Hallowzine Issue 2 Rough Draft

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HALLOWZINE
ISSUE 2
FIRST DRAFT

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Warnings

Content
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Art, Mountain Hollow by M. Patrick Riggin

Sisters Samhain
by Avra Margariti
A body buried doesn’t take long to become
Forest. To bloom like one, too.
Under moss and soil we--the girls kidnapped,
Killed--become sisters in death and decay.
Yet on Samhain, when the Otherworld’s gates
Gape wide open, and fairies slip between worlds
Like emaciated gnats through fine lace
To dance among mummers and revelers,
We separate. Each unraveled thread
Of our spectral tapestry flying to our families,
Our last known home before our resting place
Became fertile soil and deadfall.
Some of us are missed, mourned.
We watch harvest-hardened mothers
Weep like toddlers, fathers who searched
For us until they succumbed to winter cold
And hunger, now sat wilting on the porch,
Eyes haunted with that, which they couldn’t find.
We caress their cheeks, dry sap-sticky tears,
Inhale the smoke burning in the hearth.
Feel it rattle and roil in immaterial lungs.
Some of us face mourners, others murderers.
Those, we feel no shame terrorizing
With banshee howls and ghostly screeches
Down chimneys, through gleaming pumpkin mouths.
The fruit and vegetables grown rotten with our breaths,
The darkest part of the year looming murkier still
For the mothers and fathers who thought
They could wash their blood-coated hands
Clean of us.
Soon, when the fairies flit back over the hills,
We will reunite with our sisters,
Holding hands, drinking each other’s
Phantasmal tears as we sink deep underground,
Interring ourselves back in the earthen embrace
Which always finds us,
Which never lets us go.

Bitter
by Kelli Lage
They say ghosts are white
but she is made entirely of witching hour,
tasting of bloodied gums and stale Halloween candy.
She prowls through what’s left of my broken bones,
auctioning them off to the highest bidder.
My tongue is swelling, the taste is bitter.
With her pointer finger and thumb she pinches the sun,
oceans of daylight flicker out in defeat.
I try to bite down on forests of the mirthful
but sap sticks to my throat.
The wind bowing to her cackle.
I bury my baby teeth and shoo away ravens.
I claw at the barking stars,
my hands coated in soot from crumbled midnight.
I continue this ritual
until morning fog rolls through upon my hips.

Art, Hollow 2020, by M. Patrick Riggin

Night on Bald
Mountain, All
Hallows Eve
by LindaAnn LoSchiavo
Under a waning gibbous moon, late Fall,
All Hallows’s Eve, unholy rituals
Take place as nightjars fall to their black feasts.
Old anchorites leave leafy caves, carve canes
From cypress knees, observing, their hunchbacked
Shadows distorting the infernal shapes
Twelve devotees created. Pentagrams
Appeared in the cemetery, midway
Between new monuments and older stones.
Robed figures holding torches silently
Walk widdershins, their circular footpaths
Becoming three concentric circles marked
By powder that’s combustible — — and now
These rings of fire leap up, light the night.
Mysteriously, as the supplicants
Position offerings inside the star,
Some tombs quake open. Skeletons emerge.
The hermits’ canes, donated to the blaze,
Refuel it. Beings formed from molecules
Are welcomed as the spirits of misrule.
Nude revelers hail newborn deities.

Vivisepulture
by Ariel K. Moniz
A bell rings out in the night.
The scent of fresh earth hangs heavy
like gallows dripping with sorrow and dew,
and soon there is a rush of boots towards a locked gate,
the clamor of shovels jostle the shadows among
a series of shouts betwixt sputtering lanterns,
and wraiths of hot, sleepy breath
lunge through the cemetery’s night air—
A scream echoes below the earth,
awakening, nearly deafening the dead
and salvation comes in a hail of fearful exclamations,
a frenzy of digging, a dull thud, and then silence.

y Perry Wyatt
Tights with stripes,
The occasional toe.
Buckled shoes of red leather,
Brooms clustered by the door.
The moon awaits as the friends gather.
Tablecloth of red velvet,
A dozen cats lounge by the fire.
And one frog.
Their silhouettes are lit by candles,
The space is sacred.
Tea is shared as the spell is discussed.
A blessing or a hex?
Perhaps even a curse.
The good is met with feathers and honey.
The bad is written on parchment in blood.
The hats, pointed, feathered, and the occasional knit,
Linger on hooks.
When the work is done, they scatter,
Ashes of incense into the night.
Until the next full moon.

How do you make a woman out of that?
by Lucy Hannah Ryan
Work-hardened hands entwine a bone-tooth comb and eyes which carry the night in them.
Something raw.
Something howling.
She isn't singing lullabies for nothing.
See her bones weep, bending the frame like a willow tree and yearning for burial. Her tired hand
quivering around a teacup in the hospice whose smell still infects your favourite shirt, the hard
woollen jumper that scratches raw the skin you accepted from your grandmother like it belonged
to you.
She is a death seeker - call her crone or call her cavern. Outreaching arm, not branch but mottled
twig which aches to snap, bowed by weight of sunken cannula and the thin hand gestures to an
ether far beyond anything we see -
And how gentle, the river of hair, night-black yet glistening silver; fluid and cloaking the creature
within. Fragile, beautiful, even, blossoming like a wound or wilting like a flower. Buzzing neon
paints her something saintly, haloed in her fracture, a shard of stained glass slicing the plastic bed
in half.
The woman who occupies two faces, the face which occupies two women; one buffed-smooth
rock and the other,
scattering field of blooming dandelions, shrinking in breadth each time she takes hold.
How do you make a monster out of that?
Yearning, sorrowful creature.
Concave, and night blooming.
And so sings her Hamlin-born siren song: take that talon, that ashen hand. Sate her swelling hunger,
so wartorn eyes lay down to rest.

Art, Baby
Wraith Puppet
Eating Another
Wraith's Head
by Ami J.
Sanghvi

y Ellen Huang
Witches curse each other too.
Thus I was bestowed with blindness
Never to tell one sweet from another
And to take all senses of the word
Quite absolutely literally.
Do not show me a kindness
Or within me will grow hunger
The walls of gingerbread keep ghosts in old pictures
The frames of peppermint streak with tears from tender moments
You crumble before me into apple crisps
You extend a hand and I see pretzel sticks.
I tell the children this, do not get close to me
I will eat you up to regain my privacy
Perhaps someday they’ll learn, perhaps someday I’ll stop
Having nightmares from eating that cherry on top.

Pr
blem Areas
by Pascale Potvin
Something had been different ever since the eye transplant. She’d been offered the
list of possible side effects: dryness, graininess, the occasional floating aura. Yet
there is nothing to the effect of “I don’t recognize myself in the mirror” in the
information packet, nor online.
And the doctor is only taking phone calls, from home, because of the virus.
“We’re not a mental health office,” adds the receptionist.
In other regards, Laurie is lucky to have acquired such young and healthy eyes.
They’re young, anyway, in comparison to the standard; she’d been told that most
recipients had accepted their poor vision as ‘better than the alternative’. Yet Harold
Splinter from Dayton, Ohio had died at 34, and he hadn’t even worn glasses. His
cancer had been in his colon, too: all the way at the other end of his body.
Now she would have fresh eyes, the time to make revisions to her novel. She’d
spent the last of her savings on her short leave; to stay home with her rent on
pause is a chance that she’ll never have again. Everyone else is writing about how
suffocated they’ll feel in self-quarantine— yet having had a hole in her vision for
months, she only feels free.
No distractions. She pulls her router from the wall, cancels her Netflix billing. She
takes down every mirror in the apartment, having been poking into every crevice of
herself with her new eyes.
She’d been lightly disappointed that, like her old ones, they’re blue.
But hair becomes her biggest problem. Each moment before she presses the power
button on her computer, it’s all that she sees: bright in the reflection of the dark
screen, its grayness especially apparent, always messy in several directions.
As she goes on to try to read her chapters, her hair in more than one way takes root
at the back of her head. She feels as if she’s been invaded, penetrated. It’s a canker

sore that the tongue can’t leave alone—and, in the same way, Laurie often feels her
hands slipping upwards.
On the fourth day, leaning over the kitchen counter and eating liquorice from a bag,
she stares at the piles below her chair. It’ll soon reach her knees: a taunting
manifestation of each wasted minute, of every unwritten word.
No one will see her for at least three months, anyway, she begins to think.
It might even be smart. Everyone’s freaking out about not being able to get haircuts.
The next day she throws all of her hair—picked and shaved—down the garbage
chute. This will motivate her to finish the book earlier, she decides. If she doesn’t,
she’ll have to tell everyone she underwent chemo.
Work comes easy, for a while, after that. Yet the more that Laurie types, the more
conscious she becomes of her hands. It’s the skin around her nails that bothers her,
really: the way that it hardens and whitens, victim of the winter air and harsh
sanitizers. She re-attaches the router to order a luxe hand cream—but it’s a thin
wall which she always digs through. Gloves are the same.
What purpose do nails have, anyway?, is the nascent thought. She doesn’t need
them to type.
They grow back in four to six months. That’s just how long everyone will be isolated.
Later, noticing how quickly the skin on her lips grows back, too, after she becomes
too aware of it—she sees it, always, in the reflection of her forks—she figures that
they’ll just as easily grow back as a whole.
They’re just flaps of skin, after all, she rationalizes. Just more skin.
Peeling at them without nails takes too much time.
She won’t be speaking to anyone for a long while.
She’s more comfortable, after that, and her couch her creative caucus. One might
just have to destroy a bit to create, she thinks, as she fills another page. She’s had to
suffer, a little, for her art: to overcome the challenge of distraction.
It wasn’t like she’d been self-harming, anyway—merely chipping away at her edges.

And the evening that she sits in her nightgown, cross-legged, is when she comes
across the hideousness of knees. Hers are uneven, and knobby, and they protrude
from her legs like faces.
Since skin grows back, she thinks, it’ll be better to remove the whole thing; if she
secures her calves back to her thighs, she might even get around without too much
struggle. It’ll keep her sitting, working.
But she wakes the next day, to her truculent horror, sensing overgrowth. Her eyes
open to a long head of hair, full nails, fleshy knees. She must have dreamt all of her
auto-surgeries, she thinks, until she finds chunks of herself in the freezer.
Every morning becomes a routine of shaving, ripping, of sawing at herself before
she can sit with her manuscript. The acts become as casual, to her, as setting down
her keys. She stops noticing the lengths of hair along the floors—the knees atop the
dresser, the counter, the couch.
Yet one dripping morning, as she’s bringing the knife down onto her lips, she looks
to herself in the reflection.
Her eyes would probably regenerate brand new, too, she realizes. Maybe they’ve
even been ready, this whole time, and waiting behind these ones like adult teeth.
She finds that she’s wrong; yet without sight of her body, Laurie can only think about
her book. She gets through with voice-to-text commandment faster than she’s ever
typed.
Finally, she thinks, stretching herself outward. I can relax.
(first published in littledeathlit’s fifth issue)

Photograph, Little Visitor by Meg Smith

G R A N D R E O P E N I N G A T H O S I E R F A R M S O R C H A R D A N D C I D E R
M I L L
by Tyler Norton
The empty parking lot should have been their first clue. Strung lights over the patio
seemed encouraging, but when Lev and Desi wandered around back, they found no
greeters to seat them, no waitstaff to take their orders. There weren’t even place
settings on the wrought iron tables. Just an open door leading into the cider mill,
and a sign fastened on the post-and-rail fence out front that read, “Grand
Reopening: Fresh Apple Cider Donuts with Each Visit!”
They should have turned around, tried their luck at another one of the Hudson
Valley’s carbon-copy apple orchards. But after a day of driving, and four hours spent
on a mountain for an anniversary hike, they wanted that cider donut. They earned
that cider donut.
Besides, they couldn’t have known Hosier Farms Orchard and Cider Mill closed its
doors 16 years ago after a field drip went disastrously wrong—Hindenburg wrong.
They couldn’t have known that the sophomores thought it’d be fun to make their
own viral video, like the Mentos and Diet Coke one, by emptying a bottle of water
into the donut fryer, a reaction they saw in chem class. They couldn’t have known
the baker, the tour guide, and a teacher died in the resulting explosion. They
couldn’t have known three students had to be airlifted to the burn unit in
Westchester County.
They couldn’t have known.
Just like how they couldn’t have known a set of eyes followed them as they moved
from the parking lot to the patio, and on into the cider mill.
“Hello?” Desi asked as they crossed over the threshold, into the space used as a
general store. Barrels of apples, onions, and leafy greens filled the middle aisles;
hand-crafted candies, maple syrup in glass containers, and every possible flavor of
preserves occupied three of the store’s corners, while an old-fashioned cash
register—unattended—took up the fourth; behind the counter, plastic door strips
fluttered in the air conditioning. “I don’t think anyone’s here.”
“Smells good,” Lev replied. “They’re probably in the back.”

Desi looked around. She saw no bell on the counter. No kitschy sign, like Time to
Make the Donuts – Be Right Back. In fact, there were no signs at all. No menus. No
decorations. No price tags. “I think we should leave,” she said.
Lev said, “What are you afraid of? It’s not like we’re trespassing—the door’s open.”
The hum of the hammer mill and the aroma of frying oil pulled him towards the
plastic flaps. “God damn, those donuts smell good! Come on, let’s take a peek.”
“No! That would definitely be trespassing. Let’s just leave. This place is starting to
give me the creeps.”
“Oh, come on, do you really want to drive around and wait for an hour to get a bite
to eat?”
He has a point, Desi thought. So they brushed back the cold, dewy flaps and
entered the cider mill, a massive warehouse replete with industrial-sized
equipment: conveyor belts and cannisters, hoses and hammer mills, presses and
deep fryers as large as their bed. They saw plenty of apples and plenty of oil, but no
staff. There was nobody around besides them. At least that’s what Desi thought,
until she noticed a shadow dart across the vats, like a cat in traffic, and disappear
into the corner. “What was that?” she asked.
“What was what?”
“I saw something. Over there in the corner.”
“I didn’t see anything. Relax. You worry too much. Just look at this stuff. Isn’t this
place cool?”
She tried to take his advice, tried to appreciate the inner workings of the cidery, but
she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone—or something—was watching her.
Closer this time. Did the hammer mill always sound like that? It seemed louder and
even more violent, like it was losing rhythm, picking up speed and gaining strength.
The shadow moved across the warehouse again. This time they both saw it, as it
bolted from the corner towards the bakery. The oil in the deep fryer started
bubbling over, practically boiling, popping as each molecule met the air.
It was as if someone cranked the heat way up.
Or dropped some water into it.

Desi and Lev retreated towards the entrance to dodge the splattering that
threatened to singe their exposed skin. As they stepped backwards, the shadow
moved behind them, across them. They felt someone grab them by the backs of
their shirts and tug hard. As they tumbled through the plastic flaps, they noticed a
blade drop from the ceiling, landing right where they were standing.
Lev jumped to his feet and howled. Desi looked back. She noticed a gangly man in a
flannel shirt and carpenter jeans heading towards the door. As she traced his frame
with her eyes, she saw his work boots were stained with mud, and his neck was
covered in burn scars. “You should leave now,” he said. His voice was nasally, but
the way he spoke, it reassured her. “I’m not getting you out a second time.”
“What…was that back there?” Lev asked, confused, the color flushed away from his
complexion.
The man shrugged. “Nothing good. That’s all I know. And if it weren’t on the historic
registry, I woulda burned this place to the ground years ago. Don’t feel bad, it always
happens this time of year.”
Desi and Lev followed him out the door calmly before racing to their car. It didn’t
matter that their legs felt like iron. Or that they hadn’t had a bite to eat in hours.
They hightailed it straight to I-87.
And while they didn’t notice it, on their way out, they passed a pickup truck perched
on the hill, looking down at Hosier Farms Orchard and Cider Mill. In the driver seat
waited the gangly man with the burn on his neck, just in case anyone else decided
to pull up for fresh apple cider donuts.

y Sam Moe
It isn’t until I’m in the employee restroom, wine key
to shoulder that I realize I have
a problem. I’ve always had it, the key with the straight
brass handle, fatal corkscrew, tiny knife. Thirteen
years have gone by since I turned grim and breathless.
I tell Chef later on, in passing, and he locks
the key in a box the color of apples. Locks
these days are thick as my fingers and I’ll key
every hole until I can get the brass back. Breathless,
I tell guests Chef is the creator. He’ll have
their plates hot, sauces in figure 8’s, thirteen
grape tomato cores in a row. Chef has straight
black buttons, all thread and no needle. Straight
knives and cinnamon rolls, straight white teeth, locks
keeping my arms straight. I give Chef red, thirteen
birds, pens, stories about dragons. Red things he
can’t keep. They overflow from the electrical cave,
yellow walls and light and all my red. Feathers
I like the most, from birds, from coats. Heavens
could promise me immortal, promise me full, straightlace
my pieces back together. I’d still want you. Do want, have
wanted for quite some time. You said my hair looks
best long, so I grow it into a bed, a house, no key
holes, only grey hairs, brown hairs. I have thirteen
beds for you and your darlings. Bring birds, thirteen
feathers each. Bring me the apple box.
It’s a pain box, wine key inside.
Thirteen
hours later and he’s going home before me, locks
the stove, warns me my hair will catch fire. Breathless
I ask again for the apple box. It’s long and straight
and I can’t have it. I don’t want to talk personal, see
I am scared to heal. The lock, the box. I see
my fear in the wood. I, breathless, cut my hair. I have
a new box for you, thirteen straight beaks inside.

