because I would not dance for Death—he kindly danced for me
and showed me a lesson in graceful—humility
he slowly moved—a deathly pace
serenaded by—the deathly shapes
that hovered over and twirled along
and I stood there... I stood there...
mouth agape, admiring, with composure and grace
that is until—he reached for me, for me alone,
in this phantom ball, in this phantom hall,
beyond the veil of—tranquility
and then—as if by spell, I moved in... I moved in...
and grabbed his hand and took the lead and in the lead—we danced!
oh, how we danced!
swaying and spinning through the air—in perfect harmony
and though our time was brief—all too brief
I found a comfort here
here, in his embrace, his deathly embrace,
relieved by his exalted—civility
because our little dance
it taught me death, it taught me life
within the limits of—possibility
for no matter the gown, no matter the ball,
this little dance unites all
and so I dance here…. yes, I dance here... with bated breath...
for we are all equal unto Death
requiescat in pace
J.D. Harlock is a Lebanese writer based in Beirut.
His short stories have been featured in The Deadlands, Sciencefictionary, Defenestration, Wyldblood Press, and the Decoded Pride Anthology, his poetry has been featured in Penumbric, Future Fire, Mobius and Black Cat Magazine, and his articles/reviews have been featured NewMyths.com, Mermaids Monthly, Interstellar Flight Press, and on the SFWA Blog.
You can find him on Twitter and Instagram @JD_Harlock.
The Black Forest was a dark wood with an even darker history, but winter was approaching, and the larder was bare. The boy packed his crossbow and quiver and as much water as he could carry, then set out just after dawn. Frost festooned the leafless trees, and the ground crunched noisily beneath the well-worn leather of his boots as he traipsed across the countryside, leaving behind the only home he’d ever known.
Plague had swept across the land just the season before, killing his parents and all but the healthiest citizens of the village atop the hill. Marching Flagellants murdered the rest.
He spied the acrid smoke from the funeral pyres as he stood outside the rundown manor and watched the band of maniacal zealots march past on the road to Ravensburg. He remembered their banners hanging limp in the autumn morn, 100 men whipping bloody stripes across the pale flesh of their backs as they chanted prayers for salvation.
His family had been one of means, but coin mattered little in a realm populated by nothing but traveling monks and wandering ghosts. Now that he was alone, the four walls which held him were nothing but shelter from the wind. His needs were few. He only hoped to find and kill a boar for enough meat to last until spring. He’d set several traps in the fields, but they remained as empty as his belly. He knew if he didn’t leave for the forest soon, he wouldn’t have the energy to do so. His father had told tales around the fireplace of hunters who had entered the Black Forest never to return—victims of the wolf packs who called the forest home. This, the year of our Lord 1350, was meant to be the year they finally braved the deep woods to face the wolves and kill a boar together, father and son. Now he would have to face the challenge alone.
He was tall for 15, lanky but strong. Even clad in thick leathers and furs to protect him from the bitter cold, he looked more like a wraith than a man. The moment he set foot in the wood, he became just one more shadow amongst the skeletal trees in an indistinct world of gray.
It was late afternoon, his crossbow still untested when he first heard the monsters howl. They were distant but unmistakable. Long, lonely cries pierced the forest, silencing all other creatures as each held its breath, waiting for what might come next. Seconds ticked away, then one by one, the birds began to chirp, and the squirrels began to scamper once more. The boy was too deep into the wood to turn back empty-handed. He readied his crossbow and again took up his trek for winter sustenance.
The sun began to set, its rays gold and red as they touched the top of the barren trees. His gray surroundings became an orange haze, like a warning fire gone unheeded. When he first saw her, she was in the form of a naked woman: wild eyed, wild maned, and draped atop a tree branch. Too stunned to speak, he stood and stared, his crossbow forgotten at his side until she smiled.
“You must be freezing,” he managed to say. He pulled off the topmost of his furs. “Here, put this on.”
Her smile grew wider, revealing a set of gleaming white teeth. She shook her head and then leapt to the ground gracefully, her bare feet hardly making a sound when she landed. She glanced down at the boy’s weapon, then took off at full speed, racing into the trees as if to escape him. He gave chase without a thought, desperate to know more about this strange woman, determined to save her from the predators he knew must be near.
She was fast, and he quickly grew winded, but he managed to keep her in sight as she dashed ahead. As the last of the day’s light glittered on the frost-laden trees, she finally stopped in a small clearing and waited for him to catch up. He approached warily, careful not to frighten her away. When he stood before her, she stepped close and, without a word, lightly planted a kiss upon his numb lips.
