The Latest Edition of The Chamber is Out!

New issues appear Fridays at 10:00 a.m. CDT/ 4:00 p.m. BST/ 8:30 p.m. IST/ 1:00 a.m. AEST (Saturdays).

“Portrait” Classic Horror by Nick Young

Nick Young is an award-winning retired journalist whose career included twenty years as a CBS News correspondent. His writing has appeared in the San Antonio Review, The Green Silk Journal, Short Story Town, CafeLit Magazine, Fiery Scribe Review, Sein und Werden, Typeslash Review, 50-Word Stories, Sandpiper Magazine, Pigeon Review and Vols. I and II of the Writer Shed Stories anthologies.

“Silver Lining” Horror by Roseanne Rondeau

Roseanne Rondeau fell in love with sci-fi, ghosts, and speculative fiction at a very young age and enjoys writing these types of stories. She lives in New Hampshire with her family and has been published in Midnight Times, Alien Skin Magazine, and Nocturnal Lyric.

“Beyond the Light” Supernatural Horror by Ethan Maiden

Ethan works for a utilities company in South Yorkshire. Currently he is editing his first novel that he hopes to be completed this year. The works of Stephen King and H.P Lovecraft are influences behind his fiction.

“Mrs. Thornton’s Thanksgiving Surprise” Horror by Chere Taylor

Chere Taylor lives in Orlando, Florida and shares her home with her teen daughter, two chihuahuas, five cats and one X-ray Tetra fish. She enjoys reading and writing and tends to have a sneaky respect for the inexplicable. Chere has studied creative writing at Western Illinois University and her fiction has won several contests on Scribophile and the Fiction Factory website. She has been published in several magazines including A Thin Slice of Anxiety and Granfalloon. She also currently has a story under consideration for the Pushcart Prize. 

“A Child’s Garden of Witches” Horror by Tom Koperwas

Thomas Koperwas is a retired teacher living in Windsor, Ontario, Canada who writes short stories of horror, crime, fantasy, and science fiction. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming in:AnotherealmJakob’s Horror BoxLiterally StoriesThe Literary HatchetLiterary VeganismBombfire;Pulp Modern Flash; Savage Planets; Dark Fire Fiction; Blood Moon Rising MagazineCorner Bar MagazineFree Bundle Magazine.

“Charles-Never-Charlie” Horror by Mark L. Anderson

Mark L Anderson is a writer living in Spokane, Washington where he served as Poet Laureate from 2017 to 2019. He also co-founded the Broken Mic reading series and has traveled across the U.S. reading poems in coffee shops and living rooms. He works as a barista at a vegan bakery and he sincerely hopes you enjoyed your latte. It has a heart on it. 

Next Issue: December 3

“I laugh maniacally, then take a deep breath and touch my chest – expecting a heart to be thumping quickly, impatiently, but there’s nothing there, not even a beat.” American Psycho (Bret Easton Ellis)

“Charles-Never-Charlie” Horror by Mark L. Anderson

Raleigh pulled to a stop outside the bright, fenced lawn of Charles-Never-Charlie’s home. He didn’t know how the old man did it, keeping his grass as green and manicured as the lawns in Better Homes and Gardens, and at his age. The man couldn’t have been fewer than ninety years old, and Raleigh wouldn’t be too surprised to find out he’d lived for centuries. A world without Charles-Never-Charlie hardly seemed possible.

Raleigh’s mother had always told him that Hemmings was cursed, that nothing good could happen there. The anxiety in the back of his brain told him the same. “Leave,” it said when he crossed the dilapidated train tracks.

“Charles-Never-Charlie is a very old man. It is good for his friends to check up on him,” Raleigh argued with himself.

“His life is lonely by choice. There’s something wrong with him and wrong with Hemmings,” that intuition in the back of his mind whispered.

“Nothing is wrong. I shouldn’t be afraid all the time,” Raleigh reminded himself. The voice of intuition took a seat in the back of his mind, but it did not relent. It painted the walls of its home in mold self-portraits and festered.

Charles-Never-Charlie was the only neighbor to whom Raleigh or his family had ever been close. Hemmings, which had once been a true small town with a school, post office, and church, was now a place people moved to mostly to be left alone. Even as a child Raleigh had thought of how nice it would have been if Hemmings were still a real small town where people knew each other. He wondered if his life would have had a better, a more certain path had he been born into a simpler time.

Perhaps he could have been a blacksmith’s son. Eventually, he would lift the hammer himself fashioning horseshoes, iron stakes, and functional tools to till the land. On Friday nights he’d venture with his friends to the grange hall where men and women hollered and danced. The laughing boys would jostle him about his crush on the miller’s daughter. Later, they would pass hidden behind the building to sip on dank bottles of barley wine and whiskey filched from their solemn parents, regaling each other one thousand times of their imagination’s grand exploits — with not one ounce of expectation of living up to their claims.

But that was not life in his century, and that had never been Hemmings. Hemmings had been born as a ramshackle logging town. When the industry moved along it was left to wither, and it may have died altogether if it weren’t for the larger city ten miles down the highway where people worked, and prayed, and yelled at their children’s teachers. Hemmings was a town too stubborn to die, so instead, its bones smoldered while hardy stalks of yellow plants threatened to take their land back. Not one yard was untouched by the influence of the creeping wild save for Charles-Never-Charlie’s.


Without knocking, Raleigh stepped into Charles-Never-Charlie’s house. He knew he was always welcome. He called out for his friend, yelling as he came to a green door at the back of the house. As a child, he imagined that the door belonged to an aged tree, the kind of tree in the old-growth of fairytales, and if he were to open it, it would lead him to a secret world below the forest floor.

Charle’s-Never-Charlie’s voice hearkened from behind the door, suggesting Raleigh head out for a walk while he finished what he was doing.

Following the suggestion, he stepped down the road and surveyed the houses and alleys that had once been as good as his own backyard. Of course, he could no longer duck under fences and spring and lope, sneaking through his secret boyhood paths, though he was certain the paths were still there. No, many of those paths cut through neighbor’s yards and seeing a strange man crawling under a fence was the sort of thing that would bring eager shotguns to aim. An adult could never know this place the way he had in his youth. Children know in such a way that even rocks have names. They know which tree trunks hold forgotten Byzantiums of insects. They know how to sneak between brambles to secret clearings, and which pines and willows they can sit under without angering the wasps.

That vision that saw magic and wonder was gone from Raleigh’s spirit. He now possessed a different kind of sight. Chipped paint peeled off the sides of houses, derelict cars rusted to orange in front lawns, and if children laughed and played they did so hidden from the passing of a stranger.

Here and there Raleigh saw new houses that stood like too straight teeth outshining their neighbors. Maybe, Raleigh thought, all the old houses would eventually be torn down, and from their corpses these new houses would rise and prosper, dominating the landscape as the larger city sprawled ever nearer and threatened to swallow Hemmings. Or maybe, and the thought intruded on Raleigh’s mind as if it were hopeful, hard times would come as they always came for the people in Hemmings. The people who lived in these shiny, new homes, with their perfect children and well-behaved canines, would learn what their neighbors had always known — that cars break down, that rust and entropy were an unstoppable foe, that each year they would care less and less for the upkeep against a wild place that did not condone their presence.

Raleigh’s mother said that Hemmings was cursed. But he did not believe in curses, so he did not worry about them. He believed in socio-economics and worried about socio-economics. He believed in, worried about, and lost sleep over dead-end jobs, specifically his own.

As he walked he passed by an ugly, brown house with a lawn of beaten dirt where a german shepherd slept tied to a chain, its back rotting away with mange.  It seemed some cosmic rule that there always had to be at least one terrifying dog in town. He crossed the narrow road, but still, the dog stirred from its slumber, snapping up and rushing out at him. It choked itself snarling at the end of its chain. When he was growing up, there was a street Raleigh avoided because of a pair of dalmatians— yes, dalmatians, their names were Spot and Dairy—  that made his spine shiver with fear. Any time he passed near their fence they would leap, possessed by a child-hungry devil of bite force and rage, and he knew one day they’d surely make it over the top of the fence and sink their teeth into his tiny, vulnerable body.

But there was also a nice black labrador that wandered freely about the town. Sometimes Raleigh would encounter it as he ambled about on his adventures. He never knew who owned the dog. It seemed like a free citizen. The only time he ever saw the animal growl or display any ill temperament it was standing outside Charles-Never-Charlie’s yard. The dog, usually a pond of tranquility, braced and yelped at the edge of the old man’s fence as though threatened by some unseen foe. It was enough to make Raleigh afraid of the old man’s house for some weeks after.


By the time Raleigh circled back to the house, Charles-Never-Charlie had finished whatever he had been doing and sat on the deck awaiting his friend’s arrival. He was a short and wiry man with a white beard that hung all the way down to his belly, and his arms were too long. When he saw his friend he sprang to his feet with a litheness unexpected of one so advanced in years. He was like long stalks of ancient grass whipping in the wind.

“Come on in, lad,” Charle-Never-Charlie bade his young friend as he stepped inside. The nimble oldtimer had lit a nice fire in the hearth that had begun to jump and crackle, extending a gentle warmth through the small sitting room. The warmth set Raleigh’s muscles at ease. He hadn’t noticed how tense he was from the cold and from his lingering thoughts of the past and future.

The room spoke of an appreciation of older ways of living. There was no television, no computer, no digital clock or appliance to be found. The only things that betrayed the near lack of electricity were the lamps standing in the corners of the room which were presently turned off, as the curtains had been thrown open providing the room with ample natural light.

The fireplace had always seemed to Raleigh to be older even than the house itself. It was made of foreboding, grey stones. As it burned it hinted of history. It whispered of primordial eras when people clung to heat to ward off the callous fingers of dark that crept through their doorways threatening knowledge of cold secrets beyond their understanding.

“Something’s a-troubling you. I could smell it as soon as you came in,” said Charles-Never-Charlie. His accent was thicker than usual, but Raleigh still could not place its origin. Perhaps Northern European, or a hint of Irish, he thought. Or perhaps the man had been to many places in his life and picked up linguistic quirks from all of them.

“Smell it, it’s that easy to read me,” remarked Raleigh.


“What do you think that nose is for? If you weren’t too far in your own head already it would be telling you all sorts of important information. That’s how it’s supposed to be. I’ll tell you what’s strange. There’s people out there that need watches to tell them their hearts are beating.” The old man laughed and slapped his knee.

It wasn’t a huge laugh, but seeing Charles-Never-Charlie laugh was a marvelous thing. When he laughed he did it with his whole body. It started down in his toes and shot up through his belly, leaving up through his throat like a balloon expanding to the walls of the room. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t obtrusive. But it was somehow more complete than it could have been coming from another person.

“How do you do it?” asked Raleigh, “The world has changed so much. How do you not feel lost and left behind? I already feel like life has sped off on a runaway train and I’m running behind it, and it’s blowing smoke in my face and I’ll never catch up. I always thought by thirty I’d know what I was doing. I’d have a sense of direction.”

The younger man fidgeted in his seat and rubbed his hand on his other arm as if trying to bring himself back into his own body.

“That’s no problem, lad. It got in your head is all. The wrong sort of thing crawled in your ear and now it’s making a nest in there, laying eggs. Ain’t nothing you gotta do by thirty. Forty. Fifty. Nah. You don’t need to fester on it.”

“I don’t want to price check lamps and pillows for the rest of my life. And that’s where I’m headed. I hate it. I clock in for eight hours, get yelled at by people who don’t have a clue what they’re talking about, and I go home and fall onto my bed too tired to do anything but sulk around the apartment.”

As he spoke Raleigh’s eyes were drawn to the tall, cedar grandfather clock along the wall. Minutes were passing. He really should head home soon, he worried. He knew he needed his sleep before dragging himself into the next work week.

The old man tugged him back into the conversation, “Suppose I could do something to take all those burdens away, would you accept the offer?”

“I hate complaining. I really do. How about we talk about something else. Are you ever going to tell me where you got your name?”

Charles-Never-Charlie wrinkled his nose. It moved slightly askew of how noses usually moved, as if  he’d practiced the gesture while he had a different kind of nose and when he got this one it didn’t quite move the same. “I asked my question first, lad. You answer mine, and perhaps I’ll finally answer yours.”

Raleigh reflected. Something in his friend’s tone made him uneasy. The little hairs on the back of his neck wanted to stand up, but the air in the room was too warm and comfortable. “Okay, okay,” he said, “Honestly, I’d do anything to free my mind from these anxieties, so if there were something you could do that would help of course I’d accept the offer. Yes.”

Yes — a word said without coercion or lie that satisfied an ancient covenant of consent. But Raleigh didn’t think of things in those terms. His world was rational. It was not a world where the wrong word could let wrong things in.

Charles-Never-Charlie smirked and rose to make some tea. He bid Raleigh remain seated while he put together something nice. In his cupboard were shelves packed with dozens upon dozens of unlabeled glass jars containing dried herbs and ingredients of all varieties. He pinched a green leaf, a brown powder, and a piece of rust-colored bark for Raleigh’s tincture, and he pinched from three different jars for his own. As he worked and the water heated to a boil he hummed a song to himself, absentmindedly.

It was a song nobody else remembered.

It lilted and lifted from his lips like a puff of wild cotton drifting in the wind. Things weren’t passed down like they used to be. Before the world grew modern, a good song or a great poem could persist for thousands of years. It could bend around new instruments and languages and still move through the breath of each new generation.

The same was true of fears. Before radio and television, before electricity could cross the world in a lick of lightning, before the age of the printing press and the great novels, people would sit around fires and in that dim glow tell the tales their great grandparents had told them. They would speak in hushed, low, certain words that another child had been taken. Its mother had seen the light in its eyes vanish, and she knew down to her marrow that some creature had replaced her child.

The monsters of the old times weren’t smart. But people weren’t either. People had grown very clever, and if there were any monsters lurking at the edges they would have to be clever too. Yes, a clever monster would refrain from acting until the light behind the eyes was already gone. Then no discerning mother would ever notice what was wrong with her child.

Raleigh sat back in the comfortable chair and waited for his drink to be ready. He wondered if the herbalist was making him some sort of holistic anti-anxiety tincture.  The room had grown quiet and warm. It was peaceful in a way that his apartment in the city could never be. But he wasn’t sure he could stand quiet like this for very long.

“You like mint, right lad?” called Charles-Never-Charlie from the other room. Raleigh assented and the herbalist pinched some dried peppermint and added it to both tinctures to mask the more obtrusive flavors.


“Chores are calling my name. I really shouldn’t stay too much longer,” said the young man as Charles-Never-Charlie delivered him a mug of steaming liquid.

“Nonsense, lad. I never met a mop or broom that could string together a sentence. Now sip down that tincture and you’ll be feeling better soon,” said the old man.

Raleigh did as he was told and began to sip down the drink, cautious not to burn his mouth. Immediately the muscles in his face began to relax and he felt his body open up like a locked chest.

“I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like Hemmings after dark. Maybe I’m more comfortable in the city where there are street lamps and lights shining out from businesses and houses at all hours. It feels like I’m never actually alone. If I call out, or scream, someone will hear me at least.”

“Well don’t leave just yet, lad. I suppose I can tell you the story of my name,” the old man began. “It’s a story from far away and long ago.”

“A land of rolling green hills it was, hills that blanketed the Earth as far as the eye could see. A beautiful place, the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. I can smell the westward wind blowing in over the wild grasses on those humid summer nights even now when I close my eyes. A comfortable, good life I had, but it was coming to an end.” As Charles-Never-Charlie spoke, twilight began to reach across Hemmings. The glow of the hearth began to dominate the room. It reflected in the storyteller’s eyes in flashes of orange that appeared to be coming from inside of him.

“Scared folk lived in those parts, but they were merry. They knew how to dance and sing, and many a bottle of fine ale was poured to that cause. But they were rightly mistrustful of an old man who came from far away. In those days, in small places, a person would spend their whole life on the same plot of land. Their friends would be the ones who were born beside them. A person who moved in from somewhere else could never be one of your own. No, at the bottom of a green hill they would leave an old man from elsewhere alone. When he came into the shop they would look at him through eyes of spades and pitchforks, though they would take his money as he acted decently enough.
            “My kind has always been found in small places. Swamps, outskirts, hovels, and hidden valleys, that is where we make our home. We’ve come to know we’ll always be outsiders. And when our welcome wears thin, we leave.”

Raleigh knew there was something amiss about Charles-Never-Charlie’s story, but he couldn’t focus well enough to understand. Though it was past time for him to leave, he could not rouse the attention to move. One moment he was inside the story, floating, watching an old man limp across green hills, and the next moment he would snap back into his own unmoving body that felt firm as a weeping willow anchoring a riverbank.

“Lonesome as I was, one day I made a friend. His name was Charlie,” continued the storyteller. “While the rest of the townsfolk avoided me, this young man was unafraid of an aged hermit. He was not like the other people. He was driven by curiosity, with an endless appetite for tales of far-off lands. ‘Tell me again of the Barrow,’ he would say. Or, ‘Is it true that people fish off the end of the world, and what they catch can cure even death?’ A frail lad he was and in his own head all the time. Poor Charlie couldn’t relax and revel and enjoy himself like all the others. Nobody disliked him. No one mistrusted him. But we walked under the big blue sky and he told me that he was born in the wrong place or the wrong time, that he belonged somewhere else. You have always reminded me very much of him.” There was a devious thistle in the old man’s eye.

The voice that Raleigh had pushed to the back of his mind rose from its chair and yelled at him to go now. It beat its fists against the walls. But Raleigh’s body was settled as the stones in the ancient stove. It would not move no matter the fire it contained.

As Raleigh’s presence shrank, Charles-Never-Charlie’s expanded until it filled every corner of the room, every bristle of the carpet, every year-line in the wood of the grandfather clock. He was no longer only a man. Charles-Never-Charlie was the fire and the hearth, the licking orange tongue and the weight of stone; he was the green walls and the ticking of the second-hand, he was the night creeping in.

“One day my young friend was particularly downcast. I hurt to see him so. His green eyes that usually shone in the sun didn’t turn a single time from the muddy ground as we walked. Some lass had snuffed out his heart, and he felt he was doomed to the life of an old bachelor. ‘Alone, alone. I’ll die old and alone.’ he bemoaned to me. I told him it wasn’t the worst life, but in those parts that was somewhat of a lie. An old man would have only squalor and suspicion to look forward to as the years advanced if he was without a wife and children.

“He was young, not even your age, but he was already well on his way to becoming an old miser in those parts. Though to me he seemed a being full of wonder, I could tell there was already a bitterness steeping away in his core.

“I wanted to help my friend. So I told him to steady me as we walked to my cottage at the base of the hill. I was very old then, you see, and I’d grown quite weak as my body succumbed to the decades.          Decades and decades I’d put that body through. But it’s no good. A body cannot last forever.”

The old man, who now seemed like something else entirely, stared into the fire. In his green eyes, a forest leaped with flame. In a moment of powerful clarity, Raleigh sensed in his friend some deep pain beyond understanding. It was a pain of distance and of indescribable loss.

“There’s something you should know about me,” continued the old man. “I do not want to die. You can sleep. You can forget. But I was not born with these luxuries, and in the swirling night, memories and thoughts berate me and cannot be placated. No, I must not die. I refuse to do it. I absolutely refuse to give mortality power over me.

“I led my friend Charlie down to my cottage. Or rather, he led me, old and frail as I was. It was a fresh, bright day, but there was a chill to it. And if I spent too long away I would be shaking for warmth. Inside, the walls had kept in my heat and I was safe. Death could not dance above my head. I told Charlie that if he were to let me I could take away all his unease and fear for the future.

When he was nearly asleep I led him to a rounded green door. It was an old door, older than the house or even the country I was living in.”

Charles-Never-Charlie clasped Raleigh’s hand and helped him to his feet. The natural instincts of Raleigh’s body were gone, and if it weren’t for his companion, he would have fallen on his way to that green door that smelled of damp earth. As it swung open, Raleigh saw stairs reaching down into depths hidden in shadow. It felt like the stairs went on and on and never came to a stop and all the while Charles-Never-Charlie whispered in his ear.

“When I left that house, people called me Charlie, of course. But it never fit. I could still hear my friend in the back of my mind, so it felt wrong to be going by his name. We talk, even to this day. Of course at the time he didn’t have anything kind to say, but eventually we came to an understanding. I tried having people call me Charles, just Charles. It was better, but still not right. I had to constantly remind people to call me Charles — never call me Charlie, and over time that became Charles-Never-Charlie.

“I left that old country when people became suspicious of an old man who had been old for too long. It’s never good for my kind to draw attention to ourselves. I stowed myself away on a great ship, and traveled for many difficult years before I came to Hemmings. It is a good place. Quiet. It is a place where stillness remains despite the turning of the world.”

The steps led down and down. Raleigh wondered if they would ever stop, or if they led all the way to the center of the Earth. As his friend led him through the chamber they passed small fires that gave way to darkness as the passage twisted and turned, leading further and further into the recesses. It smelled of mold and rot, and things older than he could fathom.

“You must forgive me if it sounds silly, but there was something else. The name reminded me of my first name, a name that has since passed forgotten in a tongue that not one soul remembers how to speak. It was the tongue of a cruel people.

“They were not clever. They were afraid.”


In the quiet hamlet of Hemmings, an old man named Charles-Never-Charlie passed away. The newspaper obituary stated that he had no living relatives, but left his home and all his worldly possessions to a young friend.

At times Raleigh tried to talk to the young man in the back of his mind, but the friend did not want to speak to him. The back of his mind was not an excellent home. Its walls were painted in mold.

Raleigh’s mother did not like that her son had moved back to that cursed hamlet hidden in the pine trees and the lonely wind. She said he had changed. Whenever he spoke to her, that friend in the back of his mind banged against the doors and windows. But he didn’t worry about that. He knew they would reach an understanding in time.

Hemmings was the sort of place where a person could pass forgotten and lonesome, rocking in a chair, staring at a fire in an old stone hearth. But he was never lonely. It was good to have a friend.

Mark L Anderson is a writer living in Spokane, Washington where he served as Poet Laureate from 2017 to 2019. He also co-founded the Broken Mic reading series and has traveled across the U.S. reading poems in coffee shops and living rooms. He works as a barista at a vegan bakery and he sincerely hopes you enjoyed your latte. It has a heart on it. 

“A Child’s Garden of Witches” Horror by Tom Koperwas

Ten-year-old Billy Winthrop and his sister, Sally, were tossing horseshoes at a rusty stake in their sand pit when a girl in her early twenties stepped out of the neighbour’s woodlot and strolled across the patch of fallow ground, to the cedar fence delineating the property line. The black-haired girl, tall and lanky, bearing a crooked smile, leaned heavily against the rail and said, “Hi! I’m your new neighbour. What are your names?”

Billy, being the older of the two, answered first. “I’m Billy, and this is Sally. She’s eight.”

“How nice,” replied the girl. Arching her eyebrows, she studied them with her dark sloe-eyes. “My name is Veronica Lakehurst, but my friends call me Nicki.”

“Nicki’s a silly name,” blurted Sally.

“Stop that,” said Billy, looking crossly at the tousle-haired girl in saggy jeans and a tattered T-shirt. “It’s rude to make fun of a person’s name.” Turning to Nicki, he said, “Sally’s what you call a tomboy. She can’t help what she does.”

“That’s okay,” said Nicki pulling a keychain out of her pocket with a fob shaped like a black cat’s head dangling from it. “I guess I can’t help what I do either.”

Placing two fingers in the eye holes of the cat’s head, she depressed a thumb stud, releasing a trigger action blade—the cat’s claw. Grinning, she nicked a piece of wood out of one of the cedar pickets. “For me, nicking things is like chewing bubble gum,” she explained. “It keeps me calm. The way I see it, the world’s cutting itself to pieces anyhow, so a nick here and there makes little difference.”

Laughing, she turned and walked off into the woods, the sharp sound of the cat’s claw nicking trees echoing into the distance.

“She’s weird,” whispered Sally.

“Yah,” said Billy, his eyes filled with curiosity. “Let’s keep an eye on her.”


Billy and Sally got up early the next morning and filled a bag with snacks and their father’s high-powered binoculars. After breakfast, they headed out the door and down the street that wound around their neighbour’s woodlot. It was a pleasant spring morning, the usual line of trucks rumbling past in the sun, filled with skids, waste, and recyclable materials. Nearing the entrance of the plant, they left the road and crossed the field to the old oak with the abandoned  treehouse. Climbing the makeshift ladder, they entered the empty structure.

The two children didn’t need the binoculars to read the big new sign hanging over the entrance gate: LWM — LAKEHURST WASTE MANAGEMENT.A new fleet of trucks, some parked, some in motion, had the big green letters LWM painted on their sides. Coveralled employees ran around attending to the long line of public vehicles snaking into the plant. The stately Lakehurst estate stood in the distance, the woodlot extending behind it. Far beyond the woodlot, the high roof ridge of the siblings’ home could be seen peeking above the trees.

As usual, the 44-foot-long, 96,000-pound, 6400XT WOOD HOG HORIZONTAL WOOD GRINDER was busy chewing up piles of skids into wood chips.

“Hey, someone painted out the word HOG on the big chipper!” exclaimed Billy, peering through the binoculars. “And changed it to the word WITCH. Now it’s a WOOD WITCH!” 

Billy turned the focusing thumb-wheel on the binoculars to bring the image in closer.

“I can make out some smaller words too… The WOOD WITCH… and her most familiar friend: Cleave Wilson.

Sally grabbed the binoculars away from her brother.

“Brrr… and look at the creep running the machine,” she exclaimed, thrusting back the binoculars. “That must be Cleave Wilson. Mr. Werewolf himself!”

Billy looked, and his mouth fell open. The man’s lantern-like head had a broken, twisted nose, and a pair of wild, feral eyes under bushy, beetling eyebrows. Big knife-shaped earrings hung from his pointed ears. A wide-brimmed hat perched awkwardly on a thick mane of waist-length hair. A long, tapered beard hid his chin. His overalls, black and sleeveless, ran down to his square-toed boots. Cleave Wilson, the familiar friend, short, muscular, and squat, had sinewy arms covered in patches of bushy fur-like hair, and tattooed hands with knotty, abnormally long   fingers.

Sally leaned back quietly into the shadows of the rotting treehouse and whispered, “What’s a familiar friend, Billy?”


 Sally lay in the dark in her little pup tent with the flap pulled back, eyeing the garden patch that Nicki had started on the far side of the fence. Billy lay in the larger tent next to hers, snoring. The children had gotten permission that morning from Mom to “camp” in the backyard. By coincidence, they had seen Nicki strolling in the garden that afternoon with a red-haired boy dressed in bright red clothes, kissing and hugging him.

A crescent moon was rising over the horizon when the flames of a fire suddenly illuminated the darkness. In the light of the burning wood, Sally could see Nicki and Cleave Wilson turning over the garden soil with shovels. Long sticks protruded from the garden, with different paraphernalia affixed to them: a cauldron, a dagger, a mask, and poppets.

Sally reached into Billy’s tent and patted him on the head. “All right,” murmured Billy, as he turned over and looked out his tent.

“We read about those things hanging on the sticks when we looked up what a ‘familiar friend’ was,” whispered Billy after a long moment. “The cauldron is for holding potions and elixirs. The Traveler’s Mask is used for teleportation. The poppets… they’re used to cast spells on people.”

“Nicki’s a witch, then!” declared Sally. “The Wood Witch!”

“And Cleave is her familiar,” replied Billy. “So I wonder what they’re doing digging in the garden at night?”  


  “What will you children come up with next?” said Evi Winthrop, clapping her hand over her mouth to keep herself from laughing out loud. “Our new neighbour a witch with a familiar, working in her dad’s waste management plant. Now, really!”

Five-foot-two Evi, feeling tall with her fine brown hair piled up in a beehive, leaned precariously against the creaking fence, staring at the garden next door with its equal-sized sections of bright red and blue flowers.