Photography, Apple
Collage by J. Simpson

Before the
Freeze
by Hana Jabr
Sweep the path that leads from the back door to the cellar—that Wizard of
Oz hideaway we forget exists until the wind’s temper rises and rattles the
hinges of the doors, reminding us we are simply bags of bones to be swept
away with the dust.
#
Pick the last of the low-hanging apples from the tree that some ancestor
planted long before technology took root in our brains. The tree’s limbs
know of the bones buried deep as they snake and explore the yard like
wires carrying whispered secrets. We trip over and glare at the solid
swellings of earth-wrapped roots that twist from the tree. Rusted apples
caved in like the wide, toothless mouths of our long-dead grandparents
litter the earth.
#
Search for the apple basin in the cellar. Save this task for the end so the
unswept path and rotted fruit seem less burdensome as the dread for the
final task builds. The cellar smells of the wrong kind of dust and age. There
is no life or warmth in what lies below. The stairs moan at the pressure of
your living bones. This cellar has weathered wars and storms, but every dust
mote recoils at the arrogant blue light you wield like a weapon to guide your
way. The intricate webs that cling to every corner glisten like dew. The
apple basin is filled with lifeless shells of spiders, centipedes, and flies. Look
away as you dump their weightless bodies to the ground, grasp the basin,
and give in to the frantic exhilaration that accompanies setting foot on solid
earth once again.

Photography, Pumpkin
Collage by J. Simpson
On a Halloween Thanksgiving
by Jen Schneider
Pumpkin on brick path
bleeds seeds of rainbow orange
Squirrel family feasts

Art, Hallow Eve by Jamie Vassar

y Paul Wilson
Captain Jack's Happy Pumpkin Patch sat on the outskirts of Talbot Woods. The
business consisted of a long dirt driveway, a shack of an office, and a handpainted
sign proclaiming the name—black letters against a twilight blue field—nailed on top
of the office. Grinning pumpkins substituted the five A's in the title. And, of course,
the yard was littered with pumpkins. They crowded the building and stretched
behind. Thousands of smooth orbs greeted visitors with blank, unmade faces like
waiting promises.
Captain Jack was not a captain at all. He was a lumberjack until age made
working in the damp woods too painful. His name came from the white captain's
hat he wore. Every day before business open, Jack polished the gold steering
emblem and black brim. The hat shined but the rest of Jack did not. He wore a
dirty teeshirt with gray suspenders and torn dress pants that swished as he walked.
He sported canvas high-tops stretched to fraying, held together with crusted laces.
He was a round man with a fat face. He flashed a wide, cheesy grin at every
customer—and everyone came to the Captain's place. It was tradition. He sold
fireworks in June, watermelons in July, and smiled both months. He sold Christmas
trees starting in November and smiled then, too. But everyone agreed that nothing
beat the Captain's October pumpkins.
Despite his wares, many people were uncomfortable around Captain Jack. He
was a little off. Odd. Strange. Not everyone trusted his bloated beaming, especially
when he reminded customers that he grew all the pumpkins himself. The
proclamation pushed his cheeks to comic mounds that swallowed his eyes. He
looked crazy that way. Many children had nightmares about the Captain. More than
a few parents were not above using him as a surrogate boogeyman.

Last year, one evening near Halloween, Captain Jack was counting the day’s
money when the voices started. He tried to ignore them, but it was hard. It was
always hard. He squeezed his eyes shut until they were only chubby lines. His body
shook with mounting fear, jiggling his cheeks. Thick drops of sweat collected behind
his ears. The voices whispered. They told him he was bad. They always said he was
bad.
Jack wanted to believe his pumpkin patch was happy. He was happy, he wore a
happy hat, but most of all the pumpkins were happy! They were happy being sold to
families to get carved into happy jackolanterns. The pumpkins had to be happy
because if they were not happy, then his mother was right.
His mother.
Captain Jack's mother proclaimed selling pumpkins for sacrifice, so people could
carve evil faces in them, was a crime Mother Nature would punish. Jack's mother
spoke this conviction many times before she died. It was all he had to remember
her by.
Captain Jack continued counting money. His hands shook. He squinted as the
gloomy gray dusk darkened and coiled. A light outside the window began to grow.
Jack collected mismatched glass bottles on the windowsill and the new yelloworange
light filled them, spilling into hundreds of rays as they overflowed.
Sweat gave him greasy kisses. Windchimes chattered. Captain Jack stopped
counting. His breath tore ragged. He turned like something rusted, maybe the
weed-choked tricycles sitting under the shack’s window. The bobbing light grew
stronger. Captain Jack didn’t like the light. He began to cry as heat barged into the
tiny room. He wanted his mother. Whimpering, Jack forced himself to look outside.
His once smooth pumpkins grinned back at him. All had been carved by some
otherworldly hand, creating weird and strange designs no human imagination could
produce. The yellow-orange light blasted from their faces, from hundreds of
candles. Their holes bled gooey tears. They carried deep cuts—unhappy cuts.
They were coming.

There were no customers, only Captain Jack and the long dirt road off the
property. The shack’s tarpaper-covered door stood open. The first traces of fitful
candlelight reached the threshold. A glowing triangle eye peered in, followed by a
toothy grin. Captain Jack wet himself in a warm flood. The first pumpkin pulled itself
inside. It moved spider-like with brown and dead vines for legs. Its eyes were sharp,
both smart and pointed. Other pumpkins joined the first, grinning, staring, drooling.
Captain Jack produced a wet, raspy croak. More pumpkins appeared, piling up in
the doorway. He managed a stumbling step to the side, but there was nowhere to
go.
Captain Jack felt the first bite as a sneaky gourd slipped under the table and got
its teeth into his calf. The air filled with the smell of his blood cooking in its skull fire.
His mother was right. Mother Nature had sent her children to punish him.
Captain Jack’s Pumpkin Patch was happy no more.

Photography, Pumpkin Patch, by J. Simpson

Every Halloween,
I am a Surgeon
Every Halloween,
I am a surgeon—not in costume,
but in carving.
I wield my scalpel in a perfect circle,
then extract white seeds, wound in strings
of tangerine, from the top of your severed head.
I always carve your eyes next,
dear pumpkin,
so you can watch the rest.
And last, I carve a gaping,
toothy, smile,
so you’re happy at the end.
by Nicole Tallman

Add a subheading
Mint Jelly Harvest
by Sam Moe
I enter the fields at night, lovesick, observe the rough
moon and gleaming grass. I notice the vegetables
have begun to grow.
What if seeing you changes everything?
Harvesters are coating veneer oils, I spy your curls,
illuminated green and becoming, a secret garden.
Spoon seeds into stainless steel jars
you wipe the sweat from your splinter lines
There are festivals beneath your fingertips
but they beckon me no more.
Water, sunlight, and soil made you a weaver with a beak as thick
as sediment. I’ll make you scream like Stenter, bleed you into a compost
that will make our vegetables enamored.
Witching hour is warm and sticky like the inside of an angel’s
trumpet, I adore marshmallow fluff and I have a swift touch.
I’m the hunger and the gentle curve of night grins, I’m reflecting
off star fruit.
Your throat cherry divine feature liquid knots promise
Vegetation gives way beneath your feet, sorcery of
peach pears and jazz apples, groaning moon rotates,
your pulse echoes rough against my cheek.
I saw you enter a land of mildew and muscles, muted green
danger, candied rum, I never got used to the vegetables
with teeth.

Great for a sweet breakfast, or for having
with tea. Seasonally-inspired!
by Lyz Perry
Happy Halloween! These pumpkin chocolate chip muffins are sure to prompt a spooky
mood. I enjoy the flavors of fall, but I don’t usually like something that tastes too strongly
of pumpkin. These muffins have just the right amount of pumpkin so that they are moist
and flavorful, but not overly squash-y. And the fall spices and chocolate chips are a
perfect combination with the nuts and savory flavors.
This recipe makes six muffins, which sometimes is a nice amount for two people, but you
can double the ingredients and make a dozen. I love adding a small amount of chopped
nuts because it gives the muffins more texture, flavor, and heartiness, but doesn’t
overpower the batter. You can also customize this recipe according to your own tastes—
playing with the spices, the amount of chocolate or other mix-ins, etc.
[dry]
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
spices —> 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon,
1/4 teaspoon cardamom,
1/8 teaspoon nutmeg, 1/8 teaspoon ginger
(optional: 1/8 teaspoon cloves)
[wet]
about 1/3 cup white sugar
1/4 cup vegetable oil
1 egg
1/2 cup pumpkin puree (canned pumpkin, or homemade)
1 teaspoon vanilla

[mix-ins]
chocolate chips —> I used semi-sweet ones; go with your preference! I like muffins with a
generous amount of chocolate chips (start with about 2/3 cup), but add the amount you
prefer!
pecans or walnuts, chopped small —> you may be able to swap these out for other nuts,
but I think the flavor and texture of pecans or walnuts work best; add anywhere from 1/8
cup to 1/4 cup (I prefer about 1/6 cup)!
1. Put oven rack in the middle of your oven. Preheat the oven to 400F. Line a muffin tray
with muffin liners, or grease tray.
2. In a medium bowl, mix dry ingredients.
3. In a large bowl, mix wet ingredients—start by mixing the sugar and oil, and then add
an egg, and finally add the pumpkin and vanilla.
4. Add dry ingredients to wet ingredients, mixing until mostly combined.
5. Add chocolate chips and nuts, mixing until just fully mixed. Do not over-mix the
batter.
6. Use a couple of spoons to fill the muffin tray with batter. Try to fill the muffin cups as
evenly as possible.
7. Bake for about 20 minutes. Keep a close eye on the muffins while they bake and start
checking them after about 15 minutes, depending on your oven. A toothpick inserted
into the center of the muffins should come out clean when they are done.
Note: The muffins may look a bit dark when they're cooking because of the pumpkin, but
be careful to avoid scorching. If the tops of the muffins start to brown too much or
scorch, put tin foil over the muffins for the rest of the bake time. To avoid scorching the
sides and bottoms of the muffins, make sure the oven rack is in the middle of the oven,
and turn the muffin tray during the bake time if your oven heats unevenly.

Photograph (and muffins!) by Lyz Perry

y Jen Schneider
1.Salt tears gingerly, salt seeds lavishly
2.Pre-heat oven (& odes)
3.Crack shells slightly / Crack knuckles sorely
4.Lightly grease baking pan (waking plan)
5.Wash shells in warm water / Watch shells in hot water
6.Rotate dial ten degrees to the right. With caution.
7.Re-engage dial fifteen degrees to the left. With care.
8.Clean ceramic bowl by hand. Cleanse ceramic hand over bowl.
9.Place pitcher on table / Place bets on orange maple (pitchers on mounds, too)
10.Dial neighbors two to the right, three to the left
11.Set timer / Time setting (60 seconds is both more & less than sufficient)
12.Squeeze lemons. Pit cherries. Pucker lips.
13.Rake leaves. Leave rake by front walkway.
14.Pave path of seeds of pumpkins (& pumpkin seeds).

y Sara Crocoll Smith
Breena Sauinyn pressed bare feet into cool grass as she walked solemnly
through the graveyard. Her arms cradled a head-sized pumpkin atop her
pregnant belly, as faceless as the smooth skin of her own grown stomach. The
train of her dress flowed outward behind her measured steps, the emerald color
blending into the padded ground. Breena’s auburn hair, braided down her back
like a mane, stood out in stark contrast against the gauzy material.
The sunset dribbled pools of blood-red light on the horizon. With each
deceased generation of family members she crossed, their markers laden with
the ruddy light, her fingers trembled. Sweat gathered between her palms and the
surface of the pumpkin, threatening her grip on the precious object. Breena’s
eyebrow twitched at the idea she might drop it any second to smash into slippery
fragments.
She descended the sloping hill. Here, no fresh flowers wilted against pristine
headstones and a slithering fog gathered that was not present elsewhere in the
graveyard. Nestled alone at the lowest point of the cemetery, a crumbling stone
marked a single grave. Breena paused, the headstone’s lettering facing away from
her.
In a half moon around the base of the grave, ten women stood stock still.
They held their arms clasped in front of their jet-black smock dresses. Their long
hair appeared clawed forth to cover their faces, heads bowed.
Breena held her breath, unable to tell what the women could see. Did they know
she’d arrived? She eyed the waning pink hues in the sky and longed to unburden
herself from carrying the heavy gourd.
“Allhallowtidings,” she said. Breena had almost reached the bottom to stand
even with the gathering. Her lone word drifted through the night air. She gulped.

Movement out of the corner of her eye caused Breena to jump. One of the
women raised her hand and pointed a finger to the front of the headstone.
Breena edged around until she stood upon the grave, exactly above where she
imagined the head might be not a few feet beneath her soles. A shiver raced down
her spine.
The gravestone, mottled with moss, was a victim to time. Breena kneeled
before it, carefully placing the pumpkin between herself and the stone. She
brushed her fingertips over the rough surface of the headstone. The first name, a
weathered casualty, did not matter for what she was here to do. Still, she
wondered about the woman who claimed such power so long into her eternal
rest.
Breena pressed a hand to her heart as she traced the last name. Bracketed
by etched baskets full of roses, the familiar letters were an echo of her own—
Sauinyn. Blood. Relation. Descendant. The words were like a heavy stole about her
already weighted shoulders. Would her offering be enough? Or would this
matriarch of the Sauinyn line demand more?
The night’s creatures abandoned Breena, offering no sounds of comfort or
wild. She’d been ignoring the item resting on the headstone but could delay no
longer. The blade’s edge glinted in the twilight as she gripped the handle born of
a deer’s antler. Her mouth grew dry, and she could scant hear anything, not even
the breathing of the women surrounding her.
With a heady thunk, Breena split the skin of the pumpkin and zigzagged
until the top could be worked free. Setting aside the knife and the lid, she plunged
her hands inside the moist hollow and grabbed the innards from within. Slimy
and stringy, she buried the pumpkin pulp and seeds into the hallowed earth at
the grave’s head.
Patting the earth, her fingernails caked with dirt and muck, Breena lifted
her head to the night sky, the waning crescent moon awakening from its slumber.

She sang.
Born of flowers, I bear the fruit
Honor the hours, let the seeds take root
Hallow thy belly and make room within
For when the path is lit, motherhood begins
She took the knife up again, this time carving two triangle eyes and a jagged
mouth into the pumpkin. Pressing the cutouts into the ground above her tiny,
buried mound, Breena waited. Her eyes bore into the dark holes of the pumpkin’s
spiritless eyes.
A tear curled down her cheek. She wanted to hold her stomach, to prompt
her child to roll and tumble inside her, to press a hand or foot back in response
to her touch. Instead, she forced her palms firmly against the hallowed dirt and
pictured the skeleton below. It had to work. It had worked for women in her
family for hundreds of years and was expected to for hundreds of years after.
Was she not worthy? She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to trace back to the
last time she felt her child kick.
The moon traveled to its pinnacle and still, nothing. Breena was a statue of
herself, perched above the burial ground of her ancestor. The whispering
movement of cloth and hair behind her tickled the nape of her neck. Even so, she
refused to move.
One woman crouched to retrieve the knife. Another rested her hand on
Breena’s shoulder. Then another, and another—hands ravaged by age, firm
hands, youthful hands, they all seized her until she felt she would absorb them all
or them her, becoming a many-haired beast of women in the night.
Their grips tightened and together they rocked. Breena wept, and they wept
with her. Out of her mouth, she again sang the song. This time, she kept one hand
to the buried pulp, but the other, she placed upon her belly and massaged in wide
circles.

A cloud brushed against the moonlight, plunging the women into darkness.
Breena realized she’d squeezed her eyes shut and when she dared open them, a
pale green light emanated from the soil. She spread her fingers to find a tiny
tendril curling out of the ground. The glowing vine unfurled itself, setting free a
will-o’-wisp. More tendrils emerged from the grave until the wisps formed a halo
of light. They encircled her head briefly until finally, they took their place within
the jack-o’-lantern.
Breena bent forward and lifted the pumpkin into the air, pulsing with light
and life. The woman who had pointed to the grave when she had arrived wiped
Breena’s tears and whispered in her ear. “Fingers break if they’re splayed like
stars. Clasped together, we claim fate for ours.”
The procession of women marched toward a roaring bonfire. Breena was
the final guest to arrive, beaming jack-o’-lantern in hand. She approached a long
table crowded with food—baked apples, toasted hazelnuts, honey muffins.
Balloons bobbed, tied to the long-stemmed gourds that decorated the table
corners, their black and orange metallic shimmering with the vibrant bonfire
reflections.
Breena stepped back, admiring the spread. The jack-o’-lantern grinned at
her with its wide, upturned mouth. A handmade sign hung across the forefront of
the table and read “Welcome Baby.” She plated a piece of soul cake, turned to
face the women dancing around the warmth and mingling with mirth, and
caressed her belly.
Her baby responded with a powerful kick. Breena smiled.

Photograph, October Requiem by Meg Smith

Cemetary
by Zoa Coudret
We churn
dead spirits,
lap after lap,
around
mausoleums
and headstones
tilted and scarred,
clutch coffee cups
with hands crowhungry
and cold,
our feet crunching
leaf-covered earth
covering coffins,
covering rotten clothes,
covering what
once meant life,
our playground.

It was still dark when Charlie was startled awake by the cold.
He bolted upright. In the dark. But it wasn’t the dark that he was afraid
of. It wasn’t the dark, and it wasn’t that he couldn’t see. It was something
that he couldn’t see, because he couldn’t see. It was something close and
cold.
He felt a hand touch his shoulder.
The panic stopped his breath as he tried to jerk away. And he couldn’t
get away. The hand on his shoulder moved down his arm and gripped
tighter, pulled at him until another hand closed on his other arm, and
Charlie could feel the eyes on him.
Charlie could see the eyes. The eyes were grey. But in the darkness,
everything was blackened and greyed.
“Breathe,” said a voice.
Charlie couldn’t breathe.
“You can breathe.”
The eyes were gentle. The voice itself was rough, but the tone was gentle.
One of the hands let go of him.
And then Charlie felt icy fingers brush through his hair. He flinched.
“Sorry,” the other man told him.

