Issue Three: Cold Comforts

ISSUE THREE

WINTER 2022

COLD COMFORTS HAUNTED WORDS PRESS

FEATURING MAISIE MERRICK IRINA TALL NOVIKOVA AUGUST BLAINE CENTAURI CEDA PARKINSON ISABELLA LOBO DAYLE OLSON ZACHARY ROSENBERG JEN HERRON

KASHMINI SHAH R.L. SUMMERLING DAISY BIGNELL MARISCA PICHETTE

RACHAEL LLEWELLYN AMANDA LONG

Haunted Words Press Issue Three: Cold Comforts

Published digitally December 2022

Edited by Halle Merrick

This magazine is copyright Haunted Words Press Copyright to all work is retained by the original contributor

Any resemblance to real events or persons contained in the fiction work herein is entirely coincidental. Views and opinions expressed do not necessarily reflect those of the editor.

Twitter: @haunted_press Instagram: @hauntedwordspress Website: www.hauntedwordspress.com Contact: hauntedwordspress@gmail.com

CONTENTS 3

Introduction Middle Grade Spooky Snowfall

MG | CUTE | GHOST

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MG | DOMESTICITY | MEMORIES

5

MG | PARANORMAL | FAMILY

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MG | SNOW | WOLVES

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MG | HORROR | OCCULT

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Maisie Merrick

Echoes in the Remains Isabella Lobo

Dad's Ghost August Blaine Centauri

Christmas is a Time for Wolves Zachary Rosenberg

After the Séance Dayle Olson

The Mask Shop

MG | MAGICAL REALISM | WEIRD

Ceda Parkinson

MG | GHOSTS | DOGS

Pawprints in the Snow Jen Herron

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21 23

Young Adult The Forest Man Irina Tall Novikova

Wilting Roses Daisy Bignell

Grandmother's Cottage Kashmini Shah

Siren Rachael Llewellyn

Stained with Salt, Crusted in Snow Marisca Pichette

You're Dissolving in the Blue Light R.L. Summerling

Frost in the Window Panes Amanda Long

Author and Artist Bios

YA | HORROR | PLEXUS

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YA | POETRY | BITTERSWEET

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YA | SUPERNATURAL | GHOSTS

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YA | MYSTERY | HAUNTING

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YA | NATURE | HOME

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YA | CONTEMPORARY | GRIEF

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YA | HORROR | FOLKLORE

51 65

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INTRODUCTION Well, it is the end of 2022, and Haunted Words Press is on its third issue since its founding earlier this year. We could not be more delighted that people actually love the weird little corner of the web-void that we've created, and genuinely delighted as to how and why this has happened! We have had so many incredible submissions for this issue from across the world, and are amazed and impressed by all of you with every submission call. That being said, we could only accept fourteen submissions for this issue, and we are in love with each and every piece that we accepted - and hope you will be too!

In this, our third instalment, Issue Three: Cold Comforts, we've collected flash fiction, short stories, poetry, and visual art from across the world, split into middle grade and young adult audiences. In this issue, we've got long overdue returns to magic, unexpected friendships, bittersweet tales of finding home, mysterious hauntings, Christmas fairy tales, and so much more.

We absolutely love this issue, and hope you do too. And once again, we have to give a thank you to absolutely everyone who submitted work - without you, we wouldn't be able to create any of this, so a huge thank you from all of us. We hope that Issue Three: Cold Comforts is the perfect addition to your winter activities, and that it chills you to the bone this holiday season.

- Halle Merrick, Editor in Chief

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SPOOKY SNOWFALL MAISIE MERRICK MG | CUTE | GHOST

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ECHOES IN THE REMAINS ISABELLA LOBO MG | DOMESTICITY | MEMORIES Sleep peacefully, little one.

Lay and look into the awaiting night.

See in cascading blackness the grinning, wide-eyed stares hoping in the darkness you’ll find them there.

Waiting for your breath to catch, your throat to ache with little fears.

Lay and see the faces come closer, watch them fill the windows, the picture frames, the walls.

Grinning, godless faces in the rooms, coming, marching through the halls.

Listen for the door hinge creek, the grasp upon the handle.

Hear in the hollow heartbeat of nearing footfalls, the hammer, the coffin’s nail.

Let the ache grow Until your cry echoes soundlessly within the eaves.

Within the days, the nights, the minutes and the hours.

Tiptoe among the toys, scattered, broken among the glass.

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Step carefully among the scenes, torn and shattered, Foot by foot through the echoes in the remains rotting, unheard in the walls.

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DAD'S GHOST AUGUST BLAINE CENTAURI MG | PARANORMAL | FAMILY The school calls mom when a teacher overhears me telling my friend that I’m not allowed to have sleepovers at our house because dad might hurt someone. They call mom instead of going straight to CPS because the teacher that overhears is quite aware that dad died long enough ago that I don't have any memories of his living self. Plus, when the teacher asks gentle, probing questions about what I mean, I freely admit that dad's ghost haunts our home and is pretty possessive over us. I'm not allowed in the room while they talk, but mom is the quiet kind of furious when her meeting with the teacher finally finishes. She doesn't respond to me no matter how many different ways I ask.

'What happened?'

'Am I in trouble?'

Both of us are cranky by the time we get to the house. I stomp inside, throwing my stuff on the ground, and banging all the doors I walk by. 'Hubert, feel free to talk some sense into your daughter!' mom shouts to the empty house. She doesn't even bother sending me to my room. Instead, she storms to her own room and holes herself up there. Sulkily, I grab some pretzels and throw a frozen meal into the microwave, claiming the dining room table for myself.

The microwave power increases rapidly and my food inside explodes. 'Dammit, dad. I'm not cleaning that up!' I used to think it was so cool having an apparition for a dad. Better than having no dad at all. The older I get, the less I enjoy it. There's no arguing with

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someone who has no physical presence yet can trap you in your room until you apologise, or break your favourite toy if you talk back to your mom one too many times, or make sure all your showers are either freezing cold or scalding hold if you sneak out after curfew. The microwave shakes, angrily beeping at me. 'God, fine!'

When mom deigns to grace me with her presence two hours later, I've finished cleaning the microwave and nearly finished with making spaghetti and garlic bread for dinner at dad's behest. At least mom seems calmer. She helps me set the table. 'Lilah Morgan,' she finally says to me, 'you cannot tell anyone about your dad. You used to understand this.

So why are you being so difficult about this?'

With a hot pot in my hands that could easily burn me, I swallow all my complaints and excuses about how I don't understand why dad's presence needs to be some big secret.

Mom and I accept him as he is, why couldn't other people grow to do the same? 'I'm sorry mom. I'm sorry dad.' I set the pot of spaghetti on the table. 'It's just hard not fitting in with everyone else. I'm really grateful you do let me go to my friend's houses, but no one understands why they can't come over here.'

Mom sighs. 'I know it's hard not fitting in with your peers at your age, but you know why no one can come over here. That has to be enough for you.'

'Yes mom. I'm sorry.'

She gives me an emotionless grin. 'I just can't wait for you to get over this little rebellious phase and once again be grateful you at least have your dad in some capacity.

You're lucky to have him at all. Most other kids would have to accept losing their dad forever.'

'I know,' I respond obediently. There's no use in arguing that I never really knew dad, and I'm not so sure that we are lucky to have him around. Sure, Juliette hates her

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stepdad, but Samantha loves her stepdad and her stepmom. If dad wasn't holding us back, maybe I could have a real, living family like they do.

A tissue box flies off the bookshelf and hits the table. Dad's way of approving of me and mom making up. Mom holds her hand out in the direction the box flew from and closes her teary eyes. 'Thanks, honey,' she says. She sniffles and smiles. Her hand hangs in empty air.

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CHRISTMAS IS A TIME FOR WOLVES ZACHARY ROSENBERG MG | SNOW | WOLVES The old woman told the little girl another story as the prowling wolf drew ever closer to her door.

Christmas had descended upon the castle as surely as the great deluge of snow that blanketed the land outside. As she hunched by little Nadya’s bedside, Tatianna knew there could be no escape for either of them, not now. She had come too late to the castle this year, just a small old woman whose small legs and hobbling stick hurried her through ancient mementos of bygone glories.

The small staff had deserted the castle before the snowfall, before the wolf could make itself known. There was food aplenty, none still remaining in the castle would starve.

There was firewood and with her remaining strength old Tatianna had stoked the fires in her granddaughter’s room. Old she was, her limbs having none of the great strength they’d had in her youth when hard work and labor for her family knew no distinction by gender. But Tatianna remembered how to light a flint and arrange the dry wood. She remembered well how to stoke the blaze and ensure a controlled inferno so that the warmth might stave off the bitter chill.

Little Nadya had never known those hardships. Her brown hair fell upon her pillow as Tatianna adjusted the blankets about her. Her mother’s eyes, Tatianna thought, inherited from the old woman herself. Tatianna rocked back in the chair that should have been occupied by her Toskia on this Christmas. But Toskia was gone now.

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The wolf had taken her as it had taken so many things. Tatianna could hear the prowl, could perhaps perceive some flicker of movement outside in the courtyard even through the haze of dancing snow. It was making its way up, to Nadya’s room, to finish the bloody work already begun.

Tatianna tugged her blanket about herself, withered lips pursed in a brave smile for her Nadya. She reached out with a hand and brushed gentle fingertips against Nadya’s soft skin. Her granddaughter was pale, her skin having never been burnt and browned by the sun. Ah, was it not the dream of every parent to grant their children a life better than the one they had lived? Looking about the room, Tatianna could see she and Toskia had been successful at that.

