
The Fire Within – A Chilling Tale of Revenge and Power by Jeff Enos
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Published
3 weeks agoon
By
Jim PhoenixThe Fire Within
By Jeff Enos
Mrs. DeVos called Sol up to the front desk as the last bell for the school day rang at East Elm Middle School. The class shuffled out, leaving them alone together.
Mrs. DeVos was the new English substitute teacher while their regular teacher was out on maternity leave. She had long, pitch-black hair and a mountain of necklaces and bracelets that jingled every time she moved.
Sol nervously gripped his backpack straps and walked up to the front desk.
âThat boy has been bothering you again,â Mrs. DeVos said knowingly. âEast Elm has had many bullies over the years, but Billy Hunter and his crew give new meaning to the word. Isnât there anyone you can play with at lunch? Someone to defend you?â Mrs. DeVos asked.
Sol had heard the same thing from his own mother quite often. They meant well, but all it did was make him feel bad, like he was the problem, like he was the freak for preferring the company of a good book over the other kids, like it was his fault heâd been picked on.
âIââ Sol started, but Mrs. DeVos cut him off gently.
âItâs fine. I just want to make sure youâre okay.â
âYes, maâam,â Sol said.
Mrs. DeVos twirled the mound of necklaces around her neck, contemplating her next words. âHalloween is coming up. Are you dressing up?â
Solâs eyes brightened. Halloween was his favorite time of year. âYes, Iâm going as Pennywise.â
âPennywise?â
âThe clown from It, the Stephen King story.â
Mrs. DeVos raised an eyebrow in surprise. âYouâve read that book?â
âYes, Iâve read all of his books. It is my favorite.â
Of course it was, Mrs. DeVosâs expression seemed to say. The middle school protagonists, the small town, the bulliesâthere was a lot that Sol could relate to in It.
âDo you like to carve pumpkins for Halloween?â Mrs. DeVos asked.
Sol nodded enthusiastically. In fact, it was one of his favorite things about the holiday. Every year, heâd spend hours carefully carving his pumpkin, making sure every detail was just right. In years past, heâd made a Michael Myers pumpkin, a Freddy Krueger pumpkin, a Pennywise pumpkin. With Halloween just two days away, heâd decided this year on Frankensteinâs monster.
A mischievous grin crept across Mrs. DeVosâs face. She reached under her desk and pulled out a large pumpkin, placing it on the desk. âI have an extra one from my garden that needs a home. Take it for me?â
The pumpkin was perfectly round and orange, with sections of shiny ribbed skin that seemed to hypnotize Sol. It was as if the pumpkin were whispering to him, pleading with him to carve away. Sol took the pumpkin graciously, screaming with excitement inside. He couldnât wait to get started on it.
âUse it wisely,â Mrs. DeVos said, watching Sol intently, smirking, and adding, âAnd donât let those boys bother you anymore. Promise?â
Sol nodded, said goodbye, and left, making his way across the parking lot to his momâs car. He got in and set the pumpkin on his lap. His mom was a little surprised by the gift, but grateful that she didnât have to buy a pumpkin this year.
As they drove home, Sol wondered about Mrs. DeVosâs curious last words: use it wisely. Sol had been so excited that he had barely thought about it. But now, as he sat there, he realized it was an odd thing to say about a simple pumpkin.
It was 5:30 p.m. when Solâs parents finally left for their weekly Friday night date night. The house was quiet and empty, just the way Sol liked it.
His homework done for the weekend, Sol started in on the pumpkin. He lined up his carving instruments like surgical tools on the old wooden kitchen table.
First, he carved a lid on the pumpkin and hollowed out the guts and seeds inside. Heâd already decided on the Frankenstein pattern he was going to use days ago; now he taped it to the front of the pumpkin and got to work, poking small holes into the pattern with the pointy orange tool. The pattern transferred to the pumpkin perfectly, looking like a game of connect-the-dots.
Sol started in on the face, each cut slow and precise, each one more delicate than the next.
Outside the kitchen window, the sun set behind the woods, giving the trees a fiery glow that soon dissolved into darkness.
Two hours later, and with aching wrists, hands, and fingers, Sol made the last cut. He dropped his knife, got a tea candle from the hall cupboard, placed it inside the pumpkin, and lit it. With a satisfied smile, he secured the lid in place and admired his work, watching as Frankensteinâs monster flickered in the candlelight.
It was one of his best creations. But there was something off about it, something Sol couldnât quite put his finger on. The pumpkin had a commanding presence to it, an aura that made Sol uneasy.
Mrs. DeVosâs comment kept swirling through his head: use it wisely.
And then something extraordinary happenedâthe pumpkin seemed to take on a life of its own. The small flame inside expanded, engulfing the pumpkin in a sinister blaze. The orange skin began to sweat, and the Frankensteinâs monster pattern melted away, slowly morphing into a classic jack-oâ-lantern pattern, a sinister grin with pointed angry eyebrows and more teeth in its mouth than seemed possible.
Then the table vibrated violently underneath the pumpkin, and the wood that was once an ordinary table slowly transformed into an eight-foot-tall body with bark-like skin, each wooden fiber crackling into place under the jack-oâ-lantern head. Small cracks in the bark revealed something underneath, tiny flickers of dark movement, like hundreds of colonies of bugs lived inside the creatureâs skin.
