Tell us a little bit about yourself and how you contribute to the horror genre.

I am a writer who blends horror with elements of humor, thriller, romance and other genres. My agent and I are currently on submission with two manuscripts, and I am working on another horror novel as we approach publishers. My work features protagonists, mostly female, who tackle the horrors we face on a daily basis, such as greedy corporations, misogyny, ecosystem collapse and societal pressures to conform. I like to think my stories challenge many of the toxic influences that abound in our present world.

What drew you to the horror genre?

I was drawn to horror by my grandmother, who was quite literally a second mother to me. She was born on Halloween and tucked me in at night by reading me Edgar Allan Poe. On weekends, we’d rent scary movies and when I got older, we swapped horror novels. Horror is something that’s deeply nostalgic and comforting to me. It’s a genre that can build courage, point the finger at true evils, provide an escape, show you what not to do, and it can surprise, scare, thrill and make you laugh. Because my grandma introduced me to horror, it feels very adjacent to comfort and caretaking.

If you could recommend one creation of horror that everyone should consume, whether that be a book, podcast, movie, art, etc., what would you recommend?

Model Home, by Rivers Solomon, is a beautifully written novel that I cannot recommend more highly. This author explores generational trauma, gender, grief, race and messy family relationships in a way that feels deeply human. Their work is lyrical, aching and hits hard enough to leave the reader bruised. I love how this novel applies literary writing to horror and moves us into the dimensions of human suffering that are rarely explored with this level of nuance, humility and depth. 

What positive changes have you seen happening in the horror community and what are some areas the community can still improve?

I love seeing more diversity with regard to gender, sexuality, race and mental health representation in novels. For the most part, I’m also seeing more depth given to character development within the horror genre. Nothing turns me off to a novel quicker than flimsy characters without any backstory driving their decision-making, actions and reflections. However, I still see female characters whose identity seems adjacent to men and whose actions and thoughts feel hollow, or even absent, compared to the male cast. The situation is improving and there are many authors of all genders who write from the female perspective in a truly fantastic way. But…not all writers are doing it well and there’s room for improvement. Some recently published and massively popular novels still fall into this trap even today. I’d love to see readers rise up and demand more. That sort of thing is just not acceptable.

What do you find scary within the horror genre?

Nothing scares me more than possession…the idea of an entity controlling your personhood. That’s a total loss—obliteration of your free will and agency. Nothing scarier than that. Runners up are cults, a truly diabolical haunted house and creepy dolls!

Who are some women in horror you think more people should discover?

Women in horror to discover. Well, I’m a huge fan of some very well-known authors such as Rachel Harrison, Agustina Bazterrica and T. Kingfisher. But I’d love it if K-Ming Chang got a little more attention (author of Organ Meats) and also Olga Ravn (author of The Wax Child). I’m also a huge fan of Jessica Federle, who widely publishes speculative poetry and short stories. She’s also an editor and agented writer who is on submission with her novel-length work. I’m just waiting for the day one of Federle’s novels makes it to market. Lastly, a self-published horror author I adore after reading her debut is Magda O’Toole.

Where can folks find you these days?

My website has links to my poetry (many of which have horror themes), as well as information regarding my novel-length projects: www.lorrieness.com
I’m also active on Instagram @lorrie.a.ness

Bio: 
Lorrie Ness is a writer working in a rural corner of Virginia. She writes poetry and novels and has been published in a wide array of journals. Flowstone Press published two of her poetry collections: Anatomy of a Wound, and Heritage & Other Pseudonyms.
  

Tell us a little bit about yourself and how you contribute to the horror genre.

I'm a horror and dark fiction writer from central Maine. I write across various subgenres, but most of the stories I've published to date involve cults or ghosts. My debut novel, Little White Flowers, came out last summer and the sequel, Hallowed Deadly Seeds, comes out on June 30th of this year. I've also had several short stories published in indie horror anthologies.

What drew you to the horror genre?

I've loved horror for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I was really into ghost stories and legends, and I would torment my siblings and friends with my own spooky tales. I also saw the made-for-TV miniseries adaptation of The Shining at age six and loved it, and that movie had a huge impact on my early writings.

When folks look back at the Women in Horror movement of today’s day and age, what do you think the defining characteristic will be?

