ISSN 1757-5419 Issue 23 â€“ January 2014 The Body Bank By Charlotte Johnson Illustrated By Joe Young
Double Ganger By E.B. Hoight
The Passenger By Edward A. Taylor
Angus By Alexander Williamson Illustrated By R. J. Smuin
Equilibrioception Revoked By Adam Millard
Ancestral Sins By Scathe meic Beorh
Squatters By Todd Outcalt Illustrated By Candra Hope
The Dink, the Donk, and the Poo Pile By Douglas J. Ogurek
And Then There Was Only Us By Kenneth Buff
I Know You By Shaun AJ Hamilton
Cover By Jake Giddens - http://jakegiddens.com Proof-read By Sheri White All material contained within the pages of this magazine and associated websites is copyright of Morpheus Tales. All. Rights Reserved. No material contained herein can be copied or otherwise used without the express permission of the copyright holders.
Some time ago, Allison eliminated the need for a walk in, sit down, read an issue of Rue Morgue affair. She bought a closed down local bank and created the first drive-through body bank in the state of Wyoming, 41 miles from the I-25/U.S. 18 junction. While it is open from dusk until dawn, I can expect the majority of business anytime between midnight and four antemeridian. People do not like others knowing what they do at night. This part of the state is brown, from the dusty parking lot to the rundown road that leads to town. Scraggly bushes flank the building. Telephone lines hang limply from their poles. Down the road, a faded yellow sign shaped like an arrow stands crooked in the weeds and has been vandalised to say “Welcome to Lust!” The lights of the all-night diner twinkle in the distance. It is a quarter after one. Two white youths pull up to the teller window in a pickup truck. They are inebriated, and they laugh as they ask for two cheeseburgers and a milkshake. There is an inventory of rubber dildos on hand for fools like them. Allison’s sense of humour. Into the vacuum tube and into their hands. They screech a little and the tires mimic them as they drive off. The dildo flies out of the window and bounces once on the ground. The drive-through is silent for the better part of an hour. Long waits are expected. This is a niche market after all. The next car pulls up; it has a single Hispanic man inside. Long black hair and bogus blue eyes that lock onto their target and stay there. “I want a human heart,” he says. This is one of the humans obsessed with the poetry of the soul leaving the body. One who wishes for a genuine Memento Mori. An overly sentimental desire I am loathe to grant. It is against the rules, however, to deny a customer an organ if they are donors. And he is a donor—the majority of his nose is missing, sitting comfortably in section N. One can assume he has been planning to buy this heart for a while. He waits for me to retrieve it. For reasons of protection, the Body Bank is exclusively drive-through. It also allows space for the expansion of Allison’s collection of parts. A human body is bulkier than paper money and decays much quicker. Also required is room for a state of the art fumigation system, installed to keep the stench at bay. We do have a life support system to keep the parts fresh, but it is not perfect. The turnover time is short in the first place, but there is no avoiding the smell of a dead body once it starts decomposing. The body bank does not use formaldehyde. Many donors dislike how it alters the flesh. Many of our clients are most likely cannibals. To be a cannibal is much more common than one would think. Down aisle 7 to the H section. The first heart in the drawer is one slightly bigger than my fist. I run my thumb over its ribbed slimy surface, pluck it from the tube that keeps it pumping, and slip it into a plastic bag. I stop to wipe my hands, scratch my neck, and go back to the teller window. The aisles will be visited several times tonight, and after years of working at the body bank, one slowly learns to love it. The white-tiled walls, the grey linoleum floors, the buzz of the florescent lights. The chugging tubes of the life-support machine. The sense that the walls are closing in on you as you walk through the rows of filing cabinets. Some of the cabinets are taller than Allison, who is six foot three. Feet are very popular. Donors say they make attractive candle-holders. Feet reside in aisles 1-4. The Body Bank also supplies traditional items, such as organs, as the Hispanic man ordered. I suppose it could be said the Body Bank specializes in traditional items. Organs take up aisles 5-10. There is a separate room—which used to be the bank vault— specifically for hanging skin and storing it. Donors do not disclose what purpose they have for the skin. They think the Body Bank does not care to know, but to be honest, if an employee were not able to stomach the occasional demon offering or body suit, he would have no real purpose working here. 3
