Issue Two: Sweet Curses and Sour Candies

ISSUE TWO

AUTUMN 2022

SWEET CURSES AND SOUR CANDIES HAUNTED WORDS PRESS

FEATURING BETH JONES AZHLEE AVRO

GULLY NOVARO SAMMI LEIGH MELVILLE FK MARLOWE STEPHANIE MEADOR SUZANNA LUNDALE EMMA WHITEHALL DAVINA KAUR PAUL WILSON JAIDAH-LEIGH WYATT SHELLEY CORCORAN INDRANIL GHOSH ALICIA FITTON

CONTENTS 3

Introduction Middle Grade There's a Frog at My Funeral Azhlee Avro

Just a Word of Advice Jaidah-Leigh Wyatt

Mommy Made a Doll Sammi Leigh Melville

From the Early Cases of Ambergris Jones, Paranormal Investigator

MG | DEATH | HUMOUR

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MG | HORROR | NAÏVETÉ

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MG | HORROR | VOODOO

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MG | FRIENDSHIP | GHOSTS

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MG | CURSES | NATURE

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Suzanna Lundale

The Forest of Years Shelley Corcoran

Fingertaker

MG | HORROR | HAUNTED HOUSE

Gully Novaro

Familiar

MG | WITCHCRAFT | DEATH

Emma Whitehall

1

19 24

Young Adult Simple Curses for Beginners Beth Jones

Not a Dimwit After All Indranil Ghost

Pumpkin Spice

YA | FANTASY | SPOOKY

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YA | THRILLER | PHANTOM

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YA | HORROR | CAFE

FK Marlowe

The Town of Harrow

YA | HORROR | SACRIFICE

Davina Kaur

Sea Witch Alicia Fitton

House Sitter Stephanie Meador

Egg-Shaped Man Author and Artist Bios

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YA | FANTASY | TAINTED LOVE

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YA | SUSPENSE | SUPERNATURAL

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YA | HORROR | RE-IMAGINED FAIRY TALE

Paul Wilson

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55 66

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INTRODUCTION Haunted Words Press is on its second issue since its founding earlier this year, and we could not be more overjoyed or, honestly, slightly confused as to how we managed to get so much talent from not just the wonderful contributors in this issue, but the overall submissions that we received for the issue. It made choosing incredibly hard, and we feel both incredibly annoyed that we couldn't fit them all into one issue, and truly blessed that so many wonderful people want their work to find a home in our spooky little magazine.

For this issue, Sweet Curses and Sour Candies, we have fourteen outstanding pieces of work for your viewing pleasure, split into middle grade and young adult audiences. We also have poetry for the first time in this issue, and choosing to add poems to our little publication has been, if we do say so ourselves, an outstanding idea. Alongside our poetic new additions, there's a selection of flash fiction, short stories, and visual art for you to peruse and read and devour,

This issue is brimming with tales of the unexpected, the magical, the peculiar, and the really rather chilling. We hope you love it as much as we have loved collecting and creating it, and hope that Issue Two: Sweet Curses and Sour Candies, is the perfect addition to your spooky season activities.

- Halle Merrick, Editor in Chief

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THERE'S A FROG AT MY FUNERAL AZHLEE AVRO MG | DEATH | HUMOUR

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JUST A WORD OF ADVICE JAIDAH-LEIGH WYATT MG | HORROR | NAIVETE

Don't ever touch the rose berry bush The ghost says not to He says, that's how he became a ghost He says, that's how you die.

Rose Berries are very poisonous, he says We should play by the swings on the cliff side instead If we soar high enough, we can reach the heavens We can touch the skies, if we jump a little That's how you become an angel Or at least That's what the ghost said

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MOMMY MADE A DOLL SAMMI LEIGH MELVILLE MG | HORROR | VOODOO

Mommy made a doll, and she won't let me play with it. She made it out of rough brown fabric, like the sack of potatoes in the cupboard. It has beads for eyes, like the ones we needled into necklaces, when Daddy got sick the first time. And it has a little bit of brown hair on its head, like Daddy's hair.

Mommy won't let me play with the doll. She told me I wasn't supposed to see it, and hid it under the floorboards next to her bed when she thought I wasn't looking. But it's getting lonely here, ever since she pulled me from school, and I get bored waiting for Daddy to feel better.

But tonight, Mommy promised me that if I let her cut my hair, she'd make a new doll, one just for me.

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FROM THE EARLY CASES OF AMBERGRIS JONES, PARANORMAL INVESTIGATOR SUZANNA LUNDALE MG | FRIENDSHIP | GHOSTS Ambergris Jones, born of witches, but adopted as an infant and raised in ignorance among mundanes, was, as she would learn many years later, a natural Pathfinder. She was six when, without proper spells or accoutrements, without any training, she completed her first successful Pathfinding for a ghostly playmate called Albert, whom she met on the rocky beach below her house. Ambergris had not yet learned that it was impolite to blurt out that a person was dead if they didn't mention it first.

She may have alienated adult ghosts with her approach, but if she was too young to know the taboo, so had Albert been, when he met his watery demise. So it was that as they crouched there, examining the sand/pebble castle they had built in their usual spot, Ambergris casually asked her friend, “How come you stayed here, after you died?” Very rude, of course, to ask a ghost about his unfinished business, but as we have noted, these children were bound by no such limitations.

"Died?" scoffed Albert. "I didn't die." His motions slowed as he spoke.

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“You did, though, I can see it,” replied Ambergris matter-of-factly. “Here, I'll prove it. You like comic books?"

Albert looked uncomfortable and kicked the sand a few times. “Yeah, 'course. Everyone does.”

"Who's your favourite superhero?" Albert scratched his head.

"Dan Dare. I'm going to be a pilot when I get big, just like him." he answered. His hands mimed manipulating a plane's controls. Ambergris cocked her head in thought.

"Dan Dare? Does he have another name? Like, you know how Tony Stark is Iron Man?" Albert scowled.

"Dan Dare is Dan Dare. He's in the Eagle comics. Dan Dare, Pilot of the Future? You just don't know him 'cos you're a girl. And who is Iron Man?" Albert's voice rose at the end as he started to wonder whether his weird friend might know something he did not.

"Albert, girls like superheroes too." Ambergris, even then, did not have a lot of patience for people unwilling to accept evidence, and a good deal less for people who thought girls should be left out of fun things. Warily, Albert looked at her, standing with her hands on her hips, looking like a mum when someone was in trouble. "Albert, I've never even heard of this Dan Dare person, and everyone knows Iron Man. I think you've been dead a

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long time."

The playmates looked at each other a long time, as the lapping tide washed away their castle turret by turret. Finally, Albert spoke. "Is that - Is that why - Ambergris, I think you might be the only person who talks to me.

You and the Pigeon Lady." The Pigeon Lady to whom Albert referred was actually a powerful witch priestess who had undertaken a spiritual journey during which she would speak to no living human, but neither child knew that. They saw a wild-haired lady who sat in the park and talked to the birds as if they were answering. The birds and, apparently, little dead boys.

Ambergris nodded sagely. "I think maybe they don't see you. Come to think of it, my aunt said something about me playing alone down here. I didn't disagree with her, because that gets me in trouble. I just figured maybe you were behind a rock when she looked."

Wordlessly, the friends began to rebuild their sand/pebble castle a little way in from where the tide was lapping. Finishing with one wall, Albert looked up. "If I'm dead, how come I don't remember... it?" Ambergris considered.

"You don't remember at all? Did you live here, or did you come here on holiday?"

"I live... lived in London, I think. With my parents... and my sister."

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"So probably you were here on holiday. Were they on holiday with you?"

"I.... think so?"

"I wonder if they died with you, or just you."

"How do you find out that kind of stuff?" Ambergris frowned. She was used to having to go to a good deal of trouble to find things out, because her aunt and uncle tended to lose patience with her questions very quickly.

She had never had to find out how someone died before, though. "Maybe," she offered, "we could ask the Nice Lady at the library. Not the mean one.

She always says I'll come to no good looking at books that aren't meant for children. I don't know what that means, but she doesn't like me." Albert looked skeptical.

"She won't see me, though?"

"I don't think so. But I can ask her." Albert shrugged and stood up, brushing the sand from his clothes.

