Riders in the Night
Holley Cornetto
Ear-splitting shrieks and the thundering of ghastly hooves filled the wood, a dark symphony to herald their coming. The rider at the helm was magnificent, his eyes glowing bright like Hellfire. As the riders closed in around me I raised my knife, sinking it deep within my chest. My mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood.
All was darkness, all was lost as I was swallowed by oblivion. When I opened my eyes again the Erl-King stood before me, offering me the reins of a nightmarish steed. “Welcome to the Wild Hunt.”
At last, finally, I had found them.
My Fifteen Minutes
Jennifer Winters
I’m a celebrity, I think as the locals meet me with cheers.
“So, you saw him!” the mayor says, elated.
A collective cheer, and a then a voice: “Tell us!”
I describe myself on the backwoods road, lost and without a phone. I tell of the towering shadow emerging from the trees. Of the horns and eyes.
Several handshakes and selfies later, the mayor takes my hand, squeezing.
“After generations of patient waiting and worship, he returns! And for the blood that will welcome him . . .”
Her grip tightens. “. . . he has provided a lamb.”
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Demeter’s Anguish
DeBickel
Wind against rocky coasts, weeds growing around aging domiciles. Autumn in Greece arrived as it pleased, though the calendar marked the day Persephone left with Hades for the Underworld.
The inhabitants of Navagio don’t need a calendar, all they need is to feel the waters, and to hear the siren’s screams. Shrieking, piercing, unworldly howling, far removed from the musical notes that would grace summer nights.
“Gran,” Phoebe asked as they neared the coast one morning, “why do they scream?”
“Demeter cursed them, engoní. They did not stop Hades from abducting Persephone, so now they must feel her broken heart.”
The Stag
Hunter LaCross
The stag meanders through the algid moonlit night, protecting the creatures of his forest. I, the hunter, can see through his clever facade. Cernunnos is the deity of this forest, no mere deer, and as he passes me I stare fixedly upon him.
I pray he won't notice me, but that is in vain. Will the deity of the forest bring forth my final breathe?
Crunch after crunch resounds as he approaches me, until my gun's desperate bang echoes around us. He regards me with ancient eyes, their disapproving glint obvious.
I will leave the woods in peace, for now.
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Flee
Steve Stred
The Hell hounds brayed and howled behind him as he rushed deeper and deeper into the woods. What lived in the depths of the forest was infinitely worse than what chased him, but he had no other choice. Run, or be slaughtered.
As his feet pounded the moss and splashed in the collected puddles, he saw motion in the distance before him.
He could hear the beasts gaining on him, their breathing becoming louder and louder.
His blood ran cold when he saw the wraith step from behind a tree a dozen meters ahead.
Their jaws closed over his head.
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A Sleeping Serpent
Clint Foster
One deep breath and I leap, jumping the ten feet across the threshold in a bound. My eyes are fixed on the mirrored shield before me. I know my fate if they stray, and the statues that grope at their eyes all around me bear testament to their failures in the past. Nimble as a cloud I wander the gorgon’s nest, and I keep my sharp sword clutched at my side. It happens in a second, a frantic instant, a hiss. My blade cleaves her snaked head from her shoulders. I breathe, and I smile, for Medusa haunts no longer.
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Offerings
Brian Rosenberger
The sea provided the village with many things. The air was fresher, the sound of the waves soothed people to sleep.
The sea provided sustenance – lobsters, shrimps, crabs, scallops, fish. It was only fitting they fed the sea in return, as the villagers were grateful for all the sea provided.
The sacrifice was more than tradition, it was their way of giving thanks, but this sacrifice was found wanting. The drowned children floated to shore, rejected.
The God beneath the Waves must be appeased.
Tomorrow would be another sacrifice, but tonight the sound of the waves soothed no one.
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Cerberus
S. C. Morgan
Leonora crawled through the trees, holding the swaddled baby tightly against her. Smoke from the remnants of her village filled the air, stinging her eyes and forcing her to take shallow breaths. Glancing back through the smoky haze, praying they had escaped, she noticed a hulking shape moving towards them.
As she stepped between two trees a branch snapped behind her, stopping Leonora where she stood. Turning she stumbled on an exposed root, sending her to the forest floor. The beast’s three heads growled, as if from one. Looking into its eyes a single name burned in her mind: Cerberus.
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The Miskatonic Madness
Mark Anthony Smith
“What is that author called, the one who wrote about the Old Ones? He wrote ‘Dagon’.”