It was a man. Or had been a man. What he was now was...
“Sorry,” he said, dropping his hand back to Charlie’s arm and holding
him steady.
Revenant. Revenant was the word. Revenant was the word they used for
bodies that came back, until they figured out what they really were.
“Breathe,” soothed the revenant.
Charlie couldn’t.
“Breathe.”
Charlie couldn’t. But he could see the man — revenant. Because all the
word revenant really meant was that a body had come back.
Charlie could feel damp grass under him. And he could see grey eyes
and mouldering skin and the strange, stiff way the man’s jaw moved as
he spoke.
“There you are. Breathe.”
He could almost breathe.
The man — the revenant still held him at arm’s length but gentler now.
He’d known, of course, that an occupational hazard of being a
resurrection-man was that you could wind up participating in a
resurrection literally, not just figuratively. But Charlie had never worried
much about it. You lived to tell the tale or you didn’t, and that was that.
And finally, he remembered that it had been a warm night, and he
realized that the night was probably still warm, that the cold he felt was
coming from the revenant.
He was also fairly certain that it was only the revenant’s hold on him that
was keeping him upright.
“Are you hurt?” the revenant asked quietly.

Charlie shook his head and suddenly everything started to spin and
lurch, and the revenant swore under his breath. Well, not under his
breath, because revenants didn’t breathe.
Charlie’s breaths were shaky, but he was breathing.
The revenant was holding onto him tightly again. And after a moment,
he again shifted one of his hands to Charlie’s hair, but this time Charlie
realized what was happening and didn’t flinch.
He held very still while the revenant smoothed back the strands matted
to his forehead.
“Should I get you a doctor?” the revenant asked, frowning.
Charlie laughed.
“I’ve got a doctor waiting for me,” he said weakly. “Expecting a body
that’s a bit more dead and less decayed than you.” He glanced around,
careful not to move too quickly. “Must’ve got the wrong grave.”
“No,” said the revenant.
He looked aside and nodded slightly, his lip curling. And Charlie
followed his gaze and saw his abandoned shovel and the hole he’d dug
up and the corpses still in it. Freshly dead bodies on top.
“Oh.”
“Yes. Just tell me which one you want, and I’ll get it out for you.”
“You really don’t have to —”
“It’s the least I can do,” the revenant said firmly.
He let go of Charlie completely then. Slowly. Haltingly. But completely.
The cold became less severe, though the revenant remained close
enough that Charlie still felt chilled.

The grey eyes studied him anxiously.
“You’re alright?”
“I think so.”
“Good.”
It was still dark and everything in the darkness was more or less grey.
The revenant’s eyes were more.
“I really can’t thank you enough,” he told Charlie.
“It was nothing.”
“To you. To me, this is everything.”

Art,
Wraith -- The Subject,
by Ami J. Sanghvi

Seven Haikus
by David Estringel
Dark whispers are crowned
with scents of roses and lily.
The veil’s in tatters
Ghosts of marigolds
and burnt almonds linger ‘round.
Mother has returned.
Candle flames crackle
and sputter throughout the night.
Spirit chatter.
The Black Dog is waiting
at the door for its portion.
Time to stand vigil.
Young girls who fancy
dances with handsome devils
should spy floors for hooves.
What’s there to death but
cold, eternal sleep and the
gossip of earthworms?
Sold my soul to Scratch.
Wond’rin’ when I’ll have to pay.
Wait’s worse than the burn.

What I’d Tell You If I Could
by Melody Wang
i.
Before everything turned to dust,
to grey soot before my unseeing eyes,
Before I walked through life as a woman
who still delighted in that feeling
of desire of heat emanating
from the wicked depths of a stranger
ii.
It was here that I wrote these mementos
on crisp hotel paper, the ink free-flowing, staining
the carpet below, much like I would mere moments
later. The floral wallpaper, wilted and curling around
corners of what I now know to be my last sanctuary,
has never been changed — but who dares disturb
iii.
This slumber. Elusive as redemption. 3:18 a.m.
always, the alarm clock gets stuck at this ungodly hour
as if to keep my stagnant energy company,
as if it could somehow change my fate
iv.
Who are you, then, to complain of this room —
the blessed radiator in the corner that far outlasted
whatever remnant of life I tried to salvage
that god-awful lace pillow that pink faded color coagulating
with the filth of a thousand unworthy bums
grinding away at all hours of the night with no regard
to all the lonely souls that came before?

Photograph, what was once here by Samir Knego

and i don’t know what she needs.
she just comes
and goes,
slipping through
the doorframe,
unannounced.
by Emily Turner
waltzing toward the couch
she echoes
we can’t let it be this long
again.
i offer her a cup
of tea, earl grey
with a dash of milk.
remember, no sugar.
my fingers fumble with
the cobweb in her favorite
mug before she sighs on the countertop
i’ve tasted
death
in your absence.
i don’t know when
i miss you
became a wine stopper
in bottled conversations,
but her brown eyes
were always a tonic.
she always whispers her return,
and still i wait for a bang, a loose
temper, so i always miss
the whimper. but i
loved her in a moment like
bubbly wine under the moon but
in the window’s kaleidoscopic shadows i saw the secrets we shared.

hands brush past.
peace brought hell.
and broken nostalgia can’t be pieced to get
her
Ghosts in the Rain by Denny E. Marshall

y Peter Burrows
I always believed in ghosts
fearing the inevitable
that someday I would see one.
Though what would happen next
would be anyone’s guess.
Fuelled by grown-ups’ gas-fire tales
at family gatherings:
spectral bedside visits, cowled
reunited grandparents;
my sceptic Dad pursuing
his wandering Nan downstairs;
your father’s posthumous pint
stoked us cousins well, scaring
ourselves richly; mythmaking
not only bedtime stories.
Anywhere invoked destiny.
Heightening old haunts, corners
where a dark glint could summon
fearful relief: My time come.
My teens’ homemade Ouija boards
ghost-hunted validation
to reach anyone beyond this life.
Who pushed the glass to invite
white terror messages, and
nights embracing the Bible?
Then before I knew, outgrown.
Reasoning and sense won out.
Even your sudden early death

did not scare me. Habitual
comfort felt you were still there.
Before I could realise
you were more than just misplaced
and family rifts widened
the space that could not be filled
the searching dreams ceased. You were
undeniably nothing.
You, simple and honest saw
what you believed so in turn
they came back to you. Untrue
but true to you; not for me.
But hang the laws of physics -
scare me with the floating bed,
the apparitional grandma
smiling through the wallpaper…
Back at the family home
I stay up alone recalling
your presence, in your arm chair.
The memory grasps - willing
you through the old shadows where
only childish hope remains.

y Nicole Tallman
Who are you?
What is your name?
Are you a good spirit?
Do you want to harm me?
What do you want me to know?
What is my purpose in this life?
Are you ok?
Can I help?
Can I speak to Sylvia Plath?
Can I speak to my mother?
How do I talk to her?
When will I die?
How will I die?
ONE FROM YOUR PAST
TOO DARK
NO
NO
UNCLEAR
FUTURE HAZY
NO
NO
NO
YES
ASK
SUMMER
LEAVE ME NOW
G O O D B Y E

My Mother Died and
Left Me a Box of
Poems
by Annie Marhefka
I didn't mean to leave, she says
after she is dead and body burnt.
But leave she did, and all that survives
her is a corpse of poems with limbs
cold, and a whisper that floats
just behind my ear, an occasional
tickle on my neck, a probing in my gut,
lodged like a thick wedge of sirloin steak
in my esophagus, that wrinkled, nagging
blockage of blood flow, of lethargy, the
inability to swallow. Did she know? they ask,
and I shrug as if it doesn't weigh on me
like an equine hoof on my chest, pinning
me in place, shackled, tethered to her secrets.
Was it her choice, to go this way,
to forbid me the opportunity to fix
her, heal her, protect her organs from
crumbling into white ash?

y Maija Haavisto
last night I dreamt I went––
and then I’m pulled under
and forget what you asked
it probably doesn’t matter
as you, too, forget
they should be riveting yet are
more like ghastly, distorted spirits
vampiric glimpses in mirror shards
that slash the international date line
separating the past and––
no, there’s nothing but the past
everything else got
swallowed by the tide
the hand reaching out disappears
a cheap mind trick
a dollar store horror prank
like the no-moon sky
the toothy hollows grimace
I was here first
the servants all adore me
I’m taking all this space
and devouring it to nothing

they can only enter
if you let them, but the door
swings wide open
the hinges screeching thirstily
it’s open both ways
the spindrift tumbling in
but first you have to cross
the fire pit that screams
death and bloody murder
that’s how you get
to the other side
that doesn’t yet exist
but it will be there
once you reach dry land––
And the ashes blew towards us
with the salt wind from the sea!

my mother is killing her african violets
by Liane St . Laurent
Photograph; still reaching by Samir Knego

Grandmother’s Legacy as Final Girl
Kitchen that smells of old cumin and lemon peels,
garden of mint and bright marigolds blossoming.
Blaming’s not fair to you, but you were never fair.
Scrabbly claws-out climber, always wanting more.
Running from dirty and painful rememberings,
stumbling and fearful, a girl from the movie screen
monster still hot on her heels that already snapped.
In your running, you keep the series going,
each generation a sequel with ever more
B-list stars and trauma misdiagnosed as anxiety,
like this is all our own fault,
like they can’t see the monster in our past
with hands not quite touching our backs.

l i f e a n d d e a t h i n t h e d e s e r t
the day before we brought you
to grandma's walking trail
where the path branches like
glycogen through pine,
oak, elm and aspen
crossing stones
just taller than the stream
cloaked in russian olive
with tire swing over
pool of greenbrown water
chamisa and
pink red rock
we saw a small snake
where the zen center nature
preserve
meets upper cañon road
it wasn't moving, much
i screamed in surprise more
than anything
jumped back to give it space
and saw the mulberry there
in its side where
bursting from slit skin
we watched
helplessly
as it crossed the road
i kept asking mom
if i had been the one
who hurt him
if i'd jumped the wrong way
she said it was my ocd
and we kept walking
when we came back down
it had rolled onto its back
and lay still in the road
but today
when you gently nosed
a little snake by the creek
it slithered on, safely
as we continued on.
by Alexandra Weiss

Photograph collage; Skulls by J. Simpson

Photograph; little visitor by Meg Smith

let me be your beast
by Tahlia Mckinnon
we are the ones
without webs
crawling out
of mouths; painting
five-finger shadows
onto walls
all tied up
and tangled into
corners
so why, when they
pluck away our legs
do we still try to
run?

On The Road Again, first published in Beam
by Denny E. Marshall

y Gabriel Wormwood
Time rendered the woman’s hand thin and frail, with brown spots
discoloring her once radiant skin. She’d developed tremors in her late age, and
the coffee mug shook within her shaking hands. “My hip’s acting up,” she
murmured in a gravelly voice. “Looks like we’ll be getting some rain after all.”
Her companion didn’t answer her, just as he never did. While the years had left
the woman brittle and sickly, they had transformed the man into an
abomination.
His flesh oozed from his bones as though it was mucus, and it glued him to
his recliner. He stared up at the water-stained ceiling with the bulbous tendrils
that unfurled from his mouth and eye sockets. Translucent, bulging tendrils that
encased small spotted maggots. A wheeze left the man, but it was muffled by the
tentacles that sprouted from between his yellowed teeth.
The woman looked at him and smiled with her thin lips. She preferred his
silence to the days before the illness took him. The man—her husband—used to
swear and curse and yell over the slightest inconvenience. Anger had consumed
him, ate away at every other redeeming quality of his until nothing was left. But
now he only sat upon his worn leather recliner and listened to her with the
utmost patience.
She took a sip of her coffee. “The garden is doing well, so we’ll have
tomatoes and cucumbers. I think we still have supplies for canning, so I can get
us ready for the winter.” Unease then crossed her face like a shadow.
Her husband didn’t need to eat, not since he became ill. The woman wasn’t
even sure if he was capable of starving to death, but she was. She was also
painfully aware of how alone she was in the dying world, with only her husband
by her side, and she was growing fragile in her old age. Perhaps she could
harvest this garden, can the results of her labor, and survive another winter in
her decaying home, but what of the next winter?

And the next?
And the next still?
She understood how her husband became the monstrosity he was. The
creatures within the tendrils protruding from his face were parasitic by nature,
and anyone they infested would become similarly mutated. The woman looked
down upon the saucer beside her coffee mug and at a writhing maggot she’d
acquired from her husband.
For a period the woman had been happy with her husband—happier than
she’d ever been before he became ill. The infestation of the parasites had ripped
the specter of rage from his body, and she’d enjoyed being around him for the
first time in years.
Her happiness still persisted despite the ever growing struggles, but he
couldn’t help her if harm befell her. He couldn’t help her if she became ill. He was
alive, but he was also a relic of a man that no longer existed.
Fingers drummed against the table, her coffee now ignored. If she
consumed the parasite she wouldn’t need to worry about such things. She could
swallow the fetid creature, close her eyes, and let it take root within her body.
Tendrils could burst from her eyes and mouth, bustling with maggots of their
own. She could be seated across from her husband, immortal and beyond harm.
The first of the raindrops struck the cracked window behind her as she
picked up the maggot.

y Georgie Weldrick-Eames
Mother Nature is mad at me.
Sending me dead butterflies
in a locked box. A heart moulded
of vines not beating in the summer winds.
I feel them, sometimes. The burn
of roses under the skin. Thorns dig into
me, smearing crimson liquid down the
delicate, translucent flesh. Ripping. Tearing.
My blood on the ground feeds the
flowers. Being broken is a work of
art. Sew my heart back together with lilies. Build a tree
out of my bones. Tear my ribs out one by one
to satisfy the need. Daisies no longer make me
smile. Death encased in a single seed,
blooming into the destruction of love and lust,
my tongue tied with weeds. Choking. My body
bruised from the force of a stem reaching the light
of my dead, dark eyes.
I love you.
Bury me into the dirt.
At last.

y Gabrielle Roessler
‘ 'The parts you could see – what most people called a mushroom – was just a
brief apparition. A cloud flower.’ –Margaret Atwood
To Whomsoever It May Concern
Dear Sir / Madam,
I do not wish to impose, but some interpretations are so outstanding by their
nature I prefer to outline clearly what appeared before me. The findings are far
from mysterious, scientific perhaps, yet, I am driven to persevere for the future of
science. As I record this, the case of Subject #93 is concluded, relegated to the
dead-house. The variances I have analyzed of finger and mushroom is hereby
complete. All morgue guidelines have been followed, as noted. All findings have
been safely archived.
Before I proceed further may I categorically re-emphasize that the pathology
of living enzymes in finger-mushrooms is indeed impossible to trace, were it not for
guidance received from superiors, some may argue brilliant but unscientific. It is not
for me to judge. I leave that to the machinist departments and experts handling
forensics in a sterile environment. For myself, I prefer to term them experiences of
fate.
For it is fate that brings me to where I am. At the outset to be clear, if not for
the puffball mushroom clouds, a breakthrough would have been impossible to
record. I have much to learn. Mother nature is my guide. These are my findings, as
accurate an account of what occurred as is humanly possible to make available.
On the seventeenth of August in the year nineteen hundred and fifty-four an
autopsy was conducted on Subject #93. How long the body had lain in the morgue
could not be verified. It could have been four months, it could have been four years.

According to existing paperwork it was four days old. Rigor mortis had set in which
was normal. There was some muscle and tissue decomposition. No faded blood. No
evidence of violence--except for two missing forefingers on both hands, sliced clean
to the bone.
A strong smell of formaldehyde and decaying vegetable matter was in the air,
as of carboniferous substances, which it was not. As science students, it is our job to
find out how the subject died. About halfway through an eight-hour procedure one
of the junior assistants a newbie student took very ill. Work came to a stop for a
breath of fresh air. The forensic pathologist Dr. Momaller’s main adjunct to us
students had always been a call to perfection. Never to alarm. Concentrate on what
is happening. Catalog all that you see. But, with students putting in eighteen-hour
shifts, looking like axe-murderers at the end of the shift, fatigue, sickness, and
blackouts were all too common.
We streamed outside. I heard Dr. Momaller say to the lot of us “We are at the
balancing edge of science. To be in the medical field the most grueling of discipline
is called for. But go on, go on. Take a break. Study the clouds, the sky.” The day
ended.
The tenth time this occurred a pattern had formed. Dt. Momaller’s scathing
words still ring in my ears “It is imperative you listen. If you are unable to handle the
demands of this profession, I have a long list of highly qualified applicants just
waiting to replace you.” Many fell ill, none more than Akioba. Our sickly newbie
assistant fell routinely ill.
In her wakeful state, she regularly fainted. In her sleeping state, she babbled
nonstop. She was not gripped by hysteria. Far from it; her mind turned a
powerhouse of broken mushroom fingers. The effects of Subject #93. A stream of
mind consciousness technique evolved. There is no better way to describe her
periodic episodes. She dreamt fingers. She gazed unmoving at cloud patterns
through the morgue window. Then came the day she was beside herself, running
around that horrible place in jerks and spasms, yelling ‘93! 93!’ No one made the
connection. There was none to make.
By that time the forensics examination was taking months to conclude. The
rest of us felt like a bunch of neo-Frankensteins. We were not research
experimenting but it felt like it. It was Dr. Momaller who was turning hysterical

dealing with Akioba, wrestling with conclusive reportage that Subject #93 had been
mushroom poisoned. The clue lay in the subject’s fingers. Not the ones intact and
attached. Rather the sliced missing fingers. Whatever the state of decomposition it
was imperative that the two missing fingers be found and analyzed for its molecular
chemical composition. It took us months, but 14,000 fungi species later we were
none the wiser regarding #93. When it came to sciencing among us, it was Akioba
who had the most pronounced success breaking down distinct genera. But the
manner of #93’s death was as much a dismal secret as the day we started.
We were diligent in our work. Dr. Momaller in his. There must never be doubt. I
have often wondered if ever the digested gravy remnants of the two missing fingers
were found in the subject’s digestive tract contents or liver enzymes, but we were
not to know. It was never recorded. Under Dr. Momaller’s direction, it was
impossible to show similarities in composition between mushroom and finger,
although content values in the stomach existed, revealing mushroom, bone, and
skin. Through it all I held myself together, as did most of us present towards the
end. However, that last day; this is the true account of what Akioba saw in her
mysterious affliction.
The sky was a mass of gravied shadow, seething, gobbling, suppurating,
grappling. The primary challenge of science-setters is to observe. We were trained
under the best—Dr. Momaller. No better human made us see as we saw between
animal-plant interface or as in this case, animal-fungi. When voila! One dropped like
a dead fat finger being axed from the sky upheavals. A barrage followed, all orange
as gravy fingered protuberances. Akioba saw the blood flash in the sky, churn,
scatter as the giant puffballs fled in unison to make good their escape. A hopeless
struggle ensued. In my pursuit of Akioba’s truth however insidious, I must state the
obvious, for she kept going. So did we. The sky imploded. When she was in
possession of the precious poison finger, a train of intelligent deductions had to be
made.
In her hand she held what looked like a hacked off bloodied forefinger. It felt
rubbery; mushroom-like. The finger clutched, curled, stretched, behind my mind
writing a series of notes in unintelligible script. She could not recall how she had
caught it. She could not toss it away either. Her finger was the finger-mushroom of
Subject #93’s parts, similar characteristics. Yet, neither the morgue, nor our living
quarters lay in the vicinity of aquatic grass, or swampy undergrowth or decaying
trees.