"Let's go now," he urged. In time, Ambergris would come to learn that time worked different for a ghost once he knew he was dead. His mortal sense of urgency came back. Now that Albert knew he was dead, he felt unmoored, unsure of his place in the world. He had the idea that finding out how he had died was the key to remembering everything. He didn't think to wonder what would happen after that.

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Ambergris agreed and led the way to the library. On the way. she chattered earnestly about the possible ways Albert might have died, hoping to jog his memory if she came close enough to the truth. Reaching the library, she headed confidently up the steps, holding the door for Albert to pass through. This was unnecessary, but she did not yet know it.

The children approached the reference desk. The Nice Lady, as Ambergris named her, was called Monica Chaudhury, and she was there at the reference desk going through a catalog of new releases. Her eyebrows went up as she watched Ambergris approach. She found the girl odd, which, of course, she was, but was fond of her. She thought the questions Ambergris had were interesting and was always impressed with how keenly the girl listened to her responses.

"Hello," Ambergris greeted, when they reached the desk. "We would like to know how someone died." Monica's eyebrows rose further. This was a new area of interest.

"Hmm. How someone died. Well, that very much depends. Is this something you saw on the telly? Lots of people like those murder shows.

True crime, they're called. Is that what this is about?"

Ambergris frowned. She hadn't considered the difficulty of explaining what they wanted to know and why they knew so little.

"No," she said. "This is somebody who died a long time ago. A boy. His name

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is Albert."

"I see," said Monica, who did not, as we know, see. She did not see Albert, and she did not come close to seeing what was needed. "Did this Albert had a surname? You know what that is, right? Your surname, for example, is Jones." Ambergris sighed in disappointment. Did she know what a surname was? What sort of question was that? Annoyed, she turned to Albert.

"Well?" she demanded. "Do you remember?" Albert hung his head. If he had known it, and he probably had, he did not remember. He shook his head sadly. Ambergris looked back to Monica and waited a moment before realising that the librarian would not have seen Albert's response.

"No, just Albert. He doesn't remember the rest," she explained. Monica smiled indulgently. Many adults thought imaginary friends were unhealthy for children, but having grown up an only child and too much of a bookworm to make friends easily herself, Monica understood how helpful an imaginary friend could be. She leaned forward conspiratorially.

”Maybe he doesn’t need to be dead,” she suggested. “Maybe he can be Albert from another world, instead.” Ambergris gave her the sort of withering look every child has mastered in the dealings with the grownups in their lives. She sighed.

”Thank you, but that isn’t how it works,” she said with dignity. “C’mon,

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Albert.” She turned without any further farewell and walked out of the library, again careful to hold the door for her friend, who was looking decidedly downcast. Ambergris’ mind raced, trying to think of how they were going to get the information they needed. She walked aimlessly, Albert at her side.

”Look,” said Albert, speaking for the first time since they’d entered the library. “The Pigeon Lady!” They stopped and looked as the wild-haired woman - her hair was purple today, but Ambergris was sure it had been blue last time she saw her - scattered a handful of something on the bench next to her for the pigeons, who were eagerly eating it, unafraid.

”Hey, you wanna see if she’ll let us feed the birds, too?” Ambergris was hoping to cheer her friend with the suggestion. Albert shrugged in response, so they began their cautious sidle toward the Pigeon Lady.

Neither could admit that they were a little afraid of the woman. They stopped a few feet away from the bench. The woman didn’t look up.

”There you are, young Albert,” said the woman warmly. Ambergris, who had never seen the pigeon Lady speak to anyone other than the birds, felt her eyes go big. “Ah, your wee witch friend has told you, hasn’t she? about your transitional status?”

”My transi-what?” asked Albert, forgetting to be scared.

”About you being dead, lad. I could tell you didnae ken before.” She knew it

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wasn’t strictly the point, but Ambergris didn’t feel she could allow the slight against her character go up corrected.

”I’m not a witch. That’s not a very nice thing to say, especially for a lady who looks just like a witch.“ Ambergris crossed her arms defiantly. To her surprise, the woman laughed.

”Not a very nice thing to say, she says,” she said to Albert between gasps of laughter. “She doesn’t even know she’s a witch. How does she think she can see you?” The children exchanged glances. They were both very tempted to run away, but the Pigeon Lady seemed to know things about Albert, which meant she might be able to tell them how he died. Ambergris nudged Albert with an elbow, shyly averting her gaze.

”Ask her,” she suggested in a low murmur.

”What is it that you wish to know, my young friend?” asked the woman, sobering. Her face softened, making her look kind and gentle. Even her hair seemed somehow less wild. Both children slid their feet forward to get closer.

”Um, we were wondering… That is, we want to know… How did I die?”

Albert stood wringing his hands, very much afraid this woman wouldn’t know either, and equally afraid that she would.

”Ah.” The woman sat back and studied them. “Leave me,” she said.

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Frowning, Albert took Ambergris’ hand and prepared to obey their abrupt dismissal. The Pigeon Lady stopped them with a raised hand. “I was talking to the birds,” she clarified, as if that explained things, which, to her, it did.

She reached forward and took Albert’s hand. She closed her eyes and hummed softly. “Yes,” she said, at last, opening her eyes. “I have seen your death, and I see that you have seen and remembered it too.” Her tone was wistful. “Would you like to show the wee witch?” Albert looked at Ambergris and nodded. Still not speaking to her, the Pigeon Lady took Ambergris’ hand in her free hand and closed her eyes again.

Warmth flowed from her hand into Ambergris’ and with it, images. At first, they were disjointed, like a deck of cards scattered on the floor. After a moment, she began instinctively to make sense of them, sort them into order, until she saw how her friend had died, swept away by a riptide and then out to sea. His family had buried an empty coffin.

After brief goodbyes, the children left hand in hand, walking slowly toward the beach and Ambergris’ home, tangled in their thoughts. When they were close enough to the beach that they heard the water, Albert finally broke his silence.

”I can’t believe they buried an empty box,” he said. If he had been pressed, he would not have been able to supply a preferable alternative. He only knew that he was deeply offended at how things had been done. After another block, Ambergris spoke.

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”We could have a funeral for you,” she suggested. “We could bury something on the beach.” Albert brightened and nodded. They walked on.

When they came abreast of Ambergris’ house, she was struck by an idea.

“Wait here!” she said excitedly, dashing for the house. She emerged a moment later, holding a model airplane. Her uncle had many, and she was sure he wouldn’t miss this one. She led the way to their favourite spot for building castles.

Ambergris set the plane down and looked at her friend expectantly. Albert used a piece of driftwood to dig a shallow hole, into which he transferred the airplane. By silent accord, they worked together to make a mound of sand and pebbles to cover it, making a crude cairn. When it was finished, they examined their handiwork.

”That’s better than an empty box,” said Albert sadly. “Thanks, Ambergris.”

He patted her fondly on the arm, and she squawked in alarm. He looked up sharply.

”Albert,” she said in a hushed tone, “you’re, um, not…” Lacking, as yet, the vocabulary to elegantly describe a ghost who is making his transition from corporeal to incorporeal form preparatory to moving into the next plane, Ambergris waved her hands up and down her friend’s form to indicate the location, at least, of the problem. Albert looked down and gasped. His eyes were saucers when he looked back up.

"Ambergris, I think I'm maybe going where people are meant to go when

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they die. I feel like something is... pulling, but not in a scary way."

Ambergris looked around as if she might find some outside threat that might be causing her only friend to disappear before her eyes.

"No, Albert, please," she begged. "Just stay here. It doesn't matter if other people can't see you. Maybe we can figure out how to make them see you.

The Pigeon Lady probably knows how." Tears flowed down her face unchecked.

"I don't think I can," he answered, his voice now wispy and difficult to hear over the waves. "I won't forget you, Ambergris. Thank you for your help.

Oh, and I remembered, it's Sullivan. Albert Sullivan. Goodbye." Ambergris struggled and mastered her tears, saving them for later.

"Goodbye, Albert," she managed. "Thank you for being my friend." And then she was alone on the beach, with only the little cairn next to her to show she had ever been anything other than alone. She looked out at the sea that had taken her only friend's life long before she was born until it got too dark to see, and then made her way home.

Once upstairs in her room, Ambergris carefully wrote, "A.S." on one of the pebbles from the cairn with her favourite paint marker and blew on it until it dried. She set it on the windowsill before going to bed.

