1905, late autumn. The fog that rested upon Greyport Harbor was no mere weathered veil, but a suffocating presence that clung to the flesh like sodden wool, steeped in the reek of rotting kelp and the corroded breath of iron buoys long abandoned to the tide. Each inhalation drew it […]
The Lighthouse That Doesn’t Guide Ships Read More »
If you’re reading this, it’s because I have no other choice. Nobody will listen to me, not even the police. It’s only a matter of time before they come for me, and when they do, this is the only evidence of the truth. There is something under the boardwalk in
There’s Something Under the Boardwalk Read More »
The mountain was tall and malformed. It jutted out of the earth as a singular monolith, unbothered and undisturbed in its growth from any other rock formations budding up against it and contorting its growth or shape. For millions of years, it was left as a black sheep in the
The large man stood in the corner of my dark room, peering at me through puffy slits surrounded by a century’s worth of deep eyebags and crust. Every breath his ancient body took was accompanied by loud wheezing, and the occasional band of elastic spittle dripped from a bulbous head,
A Man Appeared in My Room to Answer My Prayers Read More »
“Ugh, Emma, can you get the trunk for me?” The dim winter sun was setting over the parking lot, nearly devoid of shoppers at this late hour, aside from a van in one distant corner that had just started backing out of its spot. I set my bag down in
I used to have an older sister. Her name was ‘Eileen,’ though she always preferred to be called by her first two initials: ‘E.V,” or “Evie,” as we’d often spell it. Evie was a fine sister—on one day she might have stood up for me against our father’s slurred contempt,
My Sister Never Came Back From Her Film Convention; I’m The Only One Who Remembers Her. Read More »
Horror is subjective, there’s no denying that. I have told my story to others over the years, to which some have claimed that it was no more than a sob story, masquerading as horror. As I said; subjective. Were I to tell you of the molestation my father’s brother forced
One No wind blew on the fields that morning. The distant trees stood still and the grass was stiff on the hillsides. The overcast sky stood fixed in place, and the usual sound of rustling and whistling was absent, as if the air above the hills had become a noiseless
Beware the Waters, says the sign that blocks the dirt road. The road, winding down to a lake, overgrown and under-kept, lay abandoned for many years. Hollowed lake houses stand withered, their owners vanishing from reality. Nobody can say the exact reason why, but everybody knows to steer clear of
