#original horror

[splatterzine]

The time has come to take a bite!

SPLATTER PAINTING - an original zine inspired by 80s slashers, brings you a look at a small town with a nasty past, and an undead killer who can't let it go. Multiple stellar writers bringing you a collaborative story, given life by a team of incredible artists. 🔪🔪🔪

You can now preorder a physical copy (and be eligible for stretch goal merch) - RIGHT HERE ON OUR STORE!

[morvantmortuary]

speaking of rising again —

(watch this space)

[sixty-silver-wishes]

Original short story- The Door

Kelsey sat down at the table, doing her best not to wrinkle her new skirt. In front of her was a plate of food, reassuringly simple, yet just alien enough for her to approach it with trepidation- a cooked chicken breast crusted with golden-brown breading, heaped with a generous helping of parmesan cheese on top and served with a side of steamed asparagus and halved miniature potatoes. 

“To celebrate your visit, I made your favorite,” her sister Erica said, seated at the opposite end of the table with a fork in hand. “Mom’s chicken parmesan.”

“It smells delicious,” Kelsey said, and began to cut into the chicken breast with her knife, the breading crunching slowly as it gave way to the blade. It’s not Mom’s chicken parmesan, though, she thought. It’s Erica’s chicken parmesan. 

“So,” Erica said in between bites of chicken, “how has college been?”

Kelsey sighed, communicating all her sister needed to know in one exasperated breath. The knife clattered on the edge of her plate. “It’s been a lot,” she said. 

“You’re majoring in economics, right?”

“Business,” Kelsey clarified.

Erica gave her an approving nod. “Business,” she repeated, and gestured to a pitcher on the table. “Lemonade?”

“Sure,” Kelsey answered, and Erica poured her a tall glass, slender lemon slices bobbing delicately underneath a layer of finely crushed ice. “How have you been?”

Erica put a manicured finger up, signaling that she still had chicken in her mouth. She swallowed. “I’ve been good,” she finally said. “I’ve got a few gigs coming up, so I’ve been busy.”

“Right,” Kelsey nodded. “You’re still playing piano.”

“I’m booked for three weddings this week,”  Erica answered, pointing her fork towards Kelsey. “And I teach childrens’ classes on the weekends. And next week, I’m accompanying the community theatre actors for their auditions. They’re doing Les Miserables in the spring.”

“Oh,” Kelsey said. “I’ll have to come back to see it if I’m free.” She poked again at the chicken that Erica had made. It smelled like their mother’s old recipe, but the color seemed off somehow. Perhaps Erica hadn’t used all the right spices, or she’d let the chicken cook for too long, or maybe she hadn’t let it cook for long enough.

That piano should have been mine, Kelsey thought. After all, she was the one who had begged their mother to let her take lessons back when she was eight, and her younger sister, ever the copycat, had insisted on learning, too. At first, it was fun- they learned to play Christmas songs together, and even tried writing their own music. But as they grew older, Kelsey spent less and less time at the keys of the piano, and more and more time on the keys of her laptop. There was no money to be found in playing the piano, she decided. She forgot how to sight read sheet music, and grew to hate the sound of Erica practicing Beethoven and Liszt from the other room. She’d never learned to play anything by Liszt before. By the time both of them moved out, Kelsey was all too glad to let Erica take the piano with her when she’d asked for it; the old thing wouldn’t fit in her apartment, anyway, and even if she still knew how to play it, the noise would certainly annoy the neighbors. She told herself to be happy for Erica and her music career, but couldn’t shake the feeling that, if things had turned out differently, that career could be her own.

She probably isn’t making much, anyway, she thought. That’s why she has all those gigs. I feel sorry for her, really.

Erica had finished her chicken, and had started on the potatoes. Kelsey had once again put down her fork.

If Erica wasn’t making much money playing piano, she realized, her living space certainly said the opposite. The apartment was modest, but clean and well-furnished. A vase of fresh flowers stood on the table between them, and the kitchen behind them was equipped with a bar counter, where a bottle of good wine was arranged next to a bowl of fruit and a pine-scented candle. A painting of a bucolic cottage scene hung in a frame on the wall of the nearby living room, where a small gray kitten dozed on an armchair in front of a muted television set. In the living room, with a vase of flowers hung on a hook in front of it, was a white door with a brass handle.

Kelsey picked up her fork again, but seemed to forget it was in her hand as she craned her neck past Erica, trying to get a closer look at the door. She couldn’t tell what kinds of flowers were in the vase, or if they were real or fake, but she could make out an arrangement of red and yellow blooms, dotted with small blue clusters.

 At first glance, the door itself didn’t seem like much. It looked like any other door in Erica’s apartment- all were the same shade of white, and had the same round brass handles, which were about the shape and size of an orange. Four rectangular panels were carved into it, although the bottom halves of the top two were obscured by the vase of flowers. The grain of the wood, however, was what caught Kelsey’s attention. It snaked in thin, hypnotic lines around the door, running up and down in concentrated furrows along the sides. A few knots whirled in the wooden surface like ivory galaxies, circling into hurricane-shaped patterns that invited a few miniature maelstroms of chaos into the rest of Erica’s orderly house.

“Erica,” Kelsey asked, “where does that door go?”

“What door?” Erica responded.

Kelsey pointed with her fork. “That one,” she said, “with the flowers over it.”

Erica glanced behind her. Kelsey was certain she noticed the door. Then, she went back to calmly spearing a potato. 

“These need salt, don’t you think?” she asked. “Mom never wanted us putting salt on the potatoes, because she always said they were already salted. But I don’t think mine are salty enough.”

“I suppose not,” Kelsey answered, and sipped her lemonade. It was tart. Not enough sugar.

“I’m sorry,” Erica said, a note of genuine sorrow in her voice. “I wanted to make your favorite food for you.”

It was never my favorite, Kelsey thought. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, once again cutting into her chicken. “I think you did a great job.”

Erica glanced down at Kelsey’s plate, where the chicken was cut into pieces, but not yet eaten at all. “Thank you,” she said. 

Kelsey felt her stomach twist, and looked back at the door, following the whorls in the grain with her eyes. “Where does the door go?” she asked again. “It must go somewhere.”

“After we eat,” Erica said, “do you want to go out? There’s supposed to be a new bar about ten minutes from here; it’s right next to Tall Tales. You remember Tall Tales, right?”

“Yeah,” Kelsey said, her voice distant. “The used bookstore.” She blinked; the patterns in the door appeared to shift.

