Field Trip

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by  Kristin Lennox

I’d been looking forward to this tour for months. Every spring, Brookhaven Psychiatric Hospital opens its doors to the public, for PR purposes.

The facility was bright and welcoming on the surface. But a faint sour aroma lingered beneath the lemon-scented air, and the light jazz playing in the sunroom couldn’t quite drown out the occasional disturbing cry.

As the bus departed, I sat by myself, contemplating my visit. We passed through the iron gates, leaving Brookhaven and its mysteries behind…

…and I have about three hours until they discover the tourist I bludgeoned and stuffed into the broom closet.

 

Kristin Lennox

Kristin is delighted to have had several drabbles published by Black Hare Press. She’s also a voice actor, and when she’s not talking to herself in her padded room (home studio), she tries to get the voices out of her head and onto the page

 

No Way Out

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by Tracy Davidson

Which is more psychotic? Doctors in white coats with their hammers and drills, or screaming patients, helpless, in their restraints and straitjackets?

Once, I’d have said the patients. Before I came here, to inspect the place. They’re not patients at all. Nor inmates. They’re prisoners. They come in and never go out again.

I know. My report would have closed the whole asylum down, doctors struck off, arrested. I never got out either.

 “A sudden psychotic break,” they told the authorities. Nobody questioned, nobody came.

Now, I scream too. In tune with those who died here, and those still dying.

 

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, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

 

The Doctor is Out

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by Sean Donaghue Johnston

It was late. The only sounds were the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, the moaning of drugged patients, and Dr Laroche’s footsteps.

A swipe of the keycard and Dr Laroche was in the common room, now empty. Another swipe and he was at the “welcome” desk, unmanned at this hour. A retinal scan got him out of the psych ward and into the main corridor of the hospital.

He went down the stairs and out an emergency exit, tossed the orderly’s keycard and eyeball into the bushes, and slipped into the dark city streets to hunt for his next “patient.”

 

Sean Donaghue Johnston

Sean Donaghue Johnston teaches philosophy at Niagara University and Canisius College, and lives in St. Catharines, Ontario, with his wife Caroline and their two children, Atticus and Finula. His fiction has appeared in Tales from the Radiator, Space Squid, Every Day Fiction, and Broken Pencil Magazine.

 

124

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by David Staiger

Dr Reynolds shook his head insistently.

“Some patients, sadly, must be more fully restrained, for their own safety. This one attempted to eat his tongue the other day. Thus the dental guard.”

The reporter and her camerawoman each took a turn peering through the soundproofed safety glass before nodding absently and moving down the row of doors, continuing the impromptu tour.

Patient 124 studied his own reflection, correcting again that same disobedient hair, sparing a bare smile at the well-trussed figure in the room raging back at him.

Then he, too, moved along, leaving the good doctor to his fury.

 

David Staiger

David is an emerging fiction author, always on the lookout for new opportunities to expand his writing. His previous work has been featured in Festival of Fear, from Black Ink fiction and Year Four from Black Hare Press.

 

Spooned

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by Pauline Yates

Beechwood Psychiatric Hospital’s new nurse has a head full of ideas, like “kindness begets kindness”, that sort of shit. I play along. I stop smacking my head against the wall when she asks me, politely, mind you, to take my pills. Now she lets me eat ice cream with a spoon. I want her to eat ice-cream, too, but she won’t…

won’t…

won’t…

And that makes my head hurt like the spoon scoops out my brain. So I make her eat. Eat, and eat, until all her ideas burst out of her head.

I scoop them up and swallow them, too.

 

Pauline Yates

Pauline Yates lives in Australia and writes horror and dark fiction.
Website: paulineyates.com

A Song for Dorian

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by Carol Ryles

 

“Ta-da!” Lucinda gestured to her newest creation: a tree adorned with taxidermic hummingbirds, cygnets, sparrows, and ducklings.

Dorian chuckled, then guzzled his third goblet of merlot. “That takes stuffing the turkey to a whole new level. Is it finished?”

Lucinda almost lost herself to his hypnotic gaze.