He shivered as he stood in place, unsure what to do next. She took a step backward and directed her deep brown gaze toward the sky. She howled as the last of the day’s light disappeared, and the full moon revealed itself in the darkness above.
It was the howl of the wolves, and goosebumps arose on the boy’s skin as other beasts hidden in the wood joined her cry. They stepped into the clearing, one after another, a dozen winter wolves with white-gray coats and hungry eyes. As he stood frozen in place, the boy watched the woman transform, her beautiful face and body morph from woman to wolf in a matter of seconds. He tried to raise his crossbow, but his muscles failed him. Instead, he dropped to his knees, and like the Flagellants who had heralded the end of the world, he begged for salvation.
She delivered it quickly. She sank her teeth into his throat, and he felt the cold seep into his bones. She drank his blood as her pack watched in silence. Everything went dark. The night swallowed him whole. He was sure he would be reunited with his parents in the afterlife. But it was not to be. He awoke the next morning curled next to his new mother in a snow-dusted den, comfortable and warm despite his lack of clothes. She stroked his hair and smiled, gifting him with a look of utter devotion. She had tasted his heart, and it was pure. He was one of them. He had entered the forest a child of man. He was one of the moon’s children now.
Matt Handle lives in Atlanta, Georgia where he juggles the reality of being a husband, father, and software developer with the imaginary characters and worlds that constantly vie for his attention. His short stories can be found around the web including at Dark Recesses Press, Daily Science Fiction, Verbicide, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Fabula Argentea.
by Stephanie M. Wytovich
In the past decade or so, speculative poetry has presented itself in the marketplace as an equal and valid contender in the field, thereby solidifying its place in the world of publishing, both large and small. Readers now not only enjoy it in magazines and individual collections, but also in anthologies, craft books, and in nonfiction articles exploring its value, voice, and contribution to science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Two great examples of this are the recently relaunched Weird Tales and the 2021 Halloween issue of Southwest Review edited by Andy Davidson.
When I started out as a fledgling poet, I turned first to The Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association (SFPA), and all these years later, I remain a member in this community that continues to celebrate poetry in all its different forms. When I first heard about the SFPA, I quickly researched their website, joined their Facebook group, and signed up for my yearly membership. As someone new to speculative poetry—not to mention someone who didn’t even know that speculative poetry was an avenue to pursue at the time—I devoured the listing of current markets they had and still have on their website, careful to make note of which magazines spoke to me and the work I was doing. I began submitting to their own magazine, Star*Line, and then discovered the themed work they did with Eye to the Telescope.
Later on, I learned about the Rhysling Award, the Dwarf Stars, and the Eglin Award and was fortunate to have some of my work published in subsequent anthologies while my book Mourning Jewelry placed third in the Elgins in 2015. I bring this up because the opportunity to read for these awards and get to know and network with fellow poets was not only inspiring but a kind of professional development in and of itself. I had never formally studied poetry, but I learned and continue to learn so much from this group and it’s provided me editorial opportunities, such as with Issue 17 of Eye to the Telescope, promotional outlets, and camaraderie in a career that is not only isolating but quite lonely at times.
Similar to the SFPA, my involvement with the Horror Writer’s Association (HWA) has proven invaluable to my life blood as a poet. From the Bram Stoker Awards to the HWA Poetry Showcase to the HWA Poetry Blog and then the Dark Poetry Scholarship, the HWA has worked hard to include, promote, and educate writers about how horror poetry can supplement their writing career and lead to a road of publication and higher learning. Similar to the SFPA, HWA members have countless opportunities to publicize their work and/or events, contribute to a variety of initiatives, and teach/attend continuing education workshops. Furthermore, when I attend Stokercon, there are always panels that discuss the state of speculative poetry, or that talk about the intersection of horror, writing, and mental health, and whether I am listening in the audience or contributing to the discussion, the conversation around poetry is always present and well-attended, proving that the form is not dead, but rather very much alive.
If you’re interested in getting more involved in the speculative poetry community, I highly recommend checking out the organizations above, volunteering where you can, and continuing to submit your work frequently. Please note that there are also mentorship opportunities, board positions, jury seats, and editorial work to be sought out, so there are lots of ways to contribute to the market, the genre, and get more involved in the work that’s being done. Afterall, if we want to continue to see poetry flooding the markets, we need to nourish the communities that support it while also educating and promoting each other’s work.