I think one of the defining elements of today's Women in Horror movement is the centering of women's voices and experiences. Of course, modern women writers aren't the first to do this, but I feel like we're seeing a much greater volume of these stories being produced. Right now, pink horror is having a moment, and even a lot of stories by women that don't necessarily fall under the pink horror umbrella are tackling the societal pressures that come with womanhood. Authors are also looking at how other factors like disability status, class, race, etc., intersect with gender to create situations ripe for horror. It's led to the creation of some incredible stories and is providing a path forward for the writers of tomorrow.

What do you find scary within the horror genre?

What scares me in horror more than anything is seeing characters I love in peril. The horror itself, be it ghosts, zombies, cults, what have you, doesn't matter as much. Come up with characters I adore and put them in a bad situation, and I'll be on the edge of my seat.

Who are some women in horror you think more people should discover?

One of my favorite women in indie horror is Bethany Russo. If you haven't read her work before, I recommend starting with Fever Dreams. It's a collection of four short stories, and they're all brilliantly written. E.H Regan is another fave, and you should check out her collection Remnants. If you haven't read Haley Newlin yet, you absolutely should. I haven't read her newest release yet (it's at the top of my TBR), but Not Another Sarah Halls is one of my all-time favorite books, and Take Your Turn, Teddy is also excellent.

What advice would you give to the next generation of women coming into the horror genre?

We have this unfortunate societal idea that horror is largely a man's domain. This has shifted a bit in recent years, but the truth is, women have been writing horror basically since the genre's inception. We just haven't gotten as much recognition. And I think this lack of recognition can be very isolating and can make people question whether they should even be here. So I would say, know that you do belong here and that your words matter. Don't be afraid to be loud, to take up space. Find other women who are writing cool books, and let's lift each other up. It's much harder for history to forget us if we write the narrative.

Where can folks find you these days?

You can find me on Instagram, Threads, and YouTube @amber_hathaway_writes and on Bluesky @amber-hathaway.bsky.social. I'm most active on Instagram, but I do try to share all my major updates to all of my social platforms. Additionally, I send out a monthly newsletter with all the key highlights and upcoming releases and events. You can find the sign up on my website: https://www.amberhathaway.com/contact 

Bio: Amber Hathaway (she/her) is an autistic horror and dark fiction writer. She is the author of the Little White Flowers series, and her short stories have appeared in multiple anthologies. She holds a PhD in Physics from the University of Maine, among other degrees. When not writing or reading, she enjoys a wide range of hobbies and interests, including crafting, cosplaying, and Pokemon GO. She lives in central Maine with her equally eccentric partner, Brian Toner.

Website link: https://www.amberhathaway.com/

Tell us a little bit about yourself and how you contribute to the horror genre.

I write transgressive and body horror short stories and novels, most of which comment on reproductive freedom or respond in some way to current events. I also dev-edit and line-edit other authors' work.

What drew you to the horror genre?

When I was little, we took long road trips to visit my grandparents, and my mom helped us pass the time by telling us ghost stories she made up on the spot. I graduated from her stories to R. L. Stine and Alvin Schwartz, then to Stephen King, and today I read almost exclusively in the horror genre. It's an antidote to my anxiety about the world because it prepares me for all kinds of real-world situations and the horrors of man's own making every day. 

What positive changes have you seen happening in the horror community and what are some areas the community can still improve?

I'm glad to see horror as a genre growing in popularity, and to see more women's voices at the forefront. Monika Kim's The Eyes Are the Best Part and Virginia Feito's Victorian Psycho were two recent faves. There's still room for democratization in publishing, with 10% of all authors making 90% of the money.

What are some areas of horror you think are under-explored?

Perimenopausal and menopausal horror—though Sobelo Books has an upcoming anthology on this theme specifically!

Who are some women in horror you think more people should discover?

Kathe Koja (The Cipher), Lucy Rose (The Lamb), Mona Awad (Bunny), Shannon Riley (Pocketknife Kitty). 

What advice would you give to the next generation of women coming into the horror genre?
 
Go big. They can't stop us all.

Where can folks find you these days?

Author website: https://www.jesshagemann.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/jh.author/

Bio: Jess Hagemann’s recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Beneath the Bluebonnets: Tales of Terror from Texas Women, Three Seasons of Winter, and Last Girls Club, among others. Her debut novel Headcheese (2018) won an IPPY Award in Horror. Paste Magazine named her sophomore novel Mother-Eating, which marries Marie Antoinette and cults, one of the “Most-Anticipated Horror Books of 2025.” Jess received her MFA from the Jack Kerouac School, and has been awarded a teaching fellowship at McNeese State University as well as a writing residency at Dear Butte. She lives in Austin. More at www.jesshagemann.com.

