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.