Sol felt numb, unable to conjure up a single word or thought.
The creature spoke, a voice deeper than the Grand Canyon, and the words seemed to vibrate off the kitchen walls. The fire flickered inside its head as it spoke. âWhat is the name of your tormentor?â it asked.
âM-my tormentor?â Sol whispered, wiping the sweat from his brow, looking up at the giant creature. He could feel his heartbeat in every vein and artery in his body.
âYes,â the creature said. âThe one who fills your days with grief. The one who taunts you.â
The answer to the question was simple, but Sol couldnât speak. It was as if his brain had shut off, all energy diverted to his body, his bones, his muscles. Sol tensed his jaw, readying himself to run past the creature to the front door, to the neighborâs house for help, to anywhere but here.
But something stopped him. It was a voice deep inside him, a voice that calmed him. It was Mrs. DeVosâs voice, three whispered words that diminished Solâs fear: âUse it wisely.â
Sol felt his body relax. âBilly Hunter,â he said.
The creature nodded and disappeared in a burst of flames. In the same instant, Sol fainted and fell to the floor.
When Sol opened his eyes, he was surprised to find himself standing in a small closet. It was dark except for an orange glow that shined against the white closet doors. Sol looked behind him, the glow following his field of vision.
Sol realized he wasnât in his own closet when he saw the grungy clothes on the hangers and a box of baseball trophies on the top shelf. Sol caught his reflection in one of the trophies and nearly screamed. Staring back at him was the jack-oâ-lantern creature.
Sol looked down and saw the wooden body, realizing that it was himâhe was the creature now, somehow.
A muffled voice from outside the closet spoke in one or two-word sentences. Through the cracks in the closet door blinds, Sol saw a boyâs bedroom. In the corner of the room, a boy sat at a desk with his back to Sol, hunched over his work, mumbling to himself as he scribbled.
âStupid!â the boy said to himself.
Solâs stomach turned as he realized who it was. It was Billy. No one else Sol knew could sound that enraged, that hateful.
Sol could feel the flames on his face flickering to the rhythm of his increasing heartbeat. All Sol wanted to do was go home. He didnât want to be reminded of how Billy had made his school life torture, of how every day for the past few months heâd dreaded going to school, of how fear had seemed to take over his life.
Again, Mrs. DeVosâs words crept into Solâs mind: use it wisely. And standing there, in the body of a terrifying jack-oâ-lantern creature, Sol finally understood.
With a firm and confident hand, Sol opened the closet door and crept into the bedroom, stopping inches from Billyâs chair.
Billy was drawing Pennywise the clown, the Tim Curry version from the TV mini-series. Sol stopped, admiring the detail. It was good, like it could be on the cover of a comic book.
On the deskâs top shelf was a row of books, all by Stephen King: The Shining, It, The Dead Zone, Salemâs Lot.
Sol felt a deep pang in his stomach (if he even had one in this form), like he might be sick. He felt betrayed. In another life, he and Billy could have been friends. Instead, Billy had been a bully. Instead, Billy had done everything in his power to make Solâs life a living hell. Why?
âYou like Stephen King?â Sol asked. The words came out defeated, confused, but all Billy heard was the voice of a monster behind him.
Billy jumped out of his chair and turned around to face Sol, terror in his eyes. A fresh stream of urine slid down Billyâs pants and trickled onto the floor.
Solâs feelings of hurt and betrayal soon turned into anger, disgust. Sol gave in to the jack-oâ-lantern creature, the line that separated them dissolving. The flames on his head pulsed brighter, erupting into a small explosion that singed Billyâs hair and sent him flying across the room.
Billy screamed. Sol drank from the sound, the vibrations feeding him, strengthening him.
Billy ran for the door, but Sol got there first, blocking his way. Sol touched the door, and with his touch, a wild garden of vines grew up and out of every corner of the door frame. The vines grew and grew until they covered the whole door, and then, like watching a movie on fast forward, they began to rot and decay, turning black. The decay morphed into pools of shimmering black liquid, which quickly condensed and hardened into black stone, sealing the door shut.
Billy ran again, this time hiding under his bed. But there was no hiding from Sol, not anymore. Sol bent and reached under the bed with one wooden hand, his hand growing extra branches until it reached Billy and encircled him in its grip.
Sol dragged Billy out from under the bed and held him up high by his shirt. The fear in Billyâs eyes fed Sol, nourishing his wooden body, the insects underneath his skin, the flames inside his face.
Billyâs shirt ripped, and he fell to the ground. Snap!âthe sound of a broken arm. Billy screamed and got up, holding his arm and limping to the door. He tried to push the door open, but as soon as he touched the black stone, it froze him in place.
ââYour hair is winter fire,ââ Sol said, reciting the poem from his favorite Stephen King novel, It. Another explosion burst from Solâs jack-oâ-lantern head; this time, a ball of fire shot out directly at Billy, erupting Billyâs hair in flames.
âSay the next part,â Sol demanded.
ââJanuary embers,ââ Billy whispered, tears and soot strolling down his face.
Sol squeezed his fists so tight that his barked skin cracked open in small fissures all over his body. Hundreds of colonies of cockroaches and spiders escaped through the cracks and crawled their way down Solâs body, onto the floor, and onto Billy.
