In the quiet town of Myersville, Oklahoma, a serial killer is murdering victims by savagely removing their hearts.
Sheriff Kate Nevill is desperate to end the nightmare, but the only lead is the fingerprint of a man who’s been dead for months.
As time slips away and the body count rises, Kate must confront the impossible to save her town—and stop a killer who shouldn’t exist.
Excerpt:
Camden cocked his head and listened. Then he heard it too, and his blood chilled. A shuffling, grunting sound. Not an animal, he was sure of it. This was human-sounding. But not normal. It was something that didn’t belong in nature.
Branches from the woods nearby cracked and Colbey grabbed Camden’s arm and tugged on it. “Come on, there’s’ something out there. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Oh shit,” Camden muttered. His legs went weak, and he stumbled after Colbey, who was already halfway up the bank, fishing poles and tackle boxes forgotten on the ground.
They’d only gone a few more feet when something burst from the tree line and onto the path in front of them.
A man wearing a black hooded cloak stood five feet away, blocking their route to the car. The grunting and groaning was coming from him. His face looked like something from a horror movie…mottled skin, evil, deep-set eyes, and a maniacal grin.
“Wh-what do you want?” Colbey squeaked out.
The man didn’t answer. His gaze swung from Colbey to Camden, then back again. He licked his lips and pulled something from the pocket of his jacket. A knife. A huge-ass scary as shit knife. Camden stood frozen to the spot. Something warm trickled down his thighs, and he realized he’d wet himself. If they survived this, Colbey would never let him live this down. Live was the key word. They had to make it out of this alive…he didn’t want to die. A whimpering sound seeped through his consciousness. Colbey…he’d never heard his older brother make that sound. Never known of him to be scared of anything.
Colbey reached over and held out his hand. Camden took it, gripping it tightly like he had when they were younger and he’d been scared. He hadn’t been scared in years…and he’d never been scared like this. This was pure, deep and chilling terror.
Camden thought back on what he’d heard about the other victims. They’d been split open. Their hearts removed. Staring at this…monstrous thing…in front of them, Camden had a feeling he knew what had happened to those hearts. And he knew without a doubt, this was one scrape he and Colbey were not going to escape from.
And…here is my offering in the Friday the 13th Horror short story series…
Fun Fact:
This story is very loosely influenced by the movies Sometimes They Come Back (1991) and Buried Alive (1990), coincidentally both starring Tim Matheson. On second thought, it’s not like them at all. But they both gave me the creeps and I hope my story will give you the creeps as well.
About Dirty Girl:
A couple involved in an illicit affair are responsible for a tragedy that results in a young girl’s death. They think they’ve buried their transgressions and can get on with their lives.
But they are very, very wrong.
Excerpt:
He took the girl’s hand, and a shiver raced over his body. Her flesh was ice-cold, even though it was a warm June day. An odor emanated from her…something unpleasant…like damp earth.
Like the dirt they’d buried the poor girl in…
He shook himself mentally. It was just his guilty conscience. This girl was probably about the same age and was similar in size and coloring.
He went to pull back his hand, but her grip tightened almost imperceptibly, and he met her dark eyes. Something seemed to lurk in their fathomless debts. Some kind of secret knowledge…or accusation. He wanted to look away, but was unable to. Light flickered in the brown orbs and he saw a flash of a scene…just a brief moment but he could swear it was there. Headlights shining on trees, the glint of moonlight. Two figures—one thrusting a shovel into the dirt, the other holding a flashlight. The smell of dirt assailed him and, for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
“Dad?” An uncomfortable chuckle from Corbin. “You can let go now.”
Corbin’s voice brought him out of the trance. He shuddered and released the girl’s hand. Before he turned away, he detected a small quirk of amusement on her lips, then it was gone.
About the Author:
Alicia Dean lives in Oklahoma where she enjoys creating dark, suspenseful stories. She loves scaring people and, when she was a child, she did so by doing things like putting panty hose over her face and going into the back yard and looking into her sister’s window. Now that she’s grown—and realizes she could get arrested for such antics—she lets her stories do the scaring.
Check out another story in the Friday the 13th Horror Short Story series…
Fun Fact:
Ishtar is the perfect demon/goddess to assist the witch, Maara. She is the Mesopotamian goddess of war and sexual love, two qualities (sex and violence) that Maara employs to achieve her ends. Here is a photo of the goddess, who is both alluring and fearsome.
