Issue 5: Signs and Omens
Horror for the holidays!
Dear Readers,
Do you ever see patterns where they don’t exist? I once spent a whole year seeing apples everywhere. And I’m not talking about seeing apples in stores. I mean I would see apple trees everywhere I went—in the neighborhoods I grew up in—neighborhoods I swore didn’t have ancient, gnarled apple trees at their center.
I saw apples clinging to branches, and dead, rotten fruit turning into jelly in the streets. I would step on the mushy brown fruit and track it home with me, and I would see apples in logos and on store signs and in books.
I’m not a superstitious person, and I know all of the apples were a coincidence. I only saw them because I was inadvertently paying attention to them. But even so, when I moved into my newest apartment and realized I had unintentionally chosen a unit directly across from a large apple tree, it felt right somehow. And sometimes, when the wind howls in the streets at night and I see the apple tree swaying in the moonlight, it feels right that I decided to start a horror magazine.
Lo Corliss
Table of Contents
The Grotto
Short Story
By Shikha Bansal
The Bone God
Short Story
By Gianna Girone
2:43
Poetry
By Dean Bowman
Spore
Short Story
By Nick Young
News
The Grotto
By Shikha Bansal
Ella had turned in late and despite her nervousness, sleep had come easily. She woke up at the usual time, only to learn there would be no school today. A quiet hush settled over the dormitory, like cold air on a sunless day. The girls made their beds, washed up and went down to the dining hall for breakfast. They were to proceed to the library, Sister Alice told them wearing her regular unsmiling face, and spend their morning constructively, reading or doing homework, wasting no time on idle gossip.
When she first saw Ella a year back, Sara knew they would be friends. Ella had stood at the entrance to the dining hall. No one noticed her, except for Sara. She was short, her manner diffident, reminding Sara of the sparrows that occasionally fluttered in, lost amid the tables and chairs, concrete walls and glass windows, searching for a way out. There was a briskness to the morning; the nuns instructed, the girls spooned breakfast in, both unquestioning in the roles assigned to them. Ella spotted a table with a milk jug, surrounded by colourful plastic glasses emanating a strong, stale odour. She hesitated, then squaring her shoulders poured the milk, bringing it to her lips. The smell was overpowering; grimacing she left the dining room, her stomach in a churn. ‘Predictable.’ Sara smiled at the reaction; it had been hers and every girls’ when they joined the boarding school.
‘You should add Bournvita or Ovaltine, you know. It tastes a lot better.’ Sara hurried after her, introducing herself.
‘Oh! I didn’t think of it. Packing was such a rush.’
‘You can have mine.’ Ella smiled at the offer, her cheeks collecting on the sides of her face, her warm brown eyes pools of gratitude. The sombre chime of the clock in the corridor announced it was half past eight. The girls ran through deserted corridors, past the chapel–the light pouring through its stained-glass windows flooding it with colour and warmth, almost stopping Ella in her tracks–past the grove of mango and tamarind trees, until they reached the school building. Breathless, they stumbled into the classroom. Mrs D’Souza looked up from the blackboard at the audacious interruption, her chalk poised mid-scrawl. ‘Come in,’ she said, her voice tight with displeasure as she glanced at her small watch, its leather strap fraying at the edges. A sea of snickering, friendless faces greeted them, and they parted to take their seats.
‘Who’s the new girl?’ Jessie’s finger jabbed her neighbours in front. The girls politely shrugged taking care not to offend Jessie. As captain of the basketball team, Jessie was popular, almost unassailable. She put every new arrival through some sort of challenge, as if flexing to see how much clout she still carried. Sara thought of her early days at school. She had been in awe of Jessie. Tall and burly, she had a confident swagger, her hair tied tight in a high ponytail, swaying with her every long stride. Friendless and lonely, she had felt a surge of happiness when Jessie made it a point to share her snacks and comic books with her. She had felt safe in her presence; the other girls looked at her with respect and dared not treat her like a newcomer.
‘Get her to the meeting tonight.’ The girls smiled in acquiescence. There was no point resisting Jessie. Swimming upstream was hard.
Ella’s fingers shook as she opened her book; she held herself stiffly, readying herself for an onslaught of hostility from the pages. She had never been a good student, always dreaming in the classroom, her teachers had said. Her eyes sat large in her face as she scanned the sentences in front of her nervously, half expecting the words to walk out. It was hot and still, and the fan stirred up more hot air. Her eyes drifted to the view outside the window. The trees absorbed the heat and burst forth fruits that ripened in the sun. It was yellow and dusty, a far cry from the dense green, damp home in the hills she had left behind. She remembered the house. She had looked at it one last time from the backseat of the car, ejected from it like a useless piece of scrap. It sat broodingly at the end of a cul-de-sac on a hilly road, its windows shuttered, the elevation affording it both vantage and privacy. Its walls were always thick with moisture and the dank smell never left her. Even as the heat of the plains dried up the moisture in her clothes, her shoes, her bedding, there were dark corners within her it failed to reach. The screeching chalk across the blackboard brought her back to the classroom. The girls shifted and squirmed on hard, wooden seats as Mrs D’Souza droned on about the rivers and seas and the water systems of the world. The school hours felt endless; a barrage of information rained on restless forms waiting for freedom that came with the clang of the bell.
They walked back to the dormitory together. Sara turned to the shaded path lined with tall eucalyptus, the longer route that passed outside a grotto. “It’s cooler here,” she said.