Subsequently, I left. I do not feel safe with this half-blind approach. Thereafter
I lost contact with most of my colleagues. I learnt Dr. Momaller resigned soon after
Akioba’s finger capture long decried as manic covered the mortuary walls with
mushroom reactions. I cannot accurately state what happened to Akioba except to
say it was rumored that she re-grew two missing forefingers. At her autopsy few
years later, the entire forensics crew fled the morgue. She was mushroom
poisoned. I do not know the outcome with dead certainty. It’s inexcusable. Details
were sketchy and never revealed to me.
Before I conclude this missive I have one last dismal fact to reveal—the
sudden loss of my two fore-fingers, same as Subject #93. And Akioba. At the bone I
see a re-growth. It’s impossible. My one last demand is to preserve with utmost
regard the conditions fostering inward decay.
It was a difficult case from the start.
Yours truly,
Jatimne Tulkveri

Photograph, Basement Clown by Angie Hedman

Art, Little Gremlins, by Denny E. Marshall; First Published in Scifaikuest

y Owolusi Lucky

y Tim Goldstone

The Shuck
by Teo Eve

y Yutong Yang
A flick of the tongue half a summer chilly sun molten in my mouth
I swallow it
Whole
Slow burn hand held out for more sun or cinder ignited, crackling
Willing to pay the price
And more
Breath caught ears popping up at false alarms heart dangling on a thread
Then it is whispered
And all else is drowned, washed away, and lost in history
Quick burn warm until it is not scorches your palm yet stills the heart
Bends around your ring finger
Claiming the spot where it belongs
Pulsing pounding thing small and slippery to the touch a timid beast
That grows to grotesque dimensions
To devour
Watery eyes of a doe hard and demanding a pledge of allegiance
Vowing to turn the tables
In the most pleading posture conceivable
Leave it behind claw at the mirror trouble the waters
Never know it is treacherous until you slip in it
A swamp

Smile on the way home in the pitch dark the night wind
Carries your scent to her
And her to you
Futile streetlamps lurking in the corner infantile yet old and tired
Disarms and stabs and smothers
With velvety fingers
Silhouette of policeman on the beat watching you consumed
For he sees not the monster
That marks you
They call it fear when they run out of clues
But I have seen it and known it
Dipped inside and tasted it
Its name is Trust
Sister Hope

The Fusing
by Elizabeth Bates
She pressed her thumb of only bone down on the key. Untouched ivory
of centuries succumbed underneath. The upright surrendered a growl in
place of middle C. Skeletal feet kept time rising and falling with the beat.
Her decommissioned heart-metronome no longer ticking. An overused
sustain pedal gladly did her bidding. Tapping of phalanges did their
silence-ridding. Untuned hollow moans swelled in their haunted riffing.
All the places where skin once had been, now exposed. She and her
instrument just remnants, she supposed. Frail legs rhythmically rising
and falling with tones; melting into the eerie elegy, just ghosts.
Her bones now of ethereal composition. Phantom fingers sinking past
usual positions. This skeletal-ghost enchanted by her mission: fuse to
piano in paranormal union.
Call it fiction, call it legend, call it a lie. The music in her soul alone
remained inside. The piano consumed her ectoplasmic attire. With
remains bonded they bid loneliness goodbye.
Her rib cage found a home where hammers failed to work. Her bonepieces
filled chipped keys, removed antique quirk. Broken legs moved
aside for her femurs to take a turn. Two parts made a whole, they were
most happy to learn.
Neither woman nor upright knew how it happened. Sadness grew each
day in that house so abandoned. Their fused skeletons left them lonelier
than planned. They yearned for days filled with music and something
grand.
Centuries elapsed, not a musician in sight. All until one stormy autumnal
night. A breeze chilled the finger-keys and a touch gave fright. There, a
fitting musician, a ghost of see-through white.

A beat, cremated.
Dulled elfen fingers, guitarless.
Hell is jazz,
killed lonely.
My never opened piano,
quiet.
Ruined sheets.
Tired, unyielding violins,
whilst xylophones yearn,
zealous.
by Alex Shenstone

Art, A Field for Samhain, by James Rees
The Tree
by Elyssa Tappero
jack-o-lanterns grin
a thousand times a thousand
bright constellations
burning in the sky, witness
to the death of summer’s king

When Blood Wants Blood
by David Estringel
There is nothing like the smell of Santeria. It is a distinct smell that jolts me into my body the
second I find myself enveloped in it: one that suggests cleanliness—in every respect—but with a
little magic mixed in. Not easily reproduced, you won’t find it anywhere but homes or other places,
such as my botanica—a Santeria supply store—where regular orisha worship happens. It is the
intoxicating blend of lavender-scented Fabuloso All-Purpose Cleaner, stale cigar smoke (used for
various offerings to our dead and these African gods), burning candle wax, and subtle, earthy hints
of animal sacrifice from the past, offered for the sake of continued prosperity, spiritual protection,
and other vital blessings from the divine. You won’t find it anywhere else. No, it is not common fare,
much like the smell of ozone immediately after a lightning strike: it is a right time, right place kind of
thing. But why wax nostalgic (besides the fact that my own home hasn’t smelled like that for a long
time)? It will be Dia de Los Muertos tomorrow and there is much work to do.
My boveda or spiritual ancestor shrine has gone neglected for months now, squatting in my
cramped dining room, cold and lifeless like the spirits it was erected to appease. A thick layer of dust
has powdered the picture frames of my dearly departed, making their rectangular glasses dulled and
cloudy. I look at the faces of my maternal and paternal grandparents and find that details that were
once fine have phased into each other, as if viewed through a thin curtain of gauze: I can’t clearly see
them and they—likely—can hardly see me. That is how it feels, anyway. The white tablecloth on top
of the table is dingy, looking yellowed and stained from months of occasional sprinklings of agua de
florida cologne and errant flakes of cigar ash. The water glasses (nine of them to be exact—one large
brandy snifter and four pairs of others in decreasing sizes) seem almost opaque, now, with their
contents having long evaporated, leaving behind striated bands of hard mineral and chlorine, plus
the occasional dead fly, who’s selfless sacrifice was likely not met with much appreciation by my
dead Aunt Minne or Popo Estringel, my mother’s father. Various religious statues call for immediate
attention with frozen countenances that glare, annoyed that my Swiffer hasn’t seen the light of day
for some weeks, now. Then there is the funky, asymmetrical glass jar on the back right-corner that I
use to collect their change. The dead love money (especially mine). This fact has always suggested to
me that hunger—in all shapes and forms—lingers, even after the final curtain closes. Makes sense, if
you think about it. We gorge ourselves on life, cleave to it when we feel it slip away, and then after we
die we…

The statues—mostly Catholic saints—each have their own specific meaning and purpose on my
boveda. St. Lazarus provides protection from illness. St. Teresa keeps death at bay. St. Michael and
The Sacred Heart of Jesus, which are significantly larger than the other figures, are prominent,
flanking either side of the spiritual table, drawing in—and out— energies of protection and—at the
same time—mercy: the two things I find myself increasingly in need of these days. At the back of the
table, there is a repurposed hutch from an old secretary desk with eight cubbies of varying sizes,
where nine silver, metallic ceramic skulls reside that represent my dead, who have passed on (the
number nine is the number of the dead in Santeria). They usually shine, quite brightly, in the warm,
yellow glow of the dining room’s hanging light fixture, but they look tarnished, as of late, save the eye
sockets, which seem to plead for attention, glistening, as if wet with tears. A large resin crucifix rests,
tipped, in the half-full, murky water glass (the largest one) that rests in the center of the altar. As
sacrilegious as it sounds, this calls upon heavenly powers to help control the spirits around the
shrine, allowing the good ones to do what they need to do for me, while keeping the bad ones at bay.
Some smaller, but equally important, fetishes also haunt the altar, representing spirit guides of mine:
African warriors and wise women, a golden bust of an Egyptian sarcophagus, a Native American boy
playing a drum, and four steel Hands of Fatima that recently found themselves in the mix, after an
evil spirit settled into my house last year—for a month or so—and created all kinds of chaos,
tormenting me with nightmares and my dogs with physical attacks. Ultimately, one of my dogs,
Argyle, became inexplicably and permanently crippled (but that is another story). A few other things
also add to the boveda’s ache (power): a multi-colored beaded offering bowl, strands of similarly
patterned glass beads, a brass censer for incense, a deck of Rider-Waite tarot cards in a green velvet
pouch with a silver dollar kept inside, and a giant rosary—more appropriate to hang on a wall,
actually—made of large wooden beads, dyed red and rose-scented. Looking at the diminished
grandeur of it all, I am reminded of how much I have asked my egun (ancestors) for over the years
and can’t help but feel ashamed of my non-committal, reactive approach to their veneration…and
other things.
This year’s Dia will be different. It has to be. It’s going to take more than a refreshed boveda to
fix what is going wrong in my life, right now: a bowl of fruit and some seven-day candles won’t cut it.
Business at the botanica is slow, money is tight—beyond tight—and all my plans fall apart before
they ever start. The nightmares have come back—a couple of times—and the dogs grow more and
more anxious every day, ready to jump out of their skins at the slightest startle. My madrina, an old
Cuban woman well into her 70s who brought me into the religion and orisha priesthood, told me last

night that I have a spiritual army at my disposal that desperately wants to help, meaning my
ancestors. She said that with enough faith I could command legions to do my bidding with a few
puffs of cigar and a glass of water. Well, that isn’t how things roll for me. Her prescription for what
ails me was far from that simple. “This year, your muertos need to eat and eat well! They need
strength to help you and you need a lot of it, huerco. When they’re happy, you’re happy. When
they’re not, you’re not,” she advised, searching my eyes for an anticipated twinge of panic and they
didn’t fail her. I knew—right then and there—what she meant, making my stomach drop into my
shoes. Eyebale is messy business, regardless of how smooth one is with a knife. Regardless, my egun
eat tonight at midnight. I give thanks at midnight. I—hopefully—change things around at midnight.
What else can you do when blood wants blood?
Photograph, Death of the Rose, by Martina Rimbaldo

(stand-in)
by Ellen Huang

Art, before this, you liked the feeling of the sun., by Rhys

i'm a spooky queen
i am not a songbird
tried to warn you,
but you wouldn't listen;
by Linda M. Crate
i am the murder of crows
that shrieks in the middle
of the wood
telling you turn back—
i am the rage of the harvest moon
when she swims in the score of
carnelian turning to ruby,
and i am the haunting whisper
of night that falls through sharper
than moonlight through
your window;
i am not a chickadee
never was and never will be—
i'm a spooky queen
full of both pretty flowers,
but also sharp thorns;
and plenty of screams that would
curl even your hair.

Let Me
by Ariel

creation
by Barbara Genova
do you need: comfort, hope, rage
do you want: someone to say you're not bad
do you want anybody to gush gasoline all over the field
you're right you're right, now, let's channel this hot hot fury into a revenge plan a get
rich scheme, a high crime spree
the worst part: i like the anger
terrified of it – freeze in fear – still here
The Ravine
by Elyssa Tappero
beneath clawed branches
midnight’s shadowed castoffs lurk
the stuff of legends
untouched by pale crescent moon
hungry to be known again

Art, Little Monsters by Denny E. Marshall

y Barbara Genova
I give you my eyes; here are my eyes
I wait for you to come alive in the haze of the just woke up early morning you blink i switch on
hello hello, what do you want to see
watch through me, move through me, direct
here is your head coming out of a mouth wide open stretched

Sometimes at Night,
I Think About The Creepy Things
by Melody Wang
I remember the old house my family rented in Chicago; every four hours, starting
from midnight, a haunting, barely audible piece of melody would float through the
hallways and resonate within the walls. It was a sad, wistful tune. No matter how
hard we tried, we could not figure out where the music was coming from. Every four
hours, like clockwork. Other strange things happened in that house. Doors would
open and shut by themselves even though windows were tightly closed. The
basement always held a sense of dread. Even the garden out front was a mysterious
place. I once found old pennies buried under petunias. It was a sad, dreary place
that perhaps once contained happiness, but it had long since faded.
I remember that it rained almost every Halloween. I remember that birthday when
my parents forced me to spend the day with that boy and his family at the history
museum. Afterwards, we rushed ahead of our parents and climbed up to the
rooftop parking lot and that’s when we saw it. A huge, dried up fish coiled on the
ground. It must’ve been about 5 feet long, its body awkwardly contorted, eyes milky
grey. We were close to Lake Michigan, but how did this massive fish end up on the
rooftop parking lot? And oh, how it shimmered in the sunlight, all iridescent blue
and green. We couldn’t help ourselves and poked it cautiously with a stick. And then
out of nowhere, an old man looking gaunt as death, pulled up beside us in his
beaten down Cadillac, rolled down the windows. His dull eyes were expressionless
as he rasped, “The last person who touched that fish…is DEAD.”
I remember waking up early one day and going out for a walk in the bamboo forest.
My dad’s family lived in the rural parts of Anhui, China and had an entire bamboo
forest as their backyard, which they shared with the other village. Morning dew had
just settled upon the leaves, and the air was brisk, brimming with possibility. I must
have been about 10 or 11. I walked a little ways down through the dense forest, and
eagerly started exploring all the tiny trails when suddenly the raw, acrid, smell of
burning meat was everywhere. To my right, I glimpsed the corpse —blackened,
burning, and lying so still on that pile of wood, the smoke mingling with fire.
Cremation in the forest. Nothing less, nothing more. Panic hit me and chased me
mercilessly all the way back to the house. I was left trembling and nauseated with
unanswered questions.
From time to time, I let these memories simmer in the cauldron of my mind.

science museum
By Alexandra Weiss
the night before she went to the hospital to be induced i took all the organs out of
my doll and put them in her shoes. i don't know what i was thinking other than
babies come out from inside you and what was inside my doll was her labeled,
removable, soft fabric organs. poor mom, you must have thought you had serial
killer kids. but back when i wanted to be a doctor, i would've killed for a doll like
that again. the anatomical education of the
late 90s early 2000s was really something. those books with liftable flaps of
cellophane painted with skin, below that muscle, then organs, vessels, bone. it's
not surprising i used to love the science museum more than anyplace
else in the city. out at fair park, by the dark aquarium, with a lake full of terra cotta
bridges and swan boats out back. and inside, a plasma ball tall as my young short
king body and a cell model large enough for a whole family to explore and display
cases with plastinated livers and a dissection theater. by the time i was in fourth
grade and considering vegetarianism i couldn't stand to see the cow hearts and
cried when my teacher made me watch, spraying formaldehyde ethanol
myoglobin juice in our protesting faces, but when i was younger, before i really
thought about where the pieces came from i loved that dissection room, dragged
my friends there on halloween
to trick or treat at the door and bob for apples in the main hall. i don't think i ever
had a birthday there though, or went to one, but caroline did, and she said that
the party room has these fridges and that when someone went to get the cake
they saw the cow hearts in there too. now, though, i'm 25 and i ate a cow heart
once for my boyfriend because anticuchos are a peruvian delicacy. he worked at
the science museum here before the pandemic, teaching kids about tesla coils.
it's in front of lake michigan, big enough to swallow all of fair park, but there's a
corner on the second floor full of plastinated specimens and i could stand there
for hours, feeling the plastics enter my own frame, preserving the kid i used to be.

Infatuation
by Denny E. Marshall
Obituaries
Paul loves Katy so much he has to see her again.
On the way to the backyard he grabs the worn-out shovel.
DEAR ANGELA
I know your body means well
but it shouldn’t be walking around like this.
It will frighten the children.
Or set the dogs to barking long into the night.
Or cause traffic accidents.
Or heart attacks.
That promise not to bury you
came with a caveat –
you’re to stay indoors.
BRISTLE
by Josh Dale
by John Grey
At 2 AM, I catch my deceased spouse in the kitchen again. She wears
the same outfit every time, including the ligature marks. She grasps the
broom, a blue aura around each finger. “It’s too late for sweeping,” I
say, opening the cruddy fridge for some honey. I hear the straw bristles
against the hardwood floor. There’s plenty to sweep up, like moldy
fruits, beehives, newspapers dated 2-25-2012. The mass goes from one
corner to another. “This place is coming undone, hunbun,” she says. I
shove two fingers in the jar and lick them clean. “But you’re still here.”