About Devil Redux:
An ancient goddess/demon is brought to life in the service of a witch set on slaughtering a family. Award-winning author Robert Herold spins a frightening yarn of modern horror.
Excerpt:
Instead of his student, a tall, gray, naked woman appeared in the doorway. The woman had wings, and her legs became bird-like below her knees with large, sharp talons that dug grooves into the tiled floor as she moved.
Ishtar come to life?
The creature smiled and uttered something that Hill could not translate.
Hill stood and shook his head, not comprehending what was said. He shivered but also felt the warmth from urine spilling into his pants.
The creature spread her wings. Her face contorted with fury, and she screeched before diving across the room at the professor. She pivoted to present her outstretched claws at the last moment, which struck the professor full-on. Hill flew backward, tipping over his chair and sliding back on the floor until his head struck the radiator. Still conscious, he screamed as the woman’s talons raked across his face, tore into his eyes, and dug long furrows in his cheeks. His jaw tore free. Then she attacked his torso. The pain, white-hot at first, suddenly faded as his body could no longer process the ripping and tearing of flesh. A moment later, he could no longer process anything at all.
About the Author:
Seattleite Robert Herold is the author of the award-winning Eidola Project novels, which follow a team of 19th-century ghost hunters who become engaged in deadly supernatural investigations, and the Seattle Coven Tales, about a grad student who becomes targeted for sacrifice by a modern coven of witches. In addition, Mr. Herold’s work has appeared in anthologies and on the Saturday Evening Post’s website. Several short stories will soon appear in Feral, a German horror comic magazine. Find out more at: https://linktr.ee/robertheroldauthor
Merry and Bright- A Very Krampus Christmas: A Seattle Coven Taleby Robert Herold
Fun Fact:
I collect Mexican lobby cards from classic horror movies.
Krampus is running amok in a small town dedicated to Christmas. Steven and Hu Metcalf are helping police investigate a series of abductions, but when their own son is taken, the stakes couldn’t be higher. “The must-read paranormal series of the year.” N. N. Light Book Heaven
Excerpt:
Unnoticed by his parents, Jason dropped Wolverine’s head while trying to rotate it to change the toy’s expression to a sneer—the better to face his foes. The head bounced twice on the wooden tabletop and fell to the floor beneath the table.
Jason wormed his way under the table. A sea of legs, hiking boots, and melting snow confronted him. Wolverine’s head wasn’t visible. Could it be beneath someone’s boot? If he couldn’t find it, he decided to knot as many bootlaces together as possible.
“Are you looking for this?” A man with shaggy black hair also crouched beneath the table. Jason hadn’t noticed him before. The man held up the toy head pinched between two long black fingernails—more like claws. The man smiled, revealing a mouthful of pointed yellow teeth. The end of a long tongue flicked out like a snake. “Here.” He held the toy head toward Jason, and the boy reached to take it.
About the Author:
Seattleite Robert Herold is the author of the award-winning Eidola Project novels, which follows a team of 19th-century ghost hunters who become engaged in deadly supernatural investigations, and the Seattle Coven Tales, about a grad student who becomes targeted for sacrifice by a modern coven of witches. In addition, Mr. Herold’s work has appeared in anthologies and on the Saturday Evening Post’s website. Several short stories will soon be appearing in Feral, a German horror comic magazine. Find out more at: https://robertheroldauthor.com
With Friday the 13th falling in December, I wanted to find something that could tie the holiday in with Christmas. I knew my story would be about an evil Santa, so when I ran across the legend of Lussi Longnight, I thought that would be perfect to work into Frightful. I had so much fun weaving it into my story. Below are some fun, frightful details.
“Lussi Longnight,” or Lussinatt, is a traditional Scandinavian belief surrounding the longest night of the year (December 13th), where evil spirits, including Lussi, were thought to roam, and people stayed indoors, celebrating and keeping lights on to ward off harm.
Lussi Longnight was believed to be a particularly dangerous night, with evil spirits and otherworldly beings roaming, including Lussi, a malevolent figure described as a witch, vette, or demon.
People were encouraged to stay indoors, eating, celebrating, and keeping the lights on to placate Lussi and her retinue.
Lussi was said to ensure that housework was completed on time for the Christmas celebration (Yule), and if tasks weren’t done, she would become furious and punish the household.
On this night, it was believed that animals could talk, and people made sure their barns and stables were clean, warm, and comfortable, and their animals were fed a special meal before Lussinatte began, hoping for a favorable report from the animals to Lussi.