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THE FOREST OF YEARS SHELLEY CORCORAN MG | CURSES | NATURE Autumn was forewarned not to steal a leaf from Old Maple Tree.

But Autumn was not one to behave or listen to anyone’s plea.

Off she crept one Halloween eve; to take what was not hers; in The Forest of Years.

She was unaware why the forest claimed that name; to ignore that question was such a shame.

Quickly, hastily, she skipped through sticks and branches, oblivious her skin was now covered in scratches.

Gazing right up at the ancient trunk, she climbed the bark to try her luck.

Plucking a fiery leaf from the timbers grasp, she raced to her home, it firmly in her clasp.

The next day she awoke from a troubled sleep; tossing, turning, tears she did weep.

She glanced at her leaf which was brighter today, smooth and fresh, with a mystery to convey.

She went to the mirror. Horrified with what she saw! Wrinkles covered her forehead, cheeks and jaw!

Autumn now understood what was once unclear.

This Maple stole youth if you made his leaves disappear.

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FINGERTAKER GULLY NOVARO MG | HORROR | HAUNTED HOUSE "The Fingertaker is an urban legend!" Ryan said. "What would anyone want with those many fingers anyways?"

She wasn't a child, and only little kids fell for ghost stories.

"It's not a legend! My uncle's missing a finger because of the Fingertaker!" one of her classmates said. Everyone was talking over each other, the louder they said it, the truer it rang.

"My dad lost his finger too!"

"You dad lost his finger in shop class!"

"My brother rang his door and still has his finger!"

"He did not, he faked it!"

On Halloween, talk always veered into the same topic; the scary house at the top of the hill, the legend of Fingertaker, and how, if you went to his house and rang his doorbell, you'd lose your finger.

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"If you believe in Fingertaker you are a stupid baby!" Ryan shouted the loudest.

The classroom grew quiet. There was only one possibly outcome to the discussion now, and the kids looked at each other, wondering who would speak the words.

"Well," her best friend broke the silence, "then I dare you to ring his bell tonight!"

*

There were many theories and versions to the legend.

Losing your finger if your rang his bell was the only accepted truth, because for that there was at least some evidence. Old Man Ruthers had grown tired of kids ding dong ditching, and after many complaints and police reports, Old Man Ruthers had rigged his doorbell to chop off the finger of whoever dared ring it.

This was a certified truth. There had been an article about it in the newspaper about how little Mat Wend had lost his finger to Mr. Ruthers' contraption on the night of Halloween 1992.

Old Man Ruthers died of a heart attack that very night, as reported in the article. If it had been guild for what he'd done, fear of being locked up, or

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just karma, nobody knew.

Those were the two agreed-upon truths to the urban legend.

Then came the differences.

You would lose your finger if you rang his doorbell at night. Or only on Halloween. Or every day but Halloween.

You would lose your finger as soon as you rang his bell. You would lose your finger the next time you fell asleep. You would lose your finger in some kind of accident within six days.

No way to tell which version of the legend, if any, was real. Whatever the case, the town of Fordington had had a high number of lost fingers since that night.

Ryan wished to keep all her fingers, but after being dared to ring Old Man Ruthers' doorbell on Halloween night, she couldn't back down. Nor could she admit that, maybe she did believe in ghosts a little bit, after all.

She faced the worn-down wooden door and oxidised bluish green doorbell.

She felt her classmates' looks fixed at the back of her skull, a tingling sensation like lice walking on her scalp.

The silence was absolute. Ryan thought that her classmates were even more

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scared than she was. That gave her some pride.

She lifted her hand, extended her pinky finger - if she was going to lose a finger, that should be it - and got very close to ringing the doorbell. So close.

But she couldn't. There and then, she believed in ghosts.

She couldn't just walk back to her friends either, having done nothing at all.

So she did the next best thing and knocked on the door. She heard giggles coming from behind her back, and blood rushed to her face, making her blush.

Then the night erupted into silence, as the door opened inwards. Ryan couldn't see what was waiting behind the door - a veil of darkness blocked her sight. From inside the house a decrepit old hand reached for her, grabbed her candy bag, and pulled it inside.

Ryan was frozen in fear. She looked back, seeing if any of her classmates would help her, but they were all gone now. She wanted to run, but her legs weren't taking orders.

The old hand crept out from the darkness again, holding the bag, which sagged heavily under the skeletal fingers. Not knowing what to do, Ryan grabbed it back.

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The hand went back inside, the door closed, and Ryan realised she hadn't been breathing. She inhaled deeply, which seemed to break the spell. She turned around and walked away from the abandoned house, unsure of what had just happened.

"Are you okay?"

"Do you still have your finger?"

"What happened?"

Her classmates were approaching her, coming out from wherever they hid.

She hadn't rang the doorbell, but nobody was giving her shit for it. She had passed the test.

"What's in your bag?" her best friend asked her. Unsure, she opened the bag and held it out for all to see.

Inside it they found dozens of severed fingers.

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FAMILIAR EMMA WHITEHALL MG | FANTASY | WITCHCRAFT Mathilde's house was full of dead, dark things. Grimoires and dried herbs, skulls and skins and animal teeth, black crystals that shone, iridescent, when the candlelight hit them just right. She collected them; the villagers left offerings to the coven every full moon, and Mathilde always took the ones her sisters turned up their pretty noses at. Her oldest sister was studious and serious, her nose always in a book, memorising ancient spells.

Her next-oldest sister was beautiful and beguiling, casting charms with a flick of her fingers and taunting the local farmhands. They had no need for bones. Let their little sister play with the dead, if she wishes.

Mathilde’s eyes were the colour of moss, her hair was the colour of ashes.

Her shoes were black, her dress was black – the hat perched on her head, two sizes too big for a baby witch, was black. The only streak of white in her room was the chalk she used to draw on the wooden floor – Mathilde squinted at the open book by her side as she tried to copy the symbols just right – the only light coming from the tall, red candles at her knees.

Tonight was the night. The moon was full, a single eye in the night sky above her cabin, and the trees had been whispering to her all day; their gentle, shushing voices telling her it’s time, it’s time.

It’s time, Mathilde. Time for you to come into your power. You know what you

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need to do.

Mathilde drew a large, pale circle, big enough for her to sit in. A pentagram, a crescent moon. Her own name – and the name of the one she called forth.

A shiver went through Mathilde as she read that particular word. Then, the symbols that Mathilde didn’t have words for, symbols she couldn’t describe but knew how to draw as easily as she knew how to breathe. She was young – only thirteen; a lucky number, or so she hoped – but she was a witch. She was a daughter of the darkness, just like her sisters. Cut her open, and these symbols would flow in her blood. She just hoped it was enough.

Mathilde sat in the middle of the circle, hands on her crossed knees, eyes closed. "Come forth,” she whispered into the darkness in front of her.

Nothing. Frustration simmered in her stomach, but Mathilde calmed herself with a deep, shaking breath, wincing back the hot tears at the corners of her eyes. Tonight was the night, she knew it. She knew it. It had to be.

“Come forth.”

Her heart began to hammer in her chest, her breath beginning to skip. It wasn’t going to work. She’d failed. She’d failed. She wasn’t as good as her sisters. They’d known it all along. She’d failed, she’d...

A faint tug on...something. On the air around her? On her soul? Mathilde wasn’t sure. But she gasped, gathered herself one more time – before

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whatever this was faded forever – took a deep breath, and...

“Come. Forth.”

The tugging feeling grew stronger. Mathilde exhaled, feeling the magic – her magic! – dance in the air around her. She inhaled again, feeling it in her lungs, in her heart. The tugging became a strong, constant pull; something had taken hold of her. The chalk began to glow, and the flames from the candles grew taller, licking at the ceiling. Mathilde held her palms to the sky, felt them rise up above her head. Felt her hair fan out around her, felt her body lifting up from the ground – not as far as her coven sisters, but far enough – her power swirling and flowing, and that something pulling, pulling, pulling, using her as an anchor, climbing up an invisible rope out of the darkness, out of the world that resided alongside our own, just out of reach but always, always there –

A shape began to grow, to stalk around the chalk line of the circle.

“In Hecate’s name,” Mathilde said, forcing her voice not to tremble, “in the name of my coven, in my own name, I command you to –”

And, just like that, it was all over. The magic disappeared, as if someone had slammed a door shut. Mathilde fell to the floor with a bump and a yelp of pain, opening her eyes. The candles were just candles again. The chalk was just chalk, already smudging. But there was something new.

