BMHS Phoenix #1: Fall 2023

THE BILLERICA PHOENIX FALL ISSUE

Inside:

Halloween Contest Winner: “Black Roses”

by Hannah Iavarone

Many other spooky, scary story and poem submissions by BMHS students NOVEMBER 2023

ISSUE #1

ADVISORS MS. CAMASSO MR. CICCARELLI

STAFF JOONHO LEE VANESSA GODDARD LUCAS MCCARTHY ELLERY PALMER KRISHA PATEL DEVINA PAUL TEA PUCILLO

THE LITERARY MAGAZINE CAPTURING THE CREATIVE SPIRIT OF BMHS 01

ERICA RIZZO KATE TORTOLINI

TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE

PAGE OUR BEAUTIFUL HOME

BLACK ROSES

20 BY JOONHO LEE

THE UNFORSEEN

THE BRICKS

04 BY HANNAH IAVARONE 08

BY TANISHA VILLARREAL GONZALEZ SPOOKY WOOKY

10 BY AARON BALEMEZI

23 BY YVETTE MORRIS 26 BY AYAAN NOWAZ SUBMERGED

THREE RIBBONS FOR JOSIE

11 BY LILY DOYLE UNTITLED

13 BY LOGAN GONYEA 15 BY KAITLYN LAMBERT 17 BY MARLAYNA CARL ROCK BOTTOM

BOREAS’S EARLY VISIT

02

Black Roses

By Hannah Iavarone

“You sure love roses!” Charles exclaimed as he walked into the mystifying garden which was littered with large black roses and waxy candles, their flames dancing in the subtle moonlight. He was accompanied by his spectacularly radiant date, Scarlett. Scarlett was known as a mysterious outsider in their small town, usually in the top three of the topics the local housewives liked to gossip about while they were in their neighboring gardens tending to their vegetables. Yet, Mr. Charles Berkeley had taken a strange liking to her. He found her to be quite a complex individual, who he wanted to figure out.

“Oh, I sure do. Speaking of which, my gift to you, sir.” She handed him a red rose, the blood-red petals a deep contrast to the sight of the ink-stained flowers in the bushes below.

“Shall we sit?” Charles pointed to the small table, which was perfectly set for two.

“Oh yes, of course.” Scarlett’s date pulled out one of the two set chairs while Scarlett quickly waved him away and motioned to the one across and sat there instead. When Charles had given her a puzzling look she quickly brushed it off as saying how sitting on that side of the table in front of the roses had always given her good luck, reasons as of now, only known to her.

“Scarlett, I know so little about you. Tell me, what do you like to do?” Scarlett smirked at his question and took a sip from her champagne glass that was daintily sitting atop the garden table.

“Well, I have been known to dabble in gardening, as you might tell. I cherish these flowers dearly and collecting them is a hobby that I most adore.” Her voice was enchanting’ there were no interruptions when she spoke and you couldn’t help but take everything she said into careful consideration.

That’s very interesting. You know, I will never understand how those people treat you over there.” He gestured to the town with his champagne glass. Surely he was just being polite?

Unlikely, as Charles Berkeley was never one to lie about his feelings. Scarlett must’ve known this.

“You’ve been nothing but kind to me, even setting up this private date for us in your garden! Why, any sane man would see how lucky they are to be sitting here with you after all you’ve done to make it so special.” Scarlett laughed as she drove her knife into the meat on her plate.

“How kind of you, Charles. I haven’t been on a date like this in a while; it’s very nice to get back into it.” Charles smiled at her as they continued to eat their meals and sip their champagne.

As the minutes passed in whispering conversation, the candles had died down to a tenuous glow that only illuminated their small dinner table where the garden could barely be seen.

“This might be a strange subject to bring up, but did you hear that slight noise just now?

It sounded quite like a faint scream?” Charles wiped his mouth with the silver napkin that was placed on his lap and peered around the garden, squinting to find any sight of a small voice screaming.

“Oh, I didn’t hear anything.” Scarlett waved her hand.

“More champagne?” Charles waved away her hand that was reaching to grab the bottle and instead concentrated on glancing around the garden.

“Charles, why don’t you tell me about some of your friends in town? Maybe I could get to know them.” Finally, Charles looked back at Scarlett and cracked a smile, happily accepting to answer her question.

“Well, I have my work friends, although they seem like more acquaintances to me. I haven’t really had a real friend since Joe.” Scarlett saw a sad, wistful look in Charles eyes, the look of someone who was remembering a much fonder time and wondering how it got away from them.

“What happened to your friend?”

“Oh, it was a few months ago, he went out on a date with some girl and he never came back, or spoke to me again. I had just assumed that he ran away to get married to this girl. Joe was always very spontaneous.”

“What was this girl’s name, Charles?” Scarlett started to get a curious glint in her eyes, her black hair starting to come loose from her slicked back bun.

“Gosh, I can’t remember. I believe it started with a D? Dee-, Da-, no, no, Di! That’s what it was! I remember now! Her name was Diana!” Scarlett nodded thoughtfully while tracing the rim of her champagne glass with her finger.

“I cannot remember her last name, though.” Charles said, shaking his head.

“Would it have happened to be, Stephens?” Charles' eyes widened as he looked towards Scarlett.

“Did you happen to know her?” Charles asked with curiosity, his voice was slightly slurred as he began to become lightheaded.

