Janet

The flight out of Area 51 should have been like any other, but it felt different from the start. We were ushered onto the usual unmarked plane much earlier than usual, the faces of the military men looking tight and almost afraid.

As we climbed and banked over the facility, the plane began to experience heavy turbulence. Looking out my window, I could just make out the mountainside cracking, a shaft of bright blue light appearing in the gap.

The last thing I saw before Area 51 slipped out of sight was a massive metallic ship breaking free from underground.

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Something burned in his veins, like hot lava pumping through his body. He sat up quickly, shielding his eyes from the bright fluorescent lights overhead. Once he adjusted to the glare, he pulled his hand away, noticing a rolled-up piece of paper sticking out of his balled fist.

Unrolling the paper, he frowned as he read the scribbled message. “You did well.” Sitting above the message was an embossed red cross bearing what looked to be a company name. “What the fuck is Prometheus Industries?” he mumbled to himself, surprised at how raspy his voice sounded.

He surveyed his surroundings, try to remember how he had landed in this spartan place that was little more than a plain white room. Besides the cot he lay on, the only other items in the space were a sink with a mirror above it, and a toilet. No windows and no other decorations. It felt like a prison cell, albeit a spotlessly clean one, the scent of bleach and something else not quite recognizable hanging in the air.

Opposite the bed was a plain white door, a keypad sitting to one side. He rose, stumbling as a wave of lightheadedness washed over him. He closed his eyes to fight off the feeling of vertigo, breathing slowly to help regain his equilibrium. When he opened his eyes, all was right with the world again, but he still couldn’t remember what this world was or why he was in it.

Padding barefoot across the concrete floor, he tried the handle, and finding it locked, started poking at the keypad to no avail.

“STEP AWAY FROM THE DOOR!!” a voice boomed, seemingly from inside the room. He stumbled backward, falling back onto the bed and bumping his head on the metal rail supporting the cot. Hissing in pain, he rubbed the back of his shaven head, his fingers alighting on a bandage on the nape of his neck.

“STAND AT ATTENTION.” That voice again.

He looked around the room, searching for a source of the sound but finding nothing.

“STAND AT ATTENTION. FINAL WARNING.”

He stood, just as the door swung open and a man in a lab coat stepped inside, an armed guard by his side. ‘“How do you feel?” the doctor asked, a smile on his face.

“I’m not sure.”

“Understandable. What is your name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Good.”

“How can that be good?” Panic began to flutter in his chest, making him feel frantic.

The doctor smiled again. “Wiping the memory is stage one of the proceedings, and I must tell you that it claimed all of our previous specimens. You did well and passed with flying colors.”

“Who am I?” he asked, voice cracking.

“You were an alcoholic, a drug user, and a homeless waste of space blighting our streets with your filth. All of that and nothing.” The doctor’s face flushed red. “But now, oh, my boy, now you are the future.”

“I don’t…”

“When we found you, lying in a puddle of your own excretions, you were close to dead. All manner of diseases ravaged your body, but this,” the doctor removed a syringe with a glowing silver liquid contained within from his lab coat. “This changed all that, and now you grow stronger.”

He stared at the syringe, the needle impossibly long. “What are you going to do with that?”

“I am going to give you another dose, and if this one works as well as the first, I will have achieved my goal.”

“What goal?”

“Eternal life in a single shot.”

“I’m going to live forever?”

The doctor threw his head back and laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. My friend here will put a bullet through your head, and then I will sell my creation to anyone willing to part with a fortune in return for a life free from death and pain.” The doctor squirted a drop of the silver fluid onto his tongue and stepped forward. “Now, let’s remove that bandage and begin, shall we?”

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The milkman loaded up his cart with his precious cargo, scanning the cobbled streets for any sign of movement. Electricity was spotty at best, but he was happy to see the amber glow of the streetlights casting kaleidoscopic shapes on the rain-soaked streets. The road ahead seemed clear, but the Cult of the All-Seeing Eye were adept at hiding in the shadows.

Powering up the electric cart, the milkman set out, the bottles rattling loudly in their crates. Back in the day, the sound was a comforting part of his travels, but nowadays, he feared that it might raise the slumbering cult members.

The beings tended to be active after dark, going after cattle and kids alike. No one knew what they wanted from their prey, but the nightly assaults continued. It was up to the milkman to deliver the milk to the little ones, as the liquid was now used as an elixir of sorts, replacing the protein that the many-eyed things craved.

It was the children that they went after when they first arrived, coming from who knows where. The cows were nothing more than collateral damage, the cult, as people now referred to them, culling the herd in an effort to stop prevent the children recovering.

To the milkman, it initially seemed counterproductive to essentially refill the little ones with protein, as it felt like recharging batteries for the cult to feed on. They never went after the same child twice, though, as it seemed the little ones were tainted after such refills. The beasts that did return for second helpings were more often than not found dead, their eyes akin to that of the blind, all colorless and devoid of life.

He drove through the streets of his town, looking for the red X on the doors that would show where milk was needed. It was a war that the humans were, slowly but surely, winning. The milkman looked to the morning sky and watched the massive eye rise where the sun once sat. It looked diseased, weeping cataracts visible to all.

The end was almost certainly near, but the milkman wondered what would happen when the eye and its brethren died. Would the sun return, or would Earth be plunged into an ice age from which there would be no return? That was a question for another day.

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Alice & Lee

The stories of what happened in the town of Luckville vary from person to person. One thing they all agree on, though, is that a tragic accident was covered up by the government.

Luckville is off limits to the public, but adventurous kinds have made it in, taking pictures of the town turned to stone and trapped in time. Among the remnants are a couple fused together in a casual embrace, as though posing for a picture.

Those who have seen them call them Alice and Lee, giving names to the nameless. The flowers left behind add color to death.

Family Portrait

“I’m here because I know what took your children.”

“You mean who,” the wealthy man scoffed.

“No, sir, I mean what.” He looked around the room, taking in the men with their hands inside their jackets, fingers undoubtedly touching concealed firearms. “You hired good are no match for this thing, this God.”

“I’m not a spiritual man” the billionaire growled.

“That is exactly why your little ones were chosen. They are filled with hate, which my…I mean, the God craves. With their essence, he will be ready to take over the world.” He raised his head, tears spilling. “Praise Cthulhu.”

Dodo

A surge of electricity passed through the crowd inside the big top as they awaited the finale. The flyers had promised a spectacle, a creature brought to the deep south from the jungles of some far-flung land.

A gentle breeze drifted through the open flaps of the tent, the wind offering scant reprieve from the stuffiness of summer. The lantern candles flickers and cast dancing shadows as the thing stepped into view.

The crowd gasped as the giant bird, dressed in an old, stained clown costume looked at them through soulless black eyes. The dodo opened its beak and screamed.

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“Look out,” Thorn shouted.

“I see it,” the pilot said, banking the helicopter out towards the bay as the other chopper collided with the guard tower. The heat from the explosion passed through the open doors for the aircraft, making the billionaire gasp for breath.

“Did anyone make it out.” Thorn asked, scanning the wreckage for signs of life amid the flames.

“Not that I saw, but one of your creatures went down with it.”

“Which one?”

“Some big thing with antlers. It was hanging off the side. Looked like it had a hold of one of your men.”

Thorn laughed and clapped his hands like a giddy schoolboy. “The Wenlutah. Thank goodness. I have another one of those on the way.”