Ella hugged herself closer, noticing the rocky exterior of the grotto dotted with shrubs. It reminded her of the one she had often visited in the grounds of the decrepit abbey in the hills. Cool and secluded, the ruins of the abbey had been a haven for her. After her brother died, she had spent her afternoons there, inventing solitary games to pass the time. She had gone home just before dusk, and despite its high ceilings and sprawling size, each time she walked through the door she felt she had stepped into a mousetrap. She had sought out the cook in the kitchen, the only welcoming presence in the house, spreading warmth and goodness through the food, kneading dough with soft, heavy arms. Auntie Nina came in for a few hours every day and despite her good nature couldn’t mask her relief when it was time to leave. During the two years they lived there, it’s not that Ella confronted any ghosts, but her family never entirely claimed the space. Misfortune dogged them and her little brother died a year after they moved from an illness that clogged up his lungs, and her father soon after, of grief and despair. Her mother boarded herself up in the room upstairs and her muffled cries seeped through the ceiling, down the walls, across the floor and up to her bed until they rang in her ears, robbing her of sleep. Her mother wasted away in the confines of the house until one day relatives decided she would be better off in an institution. The house was locked up, surrendered to its original shadowy inhabitants who held sway, and Ella’s fate at the boarding school was sealed.
“This path looks deserted,” said Ella.
“The girls don’t like coming this way,” Sara smiled as she thought about the dark corner at the grotto’s far end where the graves stood, which even at noon was covered in shadows. Ella inhaled sharply as she looked at Sara’s face. Was it her imagination or did it have a cold, sharp glint, and felt mysteriously calculating? Ella felt as if she was back in the house, being watched. Her heart constricted as if someone had wrapped cold fingers around it. The wind picked up and pushed the hair off her face and dark clouds rolled over the sun, obliterating the light. The eucalyptus swayed, its slender leaves whispering secrets to the wind, its slim trunks ghostly white. Ella felt a familiar strangeness surround her and all at once it was as if she was walking through a sea of unhappiness, each step pushing her further into the deep. She was being pressed and coalesced out of herself and a sliver of clammy coldness stroked the back of her neck. Then, all at once, the sun streamed through the clouds and chased away the shadows; it felt as if someone had reluctantly released her back into the world.
‘Are you ok?’ asked Sara, taking in Ella’s paleness.
‘I’m fine,’ she rasped, noticing Sara’s expression of benign concern and puzzlement. ‘This place is creepy. Let’s hurry.’
Sara kept pace. As they neared the dormitories, a group of girls walked towards them, “We are all meeting after lights out in the hall tonight. Why don’t you join us?”
“Something about a dare,” one of the girls added helpfully.
“Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?” Ella asked.
“There’s little danger of that happening. Once the matron sleeps, she rarely wakes up,” said another. “See you there!”
The girls climbed the narrow stairs to the dormitory to make the most of the afternoon break when they could nap, read or occupy themselves in quiet pursuit of a hobby. They walked through a large room lined with cupboards at the edges and sinks in the centre, then into a vast hall with two rows of single beds on either side. At the far end was the matron’s room, demarcated by a wooden partition with a door. Beyond that lay a dark corridor leading to the toilets. A tragic incident there meant the girls always went there is twos or in a group. The sleeping quarters were functional and impersonal; every bed looked the same, and the dark, polished floor dully reflected the moving forms of the girls going about their routines, as if capturing them in a subterranean world.
At night, the girls brushed their teeth, made their beds and said their prayers. They waited under the covers with the equanimity of monks. Once the matron’s shoes clattered across the floor and the sharp click of her door signalled that she had retired for the night, they trickled out of their beds and arranged themselves in a circle. She would be out like a light. The bottle of brandy tucked away behind her pile of floral dresses in the cupboard would do the trick. Jessie stood at the centre and raised a brow as Ella sat down. “I see the new girl came.”
Sara took her place beside Ella, her forehead dipping into a frown as she remembered the summer at Jessie’s house. She had gone looking for her and found her bedroom door ajar and heard haranguing and shouting. Her father had almost knocked Sara down in his hurry to leave the room. He was a well-known brute of a politician, who Jessie spent interminably long, unhappy summers with and professed to hate, but they were more alike than she cared to acknowledge. Laughing off the angry welts spreading on her face, Jessie had told Sara to keep her mouth shut about her father. Sara hadn’t told a soul, yet something changed between her and Jessie. Jessie was no longer comfortable in her presence, and they stopped spending time together. Sara felt the loss keenly, but Jessie continued to commandeer an army of friends. She tried to win Jessie back by participating in crazy dares, but things didn’t turn out the way she thought they would.
‘Right. We know why we’re here. Let’s hear some ideas.’ Jessie ordered.
‘Go to the school building alone at midnight?’ someone ventured.
‘C’mon! That’s child’s play.’
‘Walk to the sports field at the far end of the campus.’
‘It’s a plain old walk, lit all the way with lamp posts.’
Jessie shot down suggestions as quickly as they came. Then, she made one of her own. “We all know about the charming little grotto near the playground.” The girls looked at her in surprise. She couldn’t possibly be suggesting it! “Whoever goes to the grotto at midnight and brings back its sweet water in a bottle will get the first pick of everyone’s tuck.” Protests rose “too dangerous”, “too far”, “we’ll be caught” and fell like the summer breeze that died before it picked up.
“Anyone brave enough to take up the challenge?” Jessie looked around and her eyes settled on Ella. A quiet fell. The girls shifted nervously on the floor, looking away.
Sara whispered excitedly, “You can do it. It’s a plain old walk. I’ll come with you halfway.”
