Chapter 4: August 2025
“So long as you write it away regularly, nothing can really hurt you.” - Shirley Jackson
“Forefinger & Thumb“ by Douglas Sullivan
The town was established first on the tough decisions made by the pioneers who landed here, and second on the bounty found in its waters. An inlet keeps the town sheltered from coastal winds, and fishermen trawl for unseen delicacies that are then shuttled down the coast to the warmer, richer climate. It continued like this for generations, until last year, when a storm rolled heavily over them, and the Spring air that followed brought the devil. By fall, darkness had taken hold across the town. A cabal of men, along with some poorly practiced Celtic magic, bound and quelled the evil. And yet, evil was not finished with them. A trap was not enough; evil continues to seep.
The candle burns deep into the night, long after the most drift to sleep, and certainly long after the rodents feed on what the drunkards drop along the cobblestones and alleyways. Barlow doesn’t notice the wick starting to flicker and drown in the melting wax and doesn’t care that the darkness covers more and more of the page. His fingers are sullied by black ink, yet he continues to write line after line until no light remains; even then, he squints until his complete memory is recorded. The pieces are not hard to recall. He crept down the stairs, certain something else was happening during Mass. He smelled rot coming off the wooden stairs as he ushered down them slowly, and with only a minor creak under his weight. Then, just as he leaned forward to listen to the men, it happened, a violence so deranged it seared into the blackness behind his eyes. A place where silence used to live would, from now on, house only screams.
Barlow waits until the sun is fully risen before he sets out. His clothes are brittle with dried sweat. He walks briskly, his head down. Women mostly populate the streets as shops are just stirring to life, but the women aren’t workers. These are the wives and lovers of sailors; they walk to an elevated edge near Sinclair’s haberdashery and wait to see if their men will be returning with the morning tide. Their position allows clear views into the inlet, where tall ships sprinkle across the horizon. They sip mint tea and watch until it turns to lingering, which then becomes longing until finally, the day convinces them the men won’t be home.
Atop a winding hill, a rickety weathervane squeals. Eastern winds kick across Barlow’s shoulder as he approaches Proctor’s home. This place gives me no warmth, Barlow thinks, no matter how many meals are shared here or how many pipes are filled and smoked under a truth-telling moon. Fingering the thick envelope in his pocket calms him; he rubs it between his fingers for the strength to climb the stairs to Proctor’s front door.
The door is raw Oak, darkened with tallow and baked in the summer sun. It gives Proctor’s visitors an imminent sense of where they’re entering. Not just the door, the house itself projects a sense of the resilience and strength that is the cornerstone of the townspeople. Barlow knocks hard a few times, then draws close to the door listening for Proctor stirring within. After a few tense moments, a man in his later years emerges from a nearby root cellar. The voice dies in the air between them, but once the man comes closer, his stone tone resonates.
“You should not be here.”
“I have not slept nor bothered to take my carriage here, I was so filled with dread my legs proved faster.”
Proctor walks slowly, almost deliberately, despite the heavy trundle of sticks he carries. He makes a motion with his head. Barlow takes note, turns the brass handle, and then pushes open the front door. The home is dark in its corners; a large main window offers just enough light for Barlow to turn and meet Proctor’s eyes. Before he can utter a word, Proctor grabs him by the throat.
“Why have you...come,” Proctor’s words take a moment to generate inside his mind, causing his questions and conversations to draw on. “I can’t...hear you.”
Barlow slaps the hand away, but Proctor quickly grabs him again with the other hand. Both are deathly strong. His fingers are long enough around Barlow’s neck.
“Yesterday. At the Church,” Barlow forces out.
Proctor removes his hand from Barlow’s neck only to wave it at him in dismissal.
“Nothing. A tragedy, yes. But nothing...more.”
“I think not.”
“Then you scare easily,” Proctor replies, breaking twigs from his bundle and dropping them into the fireplace.
“I haven’t slept, Proctor. All night, I’ve committed every detail from memory to paper.”
There’s a prolonged silence long enough for Barlow to check the nearby shadows for something unseen and unwelcome.
“You should not have written what you did. It is not your story to tell.”
“This is no story. It is what I witnessed – what you witnessed just yesterday.”
Proctor steps closer to the fire, stirring and tasting a soup pot resting in the ambers.
“Have you had supper?”
“You’re not listening.”
“I was young like you, too, once. I know how feelings can… well up, and minor frights can appear larger than… life. I assure you, they are not.”
“Yours is not the first home I visited this night.”
Proctor looks directly into Barlow, his brown eyes black now, and a chill eases down Barlow’s spine. Proctor stands tall. His angled frame unfolds as he stretches, revealing the bulk of his body as muscle hidden under poorly sewn fabrics.
“That...was a mistake,” Proctor says from the corner of his mouth. He toils around his fire and soup pot for a few moments before turning back to Barlow.
“Tell me, where else have you been?”
“That’s not the issue.” Barlow steps back, again placing his fingers on the envelope in his pocket. A sense of strength spills from Barlow’s mouth, “A child was killed, Proctor. Lord only knows I had no idea this was the plan when I helped you take that boy.”
“That was no child.”
“He was christened under that very same steeple.”
“He was no child of God on that day.”
“Proctor, he--“
Proctor hurls his soup ladle at Barlow, “He was a devil. And it was devil blood that was spilled. Nothing more.”
Barlow can sense now that not every story he heard about Proctor growing up was false. Proctor was one of the early settlers here, arriving as a young boy with his father. The home his father built was originally closer to the town center, but as the town expanded, it seemed to push Proctor’s residence further into almost isolation; it was now nearer to the cemetery than the church. Proctor remained in the home his father built, or rather, completed after his father was mauled into an untimely death. Proctor escaped the incident with a wound that became a scar twisted down his arm to his forefinger, where it collected at the nub of his severed first knuckle.
Mauled by what?
Nothing was ever caught or injured again, though few ever wondered aloud, and now, all these years later, the children of those children tell spook stories about the man who lives at the edge of the town and whose iron fence keeps all guests away.
Proctor continues to breathe heavily. His mouth curves to shape his exhaled breath, forcing calm into himself. “I remember when you first opened your shop, and each time I supped at your table, I was treated with great grace.”
Barlow nods along as Proctor continues,
“And I was deeply sorry when your wife passed last year.”
“Thank you, but now isn’t the—"
Proctor continues over him, “And yet I’ve never been more grateful that she bore you no children. It’s not in you to raise anything more than a fawn in this fox world.”
