Welcome to RTS, the only magazine to post a Halloween Special Feature... 5 days after Halloween. It's not our fault the college application deadline is on November 1st. Anyways. Welcome to spooky extravaganza.
Note that these pieces are all Halloween-esque and thus predominantly revolve around issues and topics that might be triggering for some. Please proceed reading at your own risk.
Table of Contents:
Poetry
Frankenstein’s Lover
Flash of lightning
Strike of thunder
My heart is beating
Behold, my wonder!
Pushing away your cold, soft fingers
I grab the lever
Your touch lingers
Together forever
You twitch and shriek
Unhappy you’re back
Too weak to speak
I pull you off the rack
You groan, spit vile
Wanting heaven
I softly smile
Knowing we’ll do this again
by Tatum Bunker
More Information: These were inspired by both Halloween and the idea that every part of a human is beautiful, including their insides.
Instagram: @tatum_tot24601
Bio: Tatum Bunker is a freshman at Utah Valley University. She's an aspiring writer but majoring in Criminal Justice with a potential minor in Psychology. One day she wants a book of her published pieces as well as a possible novel. She loves thrifting and has a major sweet tooth.
Feedback:
Smrithi: Frankenstein is one of my favorite books so I LOVE this idea!! The imagery is vivid and descriptive, and I love the references to a "you". The ending is intriguing and leaves you wanting answers. Lovely piece!
Bri: I enjoyed the concept of reviving a lover and therefore love.
Ava: Fun, new look at a well known story with underlying commentary on relationships.
Forever and Always (sing the vampires)
I suck your neck with sharp teeth
I slip the ring on your severed finger
Waltzing with the dead, we sing
Blushing soft as we wed in bed
I slip the ring on your severed finger
The evil spirits praise our union
Blushing soft as we wed in bed
We sip the blood of virgins
The evil spirits praise our union
The cross we burn, we hiss and bawl
We sip the blood of virgins
The moon glows bright, a gift from me to you
The cross we burn, we hiss and bawl
Waltzing with the dead, we sing
The moon glows bright, a gift from me to you
I suck your neck with sharp teeth
by Tatum Bunker
More Information: These were inspired by both Halloween and the idea that every part of a human is beautiful, including their insides.
Instagram: @tatum_tot24601
Bio: Tatum Bunker is a freshman at Utah Valley University. She's an aspiring writer but majoring in Criminal Justice with a potential minor in Psychology. One day she wants a book of her published pieces as well as a possible novel. She loves thrifting and has a major sweet tooth.
Feedback:
Smrithi: This is an excellent piece! I love the imagery and diction. The clever repetition of the lines draws the reader in and I love how the poet has structured this poem. Definitely on theme and I love the vibe of this piece!
Bri: I liked the variety of horror romance symbolism.
Ava: A really creative format that makes you feel like you're putting together a puzzle.
true love
TW: gorey
i rip your heart out
we kiss, your guts stain my lips
‘til death do us part
my fingers inside
your ribcage, i rip your bones
to get to you, true
i write on your grave
i want, i need, i crave you
in my own red blood
the mourners do cry
they wear black, i wear your skin
i, forever yours
i rip my heart out
for you, my guts stain the floor
‘til we meet again
by Tatum Bunker
More Information: These were inspired by both Halloween and the idea that every part of a human is beautiful, including their insides.
Instagram: @tatum_tot24601
Bio: Tatum Bunker is a freshman at Utah Valley University. She's an aspiring writer but majoring in Criminal Justice with a potential minor in Psychology. One day she wants a book of her published pieces as well as a possible novel. She loves thrifting and has a major sweet tooth.
Feedback:
Smrithi: This is a descriptive and gorey but rich poem. I love the formatting and the tetret stanzas. It reads a bit like a song and I love that aspect of this piece. The imagery contributes to the spooky vibe of it and it definitely screams Halloween!
Bri: I enjoyed the gore and the unconventional romance/love.
Ava: A gorey declaration of grim love that feels very of the season.
The Haunted House
There’s a haunted house far, far away, isolated from everyone’s every day.
Surrounded by deep waters that grumble, threatening to make their way over the plain.
Filled with disappointment and anger within, sadness is the top layer that quakes but there’s a lot more below the surface, there lives a ghost with his circus.
Inside the house it is pale, I was there, running, running away
As the ghost creeped up on me and whispered, as it went on to speak
“Why did you let them treat you that way? You knew right and wrong, why did you steer the steering wheel their way?
You knew what was going on, you were supposed to be strong ,What happened? Why did you hold on?
To everything serving you the worst that they could, you fool” Mocking “You couldn’t decipher lies from truth”
The voice gets louder as it says, again and again, the same old song, it plays, it knows no end
More voices join in Screaming, “You knew their intentions! Why did you not runaway then?
Should’ve would’ve, how could you not have?
