by V.A. Vazquez
There weren’t many eligible bachelors in Dunwich, but even then, all the women stayed away from Wilbur Whateley. His beard was coarse and knotted, like the hide of a mountain goat, and he smelled like cracked eggs that’d gone off.
“Disgusting,” my sister would say, turning away to avoid his stare. He had to crouch down to shuffle through the bakery door, his woollen coat dragging on the cobblestones behind him.
I never turned away; I never refused to meet his eyes. Not the ones on his face and not the ones nestled in the crevices of his hips either.
V. A. Vazquez
by Jacqueline Moran Meyer
Elspeth haunts me. At night, I hear her ankle chains scrape along the floorboards towards the bedroom I share with my new bride. She’s getting closer, with her bloated body now splattering water on the rug around our bed. Last night, I took to drink in the hope of not remembering her visit. This morning my new love lay dead beside me; wet footsteps led to her side of the bed. I may have married Elspeth for her money and not defended her when accused of sorcery, but never had I suspected her of truly being a witch—until now.
Jacqueline Moran Meyer
by Matthew Wilson
I have had dark moments since I escaped that hospital filled with fools who didn’t grasp my greatness, so I had to burn them.
I wished to run into the light, but Whitechapel only has darkness and more laughing women who do not appreciate me.
The doctors I burned? I have murdered for necessities—like clothes—borrowed a dead man’s name, but still my head is filled with horrid thoughts.
But I will prove those dead doctors wrong, I will try to be human, something free and undeserving of cages.
Gentleman Jack, even if I do have frequent dark moments.
by McKenzie Richardson
The corpse swings on its rope when my fingers wrap around its wrist. Tendons and muscles fray as I sever the flesh. Cracking bones, I saw through until the hand falls into my grasp.
Before dissolving into the darkness, reeking of congealing blood, I collect slabs of fat from the murderer’s torso for a candle, a hair from his head to serve as its wick. Placed in the Hand of Glory, it will grant me powers unimaginable with which to exact my revenge.
They thought to burn my kind. They are not the only ones who can play with fire.
by K.T. Tate
I just wanted a muse. Something unusual to fuel my writing. But that dusty tome with its ancient rites gave me more than that.
It was not a muse summoned there, but a thing. Indescribable, even to a seasoned author in its unique horror. Stars burned and died within its shifting form. Its eyeless gaze burned through me, tarnishing me from the inside as I wept. The safe illusion of reality shattered.
Now it fills my mind. Taking up space, forcing me to write its heresy. My words spreading its gospel of madness. Please, I can’t stop myself, I can’t…
Heather Ewings is a Tasmanian author of speculative fiction. With a Masters in History and a fascination with myth and folklore, Heather’s stories explore the past and the present (and occasionally the future) through the lens of the magical. Her publication credits include
Joachim Heijndermans writes, draws, and paints nearly every waking hour. Originally from the Netherlands, he’s been all over the world, boring people by spouting random trivia. His work has been featured in a number of anthologies and publications, such as Mad Scientist Journal, Asymmetry Fiction, Hinnom Magazine, Ahoy Comics’s Edgar Allan Poe’s Snifter of Terror, Metaphorosis and The Gallery of Curiosities, and he’s currently in the midst of completing his first children’s book.
Simone Oldman Green lives in the Kingdom of Fife with husband, John. They have been published by Dragon Soul Press, Otter Libris, Rogue Blades, Storgy Magazine, L Ellington Ashton, Iron Faerie, Eerie River and Black Hare Press. They also won 3rd Place in the British Fantasy Society’s Short Story Contest 2018 for the feminist post-Apocalypse piece, ‘Travesty’. Writer, vegan, martial artist, gamer, occasionally a terrible person (but only to fictional people). They thrive on the unusual, which might explain why there are so many cats.
V.A. VAZQUEZ comes from New York City where she previously worked as a theatre producer, arts educator, and ghostwriter for famous fashion editors. An author of urban fantasy and comedic horror, she specializes in stories that involve women (or men or non-binary folks) romancing monsters, preferably the slimy Lovecraftian kind.