“Not exactly, Charles. You see, you’re good friend Joe Adler came into this very garden to meet his date, Diana Stephens. Only, he wasn’t just meeting Diana Stephens, he was meeting Scarlett Montgomery.”Charles was slightly swaying at this point, his eyesight becoming blurry and all the while still trying to comprehend what Scarlett was trying to tell him.

“This has been fun, Charles.” Was the last thing he heard when he collapsed onto the prickly grass.

Scarlett brushed the crumbs off her dress, stood up from the little table and came over to where Charles was unconsciously lying on the ground. She dug around in his coat pocket and found the rose she had given him earlier, the bright crimson color now faded and turned into a deep ebony.

“Now a part of you can stay with me forever, in my garden.” She took the rose and headed over to the bush and propped it into an empty spot on a bush where she placed her recent lover's soul right next to Joe Adler’s.

The Unforeseen

By Tanisha Villarreal Gonzalez

As Hades grew older, he began to exhibit an uncanny ability to draw people in with his clownish facades, only to reveal the depths of his maniacal and menacing ways when it was too late. His once-harmless antics turned deadly, and the people of his town that he onced called his friends began to slowly vanish, one by one, never to be seen again.

The town soon earned a dark reputation, rooted in fear and whispered stories of a killer clown who roamed the night and his only distinctive feature being his soft auburn locs that became one with his new reched persona, his mask hiding a twisted, demonized grin. Nobody knew the truth behind the sinister figure, but they feared the unknown more and more with each passing day.The circus tent, long abandoned, became the sanctuary of the murderous clown. The echo of his maniacal laughter filled the air as he continued his reign of terror, leaving a trail of gruesome, blood-soaked memories. Hades was stripped from his childhood and transformed from an innocent child to a merciless killer clown who was a horrifying example of the depths of darkness that could reside within a tormented little soul.

And so, the small town lived in an endless perpetual dread, haunted by the nightmare they couldn't escape. The tale of the clown who was once kidnapped as a child and grew up to be a remorseless killer clown serves as a chilling reminder to everyone that even the most innocent beginnings can lead to the darkest of endings.

BY AARON BALEMEZI

Three Ribbons for Josie

By Lily Doyle The summer of ‘96 was a hot one. Ask anyone from town and they would agree. On Sundays, the church was overcome with women in calf length plaid dresses and men in black suits with visible beads of sweat dripping down their foreheads. The children would be rambunctious and loud, and even when the parents tried to shush the kids, it would distract everyone more. Except little Josie. Josie Jackson with her curly blonde pigtails tied in ribbons would be sitting quietly and politely right next to her mother, Evelyn. And when church got out, Evelyn and Josie would thank the Pastor and walk home. The majority of town remembers when the Jacksons moved into the quiet, little, cottage on Bluefront street. It was the late 80s and people were shocked to hear that a single mother and her infant would be moving into the house right off of Main Street. But Evelyn and Josie settled right into the neighborhood, despite the whispers. Evelyn fit in with the other mothers, she was pretty which was a plus, and her openness couldn’t be matched by anyone. We discovered that she enjoyed gardening and it was easy to detect that Evelyn would do everything to make Josie happy. Josie on the other hand was quiet and shy and people never really saw her with any other girls. But when she conversed with the adults, she was extraordinarily polite and was able to charm everyone in sight, especially with her hair ribbons. Now, years later, we recognize the Jackson girls as well-behaved and respectable.

But it was a very special Tuesday morning when the first girl went missing. The weather was finally not threatening to melt everyone’s skin off and a young girl had gone missing. Her mother was in shambles; the police put up posters, and the town gathered at the church to say a prayer. The search for Rosie McClaren lasted long, but after 2 weeks, the public concluded that they didn’t really care anymore and yes, it was terrible for her family, but what were they as just normal people, supposed to do? Rosie had a gravestone built at the local graveyard and just as the whole town was getting back to normal, little Lucy Sanderson disappeared. Now people started getting worried. The police started holding community based searches, while the Pastor started holding daily sermons sessions, to “put hope back in the town’s pocket,” whatever that meant.

The town was on edge and the heat index didn’t help. With the police involved, some people were certain that someone was kidnapping these little girls. But with the pastor involved, others were completely sure that these little girls had sinned so much that God decided to put them in hell. Of course these statements were said with much less clarity than now.

Then there was a whole other group consisting of the town’s outsiders. People who didn’t go to church every Sunday and people who weren’t casually making apple pies in their free time. People who believed that these girls were taken by another source, not humans, not God, but ghosts. They said that maybe the ghosts were taking the little girls as a funny joke, or maybe it was more serious. Even so, the majority of towns regularly cast this group aside saying that they were “bad apples” and “weirdos”.

The truth of it was that little girls were going missing in a place that has never experienced difficulty. This was a small town where everyone knew and trusted each other. The kids could ride bikes wherever and it wasn’t an issue with the parents, because everywhere in town was safe. But as the kidnappings continued, people started locking their doors, shutting the windows at night, and holding their children a little tighter. Especially Evelyn Jackson.

It was well-known that Josie was Evelyn’s whole world. It made sense; Josie was the only one constantly around Evelyn and vice-versa. So, it confused a lot of the townsfolk when we saw Evelyn Jackson casually gardening at 5 pm with dirt on her clothes, without Josie. When Old Ms. Jones asked her, she looked up and said, Josie was “off in the back”, and went on gardening.