Before his words fully land, Proctor moves at an angle up behind Barlow. He clasps Barlow’s neck in the squeeze of his bent elbow. There’s little Barlow can do. The seasons of working fields with poor soil and too many rocks are built into Proctor’s biceps. Barlow pulls at Proctor’s grip, but all his strength isn’t enough to buy him an inch to breathe, no – these are the final moments he will see: the crackle of the fire, the blur, the black. Barlow’s eyes bulge with dreadful recognition. Proctor clamps down harder on Barlow’s fleshy neck. Puffs of air soon follow, as does the loud echo of Barlow’s body as it bounces dead off the floor at Proctor’s feet.
Proctor is silent for a moment, not long enough to have prayed or sought forgiveness from any divine being. His mouth curves again for concentrated breaths, and after a few moments, Proctor kneels and begins the unceremonious task of rifling through Barlow’s pockets. He removes the thick envelope and rests his swollen body against that of the dead man; a calm settles into his bones as he starts to read. His eyes draw closer to the page and widen with focus as the dead man’s witnessing is revealed in all the devil’s details.
The church sits off Main Street, next to the shops, allowing Henderson’s bakery to waft fresh loaves through the knotted wood and stone of the parish. Most autumns are gray here, especially in the mornings when the sun isn’t strong enough to break through the clouds. It’s unseasonably warm today: an overnight rain left the streets wet and muddy. Miriam watches from her widow’s peak nearby, observing who attends Mass and who approaches but carries on. Fewer residents attend Sunday service despite the poor harvest season and ongoing hardship.
June strolls toward the church, frequently glancing over her shoulder—a habit she developed when winter first threatened. As spring nears, this tendency has become part of her personality. Today, she isn’t looking for her husband, even though his absence swells within her like a tide. This morning, her nerves are more focused on her son, who is ten years old but mostly skin and bones, making him appear even younger.
Nowadays, the congregation consists mostly of women and reluctant children. Occasionally, passing travelers will say their weekly’s here and light a candle, but they are always gone before the real work of faith sets in. June enters the church quickly. She smiles briefly when Miriam takes a seat in the pew beside her. Miriam turns to greet her, but June looks back toward the entrance. Miriam pretends not to notice when June finally turns back to her. The two women were raised near each other, yet no real bond ever formed; they aren’t friends, but the winter was long and hard on people. Miriam isn’t married. Her red hair, like a cardinal bird twisted into a soft braid, continues attracting the usual admirers, especially in the summer when she smells of lavender and vanilla. June looks at the clean frill around Miriam’s dress, a distinct white that appears new each time June sees it.
“Where’s Samuel?” Miriam asks.
“Don’t you just immediately miss his little cherub cheeks in the light of the stained glass?” Miriam pauses at the question, then, through a thin smile, says, “Of course.”
“Remember him kicking his little feet into the pews?”
“I remember him running around. Untethered.”
“Just a boy, though.” A long thought crosses across June’s face, “And precious.”
“The season’s change is approaching, and like the heat, you’ll soon grow weary of him." June doesn’t notice the ice in Miriam’s words; her gaze traces around the room until she catches a glimpse of Proctor lurking at the church doors. She watches as he sidesteps the pews, hefting something onto his shoulder before he vanishes into a back hallway. Movement catches her eye, something that waves or shifts. She’s uncertain, but it quickly upends her stomach with a sense of the sinister.
“Samuel’s back at home, then – with your mother?”
June returns to look into Miriam’s eyes, softly taking hold of her hand. “No, no. He is not.”
Proctor trails his hand along the church wall until he bumps against a jagged rock. He presses firmly against the rock, revealing a door concealed within the masonry. The door swings open unexpectedly, and a gust of air blasts from the darkness, snuffing out the candles. Women shriek in the darkness as Proctor slips inside and descends the crude staircase into the belly of the church.
The church basement has a cobblestone and dirt floor. It is compact in the areas where the sisters use it as a root cellar and loose in the places too shadowy for anyone to regularly visit. Awaiting Proctor is a collection of polished shoes and overcoats adorned with ornate buttons. These belong to the significant men of the town. Each man represents one of the town’s pillar families, involved in everything from shipping and trade to real estate and government. This small cabal has been congregating ever since the evil first arrived. When birds washed up in groups on the shore, their urgency grew to prevent any panic, and now, this morning, it is finally time to bring it all to an end.
Upstairs, the pastor continues his sermon to a room full of women whose husbands, one by one, never returned from the sea. He senses his audience drifting. Stepping down to meet their eyes, he persists with his sermon. Suddenly, a voice slices through the air from the back of the room, “The devil is here. We are cursed.” The woman scans the crowd, trying to locate the speaker. A second woman declares, “I’ve felt it in my kitchen. The soup pot spilled over into the fire in bursts of heat and sudden cold.” The pastor stretches his hands toward them, as if his very fingertips could offer the calm of an attentive God. “I know, my child. I know. We have faced tough days and even tougher nights." A third woman pleads, "I have night terrors—terrors where thick black liquid fills my lungs and comes out of my eyes. I cannot breathe." June steps forward, leaving silence in the air as she approaches the altar. “In all this blackness, I only know this: God has left us.”
Downstairs, a betrothed, hulking man, in a moment of showmanship, ignites a chalice, sending a wave of amber light across the room's pallor. The lone row of landowners and businessmen whispers among themselves, but their proffer never reaches full volume as they gather together.
A gruff, persistent noise rises, overwhelming the murmur of the men downstairs. Something is being pushed from the shadows toward the still-glowing chalice. Something wooden and metal. Something that requires two men to muscle it over the dirt and rock-laden floor into the light. It’s a three-foot square oak crate wrapped twice in silver strapping. The eyes of the room befall it as soon as the men set it down.
“There’s no guarantee we’ve faced our fiercest challenge, but our community deserves our effort. Each man here has been crucial to our endeavor, yet we must endeavor still.” The man steps from behind the lectern to run his hand over the crate. “First, we saw no crops, then no growing season. In our desperation, we turned to the ocean. The nets certainly don’t fill, but it was enough—until our fathers and sons stopped returning from their boats. And now, the salt in the air carries only their memory.”