The pilot shook his head and turned back towards the cloud of black smoke now billowing up from the ground. “That’s going to draw some attention.”

Grabbing his smartphone out of his pocket, Thorn punched in a number and put the phone to his ear. “You are correct. I’ll buy us some time. Keep your eye on what’s happening down there. Get ready to pick up and move.”

***

Drake and his men were pushed backward by the force of the explosion. Peplow went down hard, exhaling loudly as his butt hit the ground.

Stumbling backward, Drake dodged a piece of shrapnel by the barest margin. Anders and the Rake were not so lucky. A piece of the rotor blade sliced the Rake in half as the explosion lifted him off the ground. Another piece of shrapnel connected with Anders’ forehead with the force of a speeding bullet, passing clean through and taking off a large chunk of the back of his head.

Drake and Peplow ran to the side of the guard building and pressed themselves against the concrete wall, hissing as more pieces of the chopper flew past them or landed by their feet.

“What the fuck?” Peplow groaned, watching as the top half of the Rake pulled itself across the ground, trying to reach them.

“To hell with that.” Drake unholstered his sidearm and put a bullet through the creature’s head, stopping it for good.

“What about those orders?” Peplow smirked.

“Fuck that. I’m calling Thorn’s chopper and getting off this fucking rock. If that crusty old fuck wants to give me grief, I still have bullets in this gun that he can argue with.”

“Count me in, brother.”

***

“What happened?” Bits said, patting at his body as though checking to see if he was in one piece.”

“You’re safe,” Salem said, staring at the wreckage of the downed helicopter.

Bytes scrambled to his feet while the pilot and Chalmers looked too dumbfounded to move.

“Something wrong, Bytes?” Salem asked. Before he could respond, she heard the answer in her head. “What did you drop?”

His eyes went wide as he dropped to his knees and began scrambling in the dirt, looking for the blocking device that had fallen from his ear when he hit the ground. “It’s nothing,” he said.

“Oh, it’s something. It’s how you are all able to block me out,” Salem said, reaching down to pluck the small metallic disc from the ground. “Is this what you are after? Of course, it is.”

“It’s not what you think,” Bytes moaned, hands raised in surrender.

Salem placed the device inside her ear.

“Mother, can you hear me?”

Silence. She removed it.

“Mother, can you hear me.”

“Salem, you are alive?”

“Alive and well. Where are you?”

“I’m by the entrance to the old guard building. What about the rest of them?

“One man down from our helicopter. I saved the rest, unfortunately.”

Salem turned her attention to Bytes, who was crying and begging for his life. “Why are you crying?”

“I don’t want to die.”

Salem laughed. “Is that what you think of me? You believe me to be some heartless bitch? I saved your damn life, so why would I kill you now?”

The pilot stood and dusted himself off. “I owe you. What do you want me to do to help?”

“Stay out of my way. Bytes, can these little devices be shut down?” Salem asked, flicking the metallic disc in his direction.

“Not without my laptop,” he replied, staring at the billowing smoke from the crash.

“What about you?” Salem asked Chalmers.

“I’m going to sit the rest of this out if that’s okay with you. That’s quite enough weird shit for one day.”

“I’ll be back for you. I’m going to end this.”

Salem strode purposefully back onto the wharf, heading towards the guard quarters. Anger ate at her insides, her stomach churning as she thought about what Thorn might be hiding from her. With a flick of her hand, she lifted the blazing remains of the helicopter and tossed it out into the bay.

“I see you, child.”

“Who is that with you?”

“The Aswang. I fear she is the only one of my group still alive.”

“You have me, too.”

“Stronger together.”

Salem could see her mother standing in the doorway, the hag creature by her side, sniffing the air as her barbed tongue flicked in and out.

“Yes, stronger, beautiful child. You are a vision.”

As they moved to meet one another, Thorn’s helicopter moved in behind Salem while Drake and Peplow came out from the side of the building, weapons raised and ready to fire on Raven and the Aswang.

Raven reached out and took the creature’s hand, the Aswang instantly taking on her form.

It was enough to make Drake pause for a moment. He had no problems taking down the Aswang, but Raven was a different matter. With Thorn watching it all happen from the inside of a helicopter loaded with all kinds of ammo, he didn’t like his chances of getting out alive if he played the wrong card.

Salem saw the hesitation and raised her hands, ready to take them out, only to feel a sting in her neck and two more in her back.

As she fell to the ground, she spun around and saw Chalmers with his gun still aimed at her.

“I guess I’m a liar,” he said, as he fired once more.

***

“The one on your right is the Aswang, Lionel. Kill it and tranquilize the witch.”

Without giving it a second through, Drake put three darts into Raven before pulling his handgun and emptying the clip into the Aswang.

The creature rolled on the ground, screaming as it changed into many different forms before settling.

“Do not approach it, Lionel. Trust me, she is quite alive. I’ll take care of it in a moment.”

The helicopter touched down and the pilot hustled around the craft and pulled out a ramp built into the cabin. Thorn gave him a little nod as he left the ramp in his powerchair, heading in the direction of the Aswang.

He stopped on his way and reached down to stroke Salem’s hair. “Not much of a fight, little one.”

Bits and Bytes and the other pilot stepped out of their hiding spot, all looking rather sheepish in the presence of their boss.

“Well, what a pleasant surprise,” Thorn said.

“She saved us,” Bits said, nodding at Salem. “But she also knows about the blockers.”

Thorn dismissed the statement with a wave. “None of it matters now.” He turned to the pilot, his expression changing from calm to furious in the blink of an eye. “What happened up there?”

“One of your precious pets attacked my chopper. We’re lucky…”

“Excuse me. Your chopper?” Thorn interrupted.

“You know what I mean, you crazy old fuck.”

Thorn regarded the man for a moment and then turned his powerchair back in the direction of the Aswang. From a sheath on the side of his chair, he pulled out a bolo knife and ran his finger along the blade, hissing as it drew blood.

“Lionel. One more bullet into this hideous beast, please. Oh, and one in the head for that mouthy pilot.”

As the bullet tore through the flesh of the Aswang, Thorn pushed the bolo knife down between its shoulder blades. His eyes lit up as he watched her squirm, rivers of black blood flowing from the wounds. She writhed for a few more seconds before falling still, her withered body sinking in on itself.

“One more for the pilot, remember.”

Drake shrugged and lifted his weapon, shooting the pilot through the head.

“Load up those bitches and come with me in the helicopter. Bits and Bytes will stay behind with your men and arrange a clean-up crew.”

“What about that?” Drake asked, nodding towards the police boat bobbing by the dock.

“I’ve made a call. It’s taken care of. Now, let’s head back and get these two back where they belong. We have some work ahead of us.”

Drake looked around at the mess and wondered how he was getting out alive. “Why did you kill the Aswang?” he asked.

Looking at the shriveled creature, Thorn shrugged. “Easy, really. I didn’t know her long enough to have an attachment. You do know how I love all my children.”

Heading back up the ramp and onto the helicopter, Thorn tapped the pilot on the arm. “As soon as we are loaded up, take me home.”

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When my first book was published, I knew I had to get serious about marketing my work. With that in mind, I started a separate author page across all socials and went to work as a confident (not arrogant) writer who knew exactly what he was doing. It was essentially the polar opposite of who and what I am in real life, but it was easy to pull off given that I was still essentially hidden behind a computer screen.

