After finalizing his divorce following the death of their 2yr-old daughter, nothing in life seems to make sense. He had shutout the world blaming everyone and everything. The only place he now found solace was in spending long hours driving around and exploring new places whenever he wasn’t working. He was angry with life, destiny, fate and anything that had an influence over his existence that he couldn’t control. Today wasn’t suppose to be any different from the other days that he had spent driving for long hours at the outskirt of town and sometimes hiking except that for the first time in two years, he was lost without a map because the best part of his routine drive and hiking was the thrill of discovering new places with the element of surprise still intact.
There is a saying at Warlock’s Heath Coach Station. They say that there is no such thing as a free ride. They say that the driver always knows who has to pay. They say that everyone who rides has to pay. Freddie Thompson was a delinquent. He never went to school, it was far too dull. He wanted to be where the action was. Instead of going to school, Freddie would go to Warlock’s Heath Coach Station and play the waiting game.
The way she spoke into her tape recorder was slow and precise. Her voice echoed off the walls in the cold, musky room. The grey walls surrounding her were ominous; they trapped the eerie, unsettling presence within the space. She had a clear view of the large, dusty windows across from her. Seemingly haven’t been cleaned in years, they displayed an insidious winter scene, equal parts chilling and enchanting to the doctor. She opened her notebook and placed it on her lap, anticipating what her patient would soon tell her.
Dan’s windowpanes shook with the roaring wind outside as rock sized pellets of rain hit the glass loudly making him open the curtains to his study. He always loved nights like this where he could just listen to the calming sound of heavy rain as he tried not to despise all the homework he got from his university classes. He yawned, his mouth opening completely wide as his eyes began to droop shut the words he was reading became fuzzy. Dammit, he thought to himself, he needed to finish this paper but he gave zero shits about tax evasion and the professor of this class was probably going to fail him no matter if he wrote knowledgeably or not.
King Ogun watched over his kingdom with concern. He commanded lands as far east as the Trident Sea and as far west as the Velcorn Mountains. His lands were known for their splendor and beauty. But he was growing old and worried his son cared more for adventuring than ruling. “I will host a festival and invite all the neighboring kingdoms to find you a wife who can help you rule when I’m gone,” King Ogun said to his son, Ioan.
At twelve o’ clock midnight on September 11, 2018, there was a hurricane named Florence that was going to make landfall in parts of Eastern North Carolina and destroy everything that lived there. The weatherman was telling everyone in those parts that they needed to take cover and they needed to do it now.
I tug the edges of my jacket closer together against the chill of the late evening. Darkness has already descended and with it comes a finger-numbing coldness. My fingers are numb anyway. I should have worn gloves, but I didn’t bring them with me. I stare at my shoes as I wait in line to be admitted into the haunted house. Screams and laughs spill from the house alongside an eerie mist.
LENA: “Vampires can’t cross running water. I’m sure you’ve all heard the stories – from the people who managed to cross the bridge, and the dangerous, frenzied, starving creatures left trapped on the other side.” (show on greenscreen; doesn’t have to be vampires, per se, just scenes from those old medieval tapestries. Who’s going to care?)
Like any good-natured and truthfully contributing member of society, Francis Draft had always suffered from semi-frequent bouts of hallucinations. These were not of the in-your-face, cartoon pink elephant montage, snapping demons on the subway variety. They were much more subtle, and sometimes even appreciable, if Francis was in a good mood. Passers-by giving strange, often frightening glances that were in truth imagined. Perhaps a third eye appearing on their forehead or one of their cheeks, a live-action breathing Picasso.
A close-knit group of four friends who call themselves “the vacationers” have been anticipating their ski trip for months. The group is known for feeding on adventure and expects this trip to be the adventure of a lifetime. They are planning to stay at a ski mountain resort, affectionately called the Snow Lodge, where they will reside for one week and enjoy activities like skiing on mountain slopes, snowboarding, and ice-skating.
Rhythmic shocks along my spine pull me from a dreamless oblivion; disoriented, I slowly register the shocks as a proximity alert. Rolling onto my stomach, I pull up the orbital stream, my right eye rolling towards the back of my skull to investigate the alert. I find the video segment I need, projecting the image onto the ceiling of my home.