While the original Lussi Longnight traditions are fading, the tradition of staying awake through the night, known as Lussevaka, has found a modern form through throwing parties until daybreak.
When an evil spirit possesses him on Friday the 13th, jolly Saint Nicholaus becomes a murderous psychopath. The citizens of Bligh, Wisconsin are looking forward to waking on Christmas morning to their gifts…but how many of them will make it through the night?
Excerpt:
He threw back his head and bellowed out a ho, ho, ho. “Well, Old Saint Nick has made some changes this year.” He bent into his bag and retrieved something large…an axe…its blade glinting in the light from the kitchen.
Annie screamed. “What are you…?”
Santa stalked forward, the axe held high above his head.
Annie was rooted to the spot for a few too many precious seconds. Then, her fear morphed into a need for survival and she backed away, then turned to run. But Santa was upon her in a flash. He swung the axe down, and it struck between her shoulder blades, the sharp edge tearing into flesh. Blood spurted, spraying Santa’s white beard and soaking her back.
Excruciating pain ripped through her. She stumbled a few more steps then fell to the ground.
Santa tugged the axe out with a wet, sickening sound, then brought it down again and again. Annie flipped to her back, crying out, trying to shield herself with her arms, but the axe cut her to pieces.
Corey whimpered in fear and turned to flee, running to the back door. Briefly, his mind went to his son, sleeping upstairs. A wave of guilt washed over him, but there was nothing he could do. If he tried to save his boy, Santa would kill them both. He comforted himself with the thought that Santa wouldn’t hurt a child. Jacob would be fine.
He had made it to the back door and was reaching for the knob when he heard Santa say behind him, “Ah, just as I suspected; you’re a dirty coward. No wonder you were on the naughty list.”
Corey cried and fumbled for the knob. He wrenched the door open and raced outside, stumbling through the snow. He wore nothing but a robe—not even shoes—but he didn’t care. He plunged into the snow and ran as quickly as he could. He had no idea if Santa had followed him outside. All his focus was on escape.
Terror shuddered through him when he felt something snatch the collar of his robe, and he was lifted from his feet as if he weighed nothing.
About the Author:
Alicia Dean is a true crime/horror enthusiast and a huge Elvis, MLB and NFL fan. She also loves reading, writing and watching movies and TV. Some of her favorite shows are Dexter, Justified, Friends, Seinfeld, Cheers and Everybody Loves Raymond.
The seventh of thirteen creepy tales of murder and mayhem on Friday the 13th…
Retribution by Fire by Krysta Scott
Fun Fact:
I got the idea for this story during a writer’s retreat. We were doing writing exercises base off a picture. Mine was of an angel standing in a meadow in a storm. On that day the angel of justice was born. I originally indented for this character to have a romance arc and learn something important. The story took a darker turn and she ended up being a much different character in Retribution by Fire.
Find Krysta’s Friday the 13th story here…
Blurb:
Haunted by visions of an avenging angel, Eleanor Turner escapes into the bottle. One night in a drunken stupor, she gets behind the wheel and rams into a vehicle, killing the driver. In order to avoid prison, she voluntarily signs up for Dr. Dunkeld’s therapy group. The other members appear to benefit from the interventions, but the therapy only intensifies her visions.
Jax Dunkeld narrowly avoided career suicide when he faced disciplinary action from the psychology board. All he has to do to make things right is counsel a group of men and woman who have committed violent crimes. As he learns more about his patients, he becomes consumed with dread that helping them is not the board’s true objective. When his patients begin to mysteriously die, he realizes he’s stepped into a dire situation…one he may not survive.
Excerpt:
Leora’s head snapped up and her body went rigid. She fixed her gaze on Nathan. “Liar!”
Nathan stared Leora down completely dropping the scrawny wet mouse look. His eyes sparked with rage and his lips curled into a snarl. “Shut up, bitch. What the hell could you possibly know?”
Leora tilted her head, her eyes narrowing.
Joan gasped. “Nathan, watch what you say. You just got here but there are things you just don’t know.”
“So, a bunch of psychobabblers,” Nathan made air quotes with his fingers. “freaked out and left. Big deal. A bunch of wimps, if you ask me.”
Rose glared at him. “Be careful, it’s Friday the 13th.”
“Who cares?” Nathan looked around the circle. “What? Are you all superstitious or something?”
“It’s not that,” Rose spoke in a stage whisper. “Strange things have been happening. And we think its…”
“Shhhh.” Danny placed his finger to his lips. Rose went silent.