Stephanie M. Wytovich is an American poet, novelist, and essayist. Her work has been showcased in numerous magazines and anthologies such as Weird Tales, Nightmare Magazine, Southwest Review, Year's Best Hardcore Horror: Volume 2, The Best Horror of the Year: Volume 8, as well as many others.
Wytovich is the Poetry Editor for Raw Dog Screaming Press, an adjunct at Western Connecticut State University, Southern New Hampshire University, and Point Park University, and a mentor with Crystal Lake Publishing. She is a recipient of the Elizabeth Matchett Stover Memorial Award, the 2021 Ladies of Horror Fiction Writers Grant, and has received the Rocky Wood Memorial Scholarship for non-fiction writing.
Wytovich is a member of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, an active member of the Horror Writers Association, and a graduate of Seton Hill University’s MFA program for Writing Popular Fiction. Her Bram Stoker Award-winning poetry collection, Brothel, earned a home with Raw Dog Screaming Press alongside Hysteria: A Collection of Madness, Mourning Jewelry, An Exorcism of Angels, Sheet Music to My Acoustic Nightmare, and most recently, The Apocalyptic Mannequin. Her debut novel, The Eighth, is published with Dark Regions Press.
Follow Wytovich on her blog at http://stephaniewytovich.blogspot.com/ and on Twitter and Instagram @SWytovich and @thehauntedbookshelf. You can also find her essays and nonfiction on LitReactor.
A low mechanical hum filled the uninhabited room. Rhythmic clicking joined in as a red digital display scrolled to show a countdown, the seconds ticking down to oblivion. Shiny metal machines lined the room, operating untouched by human hands. Two screens flickered on, the collective glowing lights illuminating the mission control room. One showed a young brunette woman sleeping. Her hair tangled on the pillow as she rolled to her side and continued to dream. On the second screen, a mother panted in a hospital room as she stood beside a large bed, gripping the rail in the throes of her labor.
A switch slowly rotated as a scale rose from within the machine, each side balancing out the other for the moment. The control room had a single purpose: to keep the universe in balance. When one comes into the world, one must leave.
In the room where the brunette slept, clothes were thrown over a plush chair in the corner. On the desk, a stack of envelopes waited beside a roll of postage stamps, each address neatly written. A novel lay half read on the bedside table. It was overturned and splayed open to be easily picked up and completed.
The mother paced the hospital room, occasionally stopping to bend over and give a silent groan, her contractions making it impossible to stand. A nurse came in and had her lie on the bed, checking her progress. “Soon.” Her mouth formed the words, inaudible in the control room.
Cogs inside one of the large metal machines began to slowly turn, the metal teeth meeting and parting in perfect symmetry. The scale slowly tilted until the left pan rested on the base of the balance.
As the brunette slept, the bedroom door slowly opened. A male figure crawled into the room, moving to the side of the bed. His movements were erratic, unnerving, his head cocked jerkily and quickly to different sides, scanning erratically. He stood, looming over the woman, tall and lean. The gaunt angles on the man’s face cast shadows over his eyes, making them pools of black. His shoulder blades protruded sharply through his shirt. A glint of metal caught the light as he pulled a long knife from the waistband of his pants.
Under the fluorescent light of the hospital room, the laboring mother’s team rushed into the room, bringing an array of medical supplies and devices. The doctor positioned himself between the woman’s legs, indicating to her that it was time to push. Beaded sweat rolled down the mother’s face as she readied herself for the task ahead.
A red button blinked above the screens and then compressed itself down.
The brunette stirred in bed, rolled onto her back, and her eyes snapped open just in time to see the knife thrust downward toward her. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and her back arched in pain as the metal disappeared into her body. Feverish movement ensued as she tried to sit up, to get out of the bed. The man pulled her back as her hands clawed at the edge of the bed. A puddle of blood quickly formed, soaking the bed sheets beneath her.
The mother’s mouth opened in a silent cry as her body contracted, pushing her child along. The nurses in the room hustled around her body, prepping blankets and the warming tray. The doctor slid her hands between the mother’s legs, ready to catch the infant. With the next contraction, the mother pushed, focusing all her energy on bringing her child into the world.
The cogs in the machine moved quicker, racing the countdown on the screen.