I can drown in these memories as the voice it overpowers me
The ghost wraps his arms, almost encompassing me
When I wake up and realise I need to leave Or I’ll always be in a haunted house, haunting me
Is who they think I am, the way they see
by Lavengeriene Blue
More Information: This poem talks about an experience in your life where you may have been mistreated and while the moment is gone, the memory remains - coming back in flashbacks time and again. This, I believe, goes well with the theme of Halloween using some of its key symbols like ghosts, haunted house and a spooky atmosphere.
Instagram: @lavengeriene_blue
Bio: Lavengeriene Blue is a new artist who uses writing as a way of self-expression and aims to give a physical form for the emotions we feel. She strives to incorporate sounds and visuals to better solidify the feelings or experiences ,and in doing so tries to bridge the gap between poetry and people who find writings to be intimidating.
Feedback:
Smrithi: I love the idea of this piece and how the author has chosen to write it. The last two paragraphs are wonderful and really connect back to the idea the author is trying to showcase. Lovely!! <3
Bri: I love the deeper meaning.
Ava: A message about guilt and trauma in a halloween costume of ghosts and haunted houses.
Season of the witch
It’s been twelve moons and a half,
it’s been two new crows over the roof,
five pumpkin pies, forty one tears
and one empty house.
The fall makes me a question that stirs my guts from the inside out:
“What’s a widow with no corpse?”.
I never thought about the “without”,
but I guess it’s marauding with no soul or manor to haunt.
“Never trust a witch” is what they say,
what they didn’t tell is that no candy was ever sweeter
than the spookiest, sourest spot of you.
“Never trust a witch”, but tell me then
why do I live without regret
for these forty two tears I have shed
for two eerie eyes I won’t see again.
by Teresa M. Medina
More Information: I think it would be a good fit because, as it is not a ghost story or a horror tale, it can provide diversity in the issue, topic-wise, while still being related to Halloween. I think versatility is a key point when it comes to engaging readers, and it can also show the flexibility of the issue prompts.
Instagram: @louvre_in_blue
Bio: She's a 16 year old science student from Spain that tries to write as much poetry as possible while she attempts to make it through the last year of high school. She also loves books and movies, which means she can procrastinate in lots of different ways.
This piece is about the anniversary effect that comes with loss, about how the pain lasts and lasts and some things just bring the memories back, like halloween in this case. What I feel is important about it is the idea of grief as a consequence of love, as an extension of the feelings we had for that witch that flew away on her broomstick.
Feedback:
Smrithi: A thought-provoking piece. I love how time is told through staple concepts relating to halloween and the end of the introduction sets the scene. Humanity being questioned regarding body horror and the idea of eternity is apparent in horror and reminiscent of equality. It seems as though there’s two plots happening and while I think they are both well done, they were confusing and jarring when suddenly mentioned. I believe if you had a few lines or a section where you explored how they were connected, it would improve the flow.
Bri: Enjoyed that the first stanza/intro is very halloween-esque and whimsical.
Ava: A breakup message everyone knows but this piece shows it in a new light that goes perfectly with a halloween theme!
The Witches’ Rendezvous
"When shall we three meet again,
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?"
In the shadows of the night,
When the hungry wolves the moon do sight.
When forest beasts shall lurk and prowl,
And vigil is kept by sentinel owl,
Away from the bustle and commotion,
We shall brew our magic potion.
On Sabbath day near the brier,
We'll set a cauldron, light a fire;
And churn and churn till the spell is done,
And vanish ere the morning sun.
When night returns in sable veil,
Then we three shall this spell impale
Upon the wanderers passing by,
As cackling on our brooms we fly.
by R.S.
More information: My poem "The Witches' Rendezvous", starts with and is inspired by the famous opening lines of William Shakespeare's play "Macbeth", and it has all the eerie and spooky elements pertaining to the Halloween theme.
Instagram: @thepoetrywindmill
Bio: R.S. resides in India and writes Poetry to find harmony in life. She graduated with Honours in English and loves to read and write poetry. She is greatly influenced and inspired by the poetry of Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lord Byron, Edgar Allan Poe, Robert Frost, Pablo Neruda, W.H. Auden and William Butler Yeats to name a few. She loves nature walks and rises early to feel inspired with the morning star and create new rhymes.
Feedback:
Smrithi: This is a very Halloween-esque poem and I love it! The rhyming scheme flows wonderfully and I like that it's inspired by Macbeth. The poem has both a whimsical and spooky feel to it. Excellent idea and execution!
Bri: I liked the reuniting with horror undertones.
Ava: This piece has a great rhythm to it when read and I always love a witch story.
Hues of You
TW: Implicit mentions of emotional abuse and murder
Red, such excellency, is the hue all for you
Every shade of you, blissfully blesses me
When we met, graced me with purple
My eyes lit up as you glowed in yellow
Three cherished words, all perfectly pink
Fill me with poisonous lies, tar all black
Belittle me with your stabbing green eyes
Watch them turn white in a hurry
Screech with fright that chills the auroma
Chills with silenced screams as my ear bleeds
Red, such excellency, is the only hue for you
The only hue meant for you for infinite
Your spirit is satisfied with my orange apparel
No matter, no matter, my precious poison
Your colors thankfully, harshly, faded
by Brianna D. Paulino
More Information: Not necessarily Halloween, but does with the creepy/horror factor. It's a short poem-styled story about the narrator implicitly murdering their toxic lover and ending up going to jail (thus wearing orange), however, the narrator shows no remorse. It would fall into the horror factor because it is terrifying to imagine a scenario occurring like that in real life. Whether it's emotionally harming the partner or straight up taking their life away.
