A little ambiance while you read. Songs curated by the authors.
Soul Stealers
by KA Stefana
The midnight moon disappeared behind the storm clouds brewing on the horizon, and I wanted to settle my tired bones into my bed before the torrential rains swept across the valley. As I peddled my bike toward my uncle’s estate, I felt a shift in the night air.
Silence.
The night music stopped. The creatures faded into the shadows.
I felt it. I wasn’t alone.
Stopping. I put my feet on the dirt road and listened for the monster waiting to devour me.
Trying to shake off my fantastic fears, I wiped my clammy hands on my pants and peddled as fast as possible toward the mansion. I could barely hear myself think, for my heart beat erratically in my ears, keeping pace with my overactive imagination.
Rounding the bend, I felt calmer when my eyes saw the light in the distance. Focusing on the illuminating glow guiding me home, I hoped I’d outpace the unknown horror, but then I heard it…
The explosion echoed in the night as the green luminescence flared into the night sky. To my horror, the remaining light was gone. The valley was in total darkness.
Stumbling over my two feet, trying to peddle as panic started to control my remaining sensibilities, I hit a pothole. My bike lurched, and I felt my body floating in the air until I landed on my back.
Grunting from the fall, I gathered my wits about me and stood up, shaking the dirt off my hands. I reached for my bike, but it wasn’t where I thought it would be.
What the bloody hell is going on? How did my bike disappear? Did I bang my head? Lose my memory? Or did someone take my bike?
Muttering to myself, I said, “This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening. I need to get in bed, and everything will be fine in the morning.”
Closing my eyes, I took several deep breaths and decided to look for my bike again. As I opened my eyes, the impending storm introduced itself with a bolt of electricity. The night sky was briefly illuminated as the lightning flashed, and in the briefest of instances, I saw my mangled bike 200 meters down the lane.
Scratching my head, I couldn’t understand how I had traveled so far when I flipped over the handlebars but walked over to the bike and cringed when I saw the twisted tire.
I wanted to scream!
Tossing the broken bike on the side of the road, I started to walk to the house but stopped when I heard something behind me. The raspy voice sent shivers down my spine.
I needed to run!
Every instinct told me to run, but my morbid curiosity forced my feet to grow roots, and I didn’t move from the spot where I planted myself. I told myself not to turn around. I knew I should keep my eyes focused on the ground in front of me.
I should run! I should scream!
I shuttered when I felt his dank breath on my skin, and his bony hand rested on my shoulder. Slowly, I turned around to look the creature in the eyes. I needed to know the monster that was hunting me down.
Lightning struck!
When our eyes met, I gasped at the ethereal creature standing before me. It was more shadow than substance, yet I could hear its raspy voice, the death rattle in its transparent lungs. The creature’s ancient clothes were tattered and torn, swaying in the wind.
I needed to flee!
Before I could turn to run, I heard his voice upon the wind, “We’ve taken your uncle, just like we’ll take you one day!”
He faded along with his words.
Racing to the mansion, I called his name, but the house echoed in its emptiness. He was gone! What kind of monsters took him? What will they do to me? As the realization settled over me that my fate was tethered to some ghostly bandits, I looked down at my forearm and read the inky words that appeared on my arm.
We own your soul.
“Nooooooooo! I will break this curse! You can’t have my soul!”
To my horror, the ink shifted, leaving me with little hope of freeing myself from the ghouls. I was a dead man walking.
Your bones are tired and all you want to do is go home to sleep, but there’s something out there. Following you. Can you make it home in time, before the soul stealers appear?
The Invitation
by Jen Sequel
When Lila pressed the lever on the ornate handle, she was surprised at the ease with which the heavy wooden doors swung open. Her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting cast by the ornate chandeliers and candelabras as she took a timid step across the threshold. When she saw the feast spread on the varied tables within, her eyes widened at the many meats, vegetables, breads, and delicacies presented within the great room.
The air was heavy with the scent of roasted flesh, spiced wine, and the burning of wax and wood. Despite its oppressive odor, her stomach rumbled deeply, and she instinctively wrapped her arms around her mid-section. She hadn’t eaten in days and her mouth filled with saliva at the sight.
“Welcome,” a voice carried rich and deeply from a corner of the room.
Startled, Lila took a step back and swung her gaze toward the sound. She watched as the man approached her. He was dressed in a well-fitting suit made of dark cloth that shimmered slightly in the candlelight. A deep burgundy shirt peeked from beneath the lapels with a slim black tie that effectively hid the buttons. The look of the fabric made her long to touch what she imagined could only be silk.
She swallowed and lifted her gaze to his face. Though his lips held a welcoming smile, his eyes remained stalwart and cold. She searched her memory to determine if she recognized him and failed.
“I—you—forgive me,” she stuttered, dropping her gaze to the floor. “I thought I was alone, and you startled me.”
“It is I that must apologize.” His voice was warm and elicited a different hunger within her. She looked up to meet his gaze and blushed when her stomach rumbled once again.