The next day Alice Campbell disappeared. People started getting antsy. Fights broke out between fathers, accusing each other of taking their daughters. Mothers stopped waving when they passed each other. The police were at a dead end, and each family was getting more and more closed off. That next Sunday, news dropped. The Jacksons were moving up North. The town was shocked, but not surprised. They knew how much Evelyn valued her daughter and with the missing girls, it wasn’t a mystery what one of the main reasons for moving was. In fact, other families have talked about leaving, but people never took them seriously. Not the way people knew that now that Evelyn announced it, they were moving whether anyone liked it or not. The Mother and Daughter left quickly by the next week, with few good-byes. They also left relatively unnoticed with the missing girls being the main center of attention. But when the town could fully take in the leaving of Evelyn and Josie, they realized something they hadn’t before.

The Jacksons never put their quiet, little, cottage on Bluefront Street up for sale. They just left. So, a small group of the Jackson’s neighbors came together and decided to search the Jackson’s house, because if the girls never put their house up for sale, then maybe the girls accidentally left something important or valuable behind. But when the neighbors entered the house, it was empty. People searched the upstairs floor and downstairs, and even the basement.

It was completely clean of any trace that the Jackson’s lived there. But there was one spot that the neighbors didn’t look at. The crawl space. As the neighbors journeyed down in the dirty, gravely, underground, they saw the most horrific sight that anyone in town had ever seen. Little Rosie McClaren, Lucy Sanderson, and Alice Campbell all were rotting with hair ribbons still tied around their necks.

Untitled

by Logan Gonyea

Amelia Wyndmoor had always known that her family once enjoyed wealth and prestige within the English aristocracy. However, she never suspected that her connection to this heritage would materialize, until one fateful day.

An enigmatic letter arrived at her doorstep, bearing no sender's name, and it carried an unexpected revelation: Amelia had inherited Castle Wyndmoor, nestled within the eerie, desolate landscapes of Westshire. It was a name she hadn't heard since childhood, and the details of the place were a distant blur in her memory. Amelia's eyes fixated on the mysterious letter, her fingers trembling as they traced the embossed seal. Her initial disbelief gave way to a gnawing curiosity, and she realized that there was no turning back. With determination, she packed her belongings in haste, selecting items that might prove useful on her journey into the unknown. She found a man nearby in the town which she lived, who took her to Westshire in a horsedriven carriage; old but sturdy. Amelia inquired with the driver about where they were going asking if he had any idea of Castle Wyndmoor. The driver replied, “No ma’am, I have no clue about any castle in those lands, but do keep a lookout for the weather we’ve been having, nasty it is.”

Amelia got off the carriage in the small town of Westshire. He was correct, the weather was nasty. The trees surrounding her were nearly all decaying, the clouds were in a dark, gray and stormy state, and nearly no sun was shining through them causing a perpetual darkness which surrounded the land. She felt frightened by the dark and stormy appearance of the land surrounding her, she had felt the trembling in her fingers that she had felt only when she received the mysterious letter. Amelia looked at the signs in the town surrounding her, and saw a large group of people talking to one another about something that seemed interesting. Drawn by a hushed gathering of townsfolk, Amelia approached a cluster of concerned faces.

Their animated discussions centered on the inexplicable weather, with opinions split over its origin. One man's conviction pointed to the castle itself, while a woman vehemently argued that it was a divine act of God. The group paused in its vehement discussion when they noticed Amelia standing nearby. Amelia stepped forward, and viewed the group surrounding her.

Amelia started to tell them who she was, “I am Amelia Wyndmoor. I came in a carriage from the nearby town of Wintingborough; after I received a letter which claimed that I inherited the Castle Wyndmoor in these lands.” The group suddenly hushed, the quiet sound only being broken by the oldest man of the group who whispered in reply, “So you are going to the castle, aye.. That's a small journey.. but it is a treacherous path to the castle, Miss Wyndmoor, for there's an unholy darkness shrouding it, and the very heavens seem to weep” Determined yet trembling, Amelia nodded. "I'm aware of the danger, but I must uncover the mysteries that lie within. I have no choice but to confront the macabre of Castle Wyndmoor."

The townsfolk offered her directions, but as she left the village behind and ascended a small hill, her eyes met the imposing silhouette of Castle Wyndmoor, a somber sentinel looming over the bleak landscape, its secrets and shadows echoing the tales of generations past. Amelia followed the path down the hill, which was rocky and declined sharply into the valley right near the castle. The clouds suddenly broke into a pouring rain, the rain storm quickly turned into a thunderstorm which consumed the land below. Amelia was frightened by the weather which seemed to originate from the castle. Amelia finally made it to the castle and was dripping wet with water from the pouring rain. As she entered the castle through the strong wooden doors she was greeted by a mysterious atmosphere. Somehow the castle's interior was darker then the outside, except for a small wooden fire that was lit in the center of the antechamber. Amelia was concerned by how a fire was lit in the castle even though she was the only person who was supposed to be here. Amelia’s eyes gazed towards the walls of the room surrounding her.

Perched on the wall was a portrait of a woman with a small but present smile. On the frame of the portrait there was a small plate which displayed the name of the woman in the portrait, Lady Elowen Wyndmoor. As Amelia cautiously explored the castle's interior, her footsteps echoing in the dimly lit corridor, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was not alone. The flickering candlelight revealed portraits on the walls, each bearing an uncanny resemblance to Lady Elowen Wyndmoor. But one of the portraits seemed different; its eyes followed her every move as if it held a secret of its own. As she approached this enigmatic portrait, the room plunged into darkness.