Happiness wasnât an emotion that Sol felt very often. He was a melancholy, anxious kid most of the time. But as the bugs covered Billyâs body in a layer so thick that only small patches of skin were visible, happiness was the only thing Sol could feel. Happiness morphed into pure hypnotic bliss as the bugs charged their way down Billyâs throat and choked him to death.
Billy deserved to be punished, that much was certain. But how much was too much? How much was Sol willing to watch before he tried to overpower the jack-oâ-lantern creature and take full control? Until there was nothing left but blood and bone? How much of a role had he played in this? Was he simply an onlooker, or an active participant? Even Sol wasnât completely sure.
But there was a power within him, that much was certain. A power that made him feel like he could take on the world. Sol figured that this was how Billy must have felt all those times heâd tortured him at school, otherwise why would he do it? As Sol watched Billy choke to death, all he could think about was the torture Billy had put him through at school. And in his rage, Sol did something unforgivable. He blew a violent stream of flames onto Billy, and this time, Billyâs whole body caught fire and burned.
Sol felt Billy die, felt Billy take his last breath, felt Billyâs body as it slowly went limp.
Sol watched hypnotically as the flames finally died and all that remained was a darkened, charred corpse, still frozen in place by the black door. The bugs crawled off of Billy and back onto Sol, returning to their home under the fissures in Solâs skin, carrying Billyâs soul with them.
ââMy heart burns there, too,ââ Sol said.
Solâs tormentor was gone, and he felt more at peace than heâd ever felt in his life.
A sudden flash of light blanketed Solâs vision, and with it, a change of location. He was back in his kitchen, and back in his own body, and standing in front of him was the jack-oâ-lantern creature.
âDoes this satisfy you?â the creature asked, looking down at Sol.
It was a question Sol knew the answer to, but didnât want to admit, let alone say it out loud. Yes, he was satisfied. His tormentor had been brutally punished and would never bother him again.
Sol nodded his head slowly, shamefully.
âGood,â the creature said, grinning. âDo you have another tormentor?â
Another? Sol thought about it. Was there anyone else who deserved such a fate? One of the other guys from Billyâs crew? Sol didnât even know their names.
The idea was tempting. If he wanted to, he could get rid of everyone whoâd ever picked on him. He could reshape the whole school cohort into whatever he wanted, make the school a paradise for the weirdos, the freaks, the unlucky kids.
But what would Mrs. DeVos think? She had entrusted him with the pumpkin, had instructed him to use it wisely. What would she think if he abused it?
âNo,â Sol said.
âVery well,â the creature said, and quickly morphed back into the table that it once was, with the pumpkin sitting on top of it, now fully intact, as if Sol had never even carved it.
It was as if nothing had happened, as if it had all been in Solâs head. But he knew it hadnât been. He knew what heâd seen, what heâd felt⊠what heâd done. It was all too much for him to process, and he ran into the bathroom and barfed into the toilet for the next twenty minutes straight.
The following Monday at school, everyone was talking about the mystery surrounding Billyâs death. Was it some kind of freak accident? A serial killer? Were the parents involved?
Sol ate his lunch that day in peace.
Later, when the last bell rang in Mrs. DeVosâs class, Sol waited behind for the other students to depart before approaching her.
Sol walked to Mrs. DeVosâs desk and unzipped his backpack, removing the pumpkin. âI think you should take this,â Sol said, handing it to Mrs. DeVos.
âAre you sure?â Mrs. DeVos asked. She wore a thin smile, slightly curled. âThere may be other Billyâs down the road, you know. And thereâs still high school to think about.â
Sol nodded. âIâm sure. Give it to the next kid who needs it.â
Mrs. DeVos glided her palm across the pumpkinâs flesh. âThatâs very generous of you.â
Sol turned to go, but stopped himself in the middle of the doorway for one last question. âMrs. DeVos?â he asked.
âYes?â
Sol tapped the doorframe nervously. âWhere did it come from?â
âAre you sure you want to know?â
Sol thought about it for a second. Did he? Could he handle the truth? He reconsidered, shaking his head no.
âVery well, then. Iâll see you in class tomorrow,â Mrs. DeVos said, smiling.
Sol left.
Mrs. DeVosâs smile quickly morphed into a devious grin as she looked at the pumpkin. She took a large butcher knife out of her desk drawer and stabbed the pumpkin. A young boyâs screams could be faintly heard from within.
The pumpkin collapsed like a deflated basketball, sagging into a mound of thick orange skin. Blood as red as sunset spilled out of the puncture wound, along with chunks of swollen blood-filled pumpkin seeds.
Before the gore could spill out onto the desk, Mrs. DeVos plugged the wound with her mouth, sucking it until there was nothing left. She chewed the bloody orange flesh into tiny bits until it was all gone.
Her lips smacked as she took the last bite. âBilly, you are a naughty boy,â she said, cackling.
That night, Mrs. DeVos went to bed well-fed. It would be three more months before she needed another one, but she already had her eyes set on a real thick number in the next district over, a ten-year-old nightmare of a kid who bullied the students as well as the teachers. Sheâd need a big pumpkin for this one.
The next morning, as she watered her garden, Mrs. DeVos came upon the perfect pumpkin. It was hidden behind the vines, but there was no mistaking its beauty, its size. It would be ready in three monthsâ time, just as she would be gearing up to befriend the next Sol, the next kid who needed her help to find the fire within.