“What the—” He dropped the goblet, staggered, collapsed.

Lucinda’s camouflage faded, revealing the furry snout, reptilian tongue, and horns of a krampus. She knelt, lowered a talon to Dorian’s eyeball. The perfect bauble!

Detaching the sclera, she broke into joyous, triumphant song.

“On the second day of Christmas my boyfriend gave to me…”

 

Carol Ryles

Carol Ryles hails from Western Australia. Her short fiction has appeared in over a dozen publications, including Eidolon, Aurealis, and The Year’s Best Australian Fantasy & Horror. Her debut novel, The Eternal Machine, was independently published in 2022. You can find links to her work at carolryles.net

Always Watching

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by Sophie Wagner

 

As he rotted away, cheeks sallow, smile bloody, dreams of sugarplums died. Even magic couldn’t fix him.

“Good morning!” piped a sing-song voice from the speakers in the padded room. Santa shot to his feet, camera’s following his every move.

“Please!” he screamed. “I can’t take this anymore. Let me go!”

“Tsk, tsk,” came the voice. “Don’t like being constantly watched? How’s it make you feel?

“I want to die!” Santa shrieked.

“That’s not very jolly…” the voice said. “Let’s try again tomorrow.” With that, he turned off the lights and left Santa in the dark, the cameras always watching.

 

Sophie Wagner

Sophie Wagner is an emerging student author who has had multiple short story and poetry publications. You can find her work at The Macabre Ladies, Black Ink Fiction, Eerie River Publishing, Iron Faerie Publishing, Black Hare Press and more. She hopes you have a horror-filled day!

Coal

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by David D. West

 

Santa turned away from the plate of milk and cookies and saw the round rump of a boy digging through his sack of wonders. He frowned as the greedy boy wriggled to and fro, searching for hidden delights meant for others.

He set one soot-covered boot against the boy’s ass and pushed. The boy fell into the sack with a gasp. Santa cinched it tight and the sack shrunk in on itself. The boy’s screams died down as the sack compressed his writhing body.

When all was silent, Santa reached into the sack and pulled out a lump of coal.

 

David D. West

David D. West lives and teaches in the Pacific Northwest, which offers the perfect gloomy atmosphere for his writing. Find him on Twitter/Instagram @DavidWestWrites

 

 

Consequences

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by Mel Andela

 

A dead mouse sat in sister’s stocking, a toy car on the stairs for mother, and Jamie nestled with visions of destruction rather than sugar plums.

He sees you when you’re sleeping…

Faint music made Jamie prickle with goosebumps.

Be good for goodness sake…

There was a creak at the door, and a hulking silhouette appeared.

“You’re on my list,” A not-so-jolly voice beckoned. “Time to go.”

“N-no coal?” Jamie squeaked.

“No, when you’ve been really naughty—downright mean—you go to the workshop.”

“Why?”

“Ho, ho, ho,” The laugh was mirthless, merciless. “Who do you think makes the toys?”

 

Mel Andela

Mel fell in love with stories (particularly ghost stories) at a young age, and started writing as soon as she could hold a pencil. Mel lives in a small town in Ontario, Canada, reading anything and everything, and writing short fiction and poetry whenever she gets the chance.

 

 

Crossing the Line

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by Jameson Grey

 

New Year’s Eve.

The day the last of my line dies. I’ve hired a boat for the occasion—a yacht, no less! Sailed out to the Line Islands. Currently sitting one second east of the International Date Line. Waiting.

I’ve requested the captain crosses the Date Line at midnight. Time it right, it can be beaten. The curse.

The crew’s happy enough. They’re getting paid either way.

The damn Barber family curse!

One dies at midnight. Every year.

It’s 11.59. The boat is firing up. I feel it. I am heading up on deck.

Crossing the line one last ti—

 

Jameson Grey

Jameson Grey is originally from England but now lives with his family in western Canada. His work has been published in Dark Recesses Press, Dark Dispatch, and in anthologies from Ghost Orchid Press, Black Hare Press and Heads Dance Press.
Website: jameson-grey.com