Domwell Harris, the town’s butcher, says, “We’ve come this far. It’s time for men to do what men must.” He looks around at the others as they meet each other’s eyes, nodding without saying a word. It was as if their secret plan had been devised somewhere else, and now, beneath the creaking wooden planks of the church, it would come to fruition without any of them taking direct claim. Not long after they agree, a stout young man, Thomas Allen, breaks through the crowd. The dour look on his face is puzzling until it’s realized he’s carrying a malnourished boy in his arms. The boy’s chest rises gently, though he’s not awake. A couple of other gentlemen unfold a thick blanket and lay it down. Thomas slides the boy’s limp body from his arms to the church basement floor.
Almost in unison, the men step back and focus on what lies before them. It isn’t long before a buzzing blackness begins wafting from the corners of the crate. Flies. Dense and gyrating, the flies seem to cling to the oak. They hover and poke at the wood, searching for entry points. There are only a handful at first, but their noise amplifies, making their numbers seem much greater. One of the men asks aloud, “Is it working?” No one responds, and when he asks again, several of them shoot sharp looks in the dim glint of the chalice candle toward their priest. His head is hung low, the fingers of his right hand tracing something in the air before him as he repeats incantations in a soft murmur. Their piercing, concerned looks don’t subvert his task at hand.
“This has to work – after all we’ve done to capture it,” One of them says.
Another man claims, “It’s God’s will that we expel it.” Proctor barely turns his head toward the man before speaking, “You’re on the wrong floor for that. He’s upstairs. Something else runs the minutes down here.”
Flies continue to emerge from the crate, slow at first but now seemingly by the dozens. The men swat and slap at them as they fill the air. And if they knew what was to come, they may have preferred to keep their sight blocked. A few flies land on the boy, then a few more. In only a minute or barely more, the insects cover his body entirely. All their buzzing joins together into a raspy groan, a nightmarish hissing. Horror washes over the men as the flies pick the boy’s flesh from his body. Wounds appear on his knees and arms like a seething rash. From the boy to the crate and back, the flies disassemble the child and bring the bits into the crate through holes unseen. Blood soaks the blanket black; the air is heavy with the smell of iron. One of the men turns away to wretch and vomit.
“We can’t do this--“
“It’s already done, there’s nothing else we can--“
“The deed may be in progress, but we have not yet begun to pay for this sin today.”
The hulking man bangs on the lectern. “There’s madness in this town; we can’t just go on gathering tinder sticks, hoping it turns right.”
The men’s talking draws closer to arguing; it’s enough to pull their attention and not witness the boy. His feral, picked-over body slowly stands. Still wrapped in flies and being fed upon, the boy reaches a hand out. His forefinger and thumb stretch to touch Proctor. One of his eyes has been eaten away.
Harris pulls a knife and steps toward the boy just as Giles takes hold of him.
“Our work must be seen through.” Giles holds Harris’ wrist until the knife drops to the floor. Before he can grab it, Proctor scoops it up and plunges the gleaming tip into the boy’s chest. The men shout and clamor, but the job is done. The boy’s body thumps into the blanket. The flies hover, then slowly return to the crevices in the crate. Proctor steps back, away from the men until he’s mostly in shadow. None are close enough to hear him break; the blood on his hand reflecting a black shimmer in the chalice light.
“You fool; you’ve ruined us all.”
“Perhaps the ritual was completed.”
Silence settles among the men, and then Giles speaks, “No, it was not complete. The body must be fed entirely to sate him.”
“We’ve trapped him and bound him, how can that not be enough? What more can we be asked to take on?”
“God gives us no more than--“
“Shut up, Giles. Any God who brings that forth does not care how much men can bear.”
The basement has no windows, and the mass upstairs has reached its singing portion. The lonely notes trickle down to the men standing in frozen time. Held in silence, broken by coughs and little else, they quickly notice the crate and its bulging sides, which seem to peak and valley as if breathing. Its shrinking wood chirps and squeals back into form.
“Do good to not forget we’ve two unmarked graves just outside, thanks to what is inside that crate.”
“I was there, Harris. It was my axe too lodged in that mongrel.”
One of the men wipes at his shoes, clearing off the caked-on dirt with spit and a kerchief before stepping out to address the group. This is Johnathan Wexler. “I’m one of our town’s more recent arrivals, still- Mr. Harrington, Mr. Killian, I know your fathers through my father, and good begets good, and as long as I’ve lived, I’ve known no finer gentlemen. Yet still, I’m dry heaving up nettles and flies, thinking, this has to be the end. Giles, you say there’s a madness in town, and I say yes, and there shall always be...” he pauses briefly to carefully pick up the blanket's corners. “When there are too many people with too few places to hide secrets, something is bound to puncture the surface. Evil or otherwise.” Wexler fluffs and drapes the blanket over the crate. The dark blood lost in the chasm of wood. “Between what’s gone on today and what rumors are already stirring. Soon, even the farmers will consider it fact – so I again say, we must put this to end before rumor turns fact, and a shrieking fear kills us all.”
Another man from the group steps forward, drawing attention away from Wexler. One of the township’s elders, a frail man still holding strong to all his teeth, leans heavily on a cane crafted from an oak tree felled during the construction of the very church they all stand in. He looks down at the dirty floor, running his tongue along the inside of his mouth as he thinks how best to express his mind. Finally, he raises his gaze through the group of men and poses a question. A question that, even with hours to research, none of their books or legends would have an answer for; And certainly, it was not something any of the men considered when they first trapped this evil.
A question that unveils their reality in all its perverse glory, a question that strikes like an arrow through each of their throats so that none can utter a word in response. Instead, in this blanket silence, each of them alone is left to consider what the answer might be.
Unseasonably cold rain pours on the people still haunting the shops, those handling their chores, their to-dos, in this building, out of that one. A flurry of activity hides Proctor, his collar turned against the wind, as he crosses the street into The Captain’s Wheel, a saggy-roofed Public House popular more for its location than any of its drink and food offerings. He’s not a frequent patron, so Proctor’s entrance garners only a few looks from those lurking at the bar and candlelit corners. He shuffles off the rain and ushers himself onto a stool at the bar’s farthest end. Covered half in shadow, he nurses a whiskey for a short time, then takes a second drink down much faster. He’s spinning a third in the glass in his palm when she walks in. Some of the men straighten their backs in hopes of attracting her gaze. She keeps her head down, walking with purpose, directly to the stool beside Proctor. The bartender watches her eyes linger on Proctor’s hands before rising to meet his eyes, which have done their best to avoid direct contact. This too calculated attempt at being strangers catches the bartender’s attention; his grin remains when he drops a shot glass and the bottle off between them. After a moment, June takes her hood down to better look Proctor over.