“You used to love Tall Tales,” Erica reminisced, with a smile on her face. “You’d always make us wait for hours there while you and Dad looked through all the books.”

Kelsey stood up, once again dropping her fork. This time, it landed on the floor with a light clatter.

“Don’t worry,” Erica said. “I’ll pick that up.” As she went around the table, reaching for the fork, Kelsey began to walk towards the door in the living room. The tiny hurricanes had eyes; she was sure of it. One of them even blinked. 

Erica took the fork to the kitchen sink to wash it, and Kelsey put a hand on the door handle, attempting to twist it open. However, it wouldn’t budge. She tried both hands, still to no avail.

“I don’t mean to rush you,” Erica said as she rinsed the fork off. “We can finish dinner first.”

Kelsey felt around the frame of the door, the grain rolling in crests and troughs under her fingertips. “Is there a key?” she asked.

Erica looked up from the sink, turning it off. The noise of the sudden cease of flowing water made Kelsey turn her head like a bloodhound on a scent, and she noticed- perhaps with satisfaction- that Erica’s face at last looked pale and panicked, hilariously out of place in her curated kitchen, with its stately wine bottles and cheerful, plump lemons arranged in cream-colored shallow bowls. The sight of her wide eyes and open mouth in her pale face, set against the orderliness of her surroundings, made Kelsey laugh.

“There’s nothing back there,” Erica said. 

Kelsey laughed again- a sharp, cruel bark. “Why would there be nothing back there?” she asked. “Apartments don’t have doors that lead to nothing.”

“It’s- it’s just storage,” Erica answered. 

Kelsey stroked the door slowly, feeling the hurricanes swirl under her fingertips. The eyes in the grain- there were definitely eyes- fixed themselves upon her with adoration, infatuation- maybe even hunger. 

Storage, she had said. 

What was the storage that Erica so adamantly kept behind this maddening piece of wood? What could Erica possibly have to store? 

That, Kelsey realized, must have been why the apartment was so infuriatingly clean- Erica must have hoarded all sorts of mess behind this door. Mess that she wouldn’t allow into the rest of her house, or into her life. Stacks upon stacks of Liszt and Scriabin, gathering dust as oversized gray mice chewed their way through the concertos and sonatas of the great masters and marked the sheet music with staccato droppings. Piles of garish theatre costumes, all rhinestones and matted wigs and tawdry lace, the bloody remains of chickens littering the floor in piles of feathers and flesh still stuck to a mountain of bones, potatoes overgrown with their tendril shoots and asparagus jutting out from the floor, pitchers of rotting lemons in piss-yellow fluid that reeked of burning pine, a filthy old wedding dress coming apart at the seams with the bride’s desiccated body sewn up inside. 

But there were other things Erica locked behind that door, certainly- things that were far more horrifying than what Kelsey knew to be there. Stacked up to the ceiling in sealed cardboard boxes, packed tight with styrofoam and bubble wrap, were all of Erica’s failures, stuffed to the brim until they were leaking out the sides. All of her insecurities, all of her heartbreak, all of the impossibilities she hadn’t been able to easily overcome were crammed in there- that was why there was no evidence of them in her house.

 And behind that door, too, was something that should have belonged to Kelsey- perhaps nestled in a beautiful music box somewhere, or in the pages of Liszt, or under the floorboards, or in the pile of chicken bones, or in the eye socket of the decaying bride, were Kelsey’s dreams. Kelsey’s success in what she’d wanted to do since the very beginning, Kelsey’s adoration from their mother, Kelsey’s vindication that she had chosen the right career path, Kelsey’s years that had been wasted away in the monotony of business classes, Kelsey’s happiness and entire life that should have been ahead of her.

“Tall Tales will be open for just another hour; we can make it if we’re ready in time…” Erica’s voice came, distant and shaky and far away. Kelsey felt a hand tap at her shoulder as she pressed herself against the door, scratching at the wood as hard as she could, hearing the hiss and screech of the eyeballs in the grain as she dug her fingernails into them. But the door wouldn’t budge, and Erica was there, right behind her…

The vase was surprisingly heavy in her hands. Kelsey yanked it off the hook on the door, feeling its weight pull down on her muscles. The flowers inside fell to the ground, spilling out around her.

“Kelsey, what are you-” Erica gasped. 

Her sister lifted the vase above her head, took a long, deep breath, and swung it about in a furious, vengeful arc.

[thesightstoshowyou]

The Favorite

A Sights Original

Alien OC x GN human reader

Warnings: Violence, blood, gore, torture, mild suggestive language, foul language, minor character death, firearm use

~~

Fat raindrops from the recent storm drip from the open rear ambulance doors, pattering onto the bumper. A few find your head, wetting your hair and slipping down the back of your neck. They’re warm, as always. This is the muggiest damn planet you’ve ever visited.

Your hands are busy closing up supply bags and rearranging medications. Two, four, six—you count wraps, bandages, dressings. Up in the cab, Senaly—your partner for today’s shift—rests his long, curling limbs for the remainder of his break. Overhead, purple clouds roll and thunder rumbles, threatening more rain.

You’re about to close the doors when a sharp clack sounds to your left. Startled, you gasp and jump back, turning in time to see long, silver claws wrapping around the edge of the hatch. Shortly after, a shark-toothed, grinning face peers around the door at you.

Clutching your chest in relief, your breath leaves you in a hiss, “Fuck, Kaze, you scared the shit out of me.” Kaze merely chuckles in that dry, rasping hack you’ve come to understand as laughter.

“It’s alright Senaly,” you say, holding up your hand when your coworker unfurls from his seat, alarmed by your gasp. “I know him.” Senaly gives a trill of annoyance and falls back into his seat.

The rest of Kaze’s lanky form slinks from behind the door, all 6’5 of him. You guess he’d be nearly seven feet tall if he stood up straight. His gray skin is wet from the rain, taking on a sheen in the low, lavender light. As always, your eyes are automatically drawn to the thick, pale scar running from the crown of his head to just above his right eye. At his sides, long, lean arms and spindly fingers equipped with threatening three inch claws noisily click together as Kaze pops his knuckles.

When you finally meet his gaze, black eyes glinting with mirth, his face splits into a wider grin to reveal pointed black teeth. “My favorite human!” he exclaims, voice deep and impossibly gravelly as he slouches onto the bumper next to you. The dark spines curving along his back jut out further when he slumps. You count four with the tips broken off.

