They say the word Kentucky means “dark and bloody ground.” And I believe it—after all, that’s where my blood has been for years.
I floated among the branches of towering trees. Dew clung to the bluegrass below, which made it seem even more vivacious and alive.
Funny how grass had more life than me.
Leave the dead to their derby, and they’ll leave the living to theirs. The ghosts don’t hurt anyone; they come, celebrate, and leave at midnight once a year. Horse races mean a lot to folks around here.
That’s what the old hillbilly had said as he pumped Reynolds’ gas. But leaving ghosts alone…
The portal closed with a whumph and the smell of old books. I’d teleported myself deep beneath the massive castle complex of the Infinite Library, chasing rumors of ancient, forgotten books.
Dangerous books.
I hadn’t been expecting carpet.
I Imparted will into a small light sphere made of bronze. It floated at eye-level
I died at sixteen.
People said I committed suicide, but after my stepfather Manny had too many beers at my funeral and made a toast about how my curvy, young body must be pleasing the angels, murmurs rolled through the room.
The police chief ordered an autopsy. The medical examiner found arsenic
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.
Oscar nipped my ear and whined. I yelped and swatted at the ferret on my shoulder, unease blossoming in my chest. “I heard you the first time.” But it wasn’t like I could go in there.
The house in front of me wasn’t really a house. It was a mansion, all spires and towers
Yesterday, Albert Cook offered me a ride home from school. Thanking him, I scrambled into his Pa’s wagon. We talked of that day’s ball game and spelling bee.
Finally, he asked, “Ever see a ghost around your place, Pete?”
I shook my head. “Nope. My grandfolks died there last month, but they’re lying
How long have I slept? No matter the amount, it’s never enough.
I rise from my damp bench, searching the edge of the bridge ahead of me.
Why are the nights always so cold when they come here?
Sure enough, there stands a thin, forlorn girl in a windbreaker—useless in this frigid air.
Havok Story Podcast, Episode 37: “The Red Hibiscus Bride” by Julisa Basak
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There are two rooms we don’t talk about.
One’s the scullery. No need to talk about it—we live there.
The other’s Miss Mary’s room.
Master Falwell keeps the door locked. Wears the key ’round his neck. Never speaks about the daughter he loved and lost, the wispy girl on the brink of womanhood
He is coughing again.
My sari sweeps behind me as I climb the steps, medicine bottle in hand. Two teaspoons if I remember correctly.
The door to my husband’s room is open. He is sprawled in bed, pillow over his face, as if smothering himself
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Go see a show, Lindsey. Get out of the house for one evening.
My neighbors like to give advice—some of it better than others.
How can I see a musical without Amaliah? That’s like betraying her memory. My fingers clench around Tico’s leash, and he looks up
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