What you are about to read is the interview of a little boy who fell prey to his dark twin, the dark twin that resides within us all. I first learned of Noel Marcum in the autumn of 2009, when I accepted the case of the shy six year old from the Juvenile Court of York County, Pennsylvania. In the weeks that followed his confinement I began assembling a profile, not only of a child who is accused of killing, but of a child who is unaware that he has killed at all. I will tell you that in my twenty-six year career as a mental health professional no case has given me more pause than this. During my analysis of Noel I thoroughly searched my archives for any case that could have paralleled his condition. I found none. Most cases of this nature are clear cut, following a distinct formula of abuse and neglect that evolves into a specific behavioural set. Children exposed to drugs intra-uterine, those who suffer physical and mental abuse, those condemned by socio-economic conditions, may display obvious signs of neuro-cognitive damage due to these individual or combined effects. Having a thorough history of psychiatric conditions within the family--ADD, impulsivity, and manic depression, to name a few, is incumbent when attempting a basic understanding of these children who perpetrate violence. However, Noel’s case contains none of this. As a result, the following events have challenged my own understanding of the developmental structure of the mind, those crucial formative years prior to adolescence, and even those ‘in utero.’ The following will be as much a study into the phenomenon known as doppelganger as into the psyche of a deeply troubled boy who did not choose his condition nor choose to loathe a loving and nurturing family. And it is the latter that makes this story all the more tragic and horrifying. dop·pel·gäng·er Variant(s): or dop·pel·gang·er \ˈdä-pəәl-ˌgaŋ-əәr, -ˌgeŋ-, ˌdä-pəәl-ˈ\ Function: noun Etymology: German Doppelgänger, from doppel- double + -gänger goer Date: 1851 -a ghostly counterpart of a living person Merriam-Webster Prior to learning of the specifics of this case, I considered Noel a victim of a mishandled diagnosis. ‘Heautoscopy’, after all, is a reduplicative hallucination of seeing one’s self and a symptom of schizophrenia and epilepsy, conditions diagnosed early on. However, I cannot fault the efforts of Noel’s past clinicians; it was only apparent after the murder that Noel’s doppelganger was real and due to no known medical condition. The doppelganger phenomenon is well documented and largely considered a portent of bad luck if not an omen of death. In 1612, John Donne, an English metaphysical poet, saw a double of his wife in mourning holding an infant child. The same night his daughter was delivered stillborn. English poet Percy Bysshe Shelley reported seeing his ghostly double pointing to the ocean off the coast of Italy. He died soon after while sailing in the Gulf of Spezia. On the night of his presidential election Abraham Lincoln saw his reflection having two faces, one significantly paler than the other. Upon hearing this, his wife believed that if re-elected, he would not live to finish out a second term. One of the most notable accounts dates back to the mid-nineteenth century in present-day Latvia. Emilie Sagee, a young school teacher, her doppelganger would appear to her students while she was instructing class. 4
The Passenger is dedicated to KLT. The undead are many things to many people. In the beginning they were something to be feared and they haunted our nightmares and stalked our childrenâ€™s closets waiting for the dark. Then, slowly, as they became more ubiquitous in our society they were transformed into creatures of humour, and romance, and even those of childrenâ€™s happiness. Tales of monsters from all over the world permeated our society and took root in our collective consciousness until the things we used to fear the most became nothing more than a joke to humanity. Yes, there were some creatures that were so foul and reprehensible that we could still be frightened by them, but I imagine that, given time, they would also slide into the haze of the ridiculous. I believe this is what leads to mankindâ€™s ultimate downfall; when the monsters stopped being scary is when the real terror began.
