. Soon, everybody had finished eating and settled for talking instead, except Evianna, who still had half of her plate left.

“What’s wrong with having an imaginary friend?” Teddy asked, more calm now after his rampage and having food in his belly.

“You’ll end up like Mr. Hickerson,” Jack said quietly, adding an eerie feeling to the name.

Evianna had forgotten, because Teddy was new; he didn’t know the stories. This only meant she would have to sit through another stupid retelling of the Mr. Hickerson story because she hadn’t finished her food yet and couldn’t leave the table.

“Who’s Mr. Hickerson?” Teddy asked, his voice shaking with childish fear. Evianna didn’t blame him. Jack usually made the story sound pretty scary.

“He’s the old man who lives in the grey house down the street, the man with the imaginary friends,” Jack explained. “One night, little Kirsty decided to check up on him, say hi. She walked in, and she never came back out. The cops checked for a body in the morning, but they never found one.” The corner of Jack’s lips pulled up in cocky amusement as Teddy’s eyes widened in fear.

“But- but why would- he wouldn’t- but-” Teddy stuttered, hands shaking.

“And Kirsty isn’t the only kid,” Jack let his voice trail on as he told the story, pausing in between each bit to build unnecessary suspense. “There was Chris, and Mark, and Nat, and-”

Evianna slammed her fork down on the table as loud as she could, causing Jack to flinch back and the room to fall silent. “Why are you so mean? You’re scaring him!” she complained. “Mr. Hickerson is just a sweet old man,” she said, turning her attention to Teddy who had looked to her with all his built up fear. “He waters the flowers by our mailbox every Thursday, and when a kid goes missing, he joins in all the search parties. He even volunteers to clean up the streets.” She turned her attention to Jack, narrowing her eyes at him. “You are so mean. He’s never done anything wrong to you so why do you have to turn him into a monster?”

“Because he is one!” a boy finally said from the back of the room, “He took Kirsty and the rest of them!”

“You don’t know that!” Evianna retaliated. “Kirsty was the youngest girl here and you sent her out there by herself and snuggled up in your beds without telling her to come in! She probably ran away but you couldn’t care less.”

“What- What if Mr. Hickerson took her,” Teddy asked with a shaken voice.

“Well fine,” Jack said, placing both hands on the table and leaning closer to Evianna. “If you’re so sure Mr. Hickerson is just a nice old man, go and knock on his door. Go say hi.” Evianna fell silent. Outside? In the dark? It was past dinner time, which meant she wasn’t allowed to go outside. But as Jack’s lips pulled into another wicked smile, suddenly she didn’t care about any of that. Jack was going to make her look like a fool if she didn’t do it. She was already the tiny one they pushed around, so if she didn’t do this, they’d never let it go. Jack chuckled under his breath, “See she won’t-”

“Fine,” Evianna said confidently, pushing her chair back as she stood up, hands on her hips with her chin up. The room fell silent again, and the only thing she could hear was Jack’s smile taunting her.

“Are you sure?” one of the other kids asked.

“I bet she won’t even step out the door.”

“Evianna, no you can’t!”

“She acts strong now but later when she’s all alone she’ll-”

“Let’s go,” Evianna encouraged, leaving her half eaten food on the table as she marched herself over to the front door.

“Mrs. Acton is downstairs doing laundry; she won’t be able to come to your rescue fast enough if you scream,” Jack informed her, causing the hair on the back of her neck to stand up.

“I won’t scream,” she stated, despite the pit she was feeling in her stomach.

“Well then let’s go.”

Evianna waited for Jack to open the door for her, confidently taking a step out into the night air and continuing down the stairs. She led the way down the road as a group of kids followed behind her, eager to see if she would actually do it. She felt confident leading them for once, like she was above them even if it was only for a brief moment. The darkness didn’t even bother her.

“Why do you call him the man with the imaginary friends?” Teddy asked from behind Jack, running more than walking to keep up with him and the group.