The End.
Real skull. Don't ask. You wouldn't believe it if I told you.

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Familiar Faces – A Chilling Tale of Predatory Transformation by Tinamarie Cox
Published
8 hours agoon
February 6, 2025By
Jim PhoenixFamiliar Faces
By Tinamarie Cox
For the past three months, Maggie had planted herself on the same bench in the northwestern quadrant of Central Park at six a.m. every morning. Placed beside her were always a brown paper bag and a paper coffee cup, both clean and empty. She did not require food and drink in the same manner as humans but needed to keep up appearances and maintain the illusion. Sitting here like this, Maggie appeared to be like any other New Yorker enjoying the cooler hours of the early summer mornings and a deli-bought breakfast.
As the joggers on the Great Hill Track passed by, Maggie studied their skin. She looked each perspiring body up and down carefully, determining collagen levels and the elasticity of their dermal layers. There was a wide range in age, but younger was preferred. She favored flesh in its prime and in good health. The better condition of the hide meant the tissues would last longer. More time for enjoyment and less time spent hunting.
Maggie, the name that had belonged to the skin she was currently in, had given her a long and pleasurable five years. But her stolen flesh had begun to pucker as of late, thinning and loosening, and starting to droop on its harsh frame. It was time for a change in coverings. Maggieâs delicate apricot coating was nearly spent.
New York City was the perfect place to acquire new skins. Becoming someone new and blending in was effortless in the twenty-first century. There were millions of hosts to choose from and all in different colors. The variety drew her, and the ease of attaining a human casing kept her lingering. A hundred years of stalking and acquisition in this city, and she hadnât felt any exigency to leave it. One person missing out of millions was a drop of water in Earthâs ocean. She drew no suspicions.
Time had only made the process simpler for Maggie.
Naturally, her skills improved as she moved from body to body. She had made mistakes in the beginning. Been too violent with the first few when she should have been more clever. She hadnât expected such a mess. Hadnât known there was so much blood and viscera inside a human body.
But she had been so eager to try. So excited to keep going. To test her limits. Go beyond what she had once thought she was capable of.
Practice made perfect. Switching bodies became seamless.
And there were other factors, too, that allowed Maggie an inconspicuous lifestyle. Population growth was major, inevitable with the humansâ devotion to sexual pleasure. Humans seemed challenged when it came to controlling their desires, much less their reproductive abilities. She felt it was the greatest disadvantage of the species. To be so tightly bound to sex and rearing the inevitable offspring.
She couldnât consider using a human during their infancy or adolescent years. Children were too helpless. Despite the soft suppleness of their skin, being commanded by another adult was unappealing. Maggie was fully grown and had left her nest ages ago.
The way society chose to isolate itself behind its technology also benefited Maggie. Whatever flashed on their handheld screens determined the next fad and the newest trend, which consumed their attention. It seemed humans could not be without their electronic devices, as if they were an extension of themselves. An enthusiastically consumed distraction from the realities of the drudgery of the human world.
Maggie had spent the last several weeks on her perch in Central Park keeping up to date on the latest social interests by watching TikTok videos on her cell phone. Many of the clips were centered around humorous topics, which she hated to admit she found entertaining. And some of the video creators poured their life stories and struggles into the camera for the whole world to see. Maggie liked these videos best. She adopted the histories and backgrounds of the TikTok users for the real-life conversations she participated in.
With the recorded stories committed to memory, she could stir up feelings of pity, compassion, or even lust in her listener. Their emotional responses made her feel more human. Continued the deception. Ultimately, it distracted her conversation partner from asking other, more troublesome questions. Like why the alcohol they were drinking wasnât making her tipsy.
Maggie toggled between the app and observed the passing joggers. She stealthily snapped pictures of potential skin donors for later deliberation. She had noted their schedules and made her friendly face visible during their routines. She looked up, met their gaze, smiled, and angled her head cordially. Every few minutes, she reached into the paper bag standing upright by her lap and brought an empty fist to her mouth, pretending to eat breakfast and drink coffee.
Some mornings, sheâd daydream about the first days in a fresh costume, how silky and soft the flesh was. She liked to run fingers along the new skin, feel how well it hugged the bones. The sensation made the human lungs feel heavy, the heart race, and the mouth water.
No part of her donor went to waste.
Once fitted into a new disguise and acclimated to its nervous system, the previous host served as a first meal. Consciousness didnât return to the shell. The brain was ruined by her invading connectors and the gray matter disintegrated with the disentanglement. Like pulling a weed out of the ground after it had infiltrated and rooted deep into a garden bed.
The defunct flesh made an exponential shift into the decomposition process after being evacuated. Technically, the carcass had started decaying the moment it was put on. Be it delayed or negligible so long as the body’s systems remained minimally active.
The putrid smell that accompanied a rotting body drew attention. Evidence caused questions and investigation. And even this creature had to eat sometimes. Of all the mammals, the taste of human was second to none. Without a doubt, human surpassed in flavor compared to her littermates.
On other observation days, Maggie thought about the instances when young, hormone-driven bodies ensnared her in conversation with the single goal of engaging in mating rituals. She found these human practices amusing, not sharing the same desire or need for such companionship.