As time passed, it became more and more difficult to appear confident in any way, which was when I started highlighting the work of others more than my own. That was more in tune with my natural state of being, and thus it made me more comfortable in an online setting. It is the true version of myself that won out, and which you now all see here on Substack.

With that in mind, let’s talk about the words and phrases that I find uncomfortable, but probably shouldn’t. Here goes:

1. International Bestselling Author - After my debut novel, Karaoke Night, did well, my publisher started putting that on all my books. KN went to #72 in horror on Amazon in the US, while hitting #6 in the UK. Technically, I was a bestseller, but the whole label never sat well with me. I see bestsellers as authors who sell tens of thousands of copies, not those who have a couple of good hours after the initial release. Moving forward, that title will not appear on any of my rebranded or new books, although I suppose I should be somewhat proud of what I accomplished.

2. Fans - This one makes me bristle with discomfort because of the way I see that word. It all began on Facebook with the whole “Top Fans” thing, and I instantly disliked it. When I shared the top folks, I retagged it as Top Friends, as I see that as more appropriate. I am definitely a fan of a lot of authors, as I see them as better than me in so many ways. I don’t think of myself as better than anyone, so having fans seems somehow weird to me. I would definitely much prefer supporter, as that is how I see the people who read and share my work. If you want to use “fan” it’s fine by me, honestly, as I know this is very much a me thing where I am uncomfortable with any kind of praise.

3. That means a lot coming from you - Again, this falls into the same category as fans does. In the grand scheme of things, I have not accomplished much at all in writing world, and I am certainly not anywhere near the best writers in the genre. This is not to suggest that I believe myself to be a total hack (some might disagree), as I know I can string some words together in a meaningful way, but I am not any better than other writers on this platform. In truth, I look at my stats compared to other writers I admire and am ashamed that I am so far ahead of them in terms of numbers.

4. Master of - I see this quite often and I definitely appreciate it, but it also makes me uncomfortable. There are a few true masters of the craft out there, and I am not one of them. Maybe in the small sample size that is Substack horror, I am quite good at certain things, but I am definitely no master.

All of this may sound like I am not thankful for all the kind things written and said about me on this platform, as that is absolutely not the case. I am one of the most anxiety-ridden people you will ever meet, which I have spoken about regularly on here. It does feel good to hear these nice things, but it also makes me feel a certain way, which is all on me. I have zero problem dishing out platitudes to all the wonder people on Substack, but God forbid I get any of that back.

Anyway, this is not a call for you guys to stop saying these things, if that is how you truly feel. The reason I started the Alter Ego section of my Stack was to talk about mental health and my own personal struggles, so I feel that this fits nicely into that realm. Thank you all for being so kind and supportive, and I am happy to have any fans, even though I shudder at the thought of the word.

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I decided to let the Word of the Day website guide me with a prompt. Today’s word is “Paragon.” which somehow led me to the 3 drabbles in this collection. It started with the idea of the perfect spider and the other two simply came to me in a similar setting. Enjoy…

Arachnid

It was never meant to be discovered, never meant to be removed from the spot in the Amazon jungle it called home. Science decreed otherwise, hailing the spider a miracle.

Its poison was lethal, but it contained properties that could be used to heal all manner of human ills, or so they thought.

Had the scientists that discovered the thing moved a little deeper into the jungle, they would have found dead civilizations, all wiped out by an eight-legged creature that wanted the space to itself. The new medicines gave the toxins room to roam, roam to destroy something bigger.

Snake

The bite should have killed her instantly. Instead, it killed the snake that attacked her. She had always felt different, feared even, but she never knew why. Past partners called her toxic, and it appeared they were right.

The solo trip to the jungle was an escape from reality, but it was fast becoming the creation of something new. Her movements were now fast and fluid, unnatural. They felt right to her, though, as did the fangs and elongated tongue.

Slipping silently between the trees, she fed on small creatures, growing stronger with each kill. Time now for something bigger.

Dark Red

Things felt different along the forest trail today. Lilly ceased her skipping and listened, pulling down the hood of her red jacket so as to hear more clearly.

In the near distance, twigs snapped and groans of pain called out, silencing the birds and creatures that normally echoed out by day.

Lilly reached into her basket and slid out the blade just as the first of the creatures arrived. Like a ballerina, she spun, flicked the blade left and right, slicing and dicing with all her might. She grinned, knowing nothing would stop her from delivering a meal to grandma.

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“You should have taken us down there instead of up here,” Thorn yelled. “This is a colossal fuck up, Lionel.”

“With all due respect, sir, had you not come, that would have been the plan.” Drake tapped the pilot on the shoulder and said, “As soon as me, Anders, and Peplow are off this chopper, you start circling again.”

The pilot gave the thumbs up and prepared to lift off again.

“You cannot leave me here,” Thorn protested.

“And I cannot wheel you down there; you wanted to see this shit go down; I’m going to give you the best view in the house.”

The security detail jumped out of the chopper and scampered away from the blades, watching as the helicopter rose into the air.

Drake led the way, kicking in the door to the stairs leading down into the prison and directing his men to follow. “Bits, an update,” Drake yelled into his wireless headset, trying to compete with the sound of the departing helicopter.

He pressed the earpiece tightly into his right ear, but the only thing he heard was static. “We need to move. I think the other group might be in trouble. Eyes open, men. I cannot confirm where these nasty fuckers are until Bits or Bytes fill me in.”

They tore down the stairs, watching for any movement, hoping that the way ahead would be clear.

***

Salem flinched as the tranquilizer gun fired louder than expected. Following the path of the dart, she saw the Wenlutah dodge it in mid-stride, pressing its body lower to the ground, its grasshopper-like back legs bulging with muscles as it prepared to jump.

“Shoot that fucking ugly bitch,” Chalmers screamed as he unhooked his safety harness and turned towards the Madison’s side of the helicopter.

The Wenlutah sprung as the second dart exploded from Madison’s gun. The shot caught it in the antlers and deflected away to safety.

Salem screamed as the creature’s jaws clamped around Madison’s leg. Using its front legs, it gripped onto the helicopter and began to pull itself up, its weight sending the craft into a spin.

The sound of metal-on-metal tore through the morning air as the helicopter’s rear blades caught the top of the guard tower at the far end of the island.

Chalmers turned, wide-eyed, to face Salem. “Do something,” he pleaded as the helicopter spun wildly, the nose beginning to point towards the wharf.

For the slightest moment, Salem felt herself caught in the grip of fear, feeling as though she was Rebecca once more. It was the sound of the pilot screaming that they were all going to die that snapped her back.

She let loose a scream of rage and threw her hands up in the air, feeling the world around her begin to slow down.

Every little detail became astonishingly clear as her senses tuned into the slowed down surroundings.

Salem unbuckled her safety harness and did the same for Bits and Bytes. She then moved through the spray of blood that lazily drifted up from Madison’s leg as it was torn loose by the Wenlutah, the crimson fluid landing gently on her face.

Moving to the front of the helicopter, she unbuckled the pilot and watched for a moment as the ground drew steadily nearer.

As she dragged the pilot into the cabin, she had time to notice Drake and his men just past the guard building, guns raised as they went after the Rake, who was on all fours in mid-stride, a cruel smile on his face as though enjoying the thrill of the chase.