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There was a shape, sitting in the circle with Mathilde. A blob of silverywhite starlight. It was facing away from her, but Mathilde could make out the outline of haunches, a long snake of a tail...two ears, one with...one with a nick in the corner. From where the fox had bitten her last summer. She’d been trying to protect Mathilde while she gathered herbs in the forest.

Sweet, stupid, brave thing.

“...Skimbles?”

The shape turned. Two eyes, their irises clear and watery like the bottom of a still pond, looked her way. There was confusion there; like a creature just woken from a dream. Then...oh, then...

“Skimbles!”

The cat leapt into Mathilde’s arms, purring like approaching thunder.

Mathilde sobbed out a laugh – love and sorrow and guilt and relief boiling inside her like a cauldron – pressing her face against her familiar’s neck, feeling Skimbles’ skull bump against her jaw. What had once been black fluff, endlessly up Mathilde’s nose, was now smooth and pale, almost nonexistent. And she certainly didn’t smell the way she used to; like warm breath and hair. She smelled more like moonlight and cold water, now. But it was her. It was Skimbles.

Mathilde scrambled to her feet, the ghost of her beloved cat winding around her legs; tail straight up in the air, trembling with happiness. “You

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silly thing,” Mathilde murmured, watching her try and scent mark the bedposts like she used to; getting confused when she passed right through them. There’d be some adjustments to make, that was for sure. But Skimbles was home, at long last.

“Come on; my sisters won’t believe this...!”

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SIMPLE CURSES FOR BEGINNERS BETH JONES

YA | FANTASY | SPOOKY

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NOT A DIMWIT AFTER ALL INDRANIL GHOSH YA | THRILLER | PHANTOM

My dear old friend, a blood-phantom, once asked me to paint my heart out on their rib cage.

It revealed a spark of residual affection for a being, haplessly far off the horizon.

Ironically, they call themselves the propagators of carnage!

Too humane for a phantom? Too fragile for a ghost?

The ignorant dimwit flew away in no time, spooked, swearing to never ask me paint on them again.

I wondered what might have unveiled, had I put my brush on one of their lacerated wings!

Patterns of light? Mutiny against misery?

You see, my prediction was not completely off, as they led an insurgence one day, overthrowing their punitive council to an incessant rot!

Made me proud. Not a dimwit after all.

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PUMPKIN SPICE FK MARLOWE YA | HORROR | CAFE I’ve always hated pumpkin spice.

I know, I know, it’s the scent of Autumn, of Hallowe’en on its way, with sugar and spice and all things naughtily nice, but it makes me - how can I put it? Agitated. Like a cat with an itchy paw. Take a good, deep sniff of your latte and you’ll see what I mean. Under the sugar, under that comforting milk froth, can’t you smell it? Something darker, more threatening, something with an edge. It’s not just the cinnamon or the ginger, not even the nutmeg or cloves, bad as they are. It’s the scent of the season: nights getting longer, winter coming, death drawing in. The sweetness of rot.

Since I got stuck here, at the Corner Cafe, there’s no escaping it. It didn’t bother me all summer, when we were pumping out iced mochas and lemonades, cucumber sandwiches and cupcakes, but when September struck, the stuff was everywhere. Pumpkin spice lattes, hot chocolates, pumpkin spice muffins, mini pumpkin pies. Like an orange plague. I swear, our customers are even more crazy for it than the general public. It’s like they’re addicted or something.

I asked Marla, the owner, what her secret ingredient was, joked she must

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be lacing it with MSG, or cocaine or something, but she just gave me her crooked wink and went back in her private backroom off the kitchen to crank out more of her “special blend.” I knew better than to follow her in there. Right from the first day she’d made it plain.

“Strictly off limits,” she’d said, her eyes flashing steel, so I kept well clear.

Until the day my feet slipped in a puddle of spilt coffee, and I stumbled up against her hidey-hole door.

It fell open.

I tumbled in, knocking over a mop bucket, and she span around like she was burnt, hair standing out at crazy angles, eyes glinting with what?

Anger? Surprise? Something more – manic?

As I scrambled to my feet, my gaze fell on the counter where she was mixing her spices. A big metal bowl gleamed next to old-fashioned scales with little brass weights, and a pestle and mortar that made it look like she’d been practising alchemy or something. Then I noticed the jars.

Just like you’d expect: ginger and cinnamon, one with small, shrivelled nutmegs waiting to be crushed, another piled with stick-like clove buds.

But there were more jars, full of things I didn’t recognise. Thick, black powder, heavy as coal dust. Pale grey ash. Above a candle flame, like some whacky science experiment, a large flask bubbled red, viscous fluid down to

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a coagulated tar.

It was the rack slung from the ceiling I couldn’t look away from though.

Like a shelf at a Hallowe’en store, tattered black animals hung by their tails or feet: a crow, a couple of rats, a huge tomcat. Their throats oozed crimson droplets onto a tray below, their eyes glassy and unfocused. As I watched, a barely perceptible tremble rippled across the crow’s black wing, and I realised with a lurch of horror that they were all still alive.

“Get out of here, Jackie!” Marla screeched, then her eyes flickered. “No. Come in,” she said, and dragged me inside, slamming the door shut on us.

“Can’t let you go, now you know my secret,” she grinned, and pushed a pungent rag over my nose and mouth.

The next thing I knew I was tied to a chair, Marla’s headscarf pulled tight between my jaws so my screams came out as a muffled whine.

Here, in Marla’s cubby, all day and all night, the smell of pumpkin spice is thick in the air. Every now and then she takes a syringe of my blood and adds it to her potion. She’ll dip a finger to test it, and as the taste spreads across her tongue she’ll murmur, “Very nice.” Then she’ll get a spoon and make me try.

When she first locked me up, it tasted of disbelief, anger. Now it tastes of despair.

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“Perfect,” she said, when that happened. “Just how the season should taste, under all the sugar.”

Seems her customers agree. I hear them through the door.

“What’s your secret, Marla?” they ask. “Yours is the best pumpkin spice in town. Even better this year!”

“Well thank you!” she purrs back, smug and sly. “I found a way to improve the recipe.”

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THE TOWN OF HARROW DAVINA KAUR

YA | HORROR | SACRIFICE "Let us continually offer up a sacrifice of praise to God, that is, the fruit of lips that acknowledge his name.” - Hebrews 13:15

With a clamour of bells that set the Swallows soaring came the birth of Moriah Little, Amelia Little’s first child. Amelia’s mother, Sarah, kisses her sweat-ridden, red face, and looks at the precious bundle the doctors are wrapping.

"Well done, my darling, you did so well!" Sarah smiles at the wailing baby passed into Amelia's waiting arms. Amelia uses touches Moriah’s forehead, feeling the wrinkles, the soft skin, the fuzzy cheeks. The big blue eyes squeeze at her chest.

"She’s so beautiful." she whispers.

"She is my darling!" her mother exclaims, voice like bells in her ears. "I need to speak to your father; he will be so pleased!" Sarah kisses Amelia’s forehead again and runs out of the hospital room, taking off her gloves and mask in a flurry of movement.

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Running down the quiet hallway, she finds her husband, Abraham Little, a foreboding figure tall enough to cover the sterile light, allowing it to halo his face. His eyebrows raised, a picture of clear-headedness, but he is tapping his foot, playing staccato on the floor. Sarah smiles, out of breath, and he opens his arms as she crashes into him. "A girl, a beautiful baby girl!"

Relief sparks life back into his eyes.

"Thank our heart and stars!"

"Thank our heart and stars." Sarah murmurs, pressing her head against his chest, his heart reverberating through her. "We need to tell-"

"-the town. This baby will be the pinnacle of Harrow," says Abraham. "Do we have a name?"

Sarah answers, "Moriah."

"Moriah Little, a beautiful little girl."

*

Harrow is a town perched not so far from the obsidian cliffs hugging the sea. It’s a fine town—an agglomeration of buildings of various vintages; the oldest, a tower in the market square.

The Tower is the Church of Harrow. Painted in rays of gold, with winding

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vines growing towards the sun. A large, low porch lets one into the doorway and to a heavy oak door studded with iron. Inside, the arches rise into darkness, and reticulated windows stand out, white when the mood shines between them. The windows are of rich glass in the chancel, which shows in faint light their noble colouring and makes the black oak of Harrow’s choir pews hardly more solid than the shadows. But the centrepiece is its Wych Elm.