“Because he talks to himself,” Jack replied. “He says he’s talking to his friends but there’s nobody there. The whole street knows he’s crazy.” Evianna ignored the dread that filled her nerves at that statement. Soon enough, the house came into view. Evianna just kept telling herself, it’s okay, he’s only a nice old man. Nothing they say about him is true. Kirsty probably never even got to the front door. The imaginary friends are just his friends. They make him happy. He’s just a perfectly sane old man that-

“Well?” Jack asked, nodding towards the house. “Go knock.”

“We aren’t even at the front door yet,” Evianna stated cautiously, noting how they had stopped in front of the house next door instead of walking all the way up to the porch.

“You think the rest of us are going up to that house? Nope. This is all you. Go ahead.” Evianna rolled her eyes and turned towards the house.

“Jerks,” she whispered before marching up to the house. She paused briefly before the stairs, letting out a pent up breath before continuing up them. They creaked under her weight with an awful noise. Each step felt like it was ripping a small piece of her confidence out, dwindling her down to nothing but fear by the time she was standing in front of the door. She lifted her hand slowly, letting her nerves freeze in panic as her hand hovered over the door. It took a few seconds to convince herself it was okay to knock, nothing bad would happen. With her eyes closed hard and a deep breath, she moved her hand to hit the door. When it opened, Mr. Hickerson was standing on the other side with a smile on his face.

“Oh hello darling! Hello, hello!” his voice frail, soft, and welcoming.

Evianna laughed nervously, forcing her eyes open quickly and bringing her hands together by her chest. She felt slightly at ease, like her panic at the door had been for nothing. “He- hello Mr. Hickerson.”

The man in front of her was just as sweet as she had always remembered him, wrinkled face, overalls, thinning hair, and a weirdly bright smile with only a few teeth. “I was just making tea,” Mr. Hickerson said, nodding his head to himself. “Would you like to come in and have some?” Evianna knew she was done, she had gone up to the door just like Jack had told her to. She could say ‘no thanks’ like any smart kid and be on her way. But, to her, it felt like the bet was more than that. She had to go inside or Jack and the rest would still call her out about it.

“Oh, sure, yes, thank you,” Evianna said with a smile and a polite nod of the head as the old man welcomed her inside.

“Now what are you doing outside this late?” the old man asked as he slowly made his way over to the dining room. Evianna noticed how big the dining room was, a huge table fitted with eight chairs with a plate and teacup at each one. She noticed how the tea was already set up on the table, streaming hot and unpoured. It looked like a small tea party. She also noticed how the set up was the only thing in this room of the house, bland walls surrounding it which gave it a claustrophobic vibe. Walking in, she felt small and trapped.

“Uh, well I just wanted to thank you for watering our flowers,” she said as she wrapped her arms around her chest. Every step she took creaked on the floor, although it sounded like so many more people walking than just two.

“Oh yes, dear, of course! Your flowers are very beautiful.” Mr. Hickerson pulled out a chair at one end of the table, the legs scraping against the wood loudly, before walking around to his own end of the table. Evianna took her seat in the pulled out chair. “Thank you so much for coming to have tea with my friends and I.”

“Your… friends?” Evianna’s mind seemed to click into place at that moment, remembering all the stories of the old man and his imaginary friends. “Oh, oh yes, hello,” she said looking to each empty chair and nodding her head politely. “It’s very nice to meet you all.” She figured it couldn’t hurt, playing along with the old man. After all, everyone only seemed to make fun of him day after day. But as she said her greetings, she felt watched, like someone was listening. “So,” she started, shaking off the feeling as Mr. Hickerson readied the tea kettle, “how did you meet all your friends?”

Mr. Hickerson paused, smiling at her. “Oh, they just seemed to find me. They would come here and say hello, much like you darling, and then they would become my friends. But Mark is stubborn.” Mr. Hickerson seemed to sigh in annoyance, his smile dropping. “Mark! We have company! Come to the table please!”

Evianna lifted her eyebrow in confusion. She heard the footsteps running across the floor upstairs, the familiar creak of the wood and the bang of each step. She heard the person running down the stairs behind her at light speed, jumping to the ground with a bang and running up behind her, right up to the chair by her side. Then the chair budged to the side, the noises stopped, and the chair was empty.