“So the garden looks like a triangle bent in the shape of a cat’s claw,” she continued in a gently mocking voice. “It doesn’t mean it’s a witch’s garden. And you say the red flowers are a red-haired boy and the blue flowers are a boy you saw several weeks ago with this Nicki Lakehurst. He had blue eyes, and he was dressed in blue jeans and a blue shirt. C’mon…”

“I told you Mom wouldn’t believe us,” Sally said to her brother.

“But Circe turned men into animals…” pleaded Billy. 

“That doesn’t mean our neighbour has been transforming boys into flowers with the power of dark magic. Circe, as you know, was a sorceress and a goddess. Ms. Lakehurst is just a neighbourhood girl. And now you say you saw another boy with her. A blond boy wearing yellow clothes.”

“That’s right, Mom,” said Sally. “That means the last section in the witch garden will be filled with yellow flowers.”

“All right, then,” said Evi, drawing herself away from the fence. “We’ll see. I agree the garden is a little odd. But the girl is probably growing different-colored flowers simply to remember all her boyfriends by. That’s the only reasonable explanation.”


 “I called right away, Detective Thorndike, when I heard the request on the news for information about those three missing boys,” said Evi to the tall policeman standing next to her on the edge of the roped-off garden. “My children had told me they’d seen the boys. Of course, I didn’t believe any of that nonsense about witches and familiars.”

“We’re glad you called,” replied the detective, bending down to examine the overturned earth where the flowers had been. “Your children’s testimony was invaluable,” he continued. “In fact, it helped us break the case of the missing boys.”

Evi smiled effusively at the policeman’s stolid face.

Detective Thorndike stood and looked toward the portable police laboratory parked on the nearby street. Evincing a wry smile, he said, “Of course, we didn’t believe the children’s tales of witches either, Mrs. Winthrop. LWM never had an employee by the name or description of Cleave Wilson. We did find some graffiti in impermanent paints on the big Wood Hog machine; the name Wood Witch and the word cleave. The sun and the rain had erased the rest…”

“That’s what the press are calling Nicki Lakehurst,” interjected Evi. “The Wood Witch.”

“The Case of the Wood Witch, I believe,” Detective Thorndike muttered dryly. 

“The lab found DNA traces of the three boys in the Wood Hog,” continued Thorndike, his face darkening visibly. “And here in the soil of the garden, right at our feet. The Wood Witch, as they call her, had evidently… ground up the boys in the big chipper and, well, buried them here. She won’t admit to having had an accomplice, and we can’t prove she did, even though it’s highly probable. She went completely hysterical when we put her in the jail cell, at least until the prison psychiatrist gave her a piece of wood to whittle with her little cat’s claw.”

“My goodness!” exclaimed Evi.

“No, we couldn’t find evidence of this Cleave fellow, or any of the so-called witch paraphernalia your children told us about. To us it’s just another murder case—no matter how sensational and weird the press makes it out as.”


Billy and Sally dashed across the field to the old oak with the abandoned tree fort to get another look at the WOOD HOG HORIZONTAL WOOD GRINDER where they had seen Nicki’s familiar friend. They were in such a hurry they failed to notice the three pairs of tiny hands protruding from the soft, freshly overturned earth. Three pairs of poppet hands: one pair red, one blue, one yellow. Three pairs of hands reaching up toward the tree house, as if pleading for help, for love, for hope.

Thomas Koperwas is a retired teacher living in Windsor, Ontario, Canada who writes short stories of horror, crime, fantasy, and science fiction. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming in:AnotherealmJakob’s Horror BoxLiterally StoriesThe Literary HatchetLiterary VeganismBombfire;Pulp Modern Flash; Savage Planets; Dark Fire Fiction; Blood Moon Rising MagazineCorner Bar MagazineFree Bundle Magazine.

“Mrs. Thornton’s Thanksgiving Surprise” Horror by Chere Taylor

You ever fantasize about that one hot teacher? She’s usually blonde, beautiful and damn sexy. She styles her hair into a loose bun with individual strands of soft yellow curls framing her face. The two top buttons of her white blouse are never fastened. Revealing just enough cleavage to tease while still remaining respectable.

Well, no one ever had thoughts like that about Mrs. Thornton, our biology teacher.

Of course I can’t read other people’s minds, but Mrs. Thornton sort of discouraged lustful thoughts. If not through her physical appearance (She was plump, without being fat. She held her body rigid, but she didn’t move stiffly) then with her forceful personality.

She inspired fear in all of her students with this mystical idea of adult authority. We would never reach that kind of adulthood, her attitude implied, no matter how many years we gained. No matter if we obtain mortgages and car payments, children and grandchildren. Her authority was as unattainable as the clouds in the sky. And just as untouchable.

It was under that authority I married my childhood sweetheart during my senior year in high school. I’m African American, medium brown skin, and clean shaven. My wife Jen Lowe was white. Mrs. Thornton was all to happy to express her disapproval at the time.

“Greggy,“ she called me. A name I absolutely detested. “Now that you’re a married man, I hope you’ve given some thought about manual labor. Something involving your other muscles.”

How I hated her.

Still, after two years we were baby free and living a reasonable happily ever after. That is until Jerry invites us to Thanksgiving Dinner.

“How about it, Greg?” Jerry says on the phone. “I’ll do the cooking this time.”

That right there tells me something is wrong. Normally, I invite him to Thanksgiving. It’s part of an unspoken pact we made when we both lost our parents at the age of sixteen. Not to mention, I’m also the better cook.

“You? You know how to roast a turkey?” Unbidden, I picture Jerry with his spiky blonde hair and impish grin, pulling a hot burning mess out of the oven, flames leaping everywhere.

“No, of course not. Don’t go crazy over this, but do you remember Mrs. Thornton?

“Yeah.” My fingernails immediately rises to my teeth to be gnawed on, and I force it back down again. Such a stupid, childish reaction to a long ago memory.

“We got married last month. She’s going to do all the cooking.”

A beat of silence while my mind digests this.

“Fuck no.”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Well, good for you then, Jerry. Good for you. You know I always thought Thornton was such a …” Suddenly I feel Jerry’s anger radiating from my phone. I swallow the rest of my thought and let my words to trail off.

“Bitch?” He replies coldly.

The term I’m actually thinking of is lesbian. But Jerry would have been offended by that too. I keep silent.

He laughs. “I’m sure she’d agree with you. She’s well aware of her reputation at our school.

“So, she’s changed?”

“Let’s just say she was covering up her true nature. The real Thornton as you call her is a kind, sensitive and yes even a sensual individual. She brings that side out of me as well.”

Really? I think to myself. She must be involved in some serious BDSM then. Now I picture Ms. Thornton in dominatrix gear. Shiny black hair pulled in it’s usual tight bun. Her chunky body stretches unbearably tight in a leather corset. Her spit-less mouth is hard and unyielding. Except instead of holding a black whip in one hand, she wields a kitchen carving knife. You’ve been bad Greggy!

Part of me wants to chuckle at this image, but instead I accept his invitation.

A week later I’m standing at the front door of Jerry’s apartment. Jen is still back in the parking lot, unpacking a Turkey Tetrazzini casserole for our hosts. Even when invited to Thanksgiving, she still doesn’t understand that she’s not responsible for the turkey this time. It’s something I find both endearing and irritating about Jen.

I could just knock of course and enter. There’s no need to wait for Jenifer. Yet, part of me hesitates. I’m not sure why, except I do know really. Because I feel like I’ve just been sent to the principal’s office and behind that door was some monstrous version of principal Garret, just waiting with a wooden paddle for my ass.

You’ve been bad, Greggy.

I shudder.

Jen joins me, her frizzy, red curls bouncing up and down as she rushes to my side.

“I wonder what she’s like now.” Jen asks as she stands with me before the unopened door.

“Don’t know. Jerry says she’s changed a lot.”

“What’d she say when she found out we hooked up?”

I shrug. “I don’t think she approved at the time.”

“Why? Was it the black or white thing or cause we’re too young?”

“Probably a little of both.”

“Really?” Her brown eyes sparkle and her lips split into a wide grin. “I hope it does bother her then. I hope she clenches her ass a little tighter each time we …”

She stands on her tip toes and kisses my slanted smile. That’s my Jen-ger fire.

“They’re taking a long time to answer the door,” she says as she settles back down.

“Oh, well …The reason could be because I haven’t …uh, knocked yet.”

Jen raises both eyebrows at me. “You’re twenty one years old and you’re still afraid of her?”

That does it. I grasp the door knob, and the door surprisingly swings open unlocked.

Jerry comes bounding toward us like an enthusiastic puppy dog. “Hey gang. Nice to see you. Can’t wait to start the festivities huh?”

We shake hands, then I watch carefully as Jerry and Jen press their lips on each other’s cheeks. The two of them had dated a few times in high school before she met me.

He’s married, I remind myself.

Yeah, but dude is Mr. Thornton now. Who could blame him if …

“Where’s your wife?” I ask with a tight smile.

“Oh Becky? She’ll be down shortly. Wants to make an entrance, I guess. Can I offer you something to drink? A tour of the place?”

Becky? Becky Thornton? I never knew her first name. It sounds ridiculously casual when combined to the dark, brooding name of Thornton.

Jerry gives us a quick tour of the apartment. It’s modest but clean. When we’re done, Jen offers to keep an eye on the food in the kitchen while Jerry and I escort ourselves to the living room, beer cans in tow. Truth is she wants to make sure we continue our male tradition of bumming in the living room with the football game on.

There is a wide screen television available but no one turns it on yet. Not with the elephant in the room. I decide to dispel it immediately.

“So you’ve done it, dog.” I lean across the coffee table and fist bump him. “You had sex with a teacher. That’s every guys’ dream.” Just not with Mrs.Thornton.

He may have detected my unspoken subtext. “It’s strange how love can come for you from unseen corners. Sometimes, there’s a special someone who can see you, Greg. I mean the real you, when no one else can. I used to think I was a piece of shit. It effected everything I did. Caused me to be a real grind. Becky saw through that crap and she wouldn’t allow me to feel sorry for myself. She saw the adorable, fun-loving kid in me. She loved me even when I couldn’t love myself.”

“You seem happy.” I mean it.

He smiles and takes a sip of beer. “Put the blame on Becky”.

At that moment a woman enters the room carrying a tray loaded with hors d’oeuvres. I don’t recognize her at first, she is so demure, so quiet. Her hair is tied into a loose braid that lays almost sexily across one bare shoulder. She wears a blue dress. While her body is still thick, there is a looseness to it that I never saw before. Flowing where there once were blockages. Yielding, where she was once was hard. This, ladies and gentlemen, is Mrs. Thornton?

“Greg,” she says when she sees me. She put the tray down on the coffee table and takes both of my hands in hers.

There should be butterflies and flowers entwined in that braid, I think to myself.

“Mrs. Thornton.” I reply. The name still slides out despite her remarkable change.

“Please call me, Becky” She peers over my shoulder. “And Jenifer. How nice to see you again. You caught quite a catch with Greg.”

They exchange hugs and kisses and we all sit down.

At first no one says a word. It’s just too weird. This former teacher who had to be at least in her mid thirties, lurking among us and dressed like a Disney Princess. But Becky manages to soothe our nerves. We talk about marriage, the prejudices against youth and age, (not racial refreshingly enough.) The societal pressure to have children. How hard it is to save money on minimum wage jobs.

Surprisingly Becky isn’t condescending about any of it. If Becky ever was the teacher I remember, the one that used to assign me the job of fetching coffee and picking up after the other students, there is no sign of her now. I allow myself to relax.

And then the fire alarm goes off. A loud BRRREEEEE sound that causes my heart to skitter in my chest.

“What the fuck?” Jen says and rushes into the kitchen ahead of Becky. Jerry and I exchange glances and follow the girls.

It’s just like it was in my imagination. Except instead of Jerry holding the burning bird, it’s Becky with the blackened turkey on a tray. Her face is in total shock.

“It’s ruined.” She screams over the alarm.

Suddenly I picture the four of us in a parody of a Rockwell painting. Instead of happy, warm, white faces sitting with delight at the table there’s Becky with the burnt up bird. Jen snickering behind her cupped hand. Jerry attacking the smoke detector with a broom stick. And my black ass taking it all in. Call this artwork, Freedom from Fucked Up Idealism. I laugh out loud.

Becky seizes on me. Eyes fierce and full of hate. I take an involuntary step backwards.    

Then Jerry rescues me by circling Becky in his arms. It’s like he’s roping a horse at first, but eventually Becky stops struggling and relaxes against him.

“I wanted everything to be perfect,” she whispers.

“I know you did.” He kisses her nose.


Becky isn’t the same after that. We sit down to dinner, Jen’s turkey tetrazzini, now the star of the show. Plenty of unburnt side dishes. No reason why we can’t continue as before. But I sense a darkness in Becky. An inability to realize that this is just one of those things you recall with fondness later in the years to come. Remember darling when you burnt up the turkey? Ha ha ha.

She begins with little comments.

“Sit up dear, you’re slouching”

Jerry, who is in the middle of one of his crazy stories, straightens up with hardly a glance at his wife.

A few moments later, “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Babe, will you let me finish?” To Becky’s point, all that mashed potatoes in his mouth looks pretty disgusting, I think inwardly.

“I would if you could tell the story correctly. What would help is if you chew and swallow your food first.”

Now he rolls his eyes. “Babe, just stop it. Okay, stop it.”

Becky seizes on him the way she did to me earlier. Eyes blazing.

“Gerald …” Gerald? “Let’s discuss this in the kitchen, shall we?”

Suddenly I feel sorry for …Gerald?

“Fine.” He throws his napkin on the plate and the two of them go to the kitchen.

Soft murmurings drift toward us. Jen and I strain to hear what’s going on.

“Wow. I hope I don’t ever get that bitchy.”

“You have.” I say distractedly. I’m still thinking about that Gerald name. How it’s sudden use seems like a threat and why is that?

She gives me a playful shot in the arm.

When they return Jerry/Gerald is noticeably subdued. He shuffles to his chair face down, lips pucker forward in a frown.

Becky looks maliciously pleased …as if she just roasted Jerry’s cock and ate it.

“Jerry, you cool?” I ask.

“Leave me aloooone!” He wails. The wounded cry from my own childhood when Mommy gives me or one of my brothers a pow-pow for bad behavior. He turns around in his seat so his back is facing us.

My mouth opens wide. I blink.

“What did you do to him?” Jen whispers.

“We had a discussion about how rude it is to correct your wife in public.” Mrs. Thornton continues while attacking her meal as if she were merely commenting on the weather.

“What the fuck?”

“No cursing if you please. We are all adults here.”

Three of us are adults. I look at Jerry. There is a tear running down his cheek.                   

“I’ll speak to you anyway I like, you Disneyfied skanky-ass bitch. What the fuck did you do to Jerry?”

“Jenifer,” Becky says brightly or really Mrs. Thornton. Because that’s who she is now. “I want to see you in the kitchen. Now.”

“Bet ya’ ass, I’ll see you in the kitchen. I’m not scared of you.” She shoves her chair so violently from the table that she almost tips over backward.

The situation is moving too fast. I wish there is a pause button I could push so that I have time to think.

“Jen,” I shout at her as she rises.

She turns on me. It’s that same headlight glare she gives me, when we get into our own little tiffs at home. Don’t you dare stop me, that glare says.

So, I don’t. Instead I return my attention to Jerry. I snap my fingers in front of his face. He ignores me completely.

Jen and Thornton depart for the kitchen. I hear the same soft mutterings as before. But no shouting from my Jen-ger fire. No sounds of cussing or the crash of broken dishes. That alone makes me nervous. I’d relax more if I could hear the angry noises of them arguing.

Jen returns to the table with that same headlight glare. So, she’s still in there. I tell myself. I close my eyes with relief. Mrs. Thornton also returns with that same pleased, just ate roasted cock for dinner expression.

“Jenifer, do you have something to say?” She asks pointedly.                                             

Jen’s thumb creeps into her mouth. Her other hand tugs on her left earlobe. “I sorry,” she replies around her thumb.

“Good girl” Mrs. Thornton replies. “Maybe we can now enjoy the rest of our dinner in peace.”

“Hell no.” I rise from the table. “I don’t know what you did to my friend, or my wife. But the shit stops here. You understand? Bring back both of them!”

Mrs. Thornton hardly glances away from her meal. “Let’s discuss this in the kitchen.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Now she looks up. Some dark emotion briefly crosses over her face and then passes. Apparently my refusal isn’t part of her game plan.

“Why not?”

“Because you do something to them in the kitchen. I don’t know what. Cut off their cocks …”

“I cut off your wife’s cock, Greggy?”

My face grows warm. I’m not sure what I hate more. That she stings me with my own suggestion that Jen has a cock, or the use of my vile nickname.

I get up and walk around the table until I reach her. I lean my head towards hers. “Undo the shit you did to my wife and Jerry. You do that or I’ll …”

“What? Call the cops?” She interrupts.

But I see the trap. What could I possibly tell the police? Excuse me officer, but Thornton here turned my wife and friend into mindless idiots. Please put her in jail.

She raises her hand. “No, that’s quite alright. It’s a shame you’re not as brave as your wife.”


“Because you’re afraid of me. That’s obvious.”

“I’m not afraid of you.” On its own my left hand starts to tremble so I pound it on the table once more for emphasis. Jerry jumps at the sound.

“Then prove it. Let’s discuss this in the kitchen.”

I close my eyes and imagine the good ending. We enter the kitchen that is still the same modest cooking area it’s always been. There’s no caldron bubbling with magic. No bats flying about the cabinets. But there is the oven, a common every day oven. I’ll open it up, shove her in and crank the temperature to 500 degrees. Isn’t that how it worked in Hansel and Gretel? The witch gets cooked.

The good ending.

I reopen my eyes and stretch out my arm in a you-first gesture. Thornton leaps at my invitation and rushes towards the double doors that leads to the kitchen. Part of me knows my oven plan is useless. In reality I’m walking to my doom, but I still don’t hesitate. Maybe because despite the contradictory evidence, it’s hard to believe this five foot tall woman could possibly be a threat to my six feet and three inches self. But mostly it’s because of Jen. Even though those tearful brown orbs don’t belong to the same woman who gazed at me with admiration when I told her I was going to be the CEO of my own company some day, I can’t disappoint my Jen-ger fire. Despite her changed personality, she can’t ever be allowed to think me a coward.

It’s not like she’s going to cut off my cock and eat it for real, I tell myself. I imagine again Mrs. Thornton in her leather outfit wielding a knife. Goofy and terrifying at the same time.

I steel myself. We enter the kitchen.


When we come out, my mind is thick. A blur.

I trip over my shoelaces and fall to the floor. That starts Jen snorting,

“I’m telling!” I say hotly as I stand up. I’m telling on you, Jen.”

“I don’t care” she sing-songs. “Who ever tells it, dealts it.”

“That’s about farts.” Jerry says pointedly.

“Enough, all of you!” Mrs. Thornton re-enters. The grownup who’s in charge. I love her. At least I think I do. She’s much nicer then Jen. That’s for sure.

You want to know what happened, right? I know you do. It’s hard to explain ‘cause I not the same no more. I not grown up no more.

She cut me, alright. But not my wee-wee. Eew, that would be gross. That’d hurt a lot too. But she didn’t do that. No, she cut the part of me that makes me smart. Bye, bye grownup Greg. He’s gone forever. I don’t mind much really. ‘Mostly ‘cause, I forgot what grownup Greggy was like.

I sit back at the table and Missus Thornton nods. She’s happy now. She says that if I’m good I can join her in the bedroom later tonight. That might be fun. I tell her okay, but I not smart no more. She say that don’t matter. She say I always was a good student.

Chere Taylor lives in Orlando, Florida and shares her home with her teen daughter, two chihuahuas, five cats and one X-ray Tetra fish. She enjoys reading and writing and tends to have a sneaky respect for the inexplicable. Chere has studied creative writing at Western Illinois University and her fiction has won several contests on Scribophile and the Fiction Factory website. She has been published in several magazines including A Thin Slice of Anxiety and Granfalloon. She also currently has a story under consideration for the Pushcart Prize. 

“Beyond the Light” Supernatural Horror by Ethan Maiden

The fresh smell of sea air wafted its way through the car window as I arrived at the familiar retreat. My home from home.

Over the horizon the I spotted the endless blue of the North Sea, appearing as if from nowhere behind the tall hills and cliffs of the east coast.

Thornwick Bay lies in the heart of the Flamborough clifftops, a picturesque painting of the East riding Yorkshire landscape. The site attracts families and tourists interested in hiking, sightseeing and dog walking. At just 4 miles north east of the popular coast of Bridlington, there is opportunity to head out to the pebbled beach depending how volatile the blustery weather is on the day.

            The site holds many activities such as swimming pool and clubhouse complete with arcade games that enjoy gulping your spare change as holidaymakers down their expensive alcoholic drinks. The entrance to the park is a long stretch of road, equipped with fishing lake and walkway that heads up to the local pub – The Viking, a pub from yesteryear serving exceptional food and strong cask ales.

            The most prominent feature of the area is the old lighthouse that stands tall on the cliff tops staring out to the North Sea. First lit in 1806, the lighthouse has a history of guiding vessels to both Bridlington and Scarborough with the white giant standing at almost twenty-seven metres tall. At the summit, the steel railings of the balcony and huge lantern face.

            Some places in the world, a person can just make a connection, an unexplainable bond with the landscape. For me, it’s Thornwick Bay, the place that I hold dear to my heart. This place which is home from home. This place that terrifies me to the core.

So, why have I come back?


I first visited the site when I had been six-years old and returned every year since until I was thirteen.  Back in those days, mobile phones had just shown glimpses that one day they would take over the world, Woolworths still sat on the Highstreet and Michael Owen was giving the Argentinian defence nightmares in the World Cup of 98.

It was also when Thornwick Bay wasn’t being run by a larger enterprise. The clubhouse still had the green and purple carpet where your shoes stuck to the spilt beer, the fish and chips were served in old-fashioned newspaper and the only thing to do as a kid was play on the muddy grass.

            My sister and I were excited. Nothing beats being a kid going on a cheap caravan holiday with cotton candy and sugared doughnuts. We were a middle-class family. Rarely did we go abroad, instead mum and dad saved for two of these caravan holidays every year. We didn’t crave plane rides to exotic places, maybe because we didn’t know any different.

            Mila was eight at the time. The five-year age gap causing irritation from time to time. Whenever a friend was over from school, mum told me that I had to somehow involve Mila, which was a pain because all I wanted to do was talk about girls and play Resident Evil or Cool Boarders on the Playstation.

            Mila on the other hand with her brown pigtails and chubby face was finally coming out of her Disney princess and unicorn phase, falling into that stage where interests changed, yet couldn’t pinpoint what to do to stimulate her mind. The result was that Mila developed a fascination in trying to get involved in everything I was doing.

            On holiday though, I enjoyed her company. She was my little sister after all.


            For as long as I can remember, I’ve been what many would describe as a loner.

            Approaching forty-years old, I’ve never married or had kids. Regretfully, I don’t think I will ever have the chance to bring a family to the seaside to thrive on that British childhood that Mila and I had.

            When I pulled up outside the caravan I’ve rented for the weekend, I just sat for a few moments, taking in my surroundings. I’m back. Back where it happened. Back to the place where mum and dad pledged they’d never return throughout their lives. This place that drove mum to her early grave.

            Beside my caravan is a small park, made up of a few swings, a slide and seesaw. There were a few kids with their families, but the park was quiet being in October and out of season.

            There was cold in the air, the waning voice of winter on the horizon, the smell of cold. Inside the caravan I dropped my overnight bag thinking about the closure I needed. That bag signified that I was coming back, and that thought was futile.

This place has haunted me since that summer in 98, and now was the time to build up the courage, to rip off that bandage of guilt.


I’d entered the caravan just as nightfall came knocking.

            I remember it was night because I recall the moon being so large and the vast number of stars in the clear black sky.

            Mum and dad were watching a movie – some thrilling detective movie by the look of it. There was a smell of burning and a half-eaten pizza on the side.

            They’d told us to be back by nine – no later.

            I walked in with mud on my hands and a distant look on my face.

            ‘You guys have fun?’ mum asked, not taking her eyes off the TV.

            I couldn’t reply.

            Had I had fun? I couldn’t remember.

            After a few seconds, which felt like hours in the silence, mum turned to look at me.

            Her smile cut short: ‘Will? Where’s Mila?’ she asked.

            I looked back and shrugged, ‘can I have some of that pizza?’ I asked moving forward.

            ‘Will, where’s Mila?!’ mum asked again.

            Dad had finally embroiled himself in the impending volcanic conversation. He’d jumped up and circled the exterior of the caravan finding no sign of my sister.

            All the while, I was gnawing on burnt yet delicious cheese pizza.

            ‘She out there?!’ Mum called.

            Dad came back in and shrugged.

            ‘Will, where is your sister?!’ mum finally erupted.


I settled down and had a cold beer with whiskey chaser on the side in the clubhouse bar – aptly named: The Lighthouse. As it flowed down, I could feel the nerves beginning to calm, only ever so slightly though. I couldn’t get her out of my head. She’s waiting, I can feel it. I must take my mind to another place.

Focusing on my surroundings, I concentrated on the bar. Gone is the homemade pub grub of the old clubhouse, now replaced by modern and generic food that is overpriced and clearly straight from the kitchen freezer.

Outside, children played on the larger park, field, and sandpit. It’s cold as ice, but kids don’t feel the cold, do they? Or maybe they do … I would imagine Mila certainly did.

In the distance, the lighthouse flashed, its beacon drawing me in.

I’d put this off for far too long.

The memory of what happened that night is still blurry, like a smudge on a camera lens, there’s a picture there, only I can’t make it out.

After a few more drinks I decided that it was time. Time to face the past, to face my demons.

Over the field I walked in the perishing night, my shoes trudging in the soft moist grass. At the end of the entrance road, I turned left and down the long stretch of country road flanked by tall foliage swaying in the icy gusts. Soon I passed The Viking pub, seeing the smokers stood outside laughing and joking. If only they knew what dwells here, deep in the crust of the cliffs.

Those caverns hide a dark secret don’t they, Will?

Before I knew it, I’d arrived at the lighthouse and fear gripped my senses.


Mila was found the next morning.

            She was floating face down in the shallow water on the rocky beach. It was the owner of the café that had found her. She’d screamed so loud that a hiker on the cliff came running to help.

            Mum and dad were inconsolable as expected. Me? I had been in a trance since the night before wondering why I hadn’t had breakfast and wondering what all the fuss was about. It would be days later after we arrived home that reality would sink in. I’d fall into a despair that any other feeling would be inferior. Mila was gone and she was never coming back. Mum and dad blamed me; I could see it in their eyes. They never out right told me as much, but I could see it.

            The doctors had said the trauma of what happened blanked out my memory and that’s why I couldn’t explain what happened to poor little Mila.

            Even now after all these years later, as the memories slowly come back do I question what happened that night.


Making my way past the lighthouse, I stood on the cliff top.

            Peering down I saw the hard waves crash into the protruding rocks below. On the cliff was a steep walkway down, manmade in the earth and dirt with wooden steps. As the terror of what I might find down there gripped hold of me, I contemplated turning and running , just like the coward I am.

            As I did, I looked up and saw the small girl at the top of the lighthouse. She was stood on the balcony, holding onto the rails with white hands. It was hard to tell whether she was stood or floating but either way she was looking down at me with pale blue eyes, glinting like the stars behind her head.

            A thrust in my heart told me what I already knew that the figure was my little sister.

            There was a gash on her head and her body looked … unnatural.

            Like a contortionist, her limbs were crooked.

            The way she had been found.

            After few rotations of the gleaming light of the lighthouse, the apparition of Mila disappeared.

            Whether my mind had played tricks or not, seeing Mila was a warning that if I didn’t face the thing tonight, then I would be haunted forever.

            The thing in the cave that took her from me.

            With the last pluck of courage, I started my descent down the steep steps down the cliff side and toward the beach. Toward the cave. 