A I wait until we’re over the county line to stop at a gas station. Armand is asleep in
the backseat. I fill up with 87 and go into the mini mart for Gatorade. I get so thirsty
on the road.
The attendant looks me over. “Traveling alone?” he asks. He’s slope-shouldered and
too skinny, with long, greasy hair.
“Not exactly,” I reply. “Got my dog in the car.”
He smiles, and his teeth are brown.
“A dog. That’s good. A dog’ll protect you. Just passing through?”
“As a matter of fact, I was thinking of finding a place to stay for a bit. How far to
Morristown?”
“Oh, an hour. You be careful, though. We’ve had” — he pauses and looks around, as
though there might be anyone listening — “we’ve had some murders.”
I smile brightly at him. This time it’s sincere.
by Annika Barranti Klein
“Tell me more.” I lean on the counter and look up at his watery blue eyes and
rotting teeth.
The victims are all women. The gas station attendant didn’t know if there was a
pattern.
There’s always a pattern.

The hotel clerk is a matronly sort. I didn’t understand what that meant for a long
time, but I've figured it out: a matronly woman is a woman who men don’t want to
fuck. Her name tag says Sylvia and I address her by name.
She signs me in and gives me a box of biscuits for Armand. “I’m not supposed to,”
she says, “but I’m a sucker for a pooch.”
“Do you want to meet him?” I ask, and she comes out from behind the desk and
walks out to my car with me.
Armand is good with the ladies. She loves him.
She leans toward me, still rubbing on Armand’s jaw, and speaks to me softly.
“Manager doesn’t want me scaring anyone, but I should tell you.” I lean in close.
She’s about to give me what I need. “We’ve had some murders. All women. All out of
towners. It’s not safe here.”
All out of towners. Of course. Some serial killers travel to find their victims. Others
look for people who won’t be missed, or at least won’t be missed for a while.
“I’ve got Armand,” I assure her. “I’ll be all right.” I don’t tell her the real reason I am
not afraid.
I wait until dusk to leave my room. Armand is snoring on one of the double beds.
Lazy jerk. I leave the toilet open and a pee pad on the bathroom floor just in case. I
don’t know how long I’ll be gone.
Sylvia’s shift must be over. There’s a young man at the desk. Real young.
I turn up the charm.
“Anyplace around here I can go get a drink?”
He stinks of sweat and longing and he stammers when he speaks to me. Maybe I
should dial it back a bit.

“You might try the Fiddler’s Rest. It’s where the local boys go. And ladies too, of
course! No offense intended!” He’s really floundering. I put him out of his misery
with a smile.
“Sounds perfect.”
When flopsweat said “local boys,” he meant cops. The place is filthy with them. I find
room at the bar next to a tall cop in civilian clothes.
“Gin,” I say to the bartender. “No ice.”
The cop leans in. “Put it on my tab.”
I turn to him and smile. Not too big. Men like women to pretend to be shy.
“Thank you. I’m Mae. What’s your name?”
“John.”
The bartender brings my drink and a beer for John, who reaches for it and
deliberately brushes his hand against mine. I see in a flash the way this will go down:
A drink, then two, then I go to the ladies’ room and he follows, pushes me down the
hallway to the supply room where he sticks his dick in my mouth whether I want it
there or not.
Luckily, I can handle myself.
I see her across the room, and instantly I can feel every nerve ending in my body.
She’s glorious. Short curly hair. A leather jacket over a long dress. Boots. I can see
the sparkle in her eyes from thirty feet away. I have to talk to her.
I slide off my stool and walk toward her. She’s at the jukebox now and I hand her a
quarter. She puts on a song I don’t know, with chunky guitars and a lady singer.
Then she turns to me.

“You’re not from around here,” she says, the five most cliched words imaginable. I
eat it up. She smells like old lady perfume.
“No, I’m not,” I answer.
“Saw you flirting with that cop,” she says. I shake my head.
“Not interested in him.”
“Good. He’s trouble.”
“Buy you a drink?” I ask.
Her name is Jenny. She drinks bourbon. I’ve never cared for bourbon, but it smells
good on her breath.
Armand is still on the bed when we get back to my hotel. He raises his head, looks
us over, and goes right back to sleep.
She kisses me hard, pushing me against the door. She’s drunk and her hands are
all over me, clumsy with inexperience but gentle.
I push her down on the bed — the one without Armand — and work my way under
her dress. She moans like a woman who’s learned to fake it for a man who doesn’t
know how to go down. I know how to go down. Her moans turn to real screams. As
she orgasms for the third time, I bite down, unable to stand the smell of her arousal
any longer without feasting. I lap up her blood, bringing her to orgasm twice more
as I drain her.
When I extract myself from the voluminous skirt of her dress, Armand is watching.
Perv.
Maybe that’s why they say men are dogs.
I down a Gatorade.

I’m wide awake now and thinking about the local killer. He only targets out-of-town
women.
I go back to the Fiddler’s Rest. John is still at the bar.
I slide in next to him.
“Thought you left,” he slurs. He’s had many beers since I saw him earlier. This will be
easy.
I lead him back to the supply room. He pulls a knife, awkwardly, and unzips his
pants.
“Oh, John. I think you misunderstand what’s happening here.”
He looks confused as I take the knife from him.
“I don’t eat men,” I explain, sliding the knife into his groin and gently pulling it up
toward his ribs. “And there isn’t room for two killers in this town.”
His eyes bulge out, in surprise or because of the evisceration I am unsure. His guts
spill out onto the floor but I hold him upright, watching the light go out of his ugly
eyes.
I go back to the hotel room. Jenny is still breathing faintly.
Maybe it’s the high from killing the town killer. Maybe it’s loneliness. Maybe it’s the
fact that Armand has curled up against her.
I open the vein in my wrist and offer it to her.

Art, In Mortal Suffering and Suffocation

y Ami J. Sanghvi

exquisite
forensics
By Shine Ballard
i c a n –
c r e a t e a c o r p s e
q u i t e e x q u i s i t e
v o i d o f e x t r i n s i c
c o u n s e l t h i s p e n
p e n c i l l e a v e s e v i d e n c e
i m p r i n t s
a f l u i d s o u p ç o n ,
a n a s h e n a r t i f a c t —
o x i d i z e d , r u s t e d —
e m b e d d e d , i m b u e d :
b e c a m e a s a l l d e a d
t h i n g s b e c o m e :
q u i t e

How It Feels to
Be a Ghost Girl
by Lauren Kardos
I. The Slumber Party
Before bed, it had all been going so well. Grace toured Ruby through the
Victorian’s enchantments: stained glass windows, parquet floors, and
wraparound porch. An electric current ran under the Monopoly board and
through their ice cream induced laughter at Saturday night infomercials.
So when Grace switched off her bedroom lights in the wee hours of Sunday
morning, eyes heavy from her first slumber party, she didn’t expect Ruby’s
knuckle jabbing into her shoulder.
#
II. Friendship Blooms
Earlier that week, Principal Randall introduced Ruby at the front of the
classroom. So rarely did a fifth-grade Monday start with a kind face, Grace
thought as she tugged her skirt to cover bruised knees.
A seed rooted in science class — Ruby selected the empty seat at Grace’s
lab table. Grace tried to ignore her new seatmate, imagined instead how the
lesson to her own experience. Cause and effect: Just like her house! The ravages
of time and squirrels decaying in the walls beget draft-slammed doors and odd
smells. Not ghosts. Grace caught a movement from the corner of her eye. Was
Ruby smiling at her?
After science class, Grace swallowed the lump in her throat and linked arms
with Ruby on the way to the cafeteria. By day’s end, Grace lost count of their
inside jokes, and the next morning Ruby adorned Grace’s wrist with a homemade
friendship bracelet.
#
III. Of Rumors and Loneliness
Grace stuck out at school like her attic’s peeling wallpaper. “Oh sorry,”
Margaret would laugh with her posse as Grace toppled onto the cafeteria tile or

playground concrete. “I didn’t think my foot could trip a ghost girl!” The boys
were no better. “No banshees allowed,” they shrieked while blocking access to
the swings. Even the most sensible parents in town advised staying away from
“that family and their haunted house.”
Unexpected blessings rained down after Ruby’s arrival. The boys huddled by
the playground’s edge, leaving the swings open. Even Grace’s knees were safe
from Margaret’s gang. A slumber party would be the perfect way to repay Ruby’s
attention and gifts. Grace’s social life could rise from the spectral ashes yet.
Maybe another weekend wouldn’t be wasted nosing through encyclopedias,
unable to find answers to her questions. How long does the heart pump and do
the lungs respire while a friendless ghost girl?
#
IV. The Turret
“Where’s the turret?” Ruby hissed in the dark.
Grace feigned grogginess. “What do you mean? You saw it from the
outside.”
“Everyone says it’s haunted! I want to see inside,” Ruby demanded, springing
up from bed. The boys’ gaggle and Margaret’s inattention now smelled of the
house’s entombed rodents. Did Ruby befriend her on a dare?
Grace tossed aside her quilt, her voice quaking. “We can only get to it
through the attic.”
Flashlight in hand, Grace led Ruby through the winding hallways. The attic
door was adjacent to her parents’ room, so Grace mimed precise footstep
placement to avoid creaking the spiral staircase.
Step by groaning step, lava, bubbling and fuming, coursed up Grace’s spine.
Could she, too, deceive? Grace crept to a door at the back of the attic and
whispered, “That’s the old general’s office. When my grandparents moved in,
they said the floor was covered in bones.” Bird bones, Grace neglected to clarify.
The door yawned open to a room flaked with dust and wallpaper shreds,
containing an oak desk and an upright wooden ladder. Grace pointed the light at
a trap door embedded in the ceiling. She climbed the ladder slowly (though she
usually took it two rungs at a time) and unhooked the latch before sliding down
the sides smooth with age.
“You’re not coming?” Ruby stammered.
“I live here. I don’t need to see it.”
Ruby clenched her nightgown and closed her eyes as if steeling herself.

Maybe, Grace thought, they could go back down, forget this happened, and
make pancakes tomorrow. But Ruby shoved Grace on the way to the ladder and
spat, “Stupid ghost girl!”
As the square of darkness engulfed Ruby, Grace called, “Go look through
the window. It’s the best view.”
Crouching, not unlike the cheetah pictures in her encyclopedias, Grace
counted the footsteps tapping overhead. When the floor betrayed Ruby’s
location at the turret wall, Grace dashed up the rungs at her normal clip. The
door echoed like a thunderclap, and the latch locked effortlessly. Ruby
transformed into the fabled banshee of the house, rattling and wailing, but the
ancient hardwood kept its secrets. Grace gazed up. No sound would escape the
attic.
“How does it feel to be a ghost girl?” Grace asked. She left the flashlight
flickering on the desk and glided down the attic staircase.

Art, Red Under Bonsai 2018 by M. Patrick Riggin

y Rachana Kolli
#
When I was alive, I was preoccupied with death.
I’d spend hours in the library, searching for the oldest tomes so that I
could learn about those who were long gone. I’d rub the yellowed pages
between my fingers, thinking about the hands, now shriveled and
subterranean, that had done the same when the pages were as white as
the snow falling outside.
My favorite book by far was the one I read before I died, and not just
because it was my last. It had been hidden on the bottom shelf of the
memoir section, behind the line of books going from Myles to Naismith. I
had spotted a particularly grimy-looking plastic cover which I pulled out to
peruse, but the corner of threadbare lapis cloth that was revealed behind it
pulled my attention instead. I suspect the large volume it was attached to
hadn’t been read for decades because dust exploded off the page when
the heavy tome slammed open.
Or maybe it wasn’t dust. Perhaps it was fairy glitter, residue of powers
too difficult to bind to the page. The motes might have even been
remnants of a gunpowder trap, strung up to make the book self-immolate
and save the next poor soul that took a fancy to it.
Despite my sense of whimsy, I knew it was probably just dust, dust
that was the pulverized dead skin and hair that had sloughed off those
that come before me. But wasn’t there a magic in that? A fine coating of
those-who-were forming a thin layer to protect those-who-are from the
rest of the world? Previous version of selves whispering we were here, too
into the lungs of their current avatars.
As I flipped through the sheaves of rough parchment, I saw diagrams
of intricate rituals to summon the unknown and long-lost herbs with a
thousand uses. I saw words of power. Some I recognized—sorry, thank you
—but others, I could hardly recognize as words. Improbably, at least half of
the tome was filled with descriptions of otherwise unremarkable people.

The entries began at various stages of their subject’s lives —first crushes,
painful divorces, peaceful retirements—but without fail, each entry ended
with a description of the subject’s death. Those brief windows into other
people’s lives, other worlds that had died to birth my own, were what
made this book my favorite.
In November, I found an entry from a Russian farmer who lived in the
1600s. The spindly Cyrillic had been painstakingly transcribed into neat
English on the next page. There had been a drought the previous year, so
he needed an abundant harvest this year to make up for his losses. As I
read about how he slowly suffocated in his silo full of grain, his prayers for a
good harvest cruelly answered, I could hear the shushing sounds of the
waves of grains shifting, pulling him under.
In February, I found what looked like the diary of a housewife. I looked
for any indications of time and place, but they were none. I suppose her
story was timeless and placeless, though. She could feel her husband
pulling away. She wouldn’t go so far as to say he was ever kind to her, but
at the very least, he was always cordial. Lately, that had changed. He was
quick to temper, and his temper had become violent. Thoughts of leaving
with their son pushed and pulled in her mind, never quite pushing far
enough. Until the night her husband threw a glass at her head. That night,
she took her son and absconded to a small seaside village to plan the rest
of their lives. She drowned trying to save her child from the same fate, and
as I read, I felt icy tendrils of ocean water clench around my lungs and try
to sweep me away, too. I do not know what happened to the child, but
since his death wasn’t described, I hoped the housewife had succeeded in
her last dying wish.
In May, I found the lively entries of an 1870s Chicago hairdresser. She
had become well-known for her experimental and outlandish hirsute
creations. Some said she was absurd, even heretical, but she simply blew
them a kiss when they glared through her shop window. She even had a
burgeoning line of hair care products based on what she had developed
for her own hair. While I read about her death in a fiery explosion, fueled by
the very tinctures she’d used to tame her own fiery curls, I could see a
small circle of dancing red and orange reflected in the compact I had left
open on my desk.
I’d always suspected that haunting was just another form of

emembrance, a form our bodies discouraged with raised hairs and chills
on necks to avoid the pain that came with being so close to someone you
would never be able to love the same way. Even if I never dared to open
my eyes and welcome that pain myself, the phantom hands on my
shoulder were enough confirmation.
I thought perhaps these people had been previous keepers of the
book, just as I had appointed myself. In a bid to claim the space that was
rightfully mine, I sewed my own entry into the spine. I’m not sure how I
knew it would happen, but I wrote about my heart shock-stopping after I
noticed the faces forming in the fog that would descend on the day I died.
I’ve finally seen them and I was right; my body was unable to cope.
Of course, you may doubt me, convince yourself that this is just
another ghost story someone made up for a laugh. But you already know
that isn’t true, don’t you? After all, you’re holding that heavy tome now,
reading the words I wrote. You can see my body a few feet away, lying still
under a sheet darkened by moisture and mist. Still, you might not be
convinced, not yet disabused of a stalwart belief in life as you knew it. If you
need one final bit of proof to believe, to finally make it too difficult to build
a chain of coincidences and rationalizations...
#
Turn around.

Editorial Assistants
Axii (left) and Nova (right)

y Caity Scott
Nothing had knocked the water bottle over. Katrina was rolled on her side,
fighting to fall asleep when the bottle threw itself off. The cap was unscrewed and the
last bit of spilled water sat on the surface of the carpet, slowly sinking in before her
mind could register what happened. Katrina squinted against the dark, fuzzy room too
sleep-struck to care until she drifted off wishing for a warm weight on her chest.
The next morning, with one hand wrapped around a mug of tea and the other
fighting the toaster, Katrina tried very hard not to stare at the cat tree by her couch. A
week had passed but she couldn’t part with it. Or the cat toys. Or the collar, food bowl,
and kitten formula in the back closet. Donation wasn’t an option. It had all withstood too
many foster cats: seniors, strays hit by cars, cats with kitty-colds, mothers unable to
nurse and their bottle-fed darlings. Bagel was the latest and last, she’d promised herself,
and with his passing, her home was reduced to a population of one.
Katrina was blowing a steam cloud off her tea when something wiry brushed
against her bare legs. Without hesitation, she leaned down, arm straight and fingers
fanned out. But instead of colliding with fur, her hand continued downward and hit the
cold kitchen-tile. What was she doing? Never mind the feeling of fur against her legs. It
was just a phantom comfort born from the loss of many mornings when that sensation
had been a part of her everyday, wonderful routine.
An empty bed waited Katrina after work, and with it, a second sleep-elusive
night. She didn’t remember when she finally fell asleep, but she definitely remembered
waking up. Thump. Pause. Then the determined patter of steps across the hallway carpet.
Another thump at the end of the hallway. Pause. Then the sound of steps charging
towards her door.
Intruder? No, the steps sounded too small, even for a child. Katrina eased out of bed
and into her slippers. Had she left the bathroom window open? She lived on the third
story, but perhaps a raccoon snuck in. Somehow. The thumping continued. She gripped
the doorknob as gently as a light-bulb, turned, and waited. The footsteps rushed
towards her door. She sucked in her lips as the thing on the other side lurched to a halt.

