 Blurb: MONSTERS DON’T ALWAYS WIN… Kat adored all of Eddie’s heart-throbbing serenades to her in the beginning. Over time, he clipped her wings with his spells of control. Kat felt trapped and lost. One evening, something led Kat to make a stop at a little shop, Codona’s Den of Secrets… Dive into the pages of El Gusano Verde to find what Kat found at Codona’s and more… Author’s Inspiration: Due to working with victims and survivors of domestic violence in my past, I reflected back on different scenarios of victims contemplating their courageous steps to leave their abusers with a safety plan—some were successful with little to no consequences while others weren’t. Therefore, this fictional story unraveled in my mind. If you or you know someone in an abusive relationship, then consider contacting/sharing… National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233 El Gusano Verde By: Miracle Austin Can a monster control what he is or just his prey? When he wanted something, he went after it, no matter what or who it could hurt. Someone else’s possession could easily become his. Regardless of all his extracurricular activities outside or inside our relationship, I always took him back, forgave him—too many times. He could tell me any lie, and I believed it. I never wanted any of the plastic surgeries he recommended. He claimed how much sexier I would look for him, so I caved in. He declined to stay with me for any of my procedures. A neighbor was kind enough to drive me home after each hospital visit. Eddie refused to touch me, until I looked perfect to him. If there was something he didn’t like about the surgeon’s work, then he would schedule me another appointment with a different doctor. My parents and old friends in Texas begged me to return home on several occasions. Yet, he convinced me to stay with him every time in New Hampshire. He told me that he couldn’t survive without me, would be miserable, and probably off himself by jumping off Piscataqua River Bridge. So, I stayed with him and abandoned my family. He allowed me to call my mom and dad on their birthdays and holidays, if he was in a good mood. Whenever he thought I was gaining weight, he would do the grocery shopping. He always locked the food pantry and froze my credit cards, along with my bank account, until he was satisfied with the number on the scale. Seven months ago, I suffered a miscarriage. My physician shared my labs results and told me that high concentrations of diclofenac had been found in my blood. I knew what he’d done—he switched out my iron pills. My hate for him was finally confirmed. I wanted to leave him, but I knew that was forbidden. Honestly, I figured nothing would ever happen to him. He was untouchable for years. However, it’s true what they say. You can have it good for a long time, until you no longer do—and that worked in my favor. Playing spin the bottle that night changed Eddie’s life forever… One hour before the party, I placed a paper bag on top of the bathroom counter while he was shaving. He glanced at it. I hopped up and sat next to him, swinging my bare legs back and forth. I tucked my hand inside the waist of his towel and pulled him in between my legs. Grabbing his blade, I finished shaving him. He bent down and pressed his wet mouth onto my caramel lips. He started massaging my lower back and ran his hands down my thighs. “Slow down, cowboy, aren’t you interested in what’s inside the bag?” I asked, glancing over to where the bag was sitting. “I would rather concentrate on what’s right in front of me,” he whispered, both of his hands hugging my hips. “You might want to take a little peek inside the bag first,” I replied and pried his hands off. “Let me check out what you have over there,” he said, stepping back from me. He rinsed his face and grabbed a towel to dry off. Then, he opened the bag wide and retrieved two foil-wrapped gifts with white bows. “Wow, Kat!” he said. “My birthday isn’t until next Friday.” He grinned. “Yeah, I know. I came across them the other day at this little, hidden shop called Codona’s Den of Secrets, when I was driving home one evening.” “Sounds kinky,” he winked, sliding his tongue across his bottom lip. “C’mon, Eddie, be serious for ten seconds,” I begged. “Okay, please continue.” “The shopkeeper told me that they were her last ones in stock and extremely unique. So, I couldn’t resist. She promised me that you deserved them, after I told her all about you.” “Really? What did you tell her?” he asked with his eyes glued on mine. I jumped off the counter and said, “Oh the usual. How much you love me… Go ahead, unwrap them.” We entered the bedroom. I lit two, raspberry-scented candles on my dresser and commanded Alexa to play my favorite playlist--I Am by Mary J. Blige, started playing. I grabbed his hand and guided him to sit down on the floor on top of the Persian multi-colored rug. Facing each other, he unwrapped the gifts. “I didn’t expect these two things, Kat. I haven’t played spin the bottle, since college. Our version was cheap—a broken chalk board with challenges scribbled on it. Plus, there was no full tequila bottle,” he said, holding up the flat box and bottle above his head. “This tequila is very rare,” I replied, unfolding the game board—triangular divisions with bolded phrases written inside each slot. “I’ve had plenty of tequila drinks. I’m sure this is no different,” he said. “This one is like no other, according to what the shop lady told me. If your spin lands on the bottle on the board, then the person who drinks from the bottle and consumes the worm will be given an extraordinary gift,” I explained, as I placed the bottle in the middle of the board on its belly. “Really, Kat? I’ve heard crazy stories like that before. I’ve eaten my share of worms, and I’ve never experienced any special Marvel or DC supernatural abilities. That old lady doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Let’s get dressed, we’re going to be late,” he said, tapping his Rolex with his index finger. I stretched out my arm to block him from getting up. “Just one quick game. You know we won’t be the only ones running behind—we never are.” Eddie remained where he was. “Alright, just one. He extended his legs opposite of mine.” I spun the bottle first, and it landed on the truth or dare option. “Truth,” I blurted out. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I could ask you something that you may not want to tell me.” He stared at me. “Yes, I’m good with you asking me whatever.” I rolled up my denim sleeves over my arms. “Alright…how many guys have you slept with since we’ve been together?” I paused for less than a minute. “None, only you, my love,” I said, leaning over to run my hand down his smooth face and sliding it down to his chest. “Your turn.” He gripped my wrist, pressing his nails into my flesh, with his hand and threw it back into my face. “Ouch!” I screamed out. “I already knew that answer, but I wanted to hear it from your mouth, because you know that you belong to me, Kat.” Bending over the board, Eddie spun the bottle, and it went around several times before it also stopped on the truth or dare challenge. “Dare,” he said without any hesitation. “Hmm… you didn’t want to choose truth like me?” I asked, narrowing my amber eyes towards him, and blowing my curly bangs up. “Nope, I’ll stick with my dare.” “Your choice, right?” “Yes. Dare me to do something,” Eddie insisted. “Are you sure?” “You already know—I’m not afraid of anything.” “Okay, if you’re sure.” “I am. Let me have it!” he yelled and laughed, pulling his legs up and crossing them. “Let me think… I dare you to drink and eat the worm inside the bottle.” “Hey, that’s really two dares.” “Well, if you’re too afraid to take my dare on, then you’ll automatically default to the other option, truth...” “Listen, I’m not afraid of your little dares. I’ve done a lot worse.” He smiled. “I’m sure you have.” I looked down and back up at him. He stared down at the bottle and watched the green maggot-like worm float up and down in its liquid home. Then, he sat it upright. He was analyzing the worm, and it was a good thing he was doing so. Although I’ve never eaten one, I’ve seen a few worms, but this worm looked different, compared to others I’ve seen. Its puffy, segmented body seemed to cast off a bright, lime bioluminescence. A twirly, red antenna was centered between its mandibles. When he tapped on the glass, the liquid seemed to glow, as well. “Hey, are you seeing this, Kat?” he asked. Scooting closer to him, I said, “Yes, the lady told me that it may do that.” “I’m not sure if I should drink this, and I’m definitely not eating this thing,” he gulped. “It could make me sick or something.” “Eddie, don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little worm bathing in some alcohol, but hey, if you are, then I totally understand. Hand the bottle over to me,” I demanded with my hand stretched out. “Come on now, give it to me... I’ll do it.” He shoved my hand away and said, “Whatever. I got this!” He started unscrewing the metal cap off the bottle and kept his