Lila twisted her hands across her mid-section once more, her cheeks red with humiliation. “This, the room,” she looked hungrily at the table laden with food. “I haven’t eaten all day.” She returned to stare at the man once more. “Are you our host? On the invitation it was signed Lucian Beaumont.”
“In the flesh.” Lucian’s voice rumbled as he bowed slightly.
Lila licked her lips and looked around her. She noticed the heavy doors were closed behind her. “I thought there would be others.”
She looked at the feast once more. Surely it wasn’t meant just for the two of them. She thought of her empty cupboards at home and her barren refrigerator. She had been surviving on toast and peanut butter for a week and that had run out two days prior. Her rent and utilities took up all of her unemployment, and she had used all of her savings to pay one shut off notice after another. When she had received an invitation to a private dinner at an exclusive club, she had jumped at the opportunity.
“Please,” his voice thrummed with a deep baritone. “Have a seat. This feast is for you. It would be a shame for it to go to waste.”
Lucian gestured toward the table and her eyes followed. She hadn’t noticed the solitary place setting until now. The aromas were too much for her to resist and she hurried to take her seat before the offer was rescinded. Her fingers lingered only slightly on the silk cloth that was folded delicately across her porcelain dinnerware.
Lucian pulled the fabric from her light grasp and neatly placed it across her upper thighs. As his
fingers brushed hers, she averted her gaze as heat flooded her cheeks and stole her voice. When she had the courage to look up, she noticed a smile graced his lips. She caught a glimpse of brilliant white canines, and her thoughts lingered on touching them.
She pulled her gaze away from him and looked at the roasted meats presented in front of her. Her hands fidgeted in her lap as her sense of manners fought with her salacious hunger.
“Please, do not stand on decorum,” Lucian said while pouring her a glass of ruby red wine from a crystal decanter. “Everything in this room is for you alone.”
He lifted his wineglass and raised it in her direction. “To new beginnings,” he toasted.
Lila’s hand shook as she reached for her glass. She raised it and clinked the edge to Lucian’s. For a moment, the world seemed to stop, and her shaking stopped as she was overcome with a sense of calm. She tipped the glass to her lips and felt the liquid burn with a seductive warmth as it raced down her throat, soothing whatever reservations she had upon entry. As she set her glass down, Lucian leaned down and whispered in her ear.
“Go on,” he said. “Satiate your hunger.”
A smile spread across Lila’s face as her hesitation was eliminated by the invitation and wine.
Her hands found the roasted meats first. She began with carving the succulent meat from the bone and found the effort took too much time. She discarded the silverware and tore into the flesh with her fingers, the skin crackling under her teeth as the grease coated her lips. She tore into it ravenously, unaware of the juices that dripped down her chin. Her nails ripped into the carcass as she pulled more meat into her mouth. The hunger pains she had felt for the past month, once sharp and painful, began to deepen. Each bite merely added to the intensity. The more she consumed, the more ravenous she became.
Lucian watched silently from his seat at the head of the table. His elbows rested on the arms of the chair while one hand held his crystal stemware, untouched. The smile remained on his lips as he watched Lila tear into the meat in front of her.
Lila moved on to the fruits next, her fingers grasped fistfuls of ripe, sweet berries that burst on her tongue. The apples were crisp and tart and felt like heaven in her mouth as her teeth tore into the skin. With each bite, she discarded the fruit and reached for another. She gorged herself on the sweetness of the flesh. Her eyes roved the many dishes that were out of reach from her seat, and she stood, pushing the chair away from her.
She moved to the tray of tarts and pies and dipped her hands through the crust to pull the innards out and into her mouth. She gorged herself, each bite sending waves of pleasure through her body, yet with each bite, her hunger grew. It was not enough. Her stomach felt tight, aching with the amount of food she had digested, yet she ignored it. Her eyes roamed for the one dish that would satisfy her craving and end her hunger once and for all.
When her eyes lighted on Lucian’s she paused. She had forgotten he had been in the room with her. She froze, a leg of lamb in one hand and a fistful of blackberry pie in another. She swallowed, hard, and stared into his cold gaze.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Lucian commented. He raised his glass of wine slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sneer. His voice, once warm and seductive, had taken on a cold tone.
Lila nodded, unable to speak, her mouth full of pastry. A strange dizziness overcame her, and she leaned against the table to keep herself stable. She swallowed what was in her mouth and raised the lamb to tear more flesh from the bone. Her mind railed at her to stop yet the food was too intoxicating. She dropped the leg and reached for her glass of wine, draining the last of it.
The taste was sour, and she stared at the dregs left in the bottom. She dropped the crystal and bit into the pie that was still grasped in her opposite hand. What was once sweet, now tasted sour. She wiped the remnants on her pant leg and pulled a buttery croissant from a tray. The taste was sweet instead of rich. When she looked at the pastry in her hand, she noticed the inside was filled with green and black mold.
“What is happening?” she said. Despite what she had just tasted, she tore into another pie and found only rot inside. Still, the hunger persisted, and she watched in horror as her hand brought the foulness to her lips and she continued to gorge.