“I didn’t intend to see you this morning.”
“…I know.”
June starts to speak, but Proctor puts his hand on hers; he squeezes it rhythmically for a few moments. A signal the two established in another of those unspoken moments where he needed her to know she was his whole heart, but couldn’t utter it. She cups her other hand on his, gently caressing his wrist. Instantly, his heart softens its beat, relaxing.
“In all of Samuel’s days, even before his father was gone, he seemed bitten by darkness. Illness. No matter the season. Illness. But still—”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to see. That’s almost too much to bear after what you’ve done.”
“And no one will know. Not what strength my little boy had in his bones, and not what type of mother… gives him—” She takes another drink but doesn’t return to her thought, instead she finds Proctor’s eyes and uses them to ask what a mother needs to know.
“Many of us will see spring because of his sacrifice and yours. Focus on that.”
“He used to reach his little forefinger and thumb up from his crib when I entered his room. So happy to see me. So. Happy.” June drifts into her glass, ordering another round from the listless bartender. Proctor’s mind continues turning over how June’s face would contort and break down if she knew that nothing she sacrificed mattered. The ritual, the sacred texts, the cabal – none could see the work through to its end. Her boy suffered, and the town still suffers, even now. As Proctor steps away from his barstool in silence, he commits himself to seeing the evil through to its end.
The Atlantic licks the docked boats in its seductive rhythm. The docks are mostly empty at this hour. A few drunken or lost sailors gloam about, but not much else: Proctor often walks here at night, absorbing the quiet and the salt air. Tonight, he has another mission. He adjusts the leather straps, securing a packed bag against his back, and hurries across the street to the dockside. His boot pace reverberates off the boats, loud enough to sound like he’s running away, like an escape. Proctor knows he can’t watch flies consume another child. He knows this township; the place he’s called home since his mother put him on a boat just as a plague settled in her lungs. His whole life is about this town and its people. Yet, darkness prevails. It rolled in from the ocean, taking the crops, taking some fathers and husbands, but Proctor knows it’s only getting started. The taking has barely begun, and those men in the basement are already desperate for it to stop.
Proctor moves quickly along the docks. His eyes dart back and forth until he finds a Dory with a small sail for propulsion, which he can operate alone. He carefully drops the pack off his shoulders. He begins the process of unmooring the small fishing vessel. He’s not worried about time; sunrise isn’t for hours. Normally, a small crew would work a boat like this, which would sail in tandem with a larger fishing vessel, often carrying its fishing lines and spears. Proctor won’t be setting any lines or dumping any chum.
In the hours to come, the housekeeper will discover the dead man in Proctor’s home. Soon after, the Pastor will come down to pray and find what the Proctor has stolen. Men will gather in the town hall informally, and most assuredly, they will ponder just what kind of man Proctor is. There will be a few stories to share, Proctor having kept mostly to himself. Even in the public house, there will be little gossip about the man worth noting. Word will spread among the town’s key personas of what’s been stolen. Some will be glad; out of sight, out of mind, will become the thought of the hour. But as the morning draws on, that feeling will wane, and the men will come to truly understand what Proctor has done.
Proctor uses one of the oars to push the Dory away from the dock and into the water. There will be no last-minute goodbyes and no one to argue over the deed to his home. Proctor’s mind is clear; for too long, he’s felt only cobwebs in his head, preventing his mind from wandering. And yet, this thought arrived fully formed in him just hours ago.
His boat breaks free from the inlet and into the open ocean. A silver breeze fills the Dory's sails, imbuing them with the speed of intent as Proctor stares ahead into the inky night. He does not need the sextant; this boat faces only the horizon and whatever lies beyond it.
A fly or two buzzes around the crate when Proctor removes it from the bag. Its weight gives off a silence like adding secrets into the room that everyone can suddenly feel. Its metal and wood look as though it’s bulged slightly from the inside out. Proctor stands on the bow and considers the question that old man posited in the church basement. Lightness comes with knowing your destination without caring about how it’s reached. Proctor knows. He instantly knew after the old man posed the question in the church basement. It was as if he knew it would always end like this. He and the darkness onward until he knows the answer: Where do you bury the devil…and how?
“Seven Minutes in Heaven” by Marigold Rowell
Everybody knows this game. Everybody’s played it. Well… everybody who’s popular, that is. You’ve never played it. But you know how it’s played. You close the closet door, muffling the noises of the party.
You stand still in darkness, then you fumble your way down among the unfamiliar coats, shoving aside a clutter of shoes. You sit, awkward and cross-legged, in the smell of musty wool and cracked rubber and somebody’s corn-chippy foot odor.
You wiggle and wedge yourself around so your back is to the door. You hear muted, overlapping conversations, punctuated by bright bursts of laughter. Thumping bass from the stereo. They must be playing another joke on you. They’re going to leave you sitting in here for the rest of the night. You were never one of them, and you never will be. Why did you think showing up at their party would change anything?
A thin bar of light widens across the hanging coats as the closet door opens. You don’t turn around. That’s not how the game is played. But, you look up. The silhouette of someone’s head and shoulders eclipses the yellow light. Then the door shuts.
Whoever is in the closet with you, they don’t make a sound. They don’t move. You can’t even hear them breathing. You can’t be sure there’s anyone here at all.
You don’t speak. That’s against the rules. You twist yourself around in the small space, and stretch out a hand, feeling for the top of a shoe, for a leg in bluejeans. You feel nothing.
You’re all by yourself.
You sit there. What else can you do? You’re the punchline to everyone’s joke, exactly like you thought you would be. After a while, you have to go to the bathroom, but you stay in the closet until your bladder burns and your legs tingle with pins and needles.
By the time you stumble to your feet and turn the knob, push open the closet door, no one left is in the living room. You look out the glass doors onto the patio. Shapes ripple and flit beyond the reach of the single lamp next to the couch.
Nobody sees you. Nobody turns to look. The sliding glass door is cracked open and you hear them laughing and talking. You smell the cigarette smoke and the beer and perfume. They forgot about you. You thought nothing would be worse than them laughing at you, but this is worse.
You walk through the empty house and out the front door, and you go home.
Nothing changes the next day at school. Nobody makes fun of you. Nobody shoves you in the hall. Nobody laughs under their breath in class. Maybe you dreamed it: the party, the closet, the silhouette in the doorway.
You lie in bed, staring at the dim wall of your bedroom, and you wonder if you’ll ever fall asleep. It’s so late. You’ll be so tired in the morning. Is there any point in getting up tomorrow?