Instagram: @Brananaa22
Bio: Brianna Paulino is a dedicated and determined high school Hispanic student who has a strong for creative writing and helping others. Founding a youth-led organization (The Cleverly Creatives), she puts in her effort to give others an opportunity to share their creativity. She has published work on various websites such as The Graveyard Zine and Gen Z: We Are The Future. She writes, crochets, journals, and listens to music during her free time.
Feedback:
Smrithi: I love the layers of this poem! On first read it may seem confusing and simply a bunch of colors put together but as you start reading between the lines, the layers of meaning are unveiled to you! Love how much thought is put into this poem, plus the vibes are so on theme <3
Bri: I enjoyed the colours and character association.
Ava: A poem that is a very creative use of colors to carry across a bloody story.
Fiction
Mon Amour, The Ghost
The brittle crunch of orange and brown, their fragility almost pitiful under my worn Doc Martens. I wear the so-called aesthetic threads of autumn, fingerless gloves that serve no purpose of warmth but the fickle ploy of obsolete expenditure.
I clutch my phone, the smell of pumpkin spice and root vegetables comes in waves through the screen and I sniff, compliantly; the fumes of commercialised commodities.
Deliciously pathetic.
I remember the days of Fruit Salads and BlackJacks, Drumsticks and Jazzies in a flimsy orange pail; back when I’d the audacity to knock on stranger’s houses and demand confectionery. I’d a fifty/ fifty yet always be granted my latter request. Dan from down-the- road hadn’t quite the charisma for improvised japes.
I recall, with beclouded nostalgia, the days of cheap, plastic-y wigs and scratchy attire numbed by the tackiness of Poundland makeup. Mother’s eyeliner cobwebs freehanded with jejune adroitness.
Tell me of now, you then insist, a faint plea in my ear that whispers like an echo, what of it now?
I suppose you wouldn’t recognise it, I reply with nonchalant honesty.
And you wouldn’t, really, for the days of Samhain and Alholowmesse’s sweeping Catholicism have long since been trampled by tacky consumerism. The quaint souling now but a diabetic’s minefield and jaw-breaking toffee apples. You’ve the Celts to thank for communal feasts and I’ve Starbucks to thank for Skeleton gingerbread. Your costumes serve tribute to Equinox and Solstice yet I only served Amazon profits.
You laugh then; boisterous chuckles that taint the air like a virus, shakes what leaves still cling haphazardly to the trees with abrasive coolness that always makes me shiver. With delight my love, of course, for you’ve livened the world with your presence again.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen! You exclaim, with that regency-poet-style ostentatiousness that I’ve grown fond of, is Hallowed Eve thus forever infantilised?
Aye I nod, afraid so.
I think then of what health and safety would make of open bonfires, the folklorish fiction of Stingy Jack who once, you tell me, tricked the Devil and is now forced to roam earth with burning coal. Perhaps the Scot’s turnip carvings would be better suited to ward spirits with LED enhancements; jellied window stickers of the aged innocents you once burned.
Not all is lost, you tell me, I shall embrace these queer commodities if it means we can keep the threshold. Tradition is but an extravagance.
Damn you and your purple prose - but I understand. Times have changed in regressive infantilization yet, centuries forward, our ‘quintessential’ remains. I feel you then, for a second of tangibility before the hand on my shoulder is lost to cruel logistics. A warm peck from cold lips on my cheek.
Must go, you announce - and I’m left with the dross of modernity again - phone vibrating through my palm; wasp-like and insatiable.
I left a maple cold brew for you. My pitiful seasonal tribute.
Name? They asked.
Oh. It’s for mon amour, the ghost.
by Robin Pearson
More Information: I’d like to think the Halloween nostalgia is something a lot of people can relate to - as can they connect with the modern traditions that we’ve accepted in our culture without really knowing why!
Instagram: @rob1n_pearson
Bio: Robin Pearson is a queer poet from the UK who enjoys writing, gothic lit, and accumulating knowledge of their hyper fixation. They’ll most likely be found re-watching a show for the Xth time or thrifting with an armful of jumpers.
Feedback:
Smrithi: I love how this piece is written! The idea is splendid and I love the references to various Halloween traditions. The end note that all is not lost gives hope and ends the piece on a great note. Love this piece <3
Bri: I enjoyed the criticism of capitalism and how traditions change over time.
Ava: Great commentary on commercialization of traditions and holidays. I really enjoy the idea of the ghost and its place in the story.