Lucian’s smile grew darker, his teeth gleaming in the low light. “You’ve had quite the feast, haven’t you?”
Lila paused, her hand trembling as she reached for another Cornish hen. Her vision swam and her heart raced as she realized that something was terribly wrong. The food, once delicious, was now grotesque, the meat was blackened with rot, the fruit shriveled and oozing with decay. The air in the room grew colder, and the shadows deepened.
Yet, despite all of this, her fingers burst through the crust of the pies, and she pulled the rotten ichor into her mouth until she could no longer breathe. She could feel something terrible ripping her apart from the inside and she collapsed to her knees. Her lips parted as a scream tore from her throat, and she fell to her side. Her vision darkened yet her hand still scratched the floor as she attempted to pull herself closer to the slice of beef that had dropped beside her. As she slipped into unconsciousness, she could hear Lucien’s laughter.
Jen Sequel is an award-winning artist, author, & entertainment junkie. Join the chaos here: https://www.jensequel.com/
The Scarecrow
by Valerie Claussen
We don’t always pay attention to whispers hidden in the wind, sudden darkened skies, or our bellies twisting into knots, but the universe often gives us unmistakable signs when danger prowls.
More than any sugary dessert, I desired fresh apples, but my mother said she had plans for them whenever I asked. One night, after my parents fell asleep, I snuck into the kitchen. Every time I tried to grab an apple, the thunder rumbled, or lightning flashed across the room through the slight opening between the curtains. Despite my uneasiness, I stole one to eat in my closet. I choked on the first bite and attempted to cough it out but couldn’t get it unstuck. I tried everything to leave the closet, but the door wouldn’t budge. I slammed against it while struggling to pull any air into my lungs.
The door flew open, and a dark, hooded figure stood before me. “Promise never to steal again.”
I nodded.
The apple dislodged and flew across the room. I coughed a few more times and turned on the light. The creature transformed into a mist and disappeared.
Many years later, I worked part-time as a prep cook at a gothic-themed cafe. Although I completed culinary school and wanted more hours, the head cook ignored my requests. This continued for months until one afternoon when he needed someone to pick up the apples his supplier failed to deliver. I volunteered on the condition that he move me to a full-time position.
I drove to a small orchard where an older man wearing faded denim overalls and a plaid flannel greeted me with a wheelbarrow and several large produce sacks.
I tossed them over my shoulder. “Do you need to weigh them when I’m done?”
“Nope. I charge by the wheelbarrow.” The farmer smiled, got in his truck, and drove away.
I strolled between the rows of lime-colored apple trees, selecting the best ones from each without spots, bruises, or wormholes. Eventually, I reached the end, where a much larger tree grew shiny red apples with orange streaks.
“I wonder what those taste like. Would they be good in pie?” I took a step closer, and the ground rumbled. “They charge by the wheelbarrow. What harm would it do to stack a few on top? But I should taste one first, just in case.”
Dark clouds rolled in, and a chill ran down my spine. I zipped up my jacket and extended my hand.
“Don’t,” a deep voice warned.
I turned around expecting to see the farmer, but the orchard remained empty.
I reached out again.
“Don’t do it.”
I turned my head and spotted a scarecrow tied to a post to the left of the large tree. Instead of a face made of cloth or burlap, it resembled pale, overstretched human skin. Its human-like eyes locked on me as I moved closer to examine it.
“Wow. This is a really good one. Where’s the sound box? Hmm. There must be a motion sensor buried in there.” I lifted the cloak.
Its skeleton-like fingers grabbed my hand. “Leave.”
I jumped away, chuckled, and walked back toward the large tree.
“Don’t touch those apples, Eve.”
I whipped my head around. “What did you say?”
The scarecrow’s mouth opened, exposing decaying human teeth. “Take what you have and leave. You’re only supposed to pick the green ones.”
“How are you talking? Are you an actor or an animatronic?”
“Those apples aren’t for sale. That tree is only to be picked by the farmer.”
I stared at the apples, and my mouth watered, and my stomach growled. “I just want to try one.”
The scarecrow frowned. “Walk away.”
“What harm will it do?” I stepped closer to the tree and sniffed it. “It even smells delicious.”
Warm air with a stench of rotting flesh blew against my neck. “Pick the wrong one, and you’ll die.”
I gagged, and my heart pounded. “How did you get down from there? What are you?”
“I won’t warn you again, Eve.”
“Stop calling me that. That’s not my name!”
“You don’t have to die today. Just walk away.” It pointed to the tree. “Eat the wrong one, and you will. One is poisoned. Only the farmer knows which.”
“He poisoned one? Why?”
“To keep people from stealing his apples. One bite and it’s nearly impossible to stop.”
“They can’t be that good.” I searched the tree. “They all look the same to me. I think you’re trying to fool me. The farmer hired you to scare me away.”
“I’ve done all I can. If you believe today is a good day to die, then who am I to stop you?” The scarecrow reattached itself to its post.