“How is it you always manage to find me when I’m working?” You cross your arms as you speak, leaning back against the opposite door.

“Just lucky,” he lies, flashing you a crooked smirk. The chunk missing from his top lip is more obvious at this angle. You respond with an unimpressed hum as your eyes rove over his form. You search for the wound. Kaze usually only finds you at work when he’s injured—

“Holy hell,” you murmur, finally noticing the blood pooling on the ground; black, like ichor. Kaze’s blood.

You rush forward, hands hovering as you hastily scan…. There, under his collarbone. His shirt is torn, the color of the fabric initially hiding his dark blood.

Gloves squeak as you pull them on before fiddling with the ties of his top. Kaze heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Fuckers ruined my shirt. Don’t they know I have to get these special ordered?” You shoot him an exasperated look but say nothing, focusing instead on your task.

You don’t know what Kaze does. You’re not sure you want to know. You guess it’s illegal as he never allows you to take him to the hospital.

Once, when he’d shown up drenched in blood that wasn’t his own, you’d considered notifying the authorities. Transmitter in hand, your trembling finger hovered over the button, brain screaming at you to push, he’s dangerous, he’s killed….

Yet, the urge had passed and you’d hung up the radio. Against your better judgement, you’d fixed him up as usual.

Kaze was from a Death World, like you. Class Six Planets—the Federation’s highest classification for hazardous worlds—are largely considered inhospitable, perilous, fit for only the most barbaric of beings. You think that’s why he’d approached you in the first place, and the same reason that stayed your hand. You understand each other on a level most beings cannot.

You peel away the torn half of Kaze’s top. The wide puncture wound in his chest bleeds freely, inky blood now starkly contrasted by the gray of his skin. You press a wad of dressings to the injury, holding pressure as you prepare the sterilizing solution.

Kaze quietly watches you work, pitch black eyes following every shift of expression. You pretend not to notice the way his lips twitch as he intently studies you. You tell yourself it’s not hunger in his gaze.

Ignorance is bliss, ignorance is bliss….

You don’t bother warning him when you dab the wound with antiseptic. He knows the drill well enough by now he doesn’t even flinch. Next come the sutures; you keep a kit or two hidden in the vehicle specifically for Kaze. His flesh requires a stronger thread than most beings you treat.

He breathes harshly though nostril slits when you push the needle through his skin. No anesthetic—he’d made that clear the first time you’d sewn him up. Apparently you also know the drill.

“Anywhere else?” you ask, snipping off the excess thread, gaze assessing his scarred skin. Kaze gives you a thoughtful hum and you raise your head to fix him with a questioning stare.

“I can think of a few places,” he murmurs, black tongue swiping across the sharp points of his teeth. Your eyes widen a fraction, throat suddenly too dry. Acute awareness of how close you are—your hips wedged between his thighs, the deep rumble of his voice felt in your own chest—hits you hard and your stomach drops, heart stuttering in your chest.

“Um—

It’s all you manage to push from your mouth before the echoing POP, POP, POP, POP interrupts you. Glass shatters, windows collapse around you in a flurry of shards and you’re rolling, tumbling sideways, bowled over by the protective cage of Kaze’s arms. He jerks you to the side, both of you crashing into the supply cabinets, and then he’s gone, leaping up off your stunned frame and disappearing around the battered ambulance door.

You move to sit up, but pain explodes along your side. With a cry, you fall back, gloved hands clutching your gut. They come away red as more nauseating agony stabs above your hip.

Bullet. It’s a bullet. You’ve been shot.

You tip your head back, searching for Senaly, the word ‘help’ on your lips. Your voice dies in your throat when you spot the damaged limbs of your partner lying eerily still. It’s a stillness reserved only for death, one you know well.

“Shit, shit—

You’re interrupted once more, this time by a rasping tune, crooned in time with slow footfalls and the harsh slide of fabric on hardened ground.

There’s a weird gurgle and a pathetic cry and Kaze appears once more, green gore splattered across his face. Behind him, he drags someone, and your eyes widen in horror when you realize Kaze’s massive claws pierce the being’s wide jaw, their hands scrabbling for purchase along Kaze’s wrist to ease the pressure.

Kaze spots you clutching your side, anguish twisting your features, and sighs irritably. “Look what you did,” he says to the being in his clutches, motioning to you. The victim emits another gurgle, the sound morphing into a wet scream when Kaze lifts, raising them clean off the ground until their limbs flail.

A shocked shriek tears from your throat when Kaze draws his free arm back and plunges his claws deep in the belly of the one you now understand to be the shooter. The muscles of Kaze’s arm pull taught and shift under his skin as he twists his wrist, the creature in his grip only able to drip and twitch.

“You messed up my favorite human,” Kaze explains calmly before ripping his hand free. Innards, green and slimy, follow quickly in its wake, slapping against the ground in a disgusting heap. You can’t look away, eyes wide, unblinking, stomach churning, heart hammering.

Dead…. They’re dead. Kaze just killed them right there in front of you like it was nothing.

A sharp crack and snap break the stunned silence as the being’s jaw rips away from their face, the weight of their body too great. They fall to the ground—squelch, thud—and you’re left staring at the exposed jawbone still impaled on dripping claws.

Face wrinkling in disgust, Kaze flicks the offending flesh away before stepping over the mangled corpse to approach. Hastily, you attempt to scoot away, but must freeze in place when stabbing pain wracks your body.

Kaze grins at the little hurt sound you emit. He reaches over top of you, digging around in a cabinet before producing a fresh bottle of antiseptic. Unceremoniously, he pops the top and dumps the liquid over his gory claws, leisurely cleaning each finger like he has all the time in the world.

“This the first time you’ve been shot?” he questions nonchalantly, surgical rag scrubbing his skin clean. Incredulously, you stare.

“Yes!” you spit, wincing with the effort. A raspy chortle is his only reply. Kaze examines his claws, twisting and turning them this way and that so they catch the light and gleam. Your lip curls, anger momentarily taking the place of fear.

“Are you going—agh—going to take me to a hospital or what?” you demand. He owes you this, at least, after everything you’ve done for him. You can feel your bloodied shirt sticking to your skin, the crimson puddle beneath you growing with every passing second.

“Lemme see,” he orders, smacking your hands aside to assess your wound. You try to push him away, but Kaze easily captures your wrists in one hand, effortlessly holding you in place as he lifts your shirt.

“Kaze, stop—

“Hmm, I don’t think it’s very deep. Must have ricocheted.” Is he talking to you or himself?