The Final Ritual
Trigger Warning: Mention of Blood and allusion to the crucifixion of Christ
The evening crept by slowly as we waited for the moon to show itself. I sat on the edge of the group, eyes wavering from face to face. In the soft lilting glow of the burning torches, they all looked the same. Impatient and hungry. So hungry. A chill crept down my spine and lodged itself in the raised hairs on the back of my skin. You would think that after these many years, I’d get used to it but I never was. I don’t think, I’ll ever be.
Someone called my name. I knew the man but at the moment, his identity escaped me. All I could see in his face was a ravenous longing. But still, I went to him. Better those nameless girls than me.
“Wass the matter?” I asked, my voice echoing through the crowd.
As was usual, they were eerily quiet.
“The girl’s being brought in now,” the man said, grinning like a skeleton. “I hope your knife’s sharpened enough.”
“Has it ever not been?” I challenged and the man’s grin widened, white teeth poking from his shadowy skin, resembling a monster from my darkest dreams.
I smiled, looked away, and began to lose myself in the process of waiting.
Around us, the night began to darken until we could barely see even ourselves, and then, the moon rose, illuminating the mouthless desire on each face. A cheer went through the crowd like a long, low shiver. I waited for it to die down. And when it did, the girl was brought out, mouth gagged, eyes wide, staring helpless, like a deer in bright light.
I averted my own gaze. To look at her face would be to familiarise myself with her existence, and when she was destined for death, why must I put myself through the pain? That’s the reasoning I’ve always lived with.
The harvest moon bathed us in a soft light as the unnamed girl was bound to the stake, her hands spread on each end. The irony was not missed by me, but like every bit of conscience, I stored it in the back of my head, locked away tightly.
They gathered around her, eyes dripping with hunger and called for me. This was it. My time to prove myself as I’ve always done, that I was a part of them. I gathered all my apathy and walked up to her. Ignoring the wide eyes, I slashed her throat, a perfect stroke. The blood, the smell, the rest was but an afterthought.
Everybody rejoiced as the blood dribbled down my shoes. My job was done. Like every other time. I turned, away from her. That was the last mistake I ever made. It would forever haunt me, perhaps even through afterlife, if there is such a thing for someone like me.
As the girl stalked towards me, her steps slow and pondering, I let a prayer slip through my lips. It was left unheard by every deity.
by Amian Bent
More Information: This story was dually inspired by the witch huntings of Salem as well as one of the prompts on Rewrite the Stars' Instagram. I think it would be a good fit for the magazine's halloween theme because it has a sense of lingering horror and a creepy, atmospheric feel to it.
Instagram: @words_of_an_endangerd_soul_
Bio: Amian Bent is a young writer from India, who's been writing fiction and poetry for five years now. Her writing journey started with the idea of a novel, one that's in the constant process of development and will hopefully be published in the near future. When not writing, she is busy reading Gothic literature or Young Adult Fiction, and listening to different types of music. Apart from writing, she's also interested in photo editing and nature photography.
Feedback:
Smrithi: This piece is marvelous! I love the cryptic feel of it and the suspense is illustrated extremely well. I love the idea of it and how the author has chosen to write it. Excellent!
Bri: I liked the cult idea.
Ava: A chilling, atmospheric story that is perfect for a dark, halloween night. Blood, manipulation, revenge, oh my!
Man Among Giants
There is a woman in the clouds.
There is a stranger up above with silky moonlit hair that flutters with every gust of wind.
Around her slender neck is a stunning strand of diamonds. They glint in my direction, and I can’t
help but grin at the sky like a madman in love. My lips part, in awe of her magnificent presence.
As she moves, little wisps of clouds curl around her feet as if carving a path for her.
I must reach her, but how? While she travels the sky, I am grounded to this earth’s soil by
gravity. I sink to my knees and nurse my grievances until an idea rekindles my newfound
feelings. I abruptly stand up and sprint to my shed. Gathering my sketchbook and graphite, I
formulate my plan. Stroke after stroke, my eagerness grows. With this invention, I can reach the
woman in the clouds!
3 years later...
It’s done. I have perfected my stilts. Walking outside, lightly dragging the poles on the
sidewalk, I halt at my destination. I take a deep breath and begin preparing. I strap on the stilts,
attach its base to the leveled pavement, and push hard on the soles. With a shuddered jolt and
metallic whine, the stilts grow in length.
“I’m soaring!” I gasp.
With every passing moment, the ground turns into my past. My heart gallops in
anticipation of the perfect moment. Glancing up, I see her approaching her usual spot. Almost
there...almost there. My pace slows. I’ve reached the clouds. I’ve reached her.
“Excuse me, ma’am!” I call out.
Her head tilts with curiosity. Her movements stop, and the clouds around her feet dart
impatiently. So close. I offer a kind smile, and the woman glides closer to me.
“I’m from down there,” I point below the clouds. Her gaze follows my strangely worn,
yet polished fingers. “I saw you once long ago, and I couldn’t help but admire your presence. In
fact, I brought a gift for you.”