Startled, she fumbled for a source of light, but before she could find one, she heard a whispered, chilling voice that seemed to emanate from the depths of the castle. 'Welcome home, Amelia...'

With her heart pounding and a shiver coursing down her spine, Amelia realized that Castle Wyndmoor held more secrets than she could have ever imagined. The voice continued, 'You've returned, just as I knew you would.' The voice grew closer, and she felt a cold breath against her neck. In the pitch-black darkness, a pair of icy hands grasped her shoulders, and she couldn't see who or what was behind her. The voice whispered again, 'You carry the blood of Wyndmoor, and with it, the curse.' As the unseen presence tightened its grip, Amelia's fear reached its peak, and she knew she had stepped into a realm of supernatural horrors she couldn't yet comprehend.

Rock Bottom

By Kaitlyn Lambert There are often many times in one’s life where they feel that they cannot go any lower. Then, of course, life takes the dare and flings you even lower. And no matter how certain you are about this being rock bottom, the rock beneath you finds a way to cave in, plunging you into the abyss beneath.

This abyss was where I found myself, night after night, after my sister's life caved like the rock floor we were standing on together. And yet, it seems that nothing changed. I was still unemployed, but now there was only one mouth to feed. Still rejected by my mother, although she always did hate my sister more. Still living in this poor shack of a house; illegally, I might add, and it's even quieter now. Still taking my side of the one bed we have, but the other side is empty. So you see, nothing had changed, and yet everything had.

That was when I decided to make a change of my own. Day after day in the stifling air of an autumn that hadn’t turned bitter yet, I needed something new in my life. I started walking in the woods around my shack, knowing that I was trespassing with every step and always keeping my guard up, in case the rich property-owners became aware of my staying in their abandoned shed. The shack was long forgotten about, more rubble than house at this point. The floorboards were uneven and rotten, the whole place giving off an overwhelming smell of mildew. But it was better than returning to the streets of the city that kicked me and my sister out. The hikes helped somewhat. It did nothing for the hole in my heart, and I knew that nothing could fill that again. But it was nice, I guess. I decided I needed something else to distract myself.

On the second walk, I took my fathers camera. I had stolen it from him when I was 16 or so, fascinated by the pictures he took and thrilled to begin taking my own. He never had time to notice, because that was shortly before he and Mother kicked my sister out. I left to look for her the day after, and found her waiting for me like we’d planned. I had known this would be coming for quite some time. We ran away, turning away from our childhood home and never looking back. Now, the camera had been collecting dust for the past 7 years; it was left forgotten as my sister and I struggled living by ourselves. Living alone now, I figured I’d try it again.

My new hobby was rough at first. I wasn’t sure how to work the camera, for starters. Then, once I had played around with it, I wasn’t sure what to capture. It was getting colder by the day, and the leaves had mostly fallen. The landscape was a gross, muddy brown, I couldn’t see anything remotely worth photographing. I took a few pictures for the heck of it, frowning when they all came out dark and blurry. I expected them to be fuzzy; I couldn’t get my arm to stay steady. But for the life of me, I couldn’t seem to find why my pictures were dark. Everything was desaturated, making the landscape even more bland in the picture than in front of me. The contrast was just as bad, the areas that were supposed to be light were almost as gray as the shadows, making the whole picture bleary. I returned to my stolen shack, struck by a sudden anxiety to prevent the day from being a waste. The night had begun to poke at the sky, infecting it with its black touch and cold air.

I shuddered at the coming dark and began lighting candles. With each lit flame, shadows around the room began to sway and flicker. I sat close to the largest flame, as I often found that the darker corners made my head hurt. Today I decided to make a change in my life, I reminded myself. I said I would pick up a new hobby. The day’s not over yet.

Thumbing through the fancy knobs and switches on my father’s good camera, I soon found the dials to edit my photo. I turned the contrast filter the wrong way at first, plunging the image into pure black. My hands shook so hard I almost dropped the camera, and it made a small thunk as I placed it onto my uneven table. I failed to understand what had come over me, why fretful claws of worry seemed to have grasped me so suddenly. Forcing my hands back under control, I quickly turned the contrast dial in the opposite direction. The pictures increased contrast glared black and white, and my eyes protested as I blinked repeatedly. I lowered the contrast once again, slowly this time, as my eyes adjusted. The candles seemed unaware of my distressed mood; the one in front of me kept dancing and sending shadows around the room. The picture I was testing - a few sad, gray trees - seemed to sway as well with the candles shadows. I worked with the settings to reduce the blurriness; the candle kept flickering; the picture kept moving. Well, until I shattered it, that is.

I shattered a perfectly good camera. And chose to live on the streets of the city that kicked my sister out, because I could never go back to that shack. No one would believe my reasoning, and it’s not like anyone asked anyway. City passerby gave me sympathetic looks at most, but grumbles and scorn were more common. And so I didn’t have anyone asking my story, at which I would have to refuse anyways because they would insist I had gone mad with grief.