The man’s lips curled into a disturbingly wide smile as he straddled the woman, pushing his knife into her again. The woman’s face contorted in agony as she fell unconscious, head lolling to the side. His head tilted back in an inaudible cackle as he flung himself off the blood-soaked bed. The brunette’s eyes flickered half open, then glossed over as her body caved into immobility. The man left as quickly as he had come.
Sliding out of the birthing canal, the boy took his first breath. As the doctor placed the boy in his mother’s arms, he severed the umbilical cord, and the child became his own person. As the mother gazed at his face for the first time, the boy suddenly stilled. His body went limp as if he were nothing more than a rag doll. The mother patted his face, a look of desperation crossing her own. She let out an inaudible scream as the doctor hurried to pull the child from her arms and rushed out.
The countdown hit zero.
In the bedroom, there was the smallest movement. A finger twitched. The brunette’s lips parted slightly. Her eyelids opened to reveal the faintest spark of life.
Slowly, the scale moved back, balancing out once again. The machine’s gears suddenly stopped and screens winked out, returning the room to darkness. An eerie stillness settled in the quiet.
Seconds passed, and then the mechanical hum returned. Click. Click. Click. The digital display suddenly blinked back to life, casting a red glow on the machinery as the countdown began again.
Bethany Walker is a licensed social worker and trauma therapist. She currently resides in Longview, TX with her husband, daughter, and pets. In her free time, she binges horror movies, collects an absurd amount of books, and writes fiction in various forms. Her work is featured or forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, Asylum Magazine, and more. Find her on Twitter @bookshelfofbeth.
"No, you fool! Not that one with the ghastly, lurid pattern. Show me another!"
The young shopworker was taken aback by the scarred old man's burst of anger. He coughed a little to regain his composure (he was a professional, after all!) and hid his annoyance.
After all, this was his personal favourite out of all the mid-price range rugs they sold at Discount Carpet Galaxy. (“Five minutes off Junction 6 on the M25.”)
Those colours! Those wondrous, delicately rendered patterns! It was a big hit with older ladies, wannabe hipsters, and young families. On a certain level, the young man took this as a personal affront.
"Err, OK?" he grimaced. "What might Sir like instead?"
"Anything without a pattern. You heard me? No patterns. Not even subtle ones. A plain carpet, if you don’t mind! In fact," the old man frowned as he pointed, "that shag pile there."
It was plain, grey, and drab, the shopworker thought. The colour of wet Wednesdays and boring afternoons in Autumn. Still, the customer was always right, or whatever nonsense they kept droning on about during team meetings.
“I’ll have it,” the old man sniffed and glowered as the shopworker heaved up a rolled-up copy of the rug, balanced it upright and precarious in his trolley, and radioed for someone to help his customer get it in the car.
Money changed hands, and the transaction was complete. Over tea, other staff would later note how brusque their customer was, and how agitated he seemed when he went near anything with a pattern. Still, these were strange times. No one had got through them unscathed.
But as the old man rolled out the new rug on his floor back home, he sighed. That nice young man hadn't deserved that. He was only trying to help. There was a heavy throb of sadness in the old man’s chest; a reminder why he had been so alone all these years.
And yet... there was still that thing they sent to get him all those years ago. It hid in patterns, merging with them, only to rise, shimmering with malice, from the carpet it had lurked in.
The curves and floral swirls twisted and peaked into claws and fangs and spiked, lashing tails. A stench of burnt ozone, and the prickle of static in the air. And the eyes... Boiling scarlet balls of hate, as the thing utterly perverted the second and third dimensions by its very presence.
His wife died before he could kill it. He briefly remembers holding her as she faded, soaked in blood, even as the thing writhed nearby in its death throes. Never again.
The old man cautiously trod on the rug in his socks. It felt soft and comfortable. Almost soft enough to take the memories away.
Back at the warehouse, the shopworker pondered his customer. What had gotten into him?
But then he stopped. Had the pattern in that carpet over there... moved?
“No,” he thought. “That’s just my imagination!” It had been a long shift.
Behind him, the pattern moved again.
Alexander Hay is a writer, academic and researcher currently lurking in the shimmering carpet fibres of Northern England. His previous credits include the Sleep Podcast, Cosmic Horror Monthly, Nature's Futures and various dodgy music magazines. He can be found promoting himself shamelessly on Twitter: @Alexand40457338
I cradle Mother at my breast until the conductor comes to stamp my ticket. The man doesn’t seem to notice her trembling beneath my coat.
“Where you headed, young lady?”