This is the story of a rock star. No, wait. This is the story of a haunted man. Ummm, ok. This is the story of what happens to a life after the shit has completely hit the fan. On the outside, Angus has it all - looks, money, a complete void where things like responsibility and restraint should be. The man just does what he will and never looks back. Lucky guy, eh? Well, let’s finish the story before we make those kinds of judgments. I guess I might as well tell you that “Angus” is a stage name. You don’t get to know his real name, that’s privileged information. To be honest, even I don’t know his real name. That always kind of bothered me; it made certain things around him difficult to lock down, so to speak. But I digress, I was telling you about Angus’s life. He’s a rock star. Not a superstar, but big enough that he gets to go on tours and play for decent-sized crowds. I drum for him. I guess you could say we’re in a band. Yeah, a band called Angus. Besides us two, the band has a pretty fluid line up, but I’ll get to that later. We move around a lot, always touring. Angus doesn’t have a woman, or even any friends or family. He’s all alone, and for good reason too; the dude’s a prick. If he wasn’t so talented, he would be living in a gutter somewhere. But it’s ok. If you knew what I know, you would let it slide, too. See, Angus is never nice to anyone only because he loves everyone. It’s kind of complicated, but let’s just say that Angus has a couple of secrets. Big ones. The first is that he friggin’ hates moving around and pushing everyone away every day of his messed up life. Let me tell you a little story about the other one. This happened about a year ago. Angus made the mistake of sleeping with the same girl two nights in a row. He even took her to breakfast. Anyways, they just had sex or whatever and the chick is just starting to fall asleep when she hears a tapping at the window. But the weird part is that it sounds like its coming from inside the room. Naturally she’s thinking something like Oh shit! Stalker! So she shakes Angus awake and says: “Did you hear that, baby? Wake up, I think someone is here.” “Shut up, bitch, I’m trying to sleep,” Angus snaps at her. If you knew him like I do, you would hear the desperation in his voice. He knows what’s coming. He knows the only way to stop it is to get her the hell out of his life, pronto. “Why don’t you go find some other shithead’s money to try and steal?” “You want me to go?” the chick asks. The tapping has stopped now, and she figures it was all in her head, just like the sense of breathless anticipation that’s filling up the room. Now, there is something you should know about this girl. She is one of those messed-up pieces of work that just loves getting treated badly by her men. Angus telling her to fuck off like that was a real turn on. So she slides her hand under the covers, snuggles in real close and says: “Do you really want me to leave?” “Right fucking now,” Angus says and he pushes her away. He was about to say something else but the chick had started screaming. She had just felt something lick her ear. Angus starts screaming too, but not out of fear. No, our boy is pissed. He’s yelling at something the girl can’t see yet to leave her alone, to get out of his life. This just freaks her out even more, and she jumps out of bed and turns on a lamp. Except the light ain’t working right. She can see better, but instead of the familiar yellow glow everyone finds so goddamn comforting, the light glows black. And in this fucked-up black light she sees these shapes, dozens of them. Next thing she knows this poor girl has something rough and scaly grabbing at her arm, and something else nibbling her toes and these dark red eyes right up in her face. You seem like a nice person, so I’m not going to go into details about what happened next. But I will say that the last time that girl was seen on this side of the loony bin she was running through a hotel lobby, naked and bleeding and screaming bloody fucking murder. She never could quite manage to say another word in any language that we could understand after that. 6
The sign at the edge of the road, lit partially and somewhat erroneously by the glow of the waxing moon, read Gristhorpe. The trees abutting the road prevented a decent view of anything beyond, but Daniel was almost certain he could hear the ebb and flow of the tide crashing against the shore. He was, by all accounts, upon his destination; the mere thought of locating a bed for the night warmed him, for the chill air and peppering rain had made his journey almost unbearable, and at times, impossible. It was never meant to be like this. Daniel had never anticipated such terrible consequences as a result of his ill-judged thievery. What should have been a simple robbery had turned into a countrywide manhunt. There were, heading deep into the unwary corners of the country, three more assailants, but Daniel had no time to worry about them, nor dwell upon the possibility they had been captured by the law; he was a man alone, and luckily, the man with the money. The bag was impossibly heavy. His hands were raw from carrying it such a long way. He’d been tempted, as any sensible person would have been, to utilise public transport. Any manner of train or hansom might have seen him to his haven in better condition than he now was. And yet he harboured no regrets. The odds of being recognised at the station had been substantial enough to convince him of its pitfalls, thus he had taken to the road – and the dimming night – for his own piece of mind. If he were to somehow get noticed along the way, then so be it, but he hadn’t up to yet, and for that he was eternally grateful. He continued along the slim road, passing the bag painfully from one hand to the other to allay the inevitable blisters. Sounds, hideous noises from creatures of the night, assaulted him on either side, and he found himself nervously staring into the woods as he staggered inexorably onward. Several minutes later the road opened out onto a small village. Daniel allowed the bag to fall to his feet and rubbed the soreness from his hands. What surprised him, as he stood atop the bank gazing down over Gristhorpe, was the lack of light. Certainly it was getting late, for the semicrescent moon was southerly positioned. Daniel had not had the foresight to wear a watch, but he estimated it to be 9 p.m. or thereabouts. So why was this village wholly engulfed by darkness? Surely it wasn’t abandoned – a ghosttown, the likes of which Daniel had read about in various tomes at the library – and left to decay in its own time. Perhaps, the thought struck, it was an industrial village, a place of work and nothing more. Daniel knew of a handful of such places, but none this far north, and certainly not such places that were possessed of a church, whose sublime structure he could just about fathom amongst the minimalist architecture surrounding it. Sighing, he slipped his hand into the loophole of the bag and began to descend the path. Fatigued beyond anything he’d ever felt before, he pushed away the ominous feeling that had washed over him, for it would do no good. He needed to rest, to formulate a plan of action for the following day, and Gristhorpe, despite its obvious lack of light and terrifying countenance, was the only hope he had. Once amongst the buildings, Daniel realised his initial forecast of Gristhorpe was rather wide of the mark. This was not an industrial village, at all. Houses lined the street, numbered doors announcing each home. The path beneath his feet was cobbled. Somewhere in the darkness, a horse whinnied, and upon further investigation Daniel came across a neglected stable. The beasts seemed well enough, though, despite the obvious disdain of their surroundings. He made his way toward the church, which sat proudly in the centre of the village. Still there was no light. Daniel found himself offering assurances to negate his fears, for they crept over him like insects, warning him that something was not quite right. 7
The mailman, who was always kind and accepted even dandelions if they were picked for him, wouldn’t speak to Bernice after he watched her tie her puppy to the fence and ram him with her bicycle tire until his head cracked open. Bernice didn’t understand why she killed him, and she became frightened—but not as frightened as Mother and Father and Uncle Wilhelm and older sister Adriana. “You are evil, Bernice Hathaway!” said Adriana, her complexion white with fury. “How… how could you? I don’t have a sister anymore!”
Riding across the flatlands of his father’s 40,000-acre ranch on the outer planet, Clare Dane circled back through the sagebrush and the scrubby pines toward the spiral of campfire smoke rising on the other side of the creek. The solstice heat from Betelgeuse had claimed all of the water in the valley, dying with the star, and when Clare tipped his horse’s bridle toward the creek bed, he was not surprised to discover that the arid bottoms had dried together like flat pieces of jigsaw puzzle. The threat of a fire on the ranch made his heart race faster than the gallop he had assumed with his horse. His father had been one of the first to homestead the outer planet, and after transporting his horses from Wyoming, had built the ranch with the help of private investors and corporate sponsors whose interests soared far beyond the light years of the old west. There were mineral rights, to be sure, but more than that—an Earth-like terrain and atmosphere that promised future generations ample space and, eventually, enormous wealth. The signal rose up like an exclamation point beyond the trees. Bearing down on the column of smoke, Clare considered how the day had gone. He’d risen early, two hours before sunup, to do his father’s bidding on the “Lower Five”—a long, narrow stretch of five thousand acres filled with dust and dense wilderness. There were fences to mend and steers to count, and he hadn’t ridden across the land in more than two years. But he was twenty now, and since he’d forgone college at Stanford to make the trek across space and time, he was expected to earn his keep on the spread and help make the planet habitable. As he eased his horse through the thicket of scrub pine, Clare began to make out the origin of the fire: a camp that someone had set up in the clearing. Hunters, no doubt. Or, worse—kids who were being careless with matches. His horse plodded on until Clare exited the clearing and found himself face-to-face with a family of four. They were rough-hewn people—the man and woman, both stoutly built—and two children, a Pillsbury boy and a dough-faced girl. Sitting around the morning campfire, Clare could smell their coffee and bacon, and when he rode up, they stood in unison, as if astounded by his entrance. “’Lo,” Clare said, tipping his hat. “Hi,” the man said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I saw your fire,” Clare said. “Just wanted to make sure it didn’t get away from you.” “Been dry,” the woman noted. “Right,” Clare answered. “We could use the rain,” the man