If one, perhaps at a point as low as I had, would find refuge in that shack, they would find all the belongings I left behind when I fled. They would find a fairly nice camera shattered on the splintered wood floor. But, being broken, the camera would not be able to tell them that in its owner's last picture it had shown a girl, a sister, in the tree that was photographed. Perched high in the branches with twisted limbs and a demented smile. And even if the camera could still function, it would not tell of the voice that I heard. Staring into my dead sister's eyes in the picture that I had brightened and clarified, she hissed in my face. Her breath stirred my hair ever so slightly. Sister, she said. Just one word. Sister, sister, sister. And somehow I knew in my heart that she needed help. Just as she had done so many times in her life, my sister came to me for help. But this was not something I could do. I flung the camera against my wall, something I should have done the moment she appeared. I ran, but I couldn’t outrun her. Ice-cold fingers groped at my forearms and I feel them to this day. I hear her to this day. Begging for help. All I wanted was my sister back… now I want nothing more than to have her leave. I am the only one who can tell this story, and I hope that it dies with me. It seems so long ago that I was standing on rock bottom… I have long since fallen and now there is no end to the abyss in my head.

Boreas’s Early Visit

By Marlayna Carl

Our Beautiful Home

by Joonho Lee Living in the Northeast, I was always grateful for my cozy family home. It was a beautiful Victorian-style place, with beautiful Roman decor. Our arched hallways were lined with avante-garde pottery, and our living room was adorned with marble statues of Greek gods and goddesses. Each was carved and crafted in detail, with an almost life-like stature. The wooden arches were carved with floral patterns, and in every window, draped golden-braided curtains. Of all the features that made our home so exceptional, however, was that it always stayed warm. Although sometimes the heat made summers difficult, it always kept us comforted through the harsh, unforgiving snowstorms. We had a marble fireplace, but it only functioned as yet another piece of decor, as we seldom kept it on, for our house maintained a good temperature despite it. Guests would always mention how our house stayed so toasty, frequently asking if we had any architectural secrets. It was always a mystery, even to me, and I never really bothered to question it. There was most likely some scientific reason that I never investigated. Whether it was just the structure of our house, the bones of our building, the thickness of the walls, or how the air flowed through the corridors, all that mattered to me was that it kept our family warm.

Even though my parents would strictly prohibit leaving this house, I never got bored of this place. Sometimes I would just walk around, tracing my fingers on the mahogany banisters on our main staircase. Even the railings had small symbols carved in. Our house always had so much personality. My parents have always been so particular about decor. Even the vanity that I sat at, where I brushed out my golden locks every morning, had the floral carvings that matched the dresser. This building was almost sacred.

This spring, my parents planned on going to Europe to visit extended family. Although I am an only child, I never felt truly alone because my home always kept me company. So on the morning that my parents left out the door with their leather suitcases, I lay down on the embroidered lounge chair. I looked up at the ceiling with a Renaissance fresco, and whispered to the painted blue clouds and cherubs, “I guess it’s just you and me for now.”

That night I went to bed, and I tucked myself into my soft plush sheets. I blew out the candle on my bedside table, and looked up at the silver shapes cast by the moonlight peaking through my French windows. The braided curtains reflected intricate silhouettes onto the walls. I’ve always found it funny how I had to pretend to be asleep to fall asleep.

Something kept me up that night though. So, I re-lit the candle and took it down the stairs to the living room. The flickering, unstable candlelight flashed orange and yellow onto the Greek statues, creating the illusion that the figures were dancing. I walked to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of milk, and downed it immediately. I started to feel drowsy, so I took a seat on the lounge chair.

The next morning I woke up feeling sore. I slept sitting up the entire night, which made my lower back and neck ache. I stretched, got up, and made myself breakfast. I spent the noon reading books, and in the evening, I brought out my sketchbook and studied the decor in the living room. I always wondered where my parents got those Greek statues. I stared closely as I outlined the figure on a blank sheet. I studied the curves and lines that made up the details of the face.

Something strange happened.

When I looked at the face, I swore I saw the eyes dart to look straight at me. In fact, I swear I saw the eyes darting around the entire living room. I blinked, blinked again, and rubbed my eyes. I figured I was only hallucinating. It was getting late, and I needed some sleep. I shut my sketchbook and went to the bathroom to take a bath.

I stared at the bathroom wall, the mint green tiles lined with scarlet red. I stepped out after a while and dried myself with a towel. I changed into my nightgown and tucked myself into bed. I drowned myself in my soft plush sheets. I closed my eyes, feeling safe and intact. Until the eyes flashed in the dark of my mind. I was still disturbed. I swear, I swear that I wasn’t hallucinating. I couldn’t bring myself to close my eyes, because every time I did, from the dark void, the pair of raw eyeballs stared right at me. That piercing look. I kept my eyes open, looking at the ceiling until my eyes started to tear up from the burn.

I took a deep breath and lit my candle. My shadow danced behind in the orange-yellow candlelight as I descended the stairs. The floor felt warm beneath me. I passed the living room into the kitchen. Poured myself a glass of milk, and downed it immediately. As I set down the empty glass, I knocked over the candle and the hot wax burnt my foot, putting out the flame. I flinched, but didn’t make a sound. The room was dark now. Feeling defeated, I sat down once again on the lounge chair, facing the Greek statues. Something felt deeply twisted and unsettling.

The eyes. No, they definitely looked at me this time.

The once warm comforting home now felt cold. No, I felt cold. The house was still hot and humid. Blood drained from my face, and I felt my palms soak. My mouth went completely dry. The eyes. They were real.

