Pale

A pale creature crawls through the vents of my house at night. No one in my family believes me. But I’ve seen it. It hides in the room behind my closet. Behind an old double door that an architect must have envisioned a second story storage room. Under the eaves and my unease it scuttles through the dusty passages of the house everyone else has forgotten about.

The beat of my heart shakes my bed as I lie awake at night. That creature inspires a fear so large it would make my heartbeat show up on a Richter scale. I try not to think about it. But it’s like saying “Pink Elephant,” and not imaging it. It’s stuck in my brain like a mammoth trapped in tar. I am stuck in this bed. A small box of books holds the closet door shut and I pray to all the pantheons that no foul strength is tested against my hardback collection of Ray Bradbury.

I don’t think it wants to hurt me. It would have done it by now. I hear the way it’s gaunt body slithers through the walls. How overgrown nails tap against the wood floors as it slinks through my waking nightmare. It would have hurt me by now, I tell myself. The anticipation is making my hair fall out. I spend my mornings staring into the haggard face of a frightened sixteen year old. Once in a while I catch a flash of pale white as it moves past the vents. My breath catches and my joints lock in place. I try to shake the spell of playing dead— having no wish to share traits with an opossum. But nature knows there’s a predator in the house— and it is not me.

My friends ask why we never hang out anymore. I don’t know how to lie, so I mumble that I’m too tired for sleepovers. We used to hang out all the time at your old house they say. Things change. I don’t want them to see the creature. I don’t want the creature to see them. I don’t think the box of books would hold the closet door if it wanted to say hi.

Sweet Sixteen

When people hear of djinns, they think of genies. They don’t think of the demons of fire and smoke that were born out of time. The origins of the Djinn are tied to the Middle East and North Africa. 

Djinn are crafty creatures- possessing control over fire and the most powerful of them, the ability to distort reality with their wish granting. At a price (and peril of the wish maker). 

But this is not a story of Djinn. This is a story of Ghouls. The carrion creatures that many have forgotten are tied to the legend of Djinn and Genie. Ghouls with their insatiable appetite for dead flesh. Ghouls with their deep burrows and graveyard raids. 

Ghouls— too magically inert to make the transformation back to their Djinn state. 

Not all Ghouls are mindless, dirt dwelling monsters. Some are still wrapped in their cloak of dwindling humanity. They try to hide their teeth. And their appetite. Eventually both are revealed. 

You cannot avoid the hunger. Not when destiny calls you through it. 

Family matters. Even for orphans. Especially so. Secrets that live within your bloodline can’t be hidden by a new name. 

Isaiah Fallow learned this the hard way. 

Isaiah didn’t look like the rest of his family, his skin a touch too tan and hair a whirling curl of black. In all the pictures he looked like a distant cousin from far away. But he was loved and that’s all that mattered. 

Until his sixteenth birthday. 

Secrets of the blood can hide a long time, but not forever. 

Isaiah was sixteen when the hunger woke up. When a burning in his stomach felt like the screech of a dying star. He didn’t remember the day or weeks that followed. Outside of the spill of blood and bone. Horrible crunching echoed through half dreams. Wicked lights danced at the edge of his sight— a beacon of fire calling from the Southwest— calling to him in a language that sounded like a song of mourning. 

When he awoke he was changed. No longer a boy and very far from a man. Isaiah Fallow’s hunger had turned him into something not seen for centuries— a ghoul. The change requires magic— the blood demands it. It wants to be transformed from the dormant state. But in an age of technology, it rarely finds it.

Still, a large enough amount of magic will trigger the transformation. Be it through ritual or consumption. Or both. 

The Fallow’s loved Isaiah. If they hadn’t, he would have never turned. His birthday party saw the whole community celebrate a bright, kind, young man. The type of boy who smiled like careless ease. The kind that even strangers feel protective of— knowing that joyful innocence is a rarity.

So, an entire community turned out to share their appreciation of him. Secretly they placed their own hopes and dreams across his narrow shoulders— believing he could become the best of them. Many wishes were muttered as he went to blow out his birthday candles— whatever was wished, it wasn’t what was deliver.
No one expected a pale, primal creature to rip through his skin and then the crowd. There’s an old word for what happened- carnage. 

With razor claws and a gaping maw— the creature tore through the gathering like wet paper. 

The age of monsters had returned to the world— and the only one who lived to tell the tale had to bear the burden of bringing it back.

Cotton Eyed Destiny

The halls of Swarthmore High School buzzed with anticipation. Winter formal had long proved to be a tradition everyone enjoyed. 

Well, almost everyone. 

Annie Turner hated dances. She hated the outfits, the fake cheer, the need to pretend that small social matters would lead to anything important in life. She couldn’t stand it. 

She decided that this year, Swarthmore High deserved a new tradition. One that showed all the fakes that the only thing that matter was power. Power that transcended mortal existence. 

Her plan had been in motion since last October after Gary Vanderfront and his cronies decided to line the inside of her locker with sheep guts and wrote “You’re a baaah-ed time.” Gary hadn’t taken her rejection at the Halloween party well. But you can’t expect success when you dress as a skeleton and ask people if they want to “bone.” 

Annie had to research how to remove sheep guts on the internet. That’s how she found her book of incantations on Etsy. The page with the cleaning guide had an old recipe section where a Midwestern Wiccan detailed their successes in between explanations of how to properly boil lentils and how to spice up vegan chili. 

Annie combed the halls as the first songs began to echo out from the gymnasium. The melodies of Timbaland and Shakira faded as she dove deeper into the school. She finally found an abandoned music room— budget cuts left the place dusty and littered with turned over chairs. It was perfect. 

Annie lit a single red candle and began. 

“Where did you come from?

Where did you go? 

Reveal the secrets of the universe to me- Cotton Eye Joe!”

A thrumming weight moved through the air. Time stuck like molasses as the final note rang clear. The motion inside the gymnasium froze. A half submerged ladle of punch stopped mid-bubble. 

A Deity had deigned to visit Swarthmore Formal. And Annie Turner had called it there. 

An explosion of lace and corduroy shocked the crowd back to life. The amp buzzed the stilted air— something changed— but the students didn’t know what. 

No one noticed the disappearance of Annie Turner. No one even thought to look. 