Mila and I had been playing on the park.

            As the night drew in, I suggested we head back to the caravan to mum and dad.

            But Mila, being the age of inquisitiveness said that she was wanted to see the lighthouse. Checking the time, we had another hour or so before we had to be back. I’d said we had to be quick because the sun was setting.

            Once there we’d looked out to sea, breathing in the freshness that only the coast can bring. That’s when Mila pointed down to the beach.

            ‘What’s that, Will?’ she asked.

            Following her finger, I squinted.

            In the sea, something was floating.

            A body.

            At first, my mind processed it as maybe a wide sheet of material or something else. But I quickly calculated that the navy leather clothing and grey hair was in fact a person. An old man by the look of it.

            ‘We need to get help,’ I said.

            ‘We can help, Will!’ Mila yelled.

            Looking around, I saw no one in the area. No one to help.

            I nodded, starting down the steps, with Mila close behind. Rushing onto the beach, we ran straight to the sea and found nothing. The thing floating in the water was gone.

            Frowning I looked back at Mila, ‘we should get back, Mila,’ I muttered.

            Something felt off. I couldn’t explain what but certainly felt it.

            ‘I don’t get it,’ Mila said. ‘Have they sunk?’

            ‘We’ll get back to mum and dad and call the police,’ I said taking her hand.

            I turned and started to pull Mila with me and that’s when I saw the movement in the cave to my left.

            The old man was staring at us


Inside the cave I made my way over the rocky and slippery surface, the familiar feel of sliding on the moss underneath my feet.

            When I got to the end of the cave, I looked out at the blustery waves, the tide spraying up before me. Around me the shadows hid deep in the cave interior, nothing but the occasional flash of the lighthouse providing any light.

            ‘I know you’re here,’ I said.

            Only the splashing waves answered.

            ‘I said, I know you’re here,’ I said again.

            And then he came, moving from the darkness to my right-hand side.


Mila and I entered the cave, calling out after the old man.

            At the far end of the cave, he sat upon the rock, a statue glaring out to the ocean. From the back of him I saw the long grey hair drop to his shoulders beneath a white cap and he wore a navy leather jacket.

            ‘Were you just in the water?’ I asked.

            For a moment the old man just sat.

            Without turning, he said: ‘I’m always on the water.’

            ‘You looked like you were in trouble …’

            ‘Here, to the water and then to the lighthouse,’ the old man replied. ‘Then I get to see beyond the light, until I venture here again … back to the water.’

            ‘Do you need help? Is there anyone we can get for you?’ I asked.

            ‘Help? I’ve been alone so long, yes, so very long. It gets awfully lonely in that lighthouse.’

            ‘Lighthouse? I didn’t think there were any lighthouse keepers left these days?’

            The old man fell silent. Then he turned. He was old in the face with a bushy white beard, his skin weathered. As the light from the lighthouse came around, Mila and I saw something that made our knees fall weak. On the right side of his face was exposed skull and bone. His eye socket was black. The left eye was glazed over with a milky white glaze.

            ‘Yes, it gets awfully lonely here,’ the old man said.

            Mila screamed. Her sound echoing off the cave walls.

            ‘Aww, don’t scream, child. Do you want me to show you what is beyond the light?’ The old man asked, stood, and held out a gloved hand.

            I turned to run, grabbing Mila by the arm. We skittered over the rock until I lost my grip. Then a noise that I have never forgot, one that has haunted my life since that night.

A quick yelp followed with a dull thud.

            Turning back, I saw Mila laid on the rock, blood seeping from her head.

            Creeping up from the dark, the old man appeared, moving unnaturally.

            Mila looked at me with terrified eyes, the blood from her head falling into the rockpools.

            Slowly, she held up her hand for help.

            I turned and ran.


I’d read about the old folklore tale long after those adolescent years.

            The lighthouse keeper who had tragically died when the isolation had become too much to cope with. Since then, he had wandered the caves in search for company. Or so the old tale had gone.

            Knowing the truth, I’d thought of myself psychotic.

            Years later, I’d wanted to tell my parents the truth. They’d never had the closure of what happened to their daughter. Only I held the key to the secret, and I’d kept it to myself in fear of being locked up in an asylum.

            Saying it now makes me still wonder what is real and what isn’t. The ghost of a lighthouse keeper searching for company.

            And he’d found it with Mila.

            I’m so sorry for being such a coward.

            ‘I’ve come to see her,’ I said.

            The lighthouse keeper said: ‘She’s great company, the little one. We have shared so many stories.’

            Tears warmed my cheeks in the blistering cold.

            ‘She’s my sister,’ I said. ‘I should have protected her from you.’

            ‘You should have. You could have.’

            ‘Let me see her.’

            The old man turned and faced the cave wall. Out of the shadows, Mila stepped forward, the blood matted on the side of her face. The same innocent expression etched on her like the last time I’d seen her alive. She looked upon me with crystalised eyes.

            Collapsing to my knees I pleaded: ‘Forgive me, Mila. I’m sorry that I left you.’

            ‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ Mila said. ‘I’m keeping Edward company now.’

            ‘No, you lost your whole life because of me.’

            Mila placed her palm to my cheek. The cold was unbearable, making my face go numb.

            ‘You’ve wasted your whole life, Will. Why don’t you join us here in the lighthouse? You loved it here at The Bay, a home from home you called it. We can show you what’s beyond the light. Will, it’s so beautiful, something you’d never be able to comprehend until you see it. Would you like that?’

            I thought about the meaning of my life.  

This place had meaning.

            I nodded.

            ‘Come,’ Mila said holding out her hand.

            I stood and reached out as Mila backed to the shadows of the cave.

            I followed eagerly.

            ‘Mila! Mila! Where are you?’ I called out, the echoes hitting the waves.

            As I walked into the shadow I was transported to the clifftop. Above the lighthouse swirled. Next to me, Mila held my hand as we looked down the same way as we did all those years ago.

            ‘Are you ready to see what’s beyond the light?’ she asked.

            Turning to her I said: ‘I’m afraid.’

            ‘There’s nothing to be afraid about, dear brother.’

            Taking a deep breath, I stepped forward. Mila let go of my hand as I fell over the cliff side. On my way hurtling down, everything drew into slow motion. The light from the lighthouse, the sound of the waves, everything moved at a snail’s pace.

            I watched the night sky.

            The lighthouse grew smaller.

            As I felt the otherworldly impact and sudden pain, I blinked.

            Standing on the lighthouse, I gripped the steel balcony. Down below on the beach, my body was still and staring up at us.

            Next to me, Mila took my hand again. It wasn’t cold anymore. Mila felt warm to touch.

            Behind, Edward sat in the lighthouse, a broad smile upon his face as he watched us.

            ‘Are you ready to see what’s beyond the light, dear brother?’ Mila asked.

            Over the horizon I saw the lights of Thornwick Bay. I’d be here forever, in my home from home.

Ethan works for a utilities company in South Yorkshire. Currently he is editing his first novel that he hopes to be completed this year. The works of Stephen King and H.P Lovecraft are influences behind his fiction.

“Silver Lining” Horror by Roseanne Rondeau

“Hey, you alright?”

Nick opened his eyes to a dim swamp-green haze. He lurched to his feet, weaving his fists in the direction of the voice.  Pain shot through his skull, and he grabbed the side of his head. His fingertips traced the edge of a sticky crater under his matted hair. His vision doubled and he staggered falling backward against iron bars. He slumped to the floor. 

When Nick’s eyes opened again, he lay motionless. His body ached and the wound hiding under his hair throbbed. He studied his environment.

 He was surrounded by cavernous walls glowing faintly with a blue phosphorescence.  Heavy brackish fog snaked throughout the cave and disappeared into blackness at the far end. There was a sourness to the air making his eyes water.  Thick oxidizing bars pressed against his spine blocking the only exit he saw.  This was a cell, and he was the captive.

A man with greying skin and untamed white hair emerged from the recesses dragging a tattered blanket and humming to himself. Nick watched him scamper in and out of the darkness until he stopped and squatted at the edge of the shadows. He placed a tied bundle of fabric on the cave floor and worked the knot. Unfolding the loot, he pulled out a broken stick and set it aside, then he rummaged through a pile of yellowing bones. He lifted one, held it to his eye and peered through the shaft. He showed it to the stick and giggled, “Oh, it’s a good one.”

 He secured the bundle and set it aside, then gently picked up the stick and carried it along with the bone and blanket to an outcropping of blue rock. He nestled the stick in the blanket next to him.  He sniffed and turned the bone between his fingers.  Placing it in his mouth, he rolled it back and forth like a fine cigar, every so often offering it to the stick.

 The old man sucked and chewed at the bone. He shook it trying to dislodge the last bits of dried marrow at its center.  Nick turned away in disgust.

The old man caught the movement and darted to Nick’s side.

“Hi,” he said, grinning, the scent of carrion wafting around him. Nick grimaced. The man pressed his papery skin against Nick. “I’m Hazen,” he said, nodding so fast Nick thought his head might pop off and roll across the floor. Hazen pressed his palms on the warm flesh of Nick’s arm and leaned closer.

“Get away from me. I don’t give a shit who you are.”  He shoved Hazen backward. “Don’t touch me,” he growled. Hazen skidded across the rocky floor scrubbing the flesh off his knees. Nick jumped up and gripped the bars of the cell. “Someone better get down here, now!” Hazen dragged himself from the ground, stumbling.

“Stop,” he pleaded. He grabbed Nick’s hands pulling and prying at them.

“Hey, I know you’re down there!” Nick’s voice reverberated through the corridor.

“No, stop it, they’ll come. Be quiet,” Hazen tugged frantically at Nick’s arm. Nick rammed his elbow across Hazen’s cheekbone, blood splattered through the air as his skin split. Hazen dropped to the ground moaning and cupping the side of his face. Red seeped through his fingers and ran down his wrist. He rocked back and forth whimpering.

“Thought we could be friends,” he said looking his bloodied hands. He touched the wound on his face, wincing.

 “Pathetic. There’s nothing I want from you,” Nick said glaring down at the crumpled body on the floor.

“But I know how to stay alive,” he whimpered. He gathered his stick and blanket and crawled into the shadows of the cave.


The wound on Hazen’s cheek had clotted and was a dry brown smear when he re-emerged from the back of the cave. He draped the tattered blanket over his shoulders as he moved along the cave wall, tannin tainted mist swirling in small eddies behind him.

Nick was still gripping the bars and staring down the corridor. He listened to the muffled whistling, stomping, and uproar of a crowd in the distance.

“What’s down there?”

Hazen kept one eye on Nick as he approached the front of the cage and peered through the bars.

“It’s the Game Room.”

“What the hell is the Game Room?”

 “Can you remember, before here?” Hazen whispered as he pulled the blanket tightly around his shoulders and looked at Nick.

“Don’t mess with me,” Nick spat. Hazen shied and backed away.

“Look around. This isn’t Earth.” Hazen ran his hand over the sparkling blue cave wall.

“Make sense or I’ll crack the other side of your face.”

Hazen winced and paced the room. “Can’t we be friends?”

“You’ve already got one.” 

Hazen looked at the stick in his hand. His voice thinned, “I been here a long time.” He picked at the wound on his cheek. “No one stays.”  His hand trembled through his snarled hair as he paced the void in the center of the cave, his eyes darting. He raised the stick to his ear. He shook his head. “No…I can’t. It’s mine,” he whispered.  His pace quickened as he argued under his breathe. A few moments later, he stopped and nodded. Hazen placed the stick on a glimmering outcrop of rock then walked toward Nick.

 “Here,” Hazen stammered, “you… can have it.” The rotting blanket dangled from his hand like a prized pelt.

Nick slapped the offering to the ground. “Get that away from me!”

Hazen shrieked as the blanket sank to the mud. He pulled the blanket from the floor and stroked it against his cheek.

 “I just want someone to talk to…another… person,” he whispered.

His focus drifted as he mumbled into the tattered fabric, “A silver lining…mom said find the silver lining.” He nodded, staring into the blackness at the back of the cave.

Nick grabbed him by the shoulder.

His vision cleared and he stared at Nick. “You have a choice,” he said, “you don’t have to go to the Game Room. Stay here. Stay with me.”

Nick dropped his grip and stormed back to the bars, bellowing down the corridor. Hazen stumbled to his side. “It’s not so bad here,” he rattled.  His eyes jumped between Nick and the darkened hall, “stay…please.”

Nick’s demands boomed and echoed through the thick air and bounced off the hallway walls.  “Stop, you got to stop,” Hazen pleaded.  Nick shouted louder. Hazen slumped to the floor at Nick’s feet. “Please, don’t call them,” he moaned.

“It’s about damn time.” Nick glared at three advancing shadows against the hallway wall. “Results,” he said, and looked down at Hazen. The spot at his feet was vacant. He looked over his shoulder, but the old man was gone.

Nick dropped his grip on the bars as the figures drew close. The slick skin of their towering frames glistened in the pale light. Folds of skin connected their arms to their torso, like the wings of a bat, and rippled with their every step. Nick stared into the gaping hole hiding behind a mass of urchin-like tentacles dangling from the center of their faces. They spoke in clicks and snaps as they stared down at Nick with tiny coal spot eyes.

Nick backed away.

“Hazen?” He scanned the shadows behind him. The barred door swung open, and the creatures entered the cave. “Hazen!” Nick screamed and scrambled backward.

In one flowing movement, the creatures surrounded him with their fleshy wings and shoved him into the hallway. The door slammed shut.

Hazen pressed his hands over his ears until Nick’s screams faded down the corridor.


Nick peered down the grid that lie spread before him. He was the only human lined up for the game. All the players stood on the starting squares like pawns in a life size game of chess. He did not recognize any of the creatures assembled here, but he could tell they were also here against their will.

Nick turned his attention to the playing field. It reminded him of old coliseums he’d seen on television except the ground was divided into a giant checkerboard of colored squares. Some squares were yellow, some red, others were covered in a grassy mat, but most of the squares were made of textures he’d never seen before.

His thoughts turned to Hazen cowering on the floor muttering about staying alive. He had to find a way out, now. Blood surged through his legs, and he bolted from his square, heading for an archway twenty yards behind him. Before his third step touched turf, he slammed to the ground jolting and convulsing. A small black ball whizzed and circled above him, electricity zipping across its surface ready to strike again. Nick crawled back to his designated square.

As the crowd packed into the stands, they taunted and jeered the players.  A whistle sounded and a hologram appeared. It demonstrated a mock game and a visual set of rules. Nick’s jaw tightened.  The object was simple- get to the other end of the game board alive.

When the Grand Marshall, king or whatever it was called, rolled a multicolored die, the player that was up, had to move through the squares to that corresponding color. Easy enough, except according to the hologram half the squares held things that could kill you. The yellow squares, at least, were safe zones.

Violence erupted down the line, and Nick watched three electrified balls whiz past him. Another whistle blew and the crowd exploded. The game had begun.

Each player took their turn and stepped onto the squares. It was Nick’s turn and he looked to the Grand Marshall. Hazen was sitting at his feet.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Nick lunged toward the stands. A black ball snapped to attention spitting white hot sparks and drove him back to the game.  He glared at Hazen.

 Hazen buried his face in his blanket. “I tried to help,” he cried.

The Grand Marshall rolled the die. Nick made his choices and survived. Hazen watched each player as they advanced across the board. Bloody corpses littered the grid, and only a handful of players crossed the halfway line.

It was Nick’s turn again. He glared at Hazen then looked to the board. Hazen absently chewed his fingertips and rocked back and forth gripping his blanket. The Marshall rolled. Nick had to get to a rust-orange square.

He studied the board. His first two jumps were yellow squares, safe zones. He made the moves easily. Then he contemplated his options. The square in front was covered in weeds and grasses. The squares on either side of the grass were covered in a red powdery clay. He stared at the clay, then back to the grass. He wiped his forehead and stepped toward the clay on his right. He stopped. Something rippled below the surface. Two serpentine heads poked from the clay, hissed and spit venom at each other, then darted below the surface again and out of sight.  Nick jumped to the grass and froze. Nothing happened.

Hazen sighed. The Marshall looked down at him, made a clicking noise then reached out his large smooth hand, and stroked Hazen’s head.

Nick still had another move to make to reach the orange square, but the end of the game board was in sight.  Another roll and he would walk off the grid and deal with the old man. He should have warned him.  He tightened his fists, glancing at Hazen sitting like a dog at that monster’s heels.

Nick let out a breath. Sweat rolled down his forehead and he wiped it away. The crowd hooted and stomped rattling the stands.

A red clay square was in front of him. To the left, the square bubbled with a pungent gel, the vapors burning his nostrils. He looked to the right. That square was a solid block of concrete. He looked at the red clay again and didn’t see any movement, but he didn’t trust it. 

“Come on, come on…” Hazen whispered, chewing at his nails. Nick eyed the cement one more time then scowled at Hazen. He jumped, landing firmly in the center of the mortar.

Hazen’s mouth dropped. It happened so fast that Nick still had a smirk on his face when his body hit the ground. As his feet landed on the cement, laser wires sprang from below and sliced through his flesh. He hit the ground like a carcass in a slaughterhouse.


Hazen pulled the blanket tightly around his shoulders and rocked in the darkness of the cave. He heard them coming and looked up. The creatures chattered back and forth as they opened the cage door. They whistled and clicked in Hazen’s direction and slid a large bowl toward him.

 Hazen poked through the gift, passing by black entrails and yellow leathery hide, until he saw the glint of crimson. Human muscle. He held it reverently as he gave thanks to his mama for teaching him to find the silver linings. He offered the first bite to the stick.

Roseanne Rondeau fell in love with sci-fi, ghosts, and speculative fiction at a very young age and enjoys writing these types of stories. She lives in New Hampshire with her family and has been published in Midnight Times, Alien Skin Magazine, and Nocturnal Lyric.

“Portrait” Classic Horror by Nick Young

I am not — have never been — given to flights of the fantastical.  To be sure, from time to time, like many of my contemporaries, I have been enthralled by Poe’s tales and those of Lovecraft and Hodgson.  But they were fictions, diversions from the mundane, nothing more.  Certainly, I never for a moment believed these entertainments were attempts to render true experiences.

Yet, now I have the gravest reason to doubt that judgment, for I myself have been witness to an event of such extremes that it cannot be counted as anything but lying beyond the precincts of the natural world.  And because it is so far from reality as normal men understand it, I can only confide the particulars in this journal.

The story begins shortly after Christmas last when my dear friend Hugh Fletcher was having tea of an afternoon in an Oxford Street cafe not far from Cavendish Square Gardens.  He and I had met while both at Eton and become virtually inseperable mates.  We maintained our close bond after graduation when my path took me to the London School of Economics while he pursued his dream of studying art.  The choices fit our personalities — I, the pragmatic, materialistic qq one; Hugh, much the romantic, fond of poetry and the serendipitous.  And, I should say, a painter who possessed genuine talent.  At the age of twenty-six, he was beginning to gain a modest reputation in the city for the quality of his work, which was on offer at a small gallery in Vauxhall.

On the day in question, as Hugh recounted it to me, while having a second cup of tea and reading from a newly purchased edition of Shelley, his attention was drawn to a young woman who had risen from her table in a far corner of the cafe and was preparing to leave.   

“She was singularly striking,” he told me, “tall, ivory-skinned, with great, dark tresses cascading around her face, encircled with the lush collar of a rich fur coat.  It would have been sufficient,” he went on, “just to savor her unrivaled beauty as she passed a few feet away, but as she neared the door, she turned and locked her smoke-grey eyes with mine.  It lasted only an instant, but the effect was profound.”

The woman then exited the cafe into the chill late afternoon as snow was just beginning to fall upon the city.  Hugh said he did not hesitate a moment, but leaped from his seat, shrugged into his chesterfield and rushed into the street.

“I could not explain my actions, save that I knew I must not allow her to get away.”  Within a block, as he weaved rapidly among the sidewalk throng, he had caught sight of her.  And as he neared her at a corner, though he was behind and she had not seen him, she stopped and turned.

“It was uncanny,” he told me. “With certitude, I sensed that she knew of my approach, that she expected it.”

To be sure, Hugh was taken somewhat aback, further unsettled by the way those eyes of hers bored into him, seemingly able to discern his innermost thoughts.   He stammered an introduction and expressed his fervent desire that she agree to sit for him while he painted her portrait. 

Her name, she replied, was Lizbeta: and at first, she demurred, explaining that she was not a professional model and that her time in London was limited before she must return to her native Romania.  But Hugh was insistent, pressing his case and proferring one of his business cards, which she accepted.

“I returned to my flat in a fever,” he said, “and spent the night unable to banish her from my thoughts.  And when I fell at last into fitful sleep, it was she who dominated my dreams.”

The obsession persisted upon his awakening, depriving him of an appetite, prompting him to pace nervously about his atelier, unable to concentrate on finishing a modest commissioned still life he had begun. 

At precisely 10:00, as Big Ben tolled the hour, Lizbeta rang his studio bell.  Hugh welcomed her with delight, noting that in the morning sunlight spilling into the room, she was even more ravishing than she had appeared the day before. 

“Although she still insisted she was an unworthy subject,” Hugh related, “she had found me flattering and persuasive enough to agree to a sitting.  But, of necessity, it would be a single sitting.   She had no choice, she said, having been summoned to return to Bucharest the following day to deal with pressing family affairs.”

With little time to lose, Hugh hastily arranged his studio, positioning his easel and mounting a freshly gessoed canvas upon it.   He bade Lizbeta to recline on a divan of brocade and mahogany, posing her in such a way that the sunlight brought out the finest qualities of her lustrous hair and perfect complexion. 

“I knew that I had but a few hours with her, so I rushed with a speed I did not know I possessed to block in the essentials of the painting and begin rendering her likeness.”

And paint he did, using every available ray of light until the late afternoon shadows deepened and Lizbeta made ready to leave.  Hugh expressed his dismay at her departure, so smitten had he become.

“I inquired when she would return to London so that I might present her with the painting.  She did not know, so I asked if she might leave a shipping address.  She promised to send it as soon as her business in Bucharest was completed.”

And with that, Hugh said, she turned her mesmerizing grey eyes on him a final time and left.

Now commences the strangest part of this tale.  Hugh immediately returned to the canvas, feverishly working his brushes and oils, attempting to reclaim from the memory of Lizbeta each curve, every contour, line and shadow, the very essence of her extraordinary beauty.  Using what lamplight he had at hand, he pressed on into the night, until exhaustion overtook him and he slept.

The next morning he arose at first light and without hesitation, returned to his obsession.  Since I hadn’t spoken with him in several days, I rang him up at the noon hour just to make idle conversation.  Instead, he implored me to come to his atelier immediately to view his latest work.  There was in his voice a tone of urgency such that I left my office at once.

When I arrived, Hugh barely took the time to let me into his studio before he was at his canvas again.  And as he painted, he recounted the whole story of his encounter with Lizbeta. It took but one glance at the woman’s image to understand why he said it had been “branded on my soul.”  Her face and figure were perfection and her eyes possessed a depth of power and mystery that was mesmerizing,  indelible.   

But it was not only his desire to capture the woman’s  every nuance that was driving him forward.  He could not account for it, he said, but his paint was thickening, becoming more viscous and hard to handle. 

“When I apply it to the canvas, it pulls at the brush — more so, it seems, with every passing hour — as if it doesn’t want to let go.  I’ve never encountered this before, but it is imperative that I complete the painting as soon as possible.”

It was clear that his distraction was total, so I took my leave with a wish to see the portrait once he’d completed it. 

The rest of my day was crowded — appointments through the afternoon, a dinner engagement with a client that led to brandy and cigars at my club.  By the time I reached the door of my apartments, it was almost midnight.  And no sooner had I entered than the telephone began to ring.  It was Hugh, frantic.

“You must come at once!”

“But the hour . . . , ” I protested.

“At once — do you hear me?!”

Quickly, I rushed to the street, hailed a cab and was delivered presently to Hugh’s studio.  The trip was short, but it gave me enough time to conjure dark thoughts about my friend’s obsession and his grip on reality.

When I arrived I found the door to his atelier unlocked, which I thought was odd, so I entered with a degree of caution, calling his name repeatedly but with no response.  I could see very little because the only light in the room was provided by a floor lamp Hugh had moved beside his easel, which was positioned in such a way that the back of the canvas was turned toward the door.  With my trepidation growing, I walked slowly forward.  Perhaps, I thought, Hugh was so absorbed in his work that he neither heard me enter nor call out to him.  But as I neared the easel, what caught my eye was not my friend.  Instead, beyond the edge of the painting in the pool of light thrown by the lamp were his palette and one of his brushes, both gleaming with wet paint, lying on the floor.  They did not appear to have been placed on the parquet but rather dropped or cast down. 

My heart by now was pounding in my chest.   I fought against my worst fears overwhelming me as I stepped around the easel and turned my full attention to the canvas. 

Now, you who know me have always judged me a sober, eminently rational individual.  So, too, do I consider myself.  I ask you to weigh what I recount next with that in mind.

I was aghast at what I beheld.  At first, my eyes refused to believe, but there was no denying what was in front of me.  It was the figure of a woman in an emerald-green gown reclining on the very divan that sat a few feet from me, just as I’d seen Hugh painting hours before.  I say the figure of a woman because this was not Hugh’s careful rendering of the ravishing Lizbeta, but a grotesquerie — a withered, gnarled crone whose grey hair hung in matted ropes, framing a face, shrunken and deeply creased.  Her mouth was open in a hellish grin, baring teeth blackened with rot.  And the astonishing eyes that my friend had found so compelling were now but sightless sockets.

But what was most horrifying, what caused me nearly to faint dead away, was that held tightly in the outstretched grasp of  this corpse was the figure of Hugh himself!  Against all reason and the laws of God and Nature, there was my friend clutched firmly in the embrace of two stick-like arms and bony fingers that curled around him more akin to the long talons of a bird of prey.  His countenance was that of a man overwhelmed by hysteria — eyes wide with anguish, mouth open in a plea for salvation, and one arm thrust out towards me, fingers extended to their extremity.  My mind reeled.  If only I could find it within myself do something — anything — to help him!

At that moment I hit upon an idea.  It was improbable, yes, but no less than what I saw upon the canvas.  Perhaps, I thought,  if I could paint out the hideous figure of the woman, its power over Hugh would be broken  and he would be restored to the world.  Swiftly, I retrieved the palette and paintbrush from the floor.  I gripped the brush and dipped it into a thick pile of a deep blue paint.  I recalled Hugh’s description of how the pigment had grown thicker, and I noticed this myself straight away. As I neared the tip of the brush to the canvas, to a spot over the hag’s face, I had the sensation of an electric shock course through my fingers and hand, and the bristles were pulled as if by a magnet onto the painting’s surface.  Reflexively, I jerked the brush away, though the tingling in my hand lingered.  I thought this a passing strange occurrence, but I concluded it must have been a momentary episode of static electricity and nothing more, so I again lowered the brush toward the painting. 

This time the effect was more pronounced.  As the tip of the bristles came into contact with the canvas, not only did a sharp tingling ripple into my hand but extended part way up my arm.  At the same moment, I beheld a large globule of the thick paint flow up the handle of the brush until it touched my fingertips.  Again, there was the sensation of a magnet’s pull, this instance stronger than the first.  And this time, with amazement, not only did the paint continue to ooze upon my fingers, but I saw the tip of the paintbrush bristles actually penetrate the surface of the canvas!

Horrified, I used my left hand to tear  myself free of the force which was growing in power.  Deeply shaken, I realized what Hugh’s fate had been and that I dare not risk a third attempt to alter the painting.  And, I can confide in these pages, I was overcome with raw fear, so much so that I hurled the palette and brush to the floor, and, with a long, wrenching backward look over my shoulder at the image of my friend frozen in his eternal torment, I turned and, God help me,  I ran!