“Thank you, Mark.” Evianna felt her hands freeze by her sides, her eyes unmoving from the empty chair beside her. She slowly pulled her legs as far underneath the chair she sat on as she could, as if something would grab them. Her heart started to beat faster and faster. She tried to control her breathing, to not give away her fear, but she knew it was showing all over her face.

“He- hello, Mark,” she said nervously, her voice shaking uncontrollably.

“So, Evianna, tell me about yourself.” She snapped her wide eyes from the empty chair to the man that should not know her name and who now had a sickly looking smile on his face.

“Uhm- you- you-”

“Do you like tea?”

She felt her lip quivering, her eyes drying up and beginning to sting from not blinking. If she blinked she might miss something. If she blinked something might appear right in front of her face, and she would never know it. “Y- yes, yes sir.” Evianna was afraid to say anything else.

“Wonderful,” he said as he held the tea pot up, walking over to her to pour her a cup.

She whispered a quiet, “thank you,” when he had finished. All she could do was stare at it.

“Drink up, drink up.”

“Okay,” she said with a crack in her voice and tears brimming in her eyes. She slowly moved her shaky hands to the cup, watching it shake as she lifted it to her lips. The tea stung and it tasted bitter, but she continued to drink it anyways. She drank the whole cup as fast as she could, suffering through the burning sensation in her throat and chest, putting it down with a loud clunk when it was empty, and giving the old man a forced smile. “Thank you so much for the tea,” she said, holding the smile like it was the only thing keeping her alive. “If you’ll excuse me now, I have to get home. It’s late. Thank you again for having me.”

She stood up from her chair and turned to leave as the chair beside her pushed out from the table. She screamed, falling back, and tripping over the chair behind her until they both crashed to the ground tangled together. She kicked the chair as hard as she could away from her as the other chairs around her pushed out. She felt a hand on her shoulder and screamed as loud as she could, swatting her hands all around her and finding nothing. She rolled onto her hands and knees, pushing herself up and sprinting to the door. She heard footsteps chasing after her as she ran. There was no time to brace herself as a hand tugged on her wrist, pulling her to the ground.

She screamed even louder, kicking her feet everywhere until her toes hit something she couldn’t see. She pushed herself backwards, tears streaming down her face until she made her way to the door. She could barely see where she was running, the tears flooded her eyes so quickly. She felt her foot missing the porch step before she could even see the road and she tumbled down the rest of them and onto the rocky dirt at the bottom. She pushed herself up and ran as fast as she could when she heard the steps following her down the stairs.

“Jack! Jack! Jack help me! Teddy!” Evianna ran as fast as she could down the road to her group. None of them had turned their heads to her yet or even acknowledged she was there. “Please! Hey guys! Oh God, help me, please!” As she got closer and closer to the group of kids, she noticed none of them had even flinched at her approach. “This isn’t funny! Please!” She skidded to a stop by their sides with uneven breaths. “Ja- Jack! Hey!” Jack didn’t turn to her, none of them did. “This isn’t funny! We have to go! Come on!”

“How long has it been?” Jack asked checking his watch, so calmly when she was right here screaming at them.

“We have to go!”

“Like, ten minutes. Do you think she’s okay? Jack, what if we made a mistake?” One of the girls asked worriedly, grabbing onto his arm and glancing back at the house.

“I’m right here!” Evianna screamed. She felt the tears streaming down her face as she called out to them. “Jack, come on!” She reached out for his arm, wrapping her tiny hands around it when he screamed and jumped back, looking right through her. “Jack we have to-”

“Holy crap! Did anyone else just feel that?”

“Jack come on I just-”

“I swear something just grabbed my arm!”

“Please! Jack, please! Anyone! Lisa! James! Teddy! Please, oh my God please help me!”

“They can’t see you.”

Evianna whipped her head around, crashing backwards into one of the kids as she watched a group of kids standing in front of her, just a few feet away. They just stood there watching, side by side.

