Saturday, March 26, 2011

In a Glass Darkly

"IN A GLASS DARKLY" - George Wilhite

I know you are there again.

Tormenting my every waking moment and hiding like the cowards you are, just out of reach.

Doctor Wilkins doesn’t believe me when I tell him how long I’ve known about you. Says it’s impossible I could remember that far back. 

“Like, you hypnotized me dude,” I want to say. “Now, you reject the truth because you can’t handle the result?”

But I do remember the first time I saw you. The first of your kind. In the mirror.

I was only ten months old when Mom held me up to the mirror. To my horror, we were reflected there not once but twice. There was the clear duplication of our images but also the more spectral one, behind us and to our right. And our shadow selves cast their derisive smiles I have come to loathe.

You have grown as I have grown. Every mirror reveals twin images of me, one the “real”, the other you, the ghostly double, grinning in triumph over me.

Proving you exist has preoccupied my time. I was a lousy student and after dropping out of school an even more disastrous employee. No matter how often I tried to make a fresh start, inevitably your relentless presence would cause me to make the same mistake over again...telling others about you.

And landing me back here.

It would be one thing if I merely desired to prove myself sane. I gave up caring long ago if anyone believed me or what they thought about me. If I only saw my own twin in the mirror, and not that of my mother, this would remain strictly personal. But it is not that simple because I know everyone else has a twin as well.

Today I will take action. I swear it!

As I write this, you smile smugly from your prison in the mirror.

It will be over soon. You’ll see.


Wilkins shook his head, reading his patient’s final diary entry. The security at this place was abysmal. How did he get that box cutter into his room? This delusion was one of the most profound Wilkins had ever encountered.

Wilkins tossed the diary on his desk, rose and stretched. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood up as he felt the eerie sensation he was not alone in his office. For a split second, he swore someone bustled past him out of the corner of his eye. He turned and found only empty air in all directions. He shrugged and laughed it off, brushing aside any thoughts of the uncanny.

In the mirror, something stirred, aware of the extreme skepticism this human embraced.

“Maybe this time, we will be successful,” it whispered to its comrades, waiting patiently further back in the depths of the realm of glass.

BIO: George Wilhite is the author of the short fiction collection On the Verge of Madness. His work has also appeared in numerous print publications and online at Yesteryear Fiction, MicroHorror, Eschatology Journal and The Fringe.


Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Soul Cakes

"SOUL CAKES" - Keely Done

Billy stood on his tiptoes, trying to peek out a rough opening in the rear of the tiny home, his sweet chubby-cheeked face barely clearing the ledge. It was a special day, so Mamma said, All Hallow's Eve, a time to remember those who'd come before. Billy wasn't quite sure what that meant, but the mouthwatering smells of nutmeg and cinnamon had his little stomach growling. Mamma was making cakes, Soul Cakes she called them, but he wasn't allowed a taste, not even a bit. He'd already been swatted for trying.

His stomach rumbled again and he glanced over at Mamma, trying to gauge whether she was almost done. She wasn't really his Mamma, but she'd been pretty good to him. She'd found him, all alone on the side of the road, and taken him in, even though he could never remember where he came from. That was almost a year ago.

Whistling, she turned and removed another batch of cakes from the oven. Arranging them in a basket, she turned and wiped her hands on her apron.

"It's time Billy, are you ready to go a soulin'?"

Billy crept closer and studied the sweets. "If I sing, then I get to eat them?" He whined.

She swept his dark hair back and patted his cheek. "Yes, dear, sing well for the souls of the dead and you get to eat them. After all, soulin' is the only way to free those wicked souls from purgatory."

The word “wicked” piqued his interest and his golden eyes flashed once in the dim light of the cabin. Mamma stumbled and almost dropped the cakes.

Billy ran over to help. "Careful Mamma, I don't want to have to eat them off the ground."

She laughed and patted her hair back in place. "I don't know what came over me, just felt weak all of a sudden. Must be the heat of the oven."