eyes on the worm. He placed his nose near the opening and took in a deep whiff. The alcohol aroma pierced his nose and eyes, making them water. He sniffed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. I watched him without blinking. Wrapping his lips around the bottle, he tilted his head back to take a sip. “Hmm, tastes like sweet, crushed blueberries doused with sugar and a little lime juice. Not bad.” He continued to drink it all, until the worm disappeared from the bottle into his mouth. “So, how was it?” I asked. “Tangy, cold, and gooey. The worm slipped right down my throat before I could chew it up. I’ve always loved to chew the worms, to savor their taste. Like I thought, no x-ray vision. Oh, well… Let’s get ready.” We both started getting dressed. “Make sure you wear the black dress tonight,” he demanded with his cold eyes piercing through me. “Hold on, I brought a new dress,” I said as I pulled out a plum, ruffle backless dress with a plunging neckline out of my closet. “Isn’t it beautiful?” “Absolutely not! If I wanted to take a hooker for all my friends to gawk at to the party and pass her around later, then I would stop off at Enright Park and pick one up.” He turned his back away from me and flipped his hand into the air. “Hurry up! You don’t want to upset me tonight, Kat,” he hissed, balling up his right fist. Tears filled my eyes. I placed it back on the rack with my quivering hand and chose the black one that resembled nun attire. Fifteen minutes past, and I was in the bathroom brushing blush onto my cheeks. I watched him in the mirror and saw Eddie sitting in the chair. He was bent down about to tie up his shoes. “Damn it!” he yelped. I dropped my brush on the floor and stepped out. I asked, “What’s the matter?” “My body feels funny, like cactus, thorn bullets are shooting inside of me. My hands feel numb.” He rubbed them together and flexed out his hands. “Kat, something’s wrong, I can’t read the numbers on my watch. There’s loud ringing in my ears, and my legs feel like Jell-O. Now, I can’t feel my hands, fingers, or toes.” Eddie’s eyes closed, and he collapsed on the floor. He rolled over onto his back. When he opened his eyes and turned his head to the side, my golden heels were facing him. “Kat, my vision feels like it’s returning.” I knelt next to him and rubbed both sides of his face with my hands. “Oh, poor Eddie doesn’t feel well.” “What did you give me?” He stuttered out in broken words. Picking up the empty bottle, I dangled it in front of his face. “You’re about to get everything coming to you, Eddie Luciano,” I said, pointing at the bottle. “I’ve known about your disloyalty for a long time and never said a word. Plus, you’ve been so cruel to me, since we’ve been together. I was searching for the perfect solution for you. Finding that little shop was it! I knew you would take the bait so easy.” Frowning at me, he screamed out, “What the hell did you give me!” “Just a little gift that you can never give away.” “What are you talking about?” “That little worm you ate is going to change you. You’ll never cheat on me, or hurt anyone else again!” His body began to shake, then his eyes rolled back. “What’s happening to me?” he begged in a shivering tone. “Let me help you out. That little worm you consumed is called El Gusano Verde, The Green Worm—it’s an assassin. They were specially designed for monsters like you—cheaters and heartbreakers. The curly antennae are called proboscis. They impaled one or more of your inner organs and injected a lethal venom inside you.” “I promise you, Kat, if I make it out of this, I’m going to kill you…” he said as foamy, bloody saliva flowed out the sides of his mouth. “Stop talking, Eddie, you’re not going to do anything to me. It’s paralyzing you. Soon, it’ll liquefy all your organs and slurp up its dinner. After that, it’ll hike up your gastro tract, throat passage, and then crawl out of your mouth.” His body started twitching and his eyes rolled back again. He clenched his fists. A pale, greenish tone covered his face. In a deep, gargled voice, Eddie spoke his final words, “You won’t get away with this…” “Yes, I will. The club always gets away with it. According to Mrs. Codona, the shop owner, your demise will be ruled a strange, allergic reaction with little to no explanation to why your insides dissolved. The evidence is going with me.” I carefully placed the wiggly, full El Gusano Verde in its padded case and slid it inside my purse to return back to Mrs. Codona to gift to a new member. “By the way, Eddie, you remember Mrs. Codona, right? Prue’s mom—she told me about you two, and how the police located Prue’s car in another state, but never found her. It’s been over five years, now. I know I would’ve been your next victim, but not after tonight.” He glared at me, until his eyes froze. “Don’t worry about the party. I’ll let your friends know that you didn’t feel well and needed to stay in. Karma is alive and well.” Blowing out the candles and exiting the scene in the plum dress I chose for me, I locked the door behind me, and descended the stairs. Goodbye, Eddie, I whispered to myself, as I sung, I Am, into the night air as snowflakes began to fall. THE END  Miracle Austin is a Texan gal who works in the medical social work arena by day and in the writer’s world at night, including weekends, as a YA/NA author. She loves horror, collecting T-shirts, Stranger Things, Wednesday, Marvel & DC, sparkles, unicorns, 80s music, and daydreaming up stories.
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 Excerpts-Poetry and Prose by Pixie Bruner Dutch Wife I came to co-exist with you three prior Winters ago, and in the wrong hemisphere. It was freezing, yet you still wrapped yourself around me as if I was openwork, and you-- a furnace. I have the necessary holes, eyes, nose, mouth, ears, the same as all other women who ever wed. As you stir in your dreams, mumble at the ceiling, this night, this Dutch wife sneaks off to weave herself solid from the slender long-abolished, blood-welting bamboo cane switches. From “Our Choice!” Edited J.L. Lane And He Held He clamped her wrist like a manacle as he played the Russian game- click- click- click- clack- silence, as the blade slid into a knuckle. The red pool was still just a line of a couple fingers. He pulled the knife from her meat and bone and it took seconds for the pearls of deep red to well up as the next clicks began with the blade poised over the back of her spread hand. The slipped spot flopped open — a gill taking in oxygen and dripping red jewels.That click -click-click of the knife — dangling gems clacking against themselves on a costume jewelry necklace. In the end, he had a pair of earrings and a set of knucklebone polyhedral dice. She had no hands. Once We Were Mermaids We were mermaids once, floating on turquatic seas, we looked forever shoreward. Or rather merfolk, forgotten naiads, cast off spawn of Poseidon who chose to bifurcate our Selves to walk on land. Some of us lost our tails, took on human forms without larynxes, while others chose to go deeper burrowed in anemones and thermal vents on the sea floor, crushed to microscopic scale to remain whole, but a few of us chose the other option, now we wash up on the beaches, muscled legs, genitalia, with the iridescent bodies of fish, our gills sucking at blue skies, trying to extract the air that completely surrounds us and are unspoken of, shame of land and sea alike, Neither fish nor fowl, but foul monsters, fish out of water, floundering to exist, our petrified bodies copper ore veined semiprecious stones and sea glass landlocked over the epochs. From The Horror Zine Fall 2024 Crash Landing Aria I Write home with centrifugal force, to scrawl with gravitas without gravity Poem as centrifuge to separate solids from plasma. Flesh bone fascia from muscle and bone. Find your perfect moment to fall apart. Sever into wings and thorax, Find new lifeforms. Embrace having form. Isn’t it delicious? Crash down landers Graphene insects leave you shattered like cheval mirrors freed from ovoid shells nearly eroded on shard blade shores, the incisors of acidic seas. From Space & Time Magazine Fall 2024  Pixie Bruner (HWA/SFPA) is a writer, editor, and cancer survivor. She lives in Atlanta, GA, with her doppelgänger and their alien cats. Her collection The Body As Haunted was published in 2024 (Authortunities Press). She co-curated and edited Nature Triumphs : A Charity Anthology of Dark Speculative Literature (Dark Moon Rising Publications,) to benefit The Nature Conservancy. Her words are in Space & Time Magazine, Whispers from Beyond and Hotel Macabre Vol. 1 (Crystal Lake Publishing), Star*Line, Weird Fiction Quarterly, Dreams & Nightmares, Angry Gable Press, Punk Noir, and many more. Many are forthcoming. She just received her her Pushcart Award Nomination from Star*Line, the Journal of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association. Not bad for the first year submitting poetry since 1992. She wrote for White Wolf Gaming Studio. Werespiders ruining LARPs are entirely her fault.