Raising her hands, palms out, Salem made a pushing motion and watched as the four men went flying out of the door of the helicopter. She controlled their movement on the way down, ensuring that they landed in a safe place well away from the impending impact.

While time moved slowly, it did not entirely stop. The ground now seemed impossibly close, and in the time it had taken to get the men out, the Wenlutah had torn open Madison’s belly with blood-soaked claws.

With Madison’s fate sealed, there was nothing to be done but get clear of the earthbound chopper. Salem leaped out the door and drifted to the ground, moving quickly away from the aircraft and over beside her fellow passengers.

With one long exhale, the world returned to normal speed.

***

As they went through the main doors of the prison, Peplow yelled and pointed. “Right there.”

The Rake came around the side of the building and made for the path leading down to the wharf. Drake fired one of his darts, but the speed at which the creature moved made it a target that was impossible to hit.

Anders shouldered his rifle and reached into his holster, pulling out a handgun.

“What are you doing, soldier?” Drake demanded.

“If you two want to try and trank that thing, go right ahead. I’m opting for Plan B.”

“Those are not your fucking orders.”

“Frankly, Drake, I don’t give a flying fuck. Thorn can keep his money. All I want to do is get out of here alive.”

Peplow made as though to follow suit, but he thought better of it. “Let’s get after that thing.”

Drake continued to glare at Anders, but he nodded. “You do not fire those live rounds until absolutely necessary. Let’s go.”

The men raced down the path in pursuit of the Rake, who appeared to be slowing down to let them catch up.

“Looks like he wants to play,” Peplow said.

The men closed the gap, and as they rounded a corner that brought the wharf into view, they all stopped, mouths agape as the second helicopter crashed into the ground and exploded in a massive fireball.

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This story was originally posted on November 14 last year and came from a prompt sent to me in a horror group. The prompt was something along the lines of “They had lived in the house 23 years.” When I see an image or a prompt that I like, I usually see a word or an opening line in my head. Echoes was the word that sprung to mind, and I imagined an old couple leaving the house. From there, the idea of why they were leaving came quite quickly, but I wanted to write it in a way that was a bit of a gut punch ending. Here is the story:

ECHOES

Grady pulled down the sliding door of the U-Haul, making sure it was properly locked before moving around to the cab. He climbed inside, taking the hand of his wife Martha, who was trying to hide the tears spilling down her face.

“Are you alright, my sweet?” Grady asked, rubbing his thumb on the back of his wife’s hand.

She rested her head against the window, her breath creating aa foggy mark on the glass. “I’ll be okay,” she caught a sob before it escaped. “We had a lot of good years there is all.”

“Twenty-three by my reckoning.” Grady sucked on his bottom lip, doing the mental math. “What’ll you miss the most?”

Martha sighed, further fogging the glass. “The hunting.”

Grady nodded. “It was fertile ground, for sure, but I’ve checked out the new place. It’ll be just as good, maybe better.”

Wiping away the condensation from the window, Martha let out a gasp as she reached up and clutched her throat.

“What wrong, baby?”

Martha poked a finger toward the side mirror. “Look. Up on the second floor.”

Leaning over his wife, Grady squinted at the mirror, a little chuckle escaping his throat. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

A girl of no more than seven years of age stood by the upstairs window, palms against the glass, a look of terror on her face.

“Do you think they’ll ever find them?” Martha asked, eyes wide.

“Nah. I buried those little bitches deep, all twenty-three of them.” He sucked on his lip again. I think the house is just keeping the first as a reminder of our time here.” With one more look at the girl, Grady cranked the engine and steered the vehicle up the drive, heading of for their new killing grounds.

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I am always trying to find new ways to entertain the people who take the time to subscribe to my stack. Today, I was mindlessly brainstorming different things in my head, but it was who floated the idea of doing a graphic novel.

That would be a massive project, and I would probably want to hire an actual artist for something like that, splitting the profits if we turned it into a physical product. That, though, is something for a later date.

I thought about ways to make smaller bite comics and decided that a 3-panel story from my drabbles might be a way to go. I won’t do this for all of them, as the one I am about to share was quite time consuming, but I think this could be a fun little Sunday project.

I used Midjourney, creating a style that carried over into all 3 images, and then took it into Canva to add the text bubbles. Let me know what you guys think.

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This was the quickest thing I have ever written, with the whole novella taking less than 30 days to complete. Black Roses was part of the Flower Shop Series of books created by my publisher. I was originally not part of this one, but when another author dropped out, my publisher asked me to fill in. I already had the idea, so getting it cranked out was …

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As the fog rolled away, Raven couldn’t help but be taken by the beauty of her surroundings. While Alcatraz was a crumbling relic held together by stories and the ghosts of the past, the surrounding area was nothing short of beautiful, especially with the rising sun painting it in shades of red and gold.

The creatures were all in place, each of them excited at the prospect of exacting revenge on their captors. Raven had warned them that Salem was off-limits, but she also knew that these were feral animals with a thirst for blood. It was her job to protect her daughter and hers alone.

Rather than go back up to the highest level of the island, where the prison lay, Raven opted to hide out in the building closest to the dock. Had she known or cared anything about the history of her hideout, she would have known that it was where the guards and their families had resided when Alcatraz was still a functioning prison.

As she made her way through the building to a vantage point looking out across the bay, she could feel the eyes of those who had died here watch her passage. She could feel their fear and confusion, and while it pained her to see spirits trapped in such a way, Raven forced herself to focus on the task at hand.

Settling herself by a window on the third floor, she sent her thoughts out into the ether, looking for one more talk with her daughter before the fight began.

***

The helicopters flew side by side, the rays of the rising sun bouncing off the gunmetal grey exterior of the craft. Salem sat between Bits and Bytes, watching as they pecked away silently at their laptops.

The two security personnel, who had introduced themselves as Chalmers and Madison, sat on ither side of the helicopter, ball caps turned backwards on their heads and guns aimed out the open doors.

“Salem. Can you hear me?”

She flinched at the sound of the voice, louder than usual in her head. Bits grabbed his laptop, which almost fell when Salem nudged against him.

“Everything okay?” he asked, a legitimate look of concern on his face.

“I’m scared of flying,” Salem lied, offering up a weak smile.

“We’ll be there soon, and trust me, these things are completely safe. We see to it,” Bits said, nodding in the direction of his partner.

“SALEM…PLEASE ANSWER.”

“I hear you.”

“You must be close. I can feel it.”

Salem looked into the cockpit and out the front window of the helicopter, seeing the San Francisco skyline not too far off in the distance. “We are close. I’m scared.”

“Don’t be. I will make sure nothing happens to you, even if that means giving up my life.”

“I don’t want that.”

“I’ve lived many lifetimes. I’ll tell you about some of them if I make it out alive.”

The conversation was interrupted by Drake’s voice filling the cabin as he radioed in from the other chopper.

“Listen up,” he ordered. “We are five minutes out. Soldiers, remember, tranquilizer rounds only. Salem, if there is an attack, do your thing and protect the people by your side.”

Never one to enjoy being told what to do, Salem resisted the urge to flip the bird. Instead, she reached out to Raven. “Five minutes. Be ready.”

“Bits, what is the Wenlutah’s current position?”

A couple of taps on his computer later, he replied, “On the high ground, outside the prison.”

“Copy that. My guess is that they’ll all be there, forming a protective circle around the bitch.”

“Don’t call her a bitch, asshole,” Salem hissed.

