August 2024 - Black Hare Press

Feeling Sleepy

August 31, 2024/by Shawna Rowan

by Liam Kerry

Relax.

Close your eyes.

Breathe slowly. In. And out. In. And out. That’s it.

Focus on the arm that I am holding up.

When I release it, you will fall into a deep sleep.

That’s it.

So, let’s tackle this phobia. When you wake up, darkness will no longer frighten you. You will take control, searching for a sharp object to slash the nearest person with. Over and over. Until they stop moving. You will forget everything upon encountering daylight.

Now. When I count down from 5, you’ll slowly re-enter the room.

5… 4… 3… 2… 1.

Welcome back, Jason.

Liam Kerry

Eye Spy

August 28, 2024/by Shawna Rowan

by Bridget Holland

Once, I loved the beach. Sand, sea, open sky. But the birds were watching me.

I moved to the shops along the esplanade, hid in crowds and covered spaces. One among many. Hidden, safe. But sharp eyes found me.

In my apartment, door locked, blinds drawn. I order groceries and takeout. I tell them to ring, then leave the deliveries.

Yesterday, when the doorbell rang, I checked the peephole. A beady yellow eye looked back.

Today, I can’t leave the bedroom. I hear something clacking on the floorboards outside.

I could hide in the closet.

…Will I ever come out?

Bridget Holland

Bridget’s a reader, dreamer and writer living in Australia and in her imagination.

Der Spiegelgeist

August 26, 2024/by Shawna Rowan

by Jonathan L. Tolstedt

This ignorant schweinhund says I have eisoptrophobia. A fear of my own reflection. I’m not a handsome man, but he’ll not understand until he sees it. He’s suggested exposure therapy to desensitise me and smugly holds the cloth covering the mirror.

He stands behind me and tugs, revealing our reflections, and something twisted, horrible. Der Spiegelgeist—mirror ghost—the reflection that has been severed from a newly formed vampire, existing, destroying, only inside the mirror.

I’m relieved when it attacks the therapist’s reflection first. His real-world counterpart’s torn open, spraying me with warm blood.

I close my eyes and wait.

Jonathan L. Tolstedt

Jonathan Tolstedt is a patent agent by day and evolving writer by night. He has previously published a short horror story (2018) and had his stories “The Savage Jungle” and “Holiday Closeout” accepted for publication in the recent Dark Moments Jungle Terrors and Mannequin Horrors calls for Black Hare Press.

The Rollercoaster

August 23, 2024/by Shawna Rowan

by Andrew Kurtz

“Come on, chicken, get on the rollercoaster!” Sam shouted to Frank.

“I’ll wait down here,” Frank responded, his knees feeling like jelly and heart pounding like a drum in his chest at just the sight of the ride.

“You better deal with that phobia,” Sam advised as the Rollercoaster began to move.

“I am,” whispered Frank, checking his watch.

A huge explosion rocked the amusement park. There were no survivors as the Rollercoaster was a mixture of crushed metal and mangled flesh oozing clumps of blood.

“One down, hundreds more to go. No more rollercoasters, no more phobia,” Frank grinned.

Andrew Kurtz

Andrew Kurtz is an up-and-coming horror author who writes very graphic and violent short stories which have appeared in numerous horror anthologies.

Since childhood, he has loved horror films and literature.

His favourite authors are Stephen King, Clive Barker, H.G. Wells, Richard Matheson, Edgar Rice Boroughs, and Ian Fleming.

Website: linktr.ee/horror672

Mathematic Anxiety

August 20, 2024/by Shawna Rowan

by T.B. Johnson

Three phobias dominated him. Entomophobia drove him to frigid climates. His linonophobia led him to make bizarre fashion choices, eschewing traditional cotton for leather and plastic. Most debilitating was the ideophobia, which nearly isolated him.

But the mind is fickle. Its ideas come as they please. He had been playing solitaire for several hours when one visited him: what if he also had triskaphobia, a fear of threes? His heart pounded. Panic loomed.

Then came another idea. Triskaphobia made four fears. Relief washed over him. Maybe ideas weren’t so bad.

But without his ideophobia, he realised, that’s three fears again.

T.B. Johnson

T.B. Johnson directed two short films: Master Leonard (2020) and In Menstrual Frames (2022). T.B. has also won many placements at screenwriting competitions and film festivals. T.B. continues to create.

Website: tb-johnson.com

No More Dark

August 17, 2024/by Shawna Rowan

by M. Saffron

Blood was everywhere. How was she to know it had gotten this bad? Sure, every kid is afraid of the dark, but this—this is something different.

Sharp left onto Duponte St.

“It’ll be o-okay,” she shivered, rattling her thin fingers through Timmy’s hair, and against his oddly still shoulders.

“I’m okay, Mom. It’s better this way,” Timmy squeaked, blood running down his small, pink cheeks.

“Okay?!”

Timmy stared forward, smiling with the maniacal dark now a distant memory.

Her eyes trembled down to the two little white peelings on her lap.