Where was the harm? Ella had seen spooky places before, even lived in one. If she did it, she would be one of them, no longer lonely, but surrounded with the warmth of human connection she had missed all her young life. And the tuck, well, that was the cherry on top. “I’ll do it,” said Ella standing up, relishing the respectful looks she got.
Jessie took her in as if she had underestimated her. “Well, what do you know? Looks like the new girl has gumption after all!”
A date was set. It was to be a week from now. The days passed quickly, a flurry of alarms going off, classes, homework, unappetising meals, and conversations. Ella found the girls coming to speak to her, becoming more friendly, and Sara getting gloomier and reticent. The day arrived like any other day. Dusk fell brooding like a slighted friend, spreading its dark scowl across the sky, sullenly snuffing out orange, pink, and lavender hues released by the setting sun. Ella stood with Sara in the playground, watching the girls pack their basketball kits, put away their racquets, and prepare for supper. It was half past six and lateness was not tolerated. She had a big night ahead; she’d better get some food in, however unpalatable. With school, homework, and play behind her, she had time to think. Ella remembered happier times with her family a long time ago. There was an ache in her heart, and she keenly felt their loss, missing the feeling of permanence and belonging. Perhaps her visit to the grotto would earn her not just glory, but friendships too.
The moon came out, bathing the landscape in a cool silvery light, and the two girls set forth. They soon reached the halfway point; the only obstacles being a rusty gate, which Ella opened slowly so as to not wake the guard, and the hulking dog guarding the premises at night who she pacified with cookies stuffed in her pocket. She turned to wave Sara goodbye, but found her nowhere. She called out her name softly, but all she heard was the wind rustling the leaves. Ella felt a strange chill creep in, though the night was warm. A piercing screech broke through the quiet and a rush of white and brown wings swept past her. She knew the sound. It was that of the barn owl. Emboldened by the presence of another living creature, she walked towards the grotto as the clouds rolled in to partially cover the moon. As she entered it, she felt as if she had broken into a private home, and the familiar sensation of being watched was with her again. She could make out the rocky cave where Mary’s statue nestled, and the shapes of the gravestones in the faint light. The shrubs that in the daytime adorned the rockery, now looked like dark and shapeless smudges of gloom. In the hollow of a tree, she saw the barn owl watching; its large, attentive eyes, framed by its heart-shaped face, seemed to be following her. She walked towards the edge of the grotto. It was easy enough to reach for the tap and collect the sweet liquid, but she was overcome by an un-slakeable thirst. She drank in long, greedy gulps, and filled up her water bottle. The clouds parted and in the clear moonlight, she saw the graves, a litany of buried dreams. This was the darkest part of the grotto and she discovered a cluster of smaller graves. The years indicated shorter lifespans; some of children as young as ten or eleven. She ran her wet fingers over the names on the graves, and her fingers stopped at a familiar one. Sara Wilson. A shiver of recognition went through her like a bolt of lightning, the shrubs closed in and she had the feeling of being suffocated. The abyss that had always separated her from the aimless behemoth that was the world kept getting wider. Her feet felt like lead, as if an invisible force had pinned them to the ground, whispering into her ears to stay. She felt powerless to move and remembered the chapel lit up by the sun and longed for its light.
The morning sunlight filtered through the misty air; watery and tepid. The water splashed softly down the fountain, collecting in a cemented pond. A school of vermillion and white fish swam untiringly in contained circles, oblivious of the lakes, rivers and seas brimming with life. The smooth, alabaster statue of Mary stared stonily ahead, presiding over the grotto, taking in the scene, pretending to an equanimity it did not feel. The leaves on the trees surrounding the graves shivered and stood reticent, like a witness to a crime holding back testimony. The grotto looked serene, belying rumours that swirled like noxious clouds casting shadows on its reputation as a tranquil resting place for the school’s long-gone staff and children. She seemed alive, merely frozen in a pantomime imitating death. Her hand lay on a rock, draped over it as if pulling a friend closer, about to mutter confidences.
It had been a strange dream. All Ella wanted to do was drift off and get a few more minutes of sleep, but she woke up to the announcement, disoriented and heavy and saw the girls getting ready for the day. Sara came to her bed, sat next to her and smiled. Jessie and the girls approached her too and stood around her. Ella sat up, expecting a spate of congratulations and back thumping for completing the dare, perhaps the start of an acceptance into the fold. Instead, the girls touched her sheet, her pillow, and mumbled. It was an unspeakable tragedy. How terrible the whole thing was! Sara sat beside her stroking her hair, all the while smiling at Jessie, revelling at the fear in her eyes. The smile left Ella cold. She reached out to touch the girls and failed to grasp their solid forms. She looked at Sara questioningly and realised they were nothing but air. The girls looked through them and started walking away.
As the day wore on, Jessie sat in the library under the softly whirring fan, her heart thudding with fear, surrounded with the pall of death. In the days that followed, a lingering silence ensued and shrouded the incident. The death was classified as mysterious, brought on by the frail heart of a misguided girl on the lookout for adventure. No one contradicted this deduction. There had been a tragedy a few years back; Sara Wilson had died under mysterious circumstances and her body was found in the toilet. There was talk of closing the grotto to the students, rumours of the boarding school being haunted and closing down too. Reality could be too much sometimes, so the girls went on with their days, marking time for holidays, using hushed conversations and distractions of sport to forget the unpleasantness of the event. Jessie felt the hesitation and withdrawal in their responses and saw blame in their eyes. She started keeping to herself as every now and then, while brushing her teeth, bathing, or having a meal, the faces of Ella and Sara would unaccountably flash before her eyes, and leave her unsettled. She could not shake off the inexplicable feeling of being watched and stalked like prey by shadows she could not see, grasp or explain to anyone. In her private moments, she begged them for forgiveness, but the feeling of guilt permeated everything in her life, like ink spreading on blotting paper. One day, if she was lucky, she would finish school and get out of here, move to another place, another life, but for now the shadows held sway.