The University librarian's brow furrowed as it clouded over outside. He glanced out the window at the darkening sky, the weight of sleepless nights were carried in his face.
He leaned over.
“Sir, that author is H.P. Lovecraft, and you must act fast!” I leaned back and appraised the stark terror in his eyes. He was bordering on madness. It was as if something from another dimension was colouring his frenzied mind. As the clouds gathered his soul stood testament that Cthulhu will return.
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Of Love, Of Ichor
Noa Covo
They think she was born of sea spray and golden sunlight. Aphrodite of beauty, of love, of future promises.
Mortals and gods flock her, trying to grasp her divinity, bathing in her radiance. Aphrodite lets them draw closer.
She remembers her birth: the ichor, the gore.
She lets them draw closer, and her glow intensifies. She smiles as they attempt to reach her, possess her.
Aphrodite lets them try. She knows exactly what she’s made of, the pain and betrayal and curses. She is the consequence of the first murder in creation.
She knows she can make them all burn.
Twitter @covo_noa
Love Me, Love My Cat
K.T. Tate
You really should stop screaming. Call me a witch all you want, but I prefer priestess. You see, dearest, I saw you. I saw you kicking Tiger. We don’t just respect cats in this house, we worship them.
I did mention it.
Let me explain: This is a summoning circle, and that monstrous shadow of grace and sleek velvet is Bastet, Goddess of cats. A razor clawed, obsidian nightmare predator. Not as pretty, or human, as the ancient Egyptian artwork, but I love her and her children.
You hurt us, so you really should run.
Cats prefer hunting their prey.
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A Promise Made is a
Promise Kept
Andra Dill
Medeina followed the she-wolf. A young wolf whined, bumping Medeina’s hand with his dark head and licking nervously at her fingers. The groans and wails emanating from her beloved woods soon had the Goddess flying ahead of the pack.
Where thick-trunked walnut and oak had once stood tall, only their bleeding stumps remained. The sten
ch of toiling men permeated the air. Grief pierced Medeina. The mourning trees shuddered, beseeching her for vengeance.
These humans had forgotten the old ways, the promises made long ago. Time to remind them.
A gnawing, wild hunger assailed Medeina.
“Their blood will atone,” she vowed.
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Nøkken
Tor-Anders Ulven
Deep within the forest there’s a lovely pond surrounded by majestic pine trees. Sometimes I’ll sit down with my fiddle and play a soft tune, the natural acoustic carrying the sound for miles. Sooner or later they will appear. Sometimes a hunter, sometimes a fisherman. They will applaud me, sit down, and tell me the tale of Nøkken.
“Did you know,” they’ll say, “That Nøkken would play its fiddle to lure wanderers into the murky depths?”
I’ll nod and smile. “Of course I know.”
Then I’ll drag them screaming with me into the awaiting eternal embrace of my dark home.
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Baby Doll
Laurence Sullivan
Ayaka kneeled on her tatami mat as she chanted away, cutting each paper doll down to size as her calls for protection grew more frantic.
These little katashiro would soon form her only defence. Each would have to be ready to receive part of the curse she knew would be incoming imminently, so she needed to work faster.
Ayaka had never meant to hurt her baby. The curse wouldn’t care; it would come for her regardless.
Her tears only making the spell more indistinct, deep down Ayaka knew that hanging even a hundred around her home couldn’t save her now…
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Dead Fish
Russell Smeaton
She could smell the fish a long way off. The stench of decay mingled with sea-salt, bringing back memories of childhood holidays. Seagulls took flight, squawking their displeasure at her approach.
As far as the eye could see the beach was littered with dead fish. Buzzing flies created a hazy cloud, tears pricked her eyes and thickening her throat at the sight of the wreckage.
In the distance the cloud of flies solidified, becoming both mountainous and humanoid. Her tears dried, and a smile broke her frown.
The summoning had worked.
She waded into the sea to meet her daemon.
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Cyclops
Ann Wycoff
Thirty men shipwrecked on my island. I let them share my cave, then what? Those ingrates drove a burning stake into my eye while I slept!
Sure, I’m a giant, but I’ve only got one eye.
I’m subject to their cruel games, their favorite of which is to encircle me and jab me with barbed spears.
“Dance!”
“Caper!”
My logic and rage run a race, with my life as the stakes.
Jest, laugh, play the buffoon, or rage, strike and kill?
Soon enough the joke will be on them, for when a cyclops loses her eye it quickly grows back.
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Blue Bandana
C. Marry Hultman
"What do you want from me?" He stammered.