Billy shrugged and pulled on his ragged sweater, small protection against the brisk breeze outside the cabin door, but it was all he had.

The small town was alive in the deepening dusk. Several of the townsfolk had hung lanterns outside their cabins, the wicks burning brightly in the gathering darkness. The drying cornstalks rustled in the wind, the last remnants of this years harvest. Somebody had even started a bonfire in the town square–a pathetic patch of dead grass where folks usually hitched up their horses. Children were dancing while their mother's sang and some of the gents were warming up with their fiddles.

Billy jumped up and down in excitement as his Mamma ushered him towards a small group of bedraggled children. According to Mamma, the songs of the less fortunate were sweeter to the ears of God and he granted more of their prayers.

The Pastor lined them up and they started down the street, screeching at the top of their lungs, "A soul, a soul, a soul cake!"

Mrs. Jeffries was hanging out her door when they arrived, a plate full of cakes in her hands. As they chanted their rhyme, she handed them out and Billy eagerly awaited his. The soft gooey cake stuck to his fingers and he hurriedly shoved it in his mouth.

As he gulped it down, Mamma exclaimed, "Well now my Billy, you've freed your first soul."

Billy's eyes flashed in the light of the lanterns and he watched as Mamma clutched her chest and dropped the basket she was carrying. It seemed to fall in slow motion and the cakes burst out from the basket, sinking into the mud. Billy groaned in dismay and then ran towards his Mamma; worried that something was terribly wrong.

She couldn't speak; she stared at him in horror, clutching her chest. Her skin had paled and her lips were turning a deep purple color. Mrs. Jeffries screamed. "Get the doc."

Billy fell to his knees at his mother's side, just as her eyes closed. Gripping her face in his hands, he cried as he watched her slip away. "Don't go Mamma."

Doc Fischer ran towards them, looking down at the fallen woman. "I'm sorry son, but she's gone."

Billy stood up, the expression on his face conveying not shock, but hunger. As his Mamma's soul fed him, he remembered who and what he was. Imbued with power, his golden eyes blazed in the darkness, illuminating the scene. The air went still, as if waiting.

Doc Fischer stepped forward to comfort the poor grieving boy and tripped, his lantern flying. It shattered on impact, a fireball bursting from its center and quickly lighting the Jeffries' house ablaze.

The wind whipped up and the air crackled. Like a flame to a wick the bonfire burst free of it's confines and raged through the town. Billy, eyes gleaming, began to pace slowly as wailing and screaming filled the air. Those he passed fell to the earth, and with each soul he inhaled he felt stronger. It wasn't long before the entire town was nothing but a pile of smoldering ash.

Satiated, Billy ran down the trail, out towards another town, another smorgasbord for his immortal soul. He stopped, hearing the sound of an approaching rider in the distance. His countenance changed, the doe-eyed face of innocence returning. He was, once again, just a helpless little boy.

BIO: Keely must have been born under a witching moon as she's always been fascinated by the gothic and dark. Give her a cemetery at dusk over a bright sunny beach any day of the week. Though she's never met one, that she knows of, she firmly believes that vampires exist and hopes that werewolves do to. She wishes she had magic powers so that she could finish her "work" in a blink and focus all her time and effort on her writing. She lives with her lovely gamer husband and geektastically perfect daughter in not so sunny Dayton, Ohio. Check out more of her work and random ramblings on her blog: , or follow her on Twitter @keelyanndone

Saturday, March 12, 2011

As If

"AS IF" - Maeve Heneghan

I like to visit at least twice a week. Usually I arrive around the same time, unless of course, I'm needed elsewhere. But this particular time seems to suit. Just to sit with him. I only started my regular visits a short time ago. But my time here is valuable.