Thank you, Shikha, for sharing your beautiful story with us!
The Bone God
By Gianna Girone
The trees were not trees and the air was stagnant. Grass didn’t grow, and bone crunched underfoot in its place. If it was ever known by another name the villagers had lost it long ago, and called it the bone wood because it could be called nothing else. Everything in it was hewn from pale, glistening bones. Broken and remade by the bone god’s deft, lichen-dusted hands.
Decay had overrun the once verdant forest, but only the bone god himself could recall the times when it was shadowed with canopies of green, and rich with the smell of rain soaked moss. Always a damp hollow for him to nestle in, and beetles to chatter with. Humans seeking rest for their weary feet, and blessings for their homes used to come with trinket offerings that clinked together on the branches they were hung from. Occasionally he missed those days, the beetles, the soft pawed creatures that lived there too, but most of all, he missed his dryad brothers and sisters.
They were dead, along with their trees. When blight had swept its poison to the village, and then to the forest, it left nothing but the fungus-ravaged trunk of his own tree to stand alone.
It was on that trunk he sat, whittling his knife against a rib everyday for hours on end. He flushed two ribs together, running his fingers where their jagged ends met. They warmed and began to meld into one, forming a branch. He inspected it proudly before setting it down. It would make a fine tree. Working with bone required patience, bloody palms and only a little bit of magic. Given the choice he preferred real trees, although bone was not so different from wood. Veins and marrow not so different from roots and sap.
The sound of animal skulls clamouring together made his pointed ears twitch. Someone entered his wood. He stirred from his concentration.
A human stood feet away, frozen at the sight of the bone god. His eyes were lined, and his cheeks bore sun spots. His lips parted, breath caught. To his credit he didn’t throw down his bundle and flee, like many of the humans who came with their bone offerings did. The children who came were always braver, with wide eyes and fisted, sweaty palms to test their mettle. Once there was an odd child who stood at the bone wood’s edge and simply watched him work for hours on end. But that was years ago, and he didn’t waste time wondering after creatures bound to time.
The bone god picked up a clavicle, and snapped it in half. The sound jolted the man a few steps back.
“If you’re waiting for gratitude, you’ll find none here. Deposit your offering and leave.”
The man was silent, a lump worked in his throat. The bone god thought it strange that despite his trembling, his eyes held no fear. Sorrow’s watery sheen glazed over them.
What did humans have to be sorrowful over? Their lives were finite, their tragedies fleeting.
“I would like to bargain with you, King of the dryads.”
“I am king of nothing now. That name is dead to me.” Metal screeched as the bone god’s knife grated against the clavicle. He would do well to remind them, he much preferred being a god to a king. Mold flaked off his brow as he tilted his head. “And why should I bargain with you? Are the blessings I provide your folk in exchange not enough?”
“They are generous, but I must ask for more.” The man set down his bundle, and bone peeked out. Clean picked, stark white bones. This was not always the case with offerings. An exquisite yearning blossomed in the bone god’s chest.
With his hands now free, the man pulled a browned paper from his trouser pocket. He walked slowly toward the bone god, as one might approach a wild boar, and placed the paper down between them. “My wife’s will. It was hidden away in a cupboard, in this bottle, and so I didn’t find it until recently, although she died more than a year ago.”
The bone god stared at the paper but remained still. If the human meant to sway him with sympathy then he was misguided.
He continued. “It details a single wish, for her bones to be broken and remade by you in any form of your choosing. For what reason I cannot fathom. We were not wanting for money, or luck or happiness.” His eyes gleamed with grief’s quiet fury. “But nonetheless it’s what she wanted, and I cannot deny her even in death. I only ask that you let me keep but one bone, and remake it for me. I cannot be parted from her entirely.” The man’s voice broke and he sucked in his cheek, casting his eyes away.
The bone god considered. Only a glimpse and he knew the bones were beautiful. He wanted them all, he wanted to feel the splintering of their marrow in his hands. “You should abide by her wishes fully. Give me them all, and I will craft her into a tree in my wood. There is no honor greater than that.”
The man shook his head. “I can’t. It pained me enough to dig her up, to clean what remained of her flesh from these bones, to carry her to you. I have lost so much already. Please, I only beg for a single token of her life.”
He frowned. The man didn’t know what he was refusing. It would devastate the bone god to lose such beautiful bones.“What is your trade?”
The man’s chin tilted, ever so slight. “I am a shepherd.”
“Give me her bones and with her femurs I will make you a walking stick stronger and sturdier than any other. It will fortify you. It will carry you miles before you ever tire. It will guide your flock faithfully, like a beacon.”
“I cannot accept that either.”
The bone god’s teeth gnashed together. Mushrooms sprouted angrily from the pale, green skin at his temples. “Why ever not?”
“I will not place the weight of my exhaustion, the brutal toil of my trade on her bones. I cannot commit her to something so thankless, and lonely.” He glared straight into the bone god’s milky white eyes. “She deserves peace and rest in death. Would you not want the same for your trees that perished from the blight? For your brothers and sisters lost to it as well?”
Bones clattered from his lap to the ground as the bone god snarled, and flew from his seat. The man stayed rooted, not flinching even as the bone god’s rotting smell flooded his nostrils.
“How dare you! They are not lost, they are not gone!” Spittle flew from the bone god’s cracked lips. “They are here–everywhere, still! It was I alone who picked up their bones, and remade our home.”
