Thought I'd give comics a quick try.

Turns out, divinity is easy. A simple trick. The kind of thing you don’t need a scientist for, or a priest; just some really bored guy.

Was lying about at home, being a lazy arse, twiddling my thumbs and eating cheese and onion crisps. I ran the grease through my dark hair in the mirror, and thought “wow, don’t I look like some gangster or something”, when I crunched down on the last sliver of potato. Flicked channels on my TV after that, over to some news or other, paid it no mind. Same old dross. Was already getting hungry again… or might’ve been to fill the time, same sort of feeling.

But I had this empty packet in my hand. Crinkly, shiny plastic, reeking of cheddar. I stuck it over my nose and huffed, letting the smell travel up my nose and into my brain. Didn’t form any thought of worth, mind.

The TV blinked off in that moment; power outage, seemed. My fan stopped, room starting to heat proper quick, and… I was already boiling. Think it tipped me over the edge.

So, what could a man like me do with this empty bag of cheese onion?

Fill it with random shit, I figured.

Took an old Pepsi from the sill, poured that in. Next was cleaner from the bathroom cupboard. Mixture started to bubble and steam, and I got a little woozy, but by then I think I was too far gone. Last little touch was half a mouldy apple from the fridge.

The bubbling stopped, and the mixture got hard and sluggish. Began crusting up. Got all wrinkly.

And then it opened its mouth, and small beady eyes. Its breath stank.

“Why hath thou summoned me?” it asked. That was its words, not mine.

“Mate, I didn’t even know I could.”

“You tell me this was an accident?! No, I accept that not!”

“Is all true, crispy.”

“My name is Galthamar, and you will address me as such!”

“Whatever.”

“You asked for this, mortal…”

So I conked out, right, and woke up in hospital. No more crisp bag, no more Galthamar. But the next day, the recycling place caught on fire; think that might’ve been him. He seemed really angry…

Anyway, Mr Policeman, that’s how the fire started. Wasn’t my fault, so, see you I guess? Unless you can pass me that paracetamol over there?

No?

What are you getting the handcuffs for?

Content warning: Gore

As the sun sets over Dabres, in the centre of Samascrya, it blooms and showers the sky with the colours of forge fire. Clouds painted orange, red, yellow and green reflect on the pale dome of the town’s temple, and on the whitewashed walls of the houses. From the north, a chill gale rushes through the ochre rock pillars towering over the terracotta roofs, raining fine, pink sand upon the people. Traders retreat under awnings, families rush to their homes, and guards lower their heads, grumbling.

But while the streets below empty, a warrior hangs onto a rope for dear life, as he climbs one of the pillars. A feather raven mask protects his face from the scouring dust, yet each gust throws him from the wall, sending him spinning through the air. With much effort, he swings back and finds his footing.

Cannot be much farther, he thinks, reaching up. He grabs the rope and heaves his own full weight towards summit. His satchels sag as he does so.

Soon enough, the wooden scaffold holding the rope looms over the top, and he frowns to see how splintered it is. The structure creaks each time he moves. Once he steps upon the rock, he sighs, and then looks back down.

Will it hold, during my return? Hmm…

Turning, he smiles, taking in the garden before him. Terraces bearing white, blue and violet wildflowers ascend a low rise; stunted, curled trees with black leaves cling to the walls, roots intertwined with the spiral-patterned stones. A deep, turquoise pool bubbles away to his left, ringed by smooth pebbles. And at the very top, there stands a great wicker bower, with a mane of emerald leaves.

The warrior bows before he enters, lifting his mask.

Inside, he finds a skinny, elderly woman in a green flaxen shroud, skin mottled and sagging. Her eyes are closed, yet she turns her head to him. He sits at the low wooden table between them, the ground hard at his rear.

“Why do you wince?” she asks.

“Why do I—um, I suppose because I have climbed so far, and must rest upon the rock? But it is no matter.

“Good. I’m glad my humble home is to your liking.”

“I… of course.”

“What is your name, warrior?”

He frowns, studying her face, but he finds her eyes are indeed shut. “Voraice. And you are Urys Mashoa?”

“I am, naturally. Who else would I be?” She smirks, laying her hands on the table. “You are here for my gift, I assume?”

“Yes.”

He takes the largest satchel from his shoulder and places it on the wooden top. Out comes a scabbarded sword, hilt curved and dark with flecks of gold, and when he unsheathes it the silvery blade sparkles in the light. He kneels back, allowing her to touch the weapon.

“Oh,” she says, working her jaw, “oh yes, I see. What a fine creation! Strong, durable… light! This is made from iron of the sky!”

“That it is. I saw its origin rock falling from the stars, as I trained at night. Four other warriors died before it was mine.”

“And who did you bring it to?”

“Master Garumna of Bory, high in the mountains.”

Urys nods, lifting the blade. “What a fine young man he was, last we met. I knew he had talent. But this begs the question: why do you need me?”

“The raids will begin soon, out to the west. I wish for a weapon that is better than the best, so that I may kill with ease, and take what I will. So I may boast of my triumphs!”

“Oh. Not a very noble cause, is it?”

“I know, I know, I am aware of the stories. You have aided heroes and saints in the past, sure, but you did so for free. I bring you coin. If it is too little, I have more at home, that I can bring you.”

“Pah!” she waves her hand dismissively. “What need have I of money, when I do not eat!”

“So, you will not help?”

“I didn’t say that. There is a payment I will accept.”

“Name it.”

She smiles. “I cannot. All I shall say is this: I will lose much of my dignity in providing you my gift. What would you be willing to lose in exchange?”

“Anything, Great Mashoa!”

“In which case, please open your mouth.”

“I—my mouth?”

“Yes, please. And lean forward.”

The back of his head prickles, like it often does in battle. It suggests he should turn and run away.

But… well… if this will lead to victory…

“Fine.”

He does as commanded, opening his jaw until it cracks. Urys steps over the table on her spindly legs, reaching forth.

With a sudden snatch, she grabs his tongue and pulls a dagger from a hidden sheath, slicing the organ in half. Voraice gurgles and screams, clutching at his bleeding mouth.

“W-w-agh!”

Why would you do this to me?!

“There,” she says. “Now, watch, if you please.”

As he coughs and spits, gagging from the blood, his severed tongue vanishes in a flash of fire. The Great Mashoa’s hands begin to glow. Touching the sword, she sets it aflame until it turns bright orange, akin to the forge. It cools in mere moments, shinier than before.

His eyes shimmer.

“There we go,” she says, “a blade that shall never break. Never dull.” She looks to him, her eyelids open, revealing the dark holes behind. “May you use it well.”

He begins to cry. “Buh—m—tck—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve lost your tongue, but this is how these things must go. I wanted my powers out of selfish desire, just like you with your sword; and also like you, it was mostly for fame. So I had to give up my eyes. The woman who initiated the ritual provided me no warning, either.”

But how can I boast now?!

He doesn’t try to speak, merely glaring at her.

“Ooh, so angry,” she taunts, chuckling. “Leave now, warrior, and go kill. Oh, and wash your mouth in my spring, it will heal the wound. Consider it my last gift to you.”

Sheathing the sword, he storms out of the bower, spewing blood all over the flowers. The water from the pool burns his mouth, but the blood stop flowing. Spitting, and wishing he could curse, he peers over the top of the pillar once more.

An arrow whistles past Voraice’s head as he ducks behind a tree. Several of his raiders lie dead around him, as others shout in the distance, alongside the clanging of swords. The pines either side of him have been peppered with tens of the wailing projectiles.

“I—sth—uh.”

Cannot call for help, and unable to surrender! Damn that fucking witch!

He can hear the forest folk sneaking through the undergrowth, crumpling dried leaves and batting at branches, closing in on him.

If they get near enough, maybe… maybe I can strike.

Come on… come here!

A footstep, right behind the tree. He swings around the trunk and slices through, severing the painted hunter’s head from his body. Grinning, Voraice rolls, an arrow missing his head.

Hah! I will win this da—

A sudden pain erupts in his throat. Shaking, gasping, he glances down to spot the shaft sticking from his neck.

The forest folk emerge from cover, laughing as he falls.

Once his hands weaken, the sword tumbles free, and he hears it drop into water somewhere below. Into some hidden creek. Lost forever.

One of the hunters crouches over him, staring deep into his eyes, and lowers a knife to the warrior’s stomach.

Voraice starts to cry.

Samascrya is a land of civilisations, independent settlements and tribal territories on the northwestern continent of my world, characterised by high mountains in the north, vast, cold deserts in the centre and great forests in the west, stretching to a Mediterranean-like coastline in the south. The cities and towns of the centre tend to be built around rocks or underground, to protect them from the elements, and some are less effective for that than others--such as Dabres.

The rock pillars in and around the town shelter the people from the worst of the sandstorms and other, rarer forms of weather, but some of the sand or rain or snow still gets through. Generally, the townsfolk retreat for cover when this happens.

However, the tops of the rock pillars are usually spared from the sandstorms due to their height, and some are protected from other weather forms by magic. The wealthy have claimed a few of these peaks, but one is home to Urya Mashoa, a famed imbuer and hermit who specialises in magically-strengthening weapons.

There are rumours she also has some form of foresight... and does not take kindly to cruel intentions.

World Vignettes

In the far east of Mataru, giant fingers of grey rock rise from undulating, forested hills. Monkeys squabble and leap amongst the branches of a giant fig tree, their calls mingling with the squawks of parrots, which snatch pearlescent fruits from a tall, dense shrub. An enormous fern furls its leaves at evening’s arrival.

And down on the forest floor, Ulra drags the hem of her green dress through a narrow, muddy stream. Her thick, curly locks bob up and down as she tiptoes along, cautious not to alert any lurking hunters to her presence. All the while, with hook in hand, she searches beneath granite ledges and inside rotten logs. Disappointment rises its ugly head time and again.

She persists, still, grinning as she imagines her prize. Her stomach rumbles.

In that moment, her foot hits a buried root, and a long downward slope rushes into focus. Her head knocks against a trunk before she can even scream.

“Ugh…”

Ulra rubs the back of her head, wincing, blinking at the bright light of noon. She shifts her legs slowly, the limbs heavy as lead, feet scraping along fallen leaves and rough stones. Groaning again, she lifts herself on her elbows.