Nadya slept in a bed and a mattress full of feathers rather than a straw pallet upon the ground. She had her own room, not a single room packed full of bodies or a singular place beneath the trees. Toys festooned the room, toys and books. Though it was the little straw doll in her hands she held tightest of all, the one that Tatianna had brought her as a Christmas gift.

The remnants of their supper sat upon the plates, bones picked clean of their meat resting beside little bowls that bore only the crumbs of their fine little tarts. Two drained goblets, one having been filled with sweet juice and the other spiced wine, lay empty. Tatianna had permitted Nadya one sip of her own. Just one, the old woman had said sternly.

But all knew that old women had weaknesses only their grandchildren might exploit, places in their hearts that grandchildren might strike with quivering lips and largened eyes to draw from them little indulgences. These proud old hearts were especially weak on Christmas, when alone with their grandchildren. When no help was forthcoming, and no escape was possible.

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But doom and the wolf had to wait. As all children know, when their grand dams opened their lips to conjure forth a tale of ghosts and specters, the world itself must patiently wait until the tale’s completion before it can issue forth its intrusion and call the child back to reality.

It was Christmas, a time for spirits and ghosts, a time for one tale before the world could arrive with its flaming eyes and dark coat. Tatianna had time for one more tale and she knew the one. Nadya looked at her, so expectant and innocent. So gentle and tender, the eyes of a child who knows the danger but cannot believe it can truly find them. Nadya might accept her mother is gone, though it was clear to Tatianna that she could not accept she may be next.

No, in Nadya’s mind, there are heroes to ride to the rescue. There are princes and knights and champions to wield magic swords gifted by the folk of the woods. But this is the real world, where there are no heroes. There are only monsters, whose rapacity is at its peak on Christmas day.

'Are you cold, grandmama?' Little Nadya’s consideration knew no bounds. Unlike many such children who grew in environments of wealth and privilege, Nadya contemplated the thoughts of all around her. She was such a favorite of the servants as much as she was the bright star within the eye of her mother. One could not look into those gentle eyes of hers and feel anything but love.

Save for the wolf, who loped and stalked ever nearer with murder upon its mind.

Tatianna felt a brief stab of hope as she looked out the window, hearing the wind’s gentle rasp beckon her to tell Nadya another story. Perhaps the snows would cover the light of the moon above, perhaps then-

'Will you tell me another story? Only if you are warm enough.' Nadya’s lips curved into a gentle smile, her face bright and eager as she wound the blankets about herself.

Tatianna considered giving the little one her shawl, but Nadya would almost certainly

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refuse it.

'I am ever warm enough for stories, my little one,' Tatianna said. It would need to be a colder night than could be found in all the hells below before a grandmother would peek into the grand library inside her mind and find it barren of stories. The old woman shuffled through the archive within, pursing her wrinkled lips as she perused the ancient volumes isolated within her mind.

'The story is told, though who may say if it be true, of a little girl who lived by the great and snowy woods.' Ah, an appropriate story for Christmas indeed. Some told stories of festivities and times of plenty, but those were not stories for those who lived by woods and wolves. 'Every Christmas, the snows blanketed the woods, turning them pale as the milk that came from her family’s cows.'

'Did they have cows, grandmama?'

'They did, little one.' Tatianna reached and stroked Nadya’s hair, adjusting the blanket to ensure it was tight around her. 'Her family was now a rich one. But they worked hard, year in and out, with honest toil for their land and beasts so that every Christmas they might provide for their little ones. But they told their children to never stray far from the paths, to never wander deep into the woods and though they might befriend the many creatures of the forest, to beware of the wiliest of the great wolves who lived deep within.'

'Wolves, grandmama?' So innocent her questioning. 'Wolves and little girls. Like- '

'Shhh. Do not interrupt.' Tatianna tapped her lip, feather-soft and chiding. In Nadya’s mind, there would be unlimited time for the telling of this story. Tatianna knew that the padded falls of the wolf’s feet were each a grain of sand tumbling through the glass. Like an old woman’s stories, they might seem unlimited but would eventually run dry. But not before the story ended, no. Christmas was a time for stories and stories were meant

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to be told to completion. 'Where was I? Ah, yes.

'It happened this little girl had heard tell from others in her village of the most beautiful of wildflowers that grew just off the path. She thought to gather a bundle for her own beloved mama and papa for Christmas, to thank them for all they had done for her. Oh, the woods were covered in a covering of snow that day, but it was said these flowers bloomed in spite of the snow. So this little girl followed the path in a cloak as white as the snows all about her.'

She swallowed her grief, for Toskia had once brought her those flowers as a little girl.

Her Toskia, who had so resembled Tatianna’s husband. Her dearest Gregor, a man so quick to laugh and smile who had passed his joys and looks on to his child. There seemed to be nothing of Tatianna in her child, save for the eyes that Nadya had inherited.

Except stories. They had both loved stories, with Toskia never knowing how many she had inspired. 'But then as the little girl stepped from the path to find the flowers, where she had heard they might be found, she heard a sound. A crush of snow beneath mighty paws.'

'Was it the wolf, grandmama?' Nadya asked with widening eyes. Oh, children knew the beats and the rhythms of the stories. They knew the entry cues for the monsters as surely as they knew to check beneath their bed before slumber.

'It was the wolf,' Tatianna agreed with a grave nod. Part of being a good storyteller was knowing when to expect audience participation. 'A great and mighty wolf, who asked the little girl why she had ventured from the path. This fearless girl told the wolf she was out for flowers. To pick them for her mama and papa.' There was no need to explain why the wolf could talk. Children accepted these things in their stories.

'The wolf said he would show her the flowers. But there was a price, said the wolf.

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When the moon hung full ten years on, she would need to wear the skin of a wolf and dance in the wolf’s glen, to leave her door open on those nights. The little girl agreed.

She returned with the flowers, so fresh and bright, but ever on her back did she feel the eyes of the wolf.

'She felt him for many years hence. Ten years and the little girl became a woman. Ten years and the eyes of a good lad from the village fell upon her. And the little girl who had become a young woman fell in love with him in turn. They talked of seeing the world one day. But as the moon drew near, the lass came home one day to find the wolf skin waiting for her. Though fear filled her, she donned it in the moonlight and crept into the woods to find the wolf’s glen. It was Christmas again, you see. The time for monsters.'

'Did the wolf eat her up, grandmama?'

'No, my dear. She danced with the wolf in the glen, knowing the joy of the hunt and the wild. But morning came and with it her sanity. She removed the skin to return but the wolf would not hear of it. She would keep the skin, he said. She would return the next month, then again and again until she was ready to become a wolf in spirit as well as body. To be the bride of the wolf. Though she begged she loved another, the wolf would not relent. If she refused, he would tear the young man apart, consume him utterly and destroy him. The lass loved him too much for this and so she agreed to return.'

Tatianna paused, collecting herself. She could hear it, down the halls. The wolf was creeping nearer, bearing with it the reek of bloodlust and wilderness. Little drops of snow melted into its shaggy black mantle, its eyes flame with fury. It was drawing nearer and nearer with only the stories to keep it at bay. The wind had quieted outside, the thick clouds allowing fragments of the silvery moon to shine through.

'For a year, this continued. Each time, the girl found herself losing herself more and more. She danced in the glen, she hunted and she killed. Not humans, little one, fear

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not. Merely squirrels, rabbits, the odd deer or two. But one night, her lover saw her creep to the woods. It was Christmas again. He saw and her worried. So he followed and he saw.

'The wolf saw him, too and demanded the girl take him. The lass no longer knew where she ended and the wolf began. She would be forced to leave forever, the wolf said. Leave and join the wilderness with him. But her love was strong. Strong for him and strong for the child she yet carried inside her. With the fury of the wilds, she rushed at the wolf herself! And the power in her was greater than his own. The evil wolf was driven back and though he tried to slay her in turn, it was she who prevailed. But in doing so, she gave herself to the wilds, just as the wolf had done before her. And as her lover looked upon her, they knew they could never be together in their life. Their dreams would never come to pass, thanks to the wiles of the wolf. Christmas would be their parting.'

'That’s so sad, grandmama!' Nadya looked horrified, her eyes filling with tears. Tatianna sighed heavily, exhaling the weight of stories from between her lips. 'That cannot be the end!'

Then the door opened, cracked apart. Tatianna looked up, showing no fear for Nadya’s sake. She rose, holding her shawl about her as she faced the figure framed in the doorway. The wolf stared at her, stepping from the depths of her fear into reality.

Tatianna faced him calmly. 'Good Christmas, Nicolai,' she said.

He wore green and black, the symbol of the silver wolf upon his breast. His hair was thick and dark, his handsome face twisted in fury. His hand grasped the sword before him, his hand trembling. 'I warned you what would happen should you dare return, Tatianna.'

'I warned you what would happen should you threaten Nadya,' the old woman said. Her mouth was a line, her ancient body shifting in place to stand before the little girl. A

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wrinkled, tiny shield, but a shield nevertheless. 'What would happen should you hurt my Toskia.'

'I sent her to what she deserved,' the lord of the castle managed through gritted teeth.

'Had I known what you were back then, when I found her in the woods, I would never-' he cut himself off, teeth gnashing in frustration.

'Hello, papa.' Nadya's voice was curiously serene, bringing with it a note of pure pride from her grandmother. In this old castle, so full of monsters, wolves and ghosts, the little girl lay fearless in bed. 'Grandmama was telling me stories.' Such innocence, such fearlessness. Tatianna did not know how she might feel prouder than she did in that moment.

'I gave you time, Nadya. Now...' Nicolai held the sword out. It must have been an icicle for all his hands were shaking.

'Nadya, child. That was not the end of the story.' Tatianna did not even seem to acknowledge the presence of her son-in-law, the man who had found her Toskia in the woods one day, and whom Tatianna had never trusted. She had warned Toskia it would end poorly, but her daughter had insisted that she could control herself.