The whites of the eyes were the only visible thing in the pitch black, and in a crazed look, they were darting around the room. I felt stiff. Almost as solid as the Greek statues themselves. I couldn’t even make a sound. I slowly felt my way around the room with a quivering hand and picked up the spilled candle. I re-lit it, and even in the light, the bloodshot eyes still dared to stare at me.

I lost it.

I grabbed the decorative axe off a wall and lunged toward the Greek statues. I struck each one, shattering their marble shells. Underneath, revealed velvet flesh.

Scarlet splattered my face. Shrieks followed. The crimson slowly seeped out onto the dark varnished floor, creating a puddle almost black.

The eyes still looked back at me—that crazed look. The warmth of the liquid covered my hands. I started to scream. I shrieked. I began striking everything in my sight.

When I tore through the wall, more blood splattered. By now, the once, pale nightgown was heavy, weighing me down, soaked in red. The smell of iron stung my nose. It made me feel sick to the stomach. The more I tore through, the more game, and meat fell out. There were chunks of tissue and guts. Whole bodies and bones began to fall out, making a thud and splat as they hit the floor. Bugs, beetles, bees, and roaches crawled.

There was an abomination of animals, big and small. All mangled in a salad, beyond the point of recognition. All that was left was flesh, fur, and feathers.

So there I sat, defeated, in the puddle of warm liquid. This is all that kept me warm.

The Bricks

by Yvette Morris There was a dreary overcast above the town on that day. The day that Francis Prescott purchased the old Alborn Mansion. The house had laid deserted for nearly three decades until it was sold to him, and years of harsh weather had left it dilapidated. But Francis had a vision, and it seemed that the Alborn house was the perfect place to make it happen.

In the old days, the mansion was the most sought after property in all of England.

Walter Alborn was a rich and bitter man who had the mansion built for him and his wife, Emily. He gave her anything she could ever want: Wealth, luxurious clothing, grand feasts…

But she was never allowed to leave the house.

Then one day, when he came home from a business trip, he found his wife in bed with another man. Alborn was beyond livid, and it is said that he and Emily fought loud enough to wake the whole town.

No one ever saw or heard from Emily again, and Walter Alborn died in the mansion a few years later.

Francis and his wife Clara stood outside the rusted gate, each with an arm full of renovating tools. “Are you certain this was a good idea?” Clara hesitantly asked.

“Don’t fret, love. In a few weeks time, this place will be more extravagant than any riches in the Queen’s court.”

Francis entered the house and tossed his tools aside, looking in awe as he strolled down the halls. Clara gently pushed the tools against the wall and began examining the house. The inside was dark and sullen, lit only by sunlight drifting in through the broken windows. A thin layer of dust enveloped every inch of the interior. The floorboards were cracked, and they creaked with each step she took towards the stairs. Heading up towards the bedroom, she passed dozens of yellowed paintings with broken frames. But one of them caught her attention, and she wiped away the dust to reveal the portrait of a beautiful young woman. For a minute, Clara stood dumbfounded as to its near perfect condition.

“Ah,” Francis spoke as he approached behind her, “Miss Emily Alborn. She was a beauty. You know… they never did find out what happened to her.”

“An awful shame,” Clara said softly.

The Prescotts arrived at the bedroom, and opened the door to an almost barren room, save for a bed. Everything of value had likely been ransacked after Alborn’s death, Clara thought. She sat on the bed, observing the tattered red wallpaper. Her eyes traced every delicate pattern, until they stopped at a peculiar looking area. The wallpaper was torn, revealing the bricks underneath. But something about them seemed off, like some of the bricks were different. However she couldn’t quite put her finger on what was wrong, so she brushed it off.

Later in the evening, after Francis left to buy materials, Clara laid down on one of the old divans to read. That was when she began to hear something: a faint scratching noise. At first, she thought it was the wind brushing against the house. But after listening closer, she realized that it was coming from inside the house. Clara quickly got up to investigate. As she followed the strange noise, down the halls and up the stairs, she realized that she ended up outside the bedroom door. Confused, and a little frightened, Clara quietly entered the room and stepped closer towards the sound.

When she reached the source, she instantly dropped her book to the floor. Her stomach sunk as she stumbled backwards.

The scratching was coming from inside the brick wall.

“It…it must be rats. This house is so old, it must be infested with them.” Her voice shook. “I’ll have Francis tend to them tomorrow.” And so she drifted slowly back to the parlor.

A thunderstorm was brewing over the house as the rain drummed against the roof.

That night Clara found herself in bed staring at the bricks, while her husband snored softly beside her. “How can he sleep with this horrendous scratching?” she whispered. Clara turned and shook Francis awake.

“Francis,” she hissed, “there’s something in the wall!”

Francis rolled over. “It’s likely just rats dear,” he mumbled.

“Francis!" she shouted.

“Clara, drop it!” A strike of lightning crashed against the house. For a moment, the two were silent.

“Please…love.” Francis said, sitting up to kiss her neck, “Come back to sleep.”

Clara didn’t move, instead she sat staring at the bricks in the wall. Then, without warning, she hastily got out of bed and hurried down the stairs.

“Clara!”

She grabbed a sledgehammer from the floor and dragged it up the stairs, returning to the bedroom in an enraged sweat. “I’ll show you!” She cried, slamming the sledgehammer against the brick wall. Francis jumped up and ran over, struggling to pull her away from the wall.

