Chapter 1: May 2025-“A Matter of Life and Death”
“There is no exquisite beauty… without some strangeness in the proportion.” Edgar Allen Poe
In this chapter, we will explore themes of life, death, and what lurks afterwards. Welcome to The Dread.
“Steel Sarcophagus” by Spencer D. W.
The Submariner pushed past the hatchway, Kitchen knife white-knuckled, close to his chest. Throwing the hatch as hard as he could into the closed position. The screams from all the men trapped in the galley were deafening in such a confined space. As he pushed the hatch closed an arm forced its way through near the bottom, begging to be let out. They weren't trying to escape water, at this depth we would all be red paste for the bottom feeders by now. No, they were trying to escape each other. Rabid eyed crew now set upon one another.
The submariner forced the end of the kitchen knife into the tender bicep of the begging crewman. Each slash got deeper as the begging only increased in volume and blood started to pour down the crevices of the doorway and onto the floor. The knife broke against the hard metal, making a sharp clang as it ripped from the handle and bounced across the floor.
The submariners' neurons flashed, “survive”. At least that's what he told himself. No one was in their right mind. Was he? He grit his teeth and lifted his boot high, with a swift slam on the nearly exposed bone of the sailor's arm, a snap that overcame even the screaming that came from the poor bastard. Breaking against the metal and the Submariner’s boot. Just as it did the door slammed shut and he spun the hatch closed. The screams were muffled now. It wasn't replaced by quite though. It was replaced by the groaning, creaking metal surrounding him.
The red emergency lights filled the room where the Submariner sat. Back to the hatch, dooming so many men and women to tear each other apart. The nearly full arm sat just inches away from him. Twitching intermittently. Through the flood of survival that soaked his grey matter he still saw flashes, questions. “What could cause so many to turn on one another?” Or the far worse thought That nearly left him reeling. “Was I already as lost as them?” He wanted to believe he wasn't like them, grabbing at whatever they could to jam into their fellow crew men. Soaking in the red like some deranged cultist. The other things they did to one another, He didn't want to linger on them. That was the nature of sanity, how could he know he was holding on, or merely day dreaming through it all.
He knew he couldn't stay slumped over focusing on thoughts of his own sanity. He grabbed the handle of the ten inch chefs knife that saved him, the knife was useless, he didn’t want to run into more crewmen without something to fight them off though he had little choice. If he could get to his SEIE suit he could use the diver lock out. The suit was the first of its kind and would get him to the surface.
He stood and swayed as he moved through the cramped crimson halls of the submarine. He could hear the sonar pinging constantly from the control room above him, he would have to go through it to get to the suit lockers. He moved as quietly as he could down the stairs into the control room, not knowing who would have been on duty. As his head passed the metal partition that separated them the deep red light reflected off the pooling blood of over five men. All of them slumped in their chairs. Blood was smeared across the screens and controls. The only screen still up and running was the sonar imaging. It was pinging a “close” warning. The
submariner couldn’t decipher what he was looking at, looked like a black hole in an expanse of green pixels. Like even the sonar didn’t understand it, putting up what should be there.
The metal creaked again as a sudden tug hit the submarine, feeling like it was pulled several feet horizontally, nearly knocking the submariner onto his hands and knees. A deafening sound resonated through the sub, like the gargantuan yawning of some colossal metal door rolling over the sub like approaching thunder. The submariner put his hands to his ears. It was the
same noise he heard in the galley before the others started to attack. The Submariner bent over at the waist and vomited across the blood-stained floor. It was like instant vertigo as he struggled to regain some form of center. It was like his mind was revolting. It wanted to be as far away from this sub as it could, and it would rip itself out of his skull to do it. Despite the throbbing pain, the Submariner wanted just as much to be out of this place.
He stumbled past his fellow crewmen towards the next set of stairs up to the suits. The infinite crushing black would be better than waiting to die locked in the Lazarus. It only felt like a few steps compared to the walk from the kitchen to the galley hatch. He moved through the hallway of crew bunks. He could hear mumbling coming from one of the small alcoves that the crewmen had to call home for months at a time. He didn’t want to call out. Anyone that held onto their
sense was already on the floor. The submariner moved down the cramped hallway as slowly as he could. He could see blood smeared across the floor and walls, the small amount compared to the pooling blood below almost blended into the walls with the pulsing crimson light. As he got closer to the alcove he could he started to put together the mumbling.
“Why won’t you help me?”
“Please.”
“I just want help.”
“Surrounded by teeth, please help me.”
The Submariner wanted to pull back the curtain door that separated the hallway and “room” but he knew this crewman wasn’t right. Everything in him wanted to help. Or was it the drive he thought it was? Was it a short circuit In his neurons that wanted out so badly it would rather get him killed? His head throbbed at the idea of something so ridiculous.
“Please, keep me away from their teeth.” a hard squelch punctuated the words. The Submariner hadn’t moved, like a kid playing hide and seek his fear-soaked brain locked him in place. As he gained what little control he could have himself he dragged his feet across the ground squeaking loudly.
