Molly opened the door to her new antique shop and breathed in the freshly painted room. She sold everything from refurbished wood furniture, candles and lotions among other products. Family and friends begged her not to buy the building that was a torture chamber in the early 1800s. Rumor had it that past owners heard screams and footsteps, but she didn’t believe it.

On her last day, Molly locked the door for the final time. When she turned for one last look, a figure waved from the window.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

You don’t believe me, Doctor!

He looked it up… “googled” they used to say… left alone for days, many pets died.

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

You talk to family photos, suffer from migraines, play Chopin with unshowy facility on the parlor piano. Strangers often comment on your eyes – gull’s eyes, someone called them. The sea heaves just outside your door, and from the back window, you can see the cemetery where your father is buried. Weeds have sprouted up overnight among the headstones. You aren’t interested in stories of success, only failure. “Sunshine,” you say, “is an overrated virtue.” The words echo. There’s a feeling that something terrible is about to happen. You watch for a while and then shrug. Maybe because it’s all disappearing.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press and Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

A hunk of meat sizzled on the broken fireguard atop a rusty oil drum which served as a brazier-cum-barbeque.

Long pig had never been so descriptive.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

God how I loved “Hotel California.” Which was more than a song. The rooms had feather beds and cozy quilts you’d think came from the Amish people. Those people, straight and true. Me, I’m a scotch on the rocks girl, down at the hotel bar most nights singing along with those guys. “Desperado” comes to mind. My kids weren’t half as much trouble as I let on. All of them stellar now. So stellar I don’t know what to say to them anymore. And the way they don’t call, I figure they don’t know what to say to me either.

Linda Lowe’s poems and stories have appeared in Outlook Springs, Gone Lawn, Dogzplot, Right Hand Pointing, New Verse News and others.

He just wanted to get rid of that man so he killed him. He had always wanted to do that. He saw him dying. He smiled and laughed. He had no fear of God and he didn’t care for the aftermath. Days passed. One day, on his way home he felt someone was following him, someone who was large and dark. He walked faster. The dark figure kept chasing him. He started running but wherever he went the dark figure chased him. He hurriedly reached home and shut the door behind him. Now, he was afraid of his own shadow.

From Guest Contributor Sergio Nicolas

Robyn watched the memorial for an hour before shutting the television. The numerous innocent casualties grieved her. Eighteen-years-later and September 11th, 2001 remained visible. The screams and falling debris echoed, and the blackened sky that had been full of abundant sunshine before the tragedy, frightened her.

Tears formed and tea spilled.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

I opened my eyes and spoke with the angel at the foot of my bed.

“You were texting someone, apparently.”

From Guest Contributor Bernie Hanvey

“She sells sea shells by the seashore.”

“Nobody.”

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

Two Scandinavian dudes set out in a vintage VW microbus to prove the secretary-general of the United Nations was the victim of assassination. But then, by accident, they discover an attempt to eliminate entirely the smoking of cigarettes after sex. The Scandinavians meet a leader of an underground militia who says that while that’s his signature on the document, he didn’t write the signature himself. I got to be honest, I was expecting more: maybe a “crime wall,” with photos and red strings and so on; maybe the angel of death promising in a mocking tone to stay in touch.

Howie Good is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.