The Wych Elm stands centre with its majestic height. The bark is greybrown, fissured, the twigs dark grey and covered in coarse hairs, branches sweeping in the air. A gold tag is pinned to the tree branches for every child in Harrow.

Abraham can still see his name if he looks close enough. He takes a red thread with a golden tag, Moriah, proudly embossed and hangs it on a branch, his smile hurting his cheeks.

"Congratulations, Abraham." He turns and sees Reverend Vivian, her face squashed up, nose protruding. Rosary hung between her clasped hands.

"How is our lovely Amelia?"

"Thank you, Reverend. She handled birth like a trooper. Thank our heart and stars! And little Moriah, wonderfully healthy."

She clasps her hands together, lifting them towards the tree, "Thank our heart and stars! Moriah is such an apt name; you must be proud. And how

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is our Sarah?"

"Taking to being a grandmother as swift as a Swallow heading south for the winter," he chuckles.

"I suspect you would like to christen the little one?" She suggests.

"We would; this evening would be ideal." The sun catches a slither of gold, striking at his eye, Abraham turns and sees the gold tag, twisting airily, and he catches sight of an ‘Isaac,’ and his smile wanes. He swallows, shakes his head, and turns back to Vivian.

"Of course. The congregation will be here before midnight. It will be a marvellous event. Now, go back to your family, and give them my love!"

"Yes, Reverend. I better go tell the town the good news!" He steps off the last step after the Elm, craning his neck to give it one last glance, Moriah’s name swinging tenderly.

"I’m sure they already know!" the Reverend calls.

*

"Mother, you didn’t need to bring all of Moriah’s dresses to the hospital."

Amelia sighs, Moriah resting on her chest, breathing deeply. She strokes her back and its soft dips. Moriah’s hand is on her chest, just there, on her

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heart.

"Yes, I did, the christening is tonight, and we need to be prepared. Now, are we thinking yellow or white? Amelia? Amelia!"

Blinking away, Amelia looks at her mother sheepishly, "Sorry, mother."

Sarah tuts; "Already getting baby brain, I see."

"I always had that," Amelia confesses, laughing.

Sarah hums, "I think we should go for yellow for our little sunshine."

Sunshine, their little sunshine, Amelia strokes Moriah’s cheeks and can almost swear she sees her cheek quirk up. She gently turns her to look at her ocean-strong eyes, swimming with warm sun-lit currents. She looks dopey, her mouth slightly open, her eyebrows raised in permanent confusion. Amelia was holding her heart in her hands.

"Yellow is perfect," she whispers, kissing Moriah’s brow.

"Ah, perfect! Right, so I must make a few more calls and talk to the doctors about discharging you...." Amelia doesn’t hear her mother leave; she shifts a little, her body twinging, wincing. Then, finally, she relaxes in her pillows, tilting slightly to look at the Swallow by her bedside window. It stands there with its glossy blue back rippling like a wave and its red throat.

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"Look, Moriah-" Amelia holds her up, "that’s a Swallow, my love."

The Swallow blinks, looking at them with what Amelia thinks is intent. Its beak moves up and down, and its throat moves as if gathering breath- it speaks.

"He comes, he comes for her." Its voice high-pitched, like liquid, a gurgle.

Amelia’s stomach turns, chest burning, heart hammering, and she clutches Moriah tighter.

"Who comes?" she whispers back.

"He who always comes. He comes for her." The Swallow flaps its wings and flies away, adjourning with the clouds in the sky.

*

Abraham walks the town centre, the cobbled stone underfoot, the shops open and lively, bustling with people with smiling faces. The window fronts are striped and nautically themed with banners swinging from building to building.

Harrow has existed for a long time; Abraham’s ancestors had planted their seed, taking the land, building the tower, and prospering quickly. They took more land and gained tenants to work for them. There was always silver in their coffers. From whence it came, no one questioned it. Such a harvest is

40

Harrow and its occupants.

The sea was crashing against the beach, the waves a nonsensical background noise. Abraham breathes in the tendrils of salt-filled air. He can feel a buzzing, ceaseless. It’s against his leg-

His phone, that was the buzzing, shifted around in his pocket. He takes it out, seeing – he grimaces - fifteen missed calls from Sarah. He holds it against his ear. His breathing comes fast.

Visions of Amelia with blood pooling, an air bubble bursting, her heartstopping, her face swollen with blood falling from her nose like a red river, dripping into her gaping mouth...

"Sarah-"

"Amelia’s gone; she’s gone. I can’t find her anywhere!"

Abraham swallows, "and the child?"

"She’s taken her. She’s taken Moriah."

*

Abraham rushes into the Little's mansion. Almost splintering the white high–arching doors from their hinges.

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"Amelia!" he yells, his feet trekking mud up the wooden stairs.

"Amelia! Where are you, my love?" He checks the nursery, nothing.

There is a rustle and a thump. "Shit." The voice is a whisper. He runs to Amelia's room.

Amelia's drawers are open haphazardly, clothes and undergarments on the floor that Abraham tried to avoid. Moriah was on the bed, bundled up, her mother near the window, planning an escape.

"Amelia-"

She stands, hands up and facing her father, glancing at the baby wrapped safely on the bed. Then, she inches towards Moriah, a slight movement, not even distinguishable.

"What's wrong, my darling?"

"Moriah, she’s not safe-" Abraham steps towards her, placing his toes on the carpet followed by his foot and heel arch. Her eyes catch the movement.

"Why on earth wouldn’t she be safe-"

"The Swallow, he's coming for her-" Abraham has moved closer, she stiffens, like an animal on hind legs, "don’t come closer, dad."

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He holds up his hands placatingly. "It's your father, my love, Moriah’s Paps.

I would never hurt her."

Her shoulders give in to gravity, her face puckering up, her eyes blinking with tears. "She is everything to me-"

Abraham sighs, "As you are to me, darling."

Abraham can see when Amelia surrenders. Her body droops, and he moves toward her fast. Taking her trembling hands into his and guided her to the bed, settling her with the baby cooing away.

"My love, the Swallows told you what?"

She gulps. "That he was coming for her-"

"Darling-" He strokes her hair. "Who?"

Coughing, her body shuddering with the movement, "I-don't know, dad."

She admits.

He chuckles, holding her ever so tighter. "You just gave birth, my darling, you were tired. I think you’re scared."

Amelia sniffs, "Yeah. I am scared, dad."

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He holds her against his chest, pressing his chin against her head. Then, sighing, she sinks in.

"I know, darling. When I first became a parent, it was terrifying."

She looks up, brows raised, "Really?"

"Yes!" he affirms. "I saw this little human and thought, I will be the worst thing that ever happened to this child. But I wasn’t. They helped me grow up. That’s what children do; they help you grow. That’s what little Moriah is going to do. Let her."

Amelia sighs, nodding against his chest.

"Good," Abraham looks at the cooing baby on the bed. "Now, we have a christening to get to."

*

The sun bleeds into the sky, the darkness bringing lights, scattered like kisses across the square where the people of Harrow begin to gather.

The Little's arrive, Amelia first with Moriah in her arms, Sarah, and Abraham, behind them in the procession, the town's folk greeting them with smiles and coos.

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They walk together, the Swallows hovering over them, their wings brushing past them like prayers to the wind. Entering the church as if part of the clergy. Where Reverend Vivian stands in her royal regalia, arms open and bared to the world, a smile graces her small face.

"Welcome, our heart and stars, come in."

*

The Wych Elm is glowing, lights flickering off the golden tags, making Moriah glow. A tear drops onto her face making her twitch, and Amelia wipes her eyes. She looks at the procession around her, gathering in the seats at the pews, singing, coming together like a family.

The Swallows have joined them, leaning on the stands and rods installed at the church's top like peeping toms.

Reverend Vivian stands at the Elm, the branches stretching out behind her like wings. A sudden hush falls on the congregation as she clears her throat.

"Ready?" she calls.

They had done christenings so often that Amelia is tempted to only halflisten to the sermon, too busy looking at her baby squirming and the Swallows above her.

"We are gathered here today to bear witness to the birth and life of Moriah

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Little. The town of Harrow, our home, sanctuary, has been waiting for you."