"Harry," Xochiquetzal smiled, her voice barely audible over the Dia De Los Muertos celebrations outside. "You know exactly why I'm here. I have chased you from port to port. Someone must protect my girls."
She indicated the bloody remains of his latest victim tied up beside him. He strained against the blue bandana binding his wrists. Xochiquetzal sauntered towards him, pointed red nails gliding up his naked leg. She climbed upon him.
"And you believed I wouldn't find you."
Placing a marigold in his mouth she slid her blade between his ribs.
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A Death Overdue
Matthew A. Clarke
Francis Gillingham had lived many lives, had many names, buried countless lovers and children. The one constant in his life: his yearly trip to the Escambray mountains of Cuba.
Francis had a secret. He’d discovered the Fountain of Youth after the Spanish invasion, and collapsed the cave that housed it.
Now, reaching the leafy crag, he was desperate for a taste of the elixir, and he could feel his body rotting.
But the entrance stood open, excavated. The fountain was gone.
Francis screamed as skin and flesh fell from his frame.
Vultures circled, hearing his cries. They’d eat well tonight.
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Lonely
Heidi Ann Willits
I held my face in my hands, trying to drown the dull, constant hissing sound in my ears. It never went away. Through the white noise I heard loud creaking, splashing and yelling.
Darting from my cave, eyes straining and squinting in the light, I was delighted to find my meal had arrived. They scattered in all directions, some turning to stone if they met my eyes.
It was like cat-and-mouse, I had to pounce before they looked at me. Finally, I cornered my prey. I hunted, then I bit down. My head of snakes ripped him to shreds with me.
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Hunter of the Corrupt
Andy Leavy
I lay on the Avondale Forest floor, blood pouring from an open wound in my chest. Above me stands Bás Sciathánach, its boned wings beating in the night air. My friends’ blood is painted across its talons and featureless face, needled teeth stained with crimson.
It took us out with ease, razor-sharp claws tearing through us like butter. It came for us, for Bálor willed it. Its lack of eyes hindering it little, it could smell the darkness of our souls. We sealed our destiny with our corrupt acts. We believed ourselves more powerful than fate, but fate has arrived.
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Corn Festival
Al Provance
Gregory’s tears spattered onto his blood soaked hands, leaving rivulets in their wake as they dripped onto the viscera-covered floor.
This job was hard, but necessary, and only his family carried on the tradition. The Corn Festival drew curious visitors from the cities a few hours away, and if just one tourist went missing there wouldn’t be an investigation.
The Corn Maiden thirsted beneath the ground. She sent her children up through the soil, just to have their bodies eaten and their flesh ripped away. Gregory wondered if the Corn Maiden cried as he did, yet he made another incision.
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I am
Stacey Jaine McIntosh
I am the daughter of a King who forgot my name, I am the daughter of a Queen who never saw my face.
I am here, I am ready, and I will rule. The day will come when everyone will know who I am!
The day will come when they will shout my name in triumph. I will lead them to victory, and they will bow down to me in reverence and gratitude.
I will give them purpose, because without purpose they are nothing.
I am everything. I am the light, and the darkness.
I am Ammit, Devourer of souls.
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The Skuggabaldur
Chris Hewitt
The hunter threw the sack on the table. “There’s ya thief. Now get me a drink!” The inn fell quiet.
“What’s that?” the farmer asked.
“A fox. A cat,” the hunter gasped, between swigs of ale. “Who cares? Where’s my money?”
Panic spread through the room, a jug tumbling from the barmaid’s hand.
“Look for ya self,” the hunter said, throwing
open the bag. Before anyone could react the beast leapt free, the villagers falling one-by-one to its angry, cursed gaze.
All but the barmaid, for she hid.
Her grandmother's story of the Skuggabaldur was no longer a tall tale.
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Ragnarök
Sandy Butchers
Blood trickled down from razor-like fangs, and a loud snarl cut through the horrid silence.
The sun cowered before the foaming wolf, as this was the moment that the vile creature would shred it to pieces.
The wolf paced closer. It had already filled its gut with the moon, but the sight of the sun had made it hungry for more. It knew that, with a snap of its jaws, it would unleash the bloody mayhem that had been foretold by the ancient prophets. It knew that, with a tear of its fangs, the end of the Gods would begin.
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Drumming Of My Heart
Michelle River
My hand trembled against the cold shield as I listened intently within the garden of stone. There was no sound, except the constant drumming of my heart.
Forgotten Ones Page 4