said, his face turned up toward the red glow of Betelgeuse as if expecting the blessing at any moment. It was then that Clare noted the small shack on the other side of the clearing: a kind of makeshift home fashioned out of one part logs and another part space galleon and supply tent. The galleon was an old model—sleek and reeking of fusion reactor. But a few felled trees nearby spelled out the story. Squatters. Clare stretched his shoulder blades back and tightened his legs in the stirrups. His hands sweated in the reigns. “Do you know you’re on the Double ‘M’ Ranch?” he asked forcefully. “On the what?” the woman asked, her eyes darting with worry. “You’re on private property,” Clare stated again. “This is a ranch.” The boy—probably all of twelve—was the next to speak. “A ranch?” His accent gave away his crude upbringing and his lack of education. The dirt around his neck and hands further cemented the equation. 9
A woman holding a used menstrual pad stood on a fifteen-foot-high pile of colorful, sparkling excrement. A fence of multicolored coils separated her yard from the next. The girl on the other side of the fence slammed an instrument against it. A “bluh bluh bluh” sound came from behind the girl. Its source was a row of holey ice cream and cookie boxes. Hundreds of brown cubes covered the woman. She used a looping straw to sip from a bottle filled with bright blue liquid. “My husband and I love this. It’s not for kids.” The girl waved the instrument. It was straight in places, curved in others, colorful in some sections, and black and white in others. And it had many holes. The woman found it strange that the girl wore no facial paint. The girl said “vrum vrum” then resumed slamming the fence. The woman had never seen the twastyum used that way; it was a wind instrument. A man appeared above the woman. He sat on the end of an arm that looped and undulated until it met, far in the distance, a looping, undulating pole with many similar arms pivoting around it. The sign atop the pole said “Gettisuff City: All for Children.” Bright colors covered the man’s face. “Ma’am. Please, please. Can I please just have one piece of chieve poo? It’s for my little girl.” The woman stretched an orange piece of poo. It made a cheering sound. She moved the menstrual pad in a circle. “Dink… donk… dink… donk.” The man grimaced upward. A hundred feet above him floated a network of colorful swirls and loops spotted with golden nests. “You dinks… my child will be your boss.” The woman pretended to lick the pad. “I got it.” The large arm swung away, taking the man with it. ### The banging and bluh-bluhing continued. A girl and a man with colorful faces appeared above the woman. They too were on an arm connected to the pole, but they were higher than the previous visitor. The girl wore a hat made of chieve poo and sweated profusely. She manipulated the digital display that covered the man’s massive belly. “Dazzy Buttons, how did Auntie Oodles get all that chieve poo? Why don’t you have that much chieve poo?” The man looked longingly toward a beige, rectangular building within a jumble of swooping and spiraling kaleidoscopic facilities. The sign on the beige building said, “Ew Drinks.” Poo Hat slapped Dazzy Buttons then pointed up at the colorful network and the nests. Dazzy Buttons clasped his hands behind his back and looked up. Poo Hat yelled at the girl banging the fence. “Stop that.” The banging continued. Poo Hat’s sweat dripped onto her pink, puffy outfit. She addressed Dazzy Buttons. “Tonight for dinner Mazzy Levers and you will make cotton candy nuggets and caramel noodles.” “One cannot disagree with that. What if one were to request no more than one cup of coffee before one goes home with one’s daughter?” “You can’t have the ew drink, Dazzy. Coffee’s mucky yucky blucky.” The girl plugged headphones into Dazzy Buttons’s belly button. A man with the brown cube clothing similar to Auntie Oodles’s bounced on a huge ball. He bounced toward them. He bounced high, as high as Dazzy Buttons and Poo Hat. Poo Hat watched cartoons on the digital stomach, while Dazzy Buttons addressed Auntie Oodles below him. “If one were to ask one how one was doing, how would one respond?” She twisted the pad. “I got this on my side.” He tapped the girl’s poo hat. She pushed his hand away then pointed up. Dazzy shouted, “Look at that blue drink your auntie has. It’s blue.” Poo Hat took off her headphones. “Auntie Oodles, give me that drink.” The blue liquid looped up the straw. “It’s not for kids.” Poo Hat wiped sweat. “Everything’s for kids. Give me that drinky, you stinky dinky.” 10
“But this is so good.”
I’m not sure how it started. I know it was me that showed her the portal, but I can’t remember whose idea it was to start killing them. I believe it was hers, but I honestly don’t remember anymore. That’s part of using the portal. You go in too many times and it fries your brain. I couldn’t even pretend to know how many times we’ve gone in. I just know that each time we go back we kill them a new way. That’s one thing I do know. I could lie to you and tell you I didn’t enjoy it, but I did. No woman in the world is kinkier than my Stephanie. Once I showed her the portal, it didn’t take long for her to change the way we dealt with the doubles. Prior to our trips, I had always just waited ’til my double used the portal before exploring the past. That way there would only be one of me. Steph changed that. You wouldn’t believe the shock on their faces the first time they saw us. You wouldn’t believe the pleasure on ours.