Silence fell over the Submariner, no mumbling, no horrid squelching. Just his heartbeat trying to force its way out of his ears. He took another step, instead of a squeak it was meant with the rabid eyes of the Crewman pushing his way out through the curtain and onto the Submariner. Pushed to the ground the crewman pushed a knife into the submariner's left flank. He felt the hot pain radiate outward and immediately be overcome by a flash of cold sweat. He pushed and swung at the Crewman, hitting him across the face repeatedly as he felt the cold
steel intermingle with his insides.
The submariner put his hand firmly around the crewman's neck, pushing hard upwards, and his other stopped the knife from going any deeper. Both their
hands slick from sweat and half dry blood. The Submariners eyes were focused on stopping the knife, but somewhere in the flurry their eyes met. He expected to see the eyes of an angry man, or a predator looking at prey. It was fear, only fear in the Crewman’s eyes.
“Please! Why won't you help me!?” the Crewmen screamed. The Submariner got purchase on one of the fingers of the Crewmen that was wrapped around the end of his folding knife, in one violent motion he pulled it up hard, letting the knife slip slightly deeper. They could both hear the curdling crunch of the finger breaking at the knuckle. Even in the Crewman's state, he recoiled back off of The Submariner.
“I don’t want their teeth.” The Crewman spoke through a mouth full of his limp finger as he chewed through his gristle and bone. Pulling it from its nest. The Submariner was on his feet, back against the hallway wall. Though he had the advantage, he retained the knife. Before the Submariner could attempt to plea, to let him pass before anything got worse. The Crewman spat out his finger and started to scream again.
“Why won’t you help me? Get me away from their teeth.” The Crewman fell forward as a man too out of his mind to realize that his body was exhausted. The Submariner was fighting the same exhaustion and clutching his stomach that was weeping sanguine syrup through his fingers and over his hand. The Crewmen grabbed and prodded at the Submariner attempting to do anything to kill him. The Submariner had the knife to his ribs. He moved it up slightly to just under the
Crewman's armpit and pushed the knife slowly through the skin, relieving any kind of resistance with an atrocious “pop” of overcome flesh. The Crewmen struggled against the sudden shock. Babbling about teeth and wanting help, until he fell back, either losing consciousness or his life. Either way, his life would leave him if it hadn’t already. The eyes of the Crewmen lay open and wide. Looking as if he was still begging for help.
The Submariner collapsed next to his lifeless adversary. His vision was doubling and his extremities were shaking violently. Pulling off his apron he wrapped it around his abdomen as tight as he could. The pressure making it feel as though his organs would collapse. He wanted to live, right? He didn't want to die here. He wanted to sleep. Close his eyes, maybe then calm could wash over him with the freezing water pushing at this steel sarcophagus. No, he still had to try.
Submariner pushed past the bunks and into the “Escape Room” It held suit frames and linings for every man that was on this skeleton crew. He struggled hard to get the lining and the frame of it on by himself. Trying desperately to stem the bleeding. He knew the lining was tight, form-fitting. It would have to work until he reached the surface and it would be much more effective then the blood soaked apron. He let the apron loose and he felt the blood And something more slip free from the wound. He gripped at the pulsing piece of meat, held it tight as he slipped the suit on. As he zipped it he felt the escaping bits of himself get pushed back in.
He dragged himself into the airlock. Pulling closed the hatch. Latching his helmet into place. He pulled the switch that let the ice-cold water of the depth rush in. He took an instinctual deep breath as the water passed his head. The top hatch opened slowly on its own, and as it did the Submariner could feel his feet leave the surface of the airlock. It wasn’t his buoyancy, it was the Lazarus sinking deeper. It drifted further and farther away from him as he drifted upwards at a snail’s pace.
The flickering lights of the Lazarus are the only points of reference in the black.
The lights of the Lazarus were overwhelmed by a large pulse of teal green light, casting a shadow past the sinking submarine. And across the floor of the ocean. He could see a large opening in the ground where the light originated. It was like all the bioluminescent creatures that lived down in the unforgiving depths. Just far brighter than any of them enough to turn the pit of night into day. Whatever sat within the hole dwarfed the submarine.
The light died down, pulling the darkness down like it was breathing In the darkness and exhaling light. It pulsed again. The Submariner could see forms floating around the hole, silhouettes of what he couldn't make out. But nearly as large as the submarine itself. They were upright in the water like sleeping sperm
whales. He could see the fading silhouettes of many more surrounding the massive hole as if in a very specific pattern as the darkness dropped once again. The submariner could feel the tears in his eyes welling and cascading down his cheeks. He looked upon a mockery of god. A mockery of life.
It pulsed again, the form became clearer, nearly humanoid in its arms and torso,
a long bouquet of writhing tentacles attached near where a belly button might be. Its eyes, the Submariner only stared into its massive eyes. As it yawned the same horrid yawn that wreaked chaos inside the Lazarus. The darkness fell again. The submariner had the knife still, it was gripped in his hand, and he never let go of it as he took that poor crewman's life. Like his mind knew what he would come go face. What he would witness within this hell. He knew he wasn't going to make it, he was too far gone.