 The Question By Alison Armstrong (Previously published in Book of Bones, 2020, edited by J. L . Lane and Andrew Bell) “When are you going to die?” I hear a child ask. As waitresses carry trays of food and drinks through the crowded rock and blues dinner club, I look around the room for the child. I see couples of various ages gabbing, guzzling beer, or smooching. I see a few loners fidgeting with their phones or glancing distractedly into the candlelit darkness, and, then, two tables away, I see a little girl, about six years old, sitting beside a man and a woman I assume are her mom and dad. “When are you going to die, Daddy?” she asks, squirming in her chair, while Daddy gnaws on a slab of steak, and the woman, probably her mommy, sips red wine. Like the child, I wait for an answer but hear only an idiotic cacophony of guffaws, gasps and giggles. Frothy waves of chatter bubble around me. The sounds sizzle within my ears, static signals garbled, distortions resisting comprehension, bringing chaos and insanity. Once the music starts, the noxious, incoherent noises will diminish, but until then I try to block them out by thinking about songs I hope The Pain Portal (a Doors cover band) will perform. Closing my eyes, I listen to the memories of my best friend and me singing “People Are Strange” and “Riders on the Storm,” our pure, clear, preadolescent voices a stark contrast to the cynicism and alienation we sensed in those songs. They were our anthems of estrangement, our protest against our shared humanity. Often, even now, I look at the people around me, as if they were characters in a surreal comedy/horror movie. I am not sure if I am in the movie or if I am the director. Maybe the little girl is the director, or maybe no one. Whatever happens is all part of a script the girl and I are trying to understand. Like myself at her age, the girl is inquisitive, restless. Annoyed by the humdrum buzzing of human noises and the inattentive silence of her parents, she gets out of her chair and quickly walks towards the next table. Her mom and dad do not seem to notice or to care that she has strayed. Heads bowed, they focus attention on their phones while their child skips away in search of an answer. “When are you going to die?” she chants in a sing-song voice, wandering from table to table. Eyes look up from ketchup-slathered fries, scrolling fingers pause, and foreboding hovers in the stale, grease-clogged air as she flashes by, white dress fluttering like the wings of a predatory dove. *** “When are you going to die?” Sarah repeats her question as if it were a playful challenge, a game to see how the grown-ups react. She watches them scowl, and then she smiles, sensing their vulnerability, their shock, confusion, and fear. They don’t know the answers any more than she does. They are helpless, too. *** I catch her eye and match her smile, remembering my morbid childhood. Mother Goose taught me ditties about disease, pockets full of posies, pustules oozing decay, and babies tossed from treetops as they sleep. Skeletal tricksters stalked my dreams, boogeyman reminders that death was always near, hiding underneath my flesh, its grinning skull laughing as skin and muscle give way to cold, hard, inflexible bone. I would marvel at my body, its miracles and mayhem--the sky-reaching lightness of dancing, the volcanic chaos of vomiting, the throbbing rivers of blood that kept me alive while the condescending, computer-like brain, with delusional omnipotence, planned and philosophized. The girl has not yet grown old enough to distrust her body or feel lasting shame towards its messy functions. Delighting in its movements, its freedom and power, she twists and pirouettes. As if spinning a web of glimmering silk, she twirls past me in a frantic tarantella, her reddish-brown hair a brighter, more incandescent version of my own when I was a child. Her frenzied steps seem to echo my heartbeat as if we are both fleeing from or towards some alluring yet frightening unknown. I feel a fluttering of wings press against my chest, dark angels coming home to roost. A shrill, inhuman screech heralds their approach. Stricken by this hideous sound, the girl stops dancing, and the murmuring crowd is silenced. *** The scream surges, halting her steps. It is the sound of rage and desolation, the fierce sobbing for something lost, never to return. She feels that sob ripping through her like a freshly opened wound as memories of her dog, Benny, flood her mind. One moment Benny had been happily lying beside her, his tail wagging as she snuggled against his black fur and felt his white-bristled muzzle tickle her face; the next moment Daddy had grabbed Benny from her arms and taken him away. Daddy had come back, carrying Benny’s leash, but Benny was gone forever. The vet gave Benny something to make him sleep, Daddy later explained, and God brought Benny to Heaven. She knew, though, that it wasn’t the vet or God to blame for Benny’s death; it was Daddy. “Why did you take him away?” she cried. “It was his time,” Daddy grumbled, looking down at the floor as if trying to avoid her gaze. “But when is your time?” she angrily replied. “When are you going to die?” He frowned and walked out the door, not answering her question. The question, however, unlike Benny, did not die. It persisted, obsessing her. “When are you going to die?” she asked Mommy, Aunt Teresa, and other people around her, craving an answer or at least a reaction of some kind. She wanted the question to infect others as it infected her. Even more troubling perhaps than “when” is “how.” Although Benny had been her first and only loved one who had died, so far, TV news stories and horror films had provided glimpses of death’s many forms and methods of attack. What form would it take for her, she wonders. Would it come with the scream of an ambulance and an extravagant gushing of blood, or the stealthy, insidious whisper of lingering disease? Would it overpower her like a nightmare assassin with razor-sharp claws or gently engulf her with the smotheringly sweet anesthesia of a forever dream? The macabre scenarios whirl round and round in her imagination, making her dizzy. She needs Mommy to hold her close and tell her everything will be all right, even if Sarah knows it won’t be. She wants Mommy all to herself, away from dog-killing Daddy, who isn’t even her real daddy. Slowly navigating her way through the maze of tables and chairs, she scrambles back up into her seat beside Mommy and watches Daddy, across from her, gulp the last of his beer. He wipes his mouth with a paper napkin and turns his head towards the stage. *** Shrouded in yellow mist, the band swaggers onto the stage. The jaundiced haze obscures their features, preserving the mystique of deception. Without it, we would see the fallacy of imitation, flaccid flesh bulging over too-tight leather, balding heads shimmering under ill-fitting wigs. The music, however, needs no illusion to thrive. Transcending its mortal performers, it evokes an atmosphere of sensual and spiritual menace. Its winding, serpentine notes lead through lonely tunnels where strangers leer and sinister outcasts lurk. Debauchery summons, innocence succumbs, and madness possesses. *** Mustard yellow fog enfolds her like a poisonous cloak, and the songs, unlike any she had ever heard, infuse her with a dangerous magic. Although she cannot understand all of the lyrics, they fascinate her. She senses an anger in them that seems strangely like her own. The droning, pounding vibrations of the music caress the tip of her spine and slither upwards, wriggling through spaces where “what if” thoughts, like naughty, abandoned toys, wait to be awakened. Her anger towards “Daddy” rouses these thoughts from restless sleep. Even before he married her Mommy, back when he was just called “Gary,” she hated him. She hated him even more when he later insisted on being called “Daddy” and began complaining all the time about Benny being too big, too loud, too much trouble. It was Daddy who was too much trouble, not Benny. Imbued with hatred and dark imaginings, she stares at the candle on the table, watching the captive flame sway like a dancing jinn who could grant any wish she desired. She knows what wish she will make. Flames flicker within the candle’s glass container at my table, ghostly fingers clawing as the music, growling, snarling, wailing, conjures visions of rage and retribution. Sarah whispers her wish to the flame jinn. She concentrates on it, demanding that it be granted. then turns towards her so-called “Daddy.” He is chewing on a tough piece of steak, his cheeks bulging, his jaws opening and closing like a rusty garage door. “It is time,” she says softly as “Daddy” gasps and wheezes. “It is your time now.” *** A son stalks and kills his father, bringing an end to the dream of vengeance. As the music concludes, I look at the table where the girl sits, clutching her mother. Her father slumps forward, gagging. Death waits in the pause between breaths and gurgles. Then the question is answered.  Alison Armstrong Author Bio:
Alison Armstrong is the author of three literary horror novels (Revenance, Toxicosis, and Dark Visitations), a novella (Vigil and Other Writings), and a collection of writings addressing women and horror archetypes (Consorting with the Shadow: Phantasms and the Dark Side of Female Consciousness). Her work focuses on inner terror, stealthily lurking, solipsistic dread and nightmare flash epiphanies. Having obtained a Master of Arts in English, she has taught composition and literature at Washtenaw Community College in Ann Arbor, MI and Kingsborough Community College in Brooklyn. In addition to her novels and novella (available on Amazon and other online retailers), she has edited and contributed writings to Nature Triumphs: A Charity Anthology of Dark Speculative Literature and has had writings published in The Sirens Call as well as other horror anthologies. Further information is available on her Web site: https://horrorvacui.us  The Living Grave of Flowers Kasey Hill They grabbed the flowers by the bunch and tossed them down the hole where you lay at the bottom. I’ve never been one to throw a flower in the grave or leave a flower on the casket. I am one of the ones who brings them home and keeps it on display long past the time it wilts, then dies, then dries. I don’t know what it is but there is something beautiful about a dead flower. It’s in the most vulnerable and fragile state. The wrong touch can crumble its petals or its stem or its leaves. Death for everyone, every creature, every living thing is a fragile state of being. However, I do not covet all dead things as I have coveted these flowers on the dresser. In nature, when something dies, it returns back to the earth. When growing up, we are told from mythology that man was formed from the dust of the earth so when we lay man to rest we lament ashes to ashes and dust to dust because we came from the grave of the earth and return to the grave of the earth. Grave of the earth isn’t how it started out. Prior to living creatures, prior to the advent of a stabilized atmosphere, the earth was a wasteland of fire and lava. It raged in fury almost as if it was incensed from being created to begin with for it too would grow and age and then die. Of course scientists say it will be another 5 billion years before the planet faces its death but to the planet, it counts down its days the same way we count down our days compared to those around us. We see the max age that people can live and hope and pray that we make it that long when babies dies before they even make it outside of the womb. Death before living is such an existential tragedy. Death. Death. Death. Such a fickle bitch. Is it wrong to call it a bitch when there’s a possibility that Death is in fact a lady? Who fucking cares, honestly. People are offended and pissed off every day. What’s the worse that Lady Death can do? Torture me with death around me? Take me? I feel like I have lived a thousand years and came out still kicking when I should have long ago met my end. Maybe that is my punishment from Death the bitch. I am punished and tortured and I stare into the hole that you have been lain to rest in, tossing in the handful of dirt instead of the flower. It should have rained. Funerals are more appropriate in the rain. The rain is cleansing but instead, we were offered the bitter heat of summer’s end. You died on my holiday, did you know that? It was the literal first day of autumn, the first day the earth has entered into its resting state, its slumbering state, its suspended state of death. But you are not suspended in sleep like death but suspended in eternal sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Death is sleep for the soul as opposed to sleep for the living mind. We sleep to rest, to reset, to restore but in death we sleep to rest our soul, to reset our soul, to restore our soul. Death and sleep. Death and sleep. An eternal slumber. Never waking. Wake. As a child, I thought wakes were where we waited for someone to wake up. My aunt lifting me to her husband’s casket and me asking, “When are we waking him up?” because they called it a wake. And she said he wouldn’t be waking up. Why call it a wake? And as an adult I learned that a wake was created to make sure those believed to be dead were dead so they waited around during a wake to see if the person would wake up. Smart child I was. But wakes were created long before embalming fluid and embalming fluid now replaces the meaning of wakes and we no longer get the chance to see if the person will awaken or if they are forever trapped in the eternal slumber. Robbing, isn’t it? The mortician robs us of the hope that death is not finite. It robs us of the possibility they will open their eyes or rise from the casket. But instead, we now sit around and watch a body that we know will not move, will not breathe, will not open their eyes, will not stir from the throws of death. Instead, we eat food, we drink alcohol, we reminisce. Oh, how we reminisce. How I reminisce. The unfairness. The utter devastation. Then anger roils and fury boils, and volcanic rage pours and streams as hot tears, steaming and streaming. Steaming and streaming. And then the nightmares begin. Nightmares. Nightmares. Nightmares. The nightmares have lasted longer this time, you know? I don’t know why, but the nightmares go on and on and on. They used to be nightmares of me killing, me being responsible. Me seeing the life support unplugged and the person dying over and over and over and coming back over and over and over and dying over and over and over. Or me killing over and over and over. Not this time. This time, I am the one dying. I am the one being killed. Murder, death, abandonment. Abandoned. Abandoned. Abandoned. I am abandoned. I am abandoned, and I rot on the inside, but it’s not the same rot that eats through your flesh as larvae squirm and worm through your cavities and orifices. I rot in a living state in places that do not necrose or that do not deteriorate. But I await the necrosis. I await the deterioration because I feel as if I have died a thousand times over, but I don’t take a final breath. I don’t close my eyes one last time. I don’t stop moving. My mind does not stop firing electrical sparks. The sparks. The sparks fire in overtime, and I shake, and my heart beats erratically, and at times, I feel like I can’t breathe even though air moves in and out of my lungs. It’s almost as if I am buried within that casket with my eyes sewn shut and my mouth as well sewn shut so I cannot see and I cannot scream out in pain. Instead, I sit with a face that plays poker, and no one can read the inner turmoil that flows beneath the surface. I know the spark will eventually return to normal. I know my inner spark will eventually return to normal. But for now, I am in a living grave as a living dead person. We are often told that from the moment we are born, we are dying. Morbid, right? But in that morbid sense of intellect, they are right. Every day we live and breathe is a day that we get closer to whatever day awaits us whether it is the day we are born, the next day, the next week, years down the road, or when we are in our 100s. We are always dying. As our body grows, it is growing toward death. That is our end game. To live, breathe, and await death. It’s the moments between birth and death that define our life. And those moments can be filled with whatever we want them to be filled. Whatever we want. Whatever we want. You… you lie in ceaseless slumber where you are not moving, where you are not breathing, where you cannot see, hear, taste, touch, smell. You cannot see your body in the grave. You cannot hear the cries at your grave. You cannot taste or smell the putrid estate of being you now exist in. You cannot feel the touch of hands that grasp at your body as they heave in cries. And all of this goes around and around and around, as the circle is unbroken. Circle of life. Circle of death. Circle of grief. And I can’t help but think of how you looked in that final breath where all your senses screamed one last time as you slowly drifted off in warm heat flowing through your veins. That final breath, that final smell, that final taste of bile in your throat, that final sound you may have heard. Did you hear anything? Did you hear Death? Feel her, see her, smell her, taste her, touch her, sense her at? Death. Death. Death. Lamenting sadness in death. Crumbling flowers. I want to preserve the flower as you have been preserved, but even embalming fluid will not keep your skin from slipping off your body. You will desiccate. You