As if like clockwork, when I arrive he makes a pot of tea, which has to be made, just so. He uses leaves only, never inferior teabags. Leaving his tea to draw for exactly 3 minutes, he takes out a mug. Straining the tea, he then adds a modicum of milk and 3 lumps of sugar. A sweet tooth has always been Cyril's problem. At his age that could lead to serious health problems but there's no talking to him. Cup of tea in hand, he makes his way for the chair at the head of the kitchen table. Of course his ritual would not be complete without a packet of Jammy Dodgers which he normally puts out onto the same china plate. The one with the delicate blue flowers and tiny yellow butterflies.

At about 11 O'clock, Mrs O'Reilly arrives. Today I notice she lets herself in with a key. This has never happened before. She is only the housekeeper after all. I look on as she helps herself to a cup of tea and polishes off two Jammy Dodgers. She shares a joke and a bit of a giggle with Cyril. But most shocking of all, when she's had her fill, she walks over to the cupboard and pulls out an apron. It says "kiss the cook", on the front. She ties it around her ample waist. Cyril doesn't even look up.

Why is this all so shocking, you might wonder? I'll tell you why. Cyril is drinking his tea out of my favourite mug. He is sitting in my favourite kitchen chair. The china plate is the one I only like to use on special occasions, like Christmas, when it is joined by all the others in the set. It was a wedding present from my parents. But the most upsetting, unpalatable picture of all, is seeing that corpulent housekeeper wearing my bloody apron! The one Cyril bought for me in Italy two years ago.

Oh Cyril, you fool. My body is not yet cold in its dank dark grave and you are already acting as if I were never here. It won't be long until Mrs O'Reilly is sharing your bed too. Mind you, she'll take up two thirds of it. What way is that for a 75 year old man to behave.You always had a roving eye. I was your wife for 30 years and this is how you honour my memory. Oh shame on you Cyril!

I've been quiet up to now, but I think it's time I made my presence felt.

BIO: Maeve Heneghan started her career as a Drama teacher. Then the wonderful opportunity to live and work in China presented itself. After living and working in China for a number of years, she returned to Ireland and is now living in the Midlands with her husband and daughter. Maeve has been writing poetry and short stories for two years now and has had poetry and flash fiction pieces published online and in print.

Friday, March 11, 2011

A Halloween Prayer

"A HALLOWEEN PRAYER" - Mark Tomlinson

Please protect me Jack ‘O’ Lantern
From the things that walk this night.
May your candle burn unhindered
And your jagged smile be bright.
Let your orange light surround me 
with a wall of magic light.
Please protect me Jack ‘O’Lantern
From the things that walk this night.
Please defend me Jack ‘O’Lantern
From the things that mean me harm.
From the fangs and claws of monsters;
From the witches deadly charm.
Send them fleeing from my doorstep
Lost in panic and alarm.
Please defend me Jack ‘O’Lantern
From the things that mean me harm.

BIO: Mark is a father of four from the North West who doesn't write as much as he'd like to. He's had work published on EDF, Fantastic Horror, EDP, Bewildering Stories and Millionstories.

Raven's Wings

"RAVEN'S WINGS" - Ron Koppelberger

Cousins shuttered by the full bloom of
Moon blossoms and night shade smiles,
The radiating shadow realm of dabbling dusk
And the eclipsed illusion of glaring confusion,
Disengaged delirium for the clarity of an evening
Sun and an inky umbra of rare wonder, by the shine
On a Raven's wings and the embers
Of eternity.
BIO: Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 100 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: He has been submitting his work for the past two years. He is thrilled by acceptance and is always looking for an audience. He has published 450 poems, 270 short stories and 82 pieces of art in over 128 periodicals, books and anthologies. He has been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Thailand and India. 

The Hearse

"THE HEARSE" - Clifton Bush Jnr.

It was an ugly car, she thought. Long, black, and with death written all over it. Geri looked at it, and thought that it would be the perfect first car for her sister Lori. She was all of sixteen and into the Goth scene, and this would be the icing on the cake. She couldn't wait to see the look on her face when she handed her the keys to her new 'ride.'