I know you. Didn’t you know that? You and your family. Sorry, I didn’t mean to say family. What I meant was, I know you and your mum. Your dad moved away two years ago, didn’t he? Taking your older brother with him. Which isn’t nice. It’s not right that brothers and sisters are separated. Let the parents fight all they want but keep the children out of it, that’s my motto. But at least you still see your brother. Your mum and dad were nice enough to not keep you from each other. And he’s a handsome man, isn’t he? Tall and strong. I bet if he went into acting he could be the next Doctor Who or James Bond. That would be cool, wouldn’t it? I’m sorry? What did you say? How do I know about Simon? I’ve told you: I know you. I know you and your mum. She does yoga down at the Community Centre every Monday and Thursday night. Sometimes with her friend from work, the rest of the time on her own. But she never misses a class. I bet she’s very supple. And I’ve seen you. I’ve seen you lots of times. There are days when it feels like I see you all the time. I’ve seen you in the arcade, giggling with your mum. She buys you your favourite DVDs. What was the last one she bought you? Skyfall? It’s great, isn’t it? You also saw it at the pictures, didn’t you? You must really like it. You certainly looked happy when you walked out of the cinema. Was I there? I, well, I might have been. Who am I? Oh, you don’t know me. You’ve seen me but you don’t know me. I’d like you to know me but it’s difficult. People wouldn’t like it if you and I became friends. You know how people are these days. They see a man innocently chatting to an attractive young girl and a vindictive nobody with too much time on their hands starts spreading unsavoury rumours that ruin a man’s life. Although I will admit, I’ve come close to saying hello. Like when you walk past my front door. Going to and coming home from school with your friends. In your uniforms. Every day. Ha! Obviously not every day. Just Mondays to Fridays. During term time. But I see you when you’re not at school. You live down the street from me so I see you lots of times, walking by. Smiling. Laughing. But not all the time. Sometimes, when you are with your friends, sometimes you are arguing. Which isn’t nice. I don’t like to see you arguing. Because you cry when you argue and that’s horrible for me to see. I hate to see someone I care about so upset. When I see you like that, all I want to do is run out and put my arms around you and tell you everything is – and will be - alright. That not everyone is like your so-called friends. But that wouldn’t be a good idea. If I did that, people would see me. And people who see very quickly become people who talk. Who say things. Nasty things. Things far worse than the stuff your friends said about your boyfriend last Thursday. Yes, I heard that - and there really is no need to be embarrassed. There’s nothing wrong in having a boyfriend at your age. It’s quite natural. I’ve seen you with him, in the park. Holding hands. Kissing. Rubbing his fingers through your soft, sparkling ginger hair. Doing something he called “second base” which seemed to involve him unbuttoning your blouse, which, as you were in such a public place seemed rather disrespectful to me, but such is today’s youth. Oh no, please. There really is no need to be angry. I wasn’t spying on you. I, er, I get around. I like to keep fit so I do a lot of running, especially in the park and it just so happens that you and he were also there that day. It was simply a coincidence. I swear. I’m not like your friends. I don’t lie. I just… observe. Like on Thursday. What was it one of your friends said about your boyfriend during your argument? That he was a “minger” and “batting out of his league?” I have to admit I had to Google that second one. I’m afraid I’m not really conversant with all of your teenage speak. But when I realised she was saying he wasn’t good enough for you, I was happy. Because she’s right: he isn’t good for you. And I know why. Your friend had no right in turning her observation into a personal attack. That was callous and cruel; an act of jealousy. But she is right. You are far too good for that boy. For a start, you’re far too beautiful. Oh, now there’s no need to go so coy. I’m just telling you the truth: you are far prettier than any of your friends. They look ordinary next to you. Oh, look at you, with you cute little cheeks going all red. Your freckles look like hundreds of tiny fairy lights. That’s so sweet. So delightful. But it’s true. 12
The twenty third issue preview of the UK's most controversial weird fiction magazine! Featuring: The Body Bank By Charlotte Johnson Illustra...
Published on Dec 30, 2013
The twenty third issue preview of the UK's most controversial weird fiction magazine! Featuring: The Body Bank By Charlotte Johnson Illustra...