On the opposite bench, a grizzled older passenger wakes without opening his eyes, presents his ticket, then slumps back to sleep. When the conductor departs, I close the door behind him and unbutton my coat. Beside me, the raven spreads her wings and caws.
“Be still, Mother,” I whisper. “We’re going to the black water. We’re going to make you well again.”
I pull my suitcase down from the luggage compartment and retrieve the glass medicine bottle. “Just a thimble’s worth to dull the pain.” That was what the doctor said. The raven pecks violently as I try to hold her steady. I part the beak with one hand, and tip the silver thimble with another. Then the raven changes, and now a tawny bobcat is curled beside me. I stroke her spotted pelt and her ear twitches, and I listen to the rhythm of her laboured breaths.
The steam engine roars, and the carriage rumbles; the train whistle blasts. I struggle to withhold my tears.
I wake with a start in the dead of night, and the sickly bobcat is gone. Rising, I glance out the window. Beyond looms a skeletal wilderness of naked birch like some sprawling orchard of bones. All is dark and silent; the train isn’t moving. By the pale moonlight, I discover my grizzled fellow passenger isn’t moving either. His big lungs draw no breath. A trail of blue-black blood leads from his mangled throat out into the corridor. The tracks are like none I’ve ever seen.
I knew Mother was ill the moment her teeth sank into my wrist. She had gone out in her wolf skin to hunt for our dinner. When she didn’t come home, I scoured the woods and found her whimpering, scratching her head against the bark of a tree. I ran to her side, and she lunged at me; I tumbled backward. Mother soon realized her mistake and hoisted me up in her strong human arms.
“What have I done? My poor, sweet Matilda. What have I done?” My blood still streaked her mouth and chin.
At the homestead, she bandaged my wound with ointment and herbs then retreated to our bed. There was no dinner, and Mother didn’t rise for three days. On the third, I crept once again into the surrounding woods and followed the path into town.
I walked back with Dr Ellis under cover of night, lest any of the townspeople notice us. Dr Ellis wasn’t like other men in town—the godsmen who raised torches and cried “witch” or “devil woman.” I could see the way he looked at Mother, and I knew this was because he loved her. I’d read of such things in my books.
Once, when I was little, the men with torches had come to our door, and Mother greeted them as a great brown bear. The godsmen scrambled away, screaming.
Mother could still control her magic then and changed her skin at will, not at random (like she does now). Now, I can’t be certain what skin she will inhabit next. Raven. Bobcat. Monster…
The lamps in the corridor have all gone dark as well. I poke my head out and listen to the darkness. Amid the susurrant snoring of sleeping passengers, I detect another, stranger, sound. A low, guttural growl. A claw tapping gently on glass. Mother is hungry, checking the locks. One door, several doors away, clicks and slides open.
I pursue the sound with silent steps, parallel to the trail of blood. I grip the medicine bottle tight, prepared to wrestle Mother to the ground. My body quivers at the memory of her jaws clamping down on it. But I must be brave, lest anyone else be killed. Perhaps more than a thimble is needed this time.
When Dr Ellis came out of the cottage that night, he found me sulking under the tall willow. (Many nights I dreamt the doctor would ask Mother to marry him and come to live with us at our homestead and be my Father.) He knelt beside me, and held my wounded hand.
“I suspect your mama,” he said, “has a tumor in her brain. I’ve seen similar cases before. This tumor is making her very sick.” He said something else then about “X-rays” and a “radiologist on the coast,” but I’d become suddenly dizzy, disoriented. “Sometimes,” he continued, “sick people behave unlike themselves. But you must always remember: your mama loves you very much.” That was when he handed me the bottle, explained how to administer the medicine and how much and when.
“Is Mother going to die?”
He responded without saying a word. I sprang up and knocked his bottle to the ground. I told him I knew a place, Blackwater Spring, where the water healed the sick through magic—not with “X-rays.” Mother had said so when I was little. I told him I’d bring her there and make the tumor disappear.
I pause at the open door of the sleeper car. Moist chewing sounds reverberate within. “Mother?” I hiss.
A black silhouette rises up on its hind legs and turns toward me. My breath catches in my throat. I drop the medicine. I remember our last night at the homestead. It was also the last night I’d ever touch her human skin, gaze into her human eyes, and listened to the music of her human voice. Gazing now into these glowing noctambulant eyes, I recognize no trace of her at all.