Nick Young is an award-winning retired journalist whose career included twenty years as a CBS News correspondent. His writing has appeared in the San Antonio Review, The Green Silk Journal, Short Story Town, CafeLit Magazine, Fiery Scribe Review, Sein und Werden, Typeslash Review, 50-Word Stories, Sandpiper Magazine, Pigeon Review and Vols. I and II of the Writer Shed Stories anthologies.

The Latest Issue of The Chamber is Out!

New issues appear Fridays at 10:00 a.m. CDT/ 4:00 p.m. BST/ 8:30 p.m. IST/ 1:00 a.m. AEST (Saturdays).

“Fugue” Dark Fiction by Alan Catlin

Alan Catlin is primarily known for poetry but that doesn’t prevent him for mixing and matching prose and poetry as the subject allows.  He has published dozens of full length book and chapbooks, mostly poetry, over the years. Although he is not a genre writer he has somehow managed three Rhysling Prize nominations and a Bram Stoker Award nomination He didn’t win either award.

“Banquet of Fortune” Dark Fiction by Jake Sheff

Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and veteran of the US Air Force. He’s married with a daughter and six pets. Poems and short stories of Jake’s have been published widely. Some have even been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook is “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing). A full-length collection of formal poetry, “A Kiss to Betray the Universe,” is available from White Violet Press.

“Asexuals of the Cosmos, Unite!” Dark Sci-fi/Horror by Thomas White

Thomas White has a triple identity: speculative fiction writer, poet, and essayist. His poems, fiction, and essays have appeared in online and print literary journals and magazines in Australia, the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. He is also a Wiley-Blackwell Journal author who has contributed essays to various nonliterary journals on topics ranging from atheism, the meaning of Evil, Elon Musk, Plato, The Matrix, and reality as a computer simulation. In addition, he has presented three of his essays to the West Chester University Poetry Conference (West Chester, Pennsylvania), as well as read his poetry on Australian radio.

“Poesies” Dark Post-Apocalyptic Fiction by Jason Kahler

Jason Kahler is a teacher, writer, and scholar from Southeast Michigan. You can follow him on Twitter @JasonKahler3.

Three Dark Poems Written and Translated from the Russian by Ivan de Monbrison

Ivan de Monbrison is a poet, novelist and artist born in 1969 in Paris. He has studied oriental languages in Paris, and then worked for the Picasso Museum, before dedicating himself to his own creativity. He has been published in literary magazines globally. His last poetry book in English and Russian без лица / Faceless has just been released in Canada. He does not believe that his art is of any real significance. He does it as some kind of a tribal ritual. He is fully aware that vanity is one of the worse enemy of most poets and artists, and tries to stay away from it as much as possible. 

“The Swamp Rat” Dark Spy Thriller by Philip Ivory

Philip Ivory studied literature at Columbia University. He teaches creative writing with The Writers Studio in Tucson, Arizona. His fiction has appeared in Menacing Hedge, Two Cities Review, Ghost Parachute, The AirgonautLiterally Stories and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His blog is

“Reverie” Dark Science Fiction by Aaron Simon

Aaron Simon lives in Portland, Oregon with his dog, Barry, and a really nice window that looks out on a really nice tree. When he’s not being distracted by that tree, he writes, reads, and develops crippling addictions to things like collecting records.

“The Estate” Twisted Gothic Horror by Ciaran Doran

Ciaran Doran is a former museum curator and ancient music archivist who has been fortunate enough to work on a number of international projects. He has contributed on occasion to British newspapers and written short pieces for the WWF For Nature. 

Next Issue: November 26

Appearing in The Chamber November 26

New issues appear Fridays at 10:00 a.m. CDT/ 4:00 p.m. BST/ 8:30 p.m. IST/ 1:00 a.m. AEST (Saturdays).

“Portrait” Classic Horror by Nick Young

Nick Young is an award-winning retired journalist whose career included twenty years as a CBS News correspondent. His writing has appeared in the San Antonio Review, The Green Silk Journal, Short Story Town, CafeLit Magazine, Fiery Scribe Review, Sein und Werden, Typeslash Review, 50-Word Stories, Sandpiper Magazine, Pigeon Review and Vols. I and II of the Writer Shed Stories anthologies.

“Silver Lining” Horror by Roseanne Rondeau

Roseanne Rondeau fell in love with sci-fi, ghosts, and speculative fiction at a very young age and enjoys writing these types of stories. She lives in New Hampshire with her family and has been published in Midnight Times, Alien Skin Magazine, and Nocturnal Lyric.

“Beyond the Light” Supernatural Horror by Ethan Maiden

Ethan works for a utilities company in South Yorkshire. Currently he is editing his first novel that he hopes to be completed this year. The works of Stephen King and H.P Lovecraft are influences behind his fiction.

“Mrs. Thornton’s Thanksgiving Surprise” Horror by Chere Taylor

Chere Taylor lives in Orlando, Florida and shares her home with her teen daughter, two chihuahuas, five cats and one X-ray Tetra fish. She enjoys reading and writing and tends to have a sneaky respect for the inexplicable. Chere has studied creative writing at Western Illinois University and her fiction has won several contests on Scribophile and the Fiction Factory website. She has been published in several magazines including A Thin Slice of Anxiety and Granfalloon. She also currently has a story under consideration for the Pushcart Prize. 

“A Child’s Garden of Witches” Horror by Tom Koperwas

Thomas Koperwas is a retired teacher living in Windsor, Ontario, Canada who writes short stories of horror, crime, fantasy, and science fiction. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming in:AnotherealmJakob’s Horror BoxLiterally StoriesThe Literary HatchetLiterary VeganismBombfire;Pulp Modern Flash; Savage Planets; Dark Fire Fiction; Blood Moon Rising MagazineCorner Bar MagazineFree Bundle Magazine.

“Charles-Never-Charlie” Horror by Mark L. Anderson

Mark L Anderson is a writer living in Spokane, Washington where he served as Poet Laureate from 2017 to 2019. He also co-founded the Broken Mic reading series and has traveled across the U.S. reading poems in coffee shops and living rooms. He works as a barista at a vegan bakery and he sincerely hopes you enjoyed your latte. It has a heart on it. 

Next Issue: December 3

“There is no exquisite beauty… without some strangeness in the proportion.”
Edgar Allan Poe, Ligeia, 1838

“The Estate” Twisted Gothic Horror by Ciaran Doran

Kronborg/Elsinore castle near Helsingor, Denmark

My name is Carl Witold, of the Danish family Trampe. I am currently bound for the port of Elsinore, thirty miles north of Copenhagen, being commissioned to undertake restoration. That is my trade, learned from my father and grandfather. I specialise in cut glass and chandeliers. The work itself will take place in the town’s harbour fortress. You may know it better as Hamlet’s Castle. I have renovated the interiors there more than thirty times. Soon I will retire. This may be my final boat journey though, due to ill health, so I wish to leave this testament behind in the library at Kronborg.

My tools are carried in a leather case, the same as any doctor or chemist might porter. I find it most useful. The boat trip northwards is always pleasant and I can still recall the first time I took it, as a boy. The last time I took it though, three years ago, everything seemed different. A line of squalls came from nowhere, forcing our crew to sail with the blow and create delays. In fact, the wind seemed to change direction so often that we were sometimes going around in loops and circles. Many people were seasick due to the choppy water but one of my companions seemed to be made of sterner stuff. He remained unperturbed by the roughening sea which quite frankly sent a few of us into panic, though we suppressed it as best we could. The mysterious man possessed a similar bag to my own and we struck up a conversation based on that, once plain sailing had returned. The odd thing about the sea after squalls is that it can become unnervingly calm. Quite dead really and spookily so. No birds cross the breeze. No insects bite the skin.

One almost wishes for the squalls to return to offset the feeling of being in a void, but not quite. This man I addressed was an otherworldly figure with unkempt hair and a spindly frame. He said he was born in the Netherlands but had travelled for most of his life. Let it be clear that I spoke to him. I do not think he would have bothered with me, had I not attempted to make his acquaintance. There was an air of hard-won peace about him which I found intriguing. It was quite unlike the high banter of the sailors and the restless eyes of the other passengers who were mere pawns in the play between nature and seafarers.

He gave his name as Van Horn and called himself a retired sailor, but on much rougher seas than the Sound between Copenhagen and Elsinore. The Arctic Ocean was his home for six months of the year, during the summer season when most of us enjoy the milder air.

No, Van Horn was a whaler, one of the most dangerous professions there is and still very prevalent at this time, the year now being 1851. In fact, he told me the reason for whaling ships being forced into the inhospitable Artic was that the seas on both sides of Greenland were fished out. Whalers had become so proficient that they were in danger of running out of prey. Large populations of Bowhead whales had recently been discovered in the Arctic though and became highly prized due to their thick blubber, the thickest among all the whale species.

Van Horn had traveled overland from Esbjerg to Copenhagen to pay a debt, a journey requiring several days. The debt was one that couldn’t be allowed to fester as the lender was known to track payees down, some of whom disappeared. Van Horn, to his chagrin only received this information after he’d invested a good portion of the money. Therefore, instead of taking his usual period of recuperation on land after a long stint at sea, he wisely grabbed another opportunity and made the money up.

This left him quite exhausted and as his coach came within a half days ride of Copenhagen, he decided to bunk in the Danish capital for a few days and rest his weary bones. Relaxation would come only after paying the debt off, with whatever interest had accrued. The plan of his own devising was not meant to be however, and things changed dramatically when another passenger stepped onboard his coach near the Roskilde Cathedral. It had long since gotten dark, being well after midnight so when the coach stopped abruptly Van Horn struggled to see further than the coach window’s velvet curtain. Just ahead of the shining black horses, a lamp lit the gloom and from the darkness behind it a priest emerged to make his way onboard, joining Van Horn. Our fellow, on seeing that the priest was pale, and trembling stepped out to help him up the high coach step.

The driver, most uncharacteristically for a coachman remained facing sternly forward, seemingly uncaring. He had also completely forgotten to mention the fact that another passenger would join Van Horn. Inside the cabin, the priest introduced himself politely as Father Petersen but even after resting for a while he seemed no more at ease and Van Horn asked the venerable if he was unwell. Petersen mopped his brow and revealed that he had just received some terrible and unexpected news. It concerned the death of a young curate, a close personal friend of his. Van Horn offered the meagre handful of sympathetic words that a sailor possesses and lent an ear but Petersen did not elaborate further. Thus they traveled for several miles in silence.

After that time Petersen must have felt like he had composed himself sufficiently because he spoke up again, ready to tell the story in full.

The curate had been sent to investigate a hill mansion. The mysterious owner, a man known locally as Baron Jaeger, on account of his wealth and not his nobility had been a hermit by many accounts and went unseen for long periods at a time. Still, he was at least observed until almost a year before the death of the curate. Jaeger’s disappearance coincided with two storms merging into a frighteningly large hurricane and battering the East coast. Several omens appeared during the storm, which were interpreted as evil having descended on the area, having been attracted by some misdoing. To begin with, a blue fireball burst through the stained-glass window of the evangelical church and razed an entire section of the altar. Those who braved the storm to pray for safety found themselves face to face with a rarity of nature’s wrath. By some miracle though, none were hurt. Secondly, a school of green dolphins beached themselves on the rocky shore at the foot of the estate. By the time the winds had died again it was too late to save any of them. All the local residents could do was to bury the carcasses before the process of decomposition caused them to explode with a pervasive and lasting stench. Powerful red lightning was also clearly seen to have struck the big house many times in succession during the storm. Therefore, a kindhearted neighbour by the name of Jensen went to check on the house and the occupant afterwards but never returned home.

When the authorities called to the mansion to investigate Jensen’s disappearance, they found it empty. After a meticulous search the only conclusions that could be realistically reached were that the well-heeled Jensen must have met some unfortunate fate at the hands of robbers and that Jaeger could have taken a trip, most likely abroad. Still, none could account for the fact that a small blade, belonging to Jensen was found in the extensive library of the building.

Stranger still was the fact that it wasn’t lying haphazardly on the floor but inserted between two heavy tomes on a shelf, as if it had been used in attempting to pry them apart.

The issue of the disappearances simmered down until some children who ventured to play in the house also went missing without trace.

Despite being forbidden to go there, and perhaps because it’s exciting to break rules, six local children climbed the gates and ascended the hill to the house. One companion was lame and struggled to make it up the slope as quickly as the others. This boy, a sensitive child later told a story that he couldn’t possibly have invented. At first, he saw the faces of his friends appearing at the windows and waving happily to him. Yet when he finally got inside, they were nowhere to be seen. His initial thought was that they were hiding to tease him and so he expected a friendly scare at any moment. None came though. Room after room was empty. After some time he heard crying and then muted wailing, which seemed to come from a great distance or over the wind but he knew not how to track the voices down. After a final frightened search, he limped home to tell all. It was dark by then, so when the parents eventually gathered, they lit torches and moved as one to search the entire house from top to bottom.

Nothing was found. No signs of struggle and no bodies. If the boy’s story was true it was an incredibly eerie one. At first then, unable to believe it the people accused the child of lying and threatened him with severe and lasting punishment, as if he was taking a part in a twisted game. The old saying goes that games taken too far can bring misfortune. As the night wore into daylight and the children stayed away the heartbroken parents came to accept the truth.

The disappearances were no coincidence. The house was possessed. Somehow it had become a gateway to another realm which swallowed souls randomly. All but the most stoic expressed their growing fears and avoided the area.

A year later, some distant relatives of Jaeger’s, having not heard from him, presumed him dead. They moved to sell the estate, but rumours had spread, and none would buy it. A messenger sent by their advocate approached the curate. He was parish priest by then and responsible for the church’s duties in the district. The family offered to donate a considerable sum to the church if he would only bless the house. The important condition that was to be met before payment though, was that the curate make the public aware he had cleansed the property. In other words, he had to perform an exorcism or at least spread word that he had. Through his own zeal to gain this money for the church the curate was led like a lamb to the slaughter.

The priest himself had trained the novice curate and besides giving him basic sacristan skills, he had also explained that the path of a clergyman was not an easy one. The curate was full of ambition though and cared only about progress and development. Although the young man was superficially polite, the older priest felt he had secretly scoffed inside when it came to the more arcane aspects of spiritual knowledge. Therefore, he had held back on imparting matters of a suprarational nature. Petersen confessed to Van Horn that he had partially done this out of spite and naturally he felt terrible about it in light of the events.

So, in this regard the mentoring priest felt he had failed. He had not pressed the young man hard enough on vital issues and the curate had met his fate rather ill equipped. That was the pressing reason for Petersen undertaking his journey, with Van Horn as the only other passenger.

He felt he must answer for the curate’s death and do what he could to send any malevolent spirit onwards and close the door to Hell which must have opened on its arrival. Petersen was not entirely sure he would fare any better than the curate though, so he had come prepared to face his own death and did not mind admitting apprehension to Van Horn.

The Dutch-born whaler expressed surprise that the mansion had not been burned to the ground by the locals or even the authorities. The priest however thought its intact structure to be quite logical. With the entity’s place of attachment destroyed it would only grow in malevolence and seek a replacement. What person would want it taking over their home instead? Van Horn could not see past this reasoning and fell into contemplation for a while, not just about the story he’d heard but about life as a whole. People come and go. He knew that. He’d never before thought about where they went though. To Van Horn, the priest beside him seemed suddenly fragile. He had no friendly associate even to carry his bag. Van Horn found himself offering assistance and even telling the lie that such matters had interested him his whole life.

Petersen initially seemed glad to hear this but he also gave Van Horn a stern warning to renege there and then or follow his offer through. He warned that once they were engaged in the process there would be no way out until a conclusion was reached, one way or the other. With some trepidation and considering fully the risk of delaying his debt, Van Horn agreed to stand by his offer. Thus his course and his life was diverted. He stepped out of the carriage along with the priest not far from the woods.

They walked for the best part of three miles until they saw the house sitting lonely atop a hill. It had been empty for well over a year and was beginning to show signs of dilapidation. Birds had torn at it here and there and were nesting in its crevices. Crows especially had made it their haunt. They were large and numerous. Van Horn had never seen so many gathered together. Father Petersen interpreted this to be a sign and not one they should celebrate. He gave clear instructions as they neared the steps. Van Horn was to remain behind the priest at all times and not speak if addressed directly by any voice or apparition. Petersen warned that some beings have existed as long as man has walked the earth and their methods are tried and tested. They can toy with the human mind, seduce wills of iron and even have power to create illusions which do not exist in reality. Thus, cautioned Van Horn stepped back and allowed the priest to lead the way. Once inside the house, Petersen seem to grow in stature. He announced himself and his intention, introduced Van Horn as his assistant and asked for the entity’s cooperation in being laid to rest. The hallways of the grand mansion’s entrance reverberated with the authority in his voice. A long silence followed. Van Horn moved to say something but the priest’s hand shot up like a bolt to stay him. The clergyman was listening intently. Something had arrested his senses.

“Do you hear me?” he suddenly shouted. “I know you are present!” From far away, the walls began to shake slowly with a rumbling wail that grew in intensity until it was all around them and the ground shuddered under their feet. It rose in pitch to become an ear piercing shriek so terrible to hear that they couldn’t help but cover their heads and cower. Then it ceased abruptly. Van Horn was intensely aware of a presence close by, alike to someone standing there watching them but no one was. If they had been, Van Horn would have sworn their face was twisted with rage and hate. The reality of the sensation was chilling beyond compare. Even all the oddities he’d witnessed at sea: flying fish, giant squid marks on sperm whales, jellyfish as big as tents, St. Elmo’s fire and even mermaids’ tails disappearing into the deep could not have prepared him for that moment.

The feeling retreated gradually but still he felt watched, as if from a high place he could not see. He looked at Petersen. The priest nodded solemnly and determinedly. They each set foot on the stairs which were wide enough for four men abreast and proceeded to the generous landing. A large library faced them, impressively stocked with shelves to the ceiling. Petersen immediately wandered to the fireplace to examine the portrait of a dark-haired woman carrying a child. Her eyes were sad beyond imagining. Upon looking at her face, Van Horn wondered how the artist held his brush steady to paint her. He told me he would have gotten lost in her eyes which rested on the innocent child, had Petersen not distracted him with movement. The priest was then rummaging among a set of scrolls that were held in a deep alcove above the fireplace, presumably to keep them dry.

As Petersen reached to the back of the alcove, Van Horn saw his foot depress a tile which sank by several inches. This occurred and a bookcase slid to one side revealing an unlit passageway. With no hesitation the priest walked into the darkness and Van Horn had to follow suit or end up alone. He said he had barely gone ten steps when he realized the priest was no longer there. He spoke Petersen’s name, but his own voice replied, echoing. This frightened him, especially in the confines of the dark corridor. He thought about turning back but he remembered the promise he made in the carriage and so with some morality he steeled himself. The passage he estimated to be about thirty feet in length and highly curved. In fact it was so curved that he could not believe he did not come full circle. At the end though he came to a different room entirely. Two swords hung crossed on the wall beneath a yellow lamp and there was a door to the left and right. The new room was otherwise bare and windowless.

As soon as Van Horn stepped inside to investigate the doorways, a bookcase moved behind him to seal the room off. Indeed, the bookcase looked like many others that the library had contained, yet it stood alone, blocking the passage. This was extremely unnerving. Despite his best efforts and he was certainly not lacking in strength, Van Horn could not get the bookcase to budge. At one point he even resorted to removing a sword from the wall and used it to pry at crevices. The whole mechanism was so well crafted that even this was to no avail.

Temporarily resigning himself to the situation, Van Horn opened the left hand door and looked inside. The room was identical to the one he stood in. His mind spun in confusion. How could it be? Even the sword he had removed was gone from its position and lay where he had left it by the bookcase. Van Horn crossed that room and opened the far door. Again, the next room was identical. And though he tried his best the passage would not open in those rooms either.

He admitted to me that panic rose when he realized he was trapped in some type of illusion. He began to hurtle through the rooms without pause or hesitation, flinging the doors open and rushing on to the next and the next without any change in the situation. Eventually he worked himself into such a frenzy that he thought he had gone insane. There were no windows in the rooms, no way to get a bearing on the outside world. All was the same. Then the man began to wonder if he had inhaled a dust in the passage that brought on a hallucination, but everything seemed so tangibly real. It was baffling.

At length Van Horn grew tired and stopped for a rest. No sooner had he sat down with his back against the wall when a loud knock came from the unopened door in front of him.

Startled, he jumped to his feet and watched the door carefully. It did not open, the handle remained inanimate. “Who is there?” Van Horn asked with more bravado than he felt. His question was answered only with a stark silence. After a long time he cautiously opened the door but the next room was empty, just like all the others. By then he was no longer sure that he truly did hear a knock. Perhaps it was a trick of the mind, brought on by fear and isolation, he thought. Van Horn sat down again, nonplussed, and closed his eyes once more to gain some peace. Again a loud knock came. Three times. Once more he jumped up, alarmed, and called out but again there was no reply. When he opened the door all was as before. A quiet, empty room the same as all the others met him, in defiance of reason.

Van Horn said the knocking convinced him that someone, somewhere was active in the house and manipulating the whole scenario. The thought gave him the determination to keep going until he found the culprit or another clue at least. Therefore, Van Horn passed through and stubbornly opened many scores of doors but never was there a soul to be seen.

Yet, all the while an eerie sense of emptiness pervaded the air constantly, as if a person had recently left the room he was in and only the slight breeze created by their haste remained.

It was then that his mind returned to Petersen. Was the priest in a similar situation to himself? Surely though, the knocking was caused by another. If Petersen was knocking, the sound was bound to be more frantic, more persistent. Van Horn feared for the ardent clergyman almost more than himself. How long could the priest survive without food and water? In his mind, Van Horn began to calculate. Petersen had met the coach after midnight. They had arrived at the gates of the estate by midday. Having been awake the entire night before, Van Horn was sure his bout of tiredness had come on in the late afternoon. He was confident though that he had traversed more than a thousand rooms in his desperation. Therefore, night must have been upon him again.

Feeling heavy with the realization, he lay down and tried in earnest to sleep. Barely adrift, he felt the knocking invade his consciousness and stir him roughly. He tried to ignore the sound but its force intensified to become violent in nature. Then sorely afraid, he seized the sword beside him and got up to face the trouble. No trouble came though and the next room he barged into was just the same as the one he left. He was made no less nervous by this and kept the sword in his hand for a long while. Only after proceeding through several hundreds of rooms did it grow so heavy that he set it down. Van Horn’s nightmare began to darken at that point because he needed rest but the knocking showed him no mercy.

The repetitive circumstances continued for what felt like days. Right until Van Horn started rambling aloud to stave off the silence, the feeling of being watched, and to convince himself that although he was trapped by some evil force, he would be able to remain calm and sane by employing the power of logic. He could not figure out though how any creature, mortal or otherwise had the ability to assume full command over its immediate environment. Eventually, with no other information for deduction available, he came to suspect that he had entered Hell somehow or a place of purgatory at least. If that was the case the number of rooms could well be an infinite one.

Was it not then wiser, he began thinking, just to sit and wait for death? He would conserve his energies, prolong his life and could use the time to reflect back upon his actions and prepare for what might follow material existence. Then again, how could he possibly be sure that the very next door did not lead out of the terrible labyrinth? Van Horn dragged his bones onward with only the faintest glimmer of hope to light his way. I say dragged because that is how I imagine it myself. He told me quite frankly that as time went on he became emaciated and physically impotent. No power remained in his body to struggle and his mind became disoriented and untrustworthy due to hunger. Due to this undignified descent into the animal state, he then vowed that before it became too late to assert any control over his own life, he would use the last of his strength to sever an artery with the sword. Food he eventually stopped caring about, but water; he desired water more than anything he’d ever wanted in his whole life.

For a whaler who steals goliath mammals from their ocean home, he thought it a form of divine punishment perhaps that he too should come to miss the life-giving fluid so much. His mind was harried with images of the men cutting whale flesh alongside boats with long-handled spades. Also, the boiling vats of blubber onboard, prone to spillage on the waves that scalded seamen when they did. Yea, whaling is no clean process and despite constant scrubbing, boats come to stink of rotted flesh. It is said that ships downwind can always smell a whaler passing.

So, with the sins of his soul unfolding for his perusal, Van Horn became uncomfortable and chose to end himself. The sword’s blade was sharp enough. He tested it neath thumb and she drew blood well. Next was the decision of where to cut. Which nick would end his life most efficiently? Unlike the Japanese military nobility who take their lives painfully by sword as penance, Van Horn felt no obligation to suffer further. He wanted the quickest way out and decided to slash his neck in a running-pressing movement. As he touched the cold metal to his neck, he half expected some intervention, to wake up from a dream or to be called to a halt but none of these things happened. The situation was real and none came to offer help.

Then, just as he at last began the rush of steel he heard muffled shouting in the room ahead of him. Could it be? He stopped to listen. It was! Father Petersen’s unmistakable voice rang out again but why was he shouting? That was the abstract thought that ran through Van Horn’s mind. Nevertheless, joy surged within him at the prospect of seeing the priest again. He pushed the door open and saw Petersen standing silently in the middle of the room, facing the wall. “Father!” was all Van Horn could manage to say before he realized something was terribly wrong.

The priest did not respond normally, only turned mechanically to see who had entered. His eyes were soulless, black as night and in the center of each glowed an ice-white spark. The priest then walked towards Van Horn showing no emotion whatsoever.

Van Horn opened his mouth, but no sound left it. The first blow was solid and imbued with a power that a man of the cloth should not have possessed. It caught Van Horn by surprise, the fist knocking his head sideways but he did not fall. The priest lumbered forward and hit him again in the face.

The second blow forced Van Horn down but he scrambled to his knees and tried to get to the door behind him. He managed to close it and put his weight against it but the door burst out of its hinges and sent him flying. The priest charged through like a fireball and glared at Van Horn, his face so distorted with hate that it was unbearable to look upon. Van Horn could only run and he intended full pelt. He was caught from behind though by Petersen and sent crashing to the floor. By chance, the whaler’s hand came to rest on the lying sword’s hilt and with recourse to little else he turned with it upheld as protection.

Petersen bore down on him so strongly that he immediately ran himself through. He was as heavy and incongruous as lead on a sapling though and for a moment all Van Horn could do was to hold him there and watch his impossible struggles against death. Finally, as it ended and Petersen curled up, his own weight carried him to one side. The priest hit the wall with a thump and slid softly to the floor. For a moment Van Horn watched him carefully because the priest’s eyes were as large as saucers and he twitched several times. There was no way life could return to that body though because the abdominal wall had been penetrated and the spinal cord severed. Petersen was gone for good.

Van Horn rose with unfamiliar feelings inside of him. He had taken human life and it was the life of an honest cleric. Any witness would say the action was to save Van Horn’s own skin, but the Dutchman felt no peace with it. He knelt to say a prayer and an inept, pointless farewell. The altercation had sapped a great deal of his remaining strength and he thought he might follow the priest in a brief time anyway. Then they would be reunited. While he could though he would find the creature responsible and avenge all of the unnecessary deaths.

The rooms began to pass him again, one hundred, two hundred, there was little point in counting. Then, suddenly, up in the distance he heard shouting again. It couldn’t be! Clearly, it was Petersen’s voice but whether a creature was mimicking it or guilt haunted him with a hallucination, he could not tell. Again, Petersen bawled, much closer this time. How could it be so, Van Horn asked himself. He looked back but the priest’s body lay there in every room he could see, part of an infinitely long chain of doorways and bookcases.

With a rattle and a creak, the next door in front of Van Horn began opening and he ran blindly with terror in the opposite direction. Petersen’s roar behind him was as powerful as a lion’s. Despite the peril, Van Horn could barely command his legs to carry him. The priest or whatever monster that was, caught him easily and knocked him to the ground just as before. In the middle of the chaos, Van Horn managed to reach two conclusions as quick as lightning. The first was that the priest had somehow survived being run through by the sword. The second was that the creature had revived the priest for fresh purposes of evil. No matter which case was true, Van Horn resolved not to kill again and let the nearby sword lie peacefully.

It was a fateful decision because as he turned, Petersen’s hands were already on his throat and his thumbs closed Van Horn’s windpipe.

