Nothing Lives Under This Dirt

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by Eric Clayton

 

They light their fires in a circle, an old wives’ tale ward to keep away they-know-not-what.

But in the darkness, the flames illuminate my sky, warm my back, reveal the presence of those who trespass upon my sacred temple. Every twig that snaps under their ill-fitting boots I deem a sacrilege.

But still, they come, these hairless, godless creatures. And the leaves turn brown.

When my wrinkled hand bursts up and through the stone and dirt, they know they’ve made a mistake. Their screams betray their cowardice. To run, or to bow down and worship?

I eat the worshippers first.

Eric Clayton

Eric Clayton is the author of the book, Cannonball Moments. His essays on spirituality, culture and parenting have appeared in America, NCR and more. He lives in Baltimore, MD, USA with his wife, daughters and cat, Sebastian.

Website: ericclaytonwrites.com

 

Tree Mother

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by Kai Delmas

 

The girl crashed through the forest shrubbery seeking aid, refuge, salvation.

Her fear tingled my leaves and thrummed through the earth into my roots. Her gods were not going to save her, but I could.

I opened my trunk to let her slip inside. I absorbed her tears and hushed her whimpers, hugging her in my motherly embrace.

Men were on her trail. I slapped the pursuers with my branches, tripped them with my roots. They would not come near her or me.

Bewildered, they tucked tail and ran without finding her. No one would ever find my sweet child.

Kai Delmas

Kai Delmas loves creating worlds and magic systems and is a slush reader for Apex Magazine. He is a winner of the monthly Apex Microfiction Contest and his fiction can be found in Martian and is forthcoming in Tree and Stone and several Shacklebound anthologies. Find him on Twitter @KaiDelmas.

 

The God of the Gastropods

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by Lisa Edwards

 

Ellie glanced away from the huge spiral covered wall. It made her feel sick and giddy.

Crunch!

She froze for a moment, then gently lifted her foot. Oops! Sorry, little snail.

A wet pop sounded beside her. But… she’d have noticed that stuck to the side of the wall, right? Snails can’t be that big.

A thousand sharp little teeth glinted on the long tongue.

It scraped the skin off her arms and face, and she sank to the ground, a wailing, writhing ball of agony and blood. And there she remained for hours since snails only eat decomposing matter.

Lisa Edwards

Lisa writes horror, fantasy, and sometimes comedy (occasionally on purpose). She’s written several indie horror films, including Siren Song, Zombie Wars, Mannequin, and the upcoming Zombikini.  She lives in Northamptonshire, England and has a border collie who’s scared of the wind.

Website: lisaedwards.me.uk

 

 

Friend of the Forest

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by Tracy Davidson

 

They dare come here with chainsaws and guns? Chop down my children, frighten fauna, shoot for some sick sport, killing innocent creatures that would have done them no harm. I, however, can do plenty of harm.

I send whispers through the trees. Warnings of what’s to come. Some flee. Some watch.

My breath rips weapons from human hands. I make my own sport. Their laughter turns to screams and panicked attempts to run. How easily the teeth of saws cut through flesh. How bloody the outcome of bullets.

The forest floor opens, swallows up what’s left. Peace returns. For now.

Tracy Davidson

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

 

 

Carrion

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by Liam Hogan

 

The goddess turned, restless in her slumber as warm blood soaked the cold, dark soil. The affairs of men, best left to the crows.

Something sharp, insistent. A sacrifice, the battle hanging in the balance. A child. Children grew into adults no less unworthy than their parents. But a sacrifice in her name?

It would be rude not to.

Wings black and terrible she rose, drawing blood from both armies, from living and dead, quenching ancient hunger.

Sated, the goddess slept again beneath her silent battlefield. For how long, none could say. But she knew there would be other wars.

Liam Hogan

Liam Hogan is an award-winning short story writer. He’s been published by Analog, Daily Science Fiction, and Flame Tree Press, among others. He helps host Liars’ League London, volunteers at the creative writing charity Ministry of Stories, and lives and avoids work in London. More details at http://happyendingnotguaranteed.blogspot.co.uk

 

 

Broken Things

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by Sophie Wagner

 

“Trash, trash, trash,” Garret grumbled as he sifted through the remains of the abandoned campsite.