The door of your bedroom opens, spilling light over the wall opposite your bed. The shadow of someone stands in the doorway, but you can’t tell if it’s your mother or your father. You lie still and pretend to be asleep. The door closes slowly, erasing the light.
You spend the next Saturday night at home. You’re in the bathroom, washing your hands afterward, when the knob on the bathroom door rattles softly. Habit made you close the door, even though there’s nobody in the house with you. There’s not supposed to be anyone here. Everyone else is gone.
The knob rattles again. In the mirror, you meet your own terrified stare. The door swings open, and a faint rectangle of light falls across the bathroom wallpaper. A head and shoulders are silhouetted against the light. Water from the faucet pours over your hands and gurgles down the drain, but you barely notice. No one is there, in the hallway.
Behind you, the door closes with a soft click.
“An Offer Refused” by Cameron Sauder
Fog kisses Christian’s cheeks as he steps onto his apartment’s parking lot; the cool, wet night tickles the back of his neck. He quickens his pace, eager to dismiss the babysitter and spend the night inside with his daughter, Ava. This plan is disturbed by squealing tires and bright headlights coming closer, closer, closer…
Darkness.
He sees a shape emerging from the ink like a spider on its hind legs. Gloom clings to a thin, dark torso that propels a head – atop which sits a tall top hat – nearly into the lamppost it stands beneath. Slung over its shoulder is a writhing black bag, and its other, outstretched hand procures a beckoning ball of orange light.
As Christian approaches the creature, he sees a pair of hypnotic, amber whirlpools lurking within the sockets of its obsidian skull, shaded by the brim of its hat. It hunches down to Christian’s height, presenting to him the beating light.
Christian knows what to do, but he cannot go willingly. He will not.
He runs into the shadow, trying to find his daughter.
The creature quenches the light with pointed fingers, sighing and shaking its head. It unties the bag, and a hundred decomposing hands burst forth like wriggling maggots. Mangled and rotten, they stretch across the pavement, crawling toward Christian with unnatural speed until they latch onto his limbs and drag him back to where the creature stands. He screams for his daughter, but no one can hear him.
The hands pull him inside the slick, warm bag, whose stirring contents suffocate him against the clammy fabric. Christian tries to claw his way out, but he cannot pierce the material; instead, tar gathers beneath his fingernails, dripping into his eyes and down his throat. The thick lining muffles his screams and masks his thrashing limbs.
Images played through his mind of Ava, the headlights, Ava, the headlights…
The creature ties the bag shut and marches back into the inky veil. Perhaps the next spirit will accept its offer, but they so rarely do.
Its work goes on.
“The Deal” by RS Nelson
The Curandera smiled, a thousand wrinkles forming on her face. She watched the little boy stare at the ceiling fan and swing his feet, which barely reached the floor. Her focus then switched to the girl, whose eyes flickered around the room, going from the colorful indigenous blanket hanging on the wall to each of the black and white pictures surrounding it. The girl’s gaze then moved from the corner altar—where the statue of the Virgin Mary stood in the center, stretching a hand toward them—to a small wooden table in the opposite corner. The artifact, which looked as old as the woman, had a thin drawer with a lock in the middle. A thick bundle of herbs and a clear liquid bottle rested above it.
The girl stared at the bundle. “What are those?”
“Those are Rosemary, Sage, and Rue.” The Curandera picked up the bundle, and showed it to the kids. “They clean your spirit. You can’t have a happy life if your spirit is sick, and these herbs help us bathe it.” She then smiled at the kids, who stared at her, open-mouthed.
“What’s a spirit?” asked the boy.
But before the healer could reply, the girl intervened, “It’s what’s inside of you. You can’t see it though.”
“Yes…and no,” said the Curandera. “That’s true, what’s inside of you cannot be seen. But sometimes spirits live outside a body, and because they miss their bodily form so much, they cling to living things, grabbing them,” she added, grasping the air with her fist so quickly that both kids gasped. “And when that happens,” she continued, “those people stop wanting to live because the spirits suck up all their energy. And that is why we have to get rid of them. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded, making his dark curls bounce.
The girl frowned. “But, how do you know if those spirits are there? I mean, can you see them?”
The Curandera looked at her with curiosity, at her slightly crooked nose and the bangs that fell flat over her face, covering her almost non-existent eyebrows. But there was a spark in her eyes, and the furrowed brow betrayed a mind always at work. The Curandera thought the gods played a bad trick on these siblings, making them switch traits. Her heart ached for them. In a country where men were valued by their minds and aggressiveness, and women were considered merely decorative objects, these siblings would have to fight their societal expectations.
“You’re Andrea, right?” she asked the girl, avoiding her previous question.
Andrea nodded and pointed to the boy. “This is my brother, Daniel.”
Daniel smiled, showing two dimples. “What is your name?”
“What if I don’t have a name?” The old healer gave him a sly grin.
The girl raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Everybody has a name. What did your mom call you?”
The Curandera forced a smile. She hadn’t thought about her mother in so long. She must have been around Andrea’s age when her mother got sick, having contracted what she said was an “illness of the heart”—which coincided with her husband's departure from this world. When the Curandera’s mother refused to leave the bed, the child went to the market to buy the herbs, and at night, she would bend over her mother’s potions, following her instructions. The mother’s business wouldn’t have lasted if it wasn’t for her daughter. But, even more importantly, the child’s love and devotion also helped the mother lift her spirits, making her realize she needed to survive for this child who was sacrificing for her. From then on, her mother called her ‘my little Angel.’
“She called me Angela.”
“You have an ‘A’ name, like me,” the girl stated matter-of-factly.
The Curandera smiled. “Seems like we have something in common.” Then, suddenly remembering the reason for the kids' presence, she asked, “Did your Abuelita tell you why you’re here?”
Both kids shook their heads. The Curandera sighed. She had known their grandmother, Beatrice, since they were both teens. Beatrice married young and had many children, while Angela focused on her business and refused to form a family. Beatrice was a stern woman, and nothing she did surprise her.
As if reading her thoughts, Andrea asked, “How do you know our grandma?”
“I’ve known her since we were kids. I’ve help her a few times too.”
The girl raised an eyebrow.
“What? You don’t believe me?”
“No. I’ve never met you before, and besides, my grandma doesn’t believe in…this,” replied the girl, stretching her arms as if to capture the entirety of the small room.