“T-That’s great. Can you please—

Kaze interrupts you yet again, lifting one, menacing claw to silence you. Black eyes flick to yours, the corner of his mouth curling up in a sly smirk when he meets your panicked gaze.

Once again, you realize how close he is; his legs are nestled between yours this time as he hovers over you. There’s fear in your chest, terror he’s going to sink that talon into your insides like he just did to that poor creature heaped on the ground. There are butterflies there too, awkward and warm despite your dire situation. That moment is fleeting, however, shy tension replaced by white hot agony when Kaze digs his claw into your wound.

Your scream rattles the interior of the ambulance. Desperately, you try to jerk your arms out of his iron grip, but it’s fruitless; he doesn’t even budge. His gaze is focused on your bleeding side, finger lazily rooting around in your gut as he searches for the slug.

“KAZE, KAZE STOP, PLEASE, STOP!” you wail, another wave of nausea and wretched anguish overtaking your senses. He says nothing, or nothing you can hear over your tortured cries.

Suddenly, your voice cuts out, vision blurring at the edges, thrashing legs dropping and stilling against the bumper. At the same moment, bloodied metal comes into your shrinking view, pinched between two claws.

“Found it—oh we’ve lost ‘em.” Kaze announces in feigned remorse as your head falls back onto the floor with a quiet thunk. Carefully, he pockets the bullet, then slips his arms under your unconscious form. Easily lifting you from the vehicle, Kaze steps over the shredded body once more before sauntering off down the street, humming a tune.

Overhead, thunder rumbles.

[holycatsandrabbits]

Coming May 1, 2024: I'm thrilled to say my horror story "Unknown to Science" will appear in Allegory Magazine!

A fame-hungry scientist unwisely uses her girlfriend’s psychic abilities to study the deaths of prehistoric monsters, including our friend Dunkelosteus, shown above.

Allegory is a Biannual Online Magazine of SF, Fantasy & Horror, and this issue will be free to read on the site for 6 months.

DannyeChase.com ~ AO3 ~ Linktree ~ Weird Wednesday writing prompts blog ~ Resources for Writers

Image credit

[thehushedcasket]

Vitruvian mimic

[dismalia]

INKMalia 2022: Day 2 - Scurry

“Demon critters have infested the hollows of their shielding citadel.

They crawl in from beneath the stone bridges of the wasteland, down to the gutter of Phobos. Dorris handles the extermination of these vermin by blessing them in burning blood.”

[splatterzine]

Time for a horror treat - read Splatter Painting for free!

Download the zine, the 40+ page side zine with extra stories and sketches, and three wallpapers on itch.

Happy Halloween, horror fans!

[sidhewrites]

25 -- the power of ADHD is going to help save the day! Just 2 more chapters to go

Project Info

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

My legs pump hard beneath me. I feel Magnus' delight in a strong, physical body with toned muscles able to be pushed to their limit. My calves start to burn, and a new wave of terror hits as I realize where he's taking me.

There's an elevator shaft up ahead. Rusted iron bars catch what little light is left from my phone screen, but there's nothing but void where the cage should be. I imagine the ground falling away beneath my feet, the air rushing past as I fall -- god knows how far.

I can't help it. I think of the sound that would be made when my body lands.

My legs would hit first, snapping entirely. Then the momentum would carry me forward, and I'd trip over myself, landing hard on my face.

I'd probably lose my nose. Crack the bones around my eyes. Bite off my tongue and lose some teeth.

Would my spine snap? Would I break my neck?

I could only hope so.

The alternative is worse. Lying there on the damp ground, in the silence, nothing but my own pain and this asshole in my head to keep me company as my phone battery drains out and I die from bleeding out -- or, worse, dehydration.

The fear gives me enough strength to work my mouth and get out a single word: "Please--"

"Shut up," my mouth says, and Magnus snaps my teeth together.

Something in me snaps when he says it. How dare he? How dare he worm his way in through my bones and use the air in my lungs? How dare he use my hands and my mouth? And for what -- a bit of quiet? A sad grasp at revenge against the world?

I think about Lucy. I think about her unending curiosity. Her love for mischief. Her desire to experience everything she can, no matter how limited her world has become.

I think about her smile.

I think about her hand in mine.

I almost kissed her tonight.

How dare he take that away from me.

More than my fear, my anger breaks through. I twist my foot, and the next step lands wrong. My body goes sprawling, but I can handle a few scrapes on my already wounded hands. What's worse is the phone, clattering away somewhere. I heard glass break, and the light went out. The darkness doesn't hesitate to close in.

Magnus curses, and fights to get my hands under me, to push my body up from the ground. I spit back with all the venom I can, and throw myself off balance. My body flies to the side, landing hard against the uneven ground, and I feel new scrapes open up. It doesn't matter, because as soon as Magnus gets oriented, he rolls my body over and gets my hands under me again.

It takes a moment for me to be able to react physically, and he has me up on my feet. I spin in place, disorienting us both.

"Be still," he spits with my mouth, and runs my nails down my stomach. My nails are dirty and dull, but he presses hard enough to hurt anyway.

"Kaz!" Lucy's voice echoes down the stone [corridor].

Magnus tries to keep me still, but I manage to open my jaw. I can't work my tongue, so I just let out a long, wordless yell.

"Down this way!"

I see the first hint of light at a junction too far away, and the hope distracts me enough that Magnus realizes we're facing the wrong way. He turns me on my heel, and begins to run again. I feel every scrape and bruise slowing my body down, and I let myself mourn the following week of pain just for a second.

But they're so close. Lucy and Josie are right there.

I just need to slow him down.

"If you kill me," I growl, "You'll only damn yourself."

"I said be still--" He snaps my jaw shut, but I force it back open.

The words come out shapeless and sloppy, but he doesn't need me to speak clearly to know my thoughts. "What makes a ghost, Magnus? Unfinished business. Violent deaths. Anger and pain."

He stumbles, but doesn't fall. He slaps my face.

I keep going. "I'll be down there with you. Pissing you off. Making noise. Bothering you, forever."

"Silent, woman!"

"I've never been very good at that."

I fill his head with all the stupid shit that runs through my head any given moment. Pointless, aimless thoughts. Squirrels, old commercial jingles, embarrassing memories from ten years ago. I've never once known a moment of quiet in my own damn head, and I'll make sure he knows the pain.

I feel his confusion and anger at the sudden onslaught of disjointed thoughts and half-formed ideas, and it slows him down even more.

