“What do you mean, ‘you’re almost there’?” Ralf’s voice was barely audible through the prattle of the nightly downpour. “Past the exit sign.” I leaned closer to the phone holder. “I’ll be there in 20 minutes. 30 at most.” I tried to come up with a quick estimate how long it would take to unload the hodgepodge of furniture and crates from the estate sale, but Ralf cut me off. “It’s Friday, Frank.” A pause, then: “We said Saturday.” Stumped, I just stared at the phone for a moment. “Seriously?” My schedule had been somewhat chaotic lately, and I was more annoyed than surprised that I had mixed things up. “Yes, seriously,” Ralf said through the rain and what sounded…

The nonstop pitter-patter of the cold rain against my bedroom window set the mood. I found myself rubbing my eyes, unable to follow the now swaying lines. My book was a jumbled mess of dyslexic text. I spent another minute trying to decipher the words, but my exhausted state of mind could not put meaning to them. I folded the top right corner of the page and gingerly placed Bram Stoker’s, Dracula, back on the windowsill.   I must’ve dozed off at some point because I found myself dreaming. Eyes. Red eyes the size of saucer plates peered into the depths of my soul. No matter how hard I tried to look away, I could not break the gaze. I felt…

In the shadowy, pine-filled countryside of Greece, there’s an old legend known to the older locals but half forgotten and unknown to the few young people living there. The legend centres around an eerie stone statue of a little girl named Magda, hidden deep in the local dark pine forest. Magda was the daughter of a wealthy merchant in the late 1800s, a girl with straw-colored hair and a bright, innocent smile. She loved to play with her friends in the forest, especially a peculiar game of their own invention that was a blend of hide-and-seek and statues. The rules were simple: the children would blindfold themselves, and one person would stand by a tree in the distance, reciting a…

It’s funny how tales like this cling to you, worming their way into your mind, gnawing away, festering like a wound. They say truth is stranger than fiction, but sometimes the stories we pass down—the ones we whisper in shadowy corners or over drinks at seedy bars—are more chilling and grotesque than any proven fact. This is one of those tales. A fable, sure, but one that sits far too close to reality. Told by those who find comfort in the macabre, and believed by those who understand that the scariest monsters are always human. Ever heard of Helen? The lonely, gaunt old woman who ran that ramshackle diner out on Highway 22—the one no one seems to remember until…

October 29th The announcement hit the internet like a bomb. Cochran Brothers Tech, famous for their viral mobile apps, had outdone themselves this time.  Crypts and Corpses, the latest offering from the tech giant, promised to bring Halloween to life like never before.  It was an augmented reality game designed to transform the last 2 days of the month into a twisted scavenger hunt.  The trailer alone was enough to send chills down spines–grinning skeletons, decaying zombies, and creepy crypts, all superimposed onto real-world locations through your phone. David stood in line at the coffee shop, scrolling through his phone as the buzz about the game raced across social media.  His group chat was already lit. “Yo, you see the…

Mr. Zimmer didn’t want his last Halloween to end like this, alone in a dark cold room, an invalid while children and parents alike roamed the streets outside asking for candy and dressed in costumes. He remembered when he was young and fit, and when he hadn’t shattered his spine by falling off a roof setting up spooky decorations. At his old age, and with what little money his family possessed, it was easier for everyone to toss him into a nursing home. Easier for everyone except Mr. Zimmer himself. It scared him how easily they became frustrated and annoyed by him, a constant factor in their lives that suddenly turned into a burden, just like that. When he was…

I consider myself a pretty average resident of Indianapolis, Indiana. I was born and raised here, went to school here, and I’m currently attending Martin University to earn my degree in Environmental Science. Just like my dad always wanted. I enjoy motorsports and home makeover shows, and I love me a good sugar cream pie. I’ve been called a ‘Midwestern stereotype’ more than once, but only by new acquaintances from uni. By people who don’t know I haven’t always been this way. Growing up, I was a weird kid. Not a wild kid, mind you. Quite the opposite. Parents, teachers, other kids – everyone agreed that I was laid back and easy to get along with. No tantrums, no ‘rebellious…

The handwritten sign plastered to my door was not something I could miss. ‘Rent due on Monday: don’t be fucking late this time.’ Living with my best mate’s sister had been working out reasonably well, and to be fair, I felt terrible about being behind on rent so often, but I still wished Hazel would find a less passive-aggressive way of reminding me. If only my parents had bought me my own place after I’d graduated college, I’d get to be the one behaving like an overprivileged asshole, I reflected, before tearing the sign off the door and entering my bedroom. I flopped down onto my bed, exhausted after another morning of fruitless job searching. I knew I would have…

I can honestly say this has been the hottest summer I have ever experienced. Not just in Pittsburgh, where I live, but throughout the entire country. Sweltering heat to the point where even the most avid outdoor enthusiasts such as myself have either had to shelter inside the comfort of an air conditioned home or find times to get outside when one wouldn’t expect to literally melt. A couple of nights ago, against my better judgment I decided to go for an evening run in the heat. I consider myself a pretty experienced runner, and thought that I could handle a couple miles even in the sweltering heat. I was particularly excited to get out because apart from reading 88…

The autumn of 1944 was particularly cold in northern Romania, and Anselo found himself huddled very near the warm glow of his campfire on most nights. He had been traveling for months, trying his best to lead his new Soviet “comrades” through the mountains of his homeland, so that they may be able to help liberate Transylvania from Nazi control. Thus far all he had known was bloodshed and hardship, but it seemed that the Soviets were making ground, and he had heard recently that the Allies had launched a full invasion in the west. When will it all be over? He thought to himself as he wrapped his  patched coat as tight as he could to his ever thinning…