A secret revealed. A legacy undone. A horror immortalised. For generations, the Berdeaux family name had been synonymous with hospitality and distinction. But that all changed in the summer of 1979, when Dewey Berdeaux’s “hobby” came to light. It was a revelation that stunned the town of Barrville, and ever since then, the Berdeaux family mansion has stood as a grim reminder—with its fair share of ghosts, if rumour is to be believed.
Three of us are marooned on an island of light, and I’m the only one breathing.
My husband always said I was foolish. “There’s nothing in the basement at night that isn’t there in the daytime.”
Our basement is a cellar, not a carpeted play space—even with the lights on, you can’t see what’s in the corners when it’s dark.
I don’t like it. It scares me.
My husband went down the basement last night to get a screwdriver.
I found him this morning at the foot of the stairs, with his throat torn out.
Once the estate is settled, I’m selling the house. Meanwhile, I’m living at my sister’s—she doesn’t have a basement.
Jean Martin
A long-time fan of Sherlock Holmes, Jean Martin is a single lady, currently stuck at home in McKeesport, Pennsylvania, which is in the Monongahela Valley. She has been writing fiction for longer than she cares to admit and has talked to channellers, psychics, vampirologists, Anne McCaffrey, and some lesser-known authors.
Katie Davies grows up in a turbulent world. Yet, she believes teleportation represents freedom and a better life. What will it take to open her eyes?
No locals use this bus shelter at night. Few use it in the daytime. Something about these three urine-stained, graffiti-marked walls drives them away.
Some smell decay. Some hear voices. Some see shadows dance. And some feel sharp slashes across backs and bellies, though no wounds appear.
Such sensations deepen in the dark. Only out-of-towners stop here then.
Like this one. He looks lost. Lonely. We like them lonely. They don’t get missed.
He shivers, despite the humidity. My invisible sisters surround him, begin their games. I let them play. It’s been a while.
Tomorrow, another shadow will dance here.
Tracy Davidson
Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, Artificium, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.
A reluctant corporate assassin who is losing her edge, discovers fellow assassins are dying after killing high-value targets. Love and loss cloud her judgment, and only following her code will help her survive.
Two retired couples on a caravanning holiday decide to visit a ghost town they find on an old map, but the town has not been abandoned entirely—as they soon discover in terrifying fashion…
The door creaked open. Kellan took a deep breath and stepped into the shadowy classroom.
Inside, no children chuckled. No teacher taught. Silence suffused like creeping fog.
Cobwebs clung to ceiling corners. Darkness enveloped desks.
Toppled chairs and abandoned assignments lay scattered on the floor.
Very little was as Kellan remembered. He’d been a student here years before.
As he approached his old seat, he heard soft cries. Figures huddled, hidden in gloom.
Kellan’s rifle lifted toward the trembling targets.
“Boo,” he said, though he wasn’t a ghost.
He’d become something far more monstrous the moment he returned to school.
Evan Baughfman
Evan Baughfman is a middle school teacher and author. Much of his writing success has been as a playwright. A number of his scripts can be found at online resources, Drama Notebook and New Play Exchange. Evan also writes horror fiction and screenplays. More information is available at amazon.com/author/evanbaughfman
When Seána McKinnon flees Gravesend on the ill-fated Loch Ard, dark shadows sail with her.
Souls never leave St Mary’s Hospital for Insane. They wander the hallways, linger in the mirrors for too long, and hide in the walls.
Their screams still echo against the high stone pillars. Two-hundred dead still roam the grounds, eternally searching for peace that won’t come.
A broken doll lies on the wooden floorboards beside an old hair comb—belongings of a girl long since passed. Moonlight cascades in through her old bedroom window, illuminating the leather restraints and the sheets still stained with blood.
Her face appears in the shattered mirror. Blood spills from her eyes as she grins.
Jodie Angell
Jodie Angell grew up in South Wales, United Kingdom. She started writing at the age of eleven, entering children’s anthologies. She wrote her first novel when she was fourteen and went onto write five more by the age of twenty-four. Her first book, an adult High Fantasy, is due out in March with Champagne Book Group. Twitter: @JodieA_Author