Over the next couple years— students would swear they heard chanting echo the halls on Winter Formal. Harsh whispers in the edge of rooms. Invisible eyes peeked through the stark, fluorescent lights and teenage music. 

Memories slipped like salmon on a ladder and worries fled to dark dreams and acid flashbacks. 

The name Annie Turner burnt like a twisted wick— flickering, but never full. 

Donations

When the blood shortage started, people laughed it off. The frenzied calls from the Red Cross soon changed that. Each subsequent call they offered more to get citizens to donate. It started small— gift cards to Chipotle & Sephora. Then it graduated to Apple products. Finally, they started promising investment strategies and tuition waivers for children. The higher the offers became, the less people refused, but the more suspicious they grew. 

“Why do they need all this blood?”

“Where is it going?”

“Why don’t they offer no pulp orange juice with donations?” 

The questions wouldn’t stop. But higher management employed smoke & mirror tactics to evade the public. As far as they were concerned, no one needed to know about the source of the shortage. 

The problem is that secrets like that don’t stay hidden for long. 

 Soon, the demand began to slow down. The offers dropped and the calls returned to normal. Still, no word from leadership about the nature of the problem or how it was fixed. 

An entire year passed— and on the eve of Halloween, a new moon rose in the sky. A blood red moon. It sat next to the original moon. The world erupted in chaos— two moons? Americans were irate— only two parties were allowed. But two moons? That’s treason. The rest of the world looked on with similar confusion and worry. What did it mean? 

The blood moon glistened in the night sky— it rotated in slow motion. The frustrations slipped away as eyes became transfixed on the hypnotic movement. 

The new moon began to spin faster— small points erupted on its surface— with each rotation they began to lengthen. Tendrils of red soon filled the sky and descended to the corralled masses below. 

The red strips were pliant, semi-autonomous as they surged to attach themselves to the first human they could find. 

Within a single day, the surface of earth played host to an unending mass of tethered bodies. 

Within another day— they were lifted into the sky. The tendrils retreated to the blood moon with their humans attached. 

Each body swallowed the flowing crimson surface made the moon imperceptibly bigger. 

The moon soon dominated the sky— easily dwarfing the earth & its own frail lookalike. 

An ominous silence fell over the earth— now vacated of human life. The machines had stopped— no calls, errands, chores, living being done. 

Just an orb of Jupiter proportions slowly edging away from the planet it harvested. 

No more donations needed.

Hands

Every couple hours I can hear the slap of a hand against the inside of the closet wall. No one else in the house has ever heard it. It doesn't matter what time of day— rain or shine— the slap will happen.

The door used to pop open when it happened too. So, I started leaving it ajar. Just a crack, so that I’d see something push it further. But I never have.

During stormy nights the windows in my sister’s room rattle like death maracas. My own room is greeted by the scratches of tree branches on the siding. I try to read during the storms— I don’t like the dreams they bring. The ones where the slap isn’t coming from the closet, but from the far corner or beneath my bed.

I’ve burned sage, prayed to various gods. But I haven’t seen anything. And it hasn’t gotten better. I want to tell my sister, but she only believes in science. I ask her about the footsteps we’d hear on the basement stairs when we were kids. The clear thud of heavy boots on old wood— at odds with the soft patter of our bare feet. She rolls her eyes and tells me it didn’t happen. I don’t bring up the closet.

The summer brought the usual frenzy of house projects and glamorized ideals. This year meant new carpet— which meant us kids had to rip up the old, turgid, pea soup green monstrosity that had dwelled on the floor since the 1970’s. I’d say it went gracefully, but it did not. It fought back at every turn with ancient moth balls, surprise staples, and the awkward weight of wool.

Success would have been sweet. But in my room we found a missing floorboard. There was a one by one hidey hole in the floor that had been clumsily boarded over. I didn’t want to look inside of it when my sister first noticed. A murder hole? In my room? Next to my bed?! The irony of all the creepy things happening to me was not lost. We looked after I finished my combined swearing/ panic attack. I wish we hadn’t.

Inside were old Polaroids. They were blurred, out of focus. But there always seemed to be a shadow at the edge of the photos. I recognized our house. But it looked different. It looked eerie. No people were shown, but an occasional hand popped into frame. A gnarled, club of a hand. The type you’d see on an aged prize fighter or rancher. I told my sister to put the photos back. They had stayed there all this time and we didn’t need to be the ones to let them into the light.

She didn’t listen.

The next day she heard the slap against the closet wall. She tried to put the photos back into the hidey hole, but it was too late. She had heard the hand.

The slaps started to happen faster. Less time in between them. It didn’t matter if we were together or apart— the noise continued. If anything, it sounded louder. It sounded angry.

We had forgotten the outside world. Our friends hadn’t seen us. Our grades were abysmal. But then I had to leave for summer camp. School ended before we knew what happened. Laney told me she’d be fine at home. That it was only noise. I didn’t know if I believed in God, but my worry gnawed on me until I began to pray for her at night. Tucked inside my sleeping bag in a drafty cabin, I begged the cosmic forces to just let this be a cruel joke. A ruse.

They didn’t listen.

Before the first week ended my mom came to pick me up. Laney went missing the day before and no one could find her. I asked my mom if she’d searched the house. She looked at me like I was crazy. I told her I didn’t want to go home.

We pulled into the driveway— our off white, two story New England bungalow loomed over me. I knew Laney was inside.

I didn’t know if I could join her.

Up

It took three weeks for anyone to notice the decapitated head in the attic window of the Kowalski house. Even then, people thought it was a decoration. Halloween come early or some other eccentric reasoning.
It wasn’t until the postman noticed the smell that the town of Auburn realized something was wrong.

People don’t have a tendency to look up. If they did, they would have noticed the strange happenings in the Kowalski house long before the sour stench of decomposition started flowing past the porch.

Originally the Kowalski family had five members when they moved into the house in 1972. Husband and wife, Harry and Lisa, and their three kids, Stephen, Simon, and Tiffany. Slap a sitcom title across their family portrait and they wouldn’t have looked out of place next to the Brady Bunch. But behind their carefully manicured hair and bright eyes— something was missing.