“They can’t hear you either,” a sickly girl said. The skin on her pale face was caved into her cheeks and made her look starved. Evianna let out a choked up sob as the kids screamed behind her, looking for whatever had touched them when she was standing right there.

“Please- please don’t cry,” the girl said walking up to her. Evianna took a step back, watching a tear slowly fall down the girl’s pale cheek.“Why did you drink the tea?”

“Wha- what?”

“The tea! The tea! You drank the tea and now you’re like this!”

Evianna flinched as she screamed, backing away step by step. “Why can’t they see me? None of this makes sense! You can see me. You- you can hear me.”

“Please just stop screaming and-”

“Who are you?! What happened to me?!” The girl took a step back, looking around at the kids around her. Their eyes were beat red, veiny, and cold looking. They all looked diseased.

“My name is Kirsty.”

“Kirsty? That’s… that’s not possible, no, you-”

“You’re like us now,” she said, placing her hand on the nape of Evianna’s neck with a chalky feeling. Her skin was cracked, broken in some places. She was falling apart.

“I’m not like you,” Evianna choked out. “I’m alive. I’m real.”

“Not anymore. Now you’re just the old man’s imaginary friend.”

Timothy

Travis Marchant (2018)

A bag is placed over my head, as I am tackled to the ground. I am struck from behind, my ears ring, and everything goes black. I wake up to an unknown face.

“Hello,” the man says in a deep New York accent.

“Who the hell are you?” I ask frantically.

“Not important. What is important is that we get back at your god damned husband.”

“Wha-mwamwa?” Before I can say what I want, a cloth is held over my mouth. I try to resist it, but there is no use. My vision becomes blurred and everything goes dark. Suddenly the light flashes into my eyes again and I feel the intense heat all over me.

“She’s up, boss,” a man says. Another man, wearing a mask, walks in front of me. Suddenly he grabs my face, pinching my eyes open. Then things are slid into my eye sockets.

“There, all done,” he says. I try to close my eyes, but I get a sharp pain around the outside of my eye sockets and blood starts to flow across my frame of vision and down to my nose. It soon fills my vision, the dark red liquid only shields my eyes from the light slightly, but the light seems to grow in intensity. The blood gets scraped from my eyes revealing what seems like the sun placed right in front of me. The heat radiating from the light makes my face sweat and my eyes water.

“Don’t worry. Your husband will come for you soon enough,” a man says.

I get chills down my spine. Compared to all the pain I’ve experienced today, this pain has the most gravity. The man doesn’t realize I am pregnant, and the child is not my husband’s. I cheated on him, and he knows it. He will not come for me. I look away from the light: down, up, side to side, I can barely escape it. The shape of the light still appears even when I fully lift my head and look back. There is no use. I continue to stare directly at the beam in hopes that my irises completely close.

“Say hello to your husband, Martha.” the man says.

Not knowing where to look I look down and say, “Forgive me, Jerry. Forgive me.”

I hear the man end the phone call. “What in the hell was that about? Why does he need to forgive you?” the man asks.

“I uh...” I realize I shouldn’t tell the man, or he will have no reason to keep me alive.

“You what? You better pray to God he comes soon!” The man leaves, and I am left alone for hours. I look around, kick at my chair, scream, anything to try to escape. The light still shining at me offers no mercy. My eyes are beginning to shut down, but I welcome this. I can no longer stand the bright light. I hear footsteps behind me, then the light suddenly shuts off, but I still cannot see. My eyes are wide open yet all I see is one big white spot following my vision everywhere I look.

“Hello,” the man says. “Can you see me?”

“No, I can’t see a goddamn thing you asshole!” I exclaim.

“Haha, you hear that? Your wife has gone completely blind.”

“Who, who are you talking to?”

He ignores me, but it does not matter. It is a worthless question. The only person who would save me is my father or mother. “It’s reversible, but if you don’t return what you stole we will continue to torture your wife.” The man leaves without turning on the lights, which I think is a blessing. I sit there looking at the wall, trying to search around for windows. I spin my chair around with several thrusts and am completely out of breath. My stomach growls and my head aches. I am being deprived of every necessity. After several hours of staring at the window, a figure appears. “Martha, Martha...how could you do this to me?” the figure asks in a child's voice.