I lifted my leg, ready to turn around and leave. A single, shiny apple dropped onto the tip of my shoes and rolled onto the ground. I turned to the scarecrow, expecting it to chime in with a warning, but it remained silent with its eyes pinched shut.
“This one fell. Maybe it doesn’t count.” I took one more look back at the scarecrow before taking a bite. My mouth watered at the unusual taste and perfect crispy sweetness. A sense of euphoria washed over me as I consumed it.
I tried to walk away, but the taste lingered in my mouth, and the juice remained on my lips and tongue. I craved another bite. Without hesitation, I plucked another apple from the tree and gobbled it. I continued grabbing and eating with the juice dripping down my chin, saturating my top, and never experiencing a sense of fullness.
I ignored my phone calls and kept feasting. After the sun went down, the moon provided enough light to continue. Hours passed, but I did not stop, even when the rain poured.
As dawn broke and the first of the morning sun cast a pale-yellow glow on the tree, I noticed only two apples remained. “Oh, no. What have I done?”
The scarecrow stood at my side. “It’s not too late. Don’t take another bite. Wait for the farmer and beg for forgiveness. You’ve been remarkably lucky, Eve. But now, your odds have never been worse.”
“I think I know which one is poisoned. I’ve been avoiding it.” I pointed at the one directly in front of me at chest level. “I’m already going to be in trouble. I might as well eat one more.”
“It’s your funeral.”
The ground shook violently as I climbed the ladder. I grabbed onto a branch to keep from falling and plucked the apple.
The scarecrow let out a loud, exasperated sigh.
I laughed and took a bite. “Not poisoned. Told you.”
The ground stopped moving, and I climbed down and finished it.
A gust of wind knocked the last apple to my feet.
I stared at it and licked my lips. “Maybe none of them were poisoned. The farmer seemed so nice.”
“Not everyone is as good as they seem.”
My mouth watered. “I can’t stop myself. I need it.” I lifted the fruit and used my top to wipe the dust off it.
The farmer approached the empty tree.
“I’m sorry. I ate them all. I couldn’t stop myself.”
He gestured to my hand. “What about that one? Give it to me, and I’ll forget this happened.”
“Thank you.” I tried to drop the apple into his hand, but instead, my fingers betrayed me and moved the fruit toward my lips.
“Didn’t the scarecrow warn you?”
I nodded.
“Give me it, and next year, I’ll let you take a bagful to eat or use to plant your own trees.”
“Next year is so far away, and this one’s already ripe.”
“It’s poisoned. Look near the stem. There are two small punctures like snake bites.”
“I don’t believe you. It smells like the others. But just in case, I’ll only take a teeny, little bite away from the stem—one last taste to satisfy my craving.”
The farmer rolled his eyes.
Instead of a cautionary nibble, I carved out a mouthful and swallowed it. A terrible burning sensation tore through me, and I dropped to the ground, clenching my throat. “Poison.”
“You humans always desire what isn’t yours. Greedy–gluttonous creatures, the whole lot of you. Oh, well. C’est la vie. You’ve got a replacement, Adam. Go in peace.” The farmer struck the scarecrow with a scythe, turning his body into ash.
Everything faded to black.
I awakened a year later in the old scarecrow’s spot with hay protruding near my decaying hands and feet. A curious young man pushing a wheelbarrow approached the forbidden tree overgrown with fruit.
I broke free. “Don’t come any closer! Run away or you’ll end up like me!”
The man bolted away screaming and never looked back.
“Should I not try so hard to stop anyone from eating them? If no one takes a bite, I’ll be stuck here forever. Hmm…what to do…what to do?” I mumbled.
You can discover more of Valerie Claussen’s work by exploring: https://valerieclaussen.com/
Emily’s Wish
by Arla Jones
Emily had always been self-conscious about her slender frame. At 5’8″ and 100 pounds, she felt like a twig, fragile and easily breakable. She longed to have curves, to feel substantial and confident in her own skin.
For years, she tried everything to gain weight: protein shakes, heavy meals, and even weightlifting. But no matter what she did, her metabolism thwarted her efforts.
One day, while wandering through the city, Emily stumbled upon an old-fashioned circus. The vibrant colors and lively music drew her in, and she decided to explore.
As she wandered through the different presentations, Emily spotted an eccentric-looking booth tucked between a fortune teller and a balloon animal artist. The sign above the booth read: “Madam Corina’s Wish-Come-True Machine.”
Intrigued, Emily stepped inside. The booth was dimly lit, with flashing lights and a peculiar humming noise emanating from the machine.
Madam Corina, an eccentric old woman with a shock of white hair and a wild look in her eyes stood behind it and glared at Emily when she entered. A sneering smile entered her face. “Welcome, dearie! What’s your heart’s desire?”
If Emily had looked at her closer, she would have noticed the pointy ears, and a hairy tail hiding under the long muslin dress.
Emily hesitated momentarily before blurting out her deepest wish: “I want to gain weight. I’m tired of being so skinny.”