Headshot credit: Alicia Leigh Photography
Cover image by James Hutton Illustration
Cover text design by Zach Chapman

Dan Asher Baron (writing as P.W. Interrobang) is the poet laureate of his household and a lifelong exaggerator. He is a father, a husband, a sinner, and an ADHD haver, doing his best to hold all four titles at once without dropping anything too important. He believes in strong coffee, second drafts, and the quiet heroism of showing up tired and trying anyway.
He has been published in Dread Mondays by Whisper House Press and in Beowulfs of the Webs by Bo Mandoe Publishing, and continues to write wherever time and life allow.
When he is not writing, he is usually thinking about writing, forgetting to write, or explaining why he has not written yet. He lives with his family, his cats, and a rotating cast of unfinished ideas.

​IG: danasherbaron_author

On the day of her thirty-fourth birthday, Penny Thompson would die.

She had known that for a while; she felt the tiredness in her bones, and she knew that it wasn’t her fate to live a long and happy life. It wouldn’t be an illness to take her out, however, nor would she do something stupid and take her own life only to end up regretting it.

On the day of her birthday, while the late November rain pattered on the windows, Penny simply wouldn’t wake up; and that would be the end of it.

Nobody knew, of course. Who could she tell without sounding like a crazy woman with suicidal tendencies? Surely she couldn’t tell her mother, who thought she would have a bright future, nor could she tell her best friend, who lived across the ocean and struggled every day to keep up with her appalling picture-perfect life.

Sometimes, when she was in the mood for a good laugh, Penny entertained the thought of how that conversation might go. What if she picked up the phone one day to say, “Hey, Scarlett? I think I’ll be dead by the end of the year.”

Just like that, as if it were nothing more than chit-chat about the weather or gossip about people they both knew once upon a time in school.

She always chuckled at the thought of Scarlett on the other end; that little hitch in her breath that preceded her surprised silence, and the confusion and embarrassment that would follow when they would eventually laugh about it together to break the tension. At some point, though, the laughter would fade out and Penny would turn serious again, and Scarlett would ask: “You’re kidding, right?”

And when Penny would say that no, she wasn’t kidding at all… well, that was where the problems would really begin.

Because if she told anyone that she was positive she would die, nobody would ever believe it was just a sense of foreboding and not a wish as well. The thing was that Penny Thompson had no desire to die; she simply knew that it would happen, because she felt it deep in her bones. It was stored in a part of her memory so ancient and primal, to be accessed only through meditation or deep slumber – both of which she engaged in rather often. It was never any more than that, however. No more than a vague idea of what was to come and that sense of dread, always followed by a kind of peace like no other Penny had ever known.

The first time it happened, in fact, she thought that the relief she felt was the kind of serenity that came from a particularly good dream – or in the afterglow of some amazing sex.
She still remembered it as if it were yesterday.
       
She had opened her eyes to find herself cocooned inside the soft afghan she had thrown over her body to ward off the chill that sometimes crept into her motionless limbs. Candles still burned around the room that had been plunged into darkness as the afternoon sun set outside. The incense smoke whirled in wisps around her head as she sat up languidly, feeling light and peaceful, and satisfied, for a change. But then, as she went to stand up and take note of her surroundings, the thought slipped into her mind like a worm-like epiphany.

I will die.

From that very moment, she was spiraling out of control.

The feeling of finally having a purpose in her life was intoxicating. Far from feeling disheartened, Penny discovered life as she neared the end of it. Now all she wanted was to make something for herself, to leave her mark on the world. She took risks, whereas before she had been playing it safe for as long as she could remember.

What was the worst that could happen anyway?

Would she die before her time?

At least, she could count on finding that sweet relief again at the end of the line.

It took no time for her mother to notice the change, “What’s gotten into you, honey? You haven’t looked this pretty in a long time.” Her remark was met with a wide smile and a trilling laugh that was as foreign on Penny’s lips as the bright red lipstick she was wearing.

“I’m just having a great time, Ma,” she shrugged, bright-eyed. “I’m getting published, and life is good, y’know? Life is… great.”