About the Author:
Krysta Scott is the author of the novel, Shadow Dancer. Since publishing her first book through the Wild Rose Press, she has since published two novellas in the Martini Club 4 series and three four novellas in the Friday the Thirteenth series. She lives in Oklahoma with her husband and dog.
The sixth of thirteen creepy tales of murder and mayhem on Friday the 13th…
Fatal Attachment by Mary Coley
Fun Fact:
I was hacked years ago and the creeps got all my vital information. For over twenty years, I’ve dealt with this, as they sell my information over and over again. I’ve been enrolled in Italian cooking classes, received books in the mail, and had attempts to file for my tax money. This story came from my revenge thoughts!
Find Mary’s Friday the 13th story here…
Blurb:
Oliver Calvert has been scammed more than once in recent weeks. The police can’t help. Oliver remembers how his wife, Rhanita used to handle those who wronged her. If he curses the unidentified culprits, will their lives be wrecked as his has been? On one Friday the 13th, he finds out.
Excerpt:
Oliver Calvert sat on the front porch glider. The muscles in his legs shook. He’d hardly slept last night, but when he did, the dreams he had were vivid nightmares. The plagues were visiting his dreams. Now he needed to find out how to visit them upon his scammers. How could that happen when he didn’t even know their names?
He shut his eyes, closing out the house across the street, the man walking his shepherd down the sidewalk, the blue jay squawking at him from that old elm in his front yard. Rhanita would know. He should have been able to go to her, to tell her that he loved her and needed her help as never before. Would she listen, would she help? Not that an answer mattered. She’d removed herself from him. They’d had so many years ahead of them. Now he was alone.
He clasped his hands together and recited again what his wife had always murmured, the curses she had uttered when someone had shunned her or made a sly comment that cut her to the quick. Rhanita was crafty that way. She always had a comeback, usually a curse. She’d mutter it and mutter it again. Then she’d go into the house and light black candles, throw her black shawl over her head, and kneel among the flickering flames, repeating the curse incessantly.
A few days of that and suddenly the cursed neighbor or acquaintance would be at the door with a casserole or home-baked bread, and a story to defend the offense. He thought the stories were simply excuses, but Rhanita took the offered gift with a frown and closed the door.
The offender might stay on the porch for hours, begging to be admitted, forgiven, or merely listened to. When Rhanita judged it had been long enough, and the regret was sincere, she would open the door, and nod. The offender would walk away, and Rhanita would replace the black candles with white ones, light them, and kneel once again, repeating a rush of words as she swayed wearing a white shawl.
Could it be that simple? A shawl, some candles and some murmured words? But what words? And how could it work if the offending party had no name?
A motorcycle zoomed down the street.
Oliver recalled what he had done last night. With only the light of the waning moon peeking into the dark bedroom, he found his wife’s shawl and the box of black candles, barely stubs. In the living room, he placed the lit candles in a circle on the wood floor, threw the shawl over his head and lifted his eyes toward heaven. “I am like Job, a simple man. This disaster was not deserved. The perpetrators are not worthy of success. I curse them. May the fruit of their work bring pain and misery. Send down the plagues of Egypt. The universe knows who did this.”
Words tumbled out. As he spoke, he heard Rhanita cursing the scammer until the moon and stars disappeared behind a thick cloud.
About the Author:
Mary Coley loves a good scare. She writes award-winning mysteries, usually set in her home state of Oklahoma. With the heart of an adventurer, she loves to travel and learn interesting new things. Sometimes they end up in her fiction.
The fifth of thirteen creepy tales of murder and mayhem on Friday the 13th…
Spoiled Milk by Robert Herold
Fun Facts:
Horror and science fiction often reflect society’s fears. Many works explore the notion of science and technology run amok. From Frankenstein to the Terminator franchise and beyond, we see a deadly side to science and technology.
Cloning is one such concern. You don’t hear much about it lately, but it’s real. Cloning holds great promise for medicine, agriculture, and many other aspects of society. For example, an Argentinian polo team all ride clones of a champion horse. But there’s a dark specter surrounding the notion of cloning humans. Might they simply be raised for parts? Is that ethical?
I have imagined the cloning of my main character’s infant son, a descendant of a long line of men raised to be sacrificed by a coven of witches. Now, with the clones, they could have an endless supply of these victims. “Spoiled Milk” follows the main character and his friends as they attempt to rescue the clones before the slaughter begins. The occult and science fiction merge in this fast-paced supernatural thriller!
Find Robert’s Friday the 13th story here…
Blurb:
A father races against time to prevent witches from slaughtering clones of his son.