Mother has gone out into that skeletal wilderness, and I don’t give chase. As I stare up at the ceiling and the blood pools around my head, I reach out for the thimble and broken bottle of medicine. “Just a thimble’s worth,” I think aloud. “To dull the pain.”
Kirk Bueckert is a young writer living on the unceded territory of the Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-Waututh Nations. His previous work has been published by Scarlet Leaf Publishing House and the League of Canadian Poets. He hopes you enjoy reading this new story as much as he has enjoyed writing it.
“I still think you went the wrong way,” insisted Trudy.
Dave glanced at the rear-view mirrors, ensuring that the camper he was towing didn’t go off the narrow pavement or clip one of the many limbs hanging over the path. “I turned where the sign pointed. It said to go this way for sites 38-66.”
“It said sixty-five.” Trudy crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat.
“Either way, we’re not turning around until we get to the end. It does seem like a long time since we passed the last campsite.”
Trudy’s inevitable statement of “I told you so” was interrupted by the sound of the bottom of their camper scraping the road as they hit a deep dip. The screech sent a chill up Dave’s spine.
He maneuvered the pick-up around another tight corner and exhaled at the sight of a clearing ahead. A small wooden post marked the spot as campsite sixty-six.
“There. I knew I was right.” He pulled to a stop and climbed out to look at their home for the next three nights.
“It’s a long walk to the bathroom and showers,” announced Trudy.
Dave slapped at a mosquito buzzing near his ear. “I’m more worried about backing the camper in. It’s a tight fit. You’re going to have to direct me.”
Trudy rolled her eyes. “You know I never can help you. You always get mad at me.”
Dave didn’t reply. He swatted another bug and returned to the pick-up. Then, he pulled a short distance beyond the narrow driveway and rolled down the windows. Shifting into reverse, he cranked the steering wheel to the right and began backing up. Immediately the camper veered off in the wrong direction. Muttering to himself, Dave stopped and pulled forward slightly. He would have to start again.
“That was the wrong way,” yelled Trudy.
“I know that,” he screamed back.
On the next attempt, the camper turned the correct direction but too sharply, heading directly for a large oak tree.
“Watch out for that tree.”
The next try found the pick-up nearly hitting the wooden post that displayed the campsite number. “What evil maniac put the post that close to where I have to back up,” thought Dave.
The fourth effort seemed to go better. Dave stopped and waited for Trudy’s verification.
Eventually, she yelled, “Why aren’t you moving? I’m waving you back.”
“How am I supposed to know that. I can’t see you when you stand behind the camper.”
“You don’t have to yell.”
“Yes, I do. So do you. That’s the only way we will be able to hear each other.”
With a deep breath, Dave began backing up once again.
“Stop,” shouted Trudy, “you’re going to hit a stump on the left. You’ve got to pull forward and try again.”
Fifty-two tries, forty-seven minutes, over one hundred silent swear words and at least half that many not-so-quiet curses later, the camper was finally in the campsite. It sat at an awkward angle and tilted heavily to one side.
The pick-up sat nearly perpendicular to the camper, and its front half was nestled in the underbrush that surrounded the clearing. Dave hopped out of the cab and stepped into what appeared to be a patch of poison ivy. After going out of his way to avoid a large beehive hanging nearby, he began the long process of unhooking the camper. The tally of curses uttered continued to climb.
Dave pulled a toolbox out of the back of the pick-up and set it on the ground. His knees cracked, and he felt a sharp pain in his back when he knelt to get the tools needed to steady the camper before unhitching it. The process would go much easier with Trudy’s help, but that ship had sailed a half-hour earlier when she had trudged off in anger.
After what seemed like an eternity, Dave finally finished. He tossed the toolbox back into the pick-up, banging his knee against the hitch while he did so. There was only one job left to do. The annoying itching sensation around his ankles was becoming impossible to resist. He didn’t give in to the poison ivy, but he did scratch the mosquito bite on his cheek and the three welts on the back of his right hand. Smiling at the sarcasm, he pulled the “Happy Camper” flag from a storage bin, rubbed a knot out of his back, and went to hang the sign on the campsite marker.
As he approached the wooden post, Dave was struck by a strange feeling that he had done all this before. It was more than deja vu. He’d been to this campsite before.
He hung the banner and took a step back to look at it.
The flag no longer showed a marshmallow roasting over a campfire with the words “Happy Campers” embroidered above. Instead, it now showed a camper engulfed in flame and “Unhappy Campers” in bold letters.