“We will land our chopper on the roof of the prison. You will land on the main level by the boat landing dock. It’s a tight fit, but not a huge problem. Hold your position and stay in the chopper. We will come to you. Got it?”

All but Salem spoke their assent.

“Salem?” Drake said.

“Yes.”

“This should be a quick in and out. We will drive them in your direction. Do what you do and take them down without inflicting injury. Am I clear?’

“Crystal.”

“Keep the comms open, and good luck.”

“They are landing on the prison roof, Mother. My helicopter will be down by the water.”

“I’ll be nearby.”

Beyond the city skyline, the sun rose across the bay. Alcatraz appeared, looking calm and peaceful, a state that would not remain that way for long.

***

WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP.

The sound of the approaching helicopters reached Raven before they came into view. It wasn’t until she saw the glint of metal in the sky on the horizon that she knew they were really close.

Closing her eyes, she willed her creature to remain vigilant, reminding them that Salem was off limits. They had obeyed her since their release, but the prospect of fresh blood and some revenge might change all that.

Once the helicopters flew past the main wharf on Alcatraz, Raven moved quickly, descending the stairs and heading for the main entrance of the guard quarters. There were limited places for the helicopters to land, and she wanted to be as close as possible to the one that carried her daughter.

***

“Circle the island,” Drake said, signaling both pilots. “Bits and Bytes, I want to know where these fucking things are at all times.”

“The Wenlutah is still by the prison. The heat signatures show two more there, plus one down by the main building on the lower level.” Bits replied.

“Where’s the witch?”

“Lower level.”

All eyes trained on the island as they performed a slow loop.

“Police boat by the wharf. Any signs of life?” Drake asked.

“Negative,” Bits replied.

Thorn moved his head from side to side, looking out though both open doors of the helicopter. “Are those bodies down there?”

Looking though a pair of binoculars, one of the guards responded. “Looks like a couple of cops torn apart and what looks to be a fucking horse.”

“The Nuckelavee,” Thorn whimpered. “Dead?”

“Looks to be, sir.”

After one full loop and no sign of any movement, Drake sent out the order. “We will take the roof of the prison. Chopper two, take the wharf.”

The pilot of Salem’s helicopter watched as his partner slowly lowered onto the roof of the prison. Once it touched down, he moved around to the front of the island, cursing at the limited space available to land. “Make sure you are all buckled in. This is going to be tight.”

“Shit,” Bits said.

“Relax, kid. I’ve fit bigger choppers than this into tighter spots. I got it.

“No, you don’t understand. The Wenlutah is coming, and it’s coming fast.”

“Where?” Chalmers asked, gripping his weapon tightly.

“Other side. Madison, she’s coming directly to you.”

Looking down the sight of his weapon, Madison said, “I don’t see it.”

“I’m telling you, she’s close.

Salem looked beyond Madison and caught the movement of the creature bounding down under the cover of trees. It was unlike anything she had ever seen in her life, and she suddenly wished that she was back in her little house with Terry arguing about paint colors.

As the creature broke into the open, Madison finally saw it. “What the actual fuck?”

“What is going on?” Drake asked over the intercom.

“It looks like they are bringing the fight to us.” Madison yelled as he pulled the trigger.

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Brown List

Human resources were sure that no one in the company had access to their files, but they forgot the IT guy. I saw the Brown List a month before the layoffs were set to be announced. My name being on it was unacceptable.

I had worked too hard to be deemed disposable, so my plan was simple. I chose to focus on the slackers who survived the cut.

A little drop of poison in their bagged lunches set things in motion. Three are dead already, and two more are sick. Best of all, my name is now off the list.

Ankle Biters

Looking back, I should have paid attention to the sign that read, “WARNING: Toadskulls are in Season.” In my defense, I assumed the farmer was simply getting creative in order to stop hikers cutting through his field.

I was about halfway across when I felt the first nip at my ankles. Looking down, I noticed a brightly colored toadstool with the face of an old man and the teeth of a shark.

I should have gone back the way I came, but I tried to keep going. The bites grew ferocious, but the poison, that’s what cost me my legs.

Below

I can hear them up there, pacing back and forth, wailing for their child to return. When the police leave, the charade ends and the music begins.

In death, my senses remain, but I can feel them fading. The everyday stench of the trailer above me is fading, replaced by scents of soil and my increasing decay.

I can feel the poison mummy and daddy fed me still somehow coursing through my veins, and I assume it is eating away at my last remaining tether to the real world. All I want is to scream and have the truth uncovered.

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If you have followed my work for any length of time, you will undoubtedly be well aware that I lean more toward drabbles and flash fiction as opposed to longer stories. There are several reasons why I take this approach, which I thought might be interesting to share.

I first started writing long before the days of the internet. When I was about 12 or 13, I would fold over a random number of pieces of paper and then try to fill the spaces with a story. They were nonsense little things about dinosaurs and such, but I loved the challenge. My sister eventually found my work and purchased me a battered old typewriter that served me well for years. Even then, the stories were short and to the point.

It wasn’t until I found out about NaNoWriMo that I toyed with the idea of writing something longer, but even then, what became my first novel was a series of intertwined shorts. After writing a follow-up novel, I began to drift back to shorter pieces, with the rest of my published work falling into novella territory. I found this to be my comfort zone.

After dropping off the face of the publishing earth for a few years, I started tentatively making my way back last year. I was back in antidepressants, and the creativity was returning like a faucet left to run wide open. That was when I found Substack. I wanted to get as much of my work out there as possible in hopes of finding an audience, which seems to be working, for the moment at least.

My drabbles tend to be different variations on a similar idea, and they serve as blurbs of a sort, which might well become something bigger. It is the same with the flash pieces. It’s the easiest way for me to get an idea down and see if I think it will go anywhere if I do expand it.

I am now at the point where longer pieces are starting to call to me again, but even then, I think that majority of those will end up as novellas. I’m not sure how much writing time I have left in me, so I am looking to strike while the iron is hot. Drabbles and flash make it easy for me to write and create every day; while also feeling like I am also working on something new every time.

Even when I return to longer form horror, my page will still be home to those nasty little nuggets, simply because they are what helped me grow my subscriber base here. No matter which way I go, I hope you guys will come along for the ride.

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1986

A blanket of clouds blocked out the night sky, save for a few stars that twinkled through the gaps, winking at Ben Forrest as he lay on his back, gasping for breath.

He lay in a farmer’s field, the smell of cow shit tickling his nostrils. Wearing nothing but a ratty t-shirt and soiled underwear, Ben tried to move but groaned as the aches dug in deep, like clawed hands piercing his skin.

In the distance, he could make out lights dancing in the air, bobbing up and down as they moved in closer.

“Please, no more,” Ben moaned, squeezing his eyes shut as tightly as possible.

Turning his head away from the approaching lights, he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling tears leaking from the corners.

“Ben. Ben Forrest. Can you hear me?”

While distant, the voice sounded familiar.

“Ben. Please, baby, where are you?”

“Mom?” he groaned, his dried-out lips splitting open. Licking away tiny droplets of blood, he tried again, this time louder, “MOM.”

With the last of his waning strength, Ben raised his right arm, wincing as pins and needles shot down from his fingers to his armpit.

“Is that someone there?” another voice asked.

Ben wanted to look, wanted to see his parents, but fear took hold. It wasn’t until he heard footsteps getting closer and could hear his mother repeating his name over and over that he dared to turn his head and open his eyes.