Coupled bodies pounding genital areas, sharing fluids, and flesh becoming hot and sticky from the exertion was overall, unappealing. However, Maggie learned the importance and the rules of these games during her adventures among the humans. Though, she did not gain the same level of satisfaction from sexual acts.
Her top priority was to remain innocuous. She paid no favor to a particular gender. Or lack thereof. She appreciated the modern sense of fluidity between sexes. The notions of male and female and fulfilling sexual needs had changed greatly in the last hundred years she had spent amidst people. She had learned that bodies fit together in multiple ways. And Maggie knew how to please any partner no matter the skin she wore.
She had gotten better at determining if a mate would become too attached and return to her with more serious intentions. Relationships complicated her lifestyle. Partners asked too many questions and wanted to be involved with everything. She could not explain to a human how slowly rotting, sagging flesh walked amongst the population. Being solitary and independent was required.
Maggie preferred to migrate across the boroughs only when necessary, like when she adopted a new disguise. Previous acquaintances noticed the change. Memories and personality were lost when she implanted herself. But after a few hours of investigating the old life, she knew who needed a goodbye to be satisfied. And which places not to haunt. These lessons had been learned the hard way at the beginning.
It wasnât difficult to find a new apartment when she needed one. Some neighbors were nosier than others. Maggie didnât have much on hand to pack and move. She kept enough belongings to make an apartment look lived in. And the keepsakes she was genuinely fond of remained in a storage unit.
She learned to save certain items after discovering antique shops. Some humans were willing to pay puzzling sums of money for old things that no longer served anything more than an aesthetic purpose. A lengthy existence inhabiting many lives had allowed her to accumulate a monetary cushion.
As the freshness of Maggieâs skin wore out, she felt like antiquity. Something shabby and spent, and only admired as what it used to be. The lingering memory of something gone and nearly forgotten. A word on the tip of your tongue. She didnât like to feel as though she was fading.
Each morning, she studied the creases deepening on her hands and around her eyes. She pulled at the lines circling her throat. It took more effort to keep her mouth from frowning. She found her reflection off-putting. It hadnât surprised Maggie why flirtations and pleasure seekers had decreased over the last several weeks. Her body looked disgusting.
Humans were shallow creatures. Wrinkling and dulling skin combined with thinning and lifeless hair was unattractive and deterred their mating drive. And it was this decrease in attention that brought Maggie a sense of urgency to find replacement tissue. She had grown to enjoy being noticed for her beauty and sexual appeal. But adamantly denied she possessed human vanity. She just wanted to feel good about herself. There wasnât much else to her drive.
Beautiful skin made Maggie feel powerful.
Maggie was eyeing male flesh for this hunt. The last twenty years had been spent in female coverings. Before that, her costumes were alternated between the sexes. When IT first began acquiring human skins in New York City, it had sought males exclusively. Back in those early days, you had to be male to do what you wanted. No one questioned a manâs late hours or odd habits. A hundred years agoâ when IT had still been something crawling and slithering and observing the human species in the shadowsâ it seemed a woman was more of a thing than a person. And IT had been tired of being a thing.
Before IT was Maggie, there was Ananda, and before her was Shyla. She only remembered Molly because of how short a time her skin had lasted, a mere year. She had judged Mollyâs skin all wrong, or rather, it had deceived her. A century of lives and dozens of names had blended together in parts. What IT had originally been called escaped its memory. The point was to experience life, not remember the vehicle.
Christopher passed her bench for a fourth time that morning. Maggie gave her next potential covering a small smile. He had finally taken notice of her earlier in the week, stealing brief glances at her during each of his eight daily laps around the loop. He looked young enough for her predilection, and in satisfactory health.
She loved the way his tanned epidermis stretched over his pronounced cheekbones. How taut it was across his firm abdominal cavity. And how the flesh around his defined biceps glistened with perspiration in the morning sunlight. He was a fine human specimen. She was fairly certain Christopher was the one.
Her hearts synced into a quick rhythm with her sudden excitement. She fidgeted on the bench as she envisioned slipping into new skin. Shedding this expired hull and feeling the brief freedom from a bodyâs weight. Severing the aged links that bound her to a moribund marionette. She licked her lips as she thought about making a satisfying meal out of this faithful body she was currently in.
Maggie wanted to wear the Christopher costume as soon as possible. She imagined the strength in his well-maintained and robust body. What the ripples in his muscles must feel like when his feet pounded against the asphalt during his run. How easily she would be able to command adoration with his coy smile. The way lovers would worship the powerful way sheâd use his hips.
Decision finalized, Maggie hid her phone away in the back pocket of her shorts. She put the unused coffee cup in the empty brown bag and crumpled them together for the trash can. The wait for Christopher to make his next lap was almost too long. She leaned forward on her bench, staring down the jogging path. Eyes only for him as others passed her by.
When Christopher returned to view, Maggie grinned and angled her head at him. She shifted on her perch, impatient for him to meet her gaze. When their eyes locked, Maggie felt her nerve endings pulse and the human heart lurch. This level of anticipation was better than sex. The barbs holding her inside Maggie tingled.
It was time to seize the moment.
She gave him a little wave with a shaky hand. Then, she patted the place on the bench beside her that was vacated by the fake breakfast.
Christopher slowed his pace, his interest engaged, and paused his morning jogging routine through Central Park to speak to a familiar face. He sat beside Maggie, his mouth open and catching his breath, and rested his arm along the top of the bench.