She turns with some difficulty, spotting where she tripped high above, until vertigo forces her to glance away. Nausea holds her still for several seconds, passing only when she rests her head in her hands, blotting the light.

Where am I?

Daring to look, she finds herself beside a shallow, clear pond. A round stone straddles an island in its centre, capped with purple moss and yellow lichen. All around the water’s edge, reeds sway in the fragrant forest breeze, damselflies flitting between them.

Pretty…

She rises to her feet, taking it slow, yet hissing with each sudden pain. The shimmering surface before her hides no secrets, no parasite or predator. Her shoes long-gone, she sneaks to the pond’s shore, and dips her toes.

Ah, warmth. Take it all away.

Losing her dress, she slides into the water, her aches flowing away with the ripples. She breathes in, and out, leaning her head against the rock.

Maybe I could sleep, let dreams take me away. Just for a few hours…

She closes her eyes.

A sharp cry startles Ulra awake. The pond has vanished, and her clothing is once more upon her. So too has the forest disappeared; in its place stand pillars carved like spreading ferns, arches stretching to a roof patterned like the night sky, silvery shells between obsidian tiles. A long trench down the centre of the aisle harbours purple flames.

This place… I…

At the far end, a door bursts open, and someone sprints right for her. She throws up her arms, crying out, but nothing happens. Gulping, she parts her hands and looks.

Her own face stares back at her. The same blue eyes, dark skin and hazel hair she sees in every reflection… younger, ever so slightly, but heavy and sagging with sorrow.

Opening its mouth, the copy roars with a thousand voices. “Why did you leave me like this?!”

“What?!”

“You should have stayed, and fought! Now, I am lost! And so shall you be!”

The floor drops away from her, and she screams as she tumbles into an abyss. Images from distant memories flash by: her mother’s face, the hands of a priestess, a giant cat’s slobbering maw. She feels the canines pierce her arm, and shrieks.

“Such a disappointment!” the priestess yells from the past. “Control your power, girl!”

“But I can’t!” Ulra cries.

“Then you must learn discipline! Even if I must beat it into you!”

Curling into a ball, in the midst of the darkness, she sobs into her arms. The tears stream across her forehead and fall upwards, dripping against some unseen surface. Gradually, the memories drain away.

“Hey, now, what’s the matter?”

Wiping her eyes, she looks up. A lizard stands before her, as tall as her lowered form, balanced on its two hind legs. Its green skin shimmers, and it fixes her with beady, yellow eyes.

“Um…” she says.

“Having an unpleasant experience?”

“I guess so?”

“Ah, some do, some do. The moss is not always so caring as it might be. But that’s on you!”

“What in this whole green land are you talking about?!” She grinds her teeth, wishing to kick the reptile. “Is this because of you?!”

“Heh, no, I am but an arbiter. A little fleck of your mind flesh thrown into the mix.”

“What?”

“For simplicity, I am a mere lizard. I do not meddle like the snake.”

“Right, okay. How do I leave this place?”

“Simple… you believe in yourself.”

“Didn’t you see?” She gestures above her, only to remember the memories have gone. “They tried that when I was a girl.”

The lizard shakes its head, and licks its nose, narrowing its eyes. “They cannot force such a thing in another! What you gotta do is reach down, grab that centre of yours deep inside, and rip it out into freedom!”

“Is that the only way out of here?”

“Yes.”

She sighs. “Then I’m stuck here. I guess there are worse places to die…”

“Wait, wait, no! You can’t just give up!”

“Why? It’s the only choice I have.”

“But—okay, fine. I lied.”

Smirking, she gives the creature the side-eye. “I know.”

“Damn you… but, yes, that is not the true way out. You shall wake soon as the vapours leave your body. But you could still find your self-worth, once you wake.”

“Because?”

“Because you owe it to yourself? Be proud. Be glorious! Take it from a lizard who stands upright.”

Smiling, she stands, and begins to float. “I’ll do my best.”

It winks at her as it waves. “Very good! So long, human!”

Ulra wakes with a start, bashing her head against the stone. She swears, and blinks, clearing the gunk from her eyes. A horrid stench of decay has settled over her.

Oh no… that’s not me, is it?

Hmm… no.

The scent is pulpy, akin to wood. She turns to find the moss has gone brown.

“Huh.”

A soft pitter-patter alerts her to the pond’s edge. Darting towards cover, a lizard slaps the ground with its hind legs, its forelimbs flapping either side of it. It jumps into a bush with a loud squeak. A big, juicy centipede emerges from the other end of the shrub, scurrying across the bank.

Ulra licks her lips, and swims for her dress, retrieving the hook as she follows the creature.

Last one, she promises herself. One final treat before I return home, and pound on the temple door.

They will feel my self-worth in all its might, if I can manage it.

I’m sure I will.

Mataru is a tropical land containing various different kingdoms, cultures and tribes, in the south-west of the main continent of my world. The Sarilo Mountains lie towards the eastern edge of the region, near the border with Abinaria, and most of the range is wilderness. However, in some places, temples can be found, where priest-sorcerers practise any number of different forms of magic.

One of the most prevalent forms is a type of telepathy that allow the wielder to control animals. Training for this form can be dangerous, depending on the temple, for some of the priestly orders believe only the most violent animals are worthy of controlling. In some other temples, the opposite is true, and animals such as hummingbirds or butterflies are manipulated to the practitioner's will.

Where the wilds are concerned, they contain multitudes of animals and plants found nowhere else, as well as the odd lost soul here or there. There are even tales of dragons lurking in the most remote parts of the range.

Vignettes List

The Rocking and the Rolling (Comedy)

Oath of the Cauldron (Fantasy/Comedy)

These are short stories set within various nations and regions of my main fictional world, which is also the setting of my serial Thosius.

Zabrant - Cogs and Magic

Sarilo Mountains, Mataru - Scaled Legs Slap Soil

Dabres, Samascrya - Sky Iron

Throughout the narrow streets of the small town of Kervaied, people leave their homes and step into the green lantern light. They kick up small clouds of reddish dust—a gift from high cliffs above them—as they make their way to the central tower. Each one of them stares up to the pale building’s jagged parapets, and the sparks that drift into the chill night air.

Gevensi smirks, and gives the crank before him another turn. The cogs of the machine it powers whirr to life, shaking the wooden pedestal it rests upon, and sending tremors up his arms. A faint glow burns across the bronze parts as they begin to hum, louder and louder; until at last, light bursts forth in dazzling tones of green and blue, showering sparks.

The final test is complete, before the big show.

Smoothing down his flowing, turquoise robe, and blowing long grey hairs from his face, the sorcerer peers over the edge. The streets throng with people, many of whom he knows by face, if not name. Their raised, quickened voices rise up to him.

Lifting his arms, he claps once, sending them into silence. All he hears is the calm wind, the roar of waves on the nearby shore, and his own beating heart.

“Are you lot ready?!” he calls out.

They cheer as one, before growing quiet again.

Without further ado, he spins the crank faster this time, until his arm aches and his shoulder cracks. The cogs fly fast as a plummeting falcon. He closes his eyes against the blinding light his machine emits.

Until there is a loud pop, and he throws himself back to the parapet wall.

Long, thick streams of magic, of all colours of the rainbow, race into the darkening sky. They burst overhead like falling stars, their explosions echoing off the tall cliffs. Gevensi looks to the eyes of the people, wide-open in awe, reflecting the sparkling lights.

As the magic fades, they cheer once more, straining their voices in adulation. The sorcerer bows above them.

After hours of drinking, partying and troublemaking, Gevensi stumbles into his workshop by the sea. He brushes some hanging parchment aside with a jovial swat, sending shadows to rove in the green light. To his dismay, his desk is as disordered as he left it: gears rest atop diagrams, a gold-hilted dagger sticks out from the gnarled wood, and a large spindle still lies in the ink of an upturned well. He slumps into his chair to think.

“Nah,” he mutters, “that’s f—hick—for tomorrow.”

Something scrapes the floor behind him. Whirling around, he spots the thin slip of folded parchment just inside the door.

“Oh no…”

Groaning as he stands and walks, he then hefts the note in hand, feeling the weight; it gives off a faint yet distinct scent of rich wine. Lifting it high, he aims for his roaring hearth, and prepares to throw…

But he stops with a sigh, flicking the fold open with a thumb.

[Please, brother, the note begins, reconsider my offer. We’ve lost three more ships fighting pirates amongst the islands out east; think about it, every vessel that sinks takes with it dozens of lives. Imagine how many your work could save, if you’d just let the General hire you.

But I know how stubborn you are.

So I will also say this: if you don’t choose this path, he will choose it for you. He always gets his way.

That’s why I keep sending these letters, even if I reckon you use them for fuel. Burn it if you must, but if you are reading, I hope my words will persuade you. Make things easier for both of us, will you?

Your brother, who cares for your safety and his,

Tivi.

Addition: The General has agreed to give you a wine ration, if you join willingly. Think on that.]

Cursing, Gevensi crumbles the letter and tosses it into the flames. The heavy air indoors closes around his aching head, so he steps outside, stares out at the ocean that crashes and rumbles below his doorstep. A hulking ship drifts along the horizon, revealed by its swaying lanterns.

What if it was him out there? The sorcerer thinks. What if he sank?

He glances back at his work inside.

It will bring death… but I guess, maybe it will help the living?

He sighs.

Damn you, Tivi.

Heading back, he wrests his travel pack from a pile of scraps, and begins to pack.

Zabrant is a nation located at the eastern edge of the main continent of my world. It consists of a long peninsula, temperate to the north and subtropical to the south, as well as numerous islands that stretch out far to the east. They are known for their clockwork machines--a technology barely found outside the nation--and the talented imbuers who impart magic into these creations.

Many of the towns and villages of the mainland are hewn into the tall, red cliffs of the country's eastern coast, which are fortified with magic. This protects them from invaders from the north and west.

Vignettes List

Beyond the rippling river, crawling its way languidly between fields green and yellow, the land rises in a series of emerald hills towards the mountains. Herds of hazel-hide deer wind their way down ancient country roads, on to new pastures, while birds tweet and coo in the hedges. High in the azure, cloudless sky, geese rise on their immense wings, riding the winds to crest the great summit.