The Curandera stared at her from across the table. How old was she again? 10? 11? Sharp as a tack, but naïve as a child. Instead of arguing, she asked, “How’s Nellie?”
“Do you know our mom too?” gaped Daniel.
“Yes, she was here before you,” she replied, her eyes fixed on Andrea, who looked at the floor. She knows.
“Our mom is fine,” replied the girl in a monotone.
“Uhumm,” replied the Curandera, hoping the girl was right.
It was less than a year when the kids' mother, Nellie, sat in the same spot across from her, a scowl on her face. She covered her nose while the Curandera smoked a cigar.
“Nellie, for how long have you been feeling like this?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your mother said that you can’t sleep, or eat. Is that true?”
“I guess,” she shrugged.
The Curandera lifted her right eyebrow, pulling up the crow’s feet on the corners of her eye. Experience had taught her how to deal with people who refused to accept the truths that were so obvious to her. This woman would not believe anything she said, so she might as well give her the bad news now.
“Nellie, you’ve been cursed.”
The woman smirked, looking down at the Curandera. “And my mother paid for this?”
The healer puffed the cigar and winced at Nellie through the veil of the stogie’s smoke.
“She had to because your husband took all your money. Right?”
Nellie’s eyes narrowed. It was enough punishment to move in with her estranged mother, but why did she have to involve others too? “I don’t need your help,” she said, getting up.
The Curandera looked at her and then at the smoke lingering in the air, circling Nellie, as a snake would do to prey. “Sit down.” It wasn’t loud, but it was certainly a command. Nellie stood for a moment, unsure, yet eventually obeyed. “Now, you listen to me,” said the old woman, pointing a wrinkled finger at Nellie. “Your mother brought you here because she’s afraid—.”
Nellie scoffed. “Yeah, right.”
“She is afraid,” continued the Curandera, “That you’re losing your mind, and that you’ll hurt your kids more than you already have—"
“Don’t you dare mention my kids—.”
“And afraid,” she interrupted, “That the people who cursed you—being your husband or his family—, might try to curse your kids too.”
Nellie clenched her jaw. “Mentiras. Those are lies.”
The Curandera rubbed her forehead, her patience fading, and wondered if she was getting too old for this job. She looked at Nellie, woven in her pain so tightly that she now wore it like a second skin. She wasn’t the first to test her, to call her a liar and demand a refund, and she wasn’t the first who needed proof to be convinced, either. Blowing a puff of smoke, the curandera lifted her chin toward Nellie’s left. “Then what is that?”
When Nellie looked, the cigar’s smoke gathered together in the shape of a giant cloud-cobra, curving around her body, and showing a pair of fangs that moved toward her neck.
“Oh, my God!” she screamed, hitting the smoke until the cloudy animal slithered to a corner of the room and evaporated. Nellie lifted her hands toward her neck, touching where the shape had been a second ago.
“Do you believe me now?”
But Nellie was speechless, and the color had abandoned her face. The old woman pressed the butt of the cigar on the ashes container. “Well, I guess we can start.”
The healer gathered the herbs for the bath. She pressed the leaves together and tied them with a small rope. Then she lit palo santo to cleanse the area. “You brought clean clothes to change, right?” Nellie showed her the bag. The Curandera nodded, satisfied. It was part of the ritual; it was as if her clients were peeling off a second skin. “Strip to your undergarments only,” the Curandera said. “And put the clean clothes here,” she added, pointing to a small wooden table in the corner. When she did, Nellie almost knocked over a clear liquid bottle. “Be careful,” said the Curandera, “We’ll need that.”
Nellie stood in front of the Curandera, who recited the same intonations that her mother had taught her, and which she used a thousand times to cure curses, ailments, and broken hearts.
She hit Nellie with the herbs, not too hard, but hard enough for their scent to be imprinted on her body memory. She prayed while she worked, begging her saints to help her stay strong, and not let the woman’s demons consume her. Because even though Nellie had seen her fear in the shape of the smoke, she couldn’t see the demons that created that fear, the ones that were her constant companions ever since the husband had cast that spell on her. They were next to her while she was being bathed, touching her body, leaving marks on her skin, demeaning her, and doing the same things that men had done to her in her life. But the Curandera would never tell her—or anyone else—this because they'd never believe her unless they’d seen it for themselves.
The healer raised her voice to chase the demons away, but they laughed at her, pulling at Nellie as if she were a puppet, and they the masters of her strings.
The old woman smiled. She had seen many demons, in different shapes and sizes, and she knew their tricks. She knew the ones she needed to worry about the most were the silent ones. A barking dog never bites, she reminded herself. She grabbed the bottle, containing the cheapest liquor she could find, and took a big sip of it. Without warning, she spat at Nellie multiple times, covering her face and body. She caught her so off guard that the woman jumped back, startled, and angry, focusing on her present instead of her past. When she did that, the demons released her, and the Curandera pursed her mouth in a self-satisfied smirk.
The creatures snarled, showed their sharp teeth. They tried to grab Nellie again, but she was so busy inhaling the strong scent of the black soap and the mix of the herbs and feeling the physical pain that they produced on her skin, that her senses were on overdrive, stopping her from thinking about anything else.
The demons hissed at the Curandera, who stared into their soulless eyes and spat more liquor at the woman, making them retreat and disappear in a cloud of smoke.
The Curandera finished the ritual by dropping rose water on Nellie. While the woman changed, the healer lighted the cigar and scanned her. Demon-free was the conclusion—at least for now. The Curandera knew they would return; if not the same, then others. Because misery loves company, and wherever there’s misery, those dark spirits reappear, bringing their brothers and sisters. She counted on that for her survival.
When Nellie walked to the door, she looked at the old woman straight in her eyes and thanked her. The Curandera watched her walk away, praying that Nellie would find her way and that she would keep the demons at bay for as long as possible. She also prayed for Nellie’s children, because she knew they would be coming soon.
The root of all evil is envy, and she knew that the cure—the peace that Nellie would soon feel—would make those trying to hurt her want to attack again. And if they couldn’t get to the mother…
And now Nellie’s kids were here.
The Curandera shook her head as if to send the bad thoughts away. “Let’s get to work,” she told the kids. “Your Abuelita will be here to pick you up soon.” The Curandera smoked the cigar—her portal to the unknown, and to her amazement the boy was spirit-free.
She focused on Andrea, and what she saw made her gasp.