will bleed the fluid as if you were bleeding blood through an open wound as you air dry. You will become brittle and turn to dust as the grass of the earth above your resting place slowly eats the nutrients your body releases as it decays. I guess you are a flower. A flower plucked from its roots and placed in a vase to drink what water we give it like our own embalming fluid, but even flowers that are not cut from their stems wilt and die. Their petals flutter to the ground just as they flutter from the vase. They dry out. They desiccate. Your body is a flower, and your casket, the vase and the embalming fluid, your liquid of life to try and keep you from turning to mulch. But everything turns to mulch. Everything ceases to be and dries up. Everything slips off into the circle that remains unbroken until the end of the earth. We are all flowers with our tap roots still rooted in life while your taproot was uprooted in death. So, as your skin slips, your petals fall. As your skin dries, the moisture from within the stem dries. And as you desiccate, your chlorophyll no longer keeps your cell walls together, and you brown and crumble. Maybe that’s why we throw the flowers in when they lower you. Because the flowers are you, and you are the flowers. Wilting, dying. Florists preserve flowers for wreaths, you know? They spray them to make them last long enough to make it through the week for the ceremony and for the grave display. The flowers just want to quench their thirst. Their thirst for water, the sustainability of their existence. They thirst for life, just as your body thirsts for life. Their life is water, your life is blood, but you have no blood, and they have no water. They’re just preserved as you are preserved. They are put on display just as you were put on display. We care for the dead the same as we care for flowers. We yearn to keep the beauty of beautiful things even when we know that beauty dies and you have indeed died just as the flower has died. And just as one decorates a garden with ornate objects to bring it more life, bring it more characteristics, we decorated your casket. We chose the color, the style, the engravings, the inlaid cloth. We chose what to put in there with you: the pictures, the totems, the jewelry, the pictures, the vestibule of things we intend to send you off with. Cigarettes, moonshine, liquor, chewing tobacco, the things you love. It’s the things you love in hopes that what we place are somehow representative of us climbing in with you, laying to rest with you, buried with you while we walk around still full of life, while a piece of us is still buried with you. We walk around alive, but at that moment in time, we died with you. We walk around alive, but the piece of us we laid to rest of you forever lies at the bottom of a hole that was dug with a machine and then filled with the fill dirt and rocks pulled from the depths of the earth. The depths of the earth are like the depths of the ocean no one has ever explored before. It is unknown, unseen, unless explored and when explored, it's mostly to inter those who have passed beyond, and we fondly think of existing in the clouds, in the space outside of our world that we know more of than what lies beneath our dirt and our waters. We know more about what’s outside of our world than what’s in our world and we think that the afterlife is resting within the stars we admire in the vast space of sky above our heads that twinkle and glean at night. But even all of the exploration of space we do by vehicle, by person, by telescope, that part of life is just as unknown as the vast depths of the earthen dirt and the watery oceans. And those depths are just as deep and dark as the corners and shadows of ourselves. Our insides float like space and flow like water, and our souls twist and curve and reach like trees to the sky, but there is no sky within. There’s just emptiness even though we are full of organs and blood and tissue and bone wrapped in flesh made from stars that exploded and settled as carbon particles within the soil of the ground we walk upon. We tread upon the soul of the universe and we breathe in the soul of the universe, and we feel the soul of the universe as it slips through our fingers as grains of sand on the beach. We contemplate the vastness of the universe when, deep down, we know we are the universe, and the answers lie within the very core of our own unexplored philosophical bits and pieces we still don’t understand. We know how our parts function and work, but we don’t know why they do. We don’t know why our brain is wired to send the short electrical bursts between neurons that fire and spark and tell our heart to beat and our lungs to breathe, and our mouths to move to speak. We have yet to discover the whys of our own existence and our own working and animated organisms combined together to create the human body and convince ourselves we know the answers to the expanses of the universe or even the depths of our oceans. But instead of knowledge and wisdom or intuition and clarity, we are left with a haunted graveyard with skeletons and ghosts that live within and beat as one with our body as we remember those we love who have moved on from this world but also left us incomplete and needing more. We need to know more about the afterlife because those we have loved, like you, are in the afterlife if the afterlife really did exist, as opposed to the atheistic view of nothingness and emptiness, much like our own insides of nothingness and emptiness. Those graveyards moan and groan like the bones creaking and aching within our skin. The sun rises and sets, but it’s a black sun that offers no light or brevity. And that graveyard full of skeletons that should fill a closet instead fills our minds, and we are haunted by the past instead of being set free. The ghosts roam wild and harrowingly, and they shout and murmur, screech and whimper, howl and mewl, wail and whine, all the while as we try to drown them out with TV and music and running and food and all the things that allow us to enjoy a fulfilling life, a hopeful life, a life that ignores the loss and grief that plagues the center of our brain, the center of our hearts, the center of our solar plexus. And as the ghosts plague us, their bodies lie in a graveyard outside while they exist in the graveyard within us. So even in death, they are alive. They have a voice within our head; you have a voice within my head. I hear you. I see you. All of my senses are filled with you, and you are dead, but yet you are still alive. How can that be? How can you be both dead and alive if there is no afterlife, as some believe and if there is an afterlife? The afterlife is meant for the dead, but if you are live energy, then how can you exist in a place of wretch and rot and decay and desolation unless the afterlife is not actually a place or a spiritual plane but a place the living have created from their own energetic essence that holds you there so you can be felt and so you can exist in the graveyard between our ribs and heart. A graveyard that grows flowers and weeds but the weeds aren’t weeds but beautiful wildflowers and herbs and things we have been told are weeds, which are in truth beautiful in their own reason of existence. Like a creeping vine that weaves around the porch rails or sides of buildings, clinging to them for life and hard to pull away because they have tiny little hairs of roots that grasp onto everything, and latch on to live. They need to live and thrive to live, and those vines, they have a purpose, and they form a hedge, and that hedge rides the astral plane, and the astral plane is just a jump from the celestial realm where both heaven and hell battle for your soul even though hell isn’t real and just a subconscious creation of humanity that believe it into existence and only we can break free from it in death. But our souls, when we die, they latch onto the living, and we continue to live like a vine, and I feel the vine of the dead weaving through my being and those tiny hairs grasping at my heart, and my ribs, and they latch, and they create the graveyard, the living grave of death. We are walking and breathing, and we are in a living grave of flowers. And the flowers are posies and daisies and tulips.  Kasey Hill has lived in Franklin County, VA, for most of her adult life and is a versatile writer known for her work in several genres, including urban fantasy, horror, thriller, paranormal romance, and metaphysical/New Age topics. She has authored both fiction and non-fiction, with a particular interest in Wicca, specializing in Trinitarian Wicca as the historical archivist with an upcoming historical account of the shift from polytheism to monotheism in Abrahamic religions, where she has published non-fiction works exploring the subject.