Madam Corina flashed a smile showing her yellowing teeth – too sharp canines if Emily had paid better attention to her host. Graciously, and a bit too eagerly, Madam Corina gestured to the machine.
“Step right up, my dear. The Wish-Come-True Machine will grant your desire. But be warned: be careful what you wish for.”
Emily inserted a coin, turned the handle, and waited. Suddenly, the machine whirred to life, emitting a bright flash of light.
When the light faded, Emily looked down and gasped. Her body was transforming before her eyes.
With tears in her eyes, she said, “Thank you. Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”
Madam Corina grinned knowingly. “Of course, dearest. Whatever you wish for…”
At first, Emily was thrilled. Her arms and legs were rounding out, her hips and bust expanding. She felt a sense of satisfaction, knowing her wish had been granted.
But as the days passed, Emily began to notice something strange. She wasn’t just gaining weight – she was gaining it at an alarming rate. And she couldn’t stop eating. Even if she gained weight without eating, she still felt hungry all the time.
Her clothes no longer fit, and she had to buy new ones every week. Her joints ached under the sudden weight gain, and simple tasks like walking or climbing stairs left her breathless.
Emily tried to visit Madam Corina, but the circus had packed up and left town. Desperate for help, Emily scoured the internet for solutions, consulted doctors, and even attempted extreme diets.
Nothing seemed to work.
One morning, Emily woke up to find she couldn’t fit through her bedroom door. She was enormous, with rolls of flesh spilling over every inch of her body.
Panic set in. Emily realized she had made a terrible mistake.
As she lay trapped in her bed, unable to move, Emily remembered Madam Corina’s warning: “Be careful what you wish for.”
Determined to reverse the curse, Emily began researching the history of the Wish-Come-True Machine. She found nothing online.
Emily knew she had to find Madam Corina and demand a reversal. But where had the circus gone? She searched online and finally saw a little notice of a circus show in a remote rural town.
That’s where I go, she decided. She was already so heavy that she could barely fit inside any car. She couldn’t even weigh herself. The scale had stopped working after 400 lb.
She arrived at Madam Corina’s booth, exhausted and desperate.
Madam Corina greeted Emily with an unsettling grin.
“Welcome back, dearie. I see you’ve enjoyed your newfound… abundance.”
Emily pleaded, “Please, Madam Corina, reverse the curse. I didn’t mean to gain so much weight.”
Madam Corina chuckled, her eyes glinting with mischief.
“You got what you wished for, dear.”
Emily’s desperation turned to horror as Madam Corina began to shed her elegant dresses, revealing a hulking, hairy body.
The once-refined features contorted into a twisted, troll-like face, with jagged teeth, glowing red eyes, and a long hairy tale.
“You see, dearie,” Madam Corina growled, “I’m not just a fortune teller. I’m a collector of wishes. And now, it’s my turn to feast.” Her eyes gleamed with hunger as she reached for Emily who was too fat and tired to run away.
“You should have heeded the warning: be careful what you wish for.” As the darkness closed in, Emily realized she had become the main course in Madam Corina’s twisted game.
The last sound Emily heard was Madam Corina’s cackling, echoing through the abandoned circus grounds.
The Wish-Come-True Machine stood silent, its secrets and horrors locked within.
And in the shadows, Madam Corina devoured her latest victim, satiated until the next unsuspecting soul stumbled into her trap.
Enthusiastic about crafting high-octane thrillers and science-fiction packed with action and unexpected plot twists, Arla Jones, blends her personal experiences to create tales that will set your heart pounding. With each keystroke, she conjures compelling characters, some you’ll root for, and others you’ll love to despise.
The Field
by Dom Sabasti
The endless fields of pumpkin now lay rotting unto themselves. A stench hazed over the morning dew, further incubating the next phase.
The first crew, enrobed with turbans that appeared to devour their heads, naked from the waist down, entered the fields. Like roaches intent on morsels, they converged onto the oranges and greens and grays.
This was the time of the day laborers, for those as yet untainted, for those not yet susceptible to the light. They trudged through the muck, mumbling, chanting, gasping. They each bore a path, a line, a curve, a swirl. Their trails mutated the field into a soup of decay infused with layers of wards, preparing the way for the next step.
The sun, the bastard of light, took its inevitable toll on the crew of faceless acolytes. The mumbles grew more incoherent. The chanting rose with a soul-shuddering crescendo, sweeping across the endless fields like ripples in a cauldron. The gasps became screams as each minion, one by one, slipped, and fell, and became one with the churning potion.
As the last bubble of life popped from the surface of vile viscous intent, a reverent silence ensued, paying homage to the sun as it dipped below the horizon. The hush was palpable, like a heartbeat waiting to burst, holding on for the catalyst.
It started like a hum, but deeply felt, vibrating all manner of corporeal detritus upon the field of dark energy. The lines that became symbols thrummed slightly, feeling the darkness cool its essence, coagulating it into something more manageable, at least by certain, specialized, proclivities.
