Tag Archive for: dark moments

The Messenger

/by
by Constantine E. Kiousis

 

“This it?” Jennifer asked as she pointed at the suburban house opposite them in the dimly lit street.

The pale girl standing next to her nodded. Huffing, Jennifer crossed the street, walked up to the front porch, slid a sealed envelope under the door, and knocked before trotting away.

Soon, the girl’s mother would be finding out it was their neighbour that killed her daughter, burying her body in his backyard.

“We good?” Jennifer asked the child.

Smiling, the phantom dissipated into the cold night.

“You’re welcome!” Jennifer exclaimed. “Ghosts and their unfinished business,” she muttered.

Being a medium sucked.

 

Constantine E. Kiousis

Constantine E. Kiousis spends most of his time wandering through the worlds he has created, exploring every nook and cranny and constantly discovering new places and stories that need to be told.

He’s currently plotting new ways to unleash the terrifying tales hiding in his mind upon the world, one word at a time.

Follow Constantine on Facebook

 

Double Betrayal

/by
by Jaycee Durand

 

Clara trailed her fingertips over the mirror’s chilled glass, her heart tripping at the beckoning reflection.

Identical green eyes—but Debra’s derisive smirk.

Impossible!

We are one. Without me, there is no you. Come.

Always belittling. Always controlling.

But how do you live on when your other half is dead?

Clara sagged before her sister’s stare… and clasped the hand Debra slipped through the rippling mirrored surface as if from the depths of dark waters.

Snatched into frigid, swirling inkiness, Clara whimpered in fright.

Debra threw a vile and triumphant grin to the shadowed presence.

She’s yours, Master. Feast well.

 

Jaycee Durand

Jaycee Durand’s usual dance partner is paranormal romance—who says vampires are out of fashion? Nope. But she enjoys flirting with other genres. Previous publications include shorts on Medium, e.g., The Mad River, and drabbles appearing or forthcoming in Spillwords Press and Free Flash fiction. Jaycee lives in London, England. https://medium.com/the-mad-river/twisted-valentine-84b77ca28fb6

 

Mercy’s Harp

/by
by Jodie Angell

 

Mercy’s fingers plucked the harp strings, sensing the nearby souls in their final moments before death.

She overlooked the man, unconscious in his armchair.

The room filled with graceful harmony, and the music rose to a crescendo.

A tear rolled from her eyes as a final breath escaped his mouth. A silvery whisp floated from between his lips—his soul now free from the shackles of life.

The music halted, and Mercy reached out her hands to cradle the drifting soul. It disappeared as another spirit called for her.

The room snapped shut, and another materialised. Her songs began again.

 

Jodie Angell

Jodie Angell grew up in South Wales, U.K. She started writing at the age of eleven, entering children’s anthologies. Her first book, Crimson Kiss, is signed with Champagne Book Group.

Jodie explores all genres. She has recently expanded her repertoire and has signed several dark short stories with Black Hare Press. Follow Jodie on Twitter.

 

In the Dark

/by
by L.J. McLeod

 

Dark. Cold. Her breath comes in shallow gasps. The air tastes stale. A hint of rot tickles at her nose. There is no movement, everything is still. She closes her eyes and opens them again. There is no change in the infinite blackness. Her hands are trapped, her feet bound tight. The feel of walls presses in all around her. With an effort she pulls herself back, away from the vision she has seen in her crystal ball. She looks across the table at the eager, young tourist. He leans forward expectantly.

“So, what do you see in my future?”

 

L.J. McLeod

L.J. McLeod lives in Queensland, Australia. She works in Pathology and writes in her spare time. She has been published in several anthologies and has been nominated twice for the Aurealis Award.  In her spare time she enjoys diving, reading and travelling.

 

The Crimson Room

/by
by Stephen Johnson

 

My eyes opened to a quiet darkness. Strange, I don’t remember coming into the den. I saw a fiery crimson glow emanating from the open doorway to my living room. I tried to enter but the crimson wall repulsed me back.

Confused, I noticed a body spread across the floor. Blood was sprayed across the back wall and pooled under the lifeless head. My eyes locked with the woman standing over the dead man. Terror filled her face, and she dropped the knife, looking down nervously at the body on the floor.

 “No, it can’t be. I just killed you.”

 

Stephen Johnson

Stephen Johnson is a retired Naval Officer serving 22 years on four different ships over his career. He has published “The Hollow” in Eleanor Merry’s Dark Halloween Holiday Flash Fiction Anthology and “The Other Side of the Mirror” in Scare Street’s Night Terrors Volume 8.

 

Clairvoyance

/by
by L.T. Ward

 

The candlelight refracted within the glass of Antonia’s crystal ball—all a part of her clairvoyant’s show.
“Does he forgive me?” the man across from her asked.
She stared into the sepia light, her hands waving a practiced dance above. With her bare feet beneath her long skirt, Antonia tugged the hem. The metal balls sewn within clacked twice.
“He forgives you.”
The man sank back into his seat, sighing. As he pulled the money owed from his wallet, she asked, “Why would a good man like you need forgiveness?”
An icy chill whispered into her ear, “For my murder.”

 

L.T. Ward

L.T. writes mostly speculative fiction shorts and novels while spending her days raising her children and satisfying her never-ending thirst for knowledge through reading, meeting people, and first-hand life experiences. She has several published short stories in the literary, historical, fantasy, and speculative fiction genres. She currently volunteers with WriteHive.

 

After the Ascent

/by
by Evan Baughfman

 

Walter rose above his corpse. His spirit approached a widening glow.

Amazing! An otherworldly oasis opening up itself just for him! Sunlight! Beach! Palm trees!

Walter smiled at the sound of lost loved ones’ laughter. His philanthropic life would soon reunite him with his mother, his father!

The glow extinguished.

Walter plummeted. Pleaded.

He fell back into flesh.

Injected chemicals had begun to restart and preserve his brain.

Walter screamed at his doctors to release him. His mouth wouldn’t move.

Walter, trapped inside his skull, was stuffed into his cryochamber, a subzero casket he now certainly regretted ever paying for.

 


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

 

Passage for Two

/by
by N.E. Rule

 

Sandra’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel as the wipers whip back and forth. Glancing into the rearview mirror, she gasps as a man leans towards her. She swerves to the shoulder and brakes. She reaches for the door, but his bony fingers dig into her collarbone.

“Who are you?!” she cries.

“A guide to the afterlife.”

“I’m not dead!”

“I’m here for the body you have in the trunk.” Then he nods to the passenger seat. “He’s your guide.”

A beast forms beside her. Screaming, she jerks free of his grasp as the transport truck hits her car head-on.

 

N.E. Rule

N.E. Rule attended Ryerson University in Toronto for creative writing and business communications. Her corporate writing portfolio includes software specs, marketing copy, and training materials. However, her passion is creative writing. The characters in her head refuse to wait for her to find spare-time to come out and play. Keep up with her her on Facebook.

Down the Basement

/by
by Jean Martin

 

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.

The Bus Shelter

/by
by Tracy Davidson

 

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.