She smiles back, finally at ease. The mist grows languid, and I seize the chance. Bending
down to unlatch a hidden compartment from my right stilt, I show her a jewel-encrusted piece of
metal. Her eyes glitter at the bejeweled gift, and I carefully place it in her outstretched hands and
close her fingertips around it. She holds it close to her heart, and I watch with apprehension as
her grip tightens.
Clink! Thud.
The noise reverberates through the fog. The woman in the clouds falls still on the
buttermilk sky. I smirk.
Everyone knows giants love gifts, and most importantly, are hoarders. Her unyielding
greed brought on her own doom. I merely didn’t tell her about the dial that activated the
poison-coated knife. I suppose her kind doesn't have switchblades.
Unclipping the garish necklet from her still body, I make my descent and let out a loud
guffaw at the irony: I’m a man walking on stilts among giants!
by Sophia Bernabe
More Information: When I began writing this story, I was actually trying to write one of my supplemental essays for college applications. It started off with the idea of hiding amongst giants by wearing stilts. With this, I was trying to convey this feeling of trying to catch up with everyone else and not belonging—similar to imposter syndrome. As I kept thinking, my essay devolved into a story of a person who built stilts to reach the sky and achieve their dreams. When I saw the Halloween prompt on Instagram, I immediately began fine-tuning the plot to be a better fit for this magazine.
Instagram: @sophiebrnb_
Bio: Sophia Bernabe is a senior in high school aspiring to be an anesthesiologist. Because of the publication of her piece “Alienation From My Culture” to the HaluHalo Journal and her leadership in the Life Savers Club, which brings in specialists to educate students on what often hides behind a paywall, Sophia is keen on combining medicine and English to aid the underrepresented in fulfilling their dreams so that medicine and fiction alike can become a more diverse space.
Feedback:
Smrithi: This piece is so interesting! I love the concept and how the author has written it. Simple but exquisite. The plot twist at the end is surprising and adds a nice touch to the story.
Bri: I loved the plot twist at the end and theme of greed.
Ava: Fantastical story with a twist. Feels like an old fairytale.
Witches of Hushfield
There used to be witches in Hushfield. Not the kind with green, wart-covered skin and thinly veiled anti-semitic hooked noses. Not the kind with melodramatic, wide brimmed and pointed caps. Not the kind who ate children or cursed them. The kind with drab puritan attire but a light in their eyes. The kind who knew how to communicate with the aching whispers of the woods. These witches were subtle, plucking the strings between life and death like harps. These witches knew they could be burned or hanged, but ne’er imagined they would suffer a fate far worse by the hands of people vindicated by the so-called grace of God. There used to be witches in Hushfield.
There are witches in Hushfield. Not the kind who eat children, but the kind who are children. Not the kind who cast curses, but are themselves cursed. Not the kind with drab puritan attire. No, these witches wear converse that crunch leaves beneath their feet. These witches listen to Nirvana. These witches drink Coca-Cola and smoke cigarettes just outside the backdoor of their minimum wage job. These witches are cheerleaders, homecoming queens. These witches are honors students, less than honorable sons. These witches are tri-sport athletes, attending tutoring between practices to keep their mama happy. These witches are sent visions of the future, but spent more time playing M*A*S*H and cootie catchers with friends. These witches listen to true crime, convinced they’d someday fall prey to the same. These witches do part-time ghost photography. These witches sneak kisses, knowing exactly what would happen if anyone found out, reeling from the rush of the risk. These are witches entering the fall semester of their senior year, ignoring the glances of solidarity from their fellows. Ignoring the aching whispers of the woods. Ignoring the mysticism that has undertoned their lives. Ignoring the bones half unburied in the dark earth. Ignoring the glances of suspicion from the other residents of Hushfield. Everyone knows something is off about those kids. It’s something about the eyes. Dilated pupils that seem to see beneath the surface. It’s something about the lips. Mouths that twitch from the incantations they know in their soul but were never taught the words to. Everyone knows something is off about those kids, they just don’t have a word to put to it. ‘Witch’ is archaic. As are witch hunts. That will not stop the residents of Hushfield from sharpening their pitchforks and their pitch-forked tongues, hungry for more blood to wash away the tragedies. There are witches in Hushfield, and they are just as safe as they were 400 years ago.
by Adia Reynolds
More Information: This draws off original characters in a deeper story but can also be read in a stand alone way. This isn't just about creepy witches and Halloween haunts. This draws off how often the marginalized and vulnerable were held culpable for "witchcraft". I also was inspired by the rhythm and repetition of the famous poem "We Real Cool". These witches are just trying to get through their senior year of high school, but no one can deny there's something off about them.
Instagram: @cryptic.cryptid.writes
Bio: Adia Reynolds is a coffee-loving honors student majoring in English with a writing concentration. Her works have been published in three prior magazines, and she someday hopes to work her way up to publishing a full novel. When she's not writing she spends her time playing video games and listening to plot summaries.
Feedback:
Smrithi: Oh my god I love this piece. It's descriptive, it's creative, and it's perfectly on theme! I love the darker notes interwoven with the lighter mentions of our daily routines. The last line is truly marvelous. Overall, this is a brilliant piece that perfectly captures the spirit of Halloween!