A cacophony of sights and sounds washed over him, dulling his senses as lights blinded him and the crackle of police radios buzzed in his ears like mosquitos looking for a fresh-blooded host.

Ben felt it all begin to fade away as he slipped back into darkness. Before becoming engulfed in the black abyss, he felt his body rise from the ground, just as it had three days prior.

***

He awoke in a room that was not his own. Gone were his favorite books, the Pittsburgh Steelers posters that hung on the wall, and the pile of dirty laundry that always seemed to appear, as if by magic, in the corner of his bedroom. Instead, all he saw were bare, pale green walls and an array of medical equipment that somehow connected to his arm.

The machines beeped and hummed, creating a weirdly haunting tune that relaxed him. The aches and pains from earlier were now gone, replaced by a numb sensation across his entire body, one that was not entirely unpleasant.

Ben tried to raise his head, but the room began to spin, the walls warping as though reflected in a funhouse mirror.

He closed his eyes and sank back into the pillow, hearing snippets of conversation reach his ears.

Serious physical trauma…molested…lucky to be alive…needs more tests.

The words sounded terrible, but Ben comforted himself by imagining that they were talking about someone else. With that thought, he drifted back into dreamland.

***

He flinched as he felt something cold press against his chest. “Leave me alone, please.”

“Is he awake?”

“Seems like he is coming out of it. Perhaps try talking to him.”

“Ben, baby, it’s Mommy. Please look at me.”

His eyes fluttered open, but he snapped them shut as a blinding light blasted his retinas. “Too bright.”

“Cody. Shut off the damn lights.”

“Mom?”

“I’m right here, my baby.”

Ben felt a soft hand on his cheek, and he turned his face into it, savoring the warmth. “Is it really you?”

“Yes, it’s Mommy, and your dad is here, too.”

“That’s right, son. I’m here.”

Opening his eyes, Ben caught his breath and fought to hold back the sobs that threatened to break loose. “Am I home?”

“Soon, baby. You are in the hospital right now, but you are safe,” Melanie Forrest said, fighting back the tears.

“I’m thirsty,” Ben said.

Through narrowed eyes, he watched as his mom placed a straw against his lips. He sucked on the end and savored the cold water as it slid down his throat, tiny slivers of ice chips arriving with the fluid.

“Take it easy, champ,” Ben Senior said. “You don’t want to make yourself sick.”

Melanie pulled the cup away and set it on the bedside table. Reaching up, she pushed away the stray locks of dark hair that spilled down onto Ben’s forehead, fussing with him as though prepping for a family photo.

Ordinarily, Ben would have been embarrassed at the attention from his mom, but it felt right. He not only needed it, he craved it, as it made him feel protected.

“Do you feel up to talking?” a strange voice asked.

“Can you give him a minute to get his bearings?” Melanie snapped.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but time is of the essence here. I’m sure you want us to catch the person that did this to your boy.”

With a sigh, Melanie turned to her son and took his hand. “These nice police officers need to talk to you for a minute.”

“Don’t leave me, Mom.”

“I’m not going anywhere, kiddo.”

Ben looked up at the police officer standing behind his mother and suddenly felt very small. The cop looked like a giant with a buzz cut, his hand, the size of a shovel, holding open a notebook.

“How are you feeling, Ben?” he asked in a deep voice.

“I’m…” he glanced at his dad, not wanting to feel like a helpless kid, “…okay.”

“That’s good. I’m Officer Melkin, and this is my partner, Officer Jones,” the cop said, nodding at a man by the door with a matching haircut. “Are you up to talking to us about what happened?”

“I…I guess.” Ben swallowed hard, feeling his throat dry up again.

Pulling up a chair beside Melanie, the cop sat beside the bed, the plastic seat groaning as he lowered his sizeable frame onto it. “What can you tell me about Friday night? The night you went missing?”

Ben frowned, trying to focus on how things had gone down just seventy-two hours earlier. “I was going to hang out with my friend, Kenny.”

Melkin consulted his notebook. “Kenny Pike?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When did you leave to go to his house?”

“Right after dinner. About six at night.”

The cop scribbled in his pad, tapping his pen against the binder as he continued to speak. “How far is it from his house to yours?”

“Not far, especially if you cut across the field.”

“I should have driven him,” Melanie interrupted, clutching at her blouse.

Melkin ignored her and continued, “A five-minute walk?”

“Maybe less,” Ben said. “I run and try to beat my best time. I use the timer on my digital watch.” He held up his right hand to show the cop his watch, but it was gone, replaced by a plastic band containing his personal details.

“How much time do you think passed before someone grabbed you?”

Ben shook his head, confused by the question. “What do you mean?”

Melkin shot a glance at Ben’s parents before switching focus, hoping not to upset the boy. “Did you meet anyone on the way?”

“Not until after they took me,” Ben said, a look of fear on his face. His eyes darted between the cop and his parents, and sweat began to form on his brow.

“They?” Melkin asked, leaning in close. “There was more than one? Can you describe them?”

“They were grey and ugly. They had really big eyes, and they showed me things I didn’t want to see.”

The police officer looked confused. “Were the men wearing grey clothes? Is that what you are saying?”

“No. Their skin was grey, and they were not men.”

The sound of the pen rattling against the notebook intensified as the cop began to appear agitated. “Okay, Ben, let’s try something different. Where did they take you? Can you remember anything?”

Turning to look out the window, Ben pointed up at the sky. “They took me up there using a bright light. Yes, I remember all of it, but I wish I didn’t.”

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” Cody Forrest said, going into protective father mode.

Melkin raised his hand in a call for quiet. “Just one more question, sir.” He leaned in close and whispered, “It’s okay to tell me what really happened, Ben. I want to help you.”

Tears brimmed in the boy’s eyes, threatening to spill. “I told you already. Aliens took me, and they put something in my chest.”

The adults in the room avoided eye contact as Ben spoke, but they all looked scared.

“They told me that they’ll be watching me. The grey things are going to come for me again.”

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Brave Emily

Into the enchanted forest brave Emily strode. Mother was dying, but legends told of a magic flower that could cure all. The only problem was that the guardian stood in the way.

Emily felt guided by divine providence, marching quickly over gnarled roots and jutting rocks with nary a misstep. It was then she saw the red beast, all horns and scaly skin blocking the way.

Dropping to her knees, Emily bowed, waiting for the strike that would end her. It never came. Instead, a delicate purple flower came into view. Tears fell and the petals glistened. Mother would live.

Rats

They come at night, teeth bared and claws raking the baseboards, looking for a way out. Gill covers the holes in the daylight hours, an endless chore that he is happy to perform.

Gill does not believe in traps or extermination, but he also doesn’t want the creatures running loose by day. He needs then to feed when darkness falls and the other thing arrives.

From the closet it comes, like it has been since his childhood. Gill has protection now, and he likes to watch the monster bleed when the rats attack. He knows it will never ever end.

Hate

When they murdered his wife, Kyle felt nothing but pain and sorrow. It was a combination that felt like a persistent body blow, forcing him down to wallow in self-pity.

Soon enough, though, it all turned to hate.

The more he thought about the killers, the more that hate grew. With each outburst of rage, Kyle underwent a physical change. Muscles formed, teeth grew to points, and flesh hardened. Hate turned him into a killing machine, ready to purr when he put the pedal to the metal.