He lifted it just under where the helmet meets the softer lining at his neck. It pulsed light again. A hand that was reaching its clutches of nearly rigid tendrils toward the still-sinking submarine. The Deadman pushed the knife into his neck. There was less pain than he might have thought, the ice cold ocean numbed the wound as the blood poured forth into the illuminated ocean around him like distilled life vapor. It swirled and pulled downward with the breathing current of
the leviathan below. His vision started to fade, his eyes locked with the atrocities. Fear was leaving Him with what remained of his life. Replaced by calm.
It breathed in the light again, pulling the shroud of darkness over his frigid tomb and he left with the light.
“Bodies” by John Grey
Sleeve fluttering in a back alley,
A skull cracked. A dress torn free.
Cruel descent into the hazy fire of morning.
Cop car cry as familiar as dust.
The sound of acceptable terror.
The new order describing itself in high pitch
to anyone who cares to listen.
(It used to be different.
My father’s chin was still alive for a start.
And when I glanced down
I saw murdered clover, murdered ants,
not young women.
And I did all this in the backyard of my family home.)
He runs toward me at the shore.
I’ve wandered too close to the waves.
The dead woman was pregnant,
womb on high alert,
kid begging for air.
(I can still hear him panting,
pulling me away from the incoming waves.)
I’m his son.
We’re vacationing at the shore.
In our empty house, banisters squeak, stairs sweat.
Battered between buildings,
extinguished by that final hit,
chest cracked, nose split,
cement graveyard, scattered with trash.
I carry firewood from the backyard to the house,
check my pulse’s schedule – still alive.
House on lock down.
Getting anywhere takes years.
Holed up in the safest world my parents know.
Faint hearts, second floor and first.
Fall asleep to the thought of someone
crawling through the window.
Outside, more footfalls, crossing the line into midnight.
The Mercy Brown Vampire Hoax by John Doroit
Most people remembered the weather when Mary Eliza Brown was put to rest on the thirteenth of March in 1883. It was ten degrees, and the wind whipped through their bodies as if they were being brutally flogged. They were happy to hear the minister say “Amen,” watch them lower the body in the grave, and tell her husband George “they were sorry” as they hurried to their carriages and back to their home in front of the fire.
The word “witch” was still heard in conversations by those who were prone to denounce any uncommon death as an afflation with the devil, but Mary Eliza Brown died of consumption. She was the only one who had died of consumption in Exeter, and there were those in town who believed she was “taken by the devil.”
“Do not matter what docteur say, ze devil in ze Brown family,” Laurent said to eager listeners within the White Cap pub. “You watch. You see. Not long un autre Brown die et docteur say consumpt-e-on. Docteur says lung disease, but no. Consommer by sumting wick-ed. Never trust-ed Monsieur George. He with red eyes which glow in ze dark.”
“You have red eyes Laurent, and they ain’t got nothing to do with the devil, unless you be speaking about the devil rum you consume,” said Henry, the owner of the bar.
Everyone laughed at Henry’s comment, but Laurent glared at him with gray eyes, harpoon-like in their displeasure. “Es Lau-ron, Monsieur Henri!”
Henry knew how to say his name but he purposely said it wrong to aggravate him. “You have had it in for Mr. Brown ever since he fired you for showing up to work drunk.”
“He no fire me, Henri,” Laurent said. “I quit, be kaz, I want no-ting to do with ze dev-el.”
Laurent was not a big man, but he could make people listen to him. His thick black hair was streaked with silver and white, and it, along with gray eyes, made his face one people could not ignore. His nose was distinct with flared nostrils, and his face always had several weeks of growth, with hair that hid thin lips but accented a full set of teeth, which were hypnotic when he smiled.
On March 13, 1884, Mary Olive Brown, George and Mary’s oldest daughter, was buried with what the doctor said was also consumption. It was another cold day on her burial, and though it snowed, the snow looked more like ash due to the clouds and fog that covered the ground like shrouds.
“When will you stand up to zees man?” Laurent asked the growing number of people who now listened to him in the pub. “You see him in ze grav-yard. His face, white lik ivory. Hair night black. His ears no right. Lik ze gob-lin. His nose crook-ed and his lips, red like le sang…blud. He is no hu-man, I tell you, my friend, he es ze vam-pire.”
“Laurent Talbert. Stop with this kind of talk. It’s disrespectful and shows your ignorance. There are no such beings as vampires,” Henry said with anger and disgust.
“Es Lau-ron Tal-bear Henri!” Laurent said as his eyes became mirrors reflecting the fire in the pub. “You ev-er see ze vam-pire, Henri?” Laurent asked.
“NO! And neither have you. Now stop it. Let the poor family be. He has lost his wife and daughter in a year’s time. Give the family the respect they deserve.”