Now, a whaler possesses strength that normal men do not. Months and years of rowing against tides, cutting blubber and hauling monstrous pieces of flesh, give rise to sinews like tree branches. With them, Van Horn tore at the priest’s arms but impossibly, they were still stronger than his own. They were hard like iron and Van Horn could not find any movement to counter the force within them. He was destined to endure the hatred flooding into him through the priest’s eyes like two blinding suns. Remarkably though, in that moment of madness, just behind the baleful glare he thought he could sense Petersen’s own soul. Van Horn could see the man was possessed, but by what exactly? He sought some way to communicate with the cleric’s soul but although he could sense Petersen, it was as if Petersen could not recognise his kind companion. Thus, he felt he could not possibly reach him, and they would both be lost, Van Horn through suffocation and the priest by becoming his murderer by some evil puppetry. Van Horn could not think any more. The air in his lungs was disappearing too quickly. As stars began twinkling inside his head and blackness encroached on the edges of his peripheral vision, all he could do was to watch the other man’s demonic expression and madly rolling eyes.

Then, when Van Horn was absolutely certain he would die he forgot his own fear and all that remained was gentle concern for Petersen. Somehow, this fundamental change in Van Horn’s state of mind affected the priest, for his gaze gradually became fixed and and clear. Van Horn could see Petersen’s mind becoming present in his own body again. The cleric looked down baffled at his hands and struggled mightily to release the grip.

Once, twice, thrice before the iron softened into flesh and bone. No sooner had the priest achieved his goal than something came out of his body and rose to ceiling height above them. Although it was incorporeal some external features were discernible, and the image of a fine-boned person was there to behold. The baleful nature of its countenance gradually softened, leaving only the impression of a terrible loneliness. Tears flowed from its midnight blue eyes. Then it ascended quickly and was gone.

Petersen immediately lost consciousness and slumped over. He rolled off Van Horn who got up to tend to him. Without the power of the possessing demon to sustain the priest’s life though, there was nothing to be done. Van Horn closed the man’s eyes respectfully. Then he closed his own and said a prayer for the deceased. As he did so he felt a warm beam of sunlight touch his face. How could it be? He opened his eyes to see that it was true. The sunlight had been revealed by a moving cloud outside a window that he hadn’t seen before. The sound of laughter came from without, and Van Horn moved quickly to the glass to peer outside. A group of children played on the lawn nearby, and among them was a little lame boy smiling brightly at the others. They looked to be playing hide and seek.

Turning back in amazement Van Horn saw that the window was actually in the mansion’s library and not far from where he stood was kind Father Petersen, alive, well and smiling broadly. They discussed what had just happened in great detail, both sharing their own experience and able to corroborate the other’s. Both felt they’d been dreaming but how can any two people share the same dream? Then Van Horn’s eyes were caught by a glint on the wall behind the priest. There hung two swords, just as they had in the endless rooms. When Petersen followed his gaze and spied the swords, he was suddenly overcome by a possessive greed, so powerful that he had never felt its like before. He seized a sword and took Van Horn’s head off in one blow.

Until that point, I had followed the tale with the flame of an open mind, shielded only from flickering by a mild skepticism. I then knew immediately that something was awry. Dead men don’t talk. My mouth stood open while my mind tried to frame the question but at that very moment the boat docked with a jolt and the man before me stood up. Though his hands were free to hold his bag, I saw his feet were not. Between them were shackles and these were linked to a nearby guard. I suddenly became aware that I had been talking to a prisoner all along. As we stepped off the boat, with him led away and I walking freely, he called back on the then gentle breeze, saying only, “I am he, Petersen.”

Ciaran Doran is a former museum curator and ancient music archivist who has been fortunate enough to work on a number of international projects. He has contributed on occasion to British newspapers and written short pieces for the WWF For Nature. 

“Reverie” Dark Science Fiction by Aaron Simon

The man and his nephew rode for two days in the old car out into the desert on Highway 93 north from Las Vegas. They took barely any breaks aside from stopping off for the night in a Best Western along the way. The man told the truth to the hotel clerk, who’d eyed him suspiciously: They were on the way to a camping trip for the boy’s thirteenth birthday. The clerk, older, with thick glasses and thinning white hair, shrugged and handed over the room key before wishing the boy a happy birthday.

Now, the man turned the car off the road as the sun passed over the horizon of the desert that January evening. The red mountains turned from beautiful to ominous and looming in the fading light, and the radio turned to static. He put a CD in the car stereo and adjusted the volume. The boy watched his movements, but didn’t say anything. Unlike most children his age, he was quiet. He looked tense – as tense as a thirteen year old could – and bunched up in the chair, but he didn’t say anything.

Looking over him in the fading light, the man saw in the boy’s face unmistakable likeness to his father. Like the father, the boy had curly black hair and hazel eyes, the same gap in his front teeth. There was a sharpness in his eyes, observation that took in more than the boy would say. The man wondered if the boy had an idea of what was going to happen out there. Given the boy’s clenched jaw and right leg that never stopped shaking, he thought yes. The man thought that the nervousness was understandable, especially given the details of the boy’s dream. Part of him wished that the boy would ask him questions, but most of him dreaded trying to give the boy answers and was glad that he had no questions to ask.

The man turned the car further down the paved road and, at a small sign that said “Reverie,” took a left turn down something that was barely more than a wide dirt path. The boy looked up into the sky. The dome light in the car flickered. Reflexively, the man reached up and tapped it. The boy continued looking into the sky and opened his mouth to say something. The man looked over, but the boy had decided against it. The man reached out and patted the boy on the shoulder. The boy’s attention, though, was fixated on the sky.


The dream went like this: A large form descended from the sky. The shape of the thing was uncertain, but it appeared to be made of the fronds of a fern and possessed something that resembled wings. Its shape contorted and it appeared that beaks grew and receded into its body at random. The wings did not appear to flap – the body of the thing moved by some other means. As it descended, the boy felt a chill fall down upon him, followed by the unmistakable feeling that he was about to vomit. He held himself together, there in the mountains in which the dream took place, and grasped the stone object that was in the middle of what looked to be a crater.

The thing descended and a multitude of green eyes appeared underneath its dark form. They reminded him of cats’ eyes. They shot around, taking in its surroundings and then landed on him. It stopped moving about twenty feet above him. The boy finally noticed the lights in the sky. They reminded him, in the dream, of the light shows that he’d attended with his father in the local observatory.

The thing hovered in the sky and the word “Essence” exploded into his mind, deafening him. He reached up to his ears out of reflex, looked at them, and saw they were coated in blood.


Several hours passed as the car made its way along the Reverie path, maintained in the desert by others like them. They fought a near-constant battle to keep it from being swept away in high desert winds or in the rare desert flash floods. During this leg of the journey, as they passed through lands federal and public, the man kept an eye on the instrument balanced precariously on the dashboard. It resembled a Geiger counter, one of the models with a probe. This device’s probe was against the window and the device’s window showed not numbers, but images. For most of the journey, the needle remained close to the image of the faceless man, though once they had turned on the Reverie path, the needle crept toward another image: something that looked like a cross between an intricate fern and a flying bird.

The needle drew to the border of the image and the man turned off the dirt road, to the right. They were now on rocky ground. The car handled itself well enough. Rocks pinged off the undercarriage and dust caked the windshield. Judging by the needle’s position, there wouldn’t be too much further to go. The night sky, from what the man could see through the windshield and windows, was a mishmash of stars and colors: The deep views of space that one could see where things got thin. He slowed the car down and came to a stop. The needle was now on the image of the flying thing. The boy looked at the face of the device and said, “That’s the thing from my dream.”

The man took a deep breath and nodded. He picked up the device, disassembled it, put it in its case, and said, “Go ahead and stretch your legs. I have to set up camp.”

The boy opened the car door and hopped out. He closed the door behind him without slamming it, and the man smiled. Slamming doors was a pet peeve of the boy’s father. He turned off the radio, then the car, and got out himself.


His sister-in-law took it the hardest. She’d come from a family that hadn’t been as fortunate (or chosen, or blessed, or any number of other stabs in the dark) as the man’s. Her sister, uncle, and several cousins had not come back from their rituals. She had fought against her son taking part, scared beyond the point of willing to admit that she thought there was something in her blood that disappointed the things from beyond. The truth was, the man knew, no one had any idea what it was that kept some of them on this world and others disappearing. There were details at the ritual site – sometimes blood, sometimes hair, sometimes not a single trace except for a small item of clothing or accessories left behind – but nothing that gave them an idea of what the things wanted.

Being a man of a certain bent of mind, he thought that they were, ultimately, understandable and explainable. Others had attempted to get to the bottom of their existence. The prevailing theory was that they were special – somehow – and that these things had chosen to communicate with them at the point where the logical mind was quietest: Dreams.

His brother told him about the boy’s dream and asked him to take him into the desert, to Reverie, and see him through the ritual. Throughout the conversation, especially as the man recounted the boy’s dream, his voice catching on the blood streaming from the boy’s ears, his sister-in-law stayed out of the room, busying herself rearranging things elsewhere in the house.

The man thought about saying that they should refuse the call. Just to see what happened. Then he looked at the anxious expression on both his brother and his sister-in-law and realized that there was not a chance that he would broach the subject of using his nephew as a guinea pig. He relented and agreed.


An hour later, well after darkness had taken hold, the man sat in a folding chair outside the large blue tent he had set up on the hard-packed ground. He glanced from the small fire to the boy, who was watching the stars. The man followed the boy’s gaze and, off in the western distance, just over the mountains, saw a hint of green in the sky. He had left his watch in the car. The ritual began in a time without watches, and it was always assumed that being aware of things outside one’s immediate environment could negatively impact the outcome. The man thought it was useless superstition, but was not confident enough to buck the trend. He prodded the fire one last time, ensuring that it had caught, and stood up.

The boy looked back and the man nodded. The man walked to the back of the car, opened the trunk, and took out the boy’s backpack. His pin – a book with “To Thine Own Self Be True” on its cover – fell off the front of the pack and the man placed it back on. He grabbed a couple of water bottles from the container and closed the trunk. He returned to the boy and handed him the pack and the water and said, “Keep your jacket on. It’s cold at night, here.” He pointed toward the mountains. “Two miles away, the ground starts rising toward the mountains. Those are the foothills. You’ll keep on west – just follow the light in the sky. Once you have to climb, climb. Climb up, always heading west, until you come to a circular, level area. In the middle, you will see a dais. You will sit there until the time comes. I will come for you in the morning.”

The boy looked out toward the mountains. “What happens if I get lost?”

“You won’t,” said the man. “No one gets lost. This is important, and that which you saw in your dreams will guide you until it is time for you to meet.”

The boy turned back to the man. His eyes were moist, but he kept himself from crying. The man could guess that the boy was going to say that he was scared, so he knelt down – he didn’t have to kneel too far, the boy was tall for his age – and hugged him. They closed their eyes and the boy said, “The thing – it felt horrible in my dream.”

“All things we do not understand are horrible until we face them,” said the man. “I went through this, the same as your parents, and our parents before us.” He broke the embrace and stood again. “You’d better get going. You have a journey.”


Later that night, the man stood by the fire. He looked to the west. At first, he kept his attention focused on the boy’s retreating figure, walking toward the mountains. Then, eventually, the display in the sky drew his attention upwards. What originally appeared to be a faint green shimmer, almost as if someone was flashing a large spotlight into the sky, had become a multicolored mass, shot through with green, red, purple, and blue. It stood out like a bizarre oil painting on black canvas, something that was in between styles and reflected nebulae more than an Earth-bound image.

Long after the boy disappeared from sight, the lights above the mountains – above the dais, the man knew – grew in intensity. The man had the theory that by watching the lights, they could begin to understand the things that caused them. He brought out the notebook he had packed and began making notes about the lights’ flickering, their colors, whether or not there was lightning, and how fast the mass grew. 

Eventually, after the fire had begun dying down and tendrils of light snaked their way down from the sky into the mountains, the man knew it was time to sleep. With those tendrils came the ritual and the being, and there was nothing he could do for the boy. A soft keening filled the air, as if a siren called from the mountains and the man could not suppress a shiver. Not for the first time, he wished that he understood the things that called them into the mountains.


He woke just before daybreak and looked to the west, reflexively. Of course, nothing was there aside from the rapidly-brightening sky. Dawn’s light broke through the darkness and if there had been any presence in the sky before then, it had left long before. That morning was cool and crisp, though by the time he had made coffee over a small fire, it had warmed up substantially. He left a note in the camp, saying that he was going for a climb in the mountains and would return, just in case anyone saw the camp and wondered if it was abandoned.

Well after daybreak, he walked into the foothills and climbed his way up the red rocks in the mountains. His pack weighed him down, but he was smart enough to know that losing a first aid kit and emergency supplies was not worth the comfort of an unencumbered climb. He felt the red rocks under his hands, remembered this path from when he was a child, and thought back – briefly – to what had happened when it was his time at the dais.

Most of his memories of that night were of a great, heavy pressure in his mind. Flashes of something utterly alien as it stood in front of him, towering in the sky, horrifying in its otherness. Its spongy skin reminded him of the foam that you saw on the shore as the tide washed in and out. It had the shape of a man, but the details were off, like it was caught in a crystal and the only things that could be seen were warped and fragmented details. Eyes that shifted position. A mouth that rotated along an axis. Some kind of clothing that shifted colors; maybe it wasn’t clothing at all. Perhaps, the man considered, and not for the first time, this was just a projected image that the thing wished to show him, an attempt to create a bridge between his mind and its own, in order to communicate. He did not remember many details, but he did remember the probing at his mind, the feeling that something was there, poking at the folds of his brain, lapping at his thoughts, and even prodding at the organs in his body. He did not know how long it lasted, and could not remember if he had communicated with the thing, but only recalled his godfather, his own uncle, arriving in the clearing the next morning, seeing him, and smiling broadly before giving him a hug. The man looked forward to giving the boy the same smile and a broad hug.

Maybe, on the way back, he could treat his nephew to a hefty meal at that diner they’d passed on the north side of Las Vegas. The man had caught a glimpse of comfortable-looking booths, friendly-looking staff, and a warm clientele. That would be a nice way to cap off the boy’s birthday weekend, he thought.

After some time, he cleared the rocks and looked down into the small, circular ritual site with the dais. He expected to see the boy down there, possibly sleeping, possibly staring up expectantly, with a changed look in his eyes. Instead, the only thing he saw was the boy’s backpack laying crumpled on the ground. The man climbed down next to the dais. It bore no marks that indicated what may have happened the night before and the ground was smooth, save for a few shoe prints that, as far as the man could tell, matched the boy’s shoes. He walked to the backpack and picked it up. On the outside was that small pin shaped like a metal journal on which was printed “To thine own self be true.”

The man put the bag down on the ground and looked into the cold and featureless blue sky.


Two days later, he pulled up to his brother’s house. His brother and his wife opened the front door and stood on the front steps, between the two shrubs that flanked their small porch. They looked at him in the driver’s seat of the car but, he thought, they were looking for their son.

He took his time getting out of the car. When he stood out of the driver’s side door, he held in his right hand the crumpled backpack. He said nothing. His brother opened his mouth and closed it. His brother’s wife took a rattling breath and disappeared back inside. His brother watched her leave into the darkness of their home and then sat down on the porch steps and hung his head.

Aaron Simon lives in Portland, Oregon with his dog, Barry, and a really nice window that looks out on a really nice tree. When he’s not being distracted by that tree, he writes, reads, and develops crippling addictions to things like collecting records.

“The Swamp Rat” Dark Spy Thriller by Philip Ivory

Pipes groaned and water drops echoed in the dank room. Timmins, standing against a grimy wall, had a clear view of the steel-plated door. Every few minutes, he took the pistol out as if to make sure it was really there.

Havelock, was late. Intentional? What had Dunbar said about him? Something about a bag of tricks.

Timmins slipped the gun back into his pocket. He had never fired it and was frankly afraid of the thing. But to go about without it would be idiocy. The man he was supposed to meet was not one to take lightly.

Dunbar’s instructions had been simple. Give Havelock the money. Get the papers from him. Turn them over to Dunbar.

Dunbar, after giving the instructions, had asked Timmins outright if he would run off with the loot. Insulting. It would be funny, months later, to send Dunbar a telegram, from Singapore or Greece or wherever the money and his fancy took him:


Of course, that would be foolish, amateur. But delightful to think about.

And he wasn’t an amateur, but a force to be reckoned with, even if Dunbar didn’t know it. Timmins even had a reputation, if not by his real name. Perhaps not on par with this Havelock, but still.

As an offering, Timmins had brought a bottle of the whiskey Havelock had mentioned in his telegram.

The hell with that. He uncapped it now. It burned his throat in a pleasant way. Something small scratched in a dark recess. Timmins remained alert, poised for the door to open. It was essential that he and Havelock meet. It was fate.


Four days earlier, Timmins had been sipping brandy in the café on Rue de Rivoli near where he worked.

“Hallo?” Half a question. The man was English, older, in a frayed, unfashionable tweed suit and sporting, of all things, a gold-rimmed monocle in his right eye. He had a high, churchy voice, with a hint of a Scottish Highlands. “Selcroft, is it? No, Tunbridge? No, no. Timmins! I never forget a face. Yes, I remember that steely eye! Unmistakable. What a marvel it is seeing you here.”

 “Hello!” said Timmins, perplexed for the moment.

“Oh, I apologize. I shouldn’t expect you remember. I’m Harold Dunbar.”

Dunbar had been his medieval history tutor. Now older and grayer. But it was Dunbar’s daughter he remembered most vividly, Cynthia with those gravely sympathetic eyes. Sometimes he had dreams in which he found himself in that conversation again.  

Timmins invited Dunbar to sit. Dunbar, who only wanted tea, asked what Timmins had done since he’d left Cambridge in 1931, six years prior.

Timmins told him. He’d performed well enough in the diplomatic service in London to be assigned a position as an attaché at the French Ministry of Justice to coordinate information with London.

“That’s splendid,” said Dunbar. “Knew you had potential, if only you’d apply yourself.”

Timmins flinched. “Well, as students go, I’m sure I was far from your best.”

Timmins could still see Dunbar’s green ink on his papers. “Rudimentary thinking.” “Intellectually lazy.” “Lacking true insight.” These things had gutted him at the time. The harshness seemed at odds with Dunbar’s affable front. The shame had driven him to purchase essays by older students, which Timmins passed off as his own, successfully so far as he knew. This moral loosening had, in some ways, been a new beginning, a signpost.

“Expect I was a bit of a duffer,” Timmins added.

And yet he’d worked nights during his university years at a fish and chips place to help his mother meet his fees.

“But the proof’s in the pudding.” Dunbar said, spreading his hands as if to say: “Just look at you.”

Timmins asked him about students they’d known in common. Soon he was promising to send a cheque for five pounds for the new funding drive to rebuild the school chapel.

“Splendid, thanks,” said Dunbar. “You parents are well?”

Timmins looked at him coldly. “My father died in the War. My mother’s still in Bristol.”

“Oh,” said Dunbar. He withdrew the monocle from his eye with a handkerchief. “Sorry, should have remembered.”

In fact, it had been Cynthia that Timmins had poured his heart out to at that garden party those many years ago, at the cottage Dunbar and his wife kept off the south end of Parker’s Piece in Cambridge.

He’d been nineteen and she’d been perhaps fifteen, still at school, sitting on the arm of his chair as he sipped lemonade, talking about growing up poor in Bristol, feeling inferior to the other undergraduates. He confessed how embarrassed he’d been to see the understanding look the college porter had given his bags the day he’d arrived as a first year.

“It doesn’t matter, about your bags and clothes and things,” Cynthia had said. “In a few years you’ll be onto such wonderful things. You’ll be a rich and famous solicitor in London.”

He had thought of being a solicitor then. This was what the fifteen-year-old girl had said to him and to this day he still thought of it as one of the finest things anyone had ever said. He’d even told her that pathetic story about saying goodbye to his father.

He’d wanted to take her hand but had seen Dunbar in the doorway to the garden, laughing and clapping the captain of the rowing team, Colin Stokes, on the shoulder. When his monocled gaze fell on Timmins next to his daughter, Dunbar stopped laughing. Timmins felt naked, as if all his failings, from his second-hand robes to his uncertain table manners to his fatherless upbringing, were being examined.

Perhaps Timmins had read too much into that moment. Still, not long after that, Dunbar’s harsh comments had begun to appear on Timmins’ essays.

Now Timmins said: “Your wife? How is she?”

“Splendid. We moved into a house near the new library.”

“And Cynthia?”

Dunbar paused, narrowed his eyes. “She’s in London, now.”


“She got married.”

“I’m happy to hear it.” Timmins felt crushed. Married. Probably to someone rich and stupid, some dreadful toff, one of Dunbar’s favored students.

Dunbar finished polishing the monocle. It was then Timmins noticed the slight tremor running along the left arm. Dunbar glanced up, met his eyes.

“Damn thing, comes on at the most … nerves, you know.” Dunbar replanted the monocle. “Did you ever hear, when you were at University, any rumblings about things I did during the War?”

“No, not a thing.”

“Oh, it wasn’t much. A few things I was able to do to help the government. It really came about because I was in correspondence with some German historians for a book I was working on.”

Dunbar confided he had gathered intelligence for England, obtaining secrets through correspondence with a German scholar who wrote too openly about some military advice he’d given the Kaiser. Timmins was mildly impressed. So Dunbar had been a spy of sorts, an academic variety who weaseled secrets via letters, but a spy nonetheless.

“You kept up this kind of work after the war? At Cambridge?”

“Yes, from time to time, when teaching allowed.”

“You still do?”

Dunbar did not answer directly. “You follow the dispatches out of Europe?”

“Not every day.”

“You must know there’s another war coming. This Hitler’s a mad dog. Worse than any Kaiser. It’s coming, and England won’t be safe.”

“All the more reason to be here,” Timmins said lightly. He wasn’t very interested in politics.

“I wouldn’t be at all sure about Paris. Anyway, you must feel some loyalty for home. Your mother in Bristol, for instance.”

What was Dunbar driving at? “Well, if Hitler wants Bristol, he can have it.”

Dunbar gave him a look. Not exactly disapproving, more like Timmins was being appraised. “I always thought you were a boy of strong nerve. Buying essays off other students, passing them off as your own.”

Timmins stiffened in his chair.

“It’s all right! Ancient history. In fact, I … I have a notion about something. Something that’s been weighing on me, you know.”

Hadn’t Dunbar already put the touch on him for the school chapel? “Look, if there’s anything I can do. I’m glad to help.”

“No, no. I shouldn’t get you involved.” Dunbar’s face brightened. “That’s funny. My daughter spoke to me about you, that day we had the garden party. Odd, that coming back to me now. I mean she said something after you and the others had left.”

“She did?”

“She said: ‘I think that boy’s very lonely. But he’ll come out all right in the end.’ Yes, I think that was it.”

Timmins remembered pouring out his heart to her, voice low so he wouldn’t be heard over the laughter and tinkle of glasses and the occasional mayfly buzzing in from the garden. He didn’t want to made sport of later by the other boys. Told her about when he’d been five, standing alongside his mother in the open doorway in Bristol, watching his father walking toward the gate and the street beyond. Tall. Golden-haired. Something joyful and musical in his stride. That laughing glint in his eye even in quiet or serious moments. As in the moment of final goodbye. The boy had broken from his mother, running out to the gate, crying. His father had turned, already in uniform, a bag over his shoulder, and knelt there at the gate.

“Chin up, old thing. Got to teach these Huns a lesson, haven’t we? King and country and all that. You’ll understand when you’re older. But don’t worry. I’ll be back sooner than you can say lager ‘n lime.”

His father had pressed young Timmins’ shoulder and walked off to join his friends at the station. Then he was gone. Killed at a terrible battle called Gallipoli. No body was ever recovered. Nothing came back but a letter from the King, a medal and a few personal effects.

“Poor thing,” Cynthia had said after he told her. “Things will get better, I promise. Things come right in the end, especially for those who have a hard time of it early on. I believe that.”

Timmins had never forgotten. He never imagined that she had remembered him, was astonished to hear otherwise from Dunbar.

“She was very nice to me, I remember. Look, whatever this thing is, why don’t you come out with it? Honestly, I’ll let you know if it isn’t something I can do.”

Dunbar grinned as if he liked Timmins’ forthrightness very much. “Here’s the thing. I do remember you, obviously. Clever boy, resourceful. Some nerve, no doubt. No academic fireball, but what does that matter for our purpose? And you’re successful. I’ve been asked to do another job for Britain. Meet a man. Not to put too fine a point on it, said to be dangerous. But if he’s handled the right way … I don’t mind writing to people, cultivating them for information, but meeting them in person, especially someone of, shall we say, a certain reputation …”

Timmins’ lunch hour was almost over. “I’m not following.”

“I’m ashamed to admit it, but I don’t think I’m up to it. There, I’ve said it. It would be nothing to you. Would you do it for me? Meet this fellow? For a price?”


Timmins’ vague plan of becoming a solicitor, the plan Cynthia had talked about, didn’t last after Cambridge. There had been no money for learning the law. He had needed to go to London at once to find a job. For a time, he learned the ins and outs of the city by doing crime reporting. He became fascinated by the idea of a kind of vice-ridden sub city below the surface of things. He also did a few higher-level pieces on politics. This led to an interview with an official in the diplomatic service, who befriended him and helped him get a job there. He enjoyed the work but could never rise above a certain point. The higher paygrade levels seem carefully protected. Timmins saw others who were no more talented, but who came from better families, rise effortlessly. He could not prove this was the reason he remained stuck but believed with bitter certainty that this was the case.

After that, he became indifferent to the work and made mistakes on drafts of letters. When reprimanded, he handed in his notice with no other plan in mind. His superior still saw something in Timmins and persuaded him not to quit by offering him the job in Paris. No pay rise was included but the glamour of the foreign city was enough to make Timmins agree to stay on.

A year after coming to Paris, he was having lunch with a friend, another exiled Englishman, at the same café in Rue de Rivoli where he would later meet Dunbar. His friend shamefacedly confessed he’d been arrested for buying opium in Bois du Boulogne. He’d had to bribe the French police not to inform the bank where he worked, who would have telegrammed the London office, who surely would have sacked him. It had been a near thing, and Timmins, with great interest, drank in the fear that rippled across his friend’s features as he talked about it. Timmins thought about the handful of francs that had been slipped into a policeman’s pocket. What would it take to become the one whose pockets were being lined?

He’d begun to make it his business to know people, the best, the worst, in-between. Sometimes he posed as a writer. Outside of work hours, he’d cultivated contacts who had ways of procuring embarrassing information on French nationals, sometimes on visiting English as well. He developed a low-level network of bellboys, nurses, abortionists, brothel managers and others knowledgeable and helpful when you greased their palms in the right way.

That was all right. The tricky part was confronting the guilty parties to their faces, threatening to reveal information to wives, husbands, families, employers … whichever seemed most damaging. The first time, the man’s face become so inflamed and angry that Timmins, growing frightened, made a joke of the whole thing and excused himself, slipping away quickly. The second time went much better. It was a young bride who had married into a manufacturing family that had made millions building munitions for the French army during the Great War. Her mistake was that after the marriage, she’d continued seeing her lover, who worked a mallet at a slaughterhouse. She had nearly become ill when confronted, and offered a sum much greater than the one Timmins had intended to ask for. (A good lesson. Let them talk their way deeper into trouble.)

That night he’d celebrated being a successful blackmailer with a grand dinner. He’d bought the pistol soon after. Blackmail was a tricky thing but an “accidental” flash of his pistol was usually enough to discourage any high-handed business from his victims. Benefactors as he preferred to think of them. There was a bench outside a bookshop in the fourth arrondissment. After a day’s work, Timmins would wait there. Furtive men and women would slip him a book with a sum between its leaves, 5,000 francs or more on a good day.

