The Tailor

/by
by Ezekiel Kincaid

 

I slipped on the suit. The sleeves and pants still felt damp. Next time I’ll have to let it dry for another hour, at least.

I walked into the bathroom to check on Jim. He still lay in the bathtub moaning, with his skin removed and muscles glimmering in the flickering light. He slapped the side of the tub, leaving a bloody hand print.

“Stop your complaining. Looks better on me than it did on you.” I looked in the mirror and adjusted my new suit.

I was never comfortable in my own skin, that’s why I wore other people’s.

 

Ezekiel Kincaid

Ezekiel Kincaid resides in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, with his wife, four children, and two dogs. The only other language he is fluent in is sarcasm. For fun, Zeke enjoys watching people get in socially awkward circumstances. He hates cat videos but loves watching wrestling promos from the 80’s. You can keep up to date with him on his website – ezekielkincaid.wordpress.com 

 

Scarecrow

/by
by Denzell Cooper

 

The wheat grew past our heads, ears of corn brushing our ears. Will ran on ahead. I tried to keep up but lost him in the dense jungle of our imaginations.

When I almost hurtled into him, he didn’t even seem to notice.

“That thing is creepy,” he said, staring up in awe at the scarecrow, nailed to its post like a hobo Jesus.

Its face was made of leather. Its clothes were ripped and torn.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said.

Will nodded and we backed away, then turned.

“Help me,” begged the scarecrow.

We screamed and fled.

 

Denzell Cooper

Denzell Cooper is a multi-genre writer from Cornwall, England. For as long as he can remember he’s been a fan of horror and the macabre, and loves telling stories where creepy things happen to ordinary people. Find him on Twitter @DenzellCooper.

 

When the Cat’s Away…

/by
by Thomas Kleaton

 

Norman scratched his head, pondering which resupply ship brought the rats.

He and Nancy had rats on their Wisconsin farm, but their retirement home in space was fully automated.  Pest control, even funeral arrangements. All in the contract.

Except it hadn’t responded when Nancy died the week before.

Hadn’t responded to the rats.


Modern technology. Worthless. Norman held the trap, stout wood with VICTOR stamped on it, grimacing at the irony as he baited it with Nancy’s fingertip.

The finger she’d used to grasp her beloved brick cheese, the only part of her body not gnawed down to gleaming bone.

 

Thomas Kleaton

Thomas Kleaton is a freelance horror writer whose stories have been published in The Horror ‘Zine, Final Masquerade, Pernicious Invaders, Spooky Halloween Drabbles, Alban Lake Drabbles, and What Has Two Heads, Ten Eyes, and Terrifying Table Manners? He lives in the woods near Auburn, AL with his wife, Sheila.