Someone had to be in the attic, or else Alice Horton was mad.
Thick fog curled across the grounds, shrouding the vibrant gardens in ghostly white.
Alice’s head pounded from lack of sleep. The footsteps pacing above her room had kept her awake most of the night. She even thought she’d heard
Havok Story Podcast, Episode 37: “The Red Hibiscus Bride” by Julisa Basak
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“D’Aulnoy. Jacobs. Now.”
I enter Grimm’s office with my partner, Nero Jacobs, at my side. He shoots me a quizzical glance. I shrug back.
The lieutenant, never one for words, gestures to the chairs opposite his desk, then thuds into his own wingback chair as I sit and cross my legs.
No one knows how Captain Anson died, but some say his spirit still haunts the sea, sailing free forever.” The werewolf boy’s sharp grin glittered from the shadows.
Miss Ingrid turned up the oil lamp, pushing the darkness to the corners of the classroom. “Sit down, Vespian. You aren’t scaring anyone.”
Dreaming is one of the few comforts I have left.
I dream of the sunset sky glowing in shameless display, of a radiant amber symphony rising from the depths before the sun gives way to the moon. I dream, because the moment the true sun touches my skin, primal instincts to survive
“Dude, I am beginning to rethink this idea.” Tyrone shifted uneasily from one foot to the other as he stared at the fence towering above them. “These signs look serious.” He pointed his flashlight to a neon orange “Keep Out” sign that was practically screaming at them.
“Now you notice?” Grant rolled hi
We stole his nose at midnight.
Amidst a sea of snowy mountain pinewood, my cousin Cory and I waded into a clearing where we discovered a man of winter standing upright like a statue. We crept toward the plump figure with caution, hunting rifles ready. Nothing stirred, not even the wind.
My stomach
Alvina Hutcherton lifted her nose to the sky, spread her fragile, black wings, and reveled in the crisp, night air. She hadn’t been able to fly in years. Old age was a downer, even for a bat. But every night, Nurse Shelly would put on her black sunhat, perch Alvina on top of it,
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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
Freezing rain slicked the sidewalk and dripped from the remaining bulbs around the dark marquee. I sighed, my breath frosting in the air. Really, an abandoned movie theater? Some people have no sense of subtlety.
I ducked through the broken door, boots crunching on shattered glass, and followed
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A good neighborhood stakeout always starts with a comfy porch swing and my famous pound cake. Archie’s curled up on my lap, watching the street for any sign of Uncannies—or rabbits. Ever since he got into a scuffle with a bunny—and lost—he’s been on his guard.
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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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