Kyle stood outside the house where the freed men lived, waiting for death.

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Salem sat on the edge of the bed and waited for Drake to arrive. The guards were no longer posted outside, her display of power against them seen as a sign that their presence was no longer required.

Before they left, she had probed inside their minds, surprised that access was so easy. She found nothing there to help her, though. The men had been nothing more than mindless minions, the lowest of the low on the Thorn totem pole. She wasn’t sure if she should be offended at that fact, but the more Salem considered it, the more it seemed that their lack of any knowledge of the ins and outs of Thorns business dealings was probably why they had been chosen.

Hearing a door open at the end of the hallway, Salem rose and tried to get her mind right. This mission was all about making sure that Terry remained safe and that her mother remained free. How to make both of those things happen was the issue. Salem was sure that Thorn would not look kindly on her playing any role in maintaining Raven’s freedom.

Drake rapped on the door and stepped inside, looking like a man ready to do battle. The five o’clock shadow and designer clothing were gone in favor of combat attire and a clean-shaven look that showed off a powerful square jaw.

“Good morning, Lionel,” Salem said with a smile.

He seemed surprised by the pleasantries, probably expecting a mouthful of vitriol, but he returned the smile and said, “Good morning to you. Are you ready to go?”

“I’m not sure. Do I need to bring anything?”

Drake pulled a pack off his shoulder and handed it to Salem. “There’s a clean set of clothing in there that might be more suitable than what you are wearing now.”

Salem looked down at her torn T-shirt, soiled sweatpants, and cheap sneakers, feeling inclined to agree. “I suppose you’re right. We aren’t going to Wal-Mart after all.”

“I’ll wait outside while you change. Do it quickly, please.”

Tossing her dirty clothes aside, Salem slipped on the fatigues that Drake had delivered. She tied back her red locks with a hair band and surveyed herself in the mirror. Camo was not what she would have ordinarily chosen as a fashion statement, but it was certainly better than what she’d previously had on.

Salem stepped into the hallway, closing and locking the room door with a flick of the wrist.

Drake scowled and shook his head. “You may want to preserve some of that for our trip.”

“I’ve got plenty in reserve,” Salem said, jogging down the hallway. “I’m not worried. Maybe you should be.”

Remaining stone-faced, Drake wheeled around and set off at a brisk pace. “Choppers leave in fifteen. Let’s go.”

They headed out of the building and into a waiting Jeep, which took off before they had time to get their seatbelts fastened.

Salem fiddled with the seatbelt, but she struggled to get it engaged as the Jeep bounded over uneven terrain, the driver seemingly oblivious to the thick fog surrounding them.

“Can he even see where he’s going?” Salem asked, gripping tightly to the side of the open-topped vehicle.

“Night vision goggles, with some modifications from Bits and Bytes,” Drake replied.

“I hope our pilots have those, too. I don’t see us going anywhere in this weather.”

The rise lasted no more than a couple of minutes, but it felt like forever. Stepping out of the Jeep, Salem rubbed her tailbone, which felt bruised and battered beyond belief.

It looked as though they were standing in the middle of nowhere, but as Drake led them through the fog, shapes began to emerge in the near distance. It was still tough to see, but Salem could make out a pair of helicopters and several people milling around. She also saw the unmistakable outline of Thorn sitting in his powerchair, gesticulating wildly. As they drew nearer, his words became clear.

“I don’t give a good flying fuck what you think. We are leaving now.”

“What seems to be the problem?” Drake asked.

At the sight of Salem and his head of security, Thorn fought to regain his composure. “Our pilots here are refusing to fly despite the fact that these outrageously expensive Black Hawk helicopters are equipped with FLIR, as well as a few extras from our IT boys.”

Salem watched as Drake pulled the pilots aside and spoke to them quietly. Both airmen shook their heads and pointed at the sky, seemingly refusing to change their stance.

“Well, this isn’t any good,” Salem said, sidling up beside Thorn. “Maybe we should call it a day.”

“Maybe you should learn your place and keep your mouth shut, Miss Grainger.” Thorn spat out the name, knowing how much it would rankle his target.

Salem refused to take the bait. While she found Thorn to be a pathetic creature, she also knew that he was a man that expected to get what he wanted, whenever he asked for it. She remained silent.

Bits and Bytes and the four other members of the security detail busied themselves by going over a checklist that had probably already been looked at a hundred times. It was obvious that they were going out of their way to escape the wrath of Thorn.

“I’m not paying them a penny more,” the billionaire yelled in the direction of Drake and the pilots. “They are already overpaid.”

Drake sauntered over to Thorn, a look of resignation on his face. “It’s not a matter of money, sir. They simply refuse to fly in this fog.”

“What about the equipment that Bits and Bytes delivered? That software can see through a bloody brick wall as though it wasn’t there. Surely it can see through this,” Thorn said throwing his arms up in the air.

The movement made the fog begin to swirl in concentric circles that spread out like waves after dropping a pebble in a pond. With each wave, the mist grew thinner, evaporating before their eyes.

Drake stared at Salem. “Are you doing this?”

Feeling her heart sink, she shook her head, the movement of her ponytail sending more of the fog drifting up and away.

“It’s a miracle,” Thorn said, beaming like a crazy man.

No, it’s my mother,” Salem muttered under her breath.

Jumping into action, Drake rounded up his team and yelled at the pilots to fire up the choppers. After surveying the sky for a moment and seeing the fog melt away, the men headed to their respective cockpits and prepared to leave.

As the fog drifted off, Salem peered out into the early morning darkness, looking in the direction of Alcatraz. She didn’t need a map or co-ordinates to know the direction in which The Rock lay. Instead, she felt her mother sounding out like a beacon, calling the group to their death.

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The coffee shop, which was usually filled to brimming with college kids studying and taking advantage of the free WiFi, was quieter than usual. It was spring break, and most students were probably off to the beach, getting shitfaced on mommy and daddy’s dime.

Deborah Millen sipped her latte and lowered her voice as she spoke, hoping the few other custome…

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This one came from a prompt issued by someone in a horror group that I belong to. When you ask for prompts, you tend to get a lot of requests for bugs, mirrors, and talking dolls, so it tends to be all about finding a different angle from which to approach common themes. For this one, I imagined a man being driven made by the sounds of scratching bugs, but the twist was that the sound was not coming from anywhere he imagined. This was originally posted on Nov 7, 2025.

WITHIN THESE WALLS

Eric sat on his couch, watching the man work and trying to resist the urge to grab him and toss him out on the street. The Pest Ninja website had promised professional removal of all household invaders, but the guy they had sent was a walking disaster, tripping over himself and looking generally unkempt. In fact, he was the complete opposite of a ninja.

“Where are you specifically hearing the sounds?” the pest technician asked, mouth hanging open.

“Everywhere, but it’s more active at night.”

“And it’s scratching you hear?”

Eric clenched his fists, the knuckles white enough to make it appear as though bones had torn through flesh. “I believe that’s what I told you the first three times you asked.”

Ignoring the jab, the man turned back to the wall and proceeded to poke and prod with all manner of tools before finally giving up. “I’m not seeing any traces of pests, which is not surprising given how clean your place is. I can lay out some traps, just to be sure.”

“That would be great,” Eric said, believing it to be the furthest thing from a great solution.