After a few years of this, Timmins had been amused to hear whispers in the city about a mysterious figure, the “rat des marais.” The swamp rat. Not flattering, but Timmins enjoyed the notion of being a notorious figure. He’d thought it rather a grand thing in its way.


When Dunbar had asked him to do the job, Timmins pressed for details. But Dunbar had not wanted to say anymore in a café on the street. They had agreed to meet again the next day where Dunbar was staying at the Hotel Jeanne d’Arc, a few streets from where Timmins lived in le Marais.

Timmins passed a dull day at his office. He could not stop wondering about Dunbar’s offer. Walking at lunchtime, he nearly came face to face with a magnificently dressed woman carrying a parasol. It was the first woman he’d ever blackmailed, the one who’d married into the manufacturing family while continuing to see her lover. She recognized him as well. Both averted their faces and kept walking. She still wore her wedding ring, Timmins noticed. No harm done, he said to himself, apart from the expense she’d incurred, which probably meant little to a woman of her standing.

At the Hotel Jeanne d’Arc that evening, he and Dunbar sat in a corner of the lobby. Dunbar explained: “A man named Havelock is staying here in Paris, we don’t know where exactly. You can reach him by telegram at Saint Lazare station. That is, if you are interested.”

“What do I do when I meet him? What’s this about?”

“We’ve promised him five thousand British pounds. I’ve already left the first half with him. You’ll give him the rest, in person only. He’ll give you some papers in return.  That’s all. Bring them to me and I’ll give you your fee.”

The fee, fifty pounds, was handsome enough. And he would have the pistol on him. What concerned him more was the trust Dunbar was placing in him, asking him to hold twenty-five hundred pounds. It made him question Dunbar’s judgment.

“Who is this man?”

“The less you know the better.”

“I don’t agree,” said Timmins.

“There was a scandal in Austria last year. Their finance minister was implicated, that he received payments for passing secrets that benefited a consortium of investors in Spain. The minister ended up taking poison.”

Timmins vaguely remembered the story. “What’s it to do with …”

“The go-between who paid the minister for the secrets was Havelock. This is where we can only speculate, but one of our sources says when pressure from the Austrian government came to bear on the minister, and he was on the verge of confessing, that’s when he was found dead. But the poison wasn’t really self-inflicted.”

“You’re saying this man Havelock did it, to clean things up?”

“Yes, and was well paid for all of it, by his friends in Spain.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s as English as you or I. But he’s a bloody traitor, if you want the truth.” Dunbar’s affable exterior gave way to a kind of vivid, bitter disdain. “Other people have died because of him, some of them English. Another man, someone I knew from home who got into some trouble, ending up taking his own life, for fear of what Havelock might expose.”

The thought entered Timmins’ head that Havelock might be a man worth knowing.

“He does sound tricky to handle. Perhaps I should get more than fifty.”

“Sorry, that part’s not negotiable. And another thing. You mustn’t whisper a word of any of this, especially what I’m about to tell you. All right?”

Timmins bristled a little. “Yes, go on.”

“Here’s the thing that concerns us now. There was an engineer in our shipyards in Sunderland. He lost most of his money in ’29 and never recovered, turning to gambling, getting in a deeper hole. He came over here to France ostensibly for a kind of rest cure, but really to meet our man Havelock. He sold Havelock critical information on our defenses, plans and all kinds of things.”


“On our ships and things.”


“Well, don’t you see?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

Dunbar glanced around the lobby, lowered his tone. “I told you there’s another war coming. My German contacts tell me Havelock has made overtures to sell this information to Hitler.”

Dunbar seemed to be pausing to let the import of his words sink in. “This is a terrible thing, don’t you see? If Germany gets this information, the whole war will go much harder for us.”

This patriotic talk made Timmins tired. He had been done with that kind of thing by age twelve. When other kids wanted to play soldiers fighting Zulus or Boers, instead of games he’d preferred like Robin Hood or pirates, he’d wander off to throw stones into the canal. This was around the time he gave up the fantasy that his father might have survived that battle and could still stroll in at the door one day whole and sound, as if he’d just been ‘round the pub.

Now Timmins was thinking about his own future. What if the swamp ran dry?  Or what if the Swamp Rat reputation were traced back to him? Either way, Paris would be over. But weren’t there other places in the world? This man, Havelock, saw things in a bigger way, concerned himself with things grander than envelopes passed nervously by clerks and lowly officials. Maybe Havelock needed a partner, someone with a talent for scrounging up facts. Tawdry facts, yes. But useful.

Dunbar was giving him a shrewd look. “Well, what do you say? You’re still young, and you have a taste for adventure, or have I read you wrong? Say you’ll do it. Fifty isn’t bad for a night’s work.”

More than the money, Timmins’ curiosity about meeting Havelock felt like a burning need, a way to open a door to a higher plane of existence.

“Oh, all right,” said Timmins. “Why not? I don’t imagine he’s as frightening as you make him out. I’ll do your dirty work, if that’s what you want.”

 “Excellent, you won’t regret it” said Dunbar. He wagged an instructive finger, another affectation Timmins remembered from Cambridge days. “’Man towers above the rest of creation so long as he realizes his own nature, and when he forgets it, he sinks lower than the beasts.’”

“What’s that?”

“Boethius. Don’t you remember?”


They met again two days later, back in the Jeanne D’Arc lobby. Dunbar had said he needed a day to contact Havelock about the new arrangements.                                       

“Did you check with your superiors back in London, about putting me onto this caper?” asked Timmins.

“No need. They trust my judgment.”

“It’s a bit irregular, surely?”

“Believe me, the tricky part was dealing with Havelock. He knows who I am. But he doesn’t know you. It took the devil to convince him to let you make the contact. Must have written back and forth a dozen times.”

“How do you do that?”

“I told you before. By telegram. You have to address him  as Hammond. Yes, it’s rather complicated. Then he sends a telegram to me here, at my hotel. In your case, he’ll send it to the telegraph office directly opposite the café where we met. Will that work?”

“Yes, fine.” A notion struck him. “Say, have you thought of just arresting this fellow? I mean, if he’s done all the things you say.”

Dunbar looked downcast. “Yes. We’re afraid if he gets wind of anything like that, he’ll give us the slip, be off to Germany with the papers. He’s too damned clever.”

“Is Havelock his real name?”

“Well that’s … an interesting question.”

Dunbar’s eccentricities were giving Timmins a headache. “You don’t have to so be mysterious.”

“I’m not, but really, it’s better if there are some things you don’t know.”

“It’s all right for me to stick my neck out, but not to know too much, is that it?”

To Timmins’ annoyance, Dunbar was regarding him in a satisfied, appraising way. The Cambridge don granting his approval. “I think you’ll do fine. You really will.  You should be proud, you know.”

 “Don’t talk rubbish.”

“Think of your father. Gave his life in the Great War, didn’t he? King and country. He’d be proud if he could see you now, don’t you think?”

Timmins answered coldly. “It’s been a long day. Should we go over it one last time?”

 They discussed logistics again, and Dunbar said: “I’m here until term starts, by the way. I’ve spoken to Cynthia about her coming over in August. She’s never been to Paris. Maybe you could join us for a dinner one night, if we can work out the schedule.”

Timmins stared at him. “You said she was married?”

“Yes. Well. Life can be complicated. And she … she’s a very fine person. Feels things, more than others. Sympathetic, you know. You may remember. She deserves more from life.”

Timmins felt a tinge of satisfaction. Perhaps the husband was old enough to have been in the war but was one of those who was never right in the head after. There was a lot of that about. Or perhaps he cheated on her. It was easy to imagine things. There was no vice Timmins hadn’t encountered in his secret work.

They ran through the arrangements once more and said goodnight.


A few days later, Timmins sent a telegram to the Saint Lazare office:



He had signed it with his real name because Dunbar said he should and he saw no reason not to. The reply was waiting for him a few hours later.



Dunbar had said he’d cleared all this with Havelock, told him Timmins would be taking his place. Timmins thought of going over to Dunbar’s hotel and giving him hell. But he was tired of dealing with him. He decided the ball was in his own court and replied immediately.



Havelock’s reply arrived an hour later.


Timmins felt obliged to call Dunbar then, but there was no answer in his room, although it was after 10 PM. So Timmins walked back to the telegraph office and wrote:


Some of this, Timmins realized, might seem odd, even compromising, if it got back to Dunbar or his superiors. On the other hand, it could be explained on the basis that Timmins was trying to provoke the man into showing. The next telegram arrived early in the morning:


In the early afternoon, Timmins went around to Dunbar’s hotel to get the remainder of the payment to give Havelock. Dunbar was huddled in a corner of his room in a robe with a tea kettle between his knees. The monocle was in a little red velvet case on an end table.

“Must look a bit foolish, but need the steam,” he said, apologetically, taking in deep breaths.

It was a confining sort of room, one little window looking on a noisy fish market, and wainscoting that seemed to close in as it rose.

“Listen, what’s this business?” Timmins went on to complain about Havelock not knowing who he was.

Dunbar fluttered his fingers as if to usher the steam up toward his nasal cavities. “He’s being difficult. It’s part of his bag of tricks. You’d understand if you knew him better.”

“I don’t understand. It’s bloody awkward.”

“But he’s agreed to meet? At the Darcet? That’s what matters.”

Timmins nodded.

Between breaths of the steam, Dunbar was eying him in an odd, almost fearful way, biting his lower lip as if wanting to speak but not daring to.

 “Is there something wrong?” demanded Timmins.

“Nothing, only, well, I think I should like to call the whole thing off.”

Timmins was astonished. “What? Why?”

“Something feels off. But we’re already on the hook for a great deal of money.”

“Well, give me the rest and we’ll close the deal. This is no time to get a case of nerves.”

 Dunbar rose, carefully placing the tea kettle on the floor, wrapping his robe around his shoulders. He walked over to the wardrobe, opened it, fished around in some files on the upper shelf, and returned with an envelope.

There was an awkward moment as Dunbar continued to grip the envelope, as if reluctant to give it over. Timmins waited tensely, hand outstretched. Meeting Havelock had grown to something very important in his mind. But didn’t want to seem too desperate for it.

Timmins searched for something to say. “Have you heard from your daughter?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“I think it’s best she not come over now.”


Dunbar said nothing. The envelope trembled in his grip.

“Suit yourself,” said Timmins. “Are you going to give me the money or not? I don’t want to stand here all night.”

Finally, Dunbar released his grip so Timmins could take the envelope. Dunbar sat, huddling beneath the robe, bringing the tea kettle to his knees again. “Bring the papers here, no matter how late. I’ll be awake.”

Timmins confirmed the money was there. “Are you going to tell me what you’re so bloody on edge about?”

“If you want to know, I’m afraid you’ll muck it up. This is dreadfully important. To all of us. I realize I barely know who you are now, really.”

“Thanks. Thanks most awfully. It’s a little late for that kind of thing, isn’t it?”

“It’s nothing personal.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

Dunbar looked up at him between breaths. “You won’t …”

“Won’t what?”

“Run off with the money?”

Timmins glared at him. Last time, Dunbar had said there might be more jobs coming along after this. Promised to bring Cynthia over. Told Timmins he ought to be proud. Now he’d canceled out all of that and was adding insult on top of it.

“I ought to knock you off your chair for saying that.”

Dunbar took a deep breath, remained maddeningly calm. “You don’t enjoy violence any more than I do.”

Through his blackmail work, even as a kid, Timmins had avoided fights his entire life. It was annoying for Dunbar to presume to know him so well.

“All right, if you think you know everything, then I’m going to show you. I’m going to get those papers. I’ll bring them here straight away. When I say I’m going to do a job, I bloody well do it, that’s one thing you’ll know about me.”

There was a strange look in Dunbar’s eye. Almost pleading. Then he said something that sent Timmins’ blood cold: “I thought you were clever.”

Timmins, who couldn’t fathom what the words meant, covered his fear quickly in indignation. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing at all.”

“I’ll get those papers, I’ll show you.”

But Dunbar, head downward, was no longer looking at him.

Timmins stormed out. From the hallway, he heard a sound that he assumed must have been the tea kettle hitting the floor and Dunbar crying out: “Oh damn!”.


Timmins dined at a little Russian restaurant. The envelope with 2500 pounds sat heavily in his pocket. He considered taking the night-train to Prague. He had thought about it even before Dunbar’s insulting remark. A man could live for quite a time on that money. The price would be to give up both his job in Paris and his secret work. Starting over someplace else would be hard. The smarter investment was to wait, to meet this man, Havelock. See what would come.

That’s how Timmins found himself in the utility room. He checked his watch again. It was 8:37. He took another swig of the whiskey and brooded. Mostly about Dunbar’s mood during their last meeting, and his remark about Timmins not being clever.

It was all rubbish. Bottom line was, people like Dunbar might pretend to think of you as an equal, a friend. They could use you, yes. But it was all lies. Timmins, no matter how satisfactorily he might perform, would always be the boy with the threadbare bags. Would never be worthy, not of Dunbar’s approval, certainly not of his precious daughter.

Something else nagged at him. Dunbar had said there was something wrong. What if Timmins was in real danger? He thought about washing his hands of it. There were other things in the world, simpler things that could be pursued, things less exciting but less likely to cause harm to himself or others. He would leave the basement, now, just walk out. Go to Dunbar’s hotel, return the money, try to be civil to him, and then never see him again. Maybe even taper off the Swamp Rat activities. He realized these things had become a bit of a weight. He felt a lightness at the idea of chucking it all.

In his head, a voice, a part of himself, was saying: Walk away. Now.

He heard heavy footfalls. The steel door swung inward, making an ugly scraping sound. A man in a long gray overcoat and matching fedora stood there. A black scarf covered most of the face, except for the eyes, which burned intensely beneath silver-rimmed spectacles. The coat was opened below the throat and the corner of a yellow envelope was visible.

Timmins gently touched the gun in his pocket. “You Havelock?”

The man answered in a harsh whisper, a cultured London accent. “If you want the papers, give me the money. Now.”

“I have the money! I brought the whiskey, too.” Timmins held forth the bottle.

“That was a joke.”

“I got tired of waiting and drank some of it!” In fact, Timmins felt a little drunk.

The man gave no reply.

“Listen,” said Timmins. “I … we should work together. I’ll give you the money! But … I’m good at things.”

The whisper again. “Shut up. I just want the money.”

Timmins knew that as long as he held the envelope, he had some advantage. He was not the student the others laughed at because he didn’t know good wine from bad. Not the fool being led on a string by Dunbar with his promises of bringing Cynthia over. Not the sobbing boy left at the gate,

“No, wait. Listen. I know how to find information on people. I work for the British government! And with a war coming … Cut me in for a portion. Let me help you.”

“Why should I?” said the man. “Who the hell are you?”

“Have you heard of the Swamp Rat?”

The man snorted under his breath. “You’re not him.”

“I am. I’ve done all kinds of people. I’m good.”

“If that’s true … I heard a story. An Englishman who fathered a child with a French woman, a prostitute, in Montmartre. Two years ago. Needed to keep it quiet. They say this Swamp Rat blackmailed him, took him for all he was worth.”

“That was me! I did that.”

“You don’t have the nerve.”

“His name was Grace. Stephen Grace.”

There was a deep intake of breath. “Thanks for the confirmation.”

A terrible noise, as if the world had shattered. Timmins felt something exploding outward from his heart. Had his gun somehow gone off? It was an excruciating sensation.

For a moment, all he saw was a blur of black and red, but then his vision became clearer. He saw Havelock and the smoke rising from the gun he was pointing.

“Why— why?” Timmins sputtered. Hiccupping blood and clutching his chest, he staggered against the boiler, metallic and cold. The whiskey bottle rolled into the darkness, making pinging sounds that he could see as stabs of light. He sunk to the floor.

The man in the scarf came closer. With his left hand, he rummaged for the gun in Timmins’ pocket, causing jagged bolts of pain in Timmins’ gut. The man found the gun, looked at it, tossed it into a dark corner. To Timmins’ horror, the man resumed searching his pockets. Timmins gasped but could not resist or push him away.

The man withdrew the envelope full of money. Checked to see it was all there, then pocketed it. The hand holding his own gun fell to his side in an offhand way, as if Timmins offered no threat now, if he ever had.

This was unendurable. This man who should have been his friend was making him feel as helpless as a child. Had shot him for no good reason.

Now the man leaned in very close to Timmins. “You have a good memory. Yes, his name was Grace. Did you know he had a wife back in England?”

Timmins shook his head frantically, tried to answer, to say no, he knew nothing of the man’s wife, nothing at all. If he could have spoken, he would have suggested that perhaps he might find a way to make the matter good, if that’s what this was about.

They would agree, Timmons and Havelock, on how Timmins could make things right. And then Havelock would take him to a doctor. Get him patched up. And then they would have a drink together and end up friends after all. Stranger things had happened.

But the man was still speaking about Stephen Grace.

“He went home to her, tried to hide the truth. But she noticed the missing money. The money he used to pay you. In the end, he had to tell her anyway. And then he killed himself. With a knife. Messy business. You didn’t know that, did you? You can’t imagine the effect on her. Finding him like that in the bathtub.”

Timmins gurgled, wanting to speak, to protest that, well, perhaps he wasn’t innocent. But at least he hadn’t meant for things to go so badly for Grace and his wife. And anyway, Grace chose his own sins, didn’t he?

He was losing blood. Something would have to be done, quickly.

The man drew his face back, standing at full height. He pulled the scarf away and spoke now in his normal, higher voice, London accent gone, the slight Scottish inflection returning. “His wife’s name is Cynthia.”

 “Cynth –” Timmins wheezed out the syllable, which turned into a gasp. None of this was making sense. The man was playing jokes.

“Yes. My daughter.”

A wave of something horrible, a moral nausea, washed over Timmins, on top of the physical pain.

The man pulled off the spectacles and pocketed them, withdrawing a red velvet case, which he opened. From it he took a monocle, which he returned to its place, gold rim resting below graying right eyebrow.

Timmins’ mind raced. Havelock was not Havelock; there was no Havelock. No plans had been stolen; no offer made to Hitler or anyone. Dunbar! Dunbar after all. Such lies he had told, not just words, his whole being, an act, a deception. The trembling arm. The steaming kettle. The case of nerves.

“You’d scarcely recognize her now,” Dunbar said.

But no. Timmins could not have done that, what Dunbar was suggesting. Not to Cynthia. No, this was an obscene, bloody-minded joke. Not funny at all. She of all people, who had seen the good in his heart.

He thought, God could not be so cruel as to allow it.

“Oh, I suspected it was you,” Dunbar said. “But I couldn’t be sure, and you never would have confessed, not to me.”

Timmins thought he was in Dunbar’s hotel room, with no ventilation, and walls that seemed to move inward as they rose, bringing with them a darkness. He was afraid, because anything that was gathered into that darkness would never be seen or thought of again.

“God willing, there’s still hope for her,” Dunbar said.

Still hope. Yes. Let’s go to a doctor. Hope for all of us.

“They wanted me to be the one to catch you, because I knew you, you see?” Dunbar shivered as if with disgust. “But I tell you, I find the whole thing revolting. I’ve killed before. But I don’t relish revenge. I know you’re supposed to, like in the books. But I don’t. Even though you bloody well deserve it. And you won’t understand but we’ll need allies, the French, every ally we can get. You and your dirty business had to be stopped.

“But it won’t make her well, get her out of that place, will it? And then on top of everything, I got to know you again, to understand you a bit after all these years, why you are what you are, which made it harder.”

You understand. I was taking care of myself, because you have to, because no one else will. You know I didn’t mean to hurt her.

 “To be honest, I’d hoped you might be clever enough to figure it out, not come here tonight, and I wouldn’t have to do this. I could have told them I couldn’t get proof, that I had my suspicions, but they didn’t pan out. And they’d have assigned someone else. But here we are.”

Dunbar seemed to steel himself, raised the gun. No sign of a tremor. The man was rock steady.

Timmins made a frantic, momentous effort to speak, achieving the weakest of whispers: “Listen. She must —”

There came three more shattering noises, explosions inside Timmins’ body. Tendrils of liquid fire stretching to all four limbs.

Through wavering red sheets of agony that remained before his vision, Timmins could make out Dunbar bending and kneeling beside him, heard him speak, not unkindly.  “She must what?”

 “— get better.”

Something warm pressed down upon Timmins’ hand. For a moment, he heard nothing but the drip-drip in the back of the room and his own shuddery breathing.

Then he heard Dunbar speak.  “Yes. We must believe she will.”

Timmins wanted to speak again, to ask if his father had returned after all, for he imagined he glimpsed now a tall, familiar figure behind Dunbar, bag slung jauntily over the shoulder.

Darkness arrived, and all questions ceased.

Philip Ivory studied literature at Columbia University. He teaches creative writing with The Writers Studio in Tucson, Arizona. His fiction has appeared in Menacing Hedge, Two Cities Review, Ghost Parachute, The AirgonautLiterally Stories and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His blog is

Three Dark Poems Written and Translated from the Russian by Ivan de Monbrison

Время - это круг. 
Мы в центре, марионетки из плоти.
Ваша мысль как воздуху, 
ваш череп полон облаков.
Вчера я нарисовал твой мозг зеленым, 
а сегодня он снова красный.
Я окунаю в нее ручку 
и пишу красными чернилами слова, 
которые не имеют смысла.

Time is a circle. 
We’re in the center, puppets of flesh.
Your thoughts are  like air, your skull is full of clouds.
Yesterday I painted your brain in green, and today it’s red again.
I dip my pen into it 
and write with red ink 
words which don’t make any sense.
Открытый угол забвения.
Тишина в кармане.
Тень скользит по стене и льется в бокал, как черное вино.
Я пью этот бокал.
Тень входит в меня как мысль.
Завтра я пойду идти всю ночь, 
чтобы увидеть, как звезды одна за другой 
падают в море и медленно тонут.

An open corner of oblivion.
Silence in your pocket.
The shadow slides along the wall 
and pours into a glass like black wine.
I drink this glass.
A shadow goes inside me like a thought.
Tomorrow I will go all night to see the stars 
fall one by one into the sea and slowly sink.
Небо - зеркало.
Кто-то говорит.
Это не ты.
Ваша открытая рука пуста. 
Внутри есть дыра, из которой вылезают мухи.
Ваш мозг потный, 
он много работает.
Он похоже на мясо, которое вам дают на обед.

The sky is a mirror.
Someone speaks. 
That’s not you.
Your open hand is empty.
There is a hole inside, from which flies crawl out.
Your brain is sweaty
It works a lot.
It looks like the meat that you get for your lunch.

Ivan de Monbrison is a poet, novelist and artist born in 1969 in Paris. He has studied oriental languages in Paris, and then worked for the Picasso Museum, before dedicating himself to his own creativity. He has been published in literary magazines globally. His last poetry book in English and Russian без лица / Faceless has just been released in Canada. He does not believe that his art is of any real significance. He does it as some kind of a tribal ritual. He is fully aware that vanity is one of the worse enemy of most poets and artists, and tries to stay away from it as much as possible.

“Posies” Post-Apocalyptic Fiction by Jason Kahler

As she walked down the park’s long driveway, the air grabbed Francesca Hamilton by the shoulders with thick dark yellow tendrils that still seemed, even after some seven months, as if they had discontented consciousness, malingering heavy in the low spots, tasting of rotten meat. The Ocher slickened every surface, discolored everything it touched. Hamilton knew that she’d not be able to stay long before her breathing mask—even this good one found in that ransacked Army surplus store—was clogged to uselessness. There was little risk in staying here too long: everything in the park was dead. Or close enough, anyway, she thought as parking lot gravel crunched beneath her boots. The park was built along a river, low and on a flood plain, and the Ocher always settled thickest in the deepest places. But the hope of a water source made braving the fog and near-zero visibility worthwhile. Maybe a breeze would move through some of the haze. The world couldn’t go seven full months without wind, could it? Hamilton tightened her scarf and re-tightened her gloves. The Ocher wasn’t deadly, not immediately, but repeated exposure caused gruesome effects. It was like some terrible movie cliche. Even thinking that it was like a movie had become cliche. She cleared her throat. Scratchy.

Her throat was always scratchy, everyone’s was. Francesca’s group had secured food pretty easily. Their group was small—just six adults and two children—and canned goods were plentiful across these suburbs. People had left in a hurry, presumably for their northern vacation cottages where they hoped the Ocher wouldn’t reach. She wasn’t sure how far north the disaster had drifted, but Francesca appreciated these neighborhoods’ affluence, and their absent-minded rush and panic. Pantries were often still full of canned goods. Tom had even found a closet full of prepper food in backpacks that someone must’ve bought off the Internet before things went bad.

But water: water was far harder to come by. For starters, most people didn’t keep jugs of water around the same way they stored canned goods. Gallons of water took up a lot of space, but a few extra cans of cream of chicken went almost unnoticed. The Ocher ruined plumbing when it got into the municipal water systems, and no one who drank tainted water lived more than a week. That made securing clean water sources was paramount. Still water absorbed the Ocher enough to make it unusable. Francesca’s people had sent her out in the hopes of finding a stream or a river they could return to as a steady source of water. Then, maybe their throats wouldn’t be so scratchy all the time.

Up ahead the fog swallowed the tree limbs she knew were bare. Across the flat vastness of the park, nylon soccer nets hung ragged from decaying metal frames. Before, Saturdays here would have been full of suburban spectacle, soccer kids and cheering parents. Sometimes, a bright hot air balloon floated in the park’s low open spaces, advertising a real estate company. When the bordering river swelled, its waters carried away volleyball court sand and tipped over the blue plastic portable toilets. One rested now, in the corner of the parking lot, on its door. Hamilton hoped no one was inside, but she knew better than to look.

Beyond the parking lot and past a twisted rusting metal rail, the gravel turned to grass, brown at its tips and losing the fight against hardier weeds. A cluster of picnic tables stacked leaning upright stood beneath a wooden pavilion, all going soft and mossy. A merry-go-round, splotchy silver where its red paint flaked off, leaned askew, but spun around its axis with a high screech when Hamilton gave it a nudge. She disliked foraging in parks. The quiet of parks highlighted the quiet everywhere else. But despite the ghosts she imagined in the park’s open places the Ocher filled, Hamilton’s least favorite foraging sites remained schools. The scale of the furniture among all the desolation, too small to fit even within such sadness, and the lonely wind chimes each building seemed to have, silenced in the stagnant air. Schools reminded her of the days before the toxic fog, before everyone knew the name of the ugliest crayon in the box.

Hamilton more closely inspected the upended picnic tables. Something about their arrangement spoke of more than mere storage. They were set in a circle, like a failing wooden wigwam. The cement floor underneath the pavilion was caked with mud and dust, but here and there, the dirt was worn as if from traffic. No footprints but shuffling or maybe even sweeping. The tables’ stacking created a space inside, and she now saw a collection of sad fading blankets making a carpet between the tables.

Overhead within the wigwam, sticks and scavenged trinkets hung from strings and yarn. A box of crackers, empty and overturned, rested nearby. Hamilton knelt on the blankets. Crumbs across the makeshift carpet.

Sometimes, in her foraging, she encountered people. They were mostly just passing by, their eyes distant, their lips thin from thirst or the Ocher’s effects. Usually, the encounters were silent, like ships or icebergs sliding by each other. The ocean and the world had space enough to give way, even though fate and chance had brought their paths within view of each other. The Ocher hadn’t built an apocalypse of diesel buggies and prepper crazies. Instead, Hamilton’s experience revealed an End times of lost motivation. Death came slowly. Oblivion creeped home on the backs of the defeated and hopeless. Hamilton had nearly completely avoided violence. People in her group speculated that the fog repressed desperation, of at least the logical kind. Or maybe everyone was still in shock, too stunned to be aggressive. Or, perhaps, Hamilton had cultivated a countenance that told strangers she was not be messed with. That was her favorite explanation because it was clearly ridiculous.