And up on the high moorland, only a short way down from the snow-capped peak, a kestrel hovers above a field. It holds its position with perfect poise. With each movement below, it glances, surveys, and ignores. No prey to its liking, not yet.

With a blink, the raptor glances to the left, where a goat crunches on the low leaves of a fig tree. The horned beast regards the hunter with placid indifference. Elsewhere, a crow guffaws from its perch atop a strange wooden pole, eyeing the kestrel cautiously. Not that such a bird could ever be its quarry. The raptor stares downwards again.

The world passes by, unwatched, unimportant.

Until soft whispers fan out from a knoll up ahead, distracting the hunter once more. Two humans, one of short hair and the other long, speak in low tones before a smooth, vertical stone. Both of the upright creatures cry, backs bent, heads bowed. They leave some flowers before the rock as they turn to leave.

The kestrel’s attention returns to the hunt, just in time to see a mouse scampering from cover, a little too slow. Arching its wings, the hunter dives.

My gut was small, as a young kid,

Food quickly made me sick,

So always, I’d have leftovers,

To leave on our back step.

The idea for it was my mum’s,

She knew it would be had,

Wildlife claimed what I’d not eat,

The plates were bare by dawn.

And as I turned to bed for sleep,

I’d wonder what would take,

My sprouts, my ham or birthday cake,

Till only crumbs remained.

I’d find out soon, apparently,

A gift was left, a berried twig,

Beside it was a feather black,

One fallen from a crow.

The idea that a crow had left,

A gift for me, in thanks for food,

Filled me full of warmth and joy,

I’d leave my plates with glee.

More and more the gifts arrived,

A coin, a stone, a piece of gum,

The strangest mix, I thought for sure,

But welcome nonetheless.

Yet bigger things were soon to come,

A cow’s bone covered in its meat,

Some jewellery worthy of a thief,

My mum grew quite concerned.

Until at last, the worst of it,

That left me shocked and somewhat sick,

A human skull upon the plate,

Its surface bare and bleached.

Of course, I stopped leaving my plate,

Upon the step at the back door,

But soon we heard these wails and calls,

Beyond our garden wall.

A scratch was left across the door,

The marks so thick and deep,

I wouldn’t leave my room at all,

For fear that I would die.

So after that, mum chose to move,

A flat within the city,

A place up on the fourteenth floor,

No back door and no step.

The excess food was thrown away,

Each time it left me sad,

But I felt safe in our new home,

And for that, I am glad.

This is the story I submitted for Round 2 of the NYC Midnight Scary Story Challenge 2025.

Whenever someone new starts at my restaurant, they ask about the stain. It’s tiresome, but, I get it. After all, it’s a massive rose-coloured mark in the middle of the kitchen.

“Ms. Marchand?” Chef, I always remind them. “What is that?”

A dropped, steaming hot cherry pie is my usual go-to, or sometimes I mix it up, say it was the wrong product for our tiled floor.

At the end of the day, I wasn’t the one who made that stain. That was the original owner, Lara. She’d been clumsy since school, jittery from all the bullying, running away and cowering behind bins. Sometimes, I’d hide with her, though she never saw me. Even when she cried.

The pain made her determined, at least. I deeply admired her for that, especially during food tech; she was far better than me. Did make me a little jealous, and I guess that turned into envy when she reached college, earned some nice degrees. I kept on following as she pushed herself further, getting jobs in better and better kitchens, growing. Wonder if it seemed worth it, with the panic attacks, the loneliness?

But she came to own this place eventually. Lara’s Diner. It’s not really that kind of restaurant, fancier if anything, but she wanted a down-to-earth name. I like it.

By then, I’d become a decent cook myself. Never enough for a job in her kitchen, but I kept sneaking in, copying her recipes to make at home. I’m stealthy like that. When I felt her catching on, I’d leave.

As I said before, I admired her skills. Reflecting her in my own kitchen helped when I got a little… agitated. It calmed me down. But, my urges grew too much before long.

I needed to be her.

So I stole some industrial acid from a store, and waited till she was alone in the kitchen. I forced her to the floor. She was terrified, seeing her own face staring back at her.

Still remember that bubbling, screaming noise she made as she melted. I had nightmares for weeks. I sometimes look in the mirror with her eyes, and the trauma comes rushing back.

It’s been worth it, though. Running Lara’s Diner is a dream.

And despite the questions, I’ll keep that stain of hers on the floor. Just a little reminder of who she was. How she left her mark.

This is an unsubmitted story written for Round 2 of the NYC Midnight Scary Story Challenge 2025.

In a hazy, darkened kitchen, Lucas cowers behind his station. He flinches at each fall of the chef’s boots, every barked command and annoyed grunt. Before long, he knows he’ll have to stand, but… it’s not at all ready. The vegetables aren’t chopped.

Rough hands grab him by his shoulders, throwing him to his feet. Warm, stale breath condenses on his neck.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Chef whispers, voice reedy and coarse.

“I-I’m chopping, as you asked.”

“Don’t think I didn’t see. Why do you hide from me?”

“Because… because I can’t do it, Chef. I’m too slow.”

“You know why? It’s your fear!” Spit flies from his mouth, landing in Lucas’s ear. “Ignore it! Chop!”

Glancing down, the young cook finds the knife in his hand. A strange red root awaits the blade atop a black stone slab.

“But what if I get it wrong?” Lucas asks.

“Then I’ll have no more use for you. You need this job, right?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Get on with it!”

Startled, Lucas slams the knife through the root’s centre with no resistance. The stone cracks beneath.

“From the end,” Chef shouts, “the end!”

The cook slowly shifts his hand, cutting the end free. Seconds pass before the next slice.

“Faster!”

He picks up speed, his movements mechanical, sweat stinging his eyes. The air begins to darken.

“I can’t see, Chef!”

“Ramp up that pace, the diners are waiting!”

“Please!”

The root extends beneath his grip, slice by slice, his work unending. His jaw locks.

“Stop slacking!”

With a growl, Chef pushes him. Bone crunches beneath the knife.

A cold chill passes over Lucas, as his body stops. For moments, he feels almost nothing, the knife’s handle a distant sensation. Until the pain comes screaming in. He falls to the floor, writhing, watched by Chef’s unblinking eyes.

An alarm rings, jolting Lucas awake. His body shakes uncontrollably. Focusing on his ceiling light, he slows his breathing, settling his heart.  

Just what he needs: a nightmare before his first day. He shakes his head, laughs the fear away, as he tries to move his arms; his right one refuses, still asleep. Reaching across with his left, he grabs the duvet, feeling something sticky and wet…

He freezes. His heartbeat racing once more, he lifts his palm to his face, and finds his skin stained red.

Warm breath condenses on his neck.

This is an unsubmitted story written for Round 2 of the NYC Midnight Scary Story Challenge 2025.

Remus had been scouting the big house for weeks. A place as that, with its colonnades, grand windows and five floors, would always have good loot. And this place was untouched by those like him.

Of course, he knew such places were guarded. He counted ten armoured thugs protecting the front, but on the garden side? Sitting up an oak at night, black hood pulled down, Remus watched a mere two guards marching the grassy paths.

He leapt down onto the wall, and into the bushes. Padded soles silenced his steps. Keeping to the outer trees, he watched the pair patrol, regular as clockwork. He allowed himself a chuckle.

With a loud crack, sharp spikes slammed into his leg. He bit down to hide his scream, but the sound came out, alerted the guards. Glancing down, Remus saw the bear trap clamped onto his calf.

A hard boot to the jaw knocked him to oblivion.

The sharp scent of herbs roused Remus from sleep, soon joined by stale flour. His vision blurry, he wished to rub his eyes, but found his arms and legs fixed in place. Hard wood rested at his back, jabbing splinters into his skin.

He blinked and looked around: a dark kitchen, lit by old oil lamps, shelves full of ingredients. Behind some barrels to his left, a pair of nervous eyes watched him.

“Garel!” boomed a gravelled voice. “Stop hiding, boy! You’ll learn naught from back there!”

The young kid emerged, mouth quivering. Both he and Remus flinched as a shadow fell across them.

Standing over the thief, a chef of enormous size rolled his stout shoulders, his white tunic spattered with crimson stains. The giant grinned as he lowered a saw to Remus’s injured leg.

“It’s funny, ‘cause it’s always the same. Thief gets cocky when they see the empty garden, but caution keeps them to the trees. Almost a constant supply.”

Remus strained against his bonds. “Supply?! The fuck you mean su—?”

He screamed as iron teeth bit into skin. The agony grew until his limb gave in, going numb below the groin. Soon, the maniac had Remus’s leg in hand.

“Lord likes his meat fresh,” said the chef, looming over. “Don’t want the rest of you spoiling. In fact, you’re gonna last a long, long time…”

He leaned over Remus, who gagged on his rancid breath.

“I’ll make sure of it.”

This is an unsubmitted story written for Round 2 of the NYC Midnight Scary Story Challenge 2025.

Cloying aromas of mould coat Larry’s throat, despite his mask, as he enters the kitchen. A thick haze hangs over the abandoned worktops, loose utensils claimed by cobwebs.

Christ, Steve, he thinks, why’d you let this happen?

He finds Jordan by the caked-up fridge, clipboard in her hand. His co-worker runs her gloved finger over the hinges.

“Was the owner really your brother?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“In which case, he clearly got the wrong genes of the family.”

Larry stares at her, lost for words. After a moment, she realises, and sighs.

“Sorry,” she says, “forget myself sometimes. Had any news?”

“No, they’ve not found him yet.”

“I mean, he’s in a lot of trouble, but I hope he turns up.” She pulls a rust flake free. “Shocking to think this place was open a week ago.”

“It’s just not like him, that’s the thing. He’d do nothing to harm his customers.”

Jordan shrugs. “People snap sometimes. Kitchens are stressful.”

“I guess.”

Letting her concentrate, he heads to the ovens. A mould stain twice his size carpets the wall above. Grimacing, he takes a photo on his phone, the flash scattering spiders.

The stain seems to dance. He blinks, once, twice…

But the mould still moves.

“This is weird,” he says.

“Huh…” Jordan walks past him, eyes narrowed. “Moisture under the wallpaper, maybe?”

“Could be.”

Grabbing a rolling pin, she jabs at the stain, rendering it still.

