Old Bones – Amy Hodges-Laurenzo
No bones about it – Michel Croteau
We had purchased a cheap cottage in a remote location. We thought we could fix it and sell or rent it.
However, as I stepped out of the car onto the weed-growing driveway and saw the building for the first time, it felt like the house was staring back at me with its dark windows. It was an old Victorian-style house with turrets and ornamental decorations around the windows, doorway, and columns.
My husband, Mark, nudged me forward. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
The sellers had sold this house below market price because of its bad condition and rumors that it was cursed. They had warned us that anyone who entered would never return, but we didn’t believe them. We were skeptics and did not believe in curses or haunted mansions.
As we approached the entrance, a chill wind whipped through the trees, creaking and swaying the branches. The front door hung crookedly on its hinges as if pushed open by an unseen hand.
We stepped inside, our flashlights casting eerie shadows on the walls. The air was thick with dust. We explored room after room, our footsteps echoing in the empty house.
But it was in the basement that we found it. A room filled with bones. Skulls, femurs, ribs – all carefully arranged, as if in some twisted ritual.
I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth. “What is this?”
Mark shook his head, not believing his eyes. “I don’t know, but we must get out of here. Now.”
As we turned to leave, I heard a faint whispering in my ear. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
I spun around, but there was no one there. The whisper seemed to come from the bones themselves.
The smaller bones began to shift, to rearrange themselves. We watched in horror as they formed a message spelled out in gruesome detail:
“JOIN US.”
As we stumbled backward, the bones began to rise, to assemble into skeletal figures that shambled towards us with cold, dead eyes. Their empty mouths whispered the words, “Join us! Join us!”
We ran, our screams echoing through the deserted halls. We didn’t stop until we were back in the car, speeding away from the mansion.
However, I glanced at the side mirror, and I saw the bones assembled into a grotesque parade, watching us leave and waiting for us to return.
We never went back there and never spoke of that night again. But sometimes, in my dreams, I still hear the whispering of the bones. “Join us…”
The author is a multi-genre author.
© 2024 – Arla Jones
Old Bones – Amy Hodges-Laurenzo
She stood a height of five feet and four inches. her hair hung shoulder length and shaded from light brown to black, her eyes were hazel.
Over the forty years of her life, there had been close calls over and over.
Still Rayna Lyn didn’t see this coming…
Rayna had been working late at her job at Langston Imports, on the docks. She worked as a clerk on the twelfth floor. The offices had a full view of the bay behind the office.
It came up the elevator shafts in the middle of the building. A large explosion used the shafts as tunnels and traveled.
Where she didn’t get caught in it directly, Rayna had become trapped in the upper offices.
As it became harder to breathe, she backed up to the window.
But…
There seemed to be no escape.
Everything went black.
Rayna found herself in a dark place with little light.
Suddenly, there came a flap of wings and she spun around toward it.
A cloaked figure with long black wings stood before her. His face flashed under the hood. Then all that remained appeared to be a skull. Down at the hands, she saw only bone. “Rayna Lyn?” The voice seemed to come from him.
“That’s me”, she confirmed.
“It is time.” He held out one of those bone hands to her.
Rayna stepped back instead, “Whoa, wait a minute.”
Death, this being before her, tilted his head to the right as if curious.
“Why now? Why now”, she said twice, “You could have taken me at least twelve times before now…”
The Reaper humphed.
“Why Samael?”
In an instance, the face came back. “So you know my name?” She nodded to him. “So you also know that I am Death.”
“Who else would be bone with wings and in a fucking black cloak. All you lack is the proverbial scythe.”
He chuckled, “Language, Miss Lyn.”
“Yeah, well, Fuck off.” She turned as if to leave…
Only he seemed to still appear in front of her.
He shook his head at her. “I didn’t take you back then because you were not officially on my list yet. However, if you so choose, I can be quite sporting.”
She folded her arms, “Go on.”
“I do like a good game now and then. I am quite the player…Gamer Girl 5309. So you can challenge me to a game of your choosing. The stakes, I warn you, are pretty high.
“If you win, I will let you live, go back, and you get to wake up safe and sound.
