Posts Tagged ‘Horror’
by Nick Scorza
It is all because of the book, that accursed book I came across in my employ as a dealer in antiquities. I did not choose the profession, but rather awoke to find myself immersed in it – being something of an antiquity myself, even as a young man. I loved all old things, whether from the past century or the past millennium. I was mad for them, but books I prized above all else. Is there anything more wonderful than a book? It is a treasure trove – the wealth and wisdom of the dead preserved for the living as no hoary pharaoh could have hoped for. In books I sought the same commune with things greater than myself that others sought from the church. To me, any book was a bible. |
Issue 19 (Mar 2012) |
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by Peter Damien
If there was pain from the small equator of raw flesh and blood, she did not feel it. She went mad, that first day, a madness the pain could not penetrate. Her mind filled with rage and despair, the animalistic panic at being trapped like this, being snatched away. What was left of her mind was filled with those last few moments: the sound of scuffling, the sound of Eric shouting at her to run, goddammit, get the hell outta here, get the – and then the sound of his voice being cut off by a thunderclap explosion which left her ears ringing. |
Issue 19 (Mar 2012) |
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by Chris Stevens
The stench of sulfur wafted through the air as Colin lit the black candles positioned at each corner of the pentagram. He stared intensely at the large pentagram he had drawn on the bare concrete floor. It had taken a while to remove the carpeting and padding from the room. Harder still was the remnant of glue that was swirled on the floor to keep the padding in place. Colin had even gone so far as to remove the tack strips and their anchors, in order to get a nice smooth surface for the task at hand. |
Issue 19 (Mar 2012) |
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by David McCool
A couple of months ago - I'm talking mid-June, right smack in that heat wave - I took a walk into the town centre to kill some time on what was likely the hottest day of the year. Had I stayed at home I'd have risked dozing off in front of the TV, and, at my age, my sleep pattern doesn't need much more than a five-second, head-jerking snooze for it to be thrown right out of sync. Working in the garden wasn't an option, either. I'd have been sizzled good, even with factor 50 and a straw hat on my side. |
Issue 18 (Feb 2012) |
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by Summer Hanford
One unremarkable, breezy September morning, a graduate student was cleaning rat cages. Now, most of her rats were housed individually in fine 9 x 12 x 9 inch highly durable plastic bins, but four of them lived together in a colony cage. These four rats were naive Long Evans males, recognizable as 19, 20, 21 and 22 by their earmarks, and were currently on water deprivation in preparation for a study. |
Issue 18 (Feb 2012) |
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by Genevieve Rose Taylor
When she's gone, I realize that I've put my hand on my belly, like she did. I wonder if her secret is the same as mine, or if hers was worse. I still can't sleep, and why bother trying? Sleep steals away the only hours I have left, so I make myself another cup of coffee, and return to the window. |
From Issue 17 (Dec 2011) |
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by Mel Odom
Even before Special Agent Thompson took the 8x10 photograph from inside his sleek briefcase, Emily Cooksey knew she had seen the man previously - eight days ago. “No.” She told the lie without inflection, without pause, just as she’d told the man her name was Mary Smith. She was good at lying and would be ashamed of it, if it weren’t so necessary in her life. |
From Issue 17 (Dec 2011) |
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by Cate Gardner
“The Devil pulled the string on his attic door and all the people tumbled down,” Pastor Baest said, recounting recent history. “Soil shot up in an almighty plume, affixing its weight to the sky and colouring the world sepia. Amen.” “Amen,” the children repeated. |
From Issue 16 (Dec 2011) |
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by Tom Jolly
The interesting difference between doctors and scientists is that scientists often ignore the potentially deadly repercussions of their activities, so immersed are they in their work that they fail to see all the dark applications of it. If people die, it's not their fault. As long as your motives are pure, no blame can be laid at your doorstep. |
From Issue 16 (Dec 2011) |
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by Sylvia Hiven
Indeed, the stench was bad; the odor of stale vomit and human waste lay like a veil in the room. And yes, the man that sat in the bed was a mere skeleton, his hollow cheeks pasty despite the amber light from his bedside lamp. But he had his hands clasped around a crucifix, and while his eyes were dark with fear, there was no sign of the devil in him. |
From Issue 15 (Nov 2011) |
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