flash fiction
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Bride of the Hollow-Eyed Man
The first time Evelyn saw him, it was twilight, and the fog in the moor stitched silver veils between the bare-boned trees. He stood at the edge of the graveyard, where the iron fence buckled as if trying to crawl… Continue reading
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The House at Withering Moor
The moor was mist-lashed, brittle with frost, and the clouds hung low and gray like mold on a ceiling. Eliza stood in the high tower window of Withering House, her hands resting on the cold sill, her breath fogging the… Continue reading
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The Demon Was Sent
No one saw it arrive. There was no sound, heat, flickering veil, or flame. It simply was where once it had not been: a new wrinkle in the air, a smudge in the pattern of things. The wind shuddered backwards… Continue reading
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Grandma’s Thrift & Bone
The sign out front said “GRANDMA’S THRIFT & BONE – UNDEAD GOODS, AMAZING PRICES!” in flaking paint and what might have been coagulated blood. Beneath it, a handwritten chalkboard cheerfully advertised: TODAY’S SPECIAL: BUY ONE SKULL, GET A FREE TIBIA!… Continue reading
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This Land Is My Land (Unless It’s Gated)
Johnny Appleseed woke behind a Taco Bell dumpster with apple seeds in his beard and a parking ticket stapled to his tunic. The year was 2025, the air smelled faintly of vape juice and synthetic optimism, and Johnny was—once again—an… Continue reading
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Sweet Tooth
The rain came down like God had tripped over His own garden hose. Thunder rolled across the suburbs of Evershade in ominous belches, and Nick, the most underpaid cookie delivery driver this side of the apocalypse, squinted through his cracked… Continue reading
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The God Who Wakes the Worms
They say he comes barefoot, leaving footprints of moss in frost-bitten soil. Not summoned, not born but thawed from beneath the world when the first crocus dares to dream. His name is unpronounceable by clean mouths, but the crows call… Continue reading
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Neither Snow Nor Rain Nor Your Eternal Screams
On the dead-end stretch of Hemlock Circle, the lawns were manicured, the dogs were quiet, and the mailboxes were all sealed with holy water and zip ties. Because of Harold. The mailman. He came every day at 3:33 PM, sharp… Continue reading
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The Epistle of Zarnak
It was found in the crawlspace behind Father Lorenzo’s confessional booth, bound in eel skin and smelling faintly of burnt copper. The Vatican had no record of it. No index matched its glyphs, and the pages whispered to one another… Continue reading
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The Dandelion Rite
Every spring, just as the dandelions began to blossom, the townsfolk of Gristlethatch performed The Planting. It was tradition, ancient and grim. No one quite remembered how it started—some said it was in the town charter, others blamed the bees—but… Continue reading
God Is In The Radio 