Warren Benedetto writes short fiction about horrible people doing horrible things. His stories can be found in several anthologies from Scare Street, Black Hare Press, and Eerie River Publishing, as well as publications such as Raconteur Literary Journal, 365Tomorrows, Schlock Magazine, and Dark Matter Magazine.
Father Fernando kept on chanting prayers, ignoring the screams of the demon that possessed the boy.
“You don’t know what this child is!” the demon shrieked. “Without me here to stop him, he’ll—”
“I cast thee out!”
A final scream, and then, silence.
“He’s gone,” Father Fernando said. “Niño is safe, now.”
Three days later, the Santos family was found in their home, all murdered, except for their youngest, Niño, who had gone missing.
That night, during his evening prayers, Father Fernando felt someone watching him. Waiting.
When he turned, Niño grinned at him, moonlight glinting off his knife.
Celestine Trinidad
Celestine Trinidad is a licensed physician (particularly a pathologist) based in the Philippines. In her spare time, she writes fiction of different genres, including speculative fiction. Some of her other stories have been published in other print and online venues, such as The Digest of Philippine Genre Stories and Insignia.
Website: celestinetrinidad.wordpress.com/http://bit.ly/celestinetrinidad
Swept down from heaven on the wind of Satan’s expulsion. My crime—merely witnessing dissent. I hurtled towards this filthy rock as flames ripped through my wings. In heaven, there was no pain. Now, every newly awakened nerve screams at me constantly.
They scream too, those creatures he loves so much. They howl and struggle as my knife rips through their flesh. They don’t understand my gift to them. That which I am forever denied. I return them to the painless place, free them from the misery that I must endure. His children are always rising, angels can only fall.
Callum Pearce
Callum Pearce is a Dutch storyteller, originally from Liverpool. A fiction writer published multiple times across a variety of platforms. Lover of the magical as well as the macabre. He lives in a foggy old fishing town in the Netherlands with his husband and a couple of cat-shaped sprites.
Maslowe stood absolutely still. Warm, rancid breath caressed the back of his neck.
It had come for him.
Abholos.
The Devourer.
Mist swirled around the thing, enshrouding it like unholy vestments. It was shapeless. Formless. An undulating mass devoid of features, save for a terrible maw. Its blackened lips parted to reveal crystalline teeth, curved icicles dripping with long, elastic drops of clear ooze.
What escaped from its mouth was not sound, but the absence of sound. A silence so ageless and infinite that Maslowe felt his sanity slipping away.
“Why me?” Maslowe whispered.
“Because you exist,” the Devourer said.
Warren Benedetto
The eldritch gods of the ever deep stir in the darkness from eternal sleep.
The Void is silent save for a single scream, originating on Earth—a little girl’s dream.
Devourers of worlds from beyond the dark sheet, soon to awaken…a hunger for flesh so sweet.
From the timeless halls of Cthulhu, the Old Ones make their way to the small blue planet within the Milky Way.
Tentacles curl and golden eyes glow, the mortals have no hope—they just do not know.
By wing, tooth, tail, and claw, humanity at last will die…
Death descends, painting a blood-stained sky.
Zoey Xolton
I cannot describe the sound that emanated from the moors all those years ago, nor speculate of its cause. All I can state with certainty is that it did not belong to this world.
The sound haunted my dreams for years. At last, starved of sleep, I came to hear it even in waking, echoing through my halls.
It was a relief to be committed to Arkham Sanitorium. The asylum became my blessed, silent refuge.
Yet my respite did not last.
The doctors here have no human voice.
When their mouths open, I hear only the sound from the moors.
Joel R. Hunt
Sarah Jane Justice is a South Australian writer with an array of credits to her name. Starting out in performance arts, she has three studio releases of original music to her name, as well as a science-fiction themed cabaret show that appeared in the 2016 Adelaide Fringe Festival.
Red lips in a pale face, puckered in surprise. Tendrils of auburn hair haloing her head as if she dances underwater. Blue eyes wet with the first vestiges of shock, death taking her before it fully formed.
Mortals and their deceptively ephemeral beauty.
I bend, sweeping a crow feather through the bloody entrails of the girl, watching as it glows and blackens. Satisfied, I release my fingers and the feather flies to my back, reinforcing my pitiful wings.
One more necessary sacrifice, one more feather. A thousand more days like this, and I will have enough to fly once more.
K.B. Elijah
The great witch, Ophesia, sat leaning against an ancient oak. Even though her heart was drumming its final beats, she sensed his approach.
“Come to mock my last minutes, Tarlin? I have no magic left.”
The ageing wizard eased down beside her. “Even I would not hurt a dying enemy.”
“Yet here you are. Why?”
“I will miss you.”
Ophesia cackled heartily, then noting Tarlin’s serious expression asked, “Your point being?”
“I still have magic.”
Taking her hands, he drew her to her feet.
“Let’s traverse the unknown together.”
She smiled as he uttered his spell.
Into darkness, they flew.
Karen Bayly
“Don’t touch me!” Lailah waved Reuben away.
Shame. Her emotions crackled and boiled, fighting for dominance.
Reuben, always patient, held out a wet towel. “Let me wash your wounds, Love.”
Her back was bleeding afresh. Thick warm blood meeting numb skin—soaking the sheets. She no longer felt external pain.
Loss. She had fallen from Heaven to be with him. Kind, passionate Reuben. But it wasn’t enough.
Regret. She didn’t belong here, and she could never go back.
Anger. She clutched her dagger under the blanket. How had a mortal possessed her heart?
One sharp slice.
Now they both bled.
Kelly Matsuura