“Horror was rooted in sympathy . . . in understanding what it would be like to suffer the worst." ― Joe Hill

The wind howled outside, tearing at the trees, banging shutters to and fro, an angry vortex of sound. The rain came, torrents pounding against the roofs and windows. Dogs cowered in their kennels, windows were closed, and curtains drawn against the tempestuous elements raging outside. Branches cracked and crashed to the ground. I heard none of it.

Cocooned in my studio and locked into my own demons, the raging outside was nothing compared to the emotions that swept through me as I frenziedly splashed paint onto the canvas in front of me. I had to hold on to the visions converging and crashing in my head, before they fragmented and flared away into the darkness – lost forever.

Eyes open wide. Adrenalin, panic, confusion. Dirt against my face. Wet leaves try to smother my breath. The gray façade of a large tree stump focuses in my view, about two yards away. I can’t move, can’t pick myself up off the ground.

Flashes of memory. Camping in the state park. Awakened. A man with an axe. A big man, large bald head, crazy eyes. I do not like this man. The tree stump, cut smooth, like a tabletop. Dark stains in the wood grain. My memory fades away and I am back in the moment.

Jenny Owens wasn’t like other girls when she was young. Maybe some little boys, but certainly not little girls. While other girls her age were playing with baby dolls and thinking about when their Prince Charming would come along and sweep them off their feet, little Jenny could be found in her back yard with a magnifying glass, happily giggling as she roasted ants under the sun’s scorching rays. Jenny’s foster parents, their brains diluted with alcohol and drugs, never paid much attention to her strange habits, or if they did, they just didn’t care. Which is most likely why she ended up the way that she did.

By the time she was twelve, Jenny had graduated to larger victims; no dog or cat was safe from being ‘sacrificed’ for her pleasure. And when she turned eighteen and moved into her own house, it wasn’t just sacrifice anymore; her attentions shifted to torture, as well.

Jeremy Goode liked fire. He liked the way it burned warmly against the night air and the dark shadows that flickered in its orange glow. He liked the heat against his skin when he stood close. Not too close though. He liked the smell it made, especially when it burned paper.
Fire was special to Jeremy and it made him feel special too. Jeremy also liked the word ‘special.’ It was a word that had dictated the story of his life. Some would use the word ‘retard,’ others ‘gimpoid’ or something equally as hurtful. But his mother would always tell him he was special. He liked being special.
Jeremy smiled as he watched his house burn in the night. What made it nicer was all the pretty flashing lights of the police cars and fire trucks that came to watch.

The sky purged itself of an entire ocean. The water fell straight down through the windless night, shattering the mirror-like puddles on the blacktop, and then gushed along the gutters in endless torrents.

Cameron Lomax loved the gray rain. Nothing better for writing a good horror story, he thought.

He couldn‘t wait to get started. Hurrying through the parking lot, ink pen gripped tightly in his right hand, he clicked the top over and over again as he moved in for the kill.

Click-click. Click-click.

I dreamt of crows. Black crows swirling in the darkening cloud conclave just above my second story apartment. So many crows that the clouds could not escape them, and the air became a tantrum of gusts and gale force winds fuelled by the flappings of their wings. In my dreams I heard them crawing. Taunting the rain, coaxing it, until it fell in fat drops against the shingles, and trickled over the eaves. Until I couldn’t hear the crows at all, and everything around me was wind roaring and water pounding, and branches scraping at windows

And when I woke, I found that the crow storm had crossed over into what was real. The air in the little kitchen had been churned into more of an oppressively thick and muggy substance than something that I could breathe, and I became aware of the needs of my body, how, more than wanting to breathe it, I wanted to drink it. To rip open my veins with my nails and my teeth, so that the humidity might touch them, seep into my veins and through them, into every wanting part of me. Into my wrists my arms, into my shoulders and heart and into my brain, and my closing throat and my failing organs.

Jenny and Matt strolled hand in hand between the various stalls, stopping now and then to gaze at the wares displayed before them. The sky was blue, the sun shone, people laughed and the market was vibrant with colours and smells. It was a glorious day to be in love, and they were…completely.

It was Jenny’s birthday and Matt wanted to find something unique to express his love for her. They paused in front of an old stall that carried old treasures, silver and bronze, little trinkets, and silver charms. She gazed up at him in adoration and he smiled and kissed her forehead.

“Have a look here, honey. Is there anything you like?” he asked her.

“Mmmm,” she replied, looking him up and down, “There most certainly is.”

“Our father was a scientific genius. It was him that created the vaccine. It was meant to be given to soldiers oversea that were near death...almost like a medication that could strengthen the heart and keep you going just long enough for the proper medical attention.”

“Why did they kill our father?” asked Kail. “Why did he have to die at the hands of the military?”

Jackson bent down to tighten his boot buckle, wincing as he did so.

“The military wanted it for much more than what it was intended for,” he said. “They wanted to use it to revive a soldier who was already dead.”

“You can't be serious,” Kail handed her brother his bow, sitting down in the nearest chair so she wouldn't fall down first. “That's...inhumane.”

“That's what dad said.”