As the last wisp of the surrendering sun is blotted out by its counterpart, the shadows sigh. The night creatures emerge, but do not infringe. The vast brew seethes and gurgles, entwining upon itself with roils and whirls. For those with the sight, one might see the winds as the breath of some mighty creature, playing, imagining, elevating.
The creatures on the fringe began a slow retreat toward the abundance of familiar darkness. And yet they stared, transfixed upon an impossibility beyond their primitive minds to comprehend. They bowed and cowered to the immeasurable power. Whines, growls, and screams framed the field, now condensed and fattened. The dark potion rose up and elongated, writhing toward its mother moon. Stretched to its limit, it howled into the night, shattering the minds and bodies of all creatures within the valley. The scream of dark agony fell back to the earth, to the field, penetrating it with such force that it cracked into five distinct fissures. The lacerations spread and fractured further, eating their way through every last speck and remnant of life.
Sugar Shock
by Michel Croteau
The ambulance is breaking the silence of the night… they are bringing my cousin Gerard to the emergency room… miles away… they are going to pump his stomach. My aunt Doreen will tell the doctors that her son has eaten some bad candy bars. They will never know that somebody fed him rat poison… me!
My cousin Gerard has been my nightmare… my torment all my life… and I am his nemesis. Whatever he did… he did it better than me… according to my mother who praised his success to point out my failures.
My cousin and I lived in the same neighborhood and so since we went to the same elementary school… I paid with humiliation and dishonor for his achievements. The little pig would-unseen-make faces at me while enjoying all the Sunday dessert.
“Gerard got excellent grades and has won a medal for his good behavior and what did you get? oh God why did you send my sister a nice boy and me a nasty girl?” She would whine every time she had to sign my grades report.
I suffered in silence while I was growing up… what could I do? I knew that any protest would be futile, but my brain kept saying ”one day I’ll get you… cousin” and now that we were in the last year of High School, I had to do something. Gerard was not only getting good grades he was also playing football… big and tall was the apple of my family’s eyes.
“Gerard is going to get a scholarship and going to the best college… and what are you going to do… work at ALL-Mart?” was the leitmotif of my mother inflicting pain song!
There was no time to waste… I had to discover what made him tick… “look at him-I said to myself-he is not just big… he is fat… something is not right… is he overeating to cope with stress to be praised and loved at any cost? Is my aunt feeding him more food than he needs to reward his academic efforts?”
While my mother was notorious for her bad cuisine my aunt Doreen was famous for being a good cook so I asked her if I could have dinner at her house fibbing that my mom wasn’t feeling well.
“Sure, dear come anytime you like… I always cook for an army.” She replied with a smile.
“Humm… she cooks an army for Gerard… this I got to see it!”
I went to eat at my aunt ‘s home for a week and found nothing bad about Gerard. He was not overeating… I was disappointed… why was he so big and fat then? He was not overtalkative or friendly and soon after dinner he would go to his room and never come out. Was the secret in his room? I followed him one evening but he stopped me… with a rude “What do you want?”
“Can I ask you a favor?” I improvised… then I added ”I need some help in math… I know that you are very good in it.”
“ Find somebody else… I am too busy… goodnight. “He almost slammed the door in my face.
“Wait… please Gerard… I don’t want anybody to know… it’s embarrassing!” I wined.
“All right… come tomorrow night… and we’ll see.”
The evening after I went to see him with my math homework, faking that I didn’t know how to do it. While he was looking at it, I didn’t pay attention… I was interested at observing his room… to see if I could notice anything out of the ordinary… maybe he was doing drugs… but nothing… everything seemed all right.
“You are not focusing… what’s matter with you?” he yelled at me.
“I’m sorry… I am feeling unwell…so dizzy… ‘’I didn’t know what to say or to do ”I must go… getting something. ”I mumbled.
“Wait… I’ll give you something that will wake you up!’’
“Ha… ha’’ I thought ’’and we go… he’s doing drugs.”
He went to his closet, and I followed him… I wanted to see what he was getting. While he was opening a backpack, he felt my body against his and pushed me away… still I could see an incredible number of candy bars. He took two out of the backpack and gave me one… saying ”Do not tell my mother… or else!”
“Don’t worry…your secret is safe with me… hum… this is so good… peanut butter and chocolate… my favorite in a pie too. “
“A pie… that sounds good…can you make one?” Gerard inquired.
“Sure… I’ll make one just for you… I’ll bring tomorrow with more homework.”
The day after I bought a peanut butter chocolate pie… I took it out of the store container… open the bottom and filled with rat poison which we had in abundance since the pandemic rat’s invasion… and I served to Gerard.
The sugar glutton gulped the pie down without even asking me if I wanted some… thankfully… few minutes later he started to rub his stomach.
“What’s wrong Gerard? Don’t feel good?” I inquired gently.
“Is the pie… giving me cramps… how did you make it?”
“You figure it out… genius!”
“Oh no you bit… “ was only he could say before collapsing.
I ran to his closet and threw out on the floor all his candy bars then I called my aunt screaming for help.