Josie's flashlight is growing brighter behind me, filling the tunnel with a dim but steady light.

Come on, I beg, not caring if he can hear my thoughts as loudly as his own. I was never trying to hide what I was doing.

"Stupid child," Magnus says, and drags my body further still. I know the pain is starting to get to him, but he's too close to his goal to give up now. I feel his determination, oily and cold in my chest, and he tries for one more burst of speed.

We near the elevator shaft. Just another hundred feet. Fifty. Thirty.

I manage to kick us over one more time, but even as we go sprawling, even as the impact slams my teeth together and blood fills my mouth, he drags my body back up and keeps going.

I can't help the fear that worms its way in through my anger again.

I'm going to die.

I'm going to die alone and cold.

"Fucker."

"You'll be silent soon enough."

One foot leaves the solid stone in the tunnel, and hangs in the air.

The other one lifts behind it.

Fat arms wrap around my waist, and Josie drags me back away from the edge. I'm stronger than her, but she has me beat in sheer size alone, and rolls over, pinning my body beneath her as Magnus kicks and screams.

"Kaz! Kaz are you in there?" she begs, forcing my arms down.

"Get off me!" Magnus spits, but the words come out slurred, mixed with my own. 

I can't manage much, but I get out a short, "Jesus fuck Christ!"

He's writhing too much, twisting my head back and forth, but I manage to see the relief on Josie's face. She nods to someone else. "Let's get this over with."

"Right," Lucy says, somewhere to my left.

Tag List

@adaughterofathena

@ambreeskyewriting

@carnelianflames

@feather-dancer

@halfbloodlycan

@nadunacreates

@serenanymph

@vigilantdesert

[sanityshorror]

LYNCH: Here's Killian!

MAY 1, 2023

Ready or not, here he comes!

LYNCH: Here's Killian! Is a three page comic to introduce the man himself before his first official story release! (Rated R)

Killian Lynch [the Man with the Scarred Neck] reference art and character information

[moremysteriesthantragedies]

Speaking of, go ahead and check out my works on Wattpad! Especially The Crimson Bride, now that it is completed:

Tag list: @caxycreations, @verba-writing, @profoundlyhauntedclaws, @perasperaadastrawriting

[ashintheairlikesnow]

I Knew Finn Schneider

For @whumptober 2022, day 31: “You can rest now.”

CW: Referenced noncon, pet whump, beating, blood, brief emeto, murder… the works. But this, my friends, is the light at the end of Finn’s tunnel.

Death Valley | Lüge | Welcome Home | Didn’t Make It | Dead Body | Why Me? | The Next One | That Was All | I Knew Finn Schneider |

-

Somewhere near Highland Peak in California, 2005

"Checking in?"

The young woman sitting at the desk was bright and cheerful, her voice more chirping than speech. Her thick black hair was pulled into a no-nonsense bun at the nape of her neck and she wore a plain navy sweater with a layered necklace made of brightly colorful beads and she had a pink glitter barrette at one temple, with some rhinestone stickers. 

She must have caught Finn looking, because she gave him a slight smile. "My little sister helped me get dressed today," She offered, and he tried to smile back. What did a normal smile look like? He wasn't sure if his was right. 

She didn't change expression, so he must have managed it. 

"Kids are great," Noah said, matching her cheer as he leaned forward on his elbows, carefully taking back her full attention. "I called and made a reservation this morning? Under Ransom?"

"Ransom, Ransom… that's some last name." She had an accent, Finn thought, her consonants soft, faintly rolling her r’s.

"Yeah, we like to joke my grandpa made it up." Noah grinned, sunny and shining. Charming. Finn watched them, distantly wondering if he would smile like that ever again. “He was maybe a little bit of a criminal.”

"Nice. You're Noah?"

"That's me."

"All right, room for two, got it." She stood up, humming to herself as she fiddled with the hotel keys. "Hope you don't mind, we still do things the old way. The owner just wants to keep it all historic, you know?" 

"Yeah, sure." Noah glanced sideways at Finn, who looked away. Afraid if he made eye contact, all of this would start to melt and he would wake up naked on Robert's bedroom floor. Or in his basement.

The movement made a paper on the check-in desk flutter and it caught his eye, freezing him in his tracks. 

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?

It was a blurry printed out still from a security video, a man walking with hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. 

It was Robert Weber. 

Even with his head ducked and a ball cap pulled low over his face - even with the photo so blurry Finn could see individual pixels - Finn knew the clothes he'd been wearing at the motel before he tied Finn up and went for breakfast, that first morning he’d been in hell. This looked like they had caught him leaving the restaurant, heading back for his truck. 

Heading back to murder the hotel worker while Finn watched, leave him bleeding on the floor while Robert dragged a weeping, dripping Finn to his truck. Robert was smiling in the photo - the edge of his turned-up lips just peeked out from beneath the brim of his cap. 

Excited, Finn thought with a flip of his stomach, knowing what he had waiting for him in the hotel.

Highland Peak Police, California State Police, and the FBI are looking for more information on a person of interest in the attempted murder of Kent Reyes on October 15th, 2003. A reward of $100,000 for information leading to an arrest is being offered by the Mountain Motel's owner, Charles Reston, with another $100,000 from Reston's company WRU. 

The individual stayed at Mountain Motel from October 14th, 2003, through October 15th. He is described as a white male, with a slim build, approximately 5'10", with dark hair and dark brown eyes, between the ages of 45 - 55. 

He drove a blue and white Ford F150 with the license plate V5G667R. 

Donations are being accepted for Kent Reyes's family. Ask at the desk about donating or mail checks to-

The words blurred as tears suddenly burned Finn's eyes. He blinked rapidly, wiping at his eyes and clearing his throat. 

"Are you okay, man?" The desk worker looked concerned, but Finn's throat had closed, his heart pounding. He tried to open his mouth. No sound came out. 

I’m sorry, it’s my fault, it’s my fault-

"Oh, man. Hey." Noah's sympathy was perfect, smoothly focused, and he turned to put a hand on Finn's shoulder, leaning in. Finn knew not to flinch, meeting Noah’s gaze through a blur of sudden tears. "Let’s get into our room, yeah? Sorry," He repeated over his shoulder to the woman. "I'm actually driving my friend home for a funeral. It’s rough.”

"Oh, I'm so sorry. We lost one of our staff recently-“

Finn nearly choked on his guilt. 