It had worked until Nadya had been born. Until now. She was facing death before her, but Tatianna's prayers had been answered. She felt the silvery moon leak out from the clouds, bleeding its light into the room. The storm had brought them time, the time to cross from safety and warmth into the cold.

'For her love took the wicked wolf and he flensed its skin from it,' Tatianna said. She was smiling now. Her eyes were liquid, feral moonlight with all the beautiful savagery and grace of the wild made manifest. 'And he wore it as well. And he danced in the wolf's glen with his love and their daughter. Human by day. Wolves by night. And their

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daughter grew with them. They traveled to see the world, hunting together by moonlight.'

The ending was contrived, but what child did not love a twist ending where the limit between man and monster became blurred into nonexistence? Nicolai did not seem to appreciate the story, suddenly seeming so much smaller to Tatianna's eyes.

But that was because she was growing. The shawl slipped from her shoulders. She did not mind, for it did not seem quite as cold now with silver fur knitting itself across her body. Once it had been as black as Nadya's hair was now. Gregor had joked in the final years of his life that she seemed even more beautiful a beast with silver fur, reflecting the moon.

Tatianna grinned with a mouth of daggers. The sword was plucked from Nicolai's hands and Tatianna saw Nadya watching them with eyes of hungry moonlight; her mother and grandmother's eyes. Children ever knew that if heroes were not there to slay monsters, another monster would have to do.

The fight, if one could call it that, did not last long. Though Nicolai turned to run, Tatianna was upon him instantly. Old and full of aches her body may have been, her teeth and claws were as sharp as ever.

He screamed only once. Because it was Christmas, she made it quick. Afterwards, she beckoned her granddaughter over, little Nadya now such a beautiful and sleek little cub with the same eyes as her grandmama.

They shared in their Christmas feast together, Tatianna already feeling the beginnings of a new story in her mind to share with her little one. When Christmas ended, they would come away from this place and Tatianna would return her to their home and their people. And come the next Christmas, they would hunt again. Grandmama would

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be there through the year to love her and tell her the stories and protect her from the monsters.

But that would come later, Tatianna thought as she fed Nadya another bite. Tonight was Christmas. And Christmas, they knew, was a time for wolves.

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AFTER THE SÉANCE DAYLE OLSON MG | HORROR | OCCULT The empty séance table was a scene of ghoulish angst.

Why call us, howled a specter, and then play impatient pranks?

A spirit cast a bluish light, an orb bobbed in mid- air.

An apparition shook its chain and wailed in despair.

It’s no small thing for us to move from one world to the next.

My ectoplasm sprang a leak, and now I’m feeling vexed.

They’re bad at waiting, moaned a ghost, then spied a cat, all black.

The spectral figure licked its lips, Oh look, they left a snack.

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THE MASK SHOP CEDA PARKINSON MG | MAGICAL REALISM | WEIRD Welcome one, welcome all.

We sell precious wares, a mask for every occasion.

A meeting with the boss? A school presentation? Dinner with the in-laws?

Or perhaps you would like something less fine-tuned. A mask to cover the grief you feel when you think of your mother. A mask to save a marriage, I'll give you two for the price of one! Perhaps a mask for your eldest child, who has always disappointed you. Masks for beauty, confidence, happiness. I'll give you 25% off!

You there, lingering by the door. Yes, please, come in, you're letting in the cold. What mask would you like? I can see you are tempted. These masks work inside and out. A mask to cover grief, fear, love, guilt, anything you wish.

Ah, my apologies! I see you are already wearing a mask. You made it yourself? How ingenious. My masks are all made to go, but one can't beat a personal project. And what is it you are hiding, if you don't mind me asking? You can trust me, I am just an old man who has seen many faces in my lifetime. Yours won't frighten me, I assure you.

You can't remember? Oh, well that's fine as well. I can see you are disturbed by this, don't be! Anything that the masks have covered is probably best kept forgotten. In fact, I have the perfect mask to help you with that. Here, put it on. That confusion should be gone in no time.

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Ah, see, you look like a new person! Now, what was the problem? It's gone? Wonderful. I take payment in cash, if you please.

It was a pleasure doing business with you again my dear, we are always open to offer any mask you can dream of. Watch the icy steps on your way out. I will see you again soon, I'm sure.

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PAWPRINTS IN THE SNOW JEN HERRON MG | GHOSTS | DOGS Thick drifts, pristine in powdery white, towered above the terrier as he shivered in the snow. Jack launched himself from the ditch and shook the frosty flakes from his black fur. His blinking eyes twinkled under the streetlight, trying to determine his whereabouts.

It was all that bloody squirrel’s fault. Jack’s harness had snapped as he darted across the road after it, but the snow was full of scent, and he couldn’t follow the squirrel’s trail. By the time Jack admitted defeat, he had found himself in a cavernous maze of snow–bound streets, becoming so flustered he fell into a ditch.

Jack’s head spun as he padded along the pavement, his eyes hunting for a familiar landmark. His home would be vulnerable to all sorts – passing dogs, cats pooing in the shrubbery and worst of all, the postman. There was also that man who looked through the windows when Dad left for work, but Jack saw him off alright. No, he wouldn’t dare come back.

Shop windows glimmered with shimmering lights, illuminating an assortment of toys, blankets, sweets and chocolates. Jack passed a bakery, the rumbling in his stomach forcing him to a halt. Raising his nose, he inhaled the warming aroma of freshly baked bread, with a deeper sniff detecting something meatier. Sausage rolls! He licked his lips as he considered the succulent goodness of fatty pork wrapped in flaky pastry.

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Jack whined. He should be at home eating treats on Christmas Eve with Mum and Dad. It was his favourite night of the year, and he wouldn’t miss it for anything. Right now, they should be curling up on the sofa watching The Grinch on TV. Mum would sneak him snacks and scratch his ears, and nothing on earth was better than belly rubs by firelight! He would sigh and stretch as she stroked him. The coals in the old stove would crackle and glow, lulling him into a comforting, contented sleep. He howled in sad remembrance.

'What’s wrong with you?' A brown mouse looked up from the corner of the windowsill, its black eyes wide and well-meaning.

Jack tilted his head and stifled a sob. 'I’m lost,' he replied, 'I don’t know how to get home. I shouldn’t have run away. Mum and Dad need me.'

The mouse scuttled across the sill and stood up on its two hind legs.

'Where do you live?'

Jack hung his head. 'I don’t remember. I just know there’s a big room with a stove, a soft sofa and a massive window with thick curtains.'

The mouse moved closer and placed its paw on Jack’s nose.

'You see that big star up there?' The mouse pointed to the night sky, where one bright star outshone its neighbours. 'If you follow that star, it will guide you home. I promise.' The mouse gave him a quick peck on the cheek and disappeared through a hole in the bakery wall.

A wave fluttered in Jack’s stomach as he considered the star. The mouse was right – it would show him the way home. His legs pulsed with energy, and he shot forward, faster

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even than when he chased that awful squirrel. His paws peppered the snow as he propelled past one street after another, his eyes firmly focused on the big star.

He knew the house by its scent, faint at first, but the sweet, musky aroma of his perfect pee was unmistakable. Jack pelted up the driveway and looked through the living room window, but the room was empty. Mum and Dad had gone to bed. Was he gone that long?

The light of the Christmas tree twinkled softly beside the stove, its dying embers threatening to go out. Beside the tree sat a mound of presents, the largest of which, an attractive box, was covered in candy–striped Christmas paper and tied with a bright, green ribbon. Jack scraped the window with his paw and whimpered. He was so cold and hungry; why wouldn’t they let him in? He scratched the window again, barking this time. But still, his family did not come.

Something strange, however, turned his attention to the large striped present beside the tree. It began to shake. A low growl rumbled in Jack’s throat, quickly followed by an alarming bark. The gift shook further, and this time, a paw popped through the paper. It clawed at its prison, and it pushed through the wrapping. Jack stiffened, his back straight, teeth bared. His unblinking eyes glared at the box, and then the beast appeared.

It was a puppy. A small, white puppy. She rolled from the box, landing with a yap at the corner of the sofa. Rising to her feet, she turned to the window, tilting her head towards Jack. Her fluffy tail wagged, and her short little legs trotted towards the window. The pup jumped onto the armchair and proceeded to lick the windowpane in front of Jack’s face.

Jack’s heart pounded. A puppy? Why was there a puppy in his house? The intruder yapped at the window, her tail wagging in excitement.

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Dad entered the room, running towards the armchair. He lifted the fluffy interloper as Jack barked with joy.

'I’m here, Dad! Let me in! I’m sorry I broke the lead!'

But Dad didn’t let him in.

'What is it, little lady? What’s wrong?' Dad ignored Jack. He sat down on the sofa and stroked the pup.

Jack groaned with impatience, but then…

'Mum!'

Mum entered the room in her super–soft, snuggly pajamas. They were Jack’s favourite. He barked and barked – but Mum too ignored him, staring only at the pup in Dad’s arms.

'What have you done, Michael? What’s this?' Her face reddened.

'She was meant to be a surprise.' Dad lifted the pup by its armpits and held her up like an offering.

Mum turned her head. Fat tears trickled down her cheeks.

'I can’t. There will never be another dog like…'

Mum cut off and sobbed into the wrist of her pajamas.

'It’s been a year, Helen. It was my fault. I should have replaced that lead… I didn’t

26

see the car. This is my way of saying sorry,' said Dad, his face sunken and sad. 'You know how Jack loved Christmas. It was his favourite time of year.'

The pup offered to Mum was pushed away, and she ran from the room. Dad followed, dropping the puppy on the sofa and slamming the door behind him. At the sound of the bang, the pup jumped and cried, hiding behind a cushion.