Will he make it? I’ll leave to the Greek goddess of revenge and retribution …. Nemesis
All my writing comes from my mind, my imagination my life experience and something that touched me deeply.,, check my FB page,Ty
Feast Of Fools
by Garnett Starr
Brookstone was a town full of whispers. Tucked away in the shadows of the Blackspire foothills, it had a history that most townsfolk preferred not to acknowledge. Among the most secret places in Brookstone was the old sandstone lodge at the edge of town, the home of a private society known only as the Order of the Sable Star. Its members were pillars of the community—doctors, judges, and businessmen—but behind closed doors, they were bound by rituals and secrets that stretched back centuries.
On the eve of winter’s first frost every year, the Order hosted a private banquet known as “The Feast of Fools.” It was an exclusive event, shrouded in mystery, and attended by those who had earned their place within the Order. No one knew exactly what happened at the feast, but the aftermath was always the same: for days afterward, Brookstone would be filled with hushed conversations, sideways glances, and the smell of roasting meat that lingered like a bad memory.
Clara Hastings, a sharp-witted investigative journalist, had long been intrigued by the Order. She had spent years trying to uncover their secrets, but the doors of the Sandstone Lodge were impenetrable. The closer she got, the more she was met with hostility, thinly veiled threats, and disturbing silence. But Clara’s curiosity was relentless, and when she received an anonymous invitation to the Feast of Fools, she couldn’t resist the chance to finally uncover what lay behind the Order’s tightly guarded doors.
Clara arrived at the lodge on the night of the feast, her breath misting in the cold air. The building loomed above her, its windows dark, save for the faint flicker of candlelight from within. A tall, masked figure greeted her at the door, ushering her inside without a word. Clara’s heart pounded as she stepped into the dimly lit hall, the walls lined with portraits of stern-faced men and women who had long since passed. The air was thick with the scent of spices, meat, and something else—something she couldn’t quite place but that made her stomach churn.
The dining room was grand, almost regal, with a long table set for an intimate gathering. The members of the Order, all masked and robed in black, were already seated. The centerpiece of the table was a large, covered platter, the contents hidden beneath an ornate silver dome. Clara took a seat, her eyes darting around the room as she tried to read the expressions behind the masks. But there was no conversation, no pleasantries—just the soft clinking of cutlery and the low murmur of anticipation.
The leader of the Order, an imposing figure with a golden mask, rose to speak. His voice was calm, and measured, yet there was a darkness in his tone that sent a shiver down Clara’s spine.
“Tonight, we honor tradition,” he said, his eyes glinting behind the mask. “Tonight, we celebrate our bounty. And tonight, we feed not only our bodies but our very souls.”
With a flourish, he lifted the dome from the platter, revealing a glistening roast that filled the room with a rich, intoxicating aroma. Clara’s stomach clenched as she stared at the dish—something about it felt deeply wrong. The meat was too dark, too succulent, glistening in a way that made her skin crawl. The other members eagerly began to serve themselves, tearing into the meal with a hunger that bordered on feral.
Clara hesitated, but under the weight of the stares, she forced herself to take a small portion. As she cut into the meat, a trickle of dark juice oozed out, staining her plate. She lifted a forkful to her mouth, the smell overwhelming. The first bite was rich, almost unbearably so, filling her senses with a deep, primal satisfaction that bordered on repulsion. It was as if every nerve in her body was both repelled and addicted to the taste.
Around her, the other guests ate with abandon, their eyes glazed, their movements frantic. Clara’s heart pounded as she noticed something odd—their masks, those cold, expressionless faces, seemed to shift slightly, their features warping in the dim light. The room felt hotter, the walls closer, and the faces around her were less human. She put down her fork, her appetite replaced by a growing dread.
The leader watched her, his golden mask reflecting the candlelight. “You don’t like the feast?” he asked, his voice carrying a mocking edge.
Clara forced a smile, but inside she was screaming. The meat on her plate seemed to writhe, its surface undulating as if alive. She pushed her chair back, the urge to flee almost overwhelming, but something held her in place—some dark compulsion, a hunger that gnawed at her mind.
“The first bite is always the hardest,” the leader said softly. “But it’s the second that binds you.”
Clara’s hands trembled as she looked down. The meat on her plate had changed—it was no longer just meat. Faces distorted and twisted to stare up at her, their mouths open in silent screams. She could feel the walls closing in, the faces in the portraits seeming to watch her, their eyes following her every move.
Panic surged through her, and she staggered back from the table, knocking over her chair. The room erupted into chaos. The guests—those masked, robed figures—turned to her, their eyes hungry, their mouths full of the grotesque feast. Clara stumbled back, her mind reeling, unable to process the horror that surrounded her.
She ran blindly through the lodge, her footsteps echoing in the empty halls. The walls seemed to pulse and breathe, the air thick with the stench of meat and decay. Clara burst through a side door, finding herself in the basement—cold, dark, and filled with rows of barrels and crates. The walls were lined with old relics and symbols, the remnants of rituals long forgotten.