He, who, in a place of such death, had found a way for life to persist.
The man couldn’t know this. He said the only thing there was to say to someone so clearly undone by grief. “I’m sorry.”
“And you humans…you forgot us, this forest once gave you shelter when you were weary, its springs nourished you, and wild game fed you.” His chest heaved, nostrils flared.
The silence that passed between them was no gentle thing, it was charged with anger and ache. When the bone god finally spoke again his voice was strained, but calmer. “Peace. It’s granted to so few of us. What makes your human wife worthy of such a privilege?”
The man kneeled before the bundle and unwrapped the blanket until the bones were revealed fully. His kneecaps bled, punctured by the splintered fragments that made up the once grassy floor. He cradled her skull with a reverence that only love could stir. Tears stained his cheeks as he stared into the cavernous holes that once held her eyes. “She did not forget you. I don’t expect that you would remember, but as a child she came everyday, sat at the entrance of your bone wood and watched you work on your tree stump. You fascinated her to the point of obsession. Your magic, and your persistence to remake what was lost. There was no redirecting her. From then on, she searched endlessly for a way to revive your wood. She journeyed to lands both dangerous and new, near and far in search of a cure for the sickness that befell the bone wood.”
He paused. “But it was on that journey that she contracted a fever, she returned home and quickly succumbed to it. So you see she died searching for a cure for you and your bone wood. She used to insist it was love that kept you among the bones of your dead. I never understood what she meant…until…” The words didn’t need to be said. He wiped away tears with the back of his hand. Took a deep, steadying inhale before he gazed up at the bone god. “She loved you. That is why I must humbly ask you for a better, different bargain.”
A wind swept the wood, balmy and fetid. The trees seemed to tremble, branches moving like arms, but the man wrote it off as a trick of the eye.
The bone god plucked his fallen tools from the ground, and sat upon his rotting throne of a stump. Love had never swayed him before. Devotion he could appreciate, but the man swelled with too much of it. Time hadn’t yet ebbed its influence.
It wasn’t worth the risk. If he took the bones, the man surely would show up again and again to bargain, to mourn, to languish over what he’d given up. A child’s curious gaze was one thing, an adult’s was too discerning to welcome in his bone wood.
Although it pained him he commanded, “Leave with your bones. Return only when you are ready to forfeit them all.”
The man began to protest, but the bone god snarled, cutting it off. He was a horror to gaze upon, his anger an atrocity. Yellow foam bloomed at the corners of his mouth, and bugs swarmed his skin. Everyone knew the bone god was a little mad in the way any deity had the right to be, but the man saw now just how much grief had eaten away at his sanity, and he didn’t dare to infuriate him further. Selfishly relieved, he gathered the bones close to his chest like an infant, and bowed to the bone god.
At the bone wood’s edge, he hesitated and turned. A flicker of pity touched his brow. “King of dryads, I hope you find peace.”
The man was long gone before the bone god roused from his spot. “Pity,” he muttered, distastefully. “What need do we have for human pity, my brothers and sisters? You live eternally, by my hand.”
He stopped at the spot where the man had stood. Crouching, he sifted through the dust and decay until he saw it.
A single, green sprout bursting from the ground beneath. Thick stalk, with broad, fanning leaves. This happened every time a human entered the bone wood. Despite his best efforts.
The only real threat to his peace.
The trees shuddered. It was all they could do. Afterall, bone wasn’t as plient as wood.
When the blight came, his siblings claimed his mind became ravaged by spores, and poison. But that couldn’t be true. He survived them all, he found a way to keep them. Sure they couldn’t speak, but they were alive, with him forever.
The man. His wife. Their pity was wasted.
“I have your love, it is all that I require.” He declared to his beloved, and abidingly silent bone wood.
With ease he yanked out the sprout, roots and all, and shoved it into his mouth. Chewed and swallowed.
An Interview with Gianna Girone
Why did you write this piece? I originally wrote this story as part of a fantasy writing contest, but the idea had been percolating in my brain for a while. As the story developed, I found myself drawn to the bone god and the human trespasser because they represent two entirely different types of love: one suffocating, and one enduring. I have always been fascinated by love in its many different facets. Particularly the way people experience love as a consequence of grief, and sacrifice. I intended for this story to explore the desperate—sometimes inhumane—ways we show love. Also, I love a good eldritch horror.
Is writing your full time job? If not, what do you do? Does your day job influence your writing? I’m actually a pharmacist who specializes in transplant medicine. While I work in a science field, I’ve always considered myself a writer at heart, and I really value how both have blended together in my life. I have the privilege of witnessing some of the most wonderful, and sometimes also heart-wrenching human experiences on a day to day basis. I think a lot of my thoughts and perspectives on humanity have risen from my daily work.
Have you ever experienced anything paranormal? Yes! I’ve always believed in paranormal creatures/activity, but now that I live in New England I feel like that comes with the territory. I explore and adventure a lot, and have found myself in many old graveyards and homes. Also, I’m convinced a ghost from Kilkenny might have followed me home from a trip I took in 2022, but I’m pretty positive she’s the friendly type.
Gianna’s Links
2:43
By Dean Bowman
2:43 and the ceiling breathes again—has it stopped, did it ever stop—a slow drag overhead like furniture or bones or time itself shifting and I tell myself pipes but the dust is falling rising falling and my mouth tastes like copper like I’ve been holding coins under my tongue for years.