It was Monday, the last week of November. Soon enough, Penny would meet her family to celebrate Thanksgiving; she would tell them about how she’d turned her life around that year, about the premonitions and how they stopped once she actually started living, and she would rejoice the chance to have another great year with her loved ones and a new approach to life.
On Tuesday, Penny Thompson turned thirty-four. She woke up to the sound of the rain ticking against the window pane in the grey early morning sky, her phone pinging with notifications from people wishing her a happy birthday. And the realization hit her like a punch in the gut.

I am dead.

She rose from the bed, watching in horror as her body lay still under the feather duvet, deaf to the sound of nature and technology and to the scream that echoed from the depth of her chest as she ran to the mirror and saw nothing but empty space.

“Fuck, I’m dead.”

There was no Shangri-la, no Heaven waiting for her. Just an endless, drab existence stuck in that apartment that had been her haven and her prison for too long when she was alive.

“It’s a fucking horror story.” Her whisper was followed by a choked noise that rapidly turned into maniacal laughter, filling up the room while her corpse began to cool and stiffen.
​
“Hell, I wish I’d written it myself.”

Marzia La Barbera is an Italian fiction writer and academic researcher. She writes science fiction and horror with a little bit of romance and a whole lot of blood, and enjoys delving into the mysteries of the human monster. Her works appeared in magazines and anthologies in Italy, while her short story, Cold Cuts, was featured in the 2025 cold horror anthology Absolute Zero by Death’s Head Press.

When she’s not writing, she’s paying too much attention to pop culture phenomena and putting
together eclectic, vaguely anarchist reading lists.

She is currently based in Palermo, Italy, with her two dogs and misfit family.

Check out her Instagram @clairvoyantwriter and connect with her on X @marzia_writes.

The roar of the cars passing by in the tunnel fills your head with static. You've never liked the tunnel, but today, it's unavoidable.

Ethan wants you there for his graduation party, so you'll be there. Cynthia be damned.

You scratch the back of your neck. Dried skin clogs your fingernails.

Red lights flare in your periphery. The cars in front of you slow to a crawl before coming to a stop.

"Shit," you mutter.

As if he can hear you, the driver of the car in front of you twists around in his seat. He stares. You stare back. He looks away.

Maybe you should’ve just taken the toll road. If you’d taken the toll road, you’d be there by now.

You don’t know when you’ll get there. It’s possible you’ll miss the entire event, and Ethan will never forgive you for it. God knows you’ve been absent enough as it is.

When he was a baby, you swore you’d be different from your father. You promised to spend time teaching Ethan to throw a ball, helping him with his homework, and discussing the birds and the bees. For the first few years of parenthood, you followed the plan without a hitch. You and Cynthia were happy. Ethan was happy.

Then came the bills and the time constraints and extra hours at the office that never seemed to end. You had to keep working to keep food on the table. Years ago, you listened to the song “Cat’s in the Cradle” and cried. The second time you heard it, after Ethan turned six, you were sitting in traffic like this on the way home from the office. Your white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel was the only thing holding you together as the tears poured down your face.

You are just like your father.

Now, Ethan will be eighteen in a week, and time is passing faster as if it wants to spite you. Although you served your family well as a provider, you can’t help wondering how different things might have been if you’d spent more time at home.

In the passenger seat, your cell phone rings. You keep your eyes on the tunnel.

“Shit,” you say again. In the quiet of the car, the curse is grounding.

Someone ahead of you honks. It feels like an hour has passed. Still, no one is moving. You can’t understand the cause of the traffic, and no matter how far you crane your neck or twist in your seat to get a better view, you don’t know what’s going on.

Your cell phone is still ringing. How do you even have service in here?

You reach over, grab the phone, and answer. “Hello?”

“Where the hell are you?” Cynthia asks. “You promised Ethan you’d be here. I don’t give a damn if you show up myself, but he wants you here.”

“I know he does. I’m trying—”

“Remember when promises meant something?”

You wrangle the urge to hang up on her. Cynthia never fights fair. You should’ve anticipated this.

“I’ll be there,” you say.

“You’d better be.”

She hangs up. Once again, you’re alone with the rumble of your engine and the engines all around you, and not even the breathing technique you learned from your therapist helps you.

It feels like the road is rumbling, too. Moving and trembling beneath you. With your foot on the brake, you feel the tremors come up through the car and into your body until you’re shaking, too.

You tell yourself you’re losing it. You need to get a grip.