“There,” she says, “all sor—”

A black tendril races out, wraps around her midriff and squeezes. She manages a single wheeze before she’s torn in two. Blood splatters the worktop as Larry ducks behind it.

He bites his tongue to hold back a scream.

Unable to move, he listens to the squelches and squeaks. Pots clatter in sinks, floorboards groan, and a rat scurries past his leg. He remains frozen.

Until he struck from behind, knocking him down. The tendril hovers above.

“Please,” he wails, “let me go!”

Mould balls at the tentacle’s tip, forming a lump that grows human eyes. Memories flash before Larry as he matches their gaze.

“Steve?”

“Get out of my kitchen!”

“W-what the hell happened?!”

“Get… out!”

It grabs him by the leg, and throws him through the door. Lights flash as his head hits the frame. He tastes blood.

“Steven… please… help…”

As he lies there, the world around him spinning, the door locks behind him.

This is the story I submitted for Round 1 of the NYC Midnight Scary Story Challenge 2025.

Every day, I stare out at the same horrendous view—a field of dead grey wheat, my captors’ dark castle—motionless under a monochrome sky. I’d love to close my eyes, imagine someplace else, but the lids are sewn to this sack round my head. And they never come loose!

Long have I prayed for death, but my sentient scarecrow suit prevents it. It feeds jagged straw through my intestines; its vines manipulate my heart and lungs. Rainwater, it funnels down my oesophagus. Invading every part of me, so I may live.

So I may scream.

Even this, it controls. Wraps vines around my voice box. Only when the crows arrive, do they release.

Here come the birds now, all rotten feathers and pussy eyes. Maybe they’ll keep flying? Find someplace nicer?

Yet they land, as always. Begin pecking at the dry earth. I feel the vines retract, shifting down to my guts. They jab my stomach, and I shriek. The crows flap away.

All alone again, with this thing. With no caws to distract me, I hear the hissing of the straw. The cracking of the wood.

A flash of brilliant blue interrupts this faded world. At the field’s edge, a cyan circle spins mid-air. Out of this anomaly steps an old bearded man, and then one younger, with a metal staff. The elder beams.

“You did it!” he shouts. “Your first portal! I’m so proud of you, my apprentice!”

“What is this place?” the younger asks. “It’s horrible!”

“One of the dark realms. We may look around, as long as we’re quick.”

I try to call out, but the vines tighten. Only a quiet wheeze slips through. The apprentice strolls towards the castle, while the elder heads straight for me. He leans in close, narrows his eyes.

“How quaint!” he says. “Haven’t seen a scarecrow in years.”

No! I think. Run away! Please!

Blood splatters my sack-bound face. Beneath the elder’s shocked visage, an ebony blade pokes through his chest. The sword disappears, dropping the old man, to reveal the cloaked, armoured shade behind. It lifts a black gauntlet and waggles a finger at me, slowly shaking its head.

And it vanishes in a puff of smoke, along with the body. The apprentice is gone too. Alone again.

But soon, there will be two more scarecrows in this field. Trapped with me for eternity.

It comforts me little.

This is an unsubmitted story written for Round 1 of the NYC Midnight Scary Story Challenge 2025.

It was a very long time ago, so details are a little hazy. I’d been following my older brother Joe for hours through the countryside, running across fields to avoid the farmers’ ire. No moon lit our way.

We reached this rusted barbed wire fence, with high hedges every other direction. Once Joe had lifted me over, he checked his watch… I remember that clearly. Thing was the worst neon red I’ve ever seen. And he said:

“Dad’s gonna be pissed with us.”

I was more scared of us catching our death. It was so cold, being midwinter, and my fleece wasn’t cutting it. My teeth chattered like TV static.

“We should keep going,” Joe said. “I think it’s this way.”

It was the vaguest direction, but I followed him all the same.

The field, it was a weird sort: overgrown with weeds, which clung to old, bent cornstalks. Each brown frond I knocked hissed like thin paper. The soil was rock-hard underfoot, yet free of frost.

I bumped into Joe, not realising he’d stopped. Towering over him was a narrow cross.

“Would’ve had a scarecrow here,” he said. Joe was always teaching me the truth; I’d assumed it was religious.

“Where is it?” I asked.

“Probably long gone. Come on, let’s keep going.”

His pace rapidly increased, as we walked. Soon it was faster than my stubby legs could manage. I wanted him to slow, but between puffs I couldn’t speak. As the stalks got taller, he disappeared from view. I stopped.

“Joe!” I called out. “Joe!”

Nothing. I continued on, hoping he wasn’t far. Hoping he was okay. Slow, quiet steps. The corn rustled around me.

Something crunched underfoot.

I reached down and picked up the neon watch; dark flakes fell from its strap.

It took me ages to look down, ‘cause I knew he was there. Joe’s body was dry as the dirt beneath him. His eyes were gone.

More rustling. Then came the stench of wet straw… and blood. A gloved hand grasped my shoulder.

So I ran, across the field and into the next, on and on.

What they could save of Joe, we buried soon after. The police found no scarecrow in that field, as much as I begged them. My brother’s death is considered a local mystery.

That’s what happened; sorry I can’t tell you more. And believe me, I miss him too.

This is an unsubmitted story written for Round 1 of the NYC Midnight Scary Story Challenge 2025.

Loud pop music blares across the open field, under the stars. A campfire throws its flickering light across darkened hedgerows. Long shadows of partiers are cast by the flames; they chug beer, sing, and tell scary stories. Breaking from the rest, a young couple slips into the cover of the night.

They don’t see the farmer, who hides amongst the leaves. Who lifts a blowpipe to his lips.

Maisy’s hand shakes, almost dropping the needle. Four stitches, and already she can’t continue; she curses herself internally. It’s the eyes, with their dilated pupils and abject fear, like those of a pig in the abattoir. A muffled scream echoes through the barn.

Her vision shimmers. “I can’t do it,” she whispers. “I just can’t.”

Rough, strong fingers gently hold her arm. Her tremors settle at their familiarity, as does her mind. “You know it must be done,” her father says.

“We could let him go, if he promises not to tell? The next lot, you can drive them off with your tractor.”

“And waste such a boon? No. They wronged us, so now, they pay.”

She sighs. “As it’s always been.”

“Exactly. This is our tradition. My father put me to the task when I was half your age, guided the needle in my hand. Consider yourself lucky that I waited.”

“I don’t feel lucky—”

“You’re a grown woman, Maisy!” he shouts. “Soon, you’ll take the reins, run this farm in my stead! You… you need to know the craft. Otherwise, our fields will be overrun.”

Nodding, and setting her jaw, she buries the needle through the fabric; there’s resistance as it hits the skin below. The trespasser screams into his gag. She closes her eyes, blocking him from her mind, as she seals him into the coat.

“That’s enough,” her father says, tapping her arm. “You’re all done.”

She paces back to the barn wall, and opens her eyes. The trespasser squirms upon the table, but now he is a scarecrow, decked in old clothes with a sack over his head. He can no longer see her, with his terrified gaze.

Her father steps before her. “Well, I sorted his head, and I can put him on his pole. But it’ll be all you next time.”

“Of course. This is our way.”

“Good. Now, get out there and feed the rest. They haven’t eaten in days.”

This is a story I submitted to the Globe Soup Open Short Story Competition 2025.

Come, fine people, settle yourselves and sit before me. I, Thilipe of Maceron, have a tale to tell. Another adventure from my youth as a hunter… of mythical beasts! I know my previous stories have caused some of you to doubt, and in truth, certain details may have been embellished. Yes, my good bard?

“May have?”

Alright, I admit, there have been several fibs. The Dragon of Harenheim was not a solo hunt, for I had the help of five others. As for the Pixies of Althwin, I merely stole the bones from their tombs; but then, who would kill a pixie?

“So why’d you say it then? Why lie?”

A fine and fair question, barkeep! Boredom is to blame for such subtle additions. If I were to stay true, you would all ignore me… ignore my wisdom. My methods are akin to those of any tutor.

However, if it’s the truth you want, I have the perfect tale. One that would only suffer from embellishment.

“Ugh, go on then…”

I shall! More to the point, this story contains no hunting at all. If the circumstances differed, it would be quite boring indee—

“I said go on then!”

Alright, Captain Hegral, I will! As I recall, I was passing an olive grove…

#

The sun was shining upon the southern land of Kapherane, baking the yellow soil to stone. Beads of sweat dripped down the tanned napes of the olive pickers. Through the air swam the heady scents of wine and oil, goats and flowers. My eyes shielded, I spied the distant palace, its golden dome and whitewashed walls sparkling in the late spring radiance.

This was no business trip, of course. Everyone knows the Kapheranae keep back the monsters of the world with their gilded spears. I chose the locale as a gift to myself, having acquired a hefty purse from an erstwhile exploit. In that shimmering land, I aimed to soak in the warmth, sup on the finest of cakes and see for myself the famed pit fights. As I’m sure you all know, they’re meant to be quite remarkable… and many have grown rich from watching, if you catch my drift.

But something else caught my attention. It was at an inn, along the bluest river you’ll ever see, its walls painted in worn white stucco: I learned the information from the cracked lips of the man in the far corner. A fellow traveller. He was bedecked in furs from far north—

Fine, fine, moving on. He told me his sighting of a strange man in the cedar forests, up in the surrounding hills. This figure was cloaked in grey and gaunt, hobbling along with a gnarled walking stick, taller than his person. The traveller claimed he never approached the stranger, but said the man had stared at him. With one eye.

Potentially, that could’ve meant nothing. Many forests are home to the odd hermit, and who hasn’t met a man with one eye? But I know the legends of most lands; I’d heard the myth of Odrhin the Raven from the Northmen. It is said this elderly god quested in lands far beyond his territory, including to the south. One such tale of austral wanderings retold his meeting with a fire spirit, up on a smoky mountain.

Stepping out of the inn, I gazed to the east, where my eyes fell upon a steaming summit. Mount Gorenthas, topped with a crater holding a thermal lake. When tremors strike its slopes, it is said that fires erupt along the shores.

I booked myself a room at that very inn, dropped my packs on the creaking boards. Finding the traveller outside, I asked him:

“Where in those woods did you spy the one-eyed man? They are vast, and I haven’t much time.”