Her fiction often dives into the supernatural and the macabre, blending mythological elements with modern storytelling. She has published multiple novels, poetry collections, and short stories. Notable works include her Guardians of Light series in the mythology fantasy genre, and her poetry that has received recognition for its depth and emotional resonance. As she grows in the horror genre, she has a particular penchant for Southern Gothic storytelling, such as her Adult Horror novel Devil’s Claw and her Young Adult horror series, The Whispering Spirits featuring The Haunting at Foxwood Village and Dark Coven. She has several Horror short stories circulating for anthologies and Ezines featuring her unique style of worldbuilding. In addition to her writing, Kasey Hill has also contributed to the Wiccan and occult community through her non-fiction work, making her a multi-faceted author with a broad range of interests and expertise. www.kaseyhillauthor.com www.facebook.com/kaseyhillauthor  Excerpt From Territory of Lost Souls Chills & Thrills Volume 1 Alice glanced at Cain, was it him? But how would he have gotten back here so fast and where did he stash the costume? “Yeah, it must have run off. So why were you going to visit your aunt?” Alice asked. “She’s…sick. I am just going to visit her and help out until she’s better.” Alice recognized a lie when she heard one. “What about you? Are you visiting someone?” he asked. “Yeah, I’m going to see my mom.” He nodded. “And yet we both ended up here. It’s kind of a creepy name for the place, don’t you think?” “What name?” Alice asked. “It was on the sign outside. Didn’t you see it?” Alice shook her head, she hadn’t noticed a sign. “It said, ‘Territory of Lost Souls.’” A chill ran down Alice’s spine. “What? No, it didn’t. You’re making that up.” “I’m not I swear. Look.” He checked around the floor and discovered a ticket stub. He handed it to her. Printed on it was: Territory of Lost Souls. Come to visit, stay to die. Alice threw the ticket stub down and backed away like it had bitten her. “What the hell is this? Who are you really?” she snapped. A slow grin spread over his face. “I thought I would have to keep this ruse up all night, but it’s easier to get to the point. This place is where people who are lost come. Me, for example. I ran away from my foster home after I pushed my foster father down the stairs. I got on a train and ended up here.” Alice looked around for something she could use as a weapon. This boy was crazy. “I’m not crazy, Alice.” “How do you know my name?” “I know everything about you. I know why you’re here.” “You know nothing.” “You had a fight with your dad. He’s been getting more and more controlling lately. He locked you in your room and refused to let you out. When he brought you some dinner, you hit him in the head with a lamp and ran.” Hearing someone else say it, made what she had done sound even worse. But what choice did she have? He wasn’t going to let her out. He had been holding her prisoner. “Why am I here?” “Because we want to offer you a choice. You can leave here with no money, no food and nowhere to go. Either the cops will pick you up and take you home or you’ll end up in a gutter somewhere. Or you can stay here with us.” “Us?” He nodded to someone behind her. Alice turned to see the white rabbit, towering over her with red eyes and fangs. The little girl stood beside the rabbit, holding his hand.  USA Today Bestselling Author S. K. Gregory writes urban fantasy, paranormal romance and horror stories. Rarely seen without a pen in her hand, she loves writing about supernatural worlds and the creatures that live within them.
An avid reader and chocoholic, she has been creating fantasy worlds since she was a child. When she isn’t writing, S. K. enjoys binge-watching her favorite shows and hanging out with family and friends. To learn more and to keep up to date with her latest book releases, you can follow her Facebook page here: www.facebook.com/authorskgregory or check out her website:  Too Young To Kill A short story featured in Dark Delights by USA Today bestselling author Lily Luchesi Ghosts were not real in Elisa’s world. She had a passing relationship with the Christian faith, but that was as far as her belief in anything supernatural went. She had known all about the legend of the house. Everybody killed, appearing to be eaten. Baby missing, presumed eaten whole somehow. Future murder victims placed inside the house. Psychos like psychotic stories. Dead was dead. There was no murderous ghost in that house and anyone who thought there was, like Adrienne, was an idiot. She just didn’t want to sleep in that dusty old dump. Adrienne didn’t need to tell her she was trying to scare her. Elisa knew this was some silly payback scheme. When she got home, her boyfriend was sitting on the couch, a legal pad in front of him and his guitar on the couch next to him. He had gotten a very cushy gig writing music for short films, but had writer’s block for weeks. Do musicians even get writer’s block? Now that he seemed to have broken the block, he probably wouldn’t even notice if she was gone for the night. Elisa was determined to make him notice. In her mind, it was all his fault for being so damn irresistible. “This is all your fault!” she huffed, slamming her purse on the coffee table. Her boyfriend jumped, startled. “What the fuck, ’Lissa?” “Your psycho friend, ex, whatever she is, is making me stay in that house I sold. I can’t stay there! It’s a hellhole. She wouldn’t have such a vendetta against me if it weren’t for you!” When he stayed silent, she huffed again and went into her room. She wondered why he wasn’t even asking what was happening. Didn’t he care at all? She hoped she still had her sleeping bag from that time he’d taken her camping in the woodland. She kept complaining as she tried to find the outfit she could sleep in that would cover the most skin. “This is unethical. I could probably sue her sorry ass if I were so inclined.” With a bag packed with a Kigurumi onesie from Japan to cover every inch of skin, her iPod, her sleeping bag, bug spray, isopropyl alcohol, and a Swiffer dusting rag, she debated, and then decided not to even bring a pillow. She didn’t have a replacement. “I’m going,” she called to her boyfriend. He looked up and smirked. “Good luck. Don’t get eaten by the demons in there. Hey, do you want my infrared camera in case you see a spirit?” She rolled her eyes. He was always such a horror freak, and he actually believed in ghosts. No wonder he and Adrienne had gotten along so well. “Don’t roll your eyes,” he said. “It might not be demons, but houses can store up evil energy. Do you know how many murders have taken place there? That place should be soaked in holy water and burned, if you ask me. After someone investigates it for ghosts, of course.” “Well, no one asked you,” was all she could reply before she left, slamming the door behind her. She didn’t want to admit that what he’d said had rattled her. Her palms were sweating, and the hair on the back of her neck was standing on end. This is stupid, she thought. It’s just a house, nothing more. And as long as you don’t get eaten by the roaches or rats, you’ll be fine. Houses can’t store evil energy. That’s horror movie shit. She got into her car and drove across town. The city was split into four sections: the warehouse area, the wealthy section, the younger area where she lived, and the wilderness. The warehouse area was also home to some abandoned houses. No one wanted to live near the factories because of the smog, but they really didn’t want to live near that house. The Karayan house. The Karayan family had been reclusive, but they weren’t town pariahs or anything. Their son had been on the soccer team, their daughter was a ballet dancer, and the mother could be seen with the baby, Kieran, at the market. The husband was a banker. Nothing unusual. So why had they been targeted for a murder so gruesome, it had made two police officers tender their resignation? No one could figure it out. Now, for the first time in decades, the house was going to have a living resident. Elisa was surprised when Adrienne was waiting for her at the doorway. Her heart leapt, thinking that the whole thing had been called off. Maybe Adrienne saw that she was serious about staying overnight and had decided to give her a break. “Glad you made it,” the tall brunette said. “I was getting cold out here.” She tossed the keys to Elisa, who missed them and had to fetch them from out of a mud puddle. Ugh. “Make sure you lock up tight after you leave tomorrow morning for work. Vandals are everywhere.” She walked down the steps, dressed for a night on the town while Elisa was dressed for a night sleeping in rat poop. She gave the blonde a wink. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the monsters bite.” She also placed a pack of candles and a lighter in Elisa’s hand. “So you don’t burn the place down by using the wonky wiring you said was just fucking peachy.” Bitch, Elisa thought. She gets to go out while I get to stay here. She unlocked the door, hearing the grinding screech of the hinges, rusty from disuse. She couldn’t help an involuntary shudder at the sound, but she told herself it was the same way you’d shudder at nails on a chalkboard. Immediately, she smelled the dust and sneezed, hoping that she had taken her allergy medicine that morning. She was glad these old houses had strong roofs. Their town was rainy, and she would never have stayed there with black mold. She wasn’t suicidal. It was freezing in the house, so the boiler had been either turned off or removed completely. Good thing her sleeping bag was insulated. She already had goosebumps. She tried to flick on a light in the hallway, and when she heard a telltale clicking sound, she shut it off before a fire could be ignited. She figured she’d check it out upstairs, to see if there were different wires going to the fuse box. If the fuse box weren’t in the basement, she’d look at that, too, but while she wasn’t the brightest bulb in the pack, she was not stupid enough to go down into the basement of an abandoned, possibly haunted, house! She went further in and decided that, in case there were vandals in the place, she’d go and check out all the rooms. In the papers the Clausens’ had signed with Adrienne, they said she needed to sleep in a bedroom like she’d told them they could, and she wanted to be positive that no one else was sleeping with her. She left her bag in the foyer and only took her flashlight and cell phone with her upstairs. She first entered the living room, which had moth-eaten sheets over old furniture. She was pretty sure she saw a rat nesting in a corner of an easy chair but refused to look directly at it. Everything had a ghostly glow because the moon was shining through the boards on the windows and illuminating the dust that was generously coating everything. She peeked into the room to her left and saw it was a grand dining room, furnished with what must’ve been the very best furniture in that era. Right then, it looked like Satan’s dining room, and she could easily envision skeletal corpses dining on plates of bugs and brains there, sipping blood from chalices. What is wrong with me? she asked herself. I’m gonna give myself the creeps thinking like that. She moved to the other side of the room, and the doorway led to a kitchen. She was definitely not going to look in the refrigerator. She walked to the sink and turned on the water. Obviously, it wouldn’t go hot, with no boiler, but the water was clear and strong. Good, in case her half a gallon of water didn’t last her the night. She peeked in the pantry and quickly shut the door again when she heard the telltale squeaking of rodents. She was so close to crying; she couldn’t possibly stay there! Scooting out, checking the downstairs bathroom and thankfully finding nothing, she took a calming breath before grabbing her bag again and walking up the stairs that were once carpeted, but the carpet had been worn away from years of disuse and damage, not to mention the occasional carpet beetle eating at it. She saw one of those disgusting, large black beetles on a step in front of her, chowing on the moldy carpet like it was a rare steak and she really did shriek, nearly throwing herself backward down the stairs by accident. She held the railing with a death-grip and thankfully it didn’t give out as she straightened herself up and saw that the beetle had gone away. She reached the top of the stairs and went looking into bedrooms. She was thinking how nice this house must have been when it was new. Her feet were quiet in the thick, dust-covered carpet as she walked and checked a linen closet, which now held ragged towels and moth-eaten sheets. Elisa remembered going antiquing with her mother and grandmother as a child. She always hated the smell of old clothes and furniture, and this house made those old shops seem like heaven. There’s no way to explain the thick, dusty, dry stench that comes off of old fabric. It reminded her of death, funeral parlors, and newly turned grave dirt. She opened a small door to her left and found a study that was still filled with books and an antique desk that must have cost a fortune. It appeared empty, but as she exited, she left the door open, thinking she’d peek in there at the books. The next door was a little girl’s room. There were portraits of ballerinas on the wall, and the bed was tiny, covered with frilly pink satin and white lace sheets and pillows. They were once lovely, but now they were dingy and discolored from damp and mold. One wall had a peculiar, large stain that she was not close enough to see properly in the darkness. Dolls and moldy stuffed animals lined a shelf above the bed, wood rotted and paint faded. The blank stare of them all, particularly this one-eyed teddy bear with an ear torn off, gave her a chill that started at the top of her skull and slowly traveled through her body, making her hairs stand on end, and her knees shake. She stepped closer, the curiosity of what had stained the wall winning over her fear. Looking closely, she realized that, beneath the dust, she smelled iron and ... salt? Was it the bed frame’s rust permeating? No, that was rotting wood; it wasn’t metal. Peering at the wall right above the headboard, she clicked on her flashlight. The stain was not brown; it was maroon and flaking. It was blood that had not been washed off of the rose-printed wallpaper, probably the blood of the little girl who had been murdered in her bed. Choking back bile, she quickly left that room and shut the door firmly behind her. Turning, she went to the large door ahead of her and opened it to reveal a master bedroom, done in dark wood paneling, with a plush flowered carpet beneath her. The wallpaper had once been beige with sienna stripes, but now it was peeling and stained. The bed was gorgeous, intricately carved with what looked like dark red sheets and pillows. The smell of copper was stronger here, as was that smell like rotten hamburger meat. It wasn’t until she walked to the bed and saw that the sheets were soaked in blood. This blood did not look as old as the blood in the kid’s room, and she again thought about how many murders had taken place until recently. That was what smelled so pungently. This was where the parents had been killed. The smell was in her nostrils, permeating her very mind as she pictured the dead bodies, with chunks bitten out of them as if Hannibal Lecter had come to life and gone rabid. She could almost hear the ripping sound of flesh as teeth tore at their still-writing bodies. She could hear their screams, the gurgling of blood choking them as the bites tore into their stomachs and veins. With trembling, shaking, stumbling steps, she made it to the ensuite bathroom and vomited her dinner and a good amount of bile into the toilet. She started crying as she rinsed her mouth out in the sink. This wasn’t fair. She was never going to be the same after this night, of that she was sure. Dashing out of the room like it was on fire, she finally took a blood-free breath of fresh air. Her eyes turned toward the baby’s room. Kieran. Funny how she remembered his name. The news had said there was no sign of the baby at all, and no evidence it had been murdered. She still hesitated to check the room. Picturing adults being chomped on was one thing, but a little baby, only six months old? Unthinkable. She closed her eyes as she opened the nursery door, revealing a happy sight. Aside from the layers of dust and mouse poop, this was the antithesis of the other bedrooms. The moonlight was shining through the tattered curtains, making it easy to see the crib, playpen with toys still scattered around, as though a small child was still there, ready to play with them again that very night, and the colorful murals all over the walls. A decrepit mobile still hung above the crib, but what hung on it made her have to take a second look. Was that a hand? A fleshy, decayed hand? And a tongue? What else was that? Whatever it was, it was too disgusting and too decayed for her to tell. She squeaked, too scared to even scream properly, and left that room, forgetting to shut the door behind her. At first, as she stood in the vestibule and caught her breath, she realized what those things must really be: Adrienne playing tricks on her. Of course! Addie had always hated her and had a flair for the dramatic. That was probably cow’s blood on the bed, and props on the mobile. That little, conniving bitch! Glancing at the closed door to the son’s bedroom, she decided against opening it. Were a vagabond hiding in there, good for them. She could not handle seeing any more blood. She was going to get it when Elisa got into the office the next morning. Elisa walked back to the study, wiping her eyes from stray tears. Sure, she hadn’t been the nicest girl in school, but how on Earth did she deserve this? How could Adrienne be so cruel? She dusted off the wooden chair that still looked sturdy enough to sit in and doused it with the alcohol she had brought with her. When it was suitably clean, she sat down in it and turned it to face the bookshelf. She needed to calm down before she gave herself an anxiety attack from the mingled fear, anger, and adrenaline rush. Elisa had only seven more hours to go before she could clear out. She was supposed to sleep in a bedroom, but that was never going to happen. The study would be fine, and no one would be the wiser. She began to peruse the books, many of which were in German or Latin. She only spoke English and remedial Spanish. Some of the books were downright creepy. A lot of Lovecraft. Poetry that, when she tried reading it, gave her the creeps so badly she put the book back. Books on mythology, theology, and dark magic. She had no idea what some of these books were referencing, but she got the idea that they were not exactly bedtime stories. She touched one to get a better look at the title and saw it had something to do with summoning demons. She got so scared she dropped the book. There was no way Adrienne planted these. They were too old. She finally found a book she could read — Carmilla — and settled into the chair with a sigh. This would take up some time until she was too tired to hold her head up. She trained her