The Haunted Traveler Vol 1 Issue 2


Kick in Halloween with the latest issue of The Haunted Traveler. We opened up and looked for the strangest and the most horrific tales from this universe, bringing them here in a single collection for the readers to get a little twisted. The Haunted Traveler is a horror and science fiction literary anthology that releases twice a year. Published through Weasel Press, the anthology seeks to roam around with the stories you'll never forget. Those dark little tales that are sort of etched in everyone. We love the dark and twisted and we really want to be scared. Check out our website to see when we're open next. The Haunted Traveler is a non-profit, Horror and Science Fiction anthology that accepts a wide variety of art media such as photography, short fiction, creative non-fiction, digital artwork and more.


behind. Her screams fill the world, fill the park, and,

from somewhere, I hear sirens. I curse as she cuts

around a tree, and I try to slow and cut her off, so

close, an arm’s length, but she is gone again, her rapid

gait out-pacing me. I am the Butcher. As she turns,

an idea strikes me then, and I pull back my arm, and

throw my hammer as hard as I can. It hits her in the

back, left of the shoulder, and she goes down. Triumph

soars, and I run to her, just she peels herself off the


With a knee to her side, she goes down, her

breath stolen from her, and I have her pined. She is

struggling, and I allow her to roll over, and I catch

the bare fear in her eyes, I can smell it, and I have

my hands on her throat, squeezing, crushing, clutching.

I look at her face, red, her eyes bulging, thin lips

pursing, gagging as I crush her windpipe. I am the

Butcher. This isn’t how I work, this isn’t what I do,

but it will have to suffice. The sirens are nearing now;

I can hear them, messengers of my demise. I squeeze

harder, the pain in my forearms and shoulders erupting,

on fire as I press her down into the dirt, grinding

her hair into the gravel. She lifts her hand up, fluttering,

weakly, like a bird, how quaint, how pathetic,


My world is pain. I fall backward, clutching

at my eye, clutching as blood rolls. I can still feel her

nail, though it was in my socket for only a second, it

was a second of eternal pain. I hear her moving, gasping.

Getting away. I reach out blindly, reaching, clawing,

the hammer nearby, I know it. Nothing but grass

and dirt greets me, and, through my good eye, I see

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