The car at the front of the line disappears. Just like that, it’s gone. You can’t see what happened, but you feel it in your bones—something bad is coming.

The next car falls. You see it plummet into what looks like a hole in the ground, stretching wider to swallow every vehicle in the tunnel. If you don’t do something, your car will be next.

You turn in your seat and wave your arms at the driver behind you. She shoots you a glare, but doesn’t seem to be able to see the hole like you can.

“Back up!” you yell, knowing full well she can’t hear you.

You grip the steering wheel with both hands, debating your options.

Another car plummets. You’re running out of time.

“Fuck!” You slam the heel of your hand against the horn, which lets out an impotent blare. What are you going to do now?

The ground rumbles again. It feels much closer than before, and it reverberates through your chest. You take a deep breath.

You must do this for Ethan.

With all your strength, you turn the car off and wrench open the driver’s side door. You all but fall to the pavement in your scramble to exit the vehicle. Someone opens a door. He is shouting at you, but you don’t know what he’s saying.

“Ethan,” you murmur. “Ethan, I’m coming.”

The sinkhole devours the car in front of yours. You take off running toward the entrance of the tunnel, beholding the light like salvation.

Another rumble shakes the earth. The ceiling of the tunnel cracks and crumbles, crushing the cars as it caves in. You’re almost there. Almost.

Ethan will be so excited to see you. As you run, you picture his freckles and crooked smile. You love him then. You love him forever.
​
Until the sinkhole finds you. 

Come for the characters, stay for the scares. Briana’s writing combines her fascination with psychology and interest in the darker sides of life to create rich, compelling narratives. Her most recent work, The Reyes Incident, has sold more than 16,000 copies to date. Other books include Mouth Full of Ashes, The Tricker-Treater and Other Stories, Unboxed: A Play, and more. Briana is a proud member of the Independent Book Publishers Association (IBPA) and has a BA in English from Georgia College. When not writing, you can find her reading, traveling, playing video games, or spending time with her husband and cat.

Website: https://brianamorganbooks.com
Instagram: https://instagram.com/brianamorganbooks
Threads: https://www.threads.com/@brianamorganbooks

Belinda dragged her walker down a back staircase at Sunset Gardens, cursing the metal contraption with each thump. Back home, she’d gotten around just fine with her twisted oak cane. Carved it herself, but the doctors claimed it wasn’t stable and took it away.

Belinda argued. They’d patted her hand and didn’t listen.

Sunset Gardens—an understaffed, government-run, eldercare institution—featured grounds consisting of a cracked sidewalk and a strip of weedy grass. Not even a bench to sit in the sun.

The nurses advised daily exercise and fresh air, but frowned on residents venturing into the neighbourhood.

Belinda didn’t have family to take her out, nor did she want any. Long ago, her mother and sisters had gone their own ways, as was proper. She’d done just fine on her own. Out of the way in her cabin. Not bothering anyone. Eating what she liked.

Sunset Garden’s kitchen refused her requests for her favourite raw eggs. At the care facility, the craving had grown until she could think of little else.

Back home, she’d kept chickens. For variety, she’d put out bird feeders and collected eggs from the wild nests.

In the weeks since they’d dumped her into this cinderblock anthill, she’d developed alarming symptoms. Swollen joints and patches of crawling, itchy hives. The change was upon her, but it had never been this bad back home.

“Autoimmune disease, common in older women,” the annoying male doctors intoned. What did they know about it?

They kept poking her, so she bit one.

“Dementia,” they’d said and prescribed pills.

Nonsense. She’d been fine before.

She hid the pills under her tongue to spit into the toilet later, but an iron-haired nurse who growled instead of speaking caught her. The nurse threatened to have her sedated. Belinda tried to bite her too, but the nurse was fast.

Belinda knew what she needed. She needed to eat, and no one there was going to help her.

At the bottom of the stairs, the emergency exit door almost foiled her plan. It refused to open.

So much lost strength. Belinda leaned against the door to catch her breath. Her stomach and wrists itched like crazy.

She’d loved sunbathing on the outcrop next to her cabin. No-one ever came out that way. Then a direction-challenged delivery guy glimpsed her soaking up the heat naked.

She’d yelled at him to get off her property, and the busy-body reported her to the authorities.

Two pushy, clipboard-toting women showed up the next week. They’d asked questions, poked around, and returned with an ambulance. Gentle, but not kind, they gave her no choice.