âFinished your breakfast fast today?â He stretched his long legs out in front of him and Maggie traced them with her eyes.
âI have a confession to make,â she began, flapping her eyelashes at him.
âDo tell.â
He leaned in closer and she could smell the salty trails of sweat dripping down his perfect skin and mixing with his pheromones. He was easily hooked. His scent made her mouth water. Made her buzz inside Maggie. He was a fine choice.
âI was too nervous to eat it this morning. I was hoping to meet you more formally today.â Maggie pressed her pink lips into a crooked smile and raised one of her shoulders aiming to convey shyness in her flirtation.
She formulated a new plan. The details arrived like lightning in her head. Sheâd do things a little differently this time. Sheâd play all her cards right and take him to bed first. Part of her ached to feel him inside this body before putting him on. She didnât understand where the urge had come from, but she decided to obey it.
What was the point of living if not for a few indulgences here and there? Experiment once in a while? Evolve the methods? A hundred years of slipping from body to body needed to stay interesting.
She wasnât becoming more human.
IT could never be human.
âWell,â he held out his hand to her, âIâm Christopher. Itâs nice to meet youâŠ?â
âYou can call me Maggie,â she answered and accepted his handshake. His skin felt better than she imagined. A wave of delight coursed through her. A wide grin crept across her face.
Christopher was hers for the taking.
Predator and prey were united at last.
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Womb, Revisited: a Graveside Poem by Jennifer Weigel
Published
5 days agoon
February 2, 2025Here’s a graveside pantoum poem from Jennifer Weigel…
The earth enfolds me in her embrace.
I can smell the dirt and water and decay.
This homecoming is a welcome change.
I am wholly surrounded by teeming life.
I can smell the dirt and water and decay.
All smells of mold, mushrooms, and musk.
I am wholly surrounded by teeming life.
Microscopic organisms abound all around.
All smells of mold, mushrooms, and musk.
This is both comforting and disconcerting.
Microscopic organisms abound all around.
I am becoming one with their still energy.
This is both comforting and disconcerting.
For it is the natural progression of things.
I am becoming one with their still energy.
Here within my grave, I shall rot away.
For it is the natural progression of things.
This homecoming is a welcome change.
Here within my grave, I shall rot away.
The earth enfolds me in her embrace.
Ok so that graveside poem was maybe a little more in than out, but whatever. We all go back to the Earth Mother eventually… đ
Here are a couple more posts of graveside photography: Part 1 and Part 2⊠and another poem + photo combo. And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigelâs work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
Original Creations
Arctic Horror – A Chilling Tale of Survival and Terror by Nicole L. Duffeck
Published
1 week agoon
January 30, 2025By
Jim PhoenixArctic Horror
By Nicole L. Duffeck
âArliiiii.â The figure before him groaned. âArliiiii.â Jung Kook could have sworn it was his own voice, echoing back at him, but that was impossible. The wind all but stole your voice before it had a chance of reaching your companion standing mere feet from you.
Jung stopped short, conflicted between being euphoric over finding Arli and confused at this sudden development. âArli? Whatâs going on? Are you ok?â Jung asked, his words coming out in a jumbled rush.
âArliiiii?â The thing before him mimicked the question.
Some primal part of Jungâs brain took over before the conscious part of his mind could make sense of what his body was doing. Before he knew it, he was running for the habitat door. Behind him, he could hear a shuffling as the thing followed him, its breath seeming to rattle in its chest.
Fourteen hours earlier
Thereâs a certain horror in not knowing what comes next: When youâll get your next meal, your next breath of fresh air, the next time youâll feel the sun on your face, the next time youâll feel someone embrace you. That was the downside to any Arctic expedition: the instant insanity of endless night, of deadly cold, of breaths that turned lungs to ice, the isolation of snow and silence, the strain of ears to catch a sound other than the omnipresent howl of wind and scouring ice.
That night (or was it day? It was impossible to tell when the body and brain were in a perpetual state of darkness) there was a sound, or maybe the memory of a sound. A soft keening, moaning sound that could have been the wind or a wounded animal or any number of things. Whatever the source, it set Jung Kookâs nerves on edge, shredding his sanity in nearly imperceptible increments.
Wondering if he was finally succumbing to the white madness, he poked his head out of the thermal blankets and looked at the digital clock on his bedside table. The red lights displayed that it was nearly seven in the morning; time to get up and perform the morning systems check. There was at least that: the comforting routine of checking the weather measuring instruments, the environmental systems that kept him and the other scientists alive in a climate that was hellbent on killing any living creature that hadnât evolved to exist there over the course of several millennia. As it was, Jung was the only living human at the Z-037 outpost, the others having left four days prior to beat the storm; the same storm that was preventing the relief team from coming in. Jung had stayed behind to ensure the continual running of the research station and, if he were honest, to hang onto the gossamer-thin hope that Arli was alive somewhere, out there, in one of the outbuildings and had just had to ride out the storm. The logical, scientific part of him knew that wasnât possible; that Arli had fallen into a glacial crevice or succumbed to the elements after having gotten turned around in one of the many whiteouts that would hit with little to no notice.