Bri: The vocabulary, sheer variety of examples and the continuity of the theme of women.
Ava: A slow descent into discovery of these modern witches. Very memorable last line.
My Eerie Birthday
As I tossed and turned in my bed, my eyes opened just a crack. Through blurry vision, I made out the numbers on the clock beside my schoolbooks: '00:03', and beneath them, '31st of October'. So, it was officially my birthday. Wondering what it had in store for me this year, I acknowledged the new chapter awaiting me, closed my eyes, and embraced my pillow, feeling a faint smile painting my face.
Slowly drifting off, a sudden bump that felt like it was coming from below my bed jolted me upright. I sat there, heart pounding, fixing my gaze straight ahead. The only things I could hear were my heart pounding in my chest and my erratic breathing pattern. Cold sweat gathered on my forehead, and my hands were clenching the sheets. Summoning every ounce of courage, I decided to investigate, not sure if I was doing the right thing. My gut was telling me to flee my so-called “safe space” as fast as possible, but something- I don’t know what- was screaming at my brain to check out who- or what was under my bed.
Lowering my head, I grasped the sheets that obscured my view. Slowly, I lifted them, a wave of regret washing over me.
Staring back at me were two glowing blood-red eyes that seemed to pierce my very soul. I couldn’t even see an outline of a face, body, anything. My hair rose all over my body, and my breath caught in my throat. I froze. Time seemed to stand still. That’s when I heard growling, presumably also coming right from where the red dots were staring at me.
Without a second thought, I turned and fled from my room, feeling my eyes beginning to fill with tears. As I reached the hallway, I slammed the door shut and propped a chair beneath the handle, hoping it would serve as a barricade- at least until the morning.
Running down the stairs and almost tripping, I jumped on the sofa and pulled the blanket that was on it over my head, finally letting my emotions come out. I tried hopelessly to muffle my cries with my hands. I still felt them staring at me, somehow. I was exhausted.
The next thing I knew it was morning, my mother found me, confused, with the blanket up to my torso. I tried to explain to her what happened, but she wouldn’t believe me, saying that these are only excuses I tend to make up to stay up late. Like a guillotine falling over my head, I heard her shouting to go and make my bed. A chill ran up my spine as I slowly made my way back up the stairway, prolonging my eventual face-off with whatever that was.
I put my hand on the doorknob, but I was interrupted.
“Come in,” a low voice on the other side of the door announced.
by Alexandra Ilie
More Information: I strongly believe that my story is a good fit for your magazine. This tale delves into one of my deepest fears, intertwined with a spine-chilling Halloween myth that has fascinated and haunted me for years.
Instagram: @mariuuwuu
Bio: Alexandra-Maria Ilie entered the world on October 30, 2005, in Bucharest, Romania's vibrant capital. Her love for literature and writing has been a constant companion since her early years in elementary school. However, it was in the 7th grade, at the age of 13, that she truly began to nurture her talent, sharing her imaginative creations with the world through her own blog. From that moment on, Alexandra-Maria has dedicated herself to honing her skills, captivating audiences with her works.
Feedback:
Smrithi: This piece is simple and marvelous and reminiscent of various different Halloween stories. I love how the author captures the horror and spooky feel right away with descriptive language. We are immersed directly into the narrator's POV and we feel their fear as ours. I love the ending and how it's haunting but also intriguing. We want to learn more and figure out what happened. Great piece, perfect for Halloween!
Bri: I loved the idea of literally something going 'bump' in the night and the cliffhanger ending!
Ava: Great ending that leaves the reader wondering what happened next.
The Night Is Nearly Over
Trigger warnings: body horror, terror, death
Kian opened his eyes to see …nothing. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and tried to move, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move any of his limbs. It was like he was paralysed. Kian could feel fear creeping up his throat, but the only thing he could do was try to regulate his breathing, a technique that rarely helped him in usual times. He couldn’t see the clock, but he scrunched up his eyes, hoping he would fall back asleep.
The night is nearly over. The night is nearly over. He repeated to himself, hoping to any God that might be listening that it was true. But his heart sank as he heard a chuckle.
“Oh, Kian, you sweet summer child.” A ghastly, growling voice mocked him. He could hear the smile invading its words. “Do you really think you’re safe here?” Kian tried everything in his power not to listen to it, his eyes still closed, but a tight claw grabbed his face, squeezing his jaw so tightly it hurt.
“I am safe. You’re not real.” Kian tried to appear confident, but even he could hear the shake in his voice. The voice laughed.
“You think you’re safe in your bed, Kian? Is this your bed?” It taunted him as it pried his eyes open. With a horrific jolt Kian realised he was in a torture chamber of the 1500s, and that he was tied down to a rake. He felt his limbs start to be stretched, further and further and further.
He screamed…
And then he was back in his bed, trapped in his own body. The voice laughed.
“You silly boy. You know that this is all in your mind. Why are you torturing yourself like this, Kian?” The voice had taken on a mocking tone, and Kian felt a tear leak out of his eye. He just wanted to go back to sleep.