"My mother… my mother, actually. I mean, she had been sick for a long-… never mind, you don’t need to hear about my family problems.” She waved her hand, and Finn wondered with a jolt that felt like a blade in his ribs if his own mother was still healthy, if she had gotten sick and he hadn’t been there for her.

The desk worker was still talking.

“-plus, we had another just barely survive being attacked before that. I feel you.” She looked up at Finn – she was so short – and gave him a slight smile. “You be upset if you need to. It's just us, right? No problem. I’m right there with you some days. It doesn’t get easier, but it gets… it gets less heavy.”

What if the person who died is me? Does it get less heavy to mourn my own death?

"We appreciate that." Noah spoke before Finn could and squeezed Finn's shoulder once, hard, before he mercifully released his grip. He leaned over to look at the paper, briefly stilling at the image of Robert. Almost immediately, his friendly smile was back - never left, even - and he leaned over at her. "What's this about? Person of interest?”

She craned her neck, then sat back with a sigh. "Oh. That… our hotel manager, Kent. One of our staff… well. It's a hell of a story, but Kent was attacked and shot. He survived, barely, but he's still recovering."

Finn looked up sharply. "He survived?"

Noah shifted, and his fingers closed around Finn's wrist, not quite tight enough to hurt. Just a reminder that he wasn't supposed to talk unless he had to, to keep people from hearing his accent. He had to remind himself that Noah had promised that it would not be like it was with Robert, that he would live a different life now.

But the grip on his wrist made it hard to believe.

The desk worker's smile widened, a little. "He did. He's a hell of a fighter. He's doing physical therapy learning to walk again, he had to relearn… just everything. He has this goal of getting back to hiking by next winter, rock climbing the year after. He's amazing. The medical bills, though… well. I don't suppose you'd like to donate to help his family with the costs?"

Noah looked over at Finn. “What do you think? Should we donate?”

Finn thought of the hotel manager who had looked so worried for him, who had been about to go get him some help. Who, with a few more minutes, might have been able to save him. He gave the slightest, smallest nod, trying to plead with his eyes alone. 

Noah sighed, then turned back with his charming smile back in place. "Sure. Add fifty dollars? Will that do any good?"

"Every dollar helps, every single one. Thank you so much." She ran Noah's credit card and then handed over the little key dangling off a piece of plastic with a room number. The sound of metal made Finn a little sick, remembering it in Robert's hand. "Here you go. Room 14, ground floor. You'll get your printed final receipt under your door in the morning. Check-out is at 11, breakfast options are available beginning at 7 am but we clear them out around 10. If you need anything, just pick up your room phone and hit 0, it'll go straight to me." She pointed at her name tag. "I'm Martina Ramirez, you can call me Marty. The night manager will be in around six, her name is Melinda."

"Got it. Thanks!" Noah jerked his head at the door, and Finn started to move, automatically following orders, taking slow, careful steps to minimize his limp. 

"By the way-" Marty called out. Finn looked back, heart briefly in his throat. He felt Noah tense slightly beside him.

Marty gave him a soft, sympathizing smile. "I really am sorry for your loss. I’ve been missing my mom a lot these days, she loved this time of year up here.”

His mouth opened, closed again. He managed a half-whispered, "Thank you, I’m sure she’s proud of you," before following Noah the rest of the way out the door. 

He appreciated the sympathy, but she didn't know she was sympathizing with the death of Finn. 

They stepped back out into the warmth, and Noah took a breath, running a hand back through his hair. "Don't tell me I stopped at the same goddamn hotel. How the absolute hell did I manage that?”

It was the same one. Finn had known from the moment they came up the drive, the long and winding road. But it was… so hard to remember he had a voice. He kept feeling the straps of the muzzle, the pressure over his nose, as if it had never been removed. He hadn’t remembered how to speak in time to say anything about it. "Yeah," He tried, then winced as it came out like yah, unintentionally heavy with his accent. "You did."

"Fuck. Okay. Uh, well." Noah looked over at him, fiddling with the hotel key in his hands. The clinking metal and plastic would drive Finn crazy if it didn’t stop soon. "Can you handle it? We can keep going for a while?"

Finn's eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

"I want you to feel safe. Can you feel safe here?" 

The words were all words he knew, but the combination baffled him. "You are… asking me?"

"Yeah. I am. Hey." Noah turned to look at him, and Finn went still, waiting for the screaming, the spit in his face, the terror. Instead, Noah paused, and then said in a low voice, "I promise you, this is not to hurt you. I am not going to hurt you."

"Yes… yes, sir." Finn didn't believe him, but Noah only sighed, glancing at the window to see if the hotel worker was watching them. Marty was on the phone, and it made Finn’s heart go cold. What if she knew, somehow? What if she was calling someone?

What if-

"You know what?” Noah sighed. “Let's just go to our room. We can talk more there." Noah walked to his truck, pulling two duffel bags out of the back, tossing one to Finn, who just barely caught it. He limped more with it in his arms throwing off his balance, but Noah didn't seem to notice. Finn trailed him to the fourteenth door, painted green with gold numbers. With a turn of the key, they stepped inside. 

Finn felt his stomach twist at the familiar scent of lemon cleaning products – the same ones Robert used – closing his eyes and swallowing back the pile that threatened to rise even as a cold shiver went down his back. Still… there was no smell of decay and death beneath, and it helped him take one deep breath and then another, through his mouth, stepping into the dim space. 

Two queen beds, side by side with a small cheap table between them. A phone, a lamp, a TV on a low dresser and the door to a bathroom at the end. Basic, comfortable, and clean. Finn's hands shook and he dug them into the sides of the black leather duffel bag to hide it. 

"You can have the first shower, I'll go later." Noah set his bag on the bedspread and unzipped it, pulling out a thin t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, red and black against the cool pine green comforter. He glanced up at Finn still standing in the open doorway, staring inside "Listen… if this is too hard for you, we can still go somewhere else-"

"It is fine." Finn stepped forward and shut the door with one foot, pretending he didn’t almost lose his balance doing it. He shuddered as the room went dim, goosebumps rising on his arms, the outside light blocked by heavy curtains. Noah flicked on the little table lamp, adding an eerie yellow definition to everything, like a horror movie from decades ago, when everything felt like it had a film of grime over the lens. Finn dropped his bag on the other bed, hoping against hope that he was making the right decision to do so. "Do I… sleep on my own?"

"Yeah, you do. From here on out, man." Noah paused in the midst of pulling out his toothbrush and toothpaste, giving Finn a long, searching look. "Okay, listen. Now that we're alone, I have to admit-"

Finn tensed. 