A deluge of memories erupted in Dave’s mind. He remembered everything.
Knowing what he would see, he looked at the campsite number. This was not campsite 66 but site 666.
A mosquito settled onto Dave’s ear. He didn’t care; he was too busy screaming.
“I still think you went the wrong way,” insisted Trudy.
“I turned where the sign pointed. It said to go this way for sites 38-66,” replied Dave.
James Rumpel is a retired high school math teacher who has enjoyed spending some of his free time trying to turn the odd ideas circling his brain into stories. He lives in Wisconsin with his wonderful wife, Mary. Together they enjoy board games and, of course, camping.
At first, we thought it was a trick of the mirrors. Jake was only a few steps ahead, and the mirrors twisted and stretched his reflection. He disappeared around a sharp corner, and when he returned, Kristen couldn’t help but scream. His head was too large, and his neck was too thin, and there were new bits which I’ve never seen on a body; bits shiny-slick and looked as though they belonged on the inside of a person, not out. His chest was moving quickly—he was having trouble breathing from the hairless pink flesh rope that was strangling his ribs. He heaved around on the floor like a seizing snake.
I slapped Kristen silent since my head was beginning to hurt, and I took hold of Jake’s wriggling scalp, ripping back the black hair that was trying to wrap around my wrist.
The hair instead wrapped around Kristen’s ankles and began dragging her across the tilted floor. The wisps and tangles dove toward one of the mirrors and disappeared into the mirror world. Kristen dragged her nails across the floor as her legs broke through the surface-tension of the mirror until half her body stuck out, while her lower half was stuck in.
I grabbed hold of Kristen’s hands and angled my feet to push off the mirror. Deep in the reflection, rancid splotches of red opened and closed their bristle-lined eyes. Or were they mouths? I could feel my feet sinking into the cool liquid mercury, trapping them into place.
The shouting alerted the staff, and the flencers rushed about, brandishing their machetes. They weren’t supposed to show themselves in daylight, as their appearance would send any fun-seeker running, but since this was an emergency, they did what they needed to do. They saw what was birthing from Jake’s chest, tearing through his white cotton T-shirt, and the blades began their work, slashing and hacking until there were splashes of blood everywhere. Jake made a mewling noise and used his spaghetti-thin arms to hold the sides of his chest together. I could see his heart beating through the gleaming split.
Two more flencers grabbed Kristen’s arms and pulled, but the mirror wouldn’t give up so easily. The red splotches grew larger until they were pressed up against the glass, thumping against the other side. I felt their chittering teeth through my sneakers. Kristen gasped and began to spew blood.
Finally, they had to cut her body in two, not with any precision, but like chopping away at a tree stump. The mirror swallowed her lower half while Kristen’s upper half flailed around on her elbows, leaving a trail of red slime in a circular motion on the floor. After the red splotches swarmed and made short work of her lower half, the mirrors now reflected Kristen’s torso, doubling it into two.
After a few blinks, I realized it wasn’t a reflection, or if it was, I didn’t want to see what now remained.
Lena Ng shambles around Toronto, Ontario, and is a zombie member of the Horror Writers Association. She has curiosities published in eighty tomes including Amazing Stories and the anthology We Shall Be Monsters, which was a finalist for the 2019 Prix Aurora Award. "Under an Autumn Moon" is her short story collection. She is currently seeking a publisher for her novel, Darkness Beckons, a Gothic romance.
Man is the last species to die,
for he can eat all the others.
Plankton, plant, pork or porgy
All go down his maw.
Forget about cockroaches and rats,
Man dines on them both.
Consider seafood as example.
sea urchins and periwinkles,
sharks and slugs and squid,
unless rotted, all eaten.
And after man consumes
all the plants and animals
he’s apt to eat
other men as well.
Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over three hundred stories and poems published so far, and six books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories, where he sits on the review board and manages a posse of six review editors. Follow Ed on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.
Frank’s end began with a black spot where no black spot should have been. And Frank knew, though he pretended not to, that it meant Big Trouble.
Frank had always been different, the bad sort of different. He was awkward and angry with things nobody was ever angry with.
After the death of his wife, he drifted further, life’s tether stretching thin and strained. At the office, everyone supposed he was grieving, and gave him consideration. But over time, Frank became the odd character. First pitied, then scorned. He was an uncaring victim of sidelong looks and water-cooler jokes.