No. He was done with this now. He would not be a victim to this night terror anymore.
“I banish you.” He whispered. The voice scoffed.
“What was that?” It asked, his voice suddenly innocent.
“I am in charge here. Not you. And I want you gone!” Kian shouted. Pride surged through his chest and he felt his foot twitch. He went to sit up, and-
“You want me gone?!” The voice growled, and Kian suddenly felt a searing pain surge across his neck. He saw scarlet blood spurt from what used to be his throat, and his vision went cloudy. He felt himself fall backwards, and…
by Sarah R. New
More Information: This piece was written as an exercise into writing Gothic literature. I think it fits the theme as it's creepy and scary, and I think it has appeal to teens who are looking for gateway horror stories or experimenting with different forms of horror stories, as I did as a teen.
Instagram: @aldbera
Bio: Sarah R. New is in her late 20s, but has been writing since the age of 6. After graduating from university with a BA in Film Studies, she dabbled in screenwriting before returning to fiction writing. Sarah loves to cook and bake, spends most of her time with her cats and is an avid traveller who has visited four continents. Her travel memoir, The Great European Escape: The Trials and Tribulations of Travelling While Chronically Ill, is available for free from https://sarahrnew.wordpress.com/.
Feedback:
Smrithi: This piece blurs the lines between reality and fantasy and I love how effectively it does so! We readers wonder whether the 'monster' is real or simply in the narrator's head, and the ending leaves us with more questions than answers. The spooky feel is present throughout and I love how descriptive the writing is! The ending was horrifying in the best way possible. Great piece!
Bri: I liked the idea of convincing yourself 'it's nearly day' 'night is nearly over' to be safe, you know?
Ava: I enjoyed how your sleep paralysis demons have come back to haunt you in this piece, and they're here to play mind games.
Dancing in a demon’s embrace
TW - blood, violence, knives
Pomegranate juice drips watery red onto previously pristine white pages. Cream contrasts dark, bitter coffee. Energetic hip-hop music plays while you and I are slow dancing. It's romantic, borderline sensual, and you're holding me with that soft smile that tells me you love me. Living in the shell of that angelic demeanour, disguised as a warm heart and saccharine words, is a maniacal, sadistic demon running amok, blood dripping from its teeth and just barely concealed. Your grip on my waist is possessive and painful, sugar-coated words fraying at the edges with malice. A flash of silver, a blade driven in so deep only a leather-covered hilt is visible, but its glory is shadowed by the crimson spreading fast over white lacy bodice and sticky scarlet running over lips and onto your dress shirt.
"You demon," I croak, and then fall like the leaves in the autumn, dancing to their demise.
by Xann
More Information: My friend sent the link for the Halloween submissions to me and I thought, "Why not?" So I went to look for inspiration and then realized I could write a dark-academic theme for Halloween, so I did.
Instagram: @magicallyliterary
Bio: Xann is a teen poet who is absolutely terrible at math but loves pretty words.
Feedback:
Smrithi: The dark academic vibes are definitely present throughout this piece. I love the vivid imagery that helps us visualize the scene in our mind's eye. The ending is intriguing and the last line is written so poetically! Great piece overall and seems fitting for Halloween :)
Bri: I enjoyed the vivid descriptions and overall lovely, rich dark tone.
Ava: Gives the feeling of classical music playing over a dark waltz. Sets the mood and aesthetic of dark academia with ease.
The Toyshop
TW: loss of consciousness
WC: 479
They screamed, trying to warn the unsuspecting travellers, but their voices had been locked and muted the day their souls were sewn into these lifeless faces and porcelain limbs, and their minds were trapped in these stringed bodies.
***
The bell chimed as the three travellers stepped in. A robed man stood behind the counter, peering at them through spectacles. He introduced himself as the Collector.
‘The Collector of what?’ Gawain asked.
The Collector only smirked, gesturing toward some seats. Shelves upon shelves full of all sorts of dolls surrounded a wooden table. Something felt off but Gisela couldn’t place it. A sweet scent returned her attention to the Collector, who glided to the table with a pot of tea and four china cups. He poured himself and each traveller a cup of tea. Gisela lifted the cup, letting the flowery smell fill her senses.
‘What’s in the tea?’ asked Sigrid.
‘Local flowers and herbs,’ the Collector said. He gulped down his tea.
Sigrid raised her eyebrows. Gisela fixed her eyes on Gawain as he took a tentative sip.
‘Did you hear that?’ Sigrid questioned.
‘Hear what?’ replied Gawain, turning his head toward the witch.
Sigrid shook her head to clear it. ‘Something high pitched. Human but also… Distinctly not human.’
‘I heard nothing,’ stated the Collector.
Gisela shook her head at Sigrid and did not realise until she’d swallowed mouthfuls of tea. It felt smooth on her tongue and warm in her throat. She took another sip and smiled at Sigrid, content to spend some quiet time with her girlfriend. Sigrid returned the smile before lifting the teacup to her lips.