When she rose, her head bumped on an old soda can hanging by red yarn. Ridiculous was always the name of the game these days, and since she didn’t take chances beyond her mission and her curiosity, she withdrew from her thigh pocket the collapsible metal baton she kept for defense. With a wrist flick the baton snapped to full length. This shelter, small and shabby as it was, wasn’t big enough to harbor many people. Hamilton was quick enough, she knew, to run away from small parties, or hide. Large groups were loud enough to give plenty of warning, and singles might be reasoned with, or avoided. And there was always her baton. She’d grown comfortable with at least looking like she was trained in self-defense. The guy she’d cracked over the head would have assumed she’d taken all sorts of classes. You learned things in the Ocher, she’d said in her report upon her return, and if you didn’t, sometimes you could fake it to good effect.

The park was quiet. Whoever stayed under the pavilion wasn’t home. Hamilton listened for voices. The eerie emptiness of the missing birds was broken only by the trickle of the nearby river. She left the pavilion, a little wearier than before, baton in hand.

At the river’s edge, the Ocher was thickest, mustard yellow old and settled on the water. But the river still flowed, Hamilton was relieved to find, so she removed the test tubes from the pack at her waist and knelt on the muddy ground. She scooped water with one tube, then poured it into the other tube. The water remained clear. Drinkable water. Finally, they had caught a break. They could return with trucks and jugs and one worry was abated. She filled her canteen and stood, pulled her mask below her chin, and drank deeply. The water was cool and fresh on her tongue. Behind her, the merry-go-round screeched again.

When Hamilton turned to look, the merry-go-round was spinning slowly, lopsided, and beside it stood three children. Maybe they were ten years old, their clothes, whatever color they’d been before, all stained yellow. The two girls had long dark hair that crept down their heads in tangles, and the boy, a bit shorter than the girls, had filthy brown hair matted stiffly to his head. Each child looked thin, with sunken eyes and jaundiced skin. None wore shoes. They stood with arms at their sides, unblinking. Hamilton dropped her canteen in shock. She’d never seen children loose within the Ocher. The fog swallowed up youth. Kids aged quickly or didn’t age at all.

If she’d been beside herself, she would have warned her about not taking anything for granted. About how even children were susceptible to whatever was making society. . . well, whatever it had become. She would have reminded herself again about stupid characters in stupid movies, those cliches again, running up the stairs when clearly the front door was a better option. She was smarter than that. But these were just kids, after all. After all.

Hamilton struggled to speak.

“Who?” she asked. The kids didn’t move. Hamilton realized how frightening her appearance must seem. She knelt slowly, placed her baton on the ground and stood, open-palmed. “I’m not going to hurt—”

The children were on her before she could move or speak. The girls pulled her feet from under her and Hamilton landed on the soft ground with a thud. They clawed at her face, ripping off her mask and scarf. She booted one of the children in the belly, sending the girl cartwheeling into the river. The remaining two kids punched madly at every part of her body. One of the children kicked her fiercely in the side. Hamilton felt the crack of a shifting rib in her teeth. The children chanted something, or sang, rhyming. Through the blur Hamilton tasted blood. Each breath icy pain.

The two remaining children stopped punching and instead pinned her outstretched arms to the ground painfully with their knees. The third crawled out from the river and stood over Hamilton, dripping cold water. Hamilton blinked away the pain, through rasping breaths, and looked up to see the girl’s teeth, ragged and yellow, lips lined with noxious blisters. The girl’s Ocher-tinted eyes stared impassively. Over the girl’s shoulder Hamilton could now see into the trees. The limbs looked bony in the chalky yellow sky, and now she could see figures, people, in the trees, held fast by ropes, or maybe nails or even pierced through by the branches, clothing thread bare and filthy as torn as their straining flesh, most of them unmoving, but here and there some of them reached feebly, through the fog. She would have screamed, but the pain and the blood wouldn’t allow it. And Hamilton recognized the children’s nursery rhyme now, as the girl still dripping river water finished it.

“We all fall down,” said the child, small-voiced like a cartoon mouse, and brought a large flat river rock down across Hamilton’s nose. Hamilton was thinking about that nursery rhyme when she regained consciousness, tied among the branches of the park’s dead trees. She saw now, too, the soda cans, hung with frayed thin string, limp within the treetop. Hamilton remembered through the pain those schools, those small innocent desks, and those silent wind chimes. Other bodies dangled nearby, here and there staring with yellow glazed eyes or blinking through their shared defeat, some slowly flexing sagging jaws in a silent rhythm, but only Hamilton still had enough voice left to sing.

Jason Kahler is a teacher, writer, and scholar from Southeast Michigan. You can follow him on Twitter @JasonKahler3.

“Asexuals of the Cosmos, Unite!” Dark Sci-fi/ Horror by Thomas White

Hard core, soft core, the most sensual, tasteful erotica: porn in all its varieties once aroused Howard Foker. Now he only saw cartoonish figures clumsily and mechanically acting out their crude lusts.  No doubt about it. Sex, for Howard, had become a vast wasteland, both disgusting and tedious.

Howard clicked off the video’s remote control, terminating one rather histrionic orgasm in mid-moan. Tossing the CD into a pile with its ilk, he yawned and gazed distractedly out the window at the dead, gray, asexual sky.

Two of the locust-like horde of annoying, cutesy, cuddling couples strolled by, a sure sign that Valentine’s Day–” VD Day,” Howard sarcastically dubbed it–was in the offing. A powerful urge to sleep hit him. The merest hint of sexual desire–his or anyone else’s–now literally exhausted him like an adrenalin shot in reverse.

Married for thirty-five years, he had been appalled when he had returned to the mating game after divorcing Rita two years ago. Gone were the days when you could casually meet a lover or future spouse in a public place, such as at the laundromat, as he had met Rita in the 1980s. 

Despite these depressing thoughts, Howard nevertheless smiled with satisfaction at his smart decision to bail out of the vapid game known as the modern singles scene.  Sexual coupling was now a highly professional, convoluted, Internet-based process: online relationship coaches, introduction websites (and their hotshot teams of marketing reps pretending to be ‘counselors’), chatrooms, dating apps, and, last but not least, the racket of Singles Events, where patrons were suckered into attending expensive personal development seminars–a mix of gossip and group therapy–while thinking they were going to meet their ‘soulmate’ and ‘dance the romantic night away.’ 

Nevertheless, Howard still fretted about his future love life. What would be his next moves in the chess game of romance?  How was he going to meet that special someone…? After two years, sleeping alone was getting tiresome, even if interrupted occasionally by a one-night stand.

His iPhone chimed. It was a text message from Robert Shivers:

Happy Valentine’s Day, Howard! Let’s go to the singles dance tonight at Club Cool. It could be hot! Meet me there at 8pm.

Bless mobile phones, thought Howard as he grinned at his device’s mindless face. It had saved him from a personal visit by Robert Shivers, with his annoying, endlessly upbeat manner that he had cultivated through too many personal self-development workshops.

 Shivers! What a misnomer. The only people who shivered in his presence were the women he asked for dances and/or dates at local single events. In fact, the only reason he had ever socialized with this clown in the past was that it made Howard look good in front of women.

Still, even if he had to hang out with Shivers tonight, and tolerate his pal’s childish, squealing noises that sounded like a little kid asking to be taken to McDonald’s, it could be a nice diversion from being alone with this foul mood. And since women were quickly bored by Robert’s vacuous chit-chat, they might turn to Howard for a more interesting conversation that could ultimately even lead to a few dates, offering a refreshing break from his sexual despair.  

Howard texted Robert back:

Okay, Robert, you are on. You drive ahead. I will meet you there at 8 sharp.


Howard arrived 20 minutes later than he had promised, but oddly, though the club’s carpark was full, the building itself was dark–apparently shuttered. The VD dance should have begun by now.

As he looked at the blackness surrounding him, a vague fragment of a line from a story read years ago in college flashed back to Howard: “Oh, what is the object of this darkness that has come over me…has someone buried me when I was not looking.” Was it Dorothy Parker or Dorothy Porter or another writer?  Hell, if he could remember, but it sure summed up his feelings tonight. Howard lit a cigarette to try to chase away this fresh mood of gloom. This anti-sex obsession was really starting to eat at him.                  

Finishing his smoke, Howard rang the club’s number but only got a voicemail that clicked off without a specific recorded message. The Mystery of the Missing VD Dance had deepened. Where was the club’s manager, Zappa Jones, a florid-faced little control freak perpetually strutting about in a shiny-reptilian 1980s tuxedo, who always personally answered the phone? Howard decided to go check it out. Had there been some crisis that had caused the patrons and staff to flee the premises and move the dance to another venue? The nosey security guards, who always lurked around the Club Cool’s grounds to keep the building from being vandalized, would surely know.

Despite his cynicism about the dating game scene, Howard hoped that tonight’s dance was still on; he had actually started to look forward to it, if nothing else but to laugh at the clumsy efforts of washed-up, overweight middle-aged playboys and playgirls trying to relive their glory days of smooth pickup lines and hot disco dance moves, despite the occasional twinges of arthritic knee pain.

Howard started to scramble out of his car, only to be yanked back in by the tangled web of safety belts. The straps squeezed and griped his chest like muscular tentacles, pinning him to his seat, while his car’s electric doors clicked, automatically locking him in.  Thick clouds of bright smoke billowed up around his car’s windows, sealing the trapped, struggling Howard inside his cushy Mercedes.

Just then, a large pulpy slab of wet, pink flesh, oozing slimy drool, smacked against the windshield, nosily sucking the glass. It was followed by another and another until Howard could hear loud squishing sounds bombarding his entire car, which began to jiggle, shake, and lift. Howard, already missing the peace of his earlier, quieter gloomy moments, grabbed his suddenly violently nauseous stomach with one hand while quickly punching in 9-11 on his mobile with his other. Instead of a quietly confident police operator answering, a rough, booming voice thundered: “Asexuals of the Cosmos, Unite!” 

Disgusted and gagging at the sight of the drooling hunk of pink flesh battened to his windshield – and on the cusp of vomiting up his dinner – all a desperate Howard could think of was to call the most annoying person in the world, Robert Shivers, and ask him to dial 9-11 as soon as possible. As Howard started to tap in Shivers’ numbers on his mobile, he could smell the pleasant, perfumy odor of the bright smoke now seeping into his car’s interior. Howard got no further than punching in the first three digits of his friend’s number when he began to comfortably drowse, his phone finger going slack as peace descended on his mind and stomach…


If Howard had been asked a week earlier what his expectations would have been if he had known he was going to be abducted by an alien space ship, Howard, who had seen his fair share of sci-fi films, would have surmised a craft brimming with gleaming technological devices unknown to human science. Howard was, however, in for a rude shock.

There was no shiny operating room with an unconscious Howard stretched out on a smooth, metallic gurney awaiting a scan of his organs and brain by alien doctors wielding silent, blinking-red sensors. Instead, his automobile was parked in a massive, greasy open cargo bay, the size of a mall’s car lot, ringed by dilapidated pubs and 1950s-style movie theatres with fading blue paint peeling off the walls. Overhead, long strings of high-intensity incandescent lamps like the Friday Night football lights at the local high school stadium gave the scene the look and feel of a ghostly, half-constructed movie set.

 A non-tentacled, baldheaded humanoid, skin the prickly texture and color of a kumquat, a face with no eyelids, stone-dead gray pupils, a little clenched mouth, and wearing a neatly-pressed, khaki-colored flight suit, opened the car door and freed Howard–now well-rested after his snooze–from his seat belts.

The humanoid led Howard by the arm to the front of one of the crumbling movie theatres. The marquee’s message read in dirty, chipped-plastic block letters: OPENING TONIGHT: THE SAVING OF CIVILIZATION!  A GREAT ADVENTURE BEGINS!

As Howard and his alien host walked up the threadbare, faded-flowery carpet leading from the theatre’s shabby lobby to the cinema’s main auditorium fronting a small screen, a dome-shaped servo-robot, with a dispenser like a square mouth, two short rubber arms ending in claws, and limping on one rusty wheel, rolled up to Howard and the humanoid.

 The robot whirred; then handed each of them a small cup of popcorn, which had dropped from its dispenser. Howard seated himself in the back row, while the humanoid slid into a seat two rows down. The popcorn was unsalted, stale, and dry without butter. Howard discreetly spat out his first mouthful, while dumping the few remaining kernels behind his seat.

The film began.  Silent, without opening credits, it was a low-quality animated production with crudely drawn cartoonish figures bodily resembling department store manikins: naked, pink, asexual, with herky-jerky, quasi-robotic motions and the facial images of famous actors and actresses from the history of cinema: Marilyn Monroe, Greta Garbo, Cary Grant, Sophia Loren, Gary Cooper, Clark Gable, and many other Hollywood sex symbols.

The various figures staggered toward each other in a confused, halting way. The Marilyn Monroe-figure suddenly, but not without hesitation, tried to kiss the Cary Grant-figure, who just stared at her with a puzzled look, mixed with disgust, and then turned away. Others also stumbled around like broken windup toys, first pressing close to each other, then, faces scowling with revulsion and confusion, rushing in the opposite direction. Brad Pitt turned and ran, his face pale and sickly, when he stared at Sophia Loren, who stood cold and stony, while Gary Cooper mechanically marched away from the weak, fumbling embraces of Jean Harlow.

Then, giving up all pretense of even the feeblest sexual interest, the figures began to fight each other–a brawl rather than an orgy. With one punch, the Greta Garbo-figure sent Burt Lancaster’s herky-jerky body sprawling, while Ava Gardner was busy strangling Clark Gable, whose bobble head shook wildly.

Howard immediately thought of his feelings earlier in the day: his growing revulsion at the sight of porn, as well as his general alienation from the singles game and all matters sexual. This film was brilliantly expressing those emotions, with the ‘actors,’ instead of coupling, running away from their conventionally desirable partners and/or physically attacking them.  His alien abductors were showing him an anti-porn film whose performers’ normal lascivious desires had been muddled and deformed, rendering them anti-sexual if not asexual.

Just then, the film abruptly and noisily sputtered, without closing credits, to a halt, like the crude 35-milimeter porn films that Howard’s college dorm mates used to show on their Retro-Stag Nights. As Howard mulled over his opinions about the film, he noted that the prickly-skinned alien had turned and was watching him intently, a peculiar sparkle in his previously stony eyes.                     


After declining another offer of popcorn from the little robot with the one gimpy, rusty wheel, his alien host grabbed Howard again by the arm–more aggressively this time, Howard noted– and led him to the pub next door. Howard was seated in an empty bar area surrounded by softly glowing, grungy neon walls, which reminded him of a shabby pizza joint where he used to hang out in college.

Another dome-shaped servo-robot appeared and offered Howard a cup of wine. Howard winced at its bitter, chemical taste, but–as there was no place to spit–he reluctantly swallowed the ill-tasting liquid.

The baldheaded humanoid spoke excellent English, with an American accent, though his voice came from the general vicinity of his head, not from the little zipper of his mouth, which remained clenched.

 “My name is Archie, though my real name is codified in a language which earthlings could never understand. I am a colleague of Circulas Gittoo, the tentacled being that captured you. Gittoo, who communicates only by exhaling a vocabulary of odors rather than expressing words, can obviously not have a conversation with you. But he wants to assure you that you will be compensated for any damage to your car caused by his suckers.”

“That is very generous of Circulas Gittoo,” said Howard, not sure if his sarcastic tone would be noted in a conversation with an alien species, “but why was I abducted? If you are holding me hostage for money or sex, I can provide neither.”

“Our Federation has no desire for the laughable toy paper you call your ‘money’, but the issue of sex is of interest, though not,” Archie’s slit of a mouth puckered primly like an old-fashioned puritanical dowager’s, “in the way you think…”

“In other words, none of your Federation members are in love with me,” said Howard, laughing, feeling more lighthearted after surmising that these aliens seem to have no nefarious intent, a realization which also helped further soothe his unsettled stomach. His gloomy mood was lifting. This abduction adventure was exactly the diversion he had needed. Far better than mingling with the pathetic but dreary victims of the singles scene at Club Cool.

Ignoring Howard’s joke–or not getting it–Archie continued. “I hope you enjoyed your orientation film. It sums up our Federation’s ideology of asexuality. You heard the message we sent you when we intercepted your call to the police. Unlike earthlings, we don’t waste our time and resources sending space probes to investigate dead hunks of rock.  We are on a far more important cosmic mission: to unite civilizations throughout the universe to join us in the cause of a glorious asexual future. Sexuality is a primitive desire shared by many societies throughout the cosmos that eventually leads to their violent disintegration. Only by freeing them from its yoke can true happiness, peace, and stability–civilization itself–be found… which is where you come in, Howard.”

“So, obviously you are not here to watch and enjoy human porn, including my collection, if sex is of no interest,” Howard replied, feeling a twinge of his earlier disgust at those images.

Archie’s hard eyes glittered fiercely. “Our aerial surveillance teams–what you humans now call ‘UAP’– that routinely monitor human thoughts and feelings just happened to be hovering over your neighborhood when they picked up the transmission of your feelings of revulsion toward sex and the human ‘mating game,’ as you label it.  Howard, we want to help you save the earth’s future–your future–from the misery and violence that always follows in the aftermath of sex.”

Before he could quiz Archie for further details, Howard’s body and legs went rubbery and began to sway uncontrollably from side to side as if he were being tossed by a rough sea. Archie’s face wobbled, blurred, dissolved. The wine’s lingering, odd tangy-chemical aftertaste faded as Howard lost consciousness.


Howard felt the cool, pleasant sensation of air-conditioned metal against his neck.  Awakening, wriggling, trying to stir, he found himself flat on his back, strapped tightly to a large gurney. Above him, a wide flat-screen, two-way monitor displayed the face of Archie.

“Well, Howard I hope you are excited because you are beginning a new chapter of your life…” giggled the Archie-image delightedly, though his mouth’s little slit did not smile, “… discovering the joy and peace that  artificially-induced asexuality brings… courtesy of a bold, innovative procedure implemented by genius aliens from the other side of the cosmos…Not quite, I am sure, what your pundits and scientists meant when they spoke of ‘First Contact’– or Steven Spielberg envisioned when he produced Close Encounters of the Third Kind.” Archie’s prim little mouth exploded into a vast, pink, quivering orifice, hurling waves of uproarious laughter that quickly collapsed into little snorts that squished exactly like Circulus Gittoo’s tentacled sucker.

Before Howard could ask Archie if these squishy little chuckles meant that Archie was somehow related to whatever species Gittoo belonged to, a familiar voice nearby called out to him. It was Robert Shivers.

How do you like the singles scene now, Howard? You are there, single, alone, and about to lose your sexual desires–and hence your love life–forever.” His voice was no longer whiny and childish, but metallic and vicious.

Shivers’ face edged into Howard’s line of vision and stared angrily down at him. Robert’s hitherto weak, wandering eyes now had a focused, hard-edged gaze. There was more than a bit of steel in that look, worried Howard–inklings of a new and dangerous version of Robert Shivers.

Shivers continued. “I was abducted, like you, a few months ago but now work for Archie and the Federation. I am fully on board with their plan to destroy the sex lives of all those selfish bastards out there, who, like you, have mocked me behind my back to women, as well as sabotaged my love life by disrupting my efforts to chat up women at singles events. And, yeah: their surveillance team showed me a recent transcript read-out of your private thoughts about me. You are a hypocrite, a psychopath, a sorry excuse for a human being… and just because you are burned out on sex and the mating game? … so what?… no one feels sorry for you, always wallowing in self-pity…”

Howard listened, stunned and speechless, as Robert raged at him. Howard always thought Shivers had no better than a primitive 200-word vocabulary at best, but this new, articulate Shivers was a revelation. As Robert unleashed his tirade, his heretofore flabby jowls did not jiggle and droop but were hard and clenched as if made of stone like a blunt instrument ready to clobber Howard.

 “So, Howard, how do you like the new, more assertive Robert Shivers now?” asked the Archie-face from the monitor screen. “Being an abductee of ours is the best personal self-development experience you can find. We take good care of our captives, helping them find happy, satisfying lives back among other earthlings.”

“But what about me? How can making me asexual help me find happiness and satisfaction?” asked Howard, instantly regretting his earlier bitter feelings about sex and the singles scene that had attracted these aliens to him.

“Not that long ago,” Archie replied in an annoyed tone as if scolding a naughty child, “you were moaning and groaning about how you were burnt out on ‘all matters sexual’, as well as on the earthling ‘mating game,’ as you call it…. We are going to now free you from those useless desires, which will lighten your recent gloomy moods…”

Just then, the Archie-persona vanished as the screen dissolved into blankness. Seconds later, row after row of people appeared like a TV studio audience staring into the cameras. Howard recognized some familiar faces: Mary Harris, John Ditter, Sally Jason, and others, who were regular attendees at Club Cool singles events and who often used to open up to Howard about their unhappy love lives, cheating partners, and domestic abuse.

Then, it suddenly dawned on Howard: these were the attendees at the Club Cool VD dance that had earlier vanished, a conclusion cinched as soon as Howard noticed the cheesy little valentine hearts pasted on their nametags which they still wore.  They had been abducted, too.

“Yes, Howard.” This time the voice was not from Robert Shivers or Archie, but from the Club Cool manager and singles event impresario, Mr. Zappa Jones, who rose from the front row, still garbed in his sleazy black 1980s-style tuxedo and showing the same florid face, albeit now bloated and purple with fury. Howard despised this fool, who had once thrown a drunken Howard out of a previous Club Cool singles dance for groping a female patron – an allegation that Howard had bitterly denied.

Furious, that this glorified bouncer seemed to be reading his mind, Howard opened his mouth to rage at Zappa Jones, but the slimy drool cut him short. “Get over it, Howard…you are under our control–my control—now. “

Your…control…? Howard stammered.

“Yeah, Archie, Gittoo, and their Federation have delegated your procedure to us as they figure that earthlings are best a-sexed by other earthlings since we all communicate on the same wavelength.  Don’t worry…we have been professionally trained by the Federation in the details. It is not difficult, and is painless and noninvasive…but our Club Cool team,” Zappa Jones dramatically swept his hand in an arc over the audience of dance patrons”, has decided to make some changes in the Federation’s agenda. Whatever the ambitions of the Federation to a-sex the human race, let along other aliens throughout the cosmos, our team, including Robert Shivers, has voted not to a-sex ourselves, but to a-sex only you. And while the decision has been ratified by the entire club’s membership, Robert Shivers has been specifically delegated to perform the procedure on you because he is your best friend whom you trust.”

“But will the Federation be pleased with that decision…? Howard asked.  “I saw the orientation film and had my chat with Archie. They want to save entire civilizations, not just individuals, by eradicating sexual desire as a threat to…”

 “I know…to the universe’s ‘happiness, peace, and stability’…I had the same orientation as you did,” Zappa Jones rudely snapped.  “But the Federation is practical, too. It is still trying to understand the psychological consequences of mass asexuality on humans; the Federation members realize that if they a-sex everybody right away, humans might become uncomfortable, if not annoyed, or even hostile. One day, the Federation wants to meet earth’s leaders to explain the need to promote asexuality as a public health benefit, so maintaining some good will toward humanity in general is necessary. For now, only a select elite has been chosen by the Federation, in complete agreement with Club Cool, to receive the procedure. And you, Howard, are among the lucky few. No more sexual desire means no more compulsion to date…so no more singles scene for you.  We are doing you a big favor, pal, by ridding you of your torments. “

 “I know what your real game is,” Howard fumed. “You, Robert, and the other male scum at the Club Cool are trying to push me out…trying to corner the market and eliminate me because I get all of the dates.”

Female laughter burst from the audience.

“Hey, Howard,” yelled Melissa Randall, “remember me…?

I turned down your offer of a date because you are so boring.”

 Other women chimed in:

“Yeah, boring in bed, too,” Mary Arnold said, snickering.

“Took me to a greasy spoon to eat on our first night out, got drunk, then

groped me…”  Sandra Baker shouted angrily.

Annoyed, Zappa Jones waved for everyone to be quiet. “Ok team, we get the point. Howard Foker is a miserable failure, not only as a human being but as a date. But it is now time for action, not talk…”

 The monitor screen abruptly went blank, cutting off Zappa Jones’ impending tirade.  Looming up again over Howard, Shivers’ face was now transformed into a fiendish hoggish-like creature, Porky Pig pasted with demonic, reddish-purple slobbering lips grafted onto his cheeks and jowls.

Brandishing a long, gleaming metal wand, studded with blinking red sensors like Christmas tree lights, Robert nosily smacked his blubbery lips and threw a sarcastic air kiss at Howard:

“Sorry, Howard, about my face, which you probably consider downright repulsive, but it actually expresses a mix of joy and victorious pride among certain members of the Federation…the Whoofians who have generously loaned it to me via a temporary mask implant to celebrate this glorious moment of your a-sexing.”

“You shameless bastard, flunky ally of creepy aliens, you tricked me into coming to the Club Cool VD dance so I would be trapped, abducted, and a-sexed!” screamed Howard.

Shivers’ Porky Pig persona relaxed into a soft pile of reddish-purple flesh. His voice was kind. “Howard, my friend, it is pointless to dwell on the past. You should look forward to a glorious future where you are free of the emotional stress caused by sex and the singles scene.”

At that, Robert Shivers began to wave the blinking wand over Howard’s body.  Warm currents of air wafted blissfully over his skin; that same perfumy odor from the Gittoo abduction event rose to his nostrils. Howard felt a peace he had never known; he started to drift in and out of consciousness as if pleasantly delirious.

After a few more minutes, Robert Shivers switched off the wand and rudely thrust his hoggish face three inches from Howard’s nose.

 “Howard, one last thing,” Shivers’ voice was still kind, “this is our final goodbye, old pal. That device I waved over your body was actually designed by the Federation to painlessly and humanely execute their alien colleagues who have been convicted of serious criminal offenses against their laws. However, the Federation, in complete accord with the Club Cool’s team consensus, has decided to use it as   an alternative to the regular a-sexing procedure, which is unfortunately offline due to technical glitches.”

Struggling to remain conscious, but his mind drifting toward darkness and oblivion, Howard muttered thickly: “You mean I am going to die… like a stupid alien who has been convicted of some crime that only aliens can commit…I thought I was only going to be a-sexed…?”

 “Dead people,” Robert Shivers replied in a perfectly calm voice, “don’t have a sex life.”

Thomas White has a triple identity: speculative fiction writer, poet, and essayist. His poems, fiction, and essays have appeared in online and print literary journals and magazines in Australia, the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. He is also a Wiley-Blackwell Journal author who has contributed essays to various nonliterary journals on topics ranging from atheism, the meaning of Evil, Elon Musk, Plato, The Matrix, and reality as a computer simulation. In addition, he has presented three of his essays to the West Chester University Poetry Conference (West Chester, Pennsylvania), as well as read his poetry on Australian radio.

“Banquet of Fortune” Dark Fiction by Jake Sheff

He often couldn’t tell if he had killed his brother, or hadn’t; if he’d dreamed it, willed it, superseded it – the murder – with his own suicide. You see, Jeremiah Pudlowsky wasn’t mentally ill, deranged in anyway, or out of time. He simply was more in tune with possibilities, those Granata of incongruent otherworlds as they crisscrossed with ours.

Jeremiah’s brother was named Kolfin – the most interesting thing about him according to authoritative figures, like his high school principal and secretary at Nieman Marcus. But there was more to him, and Jeremiah knew it, though not right away. When their mother brought Kolfin home from the nursery, Jeremiah’s ear drums perforated. His father said, “Ouch! Goddammit…” Tilted his head sideways and reached up toward his ear. “What the hell?” Then mother noticed the discharge from Jeremiah’s ear canal, the inner ear fluid. Both Jeremiah and his father went to the hospital by taxi, where they found nothing wrong with Jeremiah’s dad, but did send him home with some pain pills.

So it went the next 30 years: when Jeremiah got sick, his father felt the pain: the broken bones, the muscle aches of influenza, the burning voids of UTIs, the broken hearts. And Jeremiah seemed more injury prone around Kolfin; the 9 years prior to his birth, Jeremiah had never even had a common cold. Against their mother’s wishes, their father had no choice, due to disability and missed work (without any doctor’s consent: “I can’t explain it.”), but to send one of the boys away; he gave mother the choice.

