Keeping Up with the Conan Doyles

by Jess Whitecroft

From the Journals of the Society for Psychical Research. Interview with Angela Patterson, housekeeper of Latham Hall, present at the last séance of Neville Worth. 14th August 1956.

You want me to talk about the last séance? All right, but I must start at the beginning. I think it was around ’25 that her Ladyship began manifesting ectoplasm. It was definitely after the fairies incident. You remember the fairies, don’t you? Although of course you don’t – I doubt you were even born, or just a babe in arms. But you’ve heard about it, of course – Cottingley Glen?

Oh, we did laugh. Becky, she was a young thing like you. They kept her downstairs for years because Lord Latham objected to her Midlands accent – sort of a singsong about it. She was from Nuneaton. Don’t know if she ever went back there, but she disappeared after the… the incident. Anyway, I get ahead of myself – she had a brother who knew his way around a darkroom, you see. Took one look at the picture of the fairies and laughed fit to burst. “I don’t know what those fairies are,” she said. “But they’re not moving. Look. If they’re flying their wings should be going flap flap flap like a butterfly, right? But they’re not. Look at the waterfall behind the girl, Mrs P. See how it’s blurred? That’s shutter speed, that is. It’s faster than it was in the old days when you used to have to stand still as a statue for minutes to have your picture taken, but even then if you’ve got something moving fast – like a waterfall or the wings of a little flying creature – it still shows up on the photograph as a blur.”

When she pointed it out like that it was obvious, and it turns out the girls who took the pictures were quite the artists. Sir Arthur said they were too young and too common to pull off such tricks – “children of the artisan class,” he said. Shows how much he knew. I heard one of them even worked in a photographic lab, making composite pictures. Always dangerous to underestimate people, especially young women. (Continue Reading…)

All the Eyes That See

by Alan Baxter

Sitting on the neatly upholstered chair in the tiny office I try not to let my frustration show. “Really, nothing at all?”

“Not in town.” The real estate agent’s face is apologetic. “With the flower festival on it’s our busiest time of year.”

“There must be something.”

“It’s our own fault, Jim,” Mary says, putting a hand on my knee as she smiles at the agent. “We just don’t have distances like this in England. We under-estimated how far apart things are.”

Sydney to Melbourne is nearly as far as London to Glasgow, but it’s such a speck on the greater map of Australia. This continent is inconceivably huge. That realisation doesn’t help us now, late afternoon in the middle of nowhere. Our decision to take the scenic route has come to bite us. “Is this really such a small town?” I ask.

The man leans back in his chair, still smiling. “We’ve a little over five hundred residents, nearly half of that out on farms all around. In town there’s one hotel and one motel, both packed to the gills. Lots of people travel in.”

“For the flower festival.”

“What about the Carroll place?” (Continue Reading…)

Thoughts and Prayers

by Meg Elison

he’s over by the gym

Maddie’s phone buzzed once and she glanced down and saw the text. She had long schooled her face to not react to notifications, but she had no idea what this was about. When Mrs. Bethel turned her back, Maddie carefully slid out her phone.

The text had come from Daniel, her friend from first period. They often split a large iced latte in the morning, sharing their secret coffee obsession that they both hid from their parents.

Thumb flying in silence, Maddie texted back: ???

Mrs. Bethel’s class was on the far east side of campus, on the basement floor. The gym was on the far west end, so the sound of it didn’t reach them until it was too late.

he’s headed toward the library lockdown your class (Continue Reading…)

Impostor Syndrome

By Gregory Marlow

Looking back, the first red flag was during the job interview, when Chad said their target demographic was males, ages thirteen to seventeen.

“That’s pretty specific,” I said.

He shrugged. “Market research.”

If I had been using the critical thinking skills I obtained from five short years of undergrad, I would have asked why not eighteen or nineteen. If I were using my conscience, I would have questioned the ethics of any product, even a video game, that targeted minors.

I wasn’t using those things to make decisions anymore. I was thinking with my stomach. The same stomach that was eating discount Ramen by the glow of a computer monitor for the last six months, while I begged for my first job opportunity in the game industry.

(Continue Reading…)

“More salt on the places that never healed” – Holly Green

Witchcraft

By Arthur Machen

‘Rather left the others behind, haven’t we, Miss Custance?’ said the captain, looking back to the gate and the larchwood.

‘I’m afraid we have, Captain Knight. I hope you don’t mind very much, do you?’

‘Mind? Delighted, you know. Sure this damp air isn’t bad for you, Miss Custance?’

‘Oh, d’you think it’s damp? I like it. Ever since I can remember I’ve enjoyed these quiet autumn days. I won’t hear of father’s going anywhere else.’

‘Charmin’ place, the Grange. Don’t wonder you like comin’ down here.’

Captain Knight glanced back again and suddenly chuckled.

‘I say, Miss Custance,’ he said, ‘I believe the whole lot’s lost their way. Don’t see a sign of them. Didn’t we pass another path on the left?’ (Continue Reading…)

Grandifolia

By Elliott Gish

The first time I do everything the way I’m supposed to. I wait for the new moon and walk into the woods at midnight. I carry a jar of pig’s blood and wear a wreath of nettles, ignoring as best I can the stinging on my scalp. I tread silently, carefully, one bare foot settling deep into the dirt before I lift the other, until I find what I am looking for.

The tree sprawls lasciviously across the hollow that shelters it, its branches spread wide and low. An American beech, its pale bark gleaming silver in the dark. Fagus grandifolia. That’s the scientific name, Fagus grandifolia, big leaf beech. I looked it up before I came. I don’t know why.

No—that’s a lie. I looked it up to gird my loins with trivia, to guard against the utter foolishness of what I have come here to do.

I pour the blood in a careful circle around the trunk, careful to duck the lowest branches so I don’t dislodge my nettle crown. There’s barely enough. By the time I close the circle only a few stubborn drops slide down the glass.

I back a few feet away and kneel, my knees sinking into damp earth. Closing my eyes, crossing my fingers, I say the words, and I wait. (Continue Reading…)