Stories

Flies thrive on dirt and grime. Even so, they do attempt to clean themselves, brushing their heads and bodies. In the process, a fly can decapitate itself at times. Headless flies can then go on to live for several days – if it can be called living.

Young Goodman Brown came forth at sunset into the street at Salem village; but put his head back, after crossing the threshold, to exchange a parting

A fly flew into Diego’s mouth. He spluttered and waved his arms around, disgusted. One hundred Fahrenheit in the shade and the flies buzzed undeterred

A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below. The man’s hands were behind his back,

In the depths of the ocean, an ancient evil stirs from its aeons-long slumber, sending ripples of madness across the globe. As a young man delves into his late uncle’s research, he uncovers a terrifying conspiracy

Another clergyman in New England, Mr. Joseph Moody, of York, Maine, who died about eighty years since, made himself remarkable by the same eccentricity that is here related

IT was approaching nightfall. The sexton, Savely Gykin, was lying in his huge bed in the hut adjoining the church. He was not asleep

T happened that in the midst of the dissipations attendant upon a London winter, there appeared at the various parties of the leaders of the ton a nobleman, more remarkable for his singularities,

The “Red Death” had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution.

Blanche took the high ground, like Grandma and Grampa had taught her. On the Chaney Junior High School playground, this was the top of the jungle gym, a towering monstrosity of looping

In the shadowy depths of Ashview Manor, Dagda Lichfield’s desperate attempt to resurrect his beloved wife takes a chilling turn. As an angry mob closes in, Dagda’s macabre ritual spirals into a nightmare of identity and horror, leaving readers to question the true price of cheating death.

“Oh, there is one, of course, but you’ll never know it.”

The assertion, laughingly flung out six months earlier in a bright June garden, came back to Mary Boyne with a sharp perception of its latent significance as she stood, in the December dusk, waiting for the lamps to be brought into the library.