With Simon, the kids at school could have sworn there were whispers that trailed his voice as he spoke. For Tiffany, it was the hollowed stare of her ex-boyfriends after she finished dating them. But Stephen? No one could remember anything about him. Even the idea of him seemed to slip their mind. As for Harry and Lisa, they were somehow always together. They were like a stubborn elastic band that refused to stretch.

The head appeared one year after Stephen graduated from college and returned home. Not that anyone remembered him even going off to college in the first place. The police were summoned to the house to question the Kowalski’s, but by the time they arrived there was nothing to discover. No head. No smell. In fact, there was nothing inside the house at all.

Now, the Kowalski’s, while odd, had certainly lived in the neighborhood since 1972. Even the most stubborn neighbor would attest to that. But the strangest thing was that no one could find a picture of them. Not within the school yearbooks or local papers. Not in old Polaroids or projector slides. Even journal entries seemed oddly smudged where a name might have been.

Even the day before the police arrived, neighbors had seen the Kowalski’s departing the house and returning later. No moving vans or packed cars. No urgency in the air. Nothing at all.

The family had been there. And then they were not there.
Not once did anyone think to look up.

Sharp Shadows

In the dark corners of the woods, amidst the brambles and unruly thickets, the sharp teeth of goblins work on cooled flesh. 

Sitting in an old meadow slowly consumed creeping trees is the cemetery. That’s where they buried the Witch. That’s where you can find her. 

But there are three rules the town has for those foolish enough to venture into the forest. 

Don’t travel through the woods alone. 

Don’t travel through the woods without a light

And never travel near the Witch.

Azure

There were answers I thought I’d find begging on my knees. The only thing I received were bruises that dotted my skin like angry kisses. I didn’t find salvation in inaction. I did not find it through respite. It was through movement that I saw clarity. It was through movement that I saw it.

A hundred feet above me, an orb of azure light swirled in place. I was alone in the Chanokian forest, three miles down the Trenton path when I saw it. It didn’t look real. Nothing new ever does. Not presents or people. Not letters of acceptance or the look of disappointment on a face you thought you’d never fail. And not an orb of azure signalling you’re not alone in the universe.

I don’t remember the next moments. Or several weeks after— as a park ranger explained to me as we sat in their operations cabin on the north side of the forest. Ranger Dan, a surly, white haired Santa knock off, told me I had been missing for over three weeks. Three weeks! I thought I had missed thirty seconds at most. It felt like a lazy day where the first overdue steps you take against bring the blinding sun and an otherworldly shine to everything you see. That wasn’t the case.

Friends kept calling me after they heard I had been found. Most were relieved, others were angry. None of them understood. I couldn’t tell them. They thought I was lying. That the trauma had packed away the memories like unwanted presents deep in the closet. I couldn’t tell them because nothing was there. No one had taken me away. Not that I could remember. There were no marks on my skin. No disturbance on the ground where I was found. Even my clothes and pack were in the same condition as when I had started the hike.

Eventually I was left alone. Less people wanted to talk or commiserate once they realized I wasn’t holding out on them. I can’t say things went back to normal. Because I know I had been changed— but I couldn’t say how. It was in the little things that I noticed. Lights were brighter. Sounds louder. It felt like I had upgraded from an analog television to a 4K home theater with surround sound. I began to feel an outward presence of individuals around me. A magnetic field— some small, some larger— that they would emanate.

Part of me wanted to rush back to my friends and tell them what was happening. The other part knew I needed to keep this to myself. I had already been the source of controversy. I didn’t need to be poked and prodded or worse, locked away for minor delusions. I didn’t kid myself, it could all be fake outside of my own mind. Still, the occurrences began to increase. Soon I began to have dreams that didn’t seem to belong to me. I walked through hidden paths between time and space— and upon waking a thrum sounded from my chest. I felt more beacon to the unknown than member of humanity.

I returned to the forest without my pack. I didn’t think I’d need it for the second time. The trees shifted gently in the wind and I listened to their whispers. The pine needles squished into the muddy path beneath my feet as I drifted along. I waited for more. No orbs swirled overhead. I continued through the forest in a daze. Had I really seen it? Had I ever even gone?

My questions stirred within me and the thrum returned. I looked at my chest to see an azure light. I smiled and looked above.

Distant

I only pray when the frogs stop croaking at night. The foul silence that falls after their bombastic chorus makes my neck go cold with fear. There is something that lives outside in the fields beyond my farm. Something that takes sick delight in having been forgotten by everyone else in this god forsaken town. No one believed me when I mentioned the fields going silent in the night. Their eyes blanked as if to say “Harris, you sweet thing, this is why we don’t invite you to bingo,” as if I wanted to go anyway.

It hadn’t been difficult to get up and move out of the city after my job offered me the chance to work remote. I had dreamed of living in Hopsly since I vacationed here as a kid with my family. I knew it was a small town, but I hadn’t realized how insular it was. That was a mistake I tried to correct by frequenting the Red Elk, a bar good for cheap Miller High Life and the world’s dingiest dart board. Still, I had hoped to make at least one friend. That was partially fulfilled by my semi-regular drinking partner, Arthur Stanton, the local radio host. Arthur had gone off to LA to work in film, but fled back to Hopsly after an unfortunate incident involving an up and coming starlet and a mistaken laxative dose. Arthur had a melodic voice, but it frayed at the edges after a couple drinks, which was a now daily case.

“Have you heard anything about an escaped cougar or anything? I asked Arthur.

“Why are you asking me? I don’t know anything about wilderness stuff.”

“But you are in the news, right? Isn’t that the sort of thing that is broadcasted to the public, for like safety?”

“Harris, I play Fleetwood Mac and Woody Guthrie. The closest I come to delivering the news is when I have to mention the next George Strait concert. Why? You think there’s a cougar roaming around town? You gonna tell me her name?” Arthur gave a swarmy grin. He had a penchant for experienced woman.

“Ew, no. It’s nothing. Just thought there was an animal around my place the other night.”

“You’re out by Alconda Ridge, right? Could be an off-season bear rattling through. Would be a bit unlikely though.”

“Maybe… I couldn’t find any tracks for it. But it cut the frogs off dead silent. Really freaked me out.”

