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**The following stories have ADULT content. Not for readers under 18!**
** Stories have been edited for formatting only.**
Ann Woke to Voices by Rachel A. Brune
Ann woke to voices. Which was strange.
Ann didn’t listen to anything on the train ride home. From her bag, she imagined she could feel the static. Slow. Fast-fast.
Showered, combed, powdered and lotioned, Ann restarted the phone, turned on her music app, and connected the phone to her wireless speaker. She thumbed through various options and checked the alarm to make sure it was set for the correct time and playlist. She chose an album of soft jazz to fall asleep to, picked up her book.
Three chapters from the end, Ann closed the book. She placed it on the table and clicked the light. Her eyes and mind started to drift shut.
And Da' Bitch Came Back by Acquanetta M. Sproule
(Originally Published May 24, 2011 on http://flashesinthedark.com)
“Boss Ice,” said a small voice, “Can we come in?”
# J E # T S S I S O I " " H "
Hag by Marcia Wilson
The Final Exhibit by Ross Baxter
What the Dollhouse Said by Karen Bovenmeyer
The Picture of Mr. Lemmer by Luna DeMasi
Lingering Shadows by Tom Olbert
Devil’s Spawn by Diane Arelle
Servant Girl Annihilator by Robert Perret
Flightless Rats by James Dorr
The Whistler by N.O.A. Rawle
Staying by Myriah Strozykowski
Hell on Earth by Carrie Martin
Tibet by Josh LaMore
Pickman’s Model by Jason Ellis
Diabolique by Tracy Vincent
Groundhog by Kenya Moss-Dyme
Quiana’s Nightmare by Katara Johnson
Mama Lorra by Joanna Gonzalez
The Damned by Melissa McArthur
Thin Ice by Marcia Colette
Funky Chick by Grace Hopkins
Jaycee sighed. “Because she was a twin. They were afraid she’d be stolen too.”
Excitement bubbled in my stomach, beneath the rhythmic kneading of my cat’s paws.
The long legged creature stepped into full view before she reached the door.
She shot up in bed, instantly awake, every hair on her body standing on end. There it was again.
Six ghosts stare out the blazing windows at me.
Iretreat to the truck, race down the empty road to nowhere, and pray for a miracle.
She’d considered many ways to make them pay for their crime, from disabling the furnace to ensure a carbon monoxide leak, to triggering a house explosion, both of which would be perfect scenarios since she herself would be out of town. But ultimately, her profession provided her with the perfect weapon of destruction in the form of a convenient little pill. – cyanide. She’d dispose of the bodies and then make the “discovery” that the two had simply ran off together. Never fuck with a chemist.
One night, as her dreams became more frightening. She saw the hooded figure talking to a woman. They argued and the hooded figure lifted the woman by the neck, strangling her. Quiana crept closer to the couple. To her surprise, the woman looked like an older version of herself. The hoodie fell from the cloaked man. He appeared to be a regular guy but his eyes turned crimson; his hands were claws. He yelled, “You can’t hide her from me!”
Itook the steps three at a time, silent except for the creaking of the metal under my weight. I ducked into the open window and landed in a crouch on the wooden floor. I cursed at the sound my knee made when it touched the floor. He’d surely heard it.
"Okay, then. The name is Gerard Waters, by the way.”
"Ilannaq. It’s Inuit for friend.”
Her body went rigid. The plate slipped from her fingers and shattered onto the floor. There was a reason why her name meant survivor.
"I’m coming. I’m coming.” My finger pressed the end button. I spun around, Christina was nowhere around. “Christina! Christina where are you?” There was no answer. Anger rose in me like lightening. I didn’t have time for this, my son was missing! “Christina!” I yelled again, this time more forceful. My shoe hit one of the photos which skidded down a little embankment and landed at the end of a small hill. I swore and went after it. It had slipped underneath something. I bent down to pick it up, but it caught on something. I pulled harder and a section of the hill came lose. Letting go of the picture I pulled at it, trying to find what was underneath. A hunk of wood pulled away. I rolled it to the side. There just inside my eyes were drawn to my three year old son like glue. Lying on his stomach with his hands under his head as if sleeping. “John!” I cried, tears in my eyes and lifted him out of the whole. His little body was cold, but his breathe came out in a cloud. Tears fell down my face as I buried them in his chest, “Thank you god.” He was unconscious, but he was alive. Looking deeper into the whole I stumbled away, suppressing a cry. Skeletons, at least ten, littered the whole that my son was in. I jumped to my feet, John in my arms, and the photographs were gone. I looked back into the hole at the skeleton with the purple Funky Chick shirt and said, “Thank you Christina. I’ll get you home.”