“If you lose, however, you will go where I put you and you take your punishment without the ability to complain. A cozy little hot spot down in purgatory where I can do whatever I want to you for all eternity. What do you say, Rayna, are you GAME?”
Rayna went quiet…
He really seemed to be giving her a chance to survive again…
All she had to do, seemed to be exercise the skills that she used all her life and beat Angel of Death in a Game…
Would you take the chance and Challenge Death?
© 2024 – Amy’s Shorts
Ripped Jeans
He checked his pockets for the seventeenth time. Still empty. But, at least he got to play a game of pocket pool, although he scratched on the eight ball.
He still couldn’t think where it might have gone. The steps were retraced in his head for the twenty-third time. No games going on up there.
In a final fit of desperation and defeat, he turns his pockets inside out. They are much longer than he realized. The dirty white cloth hangs and droops, looking a lot like rabbit ears sprouting from his hips.
“Hey. You wanna pet a bunny?”
That line, that infamous, notorious line rattles in his memories, laughing maniacally, clawing at the inside of his skull. He never could stomach that game, so he started to hum.
Humming was his happy place. No discernable tune, just joyful noise. The trick was to drown out as many senses as possible. The hum was the focus, resonating with intent. Over the years, the hum had grown in power.
The hum would often accompany a good bit of finger twiddling, which accounted for the rips in the jeans. He picked at the fringe with meticulous absentmindedness. The protruding threads became soft and fuzzy, before disintegrating in small puffs of static electricity that danced at his fingertips.
He had to be careful. He didn’t want to overdo it. Too much missing fabric would ultimately be detrimental, on many levels. So he moved to a different spot, humming and scratching, resonating and vaporizing.
Dawn was still a good hour away, plenty of time to explore. He knew the route, each and every turn. He learned early on what eyes were watching where. Sometimes he would let them see. He had nothing to hide from them. They simply watched.
He mazed his way around the endless labyrinth, nine full times. No more energy need be spent. The light would be cresting the horizon soon enough. His time was nearly done.
With a reluctant sigh he disrobes, so to speak. The crafted pants are held up to dim light. He is satisfied. The night has been fruitful.
He has already chosen his benefactor, or perhaps they chose for him. Either way, the choice was made, the offering offered up. This was the final part of the ritual, the culmination of a night’s potential. It all came down to these final moments.
He looked into their eyes, glazed with anticipation. A chaste kiss is laid upon their nose. With crackling fingers, button after button are unbuttoned. He breathes deeply, savoring each articulation.
Skin so smooth, almost cool to the touch. It slides off its shoulders with only a hint of a whisper. He gasps, engorging with lustful energy, but penitent in intent. He kneels reverently in front of the one, nearly panting.
A thick metal button. Pop. A long metal zipper. He loves this part. He longs for longer zippers. The sound is intoxicating, a gravelly hum. He controls the pitch. He hums the accompaniment.
His hands wrap around, sliding slowly, caressing gently. He pulls himself closer, breathing more deeply. A growl escapes his throat, raw and primal. His hands squeeze from behind, pulling down, clawing the exposed skin. A shudder ripples across his body as the fabric pools to the dais. The scent is strong. The growling takes the place of humming.
Now, it’s his turn. But haste becomes necessary as a glow begins to infiltrate from the skylight high overhead. He has lingered too long. Time has escaped him. He would not be satiated. Such is the possibility, with each and every venture.
He quickly slides his disrobed jeans onto the immaculate mannequin. The zipper is zipped, the button is buttoned. Three times around the brass circle, both to make it shine, and also to charge it up.
The magic is set. The display is complete. He gently mists away from the intrusive light and the beeping of the alarm pad.
“Do you hear humming?”
“What are you talking about?”
The Hunt
“Seriously. You didn’t hear that? Every morning when I open up it’s there. As soon as I turn off the alarm it fades away.”
“You’re probably just hung over. Your ears are probably still ringing from the club. That shit was loud. Am I right?”
“Last night was lit. I still can’t walk straight.”
“Curtis?”
“No. Started with a ‘J’. I don’t know and I don’t care. I ain’t up for another night of that any time soon.”