Clara’s breath hitched as she spotted something half-buried under a pile of rags. It was a small, mummified figure—dried and shriveled, but unmistakably human. Beside it, a large ledger lay open, filled with names, dates, and grotesque descriptions of feasts past. She flipped through the pages, her hands shaking as she recognized the names of prominent townsfolk, each marked as “honored guests” of the feast.
Her own name was listed, freshly inked, followed by a single word: Consumed.
Clara backed away, her mind unraveling. She turned to flee, but the basement door swung shut, trapping her inside. The walls seemed to close in, the shadows lengthening and twisting. She could hear the faint echoes of the feast above, the laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the wet, tearing sounds of hungry mouths.
Clara screamed, but no one would hear her. The Feast of Fools was not just a celebration; it was a sacrifice. And she was the latest offering.
Garnett Starr spends their days in Brookstone, a town filled with hidden stories. When not writing eerie tales, Starr enjoys sipping cold brew coffee, exploring shadowy hallways, and listening to the whispers of old buildings. Believing every town has secrets, Starr invites you into a world where the ordinary hides the extraordinary.
Sins
by Amy Hodges-Laurenzo
Proverbs 22:9
“The generous will themselves be blessed, for they share their food with the poor.”
For ten years, the Saint James United Methodist Church had opened their doors to the poor on the day of Thanksgiving.
This year, under the new Pastor, Rick Black, a sign got posted a day before.
“No Thanksgiving Dinner for the Unwashed Masses. They do not know God and we will not contaminate our halls. Pastor Richard Black.”
When the ladies of the church arrived to cook and saw the sign, they went home instead in compliance with the Pastor’s order.
The Evening of November 28th,
Pastor Black sat in his office, reviewing activities for the rest of the year. He had no interest in anything that would cost the church more money. He wanted to cause a surplus and then direct the money into his own account.
To him, ‘greed is good’.
About 6:06 pm, he felt his stomach growl. Being a skinny man, he ignored it at first.
Within an hour, the smell of food drifted down from the fellowship hall. Finally giving in, Pastor Black got up and followed the smell.
Down the long Sunday School hall, he traveled. Through a single turn and into the Hall of Fellowship…
There was but one of the long tables sat up, but with no chairs.
The table looked like a typical Thanksgiving gathering. At it’s heart, sat a large deep fried turkey. Around it, in a circle; sat mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, gravy, and cornbread stuffing. Also candy yams, pumpkin pie, and a basket of large dinner rolls.
Pastor Black looked around a moment. No one was supposed to be here…or fix this. Seeing the light in the kitchen, he stepped over to confront the cooks…only the kitchen sat empty. Only a tall glass of iced tea sat on the counter untouched.
He grabbed it, without thinking, and took a big swig.
As he brought it down from his lips, it tasted exceptionally…good.
He also found himself ravenously hungry. All thought checked out as his eyes traveled to the table.
Pastor Black stalked the table and sat the glass there. The closest serving plate happened to be the candy yams. He snatched up the serving spoon in and dug in. The yams went in his mouth by the spoon full. He picked up the dish and kept eating until remnants resided in the dish.
The dish smashed on the floor, empty. Another swig came from the tea.
Then he grabbed the cornbread stuffing dish and began to devour it all. Pastor Black didn’t understand the reasoning behind his hunger. Nor did he find reason to resist it. Before long, the entire dish sat empty. He threw it and grabbed the mashed potatoes by the handful.
He stuffed his maw until they were gone. Then he poured the brown gravy down his gullet as though it nourished him.
The green bean casserole was the nest victim. He devoured it all down to the soup and drank it as well.
Pastor Black’s abdomen had expanded in his feasting. When he saw, he gasped. As he looked over the dishes broken, he began to cry…but his hands grabbed the rolls in his sorrow, shoving them in his mouth, one by one. Then he shoved the empty roll basket off the table too.
“NO, I have to stop!” He felt light headed. His chest hurt and his stomach swelled more. His eyes rose…
The turkey sat in his sights. “No, I won’t…”
Then he found himself snarling.
Pastor Black jumped on the table and grabbed the turkey. Each leg, he snatched off of it and ate. The wings followed. Then he pulled the rest to his maw. He tore at it as he ate with his teeth and hands. He ate and ate until…all went black.
The last he heard…a woman’s cackling laughter.
The night of Thanksgiving…
“CHILDREN, DINNER TIME!”
Snarls, growls, the patter of hooved feet rushed the black stone dining room.
Around the table, all seemed to be seated. This wasn’t a human table, but one shared by devils and demons.
A big breasted woman with ran horns on her head and black bat wings stood at the head of the table in a black revealing nitty. Her hair looked black and her eyes looked red. “For the main course…”
She lifted the large platter lid…
Pastor Black laid tied hands and feet behind his back, on his stomach, on a large platter. A large apple sat in his mouth. Still, he tried to scream.
The demons dug in.
Pastor Black screamed while they ate his body…in Aradia’s dining room…in Hell.
“Thanksgiving brought to you by Aradia in Hell’s Kitchen”