Today had been stressful for Frank, as all of them were anymore. But now he was almost home. The city bus had only one more stop, and Frank’s turmoil was receding. Sighing, he turned and looked out the window, allowing himself the luxury of letting his mind go blank, taking in the view without really seeing the children playing in the park.
The bus lurched to a start, and he tiredly turned to face the front. Suddenly he jerked back towards the park, confused and searching.
There! Far back in the trees behind the bandstand was an alien, inky shadow. A dark black circle where no shadow should have been in the gentle twilight. He blinked, and it was gone.
“What was that?” he whispered, mouth dry like a piece of black velvet. Or, a sly voice suggested, a portal.
It happened again two days later. Idle at his desk, staring out at highway traffic, his heart suddenly skittered with fear. This time the vivid black spot was a tire on a delivery truck. When Frank blinked, it was gone and the tires were normal. Even as he told himself he was seeing things, he had noticed the black spot was bigger than before.
After the fourth time (something is opening), Frank told himself it must be a problem with his vision. Surely not important enough for a doctor. At the pharmacy, he bought eye drops. He told himself, “It’s nothing serious.”
But then the thing changed, and he knew it was worse than an eye problem.
The Big Change happened when the spot began shifting into an emerging man-shape. After this, Frank became nervous and twitchy. He avoided looking out windows and would conform his body awkwardly to do so. When he walked, he stared at the ground. When he spoke, his darting eyes never lingering. He whispered to himself.
His co-workers noticed. The old rumors of his wife’s death began again.
“Frank has never been the same since his wife died.”
“Never did get all the facts, did we?”
The boldest went further, “They called it a suicide, but it sure was strange, wasn’t it?”
And the thing kept coming. Growing. What was it, was it a man? No, it was too thick, too broad.
Frank got a closer look one afternoon at home when he let his willpower lapse. Standing at the sink, washing dishes, he lifted his head and looked out the kitchen window. Immediately, as if it had been waiting for him, the shape strode out behind a nearby house.
Frank froze, soapy dishrag in hand, unable to move or think. Before it disappeared behind the next house, Frank saw a large, beasty creature, reddish-brown, hairy and menacing. The worst thing? At the last moment, it turned its shaggy buffalo head and looked straight into Frank’s window.
Frank squeezed his eyes shut and stood trembling, heart pounding with tremendous runaway force. He tried to unsee the thing and remember it at the same time.
He now knew the thing was coming for him. It knew who he was. He thought of the old poem by Yeats. The slouching rough beast.
After that, Frank’s world shrunk into a tightly wound sphere of fear and denial.
Am I going insane, or is it real? It can’t be real. If it’s real, then everything is real—all the impossible things are true: vampires and monsters and all the fairy tales and God and Hell. And if that’s true, all the things we call normal are phony and flimsy.
Or is this what it means to go mad? To wrestle inside a shadow world while pretending not to, and people just live their lives around you as if nothing is happening?
On his last day, Frank loaded the old revolver and carried it in his pocket everywhere he went. At bedtime, he placed it on the night table.
He didn’t sleep; he didn’t toss or turn. He just laid there, lamp on, holding his breath—listening . Just make it to sunrise. Make it to another day.
When he heard the first footstep—it could have been anything—there hung a split second where it wasn’t real yet. But then another step, and another.
Frank grabbed the revolver and lay with wide eyes, staring at the closed bedroom door.
The steps came on, louder, overly forceful, taunting. Then, Frank heard heavy breathing, and it was at his door and was close enough he could smell it. Rank, fetid, inhuman.
Impossibly, the doorknob began to turn, and though Frank wanted to close his eyes, he was paralyzed with terror. The door swung open, and a great, shaggy head peered around the doorway. It opened its mouth in a grotesque smile, huge yellow teeth slimed and dripping.
Frank’s last thought was this: It isn’t real! If I speak to it, it will disappear. He shuddered, opened his dry mouth, and with a forced croak said, “I’m sorry.”
The next day, little was done at the office. Each new piece of the story caused groups to gather in cubicles, the lunch room, or the water cooler.
“Went the same way as his wife.”
“Everyone could see Frank was having problems.”
“Police said it was suicide. Doesn’t surprise me.”
“And with the same gun his wife used.”
Mr. Thomas once studied journalism at Eastern Illinois University and now after more than 20 years in the manufacturing industry, is chasing his American dream of becoming a full-time novelist. His published works are listed on his website rf-thomas.com. With lifelong roots in the Midwest, he currently calls Central Illinois home.