Horror

I was just a kid from Saragossa, in Aragon. Christian Spain at its most honest and authentic. Bad soil, tough meat, sour wine, sparse firewood . . .

I was never one of those people who hates the rain. Some people—most, I suppose—see the gray clouds rolling in like fluffy waves and feel the first few drops tap…

Leo ran his pawnshop out of a brick storefront he rented in a strip mall just outside of town. It had a Cut-Rate Vacuum on one side and on the…

The stockings were up, the tree was strung, and the night was aging quickly, when John saw Matty sit up in bed and stare wide-eyed at the ceiling. “He’s here,”…

I The Cottage on Arnold Street We learn too late that everything is written on the land, and in houses, too. Under their sharp roofs, they are like elders with…

“What’s wrong? Where are you going?” “What?” “You’re pulling off to the side of the road.” “What do you mean?” “You’re pulling off onto the shoulder—there’s no tollbooth here.” “I…

If you’re not all winged-up and fingering a harp in the lap of the Lord by now, then maybe you’re here. Maybe you’re ghosting around the foyer that still reeks…

Unbeknownst to his wife, Edwin Hersek was involved in a full-blown affair.   Her name was Gina and she sat in Edwin’s garage looking lovely as ever.  He ran his hand…

Tourette’s Crucible “I am sick of meetings; cannot a man turn his head without he have a meeting?” —Putnam, The Crucible. “Yip, yip, bark, shit-fuck-shit.” —Anonymous Tourette’s Sufferer. Act 1…

That night Dieter lay in bed pondering the scene from Goethe. He got down the book and read it over. Here Faust wants to call up the ghost of Helen…