More than likely, the sounds he was hearing were a combination of guilt, hope, and despair manifesting in the form of the white madness. Regardless, Jung kicked his feet out of bed, heedless of the thermal blanket he had been wrapped in falling to the floor. The ambient temperature of the habitat was still uncomfortably low since the inhabitants werenât expected to be out of bed for another fifteen minutes. Resources were scarce out here, making rationing and frugality a matter of life and death.
Jung donned his heaviest sweater, hat, winter outer pants, and opened the door to his quarters. The first thing he noticed was the oppressive silence of the module he had been calling home for the past three months. Having only been alone for four days, he hadnât grown fully accustomed to there being no other signs of life. Even if all the other personnel were sleeping, there were still the sounds of snoring, breathing, talking in their sleep, or simply absorbing the cacophonous stillness. The suddenness of the Z-037 bringing itself into day mode made Jung jump. The lights came on to their full brightness, the HVAC turned up a few levels bringing it from a low white noise to a full hum and, most importantly, the coffee machine began brewing.
Jung made his way to the kitchen and took a few sips of too-hot coffee before moving on to the brain of the hub. The control room was insulated between four walls of thick steel and kept environmentally stable with its own climate control, powered by its own solar panels and backup generator. Jung took his time checking the instrumental readings, the surveillance footage, and the habitatâs artificial intelligence. Everything was running as it should, but Jung was reluctant to leave the control room; there was something comforting in being in front of screens, even if all they were doing was showing him the vast, white expanse of the snowfields, unbroken only by the UNâs outbuildings, a few snow machines, and an all-terrain utility vehicle.
The silence and unbroken view lulled Jung into a sort of waking torpor, his mind wandering to Arli and the last time they had seen each other. They had been arguing about what Jung couldnât rememberâthatâs how trivial it had been. Arli had gone against the weather recommendations and stormed out into the ice fields, stating he needed to check on the penguin population he was there to observe. That was the last Jung, or anyone, had seen of Arli. Shortly after leaving, a massive windstorm blew across the plain; stirring up ice and snow, blinding any creature that was unfortunate enough to be out in it.
A noise pulled Jung from his reverie; a low, faint keening, the same sound that had roused him from his sleep. He scanned the CCTV screens, looking to see what the source of the noise was. At first, there was nothing on the monitors except the vast expanse of the plains. Just as he was about to stand and walk away from the desk, he saw it: A small corner of what looked like blaze orange; the same color of clothing the crew wore for outerwear, the best chance they had of being seen in a whiteout. He could dismiss the sounds as nothing more than the wind or a lost and starving arctic fox but the scrap of cloth â that couldnât be discounted. Since there was no one else but him and the countless dead explorers whoâd come before him at the base, the only rational explanation was that Arli was out there, alive and trying to find his way back to the base.
Jung jumped up from his chair and ran to the antechamber that would lead to the outside. There, he hastily dressed for the tundra, forced the door open, and stepped out into the violent gale.
Strung from the habitat and anchored in place at intervals using lead pipes was a blaze orange cord, now frosted white from snow and ice. For a moment, the rational science brain whispered that he had just seen a flash of the cord and not a sign of Arli struggling to get home to him. Jung pushed the thought away and fought his way forward against the hurricane-force winds.
Above the howl of the wind, Jung heard the keening sound again. Louder, despite the weather. He could just make out a single word, his name, âJung,â being cried out against the storm. He knew, with the certainty of a man whoâd heard the voice a million times, that he was hearing Arli call for him, calling to him for help.
Jungâs lungs and heart nearly burst. Arli was alive! He knew Jung was there, coming to him, coming to find him and bring him back to warmth and safety. Fueled by blind determination, Jung tried to quicken his pace, but the elements persisted in slowing him down; all he was doing was wasting energy and calories, both of which needed to be rationed. He needed to be logical, clinical if he was going to get himself and, more importantly, Arli, back to safety.
Jung forced himself to slow down, to get his bearings and trudge calmly and methodically through the drifts of snow and blinding wind. With one hand, he held fast to the guideline and, with the other, he prodded the ground with his walking stick. Chances were, Arli was using the same cord or, worst-case scenario, he was unconscious in one of the snowbanks. If the first, they would meet somewhere along the line. If the latter, the walking stick would issue the tactile warning that there was an anomaly beneath the waist-high embankments.
The going was slow, and the cold was taking its toll on Jung. His feet and hands were beginning to go numb, and his eyelashes, beard, and mustache were crusted in ice, creating an all too persistent time clock, telling him he couldnât stay out of the habitat much longer. His heart insisted he go on but the logical part of his mind urged him to be rational; if he succumbed to the elements, both he and Arli would be lost to the Arctic.
As if the universe finally started to care, the decision was made for him in the form of the guideline running out; heâd reached the end of the camp without finding any signs of Arli. It was time to go back and get out of his ice-encrusted gear and warm up. He could check the surveillance cameras for signs of Arli and make a plan to find him and bring him back.
Feeling downtrodden but bolstered by having an actionable plan, Jung found his way back to the habitat, discarded his outerwear, and brewed a cup of coffee before settling down in front of the monitors. There was nothing to see except for the omnipresent white of the landscape; even his footprints were all but swallowed up by the flurry. There was certainly no way of seeing if Arli was still out there unless he was upright and moving. Jung found that highly unlikely; heâd been missing for four days now. Unless he found shelter and food, heâd be weak from the elements and hungerâŠor worse. Jung shook his head, refusing to fall into the depression the flash of orange had pulled him out of. Heâd find Arli, theyâd get out of this godforsaken place together and spend the rest of their lives in a warm place.