Laurent walked over and stared into Henry’s face. Henry was four inches taller than Laurent and weighed at least eighty more pounds, but he still felt uncomfortable looking at his eyes, now clouds with flashes of lightning.
“You see, Henri. One day, you all see,” Laurent said as he emptied his tankard and left the pub.
Two months later, Mercy and Edwin, George’s last two children, got sick. Even though the town of Exeter, Rhode Island, was not living in the Middle Ages, the superstitions of New England were thorns ever present in the dark gardens of their minds. When Mercy died, Laurent convinced the town that all the deaths were linked to the undead and convinced them to exhume the bodies to save Edwin. Mary Eliza and Mary Olive’s brown were decomposed, but Mercy’s
was still flush with color and blood in her heart. A stake was driven through her heart, and she was burned. Her ashes were mixed with water and given to Edwin, but he still died one month later.
George waited for Laurent outside the White Cap pub, knowing he would be in there telling everyone who would listen the proof that Mercy’s body was not decomposed, meant she was coming back from the dead. He would be telling them, her father had wanted her to come back to take his place as he knew he was dying.
“Too bad they won’t listen to you, Laurent. Now, I will have to kill you and start again. Another family, another young girl to carry on my legacy,” George said to himself as he waited in the shadows.
Laurent brushed away the bat flying around his head as he stumbled home. He hadn’t walked twenty feet when he saw George standing in front of him, his eyes like red flames, as he smiled. “You will die tonight, Lau-ron. You were right all this time, but no one would listen. I will enjoy consuming your blood.”
Laurent glared at George. His gray eyes reflected the full moon as bones in his face broke through his skin, changing the shape of his jaw.
“I was waiting for zis day, Monsieur Brown. I waited un-teel, all la famille gone. Then you be wek. Your name mean dark, oui? My name – messa-gere for destruct-e-on. On-ly un tor-men-tor of ze man after cette nuit, monsieur and it will not be ze vam-pire,” Laurent said as the teeth grew from his mouth like sharp nails, and he howled.
“Hit and Run” by Nathan Perrin
I see her every night
on my drive home.
Her eyes widen when
she sees my car rolling by.
Blood drips from her head,
she whispers my name, smiling.
I know she wants to get even.
I know she wants me to be scared.
But, to me, death
is a warm idea. Inviting.
Lazarus by W. S. Ribelin
The moon hid behind a cloud the night I buried you. Blackness hid my face from those who would not understand, those who might condemn my actions. You lay at my feet, wrapped in a bloody sheet from the bed we shared, while I scrabbled at the hard earth with my bare hands and the autumn wind froze my naked body.
Clods tore the fingernails from my fingers, and my blood mixed with the dark soil. I cried a little then, despite the sureness of the ritual. It was not easy to look upon your poor face, so still and serious in death as you were not in life. You were always quick to smile, quick with a witty word that never failed to make me laugh.
The grave I dug was not deep, but it sufficed. As I rolled your limp body into the hole, one of your hands slipped free of the wrapping and brushed my bare foot. Kneeling down, I gently brought it to my dry lips. Soon, I murmured, kissing your cold skin, soon we will be together again.
When you were covered with dirt, I raised my arms to the night sky and spoke the
forbidden words, the words that would raise you from the dead, as Lazarus was raised so long ago. By rights I should have allowed your kin to bury you, to care for your body as family did. But I could not. I could not bear the thought of you in the cold, hard ground forever.
Your father and mother called me witch, and rightly so. I saw the distaste and contempt on their pudgy faces when you brought me home, so proud someone as beautiful as I could love you.
How could I not love you? You with your shiny black hair, your laughing blue eyes, your hard body that made me tremble. We will wed, you told me, no matter what my father and mother say. How well I remember that day beneath the apple trees! You were so earnest, so sure the obstacles were not unsurpassable. Our love would conquer all. And I believed you.
So we came together, despite your family, despite the townsfolk who hated me. They grew to hate you as well, for you dared to call them fools, and worse, for their
superstition.You did not believe me a witch, and I did nothing to prove you wrong. You made sure they saw us together, saw how much I needed you, how much you needed me.
When they brought your lifeless body and dumped you on the ground at my feet, I did not cry. Not even when they told me those wretched lies, lies that I knew were not true. An accident, they called it. Never mind that it was your best friend who stood by while the pig gored you, the same best friend who swore revenge against me when I shunned him. How much the betrayal must have hurt you, for you were ever a trusting soul. Trust me now, my husband. What I do, I do for love of you.
I did not cry as I cursed those men. I cursed their foul man parts, their children, even their fat wives who sneered at me in the marketplace. The earth seemed to shake, and the murderous cowards fled, and I was left with you, my dead husband.
How the tears fell as I stripped the red stained clothes from your beautiful, broken body. I brushed your silky hair, washed the blood off your bruised face, kissed your chilled lips.
My knife was sharp; it did not pain me too much to draw the blade across my leg.