“I’ll tell you what, if you hear that again, you go ahead and give me a call at the station. I’ll see if I can make an announcement this one time.” I smiled and clinked my glass against his.

“I appreciate that. Hopefully it’s just nothing.”

***

I woke up to broken glass on the ground and myself splayed across it. I tried to turn to look around but my neck shrieked with pain. A small pool of blood had gathered next to where my head had laid. I started looking for my phone. I had to call Arthur— the town was in danger.

***

“You alright, Mister Connall? You took quite a nasty fall the other day. I’m glad to report that the stitches required were minimal and you should heal up without too much scarring.” A dour man in a white coat said as he scribbled as a clipboard.

“Scarring? Why would there be scarring?”

“Because of the glass, Mister Connall. It’s common to also have some disorientation after such a heavy collision. I would advise lessening the alcohol intake for the time being. Both for prudence and safety’s sake.”

“I was drinking?” The memories came back in a hazy fog. I had returned home, but something hadn’t been right. The door to my home had been open. I knew I had wanted to call Arthur immediately, but wasn’t sure I had.

“A fair amount, if the blood tests are correct” he gave a wry smile “And they always are.”

I rubbed my face, hoping to remember more from the night. “Did Arthur come by yet?”

“Our famous Mr. Stanton? Oh yes, he was here earlier this morning. He seemed frantic, but that’s the mark of a true friend, now isn’t it?”

“I guess? Can you call him back? I think I was supposed to talk to him.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible at this time. We need you to rest up before we can dismiss you from our care. It wouldn’t do to have you take another fall from preventable exhaustion.”

“Tomorrow then?” I asked, hoping he couldn’t hear the tightness in my chest. I couldn’t wait to talk to Arthur.

The doctor begin to fiddle with my IV as he pursed his lips “I’m sure we will revisit this tomorrow. For now, I’d like you to rest.”

The room began to grow fuzzy as I started fading. As the promise of sleep drifted near, I remembered a distant fear run through my body. I hoped my door would be closed when I returned home, although I couldn’t remember why.

With a gentle creep of rest— I heard a distant croaking and breathed easy.

Wynwood Manor

Finding the bones of a small bird in a carved out bible should’ve been the sign to leave the house. Instead, we kept digging through forgotten rooms— hoping to find something worth taking.

The curse of all young thieves is undiscerning greed. Each opportunity seems to possess life altering riches without lasting danger. That’s how Lawerence and I found ourselves inside the manor. We were on the edge of darkness and each minutes spent in that house brought us closer to it.

The Wynwood manor was said to be vacated after a family disagreement. They failed to mention the following family they replaced them. Lawrence and I had only been working together for a couple weeks at that point and we were both eager to gain the praise of our boss, Samantha. I can see now, that if we had waited a day longer everything would’ve been different.

A gentle knocking rose from the basement and echoed through the house. It began to build as Lawrence and I crept around the second floor. We soon gave up trying to hide the sounds of our footsteps. I tried to ask him what was happening but I was too scared to get the words out. I doubt Lawrence would’ve been able to respond anyway his eyes were wild with fear and I knew mine to be the same. My back had slicked with sweat And I prayed I would not have to face whatever was knocking.

It grew louder and louder as a house began to shake around us and with it came a wicked laugh. It had a dry rasp That would make calm minds think of shuffled papers. My legs stayed locked as I struggled to not let out a scream. I saw Lawerence’s hand run with blood as he bit down to keep quiet. Tears flowed from his eyes as he clenched them shut. I tried to pray, but the words escaped me.

Shaking, I placed an old golden stamp on the ground. I grabbed at Lawerence’s arm, “We have to get out of here.”

He shook his head back and forth. I grabbed him again.

“If you don’t open your eyes, we’re never going to get out of here.” I hissed. He peeked an eye open and looked over my shoulder. His face turned white and he dropped to the floor. I stood frozen in place— I couldn’t turn around to whatever stood in the doorway

I felt a hot breath on my neck as the laugh returned to my ear. A grip of iron caught my arm as I made to turn.

“Shh, shh, don’t cry out. You can still be brave if you stay silent.” The voice crooned as it’s fetid breath wafted towards me. “Join your friend in his sweet slumber and maybe you’ll be lucky to forget this wasn’t a dream.”

The iron grip pushed me to the floor. I didn’t try to fight it and quickly wrapped myself in a ball. Careful to keep my eyes shut. The last scraps of courage melted as a blank sleep snatched me from the nightmare.

In the morning I found myself alone in the room. The only sign of Lawerence were some drops of blood from his hand. I slowly got my feet and scanned the empty room. The sunshine felt like false safety, but I began to inch towards the doorway. My chest tightened as I strained to hear anything in the house, but it was a stale silence.

Once through the doorway I began to speed up as I made for the front door. I started down the wide staircase when I saw the door the manor stand wide open. Lawerence had already escaped— I lost control and broke into a sprint. The first step into the world paired with a boom as the door slammed behind me. I saw a flash of shadow and a twisted, grey face smiling from the second floor. It’s wicked laugh filled the air as I ran to the street. I ran until I couldn’t breathe— but even then the fear remained. As did the creature within the manor.

Atop a Wish

It didn’t feel wicked when they started. It had felt like soft rain while banana bread baked in the oven. The scent of moist dough and a sprinkle of cinnamon caught Jamie’s attention. She hadn’t known magic would be so beautiful.

The two girls, Jamie and Vanessa, stood at the top of the hallow. Their hands were covered in dry dirt with small streaks of sweat cutting through. The hole before them was barely noticeable in the dimming twilight.

“Did we do it right?” Jamie asked Vanessa. Vanessa looked through an old leather book and pursed her lips.

“I think so. We have to do one more thing though.”

Jamie stared off in the distance. She could see a fawn chewing on new growth at the bottom of the hill, “What?”

Vanessa punched a small blade into Jamie’s back, “This.”

Jamie staggered a couple steps before pitching forward onto the hole they had covered. Dark blood ran rivers down her side and onto the earth.

Vanessa stepped towards Jamie and couched down. “I’m sorry, but it’s the only way to be sure. Better safe than sorry.” She stood back up and walked down the hill.

By morning no body would be resting there, nor, would the world remember anyone by the name of Vanessa Hawthorne.