“Do what? Who are you?” I ask.

The figure gets closer to the window. “You’re a terrible mother!” This is my son. I feel my stomach, and I realize I am no longer pregnant. When I look up the figure is gone, but I still hear his chanting, “Mother, how could you do this to me?” I can’t tell where the voice is coming from, so I frantically turn around. As I am turning, everything becomes white. I am being blinded by the light again.

What just happened? I rationalize it all as a bad dream, but my eyes are held open. Maybe my mind was able to shut down.

“Hello,” the now familiar voice says. “I am surprised your husband has not come yet. Is there something you want to tell me?”

I think about telling him, but I would be destroying the last thing that is keeping me alive. I must fight for myself; I must fight for my child… my child. I realize because I am suffering, my child must be suffering twice as bad. I am still very early on in my pregnancy, so it is not easily noticeable. Should I tell the man about my child, so he will give me some food? If I tell him he could suspect that the child is not my husband’s and kill us both. “He will come. He will come, I promise.”

The man leaves the room once again and shuts off the light. I spin my chair around only to realize the window I had seen my son in was painted completely black. I see the light slowly fade through the translucent parts of the painted window and I grow more tired, hungry, and thirsty.

There is no longer light coming from the window. I wait for hours, hoping for my mind to shut down and rest. I look down and see my stomach twisting and turning. It is being pushed and pulled from the inside. Then suddenly a leg pushes through, then an arm. I feel no pain, but the sight terrifies me. The head emerges last.

“Why Mom? Why did you do this to me?” The child pulls itself out of me. “Look what you have done, Mom!” I look down and see my child. Blue skin tightly pulled around his bone structure. “Look what you've done to me.” He cries. He fully escapes my stomach and crawls toward me. He plants his hips on my waist. “Why are you so selfish?” He digs his nails into my sides. “Why?” He lunges forward landing with his face right next to mine. Blood drips from his toothless mouth as he stares into my eyes. “Look what you've done to me!” he screams.

I shut my eyes out of fear. When I reopen my eyes there is a bright light in front of me. I try to shut them again, but I get the sharp pain I have become accustomed to.

“Hello… Jerry are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“If you don’t come for your wife with the money you stole from us by the end of the week we're gonna kill her.”

“I’m not giving your goddamn money back, you ignorant asshole. That money wasn’t yours to begin with.”

“Oh look at you playing Robin Hood at the expense of your wife.” The voice fades. I know I will be dead by the end of the week. There is nothing I can say or do to stop that.

Light gives way to darkness once again. I look around, trying to keep my mind conscious. I don’t want to have another frightening dream. I sit still until everything becomes silent. This is my chance. I notice my arms and hands feel looser. I look down to see that my restraints have been removed. Instead of questioning it, I immediately stand up. When I stand up I feel an instability in the ground, and I fall. I look below me and see nothing, but clouds. I hear a crying baby so I turn around and grab him.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Timothy,” he responds. This name shocks me as it is the name I was going to give my child. I feel my stomach and I get a rush of anxiety. Not this again. I look into the child's eyes and see a familiar face; he looks just like me. We break through the clouds to reveal that we are in NYC, the place where Timothy was conceived. “Why would you do this to me, Mommy?” the child cries. “We're gonna die, Mom. We’re gonna die!”

I try to comfort him. “It's just a dream, don’t-” Before I can finish, we hit the ground. To my surprise I am still alive. I roll to my back. I look to my side and see a pile of intestines and blood. Bugs begins crawling into and over the pile which was once my son. “You're right son… I did fail you,” I cry.

I look around and realize I am back in the room. I must be back in reality. I stand up and see a scapula on the desk. I grab it and cut both my forearms. I sit back on the chair they were keeping me in complete surrender. As my life fades I hear a voice. “Martha, Martha wake up. It’s Jerry.”