Dipping my fingers in the crimson flow, I wrote the sacred symbols on your body and chanted the unholy words. And then I wound your body in the sheet, and dragged you to the burying ground behind our house.
I slipped my dress over my head and that is when I saw the lights. The townspeople came carrying torches, came for me. I did not run, only waited beside your grave.
There she is, the men shouted, and the torchlight gave their faces an inhuman quality. Burn the witch, burn the witch, they chanted, and I smiled. They could not hurt me. I knew you would save me.
I did not struggle when they grabbed my arms and tied me to the willow tree that grew outside our bedroom window. The kindling they stacked around my feet did not frighten me and I stood defiant and proud.
The cold wind howled, and the fools looked around nervously. They did not realize that nothing could save them now. You had awakened.
I watched you emerge, watched you rip the grave clothes from your body. I rejoiced as you destroyed those who had tried to destroy our love. Blood spattered on my face, on my dress. Finally you dropped what used to be a man and turned to me.
You shuffled slowly to me, and I strained against the cords that bound me. You reached behind me and broke the ropes and I fell into your arms.
The smell of the grave filled my nostrils, but still I kissed you, thrusting my tongue into your cold mouth. Even death could not keep us apart.
I felt your arms on my waist and pressed against you. I looked into your face and saw your dull, sunken eyes, and I was afraid. You did not smile and opened your mouth to speak.
Why have you brought me back from the grave? And your hands gripped my arms
painfully. I am in hell, and you put me there. I tried to speak, but I could not. Your strong fingers squeezed my face, pinching my skin. There is no love, you told me. Only hate and loathing and death.
Tears leaked from my eyes, wetting your soiled hands, hands that had once touched me with love. I begged you to remember our love, to think of the babe I carried within me. Even that did not stop you.
Your fingers tightened around my throat and I tried to scream. As my vision darkened, you began to smile.
“Unfinished Exit” by Claudia Wysocky
I keep thinking
about the time in high school
when you drew
me
a map of the city,
I still have it somewhere.
It was so easy
to get lost
in a place where all the trees
look the same.
And now
every time I see
a missing person's poster
stapled to a pole,
all I can think is
that could have been me.
Missing,
disappeared.
But there are no
posters for people
who just never came back
and you haven't killed yourself
because you'd have to commit to a
single exit.
What you wouldn't give to be your cousin Catherine,
who you watched
twice in one weekend get strangled nude
in a bathtub onstage
by the actor who once
filled your mouth with quarters at
your mother's funeral.
The curtains closed and opened again.
We applauded until
our hands were sore.
But you couldn't shake the image of
her lifeless body,
the way she hung there like a
marionette with cut strings.
And now every time you try to write a poem,
it feels like a
eulogy.
Afterlife by John Tavares
Dad,
Why is there a picture of you having sex with a woman less than half your age on AltAdultX? Did you ever think how your daughter would feel if she was scrolling through social media, and she came across a photo of her father having sex with a woman younger than her?
Did you ever think how she would feel?
KYL
Karen,
I’m not exactly certain what you’ve been doing browsing through a website like
AltAdultX, especially since you were vice-president of Young Christian Conservatives on Campus. You even led a crusade against all forms of adult pornography. I ended up having to bail you out of jail after you threw a bucket of pink paint at the storefront of an adult bookstore, personally threatened the owner, and picketed and demonstrated very loudly outside and inside
the store in violation of a court order and restraining order. I still do not know how you manage to escape a punitive lawsuit, further criminal charges, or how those charges were ever dropped. I believe my personal and heartfelt apology to the store owners and my offer of hefty financial compensation for the damage to their building and business helped. I accepted those expenses and paid them in full. That is beside the point, though, and I am losing my train of thought here,
after hearing from you out of the blue. Still, I must admit it is heartening to hear from you.
Love, Henry
Dad,
My own personal views on pornography have evolved, but I think you have missed the point. Did you ever think of their effect upon your family? This isn’t like the embarrassment caused when you were caught on TV cameras joining the parade at Caribana, playing with the masquerades in bikinis, glitter, and sequins, dancing, doing the bump and grind.
KYL
Karen,
My family – or what is left of my family – consists of two people, you, who have asked me not to contact you because you said, it messes with your mental health, and your mother, from whom I am separated and who has no desire at the current time to formalize a divorce, for complicated legal and financial reasons, so I am not certain exactly to which family you’re referring. Love, Henry
Dad,
I do not know what you are talking about. You do have a family. But you missed the point, and I do have a point, or at least I did think I had a point. Why are you posting pictures of you having sex with a woman younger than me on AltAdultX? This isn’t the same as you doing the bump and grind with a masquerade at Caribana.
KYL
Karen,
I did not post pictures of me on AltAdultX. I have an account on AltAdultX, but I made that account after your mother and I separated and divorce talks and proceedings were initiated. I also switched the settings on that social media account to private. I needed an outlet, simply, an adult outlet. Moreover, I have no photographs posted on that account, no narcistic selfies so beloved of your hip ultra-moderns, your generation, no dick pictures—just a blank black square profile photo.