"-you aren't what I expected."

"I-... what?"

"Well, you were supposed to be-... I didn’t expect you to be… you."

Finn felt like he had forgotten every word of English he'd ever learned. He swam in confusion. "To be me?" He looked down at the blue-tinged veins under the thin skin just near his palms. Scarred from cheap scratchy rope but otherwise unmarked. “What did you expect?”

"Well, look. This is kind of a thing I do for work. But it’s all under the table, we don’t make a big deal out of it. Usually I pick up people who… you know what, I'll just tell you. I work with some people who buy or trade trafficking victims we find online and then free them. Usually, we get people who, you know, they got caught up in some bad shit and ended up stuck, they know the people who are hurting them. We can get them into rehab, or whatever, if they still have their passports we can just slip people out of the whole… all of it. Stranger abductions are literally less common than a one in a million chance. Plus... the news.”

“The... news?”

“You’re pretty famous, Finn. There was a nationwide manhunt when you first disappeared. It would compromise our security. You know? If I just go to the cops. Too much attention, too much scrutiny. The only way what we do works is if no one knows what we’re doing.”

Finn swallowed. His heart felt cold. Everything did. "I don't understand."

"No. Probably not, it's… a lot to explain and I’m used to not being able to, I don’t exactly have a speech ready. Just… let's get through the night. Then you and I can talk about what comes next. I'll find you someplace where you can go to the cops yourself, for home, or… whatever you want. Just don’t tell anyone about me, okay?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay… okay, good, that simplifies a lot-“

“No, I mean… I don’t want to go home.”

Noah blinked. “You don’t?”

“No. My mother… my mother would have to know he-... She would… that… Ich wurde vergewaltigt. I don't want anyone to know what he did t-to me. I don't want to g-go home." His voice shook so hard he was nearly indecipherable, but Noah didn't interrupt or tell him to shut up, quit whining, to go back in his cage and be silent. "I don't want-... I cannot."

"I understand. I get it, I do… Just… nobody has to make any choices now. It's not going to happen anymore, okay?”

Finn didn’t believe him. But he nodded anyway.

Noah exhaled, roughly. “Okay. Take a shower, I'll head down the road for some pizza or something, and then… you can get some sleep after we eat. You can rest, now, Finn. But… I think you probably want to be clean, first.”

He would never be clean again, but he nodded, throat tight and nearly closed with something between dread and relief. He leaned over and picked out a shirt and pants from inside the bag, travel-sized toothpaste and toothbrush, and went into the bathroom. The light was bright compared to the dim yellow in the room itself, painting everything with unflattering overdone contrast. The lemon smell was stronger in here.

When he saw the tub with its familiar shower head, for a second he felt the water, cold as ice, as it had hit his skin like a thousand knives while Robert laughed. Then he realized that it was a cold sweat breaking out over his skin, trickling down his cheek and the side of his neck. He felt stretched too thin underneath his skin, heart pounding with a dull violence. Terror washed cold down his back, and Finn knew all over again that he was about to die.

The heavy scent of blood and gunpowder surrounded him, his own muffled cries around the terrible gag as the hotel manager had jolted to the side and then collapsed, like a ragdoll thrown by an angry child. He hadn’t moved, after that.

Finn had been sure he was dead.

Robert had been sure he was dead.

Finn had been certain he’d die, too, when Robert had turned to look at him. Somehow, he hadn’t. Somehow, he had survived to be here almost two years later, looking down into the same kind of bathtub, the same shower head, and the same little bottles of travel-sized shampoo and conditioner, the same bar of soap.

He wanted to scream. It tired to tear its way up his throat to escape him, and he couldn’t quite force it back down. Finn swallowed, once and then again, but his heart felt like it would beat itself bloodily out of his chest. His stomach flipped and he turned, throwing himself towards the toilet and slamming the lid up so hard it bounced off the tank and almost hit him in the head as he dropped to his knees.

He leaned his head over and lost everything he had eaten during the drive. He threw up over and over again, until all that happened was his stomach clenching, sour spit and bile and nothing at all left beyond that.

It… helped, a little. 

He was shivering by the time he could stop, but his heart had stopped pounding.

“Hey, you okay?” Noah called, voice faint and muffled.

“I am fine!” Finn yelled back, voice ragged and hoarse. “I get carsick!”

It was a patently ridiculous excuse, but Noah didn’t try to ask him to open the door, and Finn had never been so grateful to have someone be silent. He took deep breaths of the little soap in the package on the sink until the fake lavender smell overrode his memories. At least they had changed the scent of soap they used. Eventually, the lavender smell started to make him feel sick, too.

He turned on the shower and locked the bathroom door, shivering under the cold spray until it began to warm. When it was scalding, he scrubbed himself raw, washed his hair with cheap hotel shampoo.

When he came out, hair still dripping and dressed in the new, loose clean clothing with that thrift store smell, the room was empty.

Noah had left a note that said gone for pizza, watch whatever you want while I’m gone.

Finn looked through the curtains to see the truck was indeed no longer in its parking spot.

He could walk right to the desk if he wanted.

My name is Finn Schneider. I was abducted in 2003. My abductor is the one who tried to kill Kent Reyes. Call my mother or the German embassy. Call someone. Call anyone.

I'm not dead. 

But in his heart, he knew better.

I knew Finn Schneider. Tell her her son died in October 2003.

His mother’s son never made it out of the house. Whoever he was now, whatever Robert had left after he had scraped Finn clean… he didn't want anyone to see what Robert had made of him. 

So instead, he pulled back the covers and climbed into one of the beds. He was already crying by the time his head touched the too-soft pillow, nearly flattening to the mattress at the slightest weight.

He wept, hands over his face, in the silent way he had taught himself to cry inside the cage, until he had no more tears left. Then he took the remote and turned on the television just to have some noise, shivering as he changed channels until he found something other than the news or the sitcoms that Robert loved.

He settled on a cooking show, the voices a dull and comforting nonsense. The bed warmed around him, and he felt his muscles beginning to relax, one by one, against his will. By the time Noah came back with the pizza, Finn Schneider was fast asleep.

He was curled up in a ball, his hands pressed to the lower half of his face, pressing just a little, covering his nose, mouth, and chin.

He hadn't been able to fall asleep until it felt like he was wearing his muzzle. 