No one lives above me the landlord says but his eyes slide left and from outside looking up at my building there’s only sky above my apartment, no floor, no room, just empty space that shouldn’t be and still the pacing circles circles circles patient as rain as rot as my own heartbeat which I can hear now in the walls or is that someone else’s heart, someone who wore my face better.
The hallway is longer tonight or I am smaller or both—a door where wall was where wall should be must be and on it a note in handwriting that tilts right the way mine does when I’m dreaming or dying—Do not open do not do not—
But I have opened it already haven’t I, will open it, am opening it now, the knob cold then warm then cold like it can’t decide what temperature fear should be what fever this illness should be what reality this mind should be.
Inside my apartment but wrong-ways side-ways in-ways out-ways, reversed, the clock one minute ahead and ticking backward no forward no both and there on the table a cup still warm with lipstick at the rim my shade my mouth and I don’t wear lipstick haven’t worn it since—since when? The memory folds in on itself. Gone. Was it ever there?
Another note on the inside of this door: Do not open.
How many times have I written this? Did I write this? Am I still me? Is this still East Hill or some other place that was future turned past turned present? The ink is different in each one—fountain pen, ballpoint, something that might be blood or might be coffee or might be the sickly something that pools in your stomach at 3 a.m. when you realize you are not who you thought you were will be am.
I open the third door. Fourth. Fifth?
Each apartment more mine than mine than the last, more perfectly arranged, the book open to pages I haven’t read yet—passages underlined in red in my handwriting, yes my hand, but steadier calmer the hand of someone who has stopped fighting stopped running stopped trying—
The air hums. My pulse or their pulse or the pulse of the building itself breathing us in and out, in and out—the ghost I’ve been at the corner of your eye the edge of your bed at the start and end.
The dust no longer falls. It rises. It hangs suspended like snow in a shaken globe and I am inside the globe and outside it shaking and shaken and the sound that was above is below is inside my ribs my throat and when I open my mouth to scream the sound that comes out is footsteps, pacing, circular, patient—perfect.
I find myself at the table. Paper before me, pen in hand—when did I sit down? When did I buy this paper? When did I learn cursive? The clock reads 2:43. The ceiling breathes. My hand moves without me, writes what has always been written what must be written what is being written now in apartments stacked like cards above below around within me:
Do not open.
But you will. I did. We are.
The ink shines like a dark mirror and in it I see my face or your face or the face of whoever comes next, already writing, already warned and you find yourself becoming the ghost you’ve been running from, the taste of copper still on your tongue.
2:43.
Again.
An Interview with Dean Bowman
Dean’s poetry has been featured in several publications over the years, including Three Line Poetry, The Black Veil, Inclement Poetry Magazine (UK), 50 Haikus, and Poetry Quarterly.
Why did you write this piece? I wrote this piece during a stretch of chronic insomnia, drafting it across several nights when I kept waking at 2:43 a.m., night after night. The exactness of the time unsettled me. The same moment, night after night, over and over. Recursion as horror. I typically write through my bouts of insomnia, keeping my notes at my bedside, and those nights were no different. I later compiled and re-read them and saw they were naturally incoherent. A chaotic set of random ramblings. Initially, I thought I would turn it into a short autofiction piece, but then I noticed a natural rhythm in some parts, which led me to think it might work as a more lyrical piece. The rest was editing, layering, and more editing. The setting came from my memories of living in Seattle, many years ago, especially the fog-filled early mornings when I used to commute to work and dream up creepy scenarios for stories. Sadly, I lacked the skill at that time to bring my ideas to life.
Do you have a favorite place to write? I have two favorite places: At my desk in my study, where I’m surrounded by my favorite books and can dim the lights for focus, curiosity, and imagination. I also write often on my smartphone notes app, giving me the flexibility of writing anytime and anywhere. I never know when the words will come, so I try to be ready whenever they appear.
Tell us a few facts about yourself—anything from where you live to whether you like cilantro. I’m originally from Japan and have lived and worked on both sides of the Pacific and across the US over the years. I’m addicted to chocolate as my one and only vice, though my coffee habit probably qualifies too. Extreme introvert, a touch eccentric and reclusive. I prefer green onion and seaweed over cilantro.
What are your hobbies? Do they ever play into your writing? I read obsessively and write compulsively. I especially love classical literature, speculative fiction, and philosophy. Pessoa, Ishiguro, Cioran, Kafka, Soseki, and Tanizaki are all writers currently getting another rotation on my reading list. Writers who understood identity as performance, reality as provisional. I enjoy wandering through their worlds to gain perspective about my own. That in-between state feeds my work, filled with observation without conclusion, travel without destination, questions without answers. That threshold is the fertile substrate for my work.
Is there anything you wish we would have asked you? I wish you’d asked what frightens me more, being haunted by something external, or discovering you’re haunting yourself.. “2:43” explores that second kind of horror. The recursion. The recognition that you’ve been here before. That you’re writing warnings you won’t heed. It all feels more inescapable to me than any ghost. You can’t outrun yourself. But we always try anyway, don’t we?
Dean’s Links
Spore
By Nick Young
It was on the Illinois side of the Ohio, past where the river brushes Cairo and arcs northeast that John Benning was raised and still called home. At fifty-three, he lived a bachelor’s life in the tiny clapboard house his dad had built after the war two miles beyond the town limits of Indian Wells, population 545. Both his parents were gone—his mother Mildred taken by rheumatic fever when he was still in high school; Jerome, his father, lost years later in a construction accident.