Steph and Loa eased out of their heavy coats dripping with melting snow. Hair was fluffed and teased. Lipstick reapplied. The last thing was to take off the practical shoes for the customary heels. The store offered a variety of usable merchandise. You sell the product. Steph and Loa were the top sales duo, by far.
Steph, having freshly waxed legs, opted for the black boots. Loa chose something open toe, revealing a flawless pedicure.
“Girl, I told you, you should do that professionally. Be your own boss, and all that.”
“Stephan, I ain’t gonna make a living touching other people’s nasty-ass feet. You could not pay me enough. Now let’s go check for surprises.”
“I am and I’m not looking forward to this.”
The staff of this particular boutique within the confines of this particular mall were well acquainted with the fact that some kind of “spirit” resided on the grounds. Things would move when no one was around. Things people lost would find their way to conspicuous places. And then there were the security cameras.
Nothing truly discernable was ever caught by digital means. But there were odd glimpses, flashes of shadow, a flutter of static. But, the best surprises were left on the main sales floor, because this particular spirit had a penchant for fashion.
Steph and Loa split up, taking their usual routes through the maze-like store. This was by design. It lured people in and had them walk a prescribed path that kept moving them onward and upward, in price, that is. It was both diabolical and insanely clever. It worked like a charm, because that’s exactly what it was.
The ladies had their phones out, each having subscribed for the premium wavelength detection add-on. The app constantly scanned through layers of visual and non-visual waves. Both girls preferred the fully saturated infrared scanner. They had yet to find any direct evidence of their friendly neighborhood ghost, or whatever it was. What they did occasionally detect was some kind of residual energy, almost like pixie dust on a crime scene.
“I got something!” Lolo screams from across the store, completely forgetting Steph is on the phone with her.
“Shit, girl, you’re gonna shatter my speaker. Where are you?”
“Queen 9.”
“On my way.”
They both converge with a clacking of heels on black Italian marble etched with abstract red symbols. Both start to giggle and stomp with reverent anticipation as the motion-detector lights cascade on in their wake, culminating in a crisscross webbing of light beams and misty shadow, lighting up a display to end all displays.
“Oh. My. God. Are you seeing this?”
“I have not blinked, neither has my live-feed.”
Steph continued to record in infrared, Loa opted for the non-filtered. The ladies locked shoulders, steadying their trembling hands. Shaky cams are so rookie. What their audience got, at least those with premium membership, was a split screen show that was part abstract art installation and part sci-fi ghost hunter adventure. They looked at each other and smiled as they watched their views roll up.
“The ‘Fashion Phantom’ strikes again. What y’all think? Subscribe so you can join the exclusive chat. Steph and Lolo out.” Black screen followed by an ad for foot fungus cream.
“Dude, we hit a record. 10k views in ten minutes. Lo?”
Loa wasn’t moving, and she was barely breathing. She just stared at the creation, this immaculate thing that was simply a mannequin only yesterday.
“Lolo, you ok?” Steph taps her on the shoulder. No response.
© 2025 – Dom Sabasti
No bones about it – Michel Croteau
I haven’t been to my native country for years… many years. First private schools… then college and a well-rewarded traveling job have kept me away. When I retired, I didn’t know where to go… I had no family and no place to call of my own… so I thought why not go back to my country… I was still what there they call a “Viejo Verde” and therefore I could find a companion.
I arrived in my native country a few days before the Day of the Dead and already there was that strange festive atmosphere that celebrates the Dead more than the living. Flowers and trinkets vendors everywhere were overwhelming the streets… bakeries overflowing with skull shaped breads and pastries were filled with people buying these goods to bring them to their dear departed. I felt deprived of participating in this madness. My parents have died and creamed on the French Riviera where they spent their last years.
At the hotel when I unpacked my valise an envelope that I hadn’t opened in years too came out from one of the back pockets… it contained old pictures of me and my family. I was putting it back in the suitcase when a sudden inexplicable nostalgia pushed me to open the envelope to look at what was left of my family. A faded picture of my grandfather Louis de Roca reminded me of my childhood when I used to go spend the summer vacation with him in his village… a poor desolate thing on top of a mountain.