“Can eyelids even be sewed back on?!”

M. Saffron

M. Saffron, born and raised in central Massachusetts, is an acting Army officer who has spent years in the corporate and cyber world. He’s found himself entangled in wires and cubicles—a sort of trap set by an unknown force—but yearns deeply for the wild and creative angles of life. “Balance at its finest,“ he sighs. He treats the pen as a sort of archaeologist’s spade, continually excavating an ever-deeper layer of wonder and confusion.

Rosa saw movement.

A brown recluse scurried toward her. Snapping her novel closed, she brought it down. The curled husk stuck to the spine. Venomous spiders were as prominent as the roaming cannibal packs that liked to bury people alive for roasting in ground ovens.

Flicking the corpse, Rosa continued reading—

Was it a car or a cat I saw?

A visceral response overtook her. Freezing her. She wanted to throw the book, but couldn’t. This phobia was ridiculous, but she was incapable of breaking free.

Aibohphobia.

The book tumbled from her hands, and she curled up to hug herself.

Janessa Keeling

Relax.

Close your eyes.

Breathe slowly. In. And out. In. And out. That’s it.

Focus on the arm that I am holding up.

When I release it, you will fall into a deep sleep.

That’s it.

So, let’s tackle this phobia. When you wake up, darkness will no longer frighten you. You will take control, searching for a sharp object to slash the nearest person with. Over and over. Until they stop moving. You will forget everything upon encountering daylight.

Now. When I count down from 5, you’ll slowly re-enter the room.

5… 4… 3… 2… 1.

Welcome back, Jason.

Once, I loved the beach. Sand, sea, open sky. But the birds were watching me.

I moved to the shops along the esplanade, hid in crowds and covered spaces. One among many. Hidden, safe. But sharp eyes found me.

In my apartment, door locked, blinds drawn. I order groceries and takeout. I tell them to ring, then leave the deliveries.

Yesterday, when the doorbell rang, I checked the peephole. A beady yellow eye looked back.

Today, I can’t leave the bedroom. I hear something clacking on the floorboards outside.

I could hide in the closet.

…Will I ever come out?

This ignorant schweinhund says I have eisoptrophobia. A fear of my own reflection. I’m not a handsome man, but he’ll not understand until he sees it. He’s suggested exposure therapy to desensitise me and smugly holds the cloth covering the mirror.

He stands behind me and tugs, revealing our reflections, and something twisted, horrible. Der Spiegelgeist—mirror ghost—the reflection that has been severed from a newly formed vampire, existing, destroying, only inside the mirror.

I’m relieved when it attacks the therapist’s reflection first. His real-world counterpart’s torn open, spraying me with warm blood.

I close my eyes and wait.

“Come on, chicken, get on the rollercoaster!” Sam shouted to Frank.

“I’ll wait down here,” Frank responded, his knees feeling like jelly and heart pounding like a drum in his chest at just the sight of the ride.

“You better deal with that phobia,” Sam advised as the Rollercoaster began to move.

“I am,” whispered Frank, checking his watch.

A huge explosion rocked the amusement park. There were no survivors as the Rollercoaster was a mixture of crushed metal and mangled flesh oozing clumps of blood.

“One down, hundreds more to go. No more rollercoasters, no more phobia,” Frank grinned.

Three phobias dominated him. Entomophobia drove him to frigid climates. His linonophobia led him to make bizarre fashion choices, eschewing traditional cotton for leather and plastic. Most debilitating was the ideophobia, which nearly isolated him.

But the mind is fickle. Its ideas come as they please. He had been playing solitaire for several hours when one visited him: what if he also had triskaphobia, a fear of threes? His heart pounded. Panic loomed.

Then came another idea. Triskaphobia made four fears. Relief washed over him. Maybe ideas weren’t so bad.

But without his ideophobia, he realised, that’s three fears again.

Blood was everywhere. How was she to know it had gotten this bad? Sure, every kid is afraid of the dark, but this—this is something different.

Sharp left onto Duponte St.

“It’ll be o-okay,” she shivered, rattling her thin fingers through Timmy’s hair, and against his oddly still shoulders.

“I’m okay, Mom. It’s better this way,” Timmy squeaked, blood running down his small, pink cheeks.

“Okay?!”

Timmy stared forward, smiling with the maniacal dark now a distant memory.

Her eyes trembled down to the two little white peelings on her lap.

“Can eyelids even be sewed back on?!”

Rosa saw movement.

A brown recluse scurried toward her. Snapping her novel closed, she brought it down. The curled husk stuck to the spine. Venomous spiders were as prominent as the roaming cannibal packs that liked to bury people alive for roasting in ground ovens.

Flicking the corpse, Rosa continued reading—

Was it a car or a cat I saw?

A visceral response overtook her. Freezing her. She wanted to throw the book, but couldn’t. This phobia was ridiculous, but she was incapable of breaking free.

Aibohphobia.

The book tumbled from her hands, and she curled up to hug herself.