“Clara, that’s enough!” he screamed. But she continued to swing. With each crack of thunder, she drove the steel into the bricks, causing the house to shake. And after a final roaring blow, a section of the wall crumbled. Both of them coughed as they waved away the cloud of dust. What remained of the brick wall was a narrow dark room, filled with an overwhelming putrid smell that made them both gag. The two peeked into the room, and suddenly fell backwards, mortified. Chained up in the corner of the room sat what was left of Emily Alborn. Her flesh had rotten off. Her clothes were tarnished. Her jaw looked broken in several places.

And beside the body, Clara noticed, engraved in the bricks…

Were a set of scratch marks.

By Ayaan Nowaz Prepare for drop. Fix O2 and masks. Seal suit openings. T - 10. 9. 8…

It's time. I’ve been preparing for this expedition for months but now that I’m here it’s a little terrifying.

The foundation has been tracking the strange readings off the Straits of Gibraltar we had picked up 2 years ago, and now we can finally see what it is we see. From the 3-D mapping, it looks like ancient ruins.

But, we have no way of knowing till we go down ourselves.

7. 6.

There’s four others with me: Prochnost, Singh, Jaeger, and Tack. Prochnost was in the Russian special forces. He had been trained in their aquatic unit, so he is a master of underwater combat and movement. He had the spear, just in case. Singh was a genius marine biologist, and was a researcher at the Foundation before joining this expedition. He was to observe and record any new life we may find.

Jaeger, a three time gold Olympian. Swam for a living. She moves like a dart in the water. She’s bringing back samples. Tack is a confusing person. A jack of all trades the Foundation soon found out. She joined soon after the Foundation’s first reading of the ruins. She always disappeared after work; no one actually knew who she was.

5. 4.

Me? I’m a bathymetrist. Underwater topography. I minored in architecture as well. I have to map out the place. For now, just a vague silhouette. But later on I’ll have to cover every little inch.

3. 2. 1. Submerge The weights locked to our feet bring us to the ocean floor at a steady rate. The frigid ocean shocked us for a moment but our suits soon found homeostasis. Fall too fast, you rupture an eardrum. Rise too fast and nitrogen bubbles go to your brain. Neither would be great.

“Comms check.” I called out.

“Check” “Check” “Check” “Present” Tack always had to be different.

Our weights unlatched and we approached the cliffside we were to descend; I began to understand why people would have thalassophobia. Our headlights only showed 20 feet in front of us. Narrowly too.

Everything around us was black apart from the beam in front. Our helmets further hindered our peripheral vision, making the experience more claustrophobic.

“This is so much worse than the simulations,” said Singh.

“You’ll get used to it,” I answered.

We set our hooks on the sturdiest part of the surface and attached our separate ropes to our suits. We jumped step by precarious step down the cliff. A misstep would send you careening into the cliff, crushing our mask and killing us instantly.

We reached the bottom and unclipped, then began to move closer to our destination step by step, the pressure constricting our speed. Suddenly, stone appeared in front of us. Arches.

“We found our Atlantis,” I said “Attention.” Prochnost stated in his thick accent.

We stayed in close formation, Prochnost in the back with the spear, and stepped through the first set of arches to enter the ruins.

First to enter, last to leave. You will explore just to grieve. Explore these ruins and submit to song.

Accursed you are, won’t suffer for long.

The voice reverberated around us and took us aback. Who else could be here?

“What was that?” Prochnost exclaimed.

It seemed like he was the only one with strength to talk. Everyone was entranced, same with me.

It's like my body turned into a putty. The only thing that kept me up was the heavy suit. The reaction seemed to be synonymous with everyone else. No cries for help, no steps to leave.

Seconds seemed like minutes, and minutes like hours. The singing continued around us and trapped us in place.

Eyes. I saw eyes in the dark. My headlight flickers as I shift my eyes towards them. They were beautiful. Like small whirlpools on a white canvas. I’m melting into myself.

“Look away!” Singh exclaimed. “Just think of dry land, it’ll get the voice away, don’t give in!”

I willed my mind to think of my house, my lab, my brothers. Slowly, the voice faded away. I looked around and everyone had returned to normal. Except for Jaeger. Jaeger stirred but did not move.

“Hey. You okay?” I asked.

Jaeger did not answer. He stared forward into the nothingness. We all called out for him but he could not hear us.

He stepped. Forward into the nothingness. We all tracked him with our lights. He approached an altar of some sort.

“What are you doing? Get back here Jaeger.” Singh asked.

Jaeger kept walking but we stayed. He reached the altar and looked into the eyes of the sculpture.

A woman’s face with the whirlpool eyes. He gazed longingly into them.

“Snap out of it Jaeger, we need to continue with the expedition.” I said.

He still stared.

“Atlantis vitam meam do.” Jaeger chanted.

With that, he bashed his helmet against the statue. Repeatedly. We yelled out to no avail. He would not stop. We moved towards him as fast as we could, but on the way his helmet cracked.

The pressure went to his head and he died instantaneously. The suit crumpled and exhaled his emulsified remains through the shattered glass.

We all staggered. Singh started dry heaving. We all wanted to leave but there was no communication with the surface until we got higher up. The cable would only drop at 7 hours into the expedition.

“What we do now?” asked Prochnost.