The crowd hums, and it grows, like a hymn, filling Amelia’s senses.

"We are happy, are we not? We have always been successful, picturesque, finances on the rise, crops growing, businesses blooming, little to no crime.

We live in harmony. But that does not come without sacrifice. One Swallow does not make a summer."

Amelia's brows furrow, her arms clutch Moriah just that little bit tighter, and her mother places her arm around her shoulders, rubbing at her flesh.

Her father stands. She watches his back, shoulders shifting under his blazer, and he stands with Vivian.

"That’s right, our town has so much to be thankful for, but it would not be possible without our benefactor. If Mr. Harrow could come forth, we would wish to pay our dues."

The Swallows drop, anchored by gravity; Amelia looks in horror as they fall upon the Wych Elm like a black mass, a swarm, spinning round and round until they mould into one. It was a formless shape, merging and melting until they formed two legs, two hands, shoulders, feet, shrouded in a black suit, a long-lined nose, long face, and slick black hair, a suit as red as blood.

He stretches, his bones clicking into place within his skin.

Amelia tries to stand, but her mother's arm keeps her down. All around her,

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the congregation was singing, "Thank our heart and stars, thank our heart and stars." The baby is crying. She rocks her, shuddering. She turns to look at the exit, but the congregation barricades it, she turns, and the man looks at her and her baby. A cold wave embalms her, and her hair stands on end.

A shiver sleepwalking up her spine as his obsidian eyes pierce at her. His lips curl, and his many rows of pointed teeth are shark-like, ready to bite.

"What is this? Mother?" She looks at her mother who is smiling, eyes shining with stars, lips strained, pulled across her face.

"This is our way of saying thank you, Amelia."

"I don’t understand-"

"Why else do you think we thrived, my love? Why else do you think Harrow exists and that our family has prospered for so long?"

"What are you doing -."

Abraham comes up to them, hands outstretched. "Hand me Moriah, my child."

"No-" She stands and walks backward, stumbling against the pews, trying to walk out, but there are hands all around her, the townsfolk, grasping at her shoulders, pushing at her, making her towards the Elm. Moving her towards him.

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"No-" she tries - he stands there, stretching tall, slender, fingers spindly, back arching to curve around the town, looking down at the congregation, "You can’t-" She tries to shove, kick, but to no avail. "Mother, no!"

Moriah's crying, shrieking as the heat rushes her face. Amelia clutches her closer to her chest enough to suffocate her. Finally, she is forced to her knees. He towers over them, neck long, teeth bared.

"Mother, Father, please-"

"My darling-" Her mother kneels before her, knees clicking.

Amelia tries to scramble, the stone floor cold against her legs, "-Please, please no."

"I understand how you are feeling-" Her mother's face is kind. "I remember when I had to do the same, give my first child to Mr. Harrow-"

Her blood runs cold, fear sleepwalking down her spine, "I am your first child."

Sarah shakes her head with a tut. "No darling, Isaac was my first. I still remember his little eyes..." Her brows lower and knit together, but it's gone in a blink, "-but not to worry, my love! You’re allowed to keep the next one!"

Sarah looks at her father, peering over her mother’s shoulder like an omen.

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"You said children helped you grow!"

Abraham stands behind Sarah, "I did, and that's what Isaac did, and it is what his niece Moriah will do. She will help us all flourish. Be sensible, love.

Give us the child."

"No! No, please-" Amelia looks at her baby, swaying in her arms from the force of the clergy, her family.

Then at Mr. Harrow's eyes. Void. Vast. He blinks once. Twice. Then he is upon her.

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SEA WITCH ALICIA FITTON YA | FANTASY | TAINTED LOVE

The Sea, her song is sweet But she rages, How she rages.

My love is in retreat, A cage that stings my fingertips.

Her contrary deceit But those kisses, Such soft kisses!

Leave me quite replete.

My mistress runs aground my ship, I go once more to meet The rocky shore beneath her feet.

I go to make complete The perfect storm of my defeat.

The Sea, her song is sweet.

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HOUSE SITTER STEPHANIE MEADOR YA | SUSPENSE | SUPERNATURAL The inconsistent melody played by the slow moving wind-chime provided an eerie soundtrack to Meg’s dishwashing. A trail of ants marched along the soapstone counter-top to a crumb of toast. She withdrew a sudsy finger from the mug she was scrubbing and rubbed an empty space between the queue of ants. A devious grin decorated her face as the tiny creatures reached the interruption in their trail of pheromones and paused in confusion.

The family dog laid on his side, panting from the heat. It was time for his evening walk, but with a storm blowing in and the family gone he resigned to pass the minutes through sleep. The quiet was unsettling. Meg had known the family since they’d moved in about six months ago. They didn’t typically leave the house for long periods of time. They’d brought home a new baby as a housewarming gift, and their older child didn’t do well outside of his routine.

“Don’t worry, they’ll come home soon,” Meg whispered softly as she ran her pale fingers along the dog’s spotted side. He moved his tail to brush at the spot her fingers had just been, like a horse waving away a fly.

Meg moved to the door and prepared to exit. The dog stared in her

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direction, desperate to leave as well. She pitied the cooped-up creature.

“I’m sorry, but they say it’s too hot for you to go walking during the afternoon.”

The dog paid no attention to her condolences. She began to slip through the door when she spotted an unfamiliar car parked at the end of the family’s driveway. She hesitated in the entryway and studied the young man who sat in the driver’s seat. He got out of the car and began to walk towards the door.

Meg dipped back inside and continued watching through the dining room window. Her heart raced: this neighbourhood had never been safe for young women. As the man got closer the dog left his place of lounging and went to bark at the front door. The soft jingle of keys and the turning of a lock prompted Meg to hide herself behind the curtain. Dogs were supposed to protect the people in their house, weren’t they?

The door flung open, and the dog was up on his hind legs, not to attack, but to enthusiastically lick the face of the guest.

“Hey buddy! How’s my Milo man doing? Do you smell Louis on me?”

Meg watched from her hiding spot as the man greeted the dog.

“You want to go outside?” The dog’s tail began to wag, and he led the way to

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the backdoor.

Meg tip-toed out from her hiding spot and made her way to the back of the house. She watched as the stranger threw a stick for the dog to retrieve.

She’d made the mistake of trusting a stranger once before. Gliding along the floor, she quickly turned the lock on the back door before darting behind the couch. Moments later, the doorknob jiggled several times before the stranger cursed and went back into the yard.

Before she could rejoice in her victory, Meg heard the front door creak open once more. She hesitated before jumping up from her hiding spot and running to the door to stand face to face with the intruder.

Her quick, light steps carried her to the doorway just as the tall man turned his back to lock the door. She held still, unsure of what to say or do when he spun around and saw her standing there. With her hands balled into fists, she tried to recall what she’d learned in self defence class many years ago. The man began to turn around.

“What in the world?” His eyes widened. He pulled out his phone to take a picture. Meg stood frozen in fear. The man passed right by her. Almost passed through her, as he went to examine a vintage painting of a clown that looked more frightening than funny.

With her adrenaline high, Meg antagonized her opponent:

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“Get out! Get out of my house!”

The man didn’t respond to Meg’s words but took photos of the unnerving picture that occupied the dining room wall. Before she could scream again, the doorbell rang.

The man went to open the door. Another unfamiliar face stood on the porch.

“Come in, I have to make sure the door is locked behind you,” said the original home invader. He fumbled with the lock, much more nervous now that the sun was setting and the closest outdoor lamp was down the street.

“You scared?” The newcomer teased.

“Not really, but the folks said they think someone has been in the house recently. Maybe an old tenant, but it’s best not to take any chances.”

“I hope they’re paying you extra to house sit then.”

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EGG-SHAPED MAN PAUL WILSON YA | HORROR | RE-IMAGINED FAIRY TALE Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men Couldn’t put Humpty together again.

*

But what happened to the corpse?

*

The Captain of the Guards tried not to puke. The Egg-Man had fallen and shattered all over the ground. Thick bloody pieces of shell were scattered across rock, grass, and tree roots. Yolk and gore covered everything in dripping ropes. He had splattered against the brick wall as well. And just who was going to have to clean those bricks? But that was for later. First, they had to get rid of the body. And that eye.

One of the shells had a deep-set eye. It rolled wildly and came to rest on the Captain, begging for help. It cried. It was only a piece of Humpty Dumpty, but it cried. Thick gummy tears rolled from the orb. How was it moving?