Jack raised his paw to the window. To his amazement, it floated through the glass like a fish through water. He nuzzled his nose towards the window, and again, it too passed through. He jumped into the living room and pattered across the carpet towards the frightened puppy. She refused to come out from behind the cushion. Jack bounced onto the sofa and nuzzled her fluffy bum with his nose.

'It’s ok, little one, don’t be scared,' said Jack.

A small, brown eye peeped out from behind the cushion and then retreated.

'Mum and Dad are lovely, you’ll see. Everything will be ok,' said Jack.

The little eye peeped out once again, this time followed by a bounding motion of fur and tongue. Before he knew it, the pup covered Jack’s face in kisses. His tired heart didn’t feel quite as tired anymore. Perhaps having a sister wouldn’t be too bad, after all.

*

When Helen awakes in the morning, her heart has thawed a little. Perhaps her husband is right. Maybe she should give it a chance. Still, the guilt she feels for allowing it seems like a disservice to Jack. She pulls open the curtains, and her chest tightens. Michael’s pup is outside in the snow.

27

Helen throws on her nightgown and rushes downstairs. A white ball of fluff is rolling around in the drifts, cajoling and yapping. She lifts the puppy, wrapping it up inside her nightgown, worried it is frozen through. But the puppy isn’t shivering. Little Meg is panting from the tomfoolery of play. Helen looks down, and she blinks in disbelief, her frown rising to a smile. There are two sets of pawprints in the snow.

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THE FOREST MAN IRINA TALL NOVIKOVA YA | HORROR | PLEXUS

29

WILTING ROSES DAISY BIGNELL YA | POETRY | BITTERSWEET You hang your head low in the light of our greenhouse, The doorway composed of disjointed thorns.

Stars illuminate your tears as they slowly turn to frost, The moonlight dew, waters the rose inked on your cheek.

Bristles across your collarbones begin to haunt your neck, My bitter fingers lift your nettle- pricked chin.

Rose petals flinch to the heat of ice, The twilight makes the cruellest of reds beautiful.

You stand with the certainty of the seasons, Amethysts glitter under the frost of your skin.

And for the last time, I bow as you leave our greenhouse.

Never to be seen again.

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GRANDMOTHER'S COTTAGE KASHMINI SHAH YA | SUPERNATURAL | GHOSTS Ghosts come alive at midnight. That’s what Laurie had always been told. Her grandmother had been a firm believer in the Otherworld, and as a curious and imaginative young girl Laurie had found her home in tales of witches that brought storms before dissolving into the night sky, of pixies that danced in the heart of scalding fires, and of the magic which lived just a touch out of reach of humanity's cynical grasp.

At the tender age of eleven, such fantasies became Laurie’s reality.

But over a decade had passed, as had her grandmother, and thus Laurie looked for comfort in other places - no longer in Winter stars and running rivers, but in empty streets and hollow encounters.

One day - one cold Winter’s day, when the sky was grey - Laurie found herself outside her grandmother's old cottage, staring despondently out into the forest she had once yearned to make her home. She told herself that she had visited to fix up the cottage before selling it, but deep down, Laurie knew that no matter how hard she tried to bury it, the inexplicable pull of the forest is what drew her back. It seemed that whilst Laurie was done with the Otherworld, the Otherworld was not yet done with her.

Laurie looked out into the distance, observing the scene before her. A lone white flake drifted down from the sky, bidding goodbye to its home amongst the clouds, before settling atop the soft curl of a rabbit's ear. The rabbit twitched its nose, before leaping

31

up and bounding to shelter amongst the forest. And it was not a moment too soon. In a second, the grey sky was flooded with white snowflakes, casting a luminous glow as they fell from above. For a moment, Laurie thought it was stardust, as if the very stars themselves were blessing the forest. But she quickly shook her head and pushed the thought out of her mind. She had left her grandmother's world of magic and ghosts behind her, and intended to keep it that way.

Laurie felt a nudge at her feet. It was the rabbit from before. And yet, it was not. For this was no ordinary rabbit. No. This rabbit, Laurie noted with wonder and shock, was translucent, and seemed to waver in and out of existence like the ebb and flow of a stream. Its eyes sparkled with mischievous delight, before it bounded away to the edge of the forest. Then it stopped, and turned back, as if beckoning Laurie to follow. As if under a curse, Laurie drifted towards the rabbit, a mesmerised glaze coating her eyes.

Guided by the magic her grandmother had so often told her about, Laurie followed the rabbit into the forest, undoing a decades worth of cynicism. The snow fell faster and faster, until it seemed to form a never-ending vortex, encircling Laurie and the rabbit in a halo of cold light. Curiously, the snow never touched her skin, and instead settled on the path before her, forming a glittering trail to follow. The pair traversed the forest for what may have been an eternity, for time seemed to stand still beneath the whispering trees.

Finally, they reached a clearing in the forest, where no snow fell, brilliant rays of sunshine lit up the centre. It was so bright that Laurie had to shield her eyes, and in the brief moment that she did so, the rabbit had blinked entirely out of existence. Laurie was alone. She was alone, and yet she felt a presence before her. A comforting presence, that felt like home - that felt like hot chocolates on Christmas day; like a knitted blanket as rain falls outside; like a hug when you need it most. As Laurie stepped closer to the golden centre of the clearing, she realised that her grandmother was right all along.

Ghosts do come alive at midnight. The Otherworld was real. And it seemed that Laurie

32

uwould have the chance to admit it to her - for before her, sat an eerie likeness of her grandmother, glowing and slightly hazy at the edges.

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SIREN RACHAEL LLEWELLYN YA | MYSTERY | HAUNTING Growing up we had three versions of our mother’s disappearance.

There were the playground rumours of course. Then we had the story Dad told us before we went to bed. The story he kept telling even after the day Cass lost it and screamed at him to stop – stop lying – stop making stuff up. He spins it still from his hospital bed. He doesn’t know Cass or me, but he knows his story: that our mother was a mermaid and when we were little, she went back to the sea.

Between the rumour and the bedtime story is the police report. Clinical facts without embellishment or comfort; on the morning of Friday 2nd May 1991, our mother left the house at 08:30 AM and disappeared.

The investigation that surrounded her disappearance was well documented; journalists stuck our family under the microscope, again with that clinical detachment that takes you away from the fact that our family was just that.

Stories that call our mother 'cold', 'detached' and 'flighty'. Articles that speculate that our gentle, even-tempered Dad had a 'dark side' and a 'jealous streak'. Posters of her face everywhere.

Growing up all we had left was her absence. It took up too much room, consumed Dad, turned our house into her crypt. It dogged our steps, loomed over us.

Cass left two weeks after her sixteenth birthday to live in a city far away, with a boy she

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worshipped. Our mother's absence couldn't stretch so far, she was sure.

I left two years later, and this is the first time we've been back.

*

We made the journey together, Cass and me. My sister juggling her MacBook and multiple phones. Sasha, Cass’s thirteen-year-old, in the back of my Picanto. Concealed by hair and headphones.

The two of them were fighting about who knows what. When Sasha seldom did speak, they would do their best to ignore their mother completely, responding to Cass’s questions with statements to me as if their mother hadn’t spoken. ‘Sash, do you want a Pepsi?’ ‘Auntie, I’d like a Pepsi if you wouldn’t mind’. It got tiresome quickly.

After driving for two hours, we finally slipped away from the motorway to the quiet country roads of our hometown.

'Do you think the biddies from the market are still alive?' Cass asked. 'God, do you remember that awful jewellery stand?'

'You spent all your pocket money on the tacky mood ring.'

'Why don’t we check out the market while we’re here. For old times’ sake? Hey, Sasha, do you want to come to the world’s worst market downtown?'

Sasha readjusted their headphones. 'Auntie, while we’re here, I’d prefer not to go to any dumb market.'

*

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You could see the years lost as our house came into view. The darkened bricks, the newspaper over one of the front windows where the glass had been smashed. The dilapidated fence. In spray paint over the front door someone had written the word ‘Killer’.

Ridiculous. Any spray paint-wielding teen wouldn’t even have been alive when the case was going on.

'What a dump,' Sasha said.

My sister and I took our suitcases from the back of the car, Sasha carried the flattened cardboard boxes after us, music blaring from their headphones with every step. Dad’s key was stiff in the lock but with a bit of shoulder-barging it opened.

'Auntie, we don’t have to stay here, do we?' Sasha asked.

'Of course we do, Sasha. Don’t be dim,' Cass responded.

'Auntie?'

'We do,' I said.

I had worried when we parked up outside that someone – some bold kid Sash’s age – would have broken in and wrecked the place. Carved up the floor for a séance, put out cigarettes on the walls. But the house, at least from the inside, hadn’t changed so much from the day I left it. Pictures on the walls of when we were kids, pictures of her, our mum, that one in particular where she’s smiling on a beach in South Wales. They used that one on the missing posters. She’s younger there than I am now.

We put down our cases and my sister went to find somewhere to charge her phones,

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muttering about the likelihood of the power not working. Sasha slumped upstairs, muttering about the likelihood of a rodent roommate.

'Do you want a tea?' Cass called.

*

Sasha bagsied our childhood bedroom. They opted to sleep in my old bed, closest to the window. You can see the sea from there. Best view in the house.

I always liked to wake up that way when I was a kid. No matter how bad the rest of the day might turn out, no matter the whispers or sneers from the kids in school, I’d always wake up and see the sea first thing. It made me feel better. A little reminder that the world was vast and wild and I wouldn’t stay in this town forever.

Cass and I shared the bed that our father slept in alone for so many years.