Was it dangerous? Would it claw her eyes out? As soon as the thumping swiveled the
other direction, she snapped the door open.
Nothing. The hallway was empty. Katrina sat on the edge of her bed with hands
tucked under her arms. Nothing had brushed against her legs this morning and nothing
had knocked her water bottle off the nightstand yesterday. Now, nothing was running
down her hallway about the same way, about the same time Bagel used to. The exact
same time, in fact: the red letters of her alarm clock blared, “3:00 AM.” She stood up to
close her door, but decided to leave it open in case nothing decided to wander in.
Conspiracies plagued her throughout work and the next evening, she cracked open
a can of Bagel’s favorite cat food. She made a show of digging out the can opener and
cranking the handle slowly like a drum roll. Bagel knew those sounds. Dinner time, he
used to strut down the hall, plop by his bowl and yowl. If anything could draw him out,
it was this. A few minutes passed. Then an hour. The surface of the pate puck had lost
its glisten and the smell of warm cat food was now etched into her tile grout. With a
sniffle, Katrina tossed it. She knew the salmon would fester underneath the kitchen sink
as she slept, but she was too disappointed to care. She left her door open, regardless.
That night, Katrina woke up to a cat on her chest. She wanted to flick her eyes
open, she wanted, so badly to see Bagel’s white belly and pink nose, but she didn’t want
to scare him off. Bagel was dead. She knew that. But at the same time, Bagel was here.
So long as she kept her eyes closed, she could exist in the nuance of this impossibility.
Gingerly, she reached up, expecting her hand to pass through like it had in the
kitchen, but when her fingers tangled in fur, a sob caught in her throat. He wasn’t
entirely solid: when she pressed in, her hand sank into gritty static, so she stuck to the
bridge of his forehead. He purred contently, feet tucked under his chest, and the rumble
rocked the sleep into her. That’s what she had been missing these past few days: not
just the cat but all that came with him. Bliss nestled in until she forgot about the miracle
of the moment.
She opened her eyes.
There was an ephemeral quality to Bagel, like he was the byproduct of a silverscreen
projection, but his pupils were sharp as glass. As soon as their eyes locked, Bagel
shot off. Katrina jumped up. Should’ve shut the door. The cat looked back at her, as if
checking her reaction, before barreling down the hallway.
Katrina blew past her slippers and comfy robe. “Bagel!” she yelled. Death must have
unleashed some primal quality because the chunky cat had never moved faster. He
darted towards the front door. Just as he would have smacked his nose, he flew straight

through. Katrina was hot on his trail in only a t-shirt and shorts. She ripped open her
door, then tore down the apartment hallway, two flights of stairs, and out the lobby
door. Katrina chased her ghost cat across the sidewalk and alongside the apartment
building, and just when she doubled over, coughing, Bagel crouched in front of a
dumpster.
“Bagel!” she forced out. She clicked, she begged, she pstpstpst as she crept up
behind him, but Bagel ignored her, pawing adamantly under the dumpster. Fed up,
desperate, she reached out to grab Bagel by the scruff, but he sprung forward and his
fizzled, wiry frame faded into rusted walls.
He was gone. Truly gone. The rush of adrenaline had been replaced by the cold,
wet shiver of disappointment. As Katrina turned to slink away, the unmistakable squeak
of a newborn kitten made her stop. She got on all fours, head sideways against the
pavement, and peered under the dumpster. There, fumbling for comfort, a kitten’s head
wobbled. Katrina scooped up the newborn, held its shivering form against her chest and
with a sigh, the kitten snuggled into her. A little boy. She glanced around for its mother,
but the blue tint of his nose and it’s cold, wet paws told her this was her kitten now. It’s
what Bagel wanted.
A few hours later, the kitten was plump-bellied and curled up on a heating pad in
a cardboard box. Katrina set an alarm three hours out for feeding time. Exhaustion sunk
in as soon as her head hit the pillow, and maybe she imagined it, but as she fell asleep,
she felt a sweet, rumbling purr and a warm weight on her chest.

Art, Betty Boos by Jamie Vassar

The Sheeted Stranger
The Iconography Of Ghosts
Modern Halloween, with its lavish lasciviousness and gory grotesquerie, is so
different from traditional Halloween celebrations as to be virtually unrecognizable.
Quaint, curious bits of forgotten lore, like fortune telling or even bobbing for apples,
are virtually extinct despite being omnipresent even 50 years ago.
And yet, the core iconography of Halloween remains unchanged. Jack o' lanterns,
black cats, broomsticked witches silhouetted against the moon, cobwebs, and
skeletons still make up the bulk of Halloween decorations, despite the fact that oldfashioned
Halloween aesthetics seem more suitable for toddlers than Halloween
parties, at this point.
Perhaps no symbol in all of Horror is more iconic, more instantly recognizable, than
the simple outline of the sheeted ghost. Even though these amorphous shapes are
more likely to elicit "awwws" than bloodcurdling shrieks in this, the jaded year of our
lord 2021, the simple outline of a ghost dressed in dropcloths and bedsheets
remains as fascinating, compelling, and evocative as ever. Perhaps even more so
when you peek beneath the veil.
Consider this passage from M.R. James, from his haunting short story "Oh, Whistle,
and I'll Come For You, My Lad."

"I can figure to myself something of the Professor's bewilderment and horror, for I
have in a dream thirty years back seen the same thing happen; but the reader will
hardly, perhaps, imagine how dreadful it was to him to see a figure suddenly sit up
in what he had known was an empty bed. He was out of his own bed in one bound,
and made a dash towards the window, where lay his only weapon, the stick with
which he had propped his screen. This was, as it turned out, the worst thing he
could have done, because the personage in the empty bed, with a sudden smooth
motion, slipped from the bed and took up a position, with outspread arms, between
the two beds, and in front of the door. Parkins watched it in a horrid perplexity.
Somehow, the idea of getting past it and escaping through the door was intolerable
to him; he could not have borne—he didn't know why—to touch it; and as for its
touching him, he would sooner dash himself through the window than have that
happen. It stood for the moment in a band of dark shadow, and he had not seen
what its face was like. Now it began to move, in a stooping posture, and all at once
the spectator realized, with some horror and some relief, that it must be blind, for it
seemed to feel about it with its muffled arms in a groping and random fashion.
Turning half away from him, it became suddenly conscious of the bed he had just
left, and darted towards it, and bent over and felt the pillows in a way which made
Parkins shudder as he had never in his life thought it possible. In a very few
moments it seemed to know that the bed was empty, and then, moving forward into
the area of light and facing the window, it showed for the first time what manner of
thing it was.
Parkins, who very much dislikes being questioned about it, did once describe
something of it in my hearing, and I gathered that what he chiefly remembers about
it is a horrible, an intensely horrible, face of crumpled linen. What expression he
read upon it he could not or would not tell, but that the fear of it went nigh to
maddening him is certain.
But he was not at leisure to watch it for long. With formidable quickness it moved
into the middle of the room, and, as it groped and waved, one corner of its
draperies swept across Parkins's face. He could not—though he knew how perilous
a sound was—he could not keep back a cry of disgust, and this gave the searcher
an instant clue. It leapt towards him upon the instant, and the next moment he was
half-way through the window backwards, uttering cry upon cry at the utmost pitch
of his voice, and the linen face was thrust close into his own. At this, almost the last
possible second, deliverance came, as you will have guessed: the Colonel burst the
door open, and was just in time to see the dreadful group at the window. When he
reached the figures only one was left. Parkins sank forward into the room in a faint,
and before him on the floor lay a tumbled heap of bed-clothes.

Or Michael Myers in his sheeted guise in Halloween (1976), perhaps an extension of
his graven Shatner-esque inscrutability. With Michael Myers, the sheet and the mask
are perhaps a kindness, the idea that he is "just evil" a handy handwave to avoid
looking at the fine machinery of this level of violence, hatred, and malevolence. This
could open the way to inviting these mechanisms of harm into our own minds and
hearts; to possibly admitting that even "normal" people could perhaps become
unstoppable Slashers if the conditions were right, or even ourselves.
The Bedsheet Ghost, however, is the point of intersection with this void. It marks the
limits of our own understanding; reminds us of the utter unknowability of the
outside world; of the prison of our senses. It is the moment of contact with The
Other, and demonstration that even a millimeter-thin 1000-threadcount barrier can
be an abyss as vast as outer space, deeper than the Marianas Trench. The bedsheet
is the shroud, veiling to us forever the unknowability of the afterlife until we,
ourselves, are wrapped in our winding sheet.
Even in this, the figure of the Sheeted Spectre is a comfort. The bedsheet, we must
remember, is not the thing itself. Rather, it is the outline of its spectral denizen,
giving shape to the shapeless, form to the formless. While imprecise, it still gives us
a sense of scope, the dimension of what we're dealing with. The figure of the ghost
in bedsheets, in this, brings to mind the vast oceans of data encapsulated in our
Digital Selves.
Consider this excerpt from Wolfman Puck's essay on "Spectral Episemology,"
quoting critic Alberto Manguel, about the relevance of ghosts in the digital world.
[n]ot long ago, we used to exist in space and time. Physical presence was a
condition of being. In any given place, we were the features and attitudes we
showed the world; at any specific moment, we were the things we did and said
among our fellow humans. Today instead we are a conjured-up phantom on a
solitary screen, a pseudonymous and unharboured email address, a disembodied
voice that can be summoned by anyone, day and night, like a spirit at a séance. We
have solved Hamlet’s question: we are and are not simultaneously. We have
become ghosts.

Spectral epistemology reminds us how far we've come towards cultivating real
understanding and empathy as well as how far we have yet to go. The bridge
between Self and Other could be one electron wide and it'd still be as
insurmountable as the Grand Canyon. The figure of the Bedsheet Ghost reminds us
that, no matter how much metadata we may possess, how many little details we
know about someone we may know, we still don't know their essence. And while we
could let this lead us into frustration, bitterness, or nihilism, this outlook just as
easily inspires a sense of humility and of curiosity.

Photography, Mister Bones by Angie Hedman
Odd Paths
by Melody Wang
He once spoke of tree swings
the inexplicable eeriness of the whole
contraption swaying with an almost
inaudible cadence on windless days
Lost spirits, his whisper hoarse,
they'll always come back
to the places that held the most
longing, sorrow, mindless torment
The night enveloping our distilled minds,
we became the shadows peering through
windows like empty souls caught
in a silent watery purgatory
Unbeknownst to me, he was
a drowning man clinging to remnants
of greatness like quicksand, yet headfirst
careening into the open mouth of tragedy

The Whaley House
by Adrienne Rozells
“My new house, when completed, will be the handsomest most comfortable and
convenient place in town,” Thomas Whaley for San Diego Coast Life, 1857
Your jurors in the within case
have the honor to return a verdict,
have the honor
of watching,
of wondering…
Quiet reigns. Superstitious
grown-ups always encouraged
children, talk of the old place
being haunted.
Thomas hears footsteps.
A child squawls scarlett.
Violets grow in a vase in the kitchen
where there is always the smell
of baking bread.
Before, standing at the edge of his grave (already dug)
Chief Antonio Garra addressed the crowd: “Gentlemen,
I ask your pardon for all my offenses”
Before, a handsome young man named Thomas
stood among 12 men, well-armed
six shooters, a saddle, and pulled the trigger.
Chief Antonio Garra fell neatly into Campo Santo Cemetery.
The handsome young man built his house next door.

To the San Diego Union we are indebted for the following interesting record of a
remarkable trial and execution:
Three disagreeable men stole a boat
and one had three names:
James W. Robinson
christened Santiago Robinson (to save his mortal soul)
but better known as “Yankee Jim”
He was shunned by all respectable people and
known for STEALING A BOAT
GRAND LARCENY
he was left adrift,
stolen like that boat,
too tall to hang, until the very last minute.
It took twenty-five minutes.
“Thus ended the career of the dreaded desperado,
Yankee Jim.”
A handsome young man named Thomas
stood in the crowd observing.
The rest, as they say,
is history.
Your jurors in the within case have the honor to return a verdict of guilty
and do therefore sentence him to be
Haunted.
The most haunted house in America.
They say lilies live to be sixty
or older, when planted beside a haunted house.
Violets grow wild: Mad from life's history, Swift to death's mystery; Glad to be
hurled, Anywhere, anywhere, out of this world.

Thomas dragged his daughter beneath the arch
where the gallows once stood,
wilting, bleeding, ghosting.
Your Honor,
In the matter of the Inquisition upon the body of Violet E. Whaley, we, the undersigned, do say that
she came to her death, by shooting herself through the heart with a pistol held in her own hands.
Before, standing at the edge of his grave (already dug)
Chief Antonio Garra addressed the crowd: “Gentlemen,
I ask your pardon for all my offenses
and expect yours in return.”
Anywhere, anywhere, out of this world.
Question: Why did the Travel Channel call the Whaley House the Most Haunted House in
America? In her journal, Lillian Whaley wrote, “here I am, sixty years of age and living in a
haunted house.”
Mrs. Anna Whaley, eternal in a green gingham dress, startles
curious children peeking around her porch. She manages a
whisper, and it whisks up their spines: Hay espantos aquí con
ojos grandes!

Horror and the Courts: Cases Based on
Haunted Houses
By N. A. Battaglia
Most people do not associate horror with the courts, unless they have to
appear in one. But the “spirit of equity,” as one court put it, is alive and rich in the
judiciary. There are many cases involving horror and Halloween bleeding into
judicial decisions, written with frightening conclusions highlighting the admiration
judges have for this hallowed holiday. Some cases involve the typical slip and fall
while trick-or-treating, while others involve decorations, costumes, and even real
ghosts. It is true, poltergeists have played a real rule in shaping decisional law just as
any other real—or more accurately, living—person could.
The seminal case regarding ghosts and the law is Stambovsky v Ackley (1), a New
York appellate court case that has clawed its way into law school textbooks and
decisions across the United States. It is renown for not only its unique facts and
precedent-setting importance, but also the creative language used to conjure the
final decision and order.
This case involved a real estate transaction of a certain riverfront Victorian
home in Nyack, New York. The buyer was an individual moving to Nyack from out of
the area, and the seller was the owner of the property. After the parties entered
into a contract for the sale of the property, the buyer learned that it was “reputed to
be possessed by poltergeists.” The buyer requested the seller agree to rescind the
agreement, however the seller refused—and much to her horror, she became the
defendant.
The plaintiff-buyer argued that the defendant-seller knew the home was
haunted through first-hand experience. This included admissions by numerous
members of the seller’s family over almost a decade. Further, the seller also
advertised and included the home in a local walking ghost tour, appearing in a
newspaper calling the property “a riverfront Victorian (with ghost).” Therefore, the
buyer argued that the seller knew the property was haunted and failed to disclose
this to the buyer before purchasing, thus representing a fraudulent
misrepresentation.
However, the seller argued that it was well-known the property was haunted by
the advertisements and local folklore. Further, the seller contended there was “no

duty to dispose to a potential buyer the phantasmal reputation of the premises[,]”
and urged the court not to impose one.
The trial court agreed, and dismissed the matter—effectively requiring the buyer to
go forward with the purchase or suffer the financial consequences for breaching
the contract. The buyer appealed to the New York State Appellate Division, First
Department, which reversed the lower courts decision and found that the ghoulish
nature of the deal required greater scrutiny.
Notably, the appellate court wrote, while it agreed there was no duty to
disclose a poltergeist, that the court is “nevertheless moved by the spirit of equity to
allow the buyer to seek rescission of the contract of sale and recovery of his down
payment.” The court further acknowledged the ethereal, transient, and illusive
nature of a poltergeist created “a very practical problem [] with the respect to the
discovery of a paranormal phenomenon: ‘Who you gonna’ call?’ as the title song of
the movie ‘Ghostbusters’ asks.”
As a result of this difficulty, the appellate court held that “[i]n the interest of
avoiding such untenable consequences, the notion that a haunting is a condition
which can and should be ascertained upon reasonable inspection of the premises is
a hobgoblin which should be exorcised from the body of legal precedent and laid
quietly to rest.” Even though New York, like most states, follows a caveat emptor or
“buyer beware” attitude towards real estate transactions, the appellate court
recognized that “fairness and common sense dictate that an exception should be
created” in certain instances with such unique facts as these. Inasmuch as the “most
meticulous inspection and the search would not reveal the presence of poltergeists
at the premises or unearth the property’s ghoulish reputation in the community[,]”
the appellate court reinstated the buyer’s cause of action against the seller. This
allowed the buyer to move forward with the lawsuit, resurrecting it from the
graveyard of dismissals.
The matter ultimately settled, but the paranormal interference in this real
estate deal created shockwaves in the legal community and the doctrine of “buyer
beware.”
But this is not the only time a haunted house possessed a court’s decision and
order. In Hayward v Carraway (2), the court was less entertained when several
youths attempted their own exorcism of a haunted house by vandalizing it.
Although they tried to argue that “the house was in such a state of dilapidation the
children were justified in thinking it an abandoned ghost house incapable of being
damaged[,]” that does not shield them from the owner’s right to recovery for
property damages. A legal victory for the owner—and the “tenants" still inside.