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Was it—he—the Egg-Man still alive? The Captain felt bile roll up his throat.

By Billy, he’d never eat eggs again. If he had to stand here much longer, he was going to be sick. Where was that miserable—

And finally, there she came! The witch! Even from here the Captain sensed her vileness. Having to deal with Grizelda was just as bad as having that rolling blue eye beg for help. Well, they could have each other now. Let the weird have the weird.

They sent word for Grizelda when the men gave up trying to help the EggMan. It took only minutes to know that nothing would put him back together this time. But that weird eye! They couldn’t bury it—him. So, what to do? Call the trash woman of course. Let magic deal with magic. His men had run as soon as they didn’t fear retaliation. So, whose job was it to wait on her? Deal with her creepy nature? Just guess. Were he a petty man there would be a group of soldiers cleaning the castle wall by cloth and hand tonight, but he understood. No, he wouldn’t punish them. But he would start drinking when he reached town. And the whores had better get ready, for he wouldn’t drink alone this night.

Grizelda’s wagon bobbed and jingled. It was brown and full of splinters. A tin chimney chuffed smoke. Her wheels were split, and their iron bands rusted. Her horse was a nag, plodding with head down. A cloud of flies circled its mangy ears. Grizelda herself was wrapped in a purple cloak stiff with stains. Her hair fluttered and floated like spiderwebs. Her nose was a barbed hook. Loose lips, one blind eye, warts on her hands and yet . . . and

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yet . . . the Captain wondered what was under her robe. It was a bastard kind of attraction, base and sick, like a spell that had long since curdled. He called to her sharply.

“Here it is, wench . . .”

“I see!” She cackled. In the jangling discord of her voice the Captain could believe every wild rumor he ever heard of this witch: that she was ancient, that she ate children, that she could boil potions for any purpose, that she made houses like traps to catch unwary travelers, that she talked to the animals, and so much more.

“And I see it sees you!” Grizelda cackled again. High above, a fat raven cawed with rough laughter.

She brought her wagon to a stop just before a piece of shell humped with a bulbous green coil that looked like intestines.

“Will you help me load it, Captain?”

“Not on your life. Clear these remains. And here. As promised.” He tossed a bag onto her buckboard. It landed with many clinks. She looked at it. A cloudy run of drool fell.

“Oh, my yes, mustn’t forget the pretties.”

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From the folds of her dress a skinny black cat eeled loose. It sniffed the bag, clasped it in its teeth, and pulled it back to shelter.

“I see your disgust, Captain. I see your discomfort. Feel free to go. I understand. Yes, Grizelda understands very well.”

He had begun to back away already. The Captain got a last look at the eye, that rolling puddle of blue and white. Yes, it was begging him for help. He had seen the same look on young men on the battlefield when they knew they were going to die slow and bad and wanted release. But he couldn’t help. That would mean stepping forward. Town—escape—was backwards.

The Captain said no more but left the Egg-Man to the witch.

*

The journey home was faster than the journey to the accident site. Grizelda called the wind she saved from under bird’s wings and flew her wagon along. Her home was still there, still breathing in its weird way, the walls bulging slightly, the roof raising like a vain man’s hairline. She parked her wagon, stabled her horse, and brought the pieces of the fallen Egg-Man inside her home. Now that she was safe and hidden, there was no need to keep up the act. She moved with ease and strength. But it wouldn’t last much longer. Already she was beginning to feel the pull of age again. Her last child-meat had been too long ago. Hopefully, the Egg-Man would provide some sustenance, just enough until she could lure more children back into her maw. Perhaps it was time to try the candy house ruse again.

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Once inside she laid out the remains. The front of each was smooth, more bone than true shell. The backs of the busted and broken pieces contained muscle, sinew, blood, fat—all the tasty pieces.

She saw the eye of course. She could even hear its thoughts. Oh yes, Humpty Dumpty was still alive. Unfortunate for him. The sad bastard. Bad luck had followed him since his cursed birth. There were dozens of ways that she could help him cross over but to do so would rob the flavour.

Grizelda had learned from child-cooking that it was best to put them on the fire still kicking.

She reached for the first piece—the one with the eye—and saw that the Egg-Man knew his fate. A rope of her drool fell in his pupil. He tried to blink it away as she put him in her pan.

*

The smell of his cooking was incredible. Less egg and more meat, like foul or maybe turkey. Grizelda couldn’t wait. She did not let the cooking finish but removed the egg pieces runny and raw from the oven. She barely got them to the table for salting. She ate greedily, smacking, licking, making groans of pleasure enough that none of her familiars would come close. The cat sat in the corner, tail swishing, and yowled occasionally. The raven sat in the rafters and ruffled its feathers. They watched the witch eat Humpty Dumpty and shivered.

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The yellow and red yolk ran to her dirt floor. It ran from her plate, her hands, her mouth. Grizelda gorged herself. She smacked, she chewed, she burped, she ate until her eyes grew heavy. Then she stumbled to her bed and fell asleep with her boots still on.

In her kitchen, the running life yolk of Humpty Dumpty drooled from Grizelda’s table in thick runners. It fell to her dirt floor and seeped into the ground. It found the bones buried beneath her kitchen table and began to coat them . . .

*

While Grizelda slept, two skeletons dug themselves from the dirt floor.

Hansel was the first out of the ground, his sister Gretel second. They pulled themselves from under the table and stood. Dirt rained from their ribs, their hips, from their eye sockets. Gretel cocked her head, then shook it, making a rain of oiled soil. Hansel cracked his knuckles to clear dirt from his joints.

Flowing over them was the thick gold and pink gore of Humpty Dumpty’s life force. It wrapped around their bones, animating the physical forms, but more, it called their personalities from the ether. It called them back, who they were, the children who had been turned out from their homes. As they stood, as their selves came back (it was like waking up, like stretching on a rainy morning), they remembered who had pushed them out of their home.

They remembered who had pushed them into the forest. Their stepmother.

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And their coward father had allowed it for the price of what she kept between her legs. Their guardians had delivered them into circumstance that led to their death. So strong and complete was their fury that Hansel took the first step towards the door, intent on finding his way to home to destroy them. But his sister’s skeleton put out her hand, clasping the hard surface of her brother’s bone. Her voice was an echoing cry. It reverberated around the room.

“Wait, wait, wait . . . There is another to deal with, first, first, first . . .”

She turned the eyeless sockets of her skull towards the bedroom and the snoring form of Grizelda. Hansel nodded. They moved that way, their bones clacking and chattering as they walked, making more unearthly echoes that Humpty Dumpty felt more than heard.

*

Humpty Dumpty was aware of the brother and sister. He knew what they intended to do. The three of them were intertwined now. His life force was bound to their bones. Without him they would fall into a senseless calcium pile—but without them he was just a sludge, an ooze without a body.

What to do?

*

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Whether by chance or design, Grizelda was dreaming of the brother and sister who now approached her. Her lips wiggled in her sleep. Her guts gurgled as she remembered their taste. She was happy—in so much as she was able to be—reliving past joy. Then the reanimate children were upon her.

Hansel hooked his fingers into her eye socket. The points of his finger bones pierced her jelly and locked into place. There was little pain, just an unpleasant sizzling weight. Grizelda opened her other eye and saw the skeletons above her, dirty bone bathed in moonlight. She knew. She was a trader in the dark arts, a woman who had walked on the underside of the world for longer than she could remember, so she knew. She did not waste her breath on a scream because it would do no good. Instead, she kicked out, hoping to catch the smaller one—the girl—and make room to escape.

But Gretel caught her foot and squeezed. Grizelda’s bones cracked and finally she voiced her scream.

Humpty saw the sibling’s plan. They were going to put the witch in the oven where she had cooked them. He contested. The idea was a foul thing. An evil thing! They argued that she had eaten them, it was balance. The trio’s tussle for the witch’s life was made without an audible word.

“She deserves to burn, burn, burn . . .” Gretel said in her dirt-clogged voice.

At her feet Grizelda was trying to crawl away. Hansel reached down and drew her back by the hair.

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“Yes,” Humpty said. “But to take revenge will damn your soul. Do you not want to live again? To truly walk in the light?”

The siblings stared at each other and cackled. Hansel answered in their shared mind.

“How could we? How can we be seen outside? We are fit only for night, for the forest. What good can we do looking as she left us?”