She went and signed the papers for the car in the dealer's office, and walked out to her own car. The man told her that she had three days in which to pick up the car, otherwise he would rip up the contract and slap a for-sale sign back on the windshield. She told him not to worry, that she would be back later on that evening to pick it up with a friend.

She went home, showered, got changed, and went to pick up her friend Brianna. Together they would drive the car back to Brianna's house to 'hide' it until her sister's birthday tomorrow. She was getting excited; she couldn't wait to give it to her. She would just freak when she saw what she would be driving.

Once they arrived at the dealer's lot, she told Brianna to follow her, and she would give the car its first ride. It had been on the lot now for a couple of years; no one wanted the ugly thing, but she thought it would be perfect for Lori, with her tats and piercings and ultra-black spiked hair. This would be the present of a lifetime.

While they didn't get along all the time, they were more like friends than sisters. They would borrow each others' makeup, clothes, and sometimes would even trade boyfriends. But that was pretty rare, considering as how Lori was only sixteen. Their mother frowned on her dating at such a young age, but girls were girls, and they did pretty much what they wanted to. At least up to a point. When she told her mother that she was buying Lori a hearse for her birthday, she had a fit. It was bad enough, she argued, that when a person died, it would be the last ride they received. How ironic that she would buy her sister a hearse to drive around town in. She finally assented to it, but she still didn't like it.

There were rumors around that hearses had a curse on them, that if anyone drove one it would be to their own funeral. Geri just laughed at the rumormongers. She didn't care. She was going to buy that car for her sister no matter what people said. She didn't much listen to anyone that tried to give her advice.

At last the time came for the key presentation. They blindfolded Lori, and took her to Brianna's house. Once there, they stood her outside, and told her to open her hand. While she held her right hand out, Geri dropped the keys into it and told her to take off the blindfold. Lori did, and a squeal that could be heard for miles came out of her when she saw the long, black death machine. She screeched and howled and gave Geri hugs and kisses, and even gave Brianna a few too.

“Go try it out,” said Geri, giving her sister a hug. She watched Lori get in the car, almost being dwarfed by the massive door on the beast. She inserted the key and turned it over. The big motor turned over once, twice, and rumbled into life, its eight cylinders purring as if it had just come out of the shop.

Geri and Brianna hopped in the passenger side, and they all went for a ride. The car rode smooth, thanks to its heavy duty suspension.

“You know how many beers we can haul in this thing?” Brianna pointed out, noting the roomy interior. “Holy crap, guys, this is our new party vehicle!”

Lori just looked at her with disdain. “Uh-uh, Brianna, this is not your party vehicle, this is my new car, and I'm going to show it off to everyone!”

They headed out of town, and Geri told Lori to open it up some. There were no cops around, so she pressed harder on the gas. Soon they were cruising along at 90 miles an hour. Geri told her to back it off a bit before they got stopped. Lori let her foot off the gas, and the car just kept going, faster and faster. They were soon doing 100, then 110, 120, 130. She slammed on the brakes, but to no avail.

The hearse just kept speeding along, and soon they were coming up on some pretty sharp curves. The girls started screaming, but it was no use. The car kept going faster and faster, and soon one of the corners was just too much for the screeching rubber, and the big car leaped out at the trees, snapping off a telephone pole in the process. By the time the car stopped, it was nothing but a scrap heap. The girls had been tossed about like rag dolls, and had taken their one and only ride in a hearse.

Alive, that is...

Clifton lives in Michigan and has wanted to write stories all of his life. He is happily engaged to a wonderful woman and raising his 10 year old son. He enjoys writing, astronomy, NASCAR, football and the outdoors in general.

Being a Vampire's Wife

"BEING A VAMPIRE'S WIFE" - Shirley Elmokadem

Last week at school I met a guy
whose name was Edward Cullen,
I fell in love with him at once,
although he was pale and sullen.