Karen, I find this discussion bordering on the incestuous and thereby disturbing.
Please try to think of more positive and upbeat things you can tell me about. You are living in sunny southern California, in your mid-thirties, studying filmmaking. Can’t you tell me about your productions at film school?
Love, Henry
Dad, No, I cannot because the profs are pricks.
So, did you not post the pictures to AltAdultX? If you really want to know how I made my discovery it was because a few friends, in filmmaking, and I decided to do a documentary film on kinksters and swingers. AltAdultX became an obvious and easy source. The picture I am certain is of you. It shows an old guy, fit, tan, looking like you, having sex with a woman who looks like she’s in her mid-twenties.
KYL
Karen,
You keep harping about incriminating pictures on AltAdultX. Get over what some dirty old man is doing with a younger woman. It must be consensual, or it would not be posted on AltAdultX.
Love, Henry
Dad,
You obviously do not know or understand some of these social media websites, which become dark cesspools of oversharing and deep secrets and dirty laundry revealed to a voyeuristic public. But I am not worried so much about you, as I am about your partner, my mother.
Did you ever think about the effect on her?
KYL
Karen, I do not know why you keep bringing up your mother in the conversation on this chain of events especially since you practically accused your own mother of molesting you. Please move on with your life. Be the next Steven Spielberg or a Canadian film director who rocks that nasty place Hollywood. Move on with your life.
Love, Henry
Dad,
You asshole, and you are an asshole—Dad, I did not accuse my mother of molesting me.
KYL
Beloved Karen,
Ok, ok, I am sorry. I misspoke. But I remember you constantly used the term abuse. Your words at that time left a bad impression on me, especially since your mother invested so much of her time and energy into trying to make certain you became a more perfect version of her. Around that time that I decided to put even more distance between myself, you, and her. I believed that anything I did to try to help was only bound to hurt you somewhat or inadvertently make you miserable. For that reason, I removed myself from the picture and took the nearest
exit.
You are not short of money, are you? That is not the reason you decided to message me, is it? Just say the word, and I’ll make certain the suit sends whatever cash you need, if it is for textbooks and tuition, rent and groceries.
Love, Henry
Dad,
If I needed money for anything, it would be for cameras and equipment, production crew and actors’ wages, and set rentals. But I am good for money at the current time. The lawyer or financial advisor sends me money from the trust fund whenever I need it.
I am starting to question how well you know mom. Have you ever noticed how jealous she can become? Have you ever noticed how crazy, angry, and out of control jealousy makes her? I know Mom, and I know she knows, and I know she had an account on AltAdultX. If she saw you having sex with another woman, especially a woman younger than me, she would go insane with jealousy, even though you are, as you say, separated. The fact you do not seem concerned about
these pictures’ effects on mother also leaves me concerned.
KYL
Karen,
Now you are talking about pictures, as opposed to a picture. Please send me a link or links, and I will see if I can log into my very vanilla AltAdultX account or create a new account to have a look see.
Love, Henry
Dad,
Ok, I have sent you the links. Now you tell me the pictures at the end of these links are not of you.
KYL
Karen,
These pictures could be of any man. You can’t even see the man’s full face because the image is cut off above his mouth.
Love, Henry
Dad,
I recognize your chin, your mouth, and your facial hair growth in the pictures that show half of your face, and I recognize the body and figure.
Karen,
That man looks like a bodybuilder, like a man who lifts weights and goes to the gym every day. He is also too light-skinned to be me.
Love, Henry
Dad,
You tan during the summer and become very dark, exactly like the man in the picture, except you lose your tan during the winter. I’m guessing you started to trim your body hair, like that man in the pictures, and you did go to the gym everyday like you say, at least until you separated from mom.
KYL
Karen, Why are you trying to turn this into a detective story? So, what if this picture shows me, when I was invited to my friend’s party at his estate in cottage country? I am not saying that it is me, but what if it is me? Why should it matter?
Love, Henry
Dad,
Because that picture shows you nude with your blank in the mouth of a female about a third your age. And the other picture also shows you behind her, presumably having intercourse.
KYL
Karen,
I’ve enlarged and scrutinized the photos closely and carefully and I believe this is a case of mistaken identity. If you look closely, you will see that this man has a Semper Fi tattoo on the biceps of his right arm. He might be a soldier veteran or marine wannabe. As you know I’ve always been opposed to tattoos for health reasons. You must remember the number of times I encouraged and advised you to never obtain a tattoo.
Love, Henry
Dad,
You can’t mislead me. I’ve enlarged and examined the photos closely with photo editing software and I can see none of the tattoos to which you allude. In fact, the more I look at these pictures the more I believe they are definitely of you.
KYL
Karen,
If that picture is of me, and I am not saying it is me, the woman in the picture, and, I must emphasize, she is a woman, the woman is in her mid-thirties, your age, a sports physician, single, exceptional, and enthusiastic to be sharing her warm and friendly personality and body with a member of the opposite sex. And I must emphasize, if it is of me, she is a professional, a respected physician for professional sports figures, with a reputation to protect. I’m retired now and, frankly, I don’t give a damn.