In the years to come, the town would come to call the small mountain Beacon Hill— for the unusually luminescent tree that stood at the top. On stormy nights, it looked almost like it was trying to pull itself from the ground as it swayed in the wind. But come morning, it was solid as ever.

Strange fruit would grace the tree once every three years— the small, pitted yellow orbs had a sour tang to them. Anyone who ate one without giving proper respect to the tree fell victim to a week of nightmares. The respectful found themselves on a similar length cloud of bliss.

A group of wise women took to the hill and arranged weekly rituals within its luminescent reach. The shadows transformed them into a spinning wheel of maiden & crone. They did not share what they learned from under the bright eves. They did not find it wise to share the words of prophecy.

Dream Dust

As the wind blew through the trees, the old woman leaned against my shoulder and whispered into my ear, “Guard your heart against the Season of Mist.”

Twenty years on, and I still haven’t a clue of what she meant. I wish I did.

I wish I understood why the crows follow me in their packs as I walk home at night. Or why cats never dare cross my path. I want to know why Emma LaFrainge cried after kissing me after the winter dance. Why the embers of an old fire seem to speak to my heart without words I can hear.

What I want most is to understand how the essence of dreams seems to mold in my hands— cutting with ease as if I were some clawed beast. Joining desperate ends in functional form as I impersonate an amateur tailor. I want to know the name of the woman that walked through my dreams. The one that broke the fragile belief that I was alone within them. I would know her name— the Lady of Mist and Shadow. The Dream Walker.

When the late summer wind blows across the hills, it sweeps under my heart with a cosmic weight. I feel at once calm and wary— as I am aware that not only peaceful things ride atop the wind. There is silence beyond the sound of the breeze. An obfuscation of reality as little dapples of magic bend around my sight. She walks beyond these winds— her truth is hidden amongst gales and moonlight. I want to beg for certainty— but I know that is a dark request. She has granted lesser whims— but the truth remains out of reach.

Trick or Treat

“Big braaaaaiiiiinnnnnn! Come back! You said you’d go trick or treating with me!” Morgan called out as Sylvia walked away.

Sylvia heard Morgan put all of her one hundred and three pounds of junior varsity lacrosse frame to use and sprint down the hall after her.

“I wasn’t kidding, Syl. This could be our last year to trick or treat! I want some Mars bars before the Brinkley brothers ransack the neighborhood.“ Sylvia sighed and stopped walking.

“Fine,” she said with a groan. “But I’m choosing my own costume this year. I don’t want to wear another glam band outfit. I’m still finding glitter from last year…”

“Yes! Ahh! We’re going to have so much fun,” Morgan said as she jumped up and down. Sylvia wondered what it would take for Morgan to not move. She’d known her since they were five years old, and the years that passed weren’t the blur, it was Morgan running around.

“I also don’t want to go down San Rafael street. I know you like the creepy half-lit streets, but we’re not doing that this year. Only the good streets off of Knott.”

“Ugh, fine. But we’re totally gonna miss out on the candy bowls they leave on their porches.”

“Not worth it. Five dollars the Brinkley brothers will clear those out first.” The bell for fifth period rang— leaving Morgan and Sylvia late for math. Miss Kenten wasn’t going to be happy with them.

As the sun lowered over the city, Sylvia and Morgan got ready at Morgan’s house. They were in the attic, surrounded by old mirrors and open chests of theater costumes. Morgan came from a long line of thespian’s, making her insistence on athletics frustrating to her parents. Still, they were happy to let Morgan and Sylvia rifle through the old costumes in hope it convinced her to take a step closer to the stage.

Sylvia put on a dusty train inspectors uniform and rotated in front of the mirror. She grabbed a black cap off the ground and put it on.

“Now that’s an outfit! You look like your name could be Horace or Theodore,” Morgan said as she loosely held a purple leotard.

“I said no glam bands.”

“But-“

“I’m not suffering through another year of glitter. There’s plenty of other costumes.”

“Fine,” Morgan stuffed the leotard back into a chest and pulled out a nun’s frock. “What do you think?” She said waggling her eyebrows, “I could make a habit of this.” Sylvia let out a snort which prompted Morgan into a belly laugh. They were both on the ground crying with laughter as they struggled to gulp down air.

They eventually made it outside with their costumes and pillow cases for candy. The little kids accompanied by mom or dad had already started and finished before it got too dark. The streets were left to the slightly older kids who wandered without their parents.

The rain held off— letting the girls enjoy a surprisingly dry Portland Halloween. They thought it a sign of good fortune. Forgetting all the stories of pale moon nights in the city. They made a leisurely circuit around the Irvington neighborhood before they heard it. The gentle whimpers of a hurt animal.

They paused— waiting to see if it stayed put. They held their breath as a small, black, shaggy creature limped onto the sidewalk before them.

“Syl! It’s a little puppy— poor guy must have been attacked by a coyote or something,” Morgan said rushing to the creature. It made another small whimper before letting out a phlegmy growl. It’s hackles raised as Morgan jumped back from it.

Sylvia began inching backwards “I don’t think that’s a dog, Mo. We should just let it be.”

“But it’s not safe out here for it!”

“It’s not gonna be safe for us either if it keeps growling like that. I don’t think it wants us to touch it.”

The animal seemed to crackle and melt as it began to expand into a larger beast. The phlegmy growl became a full throated bass. It’s dark squinty eyes began to glow like rainy red neon.

“Mo…” Sylvia said grabbing for Morgan’s hand. “We have to go— NOW.”

The pair took off in a sprint as the beast behind them let out of wicked howl. The moonlight flashed between blank patches of sky as the trees covered most of the neighborhood. Ten blocks— they just had to make it ten blocks, Sylvia thought. They must have strayed far into the night, because the previously busy streets were empty as they ran.

Up ahead were three figures similar in height strolling down the middle of Thompson. They were laughing as they swung their bulky pillowcases at each other. They hadn’t heard the creature—

“RUN!!” Sylvia screamed at the trio. The shocked faces of Grant, Josh, & Alex Brinkley turned to take in the frantic sight of Sylvia and Mo sprinting down the street. The boys stopped and then watched the girls run past before hearing the scrabble of thick nails on pavement. The beast burst onto the street two blocks behind them and howled before resuming its chase.