Excerpt:
My infant son, Lazarus, was in foster care, arranged in secret by the Church after Seattle witches tried to kill him. Our bloodline contained something that could be utilized by witches. Because of this, my son and I, and now my son’s clones, were at great risk. I learned the embryonic clones were being kept on ice by a witch who had also been a University of Washington professor of biomedicine. The professor was now dead, along with the other Seattle witches, but that didn’t stop the threat. Witches were everywhere…
About the Author:
Seattleite Robert Herold is the author of the award-winning Eidola Project novels and the Seattle Coven Tales. In addition, Mr. Herold’s work has appeared in anthologies, on the Saturday Evening Post’s website, and will soon appear in Feral, a European horror comic magazine. Find out more at: https://robertheroldauthor.com
The fourth of thirteen creepy tales of murder and mayhem on Friday the 13th…
Broken by Laura Strickland
Fun Fact:
I’m a great believer in Karma, Fate, Cosmic Justice or whatever you’d like to call it. What goes around comes around, and stories of retribution satisfy me deeply. This tale takes that concept through several centuries and gives it a twist of horror. I’ve seen these karmic consequences come true in real life. But that’s another tale…
Find Laura’s Friday the 13th story here…
Blurb:
When Burton Renfrow awakens from his thirteenth nightmare in a row early on the morning of Friday the thirteenth, he doesn’t expect to be drawn into a tale of betrayal and retribution. But there’s a dead woman in his studio, a shard of broken mirror embedded in her breast. And when Burton falls into the mirror, he faces his own past, one so terrible it changes who he thinks he is, and who he’s always been.
How long might it take for a man’s misdeeds to catch up with him? Is there any escape, once vengeance tracks him down? What is the just punishment for rampant greed and selfishness? The answer just may leave him broken.
Excerpt:
As he moves into the studio, he senses something. Something amiss. Despite the darkness and the clutter, he knows this space. After spending untold hours here indulging his passion, its details are imprinted on his brain.
Even when he steps out of the light spilling from the bedroom, he can see enough. Ambient radiance shed by the street lights bleeds through the tall windows.
Bleeds.
He can smell blood.
A shiver travels down his spine, one that reaches right in and twists his bowels. No, surely not. He’s carried that from the dream.
On soundless feet, he pads forward. Weaves his way between the pieces of furniture that now seem marooned without purpose. The canvasses. The draped forms. Toward the tall mirror which should, as it always does, wink at him through its oval eye.
Mr. Bolton wants his daughter painted as if framed by that mirror, so Burton has left it out in the center of the room.
It does not wink at him now.
The smell of blood grows stronger as he crosses the floor toward the wooden chair, which sits in the center of an open space where he surely did not leave it.
Something is in the chair.
Something that should not be there.
His breath catches and then rattles in his throat. He doesn’t want to see.
He must see.
The overhead lights, as he knows, will illuminate the place to an almost unbearable degree. He does not want that.
There’s a lamp he uses for shadowing on the table to his left. He steps over and switches it on.
The light, soft as it is, makes him blink. At first he doesn’t comprehend what he is seeing. Because it shouldn’t be there. It can’t possibly be there. All in black. And red. A glitter of light where there should be none. An impossible juxtaposition of visuals.
He jerks his gaze up and encounters the cheval mirror. The frame of the mirror, he corrects himself, for the glass has been shattered and lies about the base in shards.
All but the largest of them, which is embedded in the breast of the woman in the chair.
About the Author:
Laura Strickland delights in time traveling to the past and searching out settings for her books, be they Historical Romance, Steampunk or something in between. Her lifelong interest in Celtic history, magic and music are all reflected in her writing.
The third of thirteen creepy tales of murder and mayhem on Friday the 13th… (and one of my favorites. I recommend you check out the other Beaver stories, Stripesand Blanks. He’s a psychopathic hoot :D)
Claws by Christopher Farris
Fun Fact:
Claws is a reimagining of a short story I wrote years ago. It was called Wild Things and focused on Elizabeth (the femme fatale from Claws,) her strained marriage, and the bear she built a creepy connection with. You can find it at Coffin Bell, here: https://coffinbell.com/wild-things/. It is free to read.
Find Christopher’s Friday the 13th story here…
Blurb:
Beaver went to the mountains to live in the peace. Unfortunately, he didn’t bring any with him. Now a mad creature is on the loose, the bodies are stacking up and the woman of his dreams is set to take the blame. Life never seems to get easier for Beaver but then, Beaver has never been easy on life. One way or another, he’ll claw his way to what he wants. He always does.