What a thrill was the ride on the bus… while my mother-she had left for college and never returned to stay to Piedradura- prayed silently all the way up I ran up and down the bus to see how the driver managed to go around the bends. How many memories… good memories… grandfather was a cool guy… why not go back to Piedradura for the day of the Dead? -I asked myself – I could visit my grandfather grave…maybe feel the same bus ride thrill. I wandered then if they still were buses going to that remote village… I called the hotel manager for the information. He came back to me with good news… yes there were buses going to Piedradura. After a while he kindly came to my room to give me the schedule and location of the bus station.
All right I was going to Piedradura- I decided – I would pay respect to my grandfather grave… maybe find some distant relative to visit and why not a well-nourished peasant woman to grow old with me and since I was wealthy, I could buy a nice house and live the life of Riley!
On the day of the Dead a taxi took me rapidly to the bus station just in time for its departure. Surprisingly it was full of peasants… I barely could squeeze myself in the backseat between two smelly women. I was not happy. “Endure” I said to myself” don’t be a spoiled prick” but suddenly I felt queasy… the bus ride was not anymore fun…the road looked dangerous… eroded and the driver drove us like we were a sack of potatoes.
After an hour we arrived to Piedradura… I didn’t remember where anything was, so I followed the people from the bus and one mile later walking on a dusty road I encountered the cemetery. A crumbling wall and a rusted iron gate made the place look bleak. I bought some chrysanthemum from vendors and went inside. It was crowded with people cleaning up the graves and paying respect to their dead. I didn’t remember where my grandfather grave was… I felt lost… what was I going to do? I saw a hut and an old man sweeping the ground… a caretaker? Sure, he would know, and I approached him. “Good man, can you please tell me where my grandfather Mr. Louis de Roca grave is?”
“As far as I know there is not a Mr. Louis de Roca grave.” he answered quickly.
“What do you mean there is not a Mr. Louis de Roca grave?” I replied aggravated.
“That… I have been working here for many years and I never saw a Mr. Louis de Roca grave…” he scratched his head and added “ he must be with the others.”
“The others? What others are you talking about?”
“The other bones… you know… the ones in the common grave… the ossuary building where we place human skeletal remains… you know burial space is limited… and especially if no family has made any payment… well… we put them there.”
“Do you mean that my grandfather Louis de Roca an illustrious citizen of this village is buried together with common peasants… put him back right now in his grave or else…” I threatened the guy.
“Sir I’m sorry… … I don’t doubt that your grandfather was a good man but there is nothing I could do.” The old man apologized… and then he added” you could talk to the mayor… maybe he can explain the situation better than me.”
“For sure.” I rebuked “I’m going to talk to him right now’’ I threw the flowers on the ground, and I sped out of the cemetery for the city hall… I knew that it wasn’t too far from the cemetery.
Few minutes later I barged into the mayor’s office yelling “I’m senor Demari and that cemetery foolish old man told me that my grandfather Louis de Roca an illustrious citizen of this village is buried together with common peasants. I demand that he is given his grave back right now.
“Senor Demari please come down… you demand the impossible… how may I suppose to know which ones are your grandfather’s bones? Go back to the ossuary building and pay respect to all peasants of this village.”
I left infuriated “peasants… grandfather…I know you… I’ll save you for spending eternity with peasants.” At the cemetery the old guy guided me to the ossuary building… gave me my flowers back and left. I looked around and I couldn’t see any human skeletal remains… I wondered where they were… then I noticed a hole in the ground… I pierced inside and… there they were… skulls… femurs… humeri… radii and ulnas… all mixed together. I fell on my knees screaming “Where are you grandfather?” … no answer… “Grandfather… I am so sorry… I can’t help you… spending eternity with common peasants…” I sobbed covering my face with my hands… no these are not my hands around my neck… they are choking me… grasping me and pulling me down into the eternity hell.
© 2025 – Michel Croteau
Checklist for a horror story;
– The storm of a century
– Storm cuts off roads, bridges, electricity, and the means for rescuers to reach you
– A big mansion with creepy stuff
– An unfinished basement filled with snakes
– Frenemies
Mali twirled her pencil in her hand and wondered if she could turn these writing prompts into a dastardly tale without being to Agatha Christie. She didn’t want to write the typical trope storyline, where all the characters are trapped in a mansion after a storm, and the bodies start to stack up.
