Short Stories


The trapped souls always cry out loudest at night.

During the day, they chime soft, unless heavy winds shriek through the area. But night . . . night has its own set of rules for spirits locked away in bottles hung on the bottle tree.

Jessica threw back the blanket and tumbled out of bed. Though warmth blasted from the heater, she still felt cold. Goose bumps crept along her exposed skin like gophers sticking up their heads out of the ground. She snatched her fuzzy dressing gown off the chair by the bed and drew it on, cinching the belt tight. Barefoot, she padded over to the window, lifted the bottom of the curtain, and stared through the glass at the backyard.

Read the full story at Buzzymag.com.

"Azathoth is Here"

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Under the Moon