Marcus grunted in response, pausing once to grimace as he pulled a bloody rag free from his pile.

“Everything’s broken, man. Let’s go, this place is a dump,” he groaned. He waited for Garret’s response, but only a low laugh rustled through the trees.

“Broken?” the wind croaked. “And what are you, little scavenger?”

Marcus screamed as he was thrown to the ground, invisible hands bludgeoning him until his bones splintered and his eyes went empty; just another broken thing.

Then, the wind went quiet.

Sophie Wagner

Sophie Wagner is an emerging student author who has had multiple short story and poetry publications. You can find her work at The Macabre Ladies, Black Ink Fiction, Eerie River Press, Iron Faerie Publishing, Black Hare Press and more. She hopes you have a horror-filled day!

 

 

Domovoi

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by Jean Martin

 

My family left before the Russians came. They paid me respect before they went away. They knew I would keep the house safe. Then they took the dog and the cat and the silver plates and drove west.

Russian soldiers walked into the house like it was theirs. One fell and broke his neck. Another shot himself. The rest heard me laugh and ran away.

I am the domovoi, the house spirit. I have watched over this house since before the last czar.

I will be here after the Russians are gone.

I will be here when my family returns.

Jean Martin

A long-time fan of Sherlock Holmes, Jean Martin is a single lady, currently stuck at home in McKeesport, Pennsylvania, which is in the Monongahela Valley. She has been writing fiction for longer than she cares to admit and has talked to channellers, psychics, vampirologists, Anne McCaffrey, and some lesser-known authors.

 

 

He Was

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by Victoria Brun

 

He was carved into the wall, but he also was the walls—or so they said. He was the walls, the ceiling, the floors, the chilling draft you felt in the narrow back room on the eastern side.

He was the shrine and its protector.

He was worshiped—once, long ago.

As time trickled by, he became a myth, a tourist attraction, a gift shop. He was plastered on T-shirts and magnets.

Until one cold day, the ceiling collapsed without warning, and he became a bludgeon and a tomb.

He was many things, but most of all, he was angry.

Victoria Brun

Victoria Brun is a writer and project manager at a national laboratory. When not bugging hardworking scientists about budget reports and service agreements, she is writing stories you can find at Daily Science Fiction, Uncharted Magazine, and beyond.

 

 

The Cursed Cave

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by James Rumpel

 

“I have a good feeling,” said Dr Morris. “The landslide exposed most of the cliff wall. I’m certain the Shaman’s cave has been opened.”

“Do we want to find it?” asked his assistant, Richard.

“You don’t believe those stories…”

Morris stopped, smiled, and pointed to a crevice in the mountainside.

Inside, they found drawings, and Navajo words etched into the wall.

“Those are the Shaman’s victims,” explained Morris.

Richard didn’t reply. The doctor looked back to find himself alone.

He shrugged and turned back toward the writing and froze. Two names had been added to the list.

James Rumpel

James Rumpel is a retired math teacher who enjoys spending some of his free time trying to turn some of the odd ideas in his brain into stories. 

 

 

By the Light of the Fire

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by C. L. Sidell

 

We summoned the thing without knowing what we’d done.

A simple campfire—roasting marshmallows for nostalgia’s sake.

“Grab the sticks,” you said.

I did.

They burned, smoked green.

The earth rumbled, shook without moving.

The thing rose behind you—a menacing, monolithic shadow amongst forest shadows. Its innumerable yellow eyes fixed on me, its rusted voice impregnated my thoughts with inarticulate words. Root-like appendages rose into the air as if in depraved prayer, and my own hands mimicked its movements.

Know I had no choice, its putrid need filling my throat as I thrust the hunting knife into your heart.

C. L. Sidell

A native Floridian, C. L. Sidell grew up playing with toads in the rain and indulging in horror stories. She holds a Master of Arts in both English and library & information science, moderates two creative writing groups, and reviews books for the Florida Library Youth Program. Her work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in 34 Orchard, 805 Lit, Dark Moments, The Dread Machine, Frozen Wavelets, opia, Quarantine Quanta, Spark: A Creative Anthology, and others.

Twitter & Facebook: @sidellwrites