Love, Henry
Dad,
I am concerned about mom. And you should be, too.
KYL
Dad,
Why haven’t you answered my texts and emails? Stop stonewalling me.
KYL
Beloved Karen,
Sit down and have a drink or take a tranquilizer before you read this. I want to
emphasize: Sit down and take a tranquilizer before you read this dramatic news.
Your mother has taken her own life. She said that she was tired of her pain and long and drawn-out struggles with her own mental health. She said she felt guilty for all the turmoil and anguish those troubles may have caused, but I tried to reassure her this was not the case and tried to remind her of all the good
times together. Still, she simply decided to end her own existence.
Love, Henry
Dad,
Why didn’t you call me already? Why didn’t you email me earlier? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?
Beloved Karen,
I could ask the same question of you when you moved, when you dropped out of high school, when you married, when you divorced, when you put your child up for adoption. This is all water under the bridge, Karen, but during your last tantrum you told me even if Mom dies you did not want to hear from me, so I simply do not understand where your sudden family values are coming from. Your mother died in an assisted suicide after she abandoned hope for her life. I refused to have any part of the ceremony because I was born and raised a Catholic, and I will
probably die a Catholic, even though on some days recently I feel like an agnostic or an atheist.
Your mother produced an event worthy of one of your documentary films, with her friends singing, dancing, banging the tambourine, strumming ukuleles, contributing their favorite memories of your mother, and offering prayers in their various faiths and denominations.There were prayers from the bible in recognition of her Catholic grade school religion.
There were evangelical prayers from when she became a missionary in high school. There were prayers from when she converted to Judaism in Israel. There were even Hindu and Buddhist prayers from her brief dalliances and immersions in those religions, when she volunteered for humanitarian agencies in Vietnam, Nepal, and India. Friends from other faiths and religions also contributed their own tributes.
So please do not take it personally when I tell you your mother has passed away. She wanted you to learn about this event in the New Year. She did not want her passing to be a sad event, or tragic news, but a celebration of life. She asked her closest friend and your former close friend’s mother to tell you in the New Year—and I’m not certain of the precise reasons she wished for this, but you can probably learn of this from whomever you call or email.
Her estate was left to her son from her first marriage—to the Jewish fellow who became an eye surgeon. I am confident you understand those reasons better than me, but the trust fund and those arrangements remain the same, so you should have few financial concerns.
Please let me know if there is anything, and I mean anything I can do for you. Remember this is the way she wanted it.
Love, Henry
Dad,
My own mother dies, and you do not even tell me. WTF. And I wouldn’t be surprised if she decided to take her own life after she saw the pictures of you
with that prostitute or whoever she is. The picture, after all, was posted several months ago, so she may indeed have seen it. I am guessing she did. You just do not know how insane jealousy can make Mom. Mom’s closest friend told me she was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder by two different psychiatrists but like anyone with BPSD she denied it.
You drove her to the brink, Dad, you did this.
Goodbye forever. I never want to see you again.
KYL
In memoriam, Karen Yang-Li, Daily Bruin
Karen Yang-Li, a vibrant and talented graduate student at UCLA’s School of Theater, Film and Television, lived a life filled with creativity, passion, and boundless curiosity. At just thirty-six, she had already left an indelible mark at her new home at UCLA, playfully referring to herself as a "professional student" while inspiring everyone around her.
Karen’s love for storytelling shone brightly through her remarkable achievements. She published a heartfelt volume of poetry, a captivating novella in verse, and two compelling screenplays—one of which is soon to come to life on screen, produced by an independent film company. Her talent extended to documentary filmmaking, where her three student video projects, Affluenza, Overshare, and First World Problems, captivated audiences and went viral on YouTube, sparking meaningful conversations around the globe.
Beyond her academic and creative endeavors, Karen found joy in the simple and
beautiful moments of life. She shared a special bond with her beloved Schnauzer, Phoenix, and cherished her eclectic collection of books, DVDs, and vinyl records, which will now enrich the shelves of the UCLA library system for others to enjoy. Karen’s spirit found solace and inspiration at El Matador State Beach, her cherished sanctuary. There, she spent many blissful afternoons and evenings hiking, practicing yoga, meditating, reading, and embracing the ocean's ambience.
True to her wishes, her ashes were lovingly scattered along its shores, ensuring her spirit infuses the place she adored most. A heartfelt memorial service was held at UCLA's Magnolia Meditation Room and student chapel, where friends, colleagues, and loved ones gathered to celebrate Karen’s life, creativity, and kindness. Those who knew her will forever carry her warmth, wit, and radiant spirit in their hearts. Her sisters from her U of T sorority, where her volunteer work was indispensable, wish her a safe and happy voyage in the afterlife.
Obituary, Henry Yang-Li, Toronto Star.