-

For whumptober: @whumpworld

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[im3x80]

corrupted train

[thesightstoshowyou]

Innate

- A Sight’s Original -

Warnings: Mentions of foot trauma, blood, hypnosis, mentions of violence. GN reader

(~ AN: I had a dream and now I may or may not have a new Slasher OC. Depends on if there’s any interest, I suppose! Thank you for reading ~)

~~

The muscles of your arm ache, the crook of your elbow overburdened by this semester’s required texts. You shift them slightly, winching when the corner of Human Anatomy, 7th Edition jabs the mystery bruise on your inner arm. Should have grabbed a basket.

Something nags at you, some detail pulling at the back of your mind, bordering on urgent (where did that bruise come from)—

You blink and check the print-out clutched in your palm. One last text: The Principles of Human Physiology. You scan the shelves, your mind strangely fuzzy. It’s difficult to focus; you stare at the correct book for a full minute before you realize what you’re doing.

You grunt when the heavy tome comes to rest atop the rest. Awkwardly, you lug the stack to the checkout, sighing in relief when you dump them onto the counter. You massage your aching arm.

The girl behind the counter pops her gum, the rapid beep, beep of the barcode scanner increasing the green price displayed on the screen. You grimace. This is robbery—

“Are you okay?” You startle, realizing the girl is speaking to you. Confused, you frown in response. She raises a hand, points to your face. Mirroring her, your fingertips press to your cheek and come away wet.

You’re crying.

“Oh…. I’m—I’m sorry…I dunno why….” Hastily, you wipe the tears away. She looks concerned, wary. Your face burns in embarrassment. What the hell is wrong with you?

“These prices, right?” the girl jokes in an effort to ease the tension and you force out a humorless laugh, nodding absently. You pay, hurriedly retrieve your bag, and depart without a backward glance.

Outside the university bookstore, the hallway buzzes with activity as students prepare for the upcoming semester. Nervous freshman trail behind parents hurrying to the next task. Student rush to and fro to sign up for classes, meet with advisors, purchase parking passes, retrieve student IDs. Coffee machines hiss at the nearby cafe, their rich scents blanketing the hallway and overpowering the antiseptic smell of freshly mopped floors.

You skirt the line awaiting caffeination, intent on the exit. One more little obstacle awaits: A group of people mingling outside a classroom. You’ll just ease yourself through the throng—

Green eyes meet yours. Fear—bone-numbing, abject horror—crashes over you like you’ve been plunged into an icy lake. Impending doom, imminent death, unbridled panic call to you from those eyes. The scariest part is not knowing why.

It…he…. It’s just some guy, someone you’ve never seen before. He’s tall, mostly generic looking despite the shock of red hair. Young-ish, maybe mid twenties. The face doesn’t ring a bell; you’ve never seen him…. Never?

Something twinges, the barest hint of a memory. It’s…it’s right there, if you could just access it….

Instinct tells you to flee. Your muscles stiffen, body poised to retreat. Then, he shakes his head.

Your breath seizes in your lungs. The action built up in your sinew ceases and you still, rooted to the spot. You can’t move!

He breaks from the crowd and slowly makes his way toward you. With every leisurely step he takes, trepidation grows. More tears well up in your eyes. Each breath is only a little gasp despite the heaving of your chest.

His hand closes around your upper arm and he spins you as he walks, half dragging you along with him. Your right foot lags behind, like it doesn’t want to cooperate. You would have crashed to the floor if not for his vise-like grip on your flesh.

You want to scream for help, to reach for the nearest person, but your muscles refuse to cooperate, like you can’t control them. You can only move your legs to keep up with his stride. He tows you to an empty classroom, guides you inside, and closes the door. The cacophony from the hallway immediately quiets, voices and activity now a muted memory.

You’re alone with him.

Tears spill freely down your face now. The bag of books falls to the floor with a heavy thud. You stagger away, your foot throbbing. Why does it hurt? And more importantly, why are you so afraid of this man?

He crosses to you, cages you in against the wall. ‘Get away, get out, get away!’ your mind screams and pleads with you to act, but you’re stuck as though your shoes are glued to the freshly mopped floors.

He raises a hand. You flinch, expecting a blow, but instead he snaps his fingers three times in quick succession.

The world fades away.

**

Your expression goes slack, your eyes glazing over. Your body calms, relaxes. You’re still, an empty doll awaiting instruction.

A triumphant smile spreads across his face. He could not have asked for better results. Not only did you spend all morning walking around on a broken foot without noticing, you also hadn’t recognized him.

Well, not fully anyway. Innate fear, it seems, cannot be removed from the psyche. However, the memories of why the fear had developed in the first place…. Those can be shaped and buried as much as his heart desires.

With two fingers, he pats your damp cheek. No response, not even a twitch. A glance down at your feet finds the toe of your shoe stained with red. As he watches, the spot spreads, scarlet seeping into the fabric of your footwear. You’re bleeding into your shoe.

It’s not surprising. The foot had been such a mangled mess when he’d forced it back into a shoe early this morning. He’d taken such great care to break every single bone, after all.

Best get you back to the workshop before you bleed all over the tile.

He leans back over you, bringing his face inches from yours. Quietly, he says your name. Your glassy eyes meet his, intent on his next words.

“You are not in pain. Nothing hurts. Isn’t that wonderful?” You nod, a little half smile tugging at your slack mouth. He continues, “It’s time to go. You will walk 10 paces behind me, carrying all your school books. When you get into my car, you will go to sleep. You will come back to semi-consciousness in three, two, one….”

You blink, eyes focusing. Standing up straight, your hands come up and wipe away the tears wetting your cheeks. With purpose, you retrieve the heavy bag of books and stand at attention, waiting. You don’t look at him.

It’s like you can’t even see him right next to you.

Suppressing his grin, he makes it way out of the classroom and toward the exit. Diligently, you follow ten steps behind.

Outside, a cool breeze ruffles his copper hair. Fresh air fills his lungs as he inhales deeply, contentment washing over him in gentle waves.

Curiously, he wonders how many holes he can put in your chest before your body reacts.

It’s going to be such a busy afternoon.

[holycatsandrabbits]

My horror story "The Falling" is now available on the podcast Thirteen!

A new flight attendant learns there are some things you don’t talk about in the air.

During the drink service, the passengers seemed entirely normal, asking for juice or sparkling water, munching on dry little cookies from filmy packages. They had carry-ons, books, headphones, neck pillows, the same as always. And yet, Jackie was clutching the handle of the cart so hard her fingers turned white.

At the end of the drink service, the problem became clear: the flight was supposed to have 126 passengers. There were 127.

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