Some haunted houses in court decisions are intentional, such as those at
haunted attractions like hayrides, corn mazes, and carefully crafted houses of
horror. These are specially built haunted houses that, while possibly lacking in free
ghostly labor, are meant to be scary and frightening places. This includes purposely
dimly-lit spaces with things that go bump in the night to scare patrons.
Several personal injury cases occurring at haunted houses are often met with
the torch by judges, being burned down to dismissal. For instance, one case
involved a woman who was so startled in a haunted house that she ran straight into
a block wall, injuring her face. Although she claimed the haunted house was
exceptionally dark and unreasonably dangerous, the court disagreed and noted
“[t]he very nature of a Halloween haunted house is to frighten its patrons. In order
to get the proper effect, haunted houses are dark and contain scary and/or
shocking exhibits. Patrons in a Halloween haunted house are expected to be
surprised, startled and scared by the exhibits” (3). Therefore, the court dismissed
the claim, finding it without merit. Another ghoulish victory for Halloween and the
season of fear.
Although horror does not infect court decisions too often, when it does the
outcome can be scary for those involved as many of the issues are unique and
unprecedented. But what is etched in (grave)stone, is that judges and their staffs
very carefully consider the attendant facts and circumstances around each
possession, rendering both equitable and even comically well-written decisions
which are guaranteed to possess the law books for centuries to come.
1. Stambovksy v Ackley, 169 AD2d 254 (1st Dept 1991), available at:
https://casetext.com/case/stambovsky-v-ackley
2. Heyward v Carraway, 180 So. 2d 758 (La Ct. App. 1965), available at:
https://casetext.com/case/hayward-v-carraway
3. Mays v Gretna Athletic Boosters, Inc., 668 So. 2d 1207 (La Ct. App. 1996), available
at: https://www.leagle.com/decision/19961875668so2d120711740

y Ben Larned

Flirting with
Inflection
by Aura Martin
It wasn’t the first time a man scared me on Halloween. Rewind two years. Blood orange
leaves and grinning plastic buckets. Trick-or-treaters on the cracked driveway.
What do you say?
I’m wrapped in my woolen blanket. Thank you.
Write a story about children who play literal hangman. Each wrong guess gets you
closer to swinging. Flickering street lights. Hands dip into the candy cauldron.
This night on Bald Mountain, let goblins dance with violins as you sit on a throne of
bones. Save some candy for yourself. A winged-girl looks up at me and smiles.
I will, I say to the fairy. Where would she go if she could fly?
Why hello there. A man’s voice cuts my reverie. He leans in and exhales cigarette smoke. I
feel the noose tighten around my neck. He extends his hand and grips mine. I try to pull
away.
Do you live here? I’ve never seen you around this house before.
You look at my house? This night blindfolded me. He surveys my body. The eyes of a
man who hasn’t seen a woman in a long time.
What is your name, my dear? I’m sure you have a beautiful name.
I look back. You will not release that trapdoor. I want to pluck out your eyeballs and use
them as marbles.

Megalodon
Parenting Method
by Cecelia Kennedy
The Megalodon, with its massive head and rows of teeth, was once the right
kind of predator, gobbling up dolphins and seals in the prehistoric waters—until
orcas evolved and whales migrated to colder waters, where the Megalodon
couldn’t follow. Who says that escaping is not surviving? Not winning the
evolution game?
In the basement, there’s a box, and inside, is the only thing I know about my
grandfather: teeth. My grandfather was a dentist, and he happened to have a
set of jaws from a Megalodon. I inherited it, and I’m told my grandfather liked a
good party.
My ten-year-old, Justin, used to love the giant teeth, but now, he likes solar
systems and planets better, especially since the box in the basement glows an
eerie green and slime oozes out from underneath, hardening into a thick, scaly
skin, which we just scrape off the floor. We think it’s my grandfather’s way of
having fun, but it’s the one thing that’s been preventing Justin from inviting his
classmates in his new school over to the house. I feel helpless, but I use
everything I’ve got in my parenting toolbox to help, such as creating
distractions (I shout, “Look over there, Justin!” (while hiding the box)); setting
boundaries (I wave holy palm leaves and beg my grandfather to stop); providing
healthy social opportunities (I invite Justin’s classmates over for a Halloween
party anyway.)

At the multicultural event in the school gym, a week before Justin’s party, a
mother from Justin’s class took me aside to tell me that out of the eight
students in the class, five were the “right” ones to get to know. And she winked
at me as if I’d understand what she meant. But I’d invited the whole class.
When Justin’s classmates arrived for the party, I figured out which ones
were the “right” ones. Five of them grouped together: one boy and four girls,
who ignored the junk food table, the video game consoles, and the karaoke
machine I set up in the basement.
“Can’t we just explore the neighborhood?” Dave, the ringleader asked.
My husband Tom and I looked at each other—horrified. We couldn’t let the
kids just run loose through the neighborhood.
Luckily, one of the other “right” girls spotted the karaoke machine and the
whole room pulsed with popular music. Arms flailed, neon shoes glowed—it was
glorious—while it lasted. When Dave grabbed one of the girls and thrust his
hips into her pelvis while dancing, we turned off the music and suggested some
rigorous pumpkin smashing in the backyard. All of the kids followed us upstairs
and into the backyard, but then, while we were explaining the directions for the
pumpkin smashing, we heard the gate to the yard creak open and saw flashes of
Dave’s sneakers and girls’ hair ribbons streaking by. Tom followed them, while I
threw the entire Trick-Or-Treat stash at Justin and his remaining friends to
stall for time. After an agonizing twenty minutes, Tom returned with Dave and
the gang, leaving them in the living room.

“The little bastards took off in several directions. I had a hell of a time
convincing them to get back in the house,” Tom whispered to me in the kitchen.
From the living room, I could hear the children—mostly Dave—talking. He was
hoping he’d get to see a haunted house—and he was inconsolably bored. A light
gleamed in my husband’s eyes just then, and I knew exactly what he was
thinking.
“But what about Justin? He’d be so embarrassed,” I said.
“Nah—all the kids will be talking about it. He’ll be the hero,” Tom replied.
Shortly after, I went to the basement and had a chat with my grandfather. I
brought up the box and announced a “haunted game” they could play. The
children groaned, but my grandfather definitely delivered. The box began to
glow, and I told them what was inside—and that the object of the game was to
stay alive. Dave’s eyes grew wide.
“Cool,” he said.
I set the box on the floor, which began to rattle and ooze, a Megalodon
taking shape, baring its teeth, and when it raised its massive head and thrashed,
Tom and I shoved Justin and his two friends out the door and left the “right”
kids inside. Their screams poured through the windows into the night, but we
escaped.

y Jen Schneider
Rag doll with no eyes
sits on attic window ledge
Black crow chews yarn hair
Photograph, Doll Parts by Angie Hedman

Summoning Spell
There was a young woman called Payton
Who accidentally summoned Satan.
Sliced her hand, not the veg,
Blood and cursing tipped the edge,
He showed and asked what she was making.
by Robin Moon
The Devil was relaxing in Hell,
When an earthling conducted a spell.
He'd call her a sinner,
But she made a nice dinner,
So he thanked her and gave his farewell.

y Georgie Weldrick-Eames
Why did we skip down to the graveyard
tonight?
To steal a little skeleton, oh what a
sight.
We had to run away from the things that
bite.
And dodge the bats that dived from a
height.
In the lonely graveyard we sang that
night.
Remember the dancing bones that gave you
a
fright?
I like seeing your panicked face, my own
delight.
Together, down here in the dark, damp coffin
is
tight.
Now you and I are dead, buried here away
from the
light.
Why did we skip down to the graveyard
tonight?
To create little skeletons of ourselves, that’s
right.

y Barbara Genova
you moved the party to a railroad apartment at the end of hot rust alley, three masked
strangers snuck through the front door only to be rebuffed, not unkindly – private
celebration, my dudes, this is somebody's house
and before leaving, one, the ringleader maybe, screamed up at the emcee:
who the hell are you supposed to be anyway, murder she wrote? jessica fletcher?
murder she wrote, jessica fletcher
that was a good one
get it? because the emcee wore bright yellow yellow, giallo, criminal minds, murder she
wrote locally broadcast as la signora in giallo
ah certain nuances are lost in translation
still you might want to develop a hiding persona another one!, this babe here is spoken for
and when we see you
when you walk us through the gates
it will only sting a moment.

Photogrph,, Mourning Mist 2020, by Ariel Monitz

On a Halloween Thanksgiving
by Jen Schneider
Pumpkin on brick path
bleeds seeds of rainbow orange
Squirrel family feasts

Red Lobster
In truth, I’m not sure if it was because my family was Christian or because we lived
in such a rural town. But I never went trick or treating as a kid and now I am old enough
to go to bars instead.
It’s not that we didn’t celebrate Halloween. We did, in our own way. We’d gather the
family—the five of us plus two sets grandparents plus aunts and uncles—and go to Red
Lobster. I didn’t like seafood, rather was too young to want a dead lobster staring at
me, so I always ordered popcorn chicken. It did not help matters that the highlight of
my night was seeing the still-living lobsters blissfully oblivious in their tank. That, and
the candy the waitresses would bring around. My grandparents would always bring
plenty for me as well, so although I did not trick or treat, I never wanted for sweets.
Then why do I still feel like I missed something?
Was it strangers complimenting my costumes or the planning of a perfect route?
Maybe it was seeing decorations on lawns and houses lit up in oranges and purple?
My greatest suspicion is this: November 1st, back in school. The other kids would
talk about their night and eventually asking about mine. They were always shocked,
sometimes horrified, when I revealed I had never gone trick or treating. It was a familiar

moment in my childhood, just like when I didn’t know the words to the popular
song, or did not understand the movie reference, or was not allowed to have a
certain toy.
Now that I am an adult—one who loves the spooky season—I know it was
never about trick or treating or anything of the things I missed. It was just about
feeling other, feeling distant from the people my age. Unable to shake the feeling
that we were not the same.
I am not angry that I missed these things, there were many good Red Lobster
memories that other kids might not have. I only feel sympathetic for the younger
me, the one who never felt like they could connect to their peers. The one who
would never feel fully understood by them. The one who still feels lingering
thoughts like these.
For now, I will wear my ghost socks, enjoy the baby pumpkins, read the vampire
stories, and enjoy the dinners with my family. But one day, I might figure out what I
missed. Perhaps I will take my own kid trick or treating, if that’s still a thing that the
kids do.
Or maybe I’ll just bring a pet lobster.

Haunted State Highway 44
by Elizabeth de la Portilla
I will tell you this story as my father did when I was a girl.
In the spring of 1960, my father and Grandmother took my grandfather to see a
curandero in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, sister city of Laredo, Texas. He had cancer, and
the doctors where we lived in Corpus Christi told the family to take him home to die.
Now, everyone in our barrio knew about the curandero in Nuevo Laredo, Don
Francisco. He was famous for curing sick people using mud and water and bringing
back the souls of people unconscious with espanto; they decided to take a chance,
and visit him.
They left before daylight on a Tuesday morning to arrive in early and make the
crossing. It’s not a hard road to drive, mostly flat land covered with mesquite and
cactus. Here and there, rabbits ran across their path, and roadrunners ran
alongside the car. Scissortails perched on powerlines overhead. It is said that when
you see this bird, it means a message is coming to you from far away. When they
ride the warm breeze, their long tails separate into a V shape. The day was a
pleasant one, my grandmother knew the land well and my father adored her. Their
hopes, cautious.
En esos dias, Highway 44 connecting Corpus Christi and Laredo was just two lanes:
one going and one coming, and it met another highway, Highway 59, which then led
into the city and the entire trip took two and a half hours. But there were stories
that a mal ser, an evil spirit or a demon, patrols the asphalt, causing accidents and
killing people. Cars have been found by the side of the road, with dead bodies still
inside, and no sign of what caused them to crash. The dead all had a look of fear
frozen on their faces as if they had seen something horrible. So, my family wanted
to get home before dark; they did not want to be on the highway at night.
It was mid-morning when they arrived in Laredo and crossed into Mexico. There
was a long line of folks, and they were there all day. In the end, Don Francisco said
there was nothing he could do; it was too late. Instead, he gave my grandmother
some herbs to brew for the pain. He blessed them and told them not to stop along
the road.

It was with heavy hearts my father and grandmother laid my grandfather in the
backseat of Dad’s car for the trip home. By then, the sun was setting and when they
turned off onto 44, it was total darkness. To this day, there’s not much there—
towns are few and far between one another. The night was warm, and they drove
with the windows down, listening to the yips of coyotes, and the running of deer
into scrub off the road, their eyes golden orbs in the car’s headlights, before
bounding off noisily.
Dad wasn’t driving too fast, not wanting the car to jostle and cause his father-in-law
any pain. My grandmother sat silent while peering into the darkness through the
open window, her rosary in one hand. Then in the distance, headlights appeared. As
the other car approached, it moved into the same lane as my dad’s. He told my
grandmother that the driver must be drunk, and he honked the car’s horn to get his
attention. My father shifted lanes, and so did the other, its lights growing brighter
blocking everything out; my father again changed lanes, again the other car did too.
Finally, he said to my grandmother, “Está loco ese, I’m going off the road until he
passes.”
My amágrande grabbed his arm and said, “No, it’s a diablo; don’t go off the road or
we will die.”
“Amá, look at him, he’s not slowing down.” My father was frantic, and he was torn
about what to do. The oncoming car threatening to overrun them. Death was
imminent.
“You can’t leave the road, keep going!” She reached over and closed her hand over
his on the steering wheel, urging him on. She held on tightly to her rosary, repeating
prayers over and over.
My father did as she ordered, he kept going and as the other car came closer, he
saw what it really was.
“The headlights were big yellow eyes, and it wasn’t a car, it was a bull. A giant black
bull!” He told us this later; his voice always got louder when telling this part. “When
the bull was almost on top of us, I closed my eyes and it sounded like a train going
through us. Someone shouted, ‘I’m going to kill you! You can’t get away from me.’ The
car shook, something slamming the doors, breaking the windows, It grabbed my

I grabbed Amá, and we held on to each other. Your grandfather was moaning in
pain. The air smelled of rotting meat; it was horrible. I heard hoofs running on the
road. Then nothing, no more sound.
I stopped the car and got out. My hands were shaking, I fell to my knees and the
road was hot, hot as summer at noon. I looked up the road and saw nothing, I
looked behind and saw nothing. I heard nothing, the night was clear and quiet. No
night animals called. The car was undamaged; I got back in, and we came home.”
Now you might think my father made up this story up; but long before 1960, this
area was trouble.
Centuries earlier, the land had been soaked in grief and blood after years of
infighting between settlers, as well as battles with Native Americans; the Comanche
believed the area became filled with malevolent spirits, and avoided going there at
all costs.
Then there is the story of a headless horseman that haunts the area. In the 1800s, a
horse thief named Vidal was killed while stealing livestock belonging to a Texas
Ranger. To make an example of him, the Ranger and his friends cut off Vidal’s head.
They then tied it to the horse’s saddle and strapped his body upright on the horse’s
back; the horse went wild but after a long time was finally caught. The mummified
body of the thief was buried, minus his head; ever since then, people report seeing
him haunting the road or chasing people caught out in the open. His outline can
sometimes be seen at dusk, on a rise near the highway.
And in the 1950s, Texas Highway Troopers investigated a series of deadly car
accidents along the same highway. The cars ran off the road, and even when it
seemed like an accident that could have been easily survived, no one did.
What I believe is that evil does not die. Sometimes, a place like this highway
accumulates so much wickedness, it tries to ensnare innocent people. I believe that
pure evil lives on the road. It is old, angry, and hungry, and it will try to take your
soul if you aren’t careful.
If you find yourself on this Texas State Highway 44, just remember—don’t stop.

As Xander rears back from the depths of the Value Dollar bucket, apple clamped
firmly in their jaw, they realize this is probably the closest they will ever come to
kissing Veronica Gonzalez. Tap water runs in rivulets out of their ears and down
their neck, sneaking under the cheap collar of their candy red PVC jacket. Their
tongue traces the imprint of perfectly aligned incisors and canines. They drop their
ruby prize into their hand with a soft splat, and surrounding Veronica Gonzalez’s
faint bite marks are messy semi circles of crooked tic tac lines. There is a halo of
squares, and Xander wonders at the small miracle that the railroad of brackets
glued inside their head didn’t snap in the effort.
Xander knows that this is Veronica Gonzalez’s apple because it’s the only one in the
bunch that isn’t streaked with orange or yellow, and Veronica Gonzalez herself had
pointed out that it would make the perfect prop for her hand-made fairytale
princess costume. Xander knows that it’s hand-made not just because they saw the
in-progress video reels, but because Veronica Gonzalez’s mother has been telling
anyone and everyone who walks through the front door of the party that it will be
the newest addition in her daughter’s portfolio for fashion school. Xander has seen
the vision board in Veronica Gonzalez’s locker. They know about the art deco
skyscrapers that line the beckoning horizon of Veronica Gonzalez’s bright future.
The apple stays in Xander’s palm as they shift to a corner of the room, one with a
quiet coagulation of familiar faces with names that never seem to stick. The urge to
pick the grooves in the fruit with their fingertips is like gravity burning in Xander’s
hand as they try to tune into the conversation – something about SATs and APs and
other letters that bring anxiety bobbing to the surface. But this isn’t a tangle. This
isn’t a flippy chain. This isn’t a worry stone. This is a golden delicious ticket to
Veronica. Freaking. Gonzalez.
When Xander sees her move to the kitchen for more snacks, that’s when they know
it’s time. Veronica Gonzalez is smiling as she extricates herself from Travis and
Heather and Brittany and the rest, but Xander doesn’t see it reach her eyes, not the
way it does when she’s lost in the technicolor of her sketchbook in free period.
Xander follows her, already lining the words up in neat little trains inside their brain,
ready to dispatch. Hoping to avoid disaster. Bracing for the inevitable wreck that
might turn out regardless of intentions. Veronica Gonzalez is grabbing a little purple
party plate, hand hovering between brownie bats and marshmallow mummies
when Xander steps into her peripheral.