“What the fu-“ Josh said before Mo ran back and wrenched him into a run.

“Just run!” Mo screamed at the brothers. All five of them ran together— they were only a block away from Morgan’s house. The beast sounded closer as they rounded the corner and had her home in sight. “To my house!” She didn’t have time to check if they agreed.

They flew up the old wooden steps and burst through the front door. Mo slammed the door shut and threw the locks. She took a deep, shuddering breath. The door was immediately met with a heavy force— it threw her to the ground, but the heavy oak door held. Sylvia and the Brinkley brothers looked behind Mo in horror. A claw had jammed through the door and broken off. It’s curled, black mass felt more menacing than the howl. They could hear the beast pad across the porch as it huffed.

“What the hell is that thing?” Grant asked as he got up from the floor. His usual cherubic face lined with worry.

“I don’t know. Syl and I thought it was a puppy at first. But I don’t know. It’s bad- whatever it is.”

“Mo, where are your parents?” Syl asked as she looked around the darkened house. The usual nighttime lamps weren’t on.

“I think they’re out at a party. My mom just opened her new play downtown. Should I call them? Do we call the cops? Animal control?”

“Does anyone have a cellphone on them?” Grant asked. The tallest and oldest Brinkley brother trying to use a calm voice.

“You don’t have one?” Mo said as she stared a second too long at Grant. The moment was broken as the door thudded again. The wood groaned, but continued to hold.

“No, I don’t have one. Our parents don’t believe in kids having phones. What about you? Isn’t there a landline?”

“A landline? This isn’t the sixties, Grant. Everyone has a cell phone now.”

“Then where’s yours?”

Mo patted her body down as Sylvia did the same thing, “I must have dropped it…”

Grant shook his head, “Never thought I’d die in the Wallstein house.” Alex and Josh exchanged terrified looks.

“Uh…” Alex raised his hand, “should we move away from the door?” Everyone turned at that to stare at their dwindling hope in wooden form. It shuddered again as the beast tried yet another time.

Sylvia looked at Mo and then looked up towards the attic. Mo nodded.

Cupboard

Cold sweat soft dripping down my spine. The house has been quiet for two days. I haven’t left the safety of the cupboard under the stairs. I know they’re still here.

The spring purification ritual is simple— you toss salt out of your windows as you chant to let the bad spirits out and invite the good ones in.

You can even invite the “bad” ones in if you know how to make peace with them.

I didn’t know my brother was performing the inverted ritual the same time I was. The duplication left the door open to something far worse than mischievous garden spirits.

They came during the dead of night. The old wooden bones of the house creaked as the last of my family fell asleep. I heard my brother tip toe up to the study in the attic. The last couple years he had spent most of his nights up there. Most of them I heard the muffled words of failed incantations.

I hadn’t worried then— he was my brother.

I worried now.

Dealing in the realm of spirits wasn’t expressly forbidden by the Kilmarnock contract of 1742, but only fools and priests skirted it’s edges. My brother had taken no godly vows— which marked him as the former.

I prayed to Orpheus— that he might guide a light for me through the preternatural darkness that loomed within the house. Shadows grew heavy and fell from the walls. Through the old, dusty slats of the cupboard I could see them pull themselves from the ground and inflate like warped balloons.

Orpheus ignored my prayers.

I prayed to Reynard— knowing the price of the Fox would be grave. But I couldn’t survive in the cupboard— my own waste made sleep impossible. My legs ached as the growing hours cramped them. I needed a trick to escape— I thought wistfully of Coyote— knowing he could escape these walls with ease.

A flash of red fur signaled Reynard’s presence. A heavy breath warmed my nape— though no space was available.

“Someone is scared to escape on their own,” his raspy voice said. No face greeted me— just a pair of glowing yellow eyes from the other side of the cupboard.

“I need your help.”

“What do you have to offer?” I could feel the eyes scan my huddled body. Reynard wasn’t know to be picky.

“A locket.”

“You think you can buy a god with a trinket? What else do you have?”

“You don’t know who it belonged to.”

“Don’t I?” He purred. My hand clenched the burnished silver— hoping I was right.

“One that escaped you, though she didn’t escape the flames.”

The eyes narrowed. “You don’t have that. No one has that.”

“I do. It feel before they burned her. Before they sacrificed her.”

“The lost amulet of Joan of Arc. I’m impressed, my little closet mouse. Whose name do you claim?”

“de Baudricourt.”

“Merde. You’re not a mouse. You’re a snake. I didn’t know your line still existed. How did Robert manage to recover the amulet?”

“You walk between worlds— ask himself yourself.”

“That can wait. You can’t. This cupboard will only hold you for so long. What is it you ask of me?”

“Show me how to escape without being caught. My brother can’t find me here. I fear he’s … not himself any longer.”

“You’re asking for magic. Are you prepared to sacrifice for it?”

“Sacrifice? You’ll get the amulet. This has been in my family for the last six hundred years!”

“But it wasn’t yours. It’s a trinket from a lost maiden that a dirty family stole. What of yourself will you offer?”

“Myself?” A sharp smiles hung in the air below the eyes.

“I’m waiting.”

“… Blood.”

Everton

They called Darren Everton’s death a “fade.” It was a specific style of disappearance where the subject dematerialized while within a large group. No one know what happened to Darren. One second he was standing there— the next there was an empty pile of black American Eagle jeans and a thrift shop sweater settled over a greasy pair of Doc’s.

Everton’s disappearance wasn’t the first that happened in Liston. But it was the first where the subject didn’t have any reason to depart. Everton was the third son of a successful banker. He was known as a joyous party boy— more likely to buy you a drink than cause you any trouble. He had just started a podcast with a friend called “Voidwalk” which sounded promising until the authorities realized it was about blackout stories. They did know one thing—- rich white boys don’t walk away lightly from podcast projects.

The Liston authorities worked on the case for weeks to no avail. Darren’s father, Arthur, pushed them to do more. But it’s hard when thirty witnesses and video footage all showed the same thing— instant disappearance.