That night, Eric lay in bed, anger still simmering, as he thought about the money he had shelled over for nothing. He promised himself that he would place a call to the Pest Ninja office in the morning and give those fuckers a piece of his mind.

Scritch. Scratch. Scritch

The sound seemed impossible loud in the quiet of his home. “You little fuckers.” Eric leaped out of bed and pressed his ear to the wall, the sounds from within tickling his ear. “I’m going to kill all of you as soon as I find you.”

Bolting downstairs, the scratching sound still reverberating around the house, Eric pulled open to door to his storage closet, throwing everything out until he found what he wanted - his Louisville Slugger baseball bat. Taking a few practice swings, his high school championship ring glinting in the light, a grin spread across his face. “Let’s see you get away from Eric the Marauder.”

By the time he made it back upstairs, the scratching sound had reached fever pitch. Wasting no more time, Eric swung the bat with all his might, tearing open a hole in the drywall. “I told you, fuckers. I’m unstoppable. He swung again, but this time, the bat connected with a support beam, recoiling and bouncing back to catch Eric square in the forehead. He went down hard, screaming as his tailbone connected with the hardwood floor.

A gout of blood exploded from the cut opened by the bat on his forehead. He tried to stem the flow, but it oozed between his fingers, tickling him as it travelled to his wrist. It was then that he noticed the black squirming things swimming in the blood, appearing to feed as they fell.

The creatures fanned out across his flesh, their rubbing mandibles sounding just like the scratching within his walls. As he opened his mouth to scream, hordes of bugs burst free of every orifice to feed.

Scritch. Scratch.

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Salem stood in the middle of her room, arms folded across her chest, and waited for Thorn to maneuver his powerchair into the tight space. She laughed aloud when he bumped against the table and toppled the glass sitting on top.

“Clumsy me,” Thorn said with a smile, his anger simmering just below the surface.

“Accidents happen. I mean, look at your face,” Salem jabbed.

The part of Thorn’s face that was visible flushed red, the color bleeding down to his neck and threatening to stain his pristine white shirt collar. “Someone is feeling a tad feisty today. I’m told you wanted to see me, Miss Grainger.”

“Rebecca Grainger is dead, at least for the moment. My name is Salem.”

Thorn waved away the comment as he regained his composure. “Whatever you say, dear. None of it matters to me.” He flicked away a piece of lint from his suit jacket and turned his attention back to Salem. “What do you want?”

“A couple of things. First, I want to talk to my boyfriend, plus I want to know the details of our proposed trip to The Rock.”

“The first isn’t possible,” Drake said. “He is in a safe house that has no means of communication in or out.”

“Don’t feed me bullshit, Lionel,” Salem scoffed. “How do you keep in contact with your team out there?”

“I don’t need to. There is only one road in and out. Trust me, they won’t be bothered.”

Salem stared down the mercenary, thinking about the ways she would like to hurt him. As she did that, she reached out and slipped inside the mind of Spencer Thorn, only to be met with the same brick wall as earlier.

“We can, though, supply some details on our mission,” Thorn said, a milky tear dripping from his ruined left eyeball and onto the silver mask covering that side of his face.

She probed deeper and took some delight in seeing tears begin to flow freely from his eye.

Thorn squirmed in his chair but still managed a smile that looked more like a grimace. “Would you care to hear those details, or are we done here?”

Beginning to feel the strain of using her powers to no avail, Salem pulled out of Thorn’s mind and relaxed. “Let’s hear it.”

“Lionel, if you would care to take the floor.”

Noticing the white fluid running down his boss’s mask, Drake pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his dress shirt and handed it to Thorn before beginning to speak. “We shall depart from this facility by helicopter at six a.m. sharp. I expect you to be ready fifteen minutes prior to our departure.”

“I should warn you that I’m not much of a morning person.”

Ignoring the remark, Drake continued. “There will be two birds. You will occupy one with Bits and Bytes, as well as two security personnel. Myself, Mr. Thorn, and two more of my team will take the other.”

“That’s a lot of men,” Salem said. “A lot of potential for trigger fingers.”

Thorn wheeled forward a touch and cleared his throat. “I believe I already mentioned, Miss Grainger, that this is a retrieval mission, not some mass execution.”

“And I believe I told you that my name is Salem.”

Drake stepped between the two, hands raised in an effort to calm the impending blowout. “Can we please focus on the task at hand?”

“My apologies to you both. Please, continue,” Thorn said.

“As just mentioned, we are looking to recapture the escaped creatures, so I would ask, Salem, that you try to show some restraint.”

Gritting her teeth and holding back her anger, Salem nodded.

“We will have limited space in the choppers, which means that we may need to sacrifice one of the escapees,” Thorn continued.

Unable to restrain herself further, Salem spoke loudly. “I hope you’re not talking about my mother. Losing a trio of parental types in the space of twenty-four hours might be more than I can take. You’ve both seen how I get when I’m upset.”

Spinning his powerchair around, Thorn headed for the door. “This conversation is over.” He looked down at his wristwatch. A little more than two hours before we leave. Please try to be ready and on your best behavior, Salem.”

She watched him go and then turned her attention back to Drake. “Not my mother, right?”

“No. The Wenlutah. We have a replacement coming in a couple of days.” Drake gave a little nod and followed his boss out the door, which he narrowly avoided contact with as Salem threw it closed.

She was tired, but Salem knew that sleep would not come. Hopping onto her bed, she hoisted herself up and peered out a narrow window sitting just below the ceiling. She didn’t think that any pilot worth his salt would fly in such conditions, but she decided to try and warn her mother, just in case they did make it out.

***

The water lapped against the dock, the rhythmic splashing bringing a sense of exterior calm to Raven that she didn’t feel inside.

The chance to escape Thorn’s prison was one that she knew she had to take, but if she were honest with herself, she didn’t know what to do now. Two of the creatures that had escaped with her were now dead, and Raven knew that she had to accept some blame in that.

What was the end goal? Was it to slip back into a life like she’s lived before being caught? She didn’t believe that possible, for as powerful and smart as she was, she could not compete with Thorn and his money. Raven knew that he would spend whatever it took to get his exhibits back. What he might do to her once she was back in his grasp was not worth thinking about.

“Mother?”

Raven had hoped to hear from her daughter again, but the voice in her head was still a surprise.

“My child. How are you?”

“Scared. They are coming, and…”

“And taking you with them,” Raven finished. “When?”

“In less than two hours. Time for you to move, but if you do, leave the Wenlutah behind. That is how they know where you are.”

“No. I am responsible for them. Let these men come. We will be ready.”

“I will do what I can to help, Mother.”

Raven had felt dead inside for as long as she could remember, but it now felt as though blood was reaching her heart again, making it beat, making her care. “I will do all I can to protect you, child. Are they coming by water?”

“By air. Helicopters, but I don’t think they can fly in this fog.”

“I will clear a path for them.”

“Why would you do that?”

“This has to end, Salem. I will either be free or die fighting to be so. I will see you soon.”

Raven closed off her mind, feeling her daughter reach out and try to continue the conversation. There was nothing more to say. It was time to ready the troops and prepare for the arrival of the enemy.

Looking out beyond The Rock, Raven could barely make out the lights blinking atop the Golden Gate Bridge. The sky above was nothing more than a swirling mass of grey fog. Placing her hands on her abdomen, she closed her eyes and began to gently blow.

The fog twisted and turned upon itself, and ever so slowly began to break apart.

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