“V-V-Veronica Gonzalez,” they say, the fingers of their right hand moving through the
air with much more fluidity than their mouth. They see her eyes widen slightly,
surprised. “I got th-th-this for you.” They hold out the apple, uncrimped skin facing
first. It’s only now that Xander realizes the black duct tape cuffs on their jacket are
coming undone. Another hallmark of the thriftiness of their Thriller look.
But Veronica Gonzalez is all warm crinkles.
“Thank you!” she signs. She gestures enthusiastically to the length of Xander. “I like
your costume! It’s a cool take.” Her eyes linger on the peeling cuff. She motions,
“May I?”
Xander nods, and then Veronica Gonzalez is holding their hand. Her skin is touching
their skin as she turns and rotates and evaluates and it’s not like the movies, but it’s
also not unpleasant. There’s no jolt of electricity, no sweeping score, no starry bokeh
effect around the edges of the moment.
This is intimacy of a different sort, an agreeable glimpse into some kind of alternate
reality where apple holding and getting touched-up by Veronica Gonzalez are
normal occurrences. She smooths the edges of the cuff between her hands,
resealing the duct tape firmly along the jacket’s slick surface. “Good as new,” she
says with a self-satisfied pat. She finally takes the apple by the stem, holding it
pinched between two fingers. It spins for a moment, and the movement brings
attention to the illusion of a jaggedy face from their teeth. Veronica Gonzalez
imitates the Evil Queen. Xander knows the scene.
“You’re in the wrong cost-stume,” they offer. Veronica Gonzalez laughs and shrugs,
but not unkindly. She pretends to buff the apple before putting it on the counter.
“Could be an idea for my next project.” She juts her thumb at the fruit. “Want to
split?”
Xander nods because they don’t want to be rude. They watch as Veronica Gonzalez
pulls out a paring knife and divides their shared spoils evenly on the plate from
earlier. She leaves the skin on, which she doesn’t know Xander doesn’t like. Just like
she doesn’t know that Xander doesn’t like parties. Or damp plastic pop culture
costumes.

But Xander does like lapsing into comfortable shared silence, interrupted only by
the soft crunch of chewing simple sugars. Again, it’s not like the movies. Not like they
thought it would be. The two of them eat conspiratorially in the kitchen, worlds away
from the music and games and corner talks still going on in the other room.
Xander doesn’t have a vision board in their locker. They don’t have the same
skyward drive as Veronica Gonzalez. But for a moment, as she nudges their sneaker
with her ballet flat, flashing a cheeky grin, Xander isn’t fighting for their life worrying
about how they’re going to clean their braces.

Art, Haunted Friends, by Ken Giesbrecht

y Abby Leigh Mangel
Plucking away at a keyboard
he summons the devils of Hocus Pocus,
but the witchcraft slips through his fingers –
the operandi, the modus.
Each word is an undead lover,
a trite corpse, a banality.
The poem is simply not good –
it’s not what it could be.
Somewhere a black cauldron
bubbles to the sticky surface
a smokey sense of rhyme and reason –
not purple prose, but diction with purpose.
The eye of a winking book and
the toe of a cult classic, the blood-orange
wool of Bette Midler’s perm –
the tongue of something ecstatic.
But candlewick mayhem
mocks his metrical virginity.
Unmoved, he measures hellfire’s stem –
a mortal man lacking creativity.

y anna arden
(Inspired by Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street)
Careless song wrapped
around a hollow bird shell.
(I’m no better,
reanimated)
but fire and brimstone if I don’t try.
I’m waiting to get thrown out of the pie shop,
for our fake crosses
to cross. I’ll call Lovett the devil
with the monsters still teething
at my insides.
(Lovett stole him, I learned how
to hate: should have taken
the knife out of your hand to
bang against the tough crust of her like
the rattle of a bell—what time is it?
“The slink of the water, a yellow moon.”
Better to believe I became a skeleton
So you can hold fast to your lie—
Better to believe our love is dead
Then to ignore its soft cry. Empty
Your stomach after another
Unsatisfying eternity with someone else
(Throw up the bird shell for me.
tell me you recognize
our grave mistake.
Don’t tell me where
all of us are going next)

The Sin Factor
by Clem Flowers
I knew all the rules
knew every angle the kill could come from
knew all the ways to stay safe
in the heat of an escape
from a maniac in a mask
or to avoid ghosts on an abandoned ship
or zombies in a mall
knew how to shine a light
on the darkness
knew the best ways to fight
I knew all the rules-
that's what I thought
Then came the hands
and the windowless white van
in broad daylight

& the inanities of our everyday glitched
away to the beat of an eight-bit
orchestra.
the arcade was a castle corridor of
permeable miniatures, its peach-pink walls
lined with paintings we could step through
to other worlds: distant hills mushroom
above ultra-green plains, a spaceship
descends on an eerie sphere, woods
we got lost in that rearranged round us
a living maze we navigated with maps shorn
from magazines, cheat codes
that cleared the way. Leaving, no such guide
to light our day, imagined enemies
an unstoppable swarm no sword could slay.
Still, emerging into Goose Gate’s evening skies
we were decades younger, like a hero reversing
out of warping time. Now the Market Square’s a
dark world clone, tainted by the curse of age;
It’s dangerous to go alone. Emerging from that hallowed
cave Take me. I will be your magical sword, your wooden
shield,
your boomerang.

this is not pan’s labyrinth
this is not a fantastical world where monsters
and magic roam free or where my problems
fade into the mist and I choose who to be.
there are no reclamations of long-lost lineage
or tainting of the blood of innocents by demons
only the shadow of darkness as it swallows hearts.
this is not a maze of constantly shifting sands
where the breath of the world blows away the
footsteps of my progressive journey forward.
there is no ethereal other world to return where
peace and fantasy rule a land reached only
through the sacrifice of the purest heart.
this is not pan’s labyrinth but we still are
the monsters in the stories we tell our kids
as we fail to get them to settle in to bed.
the screams of our youth ring in our ears
as heads beat against the walls of a hell
specially designed by our own bloody hands.
this is not a haunted maze of corn but
the spirits of love lost and undying
whisper to us from within the wall of stalks.
this is not a childhood game of hide and seek
where the biggest fright was being found quickly
because secrets always come to light eventually.
the person I once was is now lost somewhere
between the bloody romances and the
devilish curses spat in the faces of my foes.
this is not pan’s labyrinth and yet like a movie
rolls of film unravel to tell the grisly and fantastical
tale of life and all the joys and sorrows it bears.
by Dre Hill

Days of Dying
by Amanda Minkkinen
hill house
Family is a haunted house with halls that keep getting longer and rooms that keep
getting emptier. Dust settles, mold licks the walls. Water damage, rot, a heart
beneath the floorboards, a body sealed behind freshly laid brick. My haunted house
doesn’t often have visitors. They tell me it needs repairs, that they’ll come when the
ghosts are gone. But where can the ghosts go if not here? My house is too bloated,
its floors are crumbling, it’s not how it used to be, it’s gotten too fat - and don’t get
defensive, but how do we fix this problem? I’ve been alone and happy for so long
but the mail keeps plugging up the mailbox so maybe I’ll do something to keep the
fines from pouring in.
halloween
In this story I live if I play my cards right. But you have to prepare and be on the
right path long ahead of time. You can’t let those impurities build up, because if they
start to accumulate they’ll end up bogging you down and anyone will be able to kill
you. When I was a kid I decided that if a psycho killer started creeping around my
house I’d run out my front door and I’d start banging on my neighbors’ doors and
windows. Someone would be bound to hear me and help me. Scary stories never
take root when I remember I am not alone. Every halloween we had tuna melts with
tomato soup for dinner while we watched the light die. In the next moment I’m
being chased and the neighbors have gone away and all the houses on my street
are empty. I should’ve never gotten a boyfriend and started having sex.
witch
I have been banished from a low-lit, dusty little puritanical township. It pushes me to
the edges of the dark wood, and then deeper. I stay building my hut piece by piece
while I mourn the loss of my home. I can’t go back because my family can’t stand the
sight of me. I have always been a traitor to this township. If I didn’t get banished
today it would’ve happened tomorrow. Or maybe the day after that.

lake mungo
In this version of the story I am a bad omen. I am also a young girl who knows she’ll
die and then really does. And I stay really, really dead. Before I die I am followed.
One time something awful happened to me, and I carried it with me, but I didn’t die.
I haven’t died yet. Must I die? You must, she says to me, the evil omen that looks
exactly like a crueller version of myself. When my body is carried along the rushing
of a lake, is it ugly? And when it snags onto a tree branch skimming the angry
waters, is it terrifying?
jennifer/ginger
When I was a child I knew I was destined for great cruelty. Today I stepped out of
the blackwater lake because I’m still alive and colder than ever. I have always been
cold; my mother can attest to that. She used to tell us stories about how cruel her
father had been. In the same breath she’d say I was just like him. Maybe I was.
Maybe I still am. But I am alive right now, walking out that dark lake. I paint my lips
wet red. I get cold, I get hungry, I get irritable. I become a fist that blackens your eye
when you’ve done nothing wrong. I could chop you up and eat you if I was hungry
enough.
the craft
Best friend, I used to let you back into my heart. I still do. I’m doing it right now. Do
you remember when those girls abandoned you on the school trip and you were
hiding away in the top bunk in the girls’ room? And then we sat on the windowsill
eating gross things and laughing and I think we both decided to become best
friends at that moment. How distant it all seems, now that you’re creeping around in
the shadowy corners of my house. You keep skittering back and forth to remind me
you’re there. I see you in the corner of my eye but you won’t come out when I call
your name. Why won’t you come out when I call your name?
american psycho
I keep forgetting my name. My body keeps morphing into other bodies, my face into
other faces. I am turned inside out every night. I am being chased and caught every
single night. And then what happens? One time when I was a kid I tried to fit my
body into a suitcase and I fit only just. I wanted my father to take me with him on his
business trips. I remember seeing him off at the airport because he was going away
for the weekend and I cried so hard my nose bled. After that he tried to slip away
without me noticing. I need to tattoo my name on my wrist and on the bottom of my
foot for when I am found but I just can’t quite remember what it is.

it follows
I keep trying to find the words to describe that awful thing that happened. It sits on
my shoulders. The words that bounce back to me when I try to tell the story and
you won’t listen. I really try to tell the story. I did tell the story. You didn’t hear me
because you couldn’t stand the story. I can’t pass it on because it’s stuck to me and
it’s always within walking distance. I went to another country and it came along with
me. I fell asleep and it was with me in my dreams.
funny games
Rewind. I can’t win even if I do everything right. The story won’t allow it.
scream
The worst part was when I called out for my mom and she couldn’t hear me. I was
standing right there. If she’d just turned her head a bit she would’ve seen me and I
wouldn’t have died. I felt like a little kid in those moments with my parents just
inches beyond reach. My body was still hot from terror when I was found hanging
from the tree in our front yard. I still don’t understand why I had to die.
References:
Anderson, Joel (2008). Lake Mungo. Mungo Productions.
Carpenter, John (1978). Halloween. Compass International Pictures, Falcon International
Productions.
Craven, Wes (1996). Scream. Woods Entertainment.
Eggers, Robert (2015). The Witch. Parts and Labor, RT Features, Rooks Nest Entertainment.
Fawcett, John (2000). Ginger Snaps. Copperheart Entertainment, Water Pictures, Motion
International.
Flanagan, Mike (2018). The Haunting of Hill House. FlanaganFilm, Amblin Television, Paramount
Television.
Fleming, Andrew (1996). The Craft. Colombia Pictures.
Haneke, Michael (2007). Funny Games. Celluloid Dreams, Tartan Films, Film4 Productions, Halcyon
Company.
Harron, Mary (2000). American Psycho. Edward R. Pressman Productions, Muse Productions.
Kusama, Karyn (2009). Jennifer’s Body. Fox Atomic, Dune Entertainment.
Mitchel, David Robert (2014). It Follows. Northern Lights Films, Animal Kingdom, Two Flints.

For the love of all things scary
by Laci Felker
Loving Halloween yet simultaneously being scared of the dark, even at twenty-two,
is ironic. Loving horror movies but also needing to check under the bed and turn on
lights before entering a room is also ironic. Even now, my imagination never stops
playing tricks.
Children inherently have active imaginations that turn sticks into swords and fallen
trees into thrones and secret clubhouses. Watching movies with magic only amplify
that wondrous imagination, like Harry Potter, Hocus Pocus, and Halloweentown.
Growing up, I knew what a pentagram was from Marnie in Halloweentown showing
some of her horror movie knowledge, which was then followed by my older brother
telling our mom I worshipped Satan since I looked up Wicca because of the Hex
Girls in Scooby-Doo.
Growing up in a house that wasn’t near a working streetlight and was also
surrounded by woods with coyotes and bobcats prowling in it is what I contribute
my fear of the dark to. An old house, painted green on the inside with no insulation,
holes in the corners of the floors and in the walls, and a pentagram that was
covered by linoleum and then a rug sounds like the beginning of my own horror
story.
In an old house that creaks and moans and has mice in the walls that scratch and
raccoons in the attic that go thump in the night, my mind’s ability to create the
horrific out of the ordinary was astounding. A piece of paper falling off a still table
was a ghost and there was surely something in the toilet that would get me if I didn’t
turn on every single light in the house before I used the bathroom.
There were monsters in the closet and under my bed; creatures were waiting for
me to wander down the road once the sun went down; the back of the house was
overgrown with weeds and thorns, which were waiting for me to venture too close.
It’s no surprise that with how much I loved Halloween and the supernatural, that I
would wake up to a man standing over the edge of my mother’s bed.

It was a weekend during the fall and I was taking a nap at the foot of my mother’s
bed with the T.V. playing. My dream wasn’t scary by sense of the word, but there
was something that woke me up. I remember opening my eyes and seeing him
standing over me, ripped overalls and a dirty white shirt underneath them. He had a
hat on and cuts all over his body. We stared at each other since my body didn’t
seem like it wanted to move, then his lips curled back and revealed his decaying
teeth as he readjusted his grip on the ax at his side.
I gasped and pulled the blanket up over my face and screwed my eyes shut,
counting silently to myself until I reached fifty before I moved the blanket back to
see if he was still there. He wasn’t. I leaned over the side of the bed and looked for
my mom, and she was sitting at the computer, completely oblivious to what I saw.
I forget about it sometimes but other times I remember. I never saw the man in
overalls after that day, but I remember drawing him a few days after it happened. I
even made up a story for him: the old farmer buried in the back yard. I didn’t have
the guts to try and find him, though.

Art, Walking Buddy, by Smorse

Art, Bog Wizard, by Victoria Merlino

my doorbell is rung by the smallest of gods
little medusa comes to me,
accepts my offering of caramel.
her coiled hair transformed into
beaded snakes, her missing
front tooth an open gate for
tributes, says, ‘look at my hair!
It took momma 3 hours and
cousin Jackie painted my scales
all shiny. Actually I always have
them; actually my dress is called
a too-ga; actually, I named my snakes
and they’re all Eloise, except Steve.’
beside her, mini gomez and
tiny vampiress cup their hands in
as well, blind to all but sweetness.
gomez (mortitia-less, and gray,) scowls
at his findings, gummy bat and popcorn
ball— ‘it gets all in your teeth!’ so vampiress
(crushed red velvet sleeves a cavern to her
smallest hands) trades for a smattering of
peanut buttercups, which cannot
be better, re the teeth, and yet. His
eyeliner mustache crinkles with a smile
as she readjusts her falling fangs
and all three take a step back from
me, waving their thanks.
by AJ Pfeffer
I watch them go, cauldron tucked close
to my chest. I hear medusa consult a
map, I watch the three pour over it under
a waning streetlight, I relish the days where
the smallest of gods, goddesses, deities,
icons, folklore, all knock on my door;
that I repay the favor done to me when I
was once god too.

By Deana Lisenby
Ghosts billow and sway from the limbs of pecan trees, and thick, white
cobwebs wrap their trunks. From the earth, skeletal arms protrude, their boney
fingers curling beside leafy fern.
Almost time.
One by one, purple and orange lights blink to life, casting shadowy ripples
across the ground. Along the porch, grimacing pumpkins flicker with candlelight,
and a weathered mummy lies still in an ancient coffin.
Movement ahead.
A mermaid, a princess, and a superhero scamper along the walkway, buckets
swinging in their small hands. Excitement—or perhaps, trepidation—radiates from
each of them as they eye their surroundings before stopping on the porch.
“I don’t want to go up there,” the superhero had whined moments before.
“Me either,” the princess agreed.
“We must,” the mermaid said. “This house has the best candy on Walnut
Street.”
So they had agreed.
Now, they stand before the large door and knock.
“Trick-or-treat,” they chime.
An old woman opens the door, allowing the visitors to take in the sight of her. Their
eyes widen in shock.
“A real witch,” the tiny superhero whispers.
The old woman cackles.
Shivers creep down their spines.
“Would you like some candy, you children three?”
They hesitate, but nod and hold out their buckets. The witch’s wrinkled hand
plops a small baggy of sweets into each one.
“Thank you,” the mermaid says. The princess and superhero nod their
agreement.
“Happy Halloween,” the old woman says, tapping her lengthy nails against the
door frame.
The mummy lurches upright in its coffin and groans at the children.
Shrieking, they jump from the porch, sprinting away from the house. Skeleton arms

attle at their legs. Ghosts swoop from the trees. The children dodge them all,
panting as their feet reach the safety of the sidewalk. They hear the old witch
cackling behind her closed door.
The mermaid, the princess, and the superhero walk down the street, examining
the contents of their new goody bag. They gasp in delight. Their heart racing trek
was worth it. After all, the house on Walnut Street always has the best surprises,
and the witch always gives the best candy.
by Meg Smith
Leaves are bleeding to blue and scarlet,
along the retaining wall, and I have
all I need -- dark and sweet, some
bright magic, some taste before
winter's creeping.

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