National news outlets sniffed around in the beginning— but the story petered out after no other clues could be found. Several horror podcasts picked up the project— devoting themselves to creating a conspiracy style pin map trying to connect Darren’s disappearance with other disappearances across the country. It was no use. Darren wasn’t anywhere to be found.

Years passed and the story of Darren Everton faded into obscurity.

It wasn’t until a brilliantly chaotic podcast critic on a catalogue project found “Voidwalk” and realized that episodes were still being released. The mysterious critic got in touch with Darren’s podcast partner, Cormac Langley, who registered shock at the new episodes. Cormac hadn’t worked on it since Darren disappeared. He and the critic (who only referred to themselves as the ‘Critic) heard nothing but the sizzle and pop of background recording noises in the podcast. Occasional bursts of static would punctuate the low silence. There were twenty episodes— all untitled.

The Critic layered the podcast audio over each other— as they were all two minutes and thirty seven seconds. They amped up the volume and turned on distortion stabilizers— what the critic heard was Darren Everton beyond their dimension. He mumbled to himself as he described what sounded like the inside of a vast, glow light filled cave. He didn’t sound scared— instead, he sounded insatiably curious. At the end of the recording was a distant eerie call— telling the Critic that wherever Darren Everton was— he wasn’t alone.

High Tides

“The deeds of man disappear like footprints in the sand,” the raven-haired woman said as she looked out at the crushed turquoise sea. “Nothing lasts forever. Not this pain. Not this life. Not even this kingdom you seem so desperate to run away from. Remember—whether you stay or go in your lifetime doesn’t matter. At the end, everything will wash away.”

A wiry young man with dark red hair stared at the woman in awe. Until today, Glenn had mistakenly believed Madame Lennox’s presence was an indulgence of the captain. Now, it seemed to be the other way around.

Madame Lennox turned from the ship's bow and gave Glenn an appraising look before looking back to the sea. A distinctly uncomfortable sensation rose through his stomach as his face burned pink. A former street rat turned sea rat, Glenn didn’t know the manners necessary to interact with a lady like Lennox— so he offered awkward mumbles and half bows.

Cynthia Lennox soon had the bow to herself. She laughed at the youthful bashfulness of the deckhand. He had offered her an insightful comment on measuring the distance to the horizon before devolving into embarrassed babble. Cynthia didn’t mind either— it was nice to be admired by a pure heart from time to time.

Glenn cursed his nerves as he ducked into the hull. He didn’t understand how his crew mates talked to women. His brain seemed to short out once they smiled at him (maybe it was because of its rarity, he wondered).

Cynthia hoped there was someone sweet that prayed for Glenn. It wasn’t his fault that the captain didn’t know what she was. The crew wouldn’t make their intended destination— they would make hers.

***

Her voice held a queer tone as she told the men to aim toward the rocks.

She sang a keening lullaby— easing the pain of morality. The men, all save the young cabin boy, were caught in its spell.

The captain barked orders to have the men follow Madame Lennox’s commands.

Except Madame Lennox had shed her disguise. A woman no longer stood in her place. A scaled figure— glinting of blue-green and old fury stood there instead. Had they control of their minds, even the heathens abroad would have prayed. For here, upon open waters, they had strayed into the land of demons.

“Why are you doing this?” Glenn asked with a quivering voice. The siren’s gaze sapped the last shreds of meager courage.

“I’m following my nature— as these men have followed their’s.”

“What about me?”

“You’re a sweet boy, but if you hadn’t already made your choice, you wouldn’t be on this ship.”

The spray of salt and the whirl of wind through threadbare sails spoke as clearly as any bell. The sea welcomed the renewal of bonds as a solitary figure dipped below the waves before the crash of tempered wood upon hidden reefs.

Longhill

It was too quiet in the lodge. Something had to be wrong if the radio wasn’t playing the hottest hits of the eighties and Janine wasn’t singing along like a dying cat from the kitchen. Dale was unnerved by the silence. It had been a long time since a man like him had felt any fear. But now, in his own dream boutique bed and breakfast cabin on Longhill range, he felt a fear drip down his gullet and into his stomach like red slime.

The worst part is that he was right.

The land he had built the cabin on should have remained vacant for a reason. Unfortunately for Dale and more so, Janine, the realtor failed to mention the history of the property to Dale. Ernest Conway had been struggling for six months by the time the Baretts arrived at his office. The decline from farmers market splurges to boiled hot dogs proved difficult for Ernest. Whatever thin morals he possessed before the dip in the market were fully evaporated along with the flavor of those hot dogs he bitterly eat.

What he didn’t disclose to the optimistic couple was the old folklore known by everyone in town. The story about a lost child that had wandered into the hills to take refuge during a bad storm. The storm proved worse than expected and kept the child trapped in the thick forest. The rain fell like a celestial river and the wind blew with the force of an angry god. The child never walked back out of those woods— but months after, the townspeople who had once scoured the woods in search of the child, steered clear of them. For during the twilight hours and beyond, they could hear a steady rasp behind them. If they broke into a run, they would hear the keening cry of a stricken animal, followed by rapid footsteps.

The townspeople have never said how many more have been lost in the hills since then. But the population has dipped without comment— as if talking about it might draw it further to them.

Dale summoned all of his meager and previously unneeded courage before stepping into the kitchen. He found nothing. Not Janine, not the radio, not a single item was left in the room. It looked like the same as when it was first built. Dale ran his hand along the baseboard in shock. Not even a build up of grime or dust. With all the bacon Janine cooked for clients, it seemed impossible. Everything about this seemed impossible.

Dale ran to his truck and sped into town— patently ignoring the speed limit posted. He got to the police station and ran in to find a tired secretary waiting.

“Yes?” A slim man with heavy lidded eyes asked Dale.

“You have to help me! My wife, Janine, she’s gone missing!”

“Have you filled out the form?” He asked taking a sip of coffee.

“A form? My wife— a human being is missing. What more do I need to tell you?”

“Your name and phone number to start. All the officers are in the field right now. Something about an accident in the hills. I’ll have them call you after they’re done.” Dale felt his heart quiver.

“Where was the accident?”

“Out by Twillsen lane. It’s been a common place in the past for accidents. Unfortunate with how beautiful it is up there.”

“Twilsen lane… Is that one over from Trundle?”