John was a friendly enough neighbor and an easygoing co-worker on the forklift at Spendler’s lumberyard; but he wasn’t a gregarious sort, rarely going in for a round or two of beers with the boys at Mule’s Tap or joining the weekly Legion hall pinochle games. As an only child he had learned early on the necessity of amusing himself, and in adulthood relished his solitude. He was content to pass his free time in his workshop painstakingly building model sailing ships—men o’ war or full-rigged clippers—while listening to classic rock on his favorite St. Louis radio station.
While he derived many hours of enjoyment at his workbench, what John Benning loved above all else was tramping through the rugged woodlands surrounding Indian Wells in search of mushrooms. It was widely acknowledged that more than any other man around, he was the expert, adept at telling a Sooty Head from a Slippery Jack from a Greasy Green Brittlegill at thirty paces. But while he had a keen eye and deep knowledge of these species, they were not what compelled his springtime excursions. For those, his singular focus was to find morels—black, gray or yellow—mushrooms most highly prized for their subtle texture and earthy, slightly smoky flavor imparted by their origins in the wild. And when others returned from their hunts empty-handed or with a few specimens to show for their hours scouring the forest, John never failed to bring home morels in abundance. While he wouldn’t divulge where he’d found them—and out of courtesy he wasn’t pressed—he freely shared his harvest.
In some years, especially right after spring rains that often coaxed forth the best-tasting, most plentiful crop of morels, John would take some time off of work, pack up his camping gear, and venture deeper into the woods for several days, always searching for richer finds.
So it was in late April of 2000 that John found himself in an unexplored part of the forest, perhaps five or six miles from where he’d entered. The terrain was rough going, with steep slopes that broke sharply down into narrow, muddy gullies or flattened out in expanses littered with the remains of once-mighty bur oaks, shagbark and bitternut hickories.
John had crossed one such patch when what had been mid-morning drizzle turned to a steady rain, forcing him to hunker down, sheltering beneath his poncho. As he did, he grew drowsy. So, head nodding, he allowed himself to doze.
When he awoke, the rain had stopped and he noticed an unusual quiet—no chorus of songbirds or the piercing cry of a hawk circling high above. But he was aware of another sound, a soft susurration such as a zephyr makes when it brushes through the outcroppings of forest ferns. And then as he strained to listen more closely, he heard, just above a whisper,
“Come, this way.”
It was a feminine voice, soft but distinct. It repeated,
“This way.”
Startled and glancing around, he first sought the origin of who was speaking. Seeing no one, his eyes roamed to the far edge of the clearing where he spotted a break in the dense stand of trees and what appeared to be the beginning of a trail. It was barely visible, and though he could not explain why, he felt certain it was the path the voice was beckoning him to take.
He stood, shaking the water from his poncho and gathered up his gear before crossing the clearing and entering the narrow pathway. It was all-but obscured by the undergrowth, and as it meandered deeper into the forest, he realized that despite his many trips, he had never explored this part of the woods. A few minutes more and he emerged into a small glade that bordered on the bank of a narrow, swift-flowing creek. The air felt especially damp and cool, and he was immediately struck by an astonishing sight. All around him, sprouting through the wet detritus of the forest floor were the most amazing mushrooms he had ever seen. These were not fungi of the usual size—two or three inches—but giants, rising to his height, some above his head. And there was no mistaking their variety. Each had a thick, smooth, ivory-colored stem topped by a distinctive honeycombed cone that marked them as morels. John marveled, shaking his head as he first ran his hand over the glistening stalk before letting his fingers trace the cap’s ridges and identations.
“How did I miss you?” he muttered in amazement.
“Partake.” The voice again—soothing, inviting.
“Well, whoever you are, I don’t mind if I do.” Johntook off his poncho, set his pack on the ground, unzipped the back flap and pulled out a single-burner stove. It was all he needed to accomodate a camp skillet. Quickly, he attached a small cylinder of propane and fired the stove to life. Into his backpack again for an insulated pouch that contained a cold pack and a stick of butter. He was always prepared to enjoy on the spot what he found, so he sliced a thick piece of butter into the pan and as it melted, he went to one of the nearest morels, cut a chunk from the crown, rinsed it with water from his canteen and sliced it into the bubbling butter. Adjusting the flame, he watched the gentle frying carefully, turning the pieces from time to time with a fork until they were done to golden perfection. Shutting off the burner, he waited patiently, listening to the music of the gurgling brook while the morels cooled.
As he sat, leaning back against the thick trunk of a red elm, he tried to make some sense of what had happened to him—the otherwordly voice and why it had guided him to these extraordinary mushrooms. He cast his memory back to his childhood, listening while men of his grandfather’s age spoke darkly of mysteries in the deep woods. He reacted with wonderment then; but in adulthood, after his own many trips into the forest, he came to believe that those stories were nothing more than fantastical tales spun for entertainment of a wide-eyed boy. But were they? At that moment he had reason to doubt.
After a minute or two had passed, he took up his fork, speared a browned morsel from the pan and popped it into his mouth. Chewing slowly, he savored the explosion of the morel’s buttery nuttiness, a taste deeper and richer than any he had ever experienced. Whatever had caused these mushrooms to flourish, he thought, had also imbued them with unrivaled flavor. Hungrily, he wasted no time in devouring what remained in the frying pan.
As he relaxed, sated by the delicious meal, he let his gaze wander up through the leafy canopy. The sky was beginning to clear. Within an hour what remained of the morning chill would give way to a gentle warmth he often experienced on his forest treks. He would rest awhile and then cut enough of these remarkable mushrooms to fill his backpack and make his way home.
He closed his eyes, almost immediately sensing a curious light-headedness. The longer he sat, the more pronounced this feeling became, and his mind began to swim. His head lolled backward until it came to rest against the tree trunk and he slipped into a twilight consciousness.