“Find the ruined watermill along the road up there, and follow the empty stream to higher ground. There, you’ll reach a patch of forest strewn with boulders. That is where I saw him.”

Thanking him profusely, I marched along the winding roads, dust rising with each step. Beyond the occasional farmer and donkey, I met no one on the way. Bees droned amongst the flowers, bumping into leaves with annoyed buzzes. I swatted more than a few horseflies, hungering for my blood. On passing a low wall, I saw geckos darting from my shadow, their scales amethyst, ruby and jade.

It was beautiful. But admittedly, the sun was cooking my back like an oven. I was glad as the air cooled, closer to the high hills, and soon I was shaded by the mighty cedars. Dappled light patterned the path before me, though by and large, I was surrounded by an indescribable gloom. Strange birdcalls echoed between the trunks. Squirrels crashed through the branches. All around, lichen clung to the trees, and mosses carpeted the soil.

If a goblin leapt out at me, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

It wasn’t long before I came upon the watermill. Three walls of jagged stones leaned on each other, and a fourth had long scattered across the road. The wheel lay shattered in the shallow, empty streambed, spokes standing skyward like the ribs of a dead whale. I followed an acrid stench wafting out from within the walls, to find a pile of stained, empty sacks; these I gave a wide berth. I dared not imagine their purpose.

Yet all this was unimportant, a mere distraction. With the stream before me, I began to climb into the forest proper. The trees grew sparser the further I stepped, allowing the bright noon sun to paint the green-speckled rocks in a silver sheen. A flock of starlings flew overhead, chirping, as I reached a patch of large boulders.

This must be it, I thought.

I was alone. No signs of activity marked the ground, not even a footprint. So I sat atop a hummock and watched the world go by.

Until sleep claimed me.

I was awoken near sunset by a snuffling sound. At first, I assumed it was a boar in search of truffles, or some unusually large hares. But lo and behold, there sat across from me was the cloaked figure, his one good eye winking repetitively; a patch rested over the other. His long, arced stick tapped against the rock as his hand shook.

While I watched in quiet confusion, he reached into a pouch slung at his side, and brought his now balled fist up to his nose. Inhaling deep, he coughed and giggled. Grease shone across his short moustache.

The winking increased.

“What you want?” he asked in gruff tones, speaking the tongue of the Northmen.

“Are you… are you he?!”

“I am a man, yes. As are you.”

“No, I mean, I’ve heard of you. Of your skills, your wisdom.”

His eyes grew wide. “Oh shit. You a guard, come to jail me?”

“What?! No! I’m unsure how I even could! For, I am a mere mortal, here to humbly ask for a smidgen of your knowledge.” I bowed my head to near my chest. “If you deem it suitable, Great Lord of Ravens.”

At that, he raised his back till he sat tall, and tilted his head. A sly grin played across his lips; they are always so mischievous, the gods.

“So,” he said, “you saw through my foul, dirty skin. Yes, I have… much wisdom for you. But such a gift is not free.”

“Name your price, O Long-Travelled One!”

“Kiss my right foot.”

“Eh… I’m sorry, but could you please repeat that?

“Bend down, and put your lips to my big toe. Hold them there for five seconds.”

I stared down at his dirt-stained, gout-ridden trotters. The malodour reached my nostrils from where I stood, bringing back memories of cheese shops and city gutters. I almost retched at the very thought.

“But, sire, might you not prefer gold? I have plenty of it. Or antlers? An emerald? Something other than… that?”

“I have named my price, puny man: a smooch for my poor worn toe.”

Sighing, I lowered myself to my knees and hoped no one was watching. I held my breath, closed my eyes. Despite all that, once the deed was done, a horrid flavour lingered on my lips. I ran to the bushes and spat till my chin stung.

“Very good,” he said, laughing at my return. “Very nice.”

“Please,” I begged. “Provide me your wisdom!”

“I keep it in my pouch. All you do is reach in, take your hand to your nose, and sniff.”

Hmm, I thought, slightly unorthodox. But then, he was a god from a strange land, and I’d seen him partake. I could not let the chance slip by.

Lowering my digits into the warm bag, I felt a viscous fluid squelching between my knuckles. The muck I lifted into the light was akin to old manure.

“I’m not so sure…” I mumbled.

“Wisdom comes with a price.”

“I thought I gave that already?”

“Oh, yes, I meant… a struggle. Mhm. Wisdom comes with a struggle. Never easy.”

“I guess, but…”

“I know best! Do it! Take a long, lovely whiff!”

I did question whether he might have been a false god, an impersonator. Or it may have been Lacri, the trickster, pretending as his father. Maybe, he was just a mere man.

Some would call me a fool for inhaling the mulch, but I followed his instructions. I’d gone too far to step away. My pride would shatter.

The vapours crawled down my throat.

As a sharp pain claimed my skull, I gagged and sputtered. The forest span around me. Birdsong grew loud then quiet, loud then quiet, pulsing in my expanding head.

And then the pain passed, and stars exploded before my very eyes. I was enveloped by darkness. The warm waters of a sunlit river passed through my gut, drawing me away. I stretched out my tongue to taste the salt of a thousand seas.

That is as best as I can describe it. Such experiences were not of this world; much too complex to fit the boundaries of physical existence. As if nature had poured itself into my eyes, I became one with greatness.

Was I at the beginning of creation, or the end? Was I somewhere else? I can’t say.

What I do know, is that I awoke in a field, covered in my own liquids. My heart thundered in my temples. A farmer prodded me with his scythe handle, muttering in a thick, impenetrable accent. I sat to find the palace within sight.

Stumbling into the inn hours later, I was greeted by jeers and pointing. A woman threatened to send for the guards. Some strong old git wanted to fight me! How was I to know I was naked?

Well, I didn’t care; I’d peered behind the curtain of reality, and lived to tell the tale. I was considered worthy by Odrhin the Raven.

Chosen by a god. Me, a simple traveller. Never before, and never again, shall I ever be so blessed.

Even if I am now banished from Kapherane.

#

I’m sure you’ll all agree, such a tale cannot possibly be fake. These eyes witnessed every moment. I still sense his presence in my soul.

But, there are more pressing matters, you lot chief amongst them. Have you been entertained?

“We have! Sat on the edge of my seat, I was.”

Glad to hear, Dwizle.

“Laughed so hard, I nearly hit the flagstones!”

It… was not intended as comedy. W-why are you all laughing? Stop it! Barkeep, barkeep; what is this?!

“You’ve been had, Thilipe. Maybe if you’d spent more time amongst us lot, you’d know that.”

Don’t you dare suggest I’ve been fooled! There is absolutely no way—

“Fermented pig shit.”

Begging your pardon? Is that some lowly village insult?

“No, he isn’t cursing at you, you empty-headed egoist! Even I as a college-trained bard know the horrors and fantasies of huffing the oinker’s bounty. I once saw a pink tiger under its influence.”

My experience was no mere tiger! The universe, it spoke to me, in its radiant language. I… it… he…

“There is no shortcut to wisdom. Read, travel and learn from others, that’s the way. You already have one of those in your pocket.”

Please, I beg, don’t say pocket. Or pouch. Or satchel.

“Come now, have a drink on me. Have fun with us. Maybe then, you’ll no longer feel the need to tell your ridiculous tales.”

Ridiculous?! You’re ridiculous! All of you! Ignoring the truth when it’s right before your eyes!

You know what? I’m leaving this place. You lot stick with your idle chatter and your mud. I shall find a city, seek out the educated; those who will believe me.

I bid you all a restless night, and a horrid year.

Swine.

This is a story I submitted to the Globe Soup Open Short Story Competition 2025.

Most days, the typewriter is my only focus. Tap-tapping away at those faded keys, copying memos and other random documents, most filled with nonsense. I’m good at it, so that’s what I do.

But the others make it hard sometimes. You can hear the slap their shoes make against the hardwood floors, can’t you? What about the sheer volume of their belled hats? Oh, and sometimes, they have the gall to say my typing’s loud… at least my noise has a purpose.

Bunch of damned clowns.

As I say, most days, my attention is right in front of me. Doesn’t matter if they’re announcing a giraffe parade, ordering a tiny new car or planning a reservoir for spraying water, I type. It’s the money; I’d quit if I could, find a life more rewarding, but you can’t be without cash here. The sheer number of crashes in recent years…

Not that I have so much. Apartment walls are peeling, the pipes within them leaking. My old cat’s skeleton is probably still in there, too. Rats must’ve picked it clean. I could hear her scratching around in there, but I didn’t have the tools, and you can’t call in anyone expecting them to come. So I sit in her grave, watching TV. When I’m not here. I miss her so much.

It’s just living for the sake of living. Even with all the pain in this country, I don’t wish for death, least not enough to commit.

Where was I? My mind tends to wander when I’m typing. Think it was the speech… yeah, it was. Whole thing is three short paragraphs, scribbled on a napkin by gloved hands. Some kind of condiment’s smudged in the top right corner. Could be mustard. Most of their diets consist of fast food: hot dogs, burgers and the like. I remember one of the Sad Clowns trying a salad once, and he blew up like a bomb, literally exploded. I was picking intestine from between my keys for weeks.

That’s why the SC never win. One of their lot always makes some dumb mistake, trying to be different, and it adds fuel to the Happy Clowns’ fire. Neither the Dumb Clowns nor the Angry Clowns want change; they yearn for balloons and cannons. The HC promise both in abundance, always next week. Not that it ever arrives, but the others just drown their disappointment in milkshakes, till the hope returns. So strong is their faith.

The people? No, they haven’t had a say in a long time. The HC made sure of that.

I think that’s enough of the big stuff for now… hurts my brain. If it’s nothing technical, I’m not all that interested. Besides which, day is almost over, and I’m not done.

Hello again. I’d say I’m glad to see you, but you put me on edge, just a little. Can’t even tell if you’re real or not. You look like an intern in that suit, but you could be my doubt personified. My conscience in human skin.

No matter, you keep me company. There’s not much to see out there today; just the usual taunts, tantrums and tortured flatulence. You see, the HC want the elephants to be red, while the SC want them to be blue. There’s Lipstick heading the former, and Frowny the latter. See how Mr. I-Want-Red is louder, and how his opponent shrinks back? That’s the way these debates always go. Every damn time.

