The Gift

Mesmerized_3

by T. Mack

Alice decided to seek professional help after she almost accidentally kidnapped a small child.

“I was nearly arrested,” Alice exclaimed. Then she broke down in tears, covering her face with her hands and letting her long, blonde hair fall in curtains around her to try and hide her from the world.

Alice sat on a dark grey sofa. Across from her, perched on the edge of a large, sturdy coffee table, sat a woman in long, flowing fabric. Her hair was also long and loose, but her dark eyes held no tears. They did hold sympathy, however. She knew what had brought Alice to her, but she waited patiently to let the other woman tell her own story. After some time, Alice did just that. Continue reading

Quotable

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The spooktacular tradition continues this Friday with another October original story from T. Mack in her Dark Tales series. Come back later this week to check out Dark Tales, Part III: The Gift.

Go back and check out Dark Tales, Part I: The Demon & Dark Tales, Part II: The Witch… if you dare!

The Waterwood Murders: Part 2

*Trigger warning: Sexual assault and violence mentioned*

 

We didn’t get to talk to Noah for a few days since you know, his sister was just murdered. I’ve heard people need a bit of space after traumatic things like that happen. We had to wait the respectful amount of time, which felt like years instead of days. Eventually, we got to talk to Noah. Henry and I drove to the Starbucks in the next town over where we were set to meet Noah. I was nervous as all get out. Butterflies were threatening to fly right out of my stomach.

Continue reading

The Waterwood Murders, Part 1

By: Taylor

*Trigger warning: There are references to sexual assault in this story*

“Someone did you wrong, is that right?” the Sheriff asked with his slow southern accent. His elbows were propped on the scratched and dented metal table. Didn’t anyone ever tell him it’s not polite to have your elbows on the table?

“Yes, sir,” I answered, my eyes fixed on his large elbows. Those elbows are probably what put the dents in this table.

“Did they hurt you?” He shifted his elbows and it creaked under the pressure. Damn, now that song is going to be stuck in my head. You know, the good one, by David Bowie.

“Yes, sir.” I wanted so badly to tell him to move his elbows off the table, but it isn’t proper to say such a thing in such a situation as this. I just couldn’t stop fixating on it. Mama always said when you’re fixating on something, you need to give it over to Jesus. A lot of good that would do me. I don’t think even Jesus can save me now.

“Is the person who hurt you the same person you killed?” the Sheriff’s voice was loaded with a mix of sympathy and determination to get answers. Bless his heart, he was just trying to do his job.

“No, sir.” I responded, relishing in the twitch of the Sheriff’s eye, the small frown forming at his lips. He was never going to understand why I did what I did. But maybe you can.  Continue reading

Unlucky

By Jen P

 

On my daily trek down Main Street, I realize that Halloween has finally arrived. For weeks, the shop owners have been decorating for the occasion with their banners, orange flowers, and pumpkin carvings—my favorite of the three. I recognize my own likeness on one, so I give it a lick as I pass by. Hmm. That one’s been sitting out too long. But today must be the actual day they’ve been preparing for, as the humans themselves are dressed as witches, vampires and the like. The smaller ones carry buckets and sacks full of sweet smelling treats; while many of the larger ones drink warm cups of apple mead. If I’m lucky, I may catch some of the leavings.

I weave between the legs of the hairless giants, especially careful not to get stepped on by one of the females—as their paw-covers are sharper than those of the males. The few humans who notice me, jump back. Some turn and walk the other way. But mostly, I’m invisible.

I slip into my favorite alley unscathed, then leap into the dumpster behind the seafood restaurant. Looks like their whitefish spoiled. Pity for them. Dinner for me.

Finished with my meal, I hop from the dumpster to the damp alley ground. I then slip back onto the street and continue towards the suburbs. I’m full, but I never stop looking for food. Sometimes my meals have to last me a few days.

As I round a corner, a sharp shoe rams into my shoulder, sending me flying. The female attached to it merely stumbles.

My immediate reaction is to hiss. The female takes two steps back, clutching her heart, and shouts, “Cursed Little Wretch!” before removing the offending shoe. I’m no dummy, so I run. The shoe lands in the spot I just vacated, and the female’s curses follow me as I bolt through a thick patch of bushes at the back of the building. I imagine myself as little more than a black streak to the passing eye as I cover a distance in five minutes that usually takes me fifteen.

Once I make it to Pine Street, I settle back into a slow prowl.

Cursed Little Wretch. That’s a new one. Continue reading