Liam entered the Mountain of Death at dusk.
He adjusted his headphones, checked the volume unit—or VU—dial on the mixer strapped to his belt, and reasserted his grip on a boom pole carrying a shotgun microphone. With his headlamp’s yellow beam piercing the darkness, he pointed the mic’s windscreen into…
“I can see it now. ‘Come to a romantic getaway to Japan’s Suicide Forest. Book now—reservations are selling like hotcakes!’” Starr held out his hands like he was gesturing to a marquee.
“Yeah, because who doesn’t want to be stabbed, bitten, or possessed again on their anniversary?” his fiancé, Annie, grumbled.
The resort’s lookout tower reached above the tree line, simmering under the South African sun. Dave peered through his binoculars into the distance. From this vantage point, he had a great view of the savanna grasslands and wild foliage. A quick movement caught his eye, but he was too slow, only peeking a tail.
Read it now
Merit flicked his tail in frustration. His best servant—Pharaoh something or other—was dead. He knew this because when he’d arrived for his morning scratch, the human had just lain there, eyes open but unseeing. The body had also been cold. Not good for curling up next to.
Still, to be sure…
A dozen people tread through the corn. Insects fall and writhe against their careful hands as they part the stalks. They curse under their breath for not sowing the seeds in tidy, even rows. Instead, the plants grew nestled close together, their rows zigzagging, mazelike across the miles of flat land.
She is missing.
For young Margery Jones, The Candy Shoppe was more than a store to buy sweets. It was a place of opportunity.
When she walked through the gilded doors, sugar and color assailed her senses. Rows of
rainbow lollipops, orange taffy, grass green gumdrops, and striped pickleberries lined the shelves. Tiny planes zipped
“Have you ever wondered how much skin weighs?” The question floated from my car’s speakers as I raced down the expressway, heading home from college for Thanksgiving break.
I rolled my eyes while answering Madison. “Yes, that question is on my mind all the time.”
She’s used to my snark. “You’d be surprised
Yellow police tape crisscrosses the entrance to Buckbean Asylum. The plastic shines under my headlamp: fresh, unlike the torn, discarded scraps half-buried by shriveled-up oak leaves. Though the asylum closed years ago, the structure remains.
So do the spirits of the patients.
That’s the rumor, at least. I’m here to see if it’s true.
The first thing Mia noticed was the blood—dark specks drizzled across fresh snow like errant paint strokes. Her boots crunched in pursuit until the spatter disappeared into a sheet of white beyond the remote compound.
Blinding wind cut at her eyes as she peered into the Yukon permafrost and shouldered her
“By my reckoning, it will be fifty years before I pose a significant threat.”
The letter was signed by Eldred Ballantyne, dated November 24, 1952, and left with a firm of attorneys who’d mailed it as instructed fifty years later. The Singer Biotechnical Institute president at the time was curious enough to open it,
I gazed at the distant horizon, where the sky met the sea. The indigo twilight slowly faded into the dark ocean.
Something in that vast emptiness called out to me. It was more than just a vague desire to see the world. It was more of a beckoning. Like a beacon from a distant
The way I see it, you find a giant egg in the forest, you have two options. You break it open or you don’t.
The lodge we’d passed through was easy to see from the edge of the crater. Stand atop a fallen tree and there it was—civilization. Like children in sight
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