Ghulskelche

by Russell Hemmell

“Welcome to The Morgue. At 5 pm, we serve tea. In the evening, different drinks.”

Kelly glanced at the barmaid. The nightclub, hosted in a deconsecrated church, was freezing cold, but the girl, ghastly pale with naked shoulders, seemed unaffected.

“It’s midnight now.”

“And that’s champagne o’clock, sweety.”

The girl poured and Kelly took a sip. It tasted like champagne, bubbles and everything. Only the colour wasn’t right. Carmine red.

“Where?”

“In Hell.”

The barmaid’s face became opalescent, her eyes glaring white. The flute morphed into a snarling serpent, fangs plunging into Kelly’s wrist, blood-like tears on its snout.

Russell Hemmell

Russell Hemmell is a French-Italian transplant in Scotland, passionate about astrophysics, history, and speculative fiction. Recent work in Aurelis, The Grievous Angel, Third Flatiron, and others. HWA Active Member & Codexian. Find them online at their blog earthianhivemind.net and on Twitter @SPBianchini.

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