It was hard to get off to sleep. I watched the crack in the ceiling above my head for the longest time. And of course, even when I managed to sleep, it was without rest. My dreams were a chaotic mess, the kind that makes you toss and turn and eventually wake at 4am in a fright with a full bladder. Then that stress and panic which seemed so real moments ago is forgotten as you trudge to the bathroom.

I blamed my unfamiliar but familiar surroundings. I washed my hands and tried to encourage my body back to sleep.

It was when I left the bathroom, that was when I saw her.

A figure by the window, illuminated by the outside streetlights. I hadn’t heard a sound.

The bed creaks, the floorboards creak, but I hadn’t heard a sound. She was too bright,

37

too white and still. Long hair trailing down her back almost like, almost like...

I managed to twist my eyes from her and back to the empty bed. Rationality over panic. I reached out and took Cass gently by the arm. Her eyes were open and oddly focused.

She wasn't sleepwalking. Had she ever? No, no, I'm quite sure that she...

'Cass,' I said.

She looked away from the street outside and back at me. 'What?'

'What are you doing?'

'I heard singing,' she said.

'What do you mean?'

'I heard someone singing.'

'Go back to bed.'

'Can’t you hear it?' she asked.

'Go back to bed.'

I listened out as Cass climbed back under the covers. There was nothing. The creak of the house. The rush of the wind through the broken downstairs window. Music? Maybe Sasha’s headphones? But I couldn’t hear any of it. With my sister once again snoring peacefully, I walked along the corridor to poke my head around Sasha’s door.

Still, I couldn't hear any music. No drum and bass pumping from the headphone

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speakers. She must have been imagining it. I opened the bedroom door and saw Sasha sat upright on my old bed with their back to me. The curtains were pulled back and the window opened wide. There was a half-moon that lit up the room in an eerier silvery glow.

'Sasha,' I said.

They didn’t respond. They didn’t flinch or even register that they’d heard me.

'Sasha.' I reached out and touched their shoulder. From there I could see that their eyes were open wide. There was an odd dreamlike smile on their face. 'Sasha, it’s cold,' I said.

'Let’s close the window.'

'Can you hear it?' they asked. 'The singing. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?'

God. What a family.

*

Neither of them remembered a thing. The three of us had breakfast and neither of them remembered getting up in the night. I wanted to just forget about it, but the creepy blissed-out expression on Sasha’s face had unnerved me.

We made quick work of the house. Dad became a hoarder in his old age. As Cass and I cleared the living room, I gave Sasha a stack of post-it notes and told them to whack it on anything they wanted to keep. A task they did not take to with enthusiasm. I came downstairs two hours later to get a glass of water and found the post-its on Cass’s handbag.

Dad's room was the hardest. The wardrobe was monopolised with her things. Her

39

dresses, her coats, her shoes. The dressing table was still stocked with her make-up and creams. Cass took out a faded eye shadow pallet and ran her finger along the dusty blue remnants inside.

He really believed that one day she’d just step back inside this house like no time had passed. My sister snorted in disgust and emptied all of it into a black bag.

'Can I go to the beach?' Sasha asked.

'No, you can’t go by yourself,' Cass said.

'Auntie, can I go to the beach?'

'You heard what your mum said, Sasha. I’m not a parrot.'

They groaned and pointed to the wide window of our old bedroom. 'If I went, you could see me from the window. I’m so bored.'

Cass grunted in frustration as she wrestled an over-stuffed drawer full of our mother’s socks. 'Oh for Gods’ sake, why did he keep all of these? You know what, I’d really rather you didn’t, Sash, but since you’re not going to be helpful then fine. Off you go. Bye.'

I glanced over at Sasha’s expectant stare and bent down to help Cass empty out the crammed drawers. 'I’m not repeating that.'

*

When Dad moved into Meadowside, I made him an album of old photos. The carers recommended it, they said it would help with his memory. The last time I visited he took out the album and pointed at a photography of my sister. One of her with Sasha on

40

holiday in Spain from years ago.

'This is my wife and my oldest daughter,' he said. 'We were in Tenby. Beautiful part of the world.' I tried to explain to him that it wasn’t her. It was Cass. And that wasn’t me, it was Sash. But he just shook his head.

'No, that’s her. That’s my Giselle.'

There is a photo of her on his bedside table. His nurse tells me that he kisses the frame before he goes to sleep. It’s such a small, sentimental thing. I wish the arseholes who wrote ‘Killer’ on our front door knew that.

I scrubbed the front door until my hands went black and as I washed them, I wondered how often Dad had to do this. Scrub and scrub and then wash the paint from his fingers, scrape it out from beneath his nails.

Upstairs, I slipped back into our old bedroom, listening to the clatter of Cass dismantling our mother’s dressing table. I could see Sasha on the beach. The sand dunes parted at my window giving this room its perfect sea-view that helped me brave the day back then. I lent forwards and saw that Sasha was waving. I went to wave back when a chill ran down my spine.

Sasha had their back to me, they were waving at someone in front of them.

A dark figure in the shallows.

Panic over rationality. Shouting for Cass. Cass rushing to me, shouting and pointing out of the window. The two of us sprinting downstairs, out the back door and out amongst the sand dunes. Trainers slipping on the sand. Feet sinking. Cass rushing past me. The roar of the wind and the sea. Cass shouting over it.

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Sasha, alone, staring vacantly at us.

Cass shaking her child by the shoulders and shouting. Passers-by looking in our direction. Catching my breath. Looking up and seeing a woman in the distance, long black hair billowing in the wind.

'It's fine,' Sasha said. 'She said that she knows you.'

*

Drum and bass blaring from behind our closed bedroom door. They weren't talking to either of us now. When we returned from the beach, Sasha ran past us to lock themselves away, slamming the door in true teenage fashion.

'What are you two fighting about again?' I asked.

'It could be anything,' Cass said. 'I think they just enjoy the drama.'

*

When I went to sleep at night, I dreamed of the woman on the beach. Her hair blew in front of her face and for a second, I saw my sister’s blue eyes staring back at me. A trick of the light. The hair blew aside and she smiled and became my mother, smiling at me from a missing persons poster. Then the wind rose and blew her hair back from her face and she became someone else. Someone who wasn’t anyone at all.

I woke up and reached for my sister and found her side of the bed cold. I sat up and searched the bathroom and downstairs. I shone my phone out into the garden. I crept back upstairs and poked my head around Sasha’s door.

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They were sat by the window.

'Sasha, what are you doing?' I asked. 'It’s cold. Come on, you’re going to get ill.'

They caught my wrist as I reached past them to close the window. 'I’m not cold.'

'Well, I am. This house is freezing.' I pulled the window closed and glanced down at them. Again, Sasha had that creepy blissed out smile on their face. 'Sash, do you know where your mum is?'

'She went for a walk.'

It was a cloudy, moonless night. Squinting out towards the sea, I couldn’t make out much beside the rise and fall of the tide.

*

I stayed up all night, watching the crack in the ceiling and waiting for Cass to come back. The sun started to claw its way through the curtains and I got up. Sasha must have reopened their window in the night as I was pelted with cold air the second I opened the bedroom door. I peered through the thin crack in the door and to my relief, Sasha was still there.

My sister’s coat was missing from the rack by the front door. A dark space between my yellow anorak and Sasha’s denim jacket. I ran my fingers between the space Cass had left, trying to imagine what had possessed her to wander off like that.

Through sleeplessly sore eyes, I sat at the kitchen table and watched the sun rise in the garden.

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A new day began and Cass didn’t return.

I sat and waited and tried not to think about a time where I would creep downstairs to get a glass of water and find my father sat where I was. Staying up all night just to see the sun rise. Staying up all night just in case she came back.

*

The house was empty. A lifetime told in objects, packaged up and stored in twenty neat boxes. The good to go to charity. The bad to be driven out to the dump.

But Cass was still gone.

'Have you tried calling her?'

'You know I can’t.'

'Sasha,' I said slowly. 'We don’t know where your mum is. I don’t care about whatever petty argument you two are having. Just fucking call her, okay?'

I was ill-prepared for teenage disobedience. For my fear to be met with a sneer, a dismissive roll of the eyes. So I took my coat and headed to the beach to look for my sister.

'Stay here, okay?'

Outside the air was even colder. The wind whipped my hair up and around my face as I made my way along the foot path from the garden and towards the sand dunes. Blinking against the stray grains of sand that rushed up against my face, I stepped out of the shelter of the dunes and onto the beach.

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The sea was wild, the waves crashing against the shore made my ears ache. Too loud to call for my sister. I stared out along the coastline, searching for any sign that Cass had come this way. Her phones had been left on the kitchen table. They’d angrily buzzed all morning. She wouldn’t have left without them. This wasn’t right. None of this was right.

I shouted her name and felt it disappear against the roar of the sea.

'CASS!'

Feet slippery on the wet sand, I walked the beach, peering behind rocks and dunes. We were too far from the town centre on foot. She could only have come this way. I just needed to find her.

'CASS!'

Again, her name was devoured by the wind and waves.

Squinting, I could see the rocks and caves of the coast ahead. A hundred summer days flashed through my mind, of playing pirates and sailors. I broke into a run, the cold clinging to my cheeks as I got closer and closer to the cave.

Until I started to make out a figure at its entrance.

A woman. With long black hair that blew around her like a cloak.

'HEY!' I shouted. 'HEY! CASS!'

It was her. I was so sure it was her. Her dark green raincoat. Her long dark hair.

But then the beach got darker and the woman at the mouth of the cave was not my

45

sister. She wasn't.

I froze and the woman took a step towards me. She reached a cold, pale hand for me and I turned and ran. Panting and feet stumbling on the sand I ran for the sand dunes and the foot path back to the old house.

The woman was behind me. One hand extended.

I could feel the wind against my face but I couldn’t hear it. I could see the sea raging but the sound of the waves crashing against the shore was gone.