He had the most gorgeous eyes
they set my heart a flutter,
he asked me to go out with  him.
I prayed he wasn’t a nutter.

He took me to a restaurant
that  stood beside a lake.
I ordered the fresh salmon,
he went for a rare  steak.

He didn’t want to eat dessert,
so we went back to his flat.
He didn’t try it on at all,
I was a bit put out at that.

He asked me to stay with him
and showed me to his bed.
He said he was born in 1901
I said, ‘Stop pulling my leg!’

I loved lying in his arms,
it felt so safe and right,
but then he said, ‘Sorry, Love
I like to go out at night.’

When he returned at dawn,
he was covered in blood and gore,
an icy chill shot down my spine
and I legged it out the door.

‘Wait!’ he said, ‘don’t leave me
I'm not going to give you a bite
I’m madly in love with you,
besides you’re not my blood type.’

Dear reader I'm marrying him!
I do like a challenge in life,
and I think that I, Bella, will make
a 'fangtastic' vampire's  wife. 

BIO: Shirley lives in Sussex. She writes books for children and poems for all ages. She has won various poetry and writing competitions and has had poems published in anthologies and magazines. Read more about her work here

Monday, March 7, 2011

Shopping Lists

"SHOPPING LISTS" - Sheila Crosby

January: Flowers, chocolates, wine.

April: Diamond ring, champagne.

August: Insurance, duct tape, trash bags, chain saw, spade.

BIO: Sheila Crosby lives on a small rock in the Atlantic. She's a mother, writer, photographer, tour guide, translator, gardener, belly dancer, English teacher and software engineer. Consequently she rarely gets time for her hobbies, which are cooking, laundry, ironing and cleaning the house. Her website is located here and there's more about the small rock at


"SALIGIA" - Mark Tomlinson

Frances placed the mail and the messages on Sir Andrew Maples’ smoked glass desk.

“What’s new?” he asked.

“You’ve received a call from Mr Ash at Saligia, Sir Andrew” she replied.

“Who the bloody hell are Saligia? Sounds like a sexually transmitted disease.”

“I…I assumed you knew them Sir Andrew. The call came through on your private line.”

Maples slammed his hand down on the desk top. This he didn’t need, he already had a headache that seemed set for the day.  “What have I told you about assuming Frances? What’s the bleedin’ point of a private line if any Tom Dick or ‘Arry can call me? Tell me that.”

“There’s no point, Sir Andrew,” Frances said in a small voice.

“Dead right. Go on, get out.” Frances hurried to the door but just before she reached it Maples said, “Did this Ash geezer leave his number?”

“Yes Sir Andrew, it’s on the memo.”

Maples found the sheet and dismissed his PA with a wave of his hand. He picked up the phone and punched in the number. “I’ll give you a bloody call, Mister Ash, and when I find out who gave you my number I’ll have his bollocks for breakfast,” he said.

The call was connected after two rings. A deep, smoky, female voice answered. “Saligia,” it said.

Despite his anger Maples found himself reacting to the voice.  Something about the timbre or the tone just oozed sex. He cleared his throat. “I want to speak to Mister Ash,” he said.

“Certainly Sir Andrew.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Oh come, Sir Andrew, everybody knows you.”

The woman’s voice was doing things to Maples that he usually had to pay for. If nothing else he was going to headhunt this girl for his own company. Or something.

“Well put me through then.”

“Certainly,” she breathed into the mouthpiece. “Putting you through,” she whispered.

There was a soft click. Maples swallowed and loosened his tie. His headache had eased but he was hot.

“Ash here. Good morning Sir Andrew, I’m so pleased you called.” The voice was cultured, public school and Oxbridge. The voice of an immaculately dressed arsehole that’d never had to do a hands turn in his life. It was not the voice of a man who had bawled in the street selling his wares from a barrow. A man like Sir Andrew-self made Maples.

“Are you now? Well how the hell did you get my private number?”