Excerpt:
She checked there weren’t nobody listening, you know with the kids in the house and all, then she leaned in and whispered, “Did you ever kill a man, Josiah?”
I got to say, I wasn’t expecting that. I don’t know what I expected, but not that. I considered lying but she had those eyes and they was practically undressing me. I throwed caution to the wind. I couldn’t help myself. I nodded, once, nervous.
She caught her breath, give a long sigh and leaned in closer. I could smell her faint perfume and feel the heat coming off her. “Who? More than one?” she asked and put her hand on my knee again. “Tell me.”
About the Author:
Christopher Farris lives in a very old, very small house in a very old, very small town nestled deep in a valley of the Boston Mountains of Northwest Arkansas. He is not a hillbilly, but he is trying. He has four well-adjusted children and the two best granddaughters available.
His horror novel, The Fountain, was published by The Wild Rose Press in January of 2021. His Christmas novel, Intersection: A Trucker’s Christmas Carol, was published in November of 2021. Both are available at Amazon.com as are his other Friday the 13th stories.
Happy Unlucky Friday the 13th! I am wickedly delighted to share the first of thirteen creepy tales of murder and mayhem on Friday the 13th…
Dormer by Mark Edward Jones
True Fact:
After a death in our neighborhood, the poor woman was not found for many days until neighbors noticed the mailbox had overflowed. Likewise, Dormer’s main nosy protagonist confronts the mailman about her neighbor’s stuffed mailbox and packages left on the porch, leading the neighbors on a search of the dead woman’s house.
Find the story here…
Blurb
Olivia Kraevitz, the ever-nosy neighbor, becomes alarmed when her eccentric neighbor, Vivian Johnson, and Vivian’s son suddenly vanish. Determined to uncover the truth, Olivia and her friends explore Vivian’s house, only to find themselves facing Brandy Looking, the enigmatic caregiver with a sinister edge. Olivia soon realizes that Brandy has dark plans for anyone who enters the attic with the dormer window—a place where you can see and be seen. Remember: you never know who’s watching.
Excerpt:
“Who’s this Brandy Looking person?” Glenda asked. “Is that a name?”
“Yeah. That’s Vivian’s caregiver.” Olivia pulled out wine glasses and set them next to the plates. “She gives me the creeps. I’ve only seen her a few times, always around dusk or after. I made sure to be outside one evening and met her coming down the sidewalk. She’s a tiny thing and strange to look at. White pancake makeup, blondish hair with dark roots, and deep red lipstick. She’d made herself up with dark-shaded eyes. Looked like a raccoon.”
Clara laughed.
Olivia didn’t smile. “And the oddest part—tattoos.”
“What’s the matter, dear? You look a little ghostly yourself.”
“Those tattoos. Six dark dots on each side of her forehead above her eyebrows. They grew larger as they got closer to her nose. And then in the middle ….” Her voice cracked.
“What?”
“An arc over the bridge of her nose.”
Clara drew close. “Why are you so upset?”
“When she got close to me that evening, she just stared—a weird smell, too…like a burned match. I said hello, trying not to be rude, but I just wanted to run away. Then she spoke—sounded like a little girl in a woman’s body. She said something about how rejuvenated she felt after her daily renewal.”
“Renewal?”
Olivia shrugged. “A nap, I guess. Anyway, while we talked, the arc above her nose got lighter. I noticed a glow.”
Clara opened the refrigerator and refreshed her glass from the white zin box. “Glowed?”
“It turned kind of purple.”
Glenda sighed. “Surely the light played a trick.”
She nodded. “Maybe. Brandy moved on, and I came home and locked my doors. I tried to ask Vivian about it the next day, but she seemed confused. I let it go.” The oven timer began dinging. She touched the timer. It stopped as the doorbell rang. “Can one of you get that?”
“I’ll do it,” Clara said. She took her wine glass with her and pulled on the door. The glass slipped from her hand and shattered on the tile. She stared outside.
“You okay?” Glenda asked while grabbing paper towels.
“You have a visitor.” Clara pushed open the glass storm door and looked down at a tiny woman. “Can we help you?”
A giggle and a squeaky voice said, “I need my mail.”
About the Author:
Mark retired from higher education finance in 2017. He is working on his third detective mystery, has written three paranormal short stories, and has completed the first chapter of a proposed sci-fi mystery.
Author Alicia Dean 