The woman opened her mouth and began to sing. Her song ate every other sound whole.

*

'What’s wrong with you?' Sasha asked as I crashed through the kitchen door, rain drenched, panicked tears running down my cheeks.

Wiping a hand across my face, I peered out of the kitchen window.

She was still there. Stood at our garden gate. The wind blowing her hair about her face.

There were times where she looked like my sister and times where that couldn’t be further from the truth. I watched and waited for her to follow me inside but she didn’t.

She stayed, watching from the garden gate.

I closed the blinds.

'Auntie?' Sasha said. 'What’s going on? Did you find Mum?'

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'No. No, I looked on the beach.'

'Okay,' they said, returning to their seat on the living room sofa.

Staring through the gap in the blinds, I could see her, watching and still at the garden gate. She didn’t look like Cass. Though I’m sure Dad might have mistaken them for the same woman. Had she ever come as far as the gate before?

*

We would have left today but Cass isn’t back. We heated up a frozen pizza and ate it in front of the television. Sasha picked the show. A grisly crime drama with fast-talking detectives and a sinister, dead-eyed killer. I hate shows like that, I always have. It’s shit like this that has people forgetting that there are families involved when something terrible happens.

'What’s wrong?' Sasha asked and I realised that I had been holding my breath, my hands balled into fists.

'I have a headache.'

Sasha retired after their show finished. They called goodnight, eyes on their phone as they trailed upstairs. I followed not long after. My head was throbbing from lack of sleep.

There was nothing outside. My mind playing tricks. My sister would come home. She must have gotten lost. Or maybe she ran into old friends from school. Maybe she went into town and got chatting. Maybe she just needed a break.

Tomorrow Cass would return and we would leave.

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*

I woke up at three AM. The wind came in through Sasha’s open window and raged through the empty house. I got out of bed and went to my old room knowing that Sash wouldn’t be there.

Leaving my yellow anorak on the rack and my shoes by the back door, I stepped out into the garden and out onto the foot path.

As I followed the path through the sand dunes, the storm grew quiet. I could see three figures waiting for me before a calm moonlit sea. Cass called out to me and Sasha raised their hand to wave.

You know, when we were little, Dad told us the same bedtime story every night. That our mother was a mermaid and one day she went home to the sea. But he was wrong.

She was no mermaid. And this woman is not our mother.

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STAINED WITH SALT, CRUSTED IN SNOW MARISCA PICHETTE YA | NATURE | HOME every morning I make eye contact with the deer on the hill.

in January we were both invisible, shadows sharing noises in the latest hours of night.

in February I began to glimpse him, white tail bounding like snow made alive.

now March holds us together looking and maybe not understanding but accustomed, each eye brown each stance watchful

reminding us in the first hours of day that our world exists on a boundary neither one of us can cross.

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YOU'RE DISSOLVING IN THE BLUE LIGHT R.L. SUMMERLING YA | CONTEMPORARY | GRIEF Amidst the twinkling Christmas lights strung up around the main square, you began to fade. My breath curled into the darkening sky. I was still hungover. The scent of fried food from the market stalls lingered; it clung to your navy coat, wool pilling under the arms and on the cuffs, worn from where you were always tugging them down to hide the scars.

We huddled together, I shoveled plastic spoonfuls of rich, gooey Tartiflette into my mouth; it lined my stomach, but couldn’t touch my sadness. The twilight of that late winter afternoon filled me with a kind of melancholy that was insatiable.

You kissed my cheek, stubble ghosting my skin. Hot cider burnt the roof of my mouth.

We walked along the ice skating rink, past statues of dead kings, silhouetted in the darkness. I ran up to one, tracing the smooth bronze outline of a horse's hoof with my finger. I looked back to you, but you were gone. I never got used to thinking of you in the past tense, I always thought there would be more time.

The years passed so strangely. I clung to every fragment of you. You were a postcard from a past version of us. I found your ghost in every place we visited, in alleyways and bars, in concert halls and parks at dusk. I kept coming back here, but you ribboned through my fingers like cigarette smoke. My memory of you was disintegrating like tape; music that had warped into endless static.

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FROST IN THE WINDOW PANES AMANDA LONG YA | HORROR | FOLKLORE There was an eeriness to this house she couldn’t quite describe.

Far out in the middle of nowhere, the nearest town about a twenty-minute drive from here, and Ella wasn’t sure what the hell to do with herself.

Her parents had dragged her to this house, one they had purchased to renovate together, and in hopes, make some good money off it. After spending years listening to her parents and their designs and ideas, she could see the potential. But what they hadn’t realized was that she had listened to the locals in the coffee shop in that small town nearby as she bought drinks for them when they whispered about her, about the mansion, about the church. Ella tucked short dark hair behind her ear, pretending to stare straight ahead, but she kept her attention on their voices. She heard the urban legends, the ghost stories that seemed to haunt their well-known Ashwood Manor.

It was rundown, it was old. There were bricks and stone in the walls that were cracked and crumbling. She knew it would be a huge project, and she would be summoned here on weekends and breaks while the work was being done. As it was, she was trapped in this house by herself after her parents went to a party with clients, to schmooze them up a bit.

A two-story mansion, it was made for a large family. Not huge like in the movies, but

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definitely grand. There was a long dining room, a parlor room, a small entertaining hall.

The second story contained the bedrooms, the small spaces for toiletries. Her parents guessed it had been built in the late eighteen century, passed down to families that were connected to the originals. Other than that, they didn’t know much about the house, except that the owner—an elderly man whose wife died a handful of years ago—had been trying to sell it for years, but no one nearby wanted it. They were too scared of the legends.

Ella was sitting on a warm, dusty, couch in front of a fireplace with her feet up on a small table. The house had been freezing when her parents had kissed her head and slipped into the empty, dark countryside, so she had lit a fire to snuggle in front of. Her aching fingers gripped hard onto the latest book her teacher had required everyone to read—senior year, she had to make it through only three more of these intense books— and decided the nightly silence would be the best time to do so. It wasn’t late, so she would be up for hours. Airpods were in, listening to some instrumental music to calm her mind. Though one of her feet—warm boots and all—was jiggling more than she thought. A pale blanket slipped off her shoulders as she turned page after page.

With a sigh, Ella let the book fall into her lap, her eyes roaming toward the fireplace and the room beyond. It was clearly made to be the grandest room of the house, but it had fallen into disrepair over the years. Much of the furniture had torn and stuffing was coming from the seat cushions. The paintings that hung on the wall had faded until they were blurred images, but she still could see the hollow bones of the faces in them. The curtains were heavy and dark, and there was a thick layer of dust that had kneaded itself into the material, causing the mahogany color to turn an ashy red. The grandfather clock had frozen on fifteen to twelve, and Ella wondered for how long it had been that way, what had happened in the moment that it stuck and never moved again. Was that when a family abandoned the house?

With that, and though she wore headphones with music playing, she heard the boom of

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a loud crash. The sound vibrated the couch beneath her and slipped between her pods.

Jerking up, Ella yanked them from her ears and listened intently, tipping her head to the side, waiting. It was only quietness that followed, and Ella released a breath, leaning back onto the couch. But she left her Airpods out, curious. She knew she had locked up as her parents left—her father was insistent in her doing so, since they weren’t a huge fan of leaving their seventeen year old daughter, alone, in the middle of nowhere.

The story rolled along easily, as they can with an old house. Generations of people had lived here, and of course many of them died. Most often, it was in the winter months—of course, the freezing temperatures had nothing to do with those deaths—and many started to believe it was haunted, cursed.

That, Ella was used to hearing about. She had visited many homes her parents renovated and sold. She had even encountered ghosts of her own, but they didn’t scare her one bit. Yet, the deeper she went into the legends of Ashwood Manor, the weirder it got.

The largest tip she noticed was about the small church on the property. She had seen it as they had driven from the main road, and her parents were ecstatic to discover such a strange little finding with this house. A church that would only hold about ten to fifteen people, with an even tinier graveyard. It was most likely for personal use, maybe some family and friends buried there. All things Ella had heard before.

But here’s where it got weird: No one, not even historical records, knew where that church came from. Clearly, it had been there before the manor had been built, as the original family had decided to build their manor close to it so they could use it. There weren’t any records of it beforehand; was the church built by people, was there a house here before Ashwood, had it magically appeared one night? No one was sure, but it obviously became a core for the legends to morph from there: the main theme was that there was a monster, a being, living inside that church and it was connected to the

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hauntings, the curse - it kept the people who had died here trapped inside as spirits.

Her parents had scoffed, waving it off. It wasn’t the first time they had experienced locals telling them that they should be wary of these houses. In the end, they always renovated the houses and sold them, and everything turned out fine.

But they hadn’t heard the conviction of those people’s voices in the coffee shop. The way they sounded scared just to talk about it.

BOOM.

This time, Ella nearly fell off the couch. The echo came from upstairs, almost like a huge door was slammed so hard the windows would shatter. She gaped up at the ceiling, hearing an occasional creak, as if someone took slow, careful steps.

Her mind raced, as did her heart. Her thoughts weren’t about ghosts, however, but an intruder that had broken in on the second story. There were no working phones in the house and her cell service was spotty out this far. She decided to investigate, taking on the lessons her father had taught her, since she had spent some time in houses alone since she was fourteen.

Tucked on the floor by her feet was a baseball bat and she took it into her hand, gripping it tightly as she slipped toward the door leading into the main hall of the lower level. As she passed her reflection in the front window, between the slip of curtains, she saw snow was falling to the ground, gathering in the point of the small chapel outside.

Darkness surrounding made the white glow an eerie tone and she quickly flicked her gaze away.