Her hands tightened around the handles of the walker and pain shot through her knuckles. Best to concentrate on something else.

Eggs.

Closing her eyes, Belinda imagined chalky shells and succulent slippery filling. Mmmm. She’d spotted the grocery store sign from the second-floor bedroom she shared with a vacant-eyed woman. A fifteen-minute walk at most.

From her roommate’s purse, she’d helped herself to a few dollars.

Taking a deep breath, she slammed into the exit door and it popped open. A flattened paper cup shoved into the doorjamb should keep it unlatched for her return. Not that she wanted to return, but in her weakened state she couldn’t find her way home.

Belinda shuffled up the street as quickly as she could manage. A young man whipped past on a bike, yelling at her to move over. A car swerved into a puddle and sprayed her with water. She scowled and shook a fist.

Standing in front of the dairy case at the grocery store, she admired the crates of eggs. Saliva pooled in her mouth. For the first time in weeks, she smiled.

A woman with a cart snorted an impatient noise, but Belinda ignored her. She carefully picked out two dozen brown eggs, size extra-large. There was just enough money in her pocket.

Back outside, she settled onto a bus stop bench, opened one carton, popped an egg into her mouth and crunched. Her entire body shivered in response to the wonderful taste.

“Eeww, gross.” Disgusted expressions and grunts.

Belinda glared, but kept chewing.

Popping another in her mouth, she tucked the remaining eggs into the basket of her walker and stumbled woozily toward the residence.

The skin at her neck tightened. Her joints burned; the itch was close to unbearable.

At long last, she slipped into Sunset Gardens through the back door, but the stairs proved too much. Gasping, she sank onto the bottom step and devoured the rest of the eggs. Licking her fingers, she sighed. Finally, some relief.

The skin around her wrists split. It felt good. She stripped off her clothing. Spent skin fell to the ground in puddles. Shuddering, she dropped to the floor and stretched. Her body lengthened.

Finally, the ability to return to her home. First, a snack to fuel the journey.

Belinda wound herself around the railing and slithered up the stairs. She stretched her jaws and went looking for the iron-hair nurse.

KT Wagner writes speculative fiction in the garden of her home on the west coast of Canada. She’s a collector of strange plants, weird trivia, and obscure tomes. KT graduated from Simon Fraser University’s Writers Studio in 2015 (Southbank 2013). She organizes writer events and works to create literary community. 

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CitizenKatherineWagner/
Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/ktwagner.bsky.social
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ktwagner_writer/
Website (under construction): ktwagner.com
​

Marissa clicks the heavy door of the classroom shut. She slides to the floor, clamping a hand over her mouth. She checks the window next to the door. 

It’s dark. Quiet. 

The classroom across the hall has a curtain pulled over its window, the hall to the left empty except for a bulletin board of posters and a statue hidden by the corner.

Marissa dares to breathe, exhaling a quiet, shaky puff of air. She crosses in front of the whiteboard, pressing herself into a tight corner, the walls decked with posters and a mostly-empty bulletin board. The blinds on the larger windows in the back are drawn, only pale shafts of moonlight peeking through the dark room. As long as she doesn’t make herself noticeable to the door, she’ll be fine. She takes another breath.

This is what I get for walking through campus at night, Marissa seethes. She knows better. Any type of night walking is dangerous, unfathomable stalker creature or not. It was extra dangerous with her phone battery dead. She can’t call 911 or have a friend come pick her up. All she has to do is wait this dude out, then run like Satan’s about to snatch her ankles to her car. She’ll drive to the police station to report what happened, then go back to her shared student apartment and sleep for 12 hours. Her professors would understand.

There’s an itch in the back of her brain, like she’s missed something. Marissa’s gaze darts around. Windows are closed, the door is shut, she’s well away from the window next to said door. She didn’t miss anything, she’s sure she’s safe.

Her eyes follow the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on the far wall, stacked with peeling, old children’s books. On one side of the shelf is the door to the room, and the other is a short beige closet with a little red wagon on top. Next to that is a bright red book cart holding messily-organized binders and textbooks, then a counter in front of the back windows. What is she not thinking of?

A small eek sounds from nearby. 