‘Now for business,’ Gawain began.
But Gisela was too busy staring at her girlfriend to listen to her brother. She knew what they were here for, and what Gawain would talk about, so she tuned his voice out. Sigrid’s lips moved out of sync with her voice. Gisela couldn’t hear her. She wasn’t sure what they came here for. Something felt off. Perhaps more tea would help. The sweet flowery scent enticed her to swallow mouthful after mouthful. The room spun and her ears rang. Someone shook her. Her eyes were unfocused, barely kept open. Wave after suffocating wave washed over her as she fought to stay conscious. She was acutely aware of the throbbing in her head and the cold sweat on her face. Slurs of familiar voices rose above the currents before being dragged under. She felt the body that she no longer had a connection to being lifted. Rushed movements tickled her consciousness. Flashes of light and shadow passed before her unseeing eyes. Non-human voices bounced across the room and echoed. The welcoming scent of flowers wafted around her, forming soft tendrils that caressed her cheeks. Their arms reached at her, inviting her to join them in the next realm. She was ready to succumb.
by Owl
More information: It's the spooky part of my WIP and involves a Collector of Souls who sews souls into dolls and puppets.
Instagram: @owl_writes
Bio: Owl lives almost exclusively in her head and is in love with all the characters she created. Her favourite genres are fantasy and historical fiction. Spooky season gave her an excuse to skip ahead in her WIP instead of writing chronologically.
Feedback:
Smrithi: This is such a cool piece! The idea is unique and I love how the author has written it. From the very first line you feel as though something is off but as the story progresses, it gets progressively creepier and weirder. Excellent writing -- I love how the last paragraph is vivid and really draws the reader in.
Bri: I liked the idea of someone hearing something the others didn't.
Ava: A well written short that leaves me wanting to read further.
Where the Willows Weep
“This place is perfect,” said Brendan, as with a satisfied sweep of his hand he gestured towards the grounds of the Airbnb they had rented for the night.
“Perfect?” asked Samantha in a voice laced with skepticism.
“Yes. Absolutely! A brooding old manor, a creepy old pond encircled by weeping willows and these grounds. I tell you; these grounds are haunted.”
“If I recall correctly, that’s pretty much what you said last time ...”
“So, what are you trying to say,” broke in Brendan, “that this is useless?”
“No,” she replied tiredly, “maybe it’s time to reconsider all of this. We’ve had this channel for almost six months now, and if you rule out editing and camera effects, we haven’t posted anything with even the slightest hint of a spook.”
“But this place, it’s got a spooky air. I’m sure we’re going to find something tonight,” murmured Brendan as he gazed out at the fast-falling twilight.
“Got the camera?” asked Samantha as they trekked through the overgrown brush.
“Right here,” Rita patted the pouch slung across her neck.
“According to local legends,” whispered Samantha, “these grounds are haunted by the ghost of a girl who wanders around wailing at midnight.”
“Let’s set things up near the pond, should have a good view of things from there.”
It was a clear night with hundreds of stars glimmering in the old pond, encircled by its ever-watchful guard of willows. As the minutes ticked by, the night grew lovelier still and the moon sailed across the starlit sky accompanied by a court of wispy clouds.
“It’s half past twelve,” said Samantha dryly, “let’s wrap up ... nothing’s going to happen tonight.”
“Shh, listen,” hissed Rita.
There came upon the wind the distant sound of sobbing, getting nearer with every passing second.
“The ghost,” hissed Rita as she focused the camera on the patch of trees from where a soft blue glow emanated. An eerie silence replaced the sound of crickets as the blue glow drew nearer, leaving the trio rooted to the ground as the hazy glow materialized into the weeping ghost of a young girl.
“A wailing ghost,” crowed Brendan.
“Quiet,” came the whispered reply, “you’ll scare her away.”
The ghost girl continued towards the pond, seemingly unaware of her breathless audience.
“Let’s follow her,” said Brendan as he made his way through the trees. When they finally caught up, she was hidden amongst the willows crouched over something on the ground, sobbing for a while before disappearing into a blue mist.
When dawn broke over the town, it carried with it the tale of the brave little dog who had died one cold winter’s morning while trying to rescue a little girl who fell through the ice on the pond.
Back among the willows that swept the water’s edge a tiny grave, inscribed with the epitaph ‘Maxie, the best dog that ever lived’, was heaped over with forget-me-nots that gleamed blue in the gray light of dawn.
by Yvanka Maria Guia Rebelo
More information: It features ghosts and ghost hunters
Instagram: @a.quiver.of.tales
Bio: Yvanka Rebelo is a bookworm and writer who is firmly convinced that words are magic.
Feedback:
Smrithi: I love how a large majority of this piece is dialogue but we still get enough context to understand the story. The second half of the story is quite descriptive and I love how we really get a feel for the environment. Unique idea and great storytelling!
Bri: I enjoyed the ghost hunting, dynamics between the cast, and ghost legend.
Ava: A sweet twist on a ghostly haunting!
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