After years of reading her favorite detective stories, she feared she was tainted by her experiences. She needed to dig into something new, but was dystopian horror what she needed to read to stretch her abilities to weave a tale?
Shutting the lights, Mali crawled into bed with her new books, read the back covers, and feared she’d never sleep a wink if she read any of these stories.
Since Dylan was away, she decided to set aside the story about the serial killer who seduced his victims. Her brain would turn every creek in her house into an intruder, and she’d never sleep without Dylan beside her.
The stillness of the night intensified her fears as she picked up book number two. How was she going to read about the stalker who lived next door and hid cameras in a college student’s room? She’d be up all night with fears that she was being watched.
Doubts started to swirl around her brain, taking over her imagination. Before she even cracked open a book, she feared the stories hidden within their covers.
Setting the books aside, she turned out the lights and hid under the covers. Grabbing her phone, she decided to text Dylan.
Mali: OMG sooooooo not cut out to write horror!
Dylan: Lol. You ok?
Mali: yeah, just scared myself
Dylan: you were never into horror? Why are you trying to write that stuff?
Mali: it’s for an assignment at school
Dylan: can you get out of it?
Mali: nope!! I’ll wait for you to get home. It’ll be easier with you
Dylan: so, you can be scared and keep me up
Mali: or… hear me out… you can distract me 🤣
Dylan: that works for me!
Mali: I figured ❤️ GN! See you tomorrow
Dylan: ❤️U2
Trying to focus on Dylan and not the horror stories floating around her brain, Mali closed her eyes and waited for sleep to take over. After several minutes, she groaned, aggravated at the images of stalkers that haunted her.
“This isn’t working,” she said, jumping out of bed. Stumbling in the darkness, she turned on her lamp and looked around the room. Grabbing her desk chair, she slammed her bedroom door shut and put the chair in front of it.
“This better work!”
Sliding under the covers again, she tried to sleep with the light on and a pillow over her eyes, but she felt like someone was watching her. What if her TV had a remote camera hidden inside? Or was her computer camera secretly recording her?
Bounding out of bed again, she shut her computer, threw a shirt over it, grabbed her coat, and hung it over the TV. Feeling slightly better, she shut the lights and hid under her blankets.
An hour later, Mali was wide awake. Every sound turned into an intruder! Her nerves were fraying around the edges. Picking her phone up, she thought about calling Dylan, but he’d be asleep by now.
How was she going to stop this cycle of fear-mongering? Perhaps she needed to read the third story. Maybe then, she’d be so tired that it would not matter how scared she might be: sheer exhaustion would take control.
Sitting up, she turned the light on and grabbed the third book. It wasn’t your typical horror story. It was a paranormal tale about the fae. Lucian was a beautiful creature on the outside, but it was all a pretense. On the inside, his body was rotting, and he needed souls to regenerate.
This plot was outside of the realms of possibility, and Mali actually felt sympathy toward Lucian, the soul-stealing fae. After all, his victims were unaware that their souls were stolen in the end.
By four in the morning, Mali had read almost two-thirds of the story and was starting to reread the same paragraph over and over. Figuring it was time to go to bed, Mali shut the light off again and curled underneath her blankets, wondering if she would fall for Lucian’s charms. Would she be strong enough to see through his veil of deception?
As sleep took hold, she figured she’d fall in love with Lucian like all other hapless girls. She dreamt of kissing his sultry lips and letting him ravage her body. She gave into his touch without reservation, knowing this was only a dream.
As the hours passed, Lucian pleasured her in ways Dylan had never touched her. Mali begged for more, pleading for relief as his tongue danced upon her wanton skin.
As the tendrils of sleep began to loosen their stronghold over Mali, Lucian asked, “Will you give yourself to me?”
Wild-eyed and frantic, Mali replied, “Yes! Forever! I need to feel you inside of me.”
A look of triumph crossed his face as he touched her lips.
Mali woke up panting from her dream, her legs and arms wrapped around the warm body lying next to her. Mumbling in her sleep, she asked, “Umm, Dylan, when did you get home?”
Without answering her, his lips found hers and he took from her what she freely gave until she was no more.
© 2025 – KA Stefana