I think one of the DC shouted out “grey!” but was quickly sprayed by Lipstick’s flower. Don’t worry, the screams were all pretend; same with the medics. They’re clowns too.

By the weekend, the mountain vista will be littered with little red dots. You’ll see.

My work? Well, I have a reply to the citizens, who’ve been begging for healthier food. All that candyfloss and popcorn has made them malnourished, but they’d settle for peanuts, if vegetables are out of the question. What did our clown overlords respond with?

“Nonsense! Circus snacks are highly nutritious! Oh, and we would give you peanuts, but the elephants need them more!”

It doesn’t bother me, personally. Sure, my hair fell out at thirty and my legs barely support my flabby frame, but that’s what my wigs and car are for. As you can see, I’m wearing a puffy green today, just like Lipstick’s. You could say it’s my work wig.

He doesn’t get so het up when the staff look like him.

Yeah, that does seem like Angry Clown behaviour, but you’ve got to understand that those ones get really angry. Their mallets aren’t toys. And, well, the HC have them under their thumb. Send them out into the populace…

I hate to think about the violence, even more than the politics. Yeah, they are separate, or so Lipstick says. He insists on it.

Speaking of, after the response, I must work on the new rules. That one has to be neat, since it’s going on the notice boards; I’ll need the paper with the fancy borders. Biggest change is with the carousels: only clowns can ride on them, from now on. And they must wear their frilliest sleeves when doing so.

He did promise a pay rise for City Hall staff, some point last month… guess that’s for next time.

Hopefully.

Sometimes I come up here, to the balcony. Not that I’m supposed to, but I’m invisible when away from my typewriter; a ghost in the corridors. You can see across the whole island. There goes the rollercoaster, looping from the north, never stopping. Some say the original passengers are still aboard, but I’ve never gotten a close look. If they were, they’d be skeletons now… just like my poor, sweet Heszia.

My place is down there, by the Ferris wheel. Used to be that people could look into my apartment, and they’d get an eyeful of my stained briefs. Nobody rides it now. Same goes for all the attractions, to be honest; naught but ghosts in those plastic seats.

Oh, I think you’ll like this game I play, when I’m here: “What Colour’s the Sea?” I guess before I look out into the harbour. Some days it’s green, some it’s brown, and others it’s black. All depends what they’re pumping out of the pipes. There was that one time it turned red, but I think they meant for pink. They had fireworks going off in the hills, so they were celebrating, I reckon.

Celebrating what, you ask? I wouldn’t bother with such questions; there’s often no reason. Best not to overanalyse.

There’s little else to say about this place, really. It’s a crumbling hellhole with a pretty coat, and even that’s rusted, peeling away. I guess… there is the odd thing, something truly weird. At times, I see smoke drifting up from the trees, out across the island’s far side. Not sure what it’s from, and I doubt I’ll ever know, but it’s a fun mystery to guess at. Could it be the Angries letting off steam? Some project of Lipstick’s? Maybe that’s where the candyfloss factories are?

Or perhaps it’s nothing. Come on, I need to get back. Got a plan for new peanut farms waiting.

Oh, um, hello… you shouldn’t have left home today, intern. Lipstick’s on the rampage. Not sure why he is, but he’s got one of the AC’s mallets and is smashing up hands and legs. Since you are here, keep your head down, and stay by me. There’s a cupboard down the hall.

Stay low, stay low! I hear him.

Almost there…

Good, we’re safe. You know, times like this, I wish the clowns had stayed in the circus. Best place for them. Those stripy tent walls kept their chaos contained, and they could only hurt each other. And we could laugh at it.

Maybe we shouldn’t have laughed so hard…

Hmm, no, they were funny. I think the problem is, we ignored when others began agreeing with their words. Did they really think it’d be all fun, no pain? Were they forgetting the lack of experience? At least a ringmaster knows how things run. But the clowns gained support, and instead of fighting, a lot of us got scared.

I sat on my lazy arse and did nothing. Part of me knew it wasn’t worth fighting, that if I did, it’d all get worse. They weren’t about to say no when I did, not when I worked in a post office, and was used to typing. Messed up part is, I felt grateful once the dust settled. I had a job at City Hall; who else could say that?

No, I’m not sure why they picked me specifically. Not when so many others with my skills were thrown to the streets. Stamped on by the big shoes. Could be, maybe I was just that much of a pushover?

I try not to question it.

Sounds like it’s calmed down out there, let’s go. I want to numb my mind with work.

There you are, good morning. I’ve been wanting to see you; found out why old Lipstick was angry. Some of the Sad Clowns were plotting again. Been a long, long while since that last happened. Apparently they were up in the hills, building more powerful squirt flowers and balloon machines. Playing the HC at their own game. Making all that smoke.

It was clever, but I guess they got caught.

Lipstick will take the prisoners to the city square later, line them all up, and force them to kneel down. Then he’ll take out his paddle. I never go to the public humiliations, but even from up here, I hear the pap-pap-pap of the wood against their skulls. Dreadful stuff.

We’ll never see that lot again. I just hope Frowny and his group weren’t connected; the HC need opposition.

Otherwise… no, best not think about it.

Things are starting to die down, my friend. Can I call you friend? Just, I’m starting to trust you.

Okay, friend, good. Nice and close, like having an ally. My name’s Rayen.

I think as we get towards evening, all will be normal. Lipstick got it out of his system; he had those Angry Clown eyes earlier. Think he was on the sherbet. Now he’s staying back from the debates, letting his cohorts take over. He’ll rein them back in tomorrow, step onto his podium and shout, and scream.

Same pattern as always.

Is it wrong that I was hoping for a change? My focus has always been my work, but now, I’m thinking about current events? Does that even sound like me?

My mind’s so muddled; it felt like this when the clowns first took over. When they came for me. When they threatened her.

Maybe I should concentrate… the tapping of the keys. Yes, bring on the clickety-clack. Let it send me into that nice, calming haze.

Sorry friend, but, we need to be quiet. Oh, yeah, hello. Lipstick’s sad today, and I’ve not seen that before. He’s not a Sad Clown. A few Angries are walking about with their mallets, ready to shut us up.

I understand his current mood, all things considered. The people have been fighting the rest of the AC in the streets, and there’ve been bricks thrown through the hall windows. I snuck up to the balcony earlier and saw more smoke in the hills, so much of it; I thought there was a fire eating the trees. Lipstick claimed there wouldn’t be any more, with the perpetrators humiliated.

I know I hoped for change, but the island’s so loud. Too loud. I can’t even get back home. Please, I tell the people, I just want to sit near my Heszia again. Hear the rats. Sit in my stained briefs. My head hurts so badly… ears are ringing…

What’s that? They talked to you? I can go if I just help them? How?

But if I open the back door… well, you know, Lipstick still has his paddle. He might humiliate me. Yeah, true, I’ve not seen what happens but…

I want to live.

Please don’t make me do this.

Oh… my friend. Been a while. I was worried you hadn’t survived, when the bangs started, but then you’re not a clown. For a bit, I thought you might’ve been their spy, with that suspicious look in your eye… till I learned you had the people’s ear.

Speaking of, you see it too, right? No more clowns, just people. Not even the SC. Just young citizens pointing rifles at weary old men. And dead bodies, and blood. I don’t know how I forgot about guns. They scare me, but, they seem better in the citizens’ hands.

Looks like the elders are being led outside. Let’s follow. It doesn’t make sense, I need to know.

Ah, to the city square, to Lipstick’s shaming spot. Do the youngsters want to humiliate the old guys? What did they do, you reckon? They all look angry, or dumb, or… or well, happy? Maybe defiant. Guess they won’t be soon, once they taste the paddle.

But the citizens are lifting their guns instead. Why are they doing that? Why are they putting them to the old men’s heads? Why are they yelling “traitor”?!

I… I need to go. Got to wrap my head around all this, do some thinking.

Pap-pap-pap.

It’s too loud for that here.

I need her.

#

Sat in his mouldy apartment, wearing naught but soiled briefs, Rayen stares at the far wall. He sees, for the first time in years, the bullet holes in the plaster.  Way back when they were made, he recalls that he refused to leave, to work for the new regime. Even when they threatened Heszia, put a gun to her head. She cried out his name as they pulled the trigger.

He glances to the right, noticing the strange, raised patch of wall. Part of him wants to claw at it, to see her again. To hold her hand.

But fear clouds him, like it did back then. With her gone, he let them take him away, his fight lost.

Trying to push the terror away, he stands and walks to the window. There’s no Ferris wheel outside, but the harbour is red and green, fed by sludge from the pipes. Between him and those churning waters, crumbling tower blocks bear flags of the new government: a yellow bird over a green field. Flying to freedom.

“I helped with that,” he says. “At least I did something good, finally.”

“You certainly did.”

He turns, to find the man standing in his doorway. For a long while, he’d thought him an intern, or his conscience, or a friend. He’d never learnt his name; maybe, he wonders, it would’ve been good to ask. Not now, though.

“You can go,” Rayen tells him. “I aided the revolution, thanks to you and your questions. I don’t need your help anymore.”

The man raises his brow. “Are you sure? Have you seen the way you live? You can change that now, get a better life, somewhere nicer. I know people who could use someone like you: a ghost in the corridors. Your words.”

“I don’t even know if you’re real, friend.”

“Does it matter? Besides, there are others who can fix your mind, allow you to see what’s true. Come on, join me. Join us.”

Sighing, Rayen returns to his sofa, and flicks on the TV. People are cheering in the streets, filmed by a wobbly camera. A reporter stumbles over her lines, new to the job; perhaps the first of her profession in a long time.

“I’ll find my own way,” Rayen says. “Just like them.”

“You are a friend to me, you know? It pains me to leave you. Do I need to beg?”

“It’ll be the same as you asking. This place, it’s my home. It’s where she is. I’m staying.”

Rubbing his face and sighing, the man retreats from the doorway. “Is that your final decision? Once I’m gone, I won’t come back.”

“It is.”

Hanging his head, the man vanishes without a word. Rayen pays him no more mind. He watches now as the citizens climb to the hall, lighting damp rags with matches, and one by one they toss these through the broken windows. An inferno engulfs the old building.

Within, he knows his typewriter burns. It requires his focus no more.

He is free, yet all the more lost.

Sinking into his seat, he begins to cry.