So when Jeremiah was ten and Kolfin one, mother said goodbye to their father, who moved to New Mexico, “to be around the other indigents suffering their mystery ailments in the dry, Indian air.”

When Jeremiah started growing hair on his scrotum, he began transiently dissociating from our world – his teachers called it ADHD or absence seizures. But he was slipping in and out of other possibilities as they collided, or more like passed through, our happening; think of Earth passing through the debris of a comet or asteroid annually, and the meteor showers that ensue. This refined inner sense must’ve come, Jeremiah would later think, from a childhood free of pain, something no living thing could ever claim previous to him.

Kolfin was bright. He didn’t read some Russian novel or solve an ancient riddle of philosophy or math at some absurdly young age. Despite his cerebral palsy, he possessed an astute emotional intelligence with a political animal’s social acumen. Early on, he detected Jeremiah’s “gifts” of being chronically ill and dissonant with reality.

Their mother smoked Camel Lights and drank Bourbon, not exactly the Ave Maria one would expect with her two exceptional youngsters. She wore sundresses that’d compliment a woman 5 inches taller with her waist halved, with less be-stubbled cellulite and varicose veins. Kolfin assumed somehow he was responsible for the homely changes that befell his mother’s appearance, and Jeremiah became acutely aware that in all possibilities for a universe his mother was an ogre-like wench but still loving, always, so he accepted her surface unpleasantness without any crying foul at fate or God. The fact is, she had been beautiful once, but that’s another story.

Present Day


“I thought I’d killed you! Or at least, I knew I might’ve; I’m pretty sure I did somewhere.”

“Brother, that’s all in the past. I know where father is.”

“Kolfin. Mirabile dictu! You were too young to know father – a real constable of hardship, and ornery never.”

“Right, and he let me live. I want to know him.”

“But infanticide is shameful, revenge is too ra loo.”

“He wouldn’t kill me now. I’ve never left this town, he could’ve always came and found me.”

They stood in front of the doctor’s office on Limb Street, where the glass shards of a green beer bottle intermingled with the shattered passenger-side window specked with a car thief’s blood. The weather was uneventful – maybe late fall, maybe early spring; the trees didn’t help. The year had the morass of present time; history was wafting above, a tracer of forgeries, awaiting the artist’s Finis!

“Where is he?”

“He’s here. He’s come for you.”

“Come for me? That’s…”

“Preposterous? Because if he kills you, he dies?”

“No, it’s mellifluous, because I think I’ve learned to harness my physical being, to hold fast my atomic mudra, as my soul transmigrates between possibilities and anti-nulls.”

“What is an anti-null?”

“A place without space or points; where dad can go and be safe.”

Kolfin was used to impossible scenarios in even polite conversations with Jeremiah, but he knew impossible meant only for here and now.

“You can transport material objects to your other possibilities?”

Kolfin spent the next three seconds swimming in liquid diamond, perceiving his environment chiefly by smell and the way it relaxed his gravity while contracting his magnetic orb.

Back in front of the doctor’s office, he noticed the jism in his pants.

“What was that?! Where was I?”

“That was here and now, alive, with nearly identical constants.”

“An anti-null?”

“No. Only I can come back from anti-nulls.”

And so Kolfin and Jeremiah took a walk. By the costume shop an oblivious Jeremiah was stung by a hornet, unbeknownst to all except Mr. Pudlowsky, his father. Kolfin was unsure of Jeremiah’s plan for their father’s deliverance from pain. The anti-nulls seemed too dense for pleasure, or memories, according to Jeremiah’s riveting descriptions, riveting in their ineffable, maybe unknowable, dynamics. Kolfin worried, unable to wonder much further, if it was even life.

“Clever, clever Kolfin. You are right: the anti-nulls are another possibility for death.”

Kolfin measured his emotions against what he considered a rational reaction. He deliberated, at a maddening speed, on the ramifications of this non-sense coalescing with rumor and belief (delusion?), in a race against the decisive moment accelerating toward their crux of human will and God’s.

“First of all, Jeremiah: is that murder? Second of all, take me instead. I’m a lonely underachiever, and getting rid of me will reverse the hex I brought on our family.”

Jeremiah wasn’t big on ruminating. He acted more on intuition, fearless in his lack of bellicosity that he’d ever with foreknowledge bring harm upon another. Of course, unintended consequences can stripe a good act with a heel-upon of misdeed.

“It’s more like disappearing for a while. The body sort of sublimates, and the estate of consciousness is thus diffused, enlarged…thinner. His essence won’t rot, or thinking decompose. Volition, choice…I suppose it’s a bit more passive. Perhaps you see a finality I simply do not.”

“You say ‘for a while,’ and that it isn’t final. Are we talking about reincarnation? As in father could come back at some point, later on?”

Jeremiah could not comprehend reincarnation, having witnessed the interior flux and counter-entropy of their reality from outside its margins.

“Kolfin, a man can step into the same river twice. It requires synchrony, the gift I’d like to bestow upon our father.”

“What do you mean synchrony? Like if he does it several times at once?”

“Hmm…In the anti-null, you live in time and measure space as it passes.”

Kolfin had to stop and think. His mind and body ached from the contractures of his world, presently, and his skeletal muscle, ever present, respectively. The idea of disappearing for a while appealed to Kolfin. Plus his brother seemed content but not superior, despite his inhuman experiences; somehow more human.

Jeremiah walked on, after they agreed to meet again tomorrow near the bistro where their mother worked. Kolfin had it in his mind they should tell her everything: father’s recent proximity and Jeremiah’s plan. But then Kolfin, not Jeremiah, hedged; there was so much uncertainty.

∞   ∞   ∞

Mrs. Pudlowsky was a divining rod in the guise of a distempered single mom. Her days’ banality and tenuous plucks of ennui’s catgut encroached derivative’s territory; but Mrs. Pudlowsky, impudent and custom eschewing (or as she called it, “culture delousing”), was, in every sense of the word, a tad avian. She flit about from task to task, major to menial, and vice versa, like a bird-boned wanderlust inflicting her adventure on the calmness of her cage; today she scrubs the tile floors, yesterday she kept the books, tomorrow: maybe CEO, or possibly advisership, to the owners or board of trustees.

“My boys, my handsome boys! Why I haven’t seen the two of you together since Inauguration Day three years ago. We was celebratin’ nothin’ in particula’, just Jeremiah bein’ back in town. But then Kolfin, you got that call from Boein’, about acceptin’ some design o’ yours, and we was celebratin’ somethin’ after that! Oh lord, that was a fine time.”

Mrs. Pudlowsky took a 15 minute break, and Jeremiah spelled it all out for her, serene and serendipitous in countenance. Kolfin vacillated between stewing a bit, half-expecting his mother to reject the plan outright, which she didn’t, and waiting politely for a chance to interject, and request again…

“Jeremiah, why don’t you take me instead? Yesterday you said it isn’t killing me, it isn’t murder. Sounds like you’d just be removing me, then things would go back to how they were. Dad could come back…I mean stay.”

“Heavens to Betsy! Son, your daddy and I have been separated 29 years. I hope you don’t think we’d get back together. And now he’s here for Jeremiah, with some vague, malicious soundin’ intentions? You wan’ ta sacrifice ya self for this man? I’m still not clear why he’s here? How you know he didn’t come for some of your money?”

“It isn’t a sacrifice, Mom; he isn’t…” Jeremiah began. Then his eyes rolled back and he face-planted, nose first, onto their table.

And nobody noticed the man outside looking in, rubbing his nose and cursing.

∞   ∞   ∞

At the urgent care in the outskirts of Beckford, Jeremiah sat on the doctor’s table saying he felt fine, with a tampon string hanging out his nostril. Of course, his mother and Kolfin knew he felt fine, but Mrs. Pudlowsky, as usual, thought it was best he get looked at nonetheless. The nurse had just stepped out after recording the vital signs. The resting heart rate of 35 had alarmed her, but Jeremiah seemed stable. She planned on recommending an EKG and IV fluids to the moonlighting intern when she found him.

The intern had wandered toward the waiting room and heard a man groaning from the corner.

“Sir, what seems to be the problem? Are you okay?”

Mr. Pudlowsky chuckled with the menace of a deep fryer, palm on his furrowed brow with eyes downcast.

“Am I okay? Doctor, you ever hear of a man coming in with all kinds of somatic complaints but no injuries or illness to justify their being? What do you call that?”

“Well, umm…if there’s some secondary gain, like money or narcotics, we call it…malingering. Do you need me to look at you? Are you in pain?”

“What about voodoo? Those dolls that witches stick needles in, or hold a match under. You’ve heard of that?”

“In movies, yes. Is that what you think is going on with you?” The intern was starting to consider diagnoses, schizophrenia and / or drug abuse chief among them.

In a predatorial flash, Mr. Pudlowsky turned his gaze up to the intern’s eyes, as if a tit mouse streaked across the prairie of his purview, that sudden bolt of fear in the young doctor’s iris. 

“No, young man, that isn’t it at all. I know what troubles me: he’s back there right now with a broken nose and his broken brother. Goddammit, I don’t believe in Satan or demons, but there was some kind of hex on my testicles, like an external cancer eating away at me, invisible to any microscope or blood test.”

“Sir, I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

Mr. Pudlowsky got up, and walked toward the back examination room where Jeremiah lay in wait.

∞   ∞   ∞

Jeremiah recognized the genius of all living things, like the alley cat; not just its calico against the heavy-duty dumpster’s steel, but the refinement of its leap, the balance of its intellect with instinct as it crept between the steaming sewers and putty rain. He watched it outside the window.

“What are you doing here? Oh, God, whose blood is that? Don’t hurt him, please don’t hurt him!”

“Renee, this goddamn son of ours has ruined my life! Made it a goddamn hell! I’m gonna…”

“Dad?” Kolfin couldn’t believe the man who’d sent him postcards from Paraguay and Venezuela was capable of violence.


Renee Pudlowsky sat alone in the doctor’s office, fast asleep and dreaming of her days in Ireland, when she was beautiful.

∞   ∞   ∞

There was music. A whisper of music; a sinuous movement, a cresting of birdsong, percussion and murmur of exotic strings. Kolfin knew by some foreign, brand new and crystal clear sense that he, Jeremiah and their father, Dubin Pudlowsky, were no longer in their home existence; they’d been transported.

[What follows is not the text of speech delivered by the characters’ mouths and received by their ears; it’s rather a translation of their communication across the field of solid fire that stretches between their bodies’ silicone and sulfur gas.]

“You both should remain calm. Nobody here can be hurt.”

Dubin felt for his gun, then felt for his hand, then realized this moment was his first without pain in three decades. And he was terrified, relieved, aware again of grace.

“Jeremiah, where have you taken us? Is this a possibility or an anti-null?”

“Kolfin, I could never take you to the anti-null. Only I could come back as I, which would mean for me a life, for the first time, with pain.”

“You selfish asshole!”

“Wait. Father, Kolfin: I want you to both imagine closing your eyes.”

Dubin closed his eyes, or did what felt like that. He suddenly could see the three of them in that alley outside the urgent care examination room, standing naked and expressionless across from each other in a triangle; three soulless bodies.

“I’ve got your gun.”

In the alley, the body of Jeremiah raised its right arm and pointed the revolver at its right temple and a bit to the back.

The arms of Kolfin raised slowly, stiffly, in a heavy-limbed, nearly lifeless “Stop” motion; the leaden extremities of fight or flight that one despairs in a nightmare.

The blast awoke Renee Pudlowsky, who was startled to see Kolfin sitting up on the doctor’s table. And Kolfin stared in awe at Dubin Pudlowsky standing by the door, blood on his hands, along with his gown as it trickled from his nose.

There was a knock behind Dubin. In came the intern, smiling.

“Hello? Whoa, I think I see the problem here.” He directed Mr. Pudlowsky toward the table. “Maybe you should have this seat for now.”

The three Pudlowskys remained speechless.

“Anyone mind telling me how this happened?” The doctor asked, in good humor. He turned toward Mrs. Pudlowsky in front of the window.

“Looks like you’ve got him worried?”

“Excuse me, sir?” said Mrs. Pudlowsky

“I’m talking about that cat staring in here.”

They all turned to look.

“It sure is beautiful.”

Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and veteran of the US Air Force. He’s married with a daughter and six pets. Poems and short stories of Jake’s have been published widely. Some have even been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook is “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing). A full-length collection of formal poetry, “A Kiss to Betray the Universe,” is available from White Violet Press.

“Fugue” Dark Fiction by Alan Catlin

The woman to my right at the bar hands me a party hat, a metal noise maker with a short wooden handle, and a shredded bright colored paper pennant.

“What’s this for?” I ask.

“It’s almost time.”

“Time for what?”


I look at the bartender. His party hat is tilted to one side, loosely held in out-of-place, by a thin piece of stretched elastic.  I want to ask him what is going on but I am hesitant to speak.  He looks away as I begin to address my question to him.

“What’s the occasion?”

Either he doesn’t hear me, or he won’t answer my question.  I watch as he works in the smoke congested darkness of the bar.  He is making something with his hands but I can’t see what it is.  A waitress stands by a service station tightly gripping the chrome bars that delineate her space from the rest of the bar.  Her mouth is moving but there are no words.

A man next to me says, “Smoke?”

I begin to say, “No…” but he isn’t talking to me.  He isn’t talking to anyone.

He says, “The answer is, ‘There is no occasion.’”

“For what?”

“For anything. Your question.  Your life.  For being here.  Or not.”

I turn to question him more closely, but no one is sitting there.  Nothing moving but the gray fog of the smoke.  A silence now that is almost tactile.  I can almost feel what I cannot see.  I drink what is put in front of me. The concoction is carefully aligned on a neatly folded cocktail napkin: a half-empty glass of something amber with ice cubes. I don’t know what it is, only that it must be mine.  Drinking, I feel an uncommon sense of warmth inside.  I carefully replace the glass on the napkin and wait. I can see nothing moving.  But my glass is filled once again.  I reach for it and drink.

Somewhere in the darkness to my left, near where the end of the bar might be, a footlight flashes on what must be a stage.  Followed by another, and another, in a long line of brightly colored filtered lights.  No sound is heard but shadowy figures, outlined by the eerie suddenness of the light are slapping their hands together in a motion that could be clapping.     Just as abruptly as the footlights had come on, they are switched off, a jolting shock worse than the suddenness of their unannounced presence. Then, without warning, an overhead light, the ghost light is switched on.

I can hear a greatly amplified, scratched vinyl record begins to play, the solo voice of a unaccompanied female singer.  I can’t make out the words, as they’re in a foreign language I am unfamiliar with. Her tone, though, is a universal: one of lost love and yearning, intimate yet distant.  Her voice is as distant as the mime on the stage, holding a microphone with no cord attached, pretending to sing. The outline in black of painted teardrops on the white grease painted cheeks, the red painted broken heart on the mime’s white shirt leaking large drops of imitation blood.  The blood, the tears and the unpainted lips in the ghost lighted stage.

And then, the reanimation of the room.  The noise of the crowd, the clattering of glassware, and ice, and meandering conversation.  The occasional sound of a noise maker, a tin whistle, rustling pennants, jester’s bells and cat of nine tails whip like cracks in the subdued lighting. Nothing moving on the stage. The jukebox plays. A September Song. Seven versions in succession by seven different artists.

The bartender’s hat is no longer askew.  He wears a cheap black eye mask as if he were the Lone Ranger with a shot glass instead of a six gun.  Glass tumblers disappear into his hands.  Ice explodes where alcohol meets ice.

I drink my tall drink.  A woman is standing next to me, wearing a long red evening gown, low cut in the back and front. Whenever she moved her head to speak, her green felt fool’s cap bells jungle, and the elastic of her white eye mask slips, covering one of her eyes. One eye is blue and the other is green.  I can’t hear what she is saying, but it appears by her gestures, that she wishes me to light the cigarette in the long black filter she holds between white gloved hands. 

I turn to the bar to retrieve the pack of matches that had been lying near the half-filled drink at my place.  As I turn to her, with the lighted match, there is no one there.  I hold the flickering match as it burns down toward my fingers, waiting for the sudden intake of breath, and the quick release of smoke that always follows after the lighting. I wait, and the match burns, but nothing happens.

Nothing happens until the sound of laughter around me begins.  I wonder what the joke is, who is laughing, and at what?  Or is it, whom are they laughing at?  At what? Nothing at all.

The bald man, at my left, is dressed as a clown, except for his face; a face is covered by a rubber mask   His voice is muffled as he tries to speak. I can see the area where the mouth should be, sense the movement of lips, but nothing resembling speech comes out.  When I do begin to hear, the sound is distorted as if he were speaking from under a vast body of standing water. The laughter that follows his speech also sounds far away. Indistinct, but, real nonetheless. I imagine him on a stage, dressed in an all-white suit, painted the way mimes are painted, but I cannot imagine the noise.  Noise and music, laughter and the sound of coins falling in the jukebox. 

I am drinking.  The more I drink the hotter I feel.  I gesture towards the man with the black eye mask and the party hat, but no one responds.  

I call out, “Hey, tarbendner.  I’m hot and thirsty.  Give me one of your finest coldest beverages.”   

All noise in the room ceases.  Motion is suspended.  A thousand pairs of mismatched eyes stare at me.  I can feel the heat inside.  The increasing urgency of it.  The closeness of the room, the smoke and the heat lamps intense, concentrated glow.  I drink what is placed in front of me.  Drink it and the next without asking or wondering where and why or how.  A Beer Barrel Polka plays.  Everyone laughs.  Even me.

“Try your noise maker now, sonny.” 

A disembodied voice is speaking to me in the darkness.  The voice sounds as if it could belong to an older woman.  A much older woman.  One who has never worn a long evening gown or a party dress in her life.

“Don’t ask questions.  Just do it.”


 “Of course, now, it’s almost time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time for the noisemakers. You’ll be sorry if you don’t have one that works.”

I retrieve my noisemaker from the bar next to my drink and crank the handle. It makes a loud, annoying sound in the otherwise silent room.

“Seems to work fine,” I say.

“Now don’t you feel better?”

The room is no longer silent. Drinks are being consumed, glasses clinking together, soda is swishing into glasses filled to the rim with alcohol and mixers. Laughter and conversation.  I do feel better.  Much, much better.

I say so. 

Everyone laughs.

Loudly as the house lights come all the way up. All the noisemakers come alive at once. Everyone screams in unison

It’s time.

I know better than to ask what it is time for.

Alan Catlin is primarily known for poetry but that doesn’t prevent him for mixing and matching prose and poetry as the subject allows.  He has published dozens of full length book and chapbooks, mostly poetry, over the years. Although he is not a genre writer he has somehow managed three Rhysling Prize nominations and a Bram Stoker Award nomination He didn’t win either award.

Appearing in The Chamber November 19

New issues appear Fridays at 10:00 a.m. CDT/ 4:00 p.m. BST/ 8:30 p.m. IST/ 1:00 a.m. AEST (Saturdays).

“Fugue” Dark Fiction by Alan Catlin

Alan Catlin is primarily known for poetry but that doesn’t prevent him for mixing and matching prose and poetry as the subject allows.  He has published dozens of full length book and chapbooks, mostly poetry, over the years. Although he is not a genre writer he has somehow managed three Rhysling Prize nominations and a Bram Stoker Award nomination He didn’t win either award.

“Banquet of Fortune” Dark Fiction by Jake Sheff

Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and veteran of the US Air Force. He’s married with a daughter and six pets. Poems and short stories of Jake’s have been published widely. Some have even been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook is “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing). A full-length collection of formal poetry, “A Kiss to Betray the Universe,” is available from White Violet Press.

“Asexuals of the Cosmos, Unite!” Dark Sci-fi/Horror by Thomas White

Thomas White has a triple identity: speculative fiction writer, poet, and essayist. His poems, fiction, and essays have appeared in online and print literary journals and magazines in Australia, the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. He is also a Wiley-Blackwell Journal author who has contributed essays to various nonliterary journals on topics ranging from atheism, the meaning of Evil, Elon Musk, Plato, The Matrix, and reality as a computer simulation. In addition, he has presented three of his essays to the West Chester University Poetry Conference (West Chester, Pennsylvania), as well as read his poetry on Australian radio.

“Poesies” Dark Post-Apocalyptic Fiction by Jason Kahler

Jason Kahler is a teacher, writer, and scholar from Southeast Michigan. You can follow him on Twitter @JasonKahler3.

Three Dark Poems Written and Translated from the Russian by Ivan de Monbrison

Ivan de Monbrison is a poet, novelist and artist born in 1969 in Paris. He has studied oriental languages in Paris, and then worked for the Picasso Museum, before dedicating himself to his own creativity. He has been published in literary magazines globally. His last poetry book in English and Russian без лица / Faceless has just been released in Canada. He does not believe that his art is of any real significance. He does it as some kind of a tribal ritual. He is fully aware that vanity is one of the worse enemy of most poets and artists, and tries to stay away from it as much as possible. 

“The Swamp Rat” Dark Spy Thriller by Philip Ivory

Philip Ivory studied literature at Columbia University. He teaches creative writing with The Writers Studio in Tucson, Arizona. His fiction has appeared in Menacing Hedge, Two Cities Review, Ghost Parachute, The AirgonautLiterally Stories and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His blog is

“Reverie” Dark Science Fiction by Aaron Simon

Aaron Simon lives in Portland, Oregon with his dog, Barry, and a really nice window that looks out on a really nice tree. When he’s not being distracted by that tree, he writes, reads, and develops crippling addictions to things like collecting records.

“The Estate” Twisted Gothic Horror by Ciaran Doran

Ciaran Doran is a former museum curator and ancient music archivist who has been fortunate enough to work on a number of international projects. He has contributed on occasion to British newspapers and written short pieces for the WWF For Nature. 

Next Issue: November 26

Appearing in The Chamber November 19

New issues appear Fridays at 10:00 a.m. CDT/ 4:00 p.m. BST/ 8:30 p.m. IST/ 1:00 a.m. AEST (Saturdays).

“Fugue” Dark Fiction by Alan Catlin

Alan Catlin is primarily known for poetry but that doesn’t prevent him for mixing and matching prose and poetry as the subject allows.  He has published dozens of full length book and chapbooks, mostly poetry, over the years. Although he is not a genre writer he has somehow managed three Rhysling Prize nominations and a Bram Stoker Award nomination He didn’t win either award.

“Banquet of Fortune” Dark Fiction by Jake Sheff

Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and veteran of the US Air Force. He’s married with a daughter and six pets. Poems and short stories of Jake’s have been published widely. Some have even been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook is “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing). A full-length collection of formal poetry, “A Kiss to Betray the Universe,” is available from White Violet Press.

“Asexuals of the Cosmos, Unite!” Dark Sci-fi/Horror by Thomas White

Thomas White has a triple identity: speculative fiction writer, poet, and essayist. His poems, fiction, and essays have appeared in online and print literary journals and magazines in Australia, the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. He is also a Wiley-Blackwell Journal author who has contributed essays to various nonliterary journals on topics ranging from atheism, the meaning of Evil, Elon Musk, Plato, The Matrix, and reality as a computer simulation. In addition, he has presented three of his essays to the West Chester University Poetry Conference (West Chester, Pennsylvania), as well as read his poetry on Australian radio.

“Poesies” Dark Post-Apocalyptic Fiction by Jason Kahler

Jason Kahler is a teacher, writer, and scholar from Southeast Michigan. You can follow him on Twitter @JasonKahler3.

Three Dark Poems Written and Translated from the Russian by Ivan de Monbrison

Ivan de Monbrison is a poet, novelist and artist born in 1969 in Paris. He has studied oriental languages in Paris, and then worked for the Picasso Museum, before dedicating himself to his own creativity. He has been published in literary magazines globally. His last poetry book in English and Russian без лица / Faceless has just been released in Canada. He does not believe that his art is of any real significance. He does it as some kind of a tribal ritual. He is fully aware that vanity is one of the worse enemy of most poets and artists, and tries to stay away from it as much as possible. 

“The Swamp Rat” Dark Spy Thriller by Philip Ivory

Philip Ivory studied literature at Columbia University. He teaches creative writing with The Writers Studio in Tucson, Arizona. His fiction has appeared in Menacing Hedge, Two Cities Review, Ghost Parachute, The AirgonautLiterally Stories and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His blog is

“Reverie” Dark Science Fiction by Aaron Simon

Aaron Simon lives in Portland, Oregon with his dog, Barry, and a really nice window that looks out on a really nice tree. When he’s not being distracted by that tree, he writes, reads, and develops crippling addictions to things like collecting records.

“The Estate” Twisted Gothic Horror by Ciaran Doran

Ciaran Doran is a former museum curator and ancient music archivist who has been fortunate enough to work on a number of international projects. He has contributed on occasion to British newspapers and written short pieces for the WWF For Nature. 

Next Issue: November 26

Appearing in The Chamber November 19

New issues appear Fridays at 10:00 a.m. CDT/ 4:00 p.m. BST/ 8:30 p.m. IST/ 1:00 a.m. AEST (Saturdays).

“Fugue” Dark Fiction by Alan Catlin

Alan Catlin is primarily known for poetry but that doesn’t prevent him for mixing and matching prose and poetry as the subject allows.  He has published dozens of full length book and chapbooks, mostly poetry, over the years. Although he is not a genre writer he has somehow managed three Rhysling Prize nominations and a Bram Stoker Award nomination He didn’t win either award.

“Banquet of Fortune” Dark Fiction by Jake Sheff

Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and veteran of the US Air Force. He’s married with a daughter and six pets. Poems and short stories of Jake’s have been published widely. Some have even been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook is “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing). A full-length collection of formal poetry, “A Kiss to Betray the Universe,” is available from White Violet Press.

“Asexuals of the Cosmos, Unite!” Dark Sci-fi/Horror by Thomas White

Thomas White has a triple identity: speculative fiction writer, poet, and essayist. His poems, fiction, and essays have appeared in online and print literary journals and magazines in Australia, the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. He is also a Wiley-Blackwell Journal author who has contributed essays to various nonliterary journals on topics ranging from atheism, the meaning of Evil, Elon Musk, Plato, The Matrix, and reality as a computer simulation. In addition, he has presented three of his essays to the West Chester University Poetry Conference (West Chester, Pennsylvania), as well as read his poetry on Australian radio.

“Poesies” Dark Post-Apocalyptic Fiction by Jason Kahler

Jason Kahler is a teacher, writer, and scholar from Southeast Michigan. You can follow him on Twitter @JasonKahler3.

Three Dark Poems Written and Translated from the Russian by Ivan de Monbrison

Ivan de Monbrison is a poet, novelist and artist born in 1969 in Paris. He has studied oriental languages in Paris, and then worked for the Picasso Museum, before dedicating himself to his own creativity. He has been published in literary magazines globally. His last poetry book in English and Russian без лица / Faceless has just been released in Canada. He does not believe that his art is of any real significance. He does it as some kind of a tribal ritual. He is fully aware that vanity is one of the worse enemy of most poets and artists, and tries to stay away from it as much as possible. 

“The Swamp Rat” Dark Spy Thriller by Philip Ivory

Philip Ivory studied literature at Columbia University. He teaches creative writing with The Writers Studio in Tucson, Arizona. His fiction has appeared in Menacing Hedge, Two Cities Review, Ghost Parachute, The AirgonautLiterally Stories and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His blog is

“Reverie” Dark Science Fiction by Aaron Simon

Aaron Simon lives in Portland, Oregon with his dog, Barry, and a really nice window that looks out on a really nice tree. When he’s not being distracted by that tree, he writes, reads, and develops crippling addictions to things like collecting records.

“The Estate” Twisted Gothic Horror by Ciaran Doran

Ciaran Doran is a former museum curator and ancient music archivist who has been fortunate enough to work on a number of international projects. He has contributed on occasion to British newspapers and written short pieces for the WWF For Nature. 

Next Issue: November 26

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