“Pretty sure it’s two. But close enough, yeah.” Dale ran out of the station before the secretary could say any more. He had to make sure that wasn’t Janine. It couldn’t be. She had only gotten up fifteen minutes before him.

His truck slammed to a halt behind the police cruisers. There lights were dimmed by the raising sun overhead as he ran into the long grass on the hillside.

“Janine! Janine!”

A police officer in a sherpa lined work jacket turned to head him off from the trio of officers that remained behind him.

“Sir, we can’t have you out here. This is an active scene.”

“Active scene, what does that mean? Is that Janine?” He asked trying to look past the bulky man. “Is it her? Please— please just tell me it’s not.”

“I’m going to need you to calm down,” the man said placing his hand on his hip. “It’s a boy on the hill, not a woman. Someone camping called it in after they saw him shivering in the field.”

“A boy?”

“That’s all I can tell you.”

“But my wife is missing. Not a boy. Please— you have to help me,” He said taking a step towards the officer.

“I am going to give you your final warning. If you step any closer you will be impeding an active investigation and I will take you in for charges. Do you understand me.”"

“Please just-” The officer slammed a forearm into Dale’s face and took him to the ground. Dale struggled against the sudden weight, trying to get enough room to breathe. Cold metal latched his wrists and he was jerked upright.

“You perverts make me fucking sick. Hanging out at crime scenes— there’s a sick child up there scared half to death. And I’ve got you yelling in my face about some imaginary problem. I’m gonna let Judge Foster know about this.”

Dale spent the car ride in a daze— landing on a slightly damp blanket placed over the jail cot. He spent the first hour yelling. Screaming for someone to go check his house. But no one even opened the door to tell him to stop. He was alone.

Slam City

It hadn’t felt impossible when Rex had started. In fact, dropping into the bowl felt like the easiest thing in the world. Once you lose your skateboard and smash face first into the cement, you prove that it is.

Rex woke up three weeks later in a head trauma recovery unit. A lemon puckered nurse gave him an exhausted look when she noticed he woke up. She walked over and hit a button on a machine to his side. The world went fuzzy again.

The next morning Rex woke up suspicious of whether what had happened yesterday was a dream or not. The nurse has been replaced— this one looked more like a Salisbury steak dipped in milk. Rex didn’t envy the man, but he was a little jealous of his ability to walk right now. The initial pins and needles let him know things weren’t the worst they could be, but without the ability to get out of bed on this own, they weren’t too peachy either.

Rex croaked at the new nurse “where am I?”

“Oh, shit. I didn’t realize you were back!” The man’s eyes bugged out for a second. “Don’t worry, bud. You’re in a safe place.”

“Where’s my board?”

“Your board? Oh, you’re the skateboard crash. Sorry, man. I don’t think the EMT’s grabbed it. Maybe your buddies got it for you?” Rex tried remembering where he went wrong. Too much weight on the back foot? The YouTube tutorial warned him of that.

“Can I-“ The nurse held up a hand to silence him. His eyes went flat. Rex felt a chill enter the room.

“Stop talking. You only have five minutes before the shift change and your chance of escaping this place disappears.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That other nurse? Callahan? She’s going to Angel of Mercy you.”

“What the hell… that’s insane! Why don’t you tell the police?”

“Because, Rex Hanson, I don’t exist here,” he said slowly turning see-through and vanishing. Rex’s stomach felt like rotten water. He ripped the IV out of his arm and flopped out of bed. The cold floor gave extra motivation to get out of the hospital. His muscles felt like he just escaped a three hour pool party. Straining from his core, he rose off the ground. He shuffled towards the door— he snatched a grey jean jacket pulled it tight around his hospital gown.

A cool, sterile breeze froze his exposed backside as he shuffled down a lemon meringue colored hallway. Rex focused on taking deep breaths and alternated between wanting to see the male nurse again and wondering if he was crazy now.

Fuck Thrasher and fuck Tony Hawk Pro Skater 4 Rex thought as he heard steps behind him. He just wanted another identity instead of being known as “Rigatoni Rex.” Stupid nickname. Stupid fucking boarding school. He wasn’t going to have his mortal chain yanked by a wannabe Nurse Rachet. He was going to escape this hellhole.

Rooster Call

If you leave before the rooster crows it’s bad luck. There’s a dark journey that’s guided by the reflection of the moon. The plodding steps of the mules provide the closest sounds of the shifting night into morning. A patch of bad air brings spirits near the path.

The shadow of a little person runs through the underbrush. They jump from tree to tree— until they can hang from a branch over the path. They possess disfigured faces with red eyes. The type that make your bowels turn to water. Their skin seems aged and grey— but pulled tight so it has a waxy shine. You can’t run. Because you’ll lose the fragile web of protection that keeps them from harming you.

You can’t stop in the jungle. You’ll hear small thuds from beneath your feet. As if there’s frenzied fists banging on the earth. From below the surface. The laughs follow you from above and the screams from below. The rhythm plays at your mind— something that’s long been lost to regular concerns such as food or water. Days slip by without conscious notice.

A rooster brays in the distance— a rooster brays in the distance. You forget what that means. Your bloodied feet leave a confused story behind you. A rooster brays in the distance— you start crying for the sun. The dense cover overhead keeps the rays out. You stay alone with the bloodied shadows and the faint shriek of waiting poultry. A giggle feels the air behind you. You know you’re never leaving home again.

Pencils

I woke to the sound of pencils dropping on the floor. I shifted onto my side and rubbed my eyes before I froze. I didn’t own pencils. I’m a writer that only uses pens. Not only that— I hardly use anything but my phone notes these days.

The pencils rolled across the floor. Beads of sweat slowed as the dripped down the back of my neck.

Someone cleared their throat— I couldn’t move. I wanted to cry, but knew I needed to turn and face whoever was in the room. If I died, I’d do it facing them.

A molasses age later I found myself looking at a old man dressed in tweed. The middle of his torso seemed hazy as I stared at him in disbelief. He leveled flat, black eyes at me.

“Arthur, have you been studying?” He said in a stern voice. The room felt like it collapsed into a crawl space. It was only me & him.

“…I’m not Arthur,” I manage to whisper.

“You should have been studying. I told you you needed to study,” he said bending down to pick up translucent pencils.