Carrying the baseball bat, she used her phone's flashlight to find the main staircase against the wall on the right side of the house. Silently, carefully, she rose the steps,

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straining her ears for any more noise. There were no loud thuds only an occasional creak of the floorboards and some taps on walls.

It grew colder the farther she went from the parlor, the warmth of the fireplace seeping off her in waves. She wore a thick sweatshirt and warm leggings, but there was still a chill in this old, broken manor that seemed to slither its way between the fibers of thick clothing.

Once she reached the top of the second floor and her eyes adjusted, she slipped her phone into her back pocket and took the baseball into both hands. Holding it cocked by her head, she walked toward the master bedroom, which she knew had been straight above the parlor below. There was a groaning in the room, as if something was being moved. The vibrations shuddered from below the door.

With a deep breath, Ella turned the doorknob, kicked it open and rushed in swinging her bat.

There was nothing inside.

It was an empty, dark room. The bed and furniture were still covered in white sheets.

Nothing looked out of place and the window wasn’t even open. Ella released a breath, relieved, though somewhat confused as to what she heard. It must have been the house settling into the cold temperatures from the snow outside. There was even frost in the windowpanes, iciness seeping across the glass.

But as Ella peered closer, she saw in the window’s reflection—rather bright from the snowy night—she saw the shape of a figure standing behind her, a dark shadow.

Before she had a chance to react, the shadow reached up to grab her hair and yank it back so hard that her eyes welled.

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She was tossed to the floor, and she flipped her hair out of her face, shaking, peering up into the hallway. The hallway was empty and the lights along the walls flicked in and out, as if they were trying to come on—even though she hadn’t touched a switch.

Ella jerked herself to her knees and reached for her bat, but it rolled out of reach, rolling down the hall until it softly stopped against another bedroom door, a crack opening from the door itself and all Ella saw inside was black.

Fear trembled through her now, so hard she could hardly get herself to stand. Her mind raced with the legends she had read about this property, flashing through her mind like a newspaper, until the words were beating along with her heart. She had never been scared in a house before, but this wasn’t anything she had ever known—shadowy figures grabbing her, kicking her stuff away. It was like something about this house wanted to torment her.

Hauntings, curses.

If she moved fast enough, she could grab her bat and take off. Shelter herself inside the parlor, where she had been warm and safe.

On quivering knees, Ella felt strands of her chin-length black hair swish across her face, get caught in her eyelashes. But her body was in flight or fight mode, and she breathed a deep breath and pounced straight up.

She ran, reeling through the hall until she crashed into that bedroom door, scooping up her bat. But as she rose to spin and run, she caught a flash inside the room, words written in the frost on the windowpane.

Help us.

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With another blink, she was running. Voices came from everywhere, different tones, sounds, accents, as if they were falling from the walls atop her. Doors slammed shut around her, cutting her off from only the main pathways of the house—the hall, the stairs, the front. Even the door to her sanctuary was closed and the only place she could escape was through the front door. She lost her bat somewhere down the stairs, but she kept pushing along the walls, realizing that if there were evil spirits in this house, she would never make it out alive even with a bat.

Snow was falling heavily, but it hadn’t gathered thick on the ground. She was able to kick through the green and white, her mind whirling with the realization that there was nowhere she could go—it was miles into the town, their only car was with her parents.

Stranded in the middle of the countryside, with a haunted house at her back, Ella was truly and completely, trapped.

Her eyes flashed toward the chapel. Should she enter that place? There had been murmurs from grandparents that a place of god was safe, and nothing evil could touch you there. With only safety and survival moving her limbs, she took off in the direction of the little graveyard and church, crunching between headstones and crashing through the rickety old wooden door. Slamming it shut, she turned to peer inside and felt her skin crawl.

Candles were lit in every window—three on either side—and at a small gathering table at the altar. There was the sight of the man on the cross carved from the very wood of the wall. Ella breathed out as she realized this place was alive with light and flame, when moments before, she hadn’t seen a wink in the windows.

It was as if they had been lit as she hit the door.

The cold from outside poured from the thin wooden walls, making her wrists hurt from the chill, and she rubbed her arms for warmth. She peered up at the windows designed

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with scenes she knew and watched in horror as frost crawled across them, seeping, and pooling like blood.

Ella’s breath came in waves before her face as something broke away from the shadows at the altar, blinking to life with its eyes. A person, a shadow that breathed to life with color as it came into the candlelight.

In front of her was something old. She could tell in the same way one peers up at a tree and simply knows it has been sitting there for hundreds of years. He walked through the church as if the earth tilted toward him, instead of the other way around. He was nimble and graceful and ancient from the looks of him. Tall and lean, with skin so pale she would have thought he might have been dying. Blue irises so light against his white eyes, hair the color of the snow on the ground outside. He wore clothing torn and tattered, a long-forgotten style. But his thin lips were so pink, showing a small sign of life. And they were twitched into a smirk.

Ella took a breath. This must have been what the people in the coffee shop whispered about. Something that lived on the property, kept people trapped in the house with curses. Both an angel and a devil haunting their church’s pews, sliding through the darkness, an evil creature. It looked like a beautiful, dying man, but there was an edge to him that told her he was more dangerous than she could have ever guessed.

Licking her cracked lips, she murmured, 'Are you death?'

The being gazed at her a moment longer, then let out a sharp laugh. It bounced off the walls, vibrated in her chest. Her toes curled in her boots.

'My, my, humans haven’t mastered their creativity, have they?' His long lashes, like icicles, flipped along his cheekbones. 'Death doesn’t hang around in churches, for the record.'

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Ella bristled, staring at the man, the ancient thing that could do anything. What it must have felt like, to be considered a god. 'Then what are you?'

'Don’t you know? I’m the cold you feel on your skin, the ice hanging off your windows.'

His pale eyes narrowed onto her; his smirk twisted into something more devilish. His bare feet took careful steps, slithering along the stone floor. 'I’m the sickness in your lungs as you shiver and take your last breath.' A light returned to his eyes, a smile on his mouth. 'You may call me Frost.'

Eyeing him carefully, she took a step back. Her hands were wrapped around her arms, a strange comfortable habit, and her eyes skimmed over the room for anything, to protect herself. From the way his eyes flicked over her movement, she knew he caught the attention to her surroundings, but the flirtatious grin hadn’t faltered. However, the glint in his eyes had flashed to something more dangerous.

'The legends say you kill people on this property and keep them trapped here.' Why the hell was she talking to him? To keep him distracted to make her escape?

Frost snorted. 'Goodness, how boring. Why would I ever do that?' Ella stilled, her stomach dropping for a moment as she realized maybe all the legends online had been wrong. Was it worse? Better? Frost peered closely at her, slipping over the stone floor like a ghost toward her, his smile turning cruel. 'Is that what you truly think?' The loud chuckle that came from him made Ella frown. 'How trivial. But please, entertain me.

Why do you think I would do that?'

Ella wasn’t sure if she should keep talking or make a run for it. Though Frost hadn’t snapped her in half since she had entered the church, she didn’t think it would last.

Walking on eggshells with such a being made her fingers tremble slightly, considering what he could have done to her. There was an intensity in his gaze, the way he stared at her long and hard, curious, so she knew it would be best to entertain him. Instead of

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playing his game, she made a statement, fear and cold numbing her brain. Her curiosity flickered at the fact that she was trapped in this small building with such an ancient being. 'Let them leave.'

A blink. 'Come again?'

'The spirits in the house. The ones that can’t leave,' her lips were cracking, burning. She remembered the words help us scribbled in the window. Maybe she could convince him to let them leave, let her go. Maybe she could bargain with this thing. 'Let them go, let them move on.'

Frost’s grin had disappeared, she hadn’t even noticed. But he stared hard at her, lips pressed together in a line. His fingers, at his sides, danced together, tapping his thighs.

'Interesting how you think I control it all.'

'Don’t you?' Her voice sounded harsher than she intended, and she swallowed. His eyes flashed again, and she knew he noticed. And didn’t like it.

One of the candles, up by the alter, blew out. Ella only flickered her eyes long enough to spot it, and then turned back toward Frost. There was a twitch in his jaw. 'I do, but there are limits. Sometimes, things happen. I cannot control the afterlife. Not exactly, anyway.

But lives unfold in mysterious ways, don’t they?'

Her teeth were chattering now. But there were still workings in her mind, building a plan. This being was clearly attached to the chapel, for whatever reason, at least from the way the legends of Ashwood Manor were explained online. Everyone mentioned the creepy chapel where a monster liked to reside, and it came out to kill the people in the house. Maybe she could contain it here, trap it forever. 'It’s clearly you that is killing everyone. Why?' The tips of her fingers were tingling. She was moving along the edge of the chapel, trying to reach for warmth, to keep her lips were bleeding further. Frost’s

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freezing eyes were held intently on her, watching her every move.

His mouth widened, returning to that smile. 'Because I can.'

Her body reacted. She threw herself at the door, banging it open as she nearly stumbled into the snow outside. For a moment, breathing hard, she thought she could escape his grasp. Her boots were trudging through the gravestones, eyes locked on the dark, defeated house.

'Not so fast,' she heard his voice on the wind, the cold air that nipped at her nose.

Snow lifted from the ground, twirling like snakes, and they snuck around her ankles.

With a hard yank, they tossed her to the ground, dragging her through the snow that was still falling from the sky, growing higher on the grass. Her scream cracked the wintery silence, the echo dancing around as she was dragged back toward the church doors, kicking and jerking and crying as the magical, painful snow brought her back to him.

Once she was inside again, face touching the cold stone beneath her, she released a breath. Her hair was wet and icy, her skin so red and achy from the snow that was melting through her clothes. The doors slammed shut and she panted, her heart pounding in her chest, understanding that she might not make it out alive.