flashlight to the page and began to read. She got a few chapters in when her flashlight began to flicker. After slapping it against her palm a few times, it died completely, and she let out a string of curses that would rival the oldest sailors. That damn Adrienne. She had given her those candles, too, as if she knew this would happen. Elisa dug blindly into her purse and finally found the package of candles. When she opened them, they scattered, and she could only barely get her hands on one of them. She lit the candle and sighed, as its feeble light was not good enough to read by, nor would it help her find the other candles she dropped. She reached into her bag again to find her iPod when she heard something that did not sound right. She heard tinkling music in the distance. She cocked her head, listening harder. Maybe it was a car from the street. As she kept listening, she realized that no adult would be blasting “Rock-A-Bye Baby” in their car like it was Metallica loud enough for her to hear it fairly clearly in the house. That was more like something a parent would play for a fussy baby, or have a hanging mobile play for them. She swallowed around a lump in her throat and decided to go and see what the Hell Adrienne had done to scare her now. How she must hate her to have planned something so elaborate. Taking her candle, she crept down the hall and, sure enough, the song was coming from the nursery. How predictable, she thought. She slowly opened the door wider and saw that the grotesque mobile was indeed turning by itself, playing that classic lullaby about a baby falling to its death. There was no one else in the room, so Elisa assumed it had been turned on by remote or something like that. She reached over and touched the mobile, but was confused when she saw nothing but the music box inside of the center. No Wi-Fi adapter, no electronic light blinking, and no timer. Nothing. Now, as she was face-to-appendage with the mobile, she could smell the sweet-sour decay of the hand in front of her, and she quickly stepped back before she got sick again. Sweat coated her skin and fear crept back down her spine. If this wasn’t automatic, who had started it up? She was staring at it, unable to tear her eyes away from the slowly turning body parts. From behind, she heard the toys rustling and a Jack-in-the-box started playing. She moaned in fear, but still held out hope that it was Adrienne trying to get her back for stealing her boyfriend five years ago. The toys were now still, but the Jack popped up; the clown was decrepit, with eyes missing and a smile so sinister it made her hate clowns even more than she already did. After the Jack stopped its side-to-side momentum, she heard the high-pitched giggle of a baby. “Nice try, Adrienne,” she said, trying to make her voice sound clear and unafraid. “You can come out now. The game is over. Okay? You win. I was scared. I am scared. So give up and let me go home, please!” Her voice failed her as tears started to stream down her face. She had never been so scared in her life as she was in that house. From the darkest corner of the playpen, she saw something move, and she walked closer with her candle held aloft to see better. Whatever it was, its eyes were glowing white, and it was slowly coming closer to her. There was another giggle. Closer, closer, ’til it hit the moonlight. It was then the thing was fully revealed to Elisa. It was a baby. Or, it was once. It was wearing a tattered onesie, stained with blood. The baby’s skin was mottled white with a greenish cast. The whites of its eyes were pitch black, and only the irises were glowing an unearthly white. It was giggling through a mouth filled with tiny, razor-sharp teeth. A split tongue like a snake peeked out as it licked its lips. Elisa tried to laugh. “Funny, Adrienne. Where did you get this? The movie prop shop they opened last month?” Despite the fact that it was not moving like anything mechanical, Elisa knew it had to be. No way was this real. This had Adrienne’s stink all over it. She crept closer to the giggling thing. It had a wisp of hair on its head like a real baby would have. Its nails were stained with blood, and she could see blood on its fangs, too. “Hungry ... ” Did that thing just say it was hungry? Elisa felt pee run down her leg, but she had to show a brave face. She reached out with her left hand, the one not holding the candle, and went to touch it, to prove to herself that it was a toy. She had done something similar when her dad had found a dead snake in their backyard; he made her touch it to make her realize that it would not be able to hurt her. She reached out achingly slowly with one finger and went to tap the toy’s nose. The head popped up, and the mouth widened. She felt a sharp pain as the teeth latched onto her finger and ripped it off with a grisly, wet crunch. She screamed and reeled back in pain, her stump of a pointer finger spouting blood. She fell back against the wall beneath the window, dropping the candle. It died out, but the moonlight was strong, and it was enough to see the baby crawl to her, munching on her stolen finger. The stump throbbed and burned as the wound was wide open. “Hungry,” it said, sounding like “hungwy.” Baby talk. It was eating her, and talking baby talk. She screamed and tried to scramble away, but the baby was faster now that it had had a taste of her. It crawled up her leg like a giant slug in its onesie and sank its fangs into her thigh, tearing her jeans and breaking the skin. It felt like two dozen hot needles in her flesh. She tried to bat it away, but it bit her hand, tearing off a large part of the palm. It did so slowly, so that she could feel the tugging and tearing of her skin as it was ripped away to be devoured. It crawled up to her stomach, digging its fangs into the soft flesh and muscle. All she knew for a few moments after that was the agony of a slow, painful torture. Afterward, she didn’t feel a damn thing ever again. * * * Adrienne stood outside the house the next morning, watching the coroner bring out a body bag filled with the mortal remains of Elisa Walker. She was holding her rosary and stroking it absently. “Tell me the truth, did you know?” She looked up at the sound of the voice. “I knew there was something. That couple had heard the mobile before they hightailed it outta there. I did some research on the family. They practiced dark arts. They called a demon, but it came in the form of their baby. Their spell backfired after the baby ate them all and took up residence in the house, preying on those who came into its domain.” Drew Foley, Elisa’s high school sweetheart and the man she had stolen from Adrienne all those years ago, shook his head. “I can’t say I’m sorry. She was a terrible person.” “Took you long enough to figure that out,” Adrienne pointed out. “So, did the production company you work for sign the papers?” He nodded. “They’re gonna use this house as a prop for their next movie. They’ll burn it down like it should have been burnt long ago.” Adrienne looked up at the window to the baby’s room. It was splattered with fresh blood. “I doubt even that will kill it.” He shook his head. “It might. Evil can’t survive forever.” “True,” Adrienne agreed. “Look at how young Elisa went. It’s just too bad you didn’t go with her.”  Lily Luchesi is the USA Today bestselling and award-winning author of the Paranormal Detectives Series.
Her young adult Coven Series has successfully topped Amazon's Hot New Releases list consecutively. She is also the founder of Partners in Crime Book Services, where she offers a myriad of services, including editing. They were born in Chicago, Illinois, where many of their stories are set. Ever since she was a toddler, her mother noticed her tendency for being interested in all things "dark". At two they became infatuated with vampires and ghosts, and that infatuation turned into a lifestyle. She is also an out member of the LGBT+ community. When not writing, she's going to rock concerts, getting tattooed, watching the CW, or reading comics and manga. And drinking copious amounts of coffee. Lily also writes contemporary books for adults as Samantha Calcott, and dark/taboo romance as S.L. Sinclair http://facebook.com/lilyluchesi  1) Tell us about your book Breadcrumbs and Glass Coffins is my retelling of Hansel and Gretel from the viewpoint of the witch. It sets up her tragic backstory and what led her to go after the children. There are some very dark elements in it. 2) What made you start writing horror? I've always loved horror movies and spooky stories. They can really affect a reader and stay with them long after. Most of my stories lean toward the dark anyway, but horror stories are fun to write. 3) Who are your favorite horror writers? I love Stephen King, Susan Hill and Anne Rice. I like ghost stories and horror stories that make you think as opposed to gory horror. 4) What is next for you? I am working on finishing up a witch series and I have a few short stories to write for anthologies. I love writing for anthologies because it gives me the chance to write something different.  Kat Gracey writes urban fantasy and paranormal romance novels featuring her two favorite supernatural beings - witches and werewolves.
She currently resides in the UK, where she enjoys yoga and catching up on her favorite shows. You can learn more about her books via her website: |
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About the Author:S. K. Gregory is an author, editor and blogger. She currently resides in Northern Ireland. “Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.” 
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