A Coven of Cats Under the Light of the Moon

by M. Halstead

On this night, we escaped from our homes—we darted through the open doors, we leaped over the privacy fences, we fled under-bush to converge on this place. Some of us have traveled many miles, our paw-pads scraped raw, unaccustomed as we are to the rough terrain outside human homes. Our heads swim with the overstimulation of the outside—the stink of carved pumpkins rotting on human stoops, the children laughing and screeching in their annual costumes, the chill autumn wind ruffling our fur. Besides this, most of us arrive none too worse for wear—though a young human, on their trick-or-treating excursion, pulled Onyx’s tail when he ventured too close.

Trixie brings her human. We have heard of him, through the rumor mill our feral siblings bring to our homes. He is tall, looming high even for a human; he sleeps with all the curtains shut during the day, denying Trixie her favorite sunbathing spots; he wears his boots in the house, shaking the floorboards as he stomps past her nap box; and only begrudgingly feeds her and cleans her excrement. (Continue Reading…)

Novel of the White Powder

By Arthur Machen

My name is Leicester; my father, Major-General Wyn Leicester, a distinguished officer of artillery, succumbed five years ago to a complicated liver complaint acquired in the deadly climate of India. A year later my only brother, Francis, came home after an exceptionally brilliant career at the University, and settled down with the resolution of a hermit to master what has been well called the great legend of the law. He was a man who seemed to live in utter indifference to everything that is called pleasure; and though he was handsomer than most men, and could talk as merrily and wittily as if he were a mere vagabond, he avoided society, and shut himself up in a large room at the top of the house to make himself a lawyer. Ten hours a day of hard reading was at first his allotted portion; from the first light in the east to the late afternoon he remained shut up with his books, taking a hasty half-hour’s lunch with me as if he grudged the wasting of the moments, and going out for a short walk when it began to grow dusk. I thought that such relentless application must be injurious, and tried to cajole him from the crabbed textbooks, but his ardour seemed to grow rather than diminish, and his daily tale of hours increased. I spoke to him seriously, suggesting some occasional relaxation, if it were but an idle afternoon with a harmless novel; but he laughed, and said that he read about feudal tenures when he felt in need of amusement, and scoffed at the notions of theatres, or a month’s fresh air. I confessed that he looked well, and seemed not to suffer from his labours, but I knew that such unnatural toil would take revenge at last, and I was not mistaken. A look of anxiety began to lurk about his eyes, and he seemed languid, and at last he avowed that he was no longer in perfect health; he was troubled, he said, with a sensation of dizziness, and awoke now and then of nights from fearful dreams, terrified and cold with icy sweats. “I am taking care of myself,” he said, “so you must not trouble; I passed the whole of yesterday afternoon in idleness, leaning back in that comfortable chair you gave me, and scribbling nonsense on a sheet of paper. No, no; I will not overdo my work; I shall be well enough in a week or two, depend upon it.” (Continue Reading…)

Barghest

By Susan King

I’m reaching for the scissors when the lamp bulb flickers and dies. Cursing, I use the torch on my phone to push through the stacks of unpacked boxes.

I flick the light switch. 

Nothing happens.

I have no idea where the fuse box is. 

Next door’s dog is barking like crazy. Maybe it’s a power cut? 

I weave my way to the window and open the curtains. Lights blaze from every house in the street. Before I can search for the circuit box, the sound of sobbing comes from upstairs.

Willa is sitting up in bed, her wolfsbane-blue eyes red and puffy, her cheeks wet. She’s taking great gulps of air, her arms wrapped around her chest. A cold breeze blows through the open window. Shivering in my tee shirt and jeans, I pull it closed.

“It’s all right,” I say. “It’s just a blown fuse.” I lay my mobile on her bedside table and hold her, her body still heaving. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“I was in the woods at night. There’s this boy lying on the ground.” She takes a deep breath. Tears and snot mingle and run down her chin. I give her a tissue from the packet by her bed. She blows her nose.  (Continue Reading…)