There are many kinds of spirits, some easier to repel than others. The little demons—like the ones that held Nellie—were easy to eliminate but also easier to return. They were like an ant invasion. If you kicked them out of one nest, they would just build another.
There were also ethereal demons, which could take different shapes, depending upon their victim’s suffering. But a few, the more dangerous ones, weren’t attached to living bodies. Those, that roamed the Earth as shadows, had been around for a very long time, and they possessed a life by themselves. Those could consume, and eventually kill, a soul. The Curandera had never seen one before, until this very moment.
“Are you okay?” asked Andrea.
The Curandera forced herself to move her eyes away from the giant shadow. Andrea was pointing a finger at her. The old woman looked down and realized the cigar had fallen on her lap, leaving a dark mark on her clothes. She then slowly stood up, pretending not to notice the kids’ eyes on her.
“Wait here,” she told them, “I’ll gather the things for your bath.”
She walked to the corner and clutched the wooden table with trembling hands. She composed herself before gathering the herbs for the ritual, which she knew was an exercise in futility. She would give the boy a blessing bath, meant to protect him from whatever might happen to him in the future. As for the girl, it would just be a waste, because no herbs could protect her from the shadow lurking above her.
When the grandmother arrived, the Curandera grabbed her by the elbow. “I need to talk to you.”
“About?”
“Andrea,” she said, carefully choosing her words. “I have to do a longer treatment for her.”
Beatrice took a step back. “I thought you said that one visit would do.”
The Curandera took a deep breath. Explaining her job to others was never easy, even to those who had known her for as long as Beatrice. “She needs more help—”
“I don’t have the money,” Beatrice interrupted. “With Nellie’s trip—"
“I won’t charge you,” the Curandera said, and when she noticed Beatrice relaxing, she asked, “Where is Nellie going?”
Beatrice grimaced. “To the United States. The guy she’s dating helped her to get a visa.”
The Curandera looked at the siblings. The boy laughed when the girl dried his head with a towel. “And the kids?” she asked with a pang.
Beatrice grimaced. “They’re staying with me.”
Before the Curandera could say anything, Daniel ran to Beatrice with his arms stretched, but his grandma quickly patted his head and gently pushed him away. Andrea stood next to Beatrice and extended her hand to the healer.
“Thank you, Miss Angela.”
The Curandera looked at her and, fighting a strange impulse to hug the child, shook her hand instead. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Place those over there.” The Curandera pointed to the wooden table, while she boiled water on the stove. Andrea did as told and waited for directions. “Just leave them on the table,” said the old woman.
The girl placed the bag next to the herbs, the same ones she remembered from last time, sage, and rosemary, and...what was the other one? The black soap was next to them, its smell so penetrating that her little brother gagged during their bath. She smiled remembering that it hadn’t bothered her. None of it bothered her. She felt comfortable in the Curandera’s room as if a long-lost memory was resurfacing, telling her she was home. But, of course, that wasn’t possible.
“Why are you smiling?” asked the Curandera.
Andrea looked at the floor, her smile evaporating.
The Curandera approached Andrea, and tilted her head. “This is not your grandma’s house. Questions are welcomed here.”
Andrea looked at her and blurted, “Can you tell the future?”
“What?” the Curandera asked, not hiding her disappointment. It was always the same—rich, or poor—they all wanted to know about the future. She believed this girl was different.
“What I mean is…” Andrea squeezed her hands, “Do you know if my mom will return?”
The Curandera winced, understanding. Nellie’s move to a new country finally freed her from her pain; but sadly, it also freed her from her motherly obligations. She grabbed Andrea’s hands. “I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it. “I can only see the possible future of the people I read…and whichever choices they had made until that moment. When your mom came, she didn’t have the opportunity to travel yet, so I don’t know.”
Andrea bit her lower lip. “It’s just that I dreamt that she never returned,” she whispered.
The Curandera narrowed her eyes. “Do you usually have dreams like that?”
Andrea nodded.
“Was this after your mother left?”
The girl shook her head.
A thought crossed the Curandera’s mind. The sins of the father. “Was this after your father left?”
Another nod.
“Humm,” the old woman said, trying to contain the thumping of her heart. “Have you told your mom?
A shake of the head.
“Have you told your grandma?”
Andrea looked at the floor. The nod she gave was almost imperceptible.
“What did she say?”
The girl didn’t answer, but the Curandera didn’t need her to. She already knew that was why Beatrice had brought the girl to see her, but had conveniently forgotten to tell her. “Tell me about the dreams. Tell me the scariest one,” she asked, squeezing the girl’s hands.
Andrea told her about lying down in bed at night. She told her the shadow would stand by her bedside, and stare at her. She couldn’t move or scream, while the shadow lay on her. When she finished, her face was covered with tears.
“And this happens every night?”
“Almost,” sniffed Andrea. “When it doesn’t happen, I dream about other things.”
“I see,” said the Curandera, cleaning the girl’s face. “Well, let’s see what we can do about that.”
But the Curandera didn’t tell Andrea that after she and her brother had left the previous time, she had opened the table in the corner, and grabbed her mother’s notebook. The small, black leather-bound pad’s pages were ripping off so badly that she had to wrap it with a rubber band. She was looking for a recipe, a story, or anything that could tell her what to do in a situation like this. She had stayed up all night, smoking, trying to invoke the spirit by herself.
The next day, tired and without a solution, she asked Beatrice to bring Andrea, hoping that while she was there, she could see—and release—the spirit that was tormenting her.
The Curandera smoked the cigar, and closed her eyes for a second, feeling suddenly ill. When she opened them again, the dark shadow stood by the girl. The shape of a man. His hand moved slowly along the girl’s long hair, touching her head, and wrapping itself around her. The Curandera’s heart thumped louder in her ears.
The shadow’s face shifted, and two beady eyes appeared. They stared down at the old woman.
“What do you want with her?” the Curandera asked.
“Mine,” said the ancient voice.
Goosebumps covered the Curandera’s flesh, and she swallowed, her throat suddenly hoarse. That wretched man. She felt the fear invading her body; a new, raw sensation wrapped tight around her chest and neck, like a boa constrictor. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. Her eyes opened wide.
“What’s wrong, Angela?”
The Curandera stretched her hand across the table to Andrea, who grabbed it, her eyes filled with concern. The healer forced herself to open her jaw and move her lips. “I’m okay,” she whispered.
“Don’t lie, Angela. I can see it.”
The Curandera looked at Andrea, her eyes quizzical. “I see him, too.”