Around him, the forest canopy spun, a slow carousel that pulsed amid shards of sunlight. Now came a breath of air that stirred the leaves to quaking, and he strained to listen, for they seemed to sing—a melody foreign to his ears with words he could not discern. Deeper he slipped into this nether world, his body seized by a numbness, a profound paralysis, even as within his consciousness he felt himself buoyed up by a kaleidoscopic fountain of the most brilliant colors he had even seen. Higher and higher he rose until he exploded into the dazzling blue sky above the forest. But his ascent didn’t stop there. As his consciousness continued to expand, he shed the bonds of Earth and shot into the farthest reaches of the galaxy, there to behold vistas that defied his comprehension. He felt himself instilled with an ecstacy such as he had never experienced, and with it came a blinding flash of enlightenment, an understanding of the infinite cosmic mosaic, each piece inextricably intertwined with the others. From deep within him there arose a cry of the purest joy, bursting from his lips as a cascade of notes from celestial chimes.
#
The sun had slipped near the horizon, leaving the clearing shrouded in crepuscular light. Birds had fallen silent and no air stirred. John found himself standing among the giant morels as his awareness emerged from a deep sleep. Gone were the fantastical images and the mind-bending sensations. In their place he sensed a distinct feeling of immobility, a rootedness. Very slowly his eyes fluttered open and he began to notice other peculiarities. His neck felt stiff, and it was exceedingly difficult to move his head. His left arm seemed paralyzed, fused to his body. There was barely any mobility in his right arm, but with great concentration and effort he was able to lift it free and bring his hand into view. It was then that the first shock registered, for what John saw was not his own brown, weathered limb but a smooth stalk of pale white. His eyes flared wide as he strained to look down at his body. In the dimming light he saw that his two legs and feet had transformed into a thick stem of the same white flesh as his hand and arm. He attempted to will his leg muscles to move, but it was impossible, because he realized he was embedded in the earth. He began to panic, but his horror was not yet complete, for as he felt his head grow heavier and the skin of his face begin to contort, he reached to touch his cheeks and top of his head. Gone was the familiar feel of skin and hair, replaced by a slowly erupting cone of deep, rubbery convolutions—folds and grooves—accompanied by a rich, earthy smell that caught in his nostrils. It was the unmistakable aroma of the morel.
“My God in heaven!” he gasped through distorted lips that could barely mouth the words.
Over the next several minutes, the ghastly metamorphosis proceeded until at length John Benning was no longer recognizable. Then, as the sun was swallowed by the western horizon, the voice came to him again, one last time.
“You’re one of us now.”
An Interview with Nick Young
Nick Young is a retired award-winning CBS News Correspondent. His writing has appeared in dozens of reviews, journals and anthologies. His first novel, “Deadline,” was published in 2023. He can be found on Bluesky @youngnick.bsky.social. He lives outside Chicago.
Why did you write this piece? When I was a boy I read “The Voice In the Night,” a short story by William Hope Hodgson in which a shipwrecked husband and wife on an atoll in the northern Pacific are gradually consumed by the native fungus they are forced to eat to stay alive. It’s a wonderful tale which I have re-read several times over the years. Mushroom hunting in this part of Illinois is a seasonal passion for some people, so I adapted the basic idea from Hodgson’s story and made it my own.
Is writing your full time job? After more than forty years on the radio, I retired in 2010, though I still do some freelance voice work and audiobook narration.
Do you have a favorite place to write? All of my work is done on an iPad, mostly in a comfortable living room chair with a cup of good, strong coffee in the pre-dawn morning. However, I don’t limit myself to that place and time. I can and have written in many settings.
What other writing projects are you working on? I seem to alternate with a fair amount of regularity between literary and horror fiction, so I always have a short piece or two in the works. I have toyed with writing another novel, but at the moment that’s a project for another day.
Why do you write? What itch are you scratching? What do you like about the horror genre? I wrote my first story at my grandma’s dining room table when I was six or seven. It seems the bug to create in some fashion had been with me since then. I was an avid reader who fell in love with the language and spent my career in radio journalism, so writing has been a central part of my life. What I like about fiction is that it frees me from the constraints of reporting, and I enjoy working with horror (especially gothic) because I can tell a compelling, entertaining story while reveling in the beauty of the language.
Nick’s Links
Christmas Ghost Story Challenge Check-In
For those of you participating in the Challenge, it’s hard to believe that we’re already almost a full week in!
If you’re anything like me, this is the part of the challenge where things get real. You’re probably done with the beginning of your novel, and rapidly moving toward the muddy middle.
Maybe you’re a plotter and you know exactly where things are going next. Maybe you’re like me, and you didn’t have the time or desire to put an outline together before the kick-off. Either way, we’re here to help you keep your motivation for the rest of the month.
We’re offering daily prompts in our Substack notes that will help you raise tension, focus your story, and keep things moving forward.
Let us know in the comments how the Challenge is going for you, and as always, feel free to tag us in any Posts or Notes where you talk about the Challenge. We love seeing what everyone is working on!
News
We’re taking a break from our submission themes (and a break from reading submissions) for the month of December. We’ll be back in January with new prompts. In the mean time, feel free to submit to our general submissions. We would love nothing more than to return from our break with a full inbox!
The Christmas Ghost Story Challenge is in full swing! Even if you’re only hearing about it now, we would love for you to participate in our daily prompts and discussion questions. There’s probably even time for you to catch up and complete the Challenge if you’re feeling brave!
these are wonderful stories, I enjoyed each one, and the conversations with the writers.