Humpty paused. Hansel continued.

“And if she lives, she is a threat to all who enter the forest. She is no more than a predator.” He lifted Grizelda as Humpty had seen men haul up livestock after slaughter. The witch babbled but no one was listening. She was begging but no one was buying.

“To stop evil is to do good, yes, yes, yes?” Gretel asked.

Humpty had to admit that was so. He did not resist as the siblings drug Grizelda to the oven. He ignored her pleas as they stuffed her inside and engaged the outside lock. They turned the flame high and soon she began to cook. Her screams were mingled with curses.

“Now what would you have us do?” Humpty asked them.

“Home, home, home . . .” Gretel answered and giggled. Inside their shared

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mind, Humpty saw their stepmother and father, saw their intentions, but more, he saw the truth. They hadn’t been thrown out because of her cruelty or lack of food, or even cowardice, they had been thrown out because they were nasty and vile creatures who made that home miserable. At the realisation, Humpty felt them both grin.

It made him angry.

“You had the choice to be good and you chose to turn your back on it! You were given form, beauty, love, and you threw it away. Why? Why?”

No answer in words but a black, formless prickle of hate. Evil. There was no answering such a thing. And there was no choice. Humpty began to pull away from the children. They sensed, they cursed, they tried to hang on, but they had no recourse. Their animation existed because of him. His coloured viscera pulled from their mud-slimed bones. They fell, a last flare of anger sizzling inside them, fireflies caught in their rib-cages.

Humpty’s escape did not take long. Soon he was formless on the ground, a blob, a shapeless thing again. If he had eyes he would have cried. How much he wanted to be human! How much he wanted to walk among men and do good. But how could he?

Humpty Dumpty gave himself a few moments of sadness and then he began to slide along the forest floor. It was unpleasant but nothing would be accomplished if he didn’t move. Perhaps he would come across an animal

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carcass with enough bone to bare his weight.

And then?

He didn’t know. But nothing would happen if he didn’t try. He only knew he was an instrument of Good. That was his heart no matter his form.

He would always try . . . and for that maybe he would get a little help.

He had heard tell of an Old Woman across the river who took in refugees.

She was reputed to be clever and kind, an agent of Good. Rumour said she lived in a shoe. Humpty decided that direction, that hope, was as good a way to go as any other.

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AUTHOR AND ARTIST BIOS AZHLEE AVRO Azhlee Avro (she/her) is a Cornish short story and illustration hobbyist of fiction and fantasy. She enjoys fantastical works of magic, worlds, and mythical characters, creating one-shot D&D campaigns and designing and drawing characters. She loves animated films and her two cats Cloud and Luna. You can find her illustrated works on Instagram @Sprite_Mouse.

JAIDAH-LEIGH WYATT Jaidah-Leigh Wyatt is a Canadian-Jamaican writer, currently studying film in university.

She enjoys anything horror-related (specifically psychological horror) but has also been delving into absurdism and surrealism as of late. Overall she aims to create works that challenge your perspectives and change your views. Whether it be writing, films, or drawing, you can always find her working on something (or so she says). Find her on Twitter @o_ojames

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SAMMI LEIGH MELVILLE Sammi Leigh Melville lives in Harrisburg, PA with her two cats, Charlie and Loren. She is the author of the YA fantasy book, The Fields, writes film reviews for The Burg, and performs longform improv, in an attempt to work storytelling into every aspect of her life (except for the cats. Okay, maybe she tells stories to her cats). You can find her on Twitter @sammileighm

SUZANNA LUNDALE Suzanna Lundale is a lifelong writer and observer of the world who grew up in Phoenix, Arizona, and has made her home in many places since. She is passionate about language, history, travel, dogs, and the loved ones – real and imagined - who form her galaxy. Her dual heritage, Latinx and ScandinavianAmerican, actively informs the complexity of her worldview and fascination with questions of identity and liminal spaces. Suzanna has been featured as a special guest poet in literary magazine The Crow’s Quill and tweets new poetry and fictional vignettes daily as @SuzannaLundale.

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SHELLEY CORCORAN Shelley Corcoran, she/her, has published in Murze issues 11 & 12, A New Ulster Literary Magazine, The York Literary Review 2021, Parentheses Journal, Galway Review 9 Anthology, Tír na nÓg Literary Magazine II & III, Lemon Peel Press, EUPHORIA, Green Ink Poetry, 5, Marble Poetry Magazine, Chasing Shadows Anthology and Longford Live & Local Winter. She has performed her poetry at Cruthu Arts Festival 2021 and 2022, Tír na nÓg poetry night and Written in the Stars (Poetry Day Ireland). She is also compiler for Chasing Shadows Anthology. Instagram: @corcoranshelley

GULLY NOVARO Gully Novaro (They/Them) is a Non-Binary writer from Buenos Aires, Argentina, with love for all things out of this world. Their work aims to explore feelings of dread, solitude and wonder, and has been featured in "Wyrms: An Anthology of Dragon Drabbles", "Well, This is Tense" and the "Dystopian Drabble Showcase, Vol. 2", among others. Find them on Twitter @GullyNovaro

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EMMA WHITEHALL Emma (she/her) is an author, bookseller and introvert from the North East of England. She’s also theForum Books Writer in Residence for 2022. Her YA Steampunk-Crimes-and-Found-Family debut, Clockwork Magpies, is available from Northodox Press.

A former Waterstones bookseller turned indie bookshop champion, Emma writes fun, emotiondriven fantasy, with characters that you’ll want to take for a coffee. Or wrap in a blanket. Or both.

Come say hi at @pensandpizza on Instagram and Twitter!

BETH JONES Beth Jones is an 18-year-old Graphic design student studying at UCW. She is working towards a BA(Hons) in Graphic design and loves working on branding and illustrations. She has always been creative, having a passion for art, photography and design since she was young.

You'd most likely find her curled up with her nose in a good book! You can find her on Instagram @bjj_graphic

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INDRANIL GHOSH Indranil Ghosh (He/Him/His) is a Ph.D. student in applied mathematics from India, currently residing in New Zealand. Highly inspired by Nirvana, Led Zeppelin, and Robert Frost, whenever he is not working, one may find him either reading classic poems or listening to music from the 70s and 80s. He has poems upcoming/published in Aphelion Webzine, Sixpence Society Literary Magazine, and more. His Twitter handle is @indraghosh314.

STEPHANIE MEADOR Stephanie Meador is a recent graduate of the University of Central Arkansas. She earned a B.A. in English and enjoys reading and writing fiction, poetry, and scripts. Her work has been published by 501 Life Magazine, The Vortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art, and Reedsy.

She recently moved to North Carolina and works as a journalist for Greater Fayetteville Business Journal. You can find her on Instagram @stephanie_adele_ and on Twitter @steph_adele11

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DAVINA KAUR Davina is a writer and an English Graduate from the University of Lincoln. Her work has been published in Litgleam, Chapter House, Nymphs Publications and TheEgalitarian. You'll find her researching different True Crimes or Paranormal stories and watching many horror films. One day she hopes to see her book on a Waterstones Bookshelf. Find her on Instagram at @davinaisreading and on Twitter at @DavinaKaur6.

ALICIA FITTON Alicia Fitton is a Manchester based, performance poet writing about love, lies and justified feminist rage, often through a lens of myth and fantasy. Find her on Twitter @alicia_Makes or on Instagram @alicia_makes

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FK MARLOWE FK Marlowe is currently on a mission to earn the title "Queen of Creepy" for her horror stories, but also writes Young Adult fiction about misfits and vampires and wolves (oh my!) Being utterly mercurial she makes no promises about future genres.

Marlowe currently lives in Vancouver with her husband, three daughters and a rescue pup who is systematically destroying the lawn. Marlowe wholly approves of this behaviour.

Follow her on her website www.fkmarlowe.com, Twitter @fkmarlowewrites, or Instagram @f.k.marlowe

PAUL WILSON

Paul Wilson (he/him) lives in a suburban neighborhood much like the one he turned into a horror playground in his novel Hostage. He lives with his wife, kids, and two cats. He has worked a spectacular list of jobs including retail district manager, a 911 operator, and the head of a college security department. You can follow him on Twitter @Storydweller102 or email him at trucalling123@yahoo.com.

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K Y N O A U H T

www.hauntedwordspress.com