Ash chuckled and the sound made Maples fume. “Oh, we know everything about you, Sir Andrew.  It’s our business to know all about our most important clients.”

“Listen to me, Sunshine, I’m not your bleedin’ client and I never will be; now who gave you my number or do I have to ring my legal team?”

Ash laughed. “There’s no need to bother, Sir Peter,” he said.

“I’ll do what I bleedin’ like!”

“Perhaps it’d be better if we had a face to face Sir Andrew.” If Ash was scared he didn’t sound it.

“You can piss off!”  Maples hung up. He glared at the phone. There would have to be an investigation, firstly into the leak and then into Saligia after which he would use all his power to crush them like beetles. He licked his lips at the prospect. He flicked the intercom.

“Frances get me some coffee and danishes,” he said. Business always made him hungry.

The office door opened. Maples, engrossed in reading his mail said, “Put it on the desk Frances.”

“Sorry, I’m afraid it’s just me.”

Maples looked up. A young man in a beautifully tailored suit stood beaming at him. “Ash?” Maples said.

“Yes, Sir Andrew. So pleased to meet you at last.”

“How the bloody hell did you get in here?” Maples rose and dashed to the door throwing it open. The reception area and Frances’ desk were empty. When he turned around Ash was sitting on the corner of his desk looking as if he belonged there. “I’m calling security!”

Ash shrugged.

Maples grabbed the phone and dialled. The line was dead. He felt a cold tickling in the pit of his stomach.

Ash stood up and as he moved away from the desk Maples saw what was on the other side. His mouth dropped open. His own body was slumped on the glass top.

Ash was suddenly at his side. “Heart,” he said. “At least it proved you had one, eh?”

Maples couldn’t tear his gaze from the sight of his bald patch. A fly was walking across it. “Who are you?”

“Saligia - Superbia, Avarita, Luxuria, Invidia, Gula, Ira, Acedia.”

“What the hell’s that mean?” Maples asked, backing away from the man who seemed to have grown in stature.

“You never had the benefit of a formal education did you. Those are the Latin names of the Seven Deadly Sins, Sir Andrew, and I represent their sponsors - Saligia.”

“I don’t understand.”

Ash shook his head. “Don’t you? Just think for a moment, search that shrivelled husk you use for a soul. Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy and Pride - you’ve got the full set, Sir Andrew. You should be pleased. You’d be amazed how few people manage that but you’ve exceeded our wildest expectations.”

Maples backed against the wall. “What do you want?”

“I’ve come to collect you, Sir Andrew. There’s a great deal for you to do.” The floor between them fell away and yellow flames burst through. The smell of sulphur and burning meat filled the room. Ash advanced through the fire. His suit had burned away now and he was clothed in flame. His smile was still broad and very, very white.

Sir Andrew Maples slid down the wall, bereft of speech and movement. He could only stare in terror as Ash pointed a talon tipped index finger at him.

“You’re hired,” he said.

BIO: Mark is a father of four from the North West who doesn't write as much as he'd like to. He's had work published on EDF, Fantastic Horror, EDP, Bewildering Stories and Millionstories.

Senyru #2

"SENYRU #2" - Marion Clarke

curtain falls
final performance 

BIO: Currently back living with her family in her native Northern Ireland after thirteen years studying and working in France and England, Marion has had poetry and fiction published online and in print and non-fiction published in the UK trade press. She began studying and writing senyru and haiku two years ago and has become passionate about the form.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Ice Cold

"ICE COLD" - Patsy Collins

The children ran off excitedly yelling for ice creams; they ran back terrified yelling for their mums.

Weird Walter the ice cream man lay dead on the floor of his van. His cooling blood oozed from the neat hole in the left side of his head, mingling with strawberry sauce, chopped nuts and chocolate flakes.

Police say he topped himself.

BIO: Patsy Collins writes short stories for magazines including, Woman's Weekly, Fiction Feast, Candis, Ireland's Own, My Weekly and That's Life. To read more about her and her writing, please visit

The Mummy

"THE MUMMY" - Clifton Bush Jnr.