Station protocol was that researchers only go outside once a day; even if they felt theyâd warmed up to normal body temperatures. There was too great a possibility of the heart and lungs being damaged from the cold and the person not being aware of it. Despite being the only person there, Jung still followed protocol, the need to follow a structured pattern and adhere to the rules. The monotony and predictability staved off insanity thus far, it would have to continue.
Part of that routine was the midday systems check, reading the instruments, checking the life support systems, and reaching out to the main base with his status and the status of the station. The rhythm was soothing and allowed his mind to wander, that is, until a low noise pulled him out of his stupor. It was faint, just like the keening and, like the keening, it was persistent. Jung rose from his chair and walked quietly in his stocking feet, walking back and forth across the room, trying to ascertain where the noise was originating from. There! A sort of scritch, scritch, scriiiiitttccchhhh sound from the outside of the habitat. If there were any trees in the vicinity, heâd have thought the sound was being created from a branch scratching the walls but there was nothing of the sort on this barren plain. The sound was far to faint to be that of a moose or other wild beast. âArli.â Jung whispered to himself. Arli had found the habitat! He was trying to locate the door in the blinding whiteout.
Jung ran to the surveillance room and flicked through the various screens, trying to find the right cameras with the correct angles that would show the outer perimeter of the habitat. In his haste, heâd skip over some cameras and double up on others. Jung forced himself to slow down once again, be methodical and check the cameras carefully. In the frame of Camera 3, he saw it, the proof he needed: Fresh boot prints. Arli was out there! He was certain of that now.
Rules be damned, he donned his dripping wet outerwear and hurled himself out into the weather. Rendered stupid with hope and love, Jung didnât wait for his snow goggles to acclimate to the temperature change before charging in the direction of Camera 3âs view. He rounded the corner of the habitat and, in through the hurtling snowflakes, saw a shadow standing about eight feet in front of him. Through the fogged-up lenses of his goggles, Jung could just make out the blaze orange of the outerwear the field scientists wore. âArli!â Jung cried out, tears of happiness and relief freezing on his face.
âArliiiii.â The figure before him groaned. âArliiiii.â Jung could have sworn it was his own voice, echoing back at him but that was impossible. The wind all but stole your voice before it had a chance of reaching your companion standing mere feet from you.
Jung stopped short, conflicted between being euphoric over finding Arli and confused at this sudden development. âArli? Whatâs going on? Are you ok?â Jung asked, his words coming out in a rushed jumble.
âArliiiii?â The thing before him mimicked the question.
Some primal part of Jungâs brain took over before the conscious part of his mind could make sense of what his body was doing. Before he knew it, he was running for the habitat door. Behind him, he could hear a shuffling as the thing followed him, shuffling, its breath seeming to rattle in its chest.
Jung slammed into the habitat door and fumbled with the handle as the thing stalked closer. Finally managing to get his numb, gloved hand to cooperate, Jung crashed through the door and slammed it shut behind him and, he could have sworn, he felt the hot, putrid breath of the thing on his skin.
Breathing heavily, Jung leaned against the door, trying to get his wits about him. That thing was Arli, he was sure of it but, also, positive it wasnât Arli, at least, not the Arli he knew, the Arli he loved. What happened to him?
âArliiiii.â He could hear his voice coming from outside the door followed by the scritch, scritch, sriiiiiiitcccch of, what he now knew, to be long, yellow claws.
Arli ran his gloved hands over his face, only realizing then that he was still wearing his outdoor gear when he jammed the goggles into the bones of his cheeks.
Checking again that the door was secure, Jung disposed of his outer wear, leaving them in a wet heap in the middle of the floor. Not caring that he was numb to the bone, he made his way to the surveillance room and brought up the camera for the front door of the habitat. There, he saw, hunched over itself, wearing tattered, blaze orange outerwear with the Z037 insignia emblazoned on its chest, the emaciated form of what had once been Arli. Arli had been a healthy, robust man and the thing that was scratching at the outside of habitat had ashen, papery, torn skin. Its lips were gone, in their place was chewed, ragged flesh. The thing had a stump where its tongue should have been. The tattered clothing revealed open, oozing wounds that wept despite the sub-zero temperatures. As he watched the Arli Thing, it tore a chunk of remaining flesh from its upper thigh, shoved it in itâs mouth and gnashed it with its teeth then swallowed it, the only trace left behind was sinew that clung to its teeth and a smattering of gore in the corners of its mouth.
Jung could taste the bile rising in his throat and heaved his coffee onto the floor, not caring about the mess. He needed to get out of there or heâd be the next gore in Arliâs teeth. He grappled with the comms system, finally getting it keyed up. âZ037 in distress! Z037 needs emergency assistance. Send help NOW!â He hollered into the microphone.
At first only static met his ear then, very lightly, he heard a keening, gargling âArliiiiiii.â Jung dropped the mic and jumped back from the desk. Slowly, he turned. The thing that had been Arli was standing there, mere feet away and blocking the only door out.
The last coherent thought Jung had as the thing bit into his face and tore the flesh from his eye socket was that he had finally found what had happened to Arli.
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