The old woman’s body slumped. I am too old for this. She felt the heaviness in her body and soul pulling her down.
But Andrea smiled at her and squeezed the Curandera’s hand tight. The girl’s soft touch brought warmth to the Curandera’s heart. For a crazy second, she wished that Andrea were her daughter. Not because of an unfulfilled wish to have children, but because she knew that when she was gone, her life experience, her wisdom, and all the things she had seen would leave with her. She stared into the girl’s bright eyes, wishing she could pass all her knowledge onto her.
But first, she needed to deal with this.
Inhaling deep, the Curandera looked to the girl’s left, and lifting her chin, her expression changed. She let go of Andrea’s hand and stood up, her eyes fixed on the shadow. “She is not yours,” she told it. “I don’t care what her father’s deal was, but you must leave her alone.” Her voice was not loud, but firm.
The shadow let go of Andrea and, in a swift motion, moved closer to the Curandera until its face was in front of hers. The smell of arsenic and decomposition filled the old woman’s nostrils.
“NO,” it boomed.
The Curandera held the shadow’s gaze. “Leave her,” she repeated. But then, in a low whisper, she added. “And I’ll give you a life. If you don’t, I will fight you.”
The shadow stood in front of the Curandera for what felt like minutes. Huffed, and then slowly disappeared.
“It’s gone!” yelled the girl, reaching for the Curandera’s hand. “But wait…what did you mean?”
The Curandera tapped the girl’s hand twice before letting it go. “Don’t you worry,” she said with a smile. “All that matters is that it will never bother you again.”
Andrea threw herself into the Curandera’s arms. The old woman held the girl for longer than she meant, hearing her steady heartbeat, and feeling the energy moving around her body.
“You will have a happy life,” she whispered in her ear.
Then she released Andrea and pointed a wrinkled finger at her. “Wait here.”
The Curandera walked to the wooden table, opened the lock, and returned with the notebook. “I want you to have this,” she said, handing it to Andrea. “It was my mother’s. You are such a special girl, and I believe you can do what I do…if you choose to.”
Andrea flipped the notebook and her mouth dropped. She looked at the Curandera. “Are you sure?”
The old woman held Andrea’s face in her hands, staring into the eyes that radiated youth and life, so much life. She touched a strand of her hair. “I’m sure.”
“Thank you, Angela! This is the best gift.”
When the Curandera walked Andrea to the door, her heart ached with the weight of goodbye, her memories leaving with the girl. By pure will, she forced back the tears when Andrea turned around, waved at her and smiled. The Curandera waved back, happy with her choice.
She then closed the door, already feeling the presence, the stench of arsenic and decadence slowly spreading around the room. Without looking, the Curandera knew the shadow was waiting to seal the deal.
“It Wanders” by Jennifer James
Shade of evening, darker than night. Snow White’s hag projected on the wall—hunching, hooded, sliding out of corner shadows.
Beside the switch, so I flinched from flipping on the light. Between me and the door.
I can’t grasp how I escaped you. Before and after are sponged, and the only memory is the moment.
Fleeing the house, I kept away until distance assured me you were a trick of streetlamps.
I learned to forget. Scrubbing memory clean until time was spotless, but years were nothing to you. You nested in a closed, dirty nowhere.
Waiting to open my door and shut it.
Open.
Shut.
Anger swallowed fear, and I roared.
You stalled, biding your time in the corners, raring to make your point in daylight.
Your handprint message decorating a steamed bathroom mirror—hands and hands—a finger-painted threat, was received. I wouldn’t be allowed to forget again.
I told myself, pretend, pretend, pretend you don’t see.
But my mother saw you, shade of evening darker than night, eyeing her from the hall.
Only one way to wipe stains clean she knew. She went for the preacher, and the preacher went for you.
We barred the door. Scoured dark corners.
God exiled you to wander unwashed places while we tended burning lamps, minding all the shadows.
Letter from the Editor:
This is an issue of The Dread that almost never happened! Behind the scenes, there have been so many pitfalls in my development of this review (like issues with the domain hosting site and my own ever-increasing schedule as the school year approaches) and I am so excited that it is in the format that it is today. I swear I nearly threw in the towel a handful of times.
I am also incredibly proud to announce that The Dread has welcomed a new editor, Lila Phurrough! She is bringing so much editorial expertise and love of the horror genre to the table and I can’t wait to see what her knowledge can do for The Dread.
That being said, submissions are now open again after our summer break. We have had a lot of issues with our posting schedule (some technological and some are my own mistakes) so please know that if your submission was accepted, it will be posted!
If you find that posting/submission responses are taking too long for your tastes, you will not be penalized if you choose to withdraw your piece. You are still a member of The Dread family and can still submit again any time you like. We do accept reprints, remixes, anything under the sun.
Your patience means everything to me as I navigate this journey.
M. Anne Avera
Douglas Sullivan prefers strong coffee with lean prose. He has been a Pushcart Prize nominee and a Reader’s Choice Award winner for Sleet Literary Magazine. His work has also appeared in Crime Factory magazine, The Shine Journal, and Vagabondage Press. Douglas is also a filmmaker, local library fan, and generally just a fella who follows a perplexing number of cute animal Instagram accounts.
Marigold Rowell (she/her) is a writer and illustrator who lives in Los Angeles, and hopes one day to own that house the neighborhood kids won’t walk past because they think it’s haunted. She has been published in Haunted Words – Issue #8 and The Horror Zine. She has two cats and plays the ukulele. You can find more of her stories and art at https://MarigoldRowell.com.
Cameron Sauder is an avid lover of stories, writing, and all things fantastic. Born and raised in Barrie, Ontario, he's studied English and Creative Writing at Brock University since 2021, where he co-led the school's creative writing club and co-launched a small literary journal: Phylum Press. He's received an honourable mention in L. Ron Hubbard's Writers of the Future Contest, and his short story, “Isolation,” was published in Blood Moon Rising magazine in October 2024.
R.S. Nelson (she/her) is a Latina writer who lives and finds inspiration in Southern California. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, Every Writer, Spillwords, Every Day Fiction, SciFiSat, Twin Bird Review, and elsewhere. She was also shortlisted for the Women on Writing 2024 fall fiction contest.
Jennifer James is a writer living in the American midwest. She's loved storytelling, reading, and writing as long as she can remember. Dark tales have always been some of her favorites. Supporting her in her efforts are her husband, two dogs, two cats, and several very understanding friends. She currently publishes on Substack and has been working on the same novel for five years.