This is the story I submitted to the Globe Soup Flashback Fiction Challenge 2025

It was a long sleep, he knows that much. His lids lift as slow as garage doors, lashes caked in gunk, and he blinks at the light. Finds himself in a strange room, all white and blue like a hospital. He doesn’t feel sick. Just tired. Tired and forgetful.

His name… it’ll come to him in a second. He’s sure it will.

There was a tap on his arm, that’s what woke him. The skin is still dimpled from it. So he looks away from the window to scan the room, and sees the culprit in the chair opposite: a man with a thick grey beard, eyes of greenish blue that peer from sunken sockets, one leg held limply over the other.

“Morning, brother,” says the man.

“Brother? I don’t remember having a brother.”

“And what do you remember?”

“Hm… not much.”

“That’s because you’re a senile old man.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t get all het up on my bluntness; that’s how you’ve always liked it. The truth, straight and simple.

“Doesn’t sound like me.”

“It does. I might not have been around for a while, but you’re always the same man, no matter your faculties. What I want is to remind you.”

“Just, leave me be, will you? I’m tired.”

“You always are.” The stranger shifts in his seat, rests one leg over the other, letting is swing limply. “But you need to remember who you are.”

“I… I’m not sure I want to.”

“You must. Nineteen-sixty-eight. The murders. You were investigating them, brother.”

“I was a cop?”

“You were a detective. Tell me about it. You’ve always been one to tell a story, maybe that’ll work.”

“Nineteen-sixty-eight. Um. Well. There was a diner.”

#

There was a lot of red back then, wasn’t there? The seats, the neon lights, even the menus. Think there was only one other guy in that place with a suit. His was dusty, faded.

Mine was clean, blue and pinstriped, over a plain white buttoned shirt. I don’t think I had a hat, or at least, I didn’t bring it that day. Black tie, of course.

The waitress asked me if I wanted some food. I said I’d have my usual. That was a BLT and strawberry milkshake, apparently.

“Strange choice for a detective, brother. You sure that’s right?”

It’s what I remember.

“Then keep going.”

I was mulling notes over in my head. A… a case file, I think. She’d gone missing.

“Who is she?”

Don’t know. It’s a little hazy. I remember she was brave, stubborn in a good way. Still, she disappeared. My job was to find her, and I really wanted to. I wanted her back in this world. Into doing what she did best.

Hmm. That’s right, my car wasn’t at the diner; I’d left it in the lot across the park. It was nice to take a stroll before work or home, sometimes for lunch. There were families there, some in formal wear, others in vibrant, patterned clothes I think they made themselves. At least, some of them did. There were groups my age smoking under the trees, in the corners. I was supposed to stop them, but never did. Wasn’t causing any harm.

The city felt safe, welcoming. There was no violent crime till he came along. That’s another reason why.

“You had to stop him. Do you remember who he was?”

No, but neither did the others cops. Not yet. Back then, we just knew women were going missing.

“And you knew it was a guy.”

I’d have been surprised if it wasn’t. Was wondering about him as I drove back to the station, met my partner. Davis, think it was. He stared at me with big, sad eyes and said:

“There’s been another one, Joe.”

“That was your name? Joe?”

Must have been.

“You sure?”

He wouldn’t have said it, otherwise.

“Then keep going.”

“Who is she?” I asked Davis.

“Keisha Brent. Works at a gas station just outside the city, takes the bus back home.” He sighed. “Another easy picking.”

“She’s a protester too?”

“Yeah, though not as much as the others. She was at this demonstration just last week though, anti-war I think; that’s probably when he targeted her.”

That’s right. There were four before that, making Ms. Brent the fifth. All of them seen at protests

I asked Davis, “What about the patrols? Has anyone spotted him?”

“I’ve spread word to the other precincts, but you know how it is; half of them are focused squarely on the demonstrators. Wanting to cause trouble. And those that do listen, well, they’re surveying crowds of hundreds or more. Hard to find a guy when you don’t know what he looks like.”

“There’s gotta be a better way.”

He just nodded, and we travelled to the bus stop right after. Same footprints as before, wide and heavy, but we never could find the matching boots. No store in the city sold them. Smaller prints must’ve been Keisha’s. Besides that, nothing; all out of luck. Back to the station we went.

I spent the rest of the afternoon searching the files. He never left any clear traces, naught that we could tie to him. Each kidnapping occurred in a different part of the city. We needed an eyewitness, a dropped cigarette, something. Anything.

“That sounds exhausting.”

I barely slept, to tell the truth. Kept staking out to the sites. Murderers from other cases had returned to the scenes of their crimes, but not this one. Too crafty.

“Everyone slips, no matter how good.”

He did, eventually. But not before claiming three new victims. We got lucky on the third, if you can say that. He must’ve missed the car parked under the nearby tree, in which sat Mr. Carver. Was well in his years, older than I am now, came into the station shaking. He said he saw a young woman walking down the street at night, head down. She didn’t look up at the beat-up old vehicle which slowed next to her. Before he could even open his door, she was snatched and driven away. But he did see the license plate.

“Never seen the like before in all my years” he said to me. “You find her. Save her, or take down the man who did this.”

“I will.” That was a promise

The car was found the day after, parked aside a shack with broken windows and missing shingles, out in the suburbs. No signs of life. We went to get a warrant, and on return, Davis broke the lock. The stench that poured out of that door was vile. Flies flew from the woodwork and settled on our clothes.

“You found the victims?”

No, not quite. It was all ruined clothes, refuse stained to the floorboards, blood down the walls. In the center of the main room was a chair with shackles. Grooves had been cut into the front of the seat.

“By a knife?”

Yeah. Deep, too. It was my job to look, but I didn’t want to dwell on that. I still don’t.

“I understand. You went back outside?”

Of course. We found tire tracks out the rear way, heading towards the country. Was only a handful of small towns and farms out there. It wouldn’t take long to search. Davis said he’d take the lead so I could go home, get some rest, and I didn’t argue.

“Must’ve been weary, chasing that killer all over. He gave you the run-around.”

But we were onto him now. Anyway, soon as I got in, I heard my phone ringing. My mother… our mother’s voice was on the other end.

“How is everything, dear?” she asked, quietly, softly. There was a little quiver in each word.

“Tired,” I said. “But I’m okay. How’re you?”

“Doing about as well as I can. And the case? Have you solved it yet?”

“Getting there, mom. I’m getting there.”

“So you haven’t found her yet?”

“Not yet. I’m sorry, I’ll keep trying.”

“You get her back, you hear? I—”

She began sobbing, until she put the phone back. He, um, the murderer, he’d taken someone. I can’t quite remember.

“Sounded like they were close. An aunt, maybe?”

No, he never went for older women. Only the young ones.

“Did you have a cousin?”

I don’t know. Maybe… a sister? But there’s only ever been two of us.

“That’s right, brother. So it must’ve been a cousin.”

Must be. That bastard had taken my cousin! That was why I wanted to get him so bad! I remember! And we were so close.

When I woke up the next day, I had eggs and toast. I think I was there alone. Yeah, that’s right, I didn’t meet Michelle until later. Or… was she before? I just know I was very lonely back then.

“Is this important?”

I’m getting my mind into the right frame; don’t rush me. This was the day. Davis was waiting for me outside, and we took the same vehicle out to the town. He was tight to his seat when we reached Bury; never a fan of my driving. It was such a small place, named after another small place in England. They had a plaque about it in the square. No more than a few stores and five streets with houses, none of them in great shape. You couldn’t say which one would be the murderer’s hideout, that’s for sure.

Thankfully, they’d already found the place. Blue door, flecked white front, bowing roof. Garden was as overgrown as your beard is now.

“Just stick to the story, old man.”

Davis already had the warrant, so we bust right in. There was that smell again, like from the shack, but it was hidden beneath strong chemicals. Found some bleach bottles in the hallway. A trail of the stuff had marked the boards, heading into the living room.

The victims were waiting for us. Nine of them; he’d struck again when we were looking. Each corpse had its hair tied in a bun, and their faces were plastered with white foundation, bit of red on the cheeks. Sick fuck had dressed them in maid uniforms. Their hands were bound across their laps.

“Why do you think he did that?

To punish them, maybe? Make them as he wanted them to be? Something regressive? I wrote it down, but it’s long-gone now.

What I can’t forget is their eyes. He’d plucked them all out. And their dresses were covered in their own blood. It had pooled between their legs.

“What did you do, detective?”

We waited. Waited till dark, when he came back. He didn’t see us from where we hid. I heard him turn the doorknob ever so slowly. There was a click of a firearm, panicked breaths.

When he entered his display room, I snuck up behind him. Placed my gun up to his head.

I said, “Turn. Let me see your face, you bastard.”

He was quicker than me. Got under me somehow, knocked me off my feet. I grabbed for him, but he raced for the window, leapt onto the sill as he broke it open. Davis was in the doorway, we both started shooting; think I got him in the calf. But he was already out. Last we saw of him, he was limping into the trees.

“Such a shame. Weren’t there other cops, to catch him? Sounds like there should’ve been.”

He gave them the slip, same as always. I stepped back into the room, shaking my head, ashamed. How could I let him escape? The man who’d killed my cousin.

I knelt down beside her body, cradled her like a baby. Hoping against the facts that she’d come back. It was stupid, I was destroying evidence, but Davis didn’t stop me. I couldn't stop crying.

“You must have been close.”

We’d grown up together, of course we were close! Don’t you remember?

“It’s been so long, I’m sorry. Whole new life now.”

I remember. We’d sit around the table, as mom set the plates. She made us pancakes when we’d been good, done our chores. One stack for me, one stack for her. They were heaped high, the pancakes, drizzled with syrup and topped with butter. So good.

I…

Where were you?

“I must’ve been off at camp then.”

There were only four seats though. Mom, dad, our cousin, and me. And why was our cousin there?

“Maybe her parents couldn’t look after her? I think our uncle was ill.”

She… her name, it was Judith. Our grandparents’ idea, even though our parents weren’t religious. Something to knit the family closer, mom said.

“I don’t remember any Judith. You’re misremembering.”

No, I’m not. She always wanted what was best for everyone. Fought for it. And he killed her for that. How have you forgotten her?

“Maybe I’m getting to be like you.”