“Move on,” I said. “It's grim but there is nothing we can do about it. No use in crying when our lives are at risk now.”

We pushed forward with as much rigor as we could and I grabbed Jaeger’s extraction knife and backpack on the way. Singh recorded our experience with the Siren to share with the Foundation.

The passageway was closed off and the bioluminescent fish were not here, making it even darker. I lit a flare to see a little more. We reached a circular room with shallow niches. Within them were more statues of sirens. There was an odd feeling of someone watching us. I could not quite place why.

Singh and I stayed back while Prochnost and Tack inspected the niches. Singh found some special seaweed and I was observing the room. The intricacies of the walls were strangely intact, as if they were maintained. Any other time it would have been eroded by now. The textures were odd and winding, almost as if they were shifting in front of my eyes.

“Help!” Singh exclaimed.

His leg was wrapped in the seaweed and he could not move. The metal suit was bending from the immense strength of the plant. I unsheathed the knife and tried to cut him out. The seaweed was impressively durable. Its slimy exterior coated the knife and corroded it. Singh’s leg began to corrode. If I didn’t get it off, he would suffer the same fate as Jaeger. Singh looked down at his leg and started to slump in fear, making the seaweed sink deeper. Prochnost came back with the spear to assist. I pulled back the knife and he sliced with immense accuracy, separating the seaweed from its stem. It immediately shriveled and came off Singh’s leg. I bagged the dried sample and put it in the storage compartment of my suit.

“Stay away from the life around here Singh, none of it is friendly.” I said.

“I think you’re right,” he replied feebly.

Tack was now inside the niche and Prochnost went to do the same in a different one. Suddenly, our headlights went out. Black. I pulled out some flares and threw them in an arc to see. I see trails in the water around us. They only barely lit the water. Prochnost takes the spear out and goes to step out of the niche but it closes him in, snapping the spear in half. The same happens to Tack.

I’m suddenly knocked to the ground by something. I slowly get up and I see the red flames of the flares floating. I reach to hold them and I feel slick flesh, ridged with sunken pores. My fingers seep into its eyes and it bucks away ferociously.

I look over and Prochnost is beating his way through the closed niche. A dent slowly grows as I hear him strain over the communication system.

“I am almost through. Wait. What is that? Help me. Please.” Prochnost screamed as his fist broke through the closing. His remains flowed around his fist and into the waters surrounding.

I heard Prochnost’s microphone being dragged through the waters by whatever it is that took him as our headlights lit again. The niches opened again and showed Prochnost’s empty suit. Tack’s niche opened as well but there was nothing in it.

“So I guess it’s just us now,” Singh said softly. “The rope is going to drop soon, we should go.”

“Yeah, let's.” I replied Our trek back was filled with dread, observing the scenes of our previous struggles in this accursed ruin. The images flooding back into our heads of Jaeger smashing his head into the altar.

His remains have long since disintegrated. The noises we hear going back, we cannot discern whether they are figments of our imagination or something else lurking where our flashlights do not shine. The wails, creaks, rushing water, and sung curses flooded our heads so much it's like the water became thicker with our fear.

We approached the mouth of the ruins, ready to leave the place to disappear over time. Then, Singh asked me to turn around. Tack was standing there.

“How did you get out?” I asked her.

No reply. But that was to be expected.

With no words, we began our trip to the cliff.

Reaching it, we found our separate ropes. The adjacent lonesome ones were a depressing sight.

We hooked ourselves and began climbing.

Singh called out, “Slow down, you’re going to get nitrogen narcosis!”

He did not know what he was talking about. Just because I craved the surface more than ever before and wanted to get away from everything that had just happened, does not mean that I was going too fast.

I reached the top and it was amazing. This was the final stretch. I grabbed the rope and it hoisted me up to a crowd of people. My brother, my wife. Everyone I loved. Everyone was there. It was euphoric.

A hand grabbed my ankle, a little boy. Almost looked like Singh. He begged me for help. Help? For what I wondered. My vision flickered.

“Help me please.” Singh begged.

His hand was grasping my leg with desperation. I was still underwater.

I looked back to him and Tack’s arm had grown out of her suit. It was slick and black. Blacker than the water. Its grotesque hand had nails like daggers. And they were in Singh's back. Tack ripped her arm back and his suit opened like a can. His suit crumpled with his final breath. Tack looked at me. Her helmet was off. She looked and smiled and said some of the only words I’d ever heard from her.

“Tell our story, captain.”

2 years later.

“White. All around. How did I get here? That's all I see. I need to get out. I wonder if I can just open the door. What if it doesn’t open? Well I should try. Oh. My arms are stuck. They’re probably asleep. Singh is here. He’ll help. Oh Prochnost is strong, he can definitely break us out. Jaeger is so funny. He’s gonna tell us jokes. Tack is boring and weird. I’ll stay away. I got a funny feeling about her. I think I’ll walk around for a moment. Where should I go? Don’t ask me…” the man said as he shook and blinked repeatedly.

“He has not shown any signs of recovery. The straitjacket is holding, but it will have to be replaced soon.” a voice reported.

“Good, if he stays oblivious, he won’t bother us. Team number 7 is ready to submerge, I must attend to it.” another voice calls out.

His voice reverberates through the observation room, as he peers down towards the row of padded, white, boxes. In each a confined, desperate, and confused soul.

The BMHS Phoenix

Fall 2023