The corridor was dark and dusty, with the flame of the
torch threatening to blow out at any minute. The air was hot and stuffy, and a slight breeze followed me down the tunnel. Soon I entered a slightly bigger room, looked around, and found another opening off to my right. I held my torch in front of me and headed in the direction of the new opening.

The torchlight flickered against the ancient walls, casting shadows and giving me pause to continue on my adventure. I kept looking down into the sand to make sure that I didn’t walk onto a cobra or other snake. So far so good, I thought. The corridor narrowed a little and I had to bend down to reach the exit.

I exited the corridor and came into a wondrous, huge room. The roof above was arched slightly and there were colorful hieroglyphics painted on the stones. From what I could gather by just glancing at them, I had entered the tomb of one of the Pharaoh’s advisors. Directly in front of me lay the sarcophagus of the advisor, long undisturbed by time or grave robbers.

I rubbed my hand on top of the sarcophagus and felt the years of accumulated dust and grit upon my hand. I wiped it off on my shirt and proceeded to try and find a way to open the coffin.

I had taken a small crowbar with me but wasn’t sure if it would be enough to pry open the coffin. Finding a small notch in between the cracks, I inserted the flat end of the bar and pulled down. To my amazement the cover moved slightly. A hiss of escaping air and dampish smell assailed my nostrils. After a few more minutes of prying and tugging the cover was open enough to where I could see inside the sarcophagus.

I reached down alongside the coffin to retrieve my torch, bent back up and shone the fire to light up the interior of the sarcophagus. Inside was a typical mummy, wrapped from hand to foot in bandages and covered in a thin layer of dust. The slight odor of mold assaulted my nose and I turned back quickly, catching my breath. My stomach heaved slightly and I walked back against the wall, a cold chill running up my spine.

I took a few deep breaths, and walked back to the sarcophagus. I had come this far, there was no turning back now. I shone the light back into the darkness and stared at the form lying below that used to be a living, breathing human being. In that moment I wondered just what I was doing here. I had always loved archaeology, especially the ancient Egyptian motif, but once I was here I began to have second thoughts. So I decided this night that I would break from the group and enter the tomb myself, to make sure that this is what I truly wanted to do. Seeing the 3000-plus year old mummy fortified my courage and I decided right then and there that this was my calling.

I walked around the sarcophagus towards the back wall, looking at the brightly painted pictures and marveling at the artwork. There were also several bas-relief carvings cut into the stone, giving the images a three dimensional look.

Boom, boom boom! I heard several loud noises above me, and instinctively looked up. It almost sounded like loud footsteps, but no one else knew that I was here. Then a cool breeze wafted down the corridor, enveloping me in a chilling grip. The flame on my torch almost went out, and I turned around and looked back at the sarcophagus.

It was the same as before, except there was a greenish mist rising out of the stone. My heart was pounding in my chest, and the air seemed to grow thick and heavy. As I watched, the mist grew into a thin tendril that disappeared into the back wall, leaving me speechless.

I figured that now was a good time to leave. I turned back towards the entrance corridor and started walking back the way I had come. A foul smell soon assailed my nostrils, and I stopped to gag, turning around to see if anything was following me. To my horror I spotted two red, blazing eyes in the darkness. My heart skipped a beat, and I continued on my way. The smell grew overpowering, and I had to stop to vomit. I looked behind me, and saw nothing. Wiping my mouth off, I spit once more in the sand and turned to continue my exit.

There in front of me stood a mummy, about five feet tall and with glowing red eyes. The smell of the creature was putrid, and my heart just leaped into my throat. I tried to scream when the creature grabbed my neck but soon all I saw was blackness…

BIO: Clifton lives in Michigan and has wanted to write stories all of his life. He is happily engaged to a wonderful woman and raising his 10 year old son. He enjoys writing, astronomy, NASCAR, football and the outdoors in general.