A memorial service to honor the remarkable life of Henry Yang-Li will be held at Holy Cross Catholic Funeral Home, with interment to follow at Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery in Thornhill.
Henry was a vibrant and colorful individual who brought warmth and humor to all who knew him. He devoted much of his career to financial advising and investment management, earning the trust of prominent clients in the world of professional hockey. His sharp mind and infectious spirit made him a beloved figure, both professionally and personally.
Proudly a member of the Chinese Jamaican Canadian community, Henry embraced and celebrated his unique heritage. He often shared lighthearted stories about the amusement and curiosity his biracial identity inspired among new friends and clients. Born to hardworking parents, his mother—a shopkeeper from Kingston, Jamaica—and his father—a marine mechanic from Montego Bay, Jamaica—Henry grew up witnessing their entrepreneurial determination.
After moving to Toronto, Canada in the 1970s, his parents founded a thriving cleaning company in the financial district and a cherished convenience store in Little Jamaica on Eglinton Avenue West. Henry's own story began in Kingston, Jamaica, where he attended Campion College, a Catholic institution that nurtured his pride in academic excellence. He often fondly reminisced about his time there, and later ensured his family spoke the Queen’s English with the same discipline he cherished as a student. Upon immigrating to Canada, Henry settled in Toronto's
Jane-Finch neighborhood and pursued higher education at York University, where he attended business school on an international scholarship.
The early chapters of Henry’s career saw him as a financial analyst for a major Canadian bank, covering the restaurant industry. With his signature humor, he confessed that his job indulged his guilty pleasure of savoring fast food at every major chain for research. Beyond his professional pursuits, Henry brought passion and joy to Toronto's Caribbean community. A devoted participant and organizer of the Toronto Caribbean Carnival, he played mas in the Grand Parade with enthusiasm and pride. He also became a cherished figure in the culinary world as the owner of a jerk chicken restaurant on Eglinton Avenue West and a Jamaican patty food truck and restaurant on Yonge Street.
In retirement, Henry embraced life with vigor, immersing himself in international travel, amateur sports, and the physical activities he once missed in his youth. Whether biking, hiking, swimming, or hitting the gym daily, he reveled in the joys of an active lifestyle. A dedicated member of the Knights of Columbus, Henry found deep fulfillment in service to his community.
Henry’s philanthropic heart shone brightly through his unwavering support for the
Canadian Mental Health Association and the Heart and Stroke Foundation of Canada. He contributed not only as a donor but also as a volunteer, demonstrating his commitment to causes close to his heart.
Henry Yang-Li will be remembered as a spirited, generous, and joyful soul who touched countless lives. For those who wish to honor his legacy, donations in his memory may be made to the Canadian Mental Health Association or the Heart and Stroke Foundation of Canada, in lieu of flowers.
Letter from the Editor and Artist Bios
Thank you so much for sticking around through this month of planning and preparing! This magazine has been a labor of love. I truly believe that publishing should be accessible, especially for horror and speculative writers. I’m so excited to have received so many wonderful submissions, and the fact that y’all believe in the mission to support horror writers warms my cold heart.
Next month, be on the lookout for themes of friendship betrayal in Chapter 2, which will be out the first thursday of the month!
Love y’all!
M. Anne Avera
Author Bios
Some authors did not include a bio, but they are still loved and valued!
Nathan Perrin (he/him/his) is a writer and Anabaptist pastor in Chicagoland. He holds an MA in Quaker Studies, and is a doctoral student studying Christian Community Development at Northern Seminary. His doctorate work centers on creating a writing program for nonprofits and churches to use to help under-resourced communities process trauma. His work has been published in the Dillydoun Review, Bangalore Review, Collateral Journal, Esoterica Magazine, etc. His forthcoming novella Memories of Green Rivers will be released in winter 2026 by Running Wild Press. He is also a screenwriter for an unannounced indie comedy series. For more information, visit www.nathanperrinwriter.com
You can find WS Ribelin on Substack. She has been writing for a long time and have had a few short stories published in online magazines. She lives in the midwest and enjoy reading and gardening, besides writing fiction.
Claudia Wysocky is a Polish poet and photographer based in New York, celebrated for her evocative creations that capture life's essence through emotional depth and rich imagery. With over five years of experience in fiction writing, her poetry has appeared in various local newspapers and literary magazines. Wysocky believes in the transformative power of art and views writing as a vital force that inspires her daily. Her works blend personal reflections with universal themes, making them relatable to a broad audience. Actively engaging with her community on social media, she fosters a shared passion for poetry and creative expression.
Born and raised in Sioux Lookout, Ontario, John Tavares is the son of Portuguese immigrants from Sao Miguel, Azores. Having graduated from arts and science at Humber College and journalism at Centennial College, he more recently earned a Specialized Honors BA in English Literature from York University. His short fiction has been published in a variety of print and online journals, magazines, and anthologies, in the US, Canada, and internationally. His passions include journalism, literature, economics, photography, writing, and coffee, and he enjoys hiking and cycling.