'I wonder what I shall do with you,' Frost murmured, his icy blue toes stepping mere inches from her face. Fear made her recoil and she snapped away from him, managing to clumsily clamber to her knees, her feet. She backed away from him, inching closer toward the windows, her fingers trembling against the wooden walls. Frost’s eyes were like snowflakes, the dangerous grin on his face, his lithe figure practically floating through the pews. 'I think I shall keep you here, to play with.' Ella thought fast, her eyes flickering toward the candles. She had to escape, she had to get away from him. If she

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was meant to die here, then she would at least fight with everything she had. A chuckle slipped from Frost’s lips. 'How long until you will freeze to death, I wonder?'

Ella gaped at him, blinking. She recalled what she had thought earlier, how Frost seemed tied to this church. That these old wooden walls were keeping him safe, protected. She thought fast. And with that last bit of strength she had, she snapped forward, grabbing a candle in one window, and tossing it at him. Frost sidestepped it with ease, holding his hands behind his back. As she did it to the next one, he did so again. By the third candle, he rolled his eyes and lifted his feet onto the back of a pew, lowering himself to a crouch atop it—perfectly balanced, at one with the world around him. 'I do not know why you think throwing candles at me will do anything.'

'I wasn’t aiming for you,' she replied, her toes curling in her boots from the cold. 'You must be too cold to feel the warmth.'

Frost’s eyes narrowed at her and then widened as he spun around, finding the whole wooden carving on the wall set aflame. The fire was rising, fast and loud, because the whole church except for the floor was made of simple, old wood.

Ella took advantage of his surprise to race for the doors and burst through them. She heard Frost behind her snarl, but she slammed them shut behind her, finding her trusty bat that had mysteriously appeared at her feet. She used it to stick between the handles, to keep the church snapped shut.

Flames were starting to break through the roof of the chapel, smoke curling up toward the sky. Ella backed away from it, stumbling through the snow, gazing up at the sight, watching as Frost and whatever atrocities he had created were burned from this world.

He and this church had been so intertwined and now she was destroying it all. Maybe the spirits in the house would be free, and she would be safe.

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She stood in the snow until the building blackened and collapsed in heaps that still sparkled with light flames. When the sun started to rise, she could hardly feel her feet in her boots, her nose, and her hands that held tightly onto her sweatshirt. The last she remembered as sunrise came was how the world tipped and she fell, then there was nothing but black.

*

When she next woke, she was lying in one of the dusty, old beds in the house that smelled like wet dirt. Her eyes cracked open to find a window that faced the dark world outside. Her mother had noticed her waken and called for Ella’s father, and they both sat with her, holding her hand, rubbing her forehead. She apologized for accidentally setting the church on fire, but they waved it away, murmuring how they were only glad she was safe.

According to them, the fire trucks had arrived not long after she had passed out, taking care of her until they could get ahold of her parents. They took her inside and Ella had slept through the whole next day, fighting off illness and frostbite. Her parents kissed her and loved her and even cried a little. Ella only smiled in return, not sure if she would ever tell them that she had burned the place down on purpose, to rid the world of an evil monster that killed and trapped souls just because he had fun doing so.

She never found out where the chapel had come from. Nor why Frost was there. And neither what had brought Frost to this world in the first place. All she knew was that the chapel was gone, the house seemed quieter and lighter, and she felt everyone was safe again.

But what she didn’t realize was that she had understood the legends wrong. Frost had never been attached to the church. He had existed since the beginning of time, long before the concept of crosses and buildings for gods had existed. Frost had been born

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from magic and the chill in the air, carved from snow and breathed to life by humanity’s fears in the those long, wintery dark nights.

No, Frost had never been attached to the church and its graveyard.

Frost had been attached to the land itself.

As Ella had curled up into bed, eyes shut and breathing softly in sleep, she didn’t see what was happening outside her window. The frost that gathered in one corner, splitting into veins along the glass, spreading like a disease, like breath, its icy fingers spreading until it covered the whole windowpane.

And then it popped the lock.

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AUTHOR AND ARTIST BIOS MAISIE MERRICK Maisie Merrick (she/her) is an artist and animator of whatever strange and magical idea pops into her head, plus whatever show she's currently obsessed with. She has just begun studying Animation at Falmouth University, and can be found on Instagram @pluto_mars_paperstars

ISABELLA LOBO Isabella Lobo is a teenage artist and writer currently living in South Florida. Her artwork and writing has received awards at the national level through Scholastic Art and Writing and has been published in COUNTERCLOCK, the Harbor Review, and the Firefly Review, among others.

She is an alumni of the 2022 Iowa Young Writers Studio and currently serves as a prose editor and staff writer for The Borderline. You can find her on Instagram @loba.artz

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AUGUST BLAINE CENTAURI August Blaine Centauri, @hemlockrocksandsocks on Instagram, is a trickster in a human’s body who has been spinning yarns since around three years old. Thon is a proud weirdo. In thon spare time from working or writing, Blaine practices piano, lifts weights, and spars in Muay Thai.

ZACHARY ROSENBERG Zachary Rosenberg is a Jewish horror writer living in Florida. He crafts horrifying tales by night and by day he practices law, which is even more frightening. His forthcoming debut novella will be published by Brigids Gate press and you may find his works released or forthcoming at Air and Nothingness Press and Nosetouch Press. You may follow him on Twitter at @ZachRoseAuthor

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DAYLE OLSON Dayle Olson (she/her) hosts poetry open mics and explores old graveyards. Her poetry has been published in Coast Weekend, The Chinook Observer and is featured in the Humanities Washington Poetic Routes project. She recently was invited to read her highly commended poem at the Angry Ghosts Poetry Competition in Suffolk, England. The ghost of her beloved cat, Dinah, occasionally visits and causes mischief. You can find her on Twitter @daylejean

CEDA PARKINSON Ceda Parkinson is a writer based in Cornwall. She studied English with Creative Writing at Falmouth University and currently is studying a Professional Writing MA, also at Falmouth. She is inspired by nature, dreams and unusuality in all its forms. You can find her on Twitter @cedaparkinson

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JEN HERRON Jen Herron is a teacher, writer and journalist from Larne, Northern Ireland. Her work has been featured in The Irish Times, The Belfast Telegraph, The Honest Ulsterman, Poetry Jukebox, Lumpen Magazine, Bowery Gothic, Hearth and Coffin, Seaside Gothic and BBC Radio Ulster. She won the Seamus Heaney Award for New Writing, 2022. She also is the creator of The Spooky Women Podcast.

Jen's story 'Pawprints in the Snow' was recently shortlisted in the Crowvus Christmas Ghost Story Competition 2022 and features in their 'Phantoms for the Festive Season' anthology, now available on Amazon.

IRINA TALL NOVIKOVA Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, illustrator. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art, and also has a bachelor's degree in design.

The first personal exhibition "My soul is like a wild hawk" (2002) was held in the museum of Maxim Bagdanovich. In her works, she raises themes of ecology, in 2005 she devoted a series of works to the Chernobyl disaster, draws on anti-war topics. The first big series she drew was The Red Book, dedicated to rare and endangered species of animals and birds.

Writes fairy tales and poems, illustrates short stories.

In 2020, she took part in Poznań Art Week. You can find her on Instagram @irinanov4155

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DAISY BIGNELL Daisy Bignell has just finished her Masters Degree in English Literature from the University of Winchester.

From a young age Daisy always wanted to be a writer from prose to poetry, and everything in between! Her debut poem features in 'Scribbles,' a literary magazine, published in November 2022. For the sake of nostalgia, Daisy is currently fixated on writing about the ghosts and hauntings of people she used to know. When she isn't writing, she'll have her nose in an Agatha Christie novel. You can find her on Instagram @daisyabigwell and @bookishbignell

KASHMINI SHAH Kashmini is a London based creative who can generally be found reading a fantasy book or reviewing a theatre show! She is an aspiring writer who adores beautiful and emotional prose. You can see what books she's reviewing on Instagram (@kashmini.creates), find her on Twitter (@kashminishah), and read her work on her personal blog (www.kashminishah.weebly.com)

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RACHAEL LLEWELLYN Rachael Llewellyn (she/her) is a novelist living in Wales. She has published two novels and a collection of short stories. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies and journals, including Crow & Cross Keys, Sword & Kettle Press and Polari Press. She is a PhD candidate at Swansea University, working on her thesis on trauma and memory in folktales. You can find her on Twitter @FumigatedSpace

MARISCA PICHETTE Marisca Pichette assembles jewelry from playing cards and bones. Her work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Fireside Magazine, Room Magazine, Baffling Magazine, Enchanted Living, and Plenitude Magazine, among others. Her debut poetry collection, Rivers in Your Skin, Sirens in Your Hair, is forthcoming from Android Press in Spring 2023.

Find her on Twitter as @MariscaPichette and Instagram as @marisca_write

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R.L. SUMMERLING R.L. Summerling is a writer from South East London. In her free time she enjoys befriending crows in Nunhead Cemetery. She has stories in Hexagon's MYRIAD, Seize The Press, Bear Creek Gazette and more. You can find her at rlsummerling.com and on Twitter @RLSummerling

AMANDA LONG Amanda Long (she/her) is a college graduate from San Jose State University with honors in English Literature.

She found her deep love for stories as a little girl in all forms of storytelling. When she's not writing, she can be found reading, watching films and TV series, and enjoying time with friends, family, and coworkers.

She has recently published a piece of flash fiction entitled 'A Summer's Spirit' on The Raven Review's Summer 2022 Issue, and a short story entitled 'A Witch Comes to Call' in Toil & Trouble literary magazine's first issue.

You can find her on Instagram and Twitter @amandaklwrites

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K Y N O A U H T

www.hauntedwordspress.com