Marissa’s heart leaps to her throat. The beige closet, the small wagon on top is rocking back and forth on its wheels. Spindly fingers sharpened to points wrap around the door. That thing’s smile splits its face in half, long clip-like teeth bared, eyes rippling and stretched into long ovals. Too-long arms and too many joints crack as they pull themselves out of the tiny space. It looms like some sort of deranged animal, tattered clothes that look similar to a circus ringmaster’s suit hung off its boney frame. It has some approximations of humanity, like short blonde hair cut to just above its chin, but it’s a disturbing fake idea twisted onto something unreal.

Marissa scurries to the professor’s desk, tucking herself underneath in the gap for a desk chair. She muffles the air from her nose and pulls herself as small as she can. That shouldn’t have been possible, it can’t be possible! She lost it at the back entrance, how did it follow her!? This isn’t—it shouldn’t- 

She tucks her panic into a tight little ball in her chest. She needs to get out alive, first and foremost. Get past whatever that is and get out. There’s a soft, eerie laugh. It rattles around her skull, makes her head hurt. Something scrapes, like nails on a chalkboard, on the desk above her head. The computer monitor on top crunches as it hits the floor.

“I know you’re there.” Its voice is breathy, like a whisper. “I can hear your lungs.”

Fuck, fuck fuck fuck! What to do now!? Long, spindly fingers stretch over the edge, dangling in front of her eyes. It’s practically right on top of her!

Oh, duh. It’s practically right on top of her.

Marissa crouches and shoves. She throws all of her might into tipping the desk. The creature squeals like a pig as it’s caught under the weight. Marissa books it, throwing open the door and sprinting down the hallway. Except- no. This isn’t the same hallway. It opened up onto a student seating area before, with exit stairs on the right and a door to the upper part of campus on the left, but now the hall ends at a fork. She can’t afford to stop. She goes left.

The halls have spun themselves into a maze. She goes right, then left, then right again, or was it left? She can’t tell anymore. They whip and snarl and tie her up in knots. There’s too much noise and not enough, a vague stench of something sweet bleeding into her nose.

Marissa trips.

She slams to the floor, head spinning. Panting, she tries to get oxygen back into her body, ambling to her feet. Why her? She’s a good student; she volunteers at the local food pantry every other week. She’s good to her friends, her girlfriend. Why her? What sort of divine retribution is she enduring?

Spindly, sharp, cold spines prick at the back of her neck. She chokes. Cracking, too-long fingers wind their way around her throat, tilt her chin up almost like her mom would when trying to scold her. The thing, the motherfucker, the whatever-it-is grins down at her from the ceiling, ovular eyes stretching with delight.

“It is time.” Its fingers break the skin on her jugular. “For your final bow.”

​Kayd Johanson is a 21 year old Southern Utah University student set to graduate in Spring 2026 with a degree in English. When they're not drowning in schoolwork, they like to draw, write, play excessive amounts of Minecraft, and talk about their favorite cartoons. Their favorite piece of horror media is The Magnus Archives, and yes, they will talk about that too. They currently live in Cedar City, Utah, out of their grandparents' basement to cut down on college costs.

Harrow James has always been a believer, ever since she was a child. A believer not just in God, but in institutions. In elders. People who exist to protect her and those vulnerable like her from the dangers of the world.

Tonight is the first night that faith will be shaken.

Until the angel, she never once thought that what she for so long thought were shields could actually be cages. Until the angel, she never thought her belief might by influenced by the fact that she has never once ventured outside of her small town of Parthas, Nevada. And since marrying, barely even out of Columbia, the acreage she came to live after she was wed to her husband Paxton. Until the angel, Harrow never truly wondered what else is in the world outside her borders.

It comes to her—because that's how she comes to think of it, that it came to her, that it chose her—one night. Like the burning bush. Like the ophanim.

She is sleeping next to Paxton when she's awoken by the explosion. Looking outside, she sees the boys in the barracks, Columbia's faithful farmhands and protectorates, have already begun to move. The lights in the small church down the hill are on, so that means the sisters are awake. She can hear movement in the farmhouse all around them as people wake, rally. A lighter sleeper than her husband, Harrow has to wake him, shake his shoulder gently, then more fervently when she doesn't just hear the reverberations, but see flames over the hill.

But the flames are wrong. They are colors not of this earth. Colors she doesn't have names for. Because they're not flames, not really. They're light.

Everything is quiet. Everything is still. Like Harrow, everyone is watching. It takes everything she has in her to be quiet. To not move.
​
"Paxton, honey," she says, "Something's happened. I'm afraid."