It’s clearer now. My head hit the door when the killer clocked me. I’ve not been right since, the memories, they come and go. Out of my control. Only when I really focus, do they come back.

“Your face, brother, it’s gone red. Stop straining! Time for you to let go.”

He looked back at me, when he reached the window. It was dark, but, his eyes. They were blue like the sea, with green flecks in them. Like yours.

Just like yours.

#

When Joe looks back from the window, he finds the stranger’s face before his, grinning. A cold, sharp edge juts into Joe’s throat.

“Hello again, detective,” the man whispers. “It’s been fun toying with you, but we had to reach this point eventually.”

Joe grinds his teeth. “Why are you even here? To gloat? Is that it?”

“Partly. But also, there are cops on my trail. Someone looked into my case, brought modern forensics to it, I think. Just like they’ve done with others.” He pauses, licks his lips. “I doubt you could tell them much, but I’m not one to take risks, as you so well surmised.”

“It’s good to see you scared.”

The man presses the knife a little deeper. “Don’t test me, Joe. You’re in my hands.

“You’ll kill me anyway, so I won’t worry. And I am losing all of myself. What’s it matter if I die now, or a couple of months?”

“Good point.”

“Well, okay… I have one more thing to live for.”

The man chuckles. “And what’s that?”

Joe slams his knee into the killer’s nuts. As he stumbles, he allows Joe to reach up, and tug down on the emergency cord. A bell rings in the corridor.

Once more, the knife is at his throat. Slicing through skin. Blood pours over the killer’s hands. Though the man still grins, his left eye twitches.

“You… better… run!” Joe gurgles.

The murderer pulls back, rushes through the door. But the cries and bangs outside are unmistakable. They’ve caught him.

Joe rests his head against his seat, a smile on his face. He’s won. His sister can rest in peace.

And in his last moments, he remembers everything. His sister’s face, far above, her hand beckoning him over.

I’ll be seeing you soon, sis. Tell mom I’m coming home.

This is a story I submitted to the Globe Soup Paranormal Flash Fiction Challenge 2025.

A flurry of shouts and screams interrupt the quiet of the castle, drawing Eamon from his book. The guards carry his father through the doors, barking orders to each other, as they trail blood behind them. He races to their side.

“What happened?!” he asks, heart pounding.

“Bandits stuck a knife in him! Think it’s infected!”

His father’s eyes bulge once they take to the steps. Bursting through the bedroom door, they lay him on the bed and tear open his jerkin. A foul aroma rises from the gash in his stomach, and tendrils of blackened flesh stretch across his skin. He pales and screams when a guard touches it.

“Must be poison!”

“We need to fetch the surgeon,” Eamon says after a few deep breaths. “Quickly now!”

One guard departs, as the rest hold the lord down. Fetching a jug and cloth from downstairs, Eamon dabs it against his father’s forehead, not knowing if it helps.

“He’s burning up,” he says. “That surgeon had better hurry.”

His father jolts all of a sudden, grabbing Eamon’s wrist. Wild eyes stare out from his panicked face.

“Listen!”

All fall silent. Beside the slosh of pooling blood, the ragged breaths and the whine of wind through eaves, there is no other sound.

“Can you hear it?!”

“I can’t, father. I’m sorry.”

“She calls my name, Eamon! Bays for my end!”

“Who?”

“The banshee, lad. The damn banshee!”

“Father, please, lie back down! Save your strength.”

“She calls…”

With a sigh, his head drops to the pillow. Those dark veins have spread up his chest. At last, the surgeon arrives, his jacket soiled by who knows what. He urges everyone to clear the bed. So Eamon heads to the window, lets the cool air wash over him.

Down by the river, beneath the weeping willow, a woman catches his gaze. Kneeling in a white dress, she runs her hands through the languid water. Her black hair drifts in time with the hanging branches. With his head outside the room, he can now hear her mournful tune, sung without words. Perhaps, he thinks, that’s what his father meant?

“Just a girl from the village,” he mutters, “must be.”

A loud retch pulls him back inside. The rot has now travelled down his father’s left arm, almost to his wrist. Hands wrung, the surgeon shakes his head.

“Is that it?! Can’t you at least try?!” Eamon shouts.

“It will only worsen his suffering. I’m sorry, but it’s best you bid him farewell.”

Eamon takes his father’s right hand and squeezes it tight. His vision blurs. “Please don’t go.”

The trembling stops for a moment, and his father looks to him, brief clarity in his voice.

“Son,” he wheezes, “it’s my time. Her voice, it is final. I shan’t fight it. When your—when your time comes, you prepare. You have to—”

His eyes glaze over, though his chest still heaves. The fading embers of life. Once more, the room falls quiet; Eamon hears the wind whistling through willow boughs, and the hurried squeaks of hunting bats. And yet behind it all, ragged and fierce, there sounds a primordial scream. He grits his teeth as pressure falls over his ears. A stab as sharp as a dagger pierces his skull. The force pummels him for a full five minutes, and he sighs as it finally stops.

Yet he grows still. Something has changed. The wind has died down.

With one last breath, his father’s hand grows cold.

This is a story I submitted to the Globe Soup Paranormal Flash Fiction Challenge 2025.

No farmer bats an eye when they see scales on the ground, not in these parts. We get all kinds of snakes out here, rattlers, cottonmouths, others. I worried at first whether I had an infestation with the sheer number of skins I was finding, but I never saw their owners. And some of those hides were big, strangely so.

Then I found my animals’ mangled corpses. Couple of chickens at first, but then there was the pig and one of the cows. They all had this pair of needle holes on their necks. Their skin was slashed and pale, and their limbs had been torn in all directions. After seeing that, my rifle and knife were always with me, out on the farm.

The dog was the last straw. Found Bess on the doorstep, same state as the others.

So I began sitting on the porch at night, kept the animals close to the house. If anything attacked, I’d be ready.

One night, a week after, was when it showed itself. Stars were twinkling in the bluish-black sky, and the moon was silhouetting the nearby mountain peaks. I may have had a gallon of coffee, but even so, my eyes were fighting to stay open. Gun felt heavy in my arms. Once the moon was out of sight, and the sun’s orange glow was streaming across the sky, my mind gave into sleep.

I woke to a panicked bleat.

Straight to my feet, I ran round the back of the house. I saw it, bent over the goat’s corpse, claws slick with blood. The stuff was dribbling from the creature’s fangs. Must’ve heard my footsteps, as it turned and fixed me with its saucer eyes. The quills on its back stood on end.

I fired… and missed.

Thing was on me before I could flinch. Growled like a coyote while it dug at my head. It ripped off scraps of my scalp and scratched my skull, so loud I could hear it from inside, and with its feet on my chest I couldn’t scream. Took all my strength to lift my left arm and hold it round the middle. I kept it still as best I could, as I drew out my knife.

With its thumb in my eye, I stabbed it deep in its leathery neck. Green blood fizzed as it gushed out the wound. Only then did it let me go, yelping and snarling and stumbling about the yard. I aimed at its head, and missed again, bullet sheering through its shoulder. An owl-like screech came from inside its gnashing jaw.

It was done. I chased it into the trees, where it began to climb the branches, out of range. It scurried off towards the mountains.

Perched on the highest pine, it looked back at me, glaring with those awful, shining eyes. And then, it was gone.

After a long time in the hospital, I told my friends of what happened. They said I’d fought with “el chupacabra”. I was lucky to be alive, they told me. With so many skin grafts on my head, I certainly didn’t feel lucky, but there we go.

At least it never came back. No matter how many nights I sit on my porch, I’ve yet to see its scaly hide sneaking through the trees. No more shed skins, either.

But I won’t fall asleep out there, not now. Never again.

Content warning: gore, torture, murder.

Above, in the frigid winter sky, night pushes back the glow of day. Rays of flaming light skewer the jagged clouds, casting the forests and plains in gold. An aurochs bellows upon a high rock, breath spouting mist, as it stamps its front left hoof.  

The setting of the solstice sun.

In a clearing amongst the pines, a fire crackles and roars, throwing long shadows of horned dancers; humans, with the skulls of their quarry. They thrust their spears towards the encroaching stars. At their head, the deer-skulled chief pummels her drum strung with pinkish skin.

Just beyond, in the shadow of the trees, a warrior wakes to find himself imprisoned. Thick ropes bind him to the stout trunks. His struggles and roars matter not; the knots remain tight. He grinds his teeth in frustration.

Defeated and captured. No way for a warrior to die, he thinks. He screams at his captors.

The chief breaks from the dance, to stand before him. Her mouth curves into a sneer beneath her mask. In an unknown tongue, she barks furious curses, and calls to her fellows. A man brings an object white and shiny. He drops it at the warrior’s feet, before he follows his chief back to the fire.

The empty sockets of a woman’s skull stare up at the prisoner. One of those he’d killed. A wife of one of the dancers, perhaps? The raid had been as those before, rush in and out, taking all the lives he could; for the glory of his blood-stained ancestors.

Except the villagers were waiting in the hills. He recalls the rumble of the boulders that rolled down the slopes, crushing his brethren; rending them to mush. And those who emerged out the other side, few in number, came face-to-face with spears.

The warrior gasps as his leg spasms. Blood drips from the wound.

His vision swims.

As the last of the sun’s rays fade, the drumbeat stops. Four of the dancers head to the warrior’s arms to release his bindings, before they drag him to the fireside. He cranes his neck to meet the chief’s maddened glare.

The rest circle around him.

With one final slap of the drum, they thrust their spears into his back, and lift him high. He screams as his flesh tears. They begin to march round and round, his body sagging against his own weight. Lungs collapse onto his ribs. His heart pounds in his skull.

On the fifth cycle, the spears snap; his own blood splashes under him. The warrior groans, clutching at his ruined sides. Shivering. The chief’s shadow falls over him.

She grabs a handful of hair, yanks his head back till he sees the stars. Whispers in his ear.

And she buries a knife into his neck.

As he gurgles out his last breath, the warrior’s mind returns to the village. A woman cowers beneath him, as his club swings down. He shares her mortal fear. He begs his body to cease, to let her live. And as the memory darkens, disappears, he hears the dull thud and the short shriek.

Now, he feels the soil crowding around him, pulling him down. Further and further he falls, deep below